Anne O'Brien - A Tapestry of Treason

‘Dickon says we are in trouble.’ I had sent Dickon to procure spiced wine. I thought we would need a strengthening draught before this night was out. Judging from the deep seams between nose and mouth and his white-knuckled clasp around the arm of the chair, it was one of my father’s bad days.

‘So it seems. And I can barely move from this room.’

His hands closed again on the arms, the tendons stark beneath the mottled skin.

‘Have they accused Edward of Thomas of Woodstock’s death?’ I asked, seeing here the real threat.

‘Yes. So I believe.’

‘Is he arrested?’

‘I think not. I hope I would have been told if my heir was at this moment under lock and key.’

‘And Thomas?’

My father shrugged, a grimace of pain tightening his features. ‘I know not.’

‘What about Surrey and Exeter?’

‘I fear for them all.’

‘So it will be a witch-hunt to clear us all out.’ There was only one man who might have prevented it. ‘You did not think to be there, sir.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘My lord, your father, has been unwell.’ Joan had risen and interceded in his defence, quiet but firm. ‘The pain has kept him abed until an hour ago. He has only risen at the prospect of your return.’ Her quick glance toward me was a surprise in the challenge that it held, daring me to say more. ‘As you can see, he has had much to trouble his mind.’

‘I am aware. So have we all.’

Accepting the challenge with a nod, for indeed my father looked drawn as if with a winter chill, I approached to touch his arm, the nearest we got to affection, as Dickon returned with a servant and a flagon and cups. I waved Dickon away. He went reluctantly, and I wondered if he might listen at the door.

‘It is that worm Bagot who is stirring the pot, so I am told.’ My father gripped my hand, which was signal enough of his anxiety. Sir William Bagot, one of Richard’s close associates, perhaps the closest other than Edward, had fled smartly back to Ireland when Richard had fallen into the hands of the Earl of Northumberland, rightly fearing for his life. It had not been a successful flight, for he had been taken prisoner and brought back to London in chains. I imagined him scattering accusations with the ready hand of a hen-wife feeding her chicks in an effort to deflect the blame of evil counsellor from himself.

‘A pity he could not have escaped more successfully,’ I said. ‘Or someone could have applied a knife to his throat when he was first captured. It would have saved us a deal of time and worry.’

‘Sometimes your vindictiveness concerns me, Constance,’ my father said. ‘It must be the Castilian blood in your veins.’

‘They were quick to deal with traitors in Castile.’

‘If we in England were to copy them with summary executions, my son might already be dead. Your Castilian grandfather King Peter was stabbed to death by his half-brother who coveted his throne. Do we wish to emulate such an example?’

Which effectively silenced me.

And then all we could do was wait. The time passed. My father sipped morosely from some potion supplied by Joan, who picked up her endless stitching. I turned the pages of a book of poetry without focus, conscious of my dusty dishevelment that for once meant little against the approaching storm. If Dickon was listening he would learn nothing.

‘What are you thinking?’ Joan asked eventually, quietly. She had moved to sit at my side as my father’s eyelids closed and he fell into a light sleep.

‘I am wondering what we should do if they are already all locked in the Tower with Richard,’ I replied with brutal honesty.

She looked horrified. ‘Surely not. Surely the King would not be so precipitate…’

Footsteps, more than one set, approaching. It could be a deputation of royal soldiers to arrest all of us. Edward and Thomas might already be in chains along with Bagot. The tension in the room became the twanging of an ill-stringed lute. I stood, closing the book, facing the door. My father sat up.

‘Surely the King would not stain his new kingdom with blood so soon,’ Joan whispered. ‘Would it not be bad policy to give in to parliament at its first meeting?’

So Joan was better informed than I had expected. All I could do was concentrate on the latch, which was lifted without a formal knock.

The door opened to admit Edward, followed hotfoot by Thomas, who closed it and leaned against it. I might have felt relief, but stark fear walked into that room with them, touching my nape with ice. Thomas’s face was without expression, while Edward was as pale as if his blood had been drained in a fatal wound.

‘Thank God! Thank God!’ My father, awake with the noisy intrusion, managed to stand, taking Edward’s arms in as firm a clasp as he could. ‘Thank God you are returned.’

‘Too soon to thank the Almighty, sir.’

Seeing the pain in his face, Edward led my father back to his chair while Thomas regarded me with complete lack of warmth.

‘I thought you were gone to Elmley Castle.’

I swallowed hard against the creeping terror. ‘I have returned. I understand that we are under attack.’

Edward came to my rescue. ‘Let her be, man.’

It was then, as Edward took a cup of wine from Joan, that I saw it was not fear that held him, but a heat of fury that was banked around him. I could smell it, rank with incipient danger. Gone was the smiling insouciance, the habitual self-confidence of a man who saw his future painted in clear lines. Now Edward had had the solid rock as heir of York mined from under his feet.

‘Under attack?’ He picked up my comment and embellished it. ‘Before God! It’s more than an attack. I am on trial for my life.’ He gulped the wine, eyes fierce with the humiliations of the day. ‘Don’t be under any illusion. I’ll be fortunate to come out of this with my head still attached to my body.’

He tossed the now-empty cup in his hand, catching it neatly, and for a moment I thought that he might hurl it against the recessed fireplace, but before the unwavering gaze of his father he steadied himself and handed it to me.

‘Will you tell us?’ I asked. Best to know the worst of it.

‘Oh, I’ll tell you. As soon as the Speaker asked for all evil counsellors to be arrested, I knew it.’ His lips thinned into one line. ‘I could see it written on the faces of those lords who had not been as fortunate as I under Richard’s hand. The desire for revenge could be tasted, like sour ale lodged in my gullet. It was Bagot’s doing,’ he confirmed, ‘trying to save his own skin by smearing the blame elsewhere. It seems, in Bagot’s weasel words, that I was the principal evil counsellor at Richard’s Court. I am accused of two treasonable acts. Two! I am an accessory to the murder of our uncle Thomas of Woodstock, and as if that were not enough I have expressed a desire that King Henry should also be murdered.’ He snatched back the cup and refilled it in two fluent actions, replacing the flagon with a force that almost buckled the metal foot. ‘I am accused of sending two yeomen to Calais to do the mortal deed against Woodstock. To smother him in his bed. Could Bagot destroy my name any further? I’ve never heard him so voluble in his own defence, while I am the one to carry all blame for Woodstock’s death.’

It was indeed damning. The cold hand around my throat tightened its grip.

‘But you were involved in Woodstock’s death,’ I ventured, seeing the true danger here.

‘Of course I was,’ Edward snarled. ‘As were we all.’ He gestured towards Thomas who still leaned, silent as a grave, against the door. ‘It was Richard’s wish that the deed be done, to punish his uncle for curtailing his power. Who was brave enough to withstand Richard’s wishes? He was volatile and becoming more so, like a bed of rushes swaying in a high wind. To refuse a royal order was to sign my own death warrant.’