Crown in Candlelight

by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  ‘Where are you going? Don’t leave me.’

  He smiled. A ghastly, pleasant smile.

  ‘I’m going to kill him.’ He went to an arms chest and took out a sword. It was once the property of Davy Gam and had been willed to him. He kept it oiled and cherished. It had not been used since his brush with the Lombards when he was wounded, the same year that he and she came together. He took his baselard from his belt and carefully felt its edge. He went to the door; he shouted for Huw to saddle his horse.

  She found herself able to rise from the bed, and cross the room, and close the door and put her back against it. She pressed hard against the door. He frowned at her.

  ‘Get out of my way. Out of my way, cariad.’

  He took her shoulders and tried to prise her away from the door. She stood firm, gasping a little as he hurt her. She suffered the hurt like a caress. She stared into his eyes. He looked at Gloucester’s blood splashed on her neck, then back to her eyes. For the first time she was the stronger of the two.

  ‘They’ll hang you within a day,’ she said. ‘Leave this house and you take my life with you.’ He drew his sword.

  ‘I’m going to kill him,’ he said. ‘Let me end him. Annwyl Crist! Let me drink his blood!’ He bent and deliberately licked the blood from her neck. She shivered; she thought: it’s turned him mad. She put her arms round him. She unsheathed the baselard and threw it on the floor. The sword drooped in his hand.

  ‘I’m going to kill him,’ he said with great misery.

  ‘No, my love. Stay with me.’ She called him bach, little one. His face was still ghastly.

  ‘I shall challenge him then,’ he said. She took him across the room, forced him to sit with her on the bed. He was as rigid as a corpse. But she had stopped trembling.

  ‘No harm was done to me;’ she said. ‘You cannot challenge him. Only knights can meet in chivalry.’

  She took his head against her breast and stroked his hair and felt his tears. She became frightened again. He was so strong; how violently the strong are shattered. They break, but they do not bend. My love. This awful truth, hurting him so. ‘He’s not worth your steel! Someone will kill him one day! He collects enemies …’

  He raised his face. ‘He is not worth my steel! I may be no English knight, but I am of a race of great Welsh princes.’ It was not often he talked like this. He laughed bitterly and swore. It was a relief to hear him swear. ‘To think that Davy died on Artois plain and I risked my life, to save that swine!’

  She stroked his face. As he grew calmer, she became less calm. Her own stroking hands looked so frail, as if she could almost see through bones and skin.

  ‘There’s something I would rather be than the greatest knight,’ he said. ‘Your husband. With rights to defend you, my wife. Cathryn. Oh, my wife.’

  ‘I am your wife. You know it.’

  The firelit oath. The feather bed. The flowery mountain. The words repeated over and over. The pact and pledge that none could break. Am byth. Toujours. For ever. For ever.

  ‘Lie down with me,’ she said.

  ‘I always envied Harry,’ he said, in her arms. ‘God rest him. You and he were man and wife.’

  ‘None shall marry the Queen-Dowager. You know that, too.’

  ‘Y diafol!’ he sat up violently. ‘Devil damn that! Once you spoke of risks, hazards. We’ve gone beyond risk and hazard. We’ve gone beyond everything. The Act against the Welsh has been repealed. I am regarded sicut verus anglicus ligeus. I can hold privilege. You are the privilege. Nothing else.’

  ‘I promised Bedford. I swore discretion. He has befriended me. He spoke of ruin and danger to us both if I disobeyed. I am your woman. I bear your children. I belong to you. What more is there?’

  ‘A legal ceremony,’ he said stubbornly. ‘If only in secret—better than nothing. Your chaplain … Cathryn, please.’

  She was looking very tired, lying there. She said: ‘I feel … Owen. Do you see anything strange about my hands? They look … translucides …’

  He was alarmed. Charles of Valois. Shocked into mania. He said quickly: ‘No. Beautiful, strong hands. Fierce hands. Full of temper and grace. Look at their perfection. Give me that hand in marriage. That one.’

  The envy of Harry had been strongly re-awakened, this awful day. She was silent. An almost mortal bitterness gripped him. He said:

  ‘Cathryn. I must ask you. I’ve never asked you. I don’t ask if you loved Harry, I know you did. But did you love him better than me?’

