The Midsummer Crown

EIGHT

My first thought was that he had aged, suddenly.

I had encountered Duke Richard briefly only a few weeks previously, and even then he had seemed careworn; hardly surprising considering all that had happened in such a short space of time. The death of his adored elder brother and the Woodville conspiracy against himself had been shocks from which it would take any man a while to recover. That was only to be expected. But now, standing before him in the superb hall of Crosby’s Place, the evening light filtering in through the great oriel window, the magnificent red and gold ceiling arching above us, the splendour of marble flooring beneath our feet, his face, always thin, looked even more drawn with anxiety. And there was something feverish about him; his dark eyes glittered and he played even more constantly with the rings on his fingers.

During our ride through the London streets from Baynard’s Castle to Crosby’s Place, I had taken the opportunity to quiz Timothy on what had happened at the Tower that morning. Was it, after all, true that Lord Hastings had been summarily executed?

‘No, of course not,’ the spymaster had snapped, adding bitterly, ‘although it won’t stop the rumour spreading and being repeated as fact over and over and over again until some people are convinced of its truth.’

‘So what did happen?’ I wanted to know.

Timothy grunted. ‘There was a conspiracy, of course. We knew that — well, you knew that — with Mistress Shore trotting to and from Westminster Sanctuary to keep the queen dowager apprised of events. For the moment, all the conspirators are in custody in the Tower. What will become of most of them, I can’t say. But I’m sure that Hastings will be tried and executed.’

‘How do you know he’ll be executed?’ I had queried uneasily. ‘How can you possibly anticipate the verdict?’

‘Oh, don’t pretend to be naïve, Roger,’ he retorted angrily, as we had turned from Thames Street to ride up Old Fish Street Hill. ‘The man’s guilty. You alone could testify to that. Jealousy of Buckingham is what’s at the bottom of it. Hastings has always been at daggers drawn with the Woodvilles, and until a week or so ago he was my lord Gloucester’s closest ally. Until, that is, he discovered that the place he had assumed was lawfully his, as the Protector’s right-hand man, had gone to my lord Buckingham, along with God only knows how many perquisites and concessions that Hastings had counted on as his by right. So he threw in his lot with the queen dowager and her adherents in another attempt to get rid of my lord. And if there’s one thing more than any other that Duke Richard can’t pardon it’s betrayal of trust. “Loyaute me lie” is his motto, and he expects the same of others. He won’t let the Lord Chamberlain — ex-Lord Chamberlain — escape to plot again. Hastings will die, but at least he’ll have been given the dignity of a trial.’ I saw Timothy glance sideways at me. ‘Now what’s the matter?’

I had shaken my head; I couldn’t explain without incurring his further anger. Indeed, I had felt angry with myself for quibbling because I could clearly understand the necessity for Hastings’s removal. (One of the things I had noticed since my arrival in the capital that morning was how many of the Lord Chamberlain’s retainers were thronging the London streets. They constituted a small army and could undoubtedly, if called upon, pose a serious threat to civic stability.) All the same, there seemed little difference to me between condemning a man to the block out of hand and letting him stand trial when the verdict had been prearranged.

‘Roger!’ I realized with a start that the duke had extended his hand and I dropped to one knee to kiss it. It was icy cold in spite of the warmth of the evening. He laughed. ‘You were miles away, my friend.’

I glanced up guiltily and wondered how many other princes of the blood royal would dismiss such negligence with a smile. But his always unexpected sense of humour shone through to lighten what, for me, could have been a very nasty moment.

‘Your Highness, forgive me,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘You must blame my rudeness on lack of sleep. I only arrived in London this morning after a night spent in a very indifferent wayside inn.’

He nodded. ‘I hear from Timothy that you insisted on going to Minster Lovell before coming here. Did your visit offer up any resolution to this mystery?’

‘Not that I’m aware of at the moment, my lord.’ I saw him arch his eyebrows and added, ‘I can never tell what might prove to be useful in time.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ He waved me towards a cushioned stool with armrests and resumed his own seat in a carved armchair. ‘I can only ask you to do your best and to do it quickly. However, that’s not the reason I summoned you here.’

At this point, he turned his head and glanced at someone whose presence I had so far failed to notice, and I was somewhat disconcerted to find that the duchess was also in the room.

