The King's Grey Mare

by Jarman, Rosemary Hawley

  Elizabeth felt tears brimming, burning. She said very softly: ‘I would see Henry. I would kiss both his hands.’

  ‘When the time is full,’ said Margaret, closing her lips tight.

  ‘Does Bess not please him?’

  ‘The physicians have made their examination …’

  O Jesu! thought Elizabeth suddenly, wildly aghast. She loved her uncle; he visited her at Sheriff Hutton. Richard has deflowered her, and all is lost. Her head and hand twitched madly, and Margaret looked away.

  ‘They find her strong and goodly proportioned,’ she continued. ‘She should conceive an heir with no trouble.’

  Elizabeth snatched up the despised wine and gulped it down.

  The Countess rose. ‘Farewell, your Grace,’ she said. Elizabeth looked at her with haggard, grateful eyes. Your Grace! That sweet, almost forgotten sound.

  ‘A word,’ said Margaret, at the door. ‘When you meet His Majesty; let me counsel you on his humour. He is grave and sober, as befits the saviour of England. He would gladly forget the shames that Edward brought on England. Therefore the Titulus Regius no longer exists, and it must never be mentioned. You understand?’

  ‘I do.’ Ah, let me kiss his feet!

  Margaret drew her mantle about her. ‘Also,’ she said, leaving, ‘he dislikes frivolity. There has been overmuch light-mindedness in past royal households. Go gracefully in his presence, my dame. The King does not jest.’

  So, good. I, too, dislike jesters.

  Margaret turned outside the door and stepped into the little chariot that had been brought for her. Blazoned on its flank was the White Rose of York, with half its petals painted red, to signify the merging of the Houses. She was already seated when Grace broke from her place beside Elizabeth at the door and ran forward. She clutched at the gold tassels hanging from the side of the litter. The Countess turned to her a frigid face; it blurred and shivered in her sight.

  ‘Madame … Madame …’ Grace could scarcely speak. ‘Is there news … of my lord of Gloucester?’

  ‘Gloucester is dead,’ Margaret said, and laughed. ‘His Majesty bravely slew him in the field.’

  She saw Grace’s cheeks turn to clay. Perhaps the jest was too strong. ‘You meant the traitor Richard, of course?’ she said curtly.

  ‘No,’ Grace whispered. ‘His son.’

  ‘Bah!’ cried the Countess. ‘The boy! Well, to my knowledge he is in London, kindly tended by the King’s mercy …’

  She felt Grace’s lips, Grace’s tears upon her hand. Oddly uneasy, she leaned from the little chariot and called: ‘Drive on!’ Carriage and escort moved forward, in a storm of golden leaves and marguerites, and roses red and white.

  The day was a luminous ghost. Snow blotted the roofs and towers of Westminster and shed broken paleness on courtyard and thoroughfare. Although the weather was warm for January the snow did not melt. Swiftly London’s filth vanished beneath the smooth white silence; footprints, carrion, offal, dung, all were masked and absolved by it. The city’s outline blurred. A lucent gloom necessitated the early lighting of torches. The Palace window, behind which Henry dressed for his wedding, flung out a glow mirroring another across the courtyard.

  He wished to step to the window and look out curiously at that other light, where Bess underwent the careful ceremonies of preparation. He could hear the jingle of harness as the wedding guests rode into the yard below. He longed to throw open the window and suck in snowflakes, for the chamber was uncomfortably warm. However, this would necessitate treading on a dozen or so henchmen who crowded him, washing him, oiling and dressing him with deliberate formality. He therefore stationed Morton, already in full ecclesiastic regalia, at the window, and fired pleasant questions at him.

  ‘What do you see, my lord?’

  The Bishop looked down at the splashed colours, the pennons and banners and quarterings dappled with snow. The yard glowed with the liveries of a hundred visiting knights. A menagerie of blazons filled the air; stags, bulls, wolves, bright birds; azure and gold and gules. Esquires were running to assist dismounting lords; grooms led sleek horses to shelter.

  ‘The Spanish Ambassador, Ayala,’ he said. ‘And the sub-Prior of Santa Cruz. About thirty in his suite.’

  ‘Spain,’ said Henry softly. ‘Good. Who goes to meet them?’

  ‘Bourchier,’ said Morton, peering. Directly below, the Cardinal Archbishop, looking like a scarlet mushroom, moved to receive the guests. Cardinal Archbishop! A pang of envy, swiftly quelled, shot through him. All will come to pass, he thought.

