by Mary Lide
She began to run in earnest. She probably could not have gone far, for Edmund could not hold six men at bay, even those hampered with a prisoner, and she would not have known which way to run had she not by good fortune jumped to the side where the soldiers’ horses were tethered. She was used to horses now. It took but a moment to untie one, and set the others free. Then scrambling up she turned again with some thought perhaps of riding the soldiers down. One look at Richard’s face as Edmund fell to the stones, a sword buried in his chest; one shout from him, ‘Ride on,’ made her swerve away. Kicking the horse forward she plunged through the village at a gallop, with no thought in mind except how to rescue her husband, and how to help his friend.
She could not say how long she rode, nor in what direction. She gave the horse its head and trusted to its good sense. All she could see was Richard’s face, all she could hear was Edmund’s scream. But presently as sight and hearing came back, when her tears were done, she began to recognize the sleepy lanes and rich orchard fields as ones she had seen before, when on an autumn day she had ridden through them with the sergeant of Wolsey’s guard. And because there was no other way to go, and she knew no other place to hide, she came at last in the evening to the Holy Sepulchre, where she had been brought those months ago.
She recognized its outline before she came to the main walls, and a quick search revealed the same small side door. Fastening the horse outside she hammered with all her might. It had begun to dawn on her that a nunnery was a place of sanctuary. As long as she remained free perhaps she could help Richard. And at the back of her mind there lingered the idea that Richard had had of approaching the king and challenging him openly.
The nun who answered finally was not pleased at this late hour intrusion. An unknown lady who was travel-stained, who shouted for the Nun Elizabeth and would not be quieted, did not make a welcome guest. But once Philippa had ascertained that the Nun was still there, and was alone, she insisted until at last she was let in. And while she waited, suddenly all the things she needed to know started to throb in her brain so that, like a man who begins to drown, she felt a wave sweep over her. And seeing the Nun Elizabeth at last emerge from behind the grating, she burst into frantic pleas for help.
‘Lord love us.’ The Nun sounded motherly. She sat Philippa down upon the stool and wiped her face. ‘You’re back,’ she cried. ‘I didn’t expect you so soon. You’ve led my master a merry dance. It’s just as well he’s not at home.’ She gave what could have been a grin. ‘So we’ll make do without him,’ she said. And more at ease since the grille did not conceal a hidden spectator, she had food brought and a chair, and lights, all comforts that Philippa was too weary to enjoy, too full of her own story to notice. But when that story was finished with, the Nun sat back, arms crossed upon her ample bosom and stared at Philippa in amazement.
‘You mean,’ she said wonderingly, ‘that the French king died. God never told me so. That do seem unfair of Him; how’s a body to guess a thing like that. And you mean that you and this new husband of yours have been made out proper fools, tricked by the queen and her new husband; lord, it does make the mind to reel. But I know about trickers and their tricks.’
She suddenly cast a shrewd look that had nothing to do with prophecy. ‘I’ve had my share of them,’ she said. She thought for a moment. ‘But no use your staying here,’ she said briskly, ‘and I don’t know where else to suggest (although were I in my own village, why there’s plenty there would shelter you). But a pretty wench like you shouldn’t cry; time for crying when you’ve tired of the marriage bed. And a fine young man like your lord is meant for love not death.’
She turned and turned about like a dog pacing up and down. ‘I always liked the looks of you,’ she said at last. ‘And I feel sorry for you. You never let on about your wrongs last time; no wonder I couldn’t turn them aside. But if they’re true, which I don’t doubt, why you’ve had a life to make you sad. And I think God meant us to be glad.’
She brooded for a while, sucking the end of her veil, and tapping her foot on the ground. ‘I don’t know much about sanctuary,’ she said. ‘But there be things that I do know. And one, ’tis not right to hound poor young folks into their graves, for no fault of their own. So I’ll help you with what I can.
