“I have heard that the Protector’s wife travelled south for the coronation. Perhaps I could pay her a visit, discover if she is party to her husband’s plans.”
“Oh, be careful, my lady. If you are implicated with the dowager queen …”
“I am aware of that, Dr Lewis. The Lady Anne is a good, trusting soul. I will be quite safe. Be alert for a summons. I may be feeling unwell in a day or two and have need of you.”
I order my women to make ready my finest clothes. Despite her status, Anne Neville is a modest woman; it should not be difficult to overwhelm her with grandeur. Pretending more confidence than I feel, I sweep up the stairs of Crosby Place and ask to be conducted to her apartment.
“Lady Margaret, this is a surprise,” she says when I am shown into her presence. I look for deceit in the warmth of her greeting, but find none. Her parlour is littered with embroidery silks and scraps of fabric. “I do apologise, I was not expecting guests.”
She begins to tidy up the table, placing colour upon colour while I look about and take a seat without invitation.
“I hope you are well.” I cast my eye over her delicate features and decide she does not look hale. Always thin, she is now drawn as well, as if marriage to the Duke of Gloucester is wearing.
“I am a little tired from the journey. I do not travel well.”
“And your son, he is well too, I trust?”
“Oh.” Her face softens. “Yes, he is very well. I miss him when I come away; that is why we spent so much time in Yorkshire before …”
“You have no need to tell me about missing a son, Lady Anne. I have been parted from mine for … oh, it must be twelve years or more now. The pain of missing him still bites deep.”
She looks at me, pale and calm, her eyes shining with unshed tears. I suddenly realise the futility of challenging such a pliant woman, and my body relaxes. I feel like a bully and lower my gaze to the floor. The hem of her gown is muddy, the leg of her chair has been chewed, and a bone with scraps of meat still on rests on the edge of the hearth. She follows the direction of my eye.
“Richard gave me a puppy … to stop me from fretting. His teeth are very sharp.”
I am tempted to ask if it is the puppy or her husband whose bite is sharp. But she is not worthy prey. I cluck my tongue when she shows me her wrist, which is peppered with tiny red teeth marks, and then I change the subject.
“We are all looking forward to the coronation. Such a shame it was postponed.”
She giggles. “Such a funny thing. The coronation robes had been made too small, and had to be done again. Richard was quite furious, but boys are like that, are they not? They grow in fits and spurts.”
“Henry was much the same,” I murmur, hoping against hope her explanation is true.
“It is only a few days to wait now,” she says. “Oh, look, here are our refreshments.” Our conversation lapses while a girl places the platters on the table, and pours wine into two cups. “I am so sorry that the queen – the dowager queen - will miss the ceremony. If it were my son, I would not miss it for the world.”
“Nor I,” I say, momentarily distracted by the sudden image of Henry, splendidly arrayed at Westminster Cathedral while the crown of England is lowered onto his head.
I shake myself and smile wider to disguise the Judas words I must speak. “I fear the loss of her husband has unhinged the queen a little, and pray to God she makes a speedy recovery.”
“At least she saw sense and allowed her littlest boy to join the king. My husband was relieved when she gave in.”
“She released Richard? He is in the Tower with his brother?”
“Yes, did you not know? My husband managed to persuade her it was for the best. We were so relieved, it was causing such gossip. Richard and I are going to visit them later … I have some lovely gifts for them.”
My heart thumps; I can hear clearly, loud it in my ears. Both boys are in the Tower. How did this happen without my knowledge?
The queen must be out of her mind. Gloucester must have applied force, or maybe Elizabeth learned something that gave her peace of mind, made her feel safe to trust him.
I cast aside the thought of little Richard in that oppressive place, and manage to smile brightly.
“So, will you live permanently at court now that your husband is Lord Protector?”
She plucks at a loose thread on her skirt.
“Not … I doubt I will be here all the time. Edward … it is better for the children to live at Middleham.”
