Succession

by Michael, Livi

  ‘There,’ she said to him, ‘that is better, is it not? It will do you good. You must keep your strength up, for me, and for our baby. And then, Henry – you can return to being king.’

  Just for a moment she thought that he had heard, had understood. His mouth worked and she thought he was trying to say something. He opened his lips.

  And it all spilled out, the soup and his saliva, spilling on to her face.

  She put up her hand to wipe her face, and suddenly her breath seemed caught up in her throat.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  It was one of her ladies who saw her, who saw that she couldn’t breathe.

  They rushed forward then; together with his attendants they manoeuvred her on to the couch, wiped her face for her, loosened her gown, gave her strong wine to drink.

  ‘Oh, your majesty,’ her lady cried. ‘You must not distress yourself! You are distressing the baby – your little prince!’

  And so she allowed herself to be taken away from her husband, to Westminster Palace, so that her confinement could begin.

  She had never felt so alone, though she had often been lonely since coming to this hostile land; this land that had received her warmth with coldness. But what she felt now was like the purest distillation of loneliness.

  Her mother had died. Her father no longer responded to her letters, deciding, no doubt, that his best chance was with the French, not the English, king.

  And her husband had left her. There was no other way of putting it.

  An image came to her, unbidden, of a lone tree on a barren heath; its branches stood out starkly against the sky.

  But she was not alone, not while she had her baby.

  She began to talk to him in French. At nights, when he was most wakeful, she crooned to him all the songs her nurse had sung to her, all the ones she could remember, in her small, fractured voice.

  She told him of his ancestry, of the line of kings from which he came. She told him what it would be like for him to be prince of both nations, English and French, and then king. It did not even occur to her that he might be a girl.

  She made herself eat every day – small, regular amounts – despite the fact her stomach was so compressed that all food caused a burning pain to spread from her stomach to her chest. But she would keep herself strong for her baby because she was all he had; it seemed to her that he had only his mother, not his father.

  Everything would change, she told herself, when her son was born.

  In the days before the birth the October light changed to a lucid gold. A cold breeze blew through the palace gardens so that all the trees trembled with light. She insisted on sitting by the window so that she could look out. Her fingers had swollen so that she could no longer wear her rings. Her toes were like small sausages stuffed with meat – she couldn’t feel them at all – and her face was strange to her so she had stopped looking at it. In the pearl-grey dawns her ladies helped her to walk, to ease the aching of her back.

  When she closed her eyes, the image of the solitary, blighted tree came back to her; now it was clinging to a precipice, over a dizzying fall.

  But she was not barren and blighted – she had her son.

  One night she dreamed she was taking a warm bath to ease the pain in her back, but she couldn’t get comfortable – there was something like a metallic ridge or pipe digging into her. And then as she shifted it must have pierced the side of the tub, and the water was gushing out, red with her blood.

  Then she woke, and all the bed was wet.

  And she screamed.

  All her ladies came running.

  They made her lie down on a mattress while her bed was changed. They begged her to pray, to think about the Holy Mother, who had suffered all the tortures of childbirth in a virgin body without once crying out.

  But it was hard, hard. The pain in her back increased. It was as though something were gripping it like pincers. The pain spread out to her hips and down her thighs.

  The noises were coming out of her of their own accord, or as though they were being tugged out by a rope.

  Her ladies bathed her face and stomach and spread her legs. The pain spread upwards, to her ribs. One breath shunted out after another. One hour passed after another.

  She rolled over, clutching the mattress, her nightgown twisted round her chest. She bore down with all the strength she had in the world.

  And then again.

  ‘That’s it, your majesty – that’s it!’ they cried.

  But it wasn’t it, and she was splitting right down the middle – splitting in two.

  ‘PUSH!’ they screamed at her, and she did push – she would do anything at all to be rid of it. She bore down from her divided chest and felt the great muscle of her womb contract –

  And something giving way between her legs –

  Something slithering and warm as though all her insides were spilling on to the bed.

  There was a buzzing sound in her ears.

  ‘Your majesty! Your majesty!’ they cried. ‘He is here! You have a son!’

  And upon St Edward’s day [Saturday the 13th day of October, 1453] the queen being at Westminster had a prince, on account of which bells rang in every church and ‘Te Deum’ was solemnly sung, and he was christened at Westminster …

  Bale’s Chronicle

  On St Edward’s day a son was born at Westminster and baptized in the Abbey with the greatest solemnity, and the royal council, seeing that the king was not recovering, put the kingdom under the governance of the Duke of Somerset.

  John Benet’s Chronicle

  29

  Duchess Cecily Speaks Her Mind

  ‘You must go to London,’ she said. ‘Summon all the lords to you there.’

  Somerset had called a council, and had not invited the Duke of York. But at the last moment he had received a letter telling him that he could go ‘peaceably, and measurably accompanied’.

  ‘I will go straight to the meeting,’ he said.

  ‘Take care,’ she said. ‘You do not know who will stand against you.’

  ‘No one will stand against me.’

