I would not say it then, but I suppose he was not a bad one—unless you were Somerset, who remained in prison, untried and kept in closer captivity, or the Duke of Exeter, who thanks to his feuding up north soon was a prisoner himself. My son’s rights had been shielded when York was made protector—my Edward would have the right to hold that office himself when he came of age—and my household was not reduced, as I had feared. The placards about Edward’s birth were no longer seen in London. I began to reconcile myself to the possibility of a lengthy protectorate and to concentrate on the upbringing of my son.
Then, just after Christmas, Henry was moved to Greenwich, where I brought him some of the wafers that had been baked for the festivities and of which he was particularly fond. As expected, he paid no attention to the basket in my hand; it could have been full of asps as far as he was concerned. I had kissed him good-bye and was halfway through the door when I heard my name, uttered in an otherworldly, guttural voice. “Marguerite.”
I turned, open-mouthed. The voice came again, louder this time. “Marguerite?”
Henry sat on his chair, blinking. As everyone in the chamber froze, he reached down awkwardly and stiffly. He slowly grasped the basket, then lifted and opened it. Gradually, his lips curved into the slightest of smiles. “You brought these for me?”
The tears began to pour down my face, and I walked up to my husband and knelt by his side. “Yes. God be thanked, I brought them for you.”
Henry’s physicians advised caution after he returned to his senses, lest he relapse into madness. He had no knowledge of anything that had happened since August of the previous year, it soon became apparent, and it was important that his perhaps still fragile mind not be overburdened. Accordingly, I told him nothing of our son or of Somerset’s arrest. In any case, his long sickness had left him exhausted, and he slept much of the time during the first few days after his recovery. Each time he closed his eyes, I and his attendants held our breath, terrified that he might awake insensible as he had when he first took ill. But each day, he took more and more interest in his surroundings, and when he asked about the state of his foundations at King’s College and Eton and insisted that the accounts there be brought for his review, we began to feel safe again.
So soon after the New Year began, I took my fourteen-month-old son’s hand in mine and entered the hall at Greenwich. Henry stared as Edward toddled into the room alongside me. “Can it—?”
“My dear lord, on St. Edward’s day, the Lord blessed you with a son. We named him Edward.”
Tears formed in Henry’s eyes, and for a moment he was speechless. “God be thanked,” he whispered finally, and held up his hands in a gesture of thanksgiving. “Come here, my child.” Henry indicated his lap. Fortunately, Edward was a gregarious boy, and he was happy enough to sit with the stranger on the great chair.
Henry laughed as Edward played with the collar of interlocking S’s that my husband wore around his neck. “Who are his godparents?”
“Archbishop Kemp, the Duke of Somerset, and the Duchess of Buckingham,” I said reluctantly, for the first was dead and the second was in prison.
“They were good choices, my dear.” Henry nodded at the Duchess of Buckingham, who had accompanied me and stood at a distance. “But where are the godfathers?”
“The archbishop was called to God, my lord. He died in March after a short illness.”
“Aye. One of the wisest men in this land is dead, then.” Henry sighed. “I suppose the news was brought to me?” I nodded. “I remember nothing of it,” Henry said. “Nothing of the last—what was it, a year and a half? I could not even remember for certain that you were with child when I fell ill.”
“It is over now, my love. You are well, and getting better every day.”
“Aye,” Henry said as Edward, bored with the collar and with sitting relatively still for the last few minutes, began to squirm. “And this fine fellow is helping. Thank you, my dear.”
***
That very evening, one of Henry’s pages told me that the king wished to spend the night with me.
After being so long apart, and with Henry having been so ill, it was almost as if we were two virgins coming together again, but soon we became familiar with each other and began to caress each other with more abandon. “The physicians advised me against this,” he whispered as we lay together afterward.
“I am glad you disobeyed them.”
“I am sorry I lasted such a short time.”
“Next time,” I said lazily, stroking his chest, thinking of all those lonely nights I had lay solitary in my great bed, thinking that at age twenty-four I would never lie with my husband again. “We have the rest of our lives now.” I hesitated, wondering if I should ask my next question, but unable to resist. “Do you really remember nothing of the last year and a half?”
“Nothing. And not all that much of the days just before that. I remember getting the news of the Earl of Shrewsbury’s death and our defeat in France”—I touched Henry’s cheek gently as his voice faltered—“and I remember looking forward to our child being born. But it is all hazy. I suppose I shall never remember those days.”
“They were rather dull,” I said mischievously, to break the somberness of Henry’s mood, and he laughed and pinched my cheek before turning solemn again.
“Marguerite, there are things they are not telling me. Aren’t there?”
“Yes.”
“I know York has been made protector. No one has mentioned the Duke of Somerset to me, save except when you told me he was our Edward’s godfather.” He hesitated. “Did York—kill him?”
“No, no,” I said, grateful that the news I was about to impart was not as grim as that. “But he has imprisoned him—he has been a prisoner in the Tower for well over a year.”
“On what grounds?”
“The old business of France. York refuses to allow him bail, and he refuses to bring him to trial. He has not even brought formal charges against him. That is against Magna Carta, is it not?”
“Indeed it is.”
