“Oh, I think he can handle himself,” I said dryly, rather wishing for a moment that Henry was a different sort of man so I could add, “and that she will handle him.” Nor could I mention my hope that Hal’s manly charms might lead to better terms, for Mary had not only hinted that Berwick might not be enough, she had also mentioned that King Edward, as she insisted on calling him, was making civil overtures toward Scotland.
“Perhaps Exeter should talk with her instead.”
“Exeter means well, but he lacks the temperament of a negotiator.” And, I added privately to myself, Mary did not find him the least bit attractive, at least beside Somerset.
“Well, you know best.” Henry, who was lying beside me, patted my hand. Even though we often slept together, we’d not made love since our reunion, and I was beginning to suspect that we probably never would again. I tried not to imagine what Hal and Mary of Gueldres might be up to, and tried even harder not to recall the feeling of Hal’s arm around me the other day.
Instead, I changed the subject. “We must think of something to do with Edward,” I said, referring not to the usurper but our son. “All of these travels of ours are making him quite wild.”
On April 25, we ceded the Scots Berwick, which to their delight we were able to turn over immediately, and Carlisle, which had to be taken. Soon afterward, our makeshift court moved to Edinburgh, at the Convent of the Dominican Friars. We did not have long to stroll the picturesque streets of Edinburgh, though, for we did not intend for the Earl of March to wear his crown in peace. In June, young Edward and I personally accompanied the Duke of Exeter to besiege Carlisle, while Henry himself took a group of men to Ryton and Brancepeth in June. Meanwhile, in May Pierre de Brézé had sent a fleet under the command of his cousin to capture Jersey.
John Neville, Warwick’s younger brother, raised our siege of Carlisle, giving me cause to regret having not executed him when I had the chance, while forces raised by the Bishop of Durham—who had once been my chancellor but like so many others had made their peace with March after Towton—repelled us at Brancepeth. Brézé’s fleet, however, took Jersey, and we still held a few castles in Wales, where Henry’s brother Jasper was still stirring up trouble on our behalf.
“We need more forces than we have available now,” I fretted after we had all gathered back in Edinburgh in varying degrees of disrepair. “I know Bishop Kennedy here in Scotland is our friend, but Queen Mary wavers”—I gave Somerset a significant look—“and I have heard that March is still trying for a truce.”
“And they have finally held his coronation,” Henry observed. “They say it was a magnificent ceremony.”
“I don’t want to hear a single detail,” I warned. “I think it is time we took another tack. When I came to this country, my uncle Charles urged me to do everything in my power to get my lord to cede Maine, and I did. No one in England has had a kind word to say of me ever since. So it is time, I think, that he did me a great service in return. We need men and we need money. He can supply us both.”
“So you plan to write to him?”
I shook my head. “He was very much impressed with my lord of Somerset when he was attempting to recover Calais. I would like him to go and ask my uncle in person. And to see what help the Count of Charolais can be to us.”
Hal nodded. “I’m willing.” He grinned. “Edinburgh is a bit gray for my taste.”
“And you, my lord?” I prompted my husband. “Do you approve of this mission?”
Henry nodded, just as I thought he would.
***
The evening before his departure, Hal caught me as I was strolling—or, to put it more accurately, pacing—around the convent grounds. “May I speak to you?”
“There is no need to be formal, Hal.”
“But you have been formal with me lately, n’est-ce pas?” I shrugged, and Somerset turned my face to his. “Is it the Queen Mother? You look disapproving whenever I speak to her in a friendly manner.”
I turned my head. “She is a widow, and you a single man. You can speak to each other as you please.”
“Yes, and that is all we do. Queen Mary and I are not lovers.”
“Really?” I said, ashamed of the girlish note that crept into my voice.
Hal, of course, caught my tone. “Really. We amuse each other, and I must say that I did offer to warm her bed, it being chilly in Scotland. But she is as annoyingly practical as she is amusing. She quite enjoys being the king’s regent, and she could hardly retain the position if she were to turn up pregnant with my child. So she very graciously refused.”
