The Green Man

Three

My first sight of Fotheringay Castle filled me with foreboding.

A great, grim pile rising out of the flat Northamptonshire landscape, it looked like some prehistoric creature crouched to spring and devour the unwary traveller. A heavy, brooding keep stood stark against the skyline. A double moat guarded three sides of this formidable fortress and a river, which I later learned to be the Nene, made up the fourth side of its defences. Within the massive walls was a huge courtyard, around which were grouped the living quarters, including the great hall, chapel and all the workshops necessary to make such a vast edifice self-supporting. In the event of a siege, it could probably have held out for months.

This, then, was the stronghold of the Yorkist branch of the Plantagenet tree, who now occupied the throne and to whom we all owed allegiance. Here, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, had been born nearly thirty years earlier, and here the bodies of his father, Richard, Duke of York, and one of his elder brothers, Edmund, Earl of Rutland — both killed at the bloody battle of Wakefield — had been re-interred with great pomp and ceremony a mere six years ago.

I have to record that nothing about it alleviated my feeling of deep misery and gloom.

I had left Bristol the day after Timothy’s unwelcome appearance and accompanied him first to London where I was reunited — if I may call it that — with His Grace, Alexander Stewart, Duke of Albany. The duke was lodged in Westminster Palace in a suite of rooms that did justice to his importance as a future king of Scotland, and one, moreover, who would be grateful enough to do exactly as he was told by his English ally. (A Canterbury tale if ever I heard one. Who was fooling whom? It was impossible to tell.) To do my young lord justice, he seemed genuinely delighted to see me, and made it plain from the start that I was to be accorded preferential treatment and never to stir far from his side. I was to sleep in his bed and to sit at his table, unless, of course, he was dining with the king or any other of his exalted kinsmen and friends. Even then, I was to remain near at hand.

Daunted by the prospect of such close and continuous proximity, I consoled myself with the knowledge that it could not possibly last beyond the first few weeks, when the duke would begin to find my ubiquitous presence as irksome as I would no doubt find his. However, his initial dependence on me was bound to make me highly unpopular with the rest of his personal servants, particularly if they had any suspicion of the reason for my inclusion in Albany’s household. Fortunately, although the five of them tended to scowl and mutter whenever they saw me, I had no real idea of what they were saying, for each one talked in a broad Scots dialect that was unintelligible to my west country ears.

The eldest of the five, James Petrie, was the duke’s body servant, assisting him with washing, dressing, undressing and all other intimate bodily functions. (I was very relieved to know that nothing of that sort was expected of me.) Although roughly of Albany’s own age — the duke was, at this time, twenty-seven years old, two years younger than myself — he looked a great deal older, a tall, emaciated man with lines of care and worry cut deep into his face. His eyes were a fierce, dark blue beneath bushy eyebrows as black as his hair, a combination of colours often to be found in the Celts. He was naturally taciturn, so I was not plagued by his mutterings every time I hove into view, and, indeed, said little to Albany himself. He carried out his tasks quietly and efficiently and even gently, with the minimum of fuss; but whether or not he were fond of his new master it was impossible to say. I felt that he would have behaved in the same way to a stray dog had he decided to befriend one.

John Tullo was the groom, a weather-beaten man with a passion for horses that made him almost one of them. He would whisper sweet nothings into the ear of the most mettlesome brute that ever trotted on four legs, and these terrifying creatures would drop their heads into his unsavoury bosom and nuzzle him like love-sick girls. Of course, he despised me from the start, as soon as I admitted that horses frightened me to death and insisted on being mounted on only the most docile mare in Albany’s stable. He roared with laughter and passed what were obviously ribald remarks every time he clapped his big brown eyes on me; eyes that were slightly protuberant and appeared to bore right inside me. I found his gaze extremely disconcerting.

Then there was the page, David Gray, always known as Davey, a slight, willowy creature who could, if the mood took him, speak English well enough to be understood, although he would affect not to comprehend my west country speech with its harsh ‘r’s and diphthonged vowels. He was a pretty boy with fair, wavy hair and violet-blue eyes, who accepted with good humour the obvious teasing of his fellow servants, and of Albany himself.

‘My brother, Mar, was very fond of Davey,’ Albany once remarked to me, with, I thought, a certain amount of significance.

