Текст книги "The Sun in Splendour"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

It was a great and glittering occasion but all through it the King was thinking of his brother.

Clarence was in the Bowyer Tower! He had been sentenced to death. Edward could not remember being so disturbed and undecided in the whole of his life.

Clarence free was a menace and yet how could he give the order that his brother be put to death? He knew if he did he would be haunted by what he had done for the rest of his days.

He, who had always liked life to flow pleasantly, now must face this terrible problem. He could not kill his own brother; and yet to let him live was danger. Was he afraid of danger? Not for himself, no! He had fought his way to the throne; he was strong; he had even stood against Warwick and won. No, he could deal with Clarence. But there was that haunting fear that he might not be here for ever. What if he died while his son was young? Who would look after him and what match would he be for Clarence?

Clarence must die for the Prince's sake. Elizabeth wanted that.

But then Elizabeth was sly and cunning. She had her own reasons for wanhng Clarence out of the way. He was the self-confessed enemy of the Woodvilles, and the Woodvilles were sacred in Elizabeth's eshmation.

If Clarence would only repent. He had talked of the matter with Richard who was in the South for the Mowbray wedding. Richard said that he could not kill Clarence.

'He is our brother. You would never forgive yourself.'

'And the alternative, Richard?'

'You can keep him in check.'

'Can I? If he raised an army against me I could defeat him, yes. It is these sly rumours. He now says I am a bastard. What think you of that? What an insult to our mother! He should lose his head for that alone.'

'He should,' agreed Richard. 'But you cannot kill him, Edward. It would haunt you for life.'

'Not if I could convince myself that it is the only way.'

Richard said: 'Go to the Tower, Edward. Talk to him. Try to make him see reason.'

'Would you go?'

'He would not listen to me. He has never forgiven me for marrying Anne. No. But you mayhap could strike fear into him for I believe that is the only way to get him to act reasonably.'

'I will go to him,' said Edward. 'I will try to make him see reason. I will make him see what the consequences will be if he does not.'

'It is the best way,' said Richard.

Edward made his way to the Bowyer Tower. They were just taking in a vast butt of malmsey.

He stopped the men and asked where they were taking it.

'To the Duke of Clarence, my lord,' he was told.

'Someone is going to have a drinking party, I should think. There is enough there to last one man a year.'

'My lord, not the Duke of Clarence. He is very partial to the stuff.'

'So, for my brother,' said the King, and he went his way.

Clarence looked sullenly at Edward.

'So my lord King has taken to visiting the poor prisoner,' he said.

'George, I have come to talk to you.'

'I am overcome by the honour.'

'Listen, you know you are in danger of losing your life/

'I know that you have condemned me to death.'

'Not I. The parliament.'

'At your command. You are afraid of me, Edward. That is why you want to get me out of the way.'

'If I had been afraid of you I could, as you put it, have got you out of the way long ago. I will not hesitate to tell you that many people to whom I should have been wise to listen would have done just that.'

'I know. You have your cronies. You have tne Woodville clan whom you have created, brother. You have made them the great family of England and all because you wanted the widow.'

'I ask you not to speak of the Queen.'

'Indeed not. Holy Elizabeth! Clever Elizabeth! A witch if ever there was one.'

'I have not come here to talk nonsense, George. I have come to give you one last chance. Stop this foolishness. Be my good brother as you were once when we were young. That's all I ask. Do this and you shall be free. But I warn you, George, that if, after you are forgiven, I find you out in one treasonable act the death sentence shall be carried out without further trial.'

'Oh magnanimous brother, beloved of his people! The handsomest man in the kingdom ... in the world some say. A little worse for wear just now, eh. Too many nights of love, too much romping with the ladies of the town. Have you had any attacks of the fever lately, Edward? That is what we call it is it not? You should be more careful of some of those town women, brother. You see after every fresh bout you are just a little less splendid.'

'Be silent,' said Edward. 'I can see that you are completely unrepentant.'

'What have I to repent of? Being the legitimate son of my father?'

'That is unforgivable ... a slander on our mother.'

