by Mary Lide
He had leaned forward drunkenly. ‘I knew you had the look of luck, Lord Montacune,’ he had cried, waving his tankard. ‘Toasts go down better in good country beer, so hear mine. God sot that weasel, Wolsey, with his knavish tricks and cunning eyes; God sot his friends who are my enemies. God grant that the king see fit to reward me as he should. God grant me the nobility that I should have.’ He had begun to whisper then, eyes crossed, in an effort to make sense. ‘A title lies waiting for me in the wings, and when I have it, when its rents and lands are mine, then Charles Brandon will be the equal of the master he serves.’ And as if this talk did not smack of treachery he had made things worse by crying out what common sense should have kept hidden, spilling out his secret wishes on a gush of ale. ‘Once I am duke, nothing will prevent me from seeking the greatest reward of all. What if I be wed! Wives are easily put aside, and the royal princess already looks upon me as a friend. When I woo her, as perhaps I mean to do, I shall be more than her equal. Since she is young, her affections are not yet ready to be plucked, but even so she yearns for me. I swear she would do anything I asked. It is but a question of time before that affection shall bear fruit, ripe for the picking; and when it does, Charles Brandon means to be the one to pluck.’
Indiscretions, these, of the grossest sort, better never thought of, not meant to be shared with every passing stranger. Certainly not for a mere lad’s ears. But that was Brandon’s way, his strength and weakness, and he guessed Richard never would betray him. So it was now, in answering Philippa’s questions, Richard spoke as sincerely as he could, without revealing all he knew. ‘I have not met this royal lady myself but of course the duke has. If he entrusts you to her care you should rely on her. And in truth her help will be better than none. But keep all hid, until I can come back for you.’
By now they had emerged from the narrow streets into a wider thoroughfare leading in a straight line towards the palace of Westminster. It lay at the end of an avenue, a grey mass of stone, seemingly veiled in a mist of heat. In normal times this part of the city would have been filled with bustling life, but today was not normal and emptiness seemed to engulf them with a faint suggestion of alarm.
Richard sensed danger before Philippa did. He kept turning back, searching, for what he could not say, and his hand twitched towards his sword hilt, as if to assure himself it still was there. Something still seemed to nag at him, some unfinished thing. He became conscious of her scrutiny, and when she half-turned as if to look herself, his colour rose. And yet there seemed no cause for unrest. The streets were deserted, the palace lay ahead; a hundred yards or less would bring them to the small side-turning leading to that private entrance. He drew out the duke’s map and tried to study it, attempting to memorize the faint dagger marks that showed the twists and turns through the passageways. But when he spoke again, it was not of that at all.
‘When you talked of your stepfather,’ he said, almost abruptly as if the words slipped out, ‘you told how cruelly he drove you out. But,’ he hesitated, ‘you did not tell who it was you were meant to wed.’
‘Not anyone of importance,’ she answered him. ‘And he, poor old fool, was bribed. As for me, I want no part of wedlock until my lands are secured.’
This answer seemed to disturb him; he shifted restlessly, as if fumbling for words. ‘And when I have returned from France,’ he said at last, ‘when my own fortune is made, what if I ask then for the king to give me right to act as your champion? What if I fight your stepfather for you?’
She bit down a smile, for the thought of Master Higham with a sword amused her. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, demurely. ‘And I would thank you if you did. But first, I should thank you for today. I owe my life to you. After this war is done will be time enough to talk of him. But I do not like the sound of war . . .’
‘A nothing,’ he said. ‘And would not your prayers keep me safe as they did before? You said you prayed for me every day; was that so?’
He watched her from the corner of his eye, and saw her look aside and blush. Once more the awareness of her washed over him, the scent she used, the texture of her skin and clothes, the feel of her hair. His hands were still clasped loosely around hers on pretext of holding the reins, but his horse could have found its own way without guidance. Against his chest he could hear the thudding of her heart, just as he had done before. And as before, perversely the thought of parting even for a day irked him. He wanted to say, ‘For my part, I do not find it strange we meet again. Rather, it seems inevitable. Each time has been in consequence of some event; each event has had a bond of its own; perhaps that is coincidence, but I think it deeper than that.’ But he said nothing, still not certain how to express himself; merely kicked his horse forward. But now as he rode he began to whistle beneath his breath, perhaps unconsciously. It was a northern ballad, so old its words were known to everyone, a haunting melody, and hearing it Philippa too began to hum with him.
Perched in front of him, close to him, she had only to lean sideways to touch him. She too had not said all she felt. ‘Yes,’ she had wanted to cry, as if in answer to a question. ‘I know how you feel. When things looked dark, when the way was long, you gave me strength to continue. Yes, I came to London, hoping to restore my father’s name and repossess my lands, but that was not the only cause. Yes, I believe we were destined to meet. Fate has shown us that much charity. What we make of it is yet to be.’ The tune seemed to keep time with her thoughts; seemed to pick up the beat of the horse’s hooves; seemed to match her own breathing. They might have been riding together over his native moors, and for the moment that grim fortress disappeared, the cobbled streets turned to grass; in a sudden burst of light June seemed to flower about them in the richness of a full summer day. And she thought, with a queer aching, must we part again so soon?