‘In my earlier days,’ she went on, waxing eloquent now she had Philippa’s attention, ‘when I was young, Lord bless us, how God spoke to me. Every night He came to the foot of my bed and the words rolled out. Now, I’m not so sure. Sometimes I think He’s forgotten me. But if I pray, and you pray too, why, perhaps He’ll put the thoughts back on my tongue just as He used to do.’
Without further ado, she spread her skirts and plumped down on her knees, resting her head upon the table ledge, her hands folded piously as children’s do, her mouth moving up and down in some private litany.
It was quiet in the little room, and still. The candles burned steadily, casting shadows against the plain white walls. All the hard sad day rose before Philippa like a cry of pain, then seemed to fade, as pain is forgotten once its course is run. When the Nun Elizabeth moved, a scent of flowers stirred with her, like lavender perhaps or roses. A garden might have been unfolding in that room, where fir trees stood like sentinels, and white birds fluttered over the red Devon soil. And Philippa might have been a child herself, praying in the old church where her ancestors had worshipped through long centuries. There are many kinds of loyalties, she thought. And one man’s life cannot encompass them all. Man is made for joy and love, not for wickedness and sin. When my child is born, let him grow to God’s delight. And when the Queen of England conceives let her no longer be counted barren, but like a flower, blossom into fruit.
She rested her head on her arms and slept, a sleep full of hope although in all things else the future had not shown any. The Nun of Kent rose from her knees, brushing her skirt hems free of dust, briskly preparing to go about her own business. Her face wore a smile that could be best called angelic, although that word sat ill with her full red cheeks and coarse skin. But when she had risen to her full height she suddenly stooped again as if a lance had pierced her side, and a look of terror undermined her smile. She stuffed her hand into her mouth as if to dam up the words that now came out. ‘But the fruit of guilt and deceit is cruel,’ she seemed to cry. ‘Let the House of Suffolk beware. One day a child will be born of them, a Nine Day Queen, to make the Tudor line tremble.’ She wiped her face, sweat starting on her cheeks in drops, her hair matted with it. Beside her, still leaning her head upon her arms, Philippa slept on, unaware.
With the morning the Nun was her usual self. When Philippa awoke, stiff from sleeping in one cramped spot, she was free with advice for salves and potions to relieve the soreness and bruises of many days. ‘How white your skin is,’ she said, rubbing it. ‘How soft your hands for all that you have been riding like a man. Well, that is almost done. When you have said Mass with us, and broken fast, mount on your horse that you have tied outside. Take up the reins for the last time and ride to Richmond as your husband was sworn to do. Never fear. Your young lord will yet be safe and his friend still lives. This much I do for you.’ And speaking hurriedly she told Philippa what to do and say, and how to use Wolsey’s weaknesses to turn him into an ally. ‘But hurry,’ she said. ‘When my master knows what I have done, my days too may be numbered.’ And again a look blurred her face, as if the future were hiding there.
Philippa rode openly to Richmond, not trying to conceal herself. No one seemed to notice her, all intent upon the greater news of Mary Tudor’s marriage to a duke, and the arrest of a young traitor, who was held responsible. The court had never known such excitement, more than equal to the first announcement of the French marriage.
The day was mild and Henry had been strolling with his councillors along the river bank. Wolsey had been listing all the advantages of a new French alliance but he had only been half listening. The cold weather that had frozen France had left England untouched and the smell of sp
ring had made him think of hunting and jousts, those pleasures which had never seemed the same since Charles, ‘his’ Charles, had been gone. He did not know whether to be relieved that he was back, or angry that he came in such a way, after promising not to do the precise thing that he had done. It was the break of faith that angered him, more than the marriage itself, and so far he had refused to let Charles come to court. Let him sweat fear out a while. Just as the young man should.
He remembered Richard Montacune. There was a man whom he had rewarded and made much of; a brave soldier, his own envoy, that treachery then seemed especially personal. Well, the Tower had him fast, him and his friend. But the girl had got away, ever slippery like an eel, impossible to pin down. He never thought to see her coming towards him bold as brass. For a moment he closed his eyes, and made the sign of the cross.
