Читать книгу Rivals in the Tudor Court - Darcey Bonnette - Страница 17

I ride in the procession, sitting numb on my mount, keeping vigil over yet another dead child. The spectacle of a kingdom in mourning is too much to take in. I begin to tune it out: the sound of the church bells, the tears of the crowd, the queen’s anguished face.

The little prince is interred, grief is set aside for state business, and we forge ahead. The king recovers in time to go a-Maying, ordering the festivities to commence as usual. There is feasting and masquing and tourneys, in which my brother and I take part. We oust our opponents in typical Howard style and the king claps my brother Neddy on the back, thrilled by the display. He is far more familiar with him than with me. I tell myself it is my age that prevents me from having a closer relationship with His Majesty, but in truth, Neddy isn’t much younger than me. Rather, Neddy possesses charm and flamboyancy, attracting everyone to him without effort. He enjoys people where, as a whole, I am bothered by them. He is open and cheerful and converses for enjoyment, whereas if something isn’t being gained by the conversation, I have little use for the art. What’s more, he is ever ready to partake in any festive situation, bringing his own merry element, which itself proves endearing, else why would the king retain the useless Charles Brandon? I am not of the same nature as Neddy and Brandon so have not commanded the king’s personal attentions as much.

But what I cannot be as a courtier, I can make up for as a soldier. All the prowess demonstrated in the jousts and tourneys has proven worthwhile. We have impressed the king sufficiently so that he sees fit for Ned and me to take on Sir Andrew Barton, the pirate who has been terrorising our trade routes by capturing English ships under the pretext that they are in possession of Portuguese goods. Barton’s case is peculiar. His motives are based on an old family grudge: His father, John Barton, was captured by a Portuguese ship, and the King of Portugal never made amends. Thus the King of Scots permitted him to take any Portuguese ship that crossed his path, along with their goods. In truth I do not think he was permitted to take Portuguese goods off ships that weren’t from Portugal and this is certainly something that could have been smoothed over had Henry VIII only asked James IV. But my father is so eager to dissuade the king from supporting favoured councillor Thomas Wolsey’s encouragement of a French campaign that he urges His Majesty to engage Barton in the hopes of rousing a war with Scotland. Hence the Scottish king is not consulted.

I am not about to make suggestions. If the king is prompted by my father, so be it. My father’s interests are my own; his gain is my gain. If the king asks me to take Barton, I take Barton.

And so in August, I trade land for sea and, from the very first, know that I was born to it—the rolling waves, the salty spray, the eternal motion of the ship, all this coupled with the anticipation of impending battle.

We encounter Barton’s ships, the Lion and the Jenny Pirwin, on the Downs, that narrow roadstead off the eastern coast of Kent where warships patrol the gateway to the North Sea.

“Raise the willow wand!” I cry, indicating the symbol of merchant ships, so that we might lure him in. The Lion, which is being guided by a captain whose ship they looted the day before, comes about.

I stand on deck, gripping the ledge. I am tingling; power surges through my arms straight to my fingertips. My knuckles are white. The wind whips against my cheeks. I lick my salty lips. We lurch into a wave; the spray splashes me and I laugh out loud. There is nothing like this, not the love of a woman nor the cry of a newborn guaranteed to be stolen away—no, this kind of satisfaction is not given by another human being; it is achieved from within and I savour every moment.

The Lion is gaining. She is ready to take us. I stand firm, making certain that Barton sees the man who is fated to kill him.

“Cut the flags!” I order.

The flags are cut and we reveal ourselves to be the Enemy.

“Fire a volley—hit her broadside!” I shout. I am trembling as I watch the other ship closing in. We hit her with the cannons; the damage is not extensive but enough to rock her off balance and send the crew scrambling.

Barton is on deck, a formidable figure in his fine armour. About his neck is a golden whistle. He is shouting orders, indicating the strange apparatus his ship is outfitted with: weights suspended on large beams. They are peculiar and I imagine in the right circumstances quite effective. When someone climbs up the masts to release the lines on which the weights are connected, they can drop onto other ships. This is a machination I cannot help but admire, but only for a moment, as I realise Barton is hoping to utilise them against us.

