Henry cradled my head in the crook of his arm and stroked my hair as I fell asleep.
***
Though our men had helped themselves quite liberally to the provisions St. Albans had to offer, we needed more supplies. Accordingly, we sent messengers to London, both to request supplies and to determine how we would be received.
Two days later, we had an answer in the form of a delegation of aldermen, accompanied by the Duchess of Buckingham, Lady Scales, and the Duchess of Bedford. The first two wore mourning for their husbands, killed just months before, and the Duchess of Bedford was puffy-eyed from the news of the death of her daughter’s husband, John Grey, here at St. Albans. “We come bearing the city’s fervent hope that your grace will show her and her citizens mercy,” Jacquetta said as if reciting a speech.
“My lady, talk to me as a friend, not in that formal manner. What have they been saying of me? I mean no harm to the Londoners; I have never meant them any harm. I told them so after York claimed the crown, when his creatures were putting it about that I planned to storm the city and pillage it.”
“I know,” Jacquetta said unhappily. “But they do not believe your grace.”
“The Londoners are terrified of your grace’s army,” the Duchess of Buckingham said. “Warwick has convinced them that you mean their destruction.”
“If they only knew that what I want more than anything is my chamber at Greenwich, and a warm soaking bath,” I said. “And the ultimate atrocity of obtaining a couple of extra gowns and a warmer cloak.” I made a gesture of irritation with my hand. “If I meant to destroy the city, why are we talking here instead of marching upon it when it is undefended? But issue my reassurances. Tell them we have no intent to pillage the city or to despoil its people. We will even send part of the army back to Dunstable, as a token of our good faith.” I paused, looking at Lady Scales. “But that does not mean we will not punish evildoers, such as those men who murdered your husband, my lady.” I turned to Jacquetta. “I am very sorry that Sir John died here. He was a fine young man.”
Jacquetta sighed. “I have not seen poor Bessie, but I know the news will break her heart; she was very fond of John, and he of her. And it is so sad to think of her little boys growing up without a father.”
“With her lovely face and graceful ways, she will not go without offers,” I said. Once Warwick was out of the way and we were back to normal, I reflected, perhaps I could find a suitable husband for the girl myself.
The ladies and the aldermen having left to bear my assurances to the jumpy Londoners, I sent Sir Edmund Hampden, Edward’s chamberlain, and two other men to Barnet to negotiate for our entry into the city, at the head of a force of four hundred men. No sooner had they left, however, than the carts of provisions sent to us were seized and looted by the London rabble. And worse was to come. When some of our men were admitted to the city by the aldermen, they were attacked by the same rabble.
Then we heard that the Earl of Warwick, joined finally by the Earl of March, had combined their forces and were marching on London.
“We must enter the city ourselves,” said Somerset. “This negotiating is for naught; they don’t want us in, and protesting our good intentions will make no difference. We need to force our way in, and do it before the Earl of March—who is quite likely to assert his father’s claim to the throne—does so himself. He’s no laggard; Mortimer’s Cross proved that. Your grace, we have to make a decision.”
Exeter and others nodded. Henry, at whom Somerset’s words had been directed, remained silent for a minute or two before he said, “I know not what to do. It grieves me that the Londoners should think we mean them harm.”
This, it was clear, would be all of Henry’s contribution to the discussion. Somerset turned to me. “Madam, you must agree. London can be ours if we move quickly. We could begin moving there in a couple of hours, with a force of picked men.”
“No. I believe that we should return to the North.”
Hal stared at me. “Are you mad, your grace?”
“The Londoners have never supported us in the past. What makes you think that they would this time? They have always unaccountably admired Warwick; they will support him and the Earl of March. In the North, the men are our friends. Let March and Warwick come to us there, if they dare, and we can finish them off.”
“We have an army here! Why not finish them off here too?”
“I do not think we can, for one thing. Our men are underfed; Warwick’s and March’s are relatively fresh. And what might happen if they trapped us in London? If they gain possession of the king and the Prince of Wales and me, all will be lost. They will find some means of ridding themselves of Henry.”
