“Elizabeth is making a tisane of chamomile,” I say, for want of something better.
“Chamomile? What good will that do? It is a sword I need, an army and a strong king to lead it! Oh god, Margaret, I always feared this would happen … I warned Edward …”
She stops suddenly, as if afraid of saying too much. It is true then; the pre-contract, the lie they spun to the realm. Her sons have no true claim to the throne. Those poor little boys …
I pick up a comb. “Let me brush your hair, Your Grace. You know how it soothes you.”
I can feel the tension in her shoulders, the set of her head. I pick up a strand of matted hair. There are traces of silver in it now; just a few months ago, she was as fair as an angel.
It just illustrates what love and loss can do. As I tease out knots, I relate news of mutual friends, anything to keep her mind from her bereavement, and my own mind from the taunting realisation that the illegitimacy of her sons adds abounding strength to my Henry’s claim to the throne.
“I curse Gloucester,” she growls, as if she is endowed with the powers of witchcraft. “I curse him and all those he loves. I condemn him to pain and suffering such as he has inflicted on me, and I wish it to come upon him speedily.”
Under other circumstances, I would laugh, but our gentle queen plays the part of a loathsome sorceress very well. I shudder. If I were not so reluctant to offend her, I would cross myself against evil.
The comb slides though her hair. One side is smooth now, free of tangles. I select another section and begin work on it.
“I saw your sons the other day.”
She turns suddenly, grabbing my wrist, making me drop the comb.
“What did they say? Are they well? Do they forgive me for placing them in the hands of that … beast?”
“I did not see them to speak to. They were playing on the Tower green as I passed by. They were shooting arrows, and seemed very well.”
“For now.” She subsides into melancholy again. “Oh, what will become of them? Why did I let this happen? Margaret, listen to me; if you ever find yourself working against your better judgement, think again. Our inner minds always warn us when we are about to err, but we seldom listen … we seldom listen.”
Elizabeth enters with a tray of steaming cups, but I barely notice her arrival. The queen’s words have more than a ring of truth; I heard that inner voice before I left our apartments this evening.
Stay home, it said. Do not meddle. But I did not heed it. I came anyway.
I take the cup the princess offers; it is too hot, so I place it on the table and turn back to the queen’s toilette.
Cecily is telling the children a story about a knight on a quest to rescue his anointed queen. The fair heads of York’s children are poised for the conclusion of the tale.
What will become of them now? Royal bastards, their fortunes and future lost.
It is as if fate takes hold of me, forces me into action, and puts words into my mouth I have no wish to speak.
“Your Grace.” I kneel in front of her and grasp her hands. “Gloucester has the support of the council, but there are many who resent and despise his actions. There are many who were loyal to King Edward whose true allegiance is with your son. Perhaps all is not yet lost.”
She stares unseeing, unspeaking, her lack of response prompting me to continue.
“You must have patience, and put your faith in God. He will instruct us, if we only listen. I think, for the time being, we should pretend to support the Protector’s claim. There may yet be ways and means for us to win back what is lost. God will show us the way …”
“Gloucester is a monster; a usurper; the murderer of my son, and my brother. How can I feign trust in him when every fibre of my being cries out for his destruction?”
I sigh and frown into the sulky flames of the brazier, trying to fit the picture she paints to the man who entertained me so pleasantly the other afternoon. Gloucester does not have the eyes of a monster. Whichever way I look at it, I cannot make that picture fit.
“Your Grace, if I have realised one thing, it is that no human is purely evil; each of us must do as we must do, and suffer the consequences. If our own plans are to be fulfilled, then there are those who will suffer. They in turn will denounce us. If we fail in our resolve, we will be remembered as monstrous women – like Margaret of Anjou –or … or Isabella of France. She was no she-wolf, yet that is how she is remembered. Gloucester is not a monster; he is a man of greed, a man of ambition, and he will do anything to achieve what he wants. Just as you would; just as I would.”
Her eyes bore into mine. I detect a little madness, and a great determination.
“Just as we will do, Margaret. You and I will succeed in ousting Gloucester from my son’s throne. If it is the last thing I do, or if I must deal with the devil to do it, Gloucester shall not keep his stolen crown.”
Westminster - July 5th 1485
I have been summoned by Anne Neville to attend her later this afternoon, but first my husband and I wait upon the man who is soon to be king.
When we are shown into his presence, Gloucester is seated at a desk piled high with papers, scratching words upon a page. He stands when he sees us, wipes his ink-stained fingers on a cloth and moves toward us, hand outstretched.
He wears a short gown of crimson velvet with drip tassels and tawny sleeves. My immediate thought is how quickly and easily he put aside mourning for his beloved brother. His eyes are shadowed, but I can detect no sign of remorse for his callous actions.
“Stanley, Lady Margaret. I am glad to see you.”
Thomas and I make the proper response; my husband’s smile is wide and genuine, while mine is false. He ushers me to a seat and, as I take my place, a knock comes on the door and William Hussey, the lord’s chief justice, enters and joins us around the table.
Gloucester wastes no time on idle talk.
“We value your support in these unhappy times, and we are pleased to reward our friends.”
