Later, as I watched Davey Gray and Donald Seton dressing my lord for the evening’s great feast, he coaxed me into telling him what services I had performed for the duke of Gloucester, and I could tell that he was impressed.
‘You found the Lady Anne for him when Clarence had hidden her away in London? No wonder Prince Richard trusts you! And I see how right I was to trust you, too.’ He lapsed into broad Scots and spoke to Davey, who went to one of the great chests standing against the wall of the chamber, from which he produced an amber velvet tunic — somewhat rubbed, it’s true, but perfectly whole and sound — and some yellow hose, together with a pair of piked yellow shoes.
‘Put them on, Roger,’ Albany commanded. ‘I want you immediately behind my chair throughout the banquet.’
Four
It had rained a little in the early evening and we crossed the wet courtyard, where the cressets hissed at their drowned reflections in the puddles underfoot, and entered the light and warmth of Fotheringay’s great hall, the torches flaring against the grey walls with a sound like torn parchment. Tonight, there was to be feasting and entertainment: tomorrow, the serious business — the demands, the conditions, the promises — would be hammered out, and the following day, the army would once again be on the march, heading for York.
‘Then to Berwick to try to end the siege, and thence into Scotland,’ Albany informed me as he was dressed for the banquet by Davey Gray and James Petrie in cloth of gold and royal purple. ‘At least, that’s what I’m told.’ He eyed me up and down as I stood there, feeling extremely foolish, in my amber velvet tunic and yellow hose and shoes. He must have noted my expression because he started to grin.
‘I feel like a Welsh daffodil,’ I complained bitterly. ‘And I shan’t be able to move with these pikes. I shall trip over them as surely as God makes the sun and moon to shine.’ Before he could answer, I asked, ‘Why do we go to York? Why not straight to Berwick?’
James Petrie glanced sharply at me, as though reproving me for such familiarity, but I ignored him. If the future king of Scotland — although I’d believe that when I saw it — wanted me to dance attendance on him, then he would have to put up with my impertinence. He could dismiss me when he pleased: I should be only too happy to leave his service and return to Bristol.
But Albany showed no sign of being offended, grinning even more broadly as he shrugged on a houppelande of rich purple damask trimmed with deep borders of ermine, the candlelight coruscating over the shimmering folds in shades of palest violet to deepest plum. He stooped to allow the page to place a golden coronet set with precious gems on his curly head, then straightened himself with a sigh of satisfaction. He knew that tonight he looked every inch a king.
‘Why do we go to York?’ he mused, echoing my question. Something like a sneer curled his lips. ‘I think, my dear Roger, that we go to York so that we may all be amazed by the display of affection which will be accorded to His Grace of Gloucester by its citizens. Prince Richard wishes to impress on us how greatly he is loved in the heartlands of his power.’ He cast a last glance at his reflection in the long, polished bronze mirror held up by James Petrie, beckoned to his two squires who had been waiting patiently in the shadows and nodded at me. ‘Right, my daffodil, let’s discover what delights have been ordered for our amusement this night.’
I had always known that the life of a royal servant was not all it was claimed to be, in spite of regular warmth, shelter and pickings from the rich man’s table. I had once sampled it for a brief while and was aware that the sleeping quarters were so cramped that you would be better off being a dog or a horse in the royal kennels and stables. But until that evening at Fotheringay, I had never experienced the sheer agony of standing behind someone’s chair while he gorged himself silly and drank himself stupid while your own stomach rumbled and ached with hunger.
Donald Seton and Murdo MacGregor had found themselves places at one of the lower tables, but Davey Gray and I were expected to remain close to Albany throughout the feast. And although it was not my place to wait on our royal lord, as did the page, taking victuals from the servers and presenting them on bended knee for his inspection, it was even more trying to have nothing to do except be buffeted by the lackeys who sped in a continuous procession from kitchen to table and back again, until I lost count of the innumerable dishes that were piled upon the groaning boards. I vaguely recall great sides of beef, legs of mutton, swan and peacock, cooked and re-dressed in all their plumage, syllabubs, tarts, pies, haunches of venison, wonderful subtleties of spun sugar, representing castles, animals and birds, the sun, moon, and stars. One course seemed to follow another almost without pause.
Many of the escutcheons of those present had been fashioned from marchpane and coloured with dyes such as saffron and parsley juice, alkanet and rose petals. I remember the White Rose and Fetterlock of King Edward; the White Boar and Red Bull of the Duke of Gloucester; Northumberland’s White Crescent and Gold Shacklebolt; the White Escallops of Anthony Woodville and the argent and pink of his nephew, the Marquis of Dorset. There must have been many more, but I can’t recollect them after all these years, and wouldn’t weary you with them if I could. Half the nobility of England was present, all eager to fight under the banner of the king.
But looking at the king — and I was only a few feet from him, Albany, as guest of honour, being seated on his right hand — I doubted very much if any of them would have that distinction. Toying with his food, drinking far too much wine, he seemed to me to be too sick a man to lead an army into Scotland. My guess was that, on the morrow, he would relinquish overall command to my lord of Gloucester and return to London.
By the time that the main courses had finally been cleared from the tables and replaced with bowls of fruit, dishes of nuts and raisins, sugared violets and strawberries soaked in wine, I was feeling faint with hunger. I hissed at the page, ‘When do we eat?’ but he only shrugged and turned away, indicating patience. But I was beyond patience and, noting that Albany was deep in conversation with Lord Hastings, seated on his right hand, I abandoned my post and followed a line of servers to the kitchens.
There, the heat and noise were almost overpowering, cooks bellowing their orders above the general din, bellows-boys heating cauldrons of water over three or four great fires so that the scullions could begin the endless chore of washing the dirty dishes, more flagons of wine being dragged up and loaded on to salvers by the cellarer and his assistants and a sense of chaos prevailing over all. No one took any notice of me, which was just as well as far as I was concerned. I had discovered six huge baskets, each one rising above my waist in height and crammed to the top with leftovers from the banquet. The broken meats — including whole joints — pastries, pies, tarts, most with hardly a bite taken out of them before being pushed aside for yet another dainty, would surely have fed the whole of Bristol for several days, and certainly kept me happy for as long as I needed to assuage my hunger. And just as I was feeling that my belly would explode if I crammed it with any more food, I espied, laid out on a side bench, a row of untouched jellies, striped red and yellow and green, beautifully gilded as so many of the rest of the victuals had been. (Early on in the feast, a dish of gilded meatballs had provoked much ribaldry at the high table, even the king shaking off his lethargy to join in the laughter.) I grabbed a spoon from a pile close at hand — clean or dirty, it was all the same to me — and attacked the jelly nearest to me.