Some Touch of Pity Read online

  Some Touch of Pity

  Rhoda Edwards

  © Rhoda Edwards 1976

  Rhoda Edwards has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1976 by Hutchinson & Co.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Author’s Note

  The signatures at the head of each chapter would ideally have belonged to each of the narrators. But because no specimens of Queen Anne’s and Dr Hobbes’ autographs could be found, those of people featuring in the story have been chosen. They are:

  1 R Gloucestre (Richard as Duke of Gloucester)

  2 Edoward R (Edward IV)

  3 R Edwardus quintus (Edward V)

  4 Richard Gloucestre: loyaulte me lie (one of his mottoes)

  5 Ricardus Rex

  6 Bolman

  7 Elysabeth the kyngys dawghtyr

  8 RR (King Richard’s sign manual)

  9 Not a signature, but William Hobbys in a clerk’s hand

  10 As 5

  11 G Stanley Ld Strange (from a letter to the Mayor of Chester, reproduced by permission of the British Library from Harleian Ms. 2093 no. 13)

  12 Fraunceys Louell

  13 Henry R (Henry VII)

  Nos. 1, 2, 6, 9, 11, and 12 were kindly drawn for me by John Evans.

  *

  I should like to thank everyone who helped me to write this book, and all those whose research has enabled us to know as much as we do of the period. The Richard III exhibition, held at the National Portrait Gallery in 1972, brought together much of this knowledge, and its compiler, Dr Pamela Tudor-Craig, has kindly offered her advice, and given me permission to use the translation of the prayer from King Richard’s Book of Hours.

  My friends Carolyn and Peter Hammond and Francis Celoria assisted in the project from start to finish, tracking down many books and little-known facts. Ruth Schmidt and Dorothy Thom were helpful critics. Miss Rosemary Sutcliff’s kindness and encouragement helped enormously — she is indeed ‘godmother’ of the book. Ruth Parker, who typed the finished script so expertly, deserves special thanks for all her hard work and patience.

  March 1483

  1

  The Reiver

  Told by Anne, Duchess of Gloucester

  The Duke of Glocetter, that nobill prynce

  Yonge of age, and victorious in batayle

  To the honoure of Ectour that he mygte comens,

  Grace hym folowith, fortune, and good spede.

  I suppose he is the same that clerkis of rede,

  Fortune hathe hym chosen and forth with hym will goo

  Her husbande to bee, the will of God is soo.

  Written after Edward IV’s victory at Barnet in 1471

  On the wall under the nursery window, where the arras left the grey stone bare, some boy had chipped out the initial letter of his name — R. I wondered who had done it, and if he had been caught. My husband? No, it looked too worn, and grimed with the dirt of generations. Over a hundred years, many boys with that initial had lived in this castle of Middleham, among them three Richards, my husband, my father and my grandfather, and my great-grandfather, Ralph Neville, the legendary old Earl who begot twenty-three children to ensure that our family ruled the north ever after. So they have done, though many who stood upon the top of Fortune’s wheel have been cast down, like my father, the great Earl of Warwick, maker of kings. Now the wheel turns full circle, and my husband is lord of the north country.

  Voices at the door brought news we were all eager to hear. ‘Duke’s nearly home — past Masham an hour ago!’

  ‘In this?’ Outside, a blizzard was blowing; the draught from the window drove an icy knife against my cheek.

  I smiled. It would take the Helm Wind, that shrieks down Fiend’s Fell out of Cumberland like forty thousand demons, or ten feet of snow instead of two, to keep my husband from riding home, once he’d made up his mind. Richard, Duke of Gloucester, the King’s Lieutenant General in the north, does not live his life ruled by the whims of northern weather.

  My son Edward stood on a stool, trying to see out of the window and beyond the walls to the road. I could feel his excitement, though he did not wriggle or squeal, as some children do. ‘My lord father,’ he announced, ‘has been to the King’s Parliament.’ He said this in a serious, breathless way, as if Richard were a knight gone to seek the Holy Grail.

  ‘Your father has been honoured by Parliament for his success against the Scots.’

  ‘He captured Edinburgh, didn’t he, and burned Dumfries? How long does it take to ride from London?’

