by Mary Lide
What a cry now broke out, women screaming, courtiers on their feet, councillors flapping in their long black robes, trying to reach the king before he threw his life away. Richard drew his helmet off, running his hand through his curls, suddenly looking young and perplexed with his face white against the dark. Left in his seat, Wolsey ground his teeth in rage, outfoxed by Henry in the end, an impossible choice, kill a king or be killed. Philippa caught his glance as he looked wildly round. I never expected this, that look said, and he clutched the crucifix on his breast as if praying himself for guidance.
Did God or the Nun of Kent hear him? Did God in truth speak? Among the ladies on the balcony the queen had been sitting to one side, surrounded by her Spanish friends; they interested perhaps in this fresh example of English stupidity; she trying not to watch. Now she stood up and came to the edge of the lodge, a small figure tending to plumpness, her black hair already showing signs of grey. She leaned forward gripping with both hands as if to give herself courage. ‘My lord,’ she cried, then louder, ‘Henry, wait. I have a thing to say to you.’
Her voice was not loud but it was commanding and it made her husband look up. What a god he seemed himself, that Tudor giant on his giant horse, like the sungod he thought himself, like the god of war he had wished to be, not the petty tyrant that he was to become. ‘Henry,’ said Catherine of Aragon, her Spanish lisp almost gone, ‘I do not wish you to fight today. Come back to me. I do not wish there to be bloodshed on so fair a day. I wish the husband of my child, peace and prosperity.’
The silence lengthened. ‘Child,’ Henry said at last. He had come crowding to the barricade and was looking up at her. He stood up in the saddle stretching for her hand. ‘Child?’ he asked again. The people watching took up the word; it flew from mouth to mouth in a hiss of syllable, the child he had been waiting for; the child that God had withheld from them; the child that would make her barrenness blossom from flower to fruit. And she, leaning down said, ‘It is so. And on such a day when we should rejoice with God, let all be forgiven and at peace. Let there be mercy for all men and women, royal and commoner, in this place. And let these prisoners have your full pardon to go home.’
And Henry, suddenly his own face bathed in tears, shouted, ‘Amen, amen.’
CONCLUSION
——
This general sign of rejoicing was shared by everyone, even by old courtiers who perhaps had looked forward to a spectacle, although never one on such a scale. Certainly the ladies of the court were relieved, the queen’s compassion in asking mercy for this girl (whom she must have known had once attracted the king) only surpassed by the king’s own generosity. His jovial shout, ‘Set them loose, give them title, estates, lands, what they want; let them go where they will, I make them free with my kingdom,’ was followed by an even more welcome one. ‘Order wine and food, bring out my trumpeters, sound the bells,’ showing him again at his most gracious, the well-loved prince who had his people’s interest at heart, and knew how to play to the crowds . . . Only two men were not impressed. And one of those was Richard Montacune.
He and Philippa had remained behind, he on his horse, she on the dais which was virtually deserted now since the councillors had flocked to the king. Nothing stopped them from leaving. He looked at her, and she at him, a long slow look that had in it all the things that lovers feel and think when disaster has parted them. Then a realization washed over her, so cold she might have been back in France. She knew without his saying so what he meant to do, and she knew she could not stop him. He had removed the great jousting helm before. Now he wheeled his horse around and shouted loudly, above the hubbub and the excitement, stilling it, ‘My lord king, it is not yet finished with.’
Henry swivelled about himself and his courtiers were suddenly hushed. And, sure of their attention, Richard Montacune drew himself up as straight as his broken ribs allowed. Days in the Tower had not dimmed him although they had diminished many lesser men, nor had sight of his wife slackened his purpose. If anything he felt it even more poignantly.
‘I praise God for pardon,’ he said. ‘For as God knows there was nothing to pardon. But I have things left to settle. My wife has lost her lands and reputation through no fault of hers. And I lose my honour if I am foresworn. And so my lord king, although your offer is most gracious, still it cannot be, unless I run a course with you.’
He had perhaps never looked so proud as he did then, nor perhaps so young and arrogant, putting even Henry the sun god in the shade. And Henry felt the contrast. His courtiers on the other hand were shocked; what fool, having had his neck saved, would thrust it back into the noose? Or who would push luck so far as to rely on Henry’s continuing good will? But Henry was in an expansive mood, suddenly full of hope. Richard’s sense of honour appealed to him. Gone in that moment was all his spite; he and his queen again were the god and goddess of love; all should be as fair and sweet as that fun-loving princess once had believed. Most of all, his child to be, his heir, would turn Wolsey’s gloomy predictions to straw.
