Evidently Montagu was the sort of victor who enjoyed asking rhetorical questions. “Hold another tournament in my honor? Marry me to one of your sisters?” I offered.
The Nevilles will not be recorded in the chronicles for their sense of humor. “Hang, draw and quarter you? Or just beheading?”
“You might recall that after our second little get-together at St. Albans, we didn’t execute you,” I pointed out.
“Yes, I recall that, and it’ll do you no good. You were a traitor to King Edward, you might recall.”
“No. I was a traitor to King Henry. The rightful king,” I added pleasantly.
Montagu drew his foot back and methodically but firmly kicked me in the balls.
“That,” he observed as I collapsed groaning to the ground, “is for the Duke of York. And for my father,” he added, almost as an afterthought. And this”—he slapped my face with his gauntlet—“is for not knowing when to keep your mouth shut. Get him on a horse, men, when he’s able. We’ll have the sorry whoreson’s head cut off at Hexham marketplace.”
Having given himself the gratification just described—I must be honest and say that if our positions had been reversed, I might have similarly indulged myself—Montagu seemed disinclined to abuse me further, perhaps because there was more satisfaction to be had in displaying me as his prize during the short ride into town. They’d found my abandoned standard, and one of my captured men was made to carry it while I rode behind, my hands tied to the pommel and my feet tied to the stirrups. This wasn’t conducive to easing the pain in my arm, but I’d not give the Yorkists the pleasure of complaining about it. I tried to fix my mind on the ride I’d taken with Joan and my son the previous July, when the world had been a happier place.
“I’m talking to you, Beaufort.” Montagu’s irritated voice broke in on my daydream. “Answer my question. Did you ever tumble her? Rumor has it that you did.”
“Her? Can you narrow it down a bit?”
“You know what wench I mean. The Frenchwoman you call your queen.”
A vulgar question, so typical of a Neville. My great-grandfather and great-grandmother, John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford, had been adulterous lovers, God knows, but they had not been vulgar about it. “What business is it of yours?”
“Answer, Somerset, or you’ll find the headsman has a poor aim.”
So now we were up to my ducal title, at least. “Well, then. No.” I looked at Montagu wearily. “Does that answer disappoint you? If so, I’m sorry, but it happens to be the truth.”
Montagu did indeed look somewhat disappointed, and I wondered if he would have pressed me for details had I told the truth. “You never even tried?”
“No. Neither did she.” At least I could go to my death knowing that I had not compromised my lady’s honor.
“Did you want to?”
There was no point in lying about this. “Since I first saw her when I was fourteen.”
Montagu gave his version of a smile. “So did I.”
“How charming. We have something in common after all.” We were passing over a rough spot, which jounced my arm, and I could not forbear groaning at the pain.
“You’re injured? Where?”
About time he noticed. “My arm. It’s broken. In the same place your brother’s men broke it at the first battle of St. Albans. Where, since the topic of old grudges came up when you kicked me back there, your brother murdered my father.”
Montagu gave me a look that I couldn’t read, then turned round to one of his men. “Get the surgeon up here. We need him to put Somerset’s arm in a sling.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said. “Almost a waste of time, really.”
My captor shrugged. “It’ll be a good two hours before everything’s ready.”
“That long? I’d hoped for sooner. Purgatory or no purgatory, this day can’t be over faster to suit me. Speaking of purgatory, I trust I shall be able to confess my sins before I die?”
“Why, of course,” Montagu replied, a little huffily. “What do you think I am?”
I wisely kept silent.
We were now in the town, where spectators had gathered to see me being brought in. (News travelled fast here in the North.) Some of the women, I was touched to see, were weeping, and I was able to catch the eye and smile at a few of them. I nodded toward Hexham’s abbey, the town’s most prominent building. “Is that where you’ll take my body?”
“Most likely.” Montagu scowled at the crying women, whom he too had noticed. “You weren’t expecting Westminster, were you?”
