The King's Grey Mare (8 page)

‘Here,’ said Beaufort to the King, ‘would seem to be your foreign guests, my liege.’

Henry rose uncertainly and sat down again.
The Queen showed anger.
Briefly all her beauty vanished, leaving an expression of keen malevolence; her eyes became suffused with blood and the sweetness of her lips assumed a vitriolic line.
A dangerous face; even as it faded and was replaced by her customary calmness, its memory was awesome.
Slowly the three knights dismounted and walked towards the royal loge.
They drew off their velvet caps and knelt.
Warwick’s mantle parted to show two crests; two helms facing each other, one bearing the Beauchamp Swan for Warwick the other the Griffin of Montagu, for Salisbury.
Richard of York came forward first to kiss the King’s hand.
He was small and slight, with a high-boned, determined face.
Dark hair with reddish lights fell to his shoulders, and his eyes were a clear, fanatical blue.
Salisbury behind him was blond, more obviously Plantagenet, with great height and breadth of shoulder.
Warwick, with the sureness of one who draws all eyes, came last to the dais.
Like his father of Salisbury, he was tall and strong.
His adamantine will was apparent in the long, clean-shaven chin and the grey eyes which, though large as a woman’s, had a glittering, hawkish fire.
Through a long silence the King spoke doubtfully.

‘God’s greeting to my lords.
Why are you come?
I fear we are all unready for you.’

Barnaby, picking his teeth, said, in a voice loud enough to make heads turn: ‘God’s Tongue!
Why does he speak thus, unwarily?
There’s much truth in
politesse
 …’

Warwick rose toweringly.
His rose-dappled mantle swirled; black hair curled on his brow.
Everything of him was puissant and challenging and might have said: Behold us!
We of the blood royal, of Edward the Third …

‘My liege, we heard there was a joust, and have humbly come to see the sport.
Also–’ he paused, enough to weight his words – ‘we wondered eagerly on your Grace’s health.’

‘The King is well.’
Queen Margaret answered, swiftly, coldly.

Warwick turned smiling to the Duke of York, ‘Then, our hearts rejoice, eh, Dick?
These rumours should be hanged at birth, like wantless pups … ’twas said your Grace was ailing.’

‘News of this joust has travelled fast,’ said Beaufort of Somerset slowly.
‘It was arranged very recently; a privy affair.’

Warwick said, into the wind: ‘My lord of Somerset is skilled in knowledge of privy affairs.
So much that others–’ he indicated Richard of York – ‘reck not what transpires in the royal Chamber of Council, though they have every right!
And the fancies that are spread!
for one, that in England, fair women rule …’

Beaufort’s face turned to angry chalk.
But the King answered, amiable, artless: ‘By St.
John!
I know not what men say!
At Walsingham lately I had a sign.
If my lords do but love one another, all will be well.
Will you ride in the tourney, my lords?
Some of my knights lack an adversary.
My lord of Somerset is keen to pledge a great spear against a worthy opponent.’

‘Nay, my liege,’ said Warwick easily.
‘This day we are not equipped.
But I’ll touch steel with you, my lord of Somerset.’
The breeze blew his hair into serpent coils and his jaw tensed.
‘Another time.
Gladly.’

The King laughed, a high, irrational sound.
His eyes wandered mazedly over the three knights.
He said suddenly: ‘And Richard of York?
Well, cousin?
How does your lady wife, the Rose of Raby?’

Again, Warwick was the spokesman.

‘Thriving, both long and large,’ he said lovingly.
‘There’s no more goodly sight than a fair woman great with child!’

And his eyes travelled insultingly over the Queen, her weasel waist and boyish breasts.
She sat up straight, whitefaced as Beaufort, and the tear-drop pearls on her bodice quivered with her hard breathing.
Warwick said musingly:

‘Children!
they are strange creatures, my liege.
Why, only lately, my cousin of York’s young son, Edward of March – but ten years old – talked of leading an army … all fancy, certes, yet what fiery blood!
As if the spirit of dead warriors moves the child!’

The Countess of Somerset gasped.
‘Jesu!’
she whispered to Elizabeth.
‘The dogs make no effort to hide their aspirations to the Crown.
Why does the King suffer this goading?’

Henry said gently: ‘Will you be with us long, my lords?’

Richard of York answered in his mellow, distinct voice: ‘Alas, your Grace must give us leave to ride as soon as the sport is finished.
I must to Fotheringhay again.’

Salisbury added, laughing richly: ‘Yes, Sire.
We save our strength.
I promise you shall see us riding, armed, one day!’

‘For God’s love, start the tourney,’ breathed the Countess of Somerset.
She looked appealingly at her husband and motioned towards the marshals, waiting with their white wands.
Beaufort nodded and bent to whisper in the King’s ear.
A look of utter blankness crossed Henry’s face.
He looked up at the banners, the horsed knights waiting, their rich armour winking strongly at each pavilion.
Esquires hung desperately on the bridles of excited horses.
The King looked down at the green grass, as if seeking a sign, and was dumb.

‘Will you be seated, my lords?’
said Queen Margaret, in a voice like frozen rain.
Warwick, Salisbury and York bent the knee again and withdrew.
Elizabeth saw them advancing towards her own loge, Warwick growing bigger, taller, filling her sight.
She shrank closer to the Countess, her eyes riveted upon the enemy’s steel and velvet, the reddish aureole of York’s flowing hair, Salisbury’s strength.
Her disquiet grew.
Mary have mercy!
Warwick was taking his place in the loge beside her.
She turned her face away, while the Countess, shaking with indignation, inclined her head stiffly and murmured a cool greeting to the Earl.
Then, she heard him say:

‘Madame, you do not present me to this lady?’

