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  WONDERS WILL NEVER CEASE

  Robert Irwin (born 1946) is a novelist, historian, critic and scholar. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature.

  He is the author of seven novels all published by Dedalus: The Arabian Nightmare, The Limits of Vision, The Mysteries of Algiers, Exquisite Corpse, Prayer-Cushions of the Flesh, Satan Wants Me and Wonders Will Never Cease.

  All his novels have enjoyed substantial publicity and commercial success although he is best known for The Arabian Nightmare (1983) which has been translated into twenty languages and is considered by many critics to be one of the greatest literary fantasy novels of the twentieth century.

  ‘The aim of the wise is to make wonders cease.’

  Albertus Magnus, De Coelo et Mundo.

  ‘A thing that has not been understood inevitably reappears; like an unlaid ghost, it cannot rest until the mystery has been solved and the spell broken.’

  Sigmund Freud,

  ‘Analysis of a Five-Year-Old Boy: Little Hans.’

  List of Characters

  (All those listed here really existed)

  The House of Lancaster:

  Henry VI: Born in 1421, he was the only son of Henry V.

  He came to the throne as a minor in 1422.

  Margaret of Anjou: Henry VI’s Queen.

  Edward of Lancaster, Prince of Wales: The son of Henry and Margaret.

  The House of York:

  Richard Duke of York: Claimant to the throne. He was slain at the Battle of Wakefield, shortly before the narrative of Wonders Will Never Cease begins.

  Edward Duke of York: Son of Richard of York. Born 1422.

  Claimant to the throne and crowned in 1461 as Edward IV.

  Elizabeth Woodville, from 1464 Edward’s Queen. See below, ‘Woodvilles’.

  Edward, Prince of Wales: Son of Edward IV and Elizabeth, later briefly Edward V, April-June 1483.

  Richard Duke of York: The younger brother of Edward V. Richard, Edward IV’s younger brother. Later Duke of Gloucester. Later Richard III.

  George: Edward’s youngest brother. Later Duke of Clarence. Executed 1478.

  The Woodvilles:

  Richard Woodville, Earl Rivers: Born c.1410.

  Jacquetta de St Pol: Daughter of the Count of St Pol.

  Formerly married to John Duke of Bedford, Regent of Henry VI. After being widowed, she married Richard Woodville.

  Anthony Woodville, Lord Scales: Born c.1422. The oldest son of Richard and Jacquetta and heir to the Earldom of Rivers. Jouster and scholar.

  Elizabeth Woodville: Born c.1440. Daughter of Richard and Jacquetta. First married to Sir John Grey of Groby. After his death in battle, she married Edward IV. See above ‘York’.

  Other Lords:

  Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick: Called ‘The Kingmaker’. Born 1428.

  George Neville: Archbishop of York and Chancellor of England in the early years of Edward IV’s reign.

  Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset: A leading Lancastrian. James Butler, Earl of Wiltshire: A Lancastrian Lord.

  William, Lord Hastings: Born c.1431. A leading Yorkist supporter and Edward IV’s High Chamberlain.

  John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester: A Yorkist. Constable of England and a leading scholar.

  Lord John Howard: Edward IV’s Admiral.

  Thomas Grey, Marquess Dorset: The elder son of Elizabeth Woodville and John Grey.

  Ralph Grey: The younger son of Elizabeth and John Grey.

  The Bastard Fauconberg: Otherwise known as Thomas Neville, Earl of Kent. A Yorkist.

  Antoine: Known as ‘the Bastard of Burgundy’, or the ‘Great Bastard’, the illegitimate son of Philip III, Duke of Burgundy. A famous jouster.

  The Gentry:

  Sir Andrew Trollope: A prominent Lancastrian.

  Sir Thomas Malory of Newbold Revel: A disorderly knight and marvellous writer.

  John Paston: A landowner and letter writer.

  Sundry:

  John Littlington: Benedictine Abbot of Crowland.

  The anonymous Crowland Chronicler: One of a series of contributors to the Crowland Chronicle, compiled from 655 to 1486.

  George Ripley: Augustinian canon and alchemist in the service of Edward IV.

  Scoggin, Edward IV’s Fool: Alleged author of ‘a book of merie jests’.

