Miscellany
THE CHRONICLES OF ELHURST
This is the fifth part of a serialisation of Alison Weir's unpublished novel. It will remain here until Chapter 6 replaces it in March.
CHAPTER 5: THE TRAITOR, 1348
In the end, few people had a good word to say of Hugh de Belvedere, and yet when he looked back on his life, he did not see much that he might have done differently. Men in his position did the bidding of greater mortals. Only once had he let anger warp his judgement. And along the way, he had taken what pleasure he could.
An only child, he was doted on by both parents, who saw in him the hope of their House. Thankfully, his father did not live to witness the ruin of all he held dear, but his mother, alas, survived long enough to suffer the consequences. Her dying – or so she thought - wish was that in Hugh, or more likely Henry, Hugh’s son, their family’s fortunes would rise like a phoenix from the ashes. It was a great pity, Hugh thought, tossing in near delirium, that he would not live to see it. Yet he was not afraid of death. For a soldier, that was the first lesson, and he had learnt it early on.
He was an idle scholar, hopeless at his lessons, so his despairing father decided he would be better suited for a military career. Thus from the age of eight, he was drilled and exercised in all the martial arts that go to make a good soldier. At thirteen, he fought alongside his father against the Scots at the Battle of Bannockburn. Although he acquitted himself splendidly, making Sir Michael proud, the English lost. Hugh emerged from the fray with a broken arm; his father was unscathed.
The arm healed; it was the outcome of the battle that was more injurious to the young warrior, for it destroyed his faith in kings. He watched with his own eyes the second Edward cravenly fleeing the field early in the conflict. Word went around: the King had been affrighted. Soldiers exchanged disgusted looks, and the barons growled ominously. Six years later, they took up arms against their sovereign, only to be savagely repressed. All the same, the land remained divided, for want of a strong hand to unify it.
At twenty-one, Hugh was not greatly interested in affairs of state. With his father diligently ruling the de Belvedere lands, and no fighting to be done, he could indulge his predilection for women, willing ones that is, of whom there was no shortage in the villages around Ellhyrst. His parents, good folk that they were, perceived his interest in the fair sex and offered to arrange a marriage for him with a local heiress, but he refused.
‘Time enough for that when I am older,’ he said, dismissing the idea.
‘You should get yourself a son,’ his father told him.
‘I have years in which to do that,’ Hugh retorted.
‘But I do not,’ Sir Michael said, ‘and I should like to see my grandson before I die, and the Belvedere line assured.’
Hugh shrugged and changed the subject. He wandered off to frisk with the serving girls in the manor kitchen.
His mother, normally a placid woman, took him to task. ‘Your father is not well,’ she murmured, ‘and his dearest wish is to see his grandchildren.’
‘He can see them anytime,’ Hugh snorted. ‘He has several already.’
His mother shook him. ‘How dare you!’ she said. ‘It is not fitting to talk to your mother like that, especially at this time, when I have so much to concern me. You should be a support to us, not another cross to bear. I warn you, my son, think seriously of finding a bride, if you want your father to die happy.’
Hugh did not answer. Exasperated, his mother left him, tears in her eyes. How had she and Michael managed to produce such a recalcitrant son, she was asking herself.
The following year, Sir Michael had a seizure and was confined to his bed with no hope of recovery. Even this did not persuade Hugh to look to his dynastic responsibilities, and when his father died four months later, he was the only male representative of his House, much to his mother’s grief.
In the end, he gave way to her pleas. There was no shortage of potential brides: a young and eligible landowner such as himself, well endowed with manors, money and good looks, did not venture into the marriage market every day, and the gentry of four counties hastened to push their daughters in his path. Out of them all, he chose Clementina de Plessy, for her large dowry and ample breasts, but she died of a fever a month after their betrothal, and much to his mother’s grief, Hugh declined to wed her younger sister. One brush with wedlock had been enough. He realised he valued his freedom too highly. Marriage could wait.
Four years passed, four years of misrule and unrest. Hugh had no time for Edward II and his rapacious favourites; his life was perforce devoted to administering his estates – not very efficiently, as his mother complained.
‘Your father was a good lord to all his people,’ she reminded him. ‘Try to be like him.’ And there was more in the same vein, and about marrying too.
Hugh was almost relieved when Queen Isabella, who had been abroad, returned to England with a great force at her back and summoned all true Englishmen to arms against her husband, their ineffectual and vicious King. Ignoring his mother’s protests, he rode off in search of some action, little realising where his impulse would lead him.
He marched westward with the Queen’s forces, pursuing King Edward and his rapacious favourite, Hugh le Despenser. In command of Isabella’s army – and of Isabella herself, it soon became clear – was a powerful baron, Roger Mortimer. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind who would rule England if Edward was overthrown, for the Prince of Wales was just a young lad.
Hugh distinguished himself in the campaign and won the favour of Isabella and Mortimer. When he came face to face with the Queen, he saw why men called her ‘the Fair’ and supported her cause, for she was exceptionally beautiful. Her striking looks were enhanced rather than diminished by the black mourning she had taken to wearing to emphasise what she called her ‘widowhood’. It was common knowledge among her troops that Edward had continually forsaken her couch for his male lovers, who had treated her appallingly.
Hugh did not blame her for her entanglement with Mortimer. The man exuded strength and sex, and the Queen had been deprived of both for too many years. How he envied Mortimer! He would have tumbled Isabella himself given the chance. In fact, he was so smitten with her that other women ceased to mean anything to him. And when she bestowed on him one of her gracious smiles and promoted him to captain, saying she had heard impressive reports of his prowess, he told her that his life would be devoted to her service. She must have heard many men say that, but never so fervently as Hugh did.
Hugh was present at Hereford when the King’s lover, Despenser, was savagely executed before a baying crowd. He saw that Isabella did not flinch as she watched the executioner do his bloody work. It was her moment of revenge and she was clearly savouring it.
Hugh was among the deputation that witnessed the King’s enforced abdication at Kenilworth Castle. He looked on pitilessly as the defeated monarch wept and fainted, and felt no pity, for this was the man who had ruined Isabella’s life. He was one of those privileged persons deputed to guard the young and uncertain Edward III at the coronation that followed, and he rose high in the counsels of Isabella and Mortimer after the regency government took power. Life had turned exhilarating, and he realised he had found his rightful place in the world; here, at the centre of affairs, was where he felt most at home. The peace of Ellhyrst seemed a thousand miles away from the glitter and excitement of the court.
The former King had been imprisoned at Berkeley Castle in the county of Gloucester. Twice there were attempts to free him. The Queen and Mortimer grew worried, and one day, Mortimer – or the Earl of March, as he now was – sent for Hugh.
‘Your good service has been noted and appreciated, Lord Belvedere,’ he said. ‘The Queen is grateful for your loyal support. Now, if you are willing, she has another task for you, one that will require great circumspection and secrecy.’
‘I am the Queen’s to command,’ Hugh said, wondering where this was leading.
‘You are to travel to Berkeley to assist Edward’s gaolers in ensuring that there is no future breach in security. My son in law, Lord Berkeley, has overall charge of him, and John Maltravers acts with him as joint keepers. Both are my men, and they will welcome your assistance. It is essential that these malcontents are given no further opportunity of attempting a rescue.’ He frowned. No one had declared for the former King at the time of Isabella’s invasion, but the pendulum had already swung backwards, and even Hugh had to admit that Mortimer’s overbearing rule was proving unpopular. He did not like the man, and he was jealous of him – but he still had great admiration and sympathy for the Queen, whose life could never have been easy with that vicious sodomite. So he accepted the position with alacrity.
Before travelling west to Berkeley Castle, he rode south for a brief visit to Ellhyrst, to ensure that the stewards he had put in charge of the manor and his properties at Catfield, Compton Bywater and Settlescombe were doing their job properly. His mother complained that she never saw him, and that his estates were not so well run now as they had been in his father’s day, but they were well-enough run to his mind, so he murmured some platitudes and rode away before she had a chance to start nagging him once more about taking a wife.