I looked again toward the abbey, a fine old structure that dated back to Saxon times. “No, a man could do worse,” I conceded. Maybe some of those weeping women might even bring me some flowers from time to time, and say a prayer for me. Probably no one from my own family or Joan would be able to come up here any time soon. My shoulders sagged as I thought of those I’d never see again, and for a moment I almost gave Montagu the satisfaction of losing my composure.
Near the abbey stood the jail, which turned out to be my and my fellow prisoners’ destination. “Don’t worry, you won’t be troubled with them long,” Montagu explained to the jailer, who was looking nonplussed at this unexpected company. “All five of them are for the headsman.”
I pushed forward. “Aren’t you going to release them?” Except for Sir Edmund Fish, they weren’t even knights; such men who survived a battle were usually relieved of whatever possessions they might have and sent on their way home. “They’ve done nothing other than fight for me bravely and loyally. Surely that’s nothing to die for.”
“They’re your followers. They’re to be an example for anyone else in this part of the country who might be tempted to join your cause, or what’s left of it once you’re gone. And we’ll do the same with the rest of your adherents when we catch them.”
I stared at the four men. All I could say was, “I’m sorry.”
In our cell, the five of us sat in a dismal little circle, sipping what passed for ale and trying to keep each other’s spirits up by making grim conversation. Would the executioner grow in skill as the heads piled up, making it more advantageous to go last, or was it better to go early, while he was still fresh and not tired? How great was our likelihood of getting a competent executioner up here, anyway? Or would the ever-resourceful Montagu provide his own executioner, not trusting to the local facilities? Whose neck would prove the easiest to cut? We bantered as best we could, until a couple of the men turned to prayer and the rest of us grew silent.
I settled, half dozing, against the wall. I wished I had one of Joan’s delicious wafers to munch upon; it would bring a smile to my face. I wished I had Joan to hold me one last time and to kiss me good-bye. I wished I could know what the future held for my mother and my brothers and my sisters, and above all, my little son. I wished I could write Charles a letter of fatherly advice and concern; though I was not exactly the best preceptor in the world, at least he would know that he had been in my thoughts. I wished I knew what would become of the king and of the queen. I knew one thing at least: as long as there was breath in Henry and Edward’s bodies, Margaret would never stop fighting for them. Margaret…No, with my Maker and I soon to improve our acquaintance, it was best not to think of Margaret as I’d seen her that last afternoon at Bamburgh, lying naked and lovely in my arms. Much better to think of her only as my queen.
Black Jack, of all people, put his head in his hands and started weeping. Relieved at this interruption in my thoughts, which had been taking such a dangerous turn, I put my good arm around him and patted his back until he had finally regained his composure. “She told me that I’d not come to a bad end, if I followed her.”
“Who?”
“The queen. She stood there in those woods like a ragged angel, telling me that I should give up my old life, or I’d come to the gallows. And here I am, at the gallows. Or at least the block.”
“And she was right,” I said. “If you’d kept up you
r old life, you would have died for a sheep, or a horse, or a jewel. But today you die for a king. And for a queen,” I added softly. “A very great lady.”
Black Jack pondered this. “That’s something.”
“It’s everything.” I heard a rattle of keys. “And it looks as if our time has come.”
Sir Edmund Fish, who’d been one of the ones praying, and perhaps weeping as well, cleared his throat. “I wish I could have done a better job for you back there, my lord. I fear that our cause is dead.”
“You did the best you could. All of you did.” I clapped him on the shoulder as Montagu’s men, followed by a priest, came to lead us to the block. I smiled at Fish and the rest of my men, then at the Yorkists as they hustled us out of our cell. “And our cause isn’t dead; it won’t be as long as one of us somewhere has breath left in his body. It’s only resting.”
I knew immediately from Doctor Morton’s expression that he had nothing to say that I would want to hear. In a low voice that was as equally alien to him as his bleak face, he said, “Your grace, I must prepare you for ill news.”