“But you spend so much time together—”
Hal shrugged. “What can I say? It is the Beaufort charm. She prefers me to her Scottish councillors, ’tis all.”
“Well, that is a relief to know. I would not like to see your bed sport harm our cause.” I started to turn away, but Hal caught me by the arm.
“Just our cause?” he asked softly. “I believe that you are a bit jealous of the Queen Mother, Margaret.”
“No! I—”
Hal drew me toward him and kissed me. For a moment, I gave myself up to the pleasure of having his lips against mine. Then Hal’s hands began to wander, and I pulled back. “It cannot be, Hal.”
“Margaret, I am fond of the king. I would do nothing to hurt him. But—”
“Then we will do nothing to hurt him.”
“Need he know? We need not risk getting you with child. There are other ways of giving—and getting—pleasure.”
I wondered fleetingly if Hal had tried this argument on Queen Mary. “I am aware of that, and they are just as wrong for a married woman and a queen to indulge in.”
“A married woman and a queen whose husband no longer touches her. I’m right, am I not?”
“That is none of your con—Yes, you are right.”
“Then why not give yourself a little pleasure? I promise, we will be discreet.”
“If I thought only to give myself a little pleasure, I would have fallen into your bed long before this.” Absently, I put my finger against my lips, warm from Hal’s kiss. “But don’t you understand? Surely you must have heard the rumors about your father and me, that he was my son’s father.”
“Yes.”
“He most certainly was not, if you have ever wondered. What do you think would happen if word got out that I was lying with you? For word would get out, you can count on it. Half of the men in Mary’s court want to align with the House of York, don’t you realize that? They would be more than delighted to pass along the rumor that I was moving from one Beaufort to the next, and that if one wasn’t the father of Edward, the other surely must be. Everything we have fought for—everything our men have died for—could be for naught, if enough could be convinced that my son were a bastard.”
“Yes, you must always think of your cause.”
“Hal, it is our cause, not just mine! Don’t be like this.”
“I will see you tomorrow at my departure. Good-bye, madam.”
Hal turned away, leaving me to lean against the abbey wall and weep with frustration.
***
That night, Henry joined me in bed. This time when he gave me his customary good-night peck on the lips, I pulled him close to me and kissed him hard, trying my best to replicate Hal’s expertise in this area. “Love me,” I whispered, and Henry did tentatively explore under my shift, almost as if we were both virgins again, as I caressed him and made encouraging noises.
He tried; I give him that. So did I. I employed all of the arts I knew of, which were not numerous given Henry’s very conservative nature in bed. But probably even an experienced courtesan would have met with defeat. After a while, Henry sighed and gently stopped my browsing hands. “I am sorry, my dear.”
“Perhaps some other time,” I said, trying to keep the misery out of my voice. Two-and-thirty, and I was a married woman living the life of a nun while being derided by my enemies as a strumpet. If the Duke of York had made it in
to Paradise, perhaps he was having a good laugh at my expense. I kissed Henry and rolled over before my tears began to fall. “There is always another night.”
***
The next day, we gathered at the harbor, where a brisk wind promised to send Hal and his party to France quickly. As his companions said their own farewells, Hal made a great show of double-checking to see that all of the letters he had been given were accounted for, then bantered with young Edward about the probability of getting seasick. Then he embraced Henry, and at last turned to me. Would he give me a warm good-bye, or a formal one? He could hardly leave without saying anything. “I wish you a safe voyage,” I said tremulously.
His voice was quiet, but not cold. “Is there anyone to whom you wish to send a message? Such as your father?”
“Yes.” I looked into Hal’s eyes. “Tell him that I love him very dearly.”
“I will, your grace.” Hal kissed my hand and smiled. “I look forward to seeing all of you shortly, and with good news.”
But the next news we heard was ill: my uncle Charles was dead. By the time Hal left his ship, a new king, Charles’s surly son Louis, sat on the throne of France.
