Your grace, you were not sent for.”
“I am well aware of that,” I said, trying to force my way around the Duke of York into Henry’s chambers at the Bishop of London’s palace the day after Somerset had been murdered at St. Albans. “When did you plan to send for me? Michaelmas?”
Very late the previous evening, one of Henry’s knights, who had somehow escaped the strict surveillance of York following the slaughter, had come to Greenwich and told me what had transpired after Somerset’s death. York, Salisbury, and Warwick had gone to the abbey at St. Albans, where a shocked and wounded Henry, along with a badly wounded Buckingham, had taken shelter. The three whoresons had first demanded, and received, Buckingham’s surrender, having threatened to take him by force, and Henry, terrified of despoiling the abbey with bloodshed, had agreed. Then the victors had knelt before Henry, begged his forgiveness for endangering him, and assured him of their loyalty. The next day, they had escorted Henry back to London, York on his right, Salisbury on his left, and Warwick bearing the sword of state. With Henry still in tow, they had even held a grand procession through the streets of London, ostensibly to show their loyalty to Henry but in reality to flaunt their newfound power. The mummery had ended only a half hour or so before.
“The king needs to rest,” York said.
“Of course he does, after you dragged him from St. Albans, wounded and grieving.” Taking advantage of an opening around York’s squat body when the duke switched position suddenly, I pushed my way past him into the inner chamber where Henry, his neck bandaged, sat in a chair, Warwick standing beside him. For a horrid moment, I thought from his dazed look that my husband had relapsed into madness, but then he stood and let me take him into my arms.
“Marguerite. You have heard the news, I suppose.”
“Yes, that these brave men have murdered Somerset and the rest.”
“We have relieved the king of the burden of those who worked against his interests,” corrected York, as if reciting the words by rote. “With the canker removed, the whole kingdom will heal and thrive.”
“The canker you speak of was a father and a husband. A good one. As were the others who died.”
“Then he should have been a better subject,” York said coolly.
“And the king!” I looked at Henry’s bandage. “If that arrow had gone only slightly to the left or right, he might have been killed. Did you people have no care for your anointed king? Or was his life as cheap to you as the others’?”
“My lady,” said Henry, “have done. I have extended my forgiveness to them.”
“Henry, you would forgive the devil himself!” I tried to compose myself, though. “Well, what of the others? Buckingham and his son survived with wounds, I heard, but what of the Earl of Dorset?”
“He’s badly hurt,” York said, not a trace of concern in his voice. “He was taken away this morning in a cart.”
“Taken where? Home?” York shook his head. “Then do so, or better yet send him here, where he can be cared for by our own surgeons.”
“I am afraid that cannot be, your grace,” Warwick put in. “He is in my custody.”
“Your custody? After—” I bit my lip.
“The young man is getting medical attention,” York said in a polite, bored tone. “Your grace need not concern yourself with that. Though his injuries were grave, he’s young and fit and will probably mend quickly.”
“Is he even conscious?”
Warwick snorted. “Quite so, at least he was this morning. Indeed, once he was cognizant that he was in my custody, he said some most disagreeable things. I have sent him to be tended by my lady; she is, after all, his aunt. I just hope he does not try her temper.”
“Can you blame him? For God’s sake, let him be tended by his own people. Or by someone from here.”
Henry roused himself to say, “The queen is right. The Earl of Dorset has been like a son to us. You must allow our surgeon to attend him. And a chaplain as well. You cannot deny him spiritual comfort in light of what he has suffered. If you are our loyal subject as you claim, you will comply with our wishes in this small matter.”
“Very well,” Warwick said.
“Now, let the king rest.”
“Your grace, there are some matters we had wished to discuss with the king—”
“Your damned discussion can wait! You yourself said earlier that he needs to rest. No doubt he does, after his ride here and that farce in the streets.”