  ‘Here comes the French contingent,’ he said.

  I trust we can feed them all, thought Henry. Were four thousand barrels of herring enough? They would surely suffice throughout Lent. The guests were bound to stay until Easter … The provision accounts were graven on his mind, He had checked them himself. He raised his arms so that two knights could clothe him in a shirt of Rennes cloth of the pale washed-leaf colour called applebloom. And ten thousand barrels of oysters?

  ‘My lord, we must talk again about taxes,’ he called, his voice muffled by the shirt over his head.

  ‘Gladly, Sire. But not on your wedding-day!’ laughed the Bishop.

  Four esquires knelt to adjust the King’s hose, lacing the points delicately. Next came the velvet doublet, the colour of claret, and a long mantle one shade paler, faced with whey-coloured ermine soft as down. Henry lifted each foot in turn and was shod in supple red leather. The velvet was heavy; he began to sweat lightly and a page anointed his head with rose-water cologne. There were too many people in the chamber; for instance, de Gigli, the prebendary of St. Paul’s, one who fancied himself a poet, stood clutching the endless Latin epithalamium composed for the nuptials. Henry guessed correctly that it would be a flowery piece. It could wait. The servants brought a jewel-coffer; his hands hovered over collars and rings. They winked up at him like knowing eyes.

  ‘Majesty,’ said a small voice. Yet another poet, Bernard Andreas, had wormed his way to the edge of the circle of henchmen.

  ‘Will you not hear my anthem? ’Tis only short.’

  Henry sighed and nodded.

  The poet recited squeakily:

  ‘God save King Henry wheresoe’er he be,

  And for Queen Elizabeth now pray we,

  And for all her noble progeny;

  God save the church of Christ from any folly,

  And for Queen Elizabeth now pray we.’

  A look of jealous fury passed from de Gigli to Andreas, who bowed, smirking. The King took a ruby from the box and placed it on his forefinger. Of course, the meaning in Andreas’s creation was quite plain; a subtle reminder that England expected Bess to be crowned as soon as possible after her wedding. Well, that too could wait. He picked out another ring, a tiny carved skull once belonging to Richard, looked at it and set it down again. Andreas will expect payment, he thought. But he shall have it, the anthem is correct enough and he seems loyal … savagely he bit his lip at this imbecility. A slip of the mind, in truth. Had he forgotten that none is loyal? Every smile cloaks a traitor; there’s no man in this room, this city, this realm, who would not betray me. And my own advantage is this certain truth. He bowed his bony shoulders and received the weight of a gold collar studded with emeralds. Behind him, vassals, like monkeys, plucked invisible fluff off his mantle.

  In a corner Reynold Bray was praying for a blessing on the King’s marriage. Earlier the clerk had told Henry that the Stafford brothers, still in Sanctuary at Abingdon, were plotting revolt. Henry decided then that he would knight Bray soon. Not for loyalty! but for his tireless, ferreting energy. As for the Staffords – they would be dealt with in his own time. He would make an example of them so that every traitor might know himself under the King’s surveillance. One of the pages stood on tiptoe to crown Henry with a velvet cap. A rose, fashioned of red and silver tissue, was pinned to the cap with a jewel. Later, in the Abbey, Henry would wear his crown. They held the steel mirror before him. For a second he t
hought: that man is pale! not recognizing himself. Then strength flowed into him. The past, with its doubts, died. He thought: I am as glorious as Edward or Richard ever was. More glorious!

  And I am careful. I am not prodigal with doubts, money, or my life. All the anthems in the world shall not do justice to the wisdom of Cadwallader’s seed! Free now to join Morton at the window, he looked down on the surging panoply, seeing among the standards the silver crescent of Northumberland, who had so nearly betrayed him in the field, coming so tardily to espouse his cause. Reminded by the standard that he had other territories besides London, Henry said: ‘I shall ride north after Lent.’

  ‘Is that wise, Sire?’ Morton. ‘York in particular is still in a ferment of grief over Richard’s death.’

  Henry looked mildly surprised. ‘It must be done. The Yeomen of the Guard will escort me, and a few hundred outriders. Of course we shall go. I will claim my allegiance throughout the realm.’

  He looked again at the pale window opposite.