Thomas’s chest swells in gratitude. I make a soundless mew with my lips and smile feigned affection.
“Lady Margaret, it has been brought to my notice that there is some dispute between you and the Orleans family. Some debt that is outstanding?”
“That is so, my lord.”
I am wary now, uncertain of his intentions. For a moment, our eyes lock. His face closed and serious and I pray mine is the same. I must give no indication of resentment, never let him suspect my heart is with the deposed prince, and his little brother, Richard.
What are they feeling or thinking now, with no idea what is happening? Shut away from the world, deprived of their mother and family. Has this man no heart?
“I shall order it to be paid forthwith.”
I had not expected that. My face relaxes into a smile as I realise he has not summoned me to inflict some sort of punishment, but to buy me as his friend.
I wonder if it is a good time to broach the subject of Henry’s pardon. I open my mouth to speak but Gloucester sits down, running his hands over his face before turning to Hussey. “See that it is done,” he says.
I splutter my thanks, while Thomas beams his pleasure and turns the talk to tomorrow’s coronation.
For all the underlying sorrow of a population still reeling from the deposition of the boy king, Gloucester is determined it will be a splendid day. The arrangements for young Edward’s crowning remain in place; the only change in the proceedings is the monarch himself.
“I have ordered extra guards to ensure security is tight. Our cousin … ah!” He breaks off as the door opens to admit Henry Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham. He is tall and fair in the style of the late king, an imposing figure in any company. Although wed to Elizabeth’s sister, he is no friend to the Woodvilles, and has hitherto kept from court, returning only with the rise of Gloucester.
“I was just speaking of you,” Gloucester says, sweeping his arm wide to invite Buckingham into the company. As the duke
takes his place among us, I examine him for some family likeness, but see none.
Ignoring me, the men delve into the plans for the next day. I lower my gaze to my lap where my fingers are furiously entwined. How dare they ignore my presence and exclude me from the conversation as if I were of no account?
“Lady Margaret.” Gloucester breaks the conversation. “This is dull talk. I believe you have an engagement with my wife this afternoon. She could talk of nothing else over breakfast. Would you like to leave us?”
After a startled pause, I rise to my feet and curtsey in a middling way, since until tomorrow he is my equal, not my king.
“You are very kind, my lord. I thank you.”
Thomas accompanies me to the door and kisses my hand before we part, pleasure at the events of the morning kindling in his eye.
As I walk swiftly through the palace, my mind is teeming; gratitude and resentment battling for supremacy.
*
Anne stands at the window. She turns when I am announced and hurries forward to meet me in the centre of the room.
“I hope you did not think my invitation was a summons,” she says apologetically, gripping my hands tightly. “I meant it as a request from a friend.”
“Of course.” My smile for Gloucester’s wife is genuine. She has done nothing yet to earn my distrust.
“Come, let us sit down.” She leads me to the window, where she has spent the morning with her needle. She moves a piece of half-stitched linen. “So much has happened since I saw you last, Lady Margaret. I hardly know what to say.”
“So I would imagine. It is a surprising turn of events.”
“You cannot be more astonished than I. It is not something I ever looked for, I was quite happy …”
“You told me so before. Is your son coming for the ceremony? I suppose there will not be time.”
“No. Everything happened so fast. Those poor little boys must be so … confused. Their lives turned upside down.”
I clutch my fingers tightly, and keep my lips sealed. I can never give voice to all that I would like to say.
“Did you visit them since … the news …”
“We went a few days ago, but … things did not go well. They are resentful, believing it was Richard’s plan all along. I swear to you, Margaret, it was not. They were sulky and quite rude, I fear. The elder boy, Edward, complained he felt unwell, and little Richard is bored. He complained of missing his mother, and asked to go home.”
My heart squirms as I imagine his sorrow. My poor little lord. There is no one to comfort him there.
“Hopefully, they will be back in their mother’s care soon.”
Anne’s eyes are bloodshot, swimming with tears, her thin throat working with emotion.
“Richard says not. He says they cannot be released into her care until she leaves sanctuary and swears fealty to him as king.”
The sun will rise in the west before that day comes. I sigh and murmur platitudes, watching as she pours us both a cup of wine.
“I must get used to waiting for the servants to do this sort of thing for me,” she sighs. “I have ever been one to look to myself, ever since George imprisoned me in that cookhouse.”
I splutter into my cup, cough a little and dab my lips with a kerchief.
“I had always supposed that to be false rumour, Lady Anne. You mean it was true?”
“Oh yes. He – he did not want to share my father’s wealth with Richard, and when he discovered we wanted to wed, he took me there under false pretences and ordered me not to leave. He – he was not … very nice. He threatened all sorts of dire retribution on my mother and Isabel if I disobeyed.”
She plucks her skirt with long thin fingers, biting her lip as her mind returns to those dark days. Anne has lived as rough a life as I; worse in fact. At least I am strong and, as far as I am able, have taken control of my future. All her life, Anne has been buffeted by the men who had jurisdiction over her. First married to Edward of Lancaster at her father’s whim; then widowed and passed into the charge of her brother-in-law; then held hostage in a bake house. Now, just when she has achieved all her desires and borne a son to a loving husband, her life is turned upside down again.