Lastly, there were the two squires who, I gathered, had been devoted to their late master, the earl, and who had now extended that loyalty to his brother, Albany. They were both handsome youths of about the duke’s own age, the slightly younger one, Donald Seton, having red hair and the freckled skin that so often accompanies it. His eyes were hazel, flecked with green, and he tended to avoid looking directly at people when he spoke to them.

His companion and close friend was Murdo MacGregor, taller by half a head than any other member of Albany’s household, including James Petrie, and who seemed to be the more important of the two. Indeed, this brown-haired, blue-eyed man, with his princely bearing and aloof attitude sometimes appeared to be more important than the duke himself. He ignored me.

‘Don’t mind Murdo,’ Albany told me with a laugh. ‘The motto of the MacGregors is ‘Is rioghal mo dhream’. ‘My blood is royal’. And they all claim descent from the Clan Alpin, which is the oldest and most purely Celtic of all the highland clans. Furthermore, they hold rigidly by the ancient clan rule of defending what’s theirs by the sword and not by sheepskin.’

‘Sheepskin?’ I queried, puzzled.

‘Marriage charters, written agreements with their neighbours. The only way the MacGregors settle a dispute is with cold steel.’

Needless to say, after this introduction, I gave the elder squire as wide a berth as possible, and, as I have already mentioned, he didn’t seek me out. That isn’t to say that I didn’t notice him watching me very closely on occasions. All of which explains my misery. I was lonely, homesick and ill at ease.

At the beginning of June, our great sprawling cavalcade of lords and their levies, with the king at its head, set off northwards from London for Northamptonshire where, at Fotheringay Castle, we were to rendezvous with the Duke of Gloucester and the Earl of Northumberland, travelling south. Before we reached our destination, news came of a successful foray into Scotland by Duke Richard and his forces, during which Dumfries had been taken and burned. His Grace had then coolly retired before an army could be raised against him and set out to meet his brother.

‘This doesn’t bother you?’ I had the temerity to ask Albany, lying by his side in bed at some inn where we were billeted for the night. It was blowing a gale and pouring with rain, and I could not help thinking of the poor foot soldiers and archers trying to sleep in some sodden field.

To my surprise, my royal bedfellow, sharing my company in the fire-studded dark, failed to snub me. He merely hunched his shoulders under the quilt and answered laconically, ‘You can’t make a cake without breaking eggs.’

I couldn’t let it go. ‘But these are your people being burned out of their homes. Aren’t you afraid such actions by your allies will turn them against you?’

There was a another shrug. ‘It’s more likely to turn them against my dear brother for not retaliating. They don’t like him, anyway.’

‘Why not?’ I asked. A log on the hearth crackled and fell, spangling the room with fire. Outside the door, I heard someone stir. One of the squires was sleeping across the threshold.

Albany, who had been half turned away from me, rolled on to his back and stared up at the bed canopy overhead. He had pulled back the curtain on his side to give himself more air.

‘Well, for a start,’ he said, ‘they don’t like the way he stays cooped up in Edinburgh instead of travelling around the country, showing himself to his loving subjects. Then those same loving subjects don’t like the way he’s forced the price of everything up by issuing copper coinage — ‘black’ money the people call it — while at the same time he’s enriching all his low-born favourites.’

‘Ah, favourites,’ I echoed. ‘They’re always a problem.’

‘Especially when they’re as disreputable as James’s,’ Albany added viciously.

‘Such as?’ I murmured, intrigued.

‘Such as William Scheves, who was a shirt-maker for the court and is now Archbishop of St Andrews. Such as Thomas Cochrane, who is reported to have started life as a stonemason and is now one of my brother’s chief advisers. Such as William Rogers, musician, James Hommyl, tailor, Torpichen a fencing master and Leonard somebody, or somebody Leonard, a shoemaker; upstarts the lot of them. Bloody little nobodies, whose farty arses the old lords have to lick before they can get anywhere near the king.’

I digested this. ‘Not a very lovable man, King James,’ I ventured at last.

My companion gave a snort of laughter and turned his head on the pillow to look at me.

‘No, not a very lovable man, as you so rightly remark. But perhaps I should warn you, Roger, not many of us Stewarts are. My grandfather, the first James, was murdered by his own nobles when my father, the second James, was seven years old. And we’re unlucky, too. My father had a huge birthmark which earned him the nickname “Fiery Face” and he was killed when a cannon exploded while he was inspecting it. My brother James was eight when he succeeded to the throne, John and I a few years younger.’

