perhaps, she might have been a poet, like him; she was sure he would have approved. Instead of which, she was the patron of poets.
Still, she could write a good letter. Dipping her quill, she began to write to the mother of her ward, in order to arrange the future of her son.
On the day of St Vincent the Martyr, a parliament began in which everybody complained to the king about the Duke of Suffolk, hearing which the iniquitous duke came into parliament before the commons, excusing himself of many charges. And on the same day the iniquitous duke sought permission from the king to retire to his estate of Wallingford which he kept in the best manner, but all the commons complained to the king, saying that if the iniquitous duke was allowed to go, the whole of England would be destroyed by his evil plans and deceptions, because he was a traitor to the crown … And so on the 29th day of January the evil duke was arrested and taken to the Tower of London.
John Benet’s Chronicle
14
The Duke of Suffolk Suffers a Premonition
She bent over him with her blackened, smoking eyes, saying, ‘Do you think you are Duke of France?’
Or was it Normandy?
Small flames flickered from her lips and helmet as she raised her fiery sword then brought it down.
And he woke, sweating. It was not the first time he had dreamed of the Maid of Orléans, whose execution he had, in fact, witnessed. What disturbed him was the vivid quality of his dreams. There was nothing to occupy him in his cell, relatively little light and air, and his dreams had begun to seem more real to him than his waking moments. Indeed there were times when both his present condition and much of his previous life seemed like a dream.
It was as though the substance of time itself had become distorted, so drawn out that it almost stood still, then gushing faster than a flooding stream as memories and images of his past life returned to him. He remembered playing with his sister, who had died, the tutor who had mocked him in private, the first prostitute he ever slept with.
Then he was walking with his wife in her herb garden, or holding his son.
Very often the smiling face of Adam Moleyns came back to him. They were discussing policy together in the duke’s house at St Giles. Then the bishop’s head, still smiling, addressed him from a pole. ‘Soon it will be your turn,’ he said.
Thoughts and images and memories swirled into whirlpools or drove him through mazes, and he lost all ability to concentrate. He tried, for example, to remember lines of poetry – his own,that he had composed for the queen – but could remember only fragments:
My heart is set and all mine whole intent
To serve this flower in my most humble wise …
The queen had been so pleased by his verses, she had received them with a childlike pleasure; but now he could not remember them.
Both the king and queen had written to him several times, assuring him of their love, and that he would be released. By contrast, his wife had written only once, to tell him that she was going ahead with the arrangements for the marriage of their son. The little Margaret Beaufort was staying with her all the time now, so that the wedding could be arranged quickly before any objections might arise.
Alone in his cell, the duke could imagine her making those arrangements, with the same efficiency and assurance that had first drawn him to her.
There were moments when he could not remember her face.
What he could remember were the faces of those in parliament who had stood against him. All the commons, of course, and several lords. He had tried to speak in his own defence:
In the matter of ceding Maine, he had said, other lords were as privy thereto as he
.
It would have been impossible, he told them, for him to have done such great things without the cooperation of other men.
And they had shouted him down.
With terrifying lucidity he recalled their distorted faces, pulled and
Still, she could write a good letter. Dipping her quill, she began to write to the mother of her ward, in order to arrange the future of her son.
On the day of St Vincent the Martyr, a parliament began in which everybody complained to the king about the Duke of Suffolk, hearing which the iniquitous duke came into parliament before the commons, excusing himself of many charges. And on the same day the iniquitous duke sought permission from the king to retire to his estate of Wallingford which he kept in the best manner, but all the commons complained to the king, saying that if the iniquitous duke was allowed to go, the whole of England would be destroyed by his evil plans and deceptions, because he was a traitor to the crown … And so on the 29th day of January the evil duke was arrested and taken to the Tower of London.
John Benet’s Chronicle
14
The Duke of Suffolk Suffers a Premonition
She bent over him with her blackened, smoking eyes, saying, ‘Do you think you are Duke of France?’
Or was it Normandy?
Small flames flickered from her lips and helmet as she raised her fiery sword then brought it down.
And he woke, sweating. It was not the first time he had dreamed of the Maid of Orléans, whose execution he had, in fact, witnessed. What disturbed him was the vivid quality of his dreams. There was nothing to occupy him in his cell, relatively little light and air, and his dreams had begun to seem more real to him than his waking moments. Indeed there were times when both his present condition and much of his previous life seemed like a dream.
It was as though the substance of time itself had become distorted, so drawn out that it almost stood still, then gushing faster than a flooding stream as memories and images of his past life returned to him. He remembered playing with his sister, who had died, the tutor who had mocked him in private, the first prostitute he ever slept with.
Then he was walking with his wife in her herb garden, or holding his son.
Very often the smiling face of Adam Moleyns came back to him. They were discussing policy together in the duke’s house at St Giles. Then the bishop’s head, still smiling, addressed him from a pole. ‘Soon it will be your turn,’ he said.
Thoughts and images and memories swirled into whirlpools or drove him through mazes, and he lost all ability to concentrate. He tried, for example, to remember lines of poetry – his own,that he had composed for the queen – but could remember only fragments:
My heart is set and all mine whole intent
To serve this flower in my most humble wise …
The queen had been so pleased by his verses, she had received them with a childlike pleasure; but now he could not remember them.
Both the king and queen had written to him several times, assuring him of their love, and that he would be released. By contrast, his wife had written only once, to tell him that she was going ahead with the arrangements for the marriage of their son. The little Margaret Beaufort was staying with her all the time now, so that the wedding could be arranged quickly before any objections might arise.
Alone in his cell, the duke could imagine her making those arrangements, with the same efficiency and assurance that had first drawn him to her.
There were moments when he could not remember her face.
What he could remember were the faces of those in parliament who had stood against him. All the commons, of course, and several lords. He had tried to speak in his own defence:
In the matter of ceding Maine, he had said, other lords were as privy thereto as he
.
It would have been impossible, he told them, for him to have done such great things without the cooperation of other men.
And they had shouted him down.
With terrifying lucidity he recalled their distorted faces, pulled and
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