‘My lord king,’ Philippa’s voice was neither loud nor soft, but rang out clearly as it always did. ‘It seems you wanted me. So I have come of my own accord, having nothing to hide or regret. And I have come to find Archbishop Wolsey,’ for she had spotted his dark robes in the background. ‘I wish to report to him all that I did in France, as he asked me to. And beg him to speak on my behalf as he promised.’
Wolsey began to splutter, sensing danger, unexpected and real. Henry looked at him suspiciously. Suddenly many things about his councillor began to fall into place, things which had puzzled him and which he saw needed looking to. But he kept that thought apart. ‘What could Wolsey promise you?’ he asked softly for he did not want the world to hear. ‘A traitor’s end is what you deserve. And what you’ll get, Wolsey or no.’ And he suddenly shouted, ‘Why did you turn Mary Tudor against me?’
‘My lord,’ she said, in that quick way he remembered and, on hearing, could not decide whether he liked or not, ‘her majesty did all you asked. You yourself promised her free choice when her first husband died. But what she does is not my fault. And that is not why I came to court.’
‘You came to get your father’s lands,’ Henry cried. ‘Is that what Wolsey promised you? If he did, he took too much upon himself. He is not king yet.’ He stared at her, remembering too how she had caught him out before in argument. He wanted to justify himself, bellowing aloud all the ‘facts’ his spies had collected. All he could remember was how the feel of her had possessed him so that he had to have her fast. But overwhelming her in a prison cell was one thing. Displaying himself before the world, in public, would make him look foolish. And kings do not have to argue with their subjects.
He grew cunning. ‘I promised you a thing,’ he said. ‘I told you you could have your lands back, as your father lost them. They are held in forfeit to the crown. Claim them. Fight the crown for them.’
His courtiers who had been straining to listen began to titter, thinking he spoke in jest. Much of what was said was lost to them, but this was not. And Wolsey who had been on tenterhooks saw his opportunity. He gave his blaring laugh. ‘A woman fight,’ he cried, ‘I suppose they will be jousters next. Women in a joust is all we need.’ But Henry was not joking.
‘Rather a joust,’ he said coldly, ‘than lectures. Since Suffolk left I have not had one good partner nor one day free of hectoring. You, Archbishop, do not know horse flesh, I think. Unless your father butchered it.’
He watched the Archbishop flush. He turned back to Philippa. ‘If Wolsey gave you good advice,’ he said, ‘ask for it again. Explain to him how it was you came to marry and urged my sister to the same course. Tell him what you would do to get your lands back.’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I only want my husband free and my friend.’
That was the final straw. ‘You shall have him,’ Henry howled. ‘And he shall have you.’ He shouted for his guards, sending them scattering. ‘Haul him out,’ he screamed, ‘drag him here if he can’t walk. Let them face each other once, and we’ll have the truth out of them. Lock her up.’ Off he stalked, disappointment and rage gnawing him. Philippa was not dismayed. She remembered what the Nun of Kent had advised and held firm.
One other man was distressed by this turn of events although he did not show it openly. And that was Thomas Wolsey. His grudge against Philippa and her husband had grown, the more since news of his sergeant’s death had just reached him. He had always meant to toss Philippa aside, the question had merely been when. Now it occurred to him that she knew more about him than he cared to have known. A chit of a girl, what could she do? But she had already done much, and she had a husband. If he could have silenced her, a quick stab, a slit throat—he had done as much before, but never so obviously. Round and round Wolsey’s thoughts went, trying to save his own neck first. He had seen Henry’s frown; he had known what Henry’s insults meant. In the end he did what he had done before; he compromised. Compromise was his advantage.
‘My lord king,’ he said in his obsequious way (which Henry hated yet had come to rely upon). ‘I have been thinking. Your sister and her new husband have returned to England. They would have gone somewhere else, if they meant you harm. The people have welcomed them back as part of your family. It would be a hurt to them to cut your sister off, your only heir and next of kin.’ He let these thoughts sink in, cleverly keeping his real intent to the end.
