The Lady of the Rivers

by Philippa Gregory

  She flings up her head at the implied rebuke. ‘If the king favours one man over his closest kin, his true friends and best advisors, there is always going to be trouble,’ she says hotly.

  I raise my hand. ‘Forgive me,’ I say. ‘I did not mean to suggest that your tenants are exceptionally unruly, or your father’s family, the Nevilles, make exceptionally irritable neighbours in the north of England. I meant only that the king has worked hard to see that his rule runs through all England. When the duke your husband comes to council I am sure he will be able to reassure his peers that there is no hint of rebellion anywhere on his lands, and that his kinsmen, your family, can learn to live in peace with the Percys in the north.’

  She folds her lips on an angry reply. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘We all want only to serve and support the king. And the north cannot be divided.’

  I smile at her boy. ‘And what do you hope to do when you are grown, Edward?’ I ask. ‘Will you be a great general like your father? Or is it the Church for you?’

  He ducks his head. ‘One day I shall be head of the House of York,’ he says shyly to his shoes. ‘It is my duty to be ready to serve my house and my country however I am needed, when my time comes.’

  We have an impressive christening for the royal baby. The queen herself orders a cloth-of-gold train for his gown that is brought from France, and costs more than the gown of his godmother, Anne the Duchess of Buckingham. The other godparents are the Archbishop of Canterbury and Edmund Beaufort the Duke of Somerset.

  ‘Is that wise?’ I ask her quietly as she tells her confessor the names of the godparents she has chosen. She is on her knees before the little altar in her privy chamber, I am kneeling beside her, the priest behind the screen. Nobody can hear my urgent murmur.

  She does not turn her head from her clasped hands. ‘I would have no-one else,’ she whispers. ‘The duke shall care for him and protect him as if he was his own.’

  I shake my head in silence but I can see what she has done. She has surrounded her boy with the court party: people she trusts, people that Somerset has appointed, and Somerset’s kin. If the king were to never speak again she would have put a small army around her boy who should protect him.

  Anne the Duchess of Buckingham carries the precious child to the font in Westminster chapel. Cecily Neville glares at me from among the ladies as if I am responsible for yet another snub to her husband, Richard, Duke of York, who should have been a godfather. Nobody remarks on the king’s absence, for a christening is the business of the godparents, and of course the queen is still in her confinement. But the secret cannot be kept forever, and the king surely cannot be ill forever? Surely he must get better soon?

  At the christening feast Edmund Beaufort takes me to one side. ‘Tell the queen that I will call the great council, including the Duke of York, and take the baby prince to visit the king at Windsor.’

  I hesitate. ‘But, Your Grace, what if he does not wake at the sight of his child?’

  ‘Then I will insist that they acknowledge the baby without the king’s recognition.’

  ‘Could you do that without them seeing him?’ I say. ‘They all know that he is ill but if they see him all but lifeless . . . ’

  He makes a little grimace. ‘I can’t. Tell the queen I have tried but the council insists that the child is presented to the king. Anything else would look too odd, they would think he is dead and we are concealing it. We have been blessed with a longer time than I dreamed possible. But it has come to an end now. They have to see the king, and the child has to be presented to him. There is nothing we can do to avoid this any longer.’ He hesitates. ‘There is one thing I had better tell you, and you had better forewarn the queen: they are saying that the child is not the true-born son of the king.’

  I stiffen, alert to danger. ‘They are?’

  He nods. ‘I am doing what I can to quash the rumours. These allegations are treason, of course, and I will see anyone who gossips ends up on the gallows. But with the king hidden away from court, people are bound to talk.’

  ‘Do they name another man?’ I ask him.

  He looks at me, his dark eyes quite without guile. ‘I don’t know,’ he says; though he does know. ‘I don’t think it matters,’ he says; though it does matter. ‘And anyway, there is no evidence.’ This at least is true. Please God there is no evidence of any wrongdoing. ‘But the Duke of York has stirred up the council and so the baby has to be seen and at least held by the king.’

  A council of twelve lords comes to the palace to take the baby upriver to be presented to his father, Somerset at their head. I am to go with them, along with the baby’s nurses and rockers. Anne the Duchess of Buckingham, his godmother, will come too. It is a cold autumn day but the barge is well curtained and the baby is swaddled on his board and then wrapped in furs. The nurse holds him in her lap at the back of the boat, the baby’s rockers seated near her, the wet nurse close by. Two barges follow us: the Duke of Somerset and his friends in one, the Duke of York and his allies in another. It is a fleet of undeclared enmity. I stand in the bow of the boat looking at the water, listening to the soothing swish of the river against the barge and the dip and pull of the oars in the current.

  We sent ahead to say that the lords would visit the king but I am shocked when we land at Windsor and go through the quiet castle to the upper ward. When the king and court leave one castle for another then the servants take the chance to clean and shut down the state rooms. When we sent the king to Windsor without the court, they did not open all the bedrooms, nor the kitchens that cook for hundreds, the state rooms, the echoing stables. Instead the king’s tiny entourage is camped in his own private rooms and the rest of the castle is empty, quite desolate. The king’s beautiful presence chamber, which is usually the heart of the court, has a shabby neglected air; the servants have not cleaned the hearth and the flickering flames show that they have only just lit the fire. It feels cold and deserted. There are no tapestries on the walls and some of the shutters are closed so the room is shadowy and cool. There are old rushes on the floor, musty and dry; and half-burned rushlights in the sconces. I crook my finger to the groom of the household to call him to my side. ‘Why was the fire not lit earlier? Where are the king’s tapestries? This room is a disgrace.’

  He ducks his head. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace. But I have so few servants here. They are all at Westminster with the queen and the Duke of Somerset. And the king never comes out here anyway. Would you want me to light the fire for the physicians and their servants? Nobody else visits and our orders are to admit no-one who does not come from the duke.’

  ‘I would want you to light the fire so the king’s rooms are bright and clean and cheerful,’ I tell him. ‘And if you haven’t enough servants to keep the rooms clean then you should have told us. His Grace should be better served than this. This is the King of England, he should be served in state.’

  He bows at the reproof, but I doubt that he agrees with me. If the king can see nothing, what is the point of tapestries on the walls? If no-one comes then why sweep the state rooms? If there are no visitors then why light a fire in the presence chamber? The Duke of Somerset beckons me to join him at the double doors of the privy chamber. There is only one man on duty. ‘No need to announce us,’ the duke says. The guard opens the door for us and we slip in.

  The room is transformed. Usually it is a pretty chamber with two bay windows overlooking the water meadows and the river, the windows on the other side overlooking the upper ward where there is always the sound of people coming and going, horses clip-clopping on the cobbles, sometimes music. The rooms are always busy with the courtiers and the advisors to the king. Usually, there are tapestries on the walls and tables laid with little objects of gold and silver, little painted boxes and curios. Today the room is empty, horribly bare but for a great table laid with the tools of the physicians’ trade: bowls for cupping, lances, a big jar of wriggling leeches, some bandages, some ointments, a box of herbs, a reco
rd book with daily entries of painful treatments, and some boxes holding spices and shavings of metals. There is a heavy chair with thick leather straps on the arms and legs where they bind the king to keep him still while they force drinks down his throat, or lance his thin arms. There is no seat to the chair but underneath there is a bowl to catch his urine and faeces. The room is warm enough, there is a fire in the grate, and it is clean; but it is more like one of the best rooms in the Bethlem hospital for the mad than a royal privy chamber. It is like a room for a well-nursed madman; not for a king. The duke exchanges one horrified glance with me. Nobody coming in here is going to imagine that the king has been on retreat from the world, quietly praying.

  The king’s chief three physicians, solemn in their dark gowns, are standing behind the table; they bow but say nothing.

  ‘Where is His Grace the king?’ the duke asks.

  ‘He is being dressed,’ Dr Arundel says. ‘They will bring him through now.’

  The duke takes a step forwards towards the bedchamber and then checks, as if he does not want to see inside. ‘Bring him out,’ he says shortly.

