The Player King

  To the woman, the priest said, “Get on with him. The well is behind the house.” He handed her a key and took a book from his pocket.

  Dame Joan, after considering me with a pinched nose—as if to suggest that I smelled bad—made a motion with her hand. “Come along,” she said.

  Not wanting to go, I stood there until Brother Simonds barked, “Get on with it!”

  I followed the woman down some back steps, out a door, and into a small yard surrounded by a high wall of brick. Far back was a privy pit and, in the middle of the place, a well.

  It was the wall that interested me. I studied it to see if it was climbable. No sooner did I decide that it was and that I would than the dame said, “Strip off your clothing.”

  Upset, I looked at her with disbelief. Was I to stand naked before her?

  “Hurry on!” she ordered, and dropped a rope-tied bucket into the well.

  Reluctant, uncomfortable, I took off my tunic and stood there shivering, naked as a needle.

  Next moment the woman drew up the bucket full of water and, without warning, flung it over me, the water so cold I yelped. Then, as if attacking me, she rubbed me all over with a rag. Not content with that, she doused me again, twice over.

  Humiliated, my sole thought was to be at Tackley’s where I understood what I was and how I would be treated.

  The woman told me to return to Brother Simonds, so I reached for my tunic, my thoughts again on fleeing. But she kept my clothing from me. “Go back to the house,” she said. “I brought better things.”

  The shame of running naked through Oxford kept me from escaping. Instead, I returned to where Brother Simonds waited. He put aside the little book he had been reading—the Gospels, I assumed—and handed me some clothes. To my surprise, they were the garb of wealth: dark blue hose; a rusty-red tunic with wide, puffy sleeves; a black leather belt, plus dark leather boots with pointed tips.

  “What am I supposed to do with these?” I asked.

  “Put them on.”

  “Truly?”

  “Do as you’re told!” he said.

  I sighed and dressed myself in the new clothing but felt unnatural, as if bound by ropes. As for the boots the brother gave me—since I had never worn shoes—the stiff leather squeezed my toes. It was painful for me to stand, much less walk. I assumed it was a way to keep me from escaping.

  Dame Joan reappeared and from her basket brought out scissors, for shearing sheep perhaps. I was commanded to stand still, while she clipped my hair until I felt my neck grow cool.

  Her labor done, she was dismissed.

  The friar made me stand before him while he studied me intently. Out of sorts, out of place, out of self, I stood there mute, feet hurting, not knowing what to do.

  “Good,” he said. “You are ready to begin your great labor.”

  “What labor?”

  “Becoming king.”

  SIXTEEN

  “YOU MAY START by eating.”

  At last—something sane. But when I moved to the table where food lay, I was mazed to see an egg and some meat, as well as white bread. Assuming only the bread was for me, I reached for it.

  Brother Simonds cried, “Stop!”

  I looked at him. What now?

  “When you enter a room,” he said with a glance at the book he held, “with other lords and ladies, you will say, ‘Godspeed,’ and with modesty, greet them all, holding up your head, while proceeding at an easy step from person to person.”

  I eyed him suspiciously. “Forgive me, Brother; there are no lords or ladies here.”

  “There will be.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m telling you how a king must act. If you act like a king,” he barked, “you will be king.”

  “With a false beard and wooden sword?”

  Brother Simonds merely opened up his little book and began to read aloud: “ ‘If anyone speaks to you when you enter a room, look straight at him with a steady eye. Listen well while he is speaking, showing a sweet face and good spirit. When you answer, be brief and to the point without chatter. Make sure you do not let your eyes wander.’ ”

  “Forgive me, Brother, what book is that?”

  “Rules of Behavior.”

  “Rules? For whom?”

  “Princes.”

  “Do princes have rules?”

  “Of course,” he said, and continued reading: “ ‘Do not scratch yourself. Don’t lean against a post, but always stand erect. Be always humble, carefree, and merry. Refrain from picking your nails, teeth, or nose. Cut your bread with a knife, not your hands.’ There’s much more. You must learn it all.”

  “But what if I do itch?” I asked. “Surely I’ll need to scratch myself. And why is it wrong to pick one’s nose? At Tackley’s Tavern people always do.”

  “You are a king!”

  “Have kings no noses? No snot?” I countered. “Don’t they itch?”

  “You’ll do as you’re told!” he roared.

  “I can do a jig,” I said, doing a bit, thinking the friar would be amused by what I had seen the players do.

  “Stop!” he said severely. “You must have dignity! Now eat.”

  Never mind dignity, I gobbled up the food.

  During that entire first day, I did as the friar insisted, trying to learn his rules. As far as I was concerned, Brother Simonds was treating me like a dumb dog that must learn tricks. Except the things he said I must learn were all unnatural and seemed to serve no purpose other than to make me weary.

  Once, I asked, “Don’t kings have any joying?”

  “They rule their kingdoms and tell their subjects what to do. They hunt, play music, dance, and eat.”

  “Are you my subject?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I tell you what to do?”

  “You cannot rule others until you rule yourself.”

  “If I were to rule myself I would be a subject. But you said I was a king. How can I be a subject and a king at the same time?”

  He frowned. “Humor does not befit your station.”

  Bad enough to be a prisoner. Far worse to be one when your jailer lacks all humor.

  SEVENTEEN

  BROTHER SIMONDS’S RULES took days and weeks to learn. Nor was it only rules I had to study.

  To begin, my new clothing changed the way I walked, sat, and acted. In the past, I simply was. According to the friar, being a king meant I must do things as if I thought nothing about the world, while at the same time thinking about everything.

  He said I must talk differently too. I needed to sound wise. How? Each word must be said distinctly, spoken slowly and without emotion.

  “Like King Solomon?” I asked.

  He took me seriously. “A fine example: Talk with a show of indifference, though you know every word is important.”

  Day after day, as the lessons went on and on, the friar was so solemn and insistent that I began to think he truly believed that I was Edward, the Earl of Warwick, that it was I who had truly forgotten what I had been. Never, not for a moment, did he move from that.

  He also insisted I must recall the names of England’s great lords and ladies. Who was married to whom. Recall all “my” great uncles and aunts. Recall who “my” countless cousins were and speak of them as familiar kin. Though I remembered none of them, Brother Simonds insisted they were part of my households—I, who believed I’d never had any family. Or house.

  He demanded I recall dates—I, who could not count beyond the ringing of church bells. He told me where I had lived. Under whose care. To whom I’d talked. Who had been kind to me? Who had not? When I protested that none of this was true, he assured me I had simply unremembered these things.

  “You must sound well-witted,” he said.

  “You are asking me to be well-witted about stupid things.” I threw back, my head hurting from his lessons.

  He didn’t care what I said.

  One morning I hid beneath a bed. He dragged me out.


  Another time I put on all of the clothing he had given me backward. He did not smile. He never did.

  By way of practice, he constantly asked me questions about the person he said I was. What food I liked. What kind of games I played. My answers were almost always wrong.

  “No!” the friar cried. “You must get it right.”

  Exhausted, I pleaded, “But why?”

  “So you can be king!” he cried.

  “It’s too hard becoming king. I want to be what I was.”

  “What you were was Edward, the Earl of Warwick.”

  At night, I often asked myself: Why did Brother Simonds care so much about who and what I was?

  When I finally learned the answer to that question, it changed everything.

  EIGHTEEN

  I DON’T KNOW how many days and weeks I remained in the house, seeing no else but Brother Simonds and Dame Joan. The world was gone from me, save the regular tolling of Oxford’s church bells to measure time. Now and again, breaking the monotony, I heard passing bells, which counted out the years for someone who had just died. At times, I envied them.

  I constantly tried to get Brother Simonds to laugh. He never would.

  During the endless days of my learning, I was not allowed out of that house save to relieve myself at the skit pit. Even then, I was watched so carefully I could not escape. Each morning that soldier took up his position before our front door.

  I admit, the food Dame Joan brought was fine. Meat. Eggs. Fair bread. Never had I eaten so well. She also made sure I washed my hands, face, and body and kept my hair trimmed. It being all unnatural, I hated it. Sometimes, when in my top floor space, I’d find dirt in a corner and rub it over me.

  At night, alone, I used that mirror to study myself. As time passed, I began to change. I was becoming elegant and clean, a refined kind of person. I put on weight. My face filled. I rather thought I was becoming king-like. Quite often, I wondered what the Tackleys would think of me. Indeed, I never stopped thinking of running off, and constantly watched for a time when I might.

  At last, that moment came.

  One morning Brother Simonds informed me he would be gone for the day.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “The Earl of Lincoln’s court. He has asked me to report on your progress.”

  “What will you tell him?”

  “That your memory has much amended. That you are becoming what you were and are meant to be.”

  There was something in his voice, an uneasy edge that made me ask, “Brother, are you afraid of Lincoln?”

  My question made him frown. It took some moments before he said, “I serve him.”

  “As I serve you?”

  Instead of replying, he gave stern instructions—and the house keys—to Dame Joan that she must make certain I kept to my lessons. He left.

  When he was gone, I thought on the friar’s words, that I was becoming what I was and am meant to be. It made me think on what I had been, and how I had changed. What fun it would be to show off to the Tackleys. Then I realized that with the friar gone, I had a chance to do just that.

  I began by getting rid of Dame Joan. That wasn’t hard. She had been instructed to wait upon me. Brother Simonds insisted I command her—as kings must, he said.

  “Dame Joan, I want better meat than this,” I told her, and shoved away the beef that lay on my trencher.

  “Yes, my lord,” she replied, which is what she had been instructed to say to me. She made her courtesies, said she would be gone for just moments, and left me alone.

  No sooner did she go than I ran to the top story of our house and poked my head out of the window. I saw her walking down the street to the nearby butcher. I also observed the soldier, as ever, standing before the front door.

  I rushed into the small backyard, with its surrounding wall of rough bricks, which made it easy to climb. Once over, I dropped on the far side into a rubbish lane. Dame Joan would never find me there.

  At last I was free.

  When I’d first come to the house where the friar and I stayed, it was during the night, so I was not sure where in Oxford I was. So I just ran, following the flow of people. Happily, they led me to the High Street, from where I easily found my way to Tackley’s Tavern. Merely to see its steps filled me with gladsomeness and sent me all but tumbling down.

  It was as always: fogged and fumy, tables crowded with people at their cups and trenchers, the air filled with gabbling voices, including Mistress Tackley, loud and insulting all. In the far back, pig-bellied Master Tackley stood among his pots and brewing kettles. There even was another boy—quite filthy—tending the fire and spit. It was as if I was seeing my true life again. The hubbub never seemed so soothing. I felt myself grinning.

  But as I stood on the lower step, enjoying the scene and people, a silence settled over all. Eyes full of hostility turned on me, as if I were someone foreign.

  Next moment, Master Tackley lumbered forward. As he approached, he touched his forehead in respect and, to my great amusement, made a little bow.

  “Yes, young gentleman,” he said, “what might we do for you?”

  “Godspeed, Master Tackley,” I replied, beaming broadly. “Don’t you know me?”

  Tackley studied me with wary eyes. “Young sir, begging your pardon but you’re a stranger to me. And forgive me, sir,” he went on, “with all respect, we don’t have the refinements to serve such as you.”

  “But . . . Master, I’m Lambert Simnel!” I cried. “Your nobody spit boy.”

  Tackley’s eyes widened, his cheeks puffed. “If it’s Simnel you seek,” he said, “I suggest you go to the friary. He was taken there, ages ago.”

  Utterly confounded, I stood stock still until I recalled that the clothing I had on was completely different from what I used to wear. I had gained weight. My face was clean. My hair was cut. It was as if I were in a costume. No wonder Master Tackley didn’t know me. What’s more, the unfriendly silence and hostile glares from the patrons made it obvious that I—in my new guise—was no longer welcome there.

  More than anything, their eyes made me see that I had become someone else.

  Frightened and confused, I retreated up the steps. But the moment I reached the street, I found myself surrounded by soldiers.

  NINETEEN

  THERE WERE FIVE soldiers in all, dressed in the livery of the Earl of Lincoln’s men. In their hands were poleaxes, by which they might pierce, pull down from a horse, or chop an enemy to pieces. At the moment, however, it was clear the only enemy was me.

  “That’s him!” I heard Brother Simonds cry.

  The soldiers pressed in, while the friar, in their midst, grabbed hold of me. “To the house!” he shouted.

  Whether I was walked or carried, I can’t say. I only know I was taken through the town surrounded and kept hidden by soldiers like some castle wall with legs. All the while, the friar pushed me, so I kept stumbling forward. “Hurry! Hurry!” he kept shouting.

  When we reached the house, I was shoved inside. From within I heard Brother Simonds order the soldiers to be posted not only by the front, but at the back as well.

  Thoroughly dejected, I crept up the steps to the solar, trying to think of something merry to say to soothe the friar. But he followed too quickly and stood over me. “You fool!” he shouted, and struck me hard across the face.

  Taken by surprise, I fell to the ground, only to be dragged up and shoved down on a low stool. I had never seen him so frantic.

  “Have you no understanding of what you are about?” he cried.

  Twisted over with pain, shamed, I managed a snuffling nod, pawed my teary eyes, and tried to find some breath. “Forgive me, Brother,” I faltered, “I just—”

  “The fate of England rests upon you,” he fairly spitted out. “Have no doubt, if Henry Tudor, the man who calls himself England’s king, had you in his hands, you wouldn’t live another day. Not half a day! That clumsed head of yours would be chopped off before yo
u could take another breath.”

  Though I was crouched down, arms over my face, he roared on. “You must do what you’re told! Or people will die.”

  “Die? Who will die?” I mumbled, hoping talk would lessen his anger.

  “Many!” he shouted. “Including me!”

  Truly baffled, I wiped away my tears, the better to see him. His tight-fisted hands were by his sides, so that his shoulders seemed narrower. His back was rigid.

  “Why will you die?” I asked.

  Breathing hard, struggling to control himself, he said, “What we are doing is . . . extremely dangerous.”

  “Why dangerous?”

  “You idiot! There already is a king. There cannot be two.”

  “Please, Brother, I’m just—”

  “Why won’t you understand?” he cried, and for the first time I actually heard pleading in his voice. “Are you truly that stupid? You have one task. One! You must be accepted as the Earl of Warwick. And you must begin by convincing Lincoln.”

  “But . . . what if that doesn’t happen?”

  “Then neither of us will live!”

  “But please, Brother,” I said, trying to keep him talking and me from weeping, “what if people do accept me as Warwick? What will happen?”

  My question seemed to take him by surprise. “Then . . . ,” he said, “then you will be king, and many others will—” He abruptly ceased to speak.

  “Others will . . . what?”

  “Become part of your court,” he said. “And I’ll find—God willing—a high place in the church.”

  My failure to fully grasp his meaning must have shown on my face.

  “Like many,” he said, “I was at King Richard’s court. When Richard was lost, all was lost. My position. My wealth. I was cast out. Made nothing. And nothing is the way I began in life. Have you any idea how hard I worked to rise from nothing? If I am to rise again, I need . . .” He faltered, but I heard the anguish in his voice.

  “Need what?” I asked, truly perplexed.

  “You!” he cried in exasperation.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you! Because when you become king you’ll . . . you’ll give us back what we lost.”