  Still she said nothing. Thought and memory lapped her. She made no conscious effort to seek conclusion. It was there, final, blinding.

  King Henry Plantagenet of Lancaster, descendant of the most ancient Norman line. Owen ap Meredyth ap Tydier, Esquire, whose mystic line stretched back even further. The only two men she had known, and one of them unique.

  She thought of the jewels, the words, the eight white horses. The raging welcome ashore at Dover, the close-held nights, the pain, the pity, the long absences, the silver effigy. The promises, vows and confidences. The security, the loss. And the flame of Culhwch, dancing in her soul, something not of this world, incomparable.

  She said: ‘I loved Harry dearly. He was my harbour. But you are my storm. He was a distant beacon. But you are my light, my star. Beyond life. Beyond death. Beyond time.’

  They lay quiet, embraced. A perfect moment; something far outside the spheres mocked it and marked it down.

  The door opened. Edmund appeared, weeping. Golden Edmund, who never cried. He had the torn body of the white dog in his arms. One of the big hounds, he said, had mistaken it for prey.

  On the Feast of St Augustine, 1435, the merest hint of autumn was crisping about the walls of the White Tower. Within its Chapel of St John, the King knelt in prayer. The holy rites had long since finished but he remained, his figure dwarfed by the creamy Corinthian pillars and high barrel vault with its two tiers of arcaded windows through which a gleam from outside filtered and was blocked by shadows. He had much private praying to accomplish. He hated the Tower of London, where he was temporarily lodged; he sensed its macabre implacability. But he was no longer a child; he was nearly thirteen, nearly of age: And he loved the chapel, its rich-garbed credenza reflecting the solid milky stone, the magical high altar above which hung Life in Death, with wounds of garnet blood. He tugged away the faldstool and knelt on cold flags, rejoicing in the ache that attacked his knees. He looked ardently towards the altar.

  ‘Sweetest Lord Jesu!’ He bowed his head.

  From his doublet breast, a distracting odour arose. It was the perfume from his mother’s embrace. She had been gone some hours but her essence clung, softening the acrid incense that hung about the chapel. She had held him so tightly, kissing his forehead. For the first time he had felt that he was her champion and protector, not the other way about. He would pray for her first. ‘O Christ, redeem her sins with Thy Precious Blood,’ he began, and even to him this sounded false, presumptuous, wrong, as he remembered her kindness, her pure and loving eyes. ‘O sweet Christ Jesu, protect her from all evil,’ he said instead. ‘Deliver her from all sorrow, sickness, distress of mind or estate, and from all perils in which she may stand.’

  She had been so pleased with the magnificent ruby ring he had given her. Bedford had sent it by courier from Rouen with instructions that the Queen-Dowager should have it—as if there was any danger of Henry keeping it for himself! Before visiting him at the Tower she had written to ask if it was convenient. That was their little code—was Humphrey in London? And Humphrey was in France again, so all was well. God be thanked, thought Henry, and was instantly so ashamed that he prostrated himself before the altar.

  ‘Almighty and most merciful God, I ask thy blessing upon the person of my uncle, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester. Bestow upon him all felicity, pardon and peace. Preserve and deliver Humphrey thy servant from all trouble and adversity, for the love of Thy blessed Son, our Saviour and Redeemer.’

  Had not Chr
ist said bless them that curse you? He reared from his prone posture and stared at the livid face, the eyes full of painted tears and blood, the agonized twist of the mouth. He felt in his own hands and feet the insupportable hurts of the nails. The figure swam in his sight, became three-dimensional and began to swoop and descend through shadows from its apogee of pain … he closed his eyes in ecstasy and fear.

  His mother had petitioned a private audience. He had seen her in his little chantry where they had knelt shoulder to shoulder, their voices masked by the thin ethereal notes of the choristers. It took a little time for her to reveal her request, all the while addressing him formally. My liege. Scarcely any one called him Henry now, let alone Harry, and certainly no one ever called him Harry, bach! Yes, he had asked her, with uneasy tenderness, how Owen was, thinking that all whom he loved seemed to vanish from his life. Even Richard of York was seldom seen these days, being most of the time in France, or posting pell-mell north to visit the Nevilles. And Cardinal Beaufort, whom he saw as something next-door to a saint, was nearly always in Bohemia where he was Papal legate. His mother’s rare visits were like drops of rain in a desert.

