The King's Grey Mare

by Jarman, Rosemary Hawley

  The Book closed of its own accord as his hand left it. The terrible face snarled under the lifted visor, the death-white horse reared. The bloody axe hung, ready to sever with its aching edge sinew and muscle and nerve. It was full time to forget this demon; this man whose mild writings could bring shameful fear to Henry, the Dragon of Cadwallader. He sat still, calling up his ancestors. The great Uther Pendragon and his greater son, Arthur, not dead but sleeping under green banners and silence. Down through a female line past Owen, the dreamers and warriors of Wales; through Llewellyn, Rhys, Gruffydd, Owain, Maredudd, Hywell, to the misted splendour of Cadell, Rhodri, Merfyn, and last, the Lady Ethil, of the Isle of Man. Although no herald had yet traced it, there was the belief that somewhere beyond Uther, Noah’s virtuous blood ran deep. Dragons, two by two …

  ‘I am immortal!’ said Henry the dreamer. While Henry the realist countered: ‘So I shall remain!’

  A thump on the door made him quickly compose himself. He was reminded by the slither of halberds outside that he was safe in this lodging, as in all his lodgings. At his word a young man entered. He was impeccably liveried, flat cap on his head, high collar cutting into his gullet. On his breast was the royal insignia: H.R. and in his hand he bore a tall pike. Henry looked him over, pleased with his own innovation.

  ‘Well, Master Yeoman Warder?’

  ‘Bishop Morton is here, your Grace.’

  Henry frowned. His long face grew lugubrious with annoyance but he did not chide the youth. Though it was vital that his whims, like his orders, should obtain, reiteration in this case served better than scolding.

  ‘Have you forgotten already? We are not ‘Your Grace’.’

  The warder blushed. He tried to bow, but the stiff collar choked him. Strangling, he said: ‘Your Majesty.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Henry gently. ‘The term ‘Your Grace’ applies to Bishops and Earls and Dukes, a common thing. There is only one Majesty, as there is only one God. Bid the Bishop enter.’

  Morton carried a heavy sheaf of papers and a little coffer worked with gold filigree.

  ‘You are tardy, my lord,’ said Henry.

  ‘Aye, but through no fault of mine. I thought I had taken the sweating sickness. Praise God, I still am whole.’

  ‘I myself have prayed against this sickness,’ said Henry. ‘Then, I thought: no Providence could be so cruel … I stayed here, with faith in my talisman.’ He indicated an oblong box, age-mildewed, hanging beneath the Dragon banner.

  ‘What is it, Sire?’

  Opened by Henry, the box revealed a brittle bleached bone, with a few fragments of cartilage hanging twisted from one end.

  ‘The leg of blessed St. George.’ Morton genuflected dutifully, saying: ‘The sickness is bad in all parts; did you know that two mayors have died, and six aldermen? They fall like flowers. Yet I think the worst is over.’

  ‘So I can be crowned.’

  ‘Sire, you must be crowned. But there are certain matters to discuss – some of great importance.’

  Henry tapped the Household Books with a forefinger.

  ‘The economy for one, I vow. By the Rood! the country is in a parlous state. You, as my Chancellor, must help me set it right.’

  ‘Taxes,’ said Morton succinctly. ‘Give me a little time, Sire. Trust my judgment.’

  The heavy-lidded eyes and the old wattled ones met briefly. Morton’s were the first to look away.

  ‘What have you in your box?’ said Henry pleasantly.

  ‘A few of the traitor’s jewels.’ Morton tapped the rolls of parchment he held. ‘And here, the inventory of the larger goods.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Henry lifted the coffer’s lid. Delving, he said: ‘He was enamoured of finger-rings.’ He took out rubies, sapphires, enamelled flowers, and fitted them on to his fingers. His hands grew rich; the sunlight sought them out. Silently he heard the screams of the pale war-horse; saw the angry anguished face, the raised axe. He stared at them; they vanished.

  He said softly: ‘Rings from a rebel. Did you bring my Statutes, Chancellor?’

  ‘I can send for them.’

  Henry waved a bright, loaded hand. ‘Later. I only wished to see, writ plain, that my reign began the day before the battle. So that the Roll of Attainder on Richard and his followers may be valid.’

  ‘You are King, from the day before the battle, as we said. And I have the notes for the Attainder here, together with the list of those hanged directly after, at Leicester. Or beheaded, according to their station.’ Morton extended a roll. ‘Here is the list of those you pardoned: Surrey … Lincoln!’

