A Bloody Field by Shrewsbury

  “I am quite well, I thank you, my lord. Had you good travelling?”

  “The road was well enough. The errand was not so happy. You’ve had quiet days here?”

  “No trouble. I’m very well provided, you have seen to that. Shall we go in? I should be glad to hear your news, when you are rested after your ride.”

  The groom recognised the moment to take the bridle from the prince’s hand, and lead the horse away. The stir and flurry of knights and squires dismounting filled the courtyard. Hotspur stooped and touched his lips lightly to the boy’s fingers, and walked with him into the house. His spurred boots rang on the stone stairway.

  “I had rather give it now. I need no rest, and you, as I conceive, will rest the better when we have talked.” They were out of the general eye now, and in private they observed much respect but no ceremony. “God knows, Hal,” he said, as he closed the door of the prince’s study and drew the heavy curtain over it, “I have good reason to understand the measure of your sadness. The king asked most kindly and solicitously after you.”

  He dropped the cloak from about him, and stretched out his booted legs under the short, furred riding-coat, with a long sigh. Sometimes, when the matter was too heavy, or charged with feeling, speech came haltingly from him, even with a slight impediment that blocked utterance until he drove at it as at a quick-set hedge, and sheared his way through with words as impetuous as swords. But the boy already mattered to him so much that restraint was vital. Almost as vital as truth, which between these two was a matter of life and death.

  He looked up at length, and fixed his eyes on the hazel eyes that gazed back no less earnestly at him, out of the long oval of that solemn face. “I never thought that it could end so, but so it ends! He is out of his pains, Hal. Whether all was done well or much done ill, only God knows, but what is done is done, and we have work still to do. I know nothing that can assoil us but doing it better than aforetime.”

  “He was good to me,” said the prince, slowly and carefully. “There may be many have the right to say he was not good to them, but I cannot say so. Even when the event made me his enemy, he did not so use me, and when he might have made profit of me, he did not so abuse me, either.”

  “I grew up very close to him,” said Hotspur gently, “and there was a time when I knew him well. I tell you, this Richard was as good and feeling a creature as walks in England, could he have been no more than a man. That he was born to the crown was a disaster for him and for England, and they have both suffered for it.”

  The fixed and guarded face quivered, like a sudden wind over still waters. “Did you see him?”

  “I saw him. They brought the coffin from Pontefract by daily stages, and let him be seen wherever they halted for the night. Then he lay in Paul’s for two days before the funeral service. They uncovered him for all to see. It is needful,” he said gently, marking the sudden brief convulsion of the set lips, and the flutter of the large eyelids resentfully blinking back tears. “Rumour would have him already escaped and in Scotland, and Scotland is sore enough irritation without the ghost of Richard. Believe me, you would not have been shocked at what was shown us. He was not even greatly changed. Except that never until then had I seen him at peace. He was a man greatly tossed by every wind, as you yourself well know.”

  And the boy did know it, perhaps better than any, for the very reason that those contrary winds had never blown cold or rough upon him. He gazed earnestly at his companion, trying to penetrate where he was accustomed to entering freely; for Hotspur had never yet told him anything but truth, even when the truth was short and stinging, provoked by some negligence or levity or mistaken stubbornness on the pupil’s part. They spoke out to each other, in private, and bore no grudges. No, of all people on earth, Hotspur would not lie to him.

  And yet he could not give utterance to what lay heavy and certain in his mind. He needed the answers bitterly, but the questions were too terrible to be posed. He could not do it without exposing himself, and that was more than he could bear. This position he held was a fortress which, once surrendered, he would never be able to recover.

  “There was no mark nor blemish on him,” said Hotspur, aware of a crying need, but not yet clear how to supply it. “Only the mark of the choice he himself made. He was emaciated—so lean, so light, I could have lifted him in my arms like a child.”

  The prince asked, in his clear, girlish voice, and never turning away his eyes: “What have they done with him?”

  “Given him every possible funeral honour. There was a great service at Paul’s—the king himself was a pallbearer.”

  Yes, thought the boy, coldly and critically within his own closed mind, he could well afford to take some part in the charade; it would be a relief to his feelings, and more decorous than dancing on Richard’s grave.

  “And where have they laid him? Not in the abbey with his queen?”

  “At King’s Langley. The Black Friars there took his coffin in charge, and the bishop of Lichfield buried him.”

  Not deep enough, thought the prince. He will be out of his grave and over the border before ever my father raises these loans to fit out his force for Scotland. No matter how he hurries, Richard will still be ahead of him. And he thought of his own strange situation, prince here of a principality he desired with all his heart, heir to a kingdom he knew he could rule, bound to a people for whom he felt as his own close kin: and with what title, what morsel of right? And from the moment his fingers had closed upon the prize, he knew he could not for his life leave go.

  The tide of his own outrage and grief and frustration rose in him and swept his guard away, like a straw bale poised against a flood. In a harsh cry of pain he demanded: “And you have no doubts at all?”

  He was appalled by the sound of his own voice as soon as it was out, and jerked his head aside to stare blindly out at the grey sky above the gatehouse roof, aware of the magnitude of his self-betrayal, and shaken into as deep a desperation as that royal despair of Richard’s in which he did not believe. He waited with held breath for the inevitable parrying denial; and what he heard was Hotspur’s voice, roused and turbulent, saying:

  “Doubts? Ay, have I, and many and grievous, too! Do you think there’s one of us that is not looking back now in torment of mind, questioning at every move what we did well, and what was ill-done? Death makes a man turn his head and re-examine his conscience. Do you think any man of us all ever dreamed of driving him to his end this way, or any other way? Yet we have done it—taken away from him everything that held him back from a despair like a mortal sickness. He was fallen so low, Hal, that he turned his face to the wall and refused food, and there was not one creature there with the wit to sound an alarm before it was too late. When they brought the physicians to him, and persuaded him to take food, he was too weak even to stomach it. He starved himself to death for want of a hope of some future fit to be lived. And that was our work, whether we ever intended it or no. I tell you, Hal, I am not proud!”

  The prince had turned to stare again at his friend and counsellor, his face pale and blank and bright, only his eyes shining greenly. The wide-set eyes that stared hotly back at him were clear and shadowless, open like deep shafts into the mind and heart behind them. Hotspur had understood him astray, but answered him to the point. Dazed, the boy thought: He means it! He believes it! When did he ever tell me anything less than truth? And he drew back very gently and gingerly within his miraculously restored defences, to examine the gift he had been offered.

  “But neither dare I be ashamed,” said Hotspur in a softer voice, breaking suddenly into the warm smile that belonged particularly to the boy. “God knows I may have enough on my conscience, Hal, and only he knows what penance may be exacted for it in the judgment. But had I this to do again, I could not do it differently. Richard could not rule, and there was neither justice nor order left in this realm. We have done what had to be done, and put in his place a strong and able and good man who can and will rule.
And on the fruits of what we have done we will be judged, not upon one most grievous and unlooked-for death along the way. Do I know when my own end may come?”

  There was nothing in his voice, nothing in his eyes, to dim the dazzling fact of his sincerity. Against his judgment and almost against his will the boy felt his heart lift and lighten. He drew back in awe from such lofty innocence, examined it feverishly by the light of the spark of hope it had kindled in him, and could not bring himself to utter one word that would cast a shadow upon it. For his own sake, as well as for Hotspur’s, he had to nurse it and guard it and warm himself at it until, by God’s grace, he might even come to believe it justified. There was something in him that longed to probe more deeply, to say: “You know, don’t you, what our enemies will say?” And even then, perhaps, since indeed he could not choose but know what many must be saying already, Hotspur would curl his disdainful lip, and shrug off what the malicious and disaffected always say when kings die suddenly and strangely, leaving the field clear for other kings.

  But he did not tempt God by speaking; and it was a second and marvellous gift to him that Hotspur should answer what had not even been asked.

  “I got my knighthood on the same day as your father,” he said. “We’ve known each other many years. I’ve ridden with him, and jousted with him, and campaigned with him. I need not ask any man what I should think of Henry of Lancaster, I know him of my own knowledge. Whatever we have destroyed in the doing, we have put a good king on the throne of England in place of a sorry one, and I do not go back on that for my own life or another’s. I may grieve for Richard, but I cannot wish the thing undone. And for you, Hal, though there may be grief, there can be no blame. You had no part in his fall. You were ever a good cousin to him, and he loved you.”

  No, he had no doubts at all. He knew his Henry, and that was enough for him. The possibility of murder he must have seen from the moment the news reached him, since he was no man’s fool; but for him, simply, it was not a possibility.

  And how if he was right, after all? The prince thought, silently and ardently behind his still face: If I could believe as he believes! Why can I not, when I believe so wholly in him? How if he is right to have faith, and I am wrong to have none? But the doubt within him, that was so close to certainty, would not be moved.

  If it had been any other man, he thought, thus praising the father before the son’s face, I should believe he was courting my favour by saying what he reasons will win my ear. But I have never known this man court any. And it seemed to him rather that Hotspur’s intent was to make certain that the son valued the father as he should, that the favour he was wooing was for King Henry, not for himself. The thought disconcerted him, for how had he ever left room for suspicion? He searched his memory hurriedly, but could recall no failure in filial reverence on his part, nothing done or left undone that could bring his devotion into doubt. But this was not a man who reasoned and observed like other men. He sensed by touch and by affection, illogically and too often accurately; and there could have been some secret coldness that had chilled him, and made demands upon his warmth to set it right, lest father and son alike should freeze. I must be more careful, thought the prince, even with him, even against the grain. To break through the uneasiness that had fallen upon him in this long silence, he rose and went to liven up the dull-burning logs in the broad fireplace, and throw on more wood. The flickering light and the sparks made a fiery painting of his face, as good as a mask.

  “If there is guilt,” he said carefully, to the fire, not to his friend, “I cannot be absolved. I set my name to the declaration making him perpetual prisoner, and cutting him off from all his old servants and companions.”

  “And so did I,” said Hotspur.

  “Yes—we stand together. Whatever fears and scruples I might have,” he said, “I could not wish for better than that. If you are at fault, then with all my heart I will own myself at fault in the best of company, and take the half your penance upon me.” The light, girlish voice—when would it break, and behave itself seemly in accordance with his dignity?—sounded solemn and strange in this avowal. “And the task allotted to me,” he said, “be assured I shall fulfil. Having your help, I may so promise.”

  He turned and smiled, his cheeks still flushed from the heat of the fire. “You can stay with me here a while longer? I don’t yet know my father’s plans for this Scottish enterprise, and I know you must look to the eastern march.”

  “Oh, Scotland can spare me to Wales a while yet, I hope. The money comes in but slowly, there’ll be no move this side May, and my father has all well in hand along the border. But by the summer the king must stir, or the year is lost. He means to bring King Robert to acknowledge him as overlord and do homage for Scotland, as the kings of Scots have done before, as late as King Edward’s time. They’re toying too openly with this French alliance, we have no choice but to cudgel them out of it if they persist. If Robert were more of a king, and had not given over his power so abjectly to his brother Albany, we should not have so turbulent a border, or such frequent raids. But now Robert’s heir is lieutenant for his father, the boy that was made duke of Rothesay not so long ago, and no one yet knows his mettle, or what we may expect from him. If he can hold off Albany until we get there,” added Hotspur with a wry smile. “That’s still to prove!”

  “Will there be fighting?” He did not know whether to hope for it or not. His father greatly needed a sharp demonstration of his ability to hold what he had gained, but a diplomatic victory might be as serviceable as a military one, and less expensive. There was France to be taken into consideration. The French king had been Richard’s father-in-law, and could not be expected to take kindly to his deposition and death. The complexity of all these considerations of state confounded him.

  “I doubt it,” said Hotspur, “but there may well be some skirmishing before there’s any sensible talk. If Robert has his way, I think he’ll hold off and speak us fair, and compromise if he can, but Rothesay is young, and burns to make his name. Whether he’s a good general no doubt we shall learn. He’s no great hand at managing his peers, that’s certain. One of the most dangerous he’s as good as driven into our camp already.” He caught the prince’s questioning look, and laughed. “The Duke was betrothed to Dunbar’s daughter, the earl of the Scottish March, but now Douglas has outbid March, and got the duke for his own girl, and Dunbar’s daughter is rejected and insulted. Her father’s renounced his allegiance in a fury, and written to King Henry for refuge and service, and I think he’ll get his safe-conduct, at least, to come to England and parley. I’ve fought against March on the border before now, I know his quality. Who knows, I may find myself fighting by his side yet!”

  He had eased his heart; he could talk of other things, and look forward, which came always more congenially to him than looking back. The boy envied him. They had so much in common, and yet this curious purity and simplicity of mind was clean out of the prince’s scope. In whom did he repose so absolute a faith?

  Yes, in one man, perhaps! Supposing someone should whisper of murder against Hotspur, supposing all the circumstances should conspire to lend colour to the calumny, what would his reaction be then? Now at last, putting this case to himself, he could comprehend Hotspur’s unshaken certainty. He would not even need to hesitate or question, he would know it for a lie, and one almost too trivial and derisory even to be resented.

  Hotspur rose and gathered up his cloak, stretching stiffly, “I must go and wash off the stains of the road, Hal. There are letters—I’ll have Audley bring them to you at once. And the archbishop has sent you some new music for your chapel. I’ll bring that with me to supper.”

  “The archbishop is very kind,” said the boy.

  “On my life, I’m glad to be back. When we’re clear of the frosts, with your leave, I’ll send for my wife and the children to be here with me a while, until your father hales me north again.”

  He had thrust back the curtain, and had the hea
vy door-latch in his hand, when he turned and looked back, and for a moment, while he studied the prince’s face with a sombre and considering eye, he seemed to deliberate whether to speak or not. The boy sustained the testing regard, and waited in some wonder, and even a little trepidation.

  The words came almost violently, as always after a momentary struggle with the knot that sometimes tied his tongue: “You love your father, do you not, Hal?”

  Too quickly and too emphatically the boy said: “Yes!” How else could that be answered, though his heart might lurch within him at the shock of being thus probed, and his carefully-mustered defences tremble and threaten to fall? There was no other possible answer.

  “Of course! Forgive me! And are proud of him—I know! So continue always, Hal, for well he deserves it, and as I know, like any man he needs it.”

  The curtain swung, and the door closed after him. The boy turned back towards the fire, released from the tension that held him rigid by the sound of the latch falling into place. He was still quivering as he beheld in the dim light his own tall figure and startled, wary face, reflected in the silver mirror that hung between tapestries on the wall. There was something there already of his father, the set of the long head on the shoulders, the gait, the way the hair grew on the forehead: a slender, half-grown shadow of the king. The moment was like a foretaste of their next meeting. Clearly he saw the portcullis of reticence and watchfulness close down over his face, braced for that confrontation. And he did not even know whether his “Yes” to Hotspur had been truth or a lie.

  It would never again be easy; and he would have to face his father again and again, lifelong, never acknowledging by word or sign the sickness of his spirit, never admitting even to himself what he believed. Nor could he ever again deliver to the king the confidence and trust due between father and son; there must always be a reserve between them, since there could not be truth, and must not be lies.