'You know our mother, Edward. She is a woman of strong character. Do you think she was always faithful to our wandering father? He was scarcely at home. It would have been surprising if she had not given birth to a son who was not sired on her by the Duke of York.'

'You know you lie. George, you deserve everything that has come to you.'

'And you, brother, do not? The crown should have been mine . . . mine. . . . But you, bastard that you are, took it from me.'

'You are quite mad/ said Edward. 'I see I waste my time in talking to you. Stay here then . . . suffer your full deserts. I will try no more to help you.'

George closed his eyes. He was feeling somewhat muddled. He had finished the last of the malmsey before he had sent for the new butt. There had been more to finish than he had realized and he was slightly intoxicated. Heavy drinker that he was he was capable of taking a good deal of wine without its having any effect on him but he seemed to have taken more than usual and the effect was to dull his senses.

Edward was offering him freedom if he would swear to be a good brother in future. Had he been stark sober doubtless he would have accepted the offer. Not that he would have kept his side of the bargain. George was not burdened with a sense of honour. But he would have been free and able to work out his plan.

There was one thing he had discovered . . . only a few hours before his arrest, and he had been pondering on it during the whole period of his incarceration. It was the most important bit of luck which had ever come his way.

He had kept it to himself wondering when would be the best time and place to use it.

Now in his muddled state, to see Edward standing there, so big and strong and with all the advantages which he had always had, he could not contain that valuable piece of information to himself any longer. He wanted to see how Edward would receive it.

He stood up unsteadily.

'You . . .'he pointed to Edward, 'Edward . . . have no right to the throne. . . .Bastard.'

'Be silent! If you say that again I will kill you with my own hands.'

'I'll say this,' cried Clarence. 'Your son whom you call the Prince of Wales has no right to the throne. And why not? I'll tell you. It's because Elizabeth Woodville is your mistress . . . not your wife . . . not the Queen. . . . She's another such as Jane Shore and the rest of your merry band of women. The Queen's just one of them. . . . Your children are bastards. . . .The Prince of Wales is a little bastard. The Duke of York . . . .'

Edward had strode to his brother and had him by the shoulders.

Clarence laughed. 'Shake me. Kill me if you will. You're strong

US The Sun in Splendour

enough, are you not? The great King . . . the mighty King . . . and what when the people know that your marriage to the Woodville witch was no true marriage, eh?'

Tt was a true marriage. You utter treason. By God, George . . . .'

'Aye,' he said. 'Do you remember the name of Eleanor Butler . . . Shrewsbury's girl. . .? Do you remember that betrothal? She was alive when you went through a form of marriage with the Woodville ... so that makes proud Queen Elizabeth just another of your women and the little Princes ... oh and proud Madame la Dauphine . . . bastards . . . bastards all of them.'

Edward had turned pale. If he had been less drunk Clarence would have seen his pallor beneath the ruddy weather tan.

'Edward,' went on Clarence, 'I have seen Bishop Shlling-ton. . . . Just before I was arrested. Too late to act then. But I'm clever ... I keep the information locked in here. . . .'He patted his chest. 'I know all about it. Bastards . . . because you had a previous contract with Eleanor Butler and she was alive in her convent when you went through a form of marriage with the Woodville.'

Edward pushed his brother back onto his pallet. He was glad he was drunk for he himself was more shaken than he wished him to see.

He turned away and went through the door. He did not notice the guards outside. He walked straight out of the Bowyer Tower and mounting his horse rode along by the river.

His mind went back years. He could see Eleanor now. She had seemed very beautiful. . . rather like Elizabeth and of the same proud nature. The daughter of the old Earl of Shrewsbury. They had met and he had desired her as desperately as later he had desired Elizabeth. There were many women, there always had been, but here and there would appear one who was completely irresistible and he must pay the price for her whatever it was. So with Eleanor; so with Elizabeth.

Eleanor had gone into a convent afterwards. He thought he would never hear more of her. . . and he had married Elizabeth.

There was no longer any uncertainty. His mind was made up now. George Duke of Clarence had signed his own death warrant.

