offering.’
‘Your majesty –’
‘If the people require my blood, they may have it. But they will not have yours.’
His eyes were fervent, like the eyes of a martyr. He had the courage of a martyr, not a warrior. But the people required a warrior.
‘I will not let them execute you, my friend.’
The king’s words began to echo strangely in the duke’s head. He looked at the king with that fractured vision that had come to him in his cell. He could see that if he, the Duke of Suffolk, were to advise his king truly, he would have himself executed; if he had been king, he would have signed the death warrant by now. But he did not say this, of course. Despite the circumstances, he could feel in himself a surprisingly strong desire to live.
‘I will stand between you and your enemies,’ said the king.
He sat down beside the duke again and took his hands in a characteristically inappropriate gesture. The duke could not look at the simple belief in his face. He stared instead at his own hands in the king’s. He could feel, almost like a physical force, or a current at sea, the compelling power of the king’s goodness. But the king was speaking again.
‘As soon as you have recovered you must leave London secretly – you must decide where to go.’
The duke thought. He would not return to his wife (who had written to him only once) because to return to her would be to endanger her and his son. He could go, perhaps, to one of his lesser manors.
‘I would keep you with me,’ the king said, ‘but I would rather keep you safe.’
The duke smiled. ‘I have too many enemies for that.’
‘But I am their king!’
He spoke as if kings could not be deposed; as if his own grandfather had not deposed a king. But the duke felt suddenly too weary to argue. He swayed in his seat, and the king caught and held him with surprising strength.
‘You must rest,’ he said. ‘But first we must pray together – pray for the fortunes of this land, that we may bring good to it and lay all the evil to rest.’
The duke was a little wary of prayer. He thought of all those prayers, throughout time, that had risen like flies from the lips of the dying and the desperate, apparently unheard. But the king was pressing him forward, into a kneeling position, and began to prayfor mercy and wisdom and the power of goodness. The duke knelt beside him, with the king’s arm still supporting his shoulders, and knew suddenly, with a penetrating clarity, that the king’s goodness would be the nation’s doom.
And after St Hilary’s Day the parliament was removed to Leicester … and the king brought with him to that parliament the Duke of Suffolk, and when the commons understood that he was out of the Tower and brought thither they desired to have execution upon him for the deliverance of Normandy and also for the death of that noble prince the Duke of Gloucester. And to appease the commons the Duke of Suffolk was exiled out of England.
Gregory’s Chronicle
15
The Duke of Suffolk Writes a Letter
Something had happened to him while he prayed with the king, something extraordinary, but he could not say what it was. It was almost as though a skin had been lifted from him. And although it had been painless, this spiritual flaying, it had left him feeling raw. Ever since, he had been affected by a profound melancholy.
Of course, the circumstances were not good. He had been lucky to escape from his house in London when a mob had attacked it. And now here he was in his manor of Easthorpe, making arrangements to leave the country. But he was not under sentence of death; the king, as promised, had ‘stood between him and his enemies’
.
It was a beautiful day, but even the clear light – watery, pristine – could not lift his melancholy; he could feel no renaissance in his flesh. Birds were calling, hares darting about the field, but they merely increased his sense of hopeless sorrow. He turned away from the
‘Your majesty –’
‘If the people require my blood, they may have it. But they will not have yours.’
His eyes were fervent, like the eyes of a martyr. He had the courage of a martyr, not a warrior. But the people required a warrior.
‘I will not let them execute you, my friend.’
The king’s words began to echo strangely in the duke’s head. He looked at the king with that fractured vision that had come to him in his cell. He could see that if he, the Duke of Suffolk, were to advise his king truly, he would have himself executed; if he had been king, he would have signed the death warrant by now. But he did not say this, of course. Despite the circumstances, he could feel in himself a surprisingly strong desire to live.
‘I will stand between you and your enemies,’ said the king.
He sat down beside the duke again and took his hands in a characteristically inappropriate gesture. The duke could not look at the simple belief in his face. He stared instead at his own hands in the king’s. He could feel, almost like a physical force, or a current at sea, the compelling power of the king’s goodness. But the king was speaking again.
‘As soon as you have recovered you must leave London secretly – you must decide where to go.’
The duke thought. He would not return to his wife (who had written to him only once) because to return to her would be to endanger her and his son. He could go, perhaps, to one of his lesser manors.
‘I would keep you with me,’ the king said, ‘but I would rather keep you safe.’
The duke smiled. ‘I have too many enemies for that.’
‘But I am their king!’
He spoke as if kings could not be deposed; as if his own grandfather had not deposed a king. But the duke felt suddenly too weary to argue. He swayed in his seat, and the king caught and held him with surprising strength.
‘You must rest,’ he said. ‘But first we must pray together – pray for the fortunes of this land, that we may bring good to it and lay all the evil to rest.’
The duke was a little wary of prayer. He thought of all those prayers, throughout time, that had risen like flies from the lips of the dying and the desperate, apparently unheard. But the king was pressing him forward, into a kneeling position, and began to prayfor mercy and wisdom and the power of goodness. The duke knelt beside him, with the king’s arm still supporting his shoulders, and knew suddenly, with a penetrating clarity, that the king’s goodness would be the nation’s doom.
And after St Hilary’s Day the parliament was removed to Leicester … and the king brought with him to that parliament the Duke of Suffolk, and when the commons understood that he was out of the Tower and brought thither they desired to have execution upon him for the deliverance of Normandy and also for the death of that noble prince the Duke of Gloucester. And to appease the commons the Duke of Suffolk was exiled out of England.
Gregory’s Chronicle
15
The Duke of Suffolk Writes a Letter
Something had happened to him while he prayed with the king, something extraordinary, but he could not say what it was. It was almost as though a skin had been lifted from him. And although it had been painless, this spiritual flaying, it had left him feeling raw. Ever since, he had been affected by a profound melancholy.
Of course, the circumstances were not good. He had been lucky to escape from his house in London when a mob had attacked it. And now here he was in his manor of Easthorpe, making arrangements to leave the country. But he was not under sentence of death; the king, as promised, had ‘stood between him and his enemies’
.
It was a beautiful day, but even the clear light – watery, pristine – could not lift his melancholy; he could feel no renaissance in his flesh. Birds were calling, hares darting about the field, but they merely increased his sense of hopeless sorrow. He turned away from the
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