Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (28 page)

The festivities were cancelled. It was considered unseemly to enjoy life when the duchess had just died and her baby son was so weak. The child Richard died without a fuss on the 1
^st
January, marking the start of a New Year in the most terrible way imaginable. George took it as a sign that the year ahead would be bad and welcomed it, as if it was a penance for his sins, the sin of drinking too much and not being as attentive as he should have been to the needs of his pregnant wife, the sin of being in a condition of disunity with his liege lord, the sin of being tempted – although he had not succumbed - by the flirting Ankarette and his sudden burning desire for another wife, even though Isobel was not yet buried. His thoughts went around and around, turning in on themselves, becoming embroiled in their own passionate tangle so that he found hard to separate them. Confession didn’t help, he needed a penance that was harsh enough to discipline him for the many sins he saw in himself and which his confessor refused to recognise, blaming it on grief and sorrow instead. Throughout it all he drank heavily, obtaining hogsheads of the sweet malmsey wine for his cellar and denying anyone else the chance to taste it, stating it was reserved for his own consumption and no other.

A courtier was overheard to say, “Of a surety he will drown in it!” This was reported back to George who snorted with laughter and said: “I can think of no finer way to go!” It was a grim laugh, an unnatural one. The messenger who brought the snippet of information to him was afraid enough to take several steps back. George laughed again at the thought his visage was frightening enough that a man would back away from him. He walked away, still laughing but it was then verging on hysteria and he knew he had to stop before it got out of hand. His reputation was already in shreds, it did not need hysteria to be added to it. What would his brother the king make of that if it was!

Chapter 30

My wife was just twenty-five years old when she died. We had been married for only seven years. If it had not been the most glorious of marriages, it had been rewarding in a number of ways. I look back at it now and know that I married for power and position but a degree of affection and love came with it. I know too that she married for power and protection and that she knew a degree of love and affection came with it. If it was not the love-bond my brother of Gloucester had with my sister-in-law, it was enough for me at the time. I can say in all honesty that I was faithful, which is more than can be said for many of my acquaintances.

The child Richard, my last son, clung to life so feebly I thought him dead many a time before he actually died. I knew him not, I held him not; I had nothing to do with him for he, in my eyes, took my wife from me. I mourned him not, poor helpless soul. God grant my chance to ask for his forgiveness when I finally walk through the door marked Death, the door he so easily slipped through without so much as a sigh, it would seem.

It was after Isobel’s body was removed from Warwick that I began to – hallucinate? Lose contact with reality? Find the pain in my head too much to cope with? What excuse shall I offer myself for my behaviour?

I was more aware than ever of the ubiquitous Ankarette, ever just disappearing around a corner after casting a flirtatious smile my way, or flicking a skirt in my direction or casting one of her lingering glances at me as I walked past. I would have dismissed her but had no reason to, she did her work well enough and I had other thoughts to occupy me. Would that I had! Would that I had given way to my instinct, to pass her on to another family where perhaps she could bed the son of the house and give him the experience he needed to take into marriage. I did not. I allowed her to stay. I watched my own thinking spiral out of control and knew I had lost the ability to concentrate. I needed the funeral over and done to settle everything, to close that part of my life but it seemed to take forever. So many plans, so many people to be summoned, so many priests to say the masses, three of them, the vigil to be kept. I discussed and I talked and I decided and I kept an open mind on what my future might hold. Of a surety I needed another wife, I needed more heirs. I could see no one worthy of my standing.

Until the duke of Burgundy was killed, that was, and his daughter Mary was free and in need of a protector. I was still deep in grief but even I could see that she would be a fitting partner for me. The plans went ahead for Isobel’s funeral, the formal lying in state and then internment in Tewkesbury Abbey - and my sister Margaret proposed my marriage to Mary.

My brother the king vetoed it, as he had tried to do with my marriage to Isobel. It was history repeating itself. There was no logical reason he should stop me, there was no reason apart from his own personal feelings and they were made very clear. Dislike and distrust were obvious in his words, in his manner, in his actions towards me. I was not a welcome person in his life. My brother of Gloucester was the favoured one, the chosen one, the recipient of estates, titles, gifts and affection. Clarence had nothing offered him at all. A possible marriage to the sister of the king of Scotland was likewise vetoed with my state of mourning quoted as a reason. It mattered not to my brother the king that a helpmeet and new wife would assist me in recovering from the shock of losing my wife and newborn child, that my life seemed empty and useless without her there as a pivotal point around which I would live my life. I was advised not to mention any of this to the king as he was of no mind to listen.

My feelings festered. Oh shades of death and darkness, I can confess this to you for you have no tongue with which to speak the treason I am confessing to you at this time. My feelings festered. I grew a plant of hatred in my stomach which threatened to burst through my heart and out through my chest and attack anyone who came near me. I was fierce of voice and manner; I was unapproachable on any topic that concerned my wife, my brothers or my state of health. I would speak on matters concerning the estates or the division of labour or adjudicate on some point of law or dispute between tenants and do it calmly and quietly. All else aroused an anger in me that was disproportionate to the matters in hand. I knew it for what it was, a manifestation of my grief and loss and a rage against my brother the king who once again appeared to want to stop me doing the things I wanted, to find a new partner and to settle my life. The pain in my head grew steadily worse in direct proportion to the anger that swelled within me and the amount of wine I consumed. Days, whole days went by without my having a moment free of the pain’s intense biting presence. Nights were blissful only through quantities of wine which rendered the mornings a nightmare of blurred vision, rebellious stomach and a constant need to vomit the wine and the hatred and leave me empty and cleansed. I could lose the wine – and did – but the hatred remained.

