by Mary Lide
Mary seemed to enjoy herself more than at any other wedding. On the way to the altar she paused to thank the duke’s men, giving them her hand to kiss. And when the marriage vow was fully sworn, although how valid it was she never stopped to inquire, perhaps not at all, she turned back to the scanty congregation and cried in triumph, ‘Witness what we have done. And witness them.’ And she pointed again at Richard and Philippa, obliging them to acknowledge the cheers (which in truth were enthusiastic, Richard being popular and the lady seeming beautiful beneath her wraps). So what the queen had begun perhaps in jest was ended now in earnest, for better or worse. And the fates of both were joined.
Standing there in that old church, Philippa felt Richard’s hand on hers; it was steady, firm, unyielding. She could feel the calluses on the palm, the cuts and weals. And he could feel her trembling. Neither said a word, two strangers, saying ‘yes’ to the priest’s faltering, or two lovers who dared not reveal the full extent of their feeling. But they did say yes, and under cover of the dark and cold, the spark between them surged.
When it was over the duke, married for the third time, smote the young man on the back and told him of the delights to come, while the queen, the ex-queen, now become a commoner, cried, ‘So, will love keep me warm?’ and blushed prettily. Philippa’s silence matched with Richard’s but her joy matched with the queen’s.
The digression done, they had to ride fast, yet still not as fast as they should have. The snow that was to hide their tracks and prevent a search party finding them, now hindered them. They were obliged to walk at times, leading the horses, and deep drifts forced them into long detours. The duke seemed unable to hurry. He and his bride rode in front, the duke leading her horse and whispering to her. Perhaps he had many things to say, or explain, of such importance that delay seemed relatively of small account. Or perhaps she had things to say to him, her Tudor energies all concentrated on him; her flightiness suddenly focused on him.
Lacking the duke’s leadership, Richard was forced to go ahead to break a trail, anxious that they did not lose the way, fearful that, despite his care, they would be pursued. He knew they would not be safe until well out of France, and perhaps not then, depending on what Henry had in mind for them. To say he did not think of what had happened would be untrue, yet when he did it seemed unreal, something which he did not know how to deal with. He knew of the princess’s whims, but never one like this. Most of all, though, he thought of Philippa. He could not put the image of her slight body, her downcast eyes, her trembling, out of his mind; they obsessed him more than the inconsistencies.
Left behind him, with the men, her skirts kilted up out of the drifts, Philippa rode with similar thoughts in mind. Although she seemed obliged to fend for herself, she did not feel alone. She had been conscious of Richard’s presence ever since he had entered the room, as if she were attached to him by strings, or he to her, so that wherever he moved or whatever he said, she was aware of his thoughts. She knew without being told that the horse she rode was his, that the cloak tied on the saddle, soldier style, had been left there by him. Had she stumbled or slipped he would have been there to break her fall. Like him, she knew a reckoning due, and she welcomed it. None of that seemed to matter. All that mattered was him.
Just before dawn, still so dark that it would be impossible to know when night ended or day began, the little party came to a halt. The horses were exhausted and so were the men, the ladies half frozen in their cloaks, the snow deepening at every step. One of the chosen resting places was close at hand, a modest inn, well off the main road, selected for its remoteness (as well as for the loyalty of its host, who, being English bred, might be expected to shelter them). Although he did not ask, he recognized a royal party when he saw one, and his hospitality rose to the occasion. He also recognized fugitives, on the run, and he acted accordingly, removing his family to the barn out of harm’s way, himself acting alone as servant and groom, all smiles, but also cautious and wary.
The snow still fell in flurries. The warmth, the food, the smiles, together with the smallness of the place and its situation, deep inside a wood, added to the feeling of security. The duke and the queen withdrew at once occupying the upper rooms; the men bedded down gratefully wherever they could, in the stables and on the kitchen floor, rolled in their cloaks, on benches in the main dining room. A place for everyone then, all carefully thought out beforehand, a masterpiece of planning. Except for one thing. And when Richard was gone to set a watch, to oversee the provisions and quartering, Philippa told Edmund Bryce what it was.