  The doctor goes to the king’s bedchamber door and opens it wide. ‘Bring him,’ he says. From inside we can hear furniture shift, and I find I am clutching my hands together, hidden in my sleeves. I am afraid. I am afraid of what is going to come out. Then a brawny ma dressed in royal livery, comes through the door carrying a heavy chair like a royal throne, set on a base with handles, like a litter. Behind him, holding the rear handles, comes another porter, and on the chair, head lolling, eyes closed, is all that is left of our king.

  He is well dressed in a gown of blue with a surcoat of red, and his thin dark hair has been combed to his shoulders. He has been shaved but they have nicked him and there is a drop of blood on his throat. With his head lolling it looks as if they are bringing out a murdered man, his wounds bleeding in the presence of his killers. He is held steady in the chair by a band around his waist and another strap around his chest; but his head sags to one side and when they put the chair down, it falls to his chest and he nods like a doll. Gently, the doctor raises him up and positions his head erect; but he does not stir at the touch. His eyes are closed, his breathing is heavy, like a man in drunken sleep.

  ‘The Fisher King,’ I whisper to myself. He looks exactly like a man under an enchantment. This is not an illness of this world: this has to be a curse laid on him. He looks like the wax image of a king that they lay on the coffin at a royal funeral, not a living man. Only the rise and fall of his chest, and the little noise that he makes from time to time, a little snuffling snore, tells us that he is alive. Alive but not a living man. I glance at the duke: he is looking at his king with an expression of horror. ‘This is worse than I thought,’ he says quietly to me. ‘Far worse.’

  The doctor steps forwards. ‘He is in good health – otherwise,’ he says.

  I look at him blankly. This state cannot be described as good health. He is like a dead man. ‘Does nothing make him stir?’

  He shakes his head, he gestures at the table behind. ‘We have tried everything,’ he says. ‘We go on trying. At about noon every day, after he has broken his fast, we spend an hour trying to wake him, and every evening before dinner for another hour. But he seems to hear nothing, and he feels no pain. Every day we tell him that he must wake, sometimes we send for a priest to call on him to do his duty, to reproach him for failing us; but he shows no signs of hearing or understanding.’

  ‘Is he getting any worse?’

  ‘No worse; but no better.’ He hesitates. ‘I think his sleep is a little deeper than when it first came on him.’ He gestures politely to the other doctors. One of them shakes his head. ‘Opinions vary.’

  ‘Do you think he might speak when we bring his son in to him?’ the duke asks the doctors. ‘Does he ever say anything? Does he even dream?’

  ‘He never says anything,’ Dr Faceby volunteers. ‘But I think he dreams. Sometimes you can see his eyelids moving, sometimes he twitches in his sleep.’ He glances at me. ‘Once he wept.’

  I put my hand to my mouth at the thought of the king weeping in his sleep. I wonder if he is seeing in another world, I wonder what he has been watching. He has been asleep for nearly four months, it is a long dream. What can a four-month dream show a sleeping man?

  ‘Could we prompt him to move at all?’ The duke is thinking of the shock to the council, seeing the king like this for the first time. ‘Could he hold the baby if we put it in his arms?’

  ‘He is quite limp,’ Dr Arundel says. ‘I am afraid he would drop the baby. You could not trust him with anything of value. He is, himself, quite incapable.’

  There is an appalled silence.

  ‘This has to be done,’ the duke decides.

  ‘At least move that terrible chair,’ I say, and the two porters lift the chair with the straps and the close stool and carry it out.

  The duke looks blankly at me. Neither of us can think of anything that will make this better. ‘Fetch them in,’ he says to me.

  I go out to the waiting lords. ‘His Grace the king is in his privy chamber,’ I say and stand to one side as they go in, the rockers and the nurse following with the duchess. I am foolishly relieved to see that the baby’s dark blue eyes are open, blinking at the ceiling; there would have been something very horrible if the baby had been sleeping like his father.

  In the privy chamber the lords have made an embarrassed half-circle around the king. Not a word is spoken, I see one man cross himself. Richard, Duke of York, looks grim at the sight of the sleeping king. One man is shielding his eyes from the sight, one is weeping. They are all deeply shocked. Anne Duchess of Buckingham was forewarned of the state of the king by her kinsman Edmund Beaufort but she is pale. She plays her part in this grotesque tableau, as if she presents a baby to his half-dead father every day of her life. She takes the child and walks towards the motionless king, strapped in his chair.

  ‘Your Grace,’ she says quietly. ‘This is your son.’ She steps forwards, but the king does not lift his arms to receive the child. He is completely still. Awkwardly, the duchess holds the baby against his chest, but the king does not move. She looks to the Duke of Somerset who takes the baby from her, and lays it in the king’s lap. He does not stir.

  ‘Your Grace,’ the duke says loudly. ‘This is your son. Raise your hand to acknowledge him.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Your Grace!’ the duke says again, a little louder. ‘Just nod your head to acknowledge your son.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Just blink, sire. Just blink to say that you know this is your son.’

  Now it is as if we are all enchanted. The physicians are still, looking at their patient, hoping for a miracle, the duchess waiting, the duke with one hand holding the baby on the king’s unmoving knees, the other on the king’s shoulder, squeezing him, hard and then harder, so his strong fingers are digging into the king’s bony shoulder, pinching him cruelly. I am silent, standing still. For a moment I feel as if the king has a plague of stillness and we are all going to freeze and sleep with him, an enchanted court around a sleeping king. Then the baby lets out a little cry and I step forwards and catch him up as if I fear that he might be infected with sleep.

  ‘This is hopeless,’ the Duke of York says abruptly. ‘He sees and hears nothing. My God, Somerset: how long has he been like this? He can do nothing. You should have told us.’

  ‘He is still king,’ the duke says sharply.

  ‘Nobody is denying that,’ Richard, k, snaps. ‘But he has not recognised his son, and he cannot transact the business of the kingdom. He is a king like a babe himself. We should have been told.’

  Edmund Beaufort looks round for support, but even the lords who are sworn to his house and hate and fear the Duke of York cannot deny that the king has not recognised his son, does nothing, sees nothing, hears nothing, is far, far from us – who knows where?

  ‘We will return to Westminster,’ Edmund Bea
ufort announces. ‘And we will wait for His Grace to recover from this illness.’ He throws a furious look at the doctors. ‘The good physicians will waken him, I know.’

  That night as I start to doze in my bedchamber at Westminster Palace I wonder at a sleep that is unbroken, a sleep like death; except that in this sleep one would dream and stir and then sleep again. What would it be like to stir a little and glimpse the physicians and that terrible room with the chair and the knives and the leeches, and then slide back into sleep, unable to protest? What would it be like to open one’s mouth in the silent scream of a dream and fall asleep mute? When I fall asleep I dream again of the Fisher King, of a king who can do nothing as his kingdom falls into chaos and darkness, and leaves a young woman without her husband, alone. The Fisher King is wounded in his groin, he can neither father a child nor hold his lands. The cradle is empty, the fields are bare. I wake in the night and thank God that I have done so, that the enchantment that is lying like a blanket of darkness on the king has not smothered me, and I wonder, I shake my head on my pillow and wonder if it is my fault, if I commanded the king to be blind, if it was my incautious words that blinded him?

  When I wake in the dawn light, I am clear-headed and alert at once, as if someone is calling my name, and I get up and go to the jewellery box that my great-aunt Jehanne gave me. There, untouched, is the purse of charms, and this time I choose a crown, to symbolise the king’s return. I tie four different thin ribbons to this one charm. I choose a white ribbon to symbolise winter, if he will come back to us in the winter, a green ribbon if he will not come back till spring, a yellow ribbon if he will come back for haymaking, and a red ribbon if he will come back a year from now, when the berries are in the hedges. Then I tie each of these ribbons to four black strings, and take them to the riverside walk where the Thames is flowing high and fast as the tide is coming in.