by Mary Lide
He saluted Philippa with a graceful bend of his head, put spurs to his black horse which had been growing ever more restive, and let it bound away, following the direction that the soldiers had taken. Like a backwater after a storm had passed, the square sank back to quiet; and like flotsam cast upon a bank, Richard and Philippa were left alone.
Richard recovered first. Philippa was still clinging to him, and he drew her aside, trying to find a clean block of stone out of the sun. Someone had left him his horse and he fetched it, returning to stand in front of her, unfastening his helmet and running a hand through his curls making them crisp about his ears. ‘Well, Mistress Philippa,’ he said, as if he had been doing battle on her behalf (which in one way he had). ‘Luck spares us a second time. Thank God for that.’ He slung his breastplate over the saddle bow, taking his time, for the truth was now he had her safe he was not sure what to say to her. But she had much to ask of him. ‘How are you and that lord friends?’ she cried. ‘What is he to you or you to him, that you trust him? What favour does he speak of? And that lady, royal or not, who is she? How came you here in the first place?’ She drew a breath, ‘Are you glad to see me?’ she cried. ‘Oh, what horror were those men about that you could not prevent them?’
He sighed. ‘Gently, gently,’ he said, ‘about to smother me with words again. Learn to hold your tongue, Mistress Philippa, else grief will come of it. Great lords do not relish scolds.’
‘I suppose you count yourself a great lord these days,' she wanted to cry, ‘with your fine blue coat and fine horse. You forget I saw you when your luck ran low. You did not brag about your fine friends then, Lord Montacune.’
She bit back a reply and said nothing. She certainly did not mean to quarrel with him and certainly he had not meant to quarrel with her. After a while, shyly she put up her hand to pull at his sleeve, while he, contrite, began to speak. Her, ‘I never,’ and his ‘I only’ seemed part of the same thought, and seemed so natural that they almost laughed, hers being ‘I never meant to discredit you,’ and his, ‘I only meant to help.’ ‘I said you would be better off at home,’ he said at last. ‘What made you leave? But I also told you to rely on me. Call me by name.’ He tried to coax a smile. ‘I told you what my friends call me,’ he said.
He felt her slight body begin to shake, as he had felt it once before, and her voice came out muffled. ‘I have made harm between you and that lord. And if I have acted as scold, then I have made trouble betwixt us both.’
‘Not so, sweeting.’ He wanted to comfort her, the endearment coming awkwardly, the endearment not strange itself, but his sudden urge to use it. ‘If truth be told, it galls me sore to be beholden to anyone, and I would rather make my own way by myself, or not at all.’ He looked at her, suddenly bursting out, ‘When we meet, you seem to land me in a fix, first with my men, now with the duke’s; if I were wise I should hope we never meet by chance again, lest I face a king’s army next time.’ He grinned. ‘Yet, for all that, I am right glad to see you.’
He looked at her, this time really looked, seeing her as the duke had done. He became aware of the closeness of her; he had but to stretch out his hands and he could clasp her round the waist as he had often thought of doing. He could draw her up against him, feel the silkiness of her hair, her pale face pressed to his own, her lips against his, as now they were. ‘You found me after all,’ he was whispering, ‘didn’t you ask to follow me?’ And she, ‘I prayed for you, and hoped that you would remember me. I believed that we would meet again.’
‘Come ride with me,’ he was whispering, ‘we should not linger here. And when we get safely to the court let me show you how I thought of you.’ He started to lift her up to the saddle, lingeringly, letting his hands slide beneath the folds of her cloak, to touch her long legs underneath, where her skirts had bunched. That naked flesh was like silk, the skin smooth. He wanted to pinion her against him, his body aligned with hers. He wanted to press himself on her as she strained towards him. And he thought now I know what it might mean, never to let go.
But he set her sideways on the broad saddle, swung himself up behind her, settled his hands around her waist. ‘Hold on,’ he told her, ‘it is not far.’ And with a smile, ‘This time you may squeeze as tight as you please, I’ll not complain.’ And he lifted one of her hands to hold between his own.