  ‘The last time you spoke against Somerset you were arrested.’

  ‘I will not speak against Somerset,’ he said. ‘The Duke of Norfolk will.’

  ‘You know that, do you?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Somerset is powerful.’

  ‘He is nothing without the king.’

  ‘He still has the queen. If he is made regent you will be in great danger.’

  ‘He will not be made regent.’

  ‘Richard –’

  ‘Gascony has surrendered to France. He has no credit left.’

  ‘How many men will you take with you?’

  ‘I am not anticipating a battle.’

  Cecily started to protest but her husband interrupted.

  ‘The men at this council will stand by me. Norfolk for one. Your brother, the Earl of Salisbury, for another. And your nephew, the Earl of Warwick.’

  ‘You do not know how long the king will be ill –’

  ‘But while he is, someone must govern the land. And that someone will not be Somerset.’

  ‘He is the prince’s godfather.’

  ‘But until the king recognizes his son, he cannot be made heir.’

  ‘I have heard that the king cannot recognize anyone.’

  ‘He remains in his stupor.’

  ‘He will have a shock when he comes out of it.’

  ‘It is said that he thought the pregnancy was a gift of the Holy Spirit.’

  His wife snorted. ‘In the form of the Duke of Somerset,’ she said.

  Richard of York sat back. His wife had a bad mind. He had always liked that about her.

  ‘So you see, Richard,’ she said, ‘the duke may have more power than you think.’

  ‘He will have no power when I have finished with him. After this council his career will be over. And he will be out of the queen’s reach.’


  ‘You frighten me, Richard.’

  He glanced at her. ‘I do not frighten you.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You do not.’

  They were smiling at one another. For it seemed that now, finally, the duke’s hour had come.

  When the royal council realized that the king’s health was not improving, and fearing the ruin of the realm under the Duke of Somerset’s governance was imminent, the magnates of the kingdom sent for the Duke of York who arrived in London with a small retinue and entered the council. And in the council the Duke of Norfolk accused the Duke of Somerset of treason on many counts. And on 23rd November [1453] the iniquitous Duke of Somerset was arrested …

  John Benet’s Chronicle

  30

  The Earl of Warwick Makes a Speech

  He was not overly tall, but he was handsome, although his appearance was full of contradictions. He had a Roman profile with white-blond hair; a stern nose with a rosebud mouth. One of his eyes had a slight cast, as though his attention might be elsewhere, but his focus was absolute. He was an earl with the manner of a duke – or, some said, a king. The people loved him for his grand gestures: the six oxen roasting in his kitchens that any man could cut meat from; the fountains of ale and wine where any man could drink; the unexpected benevolence to a sick tenant. He went everywhere accompanied by a large retinue of men in scarlet livery, wearing the white badge of the muzzled bear.

  He arrived in London soon after the prince’s birth. The sky was grey with frills of white. White sunlight blew across the sky and disappeared again. As he climbed the steps to Paul’s Cross, where a crowd of magnates had assembled to hear him speak, it seemed to him that sky and river and crowd were all in motion.

  But as he held up his hands, silence fell.

  ‘Unto us a child is born,’ he cried. ‘Unto us a prince is given. But I say to you – what kind of prince is not recognized by his own father?’

  He waited for the wave of protest and assent to die down.

  ‘She would have you believe that she has given you a prince. She would have you believe that this prince is son to your king and true heir to this realm. But the king has not acknowledged him and never will.’

  Once again he waited.

  ‘Ask yourselves – whence came this child? I say to you that this is no prince, but a foundling – no true heir, but a changeling bought from a French witch – and for proof I offer the spell cast over our beloved king!’

  A roar of approval and rage surged towards him.

  ‘What is more likely: that the queen, after eight years of fruitless marriage, has given the king a son – or that she has perpetrated a foul trick upon us all?’

  There were cries of ‘Shame!’ but it was not clear whether they were directed at the queen or at Warwick.

  ‘The queen has tricked you,’ he continued, raising his voice above them all. ‘She has played you false and the king false. She has offered to you, as your lawful prince, either a changeling or a bastard. Good citizens – high and worthy lords – true liegemen – can you be so deluded as to accept this changeling as heir to the throne when the king will not? Will you pledge allegiance to him – lay down your lives and give up the kingdom – when you do not even know that he is your prince? When – for all you know – he is nothing more than the bastard son and heir of the Duke of Somerset?’

  And now he had to get down hastily from his platform as the crowd surged forward and fighting broke out. His men surrounded him and cleared his way as he left, with a smile of satisfaction and without a backwards glance.

  [The Earl of Warwick] had in great measure the voice of the people because he knew how to persuade them with beautiful soft speeches. He was conversible and talked familiarly with them – subtle as it were, in order to gain his ends. He gave them to understand that he would promote the prosperity of the kingdom and defend the interests of the people with all his power, and that as long as he lived he would never do otherwise. Thus he acquired the goodwill of the people of England to such an extent that he was the prince whom they held in the highest esteem and on whom they placed the greatest faith and reliance.

  Jean de Waurin

  31

  The Queen Makes a Resolution

  She knew, of course, what Warwick was saying about her. That same day she had retrieved her son from his nurse; insisted on holding him alone.

  He had been washed and was wrapped in blankets. His eyes were closed.

  He looked unbearably cross.

  That was the first thing she had thought about him: how angry he seemed to be. Angry at her, she thought, for bringing him into the misery and cruelty of this world.

  Her second thought was that he was much darker than his father; he had a tuft of blackish hair, on a head that was substantially bald. On closer inspection she could see that his face was a blotchy, yellowish red, his lips already full. He did not resemble his father.

  It was unfortunate, perhaps, given what the serpent Warwick was saying, yet secretly she was glad.

  He was like her.

  He was hers.

  He would have all her fighting spirit. Which he would need, because it seemed that he would have to fight – for two nations.

  Now, as she held him, he pulled his full lips apart into a resentful, straining cry. His fingers peeked out of his blanket, splayed and closed again. They were so wrinkled, like the fingers of a tiny, ancient man. She felt a sudden fierce compassion for this child who in his infancy had inherited the full weight of the crowns of England and France.

  But he would never be alone, not while he had her. She would keep him with her, always by her side. She did not like to give him back to his nurse, even while he fed.

  The Duke of Somerset was in the Tower. Her father had still not replied to the letters she had sent to him, to the news that he had a grandson. And her husband – her husband had not responded either.

  But she had her son.

  Everything had changed now, with his birth.

  She folded his wrinkled fingers back into the blankets.

  ‘As soon as I am churched,’ she said, ‘we will visit my lord the king. He will recover,’ she said, ‘when he sees his son.’

  At the prince’s coming to Windsor the Duke of Buckingham took him in his arms and presented him to the king in goodly wise, beseeching the king to bless him, and the king gave no manner answer. Nevertheless the duke abode still with the prince by the king, and when he could no answer have, the queen came in and took the prince in her arms and presented him in like form as the duke had done, desiring that he should bless [the child] but all their labour was in vain, for they departed thence without any answer or countenance, saying only that once he looked on the prince and cast down his eyes again without any more.

  Paston Letters

  She knelt before him as if in prayer. ‘Henry,’ she said. ‘This is your son – your beautiful son.’

  She could not for the moment say anything else, but then she continued in a lower voice.

  ‘If you ever loved me – if you ever loved God – you must come out of this. Please.’

  His eyes were entirely opaque to her. He had many small scars around his head, which was still shaved, and there were traces of blood beneath his nose. He was so, so thin. But his eyes were still the most troubling thing to her; it was as if he had been removed from his eyes.

  She did not know where he might have gone. She wondered briefly whether it was better for him there.

  She couldn’t seem to stop her own mind racing. Or her heart.

  She put out her hand and touched his, which was cold and limp.

  O my husband.

  For the first time it came to her that he might die, without ever acknowledging his son.

  If the king did die they would never accept an infant prince.

  The prince burbled, and a small thread of milk spilled from the corner of his mouth. She wiped it quickly with the edge of her sleeve.

  ‘Henry,’ she said, ‘you must c
ome back to us. You must.’

  Nothing.

  It occurred to her that she had been a long time on her knees, and had achieved nothing. She gave her husband’s hand a final squeeze, which was not returned, then stood up and faced the Duke of Buckingham.

  ‘When does parliament begin?’ she said.

  The Duke of Buckingham said it would be in the next month. All the lords had been summoned, he said; he did not know how many would attend.

  ‘You will present a bill for me there,’ she said.

  ‘A bill?’

  ‘I wish to be made regent,’ she said. ‘I will look after the interests of my son.’

  The Duke of Buckingham looked as unhappy as a man could.

  ‘It is usually the king’s council who elect a regent,’ he said.

  ‘But I will save them the trouble,’ she said. ‘You must put it to them that my son the prince must be provided for. He must receive his titles – he must be made Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester – and acknowledged heir to the throne.’

  The duke’s long face looked even longer. ‘There are those,’ he said, with extreme caution, ‘who say that the king must recognize him first.’

  She looked up at him then, stung.

  ‘My son –’ she said, then stopped and corrected herself. ‘The king’s son is heir to this realm, and the king would know that if he were well. Do you think for one moment that he would doubt it?’

  The duke hastened to assure her that he thought no such thing.

  ‘Then you must act in the king’s name,’ she said, and she left the room without looking back at her husband, still carrying the prince in her arms.

  The queen hath made a bill of five articles, desiring these articles to be granted. The first is that she desireth to have the whole rule of this land, the second is that she may appoint the Chancellor, the Treasurer, the Privy Seal and all other officers of this land, the third is that she may give all the bishoprics of this land and all other benefices belonging to the king’s gift, the fourth is that she may have sufficient livelihood assigned her for the king, the prince and herself. As for the fifth article I cannot yet find out what it is.

  Paston Letters

  … it is a right great perversion

  For a woman of this land to be regent –