I stared at him with disbelief. “Is that why you . . . why you’ve done this to me?” I managed to say. “So I would help . . . you?”
“Why else?” he cried in utter fury.
My thoughts were in turmoil. “Then it’s . . . it’s not me,” I stammered, “who needs you. It’s you . . . who needs me. To get what you want.”
He opened his mouth as if to reply, but no words came. Only a quick nod, Yes.
“But . . . why did you choose me?” I whispered.
“Because . . . you . . . look like Warwick,” he said.
“Look?” I howled. “What reason is that?”
“The English will only follow a true and close descendent of King Richard.”
“And they will do so because I look like him?”
The friar’s face turned sickly-white. It was as if in his rage he had misspoken and only now did he realize what he had said. With that realization his strength failed, he sank to his knees, closed his eyes, pressed his hands together in prayer, and silently moved his lips.
As I watched him, a whole new understanding came: It was not love for me or England that had caused him to teach me all those princely things. He never thought me Edward. He was teaching me to be the Earl of Warwick so that he and others, maybe even Lincoln, could regain their positions. Why me? Merely because I looked like Warwick.
Neither of us moved. He was on his knees, praying. I was sitting there gawping at him, trying to absorb the full meaning of what he had done.
Shaken, I struggled to my feet. I’m not sure the friar even noticed.
Moving slowly, paying him no mind, I went down the steps to the front door and opened it. The soldier was standing on guard. He looked around at me.
“Brother Simonds wishes you to come to him,” I said.
The soldier, unsure what to do, hesitated. I stepped back to let him pass me. He came forward and started up the steps. The moment he did, I leaped onto the street and began to run. Nor did I look back, or aim for anyplace, but dashed hab-nab though alleys and narrow byways until I came upon the Northgate and passed through the town walls.
Not only had I escaped Oxford, I had also freed myself from the friar.
TWENTY
I WAS BEYOND the town walls. Exhausted, I had to halt. When I saw the Church of Saint Mary Magdalen, I looked back to make sure I was not being pursued. As far as I could see, I wasn’t. I sat down by the side of the church doors and tried to calm myself.
My head was bursting with what Brother Simonds had said: That he—and others—needed me to be the Earl of Warwick so he, and they, could regain their high positions.
There was no caring for me in that. It was merely how I appeared. When the friar told Lincoln I was “well-witted,” that, most likely, was not true.
It was as Master Tackley said. I was nobody. I merely looked like some prince.
I tried to push down my swell of pain. Breathing was hard. Tears fell. To distract myself, I looked out upon the open space before the church. Many stalls, offering food or made goods, had been set out. People were coming and going, buying and selling. Some passed me on their way into the church. Not that they looked at me. I watched them, and wished I could be like them, going about my life in my ordinary way.
As I sat there, I became filled with anger at the friar for what he had done: the painful way he’d treated me; the arrogant and everlasting lessons; how insultingly he’d always talked to me; how, day after day, he’d made me work to be shaped so that he—I now understood—might regain what he had lost. The friar hadn’t really thought me the Earl of Warwick. No. It was nothing about me. I merely looked . . .
I remembered his prayer the first night in the house: “Please, Lord,” I’d heard him say, “forgive me.”
I understood now what he was saying.
I assumed the friar would come after me, as he had done before. That meant I had to do something quickly, go somewhere. I only knew I couldn’t go back to Tackley’s. He had turned me away.
Not sure what to do, I continued to sit, looking out at the stalls. As I did, I noticed a very ordinary-looking man selling cabbages. There was something about him . . . a familiarity, though I could not think where I had seen him before.
Then I realized who he was: He had been one of the players. Indeed, he had been the first player king. Solomon. There he was without his beard, his robe, crown, or sword . . . selling cabbages!
I watched him intently, remembering how I had considered running away to join him and the other players. But they must have come from Oxford.
Into my head came what the friar had said to me: “If you act like a king, you will be king.” Like the cabbage seller.
Being a real king—I supposed—meant I would be rich. Eat whenever I wanted. Have gaudy clothes. Tell people what to do. Play at games. Go hunting. Ride a horse. Good things, all. Things I had never done. And by doing so I would be somebody. Somebody grand. A king. People would bow down to me. Surely Tackley would.
I remembered something else. The friar had told me he’d begun as nothing. Look what he had become. If I let the friar teach me to be a king—that is to say, if I chose to be what I wanted—I might become something different. Well, yes, I could be a nobody. But also a seller of cabbages. Or a king.
Do what you’re told. Could I not tell myself what to be?
I sat there going over this notion, knowing only that I liked it. A kitchen boy or a king, I told myself. If that man could sell cabbages and be a king, why should I not be what I wished? If Brother Simonds wanted me to be a king, a real king, I could be one.
The more I sat there, the more I thought I could.
The more I thought I could, the more I thought I would.
Being nobody, I had nothing—truly nothing—to lose. By playing a king, I might have everything.
At length, I got up, walked back through town, and returned to the house.
TWENTY-ONE
THE SOLDIER WAS not on guard.
I went inside and I climbed the steps to the second floor. The friar was on his knees, at prayer. He had a book in his hands. This time I was sure it was the Gospels.
He stopped his prayers and looked up at me. Hard to say what I saw most on his face: anger, sadness, embarrassment.
Neither of us spoke for a moment, until I said, “I won’t run away again, Brother.”
“It must never happen.” He spoke hoarsely.
“No, Brother. Never.”
“Have I your absolute word?” I could see enormous relief in his face.
“Yes.”
He stood up and held out his book toward me. His hand was trembling. Never had his eyes been so intense. With his voice struggling to gain command, he said, “Swear!”
I put my hand on the book. Perhaps it was, after all, his book of rules. No matter. “I swear,” I said.
It took him a moment before he said, “Very well. There is work to be done. Start with your lineage; let me hear you confirm who you truly are.”
I held back my smile and said, “My father was the Duke of Clarence. His brother was Richard, Duke of York, late king and the son of Richard, Earl of Cambridge, who was the son of Roger Mortimer, the Earl of March, who was the son of Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, who was the son of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, who was the son of Edward the Third, England’s great warrior king. Therefore I am Edward, Earl of Warwick, the rightful but uncrowned king of England.”
“Good!” cried the friar, vastly more at ease.
Did he believe?
Did he only want to believe?
Did I believe?
It did not matter.
The practice went on for the rest of the day. Other than the friar’s unrelenting questions and my correct answers, the only different sounds were the church bells tolling the hours as they did every day. Yet, all had changed. I knew the role I must play.
When night came, I went to my bed, took up that mirror, and gazed at myself. I said, “Who am I?”
In
the voice the friar had taught me to use, “I am the Earl of Warwick. England’s future king.”
I smiled.
My mirror image smiled.
In the many days that followed, Brother Simonds held me to hard learning and practice, but more kindly than before. That said, at times I grew so weary I cried, “Have I not learned enough?” and cry was what I did.
To which he would respond, “You must be perfect.”
Do not misunderstand; I now truly wanted to play the part of Edward, Earl of Warwick. Thus I did all the friar told me to do, so after a while I could do so without any prompting, Warwick’s words and actions flowed from me freely. Moreover, I was taught to count. I began to read. Any remembrance of my former life dropped away, like the dirt that had been washed from my body that first day.
Truth be told, I worked hard to think myself the earl.
I must have progressed, because one day Brother Simonds announced, “It’s time for you to go before the Earl of Lincoln again. He needs to judge you and see what you are.”
Observing tightness in his voice and body, I knew he was anxious about the outcome. It gave me pleasure to know that his fate was dependent on me.
So when he said, “Just remember: How he receives you will decide if you live,” I smiled and returned, “And you, too, Brother.”
“Aye,” he admitted ruefully. “Me too.”
TWENTY-TWO
THE DAY TO see Lincoln arrived. Morning was given over to practicing manners, walking, posture, words of greeting; quizzes about relations, where I had been, what I had done—all the things that the friar said I must know and be.
It made me very tense. In truth, I wished to pass this test.
Dame Joan brought new clothing from Lincoln, superior to what I had before: soft silks of many colors, new boots, and an embroidered jacket with threads of what looked like gold. I was given a cap, in which a fine feather had been placed.
“From what kind of bird did this feather come?” I asked, trying to be calm.
“A phoenix,” the friar replied.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“You are one.”
“What do you mean?”
“A dead phoenix rises from the ashes of what he was. Like you.”
“And you, too,” I reminded him, but he was not amused.
Before I put on the new clothing, Dame Joan hauled me outside. As a soldier stood by, I was washed and scrubbed until my body fairly rippled with her rubs. My hair was cut, shaped, and scented.
At dusk, just before we were to leave, I stole up to my room and looked at my clean face in the mirror. “I am the Earl of Warwick,” I said. “The rightful king.”
At the time of departure, Brother Simonds informed me that he would throw a cloak over me and have our two soldiers carry me to the Earl of Lincoln’s home.
“Can’t I walk?”
“There can be no dirt on your feet.”
“Like a saint,” I said, trying to make light of it.
As usual, he did not smile.
I asked, “Will I see Lincoln alone, like the last time?”
“Francis Lovell will be there.”
“Who is he?”
“You know of him as Viscount Francis Lovell.”
Taking the hint, I recited what I’d been taught: “Lovell was one of the most loyal supporters of our late good king Richard. His Lord Chamberlain. A rich and mightiful man, Lovell helped Richard rule the kingdom and fought with him at Bosworth. He is among England’s greatest soldiers.”
To which the friar added, “But never forget that if King Richard had died a natural death, he made it clear he wished Lincoln, his nephew, to become king.”
“He did?” I said, taken by surprise.
When the friar said nothing, I said, “Brother, if Lincoln had been promised the crown, is he truly willing to let me be king?”
Brother Simonds put a hand on my shoulder. His piercing eyes had never seemed sharper. “Do not,” he said, “ask that.”
Taken aback by his severity I said, “Why?”
His answer was to throw a cloth over me. Next moment I felt myself picked up. I knew that I was being carried along and sensed when we left the house.
As we went, I kept thinking about Brother Simonds’s refusal to answer my question about Lincoln: Is he truly willing to let me be king? Why hadn’t the friar answered? It was as if I had come upon a sack that seemed to be full. But when I looked within—nothing was there. Yet, the very emptiness seemed heavy. It was a riddle to me.
A short time later I was set down, the cloak whisked away. I looked about. Brother Simonds and I were just inside the entryway of the hall where I had first come to stand before the Earl of Lincoln.
The doors were locked behind us. The great wheel that hung from the ceiling bore no burning candles. There was no fire in the hearth. It was darkful.
At the opposite end of the room, two men were standing in front of that long table. The shorter one was Lincoln. The other, I supposed, was Viscount Lovell. He appeared powerful, and his strong gaze was solely on me. His eyes were clear and fine, his mouth set tight.
As I stood there, working hard to contain all my feelings—excitement, worry, fear—the friar pushed me forward.
I moved toward the two men, trying to walk the way I’d been taught, with dignity and purpose, looking at them with steady eyes. I could only hope they did not hear my pounding heart.
I halted a few feet before them, made sure I was standing straight, and in my smoothest voice said, “Godspeed, my lords.”
Viscount Lovell stared at me. “Who are you?” he asked.
“My lord, I am Edward, Earl of Warwick. My father was the Duke of Clarence.” I went on to give my whole lineage back to King Edward, concluding by saying, “My father’s nearest kin was Richard the Third, the true king of England.”
When I was done, the two lords exchanged looks. I thought Lovell allowed himself a smile.
Lincoln, his eyes as hard as before, his mouth set in a severe frown, drew close and studied me. It took all my strength not to shrivel.
He began to ask me questions, questions about where I had lived, who had taken charge of me, what people I had seen at this court, that court. Lovell asked more questions. It didn’t matter. Brother Simonds had instructed me so well I was able to give complete and calm replies to everything.
The more I spoke, the more at ease I felt, answering without hesitation. So when Lovell said, “My lord, how were you able to escape from the Tower?” I barely paused before saying, “I had friends whose names had best not be spoken.”
There was a moment of silence. Next moment Lovell let forth a shout of satisfaction. “The perfect answer!”
Turning to the priest, Lincoln called out, “He shall do!”
When Lincoln and Lovell retreated into a corner and talked in low voices, I remained where I had been, trying to stay calm. From time to time they glanced at me, but I could hear nothing of their words. I kept still, forcing myself not to look at the friar. All I wanted to know was, had I convinced them I was Warwick?
Lincoln lifted a hand and wiggled his fingers. “Brother Simonds,” he called. The friar went over and the three spoke, their voices low.
Lincoln picked up a purse from the table and handed it to Brother Simonds, saying, “It’s time to go forward.”
“I think,” the earl continued, loud enough for me to hear, “the boy should be seen. Let the word go out: Young Warwick is free and ready to claim his rightful crown.”
“And on to Ireland,” said Lovell. “Where we have powerful friends.”
Nothing was said to me, the player king.
TWENTY-THREE
BROTHER SIMONDS and I walked out of the hall. The moment we were beyond hearing, I stopped, tugged on his cape, looked up, and said, “Lincoln believes I’m the Earl of Warwick, doesn’t he?”
“He does.”
“Then shall I live?”
“You shall,” he said, and
for once actually smiled.
The jolt of joy that went through me was such that I abruptly hugged the friar, which made him laugh (the first time that had happened) as he hugged me back.
Catching my breath, I said, “Brother, I need you to say it again: Am I truly going to be king?”
“Do you think you will?”
“I do!” I cried
“Then you will be,” the friar proclaimed.
“I am Edward!” I shouted. “Edward, Earl of Warwick!” Then I poked his stomach. “I shall make you a bishop.”
He grinned and laughed again.
Never had I felt so happy, so full of joy. And what came into my head? I wanted to rush off to Tackley’s and make him bow down before me.
Did I? Of course not. Tackley was beneath me.
The friar and I returned to the house in a different fashion than when we’d left. I went on my own two feet, with no cloak to hide me. Two of the earl’s servants went before us, carrying flaming torches to light our way. Behind me marched some soldiers, pikestaffs in hands. Brother Simonds was by my side, a smile on his face, hands clasped before him, as if in grateful prayer. No doubt his prayers were being answered.
As for me, I was light-headed, cock-brained, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry. I wanted to jump about and shout, “I am Edward, the Earl of Warwick, and I am going to be king!”
We paraded grandly down the middle of the street, so that people had to make way for us. Many stopped and gazed at me. Ragged children ran alongside, trying to see who I was.
“Hold your head up,” Brother Simonds urged. “Acknowledge with grace the people who are looking at you.”
“How?”
“Lift your hand and wave.”
When I did, people bowed, removed hats and caps, and touched their foreheads in respect.
Never had I such fun.
We reached the house. “I’m pleased with you,” said the friar.
“You must use words of greater respect,” I returned, putting on a grave voice. “You need to say, ‘My lord, you did well.’ ”
My words took the smile from the friar’s face. For an instant, I feared he was going to strike me. The next moment, however, he said, “You are quite right . . . my lord.” And bowed.