The Green Man

Four

It had rained a little in the early evening and we crossed the wet courtyard, where the cressets hissed at their drowned reflections in the puddles underfoot, and entered the light and warmth of Fotheringay’s great hall, the torches flaring against the grey walls with a sound like torn parchment. Tonight, there was to be feasting and entertainment: tomorrow, the serious business — the demands, the conditions, the promises — would be hammered out, and the following day, the army would once again be on the march, heading for York.

‘Then to Berwick to try to end the siege, and thence into Scotland,’ Albany informed me as he was dressed for the banquet by Davey Gray and James Petrie in cloth of gold and royal purple. ‘At least, that’s what I’m told.’ He eyed me up and down as I stood there, feeling extremely foolish, in my amber velvet tunic and yellow hose and shoes. He must have noted my expression because he started to grin.

‘I feel like a Welsh daffodil,’ I complained bitterly. ‘And I shan’t be able to move with these pikes. I shall trip over them as surely as God makes the sun and moon to shine.’ Before he could answer, I asked, ‘Why do we go to York? Why not straight to Berwick?’

James Petrie glanced sharply at me, as though reproving me for such familiarity, but I ignored him. If the future king of Scotland — although I’d believe that when I saw it — wanted me to dance attendance on him, then he would have to put up with my impertinence. He could dismiss me when he pleased: I should be only too happy to leave his service and return to Bristol.

But Albany showed no sign of being offended, grinning even more broadly as he shrugged on a houppelande of rich purple damask trimmed with deep borders of ermine, the candlelight coruscating over the shimmering folds in shades of palest violet to deepest plum. He stooped to allow the page to place a golden coronet set with precious gems on his curly head, then straightened himself with a sigh of satisfaction. He knew that tonight he looked every inch a king.

‘Why do we go to York?’ he mused, echoing my question. Something like a sneer curled his lips. ‘I think, my dear Roger, that we go to York so that we may all be amazed by the display of affection which will be accorded to His Grace of Gloucester by its citizens. Prince Richard wishes to impress on us how greatly he is loved in the heartlands of his power.’ He cast a last glance at his reflection in the long, polished bronze mirror held up by James Petrie, beckoned to his two squires who had been waiting patiently in the shadows and nodded at me. ‘Right, my daffodil, let’s discover what delights have been ordered for our amusement this night.’

I had always known that the life of a royal servant was not all it was claimed to be, in spite of regular warmth, shelter and pickings from the rich man’s table. I had once sampled it for a brief while and was aware that the sleeping quarters were so cramped that you would be better off being a dog or a horse in the royal kennels and stables. But until that evening at Fotheringay, I had never experienced the sheer agony of standing behind someone’s chair while he gorged himself silly and drank himself stupid while your own stomach rumbled and ached with hunger.

Donald Seton and Murdo MacGregor had found themselves places at one of the lower tables, but Davey Gray and I were expected to remain close to Albany throughout the feast. And although it was not my place to wait on our royal lord, as did the page, taking victuals from the servers and presenting them on bended knee for his inspection, it was even more trying to have nothing to do except be buffeted by the lackeys who sped in a continuous procession from kitchen to table and back again, until I lost count of the innumerable dishes that were piled upon the groaning boards. I vaguely recall great sides of beef, legs of mutton, swan and peacock, cooked and re-dressed in all their plumage, syllabubs, tarts, pies, haunches of venison, wonderful subtleties of spun sugar, representing castles, animals and birds, the sun, moon, and stars. One course seemed to follow another almost without pause.

Many of the escutcheons of those present had been fashioned from marchpane and coloured with dyes such as saffron and parsley juice, alkanet and rose petals. I remember the White Rose and Fetterlock of King Edward; the White Boar and Red Bull of the Duke of Gloucester; Northumberland’s White Crescent and Gold Shacklebolt; the White Escallops of Anthony Woodville and the argent and pink of his nephew, the Marquis of Dorset. There must have been many more, but I can’t recollect them after all these years, and wouldn’t weary you with them if I could. Half the nobility of England was present, all eager to fight under the banner of the king.

But looking at the king — and I was only a few feet from him, Albany, as guest of honour, being seated on his right hand — I doubted very much if any of them would have that distinction. Toying with his food, drinking far too much wine, he seemed to me to be too sick a man to lead an army into Scotland. My guess was that, on the morrow, he would relinquish overall command to my lord of Gloucester and return to London.