  ‘Five days — a week this time, the roads are bad.’ I knew that the moment his brother, King Edward, dissolved Parliament, Richard would have left the court, which he greatly dislikes, to set out for home. Two hundred and forty miles is at best a long, tiring journey, and the last stretch from York now lay in the grip of winter’s spiteful ending. Though the first week in March had passed, the sky was as leaden as it had been in January.

  ‘Mother, will he stay at home now? How long will he stay?’ He didn’t turn to look at me. Richard had been away two months, which to a six-year-old is an eternity.

  ‘Until after Easter.’ I wished I might have said, ‘All summer.’ Easter fell at the end of March. Then, thinking this sounded too bleak, for myself as well as for Edward, I told him, ‘Until the Scots make trouble again.’ With luck, that would not be before May. ‘We might go to Carlisle with him this summer, now things are easier.’

  I expected a further spate of questions, but he was too intent on the scene outside the window. I looked out over his head. Snow had congealed in the corners of the leads, and piled up thick as a pillow on the sill. It looked like the poulterer’s sheds after plucking goose down; so soft, one wanted to touch, even knowing it was not fluffy and dry, but icy wet. Driven flakes splattered on the glass, clinging as goose down does, so that I had to peer in order to see anything at all. Out there, the cold must be cruel. In such weather it is dangerous to stray from the white road into the white land. Just as well that we who live here know the road as we know our own faces. I wondered how near they were, maybe riding over Cover Bridge — the river not frozen, but swollen with snow-water — barely a mile left, uphill against the wind. The child’s breath and my own filmed the window with steam; his hair brushed it, leaving a pattern like crushed grass blades. I wiped it with my hand, but it steamed up again. I turned away to gather everyone together, so that we might be ready to welcome home our lord Duke.

  Anne Idley, Mistress of the Nursery, who is in charge of the younger children, set Edward’s hat straight, and inspected his face, to make sure it was not sticky. She made a sharp sound of annoyance, because he was trying to squeeze his curled-up fists into his gloves without using the fingers. He looked from her to me, decided on obedience, and put on the gloves properly by himself. She said, ‘Madam, when his Grace has greeted the children, I will bring them back here, out of the way. The travellers will want to dry and warm themselves.’

  I led the procession along the covered bridgeway high above the yard, that crossed to the hall in the keep. Wooden pattens clattered in my wake; the children were warmly wrapped for outdoors, as it is hard to prevent them from running into the snow. They usually make enough clamour for a pack of scenting hounds, but today they were not the only cause of a din; everywhere in the castle we heard pounding feet and shouted o
rders. At the open doors of the keep, I paused, bracing myself against the cold, and holding the hood of my fox-skin cloak around my ears and face. Behind me, the children crowded expectantly, held back by Mistress Idley and their tutors, like a flock of cheeping sparrows under sheltering eaves.

  After the frenzied preparation for my lord’s homecoming within doors, outside seemed frozen into stillness. The wind had dropped and snow drifted idly down. Beyond the walls lay a great silence, apparently empty of birds, animals and human beings. Usually the comings and goings at the castle are events in which the whole town joins noisily, but no crowd would turn out in this weather, and snow deadened the clatter of approaching hooves. When the riders reached the drawbridge, trumpets blew a fanfare, and a loud whinnying arose from the stables, for horses like to greet their returning companions.

  There were fewer of them than I had expected — less than a hundred; the rest of the household and the baggage carts must have been left at York, to follow on when the roads cleared. I walked down the steps to meet them. Everyone looked like the snowmen that the boys build in the meadow. I recognized Richard by his horse, which was grey-white, treading noiselessly as a huge ghost. There wasn’t much of him visible, because, like everyone else, he’d muffled his face until only a narrow gap for his eyes remained. He was white all over; snow had filled every fold and crease in his cloak and boots, even his breath hung white upon the air. The horse blew out smoke like a dragon. As I came near, it regarded me with dark, mild eyes, not at all dragon-like, its whiskers dewed with melting snow, and its mane dangling slushy icicles. It snorted as if pleased to be home, and stretched out its neck to snuff at my furs with fluttering, inquisitive nostrils.