  He looked at Henry. ‘I was surprised, Sire. Lincoln was named Richard’s heir.’

  He said: ‘I have offered Lincoln a place on my Council, where I may watch him best, until the day when his ambition brings him down. Lincoln will light the way to all Yorkist traitors still living. My lord, have I not told you…

  The sentence drifted. Morton said gently:

  ‘That Tudor will vanquish Plantagenet?’

  ‘That Tudor must destroy Plantagenet,’ said Henry gravely. ‘Without fear or favour, by order and system. One by one, until, as the dying Cadwallader prophesied, we are supreme in England, and all other is wiped away.’

  ‘The heirs and offshoots are now gathered in,’ said Morton. ‘Would you learn of their disposal?’

  ‘One by one,’ said Henry, sitting back. ‘First: Warwick, from Sheriff Hutton. George of Clarence’s boy. How and where is he?’

  ‘The boy is almost an idiot,’ answered Morton. ‘Simple in the head; attainted for his father’s treason, yet a true Plantagenet. At your suggestion, the Tower has him now.’

  ‘Close?’

  ‘Tight guarded,’

  ‘And his cousin, my bride?’

  Morton’s eye was almost merry. ‘I brought her with me today.’ He moved to the window and stood bulkily on tiptoe. ‘If you crane high, Sire, you will see her, walking in the garden.’

  Henry did so, for a long time, his face close to the panes. Below, Bess paced like a sleepwalker; her companion, a tall swarthy girl, had a hand lightly under the Princess’s elbow. The first few yellow leaves drifted about them. The girl looked up at the window and Henry raised his hand. It was Maud Herbert; he smiled to see his one-time mistress escorting his future wife. Bess drew out a linen square and wiped her eyes.

  ‘Why does she weep?’ he said. Morton muttered.

  ‘She loved the traitor, her uncle,’ said Henry. It was not a question. ‘God grant that she comes virgin to my bed!’

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ said Morton loudly. ‘The question is, Sire, does she come to you a bastard? This is the issue. This is why I am here.’

  Henry moved back to the table, and looked at the long yellow membrane unrolling in the Bishop’s hands. Words flung themselves briskly to his eye.

  ‘… that they lived together sinfully and damnably in adultery … all their issue being bastard and unable to inherit or claim anything by inheritance …’

  ‘Yes,’ he said after a while. ‘The Titulus Regius. I cannot wed a bastard.’

  ‘Yet you must wed Bess of York. To consolidate your claim. It is vital.’

  ‘Therefore I must repeal the Titulus Regius.’

  ‘At once, highness.’

  ‘And by so doing,’ said Henry slowly, ‘I shall legitimize all Edward’s children. I shall therefore restore King Edward the Fifth.’

  He rose clumsily, knocking over the little coffer. Jewels flooded the table. He walked to where the Dragon hung, and fixed his desperate eye upon its storm-red curves. Cadwallader, shall all my striving come to naught? And Cadwallader might have answered, writhing his ancient bones: The truth must wound. Our heritage is not great enough to withstand the heirs of Edward the Third … Henry, your own line is flawed with bastardy.

  ‘The boys’ claim is better than my own,’ he said.

  ‘The boys are dead,’ replied Morton. Henry swung round.

  ‘What?’

&nb
sp; ‘In the mind of the people they are dead,’ said the Bishop. ‘The mind of the people is your stength. From shore to shore the word was spread. Mancini himself gave it to the Chancellor of France. Did you not hear?’

  ‘I deemed it rumour,’ Henry said quietly.

  ‘So it is. A strong rumour with a lion’s teeth. Richard Plantagenet, the attained usurper, had them done to death.’

  ‘Where are the boys?’

  ‘I can bring them to you, in a very few days.’ Morton picked up a ruby, held it to the light. ‘Or … I can turn rumour into truth.’

  The Dragon shimmered, coiled its tail in a little draught. Minutes crawled by, like the slow sand of a dream. Then Morton asked: ‘Would you have peace in England?

  A faint nod, watched by the Dragon.

  ‘Then Tudor must expunge Plantagenet. Lancaster must exorcize York. Utterly, until there is no figurehead left. No more ruin, no more decimation of the nobles …’

  ‘Would this happen?’ For the moment he was like a schoolboy, begging the answer to a test.