By the time that the main courses had finally been cleared from the tables and replaced with bowls of fruit, dishes of nuts and raisins, sugared violets and strawberries soaked in wine, I was feeling faint with hunger. I hissed at the page, ‘When do we eat?’ but he only shrugged and turned away, indicating patience. But I was beyond patience and, noting that Albany was deep in conversation with Lord Hastings, seated on his right hand, I abandoned my post and followed a line of servers to the kitchens.

There, the heat and noise were almost overpowering, cooks bellowing their orders above the general din, bellows-boys heating cauldrons of water over three or four great fires so that the scullions could begin the endless chore of washing the dirty dishes, more flagons of wine being dragged up and loaded on to salvers by the cellarer and his assistants and a sense of chaos prevailing over all. No one took any notice of me, which was just as well as far as I was concerned. I had discovered six huge baskets, each one rising above my waist in height and crammed to the top with leftovers from the banquet. The broken meats — including whole joints — pastries, pies, tarts, most with hardly a bite taken out of them before being pushed aside for yet another dainty, would surely have fed the whole of Bristol for several days, and certainly kept me happy for as long as I needed to assuage my hunger. And just as I was feeling that my belly would explode if I crammed it with any more food, I espied, laid out on a side bench, a row of untouched jellies, striped red and yellow and green, beautifully gilded as so many of the rest of the victuals had been. (Early on in the feast, a dish of gilded meatballs had provoked much ribaldry at the high table, even the king shaking off his lethargy to join in the laughter.) I grabbed a spoon from a pile close at hand — clean or dirty, it was all the same to me — and attacked the jelly nearest to me.

It tasted delicious.

‘Oi!’ shouted an indignant voice. ‘Ooever you are, leave our jellies alone! They’re only for people oo work in the kitchen.’

I didn’t even deign to glance round, merely holding up two fingers in the devil’s sign. A man in a sackcloth apron, and brandishing an enormous carving knife, seized me by the shoulder.

‘Didn’t you ’ear what I said? Oo are you? Get off back where you belong. Yer master’ll be looking for you, anyway. The mummings and suchlike are about to begin.’

I didn’t feel I could argue with the knife, but managed to sneak a last spoonful of jelly before holding up my hands in submission.

‘I’m going! I’m going! These are very good,’ I added, wiping my sticky chin on one sleeve. ‘You can tell the cook I said so. What mummings? Nobody tells me anything.’

The kitchener, a small man who had had time to assimilate my height and girth, grew less aggressive.

‘Oh, jugglers, tumblers, lutists, singers, the usual sort o’ thing. And a masque to finish.’ He added lugubriously, ‘There’s always a masque. If you turn sharp right when you leave the kitchens and mount the flight o’ steps at the end of the passageway, you’ll find yerself in a room next the great ’all, where all them lot’ll be waiting while the lackeys clear away the trestles and put the benches round the walls, ready fer the performance.’ My companion sniggered. ‘Such a prancing about and clearing o’ throats and tuning up of instruments you’ve never witnessed in yer life! I peeped in on ’em just now. You never saw such antics. Laugh! I thought I should’ve died! Poncy fellows, the lot of ’em. Poxy, too, I shouldn’t wonder.’

I thanked him for his information, but said I must be getting back to my master who would no doubt have missed me by this time.

‘Well, tell ’im, ooever ’e is, t’ feed you,’ the kitchener grunted, eyeing with dissatisfaction the havoc I had caused to the first of the jellies.

I promised to do so and edged my way out of the steam and the noise into the comparative coolness and quiet of the corridor. I was about to return to the great hall following the same route by which I had come, using the stairs immediately opposite the kitchen entrance, when a slight noise to my left attracted my attention and made me pause.

‘Who’s there?’ I demanded, peering into the gloom of the passageway, which seemed suddenly, eerily, deserted. I turned around and stared behind me. ‘Is there anyone there?’

There was a rush of movement and I was thrown against the wall, an extra shove with an outstretched hand sending me sprawling on the bottom few treads of the stairs. I was vaguely aware of a strange, mask-like face before struggling to pick myself up.

‘Stop!’ I commanded, but I was badly winded and the word came out in a breathless croak.