He was to be executed but the King did not want a public execution. Let him be killed in his prison and let it seem as if it had

come about by accident. The Duke had been drinking heavily . . . more so than he usually did since his entry into the Tower. It would not be difficult for some accident to befall him.

The next morning Clarence was found dead. He was hanging over the butt of malmsey which had been brought to the cell the day before.

The news spread. The Duke of Clarence had been drowned in a butt of malmsey.

That very day another arrest was made and Bishop Shllington was lodged in the Tower.

No sooner was Clarence dead than Edward was filled with remorse. He could not shut out of his mind memories of their early days when he had strutted through the nurseries and his brothers had looked at him as though he were the perfect specimen of manhood. He had been devoted to them; he had visited them when they were in London, always making time to sit with them and to answer their questions; he had loved his family, and it was he who had given the order for George's death.

Elizabeth knew that he suffered; so did Jane Shore. Elizabeth watched him covertly; she had her own reasons for wishing Clarence out of the way and although she said little she could not hide her relief that he could no longer plague her.

Jane was different. He softened thinking of Jane. She was his comfort nowadays. Who would have believed that he would have found such a woman among the merchants of the city? Jane was different from all others. That incomparable beauty for one thing and with it her tender nature. People marvelled that he had been faithful to Jane for so long—well not exactly faithful for there had been scores of others; what he meant was that Jane had continued over years to hold a fascination for him. The fact was he loved Jane. He loved Elizabeth in a way. She was a Queen to be proud of in spite of what those of the first nobility insisted on calling low birth. She was as beautiful in her way as Jane was in hers. Elizabeth was the cold cold north; Jane the warm and glowing south. Elizabeth was aloof, secretive; Jane was intimate and impulsive. Jane never thought of holding back what she thought; she had no ulterior motives, no high honours to seek. That was scarcely the case with Elizabeth.

He was a man who needed many women and none could say he had not had his share. He needed Elizabeth—cool calm mother of his children; and he needed warm and loving Jane; and it was to Jane he would go at times like this.

Jane knew at once what ailed him. She was no fool and she interested herself in state affairs because they were his concern. She knew of the trial George had been to him and how he had to wrestle with himself before he could give the order to kill.

She stroked his hair; she was motherly on this occasion because it was what was needed. Instinctively she knew that was the phase of their relationship which was required. She must soothe him, repeat that he had been over generous, as he had.

'How many would have despatched him long ago?' he demanded not for the first time.

Jane could assure him that few would have been so lenient. He had forgiven Clarence again and again. Had his mischievous brother not joined Warwick and come against him? He had forgiven him then, which was magnanimous.

Jane assured him that he had only done what was necessary for his own safety and for that of the country.

Oh yes, it was indeed soothing to be with Jane. He was lucky to have found such a woman. Others sought her, he knew. That rake of a stepson of his, Dorset, had his eyes on her. Sometimes Edward wondered about them. Dorset was very good looking . . . and young. He was a cynical young man; inclined to be brutal, and he hoped Jane would never go to him.

Hastings had his eyes on her too. Well, Hastings was as profligate as Edward himself was. They had been companions in many nocturnal adventures and they still pursued them with the same gusto—or almost. Yes, Hastings undoubtedly had a tender spot for Jane. Oddly enough he believed that Hastings' feelings were similar to his own. They both realized that there was something special about Jane.

Poor Hastings! He had to keep off. Edward had made it clear that he was in no mind to share Jane.

So he felt better for a while after a sojourn with her.

But later of course the haunting returned.

The weeks were passing. People did not talk quite so often of

the death of the Duke of Clarence and ask themselves whether he had fallen into the butt of malmsey or had been pushed into it.

In time even events like that were forgotten.

Edward ceased to think of his brother every morning when he awoke. It was only occasionally now when he would suffer that sudden catch of his breath as he realized he had condemned his own brother to death. Clarence deserved it, he kept assuring himself. He had to die. It was Clarence or disaster. The country was not safe while Clarence lived.

There was one other matter which disturbed him. He had imprisoned Robert Stillington in the Tower and tried to forget him. But that was not possible of course. He had to do something about the man.

It was now three months since he had been imprisoned.