She had not spoken to him since her days in Richmond but she remembered him well. And hearing of his part in the attack on Wolsey’s men she had wanted to thank him. When she came to the point of her domestic concern, to her chagrin at first he laughed, looking at her with his boyish grin as if to say, ‘Why Mistress Philippa, or is it lady now, we left the best place of all for you.’ He was standing with some of his companions, drink in hand, preparatory to taking leave of her. Suddenly serious, his fair hair plastered to his head, his forehead scored by some glancing blow, he began to realize her difficulty. ‘We meant no harm,’ he started to say. ‘But I, for one, thought you belonged to him.’
He suddenly looked at her in his forthright way. ‘Where else should you belong?’ he asked. And when, in a sudden fit of nervousness, she cried, ‘But suppose he resents being tied?’ ‘Why should he?’ Edmund’s voice was sharp. ‘Nay lady, trust me, he’ll not mind.’ And without telling her Richard’s present fears, he did tell her of his past ones, and of his long and fruitless search for her. Nor did he tell her what else he thought, that given half the chance, he would have leapt to fill Richard’s place. And he showed her where she should bestow herself in private.
It was more of a servant’s cubby-hole than room, but there was a grate, and someone had spread straw upon the floor. Left to herself Philippa looked at it ruefully, not much in truth for a wedding night. If Richard chose to join her, that is. Wearily she seated herself upon the floor in front of the meagre fire, resting her head upon her arms. And when she heard his voice outside, a panic froze her where she was.
He lifted the latch carefully, then barred the door. He was carrying his cloak over his arm and as he shook it out the flakes of snow fell to the floor in showers. Snow had blocked the one small window and the day was overcast so it was as dark as night and for a moment or two he hesitated. Then he began to move more purposefully, unbuckling his belt and sword, struggling to unstrap his spurs. It was the grate of the rowels on the hearth stones that made Philippa sit up; he was so close he might have stepped on her. Her sudden movement must have startled him, her head almost on a level with his as he reached to unfasten his boots. He looked at her. She could just see the gleam of his eyes where the faint firelight caught them but she felt him close to her, bent almost over her. The cold had made his face pale and when his hands brushed against her she could feel the ice in them, so that she wanted to hold them to give them warmth. For a moment he did not say anything. Then, ‘Is that the only bed you have, on the floor?’ he asked, pulling at his cloak, and reaching over for hers.
‘Let be,’ she said. ‘Let me speak with you. We have not spoken in so long a time I have almost forgotten what it is I have to say.’
She felt him stretch beside her, his long legs almost crowding hers, and it seemed to her that he was smiling. ‘Speak then,’ he said. ‘If you wish. I had other things in mind.’ She could feel his heart beating, could smell his breath upon her cheek, could sense his presence like a flame. ‘If I do not presume, that is,’ he was whispering against her ear, ‘if my wife has room for me.’
Wife. ‘Is that so?’ she cried. ‘Are we wed? Do you wish it so?’
‘Do you?’ he asked, and again she had the feeling that he was smiling. And when she cried, ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he laughed out openly and put his arms about her. The cloaks were rumpled in a heap but he spread them fur side up so that they had a place to lie. His h
ands were warmer now against her skin, smoothing down her cheek, along her neck, like honey running molten. He unfastened the dress, parting it, so like two halves it slid off her back, like an outer skin, baring the fruit between. He heard the cry she gave as his hands followed tracing the whole, peeling the fruit to get at the essence of her. And like a current the flame sparked.
Where else should you belong. ‘I cleave to you,’ she cried, and he cradling her, showed her how, until he gave a cry himself. And when he surged towards her in triumph holding her, when he covered her, settling down on her, she wrapped her arms about his back, as if never to let go. ‘Hold me,’ she whispered as she had that first day, ‘Take me with you; I will follow you.’ And when he had showed her the way she did not linger. That was their wedding night then, their wedding day, one and the same. They loved them both away. The wedding might have been hurried, furtive, the loving that followed it was open and generous. They slept only to wake, they woke only to love and when they had loved they slept; all through the day they kept each other company; no marriage, royal or not, could have been more richly endowed.
But as the hours passed, and their first desire slackened, there was time and need to speak of many things. They lay entwined, her head resting on his breast, his arms enfolding her, and of the things they spoke, some were old, some new, some revealed with wonderment, some with regret. They never mentioned at all the people and events that had shaped their lives and still had power over them. Only once did Richard say, ‘To find you in Paris was like some miracle; I never thought you could turn on me.’ And she, holding him tighter, suddenly covering his face with kisses as if to wipe away the blow, cried, ‘I could think of no other way. Forgive me, love.’ And for a while there was no time for saying anything as he showed her how he could forgive.
And in the rooms upstairs, the little one-time princess and queen learned too what love was, and what power it brings.
But the world outside could not be shut out for ever. Back it came in the end. The snow was still falling, lightly now, tapering off. In a few hours they must be ready to move again. There were supplies to think of, armaments, food; the new duchess imperiously began to cry for luxuries that this humble establishment had never heard of. The lovers passed each other about some task, the slightest touch, the slightest half glance, set that flame alight; and when they came together again in their little room, they might have never known what parting was. And in the end Richard revealed what lay ahead.
‘My love,’ he said. She was lying as he liked to have her lie, upon his lap, so that his body encircled hers and his hands were free to roam at his desire. ‘My love, I have a thing to confess. For honour’s sake I cannot relinquish it.’ And he told her what the duke had demanded of him. And when he was done, she in turn told him what Archbishop Wolsey had demanded of her, and for a moment that small place seemed filled with old venom, like an evil smell. Richard tried to comfort her. ‘We cannot stay in France,’ he said. ‘And even England may not be safe. But the duke has lands and estates there where he can keep himself, until Henry’s will reveals itself. And so do I. Once my mission to Henry is done, then we can go north.’
He stroked her breasts, cupping them, curling her hair about them like a net. ‘I am just a messenger,’ he said. ‘No danger to me.’ He did not add, ‘But for you, my love, Wolsey’s reach is long,’ but he thought it. And when she began to shiver as if with cold, he wrapped himself about her to keep fear out, and to let love in. ‘I keep you safe,’ he cried, ‘here is my seal. I set my mark on you.’ And feeling him deep within her, so deep she felt him reach into her womb, she held him so that he too should be safe in her where no other harm should come. In the outer world, their enemies were waiting for them.
The third day the duke was impatient to be gone, although for caution Richard would have advised a longer wait. Love in a garret had not impressed the duke much, albeit his bride was ecstatic. But even she would have preferred to have had friends and servants to wait on her, and a court to display her happiness. What she and the duke discussed, what their plans were, they never said. Having set his mind to leaving, the duke reverted to his usual careless self, scornful of detection. He rode openly, not caring now who saw him go, secure in his Tudor wife. And she, equally content, would have had trumpeters if she could, to go ahead and blare aloud her news.
Philippa could see the anxiety beginning to furrow Richard’s brow, but he said nothing to her, as was his way concealing his concern. She noted, though, how all the men had armed themselves, and rode alert, as if expecting attack. Richard set the ladies in their midst. Before they left he stopped as if to tighten the saddle girths on Philippa’s horse, but in reality to mutter a warning. ‘We ride fast,’ he said, ‘although the duke would have us loiter. I think we shall be safe until we near the coast, but surely there Francis will have posted look-outs.’ He hesitated. ‘But if trouble comes,’ he said, ‘do this for me. Break clear. This horse is trained to run. Do not look back, do not try to defend yourself.’ He tried a grin, ‘Although what you could do with a knife perhaps would win a war,’ taking away her frightened look with a jest. ‘If Francis’s men are like him,’ he said, ‘they will be too busy with their lady loves to track down fugitives; no harm in them.’ It was not Francis’s men he feared, it was Wolsey’s guards. And knowing now, for the first time, what their hold on his wife was, he was sure they never would let go. Wolsey’s wolves were well named. And they would be out hunting for her, and him.