I staggered forward a few steps, but of course there was no one there. Whoever had brought me down had vanished while I was getting to my feet. After a moment or two, when I was feeling a little more myself, I recalled hearing the rattle of a latch and the thud of a closing door, and came to the conclusion that my assailant was one of the mummers late for the start of the entertainment, and that I had been in his way. He had most probably been unaware of the force with which he had pushed me aside. I toyed with the idea of going after him, but then realized that not only would I not recognize either him or the mask he was wearing, but I should be laying myself open to ridicule. I was a big, strong man. Was I going to complain because a mummer had accidentally floored me?

Nevertheless, for no good reason that I could fathom, the silly little incident had upset me and made me uneasy. I stared for a few seconds longer into the gloom of the passageway before brushing myself down and mounting the staircase behind me. At the top, I shouldered open the door into the great hall which had now been transformed into a vast empty space, with all tables except the high table, on its dais, folded and stacked away, and the benches arranged around the room’s perimeter ready for the audience to take its seat for the evening’s entertainment. A great number of the guests were still strolling about, exchanging greetings with people they had been unable to come at during the feast, and I noted with relief that my lord Albany, attended by the faithful Davey Gray, had crossed the hall to speak to Master Hobbes, King Edward’s personal physician. (As a matter of interest, I will mention here that there were no less than nine other surgeons in the royal retinue, not one of whom, it is needless to say, was included for the benefit of the ordinary poor bastard of a foot soldier.)

My relief was short-lived. Turning away from Master Hobbes, Albany spotted me and came striding back to the dais, a gathering frown marring his handsome face.

‘Where the devil have you been?’ he demanded wrathfully, mounting the three steps in a single bound and seizing me by one arm. ‘I ordered you to remain behind my chair throughout all mealtimes. And you have the damned effrontery to disobey me.’

‘Then you should have the grace to see that I’m fed, not left standing while you gorge yourself half to death and I’m nigh fainting with hunger … Your Highness!’ I added as an afterthought.

I heard the page draw in his breath and saw him tense his slim form as he waited for the explosion of royal anger. But this failed to materialize. Albany and I stared at one another, eyeball to eyeball, for several seconds, then he dropped his hand from my arm and gave his charming smile.

‘Roger, forgive me my thoughtlessness. Of course I should have made provisions for your sustenance. Have you managed to forage for yourself now?’

‘I found my way to the kitchens,’ I said. ‘There was enough provender in the waste baskets alone to feed half the starving population of Northamptonshire for weeks, if not months.’

Albany laughed. He knew my opinions on the gulf that existed between rich and poor, and although he naturally didn’t share them, he had let me have my say on several occasions, merely advising me not to be so open with anyone but himself. I wondered sometimes why he was so tolerant, but decided that he found me amusing and, moreover, had need of me.

‘But don’t wander off again without permission,’ he said, resuming his seat at the king’s right hand. ‘I’ve told you, I want you in attendance day and night. Now, stand close. The mummings are about to begin.’

The jugglers came first, tossing a rainbow of coloured balls into the air and catching them again with amazing dexterity. And not only balls, but spoons, knives, beakers or anything else that took their fancy. The leader even begged the use of three of the precious Venetian glass goblets used by King Edward and his most important guests, throwing them, sparkling, into the candlelight while everyone gasped and held his breath. But they were returned to the high table undamaged, and the king took a velvet purse full of money from one of his attendants, tossing it to the man, to be shared out between him and the rest of the troupe.

Tumblers followed, rolling around the floor, balancing on one another’s shoulders, contorting their lithe and agile bodies into a variety of shapes. It all looked very painful and risky, and once or twice I found my eyes watering in sympathy for the agony they must be enduring. But they seemed none the worse for it and departed from the hall to resounding applause.

Musicians and dancers came next, then a group of singers; but I have to admit that my attention wandered during these last two items. I have absolutely no ear for music of any kind and, personally, cannot sustain a tune for more than a couple of notes. But other people enjoyed it judging by the applause and the number of coins tossed to the performers, while the king handed out purses with a liberal hand. It was obvious that no expense was being spared, and if there were any Scottish spies lurking amongst the onlookers — as there no doubt were — word would get back to King James that his brother was being treated by the English as if he were already the reigning monarch.