Edward made up his mind that he could not allow him to remain there indefinitely. Questions would be asked. It was not as though Stillington was an insignificant person.

It was on a bright June day when Edward rode to the Tower and slipping in without ceremony ordered that he should be conducted to the room in which Bishop Stillington was held.

When he arrived, the Bishop hastily rose and hope shone in his eyes as he bowed low.

Robert Stillington was an ambitious man; he had chosen the Church as his profession not only because it suited his nature but because he saw means of advancing himself through it. He had shown himself to be an able man and preferment had come to him. He was now the Bishop of Bath and Wells. For a time he had been Lord Chancellor being a strong Yorkist but on the return of the Lancastrians in 1470 he had been deprived of his office. Edward had reinstated him but he had resigned from the office a few years later. Yet he and Edward had worked together on occasions. Edward had felt uneasy about the Tudors for they had made themselves prominent in the Lancastrian cause and he particularly suspected Jasper of subversive planning from Brittany. Jasper was getting old but he had with him his nephew Henry Tudor and by the way in which he kept that boy, nurtured him and trained him, suggested that he might have plans for him.

Edward had considered Henry Tudor. Unfortunately his mother was Margaret Beaufort descended from John of Gaunt and of course the Tudors said they had royal blood because of that connection with Henry the Fifth's Queen. It was a myster-

ious relationship. Some were sure there had been a marriage, others said there had not. But in any case it was a very flimsy claim. Still, there was a strength about the Tudors, and Edward had decided that he would be more at peace if jasper and his nephew Henry were in his care. He had sent Stillington to bargain with the Duke of Brittany to bring them out of that country and to England but as old Jasper discovered what was afoot and escaped with his precious nephew that had come to nothing. It was however no fault of Srillington.

Now the two faced each other and Edward studied the Bishop intently.

'So, my lord Bishop,' he said, 'you have spent the spring in this place.'

'It is so, my lord.'

'It was well deserved,' said Edward.

The Bishop bowed his head and said nothing.

'You spoke ill chosen words where it was most unwise to do so.'

'That was so, my lord.'

'My brother is now dead.'

An almost imperceptible shiver crossed Stillington's face. By God, thought Edward, he believes I have come to murder him.

'I am a lenient man. Bishop,' he said quickly. 'Do you agree with that?'

'My lord, none could have been more so to the Duke.'

'So because I act kindly towards men, because I understand their foibles and sometimes forgive, there are those who think it is amusing to provoke me since it will bring no punishment.'

'I never thought that, my lord.'

'Andyet. . .andyet. . . .'

Edward's eyes had started to blaze. He was rarely angry but when he was he could be fierce. Shllington knew this and trembled.

He went down on his knees. 'My lord,' he said, 'I ask your forgiveness. I swear nothing shall pass my lips again.'

The King was thoughtful. He looked down at the Bishop's head and was thinking of that occasion ... so long ago now it seemed. He could see them all in the little room—Eleanor, seeming so desirable then. Worth all the trouble. Virtuous, beautiful . . . the sort of woman a man had to make sacrifices for. And he had not been a king then. The Bishop had warned him, this very

Bishop. Pompous old fool, he had thought. What did Bishops know of love?

And so there had been that ceremony . . . that fateful ceremony which if it were brought to light could wreak what damage? His marriage to Elizabeth no marriage at all! His son . . . little Edward a bastard and that would apply to all his children. Oh no, it must be stopped at all costs. At all costs. Clarence had paid with his life. The secret would never have been safe with Clarence. Once Clarence knew, once he had spoken of it, that had to be the end of him.

And now the Bishop. . . . But the Bishop was not Clarence. The Bishop was a man of good sense. He had babbled. He had made a fatal error. He knew it now. He had learned the bitter lesson for three long months.

He would not commit such an error again.

'Get up,' said Edward.

The Bishop rose and Edward looked at him steadily.

'You have been foolish. Bishop,' he said. 'Do you agree with me?'

'Indeed I do, my lord.'

'You and I were good friends once.'

'My lord, I trust we still are.'

'When you seek to harm me?'

'My lord, what I did was done through carelessness ... I whispered ... I talked ... I could cut my tongue out now.'