“He is not allowed to see his family, and I am not at all sure he is being treated as a duke should be. I have not been able to visit him or to send him any comforts whatsoever. And—” I wisely stopped myself from telling Henry of the rumors about Edward being Somerset’s son. Instead, I continued, “The Duke of Exeter is also a prisoner; he is at Pontefract. I suppose there is some justification for York’s actions with regard to him; he has allied himself with the Percies in their feud against the Nevilles, and has been wild and ungovernable. They also say he was angry at not being made protector himself, as he has a claim to the office through his birth. But even there, York has behaved unjustly. Exeter came up to London to attend a meeting of the council, but went into sanctuary at Westminster when he feared arrest, and York broke sanctuary and imprisoned him.”
“They shall both be released.”
“And I have a confession to make, Henry. I sought to become regent after Edward was born. It was for his sake,” I added quickly, sensing that Henry’s silence was a shocked one. “I feared York’s own ambitions, and I feared for our son and for Somerset and our other friends.”
“A woman as regent? My dear, I do not think we English are ready for that.”
“So I found. My proposal died in Parliament. Few supported it. But I would have done my best for you if it had been accepted.”
“I’ve no doubt you would have,” Henry said, clasping me close once again as we settled to sleep. “Good night, my love.”
***
A couple of weeks after this conversation, the Duke of York came to Greenwich, where he looked somewhat surprised to see me in Henry’s chamber, and somewhat more surprised when I made no sign of leaving. Having evidently resigned himself to my presence, he said stiffly, “Your grace, I thank God for your recovery, and am glad to find you well.”
“We thank you, my lord, and we thank you for your services that you have rendered during our ill
ness. As you can see, however, we no longer have need of them.”
“Yes, your grace. I have come to resign my office as protector.”
“We accept your resignation.” Henry’s voice bore little trace of its usual warmth.
I smiled. “Would you like to see the Prince of Wales before you leave, my lord? He is growing apace, and I believe he has Henry’s nose and my chin, but some of my ladies insist that he has my chin and Henry’s nose, while others are plumping for both Henry’s nose and chin. I should like an impartial opinion.”
Even today, it gives me a little bit of satisfaction to think of the look of sheer disgust on the Duke of York’s face.
***
At the end of January, the Duke of Buckingham, the Earl of Wiltshire, and Lord Ros entered the king’s chamber at Greenwich, followed by a gaunt, pale, and heavily bearded man I at first did not recognize. Then I gasped. “Somerset!”
“Yes, it’s I,” said Somerset as Henry and I, having forestalled his attempts to kneel, embraced him in turn. He smiled when we had released him. “I gather I am not the most prepossessing sight.”
“I knew you were coming, and even then I did not recognize you,” I admitted. “Good God, did not York give you any comforts whatsoever?”
“He promised to cut back on the crown’s expenses, and I gave him great opportunity for that,” Somerset said dryly. “But it is not all due to him; I had an ague, and under the circumstances I found it hard to shake off.” He took the seat Henry offered him with a gratefulness that hurt to see. “I am glad beyond words, your grace, that you have recovered, and I do not say so only because it has meant my own freedom. But I thank you for that too. Does the Duke of York know?”
“No. He is not protector any longer and need not be consulted, though the matter will have to come before the council. It will meet soon to discuss the terms of your release. But I wanted you out of the Tower and into more comfortable quarters, more than ever now that I see you have been ill. Your wife and children will be much concerned, I fear.”
“I am hoping, your grace, that I will be allowed to travel to see them, even without being put to bail.”
“There is no need.” Henry nodded to two of his household knights. “Take the duke to the chamber we have made ready for him. You will find your wife and children there waiting for you, Somerset.”
Somerset’s face worked, and I think he would have knelt to Henry and kissed the hem of his gown had not my husband shaken him off and pushed him in the direction of the door. “A good new year to you, Somerset,” he said softly.
***
“Your grace, I genuinely like the Duke of Somerset—though I must say that mine is not the prevailing opinion. My eldest son, as you know, is married to his daughter Margaret. I am glad that you dismissed the charges against him. But put Somerset in York’s place as captain of Calais? It is most ill-advised.” Buckingham ran his hand through his hair, as if to imply that Henry’s policy was responsible for its rapid graying.
“Perhaps, my lord, you wish Calais for yourself?” I asked before Henry could speak.
Buckingham turned his irritated gaze on me, and I knew he was searching for some way to tell me my presence was not wanted. But since Henry had recovered, he liked to have me with him when he spoke in private with his lords, and I would not refuse him this desire—not, of course, that I ever thought about trying to thwart it. “Your grace, that is unjust. I am concerned about what this decision will mean for the king, not plumping for Calais.”
“My lord, as you know, the Duke of York resigned the office,” Henry said.
“Freely? It matters not. York might not be the best person for it, but give it to someone else—not to me, but not to Somerset either.”
“Somerset still has men in Calais who have served us well.”
“Yet all the charges against him originated in his conduct as to France. Nothing can be gained, and everything can be lost, by giving him such an office; it will infuriate York, and to no good purpose. Keep Somerset employed in England; send him on a diplomatic mission; send him on pilgrimage to Jerusalem. But for God’s sake, don’t give him Calais!”
“Are you done, my lord?” Henry asked in the same cold voice he had used when York resigned the protectorate.
Buckingham sighed. “Yes,” he said wearily. “I am done. Whatever happens, your grace cannot say that you were not warned.”
***
Richard Neville, the Earl of Salisbury, had resigned as chancellor in protest at Somerset’s restoration to power, which took place in March. (He had been appointed by York after the death of Kemp.) The Duke of York and the Earl of Salisbury soon withdrew to their estates. Good riddance, I thought. When the Duke of Exeter was released from captivity in early April, it seemed that all would at last be back to normal.
Soon after Exeter returned to court, Henry called a great council to meet at Westminster. There it was decided to hold another council at Leicester in May, to discuss the safety of the king and to implement a settlement between Somerset and York, who prior to York’s huffy exit from the court had entered into bonds to keep the peace until June. An arbitration panel of lords had been appointed to settle the remaining disputes between the two dukes, and its decision was to be announced at Leicester. The council also planned to discuss the governance of the realm in the event Henry fell ill again, for he was well aware of his grandfather’s malady and of its recurring nature. Those were the council’s only purposes, and innocent and worthy ones they were.
Unfortunately, York and the Neville family did not see it that way.
Much as I liked King Henry, being a young man at his court had never been easy. He took pride in resisting the temptations of the flesh (of course, it helped that he himself had the most beautiful woman in England to supply his fleshly needs for him) and could never understand why the rest of us in the household were not so restrained. Even his scholars at Eton, mere boys that they were, had been known to roll their eyes behind the king’s back when told by Henry about the moral cesspool that the court could be.
So as often as I could, I sneaked off to Eastcheap to find the sort of company I at nineteen quite naturally craved. Not a whore, mind you, but Joan Hill, a confectioner’s widow who was a few years older than myself. Shortly before the king lost his wits, the delicious smell that had wafted through Joan’s shop had attracted me off the street, whereupon I discovered that Joan (plump, but not too plump) looked nearly as delicious as the wafers she cooked. For some time after that I had busied myself with trying to get her into bed, satisfying my sweet tooth almost daily in the process, but it took my father’s imprisonment for me to at last succeed in my task. There is nothing, it seems, as successful as having a father in the Tower to win feminine sympathy.
And yet when my father was released, Joan remained my mistress. I would have to marry sooner or later, I knew—now that Father was out of prison, it was just a matter of time before he found me a suitable bride, who certainly couldn’t be Joan Hill—but that seemed a long ways off. All in all, then, it was a pleasing state of affairs that day in May 1455. I was to head to the king’s great council in Leicester (my first), where the Duke of York would finally be given to understand once and for all that the kingdom was not his to run any longer. Perhaps my father might send me to Calais as his deputy, who knew? Maybe I could even take Joan with me. “Do you perchance happen to speak French?” I asked her as she curled closer to me to ward off the slight chill of the morning.
“That’s an odd question to ask a lady first thing in the morning.”
“Well, do you?”
“Not a bit, love. Though I do make some French pastries.”
“That’ll do. Everyone in Calais will be speaking English anyway.”
Joan was about to question me further, as well she might, when a knock sounded. “My lord?”
I frowned, recognizing the voice of one of my servants. What did he want with me so early in the day? “Come in. What is it?”
&n
bsp; “Your lord father. He wishes you to come to Westminster immediately. There is disturbing news about the Duke of York.”
“There’s always disturbing news about the Duke of York,” I said to Joan, who shook her head sympathetically, and I hoped regretfully, as my servant helped me into my clothes and she concealed her splendid figure beneath a sheet. It was at daybreak when she was most avid for me, though I was eager for her at any time. “The whoreson.”
“Why all of you cousins just can’t get along together is beyond me,” said Joan.
I noted with approval that the little genealogical lesson I’d given Joan the other night, in which I had laboriously explained the common descent that most of the nobility in England had from the prolific Edward III, had not been wasted. “It’s precisely because we’re all cousins that we can’t get along. We all can picture ourselves on the throne through some descent or the other, if we sit back and think about it hard. Edward III would have done well to take a vow of chastity after the fourth or fifth child or so.”
Joan blew a kiss to me as I made my reluctant exit. “Well, cousin or not, I’ll say this for the Duke of York: he certainly knows how to spoil a morning.”
***
“At your service,” I said airily when I arrived at Westminster. “The Duke of York is causing trouble?”
“He’s raising troops,” said Father in a tone that suggested further airiness on my part would be unwelcome. “So are the Earl of Salisbury and the Earl of Warwick.”
“Ah, yes, the Triumvirate.” Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick, was Salisbury’s oldest son and the nephew of the Duchess of York. Lately, the Nevilles had been sticking close to the Duke of York. Warwick, then six-and-twenty, happened to be my uncle by marriage—his wife was my mother’s half sister—but our families had never been close. Aside from the fact that nearly everyone disliked my father, my mother and her sisters, not to mention their husbands, had been quarreling over their father’s inheritance even before the man was cold. “But why are they raising troops?”
The Queen of Last Hopes Page 13
