Crown in Candlelight

by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  ‘Dreadful gown!’ she said. ‘And I’m not afraid. I don’t think I shall ever be afraid again.’

  ‘Well, long live the French squabbles,’ he said merrily, ‘if they keep Gloucester away!’

  He mounted the bay. Huw sprang on the pony and took the reins of the spare horse. The keen bay reared and snorted. Owen turned, and raised his hand.

  ‘Adieu, Madame. Adieu, until we meet again!’

  The bay’s hooves struck a flash from the stones. The horses moved forward swiftly through the gate. Fog swallowed them and their riders. The strange little feeling moved deep in Katherine again. Not a pain. More like the sensation of an hour ago, when she had cried and twisted and trembled, cleft by love. The maids were holding Edmund and Jasper, ready to say their farewells, just inside the hall; Owen had kissed them before he left. She had forgotten the ruby ring. The King would be disappointed if she wasn’t wearing it. She mounted once more to the little room where she kept her coffers. The ruby, usually a loose fit, was snug today. Her fingers were swollen; something that hadn’t happened with any of her other children. The Welsh gold ring was painfully tight; it worried her. Any further swelling and it would have to be cut off. She tugged at it, removed it with difficulty. She locked it carefully away; her most precious piece. She recalled the night it had been placed on her finger. The night they both still talked about with joy and wonder, even in face of the thousand subsequent nights of equal joy. She recalled splitting Humphrey’s eyebrow open with it. No need to fear Humphrey today. Yes, she thought. I think I have at last ceased to fear. I can strike back; I feel so well, so fine. Long live the French squabbles, if they keep Humphrey away!

  She made good time to Westminster, arriving at evening when she heard Compline with the King in St Stephen’s Chapel. Henry seemed pleased to be with her again, but now there was a certain detachment about him. He seemed at times lost within himself and when praying his whole body trembled frighteningly. His eyes flickered over the low neckline of her gown with the shrewd look of a little old priest. Yet he was sweet and courteous, although when she thanked him privately for the recommendation of Barking Abbey he merely nodded and didn’t ask after his half-brothers. However, when it was time for bed, he thawed suddenly and spoke of them with eagerness, all the time looking over his shoulder as if for a judgement. She lay wakeful for a long time. She followed Owen in her mind on the Southampton road. It would take him four days, barring accidents. Supposing his proposed mischief there took two days—she would be back home to welcome him. She summoned his face clearly into her mind to hold as the last thing before she slept. Don’t love so much, Princess, said old Dame Alphonse in the dream, it is unfitting …Be quiet, old nun, said Owen, laughing. What do nuns know of love? The white dog gambolled round them, its coat bloody … horrible. Katherine came up out of the dream quickly. The child was moving restively, as if it too disliked the dream. She lay awake until dawn, whispering softly to the child. Little Owen.

  It was just as she had been told about the new fashion. Everyone was wearing it; everyone looked enceinte. During the service in the Abbey, all through the bidding prayers and invocations, the interminable plainsong of the monks, her spirits rose. She wanted to laugh. How many secrets like hers were concealed beneath the monstrous houpelande? The merry mood persisted even throughout the opening ceremony, with Henry’s cold shaking hand in hers and the stiff hauteur of the royal arms bristling above their heads behind the great gold cross. Covertly she studied the assembly. There were many unfamiliar faces. Faces missing too. Philippa of York had been dead for five years, likewise the Countess of Huntingdon. Anne of Bedford was dead. Margaret of Clarence looked dowdy and faded. She peered through the press of knights and councillors, abbots and bishops and commoners. They were all girding themselves to petition the little King with a myriad private controversies. She saw how closely Suffolk guarded him, and was glad. Better Beaufort’s man than Gloucester’s. Then she saw Eleanor Cobham in the gallery of ladies, dark-clad as usual. She had made no attempt to follow the new fashion and looked her insignificant self Well, no need to speak to her. Even if she descended with her counterfeit love. Did she miss her husband? It was hard to imagine anyone missing Humphrey.

  Eleanor looked at her. She neither bowed nor gave any sign of recognition. She only looked, for about half a minute, a look of almost childlike opacity; it filtered through Katherine and out the other side. Katherine looked back. Maudite Cobham. Burning my poor little Guillemot’s arm.

