Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (23 page)

Allying his family to the Lancastrian regime. I could not believe he would do that, I did not believe he had arranged this without speaking with me about it. Was I not family, was this not my wife’s sister?

Never was a youth more unpleasant in his outlook and his manner; never was a marriage more doomed to be made in hell than to ally that – person – with the shy, mouse-like innocent Anne who was no more than fourteen years at that time and naïve beyond belief. I surveyed the marriage in my thoughts and I knew then, with absolute certainty, that Warwick’s plans were way beyond those of manipulating a mere duke, even if he was brother to the king of England.

I knew too that once again I was second best. If I thought losing my child was a sword thrust to my heart, then this was surely the stroke which severed my head from my body. It went straight back to my younger days, brought back all the hurts, the ‘never quite good enough’ feelings I endured then and fought against all my later life. It went straight back to them and revived them as surely as a necromancer breathes life into a dead animal and makes it dance once more.

I would fain have turned my face back to my brother at that time and begged forgiveness, taken what retribution he inflicted and endured it without a sound. I would fain have deserted my cousin of Warwick and left him to his own nefarious plans and schemes.

Why did I not do it then?

Chapter 25

England. No more grating of French voices, no more often unidentifiable food on the plate and no more enforced accommodation with unwilling hosts. At last, home again with good ale, good English food and his wardrobe restored so once again he could dress in a manner befitting his rank and he could relax once more. Or so he told Durian, as they discussed his exile and all that had gone on whilst he had been abroad. A successful Lancastrian uprising, his brother the king in exile – just for once let Ned suffer the hardships of being in that unwelcoming country, he thought with great glee – a king oddly unprepared for the return of the Warwick faction and the victory was theirs. There was a lingering sadness that his brother of Gloucester had chosen to go into exile with Ned but ever was his brother’s loyalty to his king more than any other. Had he heard of the marriage of the woman he said he loved so much? If he had, what effect had it on a heart so controlled it was a wonderment it continued to beat of its own accord? Perhaps that was one of the reasons for leaving England, to leave some memories and unwelcome thoughts behind. George knew full well that it never worked that way, no matter where you were, sadness and bitterness accompanied you if it was there in the first instance.

Durian had been busy, along with the other senior members of George’s staff. They had maintained the homes still in his name, sought to restore his reputation and worked for his return. Durian had gathered a mountain of information, all of which would need to be sifted and assimilated to bring George up to date with the happenings at court and in every other major city.

“I need to talk to Your Grace about the words I picked up from a member of the clergy.”

George’s interest was piqued immediately. It was not often that Durian spoke with such seriousness about an item of information; it had to be of great interest. But he also realised that Durian wanted them to be alone when they discussed it, which made it even more frustratingly interesting.

“As you wish, Durian,” he said as casually as he could. Durian smiled his all too knowing smile and carried on with the information he had gained during George’s enforced exile.

Later that day, with a mazer of malmsey wine in one hand, the other resting on the head of one of his devoted wolfhounds, George surveyed the papers on his table and decided to ignore them for the time being. Isobel had something she wanted to talk about, some gathering of the Nevilles and her need for another gown to be made for her to attend, one that was unlike anything she had in her collection already. George could not deny her anything, he was already prepared to tell her to go ahead but knew she found pleasure in the telling, the minute detail of what it would be like and what lace would be attached here and there. He was patient with what he referred to as ‘house matters’, knowing it was part of the daily round of living, even though at times he wanted to dismiss it all and stride out to the stables, grab the reins of his chestnut stallion and take off for a headlong gallop across the countryside, letting the movement of his favourite animal and the rush of the wind take all his worries from him. Warwick had told him not to go anywhere without a full armed guard, for there was still insurrection in the air, still many unresolved problems, without the ones they were about to generate in their ongoing efforts to take over the country for themselves. Someone somewhere might have instructions to quietly dispose of the troublesome duke of Clarence. George doubted that his brother the king would go quite that far but whether others in his court would feel the same was another matter. The lessons of the chance remark which had caused the murder of Thomas Becket were not lost on the duke.

My heart’s not in the battle any more, he admitted finally, not really. But there was no going back. There never is a way to go back, to unpick the threads of the acts you had committed and their consequences. What you had to do was live with the consequences, whether good or bad. Although his heart was not in it, the desire to be king was still there, simmering beneath the cultivated smile of indifference and quiet acceptance that he showed to the world. Warwick believed him pliable and biddable, Isobel found him a willing and acquiescent husband, the staff could not believe he was not storming around in his ferocious and fearsome rages and his lady mother congratulated him in her letters on a change of attitude. What she had heard, what she had surmised, he didn’t know and didn’t dare ask. What would she say if she knew he was prepared to use the bastardy rumour to further his cause, despite the fact he did not believe it for a second? No doubt he would go down in her estimation but that would be nothing new. I am proud to be duke of Clarence but King George would sound so much better to my ears and my heart. But let none know of this ongoing desire of mine, let them think I am content with my lot. It is easier for me to manipulate them if they know little of my real thoughts.

What of the thoughts of King Henry right now, restored to the throne of England yet again? What are his feelings now? Would he have preferred the quieter life he had before politics once again invaded and created their own confusion and problems?

Isobel entered his room, surrounded by a flurry of ladies in bright colours, bringing with them various perfumes and high giggling voices. They displeased him but it was Isobel’s choice to surround herself with those ladies, not his. Of a surety he would dismiss them all and find people who were sensible and quiet in their demeanour but he knew that his wife took pleasure in their company. For the most part he tried to ignore them.

