The Hour of the Fox, page 5
The Duke had scowled at this reception and lurked awkwardly at the foot of the dais, impatient for his young nephew, his liege lord, his king, to make his entrance before he could be seated.
‘He’ll soon be gone and good riddance,’ said a foreign-sounding voice in Chandler’s ear. ‘Is that how you say it, dominus – riddance?’
‘I say nothing that can be construed as treason.’ Chandler turned with a smile.
Petrus was laughing up at him and with a knowing wink said, ‘I see you enjoy the dancing of the lady Agnes de Lancekrona, friar? Is that treason, do you think, or merely sin?’
He deliberately followed Chandler’s gaze and the two men fell silent as they watched the lady Agnes dancing flirtatiously with de Vere, one of the English courtiers and King Richard’s oldest ally, while de Vere’s wife looked on with a sour face as well she might. This was, of course, before the disaster at Radcot Bridge and de Vere’s exile and death. ‘I enjoy all the entertainment Queen Anne’s retinue provide,’ Chandler had replied lightly, dragging his glance anywhere but back to the bosom of the Lady Agnes.
To Bohemian courtiers like Petrus, coming from the capital of the Empire in Prague, England must seem dull and unsophisticated, he thought then and still did. England at that time, ten years ago, was nothing more than a backwater full of uncouth militiamen and mercenaries. He remembered saying, ‘We are but savages, Petrus.’
The Bohemian disagreed but they both knew he was being polite.
They watched the duke of Lancaster pacing below the dais. As usual he had a face like a thundercloud.
It was military men like him who in those dark days were turning the realm into a recruiting ground and draining money from the pockets of ordinary, hard-working folk to finance their military exploits. England had become a place held together only by an arbitrary and vicious sense of law and order imposed by those in possession of private armies. To Chandler they seemed like nothing more than licensed thugs. Loyalty was something that was bought and sold. Taxes were what the warlords demanded so taxes were what ordinary people were forced to pay. Or else.
Petrus, he now recalled, had lowered his voice. ‘When the duke eventually sets sail for Spain, King Richard will rule in his own name at last. Then things will change, dominus. Do not be down-hearted. England will be England again.’
Chandler had eyed him with scepticism. The name Woodstock as Gloucester was known at that time and the name Arundel ran through his mind even then. ‘Do you really believe that?’
He had not been able to tell by the way Petrus widened his eyes whether his surprise was genuine or whether it was a ploy to entice him to say more. There was no way of knowing who was friend or foe even in those days. The best protection against a knife in the back was silence.
When Chandler did not continue Petrus had lowered his voice further. ‘I have heard it asked, which of the duke’s brothers will try to take his place when he is gone?’
‘You mean who will snatch the duchy from Harry Derby?’ he asked, deliberately misunderstanding to see which way the Bohemian would jump.
But Petrus shook his head. ‘I mean the greater prize Gaunt has always yearned for.’ He watched him carefully. ‘Is it so outrageous?’
The crown, he meant. Chandler ran through the obvious candidates: Woodstock – Gaunt’s youngest brother and the king’s youngest uncle – not much more than a decade between him and King Richard; also the duke of York, not that he showed much ambition to rule; and, of course, Harry Derby … like father, like son. Were any of them capable of treason?
Yes, of course, he had believed it even then and later events had come close to proving it. He had heard them put it in reasonable terms: all they wanted, honest, was that the country should be governed well. They would make any sacrifice to ensure that it was so – even to the point of ruling the realm themselves, they said. The only problem – and Richard’s safety – lay in the fact that they could not agree who should make this sacrifice and allow himself to be crowned.
Chandler had been about to make some noncommittal reply along these lines when the steward appeared beneath the dais and banged three times with his white staff for silence.
At once the music stopped. The dancers stood in the awkward pose of people frozen to a halt. De Vere’s hand remained round the Lady Agnes’s waist.
