A Tapestry of Treason, page 18
I rejected her apology. I could not bear her compassion. It merely compounded my guilt that I too had been one of the plotters, and so far I had escaped with my life when so many had not.
I could not bear to face the Holland heads, mutilated by carrion.
* * *
Thomas must be in Cardiff. Since there was no other news to the contrary, and much to suggest that that was where he was riding when last seen, I decided to abandon Joan to her tears and prayers and the somewhat guilty compassion of my father, and journey to Cardiff myself. Would I accompany him if he decided to leave England and settle in the Low Countries or in France? I thought that I would, except that there were our children to consider. It might be good policy for me to remain at Court, even in Thomas’s exile, and argue for the security of their Despenser inheritance.
My thoughts circling hopelessly through what might and might not happen, ordering a horse and an escort, packing some necessities for a rapid ride, I went to bid farewell to my father only to see him coming to find me, leaning against the door jamb as he caught his breath. His face was seamed as deeply as a dried damson, and I thought his skin had the pallor of impending doom.
‘Constance, my dear.’
The intimacy surprised me. His eyes did not quite meet mine, but slid to my travelling garments and the thick cloak that I had donned.
‘I am going to Cardiff,’ I said.
‘No. You will not.’
I tilted my chin. ‘No?’ I rarely heard him so dogmatic and wondered why. Not that it mattered. ‘You have no authority over me. If Thomas is there, then…’
‘Do I not know it? You have always been wilful, as a child and as a woman, as your mother was before you.’ He caught his breath, perhaps regretting his lack of affection, for both of us. ‘I will tell you why you will not go. Why you will have no wish to go.’ Pushing past me, he entered my room and sank into a chair, unable to silence a groan. ‘Before God, my days are surely numbered. Joan weeps over me and over the memory of her dead brother while my body lurches from one day to the next.’ Now his eyes held mine with a purpose that jolted my heart. ‘Sit down, Constance.’
‘To what end?’
I dared not sit at ease. Did I not see what was coming? I could already hear the words hovering on his lips.
‘Sit down. I will tell you why there is no reason for your going to Cardiff. Despenser is not there.’
‘Then where is he? Everything I can discover says that he has gone to Cardiff where he will take ship for France.’
‘Not so.’
And at last I sank to the adjacent stool as I read the lack of hope in my father’s face. When he held out his hand, obediently I placed mine there.
‘He made good his escape to Cardiff, and once there he took ship. You would have missed him even if you had gone to Cardiff. And yes, it was his intent to reach France.’
I would indeed have missed him. ‘So he would have left England without informing me.’ I should not have been surprised, but then what choice did he have in the circumstances? My father had not told me all. I found that I was studying the stitching on my gloves, clenched in one hand in my lap. I dared not look at the warning in his face. His hand was cold around mine.
‘I doubt he thought of it,’ my father was agreeing. ‘I did not choose him as your husband for his compassion.’
‘No. You did not. How could you? We managed a desiccated tolerance for each other, for which I must be thankful. It was more than you had with my lady mother.’ At last I raised my head. ‘Are you going to tell me?’
My father gave no quarter, as if my reminder of his own first marriage was unbearable. ‘You need tolerate him no more.’ Which could have only one meaning. It hung in the chamber, sere as poison. ‘I presume you wish to know how?’
I felt strangely empty, as if it had no bearing on me or on my life. All seemed at a strange distance. I recalled informing Joan of the dread details of her brother’s death, and now here it was for me. I gathered my courage. Had I not anticipated this for some days?
‘How did it happen?’ I asked.
‘The captain of the ship he sailed on had decided at the eleventh hour that he had no wish to be associated with those who rebelled against King Henry. He resisted all Despenser’s attempts at persuasion to sail to France and took him instead to Bristol where he handed him over to the Mayor. I understand they had to overpower him first, when he threatened to jump overboard. I find that hard to believe.’ My father’s lips twisted. ‘He would not risk the damage of salt water to his finery. He tried to bribe his way to freedom, which sounds more likely, but he failed. He was not well loved.’