The walls of Berkeley rose strong and forbidding before him, but the welcome he received within them was congenial. Lord Berkeley and John Maltravers were glad to see him; they had been on their mettle since the late conspiracies, and were finding the responsibility of guarding Edward of Caernarvon a heavy duty. But they were treating him well, they told Hugh.
‘He is honourably housed, served with deference and well fed,’ Berkeley said. ‘Sir Thomas Gurney has daily charge of him, and when I am away, he reports to Maltravers here.’
‘May I see him?’ Hugh asked.
‘By all means,’ said Maltravers and, rising, led the way. Soon, Hugh discovered that ‘honourably housed’ was a relative term. The small chamber in which the former King was lodged was a cheerless place. True, there were hangings on the rough stone walls, and books and a leather goblet of wine on the table, but the furnishings were old and sparse, and the prisoner was sitting staring sadly through the narrow window. He wore a drab black gown, and his hair and beard, which had once been golden and curly, were now streaked with grey.
Gurney, who had unlocked the door, was a taciturn, set-faced fellow, a man of sinew rather than sensitivity, Hugh guessed. Edward watched him with unconcealed dislike as he announced the newcomer. Hugh wondered what he should call the prisoner.
‘Sir Edward is in a foul mood today,’ Gurney said.
‘That is not the case,’ Edward said. ‘I just want to see my children. It is cruel to keep them from me. And my wife - I am hoping the Pope will order her to return to me.’
‘That is unlikely, Sir,’ Maltravers said.
‘Even if the Pope did so order her, what reason has she to obey?’ Hugh asked sharply. He had felt a burgeoning anger on Isabella’s behalf at the former King’s naïve expectations; how dare the man expect her to return to him after the way he and his vile favourites had treated her?
Edward stared at him. ‘Isabella is my Queen,’ he said. ‘She owes me obedience and wifely duty.’
‘Since when did you ever show any interest in her as a wife?’ Gurney taunted.
‘Enough,’ Maltravers ordered. ‘I trust you are in health, Sir Edward.’
‘In body, yes,’ Edward muttered.
They left him then. As they walked back to the hall, Maltravers observed that it would be better for everyone if the prisoner were not in health. ‘But he has a strong constitution,’ he sighed. ‘He could live for years to plague us all.’
Hugh shared custodial duties with Gurney. Mostly, he was required to stay on watch outside Edward’s chamber and wait upon him. The Queen had insisted that her husband be served by men of rank, as befitted his birth. But she owes him nothing, Hugh thought. He deprived her of everything: her freedom, her income, her friends, even her children, and any semblance of normal married life. How could he have been wed to such a beautiful, charming lady and treated her thus? His heart burned with the injustice of it.
One day, he came upon Edward writing a poem, and took up the paper before the other could stop him. There were many lines, but some leapt out at him:
The greatest grief my heart must bear,
The chiefest sorrow of my state
Springs from Isabelle the Fair,
She that I loved but now must hate.
‘Why should you hate that sweet lady?’ he asked. ‘It is because of your cruelties that she forsook you.’
‘She is the author of all my sorrow,’ Edward said sadly.
‘Did you ever love her? Did you ever stop to wonder how she felt about your favourites?’ Hugh persisted.
‘She is a faithless strumpet.’
‘And you kept faith with her? Ha!’ Hugh’s laugh was mirthless. ‘If you had done so, you had not been here.’
‘I am here because of a wicked woman’s treachery and a traitor’s vengeance,’ Edward’s voice was plaintive. Hugh lost patience.
‘Why don’t you just die?’ he snapped, and stalked out.
Hugh was not kind by nature, but the memory of what he did next would often come back and shame him in later years. He took to loudly atrumming a gittern when the former King was trying to sleep at night. He removed his piss-pot to empty and took his time about returning it. When it was cold, he hid Edward’s warmer clothes and left him to shiver. He brought him dirty water to shave in, and fish that was past its best and made him sick. One cruelty led to another; it was Hugh’s revenge for all the evils Edward had heaped on the fair Isabella. He was a man on a mission, never dreaming that he would have cause to regret what he was doing.
In September, a man called William Ockle, one of Mortimer’s retainers, arrived at the castle, having ridden at some speed, only to find Lord Berkeley absent. He sought out Maltravers instead, and Hugh and Gurney were present when Ockle handed the keeper a letter.
‘My lord of March bids you to take counsel on what is therein, and to find a speedy remedy, in order to avoid great peril,’ Ockle said, his tone heavy with import.
Maltravers read the letter. ‘There has been a new conspiracy in Wales to free our prisoner,’ he said. ‘This letter comes from Shalford, my lord’s lieutenant there, to whom the traitors were betrayed. You may read it for yourself.’
He passed the letter to Gurney, who quickly scanned it and gave it to Hugh. The men all exchanged looks.
‘You know what Mortimer is asking us to do,’ Maltravers said. It was a statement, not a question.
‘Aye,’ Gurney replied.
‘You would be doing my lord a service,’ Ockle urged.
‘Where does the Queen stand in this?’ Hugh asked. He did not want Isabella to be involved in something so sordid.
‘She knows nothing of it, or the conspiracy. She is in Lincoln, and news of it cannot have reached her yet.’
‘So Mortimer takes it upon himself to send this order.’
‘He merely asks you all to devise a remedy,’ Ockle says smoothly.
‘The question is, how?’ Maltravers asked.
‘That I leave to you,’ Ockle said. ‘But the fewer who know about this remedy, the better.’
‘The easiest way would be to smother him in his bed,’ Hugh said, relishing the thought. He had never loathed any creature as much as he loathed Edward of Caernarvon. Killing him would be easy.
Maltravers hesitated. ‘He was an anointed king…’
‘Not any more,’ countered Gurney. ‘Let’s just do it. Tonight.’
‘Yes,’ said Hugh. ‘I’ll go and fetch him his last supper then.’ And he smiled grimly.
As he left the room, he nearly ran into the tall and gangling serving lad whose business it was to see to the prisoner’s most basic needs. The boy looked scared.
‘I beg your pardon, lord!’ he cried.
‘What are you doing here?’ Hugh asked suspiciously.
‘Nothing, lord. I was on my way to the kitchens.’
‘Then get ye hence,’ Hugh growled.
As soon as darkness had fallen, Hugh, Gurney, Maltravers and another knight, Simon Barford, made their way stealthily to Edward’s chamber. But when they unlocked and opened the door, they found it empty. Their prey had flown, warned no doubt by the serving lad.
Shouting fit to raise the dead, they split up and raced in different directions in pursuit of their quarry. But it was too late. He had eluded them. It was Hugh who found the body of the porter by the gatehouse. The man had been stabbed in the back. Some servants had come crowding into the courtyard, but Maltravers waved them back into the castle.
He was white-faced with fear. ‘God knows what Mortimer will do now,’ he panted, breathless from running and yelling.
‘He will do nothing,’ said Hugh. ‘He will have no cause to.’
‘What do you mean?’ Gurney frowned.
‘Ockle has gone. He cannot make trouble for us. I say we have the porter’s body embalmed and say it is Edward’s. No one got close enough to see who it was, I’ll swear. We might just get away with this.’
‘But what if the real Edward appears and gives the lie to that?’
‘We give the lie to him. We say he is dead and buried. People will think he’s an imposter.’
‘It’s a risk we must take,’ Maltravers said. ‘Let the body be embalmed and wrapped in cerecloth, then let us ask where it is to be taken for burial. You, Gurney, ride to the Queen at Lincoln and inform her that her lord is dead.’
‘Before the chandler gets to work, have him cut out the heart,’ Hugh added. ‘Take it to the Queen in a casket. I’m sure she will appreciate the gesture.’
