contorted by the sheer weight of their malice. He had not known before that men’s faces would change as he fell from grace, becoming animal, unclean.
For this reason the horror of this imprisonment exceeded that of his imprisonment in France. Then, he had been a prisoner of war, fighting for his country; now, his country had turned on him. Andthere was no place for him, none, despite his many manors, apart from this narrow cell and the hostile territory of his mind. He slept and woke, slept and woke, always with the horror of his situation covering him like a pall, a sheen of sweat. He lay stinking in its fetor, amid all the phantasms of his brain.
Accordingly, when the king finally sent for him to say that he was taking him into his own custody in Westminster Palace, he had to read the message several times over, then he pressed it to his face to smell it. Later, he sat in the boat sent for him, blinking in gratitude at the night sky, which was stippled with stars. Never had he seen anything more miraculous or wonderful. The air he breathed, though it reeked of the city, had never seemed sweeter.
As they approached the king’s chambers, the king himself came out to greet him. The duke fell clumsily to his knees, acutely conscious of his clothes, which he had been unable to change, of his straggling beard and weeping eye. But the king, who was himself dressed like a monk, had no interest in appearances. He raised him up at once and embraced him.
‘My dearest friend,’ he said, ‘how you have suffered.’
And at once the duke began to feel restored to himself, for how could he be traitor if he was the king’s dearest friend? He had never acted against his king.
‘It is nothing,’ he managed to say, ‘now that I am here – with you.’
And the king embraced him again. Then he led him into his privy chamber, and from there into his private chapel, a small, bare room containing only a wooden bench and crucifix and a tapestry of St Sebastian. The king sat with him on the bench and looked earnestly at him. His own face was drawn in lines of tragedy and suffering, but he said, ‘My friend, you are not well.’
The duke thought of saying that he had not been visiting a spa, but it did not seem the right time for irony.
‘A little fever, perhaps, your grace.’
His left eye was evidently infected; it would not stop weeping.
‘I will send for my own physician – you must rest and recuperate.’
The duke thought of saying that he had rested enough, but again he suppressed the thought. The king stood suddenly and gazed out of the chapel window. ‘But you cannot stay in London – the city is not safe. The people … rise against me.’
The duke thought he had heard the sounds of rioting from his cell.
‘A man has been sentenced to death for speaking against me.’ The king turned his bewildered face towards the duke. ‘I did not require it – my council required it: not I.’
The duke bowed his head, wondering who had taken his place on the king’s council.
‘I have been praying for days,’ said the king.
Ah
, thought the duke.
‘Only to know what I have done wrong – if I have done wrong. But there is no answer.’
No
, thought the duke.
‘I have loved my people, but they do not love me.’
It is better to be feared rather than loved
, thought the duke, but he could not remember where the quote came from.
‘I have been a merciful king. I have sought to rule by Christ’s law.’
They both knew that if he had been a tyrant, the people would have loved him more. But the king was looking at the wooden cross in some perplexity. ‘I have begged for the answer in prayer – how is it that I, who seek only to live in charity with all men, have brought about such evil?’
He turned to the duke with troubled eyes, but the duke, for once, was at a loss for words.
‘The only answer I receive is this,’ he continued. ‘I am doing penance for the nation – for the land. Like a blood
For this reason the horror of this imprisonment exceeded that of his imprisonment in France. Then, he had been a prisoner of war, fighting for his country; now, his country had turned on him. Andthere was no place for him, none, despite his many manors, apart from this narrow cell and the hostile territory of his mind. He slept and woke, slept and woke, always with the horror of his situation covering him like a pall, a sheen of sweat. He lay stinking in its fetor, amid all the phantasms of his brain.
Accordingly, when the king finally sent for him to say that he was taking him into his own custody in Westminster Palace, he had to read the message several times over, then he pressed it to his face to smell it. Later, he sat in the boat sent for him, blinking in gratitude at the night sky, which was stippled with stars. Never had he seen anything more miraculous or wonderful. The air he breathed, though it reeked of the city, had never seemed sweeter.
As they approached the king’s chambers, the king himself came out to greet him. The duke fell clumsily to his knees, acutely conscious of his clothes, which he had been unable to change, of his straggling beard and weeping eye. But the king, who was himself dressed like a monk, had no interest in appearances. He raised him up at once and embraced him.
‘My dearest friend,’ he said, ‘how you have suffered.’
And at once the duke began to feel restored to himself, for how could he be traitor if he was the king’s dearest friend? He had never acted against his king.
‘It is nothing,’ he managed to say, ‘now that I am here – with you.’
And the king embraced him again. Then he led him into his privy chamber, and from there into his private chapel, a small, bare room containing only a wooden bench and crucifix and a tapestry of St Sebastian. The king sat with him on the bench and looked earnestly at him. His own face was drawn in lines of tragedy and suffering, but he said, ‘My friend, you are not well.’
The duke thought of saying that he had not been visiting a spa, but it did not seem the right time for irony.
‘A little fever, perhaps, your grace.’
His left eye was evidently infected; it would not stop weeping.
‘I will send for my own physician – you must rest and recuperate.’
The duke thought of saying that he had rested enough, but again he suppressed the thought. The king stood suddenly and gazed out of the chapel window. ‘But you cannot stay in London – the city is not safe. The people … rise against me.’
The duke thought he had heard the sounds of rioting from his cell.
‘A man has been sentenced to death for speaking against me.’ The king turned his bewildered face towards the duke. ‘I did not require it – my council required it: not I.’
The duke bowed his head, wondering who had taken his place on the king’s council.
‘I have been praying for days,’ said the king.
Ah
, thought the duke.
‘Only to know what I have done wrong – if I have done wrong. But there is no answer.’
No
, thought the duke.
‘I have loved my people, but they do not love me.’
It is better to be feared rather than loved
, thought the duke, but he could not remember where the quote came from.
‘I have been a merciful king. I have sought to rule by Christ’s law.’
They both knew that if he had been a tyrant, the people would have loved him more. But the king was looking at the wooden cross in some perplexity. ‘I have begged for the answer in prayer – how is it that I, who seek only to live in charity with all men, have brought about such evil?’
He turned to the duke with troubled eyes, but the duke, for once, was at a loss for words.
‘The only answer I receive is this,’ he continued. ‘I am doing penance for the nation – for the land. Like a blood
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