  ‘Is my bride ready?’ he mused. ‘Who attends her?’

  Across that gap of snow-driven air, Bess stood like stone. What seemed a million miles below, wenches crawled fussing with the hem of her gown. Behind her she heard the whispering of her sister Cicely and her aunt Catherine, adjusting her train, a billow of cloth-of-gold. The most prominent of the attendants was Margaret Beaufort, who flitted here and there, advising, admonishing, like an officious gnome. Bess thought: I am a doll, a mammet, being readied for some children’s revel. I am no longer Elizabeth of York, for when I donned this shining gown, I relinquished myself. I could no more leave this place than a doll could run from a child’s destructive hands. So be it; I will be a doll, inert. So many lectures had been hammered in her ears by Morton, the Countess, and by her constant companion, Maud Herbert, that the advice had mingled in her mind and run away, like rain down a conduit. Be dutiful, Bess. Be obedient. Do not laugh or weep loudly. Above all, be fruitful! Poor Bess, with a wit that astounded even herself, had countered: ‘I will be fruitful, if I have a good gardener!’

  She felt Grace undo her hair so that it fell almost to her knees, a veil of shining primrose. Poor Grace! she thought absently. So willing and quiet, with her odd little pointed face and those eyes whose colour came as a shock every time they looked at you. Even Grace was changed these days; the hands wielded the comb as efficiently as ever, but her face was indrawn, bleak with some awful distress.

  Elizabeth, sitting quietly in the window-embrasure, watched her daughter apparelled. The comb passed through Bess’s hair as through water. Maud Herbert took a long strand of sapphires and diamonds and wound it about Bess’s head. She pulled it tight, tormentingly tight; it bit into Bess’s brow and the nape of her neck. The tension of the past hours overwhelmed Bess; she burst into tears. Instantly Mistress Herbert was contrite, caressing the Princess, whispering unspeakable comforts in her ear.

  ‘Your Grace, don’t cry. Marriage is given by God; as to the … fleshy business – his Majesty will not hurt you!’

  Bess spoke, for the first time. ‘How should you know?’ and turned away, stiff and regal. Maud sniggered and withdrew. ‘Let me help,’ said Grace gently; arranging the jewelled circlet more comfortably, she was very close to Bess.

  ‘Have you seen John? John of Gloucester?’ she whispered.

  ‘He came with me from Sheriff Hutton. They say that Henry has shut him in the Tower, together with my cousin of Warwick; but I don’t know … I don’t think so.’

  ‘Was he well?’

  ‘Yes … no, he was not …’ said Bess. Grace sucked in a harsh breath; next moment the Countess of Richmond descended upon them.

  ‘Are we ready?’ she demanded. ‘Bess, I vow you are most comely. Dear daughter! je t’embrasse, je te bénisse …’ She pecked the girl’s cheek. Bess’s eyes flicked round the circle of attendant ladies. Fatigue and excitement whitened their faces; the palest was that of her mother, advancing towards her. Elizabeth placed her arms, their flesh fiery, about Bess. The feel of that frail, seething heat was unnerving. ‘Madame, are you sick?’ she whispered.

  ‘What? On this, our day of days?’ said Elizabeth. She held Bess close, kissed her, clung.

  ‘Madame, you will crease my dress.’

  ‘This day,’ said Elizabeth almost drunkenly, ‘we shall be one family again. Reunited. My dear son Tom, my brothers Edward and Lionel. Your sisters, Cicely here – Kate, Mary, Bridget, for the nuns of Dartford have given her leave. And my little sons whom I have not seen for so long. My Ned, my Richard …’

  She pressed her hot face against Bess’s icy gemmed temple. The firm hand of Margaret Beaufort detached them.

  ‘It’s time.’ She flung open the chamber door. Outside, the snow fell no longer and a pale red sun had appeared. The Yeomen of the Guard were manipulating a golden canopy whereunder Bess might walk. Distant trumpets sounded, and further away, the rhythm of steel on anvil, for men were preparing for the three days’ jousting that would follow the wedding. There was the smell of woodsmoke and rubbish burning; it would soon be dusk and the citizens had lighted the first of many bonfires. There would be revelry in the streets; the King had sent messengers abroad, bidding merriment.

