Kate Sedley - The Goldsmith's daughter

In a long life, it has seemed to me that there are two things which excite the popular imagination above all others. The first is a royal wedding, the second, a royal scandal; and just before Christmas of the year of Our Lord, 1477, information reached us in Bristol that the country was shortly to be edified by both.

With my wife, Adela, and our two small children, Elizabeth and Nicholas, I was paying a Sabbath visit to the Redcliffe home of my erstwhile mother-in-law, Margaret Walker, when I first heard the news. We were all returning to her cottage from the nearby church of Saint Thomas, where we had stood, crowded cheek by jowl, with the rest of the weaving community for morning Mass, when we were overtaken by Jack Nym.

By trade, Jack was a carter and had, until six months earlier, worked mainly for the late Alderman Weaver, bringing bales of raw wool from the Cotswold pastures to the Redcliffe weaving sheds, or carting the finished cloth to its various destinations. But now that the alderman was dead, his looms and house sold, his wealth passed into the hands of his younger brother who lived in London, Jack Nym took work wherever he could find it, and had, he was pleased to inform us, but recently returned from delivering a cartload of merchandise to the capital.

‘Yes,’ he said, puffing out his skinny chest with pride, ‘it was a very important order. Thirty ells of our special red Bristol cloth to be shared amongst the aldermen and guildsmen of London, so that they can replace the shabbiest of their gowns before the royal wedding.’

‘What royal wedding?’ Adela and Margaret demanded almost in one breath. ‘Come inside, Jack, and take a cup of ale before you go home,’ Margaret went on eagerly, unlocking her cottage door and holding it wide. ‘And while you’re refreshing yourself, you can tell us all about it.’

‘Yes, please do,’ urged Adela. Glancing round, she caught my mocking glance and had the grace to blush before tilting her chin and adding defiantly, ‘We shall be most interested to hear your news.’

As she shepherded the children before her, I reflected that these first six months of my second marriage had been the happiest of my life. And I reflected, too, on how lucky we were that my three-year-old daughter and Adela’s three-year-old son (Nicholas was the elder by just one month) were so fond of one another; were such good playmates in spite of their frequent disagreements. And fortune had also favoured us insofar as my wife was cousin to Margaret Walker, who had planned and worked for the match from the moment she knew that Adela had been widowed. Margaret, therefore, had experienced no difficulty in accepting Nicholas as her grandson, for neither woman had any other kinsfolk worthy of the name, and for that reason alone the blood-tie, though tenuous, was strong.

Once inside the cottage, Jack Nym sniffed the air, his nose twitching appreciatively at the rich smells of rabbit and herbs and newly baked bread. His goodwife, I seem to remember, was something of an invalid and not favourably disposed towards the cooking pot, so Jack was always hungry and accepted sustenance whenever and wherever it was offered. And once safely perched on the stool nearest the fire, he was happy to sample a plate of Margaret’s honey cakes as an accompaniment to his mazer of ale.

‘Now,’ said the former, seating herself at one end of the long bench and taking Elizabeth on her lap, ‘let’s hear this news of yours, Jack. A royal wedding, eh? But who in God’s name is to be married? I thought all members of the royal family were safely leg-shackled years ago.’

‘It’s the Duke of York. He’s to be wed to the Lady Anne Mowbray, the late Duke of Norfolk’s daughter,’ Jack informed us thickly, through a mouthful of cake.

Margaret let out a screech that made Elizabeth jump like a startled hare. ‘Little Prince Richard? But he’s only a child,’ she protested. ‘He can’t be more than four years old now, surely? Five, at the most. I remember distinctly that he was born the same year as the Duke of Gloucester’s son, Prince Edward. I recollect saying to Goody Watkins at the time that the two brothers must be very close for each to name his son after the other.’

Jack Nym cleared his mouth with an effort. ‘Ay, you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘I overheard someone say that the Duke was only four years of age. And she — Lady Anne, that is — is six. Of course,’ he continued knowledgeably, as befitted a man who visited the capital at regular intervals, and who was on more than a mere nodding acquaintance with London ways, ‘they won’t be living together for a long while yet. Not for years and years and years.’

‘Then what’s the point of marrying the poor little souls?’ Margaret demanded indignantly. ‘It could blight their lives if they should happen to grow up and fall in love with two other people.’

Jack Nym shrugged. ‘It’s the nobility’s manner of doing things,’ he answered vaguely. ‘It’s not for us to question why.’

‘The late Duke of Norfolk was a very rich man,’ I cut in, ‘and I believe this girl is sole heiress to his fortune. The King would naturally be anxious to harness all that wealth to the Crown. Hence this marriage.’

‘Well, I still think it’s a wicked thing to do,’ Margaret said severely, glancing down at Elizabeth, who was for once sitting quietly, docilely sucking her thumb. ‘Imagine forcing this baby into marrying anyone!’

‘When is the wedding to take place?’ Adela asked from her seat on the opposite side of the table. ‘Or don’t you know, Jack?’

I looked round at her with narrowed eyes. There was a purposefulness in her tone that roused my suspicions.

‘The fifteenth day of next month,’ the carter answered promptly, anxious to dismiss any suggestion of ignorance on his part. He added for good measure, ‘In Saint Stephen’s Chapel at Westminster. Two days after the feast of Saint Hilary and the day before the Duke of Clarence is brought to trial in Westminster Hall.’

‘Brought to trial!’ I exclaimed, almost dropping my mazer of ale in astonishment. ‘Duke George is being brought to trial?’

Jack nodded, pleased by my reaction to his news. To have captured my interest was, he plainly felt, a feather in his cap. ‘That’s right,’ he said.

I leaned forward, compelling his attention. ‘You’re sure of this?’ I urged.

‘Of c-course I’m sure!’ he spluttered. ‘There’s not much else being talked about in the London alehouses and taverns, I can tell you. Even the Duke of York’s wedding, and the tournament that’s to be held the following week, have taken second place — and a poor second place at that — to news of the trial. It seems that until recently no one thought that it would happen. Ever since last June, when the Duke was arrested and sent to the Tower, most people have been expecting to hear of his release.’

I nodded. ‘I have, myself. The King has forgiven his brother so often in the past that there seems no reason why he shouldn’t do so this time. I thought that imprisoning him in the Tower was just meant to frighten him.’

‘Perhaps,’ Adela suggested, ‘the Duke will be acquitted. Or, if not, maybe King Edward will pardon him afterwards. This is to be a lesson not lightly forgotten.’

Jack Nym shrugged and finished his ale, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

‘That’s not the current opinion of the Londoners. The feeling now is that the rift between the brothers is more serious than was realised; that the Woodvilles are baying for Clarence’s blood, and refuse to be appeased this time.’

Margaret slid Elizabeth off her knees and rose to her feet. Taking her big ladle, she stirred the contents of the iron pot that hung above the fire, and the cottage was once more filled with the savoury smell of rabbit stew.