Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (12 page)

We were ceremonially bathed. Hot water, scented herbs, attendants standing respectfully by, we were immersed in the water and then dried, carefully, dressed in silk and escorted to the chapel. There we were to pray all night and contemplate our future as chivalric knights.

The chapel was lit with many candles whose flickering flames brought the paintings to life, seeming as if any of the figures might step out from the wall and embrace us, welcome us into the community of knights before we got that far. There was much shuffling, murmuring, scrape of sandal or boot, coughs, muttered exclamations as someone found a seat too hard, or caught their shin or leg on something. Then, slowly, it all subsided as each of us found a level of meditation or even dozing as we whiled away the long dark endless night hours. Apart from the occasional creak of wood and a sigh here and there, the chapel was a haven of peace.

We were supposed to kneel all night in silent contemplation. We found seats, of course we did, young as we were, and most of us were very young, we could not endure a night spent kneeling on cold slabs. I doubt that anyone would have criticised us for that.

Did I sleep? Probably. Do I remember? No. It seemed an eternity of darkness, of guttering candles, of occasional snores from those who did, until they came for us in the morning.

Confession, Matins, Mass. Solemn, enduring, thought provoking. Committing ourselves to God and the service of the King and our country.

Then a chance to sleep properly… for a short time, anyway.

Another escort, but this felt different; I was almost a Knight, deserving of the respect that being a knight accorded me. We all rode with an individual escort of men-at-arms, in our eyes we were already elevated to the status of Knight. People gathered to stare, peasant stock, London people, shabby, ragged, half starved by the look of them. We were a display of wealth such as they would never achieve in a lifetime. A small part of me said it was wrong, a bigger part of me said you were who you were. They were not Plantagenet or York or aristocracy. The gulf was wide between us. I knew it then, I know it now.

The great palace at Whitehall stood waiting for us, guards of honour holding back the spectators. Squires took the reins as we dismounted, our cloaks swirling around us. I felt part of the group this time, part of a brotherhood, a member of the elite. It felt good. It felt right.

The throne had been draped in cloth of gold for the occasion. Edward was wearing scarlet and black, picked out with heavy gold thread. He looked every inch a king, magnificent, omnipotent, strange. It was not my brother Edward, the golden giant who swung me round and round when he visited but a solemn monarch who said the words, held out his hand for me to take and kiss, thus creating me a knight, a king who kissed me and bid me be a good knight.

I recall being overawed with the splendour of it all and the responsibility which went with it, standing back and watching as Richard was created a knight too. I wondered, briefly, what it meant to little Dickon, if it was just another part of his life to be taken as seriously as study and practice was, if it had touched his heart and mind. I would not ask, it was not something I would want to discuss, for being elevated to the knighthood was a big step, one to treasure and nurture within the heart, not share with someone who in all probability would not look at it in the same way as he did. Then it would be spoiled.

In any event, the time for such discussions had long since passed. Even being exiled together had not recreated the closeness we had built during our time in Coventry. Somehow the return to London and all that happened afterwards had broken down the bridges we had managed to build. Once again we were two individual people, one with a serious outlook on life and the other with a determination to enjoy life to the full, no matter the cost.

There was not that much time to enjoy simply being a knight. Four months later, amid the same sort of ceremony, the gold, the red, the confession, the Mass, the ride to Whitehall, this time accoutred in a superb outfit of blue and gold, I was given the spurs of a duke and the title of Clarence. I was, truly, heir apparent.

I was twelve years of age. The future looked golden. Richard, created duke of Gloucester, was to go to Middleham, to be in our cousin Warwick’s care for tuition whilst I would remain in London. I know not why these arrangements were made and I did not question them. We were obedient servants to our liege lord. We did as we were told. The way looked clear for me to make my mark at court. I was determined to do just that. In style.