Old Sir Simon Burley smiled genially round at everyone, took a breath and raised his voice. ‘Make way for King Richard and Queen Anne!’
There was a flurry of doffed caps and bent knees and Gaunt, with exaggerated dignity, dropped to his knees with everyone else. Chandler watched him lower his head like one, he thought then, nervous of the axe.
The great double doors at the far end of the hall were flung open and in came the king’s herald decked in cloth of gold. He played a few intricate and faultless notes then stepped to one side.
With a plain gold band gleaming on his equally golden hair Richard entered. He was dressed in a dark-blue houpelande glittering with tiny harts worked in silver thread. Anne clung to his arm. Even at twenty she was no less royal in bearing than her young husband. Pale and slender she wore a magnificent crown made of gold filigree studded with pearls, emeralds and rubies that had recently been made for her in Bruges.
The young and glamorous pair proceeded into the hall and progressed with leisurely grace between the kneeling courtiers towards the dais where two painted thrones were waiting.
It was true what they said at that time, Chandler had observed dispassionately, Richard had the face of an angel. He had been nineteen then and still the beautiful boy of popular repute. And yet, even then, Chandler had noted a change in him.
He had cast his mind back to the coronation nine years previously – he remembered it well, being not much more than a child himself at that time – and he thought the king’s eyes held a different look – world-weary, suspicious, disillusioned, guarded, fearful even? All these words had gone through Chandler’s mind then but he had been unable to choose one above another.
At ten the child king had been the summation of everything good and innocent. The London crowd had responded to him. It brought a blessing to them. It was heaven’s covenant that all would be well, all things would be well and the realm of England would prosper.
Now his thoughts loosened themselves. Aware of this at the time, how had he himself come to his present predicament?
He had seen the truth then, but he had not known that the worst had yet to come. It was a fact, then as now, that Richard’s life was under threat. Mostly, it had to be said, the threats came from his own kin. But at the palace of Sheen that night when Petrus had sounded him out it should have been a time to celebrate: the most dangerous of the king’s enemies was leaving the country.
He remembered the close formation of the bodyguard that stood between the king and his guests. He remembered the food-taster at his side, how the old man offered something he had proved to Queen Anne and Richard did not lift his goblet until the contents had been assayed.
Petrus, he remembered, had watched the whole scene with close attention but then he turned to Chandler and drew him behind a pillar. ‘See what I have here?’
After a glance to make sure they were unobserved he opened his palm. In it rested a small silver talisman. It was in the shape of a white hart with a chain round its neck. ‘The queen has had them made to give to her followers,’ he explained.
Concealing it in his palm he held out his hand. ‘Take it, Chandler.’ Chandler did so. He gave it a close examination. ‘It’s very finely made.’
‘It’s yours if you want it.’ The Bohemian was watching Chandler’s expression while he said this, his dark eyes flickering over his face so as to miss no nuance of his thoughts.
Chandler let the piece rest in his palm for a moment then with a sudden smile he flicked it in the air and slipped it into the money pouch on his belt.
Of course it was known that Petrus was an agent of the queen’s brother, Wenceslaus, who would naturally have some regard for the safety of his sister, but why had he seen fit to offer the talisman to Chandler then? During the great Rising those who favoured the king wore little pewter badges as a token of their allegiance. The queen wore a similar one herself, made of diamonds. Then the silver ones were being given out. Chandler had had no idea why he had been invited into the charmed circle. Hadn’t Petrus known who his master was? Or had he believed that he could be turned, like any other spy?
To conceal his puzzlement he had taken two goblets from the tray of a passing servant, handed one to Petrus, then raised his own in a toast. ‘Your health!’
Petrus clashed his goblet with Chandler’s. ‘To Richard, Anne – and what you say? – to the true Commons!’
It was that same evening, later, but the same night, when Petrus had said something about popular uprisings and that they would never truly die as long as injustice thrived. He had added, ‘And do we live in paradise?… No. Ergo – injustice continues to thrive and all right-thinking people continue to resist it.’