  ‘Children,’ said Morton heavily. ‘They are the most dire focus for uprising. Powerless yet malleable. And their father was greatly loved.’

  ‘Children,’ repeated Henry. ‘Holy God.’ He looked again at the Titulus Regius. Somewhere, Cadwallader’s old corpse moved, and he said: ‘Do it. Have it done.’

  Morton stepped to the door, summoned one of the Yeomen. A sealed writing, prepared weeks earlier by the Bishop, changed hands, and the guard departed.

  ‘I have advised Sir James Tyrrel,’ Morton said evenly, returning to Henry’s side. ‘He is a cool, ambitious man. He will expect the general pardon, and a commission in France.’

  ‘He shall have both.’

  He found himself trembling. He said firmly: ‘Now …

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘The Act of Titulus Regius must be repealed unread in both Lords and Commons. Its constitution must be forgotten; it solidified Richard’s claim. More, the Act must be destroyed.’ He went to the window again, beneath which Bess and Maud Herbert still walked. ‘Hear me. As Chancellor, you must see to this. All copies of the Act are forfeit from this day. On pain of dire punishment. We will have a great burning.’

  ‘It shall be done.’

  ‘Good.’ He turned again with a brittle smile. ‘What now? What other bird came within our net this month?’

  Morton, peering at his roll, muttered his way down a list of names.

  ‘Sir Francis Lovell … he escaped the field. Bishop Stillington – half-crazed – to the Tower. Catesby, Speaker of the Commons, caught and hanged at Leicester. The Stafford brothers are in Sanctuary. We cannot touch them – yet. What else? We combed the North … Bess came from Sheriff Hutton with various women, among them Cicely, her sister. Catherine Woodville is in London. Sir Edward is your loyal man. Dorset (I mistrust him, he clings to his mother) is being brought from France this week. Ah, and there’s another royal bastard – John of Gloucester.’

  ‘The traitor’s son?’

  ‘Yea, Richard’s boy. Seventeen or so; of little note.’

  ‘My lord!’ Henry’s voice was sharp. ‘A royal bastard of little note?’

  A Plantagenet, a King’s son. A livery mocking Henry’s claim.

  ‘What manner of youth is he?’

  Morton said: ‘Hot. Vainglorious. And cast in his father’s image, to the life.’

  ‘I do not want him at my court.’ To have that face, that facsimile of certain shameful death under his eye; to confront it in hall and corridor would be insupportable.

  ‘Sire, lastly. The Roll of Attainder against Richard. How is it to be worded?’

  ‘All ways,’ said Henry rapidly. ‘Oppression, tyranny, persecution of the commons, of his wife, betrayal of his friends. See to it.’

  ‘And his greatest crime?’ persisted Morton. ‘Chapter and verse, your Majesty?’

  ‘No,’ said Henry slowly. ‘The evidence conflicts. Say only: “guilty of the shedding of infants’ blood”.’

  Morton bowed. He looked at Henry, awed and gladdened. He had made himself a King.

  At Greenwich, autumn rioted in parkland and pleasaunce. A dry rain of russet, saffron and rose floated down. The mornings were laden with sharp silver dews, transient mist. Beneath Elizabeth’s window a robin sang, bold and confidential, as if for her alone. There had never, she thought, been such a beautiful fall. Yet it seemed to be lasting for a year.

  The sweating sickness was the reason why Bray, Morton’s spokesman, had advised her to wait at Greenwich. It was not safe yet for her to come again to London; folk were dropping in the streets, and no physician could cure the sickness. It was new; men said that the King’s mercenaries had brought it, a gaol-fever from France. Prayers were offered for the King’s safety, and Elizabeth added her own.

  She learned a kind of patience. The battle was over, the enemy dead, like her rages. So she walked on leaves that were lovely in death, in gardens ravaged by the memory of Marguerite. Elizabeth waited, drawing her spirit into a tight coil until King Henry should bid her to him. Kindness clothed her; she spoke courteously to Grace, to Renée and the other servants. To them she seemed distant, alien; they did not recognize her as she was: a beach recently battered by a tidal wave. Years of longing, and now victory had been too much. One night she cried out from a pain in her head. In the morning her left hand was weak and stricken, her head shaken by occasional spasms. She was still slim and gaunt and burning, but not so brightly as before. Grace was full of fear; the touch of that feeble hand epitomized her own vague terrors. Elizabeth’s voice had softened too, feeding the dreadful dark unease, and augmenting another fear, equally strong.

