We passed out of the hall, even as those who had stood attendance on the earl flowed back in. Not understanding what had happened, I didn’t know if I should feel relieved or more alarmed.
As soon as the friar and I were alone and walking on the dark streets, I said, “Sir Priest, I don’t think that lord likes me. What does he want of me? I’m a nothing.”
“I assure you, he wants what’s best for you.”
“What’s that?”
“He knows who you are and wants to return you to your proper station.”
I halted. “I beg you, Brother. Just tell me who he thinks I am.”
“You’ll remember soon enough.”
“Why can’t you tell me now? You told him I was well-witted.”
“You are well-witted.”
I decided it would be best to play the jester. “Please, sir,” I said, “Why do you say that?”
The friar abruptly halted, clutched the robe about my neck, and put his face close to mine. “Just do as you’re told!” he said, and gave me a shove forward.
As we continued on through back streets, it didn’t take long for me to realize we were not walking toward to the friary. We were going somewhere else. I was afraid to ask where.
At last we came to a stop. Brother Simonds’s lamp light allowed me to see a timbered house of three levels, a narrow building at a corner plot. Its walls, between wooden beams, were filled with clay, straw, and cow-dung. The roof was thatched. All in all it was nothing like the earl’s home. Rather, it was an altogether ordinary house, except I had never been in one. My life, may I remind you, had been spent in a cellar, like a rotten turnip.
The friar unlocked the door. We stepped into an open space with a few boxes, barrels, and casks standing about in no particular order. I took it for a storage place, a place of business.
I said, “Who lives here?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“The building belongs to Lincoln. He ordered the people to leave.”
“Why?”
“So you might be kept here.”
“Will I be locked up?” I cried.
“Of course not. I’ll be here.”
I waited for more explanation, but the friar only took care to secure the door behind us and stow the key in his cloak. Then he led the way up the steps to the second level, the solar, which was a large room containing a bed, table, chairs, chests, and open larders. The larders were empty, but there were usable candles on the table.
“Here’s where we shall live and work.”
“What kind of work?”
His answer was to light two candles. Then he pointed to the chair and said, “Sit down.”
I eyed him with apprehension but did as bid, wiped my nose with my dirty fingers, and waited tensely for I knew not what.
Brother Simonds stood before me, eyes fixed on my face. His pale hands were clasped, his body tense. Behind him, his narrow shadow loomed high like an immense church gargoyle.
“Now, then,” he said, “I am going to tell you who you are.”
ELEVEN
“PLEASE, SIR; I’m Lambert Simnel, the kitchen boy. A nobody scullion.”
“Be still!” the friar snapped. Though it was cool, the friar’s face glistened with sweat. His eyes shone unnaturally bright as if stirred by what he was about to say. His breathing was quick, agitated. “Now, listen with care.”
I waited, not knowing what I was waiting for.
The priest began to talk. It was about things of which I knew nothing, matters as remote as the moon. All about English kings, who, despite their greatness, must have had small imaginations, for they were forever named Edward, Richard, or Henry.
He spoke much of King Edward the Third, who lived many years ago. He talked of children, cousins, marriages, rivalries and sudden deaths, persons who claimed the throne, and those who didn’t. He mentioned earls, barons, dukes, and queens, as well as a mad king named Henry the Sixth.
The names and deeds of these mingled and oft times mangled monarchs, their lofty uncles and cousins, challenges and battles, stuffed my brain as if with old rags. As the tedium of his talk went on and on, I began to nod.
“Stay awake!” he cried, and stirred me with a slap.
“But what do these noble people have to do with me?”
“They are all about you!”
“Me? How?”
He glared at me, but as if provoked—and thereby probably skipping over several monarchs and their mossy mothers—began to talk about the current king, Henry the Seventh.
“His Christian name is Henry Tudor. Two years ago, using five thousand Welsh and French soldiers, he treasonously killed the rightful English king, King Richard the Third, in a battle near a place called Bosworth. That noble king now lies in Leicester city at the Greyfriars friary in an unknown grave.”
As I struggled to keep awake, the friar, eyes bright, spoke with increasing excitement.
“King Richard,” he continued, “was a high and honorable lord. When Henry Tudor killed him, he dismissed Richard’s court, placed the English crown on his own head, and his buttocks on the throne. Some thirty others of royal blood have far better claim to the throne than Henry has.”
The friar had become angry.
“This Henry is a villain, a monster,” the friar exclaimed, his voice growing ever louder. “He even murdered two young royal princes, Edward and Richard, both of whom would have been far better kings.”
The murder of boys. That caught my attention. Was that about to happen to me?
“But,” he rushed on, “there is yet another Edward, the Earl of Warwick, son of the late Duke of Clarence, Richard’s brother, a boy who by every law, rule, and reason should be the true and rightful king of England, since his descent is nearest to the crown. He’s the one the people really wish to be their king.”
“Why isn’t he?” I asked.
“Henry Tudor imprisoned this Edward in the Tower of London. The boy, however, escaped. No one knows where he is, but I have found him.”
