She frowned. ‘I want to know about you and Luke. About why you don’t want to distrust him, despite what you think about everyone else. Is it only because he helped you when he was in the monastery? And most of all, I want to know why on earth you were excommunicated.’
He was momentarily silenced. ‘Excommunicated?’
‘Well, Luke said almost.’
‘I think,’ he said at last, ‘we had better go into the hall. If I’m to speak of this, I prefer not to be overheard or interrupted, especially if Luke returns. Your cooking can wait, since the kitchen is open to eavesdropping.’
He led her across the corridor into the hall where the fire blazed as usual, and they sat together on the cushioned settle before the hearth. Andrew stretched his legs to the flames and said, ‘I don’t care to know what Luke has said of me. But I shall tell you the truth, since you ask it.’
She whispered, guilt ridden, ‘Only if you want to.’
‘I’ve surrounded myself with subterfuge for so long, for personal protection and as part of my work,’ he sighed. ‘But after all, it serves no purpose between us. So, let me tell you, my love, that despite my distrust of the church hierarchy, I have never been threatened with excommunication. That is a fabricated exaggeration. Luke was sent to the monastery by his father because he was an inconvenience. I went there to tell him something of some importance, and found him miserable and quite unsuited to a monastic life. So, I arranged to take him away. I was thirteen. He was ten. Eventually I brought him here.’
‘You knew him already?’ she said, watching him intently. ‘And you were thirteen. So, you went to tell him – what you told me? That you’d killed your father?’ Andrew nodded, unsmiling. Tyballis sighed. ‘Drew, do you mean what I think you mean? Is Luke your brother?’
Chapter Forty-Seven
His highness, King Edward IV of England, spent Easter Sunday on his knees in the Abbey of Westminster, head bent and hands clasped in prayer, as was customarily required of a Christian king in a Christian country. Following this he retired to his private chambers for a small fish supper and finally slept soundly, in excellent health, easy of conscience and quite alone except for the attentive but studiously hushed servants of the bedchamber.
He awoke again at dawn. It was the last day of March in the year of our Lord 1483. His highness was bare forty years old, and although admittedly somewhat corpulent, was still considered comparatively active – certainly active enough to enjoy swiving his mistresses. After a night entwined, Mistress Shore frequently served him wine and manchet, a quite informal breakfast from the hands of a quite informal attendant. The king would then attend morning Mass before enjoying a formal breakfast. But this morning it was a young man, new to the more intimate procedures of the royal household, who poured his sovereign’s wine, nervously spilling a little onto the polished table. Edward frowned. ‘Where’s Cely?’ The other attendants looked around, unaccustomed to deviations in the elaborate protocols of court.
‘Forgive me, your grace,’ the man stuttered, falling to his knees and almost dropping the spotless white napkin across his arm. ‘Mister Cely is unwell, sire. I am honoured to take his place, but only for this morning.’
‘Then hurry, and clean up the mess,’ Edward said. ‘Leave the wine jug. If Cely is unwell, tell him to whip egg white with cinnamon, and drink it on his knees. It helped me exceedingly when I was unwell last year. Now, off with you.’
But within the hour, his highness was doubled over, vomiting violently onto his own feather and silk counterpane.
The royal doctor was called at once. Three assistant physicians rushed to procure quantities of the same purge successfully administered the previous year when his highness had suffered a similar attack, and had recovered. However, when the cup of egg white and cinnamon appeared to worsen the situation, a more complicated purge was concocted. White hellebore roots were finely chopped and crushed, ground pomegranate seeds added with boiled rhubarb, mixed in a watery rue vinegar and offered at regular intervals. The surgeon came with the royal fleam and blooded his king immediately before the first dose was administered. Consecrated water was used to wash the royal sweat from the royal forehead, and the royal sheets were changed six times, on each occasion the royal vomit and excrement being carefully examined for diagnosis.
‘His highness,’ said the doctor, ‘has suffered a severe fever. The hellebore purge will readjust the humours. At present his highness’s urine is milky. I expect this to clear within the hour. In the meantime, the chamber must be cleansed and scented to eradicate miasmas and bad odours. I predict a complete recovery within two hours.’
But two hours later the king lay exhausted and faint, his mumblings incoherent as he pleaded for water. His tongue was greatly swollen and protruded from his gasping mouth, while his lips were cracked and dry. He continued to retch and his eyes rolled back as he began to convulse, contorting and shaking violently.
The chief doctor looked up from the bedside, and went pale. ‘I cannot believe it is a serious threat to life,’ he muttered. ‘It is simply a disturbance of the stomach, just as it was last year.’
The assistant medic crept closer, staring down wide-eyed at the patient rolling in agony on the soiled sheets. Again he shook his head. ‘A dysentery perhaps? But his highness’s food is prepared with the greatest care, and tasted first by others – and no one else in the entire royal household has been taken ill this day.’
‘Cely,’ murmured the doctor. ‘His highness’s personal attendant is ill,’ and hurried off to investigate.
But Cely was found to have recovered. The king did not. Every crack in door and window was sealed, the fire was built huge so that it roared and echoed up the massive chimney and the royal covers were heaped upon the royal bed. Another purge was administered, but his highness was too weak to sip it. It was dripped, drop by careful drop, into his open mouth but he choked and could not swallow. By evening the worst was feared.
While the king lay close to death on the last evening of March, a young man in apprentice’s livery ran all the way from Westminster Palace to Bishopsgate and arrived so out of breath that the resident servants at the Crosby annexe could not at first understand what he was trying to say. ‘Feayton,’ the young man finally yelled, grasping at his collar. ‘Must see Lord Feayton.’
‘His lordship,’ insisted the steward, ‘is not at home.’
‘Urgent,’ gasped the man.
Casper Wallop, who had been listening on the stairs, bustled to the doorway. ‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘Lord Feayton ain’t here, but you tell me and if I reckon it’s important, I’ll get word to him, quick as piss.’
The breathless apprentice stared at the one-eyed creature with singular misgivings, but he grabbed Casper’s arm and began to whisper. Casper turned to the steward and other hovering servants. ‘Private,’ he informed them. ‘Off with you.’ Having heard of the circumstances of his highness’s terrible illness, Casper thanked the young man, pressed a coin into his palm, grabbed his cape and set off immediately for Portsoken. Within an hour, Andrew was mounted and riding hard for the royal palace at Westminster. Here he gained admittance to the inner court of the palace despite the late hour and the blustery storm thundering over the palace roof, and requested permission to speak with his lordship the Chamberlain. The palace was in a state of confusion bordering on panic, and amid the doctors and servants of all descriptions coming and going, the gentleman calling himself Lord Feayton was immediately welcomed.
The Lord Hastings was striding his Turkey rugs, face flushed and mouth set narrow. He glared as Andrew entered, and quickly waved for the bevy of nervous servants to leave. Finally he said, ‘What right have you here now, sir? Last time I informed you I would no longer grant you entrance. How dare you return to face me?’