I replied automatically. ‘No. He was not. Not even by his own tenants.’ What a trite observation. I breathed out slowly. I knew what was coming.
‘In Bristol the citizens gave him what they saw as his just deserts. A quick execution by a frenzied mob. It was a lynching without trial. They refused the gold and jewels he was carrying, with which he tried to bribe them. He should have learned from the ship’s captain.’
I could imagine Thomas, glittering with chains, a brooch fastened to his cap, his fingers be-ringed even though he was in flight. He would never be less than Lord Despenser. But then my mind shifted to his execution, balking at the violence, the blood, the disfigurement of his features. How he would have detested that, at the hands of a violent mob, his body desecrated; the terrible humiliation, the loss of dignity, almost worse than the pain and the ultimate death.
‘Is this true?’ I asked.
‘Yes. There is no doubt.’
‘I might ask why he was in flight wearing jewels,’ I said. My mind seemed to be incapable of absorbing the full detail of what I had been told, latching instead onto this trivia.
‘He would have hoped to make an impression, as a lord worth saving. And he would have needed money wherever he ended up. It is immaterial.’
‘Yes. It is immaterial. My thanks for coming to tell me, my lord.’ Standing, releasing his hand, for a moment I suffered a roil of nausea, as if the babe had moved – the child Thomas would never see – then my father’s words brought me back to the present horror.
‘Sit down again, Constance, before you fall down. What you should know is that this afternoon it is planned that Despenser’s head will be paraded down Cheapside at the command of the King. Then set on the south side of London Bridge.’
I thought about this.
‘So you tell me this to encourage me to go and watch the royal victory?’
I sat, my legs weak.
‘No. I think it would be ill advised. The greater the distance you can place between yourself and Despenser, the better. How much were you involved in this venture? But why do I ask? I am sure you were in it up to the hilt, along with the rest of them. Along with my son.’
‘Then why ask at all?’
‘Because I have no wish to see us all dragged down in the gutter. I will support you all I can.’
‘Will my dear brother Edward support me?’
‘I cannot tell you what he will do. I am not in his confidence.’ He looked up at me, willing me to obey. ‘Stay here, Constance. Wait on the King’s pleasure. Flight will do you no good.’
There was a question I needed to ask.
‘Did Edward tell you of the plot that evening at supper before he left London?’
The slightest hesitation, but not too long. ‘He did.’
‘Did you tell the King?’
‘I will pretend that you did not ask that. It was mightily disrespectful.’
‘All respect in me has died. Let us pretend that I did ask it. I think I deserve to know. Someone told Henry. Was it you?’
My father’s face was as lacking in colour as whey as he stood at last to face me.
‘You might deserve to know, but not from me. Consider carefully whom you will speak with and what you will say. We could all be branded as traitors. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
I was not sure that I did, but he held out his hand so that I must curtsey and salute it as a good daughter. Then he limped towards the door while I sank back to the stool where I considered my reaction, sifting through the blur of emotions. Thomas was dead. Regret was there, at the manner of his end, hacked to death by a mob who would not be impressed by his gold or his jewels or his title, but I could detect no grief. My heart was not broken. It was never sufficiently engaged during our marriage to shatter. I could not imagine what a broken heart would feel like.
‘One question.’ I had not thought to ask before. My father, hand on the latch, looked back over his shoulder. ‘The clerk, Richard Maudeleyn. The man who was dressed as Richard. Did he escape?’
‘He is dead. He was discovered in London. Henry had him hanged.’
‘Thank you.’
For him I could feel guilt. He had not asked for the role we had forced him to play. So I sat as the early dusk fell around me, furiously attempting to command my thoughts and emotions into line. By the time Joan came to grieve with me I had decided what I must do.
‘I will not weep,’ I warned her as she trod cautiously into the room. ‘Don’t expect it of me.’