There was a knight sought out his lady fair,
Trela, trela, trela,
She waited him, her castle within.
His enemies without set up a shout,
They had him fast into their snare,
Trela, trela, trela.
CHAPTER 5
——
The palace of Westminster, where the king had been sitting in council, was old, a vast overstructure of stone that hid the foundations of a more ancient fortress. Today the king was in residence although he seldom felt at home there, preferring to stay in the Tower when he came into his capital (but even he realized that the Tower was not the most auspicious residence today). Richard pointed out the royal flag, with the green Welsh dragon that was a sign of Tudor birthright.
It fluttered over the gate towers where the guards in their livery of green and white paced smartly back and forth on the battlements. ‘The great gates are locked today,’ Richard said, ‘because of the disturbance. Usually they are left wide open, so everyone can go in and out. The king is proud of his popularity. Without this map we’d be hard put to find our way. There’s the entrance, just ahead.’
He gave a sigh. ‘The princess keeps her own court,’ he began to explain. ‘They say the king dotes on her, and cannot be parted from her, not for a day. So that is why she is here with him.’ He gave a grin. ‘As perhaps I cannot bear to be away from you.’ He turned to smile at her. Philippa saw how his smile died. She too looked round. ‘Who are they?’ she cried. ‘Are they Wolsey’s men?’
A scant hundred yards behind, issuing from the narrow streets, almost parallel to where they had come, some half dozen riders were spilling into the full sunlight. If the red colour of their coats had not given them away, their shouts, their naked swords, their sudden surge forward would have done—Wolsey’s men, closing for a kill. And nothing between them and their quarry, nowhere to hide, a wide empty street and the locked palace gates.
Seeing them, Richard dug his spurs so hard that his horse bounded forward as if on springs, jerking Philippa against him. Had she not had her fingers hooked in the horse’s mane she would have been thrown. They took the distance to the side entrance in a stride,
at the last moment skidding skilfully to make the turn, almost bringing the horse to its heels. Darkness seemed to engulf them as they disappeared, swallowed up in a kind of tunnel way, running deep underground.
Richard had recognized at once he had only one chance, and that was to outrun their pursuers. So, in spite of the semi-dark, the uneven terrain, the twisting path, he rowelled his horse on as fast as he could, its hooves beating out a staccato that echoed hollowly. When for a moment he surged into light, he thrust the leather strap at Philippa so she could keep sense of where they went. He hoped his sudden burst of speed would throw Wolsey’s men off the track, complacent as they must have been in thinking they had him caught. But he did not know what lay ahead and feared he might be running into a trap. And as he surged up a last incline and burst through a gap in the wall her cry told him what it was. ‘Here is the courtyard, just as the duke described. But there is no way out for you.’
She was clinging desperately with both hands, unaware that she had knocked her head against him, starting a cut across her cheek. She did not try to wipe the blood away, perhaps she never felt it. For as Richard now hauled on the reins to bring the horse to a stop, skidding it round in the entrance, behind them, following them up those same dim tunnels, came the steady thrum of other horses after them.
Richard ignored these obvious sounds of pursuit. He thrust the horse forward again. He had come funnelling into a kind of inner quadrangle, irregularly shaped, open to the sky, surrounded on all sides by the same high walls. The lower levels were built of rough grey stones, hand hewn and worn, so that in the gaps between the masonry scrawny wild flowers grew. The upper levels were pierced with a row of windows whose uneven panes caught the sun and reflected it down in slanted stripes. They might have been standing at the foot of a wide chimney shaft looking up at a row of stars, with as much hope of escape.
To their right was an old portico, its row of pointed arches almost like a church. At the furthest end, half hidden by a smother of vines, was a door, beside which a bell rope was newly hung. There was Philippa’s escape if she could get inside in time. But where was Richard’s?
His horse snorted, tossing its head so that foam flew in dark patches on the ground. Its steel shod hooves sent sparks off the stones, like portents. It might almost have been smelling battle, and when Richard stretched for the bell rope, a deep echo seemed to reverberate underground, like a drum. But nothing could drown out the other incessant thrumming.
They listened. Then Richard unclasped Philippa’s hands and lowered her to her feet. He felt for the scrap of silk and knotted it loosely around her neck. ‘Wait there,’ he ordered her. ‘Pull at that bell rope until it breaks. Keep out of sight. Let nothing, nothing,’ he emphasized the word, ‘tempt you out. And keep hold of that scarf at all costs.’
He gave these orders in an even voice at the same time unhooking his helmet from the saddle, and reaching to check the girths and stirrup leathers. When he drew on his leather gloves as if preparing for some task ahead, ‘Stop,’ she cried at him. ‘Leave your horse and come with me.’
He snatched a glance at her. ‘What should I do among a group of women?’ he asked, trying to make her smile, all the while working his sword back and forth in its scabbard. ‘Besides, I am rather fond of my horse. You see to your task, which is to pull on that rope; I’ll see to mine.’ And he turned to ride off.