“How good it is to be back!” Isobel sighed with happiness, sitting down next to George and fanning herself ostentatiously with a beautiful jewelled fan. “Why do you keep your rooms so hot, George?”

“I cannot bear to be cold,” he replied, glancing at the women who were smiling and simpering as if trying to attract his attention. It was something he deplored. Did they not understand he had taken a vow of devotion when he married? His brother of Gloucester apparently had a bastard child somewhere but then, he was unmarried and entitled to populate the court with children should he so wish. That was a burning pain somewhere deep in George’s mind too, following the tragic death of their first born, Isobel had not become pregnant again and George longed for children of his own, heirs to the name and the estates he had fought for and won against all the odds. Won from his brother of Gloucester, won by his servitude to his brother the king and now by his own uprising. He needed heirs to ensure the land and the money remained in his family, not returned to the Treasury to be dispersed amongst those who did not merit having such a reward.

Isobel chattered on about a great gathering of Nevilles and the gown she just had to have made, not to mention the Christmas revels. George grunted his assent, nodded in the right places, told her to choose whatever was right for her, to ensure the seamstress was a good one and then ostentatiously reached for the paperwork. Isobel took the hint and rose; her ladies fluttering around her as she walked to the door. George would see her again at dinner but that was always a formal occasion when marital talk was not so free flowing.

When the room was quiet again, he put the papers back on the desk, picked up his mazer and gloomily swirled the wine around before drinking it. It isn’t what I expected, he told himself. I wanted – what did I want? A companion that matched me in intellect and wit, knowledge and interests, someone of bold mind and inner strength. Oh she is a decorative wife, she has her own charms and there is no end to the delight I take in her body, but she is not of the mind that I am. It is as if we speak different languages, as if she is here in England speaking French and I am only speaking English.

Exile had not been good for the marriage. It had imposed strains that were difficult to overcome and her long period of convalescence following the death of the child had made it much harder. He had tried to be a good husband, to abstain from the demands he would otherwise have made of her, tried to comfort her over the loss which had torn him apart as much as it had Isobel but somehow had not been able to share his grief with her and so she thought he had not been as affected by it as she had. A small misunderstanding that somehow had not resolved itself.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, propping his heels on the edge of the desk. I am so tired, he thought, so very tired and this pain in my head is worrisome, to say the very least. Maybe I am drinking too much again, despite all my good intentions.

Durian came in, closing the door after him. “I did not think you would wish to wait until after Compline for the news, sire,” he said with barely concealed excitement.

George swung his feet back down to the floor and sat up straight, the pain temporarily forgotten. “You’re right, Durian, as usual. Do tell!”

“It’s one Stillington, sire, a man of some consequence in the church hierarchy and known in court circles. Bishop, I do believe, Bath and Wells? It is said, and I have to insist I cannot prove it yet, that he is aware of a pre-contract of marriage between one Lady Eleanor Butler and your brother the king. That would mean…”

“How much is he aware, Durian?” asked George, his pulse racing as he considered the implications of such a piece of news. A possibility that the marriage to the Wydeville mare was likely to be illegal. Which meant…

“I have to find out more, sire. I have to find out much more but I could not wait to give you this part of the information. I do not know if he was witness to the contract or assisted at the ceremony or – I do not know yet. But I will find out. You know I will.”

“Is my sainted brother really living in illegal partnership with Elizabeth Wydeville, Durian? If so…”

“Your Grace follows my thinking precisely.” Durian spoke with the quiet assurance of one who is certain of his own thoughts. “I would not mention this to anyone, anywhere, at any time, sire, until we are sure and until we can use it in the right context.”

“That means controlling my thoughts completely. I can do that if I curb the drinking and I have been meaning to do that, as you well know.”

“It would be wise, sire. All things in moderation, as your brother of Gloucester knows and practices.”

“Damn it, Durian, Dickon knows too much about control and not enough about letting go occasionally! He doesn’t enjoy life.”

“Do you?”

The question was asked with bluntness without a courtesy title attached to it. George was shocked into silence for a few moments while he considered his response. Lie, and be known to be lying or be truthful and admit that which nagged constantly at his heart and mind. Either way it was not something he wanted to confront at this time but the question hung between them like smoke caused by a down draught in the great hall. It could not be ignored.

He sighed deeply and pushed a hand through his hair. He caught himself doing it, realised it was a trait his brother of Gloucester had and dropped his hand immediately. Some time had gone by and still he had not responded to the question. Durian stood, straight and rigid as a guard on duty outside the door, staring at George, willing him to reply.

“There has never been anything other than the truth between us.” George spoke at last, breaking what was fast becoming a difficult and embarrassing silence. “There seems no need to disseminate the truth now, Durian. No, I do not enjoy life.”

“As I thought.”

“What is there to be done about it? I do not have the prize I sought, there is still a rift between myself and my brothers, my income is not as much as I would like and-”

“Your marriage is not as fruitful as you hoped.”

Truth. Cold, blunt, unpalatable truth. George all but stepped back from the statement which carried a feeling he did not wish to confront, either. But there was no escaping the truth. He had always told Durian that truth was everything, he could disseminate facts and falsities with the best of them in court if it meant keeping others happy but face to face with the one person who knew him best, there was no hiding the truth.

“You’re right.”

“That, sire, is in your hands, or your flesh sword, if I may put it like that.”