Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (11 page)

What did Richard feel at this time? He would never know, for this was too big to be discussed. He knew that.

The ride to the coast was endless, silent and intensely cold but his thoughts were colder, infinitely more painful than any he had ever endured in his life up to that time.

After what seemed a lifetime, they arrived at the windswept lonely coast where a small ship rode reluctantly at anchor, fighting the waves as if it wished to be gone. They were hustled aboard; almost immediately the lines were cast and they were out on the turbulent winter waters, the darkness all enveloping, the wind seeking every gap in his clothing, biting at his flesh. A sailor helped him down below deck and out of the wind. The ship rolled, dipping and rising through the waves which sought to destroy it. George saw that some of the crew could not contain their last meal and he did not blame them, the motion was enough to cause sickness in the best of sailors. In a very short time he was being sick himself, much to his disgust and annoyance but the motion of the ship could not be denied, it was affecting the hardiest of them.

In the crowded cluttered cabin he clung to the timber support and watched his brother with eyes that were not really seeing him, they were all but blinded with tears he could not and would not shed. He reminded himself that a royal prince simply did not weep, no matter what the situation. He blinked a few times and really looked at Richard, who was white, his eyes wide and staring. So far Richard had held on, not given way to the sickness which seemed to plague virtually everyone on board, including their squires and guardian, John Skelton, and their attendants. George’s sickness was as much through fear and anger as sea-sickness. Again! He raged, again I am taken away from family and home! Again I lose everything! God in heaven, what I have lost this time! You have taken from me my lord father, my brother, my lady mother, my sister and my home, cast me out upon the sea, sending me to another land where I know not who will take me in! God in heaven, hear this prayer, I beseech you! We are two small boys, lost and afraid and fatherless. If nothing else, grant us safe passage to France, for of a surety if the wind does not drop we will all be lost in the waters and there will be no princes left to follow our brother of March to the throne and the House of York will fail in its desire to rule all of England and I must be there when he is crowned King of England and oh God hear this prayer and grant us safe voyage and bless my brother for he suffers so and –

Another bout of sickness took over, breaking off the rambling prayer that was going nowhere but paining his heart. There was little left to discharge, his stomach hurt with the retching which brought nothing but bitter tasting bile to his mouth. Richard looked at him with sympathy but said nothing. His mouth was a bitter compressed line, his emotions, as always, tightly under control.

After what seemed like a lifetime of surging waves, howling winds, snapping rigging and the cries and shouts of men trying to hold the ship on course, they found harbour in France and the wild tossing finally eased into a gentle sway that was almost as bad for someone whose stomach had been badly disturbed by the sickness. John Skelton gathered up his two small charges and took them up into the fresh air and their first sight of the land that was to accommodate them for a while. George found himself longing to stand on solid earth, to look at things which did not sway and move in front of his eyes, which didn’t confuse and confound his sense of balance.

The welcome sight of horses and armed guards waiting at the harbour drove away the bad memories of the voyage. From one kind of movement to another, he thought, but this one I can handle. They waited impatiently for the men to help them disembark, then walked with Richard to the horses. He mounted the horse indicated to him, threaded the reins through his fingers, leaned forward on the horse’s neck and whispered into its ear, knowing it mattered little which language he spoke but using his hard learned French to tell the animal he was glad to be off the ship and onto something that he understood. The horse tossed its head and snorted, as if in agreement. George laughed aloud and Richard shot him a puzzled look but said nothing. They moved off at a brisk canter and George felt, for the first time since the disastrous news had been brought to Baynards Castle, that things might actually be turning around. The grief, coupled with bewilderment at being snatched from family and home, had created a stone that sat somewhere in his throat but it eased slightly as he looked around at the new landscape, heard different voices and sounds, became aware of different smells and thought, with a rising sense of excitement, that this could be a most diverting experience, if only he could suppress his emotions at the reason they were there.

The duke of Burgundy himself welcomed them, complimenting them both on their French, their clothes and their appearance. George instantly decided half of it was rubbish but the other half pleased him very much. The apartments they were given were sumptuous in the extreme, hung with rich tapestries and silks, with good thick carpets underfoot and fine china ewers and jugs for their washing needs. Servants rushed here and there, doing their bidding. They were treated like royalty, albeit royalty in exile.

There is always a downside to good things, he decided later, learning that a tutor had been appointed to carry on their lessons. But there were good times, riding out across the countryside on fresh energetic horses, meeting and talking with one William Caxton, a merchant from Bruges who had many wonders to show them. A room in which all types of weather could be seen startled and mesmerised them. It was something beyond their experience and was awe-inspiring. All this was carried on with one part of George yearning, almost outright longing, for news from England: what was happening, did the family survive, were the Yorks triumphant, were they soon to return to what was, if briefly, home?

Weeks of lessons, weeks of riding, weeks of adapting to the new life, new experiences, no people to meet and hopefully remember, clouded some of the bad memories and the grief subsided to a point when he could think of his lord father without choking back tears. At night he would lie awake, listening to the nocturnal birds and the sound of the guard tramping the walls, wondering why he felt such a sense of loss. His lord father had been a distant figure but an important one, not someone they knew, but someone they revered. It was, he decided, as if the central part of their life had been taken away, the core around which they had all revolved. When his lord father had been away on one of his many missions, life went on as normal. When he was due to return, life became harassed and everything seemed turned upside down. That presence, that person was no longer there. Edmund had gone, too. It left only Edward, tall, strong, valiant Edward to be the central figure in the family. If he survived the battles which were surely being fought.