Looking back at those times, I cannot believe how innocent I was, how much I believed in the House of York, how much I venerated and trusted my brother the king. I cannot believe how much it all changed as the years went on. Listen, angel, spirit or whoever is with me in this bleak room, yes, my brother the king, bleak room! You call it royal apartments and it is a bleak room, it is a prison! I repeat myself, I know that, I repeat myself, I know that … small joke for an empty mazer to echo back to me. Listen, whoever is here, that boy was innocent of the treason that took over his mind later, so I call him innocent even if he was worldly-wise in the ways of the court and of people through so much tuition. But tutors cannot give you a pathway to walk, that you choose for your own self. I chose mine. Do I regret it? That is not to be discussed right now, there is too much still to remember, to drag out from the recesses of the mind, to examine, dissect, analyse and then throw back into the darkness from whence it came and where it truly belongs. I am not really conscious of why I am putting myself through this torment, unless it truly is because the alternative, thinking of nothing, is far worse.

Oh, then I was innocent. I believed the world was ours, the world being England and all who lived within in its limits, defined only by the sea. I believed I had a place in that world, one that surrounded me with luxury, riches, fine clothes, wines and companions. After all, did my brother the king not have all that: the finest of clothes, expensive Italian boots – and for his great height, they were expensive indeed! – the finest of jewels, the pick of the women, for did he not have to do any more than smile at them in the way he had and offer them a kingly kiss and they were his? He had the finest of apartments, a riotous court where laughter and song were ever present, courtiers by the hundred and a staff of thousands to take care of his every wish. And did I not desire to have a court like that, a place I could call mine, where I held sway and everything was at my command, not another’s? Believe me, I did.

We were not to live with our lady mother after being made honourable knights but were given a home, Richard, Margaret and I, in Greenwich. Apartments were refurbished for us, we were given clothes and money and, even more important in my eyes at that time, clerks who doubled as attorneys to help us manage our money. One such was John Peke, who took a liking to me as a young boy and stayed with me until – well, we need not go into that, spirit, angel, whoever. We know, don’t we, when John Peke decided to leave my service? Ah, you wish me to say … all right, I will say, he left when I turned against the family, in his eyes anyway. His loyalty was first to the king and second to me. But there is much for me to remember before that time arose, much for me to contemplate, many blessed and unblessed hours to think on. Why bother, I ask myself again, but then the answer comes, with what else can occupy your last hours, oh drunken foolish Clarence? Would you rather dwell on that which is to come? In truth, I would not. Hence this walk into my past.

And there I did indeed live in luxury. For a start I had henxmen appointed to be my companions. Noble as they were, they deferred to me, for they were not dukes. I had the feather bed, they the floor, albeit on a mattress. For the first time in an age I had no need of my brother and sister to be with me, although they were there, of a surety they were. Well, for a while, then Dickon was moved to Middleham and we began that separation which cost us our peace of mind as a family. At least, that is how I see it. But then, oh then, together we learned the finer arts, adding to that already taught but now adding archery and jousting. I did not overly care for the tournament, but learned to ride well at the tournai which stood me in good stead when riding to battle in later life. That was the only reason I persevered at my training, so I could ride to battle. I recalled so vividly my desire to throw everything away and ride out alongside my brother the king and that was my incentive for doing well. One day I knew I would ride in battle and I did. But I never entered the tournaments. That was for show, for exhibitionism and, despite my desire for the good life, the rich and the luxurious, that was one show I did not care to enter. Come, Clarence, there is none to hear you but the shades who even now surround you as they await your joining them; be honest with yourself, why did you shun the tournament?