I look to my archer, a Yorkshire man called Hustler. “Kill any who try to go aloft,” I tell him.

He offers a nervous nod, readying his bow. He aims. My body tenses, but there is even a thrill in the anxiety as I watch the arrow cut through the air to hit its mark, a young crewman attempting to scuttle up the mast, in the shoulder. He falls to the deck to be immediately replaced by another brave sailor attempting the same thing.

“Get him!” I cry.

Hustler draws back his next arrow and releases, again hitting his target.

After this is reduced to a monotony of death, Barton himself begins to climb the mast.

“Kill him,” I tell Hustler.

Hustler’s glance is unsure as he returns his eyes to the pirate.

“Kill him or die,” I say with urgency.

Hustler flinches. “I’ve but two arrows….”

“Use them well,” I urge.

Hustler draws. The first assault bounces off Barton’s armour like a twig against a stone wall. Trembling, Hustler reaches for his last arrow.

“Do it, man!” I command.

Hustler pulls back. Barton reaches up to assure himself better grip on the mast.

“Now!” I shout.

Hustler releases. The arrow slices through the air. I can hear it even over the shouts of the men. It pierces through Barton’s armpit, that soft bit of flesh left vulnerable to attack.

He falls; it seems too slow to be real. I watch him hit deck. Crewmen rush to his side.

“Fight on!” he orders in his brogue, loud enough for me to hear. “I am a little wounded but not slain. I will but rest a while and then rise and fight once more. Meantime, stand fast by St. Andrew’s Cross!” He raises his eyes to the Scots’ flag.

I shake my head in admiration. As my eyes travel to the sailors on board the Lion, I note how stricken they are. He is not only a good commander, he is also loved; it is not an easy combination to attain.

When Barton can no longer shout orders, he resorts to blowing his golden whistle.

And then the whistle is heard no more.

Barton is dead.

We bring in the Lion, where it is added to the royal fleet, and we are toasted as heroes.

I have won!

Elizabeth Stafford, Spring 1512

King Henry has joined the Holy League in an allegiance against France’s King Louis, who was hoping to conquer Italy. Everyone is drunk with war; even the masques and pageants all feature weapons and armour, and the themes are not at all as pleasant as they used to be. I must say, I blame the Howards. They are so hungry for conquest, any kind of conquest, that they started the whole thing with the slaying of the pirate Barton, giving the king his first taste of victory. If Lord Thomas Howard is any indication, once a man tastes victory, there is created in him an insatiable thirst for more. When the king sent him off with the Marquess of Dorset to engage the French army near Bayonne in early June, I thought the stern-faced man would break into a jig of excitement.

Now it is the king who is parched. He does not want to send others to fight his battles; he needs to be a part of them. He wants to be a warrior-king like his father before him and drink in a long draught of Tudor triumph.

Ralph Neville, a young courtier newly arrived, is quick to correct me as we walk in the gardens of Greenwich in late June. “The Howards are all about the Scots,” he tells me. “It is Wolsey who prompts action against the French, to reclaim our lost holdings there for the glory of King Henry!”

Whenever Ralph speaks to me, I am far too beside myself to think of war or anything disagreeable. Ralph will be the fourth Earl of Westmorland and was made a ward of my father in 1510. He was the lankiest, gawkiest, and most thoroughly awkward lad I had ever seen back then. But now! Now he is the handsomest man at court, tall and lean and self-assured, with honey-blonde hair and clear blue eyes that are so light they are almost silver. His smile is easy and he is quick to laugh. He has sought me out a number of times now for walks in the gardens and I relish every encounter.

“I don’t care who prompts what,” I tell him. “Whether it’s the Earl of Surrey or Wolsey or whoever; I just don’t want a war.”

“You’re not even the least bit excited to see the knights leave? It’s going to be quite a spectacle. I think the king will even make war an entertainment,” he adds with a laugh.

“It’s all a pretty spectacle till they return fewer in numbers,” I say in haughty tones. I lower my eyes, swallowing a painful lump in my throat. “My father is accompanying the king, you know.”

