Archive for July 7, 2010

“My lord is dead,” the woman crooned, her silver-gilt hair spilling over her shoulders, glinting in the moonlight. “Foully slain by the fiend. My foe, my nemesis the Earl of Warwick.”

Her face twisted when she spoke his name rendering her extraordinary fecund beauty less. Beside her stood her mother, wizened crone, ancient magic-user, honer and wielder of lovecraft. This how she got her own man, his heart and soul stolen while he rowed her back to England from France where here husband, an old man, older even than she is now and she is an ancient raddled crone, had died. Some say her sorcerousesses hand was in that, but when they asked she just smiled mysteriously and let them jump to their own conclusion.

“Then you shall a better,” she croaked. “Come rising moon! Come depth of sea!”

Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford, stealer of men’s hearts and binder of souls, like her husband a poor knight who dared to marry a dowager duchess, though she was only fifteen at the time and dowager makes her sound a lot older, and was laughed at and, truth be told, still suffered from the taunts and mockeries of others, like the young Earl of March who had mocked him most cruelly in Calais, stood at the centre of the circle of power her daughter had traced in the dirt beneath the sacred oak. She raised her boney claw like arms in supplication to the gibbous moon.

“Goddess, grant us your favour.”

Elizabeth shivered, her mother’s raw power frightening her. It was a power she was heir to and one day she’d know it. One day she’d use it to defeat those who stood against her. Like maybe by raising a mist to confuse them in a battle like has been suggested by at least one popular author recently but she probably just doesn’t get it, I mean, there’s people been writing this stuff for a long time, and researching and thinking and she thinks she can come in as if no-one’s thought of it before and Hey! I know, I’ll write about the Wars of the Roses except I’ll call them something different so that people will think I know more than anyone else who’s been writing about them for years, I can pretend I’m the first who’s ever thought of it! and write about witches raising mists to confuse their enemies in battle which is what Elizabeth Grey, newly widowed widow and witch thought maybe she’d do one day.

“See,” her mother crooned. “See, he comes. On feet light with love. His youth shines. He brings you his heart. Do you not see?”

He was there, behind her eyes, taller than any man should be. A young and handsome knight, puissant and beautiful. Elizabeth gasped. Could she dare to aim so high?

“He will be yours, daughter,” Jacquetta whispered. “But you will need to bare your soul before the goddess. Whatever she asks you must promise to give.”

“I shall,” the young witch said, her voice trembling with fear at what they did. “Whatever she asks me, I shall give her. Even if it be my mighty and mysteriously tall and handsome lover’s first born son and his little brother, both of whom will be entirely innocent and darling, I’m sure. He shall be mine.”

And she fancied she caught on the wind the echo of a tinkling laugh.

Previously, I’ve migrated what I hope are interesting posts from the Feast to Facebook. This time, I’m doing it the other way around.

More from The Last of the Barons.

First Warwick:

This princely personage, in the full vigour of his age, possessed all the attributes that endear the noble to the commons. His valour in the field was accompanied with a generosity rare in the captains of the time. He valued himself on sharing the perils and the hardships of his meanest soldier. His haughtiness to the great was not incompatible with frank affability to the lowly. His wealth was enormous, but it was equalled by his magnificence, and rendered popular by his lavish hospitality. No less than thirty thousand persons are said to have feasted daily at the open tables with which he allured to his countless castles the strong hands and grateful hearts of a martial and unsettled population. More haughty than ambitious, he was feared because he avenged all affront; and yet not envied, because he seemed above all favour.

And later:

The earl was in the lusty vigour of his age. His hair, of the deepest black, was worn short, as if in disdain of the effeminate fashions of the day; and fretted bare from the temples by the constant and early friction of his helmet, gave to a forehead naturally lofty yet more majestic appearance of expanse and height. His complexion, though dark and sunburned, glowed with rich health. The beard was closely shaven, and left in all its remarkable beauty the contour of the oval face and strong jaw,–strong as if clasped in iron. The features were marked and aquiline, as was common to those of Norman blood. The form spare, but of prodigious width and depth of chest, the more apparent from the fashion of the short surcoat, which was thrown back, and left in broad expanse a placard, not of holiday velvet and satins, but of steel polished as a mirror, and inlaid with gold. And now as, concluding his task, the earl rose and motioned Marmaduke to a stool by his side, his great stature, which, from the length of his limbs, was not so observable when he sat, actually startled his guest. Tall as Marmaduke was himself, the earl towered [The faded portrait of Richard Nevile, Earl of Warwick, in the Rous Roll, preserved at the Herald’s College, does justice, at least, to the height and majesty of his stature. The portrait of Edward IV. is the only one in that long series which at all rivals the stately proportions of the King-maker.] above him,–with his high, majestic, smooth, unwrinkled forehead,–like some Paladin of the rhyme of poet or romancer; and, perhaps, not only in this masculine advantage, but in the rare and harmonious combination of colossal strength with graceful lightness, a more splendid union of all the outward qualities we are inclined to give to the heroes of old never dazzled the eye or impressed the fancy. But even this effect of mere person was subordinate to that which this eminent nobleman created–upon his inferiors, at least–by a manner so void of all arrogance, yet of all condescension, so simple, open, cordial, and hero-like, that Marmaduke Nevile, peculiarly alive to external impressions, and subdued and fascinated by the earl’s first word, and that word was “Welcome!” dropped on his knee, and kissing the hand extended to him, said, “Noble kinsman, in thy service and for thy sake let me live and die!” Had the young man been prepared by the subtlest master of courtcraft for this interview, so important to his fortunes, he could not have advanced a hundredth part so far with the great earl as he did by that sudden, frank burst of genuine emotion; for Warwick was extremely sensitive to the admiration he excited,–vain or proud of it, it matters not which; grateful as a child for love, and inexorable as a woman for slight or insult: in rude ages, one sex has often the qualities of the other.