The first hours passed without incident. Although the snow still lay in drifts and tree branches were snapped off by the weight, the air was not so cold, and from time to time a gleam of sun appeared from beneath the heavy clouds. Those who were weather trained sniffed the air and promised themselves more snow but today was clear and they made good time. They had avoided several larger roads, bypassing any that seemed to lead to villages or farms, and had come to a crossing where to the right a path had been trampled down. Away in the distance there was a faint spume of smoke as from a fire, and the temptation to turn towards it was great. While they debated, the duke and his lady all for rest, Richard all for pressing on, there came a cry to their rear. They all spun round. Galloping towards them, one of the Suffolk guards was shouting to them, waving his hat to make them stop. He plunged into their midst unsettling the other horses, almost unable to control his own. ‘My lord, my lord,’ he cried, his voice breaking between excitement and fear. ‘A band of men is following, riding fast. I spotted them a scant half hour ago.’ And to their questions, ‘Yes, my lord. They know where we go. The innkeeper must have told them so.’
CHAPTER 12
——
There was no time for discussion. Even the duke was silenced as they veered as one man, taking the path towards the spume of smoke they had spotted in the distance. There was not even time for thought, the trampled snow flying behind their heels, clods of ice falling in clumps where they brushed against the overhanging bushes and trees, the horses’ breath coming in great white puffs. This was the only cover for miles and they had to use it. Set in their midst Philippa felt the wind bring tears to her eyes, felt fear riding with them like a spectre.
The farm itself, such as it was, was small and squalid, a scattered group of huts set within a broken wall. The gates themselves were gone but the stone pillars were ancient and must have been handsome, perhaps part of some castle tower. As they funnelled through into a muddy barn yard, littered with old fencing and brushwood piles, scrawny goats scattered amid frozen straw and a dog snarled on a leash. ‘By God,’ the duke cried, as they skidded to a halt, ‘this is a sorry place.’ He reined back savagely, as if, for a moment, he saw his handsome body with all its charm and wit diminished into a broken heap like these wooden hurdles. Richard made no reply. He was already wheeling his horse round with that cold look that Philippa recognized, searching for a place to defend.
The peasants had come tumbling out, the women and children screaming in French, the men s
ullen, armed with scythes, ready to protect themselves. When they understood that there was no threat to them they retreated back into their hut and barred the door, dragging their goats with them. Some of the duke’s men had already dismounted to block the gaps in the wall with fencing and brushwood, a hopeless task as nothing was large or firm enough; others scoured the remaining huts, driving out their occupants, a pig or two and some chickens that went scrabbling through the snow. A sorry place indeed.
‘My lord duke, our stand is best outside the walls.’ Richard made the decision. He too reined up in a splatter of mud. He had his helmet on but not fastened and his breastplate shimmered beneath his cloak. ‘The ladies must retire to that barn.’ He pointed to the largest structure facing the entrance, a ramshackle building, the only one with a door. He paused. But if he expected the duke to shout, ‘By God lad, am I a woman? I stand with you,’ he was disappointed. Without a word the duke led the way inside, ducking his head under the beam and pulling the duchess’s horse after him.
Philippa and Richard looked at each other, no time either for farewells. Richard’s voice had that calm note she also remembered. ‘They’ll do you no harm,’ he said, ‘not with the duke and duchess here. But if they break through do as I said before, give the horse its head and run. Take this.’ He handed her a small purse. ‘Buy your way home,’ he said. ‘Go north to Netherstoke and wait for me.’
She thought, if they break through that means only one thing, your death. And mine. Why would I run anywhere without you? As if he guessed what she was thinking he said. ‘But they’ll not get through.’ He took her hand between his own, held it to his lips. ‘God keep you, my love,’ he said. Then abruptly he heeled his horse aside. She heard him ordering the gateway to be narrowed with farm ploughs and hoes used to clear a space in the yard for a last stand, and a few men to be stationed at intervals, armed with pikes (although horsemen were not trained to fight on foot, and they were too few to hold a charge). Then, gathering the rest in a group on either side of the gateposts where the main thrust would come, he drew his sword and waited.