The Woodville Connection Read online

  Married to Isabel, the older sister of my lord’s own sweet wife, Clarence was envious of the special favour shown by the King to their youngest brother. His wine-fuddled brain seethed with schemes to forge a schism between the two and though his feeble efforts served only to irritate Edward, this lack of success strengthened his rancour and fed his feelings of injustice and ill-treatment. Concerned though he was by George’s machinations, my lord misliked dwelling on such unpleasant matters and strove to disregard the scheming as best he could. In his heart he believed that the deep fraternal love he bore for Clarence was returned in full measure and would never be sundered by petty squabbles.

  The Christmas season drew on a pace and I found myself greatly in demand for songs and all manner of mummeries. My position at Middleham was an enviable one, albeit unofficial in all but the broadest sense. Ostensibly, I held tenure as minstrel to the Duke and Duchess, although my lute playing was no more than passable and my repertoire of secular songs scarcely appropriate for entertaining the young and pious Duchess. Still, I was in possession of a fine, tuneful voice and I danced, capered and amused with consummate ease.

  Perhaps of more purpose to the Duke was the fact that I was a skilful swordsman whom he had known all his life and trusted without question. A word about my origins is needful here to explain the special bond of friendship between Gloucester and myself that enabled him to trust me to the very end of his days. He had my unswerving allegiance throughout his short life and a part of me perished with him on the battlefield at Bosworth.

  To explain, then, I must begin by saying that my father was also a Francis Cranley, a gentleman of limited funds serving in the retinue of Gloucester’s late father, Richard, Duke of York, who was contending at the time of my birth for his rightful title as heir to the English crown.

  My mother, I was told, was a comely but lowborn woman of regretfully easy virtue who peddled her favours in return for food and lodging. The union between my parents was not blessed by Holy Mother Church and thus it fell to my lot to enter this world a bastard, though my father had the decency to acknowledge me as his brat and bestow on me the Cranley name. A scant few weeks after my birth, this worthy man was careless enough to forfeit his life during a bloody scuffle with a band of Lancastrian followers. Upon hearing the news of his demise, my saintly mother exhibited the depth of her sorrow by absconding with the meagre Cranley fortune. So precipitate was her departure that she unaccountably left behind me, her babe-in-arms.

  Thus abandoned, I would most assuredly have died but for the intervention of the Duke of York. When told of my sorry plight, he recalled the steadfast service given him by my dead father and resolved at once to take charge of my welfare. Having found for me a wet-nurse, a healthy, buxom girl known to all as Fair Nell, he despatched me at once to Fotheringhay Castle, there to be reared alongside his own younger children. I was of a similar age to Dickon, the Duke’s youngest child and so it was cast that we should become playmates and grow to love one another as brothers.

  We played and fought and took lessons together and none saw aught wrong with this arrangement. Of a certainty I was always conscious of my humble origins but felt part of the family nonetheless. When tragedy struck the House of York in 1460, with the bloody murders of the Duke and his second lad, Edmund of Rutland, I was of necessity separated from the young ducal offspring when they fled to safety in the Low Countries. I remained in England since there was no call for a nobody such as I to flee but I was soon reunited with my noble friends when fortune’s wheel turned once again, placing Edward, their oldest brother, onto England’s throne.

  When Dickon returned to England from his Burgundian exile my friendship with him continued as before. I was with him the day before his brother’s coronation, lending him my encouragement as he prepared for the gruelling ceremony that would make him a Knight of the Bath. I was there again a few months later when the King created him Duke of Gloucester. It seemed a weighty title for a nine year old lad to carry but the King was bent on honouring all his kin, and so I learned to address my friend with due respect, greatly as this chagrined him. In my private thoughts, however, he remained simply Dickon, the intense and slender child with whom I had frolicked so carelessly in the dirt at Fotheringhay.

