The Lady of the Ravens. Джоанна Хиксон
I habitually wear dark colours and am so drawn to the big black birds that haunt the cliff-like walls of the Tower and why, as I hastened to my meeting on that late September day, I was enraged at seeing one of the sentry archers on the battlements take aim at a raven as it flew close to his position on the roof of the Royal Palace. Luckily the arrow missed its target but I was still seething while I negotiated my way past another set of guards and into the fortress’s intimidating limewashed keep, known as the White Tower.
‘May I ask what a young lady like you is doing here?’
At least this time the inquiry was couched politely and came from a trimly bearded man of obvious status, wearing a furred gown, with a gold chain about his shoulders and a black hat pinned with a jewelled brooch. I had almost run into him in the gloom of the main troop-gathering hall, which was empty and echoing and lit only by the daylight filtering through a few high barred windows. Swallowing my first indignant riposte, I made him a brief curtsy.
‘I’ve been sent by My Lady the King’s Mother, sir.’ Once again I offered my letter of charge.
‘Have you indeed? Let me see.’ In order to scan the script he had to squint and hold it up to what little light there was, then he made me a courteous bow. ‘Welcome to the Tower of London, Mistress Vaux. I am Sir Richard Guildford, the king’s Master of Ordnance, in charge of the guns and weapons that are held here. But I cannot believe they are relevant to your purpose. I see you are bidden to the Chapel of St John. For what reason, I wonder?’
I shook my head. ‘We would both like to know the answer to that, Sir Richard, but it is a royal command, which one does not query.’
He inclined his head. ‘Indeed.’
‘I have a question for you though, sir.’ I took a steadying breath before plunging on. ‘If you are in charge of weapons, why are the archers wasting arrows, firing them at the ravens? What harm have they done?’
Even in the dim light I could see his cheeks flush and his next words were delivered with savage emphasis. ‘Those ravens are the devil’s demons – filthy scavengers and harbingers of death! All soldiers hate them and the archers are encouraged to use them for target practice. An arrow is retrievable, preferably with a dead bird attached.’
Or possibly a dead passer-by, I thought. I bit back any comment but he must have noticed my look of angry astonishment. I wondered how a man who lived and worked in the Tower could be ignorant of the widespread belief among Londoners that the presence of ravens was essential to the fortress’s security and that of the city and the kingdom they inhabited. This folk legend and its subjects had stayed with me ever since I had heard it as a child from the old garrison knight and over the ensuing years I had made it my business to read whatever I could find on both the birds and the belief.
During the resulting silence he recovered his composure and gave me a brief smile. ‘Now, Mistress Vaux, may I call someone to show you to the Chapel of St John?’
Although I could not bring myself to return the smile, I made an acknowledging bob. ‘Thank you, Sir Richard, but I know the way.’
I sensed his puzzled gaze following me to the foot of the long stair. Like all castle chapels, it was situated above the other chambers, giving prayers a clear path to heaven, and on other visits to my mother and the captive queen I had made the climb to the top of the White Tower to find them at Mass. On this occasion two Ushers of the King’s Chamber were there still wearing the blue and murrey household livery issued under the Yorkist kings, along with an assortment of other men in civilian dress. I was acquainted with one of the ushers, a landed squire called Nicholas Gainsford, and as soon as I arrived he began lecturing us on how anything we saw or heard that morning was to be considered a state secret and revealed to no one; everything had to be committed to memory and nothing written down. Having calmed my alarm on behalf of the ravens, I felt my heart flutter anew at Usher Gainsford’s stern admonishments.
Bizarrely, the frame of a large bedstead had been erected in the chapel nave and it was to this that he proceeded to direct our attention, impatiently beckoning us to gather around it. I received curious glances from the strange men as we jostled for position, aware that the presence of a woman was perplexing to them. Not for the first time I wondered what I was doing there myself.
‘You are all here to learn precisely how to make the king’s bed,’ the usher continued, as if reading my mind. ‘At present his grace is living at his manor of Kennington, a small palace over the river, which is easily secured and presently inhabited only by people well known to him and sworn to his affinity. But after his coronation he will be living in many larger royal palaces including the one located here, within the Tower of London. Such buildings are a warren of chambers, passages and staircases, containing many entrances and large numbers of people – not easy to keep secure. So when King Henry inhabits these palaces, or visits the homes of his favoured subjects, he will always have his own secure royal quarters, an area known as the Privy Chamber. Only trusted subjects who have sworn an oath of allegiance will be admitted into this reserved area, which will contain all the rooms necessary for his ease and comfort, where he can consult with his advisers and councillors in certain knowledge that what is said and done within its walls will go no further. And of course the most important of these rooms is that in which the king takes his rest – his bedchamber.’
He let his gaze roam over the gathering. ‘You men have been appointed Yeomen of the Guard of the Body of our Lord the King and, apart from protecting the king wherever he goes, an important part of your duties will be to make the monarch’s bed daily. To ensure that it is clean and comfortable and, most importantly, free of any hazard from hidden blades, poisonous plants, or biting insects that might cause him ill, injury or irritation. And naturally, when his grace marries he will want his queen’s rest to be as free from danger and discomfort as his own; therefore we have a lady here with us.’ My eyes flicked nervously about as everyone turned in my direction. ‘Mistress Vaux is charged with relaying all that she sees and hears to the sworn women of the bedchamber of his eventual bride. Before you leave today, all of you will be required to take an oath of loyalty before the Lord Chamberlain of the King’s Household.’
Having long lived under Lady Margaret Beaufort’s roof, I was probably already as familiar as any there with the best way to prepare a bedstead for the nobility but Usher Gainsford was taking no chances with royal security. He literally started from scratch, feeling with the tips of his fingers and scraping with his nails all the way around the wooden bedframe and headboard, looking for any crack or crevice where something sharp or noxious might be hidden. Then he ordered one of the men to strip to his chemise and hose and, to the obvious amusement of his fellow yeomen, roll around on the thick rush mat spread over the ropes, to test it for needles, thorns or twigs.
‘A sharpened twig soaked in the juice of deadly nightshade berries can work its way through to the sleeper, who falls into a stupor from which he does not wake,’ he warned, then lifted the straw mattress and dramatically sliced open the end with a sharp knife. ‘You need to distinguish between the different plants used to stuff this layer. Ladies’ bedstraw is best and this one,’ he picked out a dried stem with leaves larger than the rest, ‘is called woodruff and has a scent like freshly mown hay.’ He picked up a handful of the stuffing and peered closely at it. ‘This mattress should be opened and refilled and all feather beds shaken and checked regularly. Some of you yeomen will be appointed Keepers of the Wardrobe of the Beds, in charge of storing the royal bedclothes in locked and insect-proof chests every day and responsible for ensuring that a record is taken of when checks are made.’
One of the men spoke up. ‘In view of these precautions, sir, how would anyone manage to corrupt the royal bed? If everything is so carefully locked away and checked and the Privy Chambers are restricted to sworn servants, it does not seem very likely.’
Usher Gainsford cleared his throat and a flush stained his cheeks. ‘One of a yeoman’s duties is to report any hint of a colleague failing in his loyalty. You have all been chosen because you are known to be staunch Lancastrians but King Henry is anxious to unite the country, bringing York and Lancaster together under his rule and the Tudor name, ending the recent years of strife. So it is to him and the family he intends to have that