White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (6 page)

‘“Immunity from punishment by virtue of position.” That looks very interesting, I must say! Not exactly guaranteed to stir the mind, let alone the senses! Forget that rubbish, Dickon, and look at this!’

He produced a small book of hand-painted pictures on vellum from his scrip. “Images From the Saracens’ Harems!” Now that’s more like it!’ He slammed shut Richard’s great book and thrust the book of pictures under the boy’s nose. It showed a naked couple sexually entwined in various positions, most looking very uncomfortable. Richard pushed it away, disinterested.

‘You’re just not natural, boy! Are you of the other persuasion, like the Greek men and boys we’ve been studying?’ George bantered.

‘Don’t needle him. He’s just a bit young yet, that’s all! You’re three years older than him, remember! He’ll get interested eventually!’ laughed Francis Lovell.

‘Well, he’s a slow starter then. You’re only a few months older than him, and you find them fascinating like Rob and I! I hope he wakes up soon, or he’s going to be such a bore to drag around!’ retorted George scowling.

‘Leave him alone, George! Just because what he’s reading is boring to you! Richard has the best mind of us all. Master Gardner has said so more than once!’

Richard quietly opened his great book of law again and recommenced reading, completely unruffled by the banter going on about him. He was used to it and did not even bother to answer George’s remarks. In fact, he had not opened his mouth at all. The look on his face gave the impression to George that he was above it all, and that infuriated his elder brother. Little prig! Thought his superior intelligence set him above other mere mortals, did he? He needed teaching a lesson! He would think of some way to bring him down a peg or two!

Richard had learnt long ago that the best way to deal with George when he was in that kind of mood was to ignore him. He knew that it made his elder brother angry, but he didn’t care. His best defence was silence, as, all his life, comments had been made, directly or indirectly, about his inadequacies, physical and otherwise. He just didn’t respond, and it amused him to see that this attitude could drive those making the remarks into a fury of frustration when he didn’t rise to their bait.

‘I asked you a question, Dickon! Have I got a queer for a brother then?’

Richard deliberately pretended not to understand and feinted the question. He was bored with George’s stupid remarks.

‘If it’s queer to want to get on with the work I’ve been set, then I suppose I am. Now go away and get on with your own work!’ He understood perfectly what George had meant about the Greeks; he just did not choose to answer; that was all.

‘George has got a point you know, Dickon! That book does look rather heavy for you to take so deep an interest in at your age!’ commented Francis, ‘And why this particular part of the law? It looks like you’re learning it by heart!’

Richard looked up, meeting his enquiring gaze with a smile. Francis was his best friend, and he loved him like a brother—more than a brother—certainly more than the irritating George. He must be honest with him.

‘It’s been on my mind ever since New Year that Lord Hastings could get away with no punishment at all after such an evil deed.’

‘Oh, you mean the pregnant twelve-year-old girl, I suppose?’ interrupted George.

‘But Edward dealt with the situation fairly—he gave her father a lot of gold!’

‘But that wasn’t justice! That just wasn’t enough! He should have had Hastings arrested, tried, and punished! And he got away scot-free, as Edward has done nothing about it, because William is his friend! What Hastings did would have been bad enough with a woman—but to do it to an innocent child!’

‘Forget it, Richard! Edward told you to at the time! He’s the king, so he’s the one who dispenses justice and decides whether to punish offenders—not you! Why should it concern you so?’ George sneered, yawning. ‘Get your mind on something worthwhile!’

‘It is worthwhile! What could be more worthwhile than a proper system of unbiased justice for all men, rich or poor, without fear or favour? That is what I understand the King’s Justice to be! Edward must do something to reform the law! It is his duty as king to see that the system which got so lax under Henry VI is put right! People knew that he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—do anything to control their behaviour, so they took advantage wholesale. They are still taking it! But Edward is strong and clear-minded. He is well-loved and respected. Surely he should be able to do this, if he puts his mind to it?’

‘So speaks the infant lawyer! If it’s the king’s business, then leave it to him, and take an interest in boys’ more normal pursuits!’ George grinned and slapped Richard’s back.

