The Murders of Richard III (14 page)

The second course came in with a frumenty of venison. The meat, cut in strips, floated in a stewy soup made of wheat boiled in milk, egg yolks, sugar, and salt. Thomas started to describe the ingredients to Frank, but was stopped by a long, agonized expletive.

“I can't stand this,” Frank muttered. “I'd sell my soul for a chunk of rare beef.”

“They used spices a lot,” said Thomas, who was getting his second wind, gastronomically speaking. “This next dish is ground meat—pork, probably—mixed with about a dozen spices and then baked in a pastry shell—called a coffin, if that interests you.”

Frank groaned.

Thomas added, “I hope Weldon doesn't go berserk and offer us a cockatrice. They cooked a capon and a suckling pig and cut them in half; then they sewed the front part of the chicken onto the back part of the pig and the front part of the—”

“Good God,” said Frank.

The entertainment—jugglers, dancers, music—which ordinarily accompanied a banquet did not appear. Apparently Weldon had anticipated that
his guests would be too fascinated by the exotic food to concentrate on anything else, except possibly Ricardian gossip. Thomas found plenty of entertainment in watching his colleagues' reactions to the food.

The doctor, on Thomas's left, was having fits. He dined mainly on bread, and kept up a running commentary about what the food was doing to the collective stomachs of the group. Thomas had to admit he had a point. Everything was spiced and seasoned and sauced, and the heavy sweet wine—malmsey, by any chance?—made digestion even more perilous. He barely touched his junket of rosewater and cream and sighed with relief when the subtlety signalizing the end of the second course was borne in. The spun-sugar replica of Middleham Castle wobbled dangerously on the sturdy shoulders of the serving men. Thomas deduced that the kitchen staff had been indulging in malmsey too.

He waited apprehensively for a possible third course, but Weldon had the proper respect for effete modern appetites. The servitors passed around with basins of scented rosewater and napkins. Then the guests all settled back expectantly as Weldon rose.

Somewhere between the soup and the last subtlety, Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones had taken her
place beside Weldon. No one less resembled the pale, consumptive Queen Anne; the woman's square face was ruddy with gratified pride and her bulk overflowed the chair. Apparently her
crise de nerves
had passed. Looking at Percy, Thomas agreed that there was no cause for concern—except for the dangers of gluttony. Percy shone like a greased pink pig from his hair to his third chin.

For security reasons, Weldon explained, he had decided to dispense with hired entertainment. The villagers who had assisted with the serving all were known to Weldon and the servants. Unfortunately none of them were adept in the skills of music and dance—with the exception of Tom Belden and his son, young Tom, whose performances on the trumpet had added so much to the spirit of the evening.

Therefore, Weldon continued, he had decided it would be safer, and more ultimate, if they entertained themselves. He regretted the necessity of a phonograph for certain parts of the evening, but they would just have to pretend the music came from a group of live minstrels in the musicians' gallery. So, let the joy begin! They would start—he glanced at Lady Isobel, who was holding a sheaf of papers like a club—with
the literary treat postponed from an earlier session.

Lady Isobel rose. Her expression was one of intense piety. Under the shield of the long damask tablecloth Thomas slid his feet out of his shoes and prepared, if possible, to sleep with his eyes open. It was clever of Weldon to bring on Lady Isobel now; their critical sense drugged with food and wine, the listeners would not suffer quite so intensely.

The verses would have been barely endurable if they had come from a sentimental nine-year-old girl. From the gaunt old woman they were absolutely embarrassing. Liz might have been joking when she claimed to have a crush on Richard of Gloucester (was she joking, though?), but Lady Isobel really did. Her voice was low and charged with passion; it quivered as her emotion mounted. Thomas focused his attention on Jacqueline. Her expression of outraged disbelief was almost funny enough to make up for the poem. Despite all his
efforts an occasional stanza got through to his brain.

Thomas slid farther down in his chair. A kindly man, he never enjoyed watching people make fools of themselves. This was worse than the piano recitals of his friends' untalented children. Slender hands and tear-filled eyes…“I doubt if he cried much,” said Jacqueline's caustic voice in his inner ear.

Fortunately the last verses were more or less inaudible. Richard's gallant death—the word “gallant” appeared pretty often in the work—moved Lady Isobel to gulps and unintelligibility.

Even Weldon looked shaken when the distraught poet dropped into her chair, resembling not so much a drooping lily as a wilted stalk of crabgrass.

“No applause, please,” he said, as the other guests eyed one another with varying emotions. “It would be quite inappropriate after that…that…er. My dear Isobel, take some wine.”

Lady Isobel had taken too much wine already, Thomas thought. She complied, however, and smiled wanly as Weldon patted her on the shoulder.

“The muse,” she murmured. “Such a hard taskmistress…It takes such a lot out of one, Richard.”

“I know,” said Weldon. “It does indeed….”

The next performer was Liz, who sang several medieval ballads in a pleasant, if undistinguished, voice. The only ones Thomas recognized were Dufay's
“Adieu, m'amour,”
and a religious song by Dunstable. Liz then announced that she would scream if anyone asked for “Summer Is Icumen in” or “Greensleeves.” The rector, who had been about to request the latter, closed his mouth and looked confused.

After the doctor had given a demonstration of how to put on a suit of armor—from which he had to be removed by two of the burlier servants—Philip took the center of the stage. It was an unfortunate choice of entertainment; the mood of the gathering was uncertain to begin with, and
the two soliloquies from
Richard III
did not lighten it. The first, the opening “Now is the winter of our discontent” was a bit of sparkling black humor; but then Philip went on to Richard's agonized speech on the eve of Bosworth. All of them knew the setting: Richard, snatching a few hours' sleep before the morrow's battle, is visited by the specters of his victims, all mouthing the same curse, “Despair, and die!”