“Children? I thought there was just the one son?”
She flushes, her pale face suddenly as red as her bodice.
“Richard’s natural son and daughter, John and Catherine, make their home with us. They are part of the family now.”
“How nice,” I say, my mind reeling with the knowledge that Gloucester, who is so damning of fornication, is not innocent of the sin himself.
I am torn between my need to meet the queen again and my desire to remain outwardly impartial. If I am caught fraternising with those who make an enemy of the Protector, I could damage my status at court. I have to think of Henry. If I find favour with the Protector, there is still the chance he will allow my son to come home.
Falling foul of Gloucester could mean that I end up in need of sanctuary too. That will not do at all. I decide to make a friend of Anne Neville, to become as involved with the forthcoming coronation as I can, and to curry favour with Gloucester.
We put aside talk of politics and concentrate on smaller things. I learn that she likes to hunt on the moors around her childhood home; she has a hawk named Nemesis, and a puppy called Troy. We have just begun to share our love of flowers when a door opens. We both turn toward the sounds of footsteps when she leaps from her chair.
“Richard, my lord. Lady Margaret has called.”
Gloucester moves forward with a smile of greeting, an outstretched hand.
“Lady Margaret, we are honoured.”
His hand is warm. He bends over me, his lips skimming the back of my wrist. I pretend not to be flustered.
“I meant to call on Lady Anne sooner, my lord, but – I recently suffered a chill.”
I will make penance for the small lie later. We settle down, resume our conversation. Gloucester perches on the arm of his wife’s chair, his hand on her shoulder, one finger caressing the base of her neck. It is an unconscious act, as if touching her is part of his nature.
“The gardens at Middleham are lovely, Lady Margaret; one day you must come and visit them. They are at their best in July; the summer takes a little longer to reach us in the north.”
“I would love to come. You must visit my house at Woking. It is my favourite residence.”
When the maid comes back with the puppy, it gambols into the room, tracking mud on the floor and planting two large footprints on the duke’s tunic. Laughing, Gloucester picks him up by the scruff of his neck and tucks him beneath his arm.
“I am going to rue the day I brought this chap into the household,” he laughs, tickling the pup behind the ear.
During the afternoon, although my conversation is mainly with Anne, I watch Gloucester carefully. I am confused. It is impossible to comprehend that this mild-mannered man, so obviously in love with his plain little wife, is the same fellow who sent Hastings to his death; who is not above bullying the queen for possession of her son; and who does not even attempt to disguise his hatred for the queen’s family. He is attentive and pleasant, amusing and gentle. Either he is playing a game and blatantly deceiving me, or he is not the tyrant rumour reports him to be.
I take my leave of them, more confused than I was before, and with few answers to the questions that rattle in my mind.
On the day that Richard of Gloucester dispenses with his mourning clothes and appears in public clad in purple, speculation bubbles from the bowels of the city.
There is much to do before a coronation, many details, both small and large, to attend to, but rumour has i
t that the business he pursues is not that of the young king.
The Protector rides through the streets, between Baynard’s Castle and Crosby Place, a great train of lords in his wake. Rumour is rife in the taverns and hostelries, malicious tales of evil intent, but no one can untangle truth from lie. We have just a few days to wait until the coronation; surely, nothing can go amiss now.
I have a new crimson gown with sarcanet sleeves, a headdress in the latest style, and a lightweight summer cloak. The arrangements have been made, the royal robes are ready, the streets swept and washed, and the crown of England polished and buffed ready to grace young Edward’s brow.
Soon it will be done, I tell myself, and once the new king is on the throne, all will be well and things will return to normal.
St Paul’s, London - 22nd June 1483
The sun, tardy so far this year, chooses this day to raise its head. It burns down like a punishment upon the nobles, magnates and commoners summoned to St. Paul’s Cross.
