Free Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence by Dorothy Davies

sunlight burst through with a visitor who came, cap in hand, to ask my lady mother if my brother and I might be lodged with the Archbishop of Canterbury, there to continue our studies. That in itself was a rare event, a visitor, but it was someone important enough for my venerable aunt to allow him to come in.
    My lady mother asked, with astonishment, who had provoked such a request, she was told it was my brother of March who had written to the Archbishop from the stronghold at Calais, where he was safe and well and making many plans, arranging for our liberation. Ever will I be grateful to my brother for this act of kindness at a time when his life was in danger, himself attainted and his estates lost! In the midst of his own tribulations he thought to arrange for our future. When I tried to offer my thanks for this on his return to London in triumph, he dismissed it as nothing. Perhaps it was nothing to him, but it was a great deal to us and we never forgot it, either of us.
    In later life I realised that the first consideration for my brother the king was family. Methinks I should have remembered that; in my quest for wealth, position and power I overlooked the small fact of family being important beyond anything else. Had I remembered that, many events might not have subsequently taken place and in truth I might not be incarcerated in the Tower at this time.
    But to return to my past …
    We had to leave our lady mother behind, in the care and protection – and custody - of her sister. We had to say formal goodbyes whilst behind the stiff faces I know I was crying and I believe Dickon was too, but we had a new and exciting life to look forward to, for some months at least. It helped, as we rode away, to think on that and not what we were leaving, our lady mother in a place of religion and no laughter, with no news and nothing but heartache. Not even her sons to fuss over and care for. With the ability of children to put out of their mind that which hurts, we looked forward to our next adventure.
     
    And so it proved. The archbishop was a kindly man who provided us with clothing, books, musical instruments, a dog to romp with, a stable of horses to ride and tutors to enlarge upon that which we had learned already. I was, for a time, able to stop thinking about my lord father and my brothers, to stop feeling sick inside with worry at their fate, to concentrate instead on attempting to perfect my court manners and my studies, whilst Richard read and read and read until I thought he would damage his eyes with so much reading. He never seemed to be able to get enough knowledge, ever was he asking questions of the tutors and reaching for another book, or writing another essay or translating another piece of work. I wondered if it was his way of dealing with the worry of our transplanted lives, for we had been uprooted from Fotheringhay, then again from Ludlow, then again from Coventry and even now knew that this was no more than temporary lodgings.
    Our lady mother wrote often, praising us for working so hard – which made me wonder who was passing on the information, was there nothing we could do that was secret? – and assuring us all was well, that we would be able to rejoin the family before many months had passed. I wondered how she knew this, too, for we had no news of our lord father or our brothers. We only knew our brother of March was alive and well at the time he wrote his request for our removal to the Archbishop’s home because he had written his request for us to be moved there, but following that time we heard nothing.
    There were rumours; of course, England was ever alive with rumours. There was talk of uprisings, of revolt, of unhappiness among the nobles of the land. How much was true and how much was rumour was for any to speculate upon and try and find the kernel of truth, if truth there be in such stories. Who can tell when it is passed from one man’s mouth to another’s ears and from that man’s