Humbled, Ralph reaches for my hand. It is our first touch. We are fifteen years old, two trembling youths wondering what lies beyond this brief contact of skin against skin. His eyes seek mine. They are soft and calm as the afternoon sky.

“If I offended you, I am sorry,” he says in sweet tones.

“I am not offended,” I respond, trying to keep my voice steady. “I just—I just agree with Father Colet. Don’t you remember his Good Friday sermon? He said ‘an unquiet peace is preferable to a just war.’”

“You must learn this now, Lady Elizabeth,” says Ralph, stroking my thumb. “That an unquiet peace can be more miserable than a decisive battle. One can live a whole lifetime in a state of unquiet peace.”

I do not know how to respond. I do not like being challenged this way. I would just like someone to see things as I do. I expel a heavy sigh of frustration.

“Your father will return, my lady,” he assures me. He bows his head. “Oh, I do wish I could be among them! But, alas, I must remain behind.” He casts a shy glance my way and I shiver in delight.

“I hope you can find ways to pass the time while everyone is harvesting their fruits of fortune on the battlefield,” I say with a smile.

He reaches up, tracing my jawline with a velvet fingertip. “I’m sure I can find something….”

He leans forward, pressing his lips to mine. They are soft and moist, warm, filled with sweet eagerness. Only loyalty to my good queen’s virtues gives me the will to pull away and stare into his face in bewildered joy.

“Ralph …” I murmur, just for the sake of saying his name.

He kisses my forehead. “I have longed for you, Elizabeth,” he says. “Say you are mine.”

The courtly language is not the least bit original but as it is addressed to me, I cannot help but offer a giddy little nod and say, “Yes!”

“When your father returns, we will seek his permission to be married,” he continues, his eyes wide with excitement.

I cannot say I really know Ralph altogether well, but he is so handsome and charming that the thought of being his wife has me nodding my assent, caught up in his enthusiasm. I am already imagining what our children will look like. They’ll have our blue eyes, no doubt. I begin to tingle.

“Oh, Ralph, do go away so I can find someone to confide our news to!” I cry, shooing him off.

Ralph laughs, rising from the garden bench and dipping into an extravagant bow. “Fare thee well, my wife,” he whispers.

My face flushes bright crimson. I lower my eyes, watching Ralph’s boots as they plod off.

All thoughts of battle and bloodshed are abated, replaced with fantasies of a grand wedding.

I shall be Elizabeth Neville!

The king departs with great fanfare. My father accompanies him with an entourage of six hundred archers, three hundred household servants, musicians—even the choir of the Chapel Royal! No one is left out of this campaign. Wolsey leaves, Bishop Foxe leaves—everyone. They are all dressed in the Tudor livery of green and white. It is a splendid farewell.

The queen rules as regent from Greenwich Palace and it is very quiet without His Majesty. In the company of Her Grace I help sew banners and badges and standards for our soldiers. As my fingers work the needle, I feel I am a part of something great, that somewhere in France someone will be carrying a standard or wearing a badge that I, Elizabeth Stafford, have sewn with all of my love and good wishes.

We follow the war from our safe vantage, learning that on 16 August the king and Emperor Maximilian I routed the French at what became known as the Battle of the Spurs, taking the town of Therouanne.

But the triumphs are accompanied by tragedies. We learn of the casualties. Thomas Knyvet, the shy courtier who amused us all by climbing naked up a pillar when the rabble stole his clothes at the festivities celebrating the late prince’s birth, died at sea off Brest when fighting the French. There are so many others, all young merry men eager for such useless enterprise.

With heavy hearts we mourn our soldiers. Soon there are no more banners to sew, no more standards to bear. The queen’s household grows smaller and smaller.

I am sent home to Thornbury that autumn, but to my delight, Ralph Neville, as my father’s ward, is there as well. As much as I am devoted to Her Grace, I am relieved to be away for a while. The household was so tense waiting for news of the king’s success that my gut was constantly churning and lurching in anxiety.

Now I have but to await the return of the king and his army in a more peaceful place with my betrothed at my side.