No one suspected. The body of the porter was buried with suitable magnificence in Gloucester Abbey, and before long pilgrims were flocking to the tomb, claiming that the fallen King should be made a saint. Three years later the young King came of age and overthrew the rule of his mother and her lover. Mortimer was executed, and Isabella placed under house arrest at Windsor.
Those, like Hugh, who had supported the fallen regime, had to make a speedy choice: submit to the King, or leave court. Hugh, who had galloped south to Ellhyrst as soon as Mortimer had been arrested, was about to return to court when he learned that Lord Berkeley was to be tried for the murder of Edward II. That decided him. If Berkeley went down, it would only be a matter of time before he, Maltravers and Gurney were taken. Ignoring his mother’s pleas, he seized a bundle of clothing and most of his savings and rode like the wind to Compton Bywater, where he took ship for France.
First, he made for Paris, where he thought there was the best chance of obtaining a position or office. Nothing too prominent – he could not afford any public exposure. The young King had spent much time at the French court with his mother’s relatives, and knew many influential people in Paris.
In Paris, Hugh found himself sharing an inn with a prosperous German merchant who was looking for a clerk to do his accounting. Hugh was good with figures, and so it came about that he found himself working for Meister Dierdorf, and travelling around Europe to the cloth fairs in the big cities. It was no bad existence, for his kindly master liked his comforts and ensured that his new and very able clerk was well fed and well lodged. Presently, Hugh was promoted to a position of great trust, looking after most of Meister Dierdorf’s private financial affairs. He found he enjoyed travelling and seeing new places; he liked the freedom it gave him, and the girls he met along the way. None of them matched up to the beautiful Isabella, but Isabella was lost to him for ever. Some were even saying she had died, although that proved not to be true, but nevertheless she had opted for retirement into the country. Ellhyrst seemed so far away. He did not miss it. Life was good.
This was his existence for nearly eight years. From time to time, he would return with Dierdorf to the latter’s home in the fine city of Coblenz, to be welcomed by his master’s apple-cheeked wife, Hiltrud, and her doe-eyed daughter, Margaret. And presently, he and Margaret were wed, and her father, lacking a son, began grooming Hugh to take over the business after him.
Hugh thought he had done rather well. Margaret was young, pretty and amiable enough, and soon there was the hope of a child. A son, Hugh thought, to inherit Ellhyrst when I am gone. But his new relatives knew nothing of Ellhyrst. They thought him the younger son of an English knight who had come to Europe to seek his fortune. That he rarely spoke of his family seemed not to concern them. Perhaps they feared that dwelling on his home might make him want to return.
War broke out between England and France in 1338, when King Philippe confiscated the English possession of Gascony and provoked the martial Edward III to declare war and lay claim to the French throne, which he insisted was his in right of his mother, Isabella. At first, the prospect of war only concerned Hugh and the Dierdorfs insofar as it might impact on trade; and when the months passed by and nothing happened, they gave it little thought. Until King Edward came to Coblenz to be made Vicar of the Holy Roman Empire.
It would be alright, Adam thought. Years had gone by since Edward had set eyes on him. He would be safe. He might even pull his hood low over his brow and mingle with the crowds that were gathering to greet the English King. And so he did, but the press was so great that he saw very little of the procession and certainly Edward III could not have seen him.
It was as he made his way home afterwards that he saw, passing the basilica of St Castor, a small procession, consisting of two men-at-arms, a well-dressed cleric and a tall man in a dusty monastic habit, who was evidently in custody. Hugh wondered what the man could have done as he crossed the street towards the little group, making for the wine shop opposite. And it was in that moment that the tall monk turned his head and he found himself staring into the shocked eyes of Edward II.
It was hard to tell which of them was the more surprised, and Hugh was fearful too, because there was no doubt that the former King had recognised him and was remembering his cruelties. But now, as he stood poised for flight, the cleric was hurrying Edward away.
‘We must get you to the King in all haste,’ Hugh heard him say.
He found he was trembling. If the third Edward discovered his whereabouts, he would be done for. Gathering his wits, he dived down an alleyway and made his way home by a roundabout route, hoping to give the slip to anyone who might be following. When he got back to the tall, timbered house where he lived with the Dierdorfs, he was sweating and in no mood to listen to Margaret’s prattle. Stripping himself to the waist, he took a pair of scissors and cut off his long hair, then shaved his beard. Now even his own mother would not recognise him.
‘I’m told it is the new fashion,’ he said, when they all commented on his changed appearance.
Days passed, and the King left Koblenz. Hugh heard no more of Edward II, ever again, and assumed that the former monarch had decided to devote the rest of his life to God, expiating his many sins. Certainly he had not betrayed Hugh to his son. Or so Hugh thought.
Several years passed. Hugh did well in the business, and grew wealthy. Gradually he took over from the ageing Dierdorf. He lived well, put on weight and advanced imperceptibly into comfortable middle age. Secretly, from time to time, he would send money home to his mother: just money – no letter or note. She would know where it came from. His conscience troubled him a bit about his mother; she did not even know she was grandmother to two little boys. He wondered if she was even alive still.
One day he found himself and Meister Dierdorf in Flanders, and it was there, in the cloth hall in Ypres, that he heard some English merchants talking about John Maltravers. It seemed he had sought exile in Flanders, but now he was working there for King Edward on official business. Hugh wondered if it was safe to go home. If Maltravers had earned the King’s pardon, why should he not also?
Yet he hesitated. Maltravers had not ill-treated Edward II. Gurney had, but Hugh had heard nothing of Gurney in years. He wondered what had happened to him. And Lord Berkeley? Had he been pardoned too?
He approached the merchants. Seeing his well-to-do appearance and fine clothes, they readily welcomed him, a fellow trader and their countryman, to join them for a flagon of Flemish beer.
‘I heard you speak of one Maltravers,’ he said after a while. ‘Was that the Maltravers who was set to guard over the late King?’
‘You are well informed, master,’ one of his companions said in surprise.
‘A cousin of mine supplied meat to the castle where the old King was held,’ he lied.
‘What a small world we live in. Yes, it was that Maltravers. The word is that he’s to go home and face trial, but not for the murder of the old King. Yet King Edward employs him here. Very strange, don’t you think?’
‘Indeed,’ Hugh agreed. ‘I thought Lord Berkeley was meant to be responsible for the murder.’
‘You’re behind the times, man. Been over here too long! He was acquitted of the murder. What I’d like to know is, who did do it?’
‘There were two other gaolers,’ a fat merchant in a furred gown said. ‘Didn’t one die before he could be questioned?’
‘Aye,’ said another. ‘He’d fled abroad and they caught up with him. Died on board the ship. That was some years ago now.’
‘I reckon he did it. Him and that other one that disappeared. Never found, or not that I heard. The King seized his property.’
That gave Hugh a nasty jolt, but he held his composure. ‘Serves him right,’ he murmured through the constriction in his throat. ‘Well, I must be going.’
As he conducted the afternoon’s business, he could think of little but the confiscation of his lands. Clearly Edward II had betrayed him. Had the King taken everything? And what of his mother? If Ellhyrst had gone, where was she living? He knew that somehow he had secretly to go back to England to find out in what state his affairs stood. But when? He had so much work to do.
In the end, he invented a tale about his father dying and needing to go and help his older brother settle his affairs. He would be back within weeks, he assured the Dierdorfs.
‘Take me with you,’ Margaret pleaded. ‘I should like to see England.’
‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘Your place is here, looking after the boys.’
It was nearly twenty years since he had been in his homeland. His ship put in at Rye and there, on the quayside, he hired a horse and ride across country to Ellhyrst. As he approached the manor from the south, riding up the gentle hill to where it the house nestled on its crest, nothing seemed to have changed. Yet when he grew nearer, he could see signs of neglect. Weeds had pushed themselves up through the cobbles of the courtyard; the wooden door and window shutters needed repairing; and there was no one about. The manor drowsed in the late afternoon sun. He pushed open the door.
‘Who’s that?’ a thin voice asked. It came from an old lady seated on the settle. It was his mother.