‘I don’t. Have I ever seen you weep? You did not care enough for him. But you must fear for your freedom. Surely that will stir your emotions.’
‘I do fear what Henry might have in store for me, but empty tears and wailing will have no effect. They will not melt the King’s anger. I expect I’ll become penniless and homeless, a poor widow of no use to anyone. Where will he place me? Not in Pontefract with Richard, I hope.’
She clicked her tongue at my apparent levity, but stayed with me.
Every sense was frozen. I could not weep. Nor was my mood improved by a visit from Dickon. I should have been expecting it, but the events of past days had driven him from my mind. He entered my room like a winter blizzard, his fury just as cold.
‘You did not tell me. Why did you not tell me? Am I not capable of keeping my tongue between my teeth? While all this was going on, as usual you shut me out, as if I were a child to be cosseted and protected.’
‘It was thought to be for the best.’
‘Whose best?’ he spat. I did not know whether the anger was engendered by his not being party to the plot, or through fear that he too would be implicated in treason not of his making. ‘And don’t tell me that our esteemed brother Edward was not thigh deep in the conspiracy. And if so, why is he now licking Henry’s boots?’
I did not try to reason with him. What could I say that would not stoke his anger, or his fear, further?
‘At least you are not dead.’
‘And you do not seem to be in mourning!’
He stormed out, having achieved nothing but a further disruption to my self-control. I picked up a precious beaker, its pale glass translucent, banded with blue and sinuous detail around the bowl. It had belonged to Thomas and at some moment in the past, when moved by unlikely sentiment, perhaps at Elizabeth’s birth, he had given it to me. I considered its beauty, its Venetian perfection. Then allowed it to fall, to smash on the tiles, the pieces showering my hem with hard-edged sparkle. It seemed a fitting end to the day when lives and ambitions had been shattered. However many glasses I broke, it would not heal the wounds that we had inflicted.
Chapter Eleven
January 1400: Palace of Westminster
* * *
Edward avoided me like the plague, but I stalked him until he could escape no more and I took up a stance at his shoulder like the dread Angel of Death, demanding an account of his days of sin and betrayal. I entered his chamber without knocking.
‘Dismiss your servants.’
He did not look up from what he was writing. ‘I am busy,’ he said.
‘I would say that you have been more than busy.’
At least then he put down his pen, gently, on the document.
‘We have a crisis looming so all personal matters can wait.’
‘A crisis? My husband is dead. Joan’s brother is dead. Huntingdon is dead. I am waiting for Henry to decide to lock me up. How much more of a crisis do you need?’
Edward’s face remained ominously blank. ‘The King of France has refused to recognise Henry as King. He intends to break the truce between England and France. Already he has gathered a fleet at Harfleur and plans to invade the southern reaches of Wales. Which should be of interest to you, if your Glamorgan estates come under attack.’ Upon which he retrieved the pen, dipped it and began to write again.
I would not be dismissed so ungraciously. Edward’s clerks, engaged in clerkish activity, waited with baited breath and a slide of glances for the next revelation.
‘I care not. Do you wish me to reveal how the details of the Epiphany plot were made so conveniently available to King Henry? Do you wish your servants to gossip of your part in it? I will speak openly if you demand it.’ Leaning, I plucked the pen from his hand and dropped it on the floor, grinding the expertly prepared goose-quill under my heel. ‘After all, what have I to lose?’
Edward’s brows drew together, as aware of servants’ ears as I.
‘I advise you to be more circumspect in your speech and in your dealings.’
‘Circumspect?’ I held out my arms, the black cloth of my recently donned widow’s weeds rustling in the movement, my veils shimmering. My women had completed some hasty stitching, altering a severe houppelande I had last worn to honour my dead mother. ‘What need for me to be circumspect? I am the widow of a traitor, as everyone at Court knows, and I swear you had a part in his execution.’ My voice creaked with long-repressed emotion, for here were matters I had been unable to discuss with anyone. ‘Does King Henry know that you were involved in the plot against him, from the moment of its conception?’