  Grooms came running, their feet kicking up flurries of snow. They held the horse while Richard dismounted. I thought: he’ll be frozen rigid. But apart from a slight stiffness of movement, he had his usual air of taking his surroundings just as they were. He pulled away the layers of wool cloth from his face and mouth, and I smiled, for he looked so strange; white hair, brows and eyelashes seem absurd on a man of thirty. He smiled too, and shook himself, so that snow flew off his clothes in a thick shower. I’d have happily put my arms round him and risked a soaking, but this wouldn’t have been dignified, as I’m twenty-six and ten years married. So I paused, while he dragged off his wet gloves, took hold of my hands and kissed me. Though his face was icy and rough-skinned, the inside of his mouth was warm. I ceased to feel cold. Standing on pattens, I was taller than he, though barefoot we are the same height, just four fingers more than five feet. Among other men, he looks small. He let go my hands, so that the others might greet me.

  At this point, someone let out the dogs. A dozen of them dashed into the yard, barking. They tore round in circles, sniffing snow, gulping it and shaking their heads at its chill, even tumbling head over heels in it. After that, they made for us, and hurled themselves on Richard, the big ones leaping up, trying to lick his face. I could scarcely see him in this smother of snow and wagging tails. He laughed at them, making fools of themselves, cuffed them gently and ducked out of the way of their more exuberant greetings, while the servants bawled at them. It seemed to me that not only the dogs, but all the people in the castle had gone crazy, now my lord was home. Everyone was kissing, chattering, laughing, or shouting orders; the children were jigging up and down excitedly. The chapel bell was ringing, shattering the snow-silence for miles around. The great iron gates clanged shut. In this ferment, only the cause of it appeared calm. Though he was smiling and obviously happy to be home, Richard let the others do most of the talking, as if news of Middleham were more important than any he’d brought from London.

  Our son, in the firm grip of his tutor, was on the verge of losing his temper at this restraint on his efforts to go out into the snow, so, not wishing to deny him his pleasure, we went up the steps to greet him. He kissed Richard’s hand solemnly, because he’s been taught that, in a Duke’s son, manners come first. Then Richard bent down, sat back on his heels and kissed the child on his cheeks and mouth. He looked at his father, and his face lit up with a smile of such complete happiness it spread to all who watched. Seeing them together again, the child and the man, two faces so alike in feature, though different in colouring, I was infinitely content.

  Late in the afternoon, as I had promised, we visited the nursery. Of Richard’s three children, only Edward is mine. The other two are bastards, born before he married me. Katherine is thirteen, and soon may be married herself; John, who is eleven, serves his father as a page, having left the care of Mistress Idley when he was eight, for the tougher rule of the Master of Henchmen. Besides these three, there are about a dozen girls and boys, whom my husband either has in ward, or who have been sent for their knightly training in our household. There has always been a full nursery at Middleham, though I wish that more of the children were my own.

  Whenever Richard has been away, he brings back presents. As his visit to London had been the first tor two years, we expected something special. Edward was awed to receive a book, The History of Alexander, in English. It was not new, but of good quality, and meant to show that his father trusted him to look after it. He opened it and turned the pages, looking for pictures.

  ‘Father,’ he said in incredulous joy, ‘elephants!’ From babyhood, pictures of these monsters had fascinated him; he used to think they had two tails, one in front and one behind.

  ‘Numberless elephants,’ Richard said. ‘Read this — about the army King Darius of the Persians sent against Alexander.’

  The children stood round, looking over his shoulder. Edward, privileged as the youngest, was tucked between his father’s knees. Richard put his arms round him, so they might hold the book together. He read slowly, but clearly, his delight overflowing with every word.

  ‘“Forty thousand, all astore,

  Elephants let go to-fore,

  Upon every elephant a castle,

  Therein twelve knights armed well…”

  Look there are castles on the elephants’ backs — and one, two three… Saracens, with cross-bows and spears. Your Grace, father, forty thousand is so many elephants. Are they really high as houses?’

  Richard raised one eyebrow slightly in my direction. ‘As a house with three storeys and a gable.’

  ‘Could we keep an elephant here, at Middleham?’

  ‘No!’ He hadn’t expected that one. I hid a smile.

  ‘Is there an elephant in England?’

  ‘No. One came from Calais just before you were born, but was taken back.’