She heard the ‘Countess’s reply.
Because there was no help for it, she turned and looked straight into Warwick’s eyes.
Yes, she said inwardly; this man is danger.
This powerful renegade is truly my foe.

‘Dame Woodville.
So, Madame, we meet.’

He was that rarity; a man who looked at her without admiration.

‘I had hoped,’ he said deliberately, ‘to have had a reply to my letter in your own hand, not your mother’s.
I had imagined also that it would be far different from the one I received.’

So Jacquetta had given him a straight answer.
Haughtily Elizabeth replied: ‘Sir, I thank you for your interest in my affairs, but the matter is closed.’
She looked again towards the royal loge, where Beaufort and the Queen bent to King Henry, who gazed dreamily still at some mystery in the grass.
It was an ant, carrying an egg on its back, and he appeared to be talking to it.

‘The King seems
distrait
,’ remarked Warwick.

On the sward below, the first contestants, James Earl of Wiltshire and the Duke of Buckingham, sat their horses, holding great foil-tipped lances couched.
The breeze fluttered the destriers’ housings, and the Earl’s beast pawed with a massive hoof.
The trumpeters waited, silent.
And suddenly, Richard of York laughed.
It was a merry, sweet laugh, but all the danger in the world was in it.
Queen Margaret moved swiftly.
She rose, taking the royal wand from Henry’s lax hand.
She shimmered, pearly and slender; the white oval of her face was savage, anxious.
Her clear voice carried over the emerald sward.

‘I, Marguerite, as Lady Paramount, give the command.
Earl Marshal, let the tourney commence!’

Under the scream of the clarions and the yell of ‘
Laissez aller
!’
Warwick said, with a studied insolence.
‘So it is true!
Fair woman
do
rule England this day!’

Elizabeth slewed to stare at him.
As the roaring thunder of hooves mounted and the two knights approached one another at a gallop, she knew that Warwick had not done with tormenting her.

‘Do not imagine I have forgotten the slight you offered my liegeman, Dame Woodville,’ he said, almost amiably.

She looked away again, pretending to be absorbed in the joust.
With a splintering crash, the two destriers met on either side of the palisade.
Wiltshire’s lance, held crosswise at an angle, found its mark in the ornaments on Buckingham’s helm.
Simultaneously, Buckingham’s point lodged in the decorations of his opponent’s gorget.
Both knights were unhorsed.
The riderless horses thundered on, one of them plunging into the barrier dividing the lists from the spectators.
The air was rich with cries.

‘You could have had my good lordship, Dame Elizabeth,’ said Warwick softly.
‘Yet you called down a murrain upon my person.’

One of the combatants was cast like a beetle on its back, helpless in his heavy armour.
Esquires rushed to aid him.
Elizabeth saw herself again in the hall at Grafton Regis, crying: ‘Pox take Warwick!’
and the outraged faces of the visiting Yorkists.
Evidently they had lost no time in relaying her insult to their chief.
She stared unseeingly at the lists.
The contestants were horsed again and riding, faster this time, lances held loosely, ready for the moment of impact and the hard high thrust.

‘So, Dame Woodville,’ pursued the inexorable voice, ‘a knight of Jerusalem does not suit your lady’s palate.
Likewise my patronage is to be spat upon … did you think it wisdom to make an enemy of me?’

The assault of his eyes drove into her.
Under that terrible look the high preparation of words cringed and died.
She feared and loathed him.
Then the Countess of Somerset, who had been listening closely while feigning interest in the joust, saved her.
Turning, she said kindly: ‘They fight like lions.’
(Wiltshire and the Duke were on foot, hacking at each other with broadswords.) ‘Isabella, is the sport too rude for you?
Jesu!
you are trembling.
Will you not rest a while in our chariot?
Barnaby – where is the boy?
– will escort you.’

‘
Merci, merci, madame
,’ whispered Elizabeth.
How clever of the Countess!
A little of her courage returned and she cast one bitter glance at Warwick as he rose to allow her to step down from the loge.

‘Yes, my lady,’ he said softly.
‘You run from me.
How fortunate are women – they may run while men must fight.
Run, Dame Woodville.
We shall meet anon.’

Barnaby gave her his arm and she leaned on him, affecting faintness as they walked down the tapestry-hung passage between the loges, to where there was calmness and birdsong and the air was sweet with crushed grass and blossoms.
Barnaby grumbled all the way; he had been enjoying himself.
She dismissed him.

‘Will you be safe?’
he said.
‘God’s Eyes, I never thought to play wetnurse.
Go rest then, lady.
I’ll see you later!
He ran off, eager to witness the next joust, which was to be between Lord Clifford and the Great Talbot.
He had laid heavy wagers on Buckingham’s victory and was furious at missing the outcome.

Elizabeth could see the litters drawn up by the roadside, with grooms and pages sleeping in their shadow, but she did not go to them.
Instead, she turned and walked down a little leafy road, where Eltham’s crumbling palace stood among great oaks.
There was a small stone archway through which she passed to find herself in a garden so beautiful that she stood entranced for a moment.
Two or three tame peacocks bowed and danced upon the clipped lawns, yew hedges bounded the abundant rose-beds, and there was a large lake, white with lilies, their delicate stars nestling on broad flat leaves.
Between the flowers the water was so clear that she could see every detail of her pale reflection.
She knelt, and the pallid Elizabeth wavered up at her and smiled softly, with teeth like white seeds between scarlet lips, and eyes still shadowed with a remnant of disquiet.
The friendly water welcomed her image.
Far away, she heard the distant clarions’ scream and the rumble of hooves, like noises heard in a dream.