Now as they rode along they began to question each other, trying to fill in the gaps in their lives, trying perhaps to assure themselves that in the meanwhile they had been in each other’s thoughts. Philippa’s story was soon told. ‘God’s mercy girl,’ he exclaimed when she was through, ‘I marvel that you survived.’ He looked at her with new respect, until a fresh concern jolted him. ‘But if it is your father’s memory you want to clear, tell no one. If I had known that was your plan I’d not have accepted help from the duke so readily.’ And a worried frown crossed his face, at the thought of her past dangers and the possibility of new ones.
‘And you?’ It was her turn to laugh at fear. ‘What makes your adventuring so different? I thought you back at Netherstoke where you belong, you and your men, safe in your own home.’
‘So you did remember me,’ he teased, ‘down to the very village we came from. We should be flattered.’ And he watched her blush, as if strangely pleased. But as she was insistent, to satisfy her and help pass the time he began to tell his tale. It was a simple one at that: either to stay at home, and starve, or seek his fortune at court. And what a morass he had found there, that cesspit of her uncle’s words, where everyone pushed his fellow down, while trying himself to climb ahead; he might have been left to drown, had not this same Charles Brandon come to his aid.
Sensing her look of distress, ‘Nay, I can manage without him if I must,’ he said. ‘If fortune favoured me once she will again. But the way we met was strange, you see. For Brandon came to count on me, as I on him, and such comradeship is rare at court, although fighting men cherish it.’
He gave a rueful laugh. ‘I thought to set the Thames on fire,’ he said. ‘I never realized that for every one like me there were a score, all jockeying for a place, the Tudor world jam-packed with us, a new breed of men on the make. Little chance then to use my father’s name to rise to the top, in a court where only novelty counts.’
If there was a hint of bitterness he hid it well. ‘So there I was,’ he continued, ‘without friends, without money except what my mother could spare me, without prospects, a parvenu like the rest, come to Richmond to try my luck. Richmond is where the king normally resides,’ he explained, ‘a new palace too, newly rebuilt; sometimes I think the past and its old loyalties are quite forgot. Now it so happened that the day I arrived the king had ordered his horses put on display, a new breed too, brought from abroad, and since I may claim to know horseflesh as well as anyone I went to see them myself, with some hope, I suppose, of using my knowledge to good account.’ He grinned. ‘I never thought to have used it so soon,’ he said.
‘All the courtiers were out in force that day,’ he went on, ‘among them, Wolsey’s men, their coats as bright as cardinal red (a church office I hear Wolsey covets for himself). If I had had any idea of joining them one look at them soon changed my mind. In any case, the thought of serving a churchman, sworn to peace, sat uneasily on my military conscience, the more so since it is said he only chooses handsome youths, having an unnatural hankering for good-looking boys. Besides, it was then I met Wolsey’s chief opponent, the man you know as the Duke of Suffolk, although he was a mere Charles Brandon at the time.’
He cocked his head at her and as she smiled expectantly said, ‘He was conspicuous because of his height, the only great man to mingle freely with the commoners. But he walked alone, with none of the usual circle of court hangers-on, as if the court itself was avoiding him.
I thought that odd for one who was the king’s champion, and so did the crowds, until a little groom with one leg (who claimed to know all the gossip, and perhaps he did, having worked in the royal stables himsel
f until a fall had maimed him) took upon himself to elucidate.
‘“Poor sot,” he lisped, jerking his thumb at Charles Brandon. “There he stands, the king’s friend.” He sniffed. “Fine thing, a king, to turn a friend into a laughing stock. Just look how Wolsey’s ‘wolves’ have come to jeer.” He sniffed again. “The truth is, Henry’s spent a fortune on these new Flemish nags of his,” he whispered, “and has ordered Brandon to test ’em. Henry wants to prove to the world, and to himself, that he’s bought a bargain. So he’s told Brandon to ride one in a joust.”’
In answer to Philippa’s questioning look, Richard explained patiently, ‘To joust,’ he said, ‘a man must have an opponent to ride against. But no one was willing to partner Brandon that day. And when I saw the horses themselves, I saw why Brandon’s friends kept themselves apart.
‘The stables at Richmond are also new,’ he went on, ‘better built than most men’s homes; Montacune Castle could benefit from such repairs. The king has housed his purchases in style. But when the doors were opened to let those horses out, laughter rippled through the crowds. I almost laughed myself. I know the qualities of a war steed, and a little of jousting skills, although now it is a sport only the rich afford. I swear I had never seen stallions like these. To begin with, they were huge; so tall most men would have needed a ladder to clamber on and so wide they needed two grooms to prod them along, like plough horses, fit for Flanders mud, certainly not intended for riding on. Soon everyone was grinning, Wolsey’s “wolves” among the rest. And then I caught the look on Brandon’s face.’
