When he reached her side he was weeping. He gathered her into his arms, leaving smears of mud upon her hands and veil. What he had seen seemed no longer incredible, only a token of her purity, her goodness. What could he fear, when even the wild things revered her?
After a long time she said: ‘My hour is almost up. I must go back to my lady.’
‘We have wasted it, quarrelling,’ he said tenderly. ‘Ah, my love, my own dear …’
‘And we have so little time …
He held her closer, walking with her, stopping to kiss her in the stone arbour, and parting from her with a sigh. ‘Tomorrow. The same hour.’
‘My love. My love, yes.’
She fled to Elizabeth’s chambers, hearing the rebuking clock boom from the tower and brushing dried mud from her gown. As soon as she entered the apartment she knew that something was amiss. Bess’s wild wailing, heard even through a closed bedroom door, told her well enough. What now? she thought, gripped by the old, weary anxiety, She entered to confusion, to the litter of packing cases made ready for a journey. And to the silver lady’s face, grey again, and full of demons.
‘My lords,’ said King Richard. ‘It is beyond my comprehension that men give credence to the rumour that I intend marriage with Lady Elizabeth, bastard daughter of Dame Grey. It is so that divers seditious and evil disposed persons enforce themselves daily to sow seed of noise and disclaundre against our person; some by setting up of bills, some by message and sending forth of lies, some by bold and presumptuous speech and communication one with another …’
He had gone down to the Hospital of St. John in Clerkenwell and had assembled there the lords spiritual and temporal to hear him. His words rejected Bess. Yet underlying them was all his frustrated despair, his stubborn yet veiled denial of all the greater rumour noised against him. He dared not say too much, yet in his impotent frenzy said too little. By reason of this anguish, venom entered his speech and so doing, touched off fresh madness in Elizabeth.
She was like a beast, pacing, raging, ripping her bodice to shreds so that it flowed about her. Her pale hair, now threaded with subtle white, fell about her face, as cursing, she wore out the carpet in her chamber. She threw back her head and cried damnation to the frightened air. She reviled the King while anger hollowed her cheeks and sapped the transient beauty of her face so that she looked old and crazed.
Bess wept in Grace’s arms. For her, the slight was more personal. Over and again she said: ‘He loved me! I know he loved me!’ while Grace, horribly ill at ease, answered: ‘Sure, lady, sweet lady, he loves you still; but then he is your uncle, banned from marriage with you by blood!’ Bess wept louder, and Grace saw that she was undeceived.
Grace, in her turn, dogged Elizabeth, blown in her wake like a leaf in a hurricane. The unquestioning part of her whispered daily: I love and serve her. On the day of the proclamation Bess was taken away. Her score of new gowns, her lutes and lapdogs were packed and ready when the escort arrived. John of Gloucester was one of the officers commissioned to guard her. In a snatched secret moment he took Grace’s hands; he smiled sadly.
‘Our time is ended sooner than I deemed,’ he whispered.
‘Where are you taking my lady?’
‘To Sheriff Hutton, for safety, at my father’s orders.’
Safety from whom, what? she thought. John looked particularly fine; he wore a long cloak of Kendal green over his trim doublet and doeskin thighboots. His bright eyes were proud with his new commission. Not for the first time, Grace was jealous.
‘Guard my sister well,’ she murmured mockingly.
‘Would to God you rode with me.’
He pressed the red-eyed ring she wore with strong fingers. Say nothing, my love, he thought. I know your stubborn allegiance to your dangerous lady. He looked deeply in her eyes; his mouth shaped a kiss. Jesting yet loving and immeasurably sad was that look; and they both grew old upon it. It held all their lost spring days.
‘My lord, John!’ They called, him from the doorway. Farewell again, always farewell. They were gone, slim, gaudy knights shepherding the golden Bess, whose weathervane spirit had swung again to fair; her laughter blew back up the staircase. Farewell, murmured Grace, longing to run to the window, to watch him ride. It was best to remain, however, in line for the next command from Elizabeth. It was not long in coming.
‘Bid Lady Margaret Beaufort attend me here.’