  Katherine had been standing for a long time. Her back was aching a little. She shifted her feet for comfort. The child rolled about in sympathy. When the time came to withdraw her feeling of lightheartedness had vanished. Soon she would find somewhere quiet, send for her women, rest. But first there was St Edward’s Chapel to visit. An eerie, inevitable duty, totally without sadness. Her only emotion a vague affection for something in another life. There was no quietness in the Chapel; it was full, people praying or gossiping while the chanting of the monks mingled with the chipping of a solitary mason, improving the frieze of the H-shaped canopy. As she approached Harry’s lucent silver effigy she noticed the mason’s face: Like one of his own gargoyles, an evil, leering little face. Her backache increased. She lit a candle for Harry. She prayed, sincere and brief. With half her mind she heard a commotion outside the door, and someone calling: ‘Better late than never!’ Men laughing.

  Margaret of Clarence approached. She kissed her on the cheek. She said what Katherine had been thinking.

  ‘There are so few old friends left, Katherine. You should visit more often. You look so well, so handsome. I used to quarrel with Philippa, but how I miss her! Have you news of James of Scotland? I hear he’s in great trouble with his nobles. There have been two assassination attempts lately. At Perth, I believe.’

  The strange little convulsive feeling inside Katherine sprang up again. It decided to become a pain. It gripped and worried her casually, then joined itself to the ache in her back.

  ‘I wrote to James,’ she said steadily. ‘I’ve had no reply. That was in June.’

  ‘How pale the light makes everyone look in here!’ said the Duchess. ‘I’m always pale. I’ve lost what beauty I had, and that was little—but you! How’s it done?’ She laughed; there was an edge of malice to her compliment this time.

  Katherine did not answer. The girdle was unbearably tight beneath her breasts. She itched to tear at it. Owen would be halfway to Southampton by now. The bay was a good horse. He knew how to nurse a horse along. But he should not have girdled her so tight … But that was yesterday! she thought dizzily. Guillemot gowned me this morning. Foolish Guillemot, who loves me so. The pain roamed idly seeking a nerve to feed on. It curved down along her spine, inwards to her loins. Regular, like the drone of James of Scotland’s bagpipers. A slow grinding beat that renewed itself at shorter intervals. It will pass. I’ve felt so well, so carefree, all these months. And it did pass, as if commanded. She straightened her back, sighing with relief. For a moment I thought I was … no, that wasn’t how I remember the miscarriages … it was more like …

  ‘I was so sad about poor Jacqueline,’ said Margaret of Clarence. ‘I have Masses said for her monthly. I blame my Lady Cobham for that!’

  … it was more like giving birth.

  ‘Jacqueline’s dead?’ Katherine said. Jacqueline dead. Lovely, silly princess, wounded to the heart. Betrayed, abandoned. Dead. And she was about my age. Jacqueline dead. The pain rose in celebration. Worse, heavy. Spreading back and front and down to … my son’s soft gateway … the flowers at the hillfoot, I feel the dew upon them, the little streams that flow among them … Sainte Vierge! close the gates!

  ‘But none dare cross or blame my Lady Cobham, she has such power.’ Margaret’s voice was a long way away. Katherine took a step forward, away from the King’s chantry, into the main aisle of the chapel. The exit was blocked by a press of knights and councillors. The monks of Westminster chanted on. The pain pressed downwards
, urgent, demanding.

  ‘Katherine,’ the Duchess said. ‘You look … Stay, I’ll fetch your women.’

  She tried to call Margaret back, but she was gone. The knot of men parted to let her through. Katherine took another unsteady step. She stopped abruptly, swinging round so that none should see her twisted face. There was a sticky warmth between her thighs, then a crystal rush that soaked petticoat and kirtle and stockings … the snow melting on the mountain top … now the mountain gives forth its cataract … a clear stain that seeped through the skirt of the new gown. She took another step. Blood spotted the floor. She leaned and grasped a carved bird’s head on the capital of a pillar. She thought: I can see the stonework through my own bones and flesh: Her legs were folding under her. She closed her eyes. She could see Owen’s tear-wet, starlit face, white with longing—he pushed her down beneath him on the gallery. It is my birthday. I can do as I please on my birthday. But I am chaste. The child is coming … She heard one of the knights approaching from the doorway, heard and felt the swish of his robes and the sound of his mailed shoes on the stone. She thought, logical in agony: he has just returned from war. Better late than never. She stretched out her hand to him and said:

  ‘Sir, I am taken ill. M’aidez, je vous en prie …’

  He put his arm about her. She threw back her head with a tortured gasp, and opened her eyes. She saw a scarlet mantle, an eyebrow scarred from a savage blow, and on the face the ultimate flush of requital. From within her arose a whisper, a dreadful, conquering echo:

  ‘Do not touch me! I am made of glass!’

  But Humphrey of Gloucester held her fast. She felt herself yield, become crystalline, and shatter.

  The young man pulled at the bell and shivered, stamping his feet. The bell-rope was stiff with ice and little cascades of snow, disturbed by the vibration, drifted on to his shoulders. More snow lay thickly on streets and sloping roofs, towers and crenellations, giving a weird unwavering light to the darkening evening. Blowing on his fingers, he tugged at the bell again. The square spy-hole shot back and a red face frilled by a beard surveyed him through bars. Keys clanked and creaked. He was admitted, into the wall of London itself, where in the gatehouse torches and a brazier lit up the gloom. The bearded man was tall and beer-bellied. He held out his hand.

  ‘Your letters of appointment?’

  These he read, holding them under the torchlight while with the other hand he adjusted the great ring of keys at his belt. The young man waited. He had never considered himself prone to fancies, but around him was four hundred years of pain and despair. His mind sniffed it out like a nervous hound. This was the start of what he had been assured was a career with boundless prospects. He was here through an uncle’s connections with constables and justices too mighty to be named. The big man handed the documents back.

  ‘Welcome to Newgate,’ he said.

  There was a cask of ale on the bench beside the brazier, and two pewter mugs. The big man poured, and thrust a mug into the young man’s frigid hand.

  ‘Cold out,’ he said. ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’

  ‘I’m sorry’ the young man answered. ‘I had to wait for the boat from Southwark. They’re having to break the ice on the river.’ He swallowed gratefully and moved nearer the fire.

  ‘Yes. Warm yourself,’ said the turnkey. ‘Then I’ll show you my little kingdom. Yours, when I’m not here. You’re not very old, are you? Are your wits in good order? By Jesus, you’ll need them. Some of these devils … three jumps ahead before you can say kiss-your-arse. They’ll offer their souls to be loose. Tricks you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘Am I to be alone here then, when you’re off duty?’ The young man’s voice was uneasy. The turnkey roared with laughter.

  ‘No, lad. We’ve a good, small crew, but they can’t be all places at once. Likely they’ll look to you for judgement. It’s Searching Time now, or near enough. So come; see the menagerie!’

  He unlocked the inner door of the gatehouse. The noise and stench that had been sealed off by the oak now rocked the young man back on his heels. It was a huge communal chamber. The stone floor was scattered with straw so filthy that in places it was mere slime. Roaches ran about. The walls wept damp. In every corner and alcove fungi flourished in grotesque shapes. On the ledge of a bricked-up window a big toad sat like a bloated doom. A few torches lit the chamber. In it were about fifty people, several of whom rushed towards the turnkey as soon as he appeared, all babbling at once; a fat threadbare man demanding lawyers, a blonde whore in a ragged striped gown, screeching unintelligibly and clawing at the turnkey’s sleeve. Smartly he drew a little cudgel and laid about him. The supplicants fell back, except for the woman, who crept close to the young man with a pallid desperate smile.

  ‘Now, Alison,’ reproved the turnkey. She turned and went away, to sit cross-legged in one of the cleaner corners. These were few. A channel clogged with human waste and urine ran alongside one wall to a vent in its base, and there rats congregated, nosing, skittering apart as a jailer threw a bucket of water at the course of the drain. A rat dashed over the young man’s feet and he jumped, awed by its weight and size. The inmates had quietened somewhat after the first excitement. Two youths were casting dice. An old man prayed and groaned. Two more whores were examining their legs for flea-bites. But in a tumbled heap of straw someone lay recently dead, and the rats were busy there. Filthy, naked children wept against a woman’s skirt. Lying with their heads almost in the drain, a man and a girl copulated frantically, as if liberty hung upon the act.

