The Merry Mistress, page 30
Cecily had parted the bedcurtains. Since Hastings’ visits, she did not sleep on the truckle-bed but lodged with the other women, and therefore amazed was I to find her in the moonlight in a yellow smock hurriedly dragged on, the laces dangling down her back, and her brown hair shown in thick plaits, reckless of who might see them. Her hands twisted together, and even in that dim light I saw that her face was pallid.
“Mother of God,” I cried, “what is it, child? What is the hour?”
“Midnight,” she said, and the word struck heavily on my heart, so that I thought of opening graves and devils riding the air; and quickly I crossed myself. “Midnight,” she whispered again and licked her lips. “And all the palace has gone mad. The queen is shouting and packing her goods and they are breaking down the wall into sanctuary.”
“Gloucester is coming,” said Hastings with, I thought, a certain satisfaction. “Now the rats will run.”
Darting at him an angry glance, I sprang from bed, calling for Cecily to make speed to dress me.
“Nay,” said Hastings, slipping his arm about my waist, “stay here. The conspiracy has failed, as I told you it would fail. Keep from it now as you value your head.”
I’d not listen. Out of his grip I wriggled while Cecily pulled my blue gown over my head and ruffled it down my sides, then set me on a stool while she drew on my hosen. No longer was I thinking of conspiracies, successful or otherwise, my fears being all for Dorset. In this hour of peril I felt I should be at his side, and Hastings was forgotten save as an annoyance plaguing me when I wished to be with my lover.
Fortunately, my gown laced at the front and not the back and I was able to tighten the strings while Cecily fitted on my shoes, then found a hood in which I could conceal my hair.
“Jane,” cried Hastings, “for God’s love, do not go! You are mad to go!”
I did not heed him. Out of the chamber I scurried to the queen’s apartments. Brightly lit were the passages with torches and tapers, men and women in disarray, some dressing as they hurried along, sped from here to there and seemed not to know what they had best do in the sudden alarm. As though Gloucester were at the palace gates and not at Northampton, they were terrified; and prim ladies, renowned for virtue, so far forgot their reputations as to run out of strange doors.
All this hubbub I scarcely heeded while I pushed my way down the passage and at last reached the royal apartments. There were no guards at the door and the ladies within were wailing or running stupidly hither and thither, while some helped the queen bring treasures out of chests and boxes. At first she did not recognize me. Her splendid yellow hair fell down her back and over her shoulders and she had drawn on a loose shift which gaped open to show her pendulous breasts. On a stool she crouched, telling her women what they must do; and as she talked, she wept. At her side stood the chancellor, Archbishop Rotherham, his face pale and his hands shaking.
“Where is that villain Hastings?” she screamed when at last she knew me.
“He would not harm your grace,” I stuttered, seeking for Dorset and not seeing him. “I have his word that he’ll not stir against you.”
“Words, words,” she wailed, rocking herself from side to side, “what are words but lies? Who’s to be trusted? God’s mercy, my poor son!”
A sharp pain seemed to pierce my heart and all was blurred before my eyes when I heard her speak of her poor son. My first thought was: Dorset is dead!
“Dorset?” I cried. “The marquis!”
“Dorset’s safe enough,” said she, giving me a spiteful glance, “but the king is in Gloucester’s hands. That villain Buckingham! I told them he should have been detained but they’d not listen to me; he’s blabbed what we intend. Or what he thinks that we intend. He’s seized Lord Rivers and my son, Sir Richard, my brother and my son, and they are jailed!”
What happened to Rivers or Grey did not trouble me; almost I smiled in my relief that Dorset still was safe.
“And the marquis,” I asked, “is he coming here?”
“The devil take the wench!” she squeaked. “With the kingdom at war, my son stolen from me, all’s lost and she must gab of Dorset, Dorset! That son is safe, or I pray God he’s safe, and we have heavier troubles. O, Mother of mercy,” she sobbed, “what have I done that you should treat me so! Gloucester will steal the crown —”
“Nay, your grace,” said the bishop gently. “The duke is an honourable man and has always stood your friend. Besides, he can do nothing while you have Prince Richard here. So long as the boy is safe, the life of the Prince of Wales cannot be harmed.”