My dear, how long the time has been!” My father stepped back to gaze at me. “And this is my fine grandson.” Father bent to address Edward confidentially. “Parlez-vous français?”
“Oui,” said Edward, and proceeded in fluent French to tell his grandfather the story of our journey from Brittany, where we had landed a couple of weeks before.
Louis XI, France’s new king, had been proving himself to be most unpredictable. Just days after becoming king, he had ordered the arrest of Pierre de Brézé, against whom he bore an old grudge. Louis and my uncle King Charles had long been on ill terms, and when Louis learned that Hal had arrived in France to see the late king, he had promptly ordered his arrest and held him in close confinement for several months. I had been terrified when I heard this news, convinced that Louis would send Hal to King Edward—as I suppose I should start calling him for clarity’s sake—in chains and that he would promptly be executed. Instead, in one of those abrupt volte-faces that was to typify my cousin Louis, he had suddenly decided it was time to discomfit King Edward and had ordered Somerset’s release. Unable to cross back to Scotland for fear of being intercepted by Edward’s agents, Hal had traveled to Flanders under the protection of his old friend Charles, the Count of Charolais, who had helped persuade Louis to spare his life in the first place. Supported by Charles, he was living in Bruges. From there, with the help of the count, he had plotted with John de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, and his son Aubrey to land at Essex, but poor Oxford’s side of the plot was discovered, and the earl and Aubrey had been beheaded on Tower Hill in February 1462 along with several others. Add to that the fact that the Earl of Pembroke and the Duke of Exeter had been defeated in Wales the autumn before by Edward’s men, and that Edward was making more overtures to the Scots, and it looked bleak for us that spring of 1462.
So I had decided to try my luck with Louis myself. First, however, I visited my father, whom I had not seen in seventeen years. As my father chatted with Edward, I gazed around Angers Castle, overlooking the River Maine. I had schooled myself upon coming to England not to feel homesick, and thanks to Suffolk, I had largely succeeded, but now that I was back in France at last, I felt an overwhelming urge to stay the rest of my life in this comfortable castle with my boy, safe from all that threatened me. I choked back a sob, and Father at once looked up at me. “My dear, what is it?”
“It has—it has been so hard lately, Father.” And I have been so lonely, I had to fight myself from adding. Henry still did no more than lie beside me.
Father put his arm around me. “Come, Marguerite. You have had a long journey. I have had your old chamber made ready for you. You must rest.” He smiled at Edward. “And you, my boy, shall see my lions!”
***
In the chamber where I had spent much of my maidenhood, everything was largely as I had left it—my old tapestries, taken out of their chests and rehung, my old bed, my old coverlet and furnishings. I climbed into my bed and lay there, sipping the wine I’d been given, while Marie and my other ladies unpacked my belongings. Jeanne de Laval, my father’s second wife, who was three years younger than myself, superintended. I had known her when we were children and remembered her as being very good natured, but now she looked scandalized at the speed with which Marie and the others were accomplishing their duties. “My dear, this is all you brought with you?” I nodded. “Is this all you carry in England?”
“We are not all quite barbarians there, but I have been reduced to traveling light,” I said. “My husband and I are very poor now, and live on others’ charity.”
“Well, I daresay your dear father will replenish your wardrobe, poor darling.” She shook her head at the gown that Marie was unfolding, which was downright threadbare in spots. “After all, so many people are curious to see you, and you won’t want to appear in front of them looking less than your best.”
“Curious to see me?”
“Why, of course! You are thought to be quite the heroine here, fighting for your husband and your son.”
I snorted. “The people of England think quite differently of me, I can assure you that.”
“Oh, well, they are fools, are they not? And it helps matters here as well that the gallant Duke of Somerset is so plainly enamored of you.”
I almost dropped the cup I was holding. “Enamored of me?”
“Indeed, he is quite the knight-errant, and you the lady of his heart. It is all quite chivalrous. Of course, it helps that he is said to be so very handsome. We have never seen him here at Angers, of course, but those who have seen him say he is like a young King David. Is he?”