Despite all his longings, when the news arrived that their brother Edward had been pronounced king and they could return to England, it was an anti-climax, almost a sadness, to pack up their new belongings, their new clothes, and think about going home. The duke’s home had become their home, familiar, secure and once again they were on the move, this time to a country where their brother was king.

Then the full implications of the news sank in.

If his brother was King, he was next in line to the throne. This knowledge made him dizzy with the sheer glory of the thought. At last the Yorks were where they should be, where Susanna and everyone who had taught him had said they would be, rulers of England. Surely now all would be calm and quiet, life would become relatively normal, there would be a period of peace and even living in one place for longer than a few weeks, wouldn’t there?

Before they could return to England, George and Richard were feted at Bruges, given a magnificent feast the boys could hardly begin to eat and showered with gifts and compliments. It was an outward sign of the great regard in which the Yorks were held. George told himself over and over, I am a York; I am George Plantagenet, second in line to the throne. And my golden brother is king! Can anything be more wonderful than that? The news finally quietened the cold corner of grief he held for his father and his brother, it almost compensated for the exile they had endured and certainly made him feel as if he could take on the world and win.

When they embarked on the ship to take them back to England, John Skelton, the guardian entrusted with their care, told them both he was highly pleased with their behaviour, their impeccable manners, their courtesy and consideration for their hosts and said he would say the same thing to the King when he got back. George smiled, knowing that everyone who had worked so hard to drum manners and courteous behaviour into him would be well pleased to know their efforts had not been in vain.

Chapter 12

It felt as if we had been away for half my lifetime but it was not really that long. Not from this perspective, anyway. From this perspective, this cold chamber, for it is, despite its hangings and rugs, despite its fire and comforts of wraps and cloaks, is dire. To escape from it would be heaven, but that is an impossibility. Edward, my liege lord, holds that power in his substantial hands and he is not releasing it.

So, I escape into thoughts. I think of the Coronation, of the glory of it, the splendour of it, the extravagance of it.

We had new clothes, glittering clothes; more gold than cloth, more jewelled than stitched. We had new clothes because we were part of our brother’s Coronation ceremony.

I knew our lady mother was sad but happy for her son at the same time. I knew it as I knew the day was dawning but it made as little impression on me as the new day did. My mind, my heart was wrapped up in the ceremonials for I was to be steward of England for the occasion. I was a major player in the ceremony. I repeat myself again, I know, but at that time the word hardly left my mind, it was more exciting than every Christmas up to that time, more than the wonders of Burgundy and the magnificence we experienced there.

I recall lying awake, listening to London. How different its sounds were to that of Burgundy! Here were the sounds of the watch, the late rioters spilling from inns and bawdy houses - young as I was I knew their meaning and their use - the occasional fight, the sound of dogs guarding their territory, cats squalling in the darkness as they fought for food or a female cat. I asked myself then why did it sound so different? Dogs and cats sound the same in any country, fights start no matter what nationality the people are, but somehow – in London it was different. It became the London sound, a city that did not seem to sleep. Now, within these walls, I am shut away from the sounds, the sights, the smells that are the city I love. It is yet another deprivation I suffer.

I recall allowing myself to dream, a small boy imagining himself to be as tall as his golden brother and he himself about to be given the crown of England.

How did it feel to govern the whole country, to hold the lives and incomes of men in your hands, to be able to raise up or throw down anyone you chose, for no other reason than that you wanted to?

How did it feel to be able to take the throne of England, to know that your blood-line gave you an inalienable right to do so?

What was it like to have men and women step back from you in deference to that which you are, not that which you were?

These and a hundred other questions flashed through my ever-active mind; the answers were there for the future, the dreams of the future. For if anything happened to Edward – and with a soldier King, who knew what would happen to him? - I would be king. It would be my Coronation being planned, my ceremonial processing being worked out meticulously and I would award the honour of steward of England to someone, with the appropriate assistance if I deemed them too young to take on the role, just as I had Lord Wenlock to help me.

Such thoughts were good for the dark hours of the night: in the daytime they had to be shut away, firmly boxed and locked, for fear of anyone uncovering disloyal thoughts.

I loved my brother the King but I had ambitions, desires, dreams, plans and vowed one day I would put them all into practice. One day the whole world would be in my hands, just as they were about to be put in his.

Being made a Knight of the Bath was ritualistic in the extreme. I can, if I think on it hard enough, remember the intense excitement of riding to the Tower, dressed in exquisite clothes, passing through narrow smelly streets, the houses leaning toward one another over my head, whispering about me and Richard, saying how handsome we were, what fine knights we would be, what chivalrous adventures awaited us – or was I allowing the excitement of the occasion to go to my head? If I was, would anyone lay blame at the door of the Tower where we stayed?

I was scarcely aware of the Mayor and the others who accompanied us. I was only aware of myself, my horse, my clothes, my importance. There are those who would say I have continued to be that way. They might be right but there is no way for a man to stand outside himself and judge his actions and thoughts. It must always be through the mirror of another’s words. I have experienced enough of those.

This chamber is cold. It is not like the one in which we rested that momentous day.

We were feted with an elaborate banquet, fine wine and ale, musicians and songsters singing our praises. Only then did I fully take in the number of people to be made Knights of the Bath. More than twenty, I believe, but I gave up counting as everyone was moving about, talking with this one and that. I thought that was foolish, so I stayed in my place, ate my food, drank my wine and kept a close watch on what Richard was doing so he did not over-indulge. There were hours of ritual and vigil ahead. Watching Richard was foolish, actually, he never over-indulged in anything.