There was a slight pause before the final entertainment, which, I gathered, was to be the masque, and I took the opportunity to glance around the hall searching for Murdo MacGregor and Donald Seton. But I was unable to locate them; hardly surprising considering the crush of people standing along the walls behind the row of benches. What was surprising, however, was the discovery, on looking over my shoulder, that Davey Gray had disappeared. He had been dancing the most assiduous attendance on his master all evening, only stepping a few paces from Albany’s side when he needed to relieve himself behind one of the wall-hangings. But now there was no sign of him. I presumed that, at long last, he had been given permission to go and eat.

The Master of the Revels, who had been fussing about, instructing the lackeys where to place various candelabra and a number of artificial trees — whose leaves glowed with the green fire of emeralds — now approached the high table to announce the start of the masque. This, it seemed, was to take the form of a forest glade, where animals, nymphs and wood sprites cavorted and sang hymns to the great mother goddess, Earth, and her consort, the Green Man. And the moment that latter name was mentioned, I knew at once what mask it was that my assailant had been wearing. The glimpse had been fleeting, but I could see again in my mind’s eye the sprouting foliage from the mouth and the leafy eyebrows and hair.

I waited impatiently for the masque to progress while the mummers in the animal heads leaped around pretending to be rabbits and foxes, hares and stags. Then the nymphs and wood sprites, naiads and fauns added their bit to the general jollification, harping and singing until it fairly set my teeth on edge. But finally — and not a moment too soon as far as I was concerned — Mother Earth arrived in the form of a buxom, large-bosomed lady, trailing blue, brown and green draperies and attended by her consort, the Green Man.

I had not been mistaken. The mask was the same as the one that had loomed over me as I lay sprawled on the steps. Fleeting as the moment had been, I was ready to swear to it had anyone asked me. But there was something wrong. The mummer playing the part was a big, well-fleshed man, half a head taller than his equally robust dame, whilst the impression I had gained of the person who had knocked me down was of a short man, of no more than middling height, if that. After mulling the problem over for a minute or so, I reached the conclusion that there were either two players of the part in the mummers’ troupe or that the mask had been borrowed. A few more seconds of cogitation led me to discard the former theory: with a Mother Earth of such generous proportions, it was unlikely that a small man would have been chosen to act as her partner. So someone else had borrowed the mask, but to what end?

The masque drew to its inevitable close. The pagan revellers, suddenly confronted by a woodland hermit were brought to acknowledge a greater force in nature than themselves and bowed down before the simple wooden cross which he took from around his neck and held up for them to worship. Then they advanced to the high table and made their obeisance to the king as representing God’s Anointed on earth, after which, they skipped off to the loudest applause of the evening and carrying by far the heaviest purse. Without asking Albany’s permission, I made my way to the corner of the dais, jumped down and followed them into an ante-room of the great hall.

Here, the chaos was very much as the kitchener had described it to me; shrill voices of self-congratulation drowning out others’ less complimentary remarks; actors and mummers, in various states of undress, preening themselves on a job well done; the master of the troupe sitting quietly apart, counting out the contents of the king’s purse into little piles of coins on top of a clothes’ chest; several people posing and posturing in front of a mirror of polished steel that had been set up in one corner of the room for their use.

In spite of the press of bodies, it didn’t take me long to locate my quarry. The ‘Green Man’, mask discarded, was struggling out of the leafy hose and tunic which had formed the rest of his costume. I wriggled my way through to his side.

He looked at me enquiringly.

‘I come from His Grace, the Duke of Albany,’ I lied. ‘He wishes me to congratulate you on a part well performed.’

The man straightened himself to his full height. Ignoring the fact that he might appear ridiculous in nothing but his under-shift, he made a magnificent bow.

‘His Grace is a man of taste and discernment,’ he announced in a deep, sonorous voice, which attracted a few covert sniggers from his fellow players.

‘For my own part,’ I went on, braving his wrath, ‘I thought you were a little late on your first entrance. Oh, not by much,’ I hastened to add, as his chest swelled with indignation. ‘But just by the merest fraction.’

‘And what would a mean fellow like yourself know about it?’

‘Mother Earth’, now attired in a sober grey woollen gown, who had been listening jealously to our exchange, interrupted us to say, ‘You were late, Clement. I noticed it myself. I was well into the centre of the floor before you condescended to make an appearance. You should have been beside me when we left this room and accompanied me all the way to the “glade”. It wasn’t good enough on such an important occasion.’