I had not seen the Her Grace of Gloucester for some time, and then only at a distance when the duke’s sister, Margaret of Burgundy, had visited London two years previously. Like her older sister, Isabel, the long-dead Duchess of Clarence, she was a delicate, almost childlike woman, and I reflected yet again how strange it was that the line of that mighty, vigorous man, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, had run to seed in these two fragile daughters. I had once, more than a decade ago, done the Lady Anne, as she then was, a service, and she smiled at me now in instant recognition.

‘I’m happy to see you again, Master Chapman.’

‘And I you, Your Grace.’ I got clumsily to my feet and made my obeisance.

‘Oh, sit down, man. Sit down.’ Her husband waved an airy hand. ‘We’re not standing on ceremony this evening. This is a meeting strictly off the record. It’s never taken place. You hear me, Roger?’

‘I do, Your Highness,’ I said, wondering what on earth was coming.

There was a protracted pause; so protracted that although it was not my place to do so, I felt obliged to fill it.

‘I trust Prince Edward is well, Your Grace,’ I said to the duchess.

A shadow crossed her face. ‘We think him a little better now that the warmer weather is here, I thank you, Master Chapman. He has had a nasty cough this past winter, as indeed have I, but we look to the pure air of the Yorkshire moors to cure it. He will stay at home for the present.’

‘Sweetheart, the boy’s strong enough if he isn’t coddled into ill health by you and that nurse of his.’ The duke spoke with all the irritation of someone who knows full well that what he is saying is what he wishes to believe and not what he knows to be the truth. He turned towards me and cleared his throat. ‘Roger, when you went to France for me last year, on that. . that mission. When you spoke to. . oh, I forget her name. The Frenchwoman married to the English soldier. .’

‘Mistress Gaunt. Yes, Your Grace?’

The duke was twisting the ruby ring on his right-hand little finger even more rapidly than before, but quite unaware that he was doing so. He went on, ‘She told you the story of my two eldest brothers’ christenings. What. . what did you make of it?’

‘What did I make of it, Your Highness?’

‘Yes, man, make of it?’ Agitation and impatience were blended in equal measure.

‘In what particular, my lord?’ I was confused, groping my way down an as yet blind alley. What was it he wanted me to say? In my experience, the duke rarely showed exasperation with underlings, but I sensed that at this moment he was close to losing his temper.

The duchess took pity on me, leaning forward in her chair. ‘Master Chapman,’ she said in her low, sweet voice, ‘do you believe that the story of those two Rouen christenings — that of the younger child being so much grander and better attended than that of the elder — is proof of my mother-in-law’s ancient claim that the late king was her bastard child by the archer Blaybourne?’

I drew a deep breath. I was on quicksand here and had to tread carefully. I addressed the duke. ‘My lord. .’ I hesitated, then plunged. ‘Yes, I believe that the story does in some measure support the Duchess of York’s claim. But it is not even proof, let alone proof positive. There could be other valid reasons why the lord Edmund’s christening was made so much more of than the lord Edward’s.’

‘Such as?’

I thought quickly. ‘The duchess may have been unwell after the late king’s birth and not in the mood for a great celebration.’

The duke looked sceptical. ‘My mother was never unwell after giving birth to any of us. But let’s presume your theory’s true. Why would she and my father not wait until she was in better health to hold the christening? Edward was the much longed-for son; a healthy boy following the early death of an older brother at Hatfield before my parents left for Normandy. And why was my father always so much fonder of Edmund than of Edward? They went everywhere together — until they died together, at the battle outside Wakefield.’

I grimaced. ‘When Your Grace puts it like that. .’ I glanced imploringly at the duchess.

She did not fail me. ‘I think, sweetheart, that what Master Chapman is saying is that while the story is a very strong indication that you are the rightful king, and have been ever since George was executed, it isn’t sufficient proof in itself. And didn’t you tell me that this woman, this Mistress Gaunt, is dead?’

The duke nodded, his naturally thin lips compressed to an almost invisible thread. ‘She was murdered by a Woodville spy. Isn’t that so, Roger?’

‘Unfortunately yes, my lord.’

‘Further proof, wouldn’t you agree, of the story’s significance?’

For answer, I asked him again, as I had asked him on various occasions the previous year, ‘Is there no possibility of persuading the dowager duchess either to confirm or deny what she said at the time of the late king’s marriage?’

The duke sighed. ‘As I’ve told you before, my mother refuses to discuss the subject. One can see why, of course. For a start, she is a very different woman to the one she was nineteen years ago. She has embraced the religious life and would no longer find it acceptable to be seen as a woman who once cuckolded her husband. And then again, young Edward is her grandson, even though he is half Woodville.’

Duchess Anne said bitterly, ‘My mother-in-law is a very obstinate and difficult woman, Master Chapman.’ She coloured and gave a little gasp, realizing the magnitude of her indiscretion.

The duke laughed. ‘Just be thankful, my love,’ he admonished her, ‘that your very unwary opinions were expressed to someone as trustworthy as Roger. But it wouldn’t do to make them generally known.’ He looked across at me. ‘And now, my friend, I am going to be equally indiscreet because I know you can keep your mouth shut. I must tell you that in spite of her steadfast refusal to repeat her words concerning my brother Edward’s bastardy, my mother does consider that. . that I should lay claim to the throne.’

‘My-my lord?’ I felt as if someone had punched me in the guts.

‘Particularly,’ the duke continued as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘in view of Bishop Stillington’s testimony.’

Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells! How that man kept cropping up in the family history of the House of York. His friendship with the late Duke of Clarence had been marked, and his imprisonment in the Tower at the time of Clarence’s downfall and execution — a downfall undoubtedly brought about by the Woodvilles — had suggested some kind of collusion between the two. And a few weeks earlier, during my first journey to London in pursuit of Adela, the bishop had arrived at Reading Abbey, late one night while Jack Nym and I were lodging there, in a flurry of agitation and self-importance. He and his retinue had also been highly visible, riding around the streets of the capital during the days that followed. And now it seemed he possessed knowledge which could bolster my lord Gloucester’s entitlement to the throne. If so, it must be secret knowledge that he had shared with the Duke of Clarence in the past; knowledge that had led to that rash young man’s undoing.

Yet again I hesitated, unsure of what I was supposed to say. But the duke’s expectant look encouraged me to ask the necessary question.

‘What — er — testimony is that, my lord, if I’m not being too presumptuous?’

The duke smiled. ‘It will be common knowledge in a day or two, in any case, but until then, Roger, I trust you to keep silent, at least, to outsiders. My own people know what’s in the wind.’ He glanced at his wife, who nodded her approval, and then went on, ‘Bishop Stillington informs me that the late king’s marriage to the Widow Grey wasn’t legal. Edward had already secretly plighted his troth to, and solemnly promised to marry, the Lady Eleanor Butler, daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury. No one knew of this except my brother, the lady herself and Bishop Stillington who conducted the ceremony of betrothal.’

‘And as you must be aware, Master Chapman,’ the duchess put in, ‘a betrothal, in the eyes of the Church is as binding as are the vows of marriage. The children of my late brother-in-law’s so-called marriage are therefore illegitimate, and as my nephew Warwick is barred from the throne by his father’s attainder, my husband is undoubtedly king. I tell him that he must immediately claim what is rightfully his.’

I was more than a little surprised at how forcefully the duchess spoke. She had always struck me as so self-effacing a person as to be almost a cipher, as having no existence beyond her husband’s shadow. I suppose I had failed to realize that under her gentle exterior she was her father’s daughter. During his final years, Warwick had fought and died so that one of his girls might be consort to England’s king, and she could see the present opportunity only as the vindication of all his hopes. And her son — Warwick’s grandson — would one day wear the crown.

I was startled by the duke’s voice cutting across my tumultuous thoughts.

‘Well, Roger, has the cat got your tongue?’

‘Your Grace, I. . I. .’

‘Don’t know what to say, is that it?’ He looked disappointed. ‘I had hoped that your reaction would give me some indication of how the world in general would regard my assumption of the crown.’

‘The country will be safer — ’ again it was the duchess who spoke — ‘with a strong man to rule it than with a young king who will be at the mercy of his squabbling relatives, all vying for power.’

‘I–I suppose so,’ I answered feebly, my head reeling from the impact of the news.

I thought of that angelic-looking, fair-haired, blue-eyed child riding to St Paul’s and also of the way the women in the crowd had drooled over him, their maternal instincts at fever pitch. I wondered how they would accept his being put aside, his being proclaimed a bastard, in favour of a man of whom the Londoners knew so little. And what would happen to him and his brother and numerous sisters once their uncle had usurped the throne? Some detached part of my mind noted with interest my choice of phrase. Did it mean that I didn’t believe Bishop Stillington’s story? That I thought it a fairy tale concocted between him and Duke Richard?