“I never thought I would say this of you, your grace, but you are too timid. We should have entered London days before; let us do so now. March’s army need not ever enter London’s gates. We can destroy them before that. Send one force into London and another one to intercept March. For God’s sake, we had a great victory here, and another at Wakefield! Let us follow up strength with strength.”
“Too many of our men have deserted, and many of those we have now are growing impatient for want of victuals. We will have difficulty fighting March on one front, much less two. And there is yet another consideration. I promised the Londoners that they should not be despoiled.”
“Who plans to despoil them? If they allow us in, they should come to no harm.”
“You have forgotten what happened when the Tower was under siege. The bombardments we sent out angered the Londoners so much, they murdered poor Lord Scales. That should be a sign of what is to come if they suffer yet again.”
Somerset was making ready to launch yet another counterargument when Henry, who had been watching us volley our arguments at each other, like a spectator at a tennis game, spoke. “My lady is right, Somerset. We shall not enter London. I will not risk having my queen and my son fall into the Londoners’ hands.”
“If that is your chief objection, your grace, why not send them north to safety?”
“No,” said Henry. “I shall not be parted from them again.”
“But—”
“The matter is closed.” Henry stood, grasping my shoulder for support like an old man as he rose. “I shall lie down for a while.”
Hal watched as Henry exited the chamber at the abbey where we had been conferring.
“It is folly, madam,” he said when Henry’s footsteps could no longer be heard in the distance. “Mark me; you will rue this.” Then he turned and stalked out of the room.
***
As we began to move out of St. Albans, the Londoners flung open the gates of the city to Edward, Earl of March. On March 4, he was proclaimed as King Edward IV.
He did not waste time, this oversized brat, this pretender. Within days, he was taking an army north to seal his claim in blood.
We, back at York when the news reached us, did not stint in preparing for them. “God keep you and lead you to victory,” Henry called, over and over again, as our troops—well over twenty thousand men—filed out of York Castle in late March, twenty-four-year-old Somerset at their head. A gentle snow was falling, dusting the men’s armor and the heads that still sat on Micklegate Bar.
By Palm Sunday, March 29, the snow had turned into a near blizzard. Henry and I went to mass at York Minster and spent the rest of the day apart, him praying, me pacing. I had given up on hearing any news and was preparing for bed that evening when I heard the sounds of hooves, slamming doors, and screams. Scarcely decent, I flung off the lady who was braiding my hair and rushed into the great hall.
Somerset, Exeter, and Lord Ros, Somerset’s older half brother, stood in the center of the hall, gasping for breath. Around them, men were pressing into the hall, some walking, some being carried by others. Some were dripping blood onto the rushes. All were covered with snow. “Somerset! For God’s sake, what has happened?”
Somerset did not look up. It was Exeter who said, “All is lost, m
y lady. We must get out of here immediately. You and the king and the prince will be taken prisoner if you do not.”
“Lost!”
“Tom!” The Countess of Devon rushed to a man who had been brought in on a makeshift bier. His face was barely recognizable as the young Earl of Devon’s.
“He’s dying,” Somerset said, his voice toneless. He wiped melting snow off his face and continued. “Northumberland’s dead. So is Trollope. There must be thousands of men dead—on the fields, drowned in the river. They’re everywhere.” He chuckled. “All covered with snow by now, I suppose. It’s pretty, snow, don’t you think? It covers a multitude of sins. Beautifies everything.” He stared at the snow he had been rolling into a ball. “Shall we finish this glorious day with a snowball fight, men?” He tossed the ball into a tapestry, laughing, then suddenly sank to his knees, sobbing.
“Good Lord! Has he gone mad?”
“No,” said Lord Ros. “He’s utterly exhausted, and it was sheer hell out there.” He gestured to two of Somerset’s men. “Sit him down over there and make him rest until we’re ready to go. Try to get some warm drink into him. Exeter’s right; we can’t waste any time. We’re dead if York’s men catch us, and they were close upon us.”
“The Earl of Devon?” I looked at Marie, who sat beside him on the floor, speaking to him soothingly in French while he groaned in pain.
“He won’t last more than an hour or so if he tries to travel; it was all we could do to get him here. He had best stay.”
“But if York…”
“Come,” interrupted Exeter. “There’s no time for this. Where is the king? Is he actually sleeping through this? Wake him and the prince; they cannot stay abed!”
“Stay?” Henry suddenly appeared in the great hall, blinking.
“Take the king to his chamber! Dress him! Madam, you must get dressed yourself. We’ve a long ride ahead of us.”
“Marguerite? What is it?”
“We must flee,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “We have lost a battle and many men, and that is all I know.”
“Oh.” Henry closed his eyes. “Let us pray for the dead, then.”
“Not if you want to add yourself to them! Hurry!” Exeter virtually shoved Henry into the arms of his page. “Get him ready for travel immediately. You too, your grace!”
I obeyed Exeter and joined my ladies in my chamber, where they were already packing. “Pack light!” hollered Exeter, looking in before racing off again. “Just take what you need for warmth.”
Marie stumbled in, half blind from crying. “He is making me leave,” she said, tears choking her voice. “He says that if they find me here, they might capture me because I am a Frenchwoman. Marguerite, he is dying! I do not want to leave.”
“You must, if he wills it, and he is probably right. Honor his last wishes. Go back and sit by him until it is time to go. We will get your things together.”
In a half hour we were all back in the great hall. Henry stood in the middle, looking scarcely less confused than Edward, who had been roused from a sound sleep and still was only half awake. Marie gave the Earl of Devon one last kiss, then another. “Go,” he whispered. Filled with those men who were too badly injured to flee with the rest of us, the great hall now looked like a hospital.
Somerset, sitting on a bench with his face in his hands, rose on command like a man sleepwalking and joined the sad parade out of the great hall. More out of instinct than out of conscious courtesy, he took my arm to help guide me in the darkness. “We should have entered London when we could,” I whispered, more to myself than to anyone else. “Christ, but I was a fool.”
Hal turned and looked straight at me. “Yes,” he said hoarsely, “we should have. And you were.”
I hung my head and wept.
Palm Sunday Field, they called it when they could bear to talk of it—that terrible battle near Towton on March 29, 1461, that cost us—and England—so dear. For hours upon hours Lancaster and York had hacked at each other in a blinding snow, blowing in the faces of our own men and keeping our archers from properly shooting their arrows.
Until almost the very end, though, it could have gone our way: we had more men, and none braver. No one had been more active in the battle than Somerset, even after Trollope had fallen near his feet. But then the Duke of Norfolk, whose illness had prevented him and his troops from reaching Edward’s side earlier, suddenly arrived at the head of hundreds of men, fresh for battle. Our men, exhausted from fighting for hours with a wind buffeting them, had not been able to withstand them.
The rout had been almost worse than the battle proper. As our men fled the field, some had plunged to their deaths into the River Wharfe; others had been slaughtered on its banks by the pursuing Yorkists. Men said that the river ran red with blood and that the snow turned crimson, that the bodies in the river were piled so high that they formed a footbridge over which the lucky could escape. When all was over, more than twenty thousand men lay dead. Edward executed forty prisoners immediately afterward, and when he arrived at York on March 30, he executed four more, including Marie’s husband, the Earl of Devon, who was barely able to walk to the scaffold.
I never saw any of the slaughter, of course. Yet I still dream of it regularly, and each year on March 29, I do not even attempt to sleep at night. I stay on my knees, praying for the men who died that day and for the widows and orphans they left behind.
***
It was to Newcastle that we fled after Towton. Fearing that the Earl of March—I am sorry, it still pains me to call him king—would send men after us, which he soon did, we tarried only a day or so before we moved on to Berwick. There we awaited a safe conduct to Scotland, which seemed our best hope for a refuge. Very soon a reply came, and by mid-April we were established in Linlithgow Palace, licking our wounds.
We were a ragtag group. In addition to Henry, Edward, Somerset, Exeter, William Vaux, and me, we had a few knights and clerks, Hal’s brother Lord Ros, and the Earl of Devon’s brother John—a great comfort to poor Marie, who would otherwise have been quite forlorn. Katherine Vaux had been waiting for us in Scotland, having added a newborn daughter, Jane, to our entourage.
Mary of Gueldres had sent instructions that we be entertained like visiting royalty instead of the almost penniless refugees we were. For the first couple of days at Linlithgow all of the members of our battered party, even the men, were content just to eat the good food we were provided and to sleep in the comfortable beds we were offered, secure in the knowledge that no Yorkist troops would come to drag us out of them. Henry, a heavy sleeper at the best of times, lay in his chamber like the dead, and I spent an untold time in a steaming bath, not coming out until my skin was shriveled.
“Your grace, Queen Mary is expected to arrive tomorrow,” Somerset said the third day of our stay there. I was standing by Loch Linlithgow, idly throwing bread to the ducks that had gathered around me expectantly.
“Oh?” I said stiffly.
“I imagine she is going to ask for Berwick.”
“Well, this comfort does not come without a price.” I glanced at the skirts of my new gown, made of material given to me by my Scottish hosts. “I suppose we will have no choice but to give it to her. If doing so makes me a fool, so be it.”
Hal took my hand, which I let lie limply within his. “Your grace, I have told you that I was half dead with exhaustion and grief that night, and did not know what I was saying. Many a man—many a wiser man than I—would have done the same thing you did and not enter London. Try to forgive me for my unkind words that night.”
“I have. It is myself I cannot forgive. If I could do it all over again…”
Somerset put his arm around me and held me close to him as we stared mournfully across the loch. After a while he said, “I never told you how Trollope died at Palm Sunday Field. He caught an arrow in the neck and was lying there helpless in that damnable snow, choking on his own blood. So I kept the promise we had made to each other when w
e fought our first battle together: that we would not allow the other to die in agony. I kissed and blessed him, and then I cut his throat, neatly and cleanly as I could. I do believe there was thankfulness in his eyes in the moment before he died.”
“Hal…”
“It was like cutting the throat of my own father.” Hal crossed himself with his free hand. “Give Berwick to Queen Mary, if that is what it takes for the Scots to provide us with men. Just don’t stand here full of self-blame and give up on our cause. We owe it to those who died on that miserable field, to Trollope and all of the rest.”
“Who said anything about giving up?” I snapped, pulling out of Somerset’s embrace and lobbing a piece of bread into a startled duck. “This very morning I dispatched a messenger to Pierre de Brézé, asking him to seize Jersey for us. It would certainly be of help.”
Hal grinned. “It certainly would. I apologize, madam. I’ve underestimated you. But what does the king think of it?”
“The king,” I said softly, “does what I wish now. He has put everything into my hands—and of those who advise me. Some might tell you that sort of power is gratifying; I am here to tell you that it is terrifying.”
***
Mary of Gueldres did indeed arrive the next day, bearing a gift of a hundred crowns and so smug a countenance, she might have already established her household at Berwick. I made a pretense of attempting to negotiate, to save my pride, but our hosts were in a vastly superior bargaining position, and they knew it. Had they chosen to do so, they could have taken us prisoner and turned us over to Edward of York, and that realization pervaded the negotiations like an unwanted dinner guest.
To my irritation, Mary’s big blondness made a distinct impression upon Somerset, and his own good looks did not escape her attention either. Even Henry noticed the attraction between the two. “I do hope that woman is not taking advantage of our poor Hal,” he said as Mary and Hal went off on one of their never-ending confabulations, all in the name of negotiation. “He is still very vulnerable after Towton.”
The Queen of Last Hopes Page 21