Grace needed scarcely a dozen steps for this errand. The Countess and her husband were in the next tower. They were sitting quietly, as if waiting for a boat or a chariot to bear them to a certain destination. When Grace delivered the summons, the Countess smiled a terrible smile. With her and her lord were Stanley’s brother Sir William and Reynold Bray; and the look that passed like a lamplighter set itself upon each of the four faces, a mingling of triumph and scorn. The air grew sickly with a sour jubilation.
‘Madame,’ said Grace unquietly, ‘Dame Grey is waiting.’
Margaret turned her face, piously shadowed by a long wimple. It was a brittle face, a stranger to all ungovernable emotion. She answered evenly.
‘Mistress Plantagenet, I have been waiting for this day for years.’
Then she laughed softly, and Stanley clapped his brother on the shoulder, and Bray, jumping up, plaited his feet in a little jig.
‘I should not jest,’ said the Countess, rising, ‘It is unseemly. We come.’
Grace followed them as they entered to Elizabeth, who moved to stand before her fireplace, hands joined at her breast. Margaret kissed her deliberately, first upon each cheek and then upon the folded hands. Her husband and Sir William did likewise. Bray crooked his knee, hawked and spat, with great delicacy as if this too were part of the ritual.
‘Madame,’ said the Countess, ‘I have hoped and dreamed for this.’
And Sir William looked petulantly at Grace with a raised brow.
‘Let her stay,’ said Elizabeth, following his glance. ‘She loves me.’
‘As do we all,’ said Lord Stanley.
Wickedly the Countess murmured: ‘Our condolences, Madame, on the proclamation; it was unchivalrous …’
‘Have done!’ cried Elizabeth, startling them all. ‘My daughter shall be Queen of England. I look to you now to supply her King!’
Margaret’s black eyes had an almost holy light.
‘So you would have my son?’
‘Tudor,’ said Elizabeth. She clipped the word, as if it hurt her tongue. ‘Yes, Henry your son. He shall have my daughter, as Morton advised. He shall wipe out this slur and restore us to the royal table.’
‘He shall,’ said the Countess, like an amen. The Stanleys bowed, and Bray passed a hand over his own hot face.
‘How can I know you will not fail me?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Tudor will not fail you. He will sweep the past away. He will light a fire in England that you may warm your hands at in old age.’
‘I look to Henry Tudor for my vengeance. He must conquer the Hog, the usurper.’ There was a tightness in her head; she felt herself beginning to shake and swayed against the chimney-piece. Grace’s hand took hers, supporting her.
‘He must invade, and be successful,’ she continued. ‘Morton has my gold; my brother Edward has the ships …
‘And my son has gathered a force in France and Brittany,’ said the Countess. ‘Fear naught.’
Reynold Bray spoke. ‘Northumberland is ours, too. You recall how King Edward made Gloucester Lord of the North in Northumberland’s stead … the Earl resents him still, and will join our standard.’
‘Are you to fight, Master Clerk?’ Elizabeth disliked him so much she could not resist a gibe.
‘Nay Madame,’ (smirking). ‘My calling is to help pray for all the dead in King Richard’s army.’
‘Enough,’ said Lord Stanley. He moved swiftly forward to kiss Elizabeth’s hand. ‘I must be gone. There is much to do. Tudor will come in August. I shall tell the King that I am sick, and must retire to my estate
s. Leave all to me. God bless you, Madame.’
‘One thing.’ She stretched out her thin, shaking hand. ‘A promise.’
He listened, quiet and grave.
‘We have failed before to kill the Hog. At times I think he is immortal. See that he falls this time. And …’
‘My lady?’
‘Let him be killed with ignominy,’ she said. ‘For his insults to me and mine. Let his death be inglorious. Let him be reviled. Do this, Stanley, in remembrance of me.’
He bowed. ‘It is done, Madame.’
They went away swiftly. Below, she could hear them calling their esquires, and the noise of hoofs. Margaret Beaufort remained, statuesque, silent, smiling.
‘Margaret?’ said Elizabeth uncertainly.
‘Madame, I feared you had ceased to love me,’ said the Countess. She moved rapidly to a flagon on the table, poured red drink into two hanaps, splashing it carelessly. She thrust a goblet into Elizabeth’s hand.
‘To Henry ap Tydder!’ she cried. ‘And to the union of the Red and White Roses! To the new dynasty! You and I will build it together!’