“There is truth in that,” she cried, her eyes lighting with sudden hope. “Ay, he’d have no cause to injure Edward while his brother lives. And I have Richard here. He’ll come with me. And we’ll be secure in sanctuary. God will protect us there.”
“Amen,” said the bishop.
From rage and misery, in an instant her mood changed to confidence, although not for long. Abusing me for doing nothing, then ordering me to help her pack, she darted about the chamber, calling on her women to make speed and sending some to bring her children. But in the midst of her activity, remembrance of her plotting’s failure struck her again to tears and howling, and she fell to the floor, beating her head on the rushes and screaming of what she would do to Gloucester could she snare him. Then, seeing me, she cursed Hastings, calling him her mortal enemy and the falsest knave alive whose blood she’d have.
Not wishing to provoke her to greater frenzy, I did not answer but quietly continued folding her numerous gowns and tucking them into cuir-boulli and wooden cases. Now that I. knew that Dorset was safe I was no longer afraid and I hoped that Hastings would understand and not think I had deserted him.
*
As though the palace were being looted by rioters, servants carried out fabrics and boxes, chests and fardels. In their haste, finding doors too narrow, they had smashed down the wall opening on to the sanctuary to the west, north of the abbey, and over the broken stones they scrambled with the queen’s possessions. With sanctuary so close, some there were who forgot their loyalty and made off with bundles under their arms to live amongst other thieves. Fortunately, the moon was up and torches were not needed, all being clear as early twilight, and clear-cut were our shadows bounding about our feet in a violet world. In the confusion, friends of Gloucester dared not interfere, none being certain of what had happened, and extraordinary were the rumours I heard which men insisted with many oaths to be the truth. Gloucester was at the city gates, it was said, and had sworn to cut off the queen’s golden poll; his ships were on the river and had captured the Tower and the Bridge; he had slain both Rivers and Grey, and with a great army was charging to take vengeance on the queen for her treachery.
Although I knew that many of these tales were idle babble, I became infected by the terror of those who told them. The queen’s panic added to my fears. Weeping and wailing, tearing her hair, she embraced her children, the little prince and many daughters, who clung to her, howling and blubbering as though Gloucester with an axe stood on their necks. She would not listen to the chancellor, who kept repeating that she had naught to fear, that Gloucester was of a noble and forgiving nature; she but wailed the louder and would not be pacified.
Scarcely able to stand, supported by her servants, she staggered down the stairs and into the moonlit yard, all making way for her as she fled to the abbot’s palace, where, under God’s protection, she would be safe. I was pleased to see her go, the din of her screeching still ringing in my ears, and with some of her other women I sank down exhausted in her bedchamber with garments and sheets and pins and old boxes scattered about us; and wearily, with grimed faces, we looked at one another in the winking taperfight, too tired even to speak.
*
To my relief, Hastings was not there when I returned to my bedchamber and, weary though I was, I knew I would not sleep. Therefore, after I had washed with Cecily’s help, and had donned a clean gown, I decided to wait again on the queen, thinking that Dorset might have hurried to her from the Tower.
He was not there. My heart knew it before my eyes assured me that he was not amongst the men gathered about the queen who, ignoring chairs and stools and bed, sat on the stone floor, her long golden hair flaring about her in disarray and curling to the rushes. Her women strove to calm her, offering her wine, and dazedly she glared at them while she hugged her son. This transformation startled me who had considered her a cold-hearted woman with no feelings, one who could outface any man and have no fears of hurt. Suddenly, her courage had fled, leaving her almost a maniac, weeping and tearing her hair, crying out on Gloucester, damning Hastings, and swearing that her prince would yet be crowned.
