The Queen of Last Hopes

by Susan Higginbotham

  I nodded. “She told me that Henry would know what to do, and that I should follow his lead.”

  “That may be the blind leading the blind,” Alice said. “At the age of sixteen, the king declared that he would not have sexual intercourse outside of marriage, and as far as anyone knows, he has kept his vow.”

  “Oh.” I grasped Alice’s hand. “Then what shall I do?”

  “Just be yourself. The king is fond of you already; anyone can see that.” She patted my cheek. “Don’t fear, your grace. No matter what the king does, he will be gentle about it.”

  Our bed in the abbey’s best guestroom already having been blessed, there was nothing to do now but to let Alice help me into it and tuck me under the covers. A moment or two after Alice left, the king himself, followed by two manservants, came in. I looked away nervously as they stripped Henry of his robe, leaving him clad only in a nightshirt, and put him into bed beside me.

  Henry touched my cheek, which still bore a trace or two of my pox. “Are you sure you are well enough for this, Marguerite?”

  I noticed with some pleasure that he preferred the French form of my name. “I am very well.”

  He studied the little part of me that was not hidden beneath the covers. “You’re very delicate looking. And small-boned. Perhaps—”

  “I am petite, as are my mother and sister. I shall probably never grow much larger.”

  Henry smiled. “You can tell I’m very nervous, can’t you? I’ve not known a woman before, Marguerite. I chose to wait until this night.”

  “I am honored that you did.” How long could we go on like this? I found myself wishing for the Suffolks, who would surely help us around this impasse. I pictured them holding me while Henry did his business, as I’d once seen a reluctant bitch being held at Angers. A fine litter of bloodhounds had resulted. I smiled, and Henry took me in his arms and tentatively began to caress me.

  It has been said that my husband was mad even back then, which is nonsense, and that he was a saint, which I will leave up to the Church to decide. Whichever tale was told, the end result was the claim that he could not or would not perform his most elemental duty as a husband. Those who say that lie. Shy and hesitant Henry might have been at first, but his hands soon grew more assured, and when I made a motion to indicate that my shift was getting in our way, he himself untied it and cast it aside, then lay looking in wonder at my nakedness in the dim light from the cresset lamp that hung overhead. “You’re lovely,” he said, and lay his body fully against mine.

  ***

  Indulge me a moment, for I have been paraded through the streets of London twice; once as a queen and once as a vanquished foe, a trophy of someone else’s victory. Although it is the latter occasion that wakes me sometimes in the middle of the night, shivering, I find that more and more often, as I sit in my borrowed chariot at Dampierre on the days that I am well enough to go out for a ride, my mind drifts back to those perfect days in May where all London had spread itself out before me in welcome.

  On the day before my coronation, I rode from my royal apartments at the Tower to Westminster, where I was to spend the night. I, my horses, and my litter were all in white, in my case, in white damask powdered with gold. Though my marriage had been consummated, custom obliged me to dress as a virgin, with my hair hanging loose beneath the gold crown, festooned with pearls and precious stones, that I had worn at my wedding. The street sellers had been hawking daisies in my honor, and as I admired my surroundings as we passed through the broad street of Cheapside, I smiled to see them in buttonholes and pinned to caps, and even in garlands woven in young girls’ hair.

  Peace and plenty! It was the theme of all the pageants that greeted me, all of the tournaments that followed my coronation, every sermon that was preached within a mile of London. It was the chant of the people as I made my way through the city streets in my fine litter, and when I exited Westminster Abbey on May 30, 1445, as their crowned queen. Full of optimism and the red and white wine that flowed from the city fountains that day, the people were still chanting long after Henry came to my bed that evening and loved me, noticeably more ardently than he had to date. I myself responded in a manner that I hadn’t before, which far from shocking Henry had emboldened him. If I weren’t carrying Henry’s seed within me before, I thought contentedly, I certainly must be doing so now after all that. “Was it the crown?” I teased, the first time I’d dared to do so.

  Henry stroked my hair and kissed me on the lips. “No. Just the fair Marguerite underneath it. You have brought me great happiness, my love.”

  “And you to me, my darling.” I closed my eyes and let myself drift off in Henry’s arms as the last chants of “Peace!” died away.

  As part of the bargain under which I was married to Henry, my uncle Charles, the King of France, had entered into a two-year truce with England. This meant that for any lasting peace, there would have to be further negotiations, and those negotiations came that same July, at Westminster. I stayed at Windsor Castle, for as a woman, I had no place in the negotiations and wanted none. I was content to read the magnificent book, full of romances in my native language, that the Earl of Shrewsbury had prepared for me, to try out my new bloodhounds, and to practice my English with my ladies, who now included a number of Englishwomen as well as some of the women who had accompanied me from France.

  One day, having taken a break from the negotiations, which were mainly being conducted by Suffolk, Henry brought a guest with him to Windsor: Bertrand de Beauvau, lord of Précigny. He had long served my father, and my husband had invited him to Windsor as a surprise for me. After we had walked around the castle grounds a bit and he had caught me up on the news of my family, Bertrand asked, “Have you broached the matter with the king yet?”

