Georgette Heyer (40 page)

With this uneasy situation at Westminster, which he could do nothing to mend, John was not sorry to turn his face to the North. Not that anything pleasant awaited him there: he knew only too well what he would find, and what he would be obliged to grapple with before Harry could send him the money and the supplies he needed. Harry had begun his administration – if this it could be called, when he gave up his seat at the head of the Council whenever the King was well enough to attend to his affairs – by informing the Council that without money he could do nothing. It was a bold gesture, and one which the King would have hesitated to make; but Harry was not an ailing monarch who had usurped a throne, and found it hard to hold. He was an energetic young prince, with success at his back, a high destiny before him; and the approval of his father’s subjects to give him encouragement – if he needed it. John thought he did not. Harry had always been quite sure of himself. He knew, untroubled by misgiving, the thing he wanted, and never doubted his power to obtain it. Perhaps it was this confidence that swept the Council and the redeless Commons along the road of his choosing. They received his message meekly, and quailed under the flash of his eyes when he told them that he would never tolerate an attempt to wrest its wealth from Holy Church.

Parliament, John thought, would give Harry a fairly generous grant; what would be voted to his administration by the two Convocations was dubious. On the one hand, the clergy knew that against the efforts of the estates to seize Church property he was their champion; on the other, he was opposed to Archbishop Arundel’s determination to exercise jurisdiction over Oxford University. This meant that he was opposed also to the King. The University was in the diocese of Lincoln, but it had been made independent by papal Bull, which rendered it subject in civil matters to the King, and in spiritual to Rome. But the King had renounced his rights to the Archbishop, and had told Richard Courtenay that he would not support the University’s claim. No one could foretell what would be the outcome of the struggle between Arundel and Courtenay, but one result was already plain, in the open rift between the Prince and the Archbishop.

Within a few days of John Beaufort’s death, the King bestowed Cold Harbour on the Prince of Wales; and on the same day made him Captain of Calais. He was already Captain of Dover Castle, and Warden of the Cinque Ports; and John knew only too well that Harry would set the needs of Calais high on the roll of expenditure. He was going there in April, to see with his own eyes in what condition its defences stood. It did not seem likely that after Dover and Calais had been served there would be much money left for the defence of the northern Marches.

But it was pleasant to be in the North again, even though winter had scarcely left the uplands, and biting winds swept the moors, and tossed the grey sea into foam. Newcastle gave him a royal welcome, the mayor, the aldermen, gildsmen, in livery suits of murrey, crimson, and green, and a rout of apprentices, streaming out of the town to meet him, and (since his arrival coincided with the feast of Marymas) conducting him to a covered platform from which he could watch the performance of a mystery play. Traverses had been erected on three sides of the platform to protect him from the wind, but in spite of these, and the fur-lined cloak in which one of his valets muffled him, it was a chilly entertainment. However, he knew that his presence was adding zest to the performance of the mummers, so he assumed an expression of interest, laughed at all the farcical interludes, and only chafed his benumbed fingers under the cover of his cloak.

An even warmer welcome awaited him at Warkworth, which had been for some time his chief residence in Northumberland. He retained his fondness for little Prudhoe, but those who had told him it would prove to be too small for his needs were right. Warkworth, except for Alnwick, was the most commodious, and certainly the most comfortable hold in his possession, its private apartments stretching along the whole of the western curtain-wall, and comprising a magnificent hall, roomy solars and chambers (all reached by inner stairs), buttery, pantry, huge kitchens, and a chapel. These, with the stables, two towers of defence, the well-house, and the foundations of a collegiate church, were situated in the outer bailey, which was reached through a vaulted arch beyond the drawbridge, and flanked by guardrooms. To the north, and at the extreme end of the inner bailey, the keep stood, a large, octagonal tower, at present in an unfinished state, but already containing ample accommodation for the garrison, and the squires, pages, valets, ushers, clerks, and yeomen who constituted the Lord Warden’s household.