Edward calmly selected another pen and continued to write, although I had seen the flash of warning in his eye. Had he always been so prone to treachery and betrayal? Perhaps he had, and I had been willing to overlook it as an unfortunate trait in my brother, a deplorable trait suffered but tolerated by many families, but it had never been so pertinent to my own future as it was now. ‘And you are so certain that I was the one to inform him?’ he enquired. ‘I swear you have no proof, and I have nothing to say on the matter.’
But, after a short moment of my silence, he raised his left hand and dismissed his servants.
As soon as the door closed I launched my accusation: ‘I have much to say, and Blessed Virgin, you will not shut me out. Shall I tell you the gossip on the tongues of whores and drunkards in the taverns?’
During my verbal attack I had taken stock of my brother, so handily going about the King’s affairs. His garments were formal, as if he had had an interview with Henry. His outer clothing, layers of rich silk damask, lay piled on a stool, his sword neatly balanced on top. Beside him as he wrote rested a velvet cap and a pair of gold-stitched gauntlets. Thus I surveyed the wealth of a man who had earned royal patronage. The glint of an intricate chain, half hidden at his neck, confirmed it, shouting it from the pinnacles of the Abbey.
‘I swear that you know the truth better than I,’ I challenged. ‘I hear it whispered, where servants gather, that a noble lord, of some renown, enjoyed the favours of a London slut who frequents the gutters of the Court where she offers her wares. And, once sated in lust, this noble lord talked in his sleep. He talked enough to outline the whole intricate planning. Does that sound feasible to you?’ I did not wait for a reply. ‘Then this slut hopped from his bed to that of some other royal minion, entertaining him between one sexual advance and the next, with the juicy piece of information. And this royal minion, after an hour of dalliance and gossip, ran hotfoot to the King and spilled the detail of the plot into his lap. Beware men who talk in their sleep. They make unreliable plotters. Particularly when they have an itch to be scratched by some common whore.’
I smiled at him.
‘Was that noble lord, who inadvisably talked in his sleep, you, Edward?’
Well, that made him look up although there was nothing in his fair face that I could read. ‘You accuse me of seeking out some common woman of the streets.’
‘No, I don’t. I don’t believe a word of it. I could even forgive you if you had. At least it would be human weakness, not a callous destruction of all we had planned. I think it’s a neatly constructed piece of slander, to take the nasty taste from the mouths of those who might not like to be associated with a man who plotted in one breath, and then informed on the plotters in the next.’ I leaned close, my breath stirring the closely cropped hair on his brow. ‘Bringing them to their inglorious deaths at the hands of a mob.’
Edward sat back. I had all his concentration.
‘So what is it that you accuse me of?’
It was the only possible answer to account for our failure.
‘You told Henry, didn’t you? I thought it might be our father who informed, but I don’t think so. He no longer has the strength of will to do so, if he ever had. But you have, my dearest Edward. You acted informer and told Henry of what was going to happen.’
And when he made no reply:
‘Why would you do that? Could you not stand the thought of the spilling of Lancaster blood, in your name? Were you so nice in your principles, or so great a coward? Yet you would commit Richard to lifelong imprisonment, if not his death. How could you do it? Where is your loyalty?’ I laughed, a harsh sound in the room. ‘Where is your conscience?’ I gripped the trailing edge of his fine sleeve, careless of the stitching. ‘And before you lie to me, I saw where your loyalty rests. I saw you with Henry in Westminster Hall. I know you were used in destroying those who rose in Richard’s name in the skirmish at Maidenhead Bridge.’
I flung the sleeve from me in disgust, striding as far from him as I could go.
‘Your soul is drenched in blood, Edward. So many familiar heads severed from their bodies. Can you live with that?’
Now he replied.
‘My conscience, as you put it, would have been drenched in blood whichever way I had leaned.’