I was silent for a moment or two, contemplating the often unhappy lives of our rulers; but not for long. At least they could be unhappy in comfort, which was never the lot of the poor.

‘Do you really believe that your brother, the Earl of Mar, was murdered?’ I asked.

‘I know he was,’ Albany rapped back. ‘He was imprisoned in Craigmillar Castle and Murdo and the others have told me that, shortly after they were all withdrawn from his service he was reported to have died. A chill was the official version.’

‘And the unofficial?’

‘One of his gaolers told the groom, Tullo, that John was held down in a tub of hot water while his wrists were slashed.’ Albany gave a harsh laugh. ‘There’s some dignity in a Roman death, I suppose.’

‘What was he accused of?’

‘Treason and witchcraft.’

‘Witchcraft? Was that true?’

‘Of course not!’ The reply came a little too swiftly and positively, but I let it pass.

‘Why do you suspect one his servants of being in the pay of King James?’ I wanted to know.

I had been itching to ask this question ever since our first meeting in London, but somehow had been unable to do so until this moment. It had proved difficult to get Albany to myself, and until tonight, he had fallen into bed and gone straight to sleep. But because of the bad weather, and on account of King Edward’s failing health, the march had been shorter than on previous days and, as a consequence, all of us were less tired. Albany certainly seemed livelier than usual and therefore willing to talk.

But his answer when it finally came was unsatisfactory.

‘I don’t know anything for certain. It’s just a feeling I have.’

Dear God in Heaven! I hated feelings. I wanted facts.

‘There must be some reason why you feel this way,’ I persisted.

The duke remained vague, muttering that it would be just like the king to suborn one of the earl’s retainers, offering the man unlimited bribes in order to persuade him to betray his trust.

‘James is a cunning bastard,’ Albany continued with a sudden spurt of merriment. ‘He’s far shrewder than is generally thought. People — all his advisers and the population at large — thought he was mad to insist on marrying a Danish princess. I mean, it was a well-known fact that King Christian was practically penniless at the time and couldn’t pay more than a fraction of Margarethe’s dowry. But James simply said he’d take the Danish islands of Orkney and Shetland as a pledge of Denmark’s good faith until the rest of the money could be handed over.’ Again, my companion laughed.

‘And King Christian agreed?’

‘Of course! It seemed an easy way out of his difficulties. But on each occasion that he’s offered to pay the remainder of the dowry, James has refused it, saying he’d rather keep the islands. You mark my words, Shetland and Orkney will never be returned to Denmark. They’ll belong to Scotland now for the rest of time.’

‘Even if … I mean, even when you become king?’ But I could guess his answer. Politics is an unpleasant game.

‘Naturally. Scotland’s boundaries have been considerably increased. However, I don’t expect to have the same success in the matter of the other dowry. King Edward’s a bird of a different feather.’

I frowned into the darkness. The flames of the fire had by now almost turned to ashes.

‘What dowry’s that?’ I asked.

Albany sniggered. ‘You should keep your ear to the ground more, Roger. Eight years ago, when my eldest nephew, the Duke of Rothesay was barely one, he was betrothed to your little Princess Cicely. A formal betrothal ceremony was held at the Blackfriars, in Edinburgh. I was there. Pomp, ceremony, great solemnity! And Princess Cicely’s dowry was set at twenty thousand English marks, of which five thousand marks were paid over the next three years with — I must admit it — great promptitude. But now that the marriage has fallen through, King Edward wants his money back. And so far, he hasn’t received it.’

I pursed my lips. There was much to mull over here, but, although interesting, nothing that touched on my own problem. After a decent interval to allow for a change of subject, and while I listened to the wind and rain rattling the inn’s many shutters, I asked again, ‘But which of the late earl’s men do you think means you a mischief, my lord? Surely you must have some idea?’

But a snore was the only answer.

