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

10
     
     
    Such times were not to come again. Such times were and are branded in my mind forever as even more golden than the time at Ludlow and that was sunshine after rain indeed. Golden days when my brother Ned came to visit us, days of walking in the gardens, of being in London with all that London had to offer. I only had to listen to the cries of the street vendors and those who tried to go about their business but were caught in the snares of those who tried to sell them food and items, or caused a commotion by chasing cutpurses and robbers, listen to the carts and carriages, the horses, the dogs and the animals held for slaughter, to realise this was a thriving city, one that had nowhere to go but upward and onward, to be the greatest place in the country. Where else could such things be found? Of a surety, as a boy I could see no further than the boundaries of London and found outside those boundaries wanting. I almost managed to overcome the loss of the dappled grey gelding in the joy of being there for I was not allowed to bring it to London.
    It all changed. I know now nothing is as constant as change but as a young boy I sought permanence, not constant upheaval. My lord father came home, to great accolades and much happiness from all of us. Our lady mother radiated her joy and that infected all of us. Whether it was all our lord father needed to make him try and claim the throne of England by right of his blood line, or whether he planned all along to do that, I cannot say. What I do know is, his efforts failed and after lengthy acrimonious discussions, a compromise was made, one that suited no one, especially my lord father. The moods were black indeed and we were discouraged from going near him, as if we dared anyway. Those words were wasted on us, for we knew from the time we could walk we did not approach the great duke unless he held out a hand to us. The times he did that were able to be counted as often as the sun dropped out of the sky and burned a hole in London. My lady mother’s affection for us was displayed as often as snow in August but that had been known to happen, according to some seers, and so it was possible to say it happened. Ah, my brother of Gloucester, I look back down the years to when we were small, when all life seemed to be on a constant tidal flow of good fortune/bad fortune and all we had to cling to was one another. Where are you now that I need you so much? Back in the north, in the land you love so well, where the wind is keen and the people as sharp as the wind that scours their land and their personalities? What is it that draws you to the north, my brother? What is it that holds you in landscape that has ever seemed to me to be desolate, no, more than that, lonely?
    Ah, the truth emerges from the drunken part of the brain which is not affected by whatever it is that is causing me so much pain. What eats at me, I ask myself, is it some insect which has burrowed its way in, or maggots hatched from eggs laid in their passing? Or has the drink damaged the interior of my skull and it is fighting its way out? I have fanciful thoughts even as I know, oh how I know, what it is and that it will end my life if my brother the king does not end my life first. God willing, that will happen!
    Clarence, stop this endless, senseless rambling. Come, you talk of your life, so talk of your life, foolish drunken man!
    I ask now, to whom do I speak? Who is listening to this babble of thoughts, reminiscences, twisted thinking and outright admissions of regret and sadness? Are there spirits around me, angels even, here in this room, ones I cannot see and cannot sense? Are we not taught that the Lord sends His angels to guard us? I wonder who needs most guarding at this time, myself, getting ready to walk into eternity, or those who will be left to –
    Ah, the questions. Left to what? Grieve? Regret? Dismiss my passing as no more than a date to be recorded in the endless papers which are kept of