  ‘Father, wouldn’t you have liked some elephants at the siege of Berwick? Forty thousand! Their big feet would have squashed the Scots flat!’ He grinned broadly at the thought of squashing the Scots.

  Richard treated the question as if it were a serious military possibility. ‘At the siege of Berwick, forty thousand elephants might well have frightened the Scots to death, but four would have been enough to turn my hair white! You see, Edward, because elephants are so big, they eat a great deal. When you have as large an army as ours was at Berwick — twenty thousand men and thousands of horses, it’s hard to feed them all. I had to see that my army got enough to eat, so elephants wouldn’t have been welcome. Besides, since they live in dry and sunny lands, they wouldn’t have liked the rain and mud of Scotland.’

  ‘What do they eat?’

  ‘Hay and horse-bread, I suppose. They wouldn’t have liked our mouldy hay, either, it was full of mice. Elephants are afraid of mice.’

  ‘Are they?’ Edward seemed disappointed that his favourite beast had such an absurd weakness. Then he grinned and said loudly, ‘Mistress Idley is scared of mice. She…’

  Richard silenced him by tightening an arm round him and putting a finger over his mouth. ‘To speak of ladies in their presence is ill-mannered,’ he said sharply. The poor woman was very embarrassed. She is used to children’s appalling remarks, but felt her discipline at fault if they were made in front of the Duke. I thoug
ht Edward had been about to say that she had jumped on a stool, thus adding to her discomfort. I hoped my son knew that to make such a remark would mean banishment from his father’s company, and a certain spanking from Mistress Idley. I did not want him to spoil his day. The idea of that large, capable woman in a panic at the sight of a tiny mouse secretly amused me, for they do not alarm me at all.

  After a slightly crestfallen pause, Edward smiled angelically up at Richard, and said, ‘Did you have enough to eat?’ continuing his previous train of thought.

  ‘Yes, but too much boiled mutton and brose.’

  ‘What’s brose?’

  Richard was flagging a little. He looked at me, and the corners of his eyes crinkled into a smile. ‘Oatmeal,’ he said. ‘Edward, take your book to the table and sit up to read it properly. Let me talk to the others.’

  When no one could possibly feel left out, and all were occupied with their gifts, I was able to claim all Richard’s attention. He’d brought me a rosary, made of what I took to be large, plain beads of dark brown agate stone, with narrow gold bands round them. As it swung from my hand, Richard said, ‘Look,’ and slipped his thumb-nail under the gold binding of a bead. It opened on a hinge; inside was a tiny relief picture of the Annunciation, coloured in bright enamels. The archangel Gabriel had wings of gold and blue. It was a jewel-maker’s triumph, of great value.

  ‘I bought it from a Venetian merchant,’ he said. ‘Work so fine does not often reach England; it’s the privilege of princes.’

  ‘Even the Queen cannot own a rosary like this one.’

  ‘No doubt she would covet it.’ Richard spoke shortly. I looked at him. His lips were shut in a perfectly straight line.

  I thought: how he detests the Queen and her great tribe of a family, and he is not a man who hates easily or without reason. Now that my husband was home, I did not want our time together spoilt by sour thoughts, so I took hold of his hand and kissed the fingers one by one. I got what I wanted, a softening of the set lips, and then a smile. He held my wrist, playing with the other gift he’d found for me in London. This was an eagle-stone — one of those hollow pebbles which contain another, rattling pebble — cased in gold and hung from a bracelet of coral beads. I’d asked him specially to get me one; it’s said that women who wear these stones are sure to start a baby. After six years, I’d begun to think some fault existed in my body, which made what was so easy for other women impossible for me. Even when I was first married to Richard, and seventeen, I had to wait three years for my son, and miscarriages made me anxious that I would lose him too. The physicians said it was as well no more babies came; I am made so small and narrow in that part, that each time I would risk my life. At first Richard had felt guilty, and tried not to make love to me, but this had driven us both to distraction. When we found that whatever we did made no difference, he seemed content to see our childlessness as God’s will. It made Edward special, though, because he is heir not only to the greatest lord in the kingdom, but also to royal blood. I wish so much to give Richard another male child — if anything should happen to this one, which God forbid, then there would be another to take his place.