‘Yes,’ Owen said slowly. ‘In my life I’ve known two people like that. They’re always either doomed or persecuted—or else used. They can see beyond this world.’
‘Where were they?’ Henry lifted his face at last.
‘Why, at home. At Glyndyfrdwy.’ The Lord, with his dreams and his horses of the wind. And Hywelis. Why do I still call it home? My home is where Cathryn is. Yet I still call it home.
Henry was looking calmer. Owen went on: ‘You must remember always that Jeanne had to be discredited. Every rule was broken to this end and there were, I believe, grave judicial errors—provocation, fraud, false witness. Because she had fired the morale of France to such a degree, coming as she did from God, it was not enough to ridicule her power. She had to be shown as a heretic. That’s what I believe.’
Henry whispered: ‘So … I was not the instrument of that good woman’s death?’
‘Harry! You, who are without fault? Who told you this?’
Gloucester, he thought. He looked closely at the King’s face.
‘When did you hurt your mouth?’
‘Gloucester speaks unkindly of my royal mother,’ said Henry with sudden wildness. ‘I love my lady mother! I miss her still, when I’m not with her. And I love you, Master Tydier! Do you love me? Do you?’
Owen slid from the rock and went on his knees, spoiling his finery beyond repair in the salt pool. He took the King’s hands between his and bent his brow, saying:
‘I am your liege man for ever, most noble sovereign lord. I pledge you my life, and the lives of my descendants. To our last breath.’
‘We thank you,’ said Henry formally, and gave another shuddering sigh. ‘Before we left London, I wrote a psalm, one night when I couldn’t sleep. Domine Jesu Christe, qui me creasti, redemisti, et preor-dinasti …’
‘Construe, your Grace, my Latin is inferior.’
‘O Lord Jesus Christ, who hast created and redeemed me and hast brought me to that which now I am, Thou knowest what Thou wouldst do with me; do with me according to Thy will, for Thy tender mercy’s sake. Amen.’
‘Amen.’ Duw, poor child, with such a fatalistic philosophy. He thought of his own sons: Edmund at two so fair and lively and already singing, and Jasper, brawling from the cradle. Sadness filled him, enhanced by the memory of those unstable Valois eyes. He rose.
‘Look at the sea, Harry. We could walk across that blue and green and white—what sights we’d see—mermen and dragons and ghostly ships and Neptune roaring up to salute us with his trident, and a million fishes swimming to form his crown—’ he heard the rare, almost painful laughter beginning—‘and then of course’ (ruefully) ‘we should fall off the edge of the world.’
‘It’s time for his Grace’s private prayers.’ The young priest, crow-gaunt, was beside them, leading the King away. More prayers, thought Owen, relinquishing him. Prayers won’t save that one. (What a heathen I am.) Only love. Then he heard the sound of more laughter, rich and glorious, this time and saw his Cathryn coming along the beach. Quite the carline wife, with her skirts held up, her hair blowing. The most sparkling thing on the shimmering bay. The little white dog was leaping beside her, and her women were panting to keep up. Edmund, blue-eyed, golden-haired Edmund, rode high in Guillemot’s arms. Jasper, with his fierce little dark face, was against Joanna Troutbeck’s agitated breast, trying to wriggle out of a fur robe. Owen went forward and took him. The women’s protests rose like the seabirds: it’s too cold, against nature, they will die from these airs! And his own woman, crying: ‘Pouf! Let them breathe deep, it’s wonderful!’ coming closer, now leading Edmund by the hand. The entourage drew away with disapproving shrugs at this madness. Edmund’s eyes were fixed wonderingly on the myriad shells at his feet. ‘Play, then, bébé,’ she said, releasing him.
He hadn’t seen her all day. He hadn’t been with her as much as he would have liked lately. Not half as much. A further discretion had been forced upon them by the presence of the King and his servants. He set Jasper on the flat rock. He kissed the tiny furious face. He took Cathryn’s hands. He looked down at them. She still cuts her nails very short, he thought. He remembered the hands, the nails of Charles of Valois, like talons, the talons of a wild injured hawk. He understood this severe cutting of her nails.
‘R’wy’n dy garu di,’ he said. ‘Je t’aime, mignonne. I love you, my sweet darling.’
‘Your hose is all dirty,’ she said. ‘You look a villain.’