Then Montagu:

The Lord Montagu bore a very different character from his puissant brother. Though so skilful a captain that he had never been known to lose a battle, his fame as a warrior was, strange to say, below that of the great earl, whose prodigious strength had accomplished those personal feats that dazzled the populace, and revived the legendary renown of the earlier Norman knighthood. The caution and wariness, indeed, which Montagu displayed in battle probably caused his success as a general, and the injustice done to him (at least by the vulgar) as a soldier. Rarely had Lord Montagu, though his courage was indisputable, been known to mix personally in the affray. Like the captains of modern times, he contented himself with directing the manoeuvres of his men, and hence preserved that inestimable advantage of coolness and calculation, which was not always characteristic of the eager hardihood of his brother. The character of Montagu differed yet more from that of the earl in peace than in war. He was supposed to excel in all those supple arts of the courtier which Warwick neglected or despised; and if the last was on great occasions the adviser, the other in ordinary life was the companion of his sovereign. Warwick owed his popularity to his own large, open, daring, and lavish nature. The subtler Montagu sought to win, by care and pains, what the other obtained without an effort. He attended the various holiday meetings of the citizens, where Warwick was rarely seen. He was smooth-spoken and courteous to his equals, and generally affable, though with constraint, to his inferiors. He was a close observer, and not without that genius for intrigue, which in rude ages passes for the talent of a statesman. And yet in that thorough knowledge of the habits and tastes of the great mass, which gives wisdom to a ruler, he was far inferior to the earl. In common with his brother, he was gifted with the majesty of mien which imposes on the eye; and his port and countenance were such as became the prodigal expense of velvet, minever, gold, and jewels, by which the gorgeous magnates of the day communicated to their appearance the arrogant splendour of their power.

And not till Book IV Chapter V… The Archbishop:

The archbishop had very little of the energy of Montagu or the impetuosity of Warwick, but he had far more of what we now call mind, as distinct from talent, than either; that is, he had not their capacities for action, but he had a judgment and sagacity that made him considered a wise and sound adviser: this he owed principally to the churchman’s love of ease, and to his freedom from the wear and tear of the passions which gnawed the great minister and the aspiring courtier; his natural intellect was also fostered by much learning. George Nevile had been reared, by an Italian ecclesiastic, in all the subtle diplomacy of the Church; and his ambition, despising lay objects (though he consented to hold the office of chancellor), was concentrated in that kingdom over kings which had animated the august dominators of religious Rome. Though, as we have said, still in that age when the affections are usually vivid, [He was consecrated Bishop of Exeter at the age of twenty; at twenty-six he became Archbishop of York, and was under thirty at the time referred to in the text.] George Nevile loved no human creature,–not even his brothers; not even King Edward, who, with all his vices, possessed so eminently the secret that wins men’s hearts. His early and entire absorption in the great religious community, which stood apart from the laymen in order to control them, alienated him from his kind; and his superior instruction only served to feed him with a calm and icy contempt for all that prejudice, as he termed it, held dear and precious. He despised the knight’s wayward honour, the burgher’s crafty honesty. For him no such thing as principle existed; and conscience itself lay dead in the folds of a fancied exemption from all responsibility to the dull herd, that were but as wool and meat to the churchman shepherd. But withal, if somewhat pedantic, he had in his manner a suavity and elegance and polish which suited well his high station, and gave persuasion to his counsels. In all externals he was as little like a priest as the high-born prelates of that day usually were. In dress he rivalled the fopperies of the Plantagenet brothers; in the chase he was more ardent than Warwick had been in his earlier youth; and a dry sarcastic humour, sometimes elevated into wit, gave liveliness to his sagacious converse.

I don’t know about you, but I’m breathless!

(This is my favourite chapter heading: