Wife to Henry V: A Novel (16 page)

She stopped in her pacing to send for her confessor.

“If your heart moves you to give—then give!” John Randolf said and shrugged; he did not love the King for all his pretending. He bent his subtle glance upon her. “To give in fear, Madam, is not to give at all.”

“Is it not?” She laughed, a little. “Father, we talk not of giving to the King of Heaven but to the King of England. Gold is gold I think however given...or taken.”

“How should it be taken? The King is a son of God.”

“And knows his Father's heart—or so he thinks!” She took a restless turn about the room. “I have been called wise in my time; but how if I turn out to be a fool? How, if saving, I yet lose all?” She shivered. “Oh,” and she laughed again, still shivering. “It may be that I shall pay well for my lamps of Brittany, my anchovies and my fine sheets.”

He peered at her laughing and shivering and talking nonsense about anchovies and lamps and sheets. He said, “You are not well, Madam. I will send Master Petro...”

“This sickness,” she said and went on laughing, “not even my physician can cure.”

* * *

The physic had closed her eyes but it had not quieted her mind. She tossed and turned, aware, even in heavy sleep, of danger.

She was not greatly surprised when she opened her eyes upon her woman standing distressed by the bed. Her mind flew to ill-news; she braced herself to receive it.

“Madam,” the woman said and did not look at the Queen. “Master John Randolf...they have taken him away.”

She did not understand at first.

Randolf? Taken?

“It was the King's officers, Madam...”

And now she understood. They had taken her confessor. It was the first move.

“But, Madam, Sir John will tell you himself; he is waiting.”

So they had left her Mapledon, faithful devoted Mapledon! Then things couldn't be so bad; not bad at all. She had misunderstood about Randolf, all dazed with fear and physic as she was! Strength flowed back to her heart.

“My bedgown, quick, girl.”

She saw by Mapledon's face that she had not, after all, misunderstood; that things were bad.

“Randolf?” And her voice came out in a whisper.

She rallied her courage against the compassion in his eyes.

“Who dare seize my confessor from my own household and no word to me?”

“He was not seized, Madam. He fled and was taken.”

“On what charge?” and she made her lips smile.

“The charge is grave.” Again she saw compassion in the man. “Witchcraft. Seeking to encompass the death of the King.”

“Such nonsense,” she said and tried to laugh. “Witchcraft!” and the word stirred unwelcome memories. “The man is a priest,” she said. And again. “Such nonsense, nonsense,” and spread her shaking hands.

“Nonsense, maybe,” he said. “But who knows how such nonsense may end? How long since Outrede and Brown and Wyche, too—priests all—were tried for witchcraft; yes and found guilty. They escaped the fire, true; but soon—there will be no escape. There is too much talk these days of witches and heretics and seeking the life of the King.”

“Well,” and she shrugged again, “much good may it do them seizing poor Father Randolf. He can tell them nothing—there is nothing to tell.”

“They are sending him to the King in France,” he said and could not look at her. “If I know the holy father, he will confess all that...has not happened.”

“That...has not happened?” and suddenly she knew; knew by the greyness in his face,
Witchcraft
, That was the key. Randolph would tell all...that had not happened; the King would see to it. She saw him again, Henry, her
dearest son
; the look with which he had turned upon his heel that last time he had visited her; the time she had not offered yet more money. He had sailed without seeing her again. She should have known, she should have known...

She said, “The man is innocent as my
dearest son
knows; but he is not brave, the holy father. You are right; he will confess anything—if they hurt him enough. He will sign whatever they demand, however damnable. The Queen's confessor—key to the Queen's money-bags! Money, it seems, will buy everything these days-freedom, life, honour itself. Very well then,” she was easier now, “I will buy him back—at their own price.”

“Madam,” he was humble as though he himself were at fault. “They have taken the household books, the estate books; they have sealed up the moneys, the plate, the jewels “

She looked at him jaw-dropped; she rallied herself. “There is still my dower,” she said, “my incomes...”

“That, too,” he told her. “Castles and manors and farms—everything.”