“The king is dead.”
“No. That is the one piece of news that is not entirely bad, and it is encouraging only by comparison. King Henry is free still, at least the last that I heard. No one knows his whereabouts. He is a fugitive. We have suffered a great reversal of fortune, however.”
I stood up straighter. “Tell me the rest.”
“There were two battles.” Morton swallowed. “The Duke of Somerset encountered John Neville’s men at Hedgeley Moor in late April. Neville was traveling to the Scottish border to meet envoys there, and the duke ambushed him. But the duke was outnumbered and defeated and Lord Ralph Percy was killed. Just a couple of weeks later, Neville surprised Somerset’s men near Hexham. The duke was attempting to move south, to force an encounter, I believe, before he was overwhelmed by the forces that Edward was raising. He and his men fought valiantly, but to no avail. More than thirty of our men were captured after the battle and beheaded. They put to death lords, knights, squires—all manner of men. Your yeoman Thomas Hunt. The king’s purser Roger Water. Lord Hungerford. Lord Ros. Your friend Black Jack. Somerset, God assoil his soul, was among those men, my lady. He in fact was the first to die.”
Katherine Vaux came from behind and held me as Morton’s voice blurred on, his litany of loss now barely comprehensible to me. “The duke was put to death at Hexham, in the marketplace, on May 15. They say he died with composure and courage. Lord Ros and Lord Hungerford managed to evade capture for a day or so but were caught and executed two days later at Newcastle. Lord Ros begged to be buried beside the Duke of Somerset at Hexham Abbey and was granted that one favor.”
“Edmund and John Beaufort? Do they live?”
“No one knows, your grace. All that can be said is that they were not known to have been among those that Montagu executed. Edward made him the Earl of Northumberland for his services.”
I struggled against the sickness that was beginning to overtake me. “Thank you for bringing me this news. Have masses said for the souls of these brave men. I would like to be alone.”
Doctor Morton nodded, his eyes full of pity, and left the room. As soon as he was gone, I sank to the ground and wept in Katherine’s lap as she stroked my hair. “My poor lady,” she said when my sobs had subsided. “You still loved him, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I whispered. I raised my eyes to Katherine, and the tears started to stream from them again. “God forgive me, but I did.”
***
My health had been delicate for some days before I learned of Somerset’s beheading, and soon after hearing the news I became gravely ill. But for the skill of my father’s best physician, who was summoned specially to Koeur Castle to attend me, I might well have died. But he was not a man to submit tamely to losing a patient, and brought me around through sheer willpower, so that by July I was well enough to contemplate just how grim our situation was. It had grown even worse while I was ailing: of the castles we had held in the North, Alnwick and Dustanburgh had surrendered. Only Ralph Grey, in Bamburgh Castle, held out. This time, there had been no effort to starve him out: Edward brought his three great guns to the castle and began firing upon the castle walls. Gravely injured by a falling wall, Grey was hauled to Doncaster and beheaded. By mid-July, only Harlech Castle in Wales still belonged to us. And no one knew where poor Henry was.
Then in October, Doctor Morton again brought me news. “It appears that Edward of England has married.”
“Married?” I stared at Doctor Morton, who bore an expression entirely out of keeping with the gravity of his words. A marriage to a foreign princess would bring the possibility of new, or stronger, alliances for Edward, and make it all of the harder for us to get help from anyone. “That is horrid news. To whom?”
“You do remember Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford, and her many children.”
“Yes.” I scowled at the thought of the fecund duchess, whose large family had made its peace with Edward after Towton. And why had I heeded her request to stay out of London after the second battle of St. Albans?
“You might remember that she had a lovely daughter, Elizabeth.”
“Yes. She gave Somerset her favor at a joust once,” I added sadly. “But what does she have to do with this?”
“Everything. Edward thought she was lovely too, it appears. He has married her. In secret, without a word to his councillors. He announced the marriage to his council at Michaelmas.”