  The procession gathered. Bishops and Archbishops, monks and priests and poets; statesmen and nobles, barons and dukes and earls. The bridal party, a shimmering train of rich dress and soaring standards, swayed and converged; as they passed under the gate the entourage of York and Lancaster merged in splendour, the white rose and red blossoming athwart one another. Clarions called harshly. There was no question of who should escort the bride. Elizabeth was almost jostled back by the King’s mother, and took her place only a few steps before Grace and Catherine. She bade herself have patience. This was the dreamed-of day; Bess will be Queen of England in an hour, and I Queen-Dowager. The past is gone. Deo Gratias …’

  ‘Deo Gratias!’ The choir strained to the topmost stave, their voice sharp-edged like the silvery vaulting of the Abbey; the singing softened in a dying fall, then rose like the fanned sweep of pillars that dwarfed the congregation. Light, stark yet shadowed, fell upon the couple as they knelt for the final prayer. The choir shrilled to a height again and died, to find breath for the last anthem. Candlelight gleamed upon the wedding-rings. Acolytes raised the great Cross from which fiery prisms smoked down on the bent heads of Henry Tudor and Elizabeth Plantagenet. The Cardinal had officiated at many weddings before, royal weddings, yet he thought: never was there a stranger marriage, for the King’s hands had shaken uncontrollably during the exchange of rings, and the maiden was as stiff and waxen as the Virgin in her nearby niche. Faintly there had come sobbing from the nave, from someone unknown, unseen.

  Elizabeth’s tired eyes ranged over the packed throng. She looked up towards the altar, at the russet hair of Henry under the rich new crown, and at Bess’s flaxen fall. Her gaze wandered: stall upon stall was filled, with Tudors, with the old scions of Lancaster, a few of the House of York (Bess’s unfortunately and costly blood) – Lincoln and his satellites, Margaret of Salisbury. Again her eyes roved, past shadowed alcoves and through chantrys with their shining leaves of stone, past the dark-blue, the silver and gold, the red of banners, the rose and the dragon; into hollowed darknesses and frailly-lit corners her eyes probed and questioned. They sought answer in the painted face of long-dead knights, the gilded saints, the smoke-grey images, reminders of love and death now cast in clay. Grace was kneeling close behind her. She turned her head and asked:

  ‘Do you see anyone?’

  ‘Who, highness?’

  ‘My sons – Ned and Richard. They must be here.’

  She turned fully and saw how Grace’s eyes also roved, as they had done throughout the ceremony; they moved about the nave, they strained, with blood-flecks showing, to the chancel and up to the clerestory.

  ‘I see no one, Madame.’

  I see no one. I do not see my love. My love, are you imprisoned? If not, why did they forbid
you this royal charade?

  ‘I would have thought my sons would be present.’

  ‘Why is John of Gloucester not here?’

  They looked at one another as the choir, mad with the wine of heaven, reached an unwavering, heartstopping height and hung upon it. Elizabeth’s dull, wasted hand was drooping at her side. Grace’s fingers stole out and closed about it. So they remained, as the couple came slowly down towards them, the trumpets sounding for their going out. In the streets, red flame caught the first bonfire, and the cheers of festive London arose.

  Leaving the Abbey, Elizabeth slipped on a patch of soft snow. Grace flung out her arms, catching the Queen-Dowager’s weight upon her own hip and shoulder. For a moment the two women clung together, while the crowd, yeomen and vassals and merchants, all muffled in their best, watched curiously, but only for a moment; they were avid to drink in the bride. In the dying red rays of the sun, Bess gleamed; her dress, her jewels, her sleek, lambent cheeks. She is like the Queen of Heaven, the watchers murmured, genuinely awed. Henry walked steadily beneath the canopy beside his bride; he was stern and gorgeous. Enthusiasm wafted through the mob; someone took up the cry – God save King Henry! He smiled then; the long lips curved in the calm face, the yellowish eyes sparkled acknowledgment.

  ‘Is all well, Madame?’ Grace whispered. Elizabeth held on to her arm.

  ‘Yes. You are good. Grace, you are good to me.’

  It was the kindest thing she had ever said to her. Grace seized the hand, the limp wasted hand, and kissed it. Together they moved on to the banquet in Westminster Hall. The King’s Yeomen held open the great door, gathering in nobles; finally the door was closed upon the gaping crowd. One last cheer arose, before peasant and pedlar, trollop and friar and prentice turned to one another with shining eyes. A band of fiddlers struck up and a man beat on a drum. The long night was beginning.