Dr Shaw, an obese man unsuited to so hot a morning, emerges from the church, takes his place before the cross, and clears his throat. A trickle of sweat journeys down his brow to the ridge of his nose. He wipes it away and looks with apprehension at the gathered crowd. After a glance at the sheaf of papers in his hand, he begins to speak.
His voice wavers, and then grows stronger. He glances up at us, and then away again. The people at the front begin to repeat his words dully, and as the intent behind them magnifies, murmurs of disbelief turn to outrage. The news swims swiftly through the assembly, like a flame held to the edge of a paper.
“Bastard slips shall take no root …” he cries, his sweat running like tears. While I stand fixed to the ground like a rock, brother turns to brother, neighbour to neighbour, questioning, sceptical … uncertain.
“What is he saying?” a woman near me asks her friend. “The prince is a bastard? The king’s marriage was no marriage?”
“That’s what he said.”
“What’s a pre-contract then? What does that mean?”
“It means he wasn’t free to marry her. The Woodville woman was his whore … for all those years … and when I think of all her airs and graces …”
They wander into the crowd, but still I cannot move. The significance of this moment does not immediately register in my mind. I hear a loud buzzing, like a swarm of bees. I think it is in my head.
A pre-contract? Can it be true? Elizabeth, the king’s mistress, no better than Jane Shore? Those darling boys, those perfect princesses, bastards all?
I remember Elizabeth’s fear, Elizabeth’s white face on the day she clutched my sleeve and spoke the words. “There are things Gloucester must never discover about the king.”
Instinctively, I know it is true. Poor Elizabeth is disliked by commoner and courtier alike; her virtue and grace never able to overcome the unforgivable stain of her common stock.
My feet lead me back toward the litter. I climb numbly on board and travel, without noticing, to Westminster. On the stairs, I bump into Thomas, and seeing my dazed state he turns and leads me to our apartments. The familiar rooms seem strange after the events of the morning. Nothing will be the same again. We stand, as if spell bound, not knowing what to do, what to say.
“It is not going to happen then?” His face is dark, lined, and troubled.
“It does not seem so.”
We both stare at nothing; the drapes on the bed, my book of hours left open, the brightness of the page so clean, so pure against the grime of the world we live in. I am so tired; my limbs are too heavy and the air in the chamber feels like treacle.
“What will happen now?”
He runs his big hands across his face, which has the pallor of putty, and into his hair, leaving it standing upright, as if it, too, is shocked. Our eyes meet in a horrid acknowledgement of his words before he speaks them.
“Gloucester will have the crown.”
I think for a moment, shaking my head to try to clear my mind and organise my thoughts.
“What of Warwick’s boy? Clarence’s son - what of him?”
“Well, there is an attainder on him for his father’s sins. Besides, Gloucester has the support of the council – no one wants a boy king.”
“Not even you.”
He turns bleak, defeated eyes upon me.
“No, Margaret, not even me.”
26th June 1483
I feel sick. Everyone feels sick. When the lords petition the Protector to accept the throne, he makes great protest against it. He is not born to be king, he says, he is happier in the north. Yet after just one day of dissembling, he agrees. King Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth is declared invalid, their offspring bastards. The sons of York are deposed – as simple as that.
Later, when I have soaked for an hour in a hot bath, suffered warm oil to be rubbed into my skin and my hair is smoothed and braided, a knock falls on my chamber door.
I hasten into a loose robe, thinking, surely there cannot be more bad news.
“Dr Lewis, at this late hour? I am sorry for keeping you waiting…”
The flames from the hearth throw fleeting shadows across his face, and I cannot determine if his expression is one of fear or sorrow. His words, when they come, speak of both.
“These are terrible times, my lady, terrible times, but I fear it will get worse. The queen is tearing out her hair …”
“I would imagine she is. I will try to see her as soon-”
He holds up his hand, rudely silencing me.
“You do not know the half of it, my lady. The queen learned this afternoon that, yesterday, on the orders of the Lord Protector, her brother Lord Rivers, and her son Richard Grey were beheaded at Pontefract Castle.”
*
I borrow the clothes of one of my servants, wrap her threadbare hood about my head and sneak from the house under cover of darkness. The night hides me from unwelcome eyes, but still I keep to the deepest shadows, walking as close as I dare to the wall.
Street refuse is thick beneath my feet and beggars lurk on the blackest corners. Fear churns in my belly. I have never been abroad unaccompanied so late before.
On my arm, I carry a basket of herbs; in my belt, for the sake of security, my knife is unsheathed. I should have confided in Ned, sent him in my stead, but I know it is me Elizabeth wants to see. She will not trust a go-between, not anymore.
For weeks, the Protector’s men have ringed the sanctuary, watching and reporting every visit, but now that both princes are in his hands, the queen is no longer watched so closely. I work my way around the perimeter until I reach the northwest corner of the precinct. There is just one door. I sidle toward it, looking over my shoulder for signs of pursuit. My hand creeps up the thick oak, groping for the knocker. I hang on to it before letting it fall, the resounding noise of my quest for admittance echoing along the passages.
It feels as if I wait forever for admittance. I bite my lip, sure that any moment a hand will fall upon my shoulder. Footsteps sound inside, and the grille slides back. A pair of wide blue eyes stares out, blinking into the darkness. I lift the edge of my hood and turn my face slightly into the moonlight. The door opens, and I squeeze through the small space.
Princess Elizabeth’s cheeks are ghostly white and her once merry face is sullen, her eyes ringed with worry and lack of fresh air. Here in sanctuary, she is like a pearl on the murky ocean floor; as the tide of sorrow rises, her beauty remains unadmired, her potential hidden.
“Where is the queen?”
I follow the direction of her pointing finger, her footsteps pattering in my wake.
“We cannot make her stop weeping, she will not listen … it has been days.”
The gloom in the inner vault is lifted only by the light of a single torch. The royal children sit in a row on a narrow bench, where Cecily nurses baby Bridget in her lap. On the low uncurtained bed, a figure lies prostrate. I step closer and put down my basket.
“Your Grace? I came as soon as I
heard.”
This is not true. I detest myself for taking time to bathe, and see to my own selfish needs. I hope she never learns of it. On hearing my voice, she stirs, raising her head from the pillows to look at me.
Her face is ravaged, reddened and lined with weeping, her hair snarled and matted, as if it has not seen a comb for a month.
“Margaret…” Her voice is thick, hoarse from weeping. Our once glorious queen pulls herself up to sit hunched on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. To keep my mouth from falling open, I clench my jaw until my teeth hurt.
“I have brought food, medicine … chamomile …” I rummage in the basket and turn to the princess. “Elizabeth, could you prepare your mother an infusion of chamomile?”
The princess, who has never received orders in her life, takes the package and wordlessly goes to do as she is bid.
“When did you last eat, Your Grace?”
Her eyes are hollow and her skin sallow; when she speaks, I realise that the sparkle that won her the love of the king has died during the course of these last sad weeks. The last vestige of her youth has fled. She shakes her head.
“I do not remember.”
“Here. I brought you some pastries.”
I hold one out to her and slowly she takes it, holding it as if she is unsure what to do with it.
“Try a bite, Your Grace. They are very tasty.”
Like an ailing child, she nibbles the edge, chews as if it is made of soot. Crumbs cling to her lips but she does not lick them off. I hold out a cup of wine, but she shakes her head, and the hand holding the pastry drops to her lap.
“You heard what he did?”
“I did, yes. I – I am so … sorry.”
What a futile word ‘sorry’ is; if only I could think of a better one. She laughs mirthlessly.
“Why are you sorry? You had nothing to do with it. It is Gloucester who will be sorry …”
Spitting crumbs and dribble, she speaks his name as if it is anathema. I realise that the balance of her mind is quite lost, and have no idea what to do, or how to help her.
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 27