He said, ‘It made me realize just what a predicament he was in. He was glancing about him with that curious look he has, as if trying to find where his friends were; as if assessing his chances. Not many I thought. For if he failed to ride, or did not show those horses’ worth, his failure would rebound upon the king. And kings do not like failure.
‘I began to look at the horses more carefully, trying to see them with Brandon’s eyes. Under their chestnut coats there was not an ounce of fat and their muscles moved without effort. True, they would never be fast, but it occurred to me that jousting horses require less speed than ordinary war-chargers. What they do require is sure-footedness and the ability to carry weight, such as a man with full armour on. Brandon himself is tall and heavy; so is the king. I began to see some purpose behind the king’s choice, and I sensed Brandon thinking as I did.
‘He was standing in the sun, his nose quivering like a greyhound’s (which his enemies say he resembles), as if he were scenting out the mood of the crowd. I think he saw disgrace facing him, unless he found someone who would ride as he meant to do, not in open fight to win, but to display the horses’ qualities rather than his own. I thought, he needs to prove these are the best jousting horses in the world; if not, farewell to favour and championship; farewell to friendship with the king. And when he looked at me, I knew for sure our thoughts were the same.’
Richard gave another laugh. ‘I knew I was all sorts of fool,’ he said. ‘I had not even noticed how the crowds had thinned. Most had made for the jousting grounds to get a good seat; the rest carefully avoided Brandon’s gaze. If I had not been so raw and green I would have done the same. I did not remain deliberately, as men since have said. God knows, it was not a situation into which anyone would willingly have thrust himself. Curiosity alone kept me there, and fair play. Fair play that is, to man and beast.’
He rode on thoughtfully for a while, before explaining, ‘There is a look,’ he said, ‘which I cannot describe, but which passes sometimes between fighting men, when their backs are to a wall and they need someone to trust. Brandon gave me a look like that. I think he read my feelings as I read his. “You, lad,” was all he said. “I do not know you but you look well-schooled. I seem to lack a partner today; will it please you joust with me?”
‘At any other time that offer was one most newcomers in my place would have given their sword arm for. Imagine, matching with England’s champion. On the other hand, I saw that our reputations would be linked, not only to be made to look fools, but to risk the king’s wrath. God’s life, a man must be a fool indeed, not to know that disadvantage outweighed the good. Yet I agreed.
‘The rest is soon told. I have said I know a little of jousting technique, not much, but enough to get by; even at Netherstoke we have our champion. I cannot say I felt at ease perched on that great stallion, double the size of my father’s old war horse. Nor can I say I rode with confidence; I may have looked “well-schooled”; in fact, the horse was to teach me.
‘When I saw the jousting field I tell you I prayed not to disgrace myself. It was a long stretch of turf, with a wooden barricade down the centre, and balconies where the courtiers lounged, making bets, and stands for the commoners (all a far cry from our meadow lands at home). I tell you, without that horse I would be a dead man. It had a strange flowing gait as if it went through air, yet its weight kept us anchored to the ground. All I had to do was to sit tight and concentrate on thrusting back.
‘We ran five passes. Each time my lance was shattered but I hung on. I know I would have fallen except for that horse. And after the last bout, when the crowds were silent with respect, when I was still reeling in the saddle from Brandon’s blow (but in the saddle, mark you, not under it), Brandon wheeled back to me.
‘He thrust up his heavy jousting helm (I should explain we had ridden lightly dressed, without all the armour true jousting needs, with only helmets and practice wooden spears). “They wager on us,” he said evenly. “Shall we wager on ourselves? We have proved the king was right; these horses are bred for this sport. So now, this time, let us prove which of us is the better man.”
‘Without jousting armour, wood lances can prove deadly; and a man can die on a jousting ground as easily as on a battlefield. But my blood was up. And Brandon was fair; he gave me the right to refuse. “My lord,” I said in formal style, my breath coming hard, for his last pass had caught me under the ribs, laying open that old French hurt. “My lord, I have no monies to spare, not even to bet upon myself, but willingly will I match with you.”