John had grown accustomed to the castle, and no longer noticed the Percy lion carved over several of its doorways; but his occupation of it carried with it no feeling of permanence. Although old Northumberland had died under attainder, the day would come when Hotspur’s son, young Henry Percy, would be restored to his grandsire’s possessions. He was being kept in honourable captivity by the Regent Albany, possibly as a counter-threat to King Henry holding the King of Scots; and must now, John thought, be sixteen years of age. Something that had been said at Raby, where John had spent a night, had made him wonder whether Ralph Neville, that skilful matchmaker, was thinking of an alliance between Percy and one of his daughters. It would be just like him, John reflected, with an inward smile. It might be quite a good thing, too. A Percy could not be for ever kept from his inheritance; but a Percy under Neville influence could be a gain to the King instead of a danger.

Meanwhile, John held that inheritance; and he had not been many hours at Warkworth before the steward and the controller were laying their accounts before him; while, awaiting their turns for audience outside the solar, and quarrelling over rights of precedence, were gathered several other officials, including the receiver, the auditor, and the surveyor, all with much business to discuss, and all with formidable rolls in hand. By the following day, Warkworth was full of the Lord Warden’s officers, and John was plunged once more into the unrewarding toil which made up the greater part of his life.

None of the news brought to him by his officers was good. He had not expected it to be, or that this year, unless funds were immediately forthcoming, would differ materially from those which had gone before. Last summer, Jedburgh Castle, of which he had been appointed constable, had fallen, because the Council would send him neither men nor supplies for its relief; this summer, Fastcastle would fall, for the same reason. He had managed hitherto to provision it from the sea, but he had had word from Thomas Holden, who held it, that it was now being closely watched on all sides; and he knew from the reports brought in from his officers that the Scottish Earl of Mar was cruising between Berwick and Newcastle to intercept seaborne supplies. Berwick was still protected by the swollen Tweed, but its captain wrote that unless the Lord Warden could send money for wages he feared the garrison would desert. The floods, though they had saved the town from capture, had created great distress: victuals were very dear; on all sides dissatisfaction was rife; and the fortifications were in such a state that they would crumble under assault.

As usual, negotiations for a truce with the Scots ran through all this like a brittle thread. In April a meeting was arranged. Except for a suggestion thrown out by the Scottish envoys that the Lord John should wed one of the Regent’s daughters, it was the same as every other meeting he had attended. He reported the proposal to the Council, without comment. If the King thought that such a match would be advantageous, he was perfectly ready to marry the lady, for he had always looked on his marriage, whenever it should be arranged, as a matter of state policy. But he did not think that his father would care for this match; and certainly Harry would not, for Harry disliked the Scots.

Nothing came of the proposal. Fastcastle fell, after its prolonged siege; and in June a truce until November was agreed to.

News from London was scanty, but in September a summons to appear before the Council by Michaelmas reached John. This was so unprecedented that for a moment he stared uncomprehendingly at the document, wondering in what way he could have erred. Then he knew that Harry must be behind the summons, and turned to find that Antelope Herald was proffering a second letter.

Harry’s note was brief, and hastily scrawled. ‘
Trescher
,’ Harry wrote, ‘
if it please your gentleness, come with your best speed to Westminster, and declare unto us what may be your needs. God send you good years and long to live!
’

Within two days John learned that Ralph Neville had also received a summons; and, with him, his son, Sir John, who, since the death of Thomas Neville of Furnivall, had acted as his father’s lieutenant in Annandale. The new Lord Furnivall was a stranger to the North: he was Jack Talbot, who had claimed the title in the right of his wife, Thomas Neville’s daughter; and his work lay not on the Scottish border, but on the Welsh. He and his brother, Gilbert, were close friends of Harry’s. Harry said that of all his lieutenants Jack Talbot showed the fairest promise of becoming a great captain. John was barely acquainted with him: he seemed rather a stark young man, with a fiery eye and an impetuous temper.

‘Well-an-ere!’ exclaimed Ralph Neville, almost as soon as John had reached Raby Castle. ‘I was never so awhape in all my life days! Unbosom, John! In what sort is the wind?

John dug Harry’s letter out of his pouch, and handed it to him. The Earl read it with starting eyes. ‘Holy Saint Cross! Well, if I ever thought to see those jobbards at Westminster set the saddle on the right horse, you may call me a Paynim! By my head, John, this brother of yours is a prince apt for a kingdom!’