“He is good-looking,” I allowed.
“Oh, you seem rather underwhelmed.”
I shrugged. “I have known him since he was fourteen, which is a rather unimpressive age for most men in terms of looks. I suppose I am simply so used to seeing him now that I cannot see what other women see.”
“Dear me,” said Jeanne, shaking her head as she drew the bed curtains so that I could settle in for a nap. “You have become quite the cold Englishwoman, I fear. I quite agree with your father; you need to tarry a while in Angers.”
***
“I saw the lions!” Edward told me as we walked around the castle grounds a few hours later. “And look—there are ostriches! With feathers just like on my badge!” A pair of those birds sauntered by us. “And there are these strange dark people all about.”
“Moors.”
“And dwarfs! How come Father never kept Moors or dwarfs?”
“Your father is more concerned with spiritual pursuits.”
“And do you know there is a tennis court here? When I become king I shall have one at Windsor. Maybe Westminster too.” Edward considered. “And I think I’ll have some Moors there too.”
“No dwarfs?”
Edward scrunched his face up to ponder the matter. “Well, maybe,” he said finally. “And Grandfather said there will be a farce tonight in our honor. Have I ever seen a farce? Grandfather says it is a comic play.”
“No.” Having two kings in one tiny island was farce enough for my taste.
“Father’s court—when he had one—is not very amusing,” Edward commented.
“When it is yours, you can make it so.” I ran my hand through Edward’s hair. “I know it is hard to be wandering from place to place with so little money and so little amusement, but someday we will have your father’s throne back, and it will have been all worthwhile.”
“Oh, I understand.” Edward pulled at my hand. “Look, Mother! A monkey!”
***
While I enjoyed a semblance of my youth again (and indeed the face in the mirror that my father bought me looked less careworn with each passing day), King Louis tarried in the south of France, sending envoys to greet me but making it clear that I would have to bide my time b
efore I met with him personally. In the meantime, there arrived some welcome additions to my party: Pierre de Brézé, whom Louis had freed from prison, and Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke.
And Doctor John Morton, my son’s former chancellor, also appeared one day at Angers—much to my shock, for he had been captured after Towton and sent to the Tower. “You were released?” I asked after I had greeted him joyously.
“No,” said Doctor Morton cheerfully. “I escaped.’
“Escaped?” Men like Roger Mortimer, Queen Isabella’s virile lover from the century before, could manage the feat of breaking out of the Tower, I supposed, but this plump little man? “How?”
“No great feat of strength, I fear. I simply picked the most amicable of my guards and reasoned with him. Was it not wrong, I asked, to take an anointed king from the throne that he and his father and his grandfather had held for sixty years, in favor of the grandson of a man who had been executed as a traitor? Even if King Henry was”—Morton coughed delicately—“not entirely himself at times, did he not have a fine young man, whose soundness I could attest to, to succeed to his throne, and who would be capable of acting as his regent in just a few years? Mind you, this seed took many weeks to plant, but it at last bore fruit, and when it did, my guard procured old clothes for me and allowed me to slip out in the dead of night, where he had friends waiting to convey me abroad. And so—here I am! As is my kind guard who helped me escape. So you see, madam, I have not only brought you myself, but a convert as well.”
“Lancaster should have more such as you,” I said, smiling broadly. Not in months had I felt so optimistic. Let so-called King Edward treat with the Scots! We had other means of unseating him.
Lord Ros, Hal’s older half brother, also joined us. By this time I was able to ask about Hal without betraying anything more than the natural solicitude of a queen for a loyal supporter. “He’s doing what he can for us in Bruges, your grace, stirring up trouble for Edward from there.” Ros laughed. “And I suspect he’s not so unhappy to be there, as rumor has it that the ladies of Burgundy find him quite agreeable.” He touched his face, a good-humored one but not a particularly good-looking one. “Oh, to be blessed with that angelic Beaufort visage.”
The Queen of Last Hopes Page 22
