by Mary Lide
I repeat, I had drifted along with the crowds, without an idea where they were going, and I suppose I must have imagined that we were far inland. Now I realized that the river had looped round, for there it was again, grey and dank, lapping at wooden pilings that lined its banks. As we emerged into a square I saw the shadow of a great bridge span hanging almost over us. I did not recognize it, the Tower Bridge where so many traitors’ heads had hung, nor the Tower beyond it, where my father had lost his life. I only knew that its shadow cast a shadow over me so that whereas a moment before I had been stifled, now I felt cold. And all the while the shouting continued, the same mourning cry that I had heard in my house.
‘Suddenly there was a stir in the square, a ripple, a thrashing, like trapped fish. The crowds in front began to push back, attempting to fan out into the smaller side streets, while those behind continued to push forward. The chanting had stopped, turned into shouts, to screams. Above the bobbing heads a group of horsemen began to show themselves, some dressed in blue, some in red, all well-mounted and determined. The sun glinted from their armaments and their horses’ harnesses. Their uniforms, the way they thrust their horses into the crowds and struck with the butt end of their spears increased the crowd’s panic. People began to fight openly with each other to escape. I felt danger closing in on me.
‘I turned to run. But I had left running too late; the horsemen had already blocked off most of the square and were driving those left towards its centre. I tried to find a way out, my bundle long lost, my uncle’s letters scattered underfoot, nowhere to go except down one of the remaining lanes which led to the river edge, no escape from there. I pulled my cloak over my head, retreating as far as I could, then, pressing myself against the wall, waited, in the hope that no one would notice me.
‘Someone did. He came towards me on foot, one of his men holding his horse at the entrance to the lane. I could hear him slipping over the heaps of dirt, his spurs dragging in the rubbish heaps. Like a rat caught in a trap I waited for him, head down, back to the wall, the river edging past my feet. And there he stood, staring down at me, as in my thoughts he had done a hundred times. His blue doublet was gold laced; his breast plate gleamed; his face, under its heavy helmet was smouldering with a familiar rage, and his dark eyes flared. All I had breath enough left to gasp was “Why, Lord Montacune, such coincidence,” before he took and shook me hard so my teeth rattled.’
CHAPTER 4
——
‘Coincidence, coincidence,’ Richard Montacune snarled.
With each repetition of the word he shook her hard, so that her neck appeared to snap from her slender neck. ‘Do you know what coincidence means? See those men?’ He forced her chin around so she could take in the half-empty square, the milling prisoners, the circling guards. ‘See those red and blue coats, do you know whose colours they are?’ At her obvious bewilderment, ‘Those in red are Wolsey’s men, Wolsey’s “wolves”, and in case you have forgotten, he is the most powerful churchman in England, one of the king’s chief councillors. The rest in blue like me, serve his rival, the man who captains us today. There he is, on that black horse, Charles Brandon, the king’s best friend, newly created duke. And why is he made duke; whose name and title is he about to usurp; what is his duty here today? Don’t tell me you don’t know what coincidence is.’
Philippa’s eyes widened and her face grew pale. It wore the same expression of innocent defiance which had startled him in that Devon lane and had kept him company for many a night afterwards. But today was much more dangerous. With one of his soldier’s oaths he dragged her to her knees. ‘Listen to me,’ he cried. ‘Today we attended an execution. The victim was called the Earl of Suffolk, who was imprisoned in the Tower for more than seven years. This morning he was suddenly dragged out, paraded through the streets, displayed to the public, and then beheaded on Tower Hill. It is his name the people shout, the White Rose; he was the last of the Yorkist line. And hearing those shouts, the king has ordered us to round the people up as traitors to the crown.’ He almost groaned. ‘I cannot tell you why that man was condemned to death,’ he cried, ‘except that he was who he was, cousin to two former kings and perhaps a threat to the present one. But the man who had the task of mounting guard on him, Charles Brandon, has just been created Duke of Suffolk in his place.’ He let go Philippa’s arm, so she sank back in the mud. ‘And that is why the crowd shout a name that has not been heard these twenty years,’ he whispered, bending down. ‘And that is why we take hostages, to make an example of them. Try explaining to the king, mistress, that your appearance is coincidence. Tell him so, when he hangs you as part of a Yorkist conspiracy.’