Four

Lusty Bachelor

1

Westminster Palace, at the end of the summer, seemed almost deserted. Only such persons as the clerks of the Exchequer remained there throughout the year. The King had been in the country ever since May, at first at Windsor, or at the Queen’s manor of Sonning, but latterly at Woodstock, where he had stayed nearly two months, in great physical disease. He had moved at the beginning of September to Leicester, and was still there, not well enough, it was reported, to transact business, or to enjoy any pastime. The palace servants were not quite sure whether the Lord Thomas was with him, or whether he had gone to his manor at Barrow. One of the yeomen ushers told the Lord John this, darting a quick look at him to see how he would receive it. But the Lord John only nodded, and turned away. He seemed not to be interested, which was disappointing, since Barrow was in Lincolnshire, where the bereaved Countess of Somerset was still residing: a circumstance which was giving the royal household much food for conjecture.

Humfrey was not in London either; but when the shadows lengthened across the courts Harry came clattering in from Berkhampsted, hot, and covered with dust, but full of energy, and with his eyes very clear and shining in a lean face tanned as brown as a nut. He caught John in a muscular embrace, exclaiming remorsefully: ‘I meant to be here to welcome you! I cry you mercy, tresâme!’

‘Where are you from?’ John asked, kissing his cheek.

‘Berkhampsted. I like it there.’

‘Oh, so did not I! Where is Humfrey?’

‘At Hadleigh – and in what company I know not!’

‘Out and alas! Are you living chaste at Berkhampsted, brother?’

Harry laughed. ‘I promise you! But in London – ! What will it please you to do this night? Shall we go to Lewis John’s for a rear-supper?’

‘All the way to the Vintry, only to end in the Clink? No, I have been riding for a senight – at your behest!’

‘Oh, not ride! We’ll drop down the river to Cold Harbour presently, and then it shall be as you choose. And we shall
not
end in the Clink!’

‘The last time I went with you to Lewis John’s, I was pitched into a broil in Bridge Street for the devil knows what cause, and at the height of the hurling out came the sheriffs upon us!’ retorted John.

‘We will be sad and discreet,’ promised Harry, with elves of mischief in his eyes. He sat down, looking affectionately up at John. ‘Give me thanks for wordfastness! You will come before the Council in three days.’

‘I would it might have been before Fastcastle was lost to us,’ John said ruefully.

‘But, John, I gave you foretokening it could not be! I have done my power! If you know how much there is to do! The Council met twice last year –
twice
!’

‘Jesu mercy!’ John exclaimed. ‘Because of Father’s sickness?’

‘Affirmably! But the affairs of this realm must not be neglected because the King is sick! Nor should his Chancellor be content to have it so! Arundel has let my needs sleep, and yours too. I tell you, John, I have had more toil since I took Father’s siege at the Council than in all my fighting days!’

‘Tell me!’ John said, pulling forward a stool.

‘Yes, but order your people to carry your gear to Cold Harbour! I sent word my barge was to come to the stairs here. There’s no pestilence in the city, and I like it better there.’

John lounged over to the door, and set up a shout for the groom of his chambers. When he turned back into the room, the elvish look had vanished from Harry’s eyes, and he was frowning. He said abruptly: ‘I have had to weigh our needs, you know. Men and supplies for Wales was the most urgeful of these.’

‘Well, you would think so,’ John agreed. ‘But still?’

‘To end the war. We have Glendower’s son in ward, but Glendower is still on life. I want peace in Wales, and I shall not get it without a strong force there.’

‘I should be blithe to have peace on the Eastern Marches,’ remarked John.

Harry smiled. ‘Makefray, are you asking me to conquer Scotland? We shall not otherwise have peace on the Border. But the Scots will not dare to venture too much.’

‘And the Border is far from Westminster,’ John said dryly.

‘Indeed, John, I have set your needs high,’ Harry answered.

‘As high as the needs of Calais?’

‘Calais!’ Harry’s face changed. ‘John, if it was accidie or lachesse I know not, but Somerset was Captain of Calais overlong! The debts that were owed to him by the King should have been two-so-many. I have seen with my own eyes what is lacking! It is not the harbour alone, nor the battlements, which have suffered from this lachesse: I could show you the accounts from my victualler there which are
shendful
! All is to get: spikings, faggots, elkhorns, hoists, crows, picks, ropes even!’

‘Yea, Harry, but have you found it so easy to get such things?’

‘No, but I have not been content to fold my hands while all goes to ruin!’

‘I think Somerset was forspent,’ John said. ‘So my aunt of Westmoreland told me. And I also, by my wit, think that Calais is an importable burden.’

‘Not importable!’ Harry said. ‘I shall show you one day that it is of all our cities the most needful to us.’

John looked thoughtfully down at him. ‘Do you know, Harry, what was the costage of our thirdfather King Edward’s wars in France – and nothing gained?’

‘Nothing gained, because he was so unthrifty a captain,’ Harry replied coolly.

‘
Unthrifty?
Our thirdfather?’ gasped John.

‘All-utterly! Those miswrought chevauchées – chance-medleys of rap and rend!’ Harry said contemptuously. ‘I shall not so order my campaigns!’

‘Harry, to say that King Edward was an unthrifty captain is to go beyond the nock!’ John protested.

‘Abide for the time!’ Harry challenged him, his eyes glinting. ‘I shall show you!’

‘I had liefer you showed me how to fill the Exchequer’s coffers!’ retorted John.

‘Not so!’ Harry said, with his delightful smile. ‘That, brother, you shall show me. When my time comes – oh, John, I shall need you as never before!’

‘I wish your physician would give you a clyster to drive this way-worm from your head!’ said John.

Harry laughed, and jumped up. ‘There is no clyster with power enough to do that. Come! If my barge is not waiting for me, it will be the worse for the master!’

But his barge was lying by the King’s Stairs, a long, low craft, with thwarts painted Lancaster blue, and Harry’s standard hanging limp in the stern. It was splendidly furnished: too splendidly, John told Harry, for a dusty prince in buskins and a cameline pourpoint. Harry, pausing on the steps to find a coin for the inevitable beggar beseeching alms there – this one was a legless veteran of King Edward’s unthrifty wars – said: ‘Only wait until you see me go up the river on my way to a Council meeting!’

‘I warrant ye, I warrant ye!’ piped up the vagrant, hopping on his crutch. ‘Ah, the sweet prince, in his robe of state! God’s blessing on that lovesome visage! At Poitiers, most dread lord: that was where my leg was laid in earth!’

‘Gloser and losenger, avoid!’ Harry said, tossing a silver penny into the crooked palm. ‘It was reft from you in a tavern brawl!’

‘That’s in all likelihood the true tale,’ remarked John, disposing himself amongst the silken cushions with which the barge was provided. ‘The last time I gave a largesse he told me he got his hurt with Bel sire, in Spain.’

‘No force where, poor knave!’ Harry answered, sitting down beside him.

The barge was pushed out from the stairs, and began to glide downstream on the tide, the painted oars dipping and lifting almost lazily. The late autumn afternoon was golden and still, with what little breeze that stirred wafting across the water the country smells from the Surrey bank. Men were reaping the corn in one of the fields; a little farther along the apple trees in an orchard were heavy with ripening fruit. Past the Staple, the river took a deep bend to the north, and the barge, avoiding this, hugged the Surrey bank for a little way. Within the bend, with a garden running down to the water’s edge, the Bishop of Durham’s inn reared its great round towers to the sky. It was separated from the ruins of the Savoy Palace by the stream that ran under Ivy Bridge; and beyond the Savoy lay the inns of the Bishops of Worcester, and Lichfield, and Llandaff. The barge drew nearer to the northern bank again by the Temple gardens. Past the Whitefriars, the Fleet river was flanked by the old palace of Bridewell, and the monastery of the Blackfriars; above the roofs of the clustering houses to the east, the spire of St Paul’s dominated the whole city.

The barge slid on, past Queenhythe. The Steelyard was in sight now, and, beyond it, the Cold Harbour stairs; while ahead the great piles of London Bridge loomed across the river; and on the Surrey side the red roofs of Southwark were warm in the sunlight.

