attended some services at Southwark,’ said Southwell, wiping grease from his mouth, ‘I made a point of it. It’s always a pleasure to hear Cardinal Beaufort preach a sermon. I try to attend St Mary Overie whenever he is there.’
‘Indeed, his addresses are always excellent,’ agreed the Abbot. ‘It’s just a pity his political manoeuvring is not always so skilful these days. He’s getting old, like the rest of us.’
‘A great pity. And he was always so successful at these things in the past. It’s a shame that the whole English delegation stormed out of the Congress of Arras last September then had to come home with their tails between their legs.’
‘Yes, very unfortunate,’ said Abbot Harweden.
The Abbot was as aware as anyone else that the Congress of Arras had been a near disaster. Cardinal Beaufort and the English delegation had done their best to reach a peaceful agreement with the Duke of Burgundy, but the Frenchman proved himself a wily negotiator. He was clearly determined to rid France of her English overlords so that his cousin, the Dauphin, could legitimately call himself King Charles VII of France. To that end, the two had recently signed a treaty, pledging their absolute loyalty to each other.
‘It seems,’ observed the Abbot, ‘that they’re both pressing very hard to break the cordial relationship between France and England.’
‘Cordial relationship?’ Southwell snorted. ‘Hardly that. Our young King may rule over both countries, but it has never been a “cordial relationship”.’
The Abbot sighed. ‘I would like to take refuge in the Epistle to the Romans, Thomas,’ he said. ‘“If God is for us, who can be against us?”’
‘The French,’ replied Southwell grimly. ‘No doubt about it. Though Her Grace the Duchess of Gloucester confided in me that her husband thinks it imperative that France should be kept under English rule.’
‘Not so Cardinal Beaufort,’ said the Abbot, ‘especially since everything went so dreadfully wrong at Arras. And I do tend to agree with him. Perhaps we ought to make a clean break away from France and let the wretched country fend for itself. Where exactly do you stand on the issue, Thomas?’
Southwell, soaking up beef gravy with his bread, wore a frown of concentration. ‘I’m not at all sure,’ he said. ‘Not at all.’
The Abbot regarded his companion with cynical amusement. He knew Southwell would always sit firmly astride the fence, not taking sides with one or the other until he was certain who would win the argument.
Beaufort and Gloucester were both very influential men and Canon Southwell had ambition. He would always want to side with the winner.
***
K ing Henry disliked the feeling of having grease on his hands and beckoned his ewerer to bring him a bowlful of water. As he rinsed away the last slimy traces of roast swan and dried his fingers carefully on the proffered towel, he looked around him at the excited, happy faces of the revellers seated at the table on the royal dais, enjoying the last merry celebration of the long Christmas festival. These were his close family and there were few enough of them. His father’s only remaining brother, the Duke of Gloucester, was listening with rapt attention to something his wife was saying and Henry heard the Duchess laugh delightedly, a laugh which started on a high, fluting note and tinkled down the scale like a peal of little silver bells. He liked that.
Catching his eye, his aunt Eleanor made a great show of stroking the new brooch once again and he snatched his eyes away from her, only to find his cousin, the seventeen-year-old Antigone, waving her hand excitedly to attract his attention. Humphrey’s natural daughter was seated between her brother, Arthur Plantagenet, and her fiancé, the Earl of Tankerville.
‘Your Highness!’ she called to him, ‘This time next year I shall be a Countess!’ Antigone, rather a strident young woman, seemed hardly able to wait
‘Indeed, his addresses are always excellent,’ agreed the Abbot. ‘It’s just a pity his political manoeuvring is not always so skilful these days. He’s getting old, like the rest of us.’
‘A great pity. And he was always so successful at these things in the past. It’s a shame that the whole English delegation stormed out of the Congress of Arras last September then had to come home with their tails between their legs.’
‘Yes, very unfortunate,’ said Abbot Harweden.
The Abbot was as aware as anyone else that the Congress of Arras had been a near disaster. Cardinal Beaufort and the English delegation had done their best to reach a peaceful agreement with the Duke of Burgundy, but the Frenchman proved himself a wily negotiator. He was clearly determined to rid France of her English overlords so that his cousin, the Dauphin, could legitimately call himself King Charles VII of France. To that end, the two had recently signed a treaty, pledging their absolute loyalty to each other.
‘It seems,’ observed the Abbot, ‘that they’re both pressing very hard to break the cordial relationship between France and England.’
‘Cordial relationship?’ Southwell snorted. ‘Hardly that. Our young King may rule over both countries, but it has never been a “cordial relationship”.’
The Abbot sighed. ‘I would like to take refuge in the Epistle to the Romans, Thomas,’ he said. ‘“If God is for us, who can be against us?”’
‘The French,’ replied Southwell grimly. ‘No doubt about it. Though Her Grace the Duchess of Gloucester confided in me that her husband thinks it imperative that France should be kept under English rule.’
‘Not so Cardinal Beaufort,’ said the Abbot, ‘especially since everything went so dreadfully wrong at Arras. And I do tend to agree with him. Perhaps we ought to make a clean break away from France and let the wretched country fend for itself. Where exactly do you stand on the issue, Thomas?’
Southwell, soaking up beef gravy with his bread, wore a frown of concentration. ‘I’m not at all sure,’ he said. ‘Not at all.’
The Abbot regarded his companion with cynical amusement. He knew Southwell would always sit firmly astride the fence, not taking sides with one or the other until he was certain who would win the argument.
Beaufort and Gloucester were both very influential men and Canon Southwell had ambition. He would always want to side with the winner.
***
K ing Henry disliked the feeling of having grease on his hands and beckoned his ewerer to bring him a bowlful of water. As he rinsed away the last slimy traces of roast swan and dried his fingers carefully on the proffered towel, he looked around him at the excited, happy faces of the revellers seated at the table on the royal dais, enjoying the last merry celebration of the long Christmas festival. These were his close family and there were few enough of them. His father’s only remaining brother, the Duke of Gloucester, was listening with rapt attention to something his wife was saying and Henry heard the Duchess laugh delightedly, a laugh which started on a high, fluting note and tinkled down the scale like a peal of little silver bells. He liked that.
Catching his eye, his aunt Eleanor made a great show of stroking the new brooch once again and he snatched his eyes away from her, only to find his cousin, the seventeen-year-old Antigone, waving her hand excitedly to attract his attention. Humphrey’s natural daughter was seated between her brother, Arthur Plantagenet, and her fiancé, the Earl of Tankerville.
‘Your Highness!’ she called to him, ‘This time next year I shall be a Countess!’ Antigone, rather a strident young woman, seemed hardly able to wait
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