  William Caxton: Mercer, merchant and the man who introduced printing to England.

  Louys de Bretaylles, a French knight: Owner of a manuscript, Les Dits Moraux des Philosophes.

  The Coterels: A London criminal family.

  List of Contents

  Original Fiction

  Dedication

  List of Characters

  Chapter One: Towton

  Chapter Two: Crowland

  Chapter Three: Gerfalcon

  Chapter Four: Coronation

  Chapter Five: Alnwick

  Chapter Six: Corbenic

  Chapter Seven: Wedding

  Chapter Eight: Tiltyard

  Chapter Nine: White Tower

  Chapter Ten: Joust

  Chapter Eleven: Manhunt

  Chapter Twelve: Sea Battle

  Chapter Thirteen: Exile

  Chapter Fourteen: Barnet

  Chapter Fifteen: Coterels

  Chapter Sixteen: Compostella

  Chapter Seventeen: Locus Amoenus

  Chapter Eighteen: Ludlow

  Copyright

  Chapter One: Towton

  Anthony Woodville, the Lord Scales, is one of those who sustain the King of England’s cause against that contumacious rebel, York. It is Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week, and the dawn before battle. Consequently Anthony kneels to receive the wafer that is dipped in the wine that is Christ’s blood. Mass is being celebrated in the largest of the pavilions which is that of the Duke of Somerset. The pavilion’s canvas billows inward before the fierce wind. ‘Hoc est corpus meum.’ The Duke’s chaplain, as he intones these words, is weeping for the multitude that must be slain today, but Anthony has no tears to shed, for he is young and knows that he will live forever and, though young, he is already an expert in despatching men to meet their Maker. He gazes on the sacramental chalice and ponders the paschal miracle. He and his fellows have feasted on the body of Christ. ‘Ita, missa est,’ declares the chaplain. Go, it is the dismissal.

  His father Richard Woodville, Earl Rivers is in the arming tent before him. While their armour is being brought out from the barrels of sand, a squire plies them both with jugs of wine. Neither man has ever fought a battle sober. Once outside the tent, they stroke their horses farewell before the beasts are led away by the grooms. Though the grooms wished to know why King Henry was not with his army, but instead lingered in York, they received no direct reply from their masters, except Rivers telling them, ‘Somerset will know how to deal with the rebels. We have the numbers and the high ground and we serve the anointed King. Victory is certain and we shall give no quarter.’

  Anthony nods and hefts his poleaxe. Besides the poleaxe, a shortsword hangs from his hip. The meadow where the fighting is to take place, close by the village of Towton, soon to be known as the Bloody Meadow, had only a few years earlier been cropland, but now, like so much of England, has become waste. All over the kingdom the waste can be seen coming down from the hills. The Lancastrian vanguard is commanded by the Earl of Northumberland and Sir Andrew Trollope. The Woodville father and son are part of the second line under the command of Somerset. They stand a little distance away from the Duke’s banner, which displays the arms of England quartered with those of France within a blue-and-white chequered border. Earl Rivers’s own banner shows a pitcher and magpie. From where the Woodvilles stand there is l
ittle to be seen and the snow which has just started to fall is blowing in their faces, but the word has been passed through the ranks that Edward of York’s archers are starting their advance across Towton meadow and they are heading towards the crest of the rise that is commanded by the Lancastrians. Perhaps the second line will see no fighting, for the Yorkists will find it hard to advance up the slope. In any case the Woodvilles are waiting until the last moment before lacing their helmets.

  He waits and says nothing to his father. There is no word yet for what Anthony feels. He thirsts for violence, danger, quests and new and unheard of things. He hates the waiting under a leaden sky and then, after the fighting shall be done, he fears for a tomorrow that will be followed by many other days that will perfectly resemble that tomorrow. Daily life is more frightening to him than a sword thrust. If only armies could just rush against one another like stags in a forest. Alas, there has to be so much done first, in the way of mustering, travelling, feeding and arming. Life is too slow.

