Kate Sedley - The Green Man

‘Do all your family have this fatal charm?’ I grunted. ‘I’m persuaded Your Highness could turn a Mussulman Christian.’

He smiled broadly. ‘Oh, we Stewarts are noted for our charm, but unfortunately not for our tact or superior understanding. We make enemies all too easily.’

Against my will, I smiled back. He had an ironic streak that appealed to my own. I found myself liking him in spite of the instinct that told me to resist the notion that, whatever he might call me, however much he might flatter me, he regarded me as a friend. Members of the nobility never made friends of people like me. They used us, then forgot us when we were no longer of value to them. There were no exceptions. I suspected that even the man I admired above all others, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, was completely oblivious to my existence until he had work for me to do. Then my name would flit into his mind as a useful tool for his purpose.

All the same, fool that I am, I have to admit that I was more than somewhat flattered when, the following day, June the eleventh, the Feast of Saint Barnabas, the duke caught my eye and nodded as he entered Fotheringay’s central courtyard. He and Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, arrived midway through the afternoon to be received with all the panoply of state that King Edward could muster. Banners waved, trumpets sounded, choirboys sang, the assembled company cheered itself hoarse and the king embraced his only surviving brother with an affection that had him crying tears of joy.

Normally, of course, I should have been on the very fringes of such a gathering, unable to see or hear a thing that was going on. But on this occasion, thanks to Albany, there I was, right in the thick of it, a privileged auditor and spectator. I was able to note how anxiously the duke scanned the king’s face, and the tightening of his rather thin lips as his eyes rested on those lords ranged closest about the monarch, members of his inner circle, bosom companions of his hedonistic life. (It was common knowledge that they passed their various mistresses about amongst each other, and that Lord Hastings and the Marquis of Dorset were at daggers drawn over the favours of the delectable Dame Shore.)

It was as he freed himself from King Edward’s embrace that the duke noticed me and nodded. It was nothing more than the barest of acknowledgements, but sufficient to make one or two people glance my way in outraged surprise, and for Albany to dig me, most unroyally, in the ribs and give a little snort of laughter.

Later, as I watched Davey Gray and Donald Seton dressing my lord for the evening’s great feast, he coaxed me into telling him what services I had performed for the duke of Gloucester, and I could tell that he was impressed.

‘You found the Lady Anne for him when Clarence had hidden her away in London? No wonder Prince Richard trusts you! And I see how right I was to trust you, too.’ He lapsed into broad Scots and spoke to Davey, who went to one of the great chests standing against the wall of the chamber, from which he produced an amber velvet tunic — somewhat rubbed, it’s true, but perfectly whole and sound — and some yellow hose, together with a pair of piked yellow shoes.

‘Put them on, Roger,’ Albany commanded. ‘I want you immediately behind my chair throughout the banquet.’

It had rained a little in the early evening and we crossed the wet courtyard, where the cressets hissed at their drowned reflections in the puddles underfoot, and entered the light and warmth of Fotheringay’s great hall, the torches flaring against the grey walls with a sound like torn parchment. Tonight, there was to be feasting and entertainment: tomorrow, the serious business — the demands, the conditions, the promises — would be hammered out, and the following day, the army would once again be on the march, heading for York.

‘Then to Berwick to try to end the siege, and thence into Scotland,’ Albany informed me as he was dressed for the banquet by Davey Gray and James Petrie in cloth of gold and royal purple. ‘At least, that’s what I’m told.’ He eyed me up and down as I stood there, feeling extremely foolish, in my amber velvet tunic and yellow hose and shoes. He must have noted my expression because he started to grin.

‘I feel like a Welsh daffodil,’ I complained bitterly. ‘And I shan’t be able to move with these pikes. I shall trip over them as surely as God makes the sun and moon to shine.’ Before he could answer, I asked, ‘Why do we go to York? Why not straight to Berwick?’

James Petrie glanced sharply at me, as though reproving me for such familiarity, but I ignored him. If the future king of Scotland — although I’d believe that when I saw it — wanted me to dance attendance on him, then he would have to put up with my impertinence. He could dismiss me when he pleased: I should be only too happy to leave his service and return to Bristol.

But Albany showed no sign of being offended, grinning even more broadly as he shrugged on a houppelande of rich purple damask trimmed with deep borders of ermine, the candlelight coruscating over the shimmering folds in shades of palest violet to deepest plum. He stooped to allow the page to place a golden coronet set with precious gems on his curly head, then straightened himself with a sigh of satisfaction. He knew that tonight he looked every inch a king.

‘Why do we go to York?’ he mused, echoing my question. Something like a sneer curled his lips. ‘I think, my dear Roger, that we go to York so that we may all be amazed by the display of affection which will be accorded to His Grace of Gloucester by its citizens. Prince Richard wishes to impress on us how greatly he is loved in the heartlands of his power.’ He cast a last glance at his reflection in the long, polished bronze mirror held up by James Petrie, beckoned to his two squires who had been waiting patiently in the shadows and nodded at me. ‘Right, my daffodil, let’s discover what delights have been ordered for our amusement this night.’

I had always known that the life of a royal servant was not all it was claimed to be, in spite of regular warmth, shelter and pickings from the rich man’s table. I had once sampled it for a brief while and was aware that the sleeping quarters were so cramped that you would be better off being a dog or a horse in the royal kennels and stables. But until that evening at Fotheringay, I had never experienced the sheer agony of standing behind someone’s chair while he gorged himself silly and drank himself stupid while your own stomach rumbled and ached with hunger.

Donald Seton and Murdo MacGregor had found themselves places at one of the lower tables, but Davey Gray and I were expected to remain close to Albany throughout the feast. And although it was not my place to wait on our royal lord, as did the page, taking victuals from the servers and presenting them on bended knee for his inspection, it was even more trying to have nothing to do except be buffeted by the lackeys who sped in a continuous procession from kitchen to table and back again, until I lost count of the innumerable dishes that were piled upon the groaning boards. I vaguely recall great sides of beef, legs of mutton, swan and peacock, cooked and re-dressed in all their plumage, syllabubs, tarts, pies, haunches of venison, wonderful subtleties of spun sugar, representing castles, animals and birds, the sun, moon, and stars. One course seemed to follow another almost without pause.

Many of the escutcheons of those present had been fashioned from marchpane and coloured with dyes such as saffron and parsley juice, alkanet and rose petals. I remember the White Rose and Fetterlock of King Edward; the White Boar and Red Bull of the Duke of Gloucester; Northumberland’s White Crescent and Gold Shacklebolt; the White Escallops of Anthony Woodville and the argent and pink of his nephew, the Marquis of Dorset. There must have been many more, but I can’t recollect them after all these years, and wouldn’t weary you with them if I could. Half the nobility of England was present, all eager to fight under the banner of the king.