He Who Plays The King Read online

  Mary Hocking

  HE WHO PLAYS

  THE KING

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part II

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part III

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part IV

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  To Glyn

  Part I

  A CROWNED CALF

  ‘A crowned calf, a shadow on a wall …’ Commynes

  Chapter One

  A formation of starlings; the first squadron of the evening. Bats flicker under huge elms. The long line of hills, veined with gullies where dark rivers foam, is now reduced to uniform blackness, and the valley is a desolate sea of grass in which there are strange flickerings of light where water lies in patches of bog. A landscape difficult to set in time; this scene can have changed little in hundreds of years: England on a peaceful autumn night.

  But come closer, through the picture frame, into a village which the moon has conjured out of the darkness. A silver shaft of light penetrates the window of a cottage where a priest kneels at prayer. He seems utterly absorbed, gazing down, his nose pinched at the nostrils as though offended by his own breath. But then there is the sound of running feet on cobblestones. The priest looks up and smells burning tar; one wall of the grim little room is softened by the rosy glow of torchlight. His devotions are not proof against this distraction; he rises and goes into the street. Women are running from open doorways, carrying mugs of ale. Men are shouting and bragging, rehearsing punishment meted out and mimicking the abject surrender of the Lollards whom they have smoked out.

  The priest walks along the street, taking no part in the jubilation. At one point, he stops to glance up, perhaps to stare into the face of God despairing at the behaviour of His creation. It is, however, the face of a girl at a window which arrests his gaze. His ugly face becomes distorted by lust.

  The moon tires of this scene and now discovers a road which stumbles across the very spine of England. A rough road, and lonely; scrubland on either side with here and there a tree bent by the prevailing wind. On one such tree something that was once part of a man sways when the breeze catches the rope from which it hangs. The limbs are being hacked apart so that they can be distributed to various dwellings as a warning to those who favour the white rose of York that this is Lancastrian country. While the men are thus engaged, the victim’s son, a sprightly lad, has taken advantage of their preoccupation to steal his father’s horse, and once out of ear-shot he mounts and rides away.

  For a time, the moon lights a path for this enterprising lad. But there is little amusement in mile after mile of rolling heath-land repetitively patterned with manor or monastery and its attendant cluster of cottages; so the moon leaves the lad on his lonely path and rides leisurely over a dark forest with trees standing so close that not even a needle of light can penetrate their ranks. It idles on towards a tall, horned bank of cloud, and now it has fun on its journey, peppering a winding river with darts of silver and, being no respecter of power, however substantial, making a shadow play across castle walls. In the meadows beyond the castle, the tall grass sways in a breeze so light that it barely lifts the standard struck where one of the camps has been set. The moon, losing interest in the game, hides behind the cloud. And out of the darkness, there comes a great cry, ‘Treason!’

  That cry, which echoed around the outer fortifications of Ludlow Castle, was repeated within the keep; it rang across the inner courtyard and resounded in the great hall, it reverberated on the stairs and climbed to the room where two children slept. The older boy, who slept heavily, coughed and snuffled, fumbling to wakefulness; but his seven-year-old brother woke instantly. The great cry belonged to the world of nightmare, that unexplored territory which lies beyond understanding in which evil is never explicit and terror cannot be identified. The fire had burnt low, but one flame stirred still, casting shadows on the wall. The younger boy watched and waited, rigid in the narrow bed. But this nightmare did not gradually peel away as the room took shape around him; an examination of the bench with the familiar tumble of clothes across it brought no reassurance.

  George, the older boy, feeling sick because he had been wrenched too violently from sleep, said irritably, ‘What is it? Why are they making so much noise?’

  His younger brother, Richard, replied, ‘Something terrible has happened.’

  ‘What?’

  But if it had been possible to say, it would not have been terrible. George said impatiently, ‘Get up and find out.’ He was reluctant to rise from bed at the best of times; and now there was another reason, which he could not have explained although he felt it in his stomach, why he did not want to get up. He looked at his brother. In the firelight the red hair fell like a dark stain across the blanched face and the eyes seemed black as pitch. George acknowledged grudgingly that age made certain demands on him, ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll go.’

  He got up, breathing heavily, and made a great labour of drawing on his hose. After a few moments Richard, not wishing to be left alone, came padding across the floor and announced that he was coming, too. When they had dressed, for there was always the chance they might not come back and it was important to be warm, they went quietly out of the room. Richard, who had wet himself, moved awkwardly and was wretchedly uncomfortable in his tight-fitting hose. Earlier, there had been some activity outside their room, but now there was no one about. The two children hesitated. Then George took his brother’s hand and they went down the twisting stairs towards the sound of voices in the great hall. As they passed a window, they stopped to look out. There were men in full armour hurrying across the courtyard, torchlight burnishing breastplate and helmet. Orders were shouted, then the voices died away as the men entered the castle by the door just below the window. ‘It’s all over and we’ve won,’ George said; but he was careful to keep his voice low and he proceeded down the stairs with caution. When the children rounded the last turn of the stair and the hall came into view, they sat down huddled close together in the shadows, partly for concealment but mostly for physical comfort. Above them, the stair climbed up like a half¬opened fan.