Chandler was thoughtful as Petrus’s purpose began to dawn. Cautiously he asked, ‘Are you telling me that England’s heretics might be welcome in Prague?’
John Wycliff’s followers were being continually harassed by the Church just as now. Even then calls were being made to have them excommunicated and imprisoned until they mended their ways.
‘As long as the freedom to think and pray as one chooses exists in my beloved country all will be welcome whatever they believe.’
As if something had been established Petrus moved into the open. And then it happened.
While they were having their goblets refilled at the bowl being brought round, a page came up and bowed before Chandler. ‘My lord wishes to have a private word with you, dominus.’
Before he could move two men-at-arms appeared, one on each side, and without any fuss hustled him from the hall.
Petrus apart, nobody gave him a second glance.
ELEVEN
Chandler drank deeply and lay back with his eyes shut and saw the corridor they had marched him along and how he had expected the men to step aside and offer an explanation for their actions – but they forced him swiftly along between them and he remembered with alarming vividness how his heart had lurched. ‘Am I being arrested?’ he asked trying to make his voice sound jovial.
‘Carrying out the duke’s orders, brother,’ one of them replied, avoiding his glance. They led him into a small stone chamber with only an arrow slit for light.
Tensing in expectation of the first blow from a mailed fist, Chandler just had time to notice that they were burning braziers in the courtyard outside and that night was falling when to his surprise the two guards left him and went out.
He could hear them on the other side of the door. He went over intending to demand his release before changing his mind. He knew they would be standing with their swords at the ready. Not much point in losing a hand over it.
He leaned against the embrasure and watched the fires in the courtyard and wondered how long he had left.
They could kill him. He had no weapon of any sort. Nobody would know. What the hell was it all about?
He tried a prayer but nothing came. He was useless as a friar. His faith had gone long ago, if, indeed, it had ever really been more than a boy’s infatuation with martyrdom.
With no time to muse on his shortcomings he heard the stamp of the guards as they came to attention. This was it. The door flew open.
A tall, worried-looking man entered. It was Gaunt. Chandler had the brief impression of a bustling washerwoman before the professional soldier’s attire of mail shirt, steel-shod boots and the dagger at his jewelled belt drew his glance. He wore the blazon of the House of Lancaster on his surcoat.
The man himself was angular and dark-haired with a straggly pepper-and-salt beard kept untrimmed, rendering his features even more lugubrious. That he was a vigorous swordsman everyone knew. That he was tragically unlucky in battle was also something that hung round his name like a bad smell.
He made up for professional shortcomings by the grandeur of his manner backed by such enormous wealth he was said to be the richest man in England – including the king himself.
‘Bow when I enter.’
‘Am I under arrest?’ Chandler asked, not moving.
‘Don’t be so bloody witless. What have you done?’ The duke’s glance was suspicious.
‘Nothing, your grace. It’s often not necessary these days to have—’ He stopped, noticing Gaunt’s expression and just in time bent his head and counted to three. When he looked up again Gaunt’s eyes were boring into his skull.
‘You sometimes forget yourself, Chandler.’ He strode further on into the chamber, boots ringing out, steel on stone. ‘This is the only place I could find to have a private word with you. Our lord king—’ the word sounded like a curse, ‘fills the palace with hangers-on. If they got the chance every man-jack would report back to him all I have to say to you before you could scratch your arse.’
Chandler waited to hear what he had to say. The little white hart badge was burning in his pouch.
The duke paced about. ‘I’ll be out of here by morning and down to the fleet at Southampton. I’m leaving young Harry in charge. I want you to swear your allegiance to him just as you’ve sworn it to me. Is that clear?’
He remembered how he had smiled to himself at being called witless. If he was witless, what was Gaunt’s eldest son?
