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

armed guards waiting at the harbour drove away the bad memories of the voyage. From one kind of movement to another, he thought, but this one I can handle. They waited impatiently for the men to help them disembark, then walked with Richard to the horses. He mounted the horse indicated to him, threaded the reins through his fingers, leaned forward on the horse’s neck and whispered into its ear, knowing it mattered little which language he spoke but using his hard learned French to tell the animal he was glad to be off the ship and onto something that he understood. The horse tossed its head and snorted, as if in agreement. George laughed aloud and Richard shot him a puzzled look but said nothing. They moved off at a brisk canter and George felt, for the first time since the disastrous news had been brought to Baynards Castle, that things might actually be turning around. The grief, coupled with bewilderment at being snatched from family and home, had created a stone that sat somewhere in his throat but it eased slightly as he looked around at the new landscape, heard different voices and sounds, became aware of different smells and thought, with a rising sense of excitement, that this could be a most diverting experience, if only he could suppress his emotions at the reason they were there.
     
    The duke of Burgundy himself welcomed them, complimenting them both on their French, their clothes and their appearance. George instantly decided half of it was rubbish but the other half pleased him very much. The apartments they were given were sumptuous in the extreme, hung with rich tapestries and silks, with good thick carpets underfoot and fine china ewers and jugs for their washing needs. Servants rushed here and there, doing their bidding. They were treated like royalty, albeit royalty in exile.
    There is always a downside to good things, he decided later, learning that a tutor had been appointed to carry on their lessons. But there were good times, riding out across the countryside on fresh energetic horses, meeting and talking with one William Caxton, a merchant from Bruges who had many wonders to show them. A room in which all types of weather could be seen startled and mesmerised them. It was something beyond their experience and was awe-inspiring. All this was carried on with one part of George yearning, almost outright longing, for news from England: what was happening, did the family survive, were the Yorks triumphant, were they soon to return to what was, if briefly, home?
    Weeks of lessons, weeks of riding, weeks of adapting to the new life, new experiences, no people to meet and hopefully remember, clouded some of the bad memories and the grief subsided to a point when he could think of his lord father without choking back tears. At night he would lie awake, listening to the nocturnal birds and the sound of the guard tramping the walls, wondering why he felt such a sense of loss. His lord father had been a distant figure but an important one, not someone they knew, but someone they revered. It was, he decided, as if the central part of their life had been taken away, the core around which they had all revolved. When his lord father had been away on one of his many missions, life went on as normal. When he was due to return, life became harassed and everything seemed turned upside down. That presence, that person was no longer there. Edmund had gone, too. It left only Edward, tall, strong, valiant Edward to be the central figure in the family. If he survived the battles which were surely being fought.
    Despite all his longings, when the news arrived that their brother Edward had been pronounced king and they could return to England, it was an anti-climax, almost a sadness, to pack up their new belongings, their new clothes, and think about going home. The duke’s home had become their home, familiar, secure and once again they were on the move, this time to a country where their brother was king.
    Then the full