‘Wait,’ she cried, trying to run after him along the portico. ‘I can’t leave you. What can I do to help?’
‘Only not hinder me,’ he said, reining back. He gave her another quick smile. ‘Come sweeting,’ he said, more awkwardly. ‘I am only creating a diversion until you are safely inside; that done, I’ll fend for myself. I told you I was a soldier. I don’t mean to brag, but surely one Montacune can take on six wolves spoiling for a fight.’ And he grinned again.
She wanted to cry, ‘One cannot fight six,’ but she did not dare. She ran alongside him, hanging on to his horse’s reins. ‘Well then,’ he said, almost exasperated, ‘Give me your cloak; wrap it round my left arm, so, to form a shield. Now let me go, else they will be on us before I am in place.’
Despite the jesting, the easy confidence, she sensed his urgency. She drew back. ‘God save you,’ she cried. ‘God succour you.’
He did not reply. She watched him clatter over the rough stones and station himself in the shadows beside the entrance. He had snapped his helmet on but not yet fastened it, and was leaning forward, listening intently. She had never seen him look like that, cold, appraising, professional. She thought, he has already put me out of his mind. I have never seen men prepare to fight or ride as this man does. She thought, little good that does him if he cannot break away. He has already risked his life for me once, and now he does again. But were he alone he could escape. And she thought, with the same sense of cold despair, he cannot fight all of them.
As if he guessed her thoughts he shouted to her, one last time, not turning round, his voice muffled now by the helmet. ‘Quick, quick, pull on the rope,’ just before the first horse came clattering through the gap. Edging backwards towards the door, feeling for the bell beside it, Philippa was unable to look away, although she wanted to. The first horseman rode at a gallop. Dazzled by the flood of light after the dark, he never saw Richard waiting for him. And like a whip uncurled Richard swept down with his sword, at the same time flinging the cloak across the horse to blind it. Horse and man fell in a rolling heap, blocking the way for the second horse which went stumbling over the first. A third, too late to stop, blundered into the second sending its rider against the wall within reach of Richard’s sword and a spume of red splattered out. Three down then, in the first instance, two riders motionless, one scrabbling to his knees, slithering snake-like out of harm’s reach. And behind him, yet another three, pouring through the gap, trampling over their fallen companions in their eagerness.
Unable to move, Philippa remained rooted to the spot. The jangle of harness, the clang of steel, the choked-off screams, all seemed damped down, as if a mist enshrouded them. The silver of that stabbing sword, that gush of red, had turned to grey; the falling men never touched the ground, the horses never finished their fall. She thought, this is not happening, but her eyes were open; the little courtyard still was dappled with light, and the upper windows still twinkled in the sun. She did not know she had gnawed her fingers to the bone, never felt the draught at her back, until a hand gripped her tight and drew her within the door, and slammed it shut.
She was in a kind of hall, which might have once been part of a church nave, the darkness thick and damp, blocking out all sounds. She began to struggle with the cowled figure who held her tight. ‘Let me go. He is alone. I must go back to him.’
The man ignored her, and continued to glide along on sandalled feet like some monk, pulling her behind him. His mutterings might have been prayers, his long gown a monk’s habit, sweeping over the rough paving. Surely this must have been some sort of church, a sanctuary perhaps, whose reputation lingered on in memory. She glimpsed dim oratories whose dark monuments flickered in the pale taper light; there was a familiar smell of stale wax and incense and the altar coverings gleamed momentarily in gold and red. Then she was climbing up narrow stairs, along winding corridors still in the dark, obliged to run after the figure who ran in front of her. A door was thrown open. She entered a world of light, so bright, so full of people, animals, birds, that she was stunned.
The room was large, newly decorated in sumptuous style, lined with windows through which the sun poured. The door was guarded by men dressed in royal livery; pages skipped about with plates of fruit, a bevy of serving women started from their embroidery frames like a flock of pigeons. In their midst, seated on the floor, her dress billowing round her like a sail, a little compact figure seemed smaller by reason of her composure. She was a scrap of a thing, with a mass of ruddy hair, but the face that turned expectantly had a determined chin and a nose that was formed for tilting haughtily; and the vo
ice had a ring of authority which contrasted strangely with the first fragile appearance.
Like a moth drawn to a candle flame Philippa ran towards this seated figure, her own voice with its cry for help seeming to come from some other throat. She clutched the fluttering folds of silk dress as if to cling to them.
‘Help, help, help,’ she heard herself scream. ‘They will murder him.’
The little figure on the floor rose briskly to its feet. Upright, the princess, for so she was, topped Philippa by a head, for all that she seemed so slight and small. The brilliance of her clothes, her jewels, all revealed her royalty, to say nothing of the command in her voice when she suddenly questioned Philippa, ‘That scarf, where got you that?’
Not waiting even for a reply, perhaps misunderstanding Philippa and fearing that ‘him’ was that same Charles who was her brother’s favourite, and her own, she spun round so abruptly that her wide skirts knocked a table aside as she ran towards the windows, letting her silk slippers drop from her narrow feet. She knelt in the embrasure, craning to look out.