Chandler opened his mouth to say something foolhardy, along the lines of his allegiance being sold when he was fifteen and having no choice in the matter, but Gaunt was saying, ‘He’ll have things he’ll want you to do. And you’ll do them. Understood?’
‘My lord.’ Chandler thought it prudent to bow his head again to show his acquiescence. He would not kneel. Never. His friar’s robe should save him from that humiliation.
Gaunt, having no sword after being in the king’s presence, unsheathed his dagger. It was the one he used for eating with but was jewelled, impressive, and could do much damage, judged Chandler, eyeing the blade with misgivings as Gaunt waved it in front of him.
‘Place your hand on this and say after me, “I, Rodric Chandler, friar of the Order of—” What the hell is your order anyway?’
‘Mercedarian.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Not many people have. It’s a Castilian cult—’
‘You never told me that.’
‘The question never arose—’
‘You could have come with me.’
‘I doubt, my lord, that the Castilians would have welcomed me. Our founder, St Serapion, was considered somewhat subversive and—’
‘Don’t bother me with all that now. Just say the words.’
‘I, Rodric Chandler, friar of the cult of St Serapion, do solemnly swear—’ He paused and looked to Gaunt for guidance.
‘To protect and guard against all ills to the best of my human endeavour, Henry, known as Bolingbroke, earl of Derby, eldest son of John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, and to inform the said Henry, earl of Derby, of anything and everything pertaining to the good order of his household, his welfare and his life.’
Chandler mumbled his way through this wondering how binding it was and whether Harry Derby would want the protection of a mere mendicant with no power, wealth or influence of his own. He doubted it.
Gaunt punched him on the shoulder when he came to the end and forced him to kiss the hilt of the dagger. ‘I’m relying on you, Chandler. We’ve picked somebody up.’ He sheathed the blade. ‘He’s in the Tower but the boys can’t get a word out of him. They’ve tried everything their imaginations can suggest but he’s as close as a clam. I want you to go over there and persuade him to tell us the names of the others. They’re Lollards. Or French. Or some such. Whatever they call themselves, they’re spies and traitors. We have it on good authority. We want them all.’
‘My lord—’ Chandler bowed his head to hide the horror in his eyes. He had been so young then. The same age as Richard, as Mowbray, as Bolingbroke.
The Tower was a hellhole. He knew that even then. Bloody deeds were done there which kept any sane man awake at night or else screaming in terror through his dreams. The threat of damnation could not instil greater fear.
This, with Gaunt, had been his first test. It had resulted in several beheadings on Tower Hill. The entire City agog with blood-lust. Everyone satisfied by the sight of justice being done and seen to be done.
In the decade following he had been instructed to attend many similar interrogations but nothing would erase the memory of that first one. It wasn’t the most barbaric by any means. Much worse had followed. But it was the first and it was significant for that reason.
His darkest thoughts loomed to the surface at times like today, when his mind was emptied of everything but the need to sit and wait. It might have been filled with prayers but it wasn’t. Far from it.
The bells for tierce had yet to ring out.
He finished the flagon but resisted the urge to demand another one. Beata was singing in the kitchen. Rain began to patter against the shutters again. For some reason and only for a moment he felt fortunate.
Now, Gaunt was six months dead. Of the king’s enemies from those bloody days of the Merciless Parliament, when the five knights who called themselves the Appellants had linked arms and marched in cloth of gold down Westminster Hall to outface the young king, three of them, Bolingbroke, Mowbray and Arundel, were banished.
Fair enough, but he felt that a three-headed snake had been scotched, not killed. And his feeling of good fortune evaporated.
Take the Lollards for a start. Arundel had been unforgiving of any deviation from the orthodoxy he himself preached. In those early days he had Wycliffe in his sights. He put out rumours that Wycliffe was the Antichrist. Challenged him to defend himself at St Paul’s. Unbelievably there was the earthquake. God has spoken in Wycliffe’s defence, everybody said, believing it. An earthquake in London, though. It made you think.
