The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [52]
“Boldly he mounted his great white steed,
He gazed upon the sky,
His slender hands took up the reins
And a tear stood in his eye.
He brushed it back with a mailed hand,
‘We ride to battle,’ he said.
‘I’ll live a king or die a king,
And I’ll have the Tudor’s head.”
Thomas slid farther down in his chair. A kindly man, he never enjoyed watching people make fools of themselves. This was worse than the piano recitals of his friends’ untalented children. Slender hands and tear-filled eyes…“I doubt if he cried much,” said Jacqueline’s caustic voice in his inner ear.
Fortunately the last verses were more or less inaudible. Richard’s gallant death—the word “gallant” appeared pretty often in the work—moved Lady Isobel to gulps and unintelligibility.
Even Weldon looked shaken when the distraught poet dropped into her chair, resembling not so much a drooping lily as a wilted stalk of crabgrass.
“No applause, please,” he said, as the other guests eyed one another with varying emotions. “It would be quite inappropriate after that…that…er. My dear Isobel, take some wine.”
Lady Isobel had taken too much wine already, Thomas thought. She complied, however, and smiled wanly as Weldon patted her on the shoulder.
“The muse,” she murmured. “Such a hard taskmistress…It takes such a lot out of one, Richard.”
“I know,” said Weldon. “It does indeed….”
The next performer was Liz, who sang several medieval ballads in a pleasant, if undistinguished, voice. The only ones Thomas recognized were Dufay’s “Adieu, m’amour,” and a religious song by Dunstable. Liz then announced that she would scream if anyone asked for “Summer Is Icumen in” or “Greensleeves.” The rector, who had been about to request the latter, closed his mouth and looked confused.
After the doctor had given a demonstration of how to put on a suit of armor—from which he had to be removed by two of the burlier servants—Philip took the center of the stage. It was an unfortunate choice of entertainment; the mood of the gathering was uncertain to begin with, and the two soliloquies from Richard III did not lighten it. The first, the opening “Now is the winter of our discontent” was a bit of sparkling black humor; but then Philip went on to Richard’s agonized speech on the eve of Bosworth. All of them knew the setting: Richard, snatching a few hours’ sleep before the morrow’s battle, is visited by the specters of his victims, all mouthing the same curse, “Despair, and die!”
Philip became the twisted, tormented villain of Shakespeare’s play. His voice rang all the changes of human passion—defiance, terror, remorse. It dropped to a ringing whisper on the final lines:
“I shall despair. There is no creature loves me;
And if I die, no soul will pity me:
Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself?”
The spellbound audience paid the performer the supreme tribute of silence even after he had straightened up and shed his player’s skin. He strolled nonchalantly back to his place at the table; and Thomas saw Liz shrink back as he seated himself beside her. He didn’t blame the girl. It had been too good a performance to be wholly comfortable.
Weldon gestured; and from the darkness of the gallery, pipes and drums burst forth in a dance tune. The diners rose; all of them had practiced medieval dancing. Thomas heaved himself out of his chair, although he was dubious about his ability to move, much less tread an airy measure. As he moved gingerly away from the table, Kent plucked at his sleeve.
“Feeling queasy?”
“Well…”
“Me too. Come along. I know what we