“A commoner? A secret marriage? Has the man lost his mind?”
“No, I believe he has lost his heart. Evidently she refused to lie with him as his mistress, and he was so smitten that he decided to marry her rather than to give her up. They say Warwick was outraged. And, of course, King Louis is irked, as he was pushing for a match between Edward and Bona of Savoy.”
So there would be no French match for Edward, no great European match at all. Thanks to the lust of this young king and to Elizabeth Woodville’s unassailable virtue, we were safe from that at least. For the first time in weeks, I smiled. I did more than that: I laughed outright.
“And I have more good news for you,” Morton continued, his smile matching my own. “The younger Beauforts are safe in Paris.”
A month later, Edmund and John Beaufort were shown into the modest chamber where I received visitors. I embraced both of them in turn. “I cannot tell you how grieved I was by the loss of your brothers. And I cannot tell you how glad I am that you were spared. You were at Hexham, then?”
Edmund’s eyes shadowed. “Yes. Hal screamed for us as he was captured to save ourselves, and we did. I knew that he would not survive when he fell into their hands, and he knew it too.” He crossed himself. “I can say no more about that day, your grace.”
“Don’t, then. Only know that I have masses said for Somerset daily. He will soon be reunited with your father in Paradise, which is a thought that has given me great comfort when I think of how I miss him. And I have them said for Lord Ros too.”
Edmund smiled his thanks and looked around at the room, which was furnished adequately, thanks to my father, but no more. “I fear that you can ill afford them. They tell me that you are in straitened circumstances here.”
“We manage, and my father is as generous as he can be. Don’t think for a moment that you are not welcome here. There are always means by which we can economize more than we do.”
John spoke up. “We are hoping to take service with the Count of Charolais; I believe he will welcome us for Hal’s sake, so we will not be a burden upon you here for long. But there is another recruit to our cause who has come from England. May I bring him here, your grace?”
I nodded, and John left the room. When he returned, it was with a pretty, rather large woman of about two-and-thirty and a small boy, both dressed in black. In the instant I viewed them before they dropped to their knees, it took no keen eye to guess the identity of the lad’s father. “This is Joan Hill, you
r grace, and her son, Charles. He is Hal’s son.”
“Rise, Mistress Hill,” I said. “What brings you abroad?”
“Your grace,” Joan stammered. I smiled at her, and she continued awkwardly, “I’m sorry, your grace. I never expected to be in conversation with a queen, I guess. Hal—I mean, my lord Somerset—told me that if anything should happen to him, I should get in touch with some people he knew, and they would help me and Charles. I could have kept him in London after my lord died; it wasn’t as if that Edward person was beating down my door trying to seize my boy. He’s not the rightful king, but he’s not that great a scoundrel that he would go after a little bastard child. What would be the point? But I know my lord wanted my son to acquire more manners and graces than he ever could from living with me, though he was kind enough never to say so. He was always a kind man, my lord was.”
I dabbed at my eye. “He was indeed. Go on.”
“He wanted our son to be a knight and to marry well, and I thought that was the least I could do for him, to honor his wishes as best I could. So I found the men—some merchants who had been friendly with my lord and my lord’s father—and we decided to send my Charles abroad, where he could live with some friends of my lord in Bruges and get a proper upbringing until things got better in England. I didn’t know that Sir Edmund and Sir John were alive then, you see, and I didn’t want to push myself on their mother or sisters. We were trying to make arrangements when we heard that Hal’s brothers were safe and sound, and that they were looking to the same merchant to help them get abroad to safety. So we decided to send my Charles with his uncles, and I decided to go too—I wanted to see him safely settled.” Joan blushed. “I did go on, your grace, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”
“You told me what I wanted to hear, and I am glad to hear it.” I beckoned the boy closer. “Come here, Charles. That is a fine name. Do you know I had an uncle named Charles? Well, I did. Do you miss your father, my dear?”
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