  Then they hear of a commotion in the front line of men-at-arms. The blue lion rampant of the banner of Northumberland is seen moving forward. Somerset’s line is under orders to follow. The devil has set the weather against the Lancastrian archers, for their arrows have been falling short while the Yorkist arrows travel swiftly on the wind. There is no help for it but to descend from their point of vantage and engage with the enemy directly. On the meadow Anthony finds himself in a series of tight melées. For a while the beasts of England – wyverns, unicorns, boars, lions, griffins, yales and dragons – seem to be in combat over their heads, as the men-at-arms struggle to keep the banners aloft in the great press, but soon the banners are down. Though Anthony is able at times to use his poleaxe to steady himself, there is no possibility of wielding it in such a scrum. He and his men, as they press against the enemy, tread through the bloody slush, churn up the mud and trample on the bodies of friend and foe. By now, despite the snow-laden bitter wind, Anthony feels himself to be encased in a furnace and, unless he can find a space in which to unlace his helmet, he will surely pass out.

  Providentially it seems, the press around him thins and he can unlace his helmet, but, having done so, he hears the screaming and wailing carried on the wind. Now that he can at last gaze over the field, he sees that all around him his fellows are in retreat. He lets his helmet fall and runs with them. A breathless squire shouts to him that Somerset and Wiltshire have found their horses and are already fled. Rivers is nowhere to be seen. Anthony follows the great mass of the Lancastrian foot who are hastening to the right down a steep slope which descends to the Cock River. It is difficult to keep his footing. The trap is closing in on them and the killing time has begun. Already many have perished trying to wade through the fast-flowing water, so many that Anthony runs on a bridge of bodies, but he is safe across the river and he exults.

  Then it seems to him that he has been asleep. He feels well. The howling wind has died down and there is no shouting and screaming, but he hears a gentle voice intoning ‘Follow the light. Follow the light.’White-robed figures get him to rise and they usher him up through a brightly lit tunnel until he comes out before a castle in a forest. Snow is still falling and Anthony should find lodging for the night. He knocks at the gate of the castle. There is a long wait before the gate is opened and, then after his wounds have been inspected, he is allowed to enter, but when he seeks to proceed on into the great hall to make his plea for hospitality, he cannot. Though he is angry and insulted to find his way barred, even so he stands at the door, waiting and looking in, for he knows that something is about to happen. It is bright within, for the light of scores of torches is reflected off walls that have been painted silver and gold. At the far end he can see a figure with a face that has been painted white. He is propped up by cushions on a pallet. This man, who must be very sick, wears a golden crown made of paper set at a precarious angle.

  Anthony has only just enough time to register this before the procession begins to cross the middle of the hall from right to left. It is led by a maiden of extraordinary beauty with a bloody cloth round her neck and she carries a broken sword. She is followed by a man who bears a lance whose tip is stained blood red, then six maidens bearing candelabras, and after them a priest who is bent under the weight of a thing which is covered in a mantle of red samite. The last in the procession is a huntsman who supports a white gerfalcon on his wrist. Not a word is uttered by the celebrants or by those who look on. The colours of everything that Anthony looks on are of extraordinary purity: the red robe of the ‘King’, the green dresses of the maidens, the purple cassock of the priest and the blue jerkin of the huntsman. It is like a child’s image of a sacred mystery. The calm that Anthony feels is more powerful than any passion that he has ever experienced.

  Since the ceremony is now over, Anthony turns away, and, as he does so, he sees that Sir Andrew Trollope has been standing just behind him. He has sustained a nasty wound in the fighting, though it does not seem to trouble him any more. There are other knights beside Sir Andrew, but Anthony recognises none of them, nor their blazons. Though he is very glad to find a familiar face in this place of mystery, Andrew seems not so pleased.

  ‘Friend, I am sorry to see you. What do you do here?’ he asks.

  Anthony, feeling at peace, does not know how to reply to this. What is he doing here?

  Then Andrew points back to the crowned man lolling on the pallet.

  ‘He is pretending to be our King,’ he says. ‘See how he writhes as if he suffers from a terrible wound.’

  Anthony is still at a loss for words. If he did speak, he senses that it would be like trying to talk underwater. Suddenly Andrew seems impatient to be away.