  In his twentieth year my lord was finally able to fulfil his dearest wish and marry his cousin Anne Neville, a tender lass of sixteen who had won his heart as a child. Clarence had worked strenuously to oppose the match as he had no desire to share any part of the rich Neville estates but my lord pressed his suit with his customary tenacity and won his bride in the end. Neither Dickon nor his new Duchess felt fully at ease in the self-indulgent atmosphere of Edward’s Court and so they determined to seek out the fresher air of the north. They made Middleham their principal home as it was here that their love had first blossomed years ago. Back then, Anne had been a golden, gracious child watching with shining eyes as Dickon and I matured from ungainly boyhood into flushing, eager manhood under the tutelage of her father, the once great Earl of Warwick.

  In order to keep me close by him at Middleham, my lord made me his personal minstrel, a fine position which carried a generous stipend and left me ample opportunity to flirt with the Duchess’s ladies. To add legitimacy to my position I duly joined the Guild of Royal Minstrels but in reality my duties were not onerous and I was rarely required to perform in public. This I found all to the good since I was certain that my musical abilities would be insufficient to please a truly discerning audience. In truth, most at Middleham knew that my minstrel’s job was a thin disguise for my true role of private counsellor and confidant to the Duke.

  Naturally, there were many nobly born men who flocked to serve Richard of Gloucester and he set great store by their loyalty and devotion, but he had in me a unique tool to employ as he saw fit. With my fine education and fighting skills, I was as useful as any of his nobles and yet the circumstances of my birth prevented me from aspiring to high office. Tainted by bastardy and with no family connections of mine own, my one allegiance was to the Duke of Gloucester. He knew I could be relied upon to perform such errands and duties as it might be incautious for him to entrust to any of his higher born companions. Aside from the genuine love that I felt for him, I knew that my own fortunes marched in parallel with Gloucester’s. As he prospered, so did I; were he to fall, I would tumble with him.

  And so I return to the Christmas of 1472 and the entertainment I was plotting for the festive season. It was to be an informal Yuletide, with none but the Duke’s closest friends and retainers in attendance but still there were many arrangements to be made. Gloucester was a young man but he possessed little of the natural gaiety of spirit commonly associated with youth. He enjoyed the japing and tomfoolery of others but his own humour was gentle and wry and his face always wore the shadow of his early struggles. It came as no surprise to me, therefore, when he asked me to organise Middleham’s Yuletide revelries that year.

  “Make it a merry time,” he instructed me one wet December morn. “I want it as splendid as anything they have at Windsor or Westminster. I must show my northern friends that I am more than the King’s tax collector. Let them see that I am a man like them, one who feasts and jests and cherishes his wife, just as they cherish theirs.”

  “Just as they do, my lord?” I quizzed him, thinking of all the stout, red-faced northern matrons I had met, finding it inconceivable that any one of them inspired overmuch affection in their husbands’ hearts.

  “Aye, just as they do, scoundrel,” he repeated, his eyes alight with the warm intelligence that so delighted his friends and inspired even his enemies to respect him.

  “Not all men think as you do, Francis. Some even believe that fidelity and goodness are more desirable in a woman than a comely figure and kissable lips. But we stray from the matter in hand. I want to impress my northerners with our Yuletide celebrations. Arrange it for me, Frank. You have a talent for these flummeries. Spend what you will, only make it a success.”
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  We were drawing close to the Auditor’s Chamber as we spoke and I was ready to quit my lord in order to set some plans in motion when our attention was caught by a commotion issuing from the Gatehouse. Looking closely, I saw that a horseman had arrived and was seeking admittance to the Castle. Smithkin, the Sergeant-at-Arms, was having none of it, turning the man away with angry words and gestures.

  “Whose badge does he wear?” I enquired of Gloucester, pointing to the newcomer. “I cannot make it out.”

  “I see no livery,” the Duke replied, “but the fellow’s clothing has surely seen better days. The poor wight is coated in mud and dust from head to boot, Francis. ‘Tis plain he has ridden long and hard in this inclement weather. Old Smithkin serves me ill by refusing him entry. This will not do. Come, let’s go to his aid and see what his business at Middleham may be.”

  I fell in with this plan quite readily. Smithkin and I were old adversaries and I ever relished encountering him in company with the Duke, for then he was obliged to conceal his simmering dislike and address me with a courtesy that undoubtedly stuck in his gullet.

  The history of our animosity is simply told. Some months before, when I had first arrived at Middleham, I had lost my heart to Smithkin’s daughter Margaret, a painfully lovely creature whose honey-coloured hair and ripe womanly body possessed my mind by day and destroyed my rest at night. I knew that she returned my love, our few snatched kisses left me in no doubt on that score, but Margaret was an irritatingly virtuous girl who believed that the marriage bed was the only proper place to celebrate our love. In short, she made wedlock the price I must pay in order to possess her.

  I have had much time to reflect on what happened next and I swear on every holy relic in Christendom that in due course I would have come to terms with the match and taken her as my wife. At first though, and to my cost, I baulked at the suggestion. She was desirable and sweet and I loved her truly but she was not the bride I had imagined for myself. My close friendship with the Duke and Duchess meant the very world to me and maintaining the warmth of the relationship with them was always my first consideration. In all truthfulness, I feared how it might suffer were I to wed the unlettered daughter of the Duke’s own Sergeant, a girl who was content to pass her days discoursing with the common people of the town. Could such a one ever become a fitting companion for the gentle Duchess?

  I felt severely troubled on this point and so I dallied, tossing the dilemma about in my head as a hound tosses the rabbit betwixt its teeth in order to break the struggling creature’s neck. For the first time in my life I kept my feelings hidden from my lord of Gloucester. I knew full well that had he been aware of my affection for Margaret he would have pressed me to marry her with all speed, brushing aside as of no consequence my objection to the match. So I said nothing and behaved outwardly as if all went well with me, whilst inside I gnawed at the problem until I feared for my reason.

  It may be that the little I knew of my own mother also inspired my hesitation for, like Margaret, she had been a beautiful woman of humble birth and she had turned out none too admirably. Whatever the reason, I turned away from Margaret whilst I sought to reconcile myself to the match. This does not speak well of me, I know, but I was tempted to put pride and personal ambition before the call of my heart and I paid the full penalty for my pretensions. While I was pondering on my decision Margaret despaired of me and accepted the hand of a wealthy old merchant who had been courting her unobtrusively for many months. She moved with him to York and what my heart suffered I have not words to say but I do not complain for the pain was well-deserved.

  In addition to a broken heart, the sorry episode earned me the unremitting enmity of old Smithkin who justly blamed me for the removal of his beloved daughter. This enmity troubled me not one whit for, in a curious way, the feuding took my mind from my misery and I almost enjoyed the jibing and insults that we exchanged whenever we met. I bore old Smithkin no genuine ill-will and in truth always spoke well of him to my lord of Gloucester. For Margaret’s sake, I even helped secure sound positions for her two brothers although I made certain her foolish old father remained in ignorance of my assistance.

  My lord and I arrived at the Gatehouse in time to see the newcomer slide silently from his spent horse and collapse at our feet onto the cold December grass. As Gloucester leapt forward to assist the stranger I kept close to his side, fearing this might be a ploy by a hired assassin to launch an attack on the Duke. Even then there were many who would have given much gold to see Richard of Gloucester in his coffin and I was fully aware of the fact. Praise God, in this case my suspicions proved groundless.

  Filthy and torn, the simple clothing of the unconscious man bore testimony to the trials of his journey whilst giving no clue to his identity. Turning him gently as we examined him for injury, my lord and I drew back in horror at the sight of a hideous scar covering the entire left side of his face. The skin was puckered and blistered from brow to mouth, looking for all the world as though that side of his face had been set alight. A viscous yellow liquid oozed lazily from the corner of the damaged eye and trickled into the fissures surrounding the wound.

  The toughened scar tissue had grown white round the edges and as I poked it gently I found it was quite smooth to the touch, leading me to the conclusion that this was no new affliction. The weeping eye was clearly a permanent condition, a sticky and unpleasant reminder of what must have been an agonising injury. His face bore further wounds including a livid red lesion, recent by the look of it, lying just above his right eye but all paled into insignificance compared with the horror of the ruined cheek. At once I understood Smithkin’s reluctance to give admittance to the fellow. In the good Sergeant’s eyes such a dubious-looking character was unfit to speak with the noble Duke and should be sent on his way with all speed.

  My lord of Gloucester, however, was possessed of greater compassion than his Sergeant. With a few terse commands he had the unlovely visitor transported to the fireside in the great hall where a veritable army of servants was summoned to minister to his needs. The Duchess herself, roused from her solar by the commotion, stood by his side murmuring instructions and after a few minutes of this tender care he opened his eyes. He remained awake long enough to wolf down a hastily assembled meal of bread, cheese and ale and then fell back wordlessly into his slumbers. We let him be until he woke again several hours later. This time cold water was splashed onto his face to rouse him fully and then he was brought before the Duke to tell his story.

  “My lord, I pray you will forgive my rough appearance and uncouth manners,” the stranger began, “but I am a simple man and know naught of fancy speech and courtliness.”

  I confess I found the sight of this lumpen great fellow standing against a background of splendid brocades and tapestries as disquieting as a pulsating boil on the face of an otherwise comely maiden. We were sitting in the Duke’s privy chamber, just Gloucester, the newcomer and I, and it was clear from the way he glowered at me that he found me as unwelcome as a bishop in a bawdy house. Less welcome, in truth, for I have heard tell of several bishops who relish a good debauch as much as any man.

  “He can hang himself if he is reluctant to tell his tale before me,” thought I, whistling softly as my fingers absent-mindedly turned over a small scrap of cloth I happened to have about me. For my part I was only too thankful to be present and able to keep watch over my friend who on occasion had a regrettable tendency to be reckless with his safety. I had been aghast when the importunate wretch had demanded a private audience with Gloucester but something about the wild desperation of his manner had persuaded my lord to accede to this unusual request with just one stipulation.

  “You will not mind Cranley’s presence, I am certain” the Duke had said, forestalling the objection I was about to make to this private meeting, “for he is my true and trusted servant and will disclose not a word of what he hears here, unless sobeit I give him leave. He makes a fair scribe and I would have him set down your t
ale for me that I might consider it some more when you are at your rest.”

  Though my lord spoke gently the iron in his voice was unmistakable. As it was plain these terms were not negotiable the stranger had no recourse but to acquiesce to my presence, though he did so with ill grace. This was not the first time that Gloucester had asked me to act as his scribe on a matter of personal business. His official secretary, John Kendall, was a worthy man devoted to the House of York and my lord had great faith in him but he preferred to use my services when dealing with sensitive or potentially dangerous issues that required unbiased advice.

  I believe this was because, for all his loyalty, Kendall was a cautious man whose advice, if sought, could be relied upon to be bland and noncommittal. I, on the other hand, as one who enjoyed the privileged position of trusted boyhood friend, would tell my lord exactly what my thoughts were even when their substance was likely to displease him. There was nothing out of the ordinary, then, about me acting as his secretary on this occasion but I did find it passing strange that my lord should deem it necessary for me to record the details of his meeting with this ruffian.

  It occurred to me then that the Duke’s manner had been somewhat constrained since the audience began and I was hard put to comprehend why this should be so. I readily admit that at this point I felt little inclined to favour the disfigured petitioner and heartily wished that my lord would conclude the matter with all speed and then dismiss the fellow from the castle. My humour was scarce improved when I glanced down at the cloth entangled between my fingers and discovered it to be the soft, apple-green ribbon I had once traded with Margaret for a kiss and which she had returned to me the night she told me of her plans to wed.

  “My lord,” the man continued, “I come to you to plead for justice. I am wrongly accused of a crime so foul it sickens my very soul and I cannot bear to have the stench of it upon my good name. ‘Tis little enough I have in this world but I have ever been known as an honest man and this has been a comfort to me in my loneliness. Now my name is besmirched and I shall not know rest until my innocence be proven.