  ‘Sire. I would like your advice regarding your half-brothers.’

  ‘Edmund and Jasper?’ He brightened at the thought of them. He was flattered by her approach. ‘They must be growing up.’

  ‘They’re five, and four. They salute your Grace. Yet … She looked fully in his eyes, intensely anxious. ‘There’s the possibility that they have made enemies … an enemy, you understand?’

  He took her long ringed hand in his small bony one. He whispered: ‘I understand.’

  ‘The day might come when they require sanctuary. If that should be, where would your Grace suggest they be sent?’

  He pursed his lips wisely, he groped in vain for a solution, and was so long silent that their clasped hands began to tremble from a mutual source.

  ‘It’s difficult,’ he said lamely, then suddenly remembered something told him by the young chaplain, Father Simon. A house of the most excellent order, full of the dedicated religious.

  ‘The Abbey of St Saviour, at Bermondsey!’ He was surprised when she emphatically shook her head.

  She had heard more of Bermondsey than he knew. It was by repute more like a house of correction than one of peace. Even in Harry’s day political prisoners and folk who for one reason or another had become an embarrassment were immured at Bermondsey. It was a place of incarceration as sure as Fleet or Newgate. No, my liege. Not Bermondsey. Lost again, he had said: ‘I will give the matter thought, Madame. Trust me.’ He had looked so unhappy at having disappointed her that she had taken him in her arms, invading him with the perfume which he inhaled with a mixture of disapproval and delight. I will speak to my Council, he said proudly. She answered swiftly:

  ‘Oh no, my liege. This is a secret matter!’ and he’d thought: of course. How stupid I am!

  Now, kneeling upright, grasping his rosary, he whispered: ‘Most merciful God, protect and strengthen our dear mother the Queen, and find me an answer to her plea!’

  Time was precious. He thought quickly down his list. Who now?

  ‘… and for our dear friend and counsellor, Richard, Duke of York, that he may have protection and guidance throughout his travels in this life and thereafter everlasting bliss.’ (And that he may think of me, sometimes, with love.)

  ‘… and for that most high and mighty prelate, thy servant Cardinal Henry Beaufort, that he may perform thy work ever to thy greater glory, O Lord …’

  He squeezed his eyes tight. A draught of moving robes blew beside him and he froze in terror. Cautiously he looked and sighed with relief. It was only his steward, William de la Pole, kneeling reverently at his left, crossing himself, then turning to smile at him.

  ‘My lord of Suffolk,’ said Henry, and smiled back.

  ‘I startled your Grace, I’m sorry.’

  He had for a moment forgotten Suffolk, forgotten that he was not after all completely isolated in his high estate. William was kind, and being fairly tall and slim, looked a little like Owen, although his thick hair was quite grey. But then, he didn’t. Nobody looked like Owen.

  ‘It’s very cold for you in here, Sire,’ said de la Pole.

  ‘What?’ said Henry, nodding towards the Christ. ‘With Him to warm me?’

  Suffolk bowed his head. Henry thought: I’ll ask him! He is discreet, and he loves me. I think he loves me.

  ‘My lord, your counsel, please,’ he said softly. ‘There are two children … friends of mine’ (no lie, dear Jesu!) … and he went on, haltingly, to explain the predicament. Suffolk listened intently.

  ‘They are wards of your Grace?’ he asked. ‘A place of safety, you say, should the contingency arise … That’s easy, Sire.’

  ‘But not Bermondsey,’ said Henry quickly.

  ‘No, no, of course not Bermondsey. That’s no place for the innocent! Not even for the health of their souls. Not Bermondsey, but Barking. My sister is Abbess there. I can vouch for her goodness and good sense. Would that serve your Grace’s intention?’ He saw the grateful eyes and congratulated himself. That will advance me in the Cardinal’s esteem, and advance my sister, too. God’s Blood, he thought. What fortune serves those who serve an infant King!

  ‘I must pray now,’ said Henry apologetically, and Suffolk said: ‘One more matter, your Grace. I came to tell you at once, so you might light a candle. This news I only had today, from my lord of Gloucester’s envoy. Your uncle of Bedford is sick, at Rouen. They say it’s mortal.’