And yet the story had logic to it. Had not King Edward’s marriage to Lady Elizabeth Grey been a secret known only to themselves and the Woodville family for many months? The king’s closest advisers, his own mother, brothers and sisters had been kept in the dark until his betrothal to Bona of Savoy had been arranged and he could no longer conceal the fact. So was it not possible that Edward had gone through an earlier equally secret ceremony with another woman? Except, on that occasion, he had persuaded her into bed without actually having to marry her. But if he had promised marriage, it was true that the Church would regard it in a serious light.

But serious enough to depose a king by declaring him and all his siblings bastards? I wasn’t at all sure about that.

‘Your Highness could refer your argument to an episcopal court,’ I suggested. ‘To Rome, if necessary.’

The duke shook his head. ‘There isn’t time, Roger. This dilemma needs resolving as soon as possible.’ There was a moment’s silence before he added, ‘I must admit your attitude saddens me. I had hoped, knowing what you do, that you would be glad that I can rightfully claim what you surely must feel is really mine.’

‘Your-your Highness,’ I stammered, ‘I’m sorry. It-it’s just that I wasn’t prepared. . It’s been a shock. .’

He got up and I rose with him. He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘No, don’t apologize, my friend. For I count you as my friend, you must know that. We share more than just the same birthday: we share trust, you and I. I shouldn’t have used you like this, as a sounding board, when I haven’t even come to a final decision, myself. Now, sit down again and tell me how your enquiries are progressing. This unfortunate affair must be resolved before. . Well, let’s say as soon as possible. It’s not the sort of cloud I want hanging over me at present. I refer, of course, to the disappearance of Master Fitzalan and the murder of his tutor.’

I resumed my seat. ‘Your Grace, I only arrived in London this morning. I’ve hardly had time-’

‘No, no!’ he interrupted sympathetically. ‘I appreciate that. But the locked room, do you consider that an insurmountable obstacle?’

With a great effort of will, I forced myself to concentrate on the matter now under discussion, attempting desperately to control my whirling thoughts which were everywhere at once, still trying to assimilate the implications and possible consequences of what I had just been told.

‘My lord, unless you believe in the agency of supernatural beings, there has to be a rational explanation. But exactly what that is, I must confess, for the moment eludes me.’ His smile and nod of encouragement began to settle my mind. This was the master and friend I had known for so many years; a man of understanding, intelligence and courtesy. I went on, ‘Sir, do you know the ancient custom of the crown and the bough?’

‘I do,’ said the duchess, as her husband hesitated, frowning. ‘It is, as you say, Master Chapman, a very old custom indeed, probably dating from Saxon or pagan times.’ (Which, I guessed, to someone of her exalted Norman lineage, would probably amount to much the same thing.) ‘It has to do with Midsummer Eve,’ she explained to the duke, ‘when people wear garlands of leaves or a spray pinned over their hearts. Someone is crowned Midsummer king or queen, just as, at the beginning of spring, a girl is selected as Queen of the May.’

‘And you think, Roger, that this custom has some bearing on the case?’ As he spoke, Duke Richard’s eyes met those of his wife and they both broke into spontaneous laughter. It was the intimate merriment of a couple who had known each other a very long time, the roots of whose friendship went back deep into their childhood; a couple who could read each other’s thoughts as easily as if they were their own.

‘An omen,’ said the duchess delightedly, and the duke nodded.

I said hastily, ‘My lord, I have no reason — no positive reason — to believe that this custom has any bearing on either the murder of Gregory Machin or on Master Fitzalan’s disappearance.’

‘I understand.’ Smiling, Duke Richard again rose to his feet and, for the second time, I jumped up with him. ‘You like to keep your own counsel until you suddenly astound us all with the answer. Save your protestations, my friend. You’ve never failed me yet and you won’t now.’ I groaned silently under the weight of his confidence. He continued, ‘And concerning that other matter, I know I can trust you to say nothing until it becomes public knowledge.’

‘Not even to Master Plummer?’ I couldn’t help asking.

‘Oh, Timothy!’ The duke gave a sudden mischievous grin. ‘He knows everything. Or thinks he does.’

A beringed hand was extended for me to kiss. This time it really was the end of my audience. I was being dismissed. I knelt once more and pressed his fingers to my lips. The duchess, too, proffered her hand and as I bowed over it, I was rewarded with a glowing smile.

‘I am so happy to have renewed our acquaintance, Roger,’ she said, using my Christian name for the first time.

‘And I, Your Grace.’

Timothy was waiting for me in the courtyard with the horses, now rested and fed. He was plainly agog with curiosity.