Philip became the twisted, tormented villain of Shakespeare's play. His voice rang all the changes of human passion—defiance, terror, remorse. It dropped to a ringing whisper on the final lines:

The spellbound audience paid the performer the supreme tribute of silence even after he had straightened up and shed his player's skin. He strolled nonchalantly back to his place at the table; and Thomas saw Liz shrink back as he seated himself beside her. He didn't blame the girl. It had been too good a performance to be wholly comfortable.

Weldon gestured; and from the darkness of the gallery, pipes and drums burst forth in a dance tune. The diners rose; all of them had practiced medieval dancing. Thomas heaved himself out of his chair, although he was dubious about his ability to move, much less tread an airy measure. As he moved gingerly away from the table, Kent plucked at his sleeve.

“Feeling queasy?”

“Well…”

“Me too. Come along. I know what we need.”

Thomas followed him out into the corridor. The candles were burning low. He wondered what time it was. The party could go on till dawn if the participants held out.

Kent led him to the dining room and a row of decanters on the sideboard. He poured a stiff jolt of brandy and offered it to Thomas.

Thomas drank. There was a moment in which matters hung in the balance. Then the upheaval settled, and he sighed deeply.

“Thanks. I needed that.”

“Brandy will cure anything,” Kent said, following his own advice. “I don't like doctors. Never need 'em.”

Thomas was inclined to agree. His head felt absolutely clear as they went back to the Hall; but for some odd reason the rest of the evening became
kaleidoscopic. He would be conversing with someone in a coherent manner; then the room would spin around and he would be elsewhere, with other people. At the time this situation seemed perfectly normal.

During one of these episodes he found himself with O'Hagan, who was singing “The Maple Leaf Forever.” Thomas expressed mild surprise at the choice of song; O'Hagan explained that he was singing the Canadian anthem because he couldn't manage the high notes of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Thomas found this logical, but was moved to demonstrate his own patriotism and tenor voice. He sang all three verses of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” O'Hagan continued to sing “The Maple Leaf Forever.” He only knew one verse, so he sang that one over and over, while he and Thomas nodded at one another in mutual approbation.

A shift in scene found Thomas discussing Buckingham's rebellion with Philip and Kent. After enthusiastically supporting Richard's takeover of the throne, Buckingham had retired to his castle in Wales, and then had returned at the head of a hostile army. Some Ricardians believed Buckingham was responsible for the death of the young princes, as the first step in his own climb to the throne.

Thomas doubted the theory and said so. Kent,
who was playing Buckingham, took the criticism personally. He left, snorting with rage. Unperturbed, Thomas turned to Philip. “Man's drunk,” he said seriously. “ 'Magine getting so excited about a rational dishcushion. You see my point, don't you?”

“I'm sick of the whole business,” Philip said. His face was flushed.

Thomas peered at him.

“Ah,” he said. “Ah. Still nervous, my friend? Don't be. Got it all figured out. See, Richard didn't exactly murder Hastings, exactly. It was an exic—an extic—a legal killing. Treasons. Not like the l'il princes. Not that Richard killed the princes, mind you, but if somebody is picking on Richard's victims, then the fellows who were sexecu—I mean, they had their head chopped off…those fellow don't count. You see my point, don't you? I mean…”

“For God's sake,” said Philip, between his splendid white teeth, “I am getting so bloody sick and tired of all you bloody fools holding my hand. I am not nervous!”

The room turned upside down. Thomas next found himself dancing with Lady Isobel. This seemed such an unlikely activity for him to have chosen that he stumbled over the rushes, which had gotten trampled into heaps. Lady Isobel held
him up with an unexpectedly strong arm, and giggled at him. She said something about butts of malmsey. Thomas glowered at her and then realized she was indicating the brimming bowl on the dining table.

“Oh, no,” said Thomas vigorously. “Not me. Not that stuff. Gotta keep a clear head. Not get drunk.”

The next scene was the dining room. Thomas put down an empty glass and wandered back to the Hall. The music was still going full blast, and Sir Richard was performing a country dance with Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones. The big woman was surprisingly light on her feet; her crimson skirts swirled as she moved. Sir Richard's crown had slipped over one eye.

Thomas looked for a partner and found none. He felt like dancing, so he did—an energetic solo, with high jumps and vigorous arm gestures. He considered another trip to the dining room and decided against it. He was feeling splendid. Arms clasped behind him, he began to stroll around the room. The hangings and potted plants placed at strategic intervals made convenient nooks that contained benches and chairs on which tired dancers might rest. Several of the alcoves were inhabited, not by dallying lovers, but by contentious Ricardians. The rector, perched on a high
stool with his slippered feet dangling, was discussing the precontract of Edward IV.

“A precontract was as legally binding as marriage,” he said, shaking his finger at the doctor. Rawdon looked bored, as well he might; this topic was almost as familiar as the murder of the princes.

“I know,” he said testily. “That is not the question. The question is, did such a precontract really exist? It was officially recognized by Parliament, and Henry Tudor's determined efforts to suppress that decree indicates…”

Thomas moved on. In the next niche, Philip and Liz were sitting side by side. For a moment Thomas thought he was getting confused. The topic of conversation was the same, although the people were different.

“Why would Henry want to suppress
Titulus Regius
unless it was true?” Philip demanded.

Liz nodded. Her eyes were shining. Thomas wondered how Philip could go on talking with a face like that six niches from his. Like the others, Philip was crackers on the subject of Richard the Third.

“Then there is the question of the Bishop of Bath and Wells,” Philip continued. “Edward the Fourth imprisoned him and so did Henry the Seventh, after he took the throne. That suggests
the old boy had knowledge dangerous to both men, and what could it have been but the truth—that Edward was never legally married to his queen.”