The queen grasps my upper arms, plants a kiss on my forehead.
“God be with you, Margaret. You are a true friend.”
“And may He be with you also, Your Grace.”
I sink into a formal curtsey, and kiss the back of her hand. I rise just in time to see the back of her skirts as she sweeps through the door.
The queen is gone. She has fled the palace in fear of her life.
London - May 4th 1483
I watch the boy king ride into the capital. He comes by way of Barnet. The morning sun glints upon the armour of the long cavalcade of knights, the pennants snapping in the stiff breeze, the trumpets deafening.
The crowd calls a hefty welcome to the boy who sits so steely straight on his horse, but he makes no response. Gloucester shifts in his saddle, addresses the king from the corner of his mouth, and Edward obediently raises his hand, waves woodenly to the crowd who bellow in response.
Remembering to appear inconspicuous, I wave and cheer with the rest but the boy on the horse is not the Edward I knew. He seems like a stranger.
From my place on the city wall, I study the scene, examining the king, observing his relationship with his uncle. The boy looks well in body but I detect a soreness of spirit; his eyes are red-rimmed, the dark circles around them contrasting sharply against his stone white face.
Who would not be shaken? His father has recently died. The uncle he knows and loves has been thrown in gaol, replaced by an uncle he has seldom met.
His cousin, my kinsman, the Duke of Buckingham, rides proudly just behind, his Plantagenet bright hair marking his close relationship with the king. Gloucester is small and dark, in the mould of his father, the late Duke of York. He is the least comfortable member of the procession. He keeps one hand on the king’s bridle and looks neither left nor right. After his coup, the seizure of power over England, I had imagined he would give some sign of joy, but his face is troubled, as if he would rather be somewhere else.
The King is taken to the Bishop of London’s palace, where magnates and citizens swear their fealty to him. Soon, the palace teems with people come to pay their respects to the new king; tailors come to measure him for his coronation robes; jewellers waiting to fit his crown. While the palace is consumed by tradespeople, Richard of Gloucester remains out of sight. I imagine he concentrates on state matters.
As the queen predicted, it is not long before many of the old king’s ministers are replaced with Gloucester’s friends. To our relief, my husband, along with Hastings, Rotherham, Stillington and Morton remain in office. Between them, they decide that the king should follow tradition and be moved to the royal apartments at the Tower, there to await his coronation.
New coins are struck, showing the name of Edward V; it is a new era. I wonder how this reign will be remembered; a child king has never boded well for England.
When I have occasion to see my husband, I swallow my reluctance to be in his company and glean all I can of the happenings at the council. Soon, I will be able to report to the dowager queen that Gloucester’s attempts to have her brother and son, along with Vaughan and Haute, accused of treason have met with resistance.
Her other brother, Edward Woodville, does not fare so well. Refusing orders to disband the royal fleet and return home, he sails indecisively just off-shore.
As soon as I have ample information, I make my first visit to the queen in sanctuary at Westminster. It comes as a shock. The accommodation is a far cry from the royal court apartments.
The queen shares one room with her children; her brother, Lionel, and her son, Tom Grey, share another. Although her coffers are full of jewels, and she is dressed in court clothes, they sit oddly with her surroundings. Tapestries adorn the damp stone walls, torn from the royal apartments on the day she fled. The light is dim, and despite the soaring temperatures outside, the air is frigid. To make things worse, the children, having no understanding of their circumstances, are bored, fractious and miserable.
In all this squalor, Elizabeth remains a queen. She orders her one servant to procure food, and complains when it is tainted or poorly cooked.
“The coronation has been moved back to the twenty-second day of June,” I whisper. “Nobody knows the reason.”
“I know the reason.” She spits her words like venom. “He delays because he wants to lay his hands on my Richard, and once he has them both ...”
My eyes stray to where Prince Richard plays ball with Anne, who has been told to entertain him. She passes the ball sulkily back.
“You are no fun, Anne,” Richard shouts. “Throw it properly.”