Warwick looked at York, who grimaced an apparent assent. After they took a suitably cringing leave of Henry, I sat beside him, holding his hand tightly. When some moments had passed, he said, “I don’t want to talk about it. It was too horrible. But I must talk about it, or I shall go mad again. What they did to Somerset…”
“Surely to God they did not make you witness it?”
“No. But they carried his body into the abbey to lay him to rest there, and I was lodged there overnight. When I heard he was brought there, I went to pay my respects and pulled down the sheet they’d wrapped him in before they could stop me. He’d been so loyal to me, and he was my kinsman—I couldn’t just let him go without a look. I shouldn’t have. They’d beaten his skull in—you could see his brains, for pity’s sake!—and there were knife wounds all over his body. All inflicted when he was past fighting back, one of his men who saw it told me. I was almost sick at the sight of him.”
“He must have been beyond all pain when they did most of those things to him, Henry. His soul had long since fled his body.”
“I pray that was how it was.”
“You know that was how it was.”
“Dear Marguerite,” Henry whispered. He sat staring straight ahead for a few minutes. “The Earl of Dorset must have seen all that was done to his father; he fell beside him. I sat with him an hour or two that night at the abbey infirmary. The monks tended him well and he was better when we left the abbey, Warwick wasn’t lying, but for a time that night he was delirious and didn’t know me or Lord Ros, who was also taken prisoner. He just lay there talking out of his head, mostly begging his father not to leave the Castle—he was killed by the Castle Inn. But once in a while he called out for a Joan. Do you think in his disturbance of mind he could have meant the Maid of Orléans? Or maybe one of his relations?”
In spite of myself, I smiled. “Hardly, Henry. Joan is his mistress, and has been since about the time our son was born. Hal was not discreet in proclaiming his conquest to all and sundry, I am afraid.”
“His mistress? But I thought he would avoid the ways of the flesh. He once promised me he would.”
How could I help but love my unworldly Henry? I kissed him tenderly. “I am sure he tried his very best.”
Henry sighed. “Hal was such a lighthearted lad. After St. Albans, I fear he will never be the same again.”
None of us would, I thought.
My husband gazed at his hands. Finally, he said, “You know, my dear, that after it was all done, York and the others came to the abbey and begged my forgiveness. They said that they were acting for the good of the realm, not against me. I did forgive them; it is what the Lord teaches. But I also know I had no real choice. Somerset, Percy, and Clifford dead, Buckingham and his son wounded, Dorset wounded, my men scattered—I could not have resisted them. And now I can only hope their intentions are good, for they are the men I must work with now.”
“For now,” I echoed, giving the last word an emphasis that Henry, who did indeed look and sound exhausted, missed.
***
Shortly before Christmas, a visitor was announced at Greenwich. “The Earl of Dorset, your grace.”
My eyes filled with tears as Hal Beaufort entered the room, and I forestalled his attempt to bow with a hearty embrace and a kiss. As we moved apart, I saw for the first time that his right cheek bore a large scar. I touched it gently. “Oh, Hal.”
“It’s not so bad. Mother said it makes me look like a pirate, but Joan said it made me look mysterious
.”
I frowned in mock outrage. “You visited your mistress before you visited your queen?”
“Well, there are certain inducements with her that your grace lacks,” Hal said, grinning.
Silently, I thanked the Lord that St. Albans had not robbed Hal of his sense of humor. “But how did you get free?”
“Much as I would like to say that I overpowered Warwick and made my escape, the ignoble truth is that he simply let me go. He really couldn’t come up with a good excuse to keep me in ward indefinitely, after all, and I suspect it was beginning to become an embarrassment for York, with all of his lofty talk about reconciliation. So he made a pious speech about the season of the birth of the Lord being a time to show mercy, and here I am. He was actually quite pleasant toward the end. It was rather unnerving; he even suggested that we joust sometime. Joust, as if I would trust him to fight fairly! I don’t think he realizes how much I heard and saw at St. Albans.” Hal’s brown eyes clouded over, then grew hard, before he continued, “But I am sorry. I spoke of the topic that must not be named in polite company.”
“Ah, you have heard that?” The York-controlled government had strictly forbidden anyone from discussing the events of St. Albans. “I daresay you may have a dispensation here.”
“I’m not sure I want one,” Hal said quietly.
“Well, how does Joan fare?”
Hal visibly brightened at my hasty change of subject. “I was afraid she would take another lover in my absence, but no. I got quite the welcome. Oh, and she told me that an unnamed friend of mine sent her a sum of money for her support while I was imprisoned, in case she was in need. My mother is a kindhearted lady, but her charity doesn’t extend to my harlot, as she calls her. I suspect it came from another source.” I blushed tellingly. “Thank you, your grace.”
“I think we had better not mention this to the king. He would not approve in the least. How fares your mother?”
“Edmund said that she was a wreck at first, terrified that York might harm her or us; she dragged the family to my aunt’s at Maxey Castle. She’s better now.” Hal grimaced. “There’s even talk that she might remarry. One of my aunt’s servants, Walter Rokesley, of all people. It seems a little sudden to me to talk of remarriage, but he’s been kind to her, and she’s been lonely without my father. She loved him very much.”
“As he loved all of you, Hal.”
Hal cleared his throat. “Tell me, your grace. Is what I heard true? Is the king ill again? I heard that York had been named protector once again.”
“He does not suffer from the same malady as he did before, God be thanked, but he has not been entirely himself either. He sleeps far too much—he goes to bed much earlier than a man his age usually does. He becomes agitated very quickly, and he seems to get confused more easily than before. I noticed it just slightly after—after St. Albans—but it has been gradually going worse. One can’t give him too many details in a single conversation or he gets overwhelmed; it can almost be seen on his face. And he thinks much about his own death, too much for a man of only four-and-thirty. He has even been talking of where he shall be buried. And—” I bit my lip.
“Your grace, what is it?”
What I had been about to blurt out was that Henry no longer had sexual relations with me. We needed another child; what if our little Edward succumbed to one of the illnesses that could take the healthiest of children? And yet Henry these days did no more than lie beside me, gently rebuffing my tentative attempts at lovemaking. But this was hardly a topic I could discuss with a man, and particularly not with a handsome young man like Hal. “Nothing. I was merely running on.”
Hal did not meet my eyes again, and I wondered if he had guessed my thoughts. Then he said briskly, “Who knows, perhaps in a few months his situation will improve. So that is why York took over as protector? The king’s state of mind?”
I nodded gratefully. “Mind you, I don’t think he would have needed much of an excuse, but with Henry so abstracted recently, and York so alert for the slightest sign of incapacity, it was easy for him to get Parliament to agree. He even convinced the king that it was in his own best interests to take a rest from his duties for a time.” I hesitated. “Hal, I don’t want to cause you pain, but I suppose you have heard what York’s Parliament said about St. Albans.”
“Yes. That it was all the fault of my father. Not a word about York’s men attacking while negotiations were still going on. Not a word about his being butchered by those cowards when he was helpless, lying on his back, not even able to raise his hand.”
“I want Henry out of York’s control. How could he not have realized that he was putting my husband’s life in danger when those arrows were shot?” The words, so long repressed, were tumbling out of my mouth so quickly that my English was inadequate for them, and I switched to French. “If Henry had died, there would have been a protectorate for our son, and who would then rule in all but name? York! And what security would our boy have, being controlled by the man who stood next in line to the throne? I do not trust him, Hal. I don’t believe those sugared words he speaks about loyalty to Henry and to the realm. There is one person the Duke of York is loyal to above all others, and that is the Duke of York.”
“I don’t merely mistrust him. I want him dead, even though he kept Warwick’s thugs from killing me. He gave the order that my father be assassinated.” Hal stared around the chamber, and I suddenly remembered, with a pang, the day his father had brought him and his brothers there after their return from France. “But for now, I’ll settle for removing him as protector.”