‘So we rode a final time, for ourselves. Down the lists I came, mounted on a horse that I would wager my life on; and down on the opposite side he came, the master champion. His lance jabbed me as he passed. And then indeed I did ride on air. And when I came to myself, sprawled on my back, surrounded by a group of onlookers, I realized that on the other side of the barrier, Charles Brandon was stretched equally prone upon the ground. It was a lucky thrust on my part, and when he had recovered, which he did first, he came to tell me so. He had a lump on his forehead, big as an egg, and his eye would blacken but he looked self-satisfied. “That must be French work,” he said, pointing to my scars. “Well, lad, you are in good company. Guienne needs to be avenged and so it shall, this spring. I marvel that any of you returned from there alive. So why are you fresh here at court, if not looking for the chance of revenge? You shall have it, in my company. But now, what will you do with your earnings, the first, I trust, of many spoils of war?” And he shook a little bag of coins before dropping it into my lap. “The odds were on me, lad,” he said. “But I put the wager in your name. I downed you, boy, fair and square; pricked you out like an oyster from its shell. As clean a fall ...”
‘“And I downed you,” I said.
‘We looked at each other and laughed, so hard my side began to throb. Well, laughter is as good a way as any to start friendship, and so ours did. And that is how I met Charles Brandon, who now is made Duke of Suffolk, and that is the “favour” I did him.’
Richard could see Philippa’s sympathy was aroused. He seldom spoke about himself but he had wanted suddenly to tell her what his own plans were. And when with loving words and caresses she had assured herself that he was not still hurt he felt to some extent he had explained himself. Her next question was not so easily handled.
‘And the royal lady the duke spoke of?’
‘Ah.’ Richard
kept his tone cheerful. ‘She is someone I have not met. From all I have heard of her she is just as the duke described. She is the king’s younger sister, more like her mother, Elizabeth, in looks and temperament than her Tudor heritage. Have no fear of her, Mistress Philippa. In any case it will not be for long. We’ll soon think what to do with you.’ But here again he spoke more cheerfully than he felt, although even he could not have guessed how long and intricate the way before that ‘soon’ was reached. (Nor, being a discreet man himself, did he add what else he had heard of this Tudor princess; hints only, murmurs, that put a slightly different look to what the duke had said of her.) But since it was nothing to her great discredit, he kept quiet, not wanting to alarm. Although he did sense an indiscretion on the duke’s part, to speak of her so openly. It was true he had never met the lady in question, but he knew more about her than perhaps even the duke himself realized.
After the joust, he had been brought to Brandon’s rooms, where he had found his new patron stripped down to his shirt, boots on table top, at ease, like a soldier himself, instead of a great courtier. Such informality had pleased Richard. At first that is. Gradually he had noticed how his host began to drink himself into carelessness, displaying a wantonness of thought and speech, which his enemies castigated as stupidity but which his friends felt added to his charm. ‘Drink up,’ Brandon had begun to hiccough. ‘I shall not forget what you did, nor will my king. He’ll love that I was unhorsed by a boy scarce dry behind the ears, and he’ll love more that we bested those blackguards who thought to see us bested. The king has plans for those horses, lad. He means to breed them to others for a touch more speed, to produce a new type of cavalry, heavier, powerful, like a machine. But he’ll love best that we proved him right and you shall tell him so yourself when you meet.
‘Your father was a Tudor man, I think,’ he had added later in the night, when ale continued to loosen his tongue, ‘and so was mine. My father never did a better thing than die at Bosworth Field. He was standard bearer to the first Tudor king, and he had the sense to perish in front of the king’s own feet; not even a Tudor could fail in gratitude. Most of my father’s exploits were in the field of love, not war (a virtue I seem to have inherited) so my thanks are doubly due, that in his final hour he did well by me. Although he left me no estates and although I am a simple country man, from boyhood I was brought up with the Tudor princelings. You have a title, lad, but so one day shall I. We know each other, my Henry and I. I know his teasing, goading ways, to keep those closest to him off-balance. I know how it amuses him to reward loyalty by handfuls; how he likes to make a test of friends. Today was such a test for me. But he can be generous. If he is pleased so in the end will he please me; he will grant me what I want.’