Elizabeth set the cup to her lips. Her throat was closed, she regurgitated the wine, turning quickly to spew it into the hearth.
‘My lady, you’re unwell,’ soothed the Countess. ‘Attend her, Mistress Grace.’ The door closed behind her.
After a while, Elizabeth said: ‘I will lie down.’
Grace said tentatively: ‘Madame …’
‘Well?’
It came pouring out like that undrinkable toast: if the King were killed, would his son suffer likewise? Would John of Gloucester be safe?
Elizabeth answered with more patience than she had ever shown.
‘He will be safe, Grace. He is of no consequence.’
They went then to the bedchamber. Elizabeth slept a little while Grace watched, wanting to weep and knowing no reason for it.
August came in with thunder. Storms the like of which no village ancient could remember crashed over England. Rain burst bridges and laid whole landscapes awash. Daily, white veins of lightning split the heavy sky, striking cattle, firing forest and tenement. The people crossed themselves and looked up aghast for the image of God descending from the clouds to chastise the sins of man. Listening thus for the trumpet, folk cursed the loss to their livelihood, and cursed the King.
‘Tis a judgment,’ Butcher Gould told his prentice as they hurried along Tower Wharf. He averted his eyes from the fortress etched white against a bursting black cloud. Indignant sorrow fomented in him as he thought of Elizabeth’s murdered sons. Smothered or stuck at the orders of the Hog. A friar had muttered the whole tale in the butcher’s ear, so it must be right. A rheumy tear filled Gould’s eye as he recalled his first sight of the baby prince in Sanctuary. And the Queen – addressing him as her equal: ‘Ned is coming home, Master – spread the word!’ Now that baby prince was traitorously slain. A fork of fire bisected the heavens, making the prentice leap and howl.
‘Nay, not yours, lad,’ said Gould grimly. ‘The King’s judgment. Swine. May he lose his battle.’
The shore of Milford Haven was slippery with rain; Henry’s first footstep shuddered and slid. Behind him in the boat his attendants gasped and held their breath. Henry righted himself swiftly. The others, mantling themselves in preparation for stepping ashore, marvelled at the smile he gave them.
‘You saw, my lords?’ he called. ‘I almost fell! Just as the Conqueror did! What better augury that England would have me clasp her?’
The sea-wind blew him, tugging at the fine rust-coloured hair beneath the velvet cap, and whipping colour into his white cheeks. He looked back across the ocean, where, lying a little way out, was the full-masted carrack that had brought him tossing through days and nights from Harfleur. Further out on the horizon was the rest of his fleet. Ships like ghosts, apparently motionless yet making speed to his support. Ships crammed with his fighting men. My beauties! thought Henry, with a grim little smile. He itched at the memory of their lousiness, their scabs. The gaols of Normandy had yielded a fine crop. Scrofulous, ragged (before he clothed them in leather and steel) but strong. More like beasts than men. Murderers trained by circumstance from the cradle and pleased by the bargain that had released them to fight against Plantagenet. He walked a pace to where the ground was firmer and knelt, pressing his face into the sand, feeling the salty grit upon his tongue. Then, raising himself, he cried:
‘Oh God! Observe my cause! Uphold me!’
‘Amen, amen.’ Morton stood at his shoulder. The wind fluttered his robes. He stood, a black carrion crow, crucifix upraised. The breeze smoothed his face to a strange resurgence of youth. He among few had enjoyed the crossing; something in the buffeting waves had called to his own turbulence, had whipped the longings that had gnawed him for so many years. Exaltation rose and he checked it immediately. Time to rejoice when the battle was won. When York and Lancaster were wedded and the succession secure. When the scarlet hat of Cardinal Archbishop lay upon his own head. Yet he sent up one tiny prayer, like a scurrying rat. Deo Gratias; I have been spared to see Tudor on England. Even a moment’s delay irked him and he touched Henry’s arm.
‘We should make camp, I think.’
He was unprepared for the look, the answer, both edged with hauteur. Henry’s voice had changed. Still quiet, but not diffident as of old; still sibilant, but ringing like brass.
‘My lord, do you give orders to your sovereign?’