It was then that the friar stood tall and cried out, “It is you, boy, who are the Earl of Warwick. It’s you who are the rightful king of England.”
TWELVE
NO SILENCE COULD have been more silent than that which followed his words. “Astounded” is too small a word to describe my reaction.
Except—I could not help myself—I laughed.
“You think . . . I am . . . who?” I mammered, sure my tiredness had puddled my ears.
“You . . . are the rightful king of England.”
“Me?” I said, my eyes wide, almost as wide as my open-hanging mouth. “Me?” I repeated, hand over my staggered heart. “The king of . . . England?”
“And I,” said the friar, “have found you.”
I stared at the priest for a long moment and almost laughed again. But then I understood: The friar was insane. Mad. Brainsick.
I searched for signs: crossed eyes, frothing mouth, a thick and hanging tongue. Though I saw none, what Brother Simonds said remained utterly daft.
“Brother,” I said when I could finally find my voice, “I beg to tell you, what you’ve said is utterly wrong. I’m not who you say. I am nothing. I’m less than nothing. Ask Master Tackley. If that nothing could be cut in half, and all those halves cut into smaller bits, the smallest piece would still be . . . nothing. Nobody. Not royal in any way whatsoever.”
“You are who I say,” replied the friar, arms folded over his black-robed chest.
I studied him, equal parts puzzled and confounded. “Do you . . . do you . . . truly think so?”
By way of answer, he went down on one knee and bowed his tonsured head. “You are,” he said, “my rightful king.”
“Lambert the First?” I asked.
“Edward the Sixth.”
There I was, a sorry, farthing-less, ignorant boy, for whom nobody cared, yet here was a holy priest at my feet insisting I was the king of England. Could anything be more fantasti
cal? As I sat there, gazing at the top of his head, I giggled.
But when the brother remained on his knee, I began to grasp that he truly seemed to believe what he said. Did I believe him? Not for a moment! How could I? Me, England’s king? It was preposterous. Beyond preposterous. Insane.
Nonetheless, the friar, still bowed, continued. “My duty is to help you gain your rightful throne.”
I don’t know how long I sat there and stared at him, trying to make sense of this madness. I could not. At last, weary of the jest, I yawned and said, “Please, Brother, since I am a king, may I have my first wish?”
“What is that?”
“I want to go to sleep.”
“You will be up one floor. I’ll sleep here.”
I understood: He would be between me and the outside door—in case I tried to escape. Which is to say, I was in a cage, with a mad friar for a jailer.
THIRTEEN
BROTHER SIMONDS HANDED me one of the lit candles and had me go before him, up another flight of steps to a third level, which had a narrow hall. Never having been so high up before, I stood uneasily, pressing my toes on the floor to make sure the building was not about to fall. It seemed safer than the friar.
Off the hallway were two small rooms, empty except for some narrow rope-beds.
“Where shall I sleep?” I asked.
“Wherever you desire,” said the friar. “Just don’t attempt to flee. If anyone found you, you’d be punished as a traitor. Do you know what happens to traitors?”
“No, Brother.”
“You would be hanged, but before you’d fully died, your guts would be stripped out through your stomach wall and burned before you, while your beating heart would be removed and stuffed into your bloody mouth. Finally, your body would be cut into four quarters and nailed about the town.”
“God of mercy!” I cried, truly horrified. “Do you think me a traitor too?”
“I hope not. Now, say your prayers before you sleep. There’s much work to do tomorrow.”
“What work?”
“Making you king.”
“But—”
“You’ll do as you are told.”
I found some comfort in hearing that old command: “Do as you’re told.” It showed that, despite the friar’s lunatic words, I was still being treated as little more than nothing. I knew how to live with that.
Brother Simonds withdrew, but not before making a bow.
That time, since—as the saying went, only fools talked to fools—I just shrugged.
Yes, it was daft. But what was I to do?
FOURTEEN
THE FRIAR WENT down the steps, leaving me alone with but a feeble-flamed candle by my side. Darkness lay below. There were no sounds, save my flackering breath. Then a nearby church bell tolled midnight slowly. When it stopped, it left a deep, dead silence. At Tackley’s there were always people about, always talking, always roistering. The soundless dark hollowed me.
Me, king!
I think I may have laughed again, or tried to, but it was false, empty laughter. I understood what I truly was: a prisoner.
I sat on the top step. The more I thought about the friar’s words, the more outlandish my situation seemed. Beyond belief. As to why he had chosen to lay such a jest on me, I could not begin to guess. And what about that Earl of Lincoln? Did he also believe this absurdity? Me, who lived at the bottom of the world . . . going to the top.
Into my head came a picture of those players I had seen, in particular that player king with his fake crown, false beard, and wooden sword. Perhaps if I dressed like him I would please the friar. The thought made me smile.
But no, I reminded myself in haste, I’m not a king, I’m a kitchen boy. A scullion.
The candle faded out.
For a while I sat in the stone-still darkness. Then, on hands and knees, I scrabbled through the dark until I found a bed. Lying there I felt about my arms and my face, making sure I was still who I knew I was, Lambert Simnel, the dirty orphan boy, the muckworm.
