Under the Hog: A Novel of Richard III by Carleton Patrick

Author:Carleton, Patrick [Carleton, Patrick]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Albion Press
Published: 2015-11-03T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIX

HEROD

(England–France: 1483–1484)

So that the man is over al

His owne cawse of wele and wo.

That we Fortune clepe so,

Out of the man himselfe it groweth.

John Gower: Confessio Amantis.

“WELL, I say all it’ll mean is new taxes and nothing to show for them, the same as it did before.”

“And I say it won’t, then, and I’ll tell you for why: because our Duke’ll have the guiding of it.”

“Nay, he won’t, man. King’ll go himself.”

“Ah, you can say so, but I saw the King when he came to York five years back. I saw him. I went to York city on purpose and I saw him, and he was a fat man.”

“Well, what in the devil’s that to do with it, man alive?”

“I say he was a fat man. He rode in the like of a litter with fellows to carry him. He won’t go to the war.”

“Aye, but that was just because he was a King, like. He’d ride in a litter because he’s a King, don’t you see? But he’ll go across and make war on the French for all that, and then he’ll ride on a horse.”

“Well, now, I’m asking you somewhat. Did he go and make war on the dirty Scots?”

“You don’t understand …”

“Nay, but I’m asking you. Did he go to make war on the dirty Scots?”

“No, but …”

“No, he didn’t: well, then. Our Duke made war on the Scots last year, didn’t he?”

“Aye.”

“And he went to Edinburgh and made ’em sign a writing that they’d do as he bid, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but what I mean …”

“And he took Berwick that the wicked old Queen sold them before Towton battle, didn’t he?”

“I’m not denying he did.”

“You’d best not, lad, because my son Ned was there at the siege of Berwick himself, as you very well know: and I say our Duke’ll have charge of this war too, and it’ll be a proper war.”

Thomas Oakroyd and Edmund Taylor were discussing the prospect of a new French war in the alehouse of Middleham village. Being very old and rather silly, they did not know much about it: but they had heard rumours of how the French King had insulted King Edward by arranging to marry his son to a foreign heiress although he was plighted to the Princess Bessy. It was said King Edward had fallen down in a fit when he heard the news. Perhaps it was all lies anyhow, but it made something to talk about. Except for the Duke’s war with Scotland last year, there had been nothing to talk about in Middleham for a long while. The Duke had come riding home, white-faced and small as always, and had been met at the foot of the village street by his six-year-old son. He had swung the boy up on his saddlebow to kiss him, and the boy had snatched the reins and guided the white charger, his father’s hands on his wrists and the two of them laughing, and everybody had cheered. That was the

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