'And if you had the chance over again you would be silent. . . . You would not talk of this matter?'

'My lord, I swear it.'

There was a silence which seemed to the Bishop to go on for a long time.

Then the King said: 'I believe you, Stillington. You acted foolishly and carelessly and without any thought of what this could mean. You will not do such a thing again?'

'My lord, I promise.'

'Then I am going to be kind to you, Stillington. You shall pay a fine and go free.' Edward moved very close to the Bishop and seizing him by the shoulder looked down on him from his great height.

'It would go so ill with you, my friend, if you ever did, that I know you will not. That is why I am going to send you away a free man—on payment of your fine, which indeed you owe, I trust.

Bishop, that you will be of as good service to me as you were before this unfortunate incident occurred. Remember, that with a less lenient master, it could have cost you your life.'

'My lord, you are good and great and like all truly great men you are merciful.'

That is so. Now I will take my leave of you. Bishop. You may prepare to leave. I will give the order.'

With that Edward left him.

He came out into the fresh air; he was smiling. He had settled that matter. There would be nothing more from Stillington. He could put that tiresome matter out of his head for there was an end to it.

Now if only he could banish George from his thoughts he could be a happy man.

DEATH AT WESTMINSTER

These were the good days. Edward could congratulate himself. When he had come to the throne the country had been in a state of disorder. He had brought it to prosperity. He was strong; while at the same hme he was amazingly affable. His extraordinary good looks could not fail to distinguish him. Of late they had deteriorated from the golden glory of their youth. He had grown fat but his great height helped to disguise it and in some ways his immense bulk made him even more impressive than ever. He had the respect of his subjects and no matter what fines he levied he held their affection.

He looked like a king; he behaved like a king; and this was what the people wanted.

There was no doubt that the country was regaining its self-respect through him. He had a beautiful wife. True the people disliked her because of her arrogance and the fact that she was as they said 'low-bom' but they admitted that she was very beautiful and she had done her duty in producing a fine family. There were now seven living children. George had been bom within the last two years. A handsome King, a beautiful Queen and a clutch of children including Edward the Prince of Wales to follow the King—which they all hoped would not be for many years and before he was a mature man—and little Richard Duke of York who had so recently married Anne Mowbray and now little George just a year old. An unfortunate choice of name perhaps as it recalled that other George who had died so mysteriously in the Bowyer Tower but royal families stuck to certain names and so there was George.

As the months passed and the shadow of Clarence grew farther away, Edward's contentment grew. He had one great wish that

was as yet unfulfilled and that was to see his eldest daughter Dauphine of France. This would be the ideal marriage. Peace would be brought about between the two countries and with an English Princess Queen of France none could complain but would realize how much wiser it was to settle these disputes through such alliances than to carry on with destructive wars. But Louis was prevaricating and there was always some reason why he could not send for the Princess. Now he was saying that he must come to some settlement of his disagreement with Burgundy before the plans for the marriage could go forward.

Edward waited content. He was more independent than an English king had been for many years. He owed this to what he considered his skilful diplomacy in France. What other king would have been shrewd enough to take a mighty army to France and come away with a pension and no bloodshed? Those fifty thousand crowns were a symbol of his shrewdness. They had bought him his independence; they had set his exchequer in order and made it possible for him not to impose heavy taxes on his people. They had enabled him to shake off the yoke the barons liked to put on their kings and usually managed to because the king had constantly to ask them for money.

He had always been something of a merchant. Perhaps that was why he had enjoyed mingling with them. He was interested in their trading as well as their wives. He had learned a great deal about the exporting of wool both raw and made into cloth, and he had sought to make English cloth the best in the world. Moreover he had succeeded.

He was at the height of his power. He was the glorious sun which the house of York depicted so well on its banner. Right at the heart of the people's love for him was his interest in them. He loved his people. He could talk to them with ease; he could move among them dressed as a merchant so that they were not aware of his identity. He could talk to them of the difficulties of business and when they discovered that they had been in conversation with the King, they were his for ever.