Except the friar said I was royalty. The king of England.
I tried hard to recollect what I was before Tackley’s. In truth, I could not. As far as my memory served, my whole life had been at the tavern. No family. No friends. No memory of any other home. No remembrance at all, save that I was ignorant about everything.
It was as I lay there that I had a thought I’d never had before: Being ignorant meant I could not know what I was ignorant about.
From that, a new idea grew: Though I thought myself nothing—that did not necessarily make me so.
What if . . . what if . . . the friar spoke true?
“You are the rightful king of England,” he had said, and bowed down, which no one had ever done to me before. Why would he do that if he didn’t believe it? Surely he, a learned holy cleric, knew so much more than I.
I had always done what I was told because adults always told me what to do. Was not every adult a king to every child? Were not children always subjects to adults? I was no different. That meant that some adult, somewhere, at some time and place, must have told me to be a kitchen boy, and I became a kitchen boy—at Tackley’s.
Now I was being told I must be a king. Did that mean I must become one? But what did I know about being a king? Nothing.
What, I wondered, was I to do if Brother Simonds persisted in this folly? If he did—and he owned me—and if others like the Earl of Lincoln, “the most powerful of English lords,” agreed with him, what choice did I have but to do what I was told?
Into my thoughts came an image of Master Tackley bowing before me—the way the friar had done. That made me grin. Me, the king of England. Tackley at my feet. In truth, I liked that picture.
But it was silly. It would not, could not happen.
Deciding I must try to escape, I made my way down the stairs. Halfway along, I saw Brother Simonds on his knees at the bottom of the steps, blocking the way. He was praying. “Please, Lord,” I heard him say, “forgive me.”
I slipped back up the steps. Before I slept, I asked myself, Do mad men ask forgiveness for their madness?
My thoughts went back to that player king . . . and the piglet. How it had squealed . . . how people laughed. If I could be a player king like that, it might be sporting.
As I drifted off to sleep, the words “do as you’re told” echoed in my head.
Did that mean I must be king?
FIFTEEN
IN THE MORNING I woke with three thoughts:
I am not the king of England.
Brother Simonds is a lunatic.
I must escape.
I looked around. When I saw some outside light coming in, I realized there was a window at the far end of the house. Hoping I might flee that way, I pulled the window open and looked out, only to see rooftops and a street below me. There were people too, moving about, as well as an ox pulling a wagon. Then a horse and rider went by. A bird flew by . . . below! I, who had spent my whole remembered life in a cellar, as if in a tomb—it made me dizzy to see such things from such a height.
I also noticed a soldier standing before the entrance of our house. He wore partial armor, and was helmeted, kettle style, with a sharp pike in hand. Was he there to keep me from running off?
Not able to cope with Brother Simonds’s insanity, I wandered through the small rooms. They were not as empty as I first had thought. The people who had lived there must have left in haste, because things remained: a bit of cloth, a torn and pointed shoe, some bread. And, as I roamed, I noticed something under one of the beds. I pulled it out.
It was a round object, hardly bigger than my hand. Made of some dull metal, it was heavy for its size. One side was smooth. The other side bore an image of Jesus upon His cross.
My first thought was that it was some kind of token or pilgrim’s badge. Only as I turned it over did I realize it was actually two pieces, held together by a tiny hinge. Some kind of casket. Curious about what might be inside, I pried it apart, opening
it like a clam.
To my surprise a face peered back at me. I had found a mirror.
In my life I hadn’t looked at myself very often. When I had, it had been in a puddle or gutter stream and therefore never very clear. Since this was a rare, clear image, I gazed at myself with interest. What I saw was a youthful, filthy face framed by tangled, tawny hair that reached my shoulders. A stub nose. Blue eyes along with a frowning mouth, round chin, and hollow cheeks.
I studied the face and asked myself: Do I look like a king? The only image I could conjure up was that player king, and I certainly did not look like him. Perhaps if I tied a beard on. . . .
I put the casket back where I found it.
Hungry, I went down the steps to the second floor, where I found the friar at his prayers.
I knelt beside him and listened, not that I understood his Latin words, but remained by his side until I heard a sound. A woman had come up the steps and into the room.
She was an elderly dame, with gray hair mostly tucked beneath a cap. Her long dress was a deep red color, and she also wore a white apron. In her hands was a large basket.
Brother Simonds finished his prayers and looked about.
“Ah,” he said to the woman, “you’ve come from the earl. What’s your name?”
She curtsied. “Dame Joan, Brother. I’ve brought food and clothing.”
“Excellent! Go muck the boy outside and take away his tatters.”
Muck? I looked at the friar with puzzlement.
“Have you never been clean?” he asked.
“Why should I be?” I answered.
To the woman, he said, “Take him away!”
“Brother,” I told him, “there’s a soldier standing in front of the door.”
“To protect you.”
“From whom?”
“Your enemies.”
“What enemies?”
“Many.”
I shrugged. There was no end to this friar’s madness.