Thinking to hearten her, the chancellor had brought the great seal which he should have surrendered to no one save his sovereign, and she pressed it to her bosom as though to imprint its image of royalty on her skin. Even in her distress, however, she was sharp to see that her jewels were carried in and she counted the boxes, howling at thieves who had dared filch a small portion. With such wealth, I thought, she could live like a queen, crowned or uncrowned, and none would touch her so long as she remained in sanctuary; but I did not realize that only the crown itself could have satisfied this woman who had grown well-nigh insane with pride and family passion.
Messengers hurried in, sending her into greater paroxysms, with tidings that Gloucester was hurrying south with Buckingham, and that they were carrying with them, to show the people, the barrels of armour which they had found in the baggage of their captives as proof of the conspiracy to capture the king. When they had snared the king, panted one messenger, and had told him that his uncles had plotted to seize the government by force, the royal boy had burst into tears.
“Poor lad,” moaned the queen; “what will they do with my darling boy?”
Weary of her ravings, I sipped a cup of wine and watched the dawn rise over the river beyond the gardens below. Slowly at first it came, with patches of silver and green and a gash of red; then it quickened its speed, blades of gold and silver striking through the dirty clouds and sparkling on the river as though it were broken glass. Bells began to ring, welcoming day and shooing off night’s devils, and peaceful looked the Surrey bank with the Bishop of London’s palace rising out of mists.
As the light quickened I perceived much traffic on the river, and, for a time, wondered at the numerous barges and boats moving slowly back and forth or waiting with an occasional stroke of the blades to stand against the tide. In them I saw armoured men, their caps spluttering back the dawn-light, their sword-and axe-blades twinkling, and the tips of pike and voulge seeming to drip silver. In silence, they floated there and all their faces were turned towards the palace or the abbey, watching as though on guard.
They were on guard! Suddenly I realized who they were: Gloucester’s friends ready to stop the queen should she attempt to flee; and for the first time I fully realized the dangers in which we stood; and my legs began to shake.
*
All becomes confusion when I look back on that dangerous time, and I cannot space events. It seems that one moment I was lugging the queen’s goods to sanctuary and that the next I was back in the palace, listening to Hastings’ laughter at my mistress’s distress. But that was sometime during the next day after I had stolen out of sanctuary, Gloucester’s adherents letting us pass without annoyance, save to try to kiss and tumble us in amorous jest, for they wanted the queen, not her ladies.
In the palace, men and women walked tiptoe, and their faces were white, their eyes wary, none knowing whether loyalty to the queen might not be rewarded by punishment at Gloucester’s hand. In the city, I was told, there had been rioting, Londoners rarely wasting an opportunity to brawl, and none knew the truth of what had happened; but all now was quiet again.
“Yea, all is quiet,” smiled Hastings when at last he came to visit me. “I’ve spoken to the council and calmed their doubts.”
“What did you tell them?” I asked with dry lips.
Merrily, fingers in his girdle, he strutted before me. “Why,” said he, “I told them that the duke was faithful and sure towards his prince, and that Rivers and Sir Richard had been apprehended for conspiracy and were under arrest, for their surety, and not to the king’s danger. There they would remain, I said, until they were examined, not by the duke alone, but by the other lords of the king’s council, and judged according to their deserts. And I told them to beware lest they made decisions ere they knew the truth or turned their private grudges into the common hurt, irritating and provoking men to anger and disturbing the king’s coronation.”
“Will Gloucester crown him, think you?” I asked.
He cocked a shaggy brow at me. “You have been listening to the queen,” he grumbled. “Gloucester will crown him. He is an honourable man and one I love as he loves me.”
“And Gloucester will rule?” I whispered. “Where will the queen end under him? And you, sir, do you think that, friendly though he may be, he will like strong men at the council table? Buckingham is now his gossip, and Buckingham’s no friend of yours.”
“Neither are the Woodvilles,” said he. “Rivers and Sir Richard ever thwarted me. But Gloucester will deal with them. Ay,” he smiled, “I can leave them to a traitors’ death yet have no hand in it. All my enemies will fall and I be guiltless.”
“But not Buckingham,” said I. “My lord, for so wise a man you are strangely blind. You say that Gloucester is your friend; what proof save words have you of that? Yet here is a woman, helpless and desperate, who would reward you well if you proved loyal.”