‘It is I, Hugh,’ he said gently. ‘You’re still here?’
‘Is it really you? Oh, thank God, thank God.’ And as she rose unsteadily to her feet and hastened to embrace him, he felt as the prodigal son must have done when he came home.
Later, when Hugh’s mother had fetched bread, cheese and ale, they talked. The King, when he’d taken everything else, had left her Ellhyrst, in recognition of the fact that she had committed no crime. It was in character, Hugh realised: as a youth, Edward had prided himself on his chivalry. He would not turn a widow out of her house.
‘But they’ve all gone now, on account of the great sickness,’ his mother said. He had realised already that her mind was apt to wander.
‘Who have gone? The King’s men?’
‘No, my serfs, and that useless reeve. There’s only the steward and me left now. Even the priest has died. In truth, Hugh, glad though I am to see you, you should not have come here, on account of this pestilence.’
He was horrified. There had been recent reports of plague in southern Europe, but until now, luck had been with him, and he’d not gone anywhere that had been afflicted. So far, praised be God, the north of Europe had been spared. He had not realised that the pest had spread to England, and now it seemed he had walked into the very heart of it.
He was desperate to get away, but he could not very well leave his mother now. To do so would be too cruel, even for him.
‘Come with me to Coblenz!’ he urged in the morning, after a sleepless night spent worrying.
‘No, my son, I’m too old to travel,’ the old woman quavered, tears welling in her eyes. ‘And besides, I - I’m not feeling too well. You should stay away from me. You see, I woke up with a headache, and I feel a bit shivery. And there’s a lump under my arm.’ Her frightened eyes met her son’s aghast ones. ‘You know what they call this plague?’ she croaked. ‘They call it the Black Death.’
(This novel was first written in 1969-70. It has been revised and extended for this serialisation.)
26 TREASURES
Across Scotland and beyond, 26 writers have been exploring ways of bringing treasures from the National Museum of Scotland to life in words. At the Winter Words Festival at the Pitlochry Festival Theatre in February 2012, a panel of contributing writers, including Linda Cracknell, Jamie Jauncey and (guesting) Alison Weir will discuss how tapping into the rich story of Scotland’s past through objects can connect them not only to social, political, cultural and religious history, but to the powerful emotions of people who lived at the time. Each of the 26 writers had contributed a piece of creative writing (not exceeding 62 words long) in response to the treasure assigned them. Being a guest contributor, Alison was allowed to choose her treasure, and opted for the Leisian gneiss, a rock hundreds of millions of years old. It inspired her to write the following poem, an abbreviated version of which she recited at the Festival.
GOD'S THEATRE: THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND
Here in God's theatre
Nature has writ in marvellous words
in one ceaseless brave scenario
the play of the ages,
and with a crooked finger carved the lines
so long ago, in acts too changing for men to stop
and think and listen. For
the hills unit in silent chorus,
the lochs reflect unspoken odes,
primeval echoes down the centuries,
the unsung exit of the last volcano.
And we, the watchers,
do we yet applaud this great performance,
never so divine
as when each new eye doth see it?
Do we gaze in wonder,
dazzled by the vastness of this celestial amphitheatre,
the aweful magnificence of Heaven's scripting, Nature's cast?
Do we tremble, knowing that when we are long gone,
the words, the play, the song -
they still will last?
For more information, go to www.26treasures.com.
LUCREZIA BORGIA
Original book proposal by ALISON WEIR
(This book was commissioned in 2001, but never written, because Sarah Bradford, an expert on the Borgias, published an excellent biography, and Alison chose to write about Katherine Swynford instead.)
Say the name Lucrezia Borgia, and it conjures up images of sex, orgies, incest and murder. During the five centuries since her death, Lucrezia Borgia has become a byword for feminine infamy, immortalised in the works of Niccolo Machiavelli, Johannes Burchard, Alexander Dumas, Victor Hugo and Guillaume Apollinaire. Yet although her life was touched by notoriety and scandal, when she died in 1519, she was lauded for her piety and gentleness. Hence, she is an enigma: who was the real Lucrezia Borgia?
Lucrezia was born in 1480 in Rome, one of four bastard children born to Cardinal Roderigo Borgia by his Roman mistress Vanozza Catanei. Her three brothers (above) were Giovanni (Juan), Duke of Gandia, the brilliant but infamous Cesare Borgia (born 1475), whose brooding good looks, magnetic charm and ruthless ambition made him one of the most feared and villified public figures of his day; and Goffredo (Joffre), Prince of Squillace. In fact, the corrupt, avaricious and nepotistic Borgias would bring the Vatican into such disrepute that, not only did their name become synonymous with wickedness, but the reputation of the papacy was irrevocably tarnished, which was one of the chief causes of the Reformation.
The Borgias were of Spanish origin (the name was originally Borja or Borya), but moved to Italy in the 15th century when one of their number became Pope Calixtus III in 1455. Roderigo Borgia was his nephew. In 1492, when Lucrezia was 12, her father in turn became Pope, as Alexander VI (below), and it was only now that he publicly acknowledged his illegitimate children by Vanozza. His ambition was such that he desired to match Lucrezia only with the greatest of Princes; before she was 11, he had already turned down two suitors as being not grand enough for her.
Now, he placed her in the care of his celebrated new mistress, Giulia Farnese, and her mother-in-law, Adriana di Mila, who lived with Lucrezia in the magnificent Palazzo di Santa Maria and prepared her for the duties of matrimony. At 13, Lucrezia was ripe for the marriage market, graceful, golden-haired and slender, with teeth like pearls, and her father offered her hand to Giovanni Sforza, the handsome young Lord of Pesaro (below). Sforza eagerly accepted, and the cream of Roman society attended the wedding, which took place in 1493 - not without censure, however, since it was celebrated with a play by Plautus featuring libertines, prostitutes and pimps. Lucrezia was nevertheless apparently delighted with her new husband.
But after four years, the Pope and his sons realised that they could have made a more advantageous match for her with the influential House of Aragon, who ruled Sicily and Naples. Sforza was now an inconvenience who would have to be disposed of, and it was presently announced to the world that he had been unable to consummate his marriage to Lucrezia because he was impotent.
Outraged and humiliated, Sforza protested that he was a normal man who had 'known his wife carnally on countless occasions'. When it was suggested that he prove it in front of members of the Borgia and Sforza families, he indignantly refused. But he could not withstand the power of the Borgias, who had Lucrezia examined and declared virgin by a panel of matrons, compelled her luckless husband to sign an admission of his impotence, and annulled the marriage. Sforza very prudently fled from Rome, lucky to escape with his life.
Lucrezia had long since become bored with her husband, but she was utterly dominated by her father and her brother Cesare. She agreed without protest to the dissolution of her marriage. It was essential that the pretence of virginity be maintained, so she was sent to the convent of San Sisto on the Appian Way to prepare for a second marriage. When the time came for her to leave, the nuns were sorry to lose her because they would miss the sophisticated and worldly pleasures to which she had introduced them.
It soon became apparent that Lucrezia was pregnant, and certainly not by her husband. Rumour had it that she had taken a lover, a Spaniard who had conveyed letters between the Pope and his daughter whilst she was at the convent. His name was Pedro Calderon, but he was commonly called Perotto. There is no doubt of his charisma or his desire for Lucrezia. Yet her jealous brother Cesare first attacked him in the Pope's presence, then had him thrown into prison for presuming too far with his sister; six days later his body was found in the River Tiber, along with that of Lucrezia' s maid, who was thought to have acted as a go-between for the lovers.
The affair gave rise to sensational rumours. It was said that Cesare Borgia was the father of his sister's coming child. Certainly his love for Lucrezia was abnormally intense for a brother, and probably incestuous, although there is no evidence that it was reciprocated. The rumours were fuelled by Giovanni Sforza, who, anxious to take revenge on the men who had robbed him of his bride, put it about that Lucrezia was the mistress, not only of both her brothers, Cesare and Giovanni, Duke of Gandia, but also of her father, the Pope, who was then 67 years old.