‘How about joining us tonight? We’re riding into York to see what we can find to amuse ourselves! Understand? All this wretched, boring study! What’s it for? I enjoy the weapon and horse-training and the music, singing, and dancing lessons even, but all this mathematics, religion, latin, and law—well, I find them quite pointless. What use are they? When we are knights, we will spend our days fighting, no doubt, feasting and drinking in the evening and f***ing at night! The rest is irrelevant!’

George shut his own book on Roman Law with a loud bang and mooched impatiently towards the window, where he moodily stared down.

‘You would not dare to speak so if Master Gardner were here!’ commented Robert Percy. ‘You know he is always telling us that we need informed, cultured minds in our position! Studying these things is supposed to achieve this!’

‘Who cares? It’s boring, boring! I’m practical and realistic. I know exactly how I will spend my time when I am of age—and it will not be poring over books or having deep discussions about religion or the law!’

George looked out of the window again, trying to find something, anything, to ease his boredom.

‘Ah, now there’s someone interesting!’ He pointed down below. ‘Come and look!’

Francis and Robert stopped what they were doing and joined him, but Richard acted as if he had not heard.

‘Who is it?’ asked Robert. ‘Where?’

‘Isabel Neville and her sister Anne.’

At these words, even Richard left what he was doing and joined the other boys. He was very fond of Anne. Next to Francis, she was the one closest to him as friend and dear companion. George looked down at the girl he wanted more than any other. She was tall, stately, and gentle in manner. And he knew she felt the same way about him as he did about her.

‘I have asked Lord Neville point-blank whether he would consider our betrothal, expecting an immediate refusal. But he seems quite amenable to the idea, after all. It is Edward, Edward, who says no! Why? What can he have against us being wed? She would agree, I know it! For her, I’d pull myself together, follow the straight and narrow! I’d drink less, give up whoring, and try to be a good husband. But it does not look as if I’m to be given the chance! Why should Edward decide my personal life for me? He decides everything else! I mean to have it out with him, once and for all!’

‘Be careful, George. Don’t get the king’s back up, or he’ll put his foot down more than ever!’ warned Francis. ‘You know how he likes his own way in everything—even more so since he became king!’

‘But I just don’t see what he objects to in the match! If he’d explain, I’d try to understand—not that I’d accept it! I’m determined to wed Isabel, whatever he says!’

‘It is strange. After all, her father has helped him so much. You’d think he’d be grateful and welcome such an alliance! Two great families uniting!’ said Robert.

‘Perhaps Ned has other reasons for objecting,’ intervened Richard. ‘I know he has become rather resentful of Lord Neville lately, feeling he interferes too much now Ned is king. He no longer requires his help in making important decisions, but still Warwick insists on trying to guide him in everything!’

‘You may have a point, young Dickon. But I like my own way too and will not be put off, whatever Ned feels about Warwick now! Isabel is the only one who can keep me steady. I know I take the easy way too often—she would be an incentive to discipline myself! I can have any girl I want—and frequently do—I have plenty of money, large estates, but none of it means anything without Isabel!’

The two girls, arm-in-arm and chattering quietly, quite unaware they were being watched and talked about, disappeared around the edge of a tower, and George gave up his frustrated musings. Sighing, he picked up his set book on Roman Law, and all of them had only just settled back to work when Master Gardner could be heard returning.

Raglan Castle, Gwent, South Wales, June 1464

‘Not far from thence. A famous castle fine, that Raggland hight, stands moated almost round—The stately tower that looks on pond and poole. That fountain trim, that runs both day and night, Doth yeeld in showe, a rare and noble sight!’ (fifteenth century poem).

‘Hundred rooms filled with festive care, its hundred towers, parlours and doors, its hundred heaped-up fires of long-dried fuel, its hundred chimneys for men of high degree’ (Daffyd Lywyd, fifteenth century).

Henry Tudor was in the central courtyard of Raglan Castle with Maude and Anne Herbert. They were seated under the White Horse fountain, which was the coolest place to be on that baking hot June day, as they felt the intermittent spray ejecting from the fountain top, which made the heat bearable. Also, there was a little shade where they were, cast by the tall tower above them with its crenellated battlements.

Maude was teaching him how to play chess, and Anne, who had never been able to take to it, watched them both in amazement. Henry was so quick to learn that he was soon checkmating Maude, who had been taught by her father and had been playing for several years. She was a very good player, but Henry’s fast-developing skill with the pieces was soon putting her to shame.

The children had been told to keep out of the way, as the castle was being prepared for the annual Bardic Celebrations, or Gorsedd, which started on Midsummer’s Day, 24 June, that day.

This great palace of a castle, which William’s father had started building, he had continued, extended, and furnished so lavishly that it was, in effect, the Court of Wales, today played host to bards from all over Wales on this important occasion, who came to perform their great epic poems to an assembled audience of most of the nobility of Wales. Lord William was a patron of the arts and literature and had a wonderful collection of priceless manuscripts of the Welsh bards and the even earlier Druid religion in the Welsh language. These were kept in the Great Library. Some of them he had shown to Henry, who had been much interested in them, and who, William knew, was highly intelligent. Lord Herbert’s favourite, and one of the most rare and valuable, was an exceptionally beautiful, illuminated manuscript called ‘The Hours of the Blessed Virgin Mary’, written about 1440, especially for him.

This Great Library would be the focal point of the opening celebrations that evening. Famous musicians would be coming to entertain the guests too. Celebrated harpists had arrived already and had struggled up the stairs to the library to tune their instruments in readiness for the evening’s entertainment, for it was already late afternoon. Bands of minstrels would also sing and play lutes and rebecs in between the bards’ declamations. At the end of the evening, there would be dancing for the guests.

‘You may listen to the poems and the songs and music for as long as you like,’ Lady Anne Devereux had told them, ‘but I think that by halfway through, you will be ready for your beds. Some of the bards’ poems are very long!’

The cooks had been very busy all day long getting ready refreshments for the expected guests. Some would have been travelling several days to get there, and in that heat, lots of cool ale, which had been kept in the underground store cellars, would be served along with chilled wine.

But there was only one guest whom Henry was interested in—his mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, had been invited and was travelling all the way from her home in Woking, Surrey, to be there. He did not know whether to be glad or sad that at long last he was to see the mother whom he had last said goodbye to at Pembroke Castle when he was only four. And he couldn’t even remember what she looked like, except that she was small, very small.

But she was, to be fair, always writing to him with advice and guidance, reminding him how he should behave and also of his royal blood. She went on forever about that and addressed him as the Earl of Richmond, not that it had much significance for him, but it obviously had to her! He did know that Edward the King had given the estates and title of Richmond in North Yorkshire to George of Clarence, his brother, so that did not make much sense to him. She always signed herself Margaret, Countess of Richmond too, most scrupulously. He had a box full of her letters to him, all signed in this way, some of them really long and full of hard words, so that he had been obliged to get his tutor at Raglan, Master Edward Haseley, a most eminent Oxford scholar, to read and interpret them for him. He knew he shouldn’t, but he only felt mildly excited even though she was his mother. If it had been Uncle Jasper coming, then he would have been wild with joy!

She had had to get special permission to visit him too—from King Edward—so he supposed he should be grateful she was coming.

Raglan Castle, Gwent, Night, 24 June 1464

Henry lay shivering in bed, though the night was stifling hot. He was very tired and thought that maybe he was getting ill with a fever, as his head was bursting with images and thoughts which chased round and round like a hare maddened by the hunt.

So much had happened that evening: He had marvelled at the minstrels, with their singing and playing; delighted in the harpists’ mournful tunes, their fingers stroking the strings which made sounds which seemed to him like Welsh mountain streams in full flood; but most of all, he had been enchanted, mesmerised even, by the bards with their strange incantations. Their poems had been endlessly long and mostly quite incomprehensible to him, not because of the language—he knew Welsh, though the Herbert family spoke mainly English—but by the strangeness of their utterings. They had flowed over him, into him, filling him with a strange exultation.