  For the twentieth time, she said: ‘Madame. Think you that John of Gloucester is safe?’

  She could ask her anything now, and have a good reply, yet a comfortless one.

  ‘Mistress, how should I know? Was he in the battle?’

  ‘Nay. His father forbade it.’

  ‘Then he’s safe,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He is of no account, I told you. Stop weeping, Grace.’

  Elizabeth gazed over the gold-flecked lawn. There had been tears shed here before, by a Queen whose lover was slain; a Queen comforted by a girl whose husband came running, blood-stained, with bad tidings … John. Ah, John. Again she put his face, his name away. It was more difficult here, and with this forced inactivity. Marguerite’s ghost was lively on the lawn. Through the walled archway she saw banners blazoned with the white daisy-flower and held by tall young men. A woman, small and slight, walked between the escort; the banners were grand, a Queen’s banners, and the woman’s dress was of fine French cloth, her headdress snowily starched. Elizabeth stared. A verse stole into her head, as if bidden to the moment.

  Benedicite, what dreamed I this night …

  Thy lady hath forgotten to be kind …

  The ghost came right up to her, and made itself flesh. For Marguerite at Greenwich had been beautiful. Marguerite would not have carried a breviary wherever she went; more likely a lute, or a sword.

  ‘Greetings,’ said Margaret Beaufort, bestowing light kisses.

  ‘Countess.’ Elizabeth looked bewildered at the sudden panoply. Marguerites bloomed in profusion on the air. ‘I see you bear the daisy …

  ‘I thought it pretty. For Lancaster triumphant, and of course, for my name.’

  Elizabeth took Margaret’s arm. ‘Come, be refreshed.’ The Countess picked delicately through the red leaves as she walked with Elizabeth. Her black eyes missed nothing, the wasted fingers of Elizabeth, the occasional twitch of her head.

  ‘You don’t look well, my lady,’ she said pleasantly, as, followed by the gaudy entourage, they went into the palace.

  ‘I am exceedingly well,’ replied Elizabeth. ‘I trust the sickness is over in London. I am anxious to see and rejoice with your victorious son. Felicitations, Madame, on your Henry.’

  Margaret sipped a little wine brought to her by a page. She absently opened her brevi
ary, and smiled. ‘It was preordained,’ she said smoothly. ‘Our dynasty shall endure for a thousand years.’

  Elizabeth said: ‘He will get fine sons upon my daughter.’

  Margaret did not answer; she was saying a Te Deum under her breath.

  ‘Margaret,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Countess. You have my word and consent to the marriage. When shall it be?’

  ‘Soon,’ said Margaret, gabbling away. Then she closed her breviary with a clap and smiled a sweet, tight smile. She sniffed at her wine-cup and said: ‘This drink’s too near the lees; is there no Rhenish?’

  A steward behind Elizabeth’s chair, answered: ‘None left, your Grace,’ and Margaret raised her brows. Elizabeth thought: has she forgotten that my grant from Richard died with him? The last pension brought by John Nesfield was spent weeks ago. Yet she complains of poor wine in my house. She felt her cheeks flushing and welcomed the spurt of temper like a lover; it signalled the end of a weird apathy.

  ‘Madame!’ she said bitingly, ‘when my daughter weds your son …

  ‘King Henry the Seventh,’ Margaret interrupted.

  ‘Yes.’ Elizabeth frowned and forgot what she was about to say.

  Margaret was glancing about the chamber, at the hangings, the carpets, the servants arrayed mutely at door and wall. She looked at Grace, who was kneeling beside Elizabeth, and gave her a flash of teeth, humourless as a sword.

  ‘Mistress. Do you know where your lady keeps her copy of the Titulus Regius?’

  ‘She does,’ said Elizabeth, the healthy rage renewed. ‘Grace, take my keys. Fetch the vile thing.’

  In the hearth a few logs burned. Margaret, greatly in command, ordered a page to make the flames leap high. Grace returned, carrying the long parchment like a sleeping infant in her arms. ‘Throw it in,’ commanded the Countess.

  Grace set the Act gently on the fire’s heart. It smouldered like feathers, then flamed, and the wax upon it ran like spreading veins of blood, blackening, corroding.

  ‘Now, my lady,’ said Margaret to Elizabeth. ‘By the grace of King Henry the Seventh you are restored. You are Elizabeth, rightful widow of Edward Plantagenet. Parliament has repealed this shameful Act.’