“All but my life?” And she managed a smile. “All but that.”

She was so white he thought she would swoon. He would have sent for her physician again but she shook her head, dumbly staring. He went on his knee before her where she stood in the rich bedgown; he raised the lovely cold hand, took it to his lips. “And so, Madam, farewell. God be with you, for by His Holy Face no man ever served a sweeter lady.”

She began to shake then, knowing her desolation. He said, “Thomas Lilbourne takes my place. A hard man; but upright.” He rose, moved towards the door. The waiting-woman came forward, could not speak; dumb she made her farewell. “You, too?” Queen Johanne said. The woman nodded, mouth screwed against the tears. “Then I am, it seems, under arrest.” She nodded brightly; their grey faces frightened her. “The charge?” she said. “Mapledon, dear friend, the charge!”

“God alone knows what charge. May He be with you, Madam.”

By the hateful quiet in the room she knew herself alone, the late September sun slanted still through her window; outside in the gardens of her own Havering, the roses bloomed, the daisies were lavender stars against the old red walls. As she stood, there came to her the first bitter scent of burning weeds.

Winter is upon me, she thought.

* * *

She was ready when they came to take her. She was too shrewd not to know that the removal of her household was the preliminary to imprisonment. Her
dearest son
needed her money. But it would be done in seemly order; that just and holy Soldier of God would not permit himself to rob her without an excuse. But—prison? What excuse worthy of that?

There was still no charge. But she knew by their faces it was something horrible. She did not know where they were taking her. The Tower, perhaps? Sweet God, not the Tower!

It was not the Tower. It was the dear familiar manor of Rotherhithe. Her relief was so great that she could have found it in her heart to weep; but she was no weeper, she! She walked careless-seeming under the falling leaves into the well-known hall and forgot, almost, in that first moment that this was the King's manor and not her own.

And still no charge. How then could she think upon her defence?

It was pleasant though at Rotherhithe; as pleasant as may be for a prisoner with an unknown charge hanging over her head. Within its walls she was free to come and go; free to talk to those about her—at her peril. Sometimes she found herself talking to herself, explaining, extenuating...but there was nothing to explain, nothing to extenuate.

November was not so pleasant at Rotherhithe with the damp rising from the river and shrouding the trees like ghosts. And now it was December she began to feel the damp in her very bones. Her fingers began to swell at the knuckles; the pain was not much but she grieved over the new clumsiness of her hands, the long fine hands her husband had loved.

Yes, it was winter now and winter, indeed!

She was crouching over the wood fire in her chamber when Sir John Pelham came in without permission, and without warning.

He gave her the most perfunctory of greetings.

“Madam, wrap up well against the wind. You must ride with me.”

She rose without a word. It did not become her to ask whither they were taking her, or what this new gaoler might mean. But certainly he boded no good. She looked at his grim face and remembered he had never liked her. He had thought her out-of-place with her counselling of Kings; he had disliked her for her foreignness and detested her foreigners. Watching through the curtains of the litter his face of stone, she thought, The Tower. This time it is the Tower.

But again it was not the Tower.

The road was unfamiliar now; she began to smell the salt of the sea. Her heart began to hope. Were they taking her to Henry? Surely she could win her
dearest son
again. But it was not across the sea to Henry.

The great grey walls of Pevensey Castle frowned high above them as they rode over the drawbridge. No manor this, but a keep, a stronghold. A prison.

Shivering in the small chamber where the thin hangings lifted in the draught and the tiny fire could not warm her, courage dropped low and lower still. Now it did not help to remember she had been a King's daughter, a King's wife; her aching bones reminded her that she was a woman like any other woman—a woman who might rot in prison.

By the time Sir John Pelham came to bid her Goodnight desperation had made her bold.

“Sir,” and she was holding herself in to courtesy, “why have you brought me here?”

“My orders, Madam. Here you are safe!” His voice not his face gave him away; she could have sworn to the hatred in his voice.

“From whom?” She was blunt; it was not within her dignity to fence with him. “Who threatens my safety?”

“The people, Madam. Show your face in London and it is odds but they will tear you in pieces.”