On balance, it appears that the father of the child Giovanni (later Duke of Nepi ) , who was born in Rome in 1498, was Calderon, but Lucrezia would never even admit to being his mother, let alone disclose who had sired him. Although she kept the boy with her, she always referred to him as her brother. Publicly, he was referred to as 'the Roman Infante'. Three years after his birth, the Pope officially declared that Giovanni was the son of Cesare by an unknown woman, but soon he followed this with a declaration that the boy was in fact his own son, again by an unknown woman. It was claimed at the time that Lucrezia herself had requested the Pope to make these announcements as she herself did not know which of them, her father or her brother, had sired her child.
(Above: the sumptuous Borgia apartments in the Vatican)
Later in 1498, despite the scandal, the Borgias achieved their ambition and married Lucrezia to the King of Naples' nephew, Alfonso of Aragon, Duke of Bisceglie. The bridegroom was 17, fair-haired and dazzlingly handsome, and an entranced Lucrezia fell in love with him almost instantly. Cesare welcomed him to the family in the friendliest manner, and the Pope spared no expense in giving the young couple a splendid wedding. In return, Alfonso promised the doting father to stay with Lucrezia in Rome for a year before taking her south to his estates. There was one son of the marriage, called Roderigo after his grandfather.
Before long, however, Cesare's jealousy once more manifested itself, and to such an extent that prayers were being said in Rome for the safety of the Duke of Bisceglie. In vain, for one night, after leaving the Vatican, he was set upon by assassins in St Peter's Piazza. Fortunately, his friends came to his rescue and carried him home, half-dead, to the Palazzo di Stota Maria; his skull had been split open, and he had suffered dreadful wounds to his legs and body. A shocked Lucrezia nearly fainted when she saw him, but rallied to the occasion and nursed him devotedly back to health. She was well aware of whom it was that had ordered his murder.
Cesare Borgia (above), however, was determined to kill Alfonso, and one night in 1501, as the Duke lay convalescing in the Palazzo, he arrived with a gang of cut-throats and ordered Lucrezia out of the room. One assassin, a professional garotter, strangled the Duke before he could cry for help. Cesare afterwards excused the attack on the grounds that Alfonso had threatened to murder him, but no one believed this.
A grieving Lucrezia was sent to the Castle of Nepi to mourn in private for her husband, and shed many bitter tears for his loss. But when her father summoned her back to the Vatican, she dutifully obeyed him, and prepared herself to submit to whoever he might choose as her third husband. Casting off her sorrow, she threw herself into a hectic round of pleasure, devised by Cesare in order to cheer her. Gossip-mongers had a field day exchanging lurid tales of these scandalous goings-on in the Vatican. On one occasion, Cesare was said to have stewn hot chestnuts across the floor of the Pope's apartment, then made naked prostitutes crawl on hands and knees with lighted candles to retrieve them. There were fertility contests, orgies, and obscene masques. It is nowhere recorded, however, that Lucrezia took part in any of these diversions. On the contrary, people were beginning to speak of her piety and her gentleness. But this was possibly mere flattery.
In 1501, Cesare chose to ally his family with the ancient and noble House of d'Este, who ruled Ferrara. But when the then Duke's son, Alfonso d'Este, aged 24, was offered Lucrezia as a bride, he refused to take to his bed a lady of such notoriety. However, his father, eager to ally himself with the powerful Borgias, threatened that he would marry Lucrezia himself if his son did not accept her. In the end, the Pope offered such a fabulous dowry with Lucrezia that d'Este was unable to refuse. A splendid wedding followed, at which the radiant bride was observed dancing with her brother Cesare, who had rid her not only of a lover but also her two previous husbands.
But Lucrezia was soon to be removed from the orbit of the dangerous Cesare. After her wedding, she bade a final farewell to her father and brother: Pope Alexander was to die in 1503, Cesare Borgia in 1507. Lucrezia had by them embarked on her new life as Duchess of Ferrara; her husband succeeded to the title in 1505. She brought to the marriage a magnificent dowry of sumptuous clothes and jewellery, exquisite works of art and luxurious furnishings. She and Alfonso d'Este (below, left and centre) made their home in the Castle of Vecchio. Against all the odds, the taciturn, promiscuous d'Este was charmed with his bride, whose grace and modesty would always captivate him.
Yet the gossip persisted. Before long, Lucrezia's name was being linked with that of the poet, Pietro Bembo (above, right), who may have been her lover. It was said that his erotic poetry was inspired by the passionate hours he had spent in her bed; some evidence suggests, however, that their relationship was entirely platonic. Nevertheless, Lucrezia's husband's suspicions were sufficiently aroused for Bembo to deem it wise to remove himself to Venice in 1505. Then there was the tragic Ercole Strozzi, another young poet, who wore his devotion to the Duchess like a heart on his sleeve. There was the most appalling scandal when Strozzi was found dead in the street, hacked to death with a dagger. Lucrezia's enemies accused her of having him killed out of jealousy, as Strozzi had been about to marry another lady. Others said that he had been silenced to prevent him from revealing just how often, and in what manner, Bembo and himself had enjoyed the Duchess's favours.
Lucrezia further angered her husband when she brought to Ferrara Roderigo, her son by Alfonso of Bisceglie, and the mysterious Infante Giovanni, who were both brought up with the ducal children. When Roderigo died in 1512, Lucrezia was devastated, and retired for a while to a convent before being reunited with her husband. Giovanni lived until 1548.
As the years passed, the old scandals were forgotten, and thanks to the efforts of the poets and men of letters whom she patronised, or who admired her, Lucrezia Borgia's image metamorphosed into that of a godly and virtuous matron, without spot of sin, merciful and kind, and a gracious patron of the arts. When she died in childbed, of puerperal fever, in 1519, bearing her eighth child, her husband the Duke deeply mourned the passing of his 'dearest wife'. She was buried in the convent of Corpus Domini, Ferrara, where he was later laid to rest beside her (above, right).
So what is the truth about Lucrezia Borgia? Was she the notorious femme fatale of popular rumour, or was she indeed a virtuous woman much wronged by those about her? Today, many think she was more sinned against than sinning, and that she was the innocent victim of ruthless, unscrupulous men. There is plenty of evidence that the truth may be rather different, and that the original verdict of historians on Lucrezia Borgia is the correct one.
(Film stills are from The Borgias, B.B.C. TV, 1981)
ANNIVERSARY
A ghost story
`I can`t find anywhere suitable,` Beth sighed, scrolling down Places to Stay in East Sussex. `A lot of these hotels don`t have websites. I just don`t want to take a chance. It is our anniversary, after all.`
Joe bent over her shoulder.
`That place looks nice,` he suggested, pointing to a stately Georgian pile done up as a hotel.
`Far too expensive,` Beth reproved.
`Fair enough,` Joe agreed placidly. `I`d rather keep some money for the meal. That place there has a good restaurant, it says.`
`Nouvelle cuisine,` Beth sniffed. `I looked up the menu.`
`I like that one,` Joe said. The photograph showed a pretty pub with hanging baskets.
`So do I, but it`s only got a three-star rating. Wait – look at that!` She pointed to a picture of an ancient beamed inn. `That`s lovely!`
`Yes, but go back for me and look up the website for the other place first,` Joe urged. Beth clicked.
`Too dear for what it is,` she said. `I`ll go back to that old inn.` She tapped at the keys, then tapped again. `That`s funny. It was on this page, I`m sure, below that one.`
`You`ve gone back too far,` Joe told her.
`No, it was here. It`s just disappeared.`
`Perhaps they`ve taken it off because it`s full.`
`Do they do things like that? Can they?` Beth was often confused by modern technology. Joe shrugged.