The man called Clement turned on her furiously. ‘Well if you know who’s stolen my best mask, you can save your reproaches for him.’ He picked up the one he had been wearing and dangled it by its strings. ‘This is only my second best. I was still hunting for the other right up to the moment of our entrance, and even so I had to go on without it. And it’s still missing.’

The woman was immediately all concern.

‘Oh, that’s too bad!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s a beauty, that other one. I thought something didn’t look right about you. “Not enough foliage,” I remember thinking to myself at one point, but there was so much else to be worrying about, I didn’t give it more’n a passing thought. Come and speak to Matthew,’ she added, nodding towards the man counting the money. ‘If someone’s playing a stupid prank, he’ll soon give ’em short shrift.’

They went off together, arm in arm, animosity and professional jealousy forgotten. I went back to my post behind Albany’s chair.

By the greatest of good luck, he and Lord Hastings had been so deep in a ribald assessment of ‘Mother Earth’s’ physical charms that he had failed to notice my absence. Not so the page, who whispered in my ear, ‘And where’ve you been?’

I spun round. ‘So you’re back, are you? And suddenly you can speak English. Well, understandable English.’

‘Oh, I’ve always been able to speak English,’ Davey replied in that cool, light tone of his. ‘It’s just that I don’t always choose to. Where have you been?’

‘I might ask you the same question.’

He smiled his sweet, effeminate smile. ‘There’s no mystery about that. His Grace sent me to the kitchens to get something to eat. Unlike yourself, I don’t go wandering off on my own, but wait until I’m bidden. It’s easy to see that you’ve never been in service to the nobility. Which raises the question why exactly are you here?’

There was a slightly contemptuous note in the young voice that flicked me on the raw. I longed to tell him the truth, but managed to bite my tongue. Instead, I retorted with equal contempt, ‘You ought to listen more carefully, Davey, when your royal master speaks. He told you, I heard him, when I first joined the household in London, that I’m his personal bodyguard. It’s my job to protect him from harm. He fears his brother’s assassins.’

‘He has good reason,’ the page nodded, adding, ‘Well, mind you do protect him, or it will be the worse for you.’

Before I could take exception to this threat, the king rose from his seat, announcing it was time for bed, and everyone else rose with him. Albany turned and beckoned to me at the same moment that his two squires emerged from a doorway at the back of the dais. Davey fetched a couple of torchbearers to light us all back to the royal chambers where James Petrie was waiting to assist his master to undress, while I took the opportunity to divest myself of the hated yellow shoes, hose and amber tunic, stripping down to my shirt and climbing in beside Albany in the massive four-poster bed. The page dragged his own truckle-bed from underneath it, assured himself that the ‘all-night’ of bread and ale had been placed on the table next to his master, pulled the curtains around us and bade us goodnight. Donald Seton and Murdo MacGregor likewise made themselves scarce, leaving the bedchamber for the ante-room where they both slept.

Albany was in buoyant mood and disposed to talk. He was delighted with his reception by the English nobles and by the way in which King Edward had embraced him before the feast, hailing him with all the familiarity of a fellow monarch. I think that for a moment even his natural cynicism had evaporated, and he was allowing himself to believe that he would indeed be crowned as King Alexander IV.

‘I’ve come to the conclusion, Roger,’ he said, linking his hands behind his head and staring up at the canopy above us, ‘that maybe I’ve nothing to fear from the English, after all.’ This was the wine talking, and I had no doubt that he would sing a different song in the morning. ‘No,’ he went on, ‘the danger lies, as I always thought it did, with my dear brother.’ He turned his head on the pillow. ‘You’ve not discovered anything yet?’

I hesitated, then answered slowly, ‘I’m not sure.’

He was alert on the instant, heaving himself up onto one elbow and peering anxiously at me through the darkness.

‘Out with it, man! What is it?’

‘A silly incident, Your Grace. Nothing more.’

‘Tell me!’

So, somewhat reluctantly, fearing what I felt would be his quite justifiable ridicule, I told him about the man in the Green Man mask.

‘I thought it would prove to be one of the mummers late for his entrance,’ I said. ‘But that turned out not to be the case.’ And I proceeded to describe my meeting with ‘Mother Earth’ and her ‘consort’. ‘So Your Grace can see,’ I concluded, ‘that I was right to call it a silly incident and not to wish to worry you with it. It’s nothing, in my opinion, but a stupid jest being played by one of the mummers’ troupe on another of their number. Your Highness has nothing to fear. You may sleep easily in your bed.’