To be incarcerated in here with six irritable children is a form of torture. I thank God and his saints I found a way to avoid accompanying her.
“And once he has them, he will seek a way to stop it altogether,” the queen continues, drawing back my attention.
“He cannot do that,” I hiss.
Elizabeth and Cecily, supposedly nursing Catherine and Bridget, strain their ears to hear our words. I send them a cheery smile.
“Yes. Yes, he can. Or, at least, he will try …”
“But he will not find a way – my husband assures me the council would not tolerate it.”
“Wouldn’t they?”
I stare into her hollow eyes, the once radiant face now a landscape of failing hope. The candles dip and dance, the shadows deepening the lines about her eyes, enhancing her despair. She is the keeper of secrets.
The hair on my neck lifts, the sense of danger rising like a wave, drenching me with foreboding.
“Do not come here again.” She scrawls a name on a piece of parchment and thrusts it into my hand. “Send to me by way of Dr Lewis; I would lay down my life on his loyalty.”
Dr Lewis is my physician, who also provides his services to the queen. We grip hands, and our eyes meet. I hope they express more certainty than I feel.
Here, in the sanctuary of the church, they are as good as captives. My heart goes out to them, my determination to right the wrongs against them uppermost in my heart.
“God be with you, Margaret,” she says, her eyes hollow of hope.
I nod speechlessly, suddenly acutely aware that our world, so recently stable, has been turned upside down.
We shall never right it.
I kiss her hand, and find myself suddenly swamped in her embrace. With a grim smile, I wrap my cloak about me and make my way, as quietly as I can, from the dark gloomy rooms the queen must now call home.
Creeping along close to the wall, I am a felon; the thought makes my skin quiver. Before venturing into the open, I pause beneath an arch. There is no one about so, drawing my cloak closer, I take a deep breath and prepare to leave the cover of the wall. As I do so, a figure appears from nowhere and canons into me. I glimpse dark skirts, a plain workaday coif.
“Beg pardon, my lady.” The woman flees, her face averted, and I continue on my way. As I go, her voice, her accent, resonates in my ear; I recognise the sound but cannot place it.
Uncertainty and distrust leach from every conduit, every pore of Westminster Palace. My husband is close in his dealings and refuses to speak, even to me. I have no idea if he is loyal to Gloucester, or if he merely bides his time until after the coronation.
Once Edward is crowned and the uncertainty is spent, we will all breathe again. In the meantime, I have to discover what is going on, and to find out Thomas’s business, I have to pry without seeming to. Careful not to raise his suspicions I ensure my voice is light, as if his answer does not matter.
None of us can know the path ahead, but I sense great events looming. Alone in my chapel, I pray that, be they good or bad, those I love may emerge unscathed.
Once the boy Edward is king, he can protect his family, the dowager queen can leave sanctuary, and things can return to normal. There will be feasting and dancing again, and Henry can come home. I pray for that; for the comfort of familiar things is the only future I can bear.
Until then, an unnamed thr
eat hangs above our heads like a curse. Yet when the hammer of fate descends, it is so awful that all of us are taken unawares.
I sit in the solar, my eyes blind to the tapestry I pretend to work on. My head teems with ideas, with possible answers, which I dismiss as soon as they form. I have not eaten a full meal for days, the sickness to my stomach making all before me appear green and unappetising. When I hear a step on the stair, I expect to look up to find my woman bringing yet another unappealing dish to tempt me.
“Margaret.”
“Thomas.” My sewing falls to the floor as I leap to my feet and go to greet him. He is pale, visibly shaken. “What is the matter?”
“I – the Protector – Hastings is dead. Beheaded without trial, without warning, without shrift …”
The blood leaves my head so swiftly I fear I will fall.
“Hastings? How? Why?”
Thomas tries to conceal his trembling but he is as white as a winding sheet. I grab his hand and he winces. I look down to find us both smeared in his blood.
“You are wounded.”
“There was a scuffle. I got away. Margaret, I have to tell you, I fear I am about to be arrested for treason.”
“Why? What have you done? Tell me from the beginning; what has happened?”
“There was a meeting of the council. At first, it seemed like any other, but I slowly came to realise that Gloucester was uneasy, on edge. His pleasantries with Morton about the tastiness of his strawberries was stilted, like a bad mummer’s play. His voice was distant, wooden, as if a curse had been laid upon him. He left us for a while, and we sat around talking, complaining of the heat. Then, when he came back – he was angry; like a beast. I have never seen him like that before. I had always thought of him as a small man … but in his rage …
“He began shouting about a plot against him, screaming of treachery, spies, accusing Hastings of betrayal and whoredom, of being the cause of the late king’s death. We all sat agog, amazed and unable to speak, until he drew his sword and ordered that Will be taken outside and beheaded, immediately.
“It was a horrific dream. We leapt to our feet and there was a struggle; I think that is when I was injured. Gloucester was raving like a wounded bear, but there was nothing the guard could do but obey him. There was nothing any of us could do to stop him. He is Protector, after all. I have never felt so sick in all my life.”
“The queen was right.”
“About what?”
After a cursory glance at his wound, I tear a strip from my shift and bind it about his hand; it is just a scratch, but I would like to apply ointment and a clean bandage. There is no time. If Thomas is to escape arrest, he must leave now.
“Go to Westminster; warn the queen what has happened. Perhaps you should stay there …”
“Sanctuary is no safeguard against York; remember Tewkesbury? No, I will take my chances. He has nothing against me. If I flee, it will make me look guilty when I am not. Margaret, I swear, I am loyal … to whoever is crowned king.”
“I know. Who else is in danger? What others were arrested?”
“Morton.”
“The Bishop?”
“Yes, and John Forster too. He also accuses Jane Shore of intriguing against him.”
“Jane Shore? Is she innocent?”
He laughs humourlessly.
“Of intrigue, at any rate. Her loyalty to the late king is undeniable, and I see no reason why she would not support his son. Her loyalty to Gloucester is more doubtful.”
Suddenly, I recollect the shadowy female form hurrying toward Westminster sanctuary; the voice I could not place. Everything falls into place. I did not recognise Jane Shore without the splendour of her court attire, the merriment stripped from her voice, but I know without doubt it was her.
Thomas watches me, trying to read my explosive thoughts. I gather my wits, before he suspects me of intrigue too.
“This plot. What do you know of it?”
“Nothing! I swear it, Margaret.”
He looks unflinchingly into my eyes, and I believe him.
“Nevertheless, you must go now, Thomas, if you value your life.”
“I have done nothing wrong.”
“No, but remember, my lord, neither had Hastings.”
15th June1483
The day of Jane Shore’s shame is the first that I feel any liking for, or any empathy with her. The Protector, a virtuous man compared with his late brother, has a vendetta against fornication, and he punishes Jane by forcing her to make a public walk of penance.
The streets are lined with people come to witness her disgrace, but it will not be her sin that is remembered in the taverns this night. When they recall the punishment of the king’s whore, men will speak only of her beauty.
The finery, donated by the late king, has been stripped away, leaving the outline of her body clearly visible through her kirtle. Yet her pride is undamaged, her loveliness undimmed, and she keeps her head high.
I see her with new eyes, discover a lurking admiration and realise there is more to Jane Shore than wantonness.
Some say she did not wait for the king to die before taking up with her lover, William Hastings. It is clear she has colluded with him since and is guilty of intrigue, but Gloucester can prove nothing. Instead, he blames her for the fall of his brother, and for leading his one-time friend into sin.
He charges her with harlotry and, yes, of that she is guilty, but surely, surely no woman on earth deserves punishment such as this.
As I witness her disgrace, I am shamed too, as if this punishment is levelled at all women. How is it that men feel the right to inflict so harsh a penalty? Were it not for male lust, there would be no whores. Jane’s virtues, of which there must be many, count for nothing, yet she is not an evil woman.
During her time at court I have never heard her utter an unkind word. Her love for the king was undeniable, her attempts to heal discord at court admirable. Once, when Prince Richard fell in the gardens, I saw Jane take him upon her knee, kiss the sore place on his leg, and distract him by showing him a popinjay. That was not the act of a sinner.
No one is pure; every one of us is touched by sin. Perhaps Gloucester should take care lest his lack of charity comes back to haunt him.
Occasions such as this are usually accompanied by ribaldry; the crowd screaming insults, hurling clods of filth, in some cases punching and kicking the hapless victim. But today, the crowd stays silent as she passes. Her radiant beauty contrasts sharply with the drab streets; the mizzling rain and the bright halo of her hair cast doubt upon the depravity of which she is accused.
As she draws close to where I stand, I lower my eyes, embarrassed in case she should see me watching. I follow her bare, bloodstained feet as they move through the shite of the gutter. My silent prayer is for humanity, for all of us are sinners.
*
I return home with a heavy heart, my thoughts mired with trouble, and find Thomas pacing the floor in the parlour.
“They released you!” I cry, inexplicably pleased to see him. His spell in gaol after his arrest as a suspect in Hastings’ plot against the Protector is over. I thank God he has been released so soon.
“You must be starving.”
I summon a maid, sending her to fetch us a light supper, and order a bath be made ready in his chambers. We seldom eat together in the privacy of our apartments but distrust and uncertainty are so rife at the court that, tonight, we instinctively keep our own company.
From time to time during our meal, I look up and smile, but Thomas is silent, his thoughts far away. I want to ask about his involvement in the plot. I think I know his mind; I believe his loyalty is to the young king, and he shares my reservations about Gloucester’s suitability as Protector, but we do not speak of it. It is safer not to.
Instead, I pour another cup of wine, remarking upon its sweetness, the tastiness of the game pie, the deliciousness of the honeyed tart. His noncommittal grunts serve as reply.
; As we finish our meal, Dr Lewis arrives, and I meet him in the privacy of an antechamber. He throws back his concealing hood to reveal a care-lined face that forewarns me of heavy news.
“Gloucester went yesterday morning to see the queen. She says he entreated her to leave sanctuary, promising her safety and a prominent place at court as the king’s mother. She refused, will not even consider it.”
“Would you trust him, if he had thrown your brother into gaol?”
“Probably not.” Dr Lewis shakes his head. “When she refused, he asked that her boy, Richard, be released into his care. He claimed the king is lonely and in need of his brother’s company.”
I raise my eyebrows at this. Edward and Richard, despite their brotherhood, are not well acquainted. Edward’s upbringing took place on the Welsh border, and Richard was raised at Westminster – even when their father was alive, they only met on high days and holidays.
“The queen refuses to leave, and she refuses to give up her son,” Dr Lewis whispers. “She accuses the Protector of ill deeds against her. She says he bullies her. As a result, Gloucester has lost patience and has placed a ring of guards about the sanctuary. I can no longer enter unobserved.”
“The queen will know to feign sickness so that you will be permitted to see her. Gloucester will not want her to die; that would look bad for him.”
He shakes his sorry head, rubs his beard, which rasps beneath his fingers.
“I will be watched. I have a bad feeling,” he says. “The Protector means to have his way.”
Our eyes meet. His are bloodshot and tired. What can we do? What can any of us do to stop this?
I perch on the edge of the table, my thoughts scurrying in search of a path through this maze of doubt. Nothing is sure, and nobody is a certain friend. I cast my thoughts back to other times when I knew not whom to trust. Was there ever a woman as fraught with trouble as I?
The face of Anne Neville floats before me, her return to court after Tewkesbury before Gloucester first took her for his wife. She was as lost then as ever a woman has been. An idea suddenly springs into my mind, as if from nowhere.
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 26