`Okay,` he said decisively, `here`s the deal. We drive down to Sussex and take pot luck. When we see a place we like the look of, we can go and check it out before booking.`
Beth brightened. `That`s a great idea. We could go early, to allow ourselves plenty of time.`
Joe kissed her. `Can`t wait!` he muttered, nuzzling her ear.
They left the main road before Lewes and drove south across country towards Battle. It was a warm, drowsy, late-August day, and England was basking in sunshine, its landscape a tapestry of greens and vivid florals. By three o`clock, they had inspected and rejected three hotels, and were becoming the tiniest bit demoralised, for they had hoped to check in with time to spare to visit Battle Abbey and enjoy afternoon tea in a quaint little café nearby.
As luck would have it, they saw the sign just north of Battle. White wood, with black-painted letters. The Fighting Man. First left. Historic Inn offering Good Food and Accommodation. Slowing the car, Joe looked at Beth.
`Shall we try it?`
`Why not? It sounds lovely – but let`s see!`
They turned left and drove down a shady lane until they saw a pub sign depicting King Harold pierced with an arrow through the eye. It stood on a well-kept green in front of a beautiful old timbered building with a brass-studded oak door and diamond-paned mullioned windows glinting in the afternoon sunshine. Through a brick archway to the right, they could see chairs and tables in a sheltered walled garden.
`Wow!` Beth breathed. `Isn`t that the one we saw online? The one that disappeared?`
`I`m not sure, but I think we`ve hit the jackpot,` Joe smiled. `Let`s investigate.`
He parked in the deserted car park on the left. The sun was beating down, and the air seemed unusually heavy – and still. They walked to the door, which opened at a touch. It led into the bar, but instead of boasting the predictable horse brasses, ladderback chairs and chalk boards typical of a country inn, it was smart with beige walls, sleek, dark wooden tables adorned only by large unlit candles, and high-backed chairs upholstered in aubergine tweed. There were beams, but they looked modern. Blue LED lights illuminated the rows of bottles and glasses ranked behind the bar. The room was empty.
Joe leaned across the bar and called, `Hello!`
`Look, here`s a menu,` Beth said. `Mmm, this looks good.`
There was a thudding as if somebody was running down carpeted stairs, and a man in his thirties entered the bar from its further end. He had spiky, ruffled short hair and an earring, and wore combat trousers and a white T-shirt. He appeared to be a little out-of-breath, but his smile was friendly.
`Good afternoon,` he welcomed them. `Can I help you?`
`We were wondering if you have a double room free for tonight?` Beth inquired. Her eyes were drawn to some raw red patches on the man`s neck and arms. She looked away quickly. It was rude to stare.
`Of course,` he smiled. `We have two. Would you like to see them?`
`Yes please,` Joe replied. Their host led them through a doorway and up a narrow, uneven staircase carpeted in soft beige. Upstairs, three doors led off the landing. One was closed.
`There`s no one else staying, so you can take your pick,` the man told them.
He pushed open the nearest door, and again, Beth noticed the angry skin on his arms. Then her attention was distracted, for the room was delightful, painted in restful cream and furnished with a four-poster, tasteful antiques and good toiletries. Somebody had evidently taken a lot of trouble restoring this place. But there was a strange, sour scent in the room, and the bed looked as if it had been made in a hurry…
Beth wrinkled her nose, and looked at Joe. He made a face.
`That`s an odd smell,` he remarked.
`I can`t smell anything,` their host said, looking puzzled.
Beth turned away and walked into the second room. It was done up in soft lilac tones and smelt of fresh lemons.
`I like this one,` she said happily. `What do you charge?`
`Normally ninety, but you can have it for seventy-five, as it`s just the one night.`
`Done!` agreed Joe. `Pay me on the way out.` With a smile, he opened the shut door and quickly disappeared through it. As it closed behind him, a girl`s giggle could be heard. Beth raised her eyebrows, and Joe grinned.
They unloaded their small case, then drove to Battle Abbey as planned, congratulating themselves on fi nding such a delightful place to stay.
`I`m surprised it`s not on the internet,` Beth said, as they stood on the ridge of Senlac gazing down at the peaceful meadows where the Conqueror`s Norman hordes had gained their bloody victory.
`Perhaps it`s only recently opened. Be grateful it`s not online – a place like that would be mobbed.`
`There was an odd smell in that first bedroom,` Beth said. `Like charred wood – and something else that I couldn`t identify. I couldn`t wait to get out.
Anyway, that menu looks delicious.`
When they got back to The Fighting Man, they bought some drinks and took them outside, enjoying the mild breeze as the sun set in a fiery haze of glory. When the glasses were empty, they rose and, by unspoken mutual consent, went upstairs, where they lay down on the bed, luxuriating in crisp white sheets and downy pillows - and in each other. At seven-thirty, they showered in the black-tiled en-suite with its fluffy, snow-white towels, and dressed for dinner.
Before they went downstairs, Joe pressed a tiny box into Beth`s hand, and she found inside a delicate gold heart pendant on the slenderest of chains.
`Happy anniversary, darling,` he said, taking her in his arms once again and kissing her.
Their host was waiting to show them to an intimate corner table near the open fireplace, which was filled with fresh flowers. The candles had been lit, and the lounge bar looked warm and inviting. But strangely, there were still no other patrons in evidence.
`Where is everybody?` Beth wondered. `A lovely place like this…`
`Probably a lot of competition around here,` Joe observed. `Or the food`s rubbish!`
`I hope not. You know, it`s almost eerie. Not quite right. I can`t put my finger on it.`
`You`re imagining it. I like the sense of peace here – it`s relaxing.` He winked at her.
`Is it normally this quiet?` he asked, as they ordered the wine – a fruity Verdicchio.
`It`s unusual for this time of year,` their host shrugged, `but it`s a Monday night, of course. Come the weekend…`
`Have you been open long?` Beth asked.
`My girlfriend and I bought the place just over a year ago,` he replied. `The idea was to offer something different from the usual pub grub and “olde worlde” atmosphere. But it`s been a struggle, I don`t mind telling you. People around here don`t go to pubs for fine dining. I wish we had more customers like you! Now, are you ready to order?`
The stuffed mushrooms were delicious, and the blackened Cajun salmon that followed was a dish to die for. As for the brandy syllabub…
`That was superb,` Joe said, folding his napkin.
`We must come here again,` Beth enthused.
Their host took their plates and their order for coffee, then came back with two small schooners of Limoncello.
`On the house,` he beamed.
Back in bed, beneath the waffled cream blankets, Beth and Joe lay replete with good food and wine. Just as Beth suddenly felt a great tide of desire, Joe reached for her ardently. God, she thought, some while later, it hasn`t been this good in years! What`s got into us? In fact, it hadn`t been that good ever. It was almost as if they had been taken over by something that was no part of either of them. Could this place have something to do with it? As dawn broke, however, she dismissed this idea as pure imagination. `It must have been the wine,` she told herself, smiling.
After a hearty late breakfast, served at the same table, but this time with the sunlight flooding through the ancient windows, they paid their bill.
`Do come again,` the proprietor said. `It`s been a pleasure to have you.`
`We certainly will,` they said, and thanked him, then went to collect their case from the room.
`Just leave the keys on the bar on your way out.`
They did just that, along with a ten pound note in recognition of his warm and friendly service.
They were in no hurry to return to London, but spent the day in Hastings, wandering around the castle and the caves and enjoying fish and chips at a little seafront restaurant in the Old Town. They were still singing the praises of The Fighting Man, and when it came to the time to drive home, Beth was thoughtful.
`Joe, are you in any hurry to get back tonight?`
`No. I`ve brought some manuscripts home to read. I wasn`t planning to go back to work until Friday. Why?`
`Well, I thought we could go back to that place for one more night. It was so lovely. And I don`t have any appointments tomorrow.` Beth was a speech therapist, with her own private practice.
Joe looked at her delightedly.