The weather changed next day, becoming warmer, drowsy with the scent of wayside flowers, and the amorphous mass of men and horses was able to make better progress. A pale sun caught at the tips of spears with pinpricks of light, and we moved forward, a forest of stars in the afternoon haze. People had come out and were working in the fields, and those who had sheep were beginning the business of washing and shearing them, preparatory to taking their wool to market. But everywhere I looked, I was struck by the truth of my friend the mummer’s words. We had been luckier in the west country than any of us had realized: famine and disease, caused by the winter’s terrible storms and the spring floodings, had taken a greater toll in other parts of the country than anything we had experienced. Children with emaciated limbs, men and women as scrawny as their own scarecrows stopped work and watched us pass in sullen silence, or else mouthed insults and obscenities at us and shook their fists. I remembered that when I had accompanied the army to France, seven years earlier, people in every village that we rode through, shouted, ‘The king! The king!’ and rang the church bells and strewed our path with flowers. Today, the only cries that reached our ears were demands to know why England wasn’t supporting Burgundy against King Louis. The army commanders ignored them, pushing on with stony faces, glancing to neither right nor left, and I doubted that King Edward could even hear them, carried as he was in a litter with the curtains drawn. His doctors had decreed him too weak to mount a horse that day, and for several days prior to that.

In the ordinary way of things, someone as insignificant as myself would have seen little or nothing of the royal entourage, but my instructions to remain closer to Albany than a second skin had brought me into daily contact with the king and his immediate circle. And the shock of my first sighting of King Edward had increased as the days passed, rather than diminished. I recalled him as he was not so very many years ago; a great, golden giant of a man: ‘the handsomest man in Europe’ he had been called, and not without justification. His badge of the Sun in Splendour had described the man to perfection; huge, generous, radiating warmth. But now, he was fat, disease-ridden, his face the colour of unbaked dough, his marvellous energy dissipated by the pleasures of the flesh; too much food, too much wine, too many women. Perhaps I exaggerate a little — women still found him attractive, I was told — but he appeared to me to have deteriorated rapidly since my last glimpse of him, in London, two years earlier. (And as I write these words, an old man in his seventies, I cannot but recall that I have seen the youthful Edward live again in his grandson, our present king, Henry, as unlike his cheese-paring, miserly Tudor father as it is possible to be, but with the same tendency to excess in everything as his maternal grandsire. Will he go the same way as King Edward? Or will he be able to curb his insatiable appetites? Who can tell? Certainly not me. My life will be ended in a few more years.)

And so, after that digression, I have lost my thread, and serve me right. Where was I? Ah, yes! Approaching Fotheringay Castle in those early June days of the year 1482 when I was still a young man — well, comparatively young — of twenty-nine, although a little more than three months off my thirtieth birthday; an unhappy man, desperately missing his wife and children.

Fotheringay was as gloomy inside as it was out.

The Duke of Albany and his retinue were assigned a number of rooms on the ground floor, close to the king’s own suite, which were, as I soon discovered, somewhat more luxurious than those of even such highly placed lords as Earl Rivers and Sir Edward Woodville, two of the king’s brothers-in-law, the Marquis of Dorset, his elder stepson, Lord Hastings, his particular, life-long friend, Lord Stanley and many others. These flowers of the English court were definitely not pleased by Albany’s preferential treatment, and made their annoyance plain, at least to us, his servants, if not to the prince himself. Not that he was unaware of it, but he was not in the least discomposed by their disapproval.

‘After all, I am a future king of Scotland,’ he said to me, as we tumbled into bed that first night, adding with a grin, ‘And you will see tomorrow, or whenever my lords of Gloucester and Northumberland arrive from the north, that I shall be given pride of place when His Highness receives them.’ His voice sharpened. ‘And don’t you move far from my side, Roger! There’s something about this place. I don’t like it. I have a premonition of danger.’

I sighed, not caring if he heard me. What use to me were his feelings and premonitions? What I needed were reasons for them. If I could have talked to any one of my fellow servants — for there was little doubt in my mind that the status of servant was what I had been reduced to — it might have helped. But James Petrie, John Tullo, Davey Gray and the two squires all seemed unable to speak in anything but the broad Scots dialect whenever they found themselves in my company. (I wondered how they had fared in France.) The five of them made their contempt for me, as a Sassenach, perfectly plain; yet, in spite of derision and occasional insolence, they tolerated my presence with far less resentment than I would have expected in the circumstances; a fact that made me wonder if they knew of their master’s suspicions concerning at least one of their number.

I asked Albany.

‘God’s Nightgown, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘I want to flush the bastard out, not put him on his guard.’

‘So what explanation has Your Highness given them for my inclusion in your retinue?’