Philippa began to speak, but fear dried her mouth and swelled her lips so she could not open them. All she could stammer was, ‘I arrived by chance,’ as if chance explained everything. All she could think of was that a wheel had come full round and here she was, in the same place where her father once had been. ‘I came by chance,’ she repeated, ‘looking for a king’s pardon. If this is what king’s justice is, God spare us all. And God forgive those involved with it.’
She tried to round on Richard Montacune. ‘And what coincidence brings you here?’ she cried. ‘Was not watching my father die enough? Is this your plan for making your way in the world? Is this how Lancastrians find fun, killing Yorkist men?’
Her reproach was lost on Richard for he was only half-listening. He knew without looking what was being done in the square, and the consequence. It seemed to him that she still seemed unaware of the peril that she was in; worse, he himself had no idea of how he was to disenangle her. ‘Dear God,’ he thought, wiping the sweat, the walls of the narrow lane so close they seemed to drip. Christ’s bones, grant me the wit to save her from herself,’ suddenly afraid for her as he never would be for himself.
His companions’ impatience was mounting. The day was hot, their work distasteful, they were anxious to be done. Several had begun to peer down the lane; one, in a red coat, was obviously debating whether to venture in. There was little time left to explain what rumour said, how the king in Westminster Hall, come to town to discuss his French campaign, had miscalculated the crowd’s response. Expecting them to shout for him, listening for the usual ‘Long life to Harry Tudor,’ Henry had been appalled to hear instead, ‘God save the Yorkist White Rose.’ Nor how, careful not to let chagrin show, he had pretended to listen to his councillors’ discourse, toying with his dagger hilt, as if nothing was amiss, not even when the peace party begged him to put aside his war plans. He had left the quelling of the mob to his closest friend, to whom it had amused him to give charge of a troop recruited from both sides, demonstrating royal impartiality. And there the hostages were, in the square, tied together now, all those whom the guards could catch: the blind, the lame, the mad; the ones who had not the sense to know whose name they cried; the young, the innocent, all whose little deaths would be an offering to appease Tudor nightmares. ‘As for me,’ Richard wanted to shout, as if answering Philippa, ‘I am just a soldier, looking for a war. Do you think this the war I sought?’
The guardsman who had been peering down the lane had made up his mind. He began to stroll towards them, pulling at the sleeves of his red coat, poking with his scabbard tip at every pile of dirt to prise up some fugitive, as unconcerned as if he were planting beans. ‘What’s amiss?’ this man now cried, rubbing his forehead with his cuffs. ‘If you’ve done, haul that one out; no need to linger in this heat. We’ll soon clear up this lot.’ He laughed. His laugh, as if to say, ‘Not even good for sport,’ was the last straw.
With a howl Richard Montacune leapt at him. His own disgust was all in that leap. It so overwhelmed the man in red that he stumbled out of the way, not even daring to unsheathe his sword. Richard brushed past him, eyes blazing, his own blade swinging dangerously, his free hand clamped about Philippa’s arm. He stormed into the square, sending another red-coated soldier sprawling, backhanding him into the mud, and tossing his sword after hi
m. The remaining guards drew back warily, but Richard shouldered his way through them, making for the rider on the black horse as if he meant to bowl horse and man aside. Behind him, Philippa came running to keep up, trying to pull her cloak’s hood over her face, despite the heat, to avoid being seen, trying to make sense of a scene that overwhelmed her with its violence.
Charles Brandon was waiting at one side of the square in the shade. He bestrode his horse with the easy grace of a born horseman, and his thin face with its aquiline nose and dark beard was turned aside, so that he seemed to be disclaiming all responsibility for what was being done in his name. Philippa of course did not recognize him, but to people of the court and town he was famous, the ‘great commoner’, the ‘ordinary man’ without title or lands, who had risen to become the intimate of lords and kings. What his opinion would be of the way his title had been acquired had not been asked, but the new duke’s narrow eyes wore an air of scorn, as if challenging criticism. He was older than Richard, perhaps having some thirty years, and he rode hand on hip, with a kind of arrogance. But even his enemies admitted his charm (although they said his inability to resist a pretty face was a further sign of his lack of sense).