  ‘I am summoned to a feast,’ he says. ‘Friend, will you not join me? Come dine with me for fellowship’s sake.’ He smiles and tries to pluck at Anthony’s sleeve, but at his touch, Anthony, strangely terrified, faints.

  When he comes round, he wakes to a body of pain. He lies with his eyes shut while he locates that pain, which is mostly above his left hip and at the back of his head. Stripped of his armour and padding, he is naked and cold. Then he opens his eyes and finds himself on the stone floor of a small dark chamber and a scrawny balding priest in a brown robe is bending over him and plucking at the lead figurine of a little man that is attached to a chain round Anthony’s neck. When the priest sees that Anthony’s eyes are open he draws back in surprise. Anthony gazes dispassionately at him. Then he asks, ‘Where am I?’

  ‘My lord, this is the Chapel of Aberford. You have been dead for two days, I think. This is the third. Some women, six women, carried your corpse here on a bier, asking that you might be buried beside the Chapel. They told me that yours was the corpse of Lord Scales, as could be seen from your surcoat and they left money for your burial. Indeed, you should have been buried already, only the ground was too hard for the gravediggers and besides they had plenty of work elsewhere. There is your shroud.’

  The white cloth lies close beside Anthony. The priest, recollecting himself, throws the shroud over Anthony’s lower parts. Then he grows excited, ‘But you are a new Lazarus! How is it to die? What did you see on the other side? Is there a purgatory, or is there, as some men say, only heaven and hell? Are there animals in the afterlife? What shapes do men have after they are dead? Is it true that the saved can look down on the damned?…’

  The priest has many more questions, but Anthony cuts him off, ‘I was never dead. I was in a castle in the middle of a forest. Which castles are near this place?’

  ‘There are many castles in this shire. Though I do not know of a castle in a forest, I never travel far from this holy place.’

  The priest helps Anthony to a bed and for the next three days he rests. Though he has asked the priest about the whereabouts of Lord Rivers, Sir Andrew Trollope, King Henry and others, the piously narrow-minded priest knows nothing of the affairs of the great men of state. But he is well-versed in the Bible and returns again a
nd again to the subject of Lazarus and how he had lain sick unto death in Bethany and when Jesus was told of this he delayed his coming to that town. He waited until Lazarus was dead and the worms of sin and decay held carnival in the poor man’s body. Only on the fourth day did Jesus enter Bethany and, though Lazarus’s body was already stinking, Jesus commanded him to come forth from the dead, saying, ‘Whosoever lives and believes in me shall never die’.

  Anthony wants to know why Jesus waited four days before coming to the rescue of Lazarus. He is told that Jesus had determined on a miracle, a sacred wonder, so that believers might be encouraged and unbelievers damned. The priest continues, ‘For those who were there to witness it, it was a miracle; for those of us who come after, it is a story of a special sort which we call a parable.’

  ‘What is a parable?’

  ‘A parable is a story which refers to something other than what the story seems to be about. Every incident or adventure related in the Bible has four meanings…’

  But Anthony sinks back into delirium without learning what the four levels of meaning might be. He thinks that he hears himself ask the priest, ‘Why just Lazarus? Why did Jesus not raise all the dead in Bethany? Or all the dead in the world since the beginning of creation?’ But, if there is an answer to this, he cannot hear it, and in any case what he was really asking was ‘Why me?’

  On the fourth day Yorkist men-at-arms come to seize Anthony. They have heard rumours that a Lancastrian rebel lord was being sheltered in the chapel.

  ‘We will take you outside. You may say your prayers first, for you are a dead man, Lord Scales,’ the sergeant tells Anthony, before he begins to read out the bill of attainder:

  ‘At Towton, in the shire of York, accompanied with Frenchmen and Scots, the King’s enemies, the following lords falsely and traitorously against their faith and liegeance, there raised war against King Edward, their rightwise, true and natural liege lord, purposing there and then to have destroyed him, and deposed him of his royal estate, crown and dignity, and then and there to that intent, falsely and traitorously moved battle against his said estate, shedding therein blood of a great number of his subjects. In which battle it pleased almighty God to give unto him, of the mystery of his might and grace, the victory of his enemies and rebels, and to avoid the effect of their false and traitorous purpose. Whereupon the following traitors are condemned to death…’