‘You were gone long enough,’ he accused me. And when I didn’t answer immediately, he added, ‘You must have spun a good tale, for by my reckoning you can have found out very little as yet.’

I gave him a sharp look as I mounted my brown cob, wondering if he were being disingenuous.

‘The duke realizes that,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t why he asked to see me.’

The spymaster raised his eyebrows. ‘No?’

’No. He wanted to know if the information I’d gleaned in France last year had convinced me of his right and title to the crown.’

Timothy sucked in his breath. ‘And you answered. .?’

‘That whatever I thought didn’t matter because it wasn’t proof. But now. .’ I paused significantly. ‘But now, it seems it isn’t important. Bishop Stillington has convinced the duke — and the duchess — that the marriage of the late king and the queen dowager was invalid anyway, and that all the children are therefore bastards.’

Timothy gasped. ‘He told you that?’

‘Under a promise of secrecy, of course. Although it seems it won’t remain a secret for very long. If I understood the duke aright, he intends to lay claim to the throne and depose his nephew any day now.’

We clattered down Bishops Gate Street Within, crossed the Poultry and entered Grasschurch Street almost directly opposite. The June evening was edging toward dusk, the sun trailing long fingers of coral and orange and pearl as it sank towards the western horizon. Many of the night-soil workers, who preferred to get their unpalatable task over early, were in and out of the houses, clearing privies and cesspits, loading the unsavoury contents into tarred barrels which were then carted outside the city before the curfew bell shut the gates, ready for disposal the following day. The taverns and alehouses were full and, judging by the noise emanating from every one we passed, doing their usual roaring trade. There would be a good few thick heads come the morning.

Timothy remained silent, wrapped in his own thoughts, until we had crossed Eastcheap and were nearly at the turning into Thames Street. Then he said slowly, ‘He trusts you, Roger.’ But then he could not help adding, ‘What made him tell you, I wonder?’

‘Well, my guess would be that he wanted to test my reaction. Duke Richard regards me in the light of his Everyman. What I feel today the world will feel tomorrow.’ Even to my own ears, my tone sounded bitter.

Timothy turned his head to consider my profile. ‘And what will the world feel tomorrow?’ he asked eventually. ‘Nothing to rejoice my lord’s heart if the grim look on your face is anything to go by. Kings have been deposed before — the second Edward, the second Richard, the late King Henry — so why the expression of disapproval?’

I hesitated while I marshalled my turbulent thoughts. ‘They were all grown men,’ I said at last. ‘Men who had reigned long enough to prove themselves inept and unfit to rule. Many people were tired of them. They weren’t angelic-faced young boys who had antagonized no one. I tell you, Timothy, however much I’m convinced in my own mind that Duke Richard truly is the rightful king — if, that is, you discount Clarence’s son because of his father’s attainder: an attainder that could be reversed, by the way — I still believe he’s making a terrible mistake. And another thing,’ I added as he opened his mouth to speak, ‘all three kings you mentioned died in mysterious circumstances. Probably murdered.’

‘You’re not suggesting. .’ my companion began hotly.

‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ I snapped back. ‘I’m just stating a fact.’

‘I hope you didn’t say all this to the duke’s face!’ The spymaster’s anger was palpable.

‘Do you think I’m that sort of a bloody fool?’ The bile was rising in my own throat. ‘But maybe I should have done. At least it would have been more honest. And if, as I think was the case, he really did summon me to Crosby’s Place to test my opinion as that of the common man, then I’ve probably left him with a false impression.’

‘You don’t understand, Roger,’ Timothy said in a low voice, trembling with passion. ‘You just don’t comprehend the danger Duke Richard is in, and has been in, ever since his brother died. The Woodville faction will do anything — anything, I tell you! — to get the king in their power. And that means nothing less than my lord’s death, and quite probably that of the duchess and their son, also.’

‘Then he should appeal to the people,’ I answered, equally low, equally passionately. ‘They don’t like the Woodvilles. They never have. But deposing his own nephew and usurping the crown? No! The populace at large won’t like it.’

‘Bishop Stillington can prove-’

‘They’re not familiar with Stillington! He could be in collusion with the duke for all they know!’

We were both shouting by now and passers-by were turning their heads to stare. I took a deep breath. We were almost at our destination. The towers of Baynard’s Castle were visible ahead of us, and it was time to call a truce. Timothy felt so, too, and held out his hand, which I grasped.

But we parted in silence as he turned his horse about to ride back to Bishop’s Gate Street.