  He left the chapel, quietly and Henry knelt very still, tasting the news. The name Rouen awoke the faintest tremor, and then the sea of Pembrokeshire came in, washing his mind clean together with the sound of Owen’s voice. Jeanne is in Heaven now. And Bedford is on his way. Will they meet, I wonder? Will they forgive? He rose, his legs half-paralysed with cold and stress, and went unsteadily to the altar where candles burned. He took flame and moved, frail and delicate in his black clothes, from one bracket to another, working deliberately, constantly praying.

  He lit candles for the dead, the dying, the living. One for his mother. One for Master Tydier. One for Bedford. One for Cardinal Beaufort. One for Suffolk. One for Richard of York, and one for his own father, the great and glorious Harry, too marvellous even to wonder about save as the silver mask under the H-shaped chantry. Two smaller ones (he thought this appropriate) for Edmund and Jasper. A large, beautifully carved one for Jeanne d’Arc. He began to cry. One thick as his own arm for Humphrey of Gloucester. One for Father Simon, who had taught him to pray. The living and the dead. Had he missed anyone? Dare he light one for himself? And shakily he did so, looking up where the garnet wounds became more bloodily real than ever in the transient gleam, seeming to roll down the limbs. He lit a candle for each member of his Council, the six prelates, the two clerical ministers, the eight dukes and earls, the four knights. He lit one for his French grandfather, Charles the Mad, and for his own rival, Charles the Seventh. He lit one for the peace of the world. And then, white and exhausted, his face irradiated by the shining, blowing flowers of flame, he knelt again and said: ‘Domine Jesu Christe … do with me according to Thy Will, for Thy tender mercy’s sake. Amen.’

  His personal psalm. It served only to enhance the thought of his own unworthiness. He got up and extinguished the candle he had lit for himself, there in the Tower of London.

  As Humphrey, with his entourage, blown by the autumn wind, rode north-west along the Rue du Gros-Horloge into the place adjacent to the Palais where Bedford lay, he saw a wild-eyed man, festooned with rags, dart from an alley. For one moment he was afraid. But the wretch took no notice of him or his caparisoned escort. He loped purposefully across the square. After four years there was little evidence of where La Pucelle’s pyre had stood; only if one looked very hard the faintest darkening of the cobbles could be seen. The ragged man knew, however; he went straight to the spot and flung himself on the ground. He scrabbled to gath
er up handfuls of wind-whirled dust which he rubbed into his eyes. Then he crossed himself, leaped up and scuttled away back into the narrow shadows. Humphrey swore. He rode on quickly through the great studded oak door of the Palais, dismounted in the courtyard and mounted the spiral to his brother’s apartments.

  He had been away only an hour but he feared that Bedford might have died. He forced himself through the thronged chamber. Bedford lay propped on pillows, his face stamped with the milky, childlike glaze of mortality. He had been anointed with the seventh sacrament, and his brow shone with oil. Priests and monks droned ceaselessly. Four or five Norman knights were bitterly weeping. Here in this seat of English administration a just and temperate Constable was departing. To a man, they recalled his fair dealings. Humphrey averted his eyes from their grief; his own throat felt thick. He leaned and took his brother’s hand. Bedford’s lips fluttered. ‘You returned swiftly,’ he said. ‘Was all in order? The library?’

  ‘Eighty-nine volumes in all. The treasures of France, of Italy.’

  ‘They’re yours,’ said Bedford faintly. A clerk scratched with his quill on the Duke’s last will and testament.

  ‘Damn the books!’ said Humphrey, outraging two young priests effusively praying by the bed. ‘John … no treasure could amend your loss. Is there nothing? I’ve brough Doctor Swanwyth … I know he didn’t save Harry, but he is skilled. Have you pain?’

  ‘I had a griping in my bowels and I vomited, but no more.’ Humphrey felt the hand draw him closer. ‘Is it fancy? to say one dies of a broken heart?’

  ‘They say it happens.’

  ‘I laboured so long,’ said Bedford. ‘So vainly.’

  ‘You were valiant. A true and excellent knight.’

  ‘We had some good days.’

  ‘We did. John, is there anything? Anything?’ I’ve wished him dead, he thought. He is the last of my brothers. Now I am sorry … Bedford laboured to reply, intimating that priests and courtiers should withdraw from earshot. He whispered, with his lips against Humphrey’s face: