Georgette Heyer (7 page)

Grandmother moved at last, turning her head to look at the children; she seemed remote, like a figure moulded in alabaster.

‘Madam!’ Harry said, in a strange voice. ‘Madam!’

3

They had stood stockishly, staring at her. What she said meant nothing, or so much that it could not immediately penetrate to their minds. Not until Father came to Bytham did they know that the words, ‘Mother is dead,’ had meaning. Then it was that they knew that nothing would be the same again, for not only did Father appear altered, but the security of their lives was shattered. Father left the four younger children at Bytham, with Mary Hervey; but Harry and Thomas he took away with him to London. For three nights running Agnes Rokster found the Lord John sobbing into the chalons that covered his bed.

The Foul Death took a heavier toll yet. Barely a month after the gaunt finger had pointed at Leicester the news came to Bytham that the Queen had been stricken, and was clay-cold in a matter of hours. The servants said that the King was rage-mute with grief; he had torn down the palace of Sheen in his despair: yes, rased it to the ground that none might ever live and laugh there again. The only comfort he could find was in planning the Queen’s obsequies. These were to be so magnificent that although the Queen was coffined she was not interred for a full month. Every noble in the kingdom was to attend the ceremony. There was an awesome love for you, said the nurses.

But the end of it was that good Queen Anne, who loved peace, was in her death the cause of a bitter garboil. They carried her to Westminster, and all the great lords were gathered there to do her honour save one. My lord of Arundel came late to the ceremony, excused himself to the King on the score of ill-health, and begged leave to depart incontinent. The servants said that the King, snatching his baton from a herald felled my lord of Arundel to the ground, and spilled his blood – yea, in the very Abbey, the Archbishop standing rooted, unable for a full minute to collect his wits enough to decree what should be done. The ceremony had gone on; but men had signed themselves, averting their eyes from that sacrilegious stain on the pavement, wondering what bane would now befall the realm.

The lordings thought that they would never forget Mother, but memory cheated them. So swiftly did her image fade that when her name was spoken it conjured up only the echo of a gitern; the picture of a tabler with chessmen set out on its squares, and a dimly remembered face bent over it; or a glimpse of little dogs in blue-and-white collars playing in the sunshine.

The younger children remained at Bytham for a year, and saw their brothers again only at Leicester, on the yearday of Mother’s death. Here, dressed in sable gowns, so much oppressed they dared not exchange glances, they endured an age-long requiem service. Rigorously tutored, they demeaned themselves so well that tears coursed down the cheeks of many who saw them. Four noble imps, all so handsome and so pale, and two fair maid-children, drooping in the arms of their nurses, provided a spectacle to move the hardest heart: only their attendants, silently praying that no untimely swoon should mar the propriety of the ceremony, knew that the pallor was born of exhaustion.

When the service was over, the black raiment was cast aside for the fripperer to take away; the children were attired in scarlet; a shapster measured them for state robes of bawdekin; and it seemed that mourning was ended.

They had dreaded a return to Leicester, but they found when they saw the castle again that they scarcely remembered it. Bitter memory held no place beside present happiness: the lordings were together once more, often fliting, but held by such strong ties of affection that it was many hours after their reunion before they troubled themselves even to discover what other guests were staying at Leicester.

It was a disappointment to find that Bel sire was absent. He had set sail for Aquitaine some months earlier, and had not yet returned. It was his first visit to the Duchy since it had been bestowed on him, and he could think himself fortunate if it proved a peaceable one. His new subjects were showing every sign of recalcitrance: they said that they did not choose to be sequestered from the Crown. It had to be remembered, of course, that they had a particular kindness for King Richard, who had been born at Bordeaux; but those who knew Guyenne best said that the people were curst, liking no foreigner above the average, but preferring the English to the French, whom they detested.