`Why not?`
They drove back to Battle, dusk settling around them, until the trees were black silhouettes against the red-gold sky. North of the town they took the road that led the way they had come the previous day, and watched out for the white sign.
`I`m sure it was closer to Battle than this,` Joe puzzled, after they had driven about three miles and it was growing quite dark.
`Perhaps we missed it.`
`I`ll turn round and go back,` Joe said, but they still did not see the sign.
They stopped at a garage to get petrol and buy water.
`We`re trying to find a pub called The Fighting Man,` Joe told the plump lady who was swiping his credit card. `Do you know it?`
`I did,` she said.
`Did?` Beth asked, startled at her use of the past tense.
`Nice place it was. And the couple that bought it spent a lot doing it up.`
`Was?` Joe echoed.
`All gone now,` the woman went on. `They`re still sorting out the insurance, I heard. There wasn`t a will, you see. It was all in the local paper.`
`Gone?`
`Burned down a year ago this month. Terrible tragedy. Those poor souls. They were ever such a happy couple.` She leaned forward. `Faulty wiring. It was the middle of the day. Found them in the bedroom, you know. In that four-poster bed.` She gave them a knowing look and shook her head sadly.
`Burned down?` Beth cried. `It can`t have. We stayed there last night!`
`That must have been somewhere else,` the woman said.
`Yes,` Joe put in, folding an arm round Beth and steering her towards the door. He was trembling. `We must have got it wrong. Sorry to have troubled you.`
When they got outside, Beth was shaking too. The raw patches – the burns – on the man`s skin; that smell of scorched wood; the silence; the emptiness; the giggling girl hiding upstairs, waiting to return with her lover to that terrible room, on this first anniversary… and that inexplicable burst of passion. They were all starting to make bizarre, horrible sense…
`This is crazy!` Beth wailed. `She must have been wrong.`
`Wait!` Joe fumbled in his shoulder bag. `Look! The credit card receipt. It says The Fighting Man, Northiam Lane, by Battle. Come on, we`ll find someone else to ask.`
As they drove back towards Battle, they passed an A.A. man, sitting astride his motorbike in a lay-by, drinking coffee.
`Excuse me, do you know Northiam Lane?` Beth called.
`Keep going, it`s next on the right,` the AA man replied.
It was, but there was no sign that they could see, and the road was well-lit.
`That`s odd,` muttered Joe. Beth shivered. Suddenly, she didn`t want them to drive down that lane, didn`t want to discover what lay at the end of it. But Joe was accelerating forward, his face set, as it always was when he was nervous and didn`t want to show it.
There was no welcoming pub sign. Just a roofless ruin of blackened bricks, jagged timbers and rubbish. A makeshift barbed-wire fence had been erected around the site, with a notice saying Danger, Keep Out. The whole place was repellent, sinister. Where only last night there had been warm lights and laughter, there was now just a tragic silence and the dark, windy sky.
Joe moved forward, flashing the torch he always kept in his pocket for emergencies.
`No!` Beth cried, her instincts telling her to run.
But Joe had seen something.
There was no door, although its frame remained. A little way inside lay what was left of the bar. There was something on the floor. His feet crunched over the ash and the rubble.
`Joe, be careful!` Beth warned. But Joe did not heed her. He bent down and picked up something, then something else. Then he turned to face her and held out his hand. His face was shadowed in the torchlight, but she could sense the tension in him.
`We were here,` he faltered, his voice unsteady. `Look. The keys. And my ten-pound note.` They lay there in his trembling palm.
(Published in Woman and Home, 2009)
MURDER IN THE DARK
Tasha was very emotional on Christmas morning.
`I know, I know,` soothed Aunt Grace, rocking her in her arms. `It`s hard for all of us.`
`I can`t bear the thought of Christmas without her,` Tasha sobbed, tears streaking her mascara.
`I understand, my love, I do,` Grace commiserated. `I couldn`t bear to be at home that Christmas after my mother died. We went away, remember?`
`Yes,` Tasha sniffed, disengaging herself and dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. `You were very brave, you didn`t break down.`
`I did exactly what you`re doing, I did my crying in private before the festivities began. Best to have it out, then you can face the day.`
`I don`t want to spoil it for everyone,` Tasha said. `The children are so excited. And Anne has worked so hard for us.`
`We`ll do our best to enjoy it,` Grace told her. `We`re all grieving underneath, but your Mum wouldn`t have wanted us to be sad. She would want us to enjoy ourselves and not feel guilty.`
She patted Tasha`s hand.
`She`s here with us in spirit, I`m sure,` she assured her. Tasha smiled weakly.
Anna and Harry hugged them in the doorway.
`Come in, Tasha – you look great! Mum! Lovely to see you! And you, Dad! Merry Christmas!`
`Happy Christmas!` echoed Lucy and James, their teenagers.
`Aunt Tasha, let me help you put your presents round the tree,` Lucy offered, relieving Tasha of two bulging carrier bags.
`Grandad, come and see my new computer,` invited James.
`Harry, can you organise some drinks, please?` Anna asked. `Mum, will you look at this turkey? See if it`s cooked. I think it`s about done.`
Within half an hour, champagne had been served, the decorations had been admired and canapés handed round. Christmas dinner was on the table at one forty-five, and everyone agreed that it was one of the best ever. Anna breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed. Everyone was aware that beneath the genuine merriment there was a deep sense of shared loss, but the day had its own momentum and they were carried along by it.
The afternoon was given over to the opening of presents, amidst delighted oohs and aahs and the occasional groan. At six o`clock, Anna prepared a tray of tea cups and brought in the Christmas cake.
`We have some party games planned for afterwards,` she smiled. This was a family tradition.
`We`re playing Murder in the Dark!` James announced.
`Yes, but not yet,` his mother told him. `We`re saving that till last, as usual.`
After wine had been served, they played Consequences, amidst much giggling, Pennies on a Plate, Musical Statues and Charades, then Lucy organised a film quiz. By the time that finished it was nine o`clock.
`Murder!` cried James impatiently.
Anna fetched the prepared envelopes.
`Right, can I just recap on the rules, for the benefit of those who repeatedly ignore them?` she grinned, looking at her son. `You each take an envelope and look at the card inside. Don`t let anyone else see it. If you find the card with a D on it, you are the detective and must say so. If you find the card with an M on it, you are the murderer, and you keep quiet about it – James!`
`Can I just say that the game works best if it`s played in silence?` Grace put in. `Tasha and Lucy, no giggling!`
`It`s creepier if everyone is quiet,` Anna said. `Now the detective must hide in the downstairs closet and shut the door. Then we put out the lights and everyone else wanders around the house or finds a place to hide. The murderer looks round for a victim. It`s best if you prolong the tension for a bit, or the game is over too quickly. When the murderer strikes, he or she gently touches the victim on the shoulder and whispers -`
`You`re murdered!` James interrupted.
`Thank you, James,` his mother said tartly. `The victim falls to the floor, or whatever, counts to three and then screams, and when the detective hears the scream, he or she comes out of the closet, tells everybody to stay where they are and puts on the lights.`
`You forgot to say that, between whispering You`re murdered and the victim screaming, the murderer makes his or her getaway,` Harry added.
`Thanks,` his wife smiled. `The detective then locates the body, looks around to see where everyone is, then calls them into the sitting room for questioning. Everybody but the murderer has to answer truthfully. Then the detective makes an accusation. If he`s correct, the murderer must own up and the detective is the winner. If he`s wrong, the murderer keeps quiet and we play the game again. Everybody got that?`
`Yes!` came the chorus.
`Okay, everybody take a card.` Anna passed them round.
`I`m the detective,` Harry said, and disappeared in the direction of the closet.
`Lights out!` cried James, and hit the switch.
One by one, everyone left the room. Tasha, who had drawn a blank card, thought the house looked eerier than she had expected in the dark. She angled her way past Lucy in the hallway and crept into the kitchen. Someone was standing behind the door.
`Anna, is that you?` she whispered. There was no answer.
Her uncle walked silently past her as she slipped away into the dining room, which was still redolent with the aroma of Christmas dinner. There in the corner Tasha could just make out Anna, and wasn`t that Grace crouching down by the table? She could smell her aunt`s perfume. Through the double doors to the sitting room she espied the bulky shape of James seated in one of the armchairs.
Uncle Mark must be the murderer, she reckoned. He was the only person walking around. Stalking was the more appropriate term!
Then something struck her. Who was it who had been hiding behind the kitchen door? She had passed Lucy in the hall, and Uncle Mark had come into the kitchen as she herself had left it to walk the few steps to the dining room, where she had found Anna and Aunt Grace. James was in the sitting-room chair and Harry was in the closet. So who had been in the kitchen?
She remembered the stillness of that figure, which had slightly unnerved her. Had it been just a shadow? She must go and find out.
She padded stealthily out of the dining room and back towards the kitchen, but just outside the door, Uncle Mark came up behind her, tapped her on the shoulder and whispered, `You`re murdered!` before flitting off into the dining room. There was no time to look behind the kitchen door. She collapsed to the floor, counted to three and screamed.
`Everybody stay where you are!` Harry yelled, emerging from the closet and switching on the light. He smiled down at her. `You make a very glamorous corpse!` he told her.
He looked into the kitchen.
`No one there,` he said. Of course, Tasha thought, whoever it was could have moved. I must have been mistaken.
Harry was checking everyone`s positions and telling James that he looked very suspicious sitting there with that smirk on his face.
`Right, everybody, come into the sitting room!` he ordered. Tasha got up and made her way through. Harry began questioning everyone.
`Did you see anything?` he asked Grace and Anna.
`Someone came rushing through the dining room at a rate of knotts,` Anna said. Uncle Mark gave her a surreptitious wink.
`I saw that too,` Grace said, refraining from looking at her husband. `They went into the sitting room.`
`Where I found James in that armchair and Mark crouched down by the sofa,` Harry observed. `Lucy, where were you when you heard the scream?`
`I was hiding behind the coats by the front door,` she told him.
`Hmm,` he said. `James, I accuse you!`
`Wrong, Dad,` grinned James.
`We`ll have to play again,` Anna said. Everyone got to their feet.
`Can I just ask something now that I`m alive again?` Tasha interrupted. `Who was hiding behind the kitchen door?`
`I wasn`t,` Anna replied.
`Nor me.` This was Grace.
`Or me,` said Lucy.
`I ran along the hall and back into the sitting room,` James told her. `I was in the chair all the time after that.`
`I went into the kitchen but I didn`t hide behind the door,` Uncle Mark revealed.
`Then who was it?` Tasha asked uneasily. `That accounts for all of us.`
`Are you sure someone was hiding there?` Harry asked.
`I think so. It was very dark and I could just make out a shape behind the door. I asked if it was you, Anna, but there was no answer.`
`Probably just a shadow, or a trick of the light,` Harry said.
`Probably,` Tasha agreed, not wholly convinced.
`Let`s play again,` Lucy urged, and gave out the envelopes.
`I`m the detective this time,` James announced.
And I, Tasha noticed, am the murderer.
This time she went straight to the kitchen and looked behind the door. It was clear that there was no one there, and no shadow that could have passed for someone. Her heart began to pound. So she had not imagined it.
She looked about her. The house, cloaked in darkness, looked unduly sinister. There was a dark figure walking purposefully down the passage towards her. Harry. He loved winding people up. She sidled away into the dining room, where she could hear measured breathing but see no one. She searched around and saw Lucy standing tautly in the gap between the dresser and the wine rack.
The others were in the dark sitting room. There was Anna, half-hidden behind a curtain, Grace sitting on the sofa and Mark standing just inside the door at the far end. Too many witnesses. She would try to corner Harry in the kitchen.
She slipped through the double doors, tiptoed out of the dining room and entered the kitchen, just in time to see Mark move into the utility room beyond it. There was no rush. Prolong the game, Anna had said. Mark could wait a moment. In the meantime, she felt drawn to look behind the door again: she had to check just one more time to see if there was anyone standing there after all, or any clue as to what she had seen. She knew she hadn`t imagined it.
The figure was there, just as before. A dark, still shape, its features and form hidden in the gloom - but, in some strange way, not frightening. Then there was a movement. She could just make out a hand reaching out, and was filled with a wonderful sensation of being comforted. Dear God, it could not be…
`Has anyone been murdered yet?` cried James, crashing out of the closet. `I thought I heard a scream.`
`It was cats fighting outside,` came his father`s voice. `Go back in.`
James disappeared and quiet descended. But the figure had gone. Tasha stood there, shaking yet thankful. Her mother had been with her after all this Christmas. She knew it.
Grace, keeping a watchful eye on Tasha, noticed that her niece looked happier, less strained than she had these past months. And since Tasha was cradling her amazing experience to herself, wishing to cherish it in private before exposing it to the scrutiny of her family, Grace could only conclude that it had been good for the girl to get involved in the party and the festivities. Life had to move on, after all.
They broke it up around one in the morning, and Grace and Mark, who lived in an apartment block just along the road, walked back home with Tasha, struggling under the weight of all their gifts. Once through the front door, they deposited their bags in relief in the spacious vestibule that doubled as a dining room.
`I`ll make some coffee,` Grace offered, and Tasha and Mark sank down thankfully at the table.
Grace went through into the hall and thence to the kitchen, where she plugged in the kettle and unhooked some mugs from the stand. Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone going into the living room opposite.
`Put the lamps on, will you?` she called.
But there was no answer. Both the hall and the living room remained in darkness.
`Who`s there?` Grace called, going into the living room to check. But it was empty. She could hear Mark and Tasha chatting in the dining room.
That`s crazy, she thought. I distinctly saw someone. Then suddenly, she knew she was not alone in that room, that there was someone there with her, even though she could not see them. And she knew exactly who that someone was, and – like Tasha just hours earlier – knew that they had come to offer comfort. She was suffused with the feeling. Everything would be – was – alright. That was what her sister had come to tell her.
The bonds of love, she reflected, are stronger than death.
(Published, as guest writer, in Kaleidoscope: A Showcase for Sutton Writers, Eastbourne, 2009)
POEMS BY ALISON WEIR
ANNE BOLEYN
Within a Kentish garden Hever lies,
A noble pile that cradled once a queen:
Fair Anne Boleyn, her name was, and her prize
Proud Henry, who oft visited this scene.
These bowers bear the print of her soft shoes,
These flowers she once dipped her skirts to smell,
While here King Henry's suit she did refuse
Because, she said, she would be married well.
He turned the world asunder at her whim,
And took her from sweet Hever to the court,
And married her, and took her unto him,
But then did God withhold the son he sought.
The spell cast in a Hever garden broke;
To others did the King address his suit,
And left his Queen in loneliness to mope
And strum her mounting fears upon a lute.
And of this coil the dreadful plot was born,
Whereof the world did whisper much in shock:
And in the Tower, on a bright May morn,
Queen Anne Boleyn faced death upon the block.
Now Hever lies deserted, overgrown.
Its old walls left to crumble in the sun:
Pale remnant of the splendour it had known,
A showpiece for the centuries to come;
While Anne, the brightest star that it has owned,
Lies headless in her grave so far from home.
(Alison Weir, 1979)
LINES FOR THE BLACK QUEEN
I see that gaudy court
In all its splendour;
I see the women sweep
In veiled surrender,
The King in velvet robe
And diamond shimmer,
The Queen in satin black
With eyes a-glitter.
I see them move as pawns,
The chequered chessboard weaving,
The knight, the bishop grave,
The knave, the coward sneaking.
I hear the cry for aid,
I join in heartless chatter,
The shameful apprehension
Of a player.
I smell the evil greed
That, lusting, weaves discord -
And I see naught but blood
Dripping on the sword.
(Alison Weir, c.1970)