  The scene in the great hall was one they had witnessed many times, servants bringing food and drink, the fire being rekindled. The smell of wood and oil, roast meat, spiced wine, had until now denoted conviviality and was normally accompanied by a great deal of noise. But tonight all was silent, like the entertainments performed by the mummers at the country fairs. The little knot of armed men by the long table stood mute, looking all ways but at one another. No sooner had a servant laid down his tray than he was hustled away by the children’s mother. When all the servants had gone, she seated herself on the bench by the fire, half-turned from the men, although she watched them out of the corner of her eyes. She sat upright, her hands folded in her lap. The bodice of her green dress was drawn tight across her breasts, but she sat so still that the only shimmer of movement in the bright cloth was caused by the flicker of firelight. It was the restless hands which betrayed her unease.

  The children’s cousin, the Earl of Warwick, dominated the group of men by the table, but the children had eyes only for their father. The Duke of York stood beside Warwick, nodding his head vehemently yet not seeming to attend to what was being said. Once, h
e thumped his fist on the table and then unclenched the fingers slowly, staring at them so intently that the children supposed he must have something concealed in the palm of his hand. Warwick went on talking; their father curled his fingers into a fist again and shouted, ‘Trollope, my God! Who could have thought that he would betray us!’

  Warwick stopped talking. Heads turned, eyes probed the corners of the room and then had difficulty in meeting those of their companions. In the torchlight, the face of the children’s father seemed dark with blood.

  The children understood little of what was going on. But though they did not understand, they sensed the harm that had been done. In this small gathering of armed men were a father, two brothers, an uncle and a cousin, with none of whom they were well-acquainted but of whose exploits they had heard much. They knew that their father was the greatest lord in the realm, that he had ruled it as Protector, that all the people loved him and wanted him to be king (though quite why this had not happened was not clear to them). They never tired of hearing of their uncle Salisbury’s defence of the West Marches. Most splendid of all were the tales told of their cousin Warwick, who had the power to fire men’s imagination so that they spoke of him as though he was twice the size of other men and he bore himself accordingly. To the children, these men now gathered round the table were figures of great glory whose invincibility had never been questioned. Yet now, they were disturbed by the doubt that transformed a confident face, the darkening of a bright eye, the confusion of resolute features. One person alone provided reassurance. Their eldest brother, Edward, interrupted Warwick to ask whether it was indeed impossible to meet the enemy.

  ‘Now that Trollope and his men have deserted we are lost,’ Warwick said brusquely. ‘They are the best trained of our army.’

  ‘Certainly no one can know their merit better than you,’ Edward acknowledged, ‘since they are your men.’

  Warwick looked at him angrily but Edward seemed unaware of causing displeasure. He was seventeen, confident and unafraid. Richard, watching from the dark stairs, thought him dazzlingly beautiful. The children returned to their room. They heard the metalled impact of horses’ hooves, the shivering jolt of armour; they listened while the martial noise diminished to a jaunty jingle and then died quite away. Leaning from their window, they could see nothing but the upthrust walls of the keep bruising the night sky. George sneezed. In the distance, the cock crew; but his message was not needed, already those left behind were preparing for the grim business of the day.

  But when the time came, and the children stood before Ludlow market cross, one on either side of their mother, each holding a hand of hers, it was not so very hard. She was magnificent, erect and proud; so they could be erect and proud, too; and since no one harmed them, it was not difficult to maintain their poise. Around them, there was much screaming and cursing, smoke and flame and the smell of burning thatch. Their mother, who would not plead for herself, pleaded for the townsfolk, but no one heeded her except the pale, elongated king.

  ‘I will not have these outrages committed in my name!’ he protested, almost in tears, to an attendant, who bowed to conceal his contempt at yet another instance of the King’s madness.