Bel sire had taken Sir Harry Percy with him as his Lieutenant, and Sir Harry, sent home on a mission, was at Leicester, and could often be seen strolling about the courts, with his hand tucked in Father’s arm. He and Father were old friends. They had received knighthood together; Sir Harry had gone to St Ingelvert in Father’s train, and shared the honours of the lists there with him; and although their ways had fallen lately apart they were glad to meet again, and seemed to find plenty to talk about. The lordings were a little disappointed in Sir Harry. Every English child knew the history of his battle against the Scots at Otterburn; no English child could be brought to believe that a man whom his enemies had nicknamed Hotspur was not worthy of worship; but the Lancaster boys were taken aback to discover that the hero of a score of Border fights was a man older than their own father; rather rough-mannered; not, judged by their standards, quick-witted; and speaking with a northern burr.

This accent sounded on all sides at Leicester, spoken by the tongue of a Percy, a Neville, a Beaumont, a Scrope, or a Greystoke; for a number of persons, bound to the house of Lancaster by blood or by allegiance, had come to attend the memorial service. Prominent amongst them was the Lord Neville of Raby, a tall man who was hip-halt, and spent most of his time staring at Aunt Joan Beaufort. Like Father, he was lately a widower. He had a numerous progeny, and was said to show considerable talent in the making of advantageous matches for his sons and daughters.

All the Beauforts were at Leicester: Sir John; Henry, with his swift mind, and his keen eyes lively under their tilted lids; Thomas, the least well-visaged of the family; Joan, as intelligent as Henry, whom she much resembled.

Both the great-uncles, Gloucester and York, were at Leicester, too; and my lord of Gloucester had brought his lady with him, and his son Humfrey. Humfrey of Gloucester was older than his cousins, but they held him in poor esteem. He was a nervous boy, quite unlike his overbearing father. But my lord of Gloucester was in his sunniest humour. He had spent a year trying to regain his influence with the King, and he seemed to have succeeded. Wagging tongues said that my lady of Derby’s death had raised his spirits wonderfully, for her sister, his own lady, was now sole heiress of Hereford. If he could do it he would outscheme his nephew in the attempt to succeed to all the Bohun dignities; meanwhile he demeaned himself right lovingly towards my lord of Derby.

Great-uncle York came alone to Leicester. He had lately fallen into unwit, and at the age of fifty-four had taken his second wife out of leading-strings. The Lady Joan Holland, offspring of Thomas, Earl of Kent, was his choice; and whether he was snared by her dowry or her roving eye none could tell. My lord of Derby said that he was a lickerish old fool, an overheard observation which made his interested sons recall occasions when they had seen pretty chamberers slapping Great-uncle York, and running away from him with shrieks of pretended dismay.

The children remained at Leicester for some time after the noble guests had dispersed. Some rather disquieting rumours reached them: they were to be separated again, but when, or where they were going they neither knew nor dared to ask.

They met my Lord of Warwick’s son, Richard Beauchamp, again while they were still at Leicester. He and Harry were made to joust under Father’s eye. They were quite unfairly matched, but Father wanted to see his son pitted against one who promised to become a master. Harry, whose life was blackened by Father’s determination that he should excel in this knightly exercise, entered the lists with a sinking heart. Set Harry to wrestle, and you would see what strength and cunning there was in his slim body; but when he entered the jousting-field almost any aspirant to knighthood could beat him at all points.

‘I hate jousting!’ Harry said. ‘You will have the field!’

‘No, I shan’t,’ said Richard.

The lion-look leaped to Harry’s eyes. ‘No, and indeed? Richard, dare – only
dare
to let me score one point!’

Richard’s upper lip lengthened as it always did when a smile was coming. ‘I’ll knock you out of the saddle at the first wallop!’ he promised.

‘Do so! The sooner over!’ said Harry.

Richard did not, of course, but he did not insult Harry by allowing him to score against him. My lord of Warwick sat puffing out his cheeks, and saying things like: ‘Well, well, my whelp is four years older than the Lord Harry, after all!’ Father frowned, tapping an impatient foot.