He had the rare touch of being at one with his people and because he was at the same time so splendid, so magnificently attired on state occasions, and always, even now that he was so corupulent and showing the marks of a debauched existence, still handsome, he would keep this gift until the day he died.

Edward could look back on the last ten years since he had been

restored to the throne and say: 'I have done well. I have given them what they asked.'

But he did not stint himself. He still had his mistresses, his rich food, his fine wines and his splendid clothes. He lived like a king; and the people wanted it that way.

The Queen was quite content that it should be as he had made it. That he had his mistresses she had known for a long time. He had slipped back into his old promiscuous ways soon after their marriage. Her wise mother had taught her that that was something she must accept and she had accepted it. Her delight in her marriage did not lie in the bedchamber. Elizabeth liked to see her women kneel before her when they addressed her; she liked all of them to remember every moment of the day that she was the Queen. Her joy had been to see her family rise to be the most significant in the land. All the important posts now—or almost all—were held by Woodvilles. There were jokes about it in the Court. They said the Rivers flowed very high now. Let them! What mattered it what they said? While her brothers had grown rich and powerful the envious lords and ladies who had lost to them might look on and gnash their teeth all they wished.

Like the King, more than anything now, she wished to see the marriage of their eldest daughter to the.Dauphin. Madame la Dauphine would in due course become the Queen of France. Herself a Queen, her daughter a Queen of France, what more could Elizabeth want.

The death of Clarence had brought them peace.

They owed something too to Edward's brother Richard who was keeping order with constant efficiency in the North. Edward had often said how relieved he was to have someone up there whom he could trust. When he thought of Clarence which he still did far too frequently, he also thought of Richard. The contrast if nothing more would have brought Richard to his mind. He often said to himself: If I had but been blessed with another brother such as Richard how different life would have been. Richard he fancied had not come to Court so much since the death of Clarence. He seemed to make excuses for not coming. Was it because of George's death? Edward knew it was. With Richard's strict code how would he have felt about the removal of their brother? It was hard to say. Richard had the makings of a ruler and surely one such must realize that the death of one man was a small price to pay if it was going to prevent the blood of hundreds

being shed. Yes, Richard must understand that. But he had not liked it. Clarence's execution had shocked him and Edward had to remember that Richard had been more closely brought up with him than he, Edward, had for they were nearer in age.

He must stop thinking of Clarence.

Richard then was in the North keeping the border safe, ever watchful of the Scots. He had some good men up there. He was not flamboyant like his brother but he did have a gift for binding men to him—some men that was . . . men like Francis Lovell the friend whom he had known since they were both boys. Lord Scrope and Richard Ratcliffe.

He was happy up there too—^always happier in the harsh North, he had often teased him. He liked the brash manners of the northerners rather than the more gracious ways of the South. One was honest, Richard said; the other far from that. Edward had laughed at him. Edward could put on a personality to suit all men. That was something Richard could never do.

Yes, he had brought things to a good pass, for while he had interested himself in trade he had not neglected the arts and his had become a cultured Court. He had furnished his Court so lavishly that he acquired some of the most beautiful works of art in Europe. His gold plate alone was worth a fortune; he had sets of arras representing the histories of the past—Nebuchadnezzar, Alexander and Biblical subjects; he was a constant customer at the goldsmiths' shops in London and all their best pieces were first shown to him.

He had started to build a new chapel at Windsor which he was calling the Chapel of St George and which he planned should exceed—or at least equal in splendour the buildings at Cambridge, built by his predecessor. He had gathered together some of the finest books in the world and was building up a magnificent library. He had monks in Bruges working on illuminating manuscripts for he particularly admired Fleming art. He had brought William Caxton to England. He had met Caxton during his enforced sojourn at the Court of his sister the Duchess of Burgundy and had then expressed great interest in the art of printing. At the time of Edward's exile Caxton had been working on a translation of the Receuil des Histoires de Troyes and as there had been such a demand for copies he had learned the art of printing that he might produce a large quantity. A few years ago Edward had persuaded him to come to England where he had

printed The Dictes and Sayings of Philosophers. Since then he had printed other books and Edward had let him know that he was always welcome at Court.