Stopping just in time before his headlong march brought him on a collision course, Richard drew himself up short in front of his captain and patron. He caught a breath. In a tone of voice that suggested he and the duke were not strangers, at the same time motioning to Philippa to remain silent, he said, ‘My lord duke, my lord duke, I crave a boon.’
Now, he may have known that on the very day a new dukedom had been assured, a new duke might have preferred to have heard the title used in a different place and different way, by men closer in age and rank, rather than by a youngster, asking for a favour, and showing not one ounce of humility. And clearly the duke recognized him, nodding in a distant way, perhaps not so irritated as if Richard had been a stranger. ‘I crave a boon,’ Richard was repeating (although ‘demand’ was what he meant). ‘You once were kind enough to say I did you a favour when I arrived at court. Now I claim one in return.’
The new duke might have preferred respect. ‘What?’ Charles Brandon’s roar frightened his horse and made it rear. He fought it to a standstill. ‘You bargain for me, do you,’ he shouted, ‘like some geegaw at a fair. God’s bones, but you’re proud, to claim as right what I gave as gift. What cause makes you act so bold?’
Without a word Richard pushed Philippa forward, removing her hood. Her face had regained its colour, and her golden curls, her blue eyes, her panting breath made the duke’s own eyes gleam. He opened his mouth to speak but Richard forestalled him. ‘I owe this lady as much as you owe me,’ he said. ‘When she is free, so we are quits. Let her go. She has done no wrong, to that I swear, except be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
The duke looked at the girl curiously. But she was not looking at him. She was staring at the lines of prisoners, the flush fading from her cheeks and her eyes darkening in sympathy. Perhaps the duke was touched in spite of himself; perhaps on a day when compassion seemed to have been lost he welcomed some simple sign of it. But Richard’s words certainly revived some memory. His second roar was almost as loud as the first. ‘What,’ he cried, ‘you risk my liking, nay, my friendship, for a mere wench? Mind your manners, lad, before I clout them back.’ And, for a moment, his dark face darkened as if he meant to make good his threat.
But Richard held his ground, his fixed look showing he would not give way and after a moment the duke backed a pace. ‘Aye,’ the duke snorted, turning to Philippa. ‘Look your fill. What your lover asks is impossible.’ And to Richard, ‘Wolsey’s “wolves” hang on every move. You know what their master will report if he thinks the king’s commands are ignored. And where, for God’s sake, would you take her, even if I gave her to you? Where would you hide her; where, in barracks or city, would she be safe, if Wolsey’s men are hunting her? Where would you be safe yourself?’
Philippa’s clear high voice cut into his speech almost with her former child’s clear honesty. ‘If he were my lover,’ she said, ‘how could I wish him ill, to be the cause of lost friendship? But what harm have they done?’ She gestured to the prisoners. ‘Let them all go free. I for one would never have killings on my conscience, never, never, never.’ An indiscretion Richard tried to stifle, clamping a hand across her mouth, although he knew what she said was true enough, and perhaps needed to be said.
Her words intrigued the duke. At any other time Richard knew he might have given good advice as to the care and treatment of maids as he had in the past. ‘I like a wench with spirit,’ he might have said. But today he was on edge, anxious to have a distasteful duty done, careful that there should be no mistakes. Now he took a closer look at the girl. Despite her countrified clothes she seemed a lady, no street strumpet. He pursed his lips. Richard knew what he was thinking. ‘If this lordling has his heart set on her presumably he knows her worth; perhaps she is highly placed, someone, therefore, as king’s representative, I had best be chary of.’ Giving one of those sidelong glances that made men claim he had eyes in the back of his head Charles Brandon began to assess what options still were left to him.