Before Father left Leicester, John knew his fate. While Humfrey and his sisters were to be placed in the care of Sir Hugh Waterton, who was one of Father’s gentlemen, he was to live with the Hereditary Countess Marshal. He could only stare at Father, going red, but bosoming his emotions. Children did not demand explanations of their parents, and since none was volunteered John never knew why he was handed over to the Countess Marshal. She was a kinswoman, but of the half-blood only, and so remote a cousin that he did not think that could be the reason. Indeed, he had only the vaguest idea who she was, and sought enlightenment of Harry. Harry said that she was an ancestress.

‘She can’t be!’ objected Thomas. ‘Our fore-elders are all dead!’

‘Not this one!’

‘Harry!’ exploded John.

‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ offered Harry. ‘She is King Edward I’s granddaughter! And
he
begat Edward II, and
he
begat our thirdfather Edward III, and
he
begat Bel sire – so if she is not a fore-elder I should like to know what else she can be!’

Thomas and John fell upon him, incensed at such leasings. When they had him flat on his back they demanded that he should retract, but as well as he could for laughing he held to the truth of his story.

‘Harry, you losel, Edmund I was hundreds of years ago!’ said Thomas.

‘No, he was not. Besides, he had two wives. Get off my chest, John!’

‘I will not get off your chest. Two wives don’t make any difference –
if
he had two wives!’

‘He had, and the second one had a son called Thomas of Brotherton, and he was Earl Marshal and Earl of Norfolk, and the Countess Marshal is his daughter. And
she
had two husbands and I forget who the first was, but the second was Sir Walter Manny, so now!’

‘Where did you learn all this stuff !’ demanded Thomas.

Harry sat up, rolling John over. ‘Wilkin!’ he said, clinching the matter.

4

Father left the children at Leicester when he went south to attend the King’s Council. From scraps of gossip the lordings understood that Cousin Richard was taking a new wife. It was to be expected that a childless King should marry again, but why he should set his fancy on a maid no older than Harry, and a princess of France to boot, was another unexplained mystery.

Hard upon the heels of Father’s departure Sir Hugh Waterton came to Leicester to take the younger children into his charge. He and his cousin, Sir Robert, were both knights in Bel sire’s retinue; he had a young son of his own, and was a good, plain man, devoted to Lancaster. Mary Hervey remained with the little girls as lady-mistress, and the whole party left Leicester within twenty-four hours of Sir Hugh’s arrival.

The lordings were fond of their sisters, but it was Humfrey’s away-going which they felt the most. He was only four years old, but so forward that not even Thomas despised his company. He had a ready tongue, and so much charm that no matter what he did he was always forgiven. ‘Soon ripe, soon rotten!’ said Bel sire, who did not like him.

It was quiet at Leicester after that; but the tedium was enlivened by a visit from Master Chaucer, who was travelling north on one of the state errands with which he was sometimes entrusted. He stayed only for a night, but left behind him a legacy in the form of a poem about one Sir Thopas. The lordings drank in Sir Thopas, and clamoured for more. Their confessor said that if they would con their catechisms as readily as they committed a lewd poem to memory he would be the better pleased. Father Joseph did not share the lordings’ enthusiasm for giants or elf-queens, and after having had his chaste ears assailed for days with snatches of Master Chaucer’s knavish rhymes he said that it would be the worse for anyone who was again heard to utter ‘He had a seemly nose,’ or ‘the giant shall be dead, Betide what will betide!’

In the autumn M. de Guyenne was in England again. Hardly had they heard the tidings than he arrived at Leicester, bringing in his train a scrivenish-looking foreigner whom he had found disconsolately following the Court from place to place. He told his grandsons that this was an old friend, a notable scholar, and a Canon of Chimay: one who could tell them better tales than Master Chaucer had ever imagined. They were not at first hopeful. A notable scholar, with white hair and a grey gown did not promise much in the way of entertainment, besides, he spoke English as one long unaccustomed; and although they could all of them speak the language of Oil they much preferred their birth-tongue.

But Bel sire was right: the Canon of Chimay, whom Bel sire called Messire de Froissart, had such tales to tell as held them spellbound, seated on the floor at his feet, hugging their knees, and holding their breath for fear Bel sire should suddenly say that they should all of them be in bed.