  The King was kind to the children, but they had no respect for him; they had heard their father call Henry the Sixth a holy fool and they had been told that he was in the power of his French queen, Margaret. They were taken to his camp where he made a fuss and said, ‘The children must have food immediately.’ None of this impressed them: a king should have better things to do than bother about children’s food while his army rampages through a town. George remarked to his brother that the meat was heavily spiced to disguise the fact that it was bad: he was attentive to matters concerning food and drink. It was a pleasant afternoon, the sun warm for the time of year, and after they had eaten the two boys were allowed to sit outside the tent while their immediate future was debated. George was a big, florid child already tending to overweight, but lively and attractive nonetheless. Attention was important to him and he was not discriminating as to whence it came. Now, he took an eager interest in the comings and goings of those around him and could scarcely refrain from attempting to make their acquaintance. The dullness of sitting quiet was almost insupportable; he had much to talk about, he was prodigiously well-informed on all manner of subjects so that an audience was of considerable importance to him. As he watched a man hammering out a dent in a breastplate, another polishing a pair of boots, a third mending a leather strap, it was a great hardship to George not to be able to give advice; but as he realized this to be beneath his dignity, he had to satisfy himself by pointing out to his brother the mistakes which each man was making. Richard was used to receiving instruction from George, and as it was given with the wholly good-natured intention of improving his mind, he was usually grateful. His, however, was a very different disposition from that of his brother, and at this moment he was unable to respond. He sat huddled forward, his thin face peaked with fatigue, his lips pressed closely together, his eyes not resting on any of the men around him but concentrating with surprising intensity for one so young on a patch of ground a few feet away, as though by staring long enough he might bore a hole in the earth and make his escape; in his rather sombre attire he looked not unlike a little mole who has come up for air and found it has little liking for what it sees. Richard was well aware that he was among his family’s enemies and firmly resolved to hate all who supported the red rose of Lancaster.

  The sun was bright and the children had had a heavy meal; after a while George could not concentrate on the mending of straps nor Richard on his hatred, and soon they both dozed. They had been through an hour of danger, but they were not marked by it. The danger that is faced squarely in the full light of day is one that can be accommodated; but the sight of mighty men, magnificent in armour, devastated by disillusion and bitterness, is very frightening. Richard dreamt of his father, standing in a room with his head turned away, the face hidden. Try as he might, he could not see the face. He was so frightened by this dream that he could not speak of it; but when, some weeks later, his mother had time for him, he asked to be told of his father’s exploits.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  He wanted comfort but did not know how to ask for it. He was fortunate, however, in that his mother was disposed to give him her attention. She and the children had been committed to the charge of the Duchess of Buckingham, and the Duchess of York found the lack of occupation more testing than the petty indignities to which she was subjected. Over the years, she had seen little of her children; now they were all she had and, since she was a woman who must be usefully employed, she bent her energies to the task of instructing them.

  During these weeks when they were confined together, she told the children not only of armies bravely led, but of responsibility on a less heroic scale. She had as much reason as any of her menfolk to know that loyalty must be earned. Indeed, she was perhaps better aware, having spent more time on her husband’s estates than had he, that demands for good service are more readily answered by men who are content; and she had had the opportunity to observe that while the great lord has noble aims such as the defence of the realm and the pursuit of foreign wars, the common man is more concerned with pasture rights and the price of perch.

  Richard listened because it was his habit to listen. But George soon became restive; matters of law and administration, as well as being hard to grasp, were in his opinion very boring and inappropriate to himself. He sought, by eager questioning, to divert his mother’s discourse to more martial matters worthy of a man’s attention.

  Once, Richard, who was usually silent, asked, ‘What is treason?’ But the questioning was taken over by the more volatile George and Richard received no answer. By the time he understood, fear had put down roots.

  Their life continued uneventfully for a time. They had limited apartments in one of the Duke of Buckingham’s manors on the Welsh Marches. The Duchess of Buckingh
am was in residence briefly and during this time she received a number of visitors. One of these was Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, a girl of sixteen, a mother and already widowed. She was to marry the Duchess’ second son who would leave her a widow again before many years had passed.

  One morning, Richard was drawn to the window by a mêlée in the courtyard. A child of some two years had been knocked down by one of the boarhounds, and now victim and aggressor, the one held by the hand and the other the collar, were being encouraged to make truce. The dog was the more eager to please; the child responded to its wet embrace by poking it in the eye. Remonstrances followed and the dog was brought forward, tail wagging forgivingly, but the child held out against this unwanted friendship with remarkable determination. Richard watched with no idea that he and this tenacious child were to be the protagonists in a story of two men who were strong, of one who lost and one who survived. After a few minutes, he turned away in search of more interesting distractions and never subsequently had so clear a view of Henry Tydder.

  Chapter Two

  1

  In July of the following year a battle was fought on the outskirts of Northampton. This time it was the turn of King Henry’s men to cry ‘Treason!’ as a wing of their army deserted to the Yorkist lords. News of the outcome of the battle was soon spread by men fleeing to their villages: rumour was rife, facts were harder to come by.

  The man who came to the priest’s house in the village of Foxlow, near Tewkesbury, was in search of facts. Dr John Morton, acting on behalf of his patron the Archbishop of Canterbury, was on his way to see Lord Stanley in Cheshire when news of the battle reached him. He made enquiries at the inn but soon realized he must look elsewhere for facts. What Dr Morton sought he was accustomed to find; but he listened with good grace to the innkeeper’s unlikely tales. Something about Morton’s face, the hint of a desire to please, suggested that he was a man who had worked for his advancement. But the bright eyes were not ill-disposed towards life and there was no resentment in the line of the mouth. Advancement had so far kept pace with expectation.