  “No.” I began to wish my husband had not thought to please me with this guest.

  Bertrand frowned. “My dear child, we spoke of this before you left France. There can be no peace without the ceding of Maine, and as the queen, you are in the best position to influence Henry.” He looked sharply at me. “You are on good terms with the king?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Are you with child, perchance? There would be no better time—”

  “I am not with child that I know of.”

  “Aye? Does the king come to your bed regularly? Don’t blush, girl. This is a matter that concerns very many people beside the king and yourself.”

  “He does.”

  “How often?”

  “That is our own business, sir. Suffice it to say that we are happy together, and I have no doubt that I will bear him a child soon. As for your other concern, he has given me many presents since we have married, more than I have ever had in my entire life.” I looked down at my elaborate gown and jewels, all gifts from the king, and at the little dog that trotted beside me, which had come to me from my husband only the week before. “I will only seem greedy if I bring up the matter now. When the time is right, I will.”

  “This is not a hunting pack or a new gown. This is Maine. It is what your father expects you to obtain from the king, and it is what your uncle Charles expects you to obtain from the king.”

  “I fully understand that! I am no dunce. I have been told that from the very day the Marquess of Suffolk arranged the betrothal.”

  “Suffolk,” said Bertrand. He stroked his chin. “That’s a tack we may want to take. I believe Suffolk’s half in love with you, judging from those sheep-eyed looks he was giving you back in France. You must keep your virtue, of course, but perhaps at the same time lead him on; with skill it could be managed. But perhaps you’re too young to bring it off. Pity the beauteous Agnes Sorel wasn’t more in your company before you came here; she could have—”

  “I do not require lessons from my uncle’s mistress, sir, and Suffolk has been like my second father. Lead him on, indeed! Every word you say is odious to me.”

  “Spoken like a good Englishwoman,” Bertrand said. “Maybe that’s the pro
blem, you are forgetting your own country? Maine is your father’s by right.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  “Then I would think you would want to see it back in his hands. Why are you so shy about asking? It would benefit your husband as well as your father; he would have peace, which he seems to want. Which is more than I can say for his uncle, that old fool Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester.”

  I had met the duke and his grown bastard children, Arteys and the oddly named Antigone, on my way to London. All had been quite pleasant, and the duke’s house at Greenwich, which he called Placentia, was stunning. “They say he is a very cultivated man.”

  “Oh, he is, but a man can quote from the Greek and still be a fool, you know.” Bertrand tossed a stick for my dog, his usual good nature restored by his glee in describing Gloucester’s folly. “He hasn’t quite grasped that he’s no longer in high favor with your husband. Your average man would have realized that after his wife was locked up as a witch.”

  “I heard something about that from the Marquess of Suffolk, but he wasn’t at leisure to mention it to me at the time.”

  “Meaning he didn’t wish to be overheard? Oh, it was quite the scandal over here a few years ago.” Bertrand sent another stick flying. “The Duchess of Gloucester was tried for forecasting the king’s illness and death. Rather a foolish thing to do when your husband is heir to the throne, don’t you think? But of course, that’s why she did it, and she’s lucky to have escaped with her life. A couple of her associates burnt for their part in the scheme, but she was imprisoned. She’s still a prisoner, although many have forgotten that she’s still alive. Anyway, the witchcraft is just one of the reasons Gloucester’s out of favor with King Henry. It didn’t help matters that Gloucester ordered the arrest of the king’s stepfather, Owen Tudor, for presuming to marry the king’s mother. Of course, Suffolk’s done nothing to enhance Gloucester’s reputation with the king either.”

  “I am sure if he is in disfavor from such a good a man as my husband, he deserves it.”

  Bertrand chuckled. “Why, when your uncle Charles was mentioned the other day, King Henry said that he bore him great love, and then he looked straight at poor Gloucester. My, Humphrey was fuming. And then the king looked straight at Suffolk. Smiled and then turned to his chancellor and said straight out that he knew some who had heard his words were not at their ease. No one knew that King Henry had it in him to snub his old uncle so. So you see, dear girl, the ground is fertile as far as Maine goes. You need only sow it.”

  ***

  I pondered the question of Maine in bed that night. Young as I was, I could remember the English rampaging through it; in 1443, they’d scattered their terror through Anjou as well. They’d gone so far as to lodge their captains at the Abbey of St. Nicholas in our town of Angers; though at thirteen I’d been safe inside the walls of the castle there, I could remember being too frightened to draw my bed curtains lest I awake and find my chamber full of Englishmen.

  It hadn’t occurred to me then that I might soon find myself married to their king.

  I remembered the words that my uncle had spoken about my knowing when the time would be right. But would I? I thought now as I lay abed in England. My French ladies could be of no help; all were my age or younger. My English ladies could hardly be impartial, and in any case what did they know of Henry? He was shy around all women but me.

  I decided I would consult the man I had come to trust most: Suffolk.

  Just a few days later, Suffolk joined us at Windsor. When he arrived, Henry was with his confessor, though what my husband had to confess was and still largely is a vast mystery to me.