Because I did not dare fail. I did not dare find myself sprawling on the turf with another standing over me with raised sword declaring himself to be the winner. That would not do for the proud duke and ever was I a proud duke, from the moment my brother the king created me thus. Even now, drink sodden, desperately lonely, in horrendous pain and despair, I know myself for what I am, a proud duke. No matter what happens to the body I inhabit, no matter what the world may think of me when I am passed from this side of life to whatever awaits me on the other side, I will remain forever the duke of Clarence and none can take that from me. Call me whatever other names they will, it matters not, for whatever they call me must be attached to my name, George duke of Clarence, once heir to the throne of England and owner of great estates, once a loyal if not devoted husband and once owner of great wealth. I have to leave the wealth here, it cannot go with me into that other world, whatever and wherever I find myself, so now it doesn’t matter that others live in my homes and share my possessions among themselves, or that my wealth has gone back to the Treasury for my brother the king to use as he wishes. What matters is the pain that I have and the suffering in my heart and mind and my longing for it to be over and the fear that it will be. How foolish is that?

God grant me release from this pain!

Let me say this to whoever is listening to my thoughts, incoherent, coherent, whatever they might be at this moment: I was twelve years old when I had what was virtually my own small court, henxmen, master of henxmen, clerk, servants, horses, wardrobe of expensive and beautiful clothes, my own harness, my own sword, my own quiver of arrows and bow. I had a favourite hawk and a favourite dog. I did not favour alaunts, I found them ugly and without style, whereas the wolfhound is a dog to be proud of. I had a wolfhound of my own. I had thoughts, dreams and ambitions and those were kept very much to myself. If any learned of them it was if I spoke in my sleep for I made myself a vow that none should know of my dreams and ambitions for fear of laughter and derision. Ever did the spectre of humiliation haunt me! Ever did I fear too that all I had would be taken from me again, as it had been at Ludlow! Ever did I fear that the home I had established would be destroyed by others and I would again be cast onto the uncertain sea of Fate, wondering at all times where I would be washed ashore and what I would find when that happened. And, of a surety, did it not happen, just as I feared? I did not realise the need for security at that time, no child puts it into words but every child surely longs for that which is safe, familiar, known and trusted to be around them, to protect and guard them. This I sought, without fully realising it until now, for the remainder of my time on this earth.

Did this influence my actions in later life?

Chapter 13

The years which followed were good. More than good, they were excellent, they were the shining years of George’s life. Living in absolute luxury, adored by courtiers, courted by hangers-on, having the ear of the king when he needed it, enjoying growing up, taking part in what were literally state occasions, such as great funerals, his was the life he had seen others lead and had waited impatiently for life and his king to give to him. Money was no object. He was cared for by the king and although he depended on him for his day to day living, his rich wardrobe, his many servants and squires, his stable and his kitchen, he wanted for nothing. Everyone deferred to him and in so doing, made him feel he was second only to the king himself.

Edward dallied with this woman and that, nothing serious, nothing lasting. Whoever caught his attention ended up in his arms and his bed. Everyone talked of who the latest favourite was, no one laid bets on who would be his queen. After all, he was still a young man with many years ahead of him, there was no rush, no hurry, there were plenty of Princesses and others of noble rank for him to choose from – when he chose to choose.

But, paranoia, that ever present ‘condition’ for those who lived in the full glory of court, convinced George he needed to know all that was going on, not part of it, not rumours and innuendo. He needed facts, cold hard facts. He began to gather information from this one and that, dropping a coin here, a favour there, a release from a debt, anything to gain the loyalty of a devoted band of informers. His Fool, Durian, was the collector of information, someone who had contacts of his own to add to the growing band. George considered himself well informed, but even they were not enough to save him, the whole court and the country from the shock of what came next.

Edward’s secret wedding with a Lancastrian widow.

The announcement of Edward IV’s marriage to Elizabeth Wydeville hit the court like a thunderbolt. Its repercussions swept on and on, taking all before them as the implications began to show themselves. It was not so much ripples flowing out from a stone thrown into a lake as a boulder crashing into the water and flooding the surrounding land. Questions were asked in every corner of every hallway, in every room and in every heart but none more than in George’s own heart and mind and the mouths of those around him. The widow with the silver hair and the fertile womb had ensured that George was dispossessed of his claim to the throne of England should Edward predecease him which, in the natural order of families, should happen.