‘As for this Philippa de Verne.’ He shrugged as if to say, ‘She is not worth much, certainly not worth your regard.’ ‘Her husband is a noble man,’ he went on. ‘In the north where his family is well known, he has friends. He has been young and foolish perhaps but not I think treacherous. Or if a traitor, more to the duke than you yourself. A day or so in the Tower will have cooled him off. Have your joke with him.’
Wolsey did not have the duke’s ready skills, nor his charm. But he was shrewd. He too knew how much to dig and when to smooth. He left the king with these half thoughts in mind, not enough to incriminate himself, just enough to steer along. And satisfied his work was done, he went next to see Philippa. As spiritual adviser to the king it was not difficult to arrange.
Richmond was the king’s own residence, not meant for a gaol. Philippa had known worse lodgings during the past months, and she was not exactly frightened. She had partly expected Wolsey’s visit. And he, with that same sneaking regard for her intelligence that he had felt before came to the point at once. ‘If you tell the king what I did,’ he said, ‘you will destroy me and break my hold on him. He will kill you. For if he suspects me, if he lacks confidence in me, the only one he can confide in, Henry will strike at everyone. So whether you will or no, our fates are joined. As I said before, help me, and I will help you.’
He looked at her, wiping the sweat from his face, suddenly seeing his own ruin, just as the Nun of Kent said he would.
‘The king has jousts much on his mind,’ he went on, using his cleverness now, helping her to help himself. ‘He needs to be distracted, missing his old partner. Claim the right of trial by combat, an old custom that will amuse him. Let your innocence be decided in an open duel, your champion riding against one the king will choose. You select the man who bested Charles Brandon. Have your husband ride for you. And since Charles Brandon is forbidden the court no one can defeat Montacune. But the prospect will mollify Henry and will offer you a chance of success. In a legal trial you have none. The charges are too many and weighted too heavily for you to hope for release.’
Stifling the thought of Richard’s wounds, beating down the panic that these words caused, Philippa did as the Archbishop said. She knew him wily as a fox, but she sensed some truth in him this time. She sent word to the king that since the charges against her were all false, she would rely on God to give her justice. Let God decide if she were true or false, as used to be done in former times. And Henry, intrigued as the Archbishop had foreseen, agreed.
When next day Philippa saw the tourney field, just as Richard himself had described, lined with courtiers all agog at this spectacle, when she saw the queen take her place, she almost lost her courage. She herself had been placed at one side of the lists with her
back to the river. She was dressed in black as became a prisoner whose life was at stake, for whom these elaborate rituals had been revived. Surrounding her on a dais were the king’s councillors, dressed too in black, as became judges in a trial of such magnitude. They did not speak, simply folded their robes as if resigned to a custom most of them privately would have termed barbaric, dating from olden times. At one end of the lists stood a black horse which Richard was to ride. She had not seen him. But she prayed that he was well. If no harm had been done to him in the Tower perhaps he was strong enough to fight.
She knew he was not strong enough to defeat the charges laid on him. As a soldier his skills at least could serve them both. Better she thought for him to die a clean death in a fight, on a battle field, than the death the king had planned for him. But she did not think he would die. For who in England was there to challenge him?
The trumpet sounded, once, twice, thrice, the call to arms. Even the councillors sat up, thanking God no doubt they never would have to judicate in such fashion again. There was Richard striding out. He wore jousting armour all encased, but he could walk, he could climb into the saddle without help. And he had seen her. Down the lists he came cantering, his sword held up, as if in salute, as if to claim justice, she could not tell. She thought, suddenly ice cold, so it was in a dream I had, the river flowing past, the dark clothed men, Richard weighted down. God in heaven, do not desert us now when we have most need of you. God keep us safe, Richard most of all. God let him defeat the king’s champion.
At the opposite end of the list the gates opened. A man on a huge horse rode out, his red hair flying in the breeze, his small eyes narrowing with glee. ‘Hah,’ said Henry Tudor pulling on the reins. ‘So you’re the man who wants the girl. Then you fight me. The prize, well, what would be fair? Kill me you get her, lands and all. Kill you, and I claim both your lives.’