‘Done,’ he said. He pulled his helmet down, edged his horse back along the track and turned to face Richard at the other end. He did not say what the wager was, or if it had changed, and no one asked, overwhelmed by the temerity of the challenge, by a challenger who but moments before had been called a convicted felon.
But Richard did not put a helmet on. He rode bareheaded as if to show his face to the world. Seizing a lance, he steadied it against his thigh, couched into place upon the elaborate breastplate. Nor did he wait for the heralds to begin their proclamations. ‘God protect you Henry Tudor,’ he cried, ‘for today I fight in the name of all the dispossessed, for those who have been falsely accused and for those who are innocent. God protect them likewise. And me and mine.’
Down the barricade he thundered as he had described before. And down towards him Henry came, riding on that great stallion which had been the start of Richard’s court experience. Left in the balcony with her ladies, the queen sank back, hands clasped upon her breast as if in a faint. And Philippa, reaching out her arms as if to encompass her husband, cried, ‘Go with my love.’
The Flanders stallion trod on air, its royal rider so firmly wedged into the saddle only a thunder clap could have unseated him. Richard Montacune rode a black horse, black for penance and woe. But his face wore a smile; he clasped his lance against his side and thrust with all the weight of God behind him. He could not rock Henry from that horse’s back, nor turn the horse from its stride, but he caught Henry’s lance mid-stroke.
It splintered against his, steel sparking in the sun, the sound like a thunder crack, the sight like a lightning bolt. And stunned by the shock, reins gone, hands flailing helplessly for control, Henry reeled in the saddle while his horse bolted.
Richard had equal difficulty reining up his horse too. But when he had steadied it under him and held it firm, ‘God’s will be done,’ he cried. ‘And so is mine. And now it is time to go home.’
Back he rode at a gallop towards his wife, drawing up with a clatter in front of her. ‘Lady’, he said in formal terms, ‘will it please you to ride with me?’ She smiled at him, no need to answer.
Men still speak of their leaving. They bid no one farewell or gave thanks again, simply took themselves off as they were, the pages running to unstrap his jousting gear, he struggling with the straps himself until the ground was littered with pieces of metal. He threw off the black veils she wore, black for mourning and widowhood, wrapped his blue coat around her to keep her warm. Paying attention to no one but themselves, they paced along the river bank, leaving Richmond far behind. And when they had ridden long enough to ensure that no one was following them, he tethered the horse under one of those willow trees and lifted her down. ‘Now my love,’ he said, ‘at last you shall make me welcome.’
The sun burned bright in the sky, a spring sun that had in it the taste and scent of summer. The grass was soft, the tree so low that no one could have seen under it. He drew h
er into its cool embrace, unfastening the lacings of her black gown. It fell on the river bank for the next high flood to drown.
Sunlight dappled her flesh, sunlight outlined his, with the new scars blue against the old. ‘Come home with me, sweetheart,’ he said. And folding him into her embrace, surging onto him, she cried, ‘Here is my home.’
What Henry might have done to them, perhaps wanted to do when he first recovered, impending fatherhood made lenient. He laughed it off, the jovial ‘Hal’, the noble soul, the generous heart, who was the pride of England. ‘Let them go,’ was all he said. ‘And if they squeeze her lands out of the Devonshire squire, good luck to them.’ What he thought of his councillor Wolsey he did not say, but that too he stored in memory: Wolsey’s advice that was more self-seeking than was wise, and too arrogant for a councillor. He summoned Brandon back, a humbled Brandon too, at least he could still joust with him. And in time he received Mary Tudor, although they never regained their early affection.
As for Wolsey, the other man who found Henry’s behaviour beyond the pale, he took himself off in high dudgeon, his pupil suddenly proving his master. Back he went to nurse his wounds, having the Nun of Kent administer to him, her flattery persuading him that he had not lost his touch. If he knew of her betrayal he did not say so then. And if she guessed that in the end it would be Queen Catherine who destroyed him she kept that thought secret.
Richard and Philippa rode north, when Edmund Bryce was recovered enough to ride with them. But before that they made their promised visit to Vernson Hall. The roses were in bloom again, the famous white and red roses that sailors smell out to sea, and the old house stood undisturbed. Master Higham and his wife and his bailiff and all his servants had fled, not one willing to face a real lord with a real sword, and Philippa had her lands back as she had always wanted them. She left the Devon countryside with regret, promising to return each spring, using its wealth to rebuild her husband’s home as her mother had used hers. Richard seldom went far again. ‘Netherstoke is where I belong,’ he used to say. ‘The king’s commands have no charm for me. My house and lands, my castle gates, my sons to inherit them, are all I need. And my wife to share with me.’
Philippa, locked into his embrace, could only agree.