‘I’ve been kneeling. A private oath. Nothing to do with you, Cathryn. What mischief have you been up to?’
The little dog frisked at the edge of the waves, leaving tiny trefoil prints instantly smoothed by the sea’s soft iron. Jasper crawled along the rock.
‘I have been to see the Bishop of St David’s. He is gentil, we talked of Archbishop Chichele and he showed me the building that Chichele did for Harry. The carving’s beautiful. And he told me the legend of Dewi Sant. Did you know that St David brought little fires from heaven? To shine round those who are soon to die?’ And she laughed. ‘To remind mankind of their mortality!’
Owen said: ‘Yes. I know.’
‘Also we spoke of the Cardinal. Beaufort told the Bishop I was coming here.’
‘Beaufort approves,’ he said. ‘This congé was one more little shaft against Gloucester.’
Gloucester. They had kept away from Pembroke Castle; it belonged to Gloucester.
‘We’re far from home,’ she said.
‘But we must go back.’ Back to Hertford. Privacy. The maids were coming to take the children, still convinced that they would meet their death through the mad sea airs. Soon we’ll be going home. Not Glyndyfrdwy. Home. He drew her behind a great rock. Out of the sight of the others.
‘Our home is in one another.’ He held her very tightly; she fitted her body to his. He drank the salt from her lips, kissing her until she sighed for breath. The maids were bearing away the children. She twisted in his arms to look after them.
‘They are the most beautiful children in Christendom,’ she said.
He released her for a moment. He must speak to her about Harry. Poor tormented Harry. Gloucester had struck him. But not now. Not today, when she was so happy. Later. Much later. He came back to embrace her again, touching her soft breast, closing his eyes against her sea-scented hair, wrapped in the essence of the deathless dream. The entourage was disappearing—the children, the priest, the servants, the King. This was such a lovely little sunbright cove, flanked by the great purple and saffron rocks. A cave, made magical by shadow and sunlight. He took her hand, began to walk with her towards the mouth of the cave. He looked back at her once.
‘You are mad,’ she said.
‘See, the sand is dry. My cloak’s warm. Everyone’s gone.’
‘You are truly mad, cariad,’ she said. The sand was dry, silk-soft.
‘Yes,’ he said, straight-faced. ‘I was kicked on the head by a horse. At Corbie. Ah, lie back … Cathryn … fy nghariad. My sweet love.’
Such a beautiful place, he thought, lost in the dream. This will be the most beautiful of all our children. He laughed softly; the roar of the surf tore his laugh away and flung it into the teeth of destiny. Tempting it.
Hywelis dampened the fire. The smoke rose ochre and ebony, diminished to pearl. It wafted about the ruined chamber. Madog, fourth of his line, was irritated by the fumes—he got up and strolled away.
‘My father,’ she said softly, kneeling. ‘Are you pleased with me?’ His face appeared. He looked so young. Davyddap Llewellyn ap Hywel was with him, both eyes clear and bright. He was smiling. Owain Glyn Dwr was smiling. She had to bend very close, her own eyes streaming, to hear their words. The barrier between the spheres made them very faint.
‘I am well pleased. Have I not returned to you the torque of Maelor?’
She touched her neck. The feel of the heavy gold was reassuring. She had found it in moonlight, washed, after all the years, from the mountain stream into the peat-hag. She
had needed it last night; the black one had come again. Furious beyond belief, strong as a thousand devils. So far Hywelis was the stronger. The black one was envenomed by Edmund, by his health and beauty. This morning Hywelis had noticed a few white threads in her red hair. The black one had come in the form of a furred serpent. So strong. ‘Father,’ she said. ‘My father.’
‘Continue, Hywelis.’ The fine falcon’s face, so young, smiled at her. ‘Breed your foxes, girl. Draw your pentacles and say the charms I give you. Have I not returned the torque of Maelor?’
‘Never lose sight of the aim,’ said Davy Gam. Both eyes so clear and bright. ‘Edmund is the one. Duw a’n bendithio. God bless us.’
Wales shall rule England. They said it together. The smoke swirled and filled Hywelis’s eyes with pain.
‘Help me,’ she said. ‘Help me, against the black one, Eleanor of Gloucester.’
‘We will help you.’ Their voices were faint. ‘Be brave.’