What do I truthfully say about a life lived as second best, to my mother, to my liege lord, even to Warwick who chose to marry his younger daughter to the Prince of Wales and put me to one side? How can anyone who has not lived such a life begin to understand the hurt that it causes, to see someone else venerated, adored, admired and promoted above you when you are, in your own eyes, worthy of such attention? It is impossible. It is a pain like no other, an aching of the heart and mind that refuses to let go.

They talked of me, I knew that. They, members of the court, those who would try to impress with their ‘knowledge’. I knew it without my spies bringing me back confidential information as well as those messengers who delighted in bringing me the words of the king and taking mine in return. An open dispute flared between us, all that had gone before was as kindling to the great fire of family disunity that erupted and would not be put out. Have I said not before, was it because we were three that we divided two against one in every permutation of that division that there could be? If I have, then shades, forgive me for my time is fast running out, even as time moves on and the fire burns low, my life is fast running out and it is impossible for me now to go back over my thoughts, my memories, my acceptances and say yes, I said it here or I said it there. I also realise how foolish it is of me to think like this, no one but the shades of death are able to hear and understand my thoughts anyway. What difference does it make? So I repeat it, was it because we were three we divided two against one?

It was in this time, this terrible time, that I began my alliance with the one who carries my child, or is it born already and walks this earth, a small part of me? Whilst the covetous Ankarette sought to distract me from my grief, I held another in my arms. She was one of Isobel’s ladies, a quiet, demure person who did not flash her eyes and ankles at me, did not seek me in every corner of our home. But she was there, she was comfort, she was softness and gentleness and undemanding. She said ‘sire, I love you’ and I believed her but I could not tell her in truth I loved her for I did not truly understand the meaning of the word. I had told Isobel I loved her and in truth I believe I did, in a way. I cannot say I have ever felt the way I know my brother of Gloucester is with his wife. He has loved her, I do believe, from the moment he set eyes on her at Middleham all those long years ago. But this one, this one who will remain nameless, whose identity and that of the child will go with me into that elaborate tomb at Tewkesbury, this one gave me comfort and easement when I needed it so much, when the loneliness and sorrow threatened to overwhelm me, when I ached with emptiness, was as close to a love match as I ever had. She was there, willingly there; she filled the emptiness and gave me back my life, for a while. I gave no thought to the prospect of a child of our union; I sought only the consolation of a willing body which came with discretion and with love. But when she told me of the coming child, with eyes that glowed with happiness, I knew I had to send her out of my life, for fear of censure. I could not allow scandal to touch my name. I was hopeful of another marriage, one suited to my rank, even as I knew, deep inside where the truth lives and all lies are forbidden, that time was fast running out for me, in many ways. I knew I was walking a dangerous pathway with my brother the king, knew of his feelings toward me and yet I still committed acts which were guaranteed to destroy the last remnants of family loyalty he might have held for me. Why did I do such things? What possessed me? Was it still that sense of being second best, of having to try and be better than the others so he would notice me and give me that which I craved, his approbation of me as a duke, as someone of equal standing with the duke of Gloucester?

How quickly I divert from these thoughts into another path and how often do they return, endlessly, to my brothers again!

I had to let my new love go, for fear of censure. Let me state it clear and straight now to those shades around me. I know I loved her, as far as I am capable of loving anyone, and I know of a surety she loved me and I know too that her consolation and comfort helped me beyond reason and belief during that sad troublesome time. Would that I could have raised her up, made her my consort, let the household know that this was my chosen one, but she was not high born enough. It would have given me yet more problems with my brother the king. After all, he had already stopped two potential marriages out forward for me and they did not come more highly ranked than those. This one he would have laughed out of the kingdom and I did not want that for her or the coming child. It would have denigrated and degraded that which we had. I held enough grievances against my brother; I did not need to create more. I heard no more of her when she had gone. It left yet another hole in my heart and my life.

I have to ask the shades now, why did I so believe that the covetous flirtatious minx Ankarette Twynho killed my wife? I say to you my mind was befuddled with grief and loneliness, with vexation against my brother the king, with resentment against my brother of Gloucester, with impatience with those around me who could not, seemingly, always understand my needs, despite their having been in my employ for some time, without my ordering them to do this and to do that to make life comfortable for me. I longed for Durian who somehow managed to correctly assume and presume my needs and arrange them for me without my having to so order it and if he did not do so, Isobel did. Now I found myself doing it all and that added to my bad temper and mood.

I recalled being told that Ankarette was supposedly sprinkling herbs on my wife’s food. I recalled the drinks that were brought to her, mixtures of this and that and I did not question at the time they were nothing but good for her. Now I saw them as poison. I know not why it changed, I only know that it did.

My word was law. She and her ‘associates’, as I saw them, were brought to the Warwick Assizes, tried, convicted and hanged in the shortest possible time.

When they brought the news to me, in a moment of utter lucidity, I knew I had committed a terrible crime but there was no going back. There was no way to restore life to the body of a young girl whose only sin had been to desire me. In that moment I knew she had not poisoned my wife or that her associate had poisoned my son. I knew the pregnancy had been long, hard and difficult and my wife had not really survived the actual birth, despite her lingering for two months. In my eyes and in my mind, she actually died the night she gave birth and, as far as I was concerned, my son Richard had died that night, too, for all that he clung to life until after the Christmastide. I recalled only the pathetic white faced shrinking figure of my wife in her bed, asleep she looked dead to me. It turned my mind, of a surety it did.

I became convinced that my brothers were scheming against me. If they were not, they were creating that impression. Did I become insane through worry about it? I know not. I do know that I suffered mightily and prayed constantly for relief of body and mind and that relief did not come.