“Alas, he can be removed as protector only if Parliament assents,” I said. “He took care to have that provision inserted, so the king couldn’t change his mind and have him removed on his own volition. But there is some hope there, actually. The resumptions.” Claiming that the royal household was living beyond its means, the commons had been demanding for some time that Henry take back the grants he had made over the years. I stood to lose by the resumptions, and so did those lords who could not obtain exemptions from them. York, in his favorite guise as man of the people, had stood behind the commons, who had somehow failed to notice that York had his own ambitions to acquire some of the resumed property. “The lords cannot be happy with them. If we could just take advantage of their unease…It is a pity you aren’t in Parliament, Hal.”
“And won’t be until I’m one-and-twenty; I don’t see York and his cronies summoning me before that. But I’m not without friends there; I can make my views heard. And as for you, all you have to do is smile sweetly at the lords, in that certain way you have like this”—Hal managed a most peculiar looking smile that I hoped did not resemble any expression of my own—“and they’ll do anything you please.”
“Hal!”
“It’s true. Try it.”
***
I did not smile sweetly at the lords, as that impertinent young man had suggested, but I settled down with my council that day, and the next, and the next, and composed a letter to the lords whom I thought would be sympathetic, expressing my deep reservations about the wisdom of the resumptions and begging that they would ensure that the rights of my son and my own rights were protected. More cautiously, I begged them to consider whether York, so close to the throne, was the best man to serve as protector, if a protector was needed at all. This second thread of my argument was what occupied my councillors for so many days, as its meaning had to be implied rather than said. Were I to openly say that York should be removed, my words would simply be disregarded as those of a meddling woman, and might end up only fixing him more firmly in power. “But it is time someone meddled,” I said to Katherine Vaux soon before Parliament was to open. “If poor Henry cannot, it must be me. Why, William? What in the world?”
William Vaux had rushed into the chamber. “Your grace! Kate! Do come outside. It is the most wondrous sight.”
We followed William outside to the lawn at Greenwich, where most of the household had ga
thered. And then I saw it, the brightest star I had ever seen, gleaming in the blackness of the night like the Star of Bethlehem must have glowed. “I have never seen such in my life. What could it mean?” Katherine asked.
“An omen, surely,” one of my older ladies said.
I smiled. “A good omen, surely. Nothing so beautiful could be a bad omen.”
And I was right. When Parliament met shortly thereafter, the lords talked of the marvelous star—and of the high-handed resumptions proposed by the commons and the Duke of York, which even threatened poor Henry’s beloved foundations at King’s College and Eton. So disgusted were the lords that a delegation of them went to Henry, who walked into Parliament on February 25, clad magnificently, and ordered York to resign as protector. Save for York and Warwick, the lords assented.
And that same afternoon, the Duke of York himself paid me a visit. “So, my lady. You may congratulate yourself on a job well done.”
“Whatever do you mean, my lord?”
“You will not attempt to deny that you sought my removal as protector. I saw the letter you wrote.”
“I had not been planning to deny it, but you must have noticed that I was not among the lords in Parliament. As I am not in the habit of wearing male dress, I would not have blended in. The lords acted as they would; I merely informed them of my opinion. They were free to disregard it; it appears that either they did not, or they happened to hold the same opinion as I did.”
“Tell me, your grace. What do you think will happen to the realm now that I am not protector? Do you truly think the king is fit to govern?”
I shrugged. “He has his council, does he not? And you remain on it. My lord, face the truth. Pleased as I am to see you gone, it was not my doing. It was yours.” I paused. “I do understand your frustration, my lord.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. As I am a woman, you cannot arrest me, or do battle with me, or have your men beat my brains out as I lie helpless in the street, as you did the Duke of Somerset. It must be extremely irritating to you.” I gazed at the interesting shade of red York was turning. “My lord, before you leave, there is one thing I would like to request of you.”
The Queen of Last Hopes Page 15