‘I don’t want to die!’ she cried. Madog started to howl ‘I want to live, until he comes to me again!’
‘We are with you,’ the faintness said. ‘He will come, but not yet. Be brave.’
Summer came. Summer passed. And in summer, Humphrey, at Windsor, stood admiring himself in the reflected twinkle of the mullioned window. He wore a new velvet jupon and mantle so richly red it pained the eyes. His soft black hat was powdered with lilies; across his chest was the gold Lancastrian collar of SS’s. All this elegance was marred somewhat by an uncomfortable tightness at his waist. But let who dared say he was becoming stout! His valets, in any event, had all but swooned with admiration. It was a day for careful rejoicing … Oh, Beaufort, Beaufort, he thought. As I wax, so shall you wane!
The long feud had burgeoned, a black growth, and Humphrey had applied the clyster, flushing out Beaufort’s treachery and greed into the sight of men. He thought: I have actually called him traitor before the Council, and have heard the murmurs of assent. How are the mighty fallen, Beaufort! It was I who made the Council aware of your monstrous acquisitiveness. It was I who, while you were away in Calais, drew attention to your misuse of the Statute of Praemunire, your angling for Papal Bulls so as to retain all your ecclesiastical preferment in England. Your discontent with the red hat, your illegal clinging to the See of Winchester … not to mention the Crown jewels! He laughed at his own thoughts. The young man who sat reading at the table behind him looked up, smiled a faint, cynical smile, and resumed his book.
The joy and satisfaction it had given Humphrey to snatch the greater part of the royal gems and plate from Beaufort’s cache at Sandwich was past telling. How eager the Cardinal had been to lend incalculable sums to Parliament in a desperate measure to redeem and ingratiate himself! but Beaufort would never again be trusted. Most wonderful of all—Humphrey of Gloucester now led the Council. I waited, he thought. Though my impotent fury half wore me out, I waited: Just as Harry did until cities fell. Attrition never fails. And now, save for my brother of Bedford, I am the most powerful man in the realm.
‘Beautiful,’ said the voice behind him, as if the mind to whom it belonged had been accompanying his bubbling thoughts. He turned. Richard of York closed the book and carefully folded it in layers of silk.
‘The Astrolabe? Or the Legend of Good Women?’ Humphrey could again, at last, appreciate Chaucer’s work. ‘Both,’ said Richard. ‘Weren’t they inspired by his travels in Italy?’
‘You may borrow them if you like,’ said Humphrey. Richard of York bowed. The reflected glow of Gloucester’s mantle rosied his face. It was a short strong keen face with fine bones and an unusually hard jawline, as if his teeth were permanently clenched. The eyes were a bright light blue, forceful and direct.
‘You’ll keep them safe,’ said Humprey. ‘Are you going up to Westmorland? Your betrothed lady will enjoy reading them. They get little in the way of culture in the North, I imagine.’
‘Yes,’ said Richard. ‘I wrote to her from Calais.’ His hard face softened for an instant. ‘But naturally my main purpose here is to see your Grace, and to return the King.’
‘How was he in Calais?’
Richard said: ‘As usual. Everything seems rather too much for him. But he’s safely back, and at his prayers.’
‘Let’s have some wine,’ said Humphrey. Richard poured two full goblets from a tall gold flagon. Gloucester sat down opposite him, and raised his cup.
‘Sink our enemies,’ he said, and drank.
‘From what I hear,’ said Richard with a little smile, ‘most of yours are already en perdition!’
‘Ah, have a care, Dick,’ said Humphrey. ‘Some. Not all. Beaufort has lost face greatly. But de la Pole …’
‘Oh, Suffolk!’ said Richard of York. ‘Yes, indeed. He’s the Cardinal’s man and trades on his long history of martial closeness to the crown. My lord, I saw him in Calais. He advocates the new Treaty—this Treaty that is planned for Arras, if Burgundy and Armagnac keep the promises they have sworn together.’
‘Is it possible?’ said Gloucester incredulously. He refilled his gold goblet and took a great swig. ‘Did that witch-woman do so much damage that the feuding nobility of France cluster together like children frightened of the dark?’
‘France is sick,’ said Richard cryptically. ‘The écorcheurs still roam at large. Thousands of mad ragged wretches—some scarcely out of childhood—burning and looting and raising havoc, all in Jeanne d’Arc’s name. The poison’s within. The country’s crazy. Even Philip and Charles realize that unity is now the only hope.’
‘And the Treaty of Troyes no longer exists!’
‘Ay. Pope Eugenius declared it null and void, and the Fathers of Basle now recognize Charles the Seventh as rightful King. Only a marriage between the nations will give us back our foothold …’
‘How history repeats itself!’ said Humphrey bitterly, ‘Drink up, Dick. Tell me more.’
‘Philip is mellowing in his age,’ said York. ‘I wouldn’t say he has forgiven Armagnac, but he’s ready to forget. He demands reparation—thousands in gold spent on Masses for Jean sans Peur, his assassins found and punished (most of them are dead anyway)—and full expiation made for that day at Montereau. Charles attempts with some success to exonerate himself. He says he was young and led astray by false companions. And Philip is not the man he was. He bestows the new Order of the Golden Fleece willy-nilly—even on some Armagnacs. The Ram no longer butts and batters. All the lands that England and Burgundy won together will be thrown back into the common pool. Sweet Jesus!’ he said in sudden disgust. ‘All those decades of war, those mighty families decimated, for nothing.’ He spat on Humphrey’s fine Turkey rug, apologized, and said: ‘It’ll kill my lord of Bedford, all this.’
‘You think so?’ said Gloucester slowly.
‘Well, it’s trouble on trouble. He was most distressed over the death of Anne, his wife. We couldn’t comfort him for months.’
‘And with her went our last link with Burgundy,’ said Humphrey morosely. By now he was slightly drunk, his mood went up and down. He said, after a moment:
‘You’re a good and useful subject, Dick. How would you like to be the King’s lieutenant in France? He favours you, doesn’t he?’
‘It’s more honour than I deserve, your Grace. And yes, he does.’ And he trusts me too, he thought. Because I have the wit to be kind and sympathetic to his fancies. Not like you. You old devil! Then smoothly he returned to the topic of French policies.
‘They’re desperately concerned to have Charles of Orléans back—God’s life!—’ he laughed—‘it will be twenty years since he was imprisoned. Suffolk says …’
‘What does Suffolk say?’ said Humphrey heavily. The flagon was almost empty.
‘Suffolk, as chief warden of Orléans’s captivity, declares it will need the ransom of five kings to secure the Duke’s release. Though Orléans, I gather, is far from unhappy. He has least two high-born mistresses, and writes poems to them. Let’s hope he doesn’t get
their names mixed up.’
‘Dick,’ said Humphrey, no longer listening, ‘about the King. Henry must marry—’ he belched—‘one of Charles’s daughters.’
‘I’d already heard that was what you had in mind. But,’ he said delicately, ‘Prince Louis is still heir to the French throne. Ten years old, ugly as sin, but strong. However, you know best. My lord of Bedford will hate the thought of such an alliance!’
‘It will kill him,’ said Humphrey thickly. He tipped his winecup over, cursed, and rang a little silver bell as if he loathed it. A page mopped up and brought more wine and withdrew. The two men sat silent. Richard of York watched Gloucester closely. Yes my lord. I know well how much your mind frets over thrones and kingships. How much you’ve craved the crown of England yourself. And, by sweet Christ Jesus, so do I!
Soon, he would come into his vast inheritance, the proud acres of York, the dukedom’s northern holdings and his father’s entailed lands not to mention the vast Mortimer estate due him through his mother Anne, whose brother had died childless years ago. His square jaw tightened as he looked at Gloucester’s lax scarlet form. I am a king’s councillor. I shall be a king’s lieutenant. But by right I am a king. Through my undeniable claim which none has ever taken seriously. They will. I am the direct descendant, on the distaff side, of the third Edward. Now I pay lip service to this bully of Lancaster. But I’ll stake my claim or die in the attempt. And I have a woman behind me. Once again the taut Plantagenet face softened as he thought her name. Cicely Neville. The Rose of Raby, waiting for him now in Westmorland. Cicely with her panther’s heart and her mind like finest Nuremberg steel. Centuries of high Norman blood roaring in her veins (and his); beauty to make the pulse of even the blind beat faster. His true and chosen mate. The future mother of kings. Of this he was as sure as if a sybil had spoken it. With Cicely, he thought for the thousandth time, I can achieve the world. The thoughts made his face hot. He said lightly:
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