Napes went over the sea, a mariner to be,
With his clog and his chain to sell more treasure.
Such a pain pricked him, he asked a confessor.
Nicholas of the Tower said I am ready, this confessor to be;
He was held so, that he not passed that hour.
For Jack Napes’ soul placebo and dirge .
Who shall execute the fest of solemnity
Bishops and lords as great reason is,
Monks, canons, and priests, with all the clergy,
Pray for him that he may come to bliss,
And that never such another come after this.
“Jack Napes” was a common name for a tame monkey or ape, and Suffolk’s badge was the clog and chain that such an animal would wear. I stared at the ladies. “Jack Napes is Suffolk?”
“Yes, your grace. They are putting copies all around town.”
I skimmed the rest, nearly a dozen sickening stanzas. Gleefully, they mockingly described a funeral service held for poor Suffolk, attended by all of those the writer deemed to be enemies of the people. Anyone remotely associated with Suffolk—and with Henry’s government—was mentioned there. “This is detestable!” I flung it into the fire and watched it disappear into the flames. “I would like to do that to the man who wrote this.”
The Duchess of Bedford, whose own husband was named in the poem, nodded in satisfaction. “Aye, your grace. So would I. But there are plenty of copies of this poem about, sadly.”
Unthinkingly, I reached for a wafer that had been left strategically nearby by the ladies and bit into it furiously. “Why are they not being destroyed?” I asked after a moment.
“The writings, or the writers?”
“Both,” I said grimly. Just weeks before, while Henry was heading to Parliament in Leicester, a man had run into Henry’s path and struck the ground with a flail. This, he had said, was how the great Duke of York would deal with filthy traitors such as Suffolk if he were at Leicester. Henry with his reputation for leniency had shocked many, including me, by ordering that the man be hanged, drawn, and quartered. “The men who are circulating these vile things should be treated as that man at Stony Stratford was.”
“I have heard that Lord Saye has threatened to turn all of Kent into a wild forest in revenge for what was done to Suffolk,” said the Duchess of Bedford. “But it may be no more than wild talk from the people.”
“I hope it is true and that is exactly what he will do,” I said. “They deserve it.”
Katherine goggled at me. “Well, Katherine? Why look you so? I owe you an apology about this writing, I suppose.”
“It is not that. It is only that you sounded so—vengeful just now, your grace. I don’t believe you ever have before.”
“No one has ever cruelly murdered someone of whom I was so fond before. And smacked his lips over his death as these people do.” The girl still looked so worried that I drew her closer to me and stroked her hair. “Come, Katherine. I spoke wildly. There must be good people in Kent who deplore what has been done. But I do intend to write to Henry and ask him to suppress these dreadful writings, and I intend to ask him what is being done to apprehend the duke’s murderers and to press him to do some more to hunt them down. My ladies Bedford and Buckingham are quite right. I have been here weeping and starving myself long enough. It is time I took some action.”
But others, with very different intentions, were thinking the same thing. Their leader was one Jack Cade.
***
Who was he, Jack Cade? To this day, I hardly know. Some said that he was a physician; some said that he was a sorcerer. Others said that he had fought for the French. One story, which I was certainly ready enough to believe, had it that he had fled his master’s household after impregnating and murdering a fellow servant there. Some said he was a Kentishman, others claimed that he had spent his life in Ireland and was a distant relation of the Duke of York; indeed, he called himself at one point John
With his clog and his chain to sell more treasure.
Such a pain pricked him, he asked a confessor.
Nicholas of the Tower said I am ready, this confessor to be;
He was held so, that he not passed that hour.
For Jack Napes’ soul placebo and dirge .
Who shall execute the fest of solemnity
Bishops and lords as great reason is,
Monks, canons, and priests, with all the clergy,
Pray for him that he may come to bliss,
And that never such another come after this.
“Jack Napes” was a common name for a tame monkey or ape, and Suffolk’s badge was the clog and chain that such an animal would wear. I stared at the ladies. “Jack Napes is Suffolk?”
“Yes, your grace. They are putting copies all around town.”
I skimmed the rest, nearly a dozen sickening stanzas. Gleefully, they mockingly described a funeral service held for poor Suffolk, attended by all of those the writer deemed to be enemies of the people. Anyone remotely associated with Suffolk—and with Henry’s government—was mentioned there. “This is detestable!” I flung it into the fire and watched it disappear into the flames. “I would like to do that to the man who wrote this.”
The Duchess of Bedford, whose own husband was named in the poem, nodded in satisfaction. “Aye, your grace. So would I. But there are plenty of copies of this poem about, sadly.”
Unthinkingly, I reached for a wafer that had been left strategically nearby by the ladies and bit into it furiously. “Why are they not being destroyed?” I asked after a moment.
“The writings, or the writers?”
“Both,” I said grimly. Just weeks before, while Henry was heading to Parliament in Leicester, a man had run into Henry’s path and struck the ground with a flail. This, he had said, was how the great Duke of York would deal with filthy traitors such as Suffolk if he were at Leicester. Henry with his reputation for leniency had shocked many, including me, by ordering that the man be hanged, drawn, and quartered. “The men who are circulating these vile things should be treated as that man at Stony Stratford was.”
“I have heard that Lord Saye has threatened to turn all of Kent into a wild forest in revenge for what was done to Suffolk,” said the Duchess of Bedford. “But it may be no more than wild talk from the people.”
“I hope it is true and that is exactly what he will do,” I said. “They deserve it.”
Katherine goggled at me. “Well, Katherine? Why look you so? I owe you an apology about this writing, I suppose.”
“It is not that. It is only that you sounded so—vengeful just now, your grace. I don’t believe you ever have before.”
“No one has ever cruelly murdered someone of whom I was so fond before. And smacked his lips over his death as these people do.” The girl still looked so worried that I drew her closer to me and stroked her hair. “Come, Katherine. I spoke wildly. There must be good people in Kent who deplore what has been done. But I do intend to write to Henry and ask him to suppress these dreadful writings, and I intend to ask him what is being done to apprehend the duke’s murderers and to press him to do some more to hunt them down. My ladies Bedford and Buckingham are quite right. I have been here weeping and starving myself long enough. It is time I took some action.”
But others, with very different intentions, were thinking the same thing. Their leader was one Jack Cade.
***
Who was he, Jack Cade? To this day, I hardly know. Some said that he was a physician; some said that he was a sorcerer. Others said that he had fought for the French. One story, which I was certainly ready enough to believe, had it that he had fled his master’s household after impregnating and murdering a fellow servant there. Some said he was a Kentishman, others claimed that he had spent his life in Ireland and was a distant relation of the Duke of York; indeed, he called himself at one point John
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