I believe Anne when she claims she has never craved power or riches, and I know without doubt she does not look to be queen but, as usual, she will do as she is told. The strain on her face prompts me to search for words to make her feel better. I adopt a cheery smile.
“Sometimes, when it seems our path is littered with troubles, those troubles become joy.”
I think of my unlooked-for marriage to Edmund, and the unexpected happiness that followed. Even his death, that broke my heart, was tempered by the birth of Henry. “When life looks bleak, there is always light behind the next cloud.”
“Oh, I do hope so, Lady Margaret. Your words give me comfort. I was wondering if you would be so kind as to bear my train tomorrow, and serve me at the banquet. I am anxious about the trials of the day, and it will be reassuring to have a friend close at hand. You can intervene if it looks as if I am about to do something wrong.”
This time, my smile is genuine.
“I shall be honoured, Your Grace. And remember, you will be queen. Queens can do no wrong.”
Westminster - 6th July 1483
Anne is trembling. Her fear is tangible through the velvet and ermine train that I clasp between my fingers. As testament to their humility, the king and queen walk barefoot on a crimson carpet, but that is where the self-effacement ends.
No expense has been spared for this coronation; even the royal dogs have new jewelled collars. The streets of London have been decked with cloth of gold, and the white boar flies high above our heads. Some say that the joy of the crowd has been purchased, and if that is the case, then they do well, for their cries of God Save the King are deafening. The fickle hearts of commoners pay no heed to the fallen who paved Gloucester’s way to his stolen crown.
The sun glints across the sea of gold, red and blue; it dances on the bristling maces, mitres and crosiers. I have seen formality before, but none such as this. This day takes ceremony to the extreme and no one wants to miss it. Every notable in the country is here; some come with gladness, relieved that the problem of a boy king has been avoided. Some come with trepidation, suspicious of the new king but anxious to ingratiate themselves with him.
Gossips whisper of how the dowager queen screamed with fury when she learned of the honour bestowed upon me, and although I keep my chin high, my thoughts do stray to her.
How must she feel today? Gloucester’s crown seals the fall of her son, severing her elite path, spelling the demise of her power. Now and forever, she will be just Elizabeth Grey, the mistress of the late king. How capricious is fortune, how she must curse it. To think I envied her once.
The procession passes slowly through the crowded street, a vast serpent of power crawling ever closer to the cathedral. From a balcony above the street, young girls cast flower petals into the air and they rain down upon us like jewels in a shower of white and red. I can see little from my place of honour behind the queen, but somewhere up ahead, Thomas, bearing the Constable’s mace, takes precedence over every duke and earl present. He will gloat of his triumph later. He has high hopes for Gloucester’s reign, swears we will rise high beneath him.
Anne stumbles, dragging my thoughts back to the present. We pause momentarily while she steadies herself. I ensure her train is straight and follow as she moves on again. The head of the cavalcade is ascending the steps to the church. I wonder if Elizabeth and her daughters can see us. They cannot fail to hear the clarion of trumpets, the traitorous pleasure of the crowd.
At the west door, we pause again. Anne turns to me, her face tight with tension.
“Oh, Lady Margaret, I feel I will be sick.”
“No, you won’t, Your Grace. You must not even think of it.”
A piece of rose petal flutters down and sticks to her chin. I reach forward and remove it, s
how her it on the tip of my finger.
“Thank you,” she says. “Are my cheeks as red as they feel?”
Embarrassed at so much attention, her cheeks are scarlet, a sheen of sweat on her nose. Her lips are pale; her eyes red; poor Anne is not the stuff queens are made of.
I feel a sudden empathy with her. If I were in her place, I would not look the part either; few women possess the natural poise of Elizabeth Woodville. I have heard that it was wet on the day of her coronation, yet she shone like a diamond through the drops of rain. Anne is so homely, even the sunshine cannot make her fair.
“You are glowing, Your Grace, and quite beautiful,” I lie. She blushes all the deeper and flaps her hand at me.
“I fear you exaggerate, Lady Margaret. If beauty were wealth, I would surely be a beggar.”
“Come, they are waiting for you.”
She grimaces before turning around to face the coming ordeal. As I pick up the end of her heavy train again, the doors open wide and a fanfare of music greets us as we enter the nave.
As Anne takes her place beside the king, I have the leisure to observe him for the first time this day. Beside Buckingham and the Duke of Norfolk, he seems small; his face is pinched and pensive. For a moment, I am reminded of a boy in his big brother’s clothes, ill-at-ease, uncomfortable, as if his sumptuous velvet robes are lined with thorns. The look he gives Anne when she takes her place beside him is one of compassion, as if he understands her anxiety and shares it.
The great golden shrine of Westminster Abbey endures, as we must endure the interminable ceremony. Richard of Gloucester takes his place in a line of monarchs stretching endlessly into the past. When the time comes, Richard and Anne’s upper clothes are removed, and Thomas Bourchier, the Archbishop of Canterbury, anoints them both with holy oil.
I wonder it does not burn him.
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 28