  “I have a gift for you, your grace.” Suffolk handed me a piece of parchment.

  “A poem?”

  “Of my own composition. I do not pretend to your father’s level of accomplishment, or that of my old friend Charles of Orléans, but I thought your grace might enjoy this modest effort.”

  Mine heart is set, and all mine whole intent,

  To serve this flower in my most humble wise,

  As faithfully as can be thought or meant,

  Without feigning or sloth in my service…

  I looked up. “That flower is me?”

  Suffolk smiled. “I will confess that the poem is part of a longer sequence, and that I did not have your grace in mind when it was first composed. But as I know you enjoy verse, I could not resist copying it for you, given that you are a Marguerite.”

  “And you have even drawn daisies around the border,” I said.

  “Well, something that looks like daisies. I do not pretend to be an artist.”

  “It is lovely, the poem—and even the daisies. I shall cherish this forever.” I hesitated a little awkwardly. “How do the negotiations go?”

  Suffolk half raised an eyebrow at this sudden transition from poetry to politics, but replied, “As one would expect. A few steps forward, then a few steps back. No one wants to commit himself. It appears that King Henry and King Charles will try to meet each other in a few months, however.”

  “Has the subject of Maine been brought up?”

  Suffolk looked at me curiously. “Among others.”

  “My lord, I am in a dilemma. You must know that my uncle Charles and my father both wish England to cede Maine to France, and that they have asked me to exert myself to that end.”

  “I have presumed, yes, that they would be unlikely to ignore the usefulness of such a natural envoy as yourself.” Suffolk twirled a large ring on his finger. “Please bear in mind, your grace, before you confide in me further, that however much I have enjoyed the company of King René and King Charles, I am an Englishman first and foremost. My loyalty is to King Henry and to my country.”

  “I understand that,” I said, although in truth I sometimes forgot that Suffolk, with his fluent French and his penchant for reading French poetry, was not one of my countrymen. “But we can talk as friends, can we not? For I think of you as my dearest friend in England.” I touched his arm. “Truly. I don’t speak to flatter you.”

  “I am honored. Well, then tell me what is on your mind, and I will counsel you as far as I can.”

  “I do believe Maine should be returned to us. It is but right. But they have asked me to beg it from Henry as if—as if I were a bawd teasing for a trinket. I care for Henry deeply; he has been kind to me and has made me very happy. I don’t want to abuse his kindness. I want him to cede Maine because he feels it is right, not because he wishes to please me.”

  “King Henry is a generous man, your grace, but when he acts, it is because he believes that doing so is right. I can honestly tell you that if he were to make a concession for peace, it would be because he thought it was for the best, and not merely because he was swayed by a beautiful young face.”

  “Do you think it would be for the best, my lord?”

  Suffolk hesitated.

  “I promise, my lord, I shall not use what you say against you. I am merely curious.”

  “Well—Does your grace know that I had four brothers?” I shook my head. “I did. I was the second of the five of us. We were close. All are gone now. My oldest brother, Michael, died in battle at Agincourt. My younger brother Alexander died at Jargeau, fighting against the troops led by the lady you call the Maid of Orléans. He was under my command at the time.” Suffolk stared into the distance, and something in his face made me squeeze his hand. “My blundering cost us dearly that day, but that’s not here or there just now. I was taken captive that day, and so was my brother John. He was badly injured there, and died in captivity soon afterward. I was freed the following year, but my brother Thomas had to take my place as a hostage. He died in prison before I could get him set free.”

  “My lord, I am so sorry.”

  “And my father died just weeks before my brother Michael. He died of dysentery; it was all through the camp at Harfleur. I was with him; it was a horrid death. At least my brothers who died in battle did not suffer long. So you s
ee, your grace, my family has given much to the cause in France.”

  “I understand, then, that you do not wish your country to cede Maine to those whom you have cause to hate.”

  “Our country now, your grace. Do remember that.” I blushed at my mistake. “No, your grace, that is not entirely so. I don’t hate France. How could I? I have friends there still, and my daughter was born there. I would consider Maine worth the price for a lasting peace. I would like to see my son reach manhood and thrive, instead of being chopped down in his prime as were my brothers. But there would have to be certain conditions, such as compensation for those English who lose their lands in Maine. And that has been the stalling point in our negotiations. I would not sell us cheap, nor would I advise the king to do so.”

  “Indeed no,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Whatever we do, it will be unpopular in some circles, of course.”

  “Such as with the king’s uncle Gloucester?”

  Suffolk raised his eyebrows. “Your grace is quick to grasp our affairs.”

  “I have been told a little bit about the situation,” I admitted. “I don’t think you like him overmuch, my lord?”

  “Does it show? No, I suppose not. We’ve worked hard to build good relations with France, and he would undo our work if he could. And he can’t be disregarded entirely because he is at present the king’s heir.”

  I stifled a sigh. Suffolk had unintentionally hit upon a sore subject, for my monthly course had made its appearance just yesterday, after a period of delay that had caused me to hope and pray that a child had been planted in my womb. But Suffolk could be spared my confidences on that score, I decided. “Is his wife really a witch?” I asked instead.