‘Do you know, Harry, I think I haven’t set foot inside Cold Harbour since all of us lived here?’ John said, as he stepped out on to the stathe.

He remembered suddenly that the last time he had lived there was during the uneasy weeks when Harry had been with King Richard in Ireland, and wished that he hadn’t recalled this. However, Harry only laughed and said, slipping a hand in his arm: ‘Do you remember how angry we were when Johanna wouldn’t let us run out to see a fire? And how much we wanted to join in a hue and cry?’

‘Witterly! And I don’t suppose,’ said John, ‘that she ever thought there would one day be a hue and cry at
your
heels, brother!’

2

In the end, they were not seen at Lewis John’s notorious hostelry that evening. They supped alone at Cold Harbour, and sat talking far into the night, while the thick quarries in the wall-sconces burned lower and lower, and the candles on the table guttered in their sockets. John sat with his arms folded on the table, occasionally picking a plum from the bowl in front of him, and eating it; and Harry lay stretched upon a banker, in his shirt and hose, his pourpoint cast aside, one hand under his head, the other idly caressing his spaniel. The servants had shuttered the windows to keep out the foul night air, and it was stuffy in the chamber, with the smell of hot wax overpowering the scent of the herbs with which the floor was strewn. The talk was desultory, flitting here and there, with long, intimate silences. Both brothers were taciturn by disposition, but between them there was a deep understanding which often rendered words unnecessary; and a trust that made it possible for Harry to say to John what he would have uttered to no man else.

Harry talked a little of France. There was no member of the French royal family, except, perhaps, the King’s cousin of Burgundy, worth a leek, he thought. His uncle, the Duke of Berry, was nearly eighty and wholly given over to ease and luxury; his sons, the Dauphin, Louis, and John, Duke of Touraine, were striplings, bred up in a vicious court; his cousin of Orleans had waited only for his mother’s death to become reconciled with his father’s murderer –
une paix fourrée
, the Court fool christened it; and Berry’s son, the Count of Clermont, who had come to England in the spring with two shiploads of harness and horses for a joust with Thomas at Smithfield, had impressed no one. ‘He hates Burgundy above all men,’ Harry remarked. ‘Do you remember, John, how Thomas said that Burgundy was called the Fearless because he demeaned himself so worshipfully at Nicopolis?’ John nodded. A smile lifted the corners of Harry’s mouth. ‘It was not so. According to what Clermont told us, he was called the Fearless because he once vanquished the citizens of Othée in a mêlée. It endured a full half-hour, too, maugre the fact that the citizens had no arms – or very few.’

‘Harry!’ John expostulated, bursting into laughter.

‘Well, I should not lightly believe what Clermont said of him, but I have discovered this to be a soothsaw. As for Nicopolis, our uncle Somerset told me full-yore that nothing he did on that day could have won for him that title!’

‘Or since,’ said John reflectively. ‘He slew that bitch-clout of Orleans by the hands of his minions – and boasted later of the deed; and after all his bobance this spring Calais is still ours. What drove him off from that enprise? Did some bandog bark at him?’

‘Oh, we bribed a carpenter to cast Greek fire over the siege towers and the stores he had had collected at St Martin, and they were consumed! Also the Abbey, for which I am sorry. What happened to his great gun, I know not. We were told that it took eight horses to drag it. Perhaps he will haul it to Paris – if the Orleanists have not already driven him out of the city. There is a brisk war raging there – too brisk for any of them to think more of troubling our peace.’ He paused, and turned his head towards his brother. ‘It would be of good liking, I think, if we were to mell ourselves a little in that debate.’

‘Of good liking,’ John agreed. ‘We owe them a blow or two! Besides the scathe they have done to the southern ports, I would have you know, Harry, that the Earl of Mar’s ships are afloat on French gold! But I see no winning in a French chevauchée. Show it to me, and I shall be blithe to accord with you!’

‘No winning anon-right, but presently – in only a hand-while, perhaps – it would be speedful if I had won me an ally in France.’

John looked frowningly at him. ‘Burgundy?’