And Henry smiled. The smile touched every corner of the lean face, drew back the long lipless mouth until a glint of teeth showed, struck yellow fire from the sombre eyes. Obediently the sun emerged from behind a blue cloud and painted Henry’s shadow on the sand. Morton, shocked and impressed, said ‘Sire,’ very humbly. Behind, the lords stepped from the rowing-boat, wetting their feet in the wavelets. Morton turned and gave them a look that bade them clothe themselves in respect. They came quietly to Henry’s side. He spoke their names.
‘My lord and uncle, Jasper, Earl of Pembroke.’
Jasper Tudor came, no longer young, but tall, wiry and unbowed. He kissed his nephew’s fingers.
‘John, Earl of Oxford.
‘Sir John Cheney.
‘Sir William Brandon.’
‘Sir Edward Woodville.’
Wet sand stained their hose as they came to kneel like penitents before a shrine. Hot lips, cold lips, touched Henry’s hand. He raised his eyes to where dunes soared above the beach. On the ridge a little company of horsemen wheeled about. Their standards blew wildly, wrapping themselves about the staves. Two of the riders broke away from the party and rode jerkily down the slope, their horses’ haunches low, fighting the loose sand. Henry stared at the banners. The second was his own; he had dreamed of it. The Red Dragon of Cadwallader, torn and tugged by wind so that it streamed like a flame, like the ancient myth that he had been told surrounded his ancestry. He knew himself the offspring of gods and princes, and his heart shivered in him.
The first standard he did not recognize. To Jasper Tudor he said: ‘Who comes?’
‘Rhys ap Thomas, Sire. They bring your personal standard. Praised be God, the Welsh chieftains have mustered to our call. And see–’ he pointed to the cliff top where more horses were sliding down, urged by their riders – ‘Sir John Savage’s men.’
‘They will all come.’ Henry’s voice was steady. He sought with his eyes among the whipping cloud of standards, saw, descending, the bucks’ heads, the azure and gold of Sir William Stanley’s arms, borne by a lieutenant.
‘Where is Maredudd?’ he said sharply. ‘My cousin should be here to greet us. And where is my stepfather?’
Jasper Tudor conferred with the mounted envoys, then turned again to his nephew.
‘Stanley awaits us in Denbighshire. He has gathered a great force. He plans to join us on the day of battle; likewise Northumberland. Until then, Richard believes he has their loyalty.’
Henry did not join in the ensuing laughter.
The battle. Two words to chill his heart, words to be left unfaced until the last necessity. The Dragon fluttered and thrummed above him, and now there was no comfort in it. It was only a strip of coloured silk. God, he thought. Let it be over quickly, and let none see my fear.
‘Where is my clerk?’ he said abruptly. ‘I must write to John ap Marredud at once, and to Gilbert Talbot. Set up camp, my lords.’
Within an hour he was seated in a tent, away from the rush of the waves. The wind had dropped and given way to an oppressive warmth. Out to sea thunder growled, coming nearer. Henry chafed his hands, and began to dictate rapidly, in a clear quiet voice.
‘We will ride on Shrewsbury for London, and cross the river at Tewkesbury,’ he said. ‘Attend me at Shrewsbury.’ He raised his eyes and glanced at the attentive faces lining his tent: at Morton, the Welsh chiefs, the Woodville knight. And looking at Sir Edward Woodville he was reminded of Tom Dorset, his thoughts wandering back to Harfleur. Dorset! What would he not give to be back on his home soil! And how fortunate that he had been apprehended in time. Creeping home to his mother, to follow God knew what whim, what allegiance. Well, Dorset was now a pawn and a pledge to Charles of France; a surety against those thousands of men given to the battle-day. So that Lancaster and France and England could be all one again, and the Yorkist plague forever ended.
‘Sire?’ said the clerk, waiting.
‘Yes.’ Henry’s face altered, becoming bland and hard as a tombstone effigy. The yellowing light blazed in his eyes. ‘Say: ‘Attend us there.” He rose.
‘And head the letter: “From the King” ’
A vast thunderhead, livid at the edge, rolled westward over England, but the rain held off long enough for Henry’s forces to spread, to close up, and to deploy themselves near Redmore Plain, the appointed place of trial. September was nudging August. It was night.
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