  The turnkey yelled to the jailer with the bucket. ‘I see the old Jew’s dead. Move him out.’

  He steered the young man through an archway and unlocked another door. They were in a torchlit stone passage lined with cells.

  ‘So. Welcome to Newgate,’ he said. ‘This is where all the little felons end. The big ones go to the Tower of London, but you knew that, didn’t you? That pack are mostly debtors, thieves, whores, paupers, vagrants. These, here, are no better. But you have to watch them. For divers reasons, they’re dangerous.’

  Each cell had bars halfway down its door, and was illuminated by the torches in the passage. A youth rose from his plank bed and smiled amiably.

  ‘Sawyer. Apprentice carpenter. Murdered his master. Stand back.’ He unlocked the door and entered to make a cursory search, turning the straw with his foot and feeling the youth for weapons. Sawyer smiled, mild as milk.

  In the next cell a man was down on all fours, devouring his bedding.

  ‘Watkin,’ said the turnkey. ‘He’s been here so long even I can’t remember why. He went mad last month. Thinks he’s a horse.’

  He laughed, slapping his barrel belly.

  They moved on. The search became more and more perfunctory. A man and wife sat playing cards and greeted them with gracious nods. Their cell was better furnished than most.

  ‘Fray, and Mistress Fray’ said the big man, but did not elaborate on their crime. In the next cell a man with a purple growth on his head was yelling and beating the bars. The turnkey roared back and dealt the door a blow.

  ‘Houghton. Another murderer. Another madman. Swears he’s innocent. Listen. Never argue with them. No one goes out and no one goes in, unless under the Constable’s seal. And no letters. Some of these have money. They’ll offer the world. It’s not worth it.’ They had reached the last cell in the passage. The new recruit looked in.

  A tall slender man with thick grey hair was standing motionless, his back against the wall. A small dark youth sat at a table, his elbows among the remains of a meal. He was staring with utter misery at the other man.

  ‘Meredyth,’ said the turnkey ‘And by Christ’s crown,—if you thought those back there were mad … hey, Meredyth! what message for the King today?’

  The man came forward to the bars. There was something in his eyes more frightening than anything the new recruit had yet seen in Newgate.

  ‘What is your name?’ the man said softly.
>
  ‘Nickson,’ he stammered impulsively ‘Nick Nickson.’ ‘Nick,’ said the quiet voice. ‘Have you news for me of the Queen-Dowager?’

  He could not look away from the eyes. Their blue and gold, their pain, appalled him, sucked him in. He opened his mouth. He was suddenly almost lifted off his feet by the turnkey’s arm and indignantly hustled away back along the line of cells.

  ‘I told you he was mad! I’ve had my bellyful of him for the past twelve months. It happens all the time. Some claim blood-kinship with the King. Some think they are the King! With him, it’s mostly the King’s mother!’

  ‘Queen Katherine? But …’

  ‘Jesus!’ said the turnkey in fury. ‘I told you. Don’t argue with them! Don’t get embroiled! Say nothing about anything! He is nobody. Neither of birth nor fortune, though he’s enough money to pay for his victuals and his servant’s … he writes quite a few letters. He’ll ask you to take them out. It’s your living gone if you do.’

  ‘Would he hurt me?’

  ‘I don’t know. His servant might. All the Welsh are mad. When he first came in, he was like that one’ (they were nearing the cell of the banging, raving man). ‘But that’s a year ago. I remember he had a safe-conduct in his pocket; there was some question of whether his arrest was lawful. But the Duke of Gloucester, no less, asked for and was granted a declaration under the Great Seal. Strange, Meredyth should have been sent to the Tower. So much more comfortable … but then, he’s nobody!’

  ‘What’s his crime?’

  ‘Inciting a rebellion in Wales. And yet … I sometimes wonder. He was quite alone, save for that boy. His hair was gold, then.’ He laughed. ‘Grey now. Did you see? It’s the air here that does it.’ (Knowledgeable as an alchemist.) ‘The foul air. The lack of light.’

  ‘When does he come to trial?’