Most of the guards had withdrawn to the edge of the square and were waiting there with their hostages. Only a few of Wolsey’s men lingered, licking their chops, expecting to be tossed this last juicy morsel. Sight of them made up the duke’s mind. He knew what was expected of him, and he was more than capable of ruthlessness. But the lady’s predicament had affected him, and he liked her fire. But most of all he resented the presence of Wolsey’s ‘wolves’ making him feel in thrall to them. Why should he fear Wolsey’s influence any more? A duke was the equal of any Archbishop.
‘Take your freedom if you wish,’ the duke spoke first to Philippa. ‘But if you persist in lecturing me, then follow them.’ He jerked his thumb towards the prisoners. Next he turned to the guards. ‘Ride on,’ he cried, ‘captives to the Tower. We follow in our own good time.’ But to Wolsey’s ‘wolves’, a challenge of his own, a defiance. ‘Today you obey me. I am master here. Ride on yourselves.’
What the effects might be on him personally he chose to ignore. But when the retreat had begun, when the screams for pity, the shrieks, the confusion had quieted, ‘There they go,’ he said. ‘God rest their souls. God pity them. Their king will not.’
Philippa’s little burst of energy was gone. She clung to Richard’s side as if her legs had given way, so that, sick with pity himself, he tried to shield her from the sight. The duke watched the miserable procession pass without further sign, merely turned his head away, looking out into the distance. When Wolsey’s men, the last to leave, had mounted with a show of reluctance, ‘I am all sorts of fool myself,’ the duke began, speaking quickly from the corner of his mouth (a trick he had, which men claimed he had learned to prevent his enemies from eavesdropping). ‘But there is only one place I know of where Wolsey will not dare hunt for you. That is in the royal court itself, under the royal nose.’ He suddenly spun round with a clatter of hooves and steel, addressing Richard directly. ‘Tonight the king will lodge at Westminster. Use this to gain you private audience to the court.’
It seemed that once he had made up his mind to help nothing was enough for him. First he fumbled beneath the lacings of his breastplate to produce a scrap of silk. It was a lady’s scarf, of the sort a man might wear as an emblem of her favour, pale cream in colour, worked with beaded pearls and gold, a fragile possession for such a masculine-seeming man. A faint scent still clung to its folds. ‘The lady who gave me this,’ the duke was continuing, speaking in the same secretive way, no doubt from habit, since the square was almost empty, ‘the royal lady’ (he emphasized the distinction) ‘will take your mistress to her care. At least while the court is here. And do you, mistress,’ addressing Philippa, in more formal tones, ‘show the scarf to her and ask her aid. Use my name. But as she is young and fair, as gentle as she is innocent, tell her nothing of yourself, not
how we met nor where; nothing that would cause her pain. Let her shelter you as is her pleasure and as her kind heart will have her do. And thank God, today, that Charles Brandon has in mind to spare one poor unfortunate.’
He looked her up and down, and for a moment a smile curled his thin lips, softening the angle of his face, giving attraction to his narrow eyes, so that the claim of his charm seemed justified. ‘And thank God’, he told her softly now, to her ears alone, ‘for beauty and for purity, as I thank God myself.’
He swirled round on Richard, ‘As for you, my lord.’ His voice was cold, punctilious. ‘Let no one call Charles Brandon an ingrate. It will not be wise to approach this royal lady openly, indeed, it may be impossible. I give you this to show you a way to her own rooms.’ He leaned down and wrenching off a leather strap from the saddle, rapidly pricked a kind of rough design with his dagger point. ‘Follow this map,’ he said. ‘The path winds beneath the undercrofts to an inner yard that not many know about. Ring the doorbell there. Whoever answers say merely that you have been sent with a message for the princess, and he will take you to her. So much I do for you.’
He was gathering up his reins preparatory to leaving, pulling on his gloves, settling his stirrups, and spoke rapidly. ‘Henceforth I know you not. I have twice repaid my debt; two favours for the price of one, and the day may come when I shall expect a like favour in return. Until such time you have made your claim of me and so now I am done with you. Make your own peace with Wolsey’s men; make your own way in the world; I never lift a finger more. I do not dismiss you from my guard, and you ride with me to France as was agreed, but that is all. Since this moment’s time, your advance is all your own.’