He shook his head. “She is defeated,” said he. “She can work no more evil.”
“She is the mother of the king,” I told him, “and Gloucester cannot keep her always in sanctuary. The boy will grow, he’ll be a man ere long, and do you think then he will forget who were his mother’s friends and who her enemies? Here is your chance for future greatness, and you know that under Gloucester’s watchful eye you’ll be kept under.”
So long did he look at me that I became uncomfortable, being unable to read his thoughts. That he was ambitious I realized, but it was difficult to tell how deep were the roots of loyalty planted in self-interest.
“You and the duke are good friends,” I said, finding his silence and fixed stare unendurable so that I had to speak; “but he is very different from his brother. He has no liking for the things that please you and which made you the king’s gossip. He is devout and clean living and has no time for women.”
“Yea,” he said at last; “yet he is my friend:” He sighed. “If there be any friends to trust,” he murmured, “in such troublous times.”
*
These arguments I used came from the mouth of Dorset; and I repeated them without greatly caring whether they worked or not. I had no cause to love the Woodvilles. Until she had showed friendliness so that she might compromise me with her son, the queen had proved herself a harsh, ungrateful mistress, while Gloucester, on the few occasions of our meeting, had been gracious and friendly towards me. But Dorset had sucked out my soul with his kisses and I could not disobey him. Only witchcraft could explain it, some love-potion he had given me in wine, herbs gathered on St. John’s Eve to rob me of my heart. Away from him I did not truly live and he guided me, even when far from him, like a mammet on strings. At any moment I expected his return, should he be able to slip past the barges on the Thames; and I was determined to reward him with Hastings’ submission.
And I was fond of Hastings. I liked to rest in his arms, hearing his strong heartbeat, feeling safe, untroubled by desires or doubts or jealousies; but beside Dorset, who was my torment, he meant nothing. Nothing. Nothing mattered to me save that perfumed rogue who did not love me, who could love no woman, so proud and vain was he. Nevertheless, knowing this and despising myself for my own weakness, I remained his amorous slave and whispered to Hastings the things I had been instructed to say.
Whether my siren-talk worked I could not tell at first. Playfully would he turn my words aside, yet I noticed that he became more thoughtful and often for many minutes would he sit, frowning and staring at the floor.
From him to the queen I went, and back again, encouraging her with hopes of his adherence while promising him, in her name, rewards in the future should he side with her. He answered neither yes nor no. Sardonically would he smile at me, eyebrows raised, then give me some silly compliment as though I had not spoken. I did not greatly care. My interest in visiting the queen was in the hope of finding Dorset; but the watching boats, it seemed, kept him away.
*
Early in May, Gloucester entered London with the young king and the Duke of Buckingham. I was not there to watch. Never again did I intend to see the city, little thinking how I would be forced to come here. But friends told me of the noisy welcome he had been given and of how at a hastily summoned council he had been declared protector of the king and realm, the king being lodged in the Bishop of London’s palace nigh St. Paul’s, although shortly afterwards he was removed to the royal palace within the Tower’s precincts.
That meant that Dorset must have left the fortress, and hopes of seeing him in Westminster grew high, and I was informed that he had been spied in the abbey. I did not find him there. Apart from her brother, the Bishop of Salisbury, and her numerous children, the queen was the sole Woodville I could find. Now that her first frantic terror had subsided, since the new protector made no attempt to violate sanctuary, she had returned to her haughty ways and made her women stand for hours before her while she treated them with disdain. Only towards me was she gracious, needing me to win Hastings to her cause; and knowing this, disliking the woman though I did, I yet stayed faithful to her. Much of this loyalty sprang from pity at seeing her fallen from her high estate, much was prompted by longings to meet Dorset again, and much was caused by a dull fatalism that had darkened my spirits almost since my king’s death. I had lost hope in the future and cared only for the passing minute, and I, who had been so merry and loving, thought often of death and felt that living had become a burden.