“And what have I done,” she asked “to merit such violence-save, of course, the fault of having been born not English?” He gave her a cold, shrewd stare.

“Well?” she asked impatient.

He said, “I cannot name it. The words, even, are hateful to my tongue.”

“Yet I will have it,” she said, and set her will to command him.

“You have—” and he could not, it seemed, look at her without hatred, “sought the death of the King.”

She opened her mouth to speak, to deny the monstrous charge; her throat would not give the words passage, nor her lips frame them.

“With vile practices of witchcraft,” he said.

She could not even pretend to surprise. She had known. From the moment they had taken Randolf she had known.

“And how—” and now the words forced themselves through the stiff passage of her throat, “since I have not seen my
dearest son
—” her lips twisted about the words, made of them a bitter jest, “since he went into France?”

“Witches have familiars. The sea is no barrier, nor the air neither.”

“Witches? Familiars? You are mad,” she said. “What have I to do with them?”

“You should know. And all Christendom knows. Your devil's priest has confessed.”

“Take care how you insult God's priest,” she said. “And what has he confessed, since there is nothing, nothing at all he could confess?”

“Yet for all that he has confessed; and to the King himself. As to what he has confessed, you must know that, Madam, better than any.” And he turned about, bending his look of hatred upon her. “Let Madam think upon her good fortune. A lesser lady would have gone to the fire.”

So they had “tried” Randolf, made him “confess”. A man of God who feared for his body more than for his soul—poor wretch! But all the same, to the fire he would go!

She had the moment's pity for him, thought then of herself.

What Pelham said about the fire was true enough. No stake for her nor yet the block. But the secret poison, the pillow while she slept.

She said, and summoned the smile at last, “But not without trial. When do I come to my trial?”

“Never.” He turned upon his heel.

* * *

“Witchcraft is a deadly heresy,” Bishop Beaufort said softly.

Clarence turned his back upon his uncle. “Sir,” he said and he spoke to the King. “Harry, think! From boyhood she has been our mother, so good a mother...”

“So good, she would help me to my heavenly crown!”

“It is not true.” The King's face would have frightened a lesser man. “What will men say of you?” Clarence said.

“That I showed undue mercy allowing her to live.”

“Our father loved her—and good cause! His loathsome sickness; and she, so patient and so good; no witch could show such kindness. Our father's wife. Have you no respect for our father's name?”

“Let no man teach me my duties,” the King said, bitter with his conscience. “Witchcraft, witchcraft, everywhere. Scratch a witch and you uncover a heretic. They hate me, the heretics, because I will not endure any man to play false with God. To the fire they shall go, witches and heretics all. It is God's Will.”

“Witches, heretics, yes,” Clarence said, reasonable. His ardent spirit broke through. “But not our mother. It is a shameful thing.”

The King's face was frightening.

“Our mother is no witch,” Clarence said again, dogged.

“Is she not?” It was Beaufort, suave, fearing the quarrel. “The priest has told all. Madam Johanne's own confessor.”

“Under torment.” Clarence shrugged.

“This way or that,” Beaufort told him, “he has confessed.” “Can you doubt it?” The King broke in, loud above the small nagging voice of his conscience. “The bad blood of her father flows in her. Oh you were rightly named, you doubting Thomas!”

“God grant you are not too sorry for this,” Clarence said and went out.

“There goes a good fellow,” Beaufort said lightly, belittling, “but not subtle, not at all subtle.”

“You mean he knows a bad smell when he meets one and is not afraid to say so?”

“Come now, Harry!” And it was the tutor's voice, firm for all the blandness, “You were pressed for money; now you are no longer pressed. Besides,” he shrugged, “witchcraft or no—withholding aid in dire need, is not that compassing the death of the King?”

Henry said, moody, “My bishop would save my soul—and fill my pockets at the same time. Uncle, I could wish the thing undone. And why not? It is not too late, even now!”

“And how will the people take it that their Soldier of God smiles upon witchcraft in high places? And—” he added, for better measure, “a foreigner!”

“You are the devil, I think,” the King said.