He laughed. ‘What else but that you are guarding my sacred person from the possible machinations of the English? They know the part you played in my escape from Bristol to Ireland three years ago and that, as a consequence, I trust you. And to tell you the truth, Roger,’ he added, clapping me on the shoulder, ‘that’s not just an All Fools’ Day story. These forebodings that possess me, warning me of danger, might well apply to my English hosts and have nothing to do with my brother’s men. Or-’ At that ‘or’ I heaved another sigh, deeper than before, but Albany ignored me. ‘Or,’ he continued, ‘I could have enemies in both camps.’

‘Or in neither,’ I suggested.

He shook his head. ‘I’m a sensitive soul, Roger. I don’t have the “sight”, I admit that. I cannot “see” things that are about to happen, but I can feel them. Oh, yes! Definitely I can feel them. And I have known for some weeks now that danger threatens me from some quarter or another. I racked my brains for someone disinterested enough to guard me without the possibility of his being in the pay of either my brother, King James, or King Edward, who might secretly have decided to make peace, after all, thus reducing me to an embarrassing encumbrance.’ He gave me a radiant smile. ‘And suddenly, I remembered you, my dear friend and saviour. I knew, at that juncture, that Cousin Edward would deny me nothing. So, here you are!’

‘Just sitting on my arse and doing nothing.’

Albany put an arm about my shoulders and grinned at me. ‘Don’t sound so bitter! I’m paying you well, aren’t I? What I mean is that I will be paying you well as soon as I get my hands on the allowance dear Edward has promised me. Meantime, you’re better fed and clothed, I daresay, then you’ve ever been in your life before. And all you have to do in return is to watch my back.’

‘Do all your family have this fatal charm?’ I grunted. ‘I’m persuaded Your Highness could turn a Mussulman Christian.’

He smiled broadly. ‘Oh, we Stewarts are noted for our charm, but unfortunately not for our tact or superior understanding. We make enemies all too easily.’

Against my will, I smiled back. He had an ironic streak that appealed to my own. I found myself liking him in spite of the instinct that told me to resist the notion that, whatever he might call me, however much he might flatter me, he regarded me as a friend. Members of the nobility never made friends of people like me. They used us, then forgot us when we were no longer of value to them. There were no exceptions. I suspected that even the man I admired above all others, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, was completely oblivious to my existence until he had work for me to do. Then my name would flit into his mind as a useful tool for his purpose.

All the same, fool that I am, I have to admit that I was more than somewhat flattered when, the following day, June the eleventh, the Feast of Saint Barnabas, the duke caught my eye and nodded as he entered Fotheringay’s central courtyard. He and Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, arrived midway through the afternoon to be received with all the panoply of state that King Edward could muster. Banners waved, trumpets sounded, choirboys sang, the assembled company cheered itself hoarse and the king embraced his only surviving brother with an affection that had him crying tears of joy.

Normally, of course, I should have been on the very fringes of such a gathering, unable to see or hear a thing that was going on. But on this occasion, thanks to Albany, there I was, right in the thick of it, a privileged auditor and spectator. I was able to note how anxiously the duke scanned the king’s face, and the tightening of his rather thin lips as his eyes rested on those lords ranged closest about the monarch, members of his inner circle, bosom companions of his hedonistic life. (It was common knowledge that they passed their various mistresses about amongst each other, and that Lord Hastings and the Marquis of Dorset were at daggers drawn over the favours of the delectable Dame Shore.)

It was as he freed himself from King Edward’s embrace that the duke noticed me and nodded. It was nothing more than the barest of acknowledgements, but sufficient to make one or two people glance my way in outraged surprise, and for Albany to dig me, most unroyally, in the ribs and give a little snort of laughter.

Later, as I watched Davey Gray and Donald Seton dressing my lord for the evening’s great feast, he coaxed me into telling him what services I had performed for the duke of Gloucester, and I could tell that he was impressed.

‘You found the Lady Anne for him when Clarence had hidden her away in London? No wonder Prince Richard trusts you! And I see how right I was to trust you, too.’ He lapsed into broad Scots and spoke to Davey, who went to one of the great chests standing against the wall of the chamber, from which he produced an amber velvet tunic — somewhat rubbed, it’s true, but perfectly whole and sound — and some yellow hose, together with a pair of piked yellow shoes.

‘Put them on, Roger,’ Albany commanded. ‘I want you immediately behind my chair throughout the banquet.’