The Red Rose of Anjou

by Jean Plaidy

  One cold March day she was at her writing-table. She was trying to make a match for one of her serving-women. She so much enjoyed matchmaking and she found the very man for her woman. She would break the good news to them, get them married and perhaps attend the christening of the first child.

  She had several protégées for whom she had made marriages.

  She loved to dabble in their affairs, to watch over them, to listen to their troubles and to follow the course of their lives. When they had children she was pleased but often a little envious. It did not seem right that the common people should be able to bear children while those to whom children were of the utmost importance remained barren.

  Neither she nor Henry were passionately interested in the act of procreation. It was to them both a necessary duty, but she was growing rather disheartened. It was nine years and in spite of their dutiful efforts there was still no sign of a child. If she could have a son what a joy that would be. York would be silenced forever.

  As she rose from her writing-table she wondered whether to summon her woman and tell her the good news. ‘You are to be married,’ she would tell the astonished girl; and she hoped she would be suitably grateful.

  She sent for the woman. While she was talking to her one of her attendants came in to say that a messenger had arrived and was asking for an audience with her.

  She dismissed the woman and said she would deal with her affairs later. In the meantime she would receive the messenger.

  She was delighted to see that he came from her father, but when she looked into his face she realized at once that it was not good news.

  ‘My lady,’ he said bowing low, ‘I come from the King of Sicily your noble father. Here are letters for you but he said it might be better if I prepared you for the news.’

  ‘Then do so,’ she commanded.

  ‘Your noble mother the lady Isabelle is very ill.’

  Margaret looked steadily at the messenger. ‘Do you mean she is dead?’ she asked.

  ‘My lady, I fear so.’

  She nodded. ‘Give me the letters,’ she said. ‘Then go to the kitchen where they will refresh you after your journey.’

  She took the letters from the messenger and saw that they were indeed in her father’s hand. She glanced through them. She would read them thoroughly later.

  Her mother dead. She could scarcely believe it. Not that strong, vital woman.

  Memories crowded into her mind. She remembered her mother more from her very early days. She would never forget that journey to the French court when Agnès Sorel had accompanied them.

  Agnès...beautiful Agnès, beloved of a King.

  She rose from her writing-table and as she did so she felt suddenly weak and dizzy. She clutched it for support and then slid back into her chair.

  One of the women was running to her. Vaguely she heard her exclamation of alarm.

  When she awoke she was resting on her bed and the doctors were there.

  They were not sure, they told her. But there were signs. There was a possibility.

  ‘I am pregnant,’ she whispered.

  ‘My lady,’ was the answer, ‘it could well be so.’

  She felt bewildered. Coming so soon on the shock of her mother’s death she could scarcely grasp it. Death on one hand and the possibility of birth—glorious birth—on the other. No wonder she felt bemused.

  She must not become overexcited. She must wait until she could be certain before she told Henry.

  There came a day when she was sure. She hurried to Henry and embraced him. He smiled gently at her.

  ‘It would seem that you have heard good news,’ he said.

  ‘The best possible news,’ she told him. ‘It has happened at last. Henry, I am with child.’

  ‘Forsooth and forsooth,’ he cried. ‘Can it really be so?’

  ‘I believe it to be so. The doctors do also.’

  ‘So long we have waited. So much effort...’

  ‘Nevertheless it is true. I am going to have a child. Think what this will mean. Think of York’s face when he hears of it. What use for him to flaunt his white rose now? This will change everything.’

  ‘If the child is a boy,’ began Henry.

  ‘It will be a boy,’ cried Margaret. ‘It must be a boy.’

  ###

  She was right. York was stunned when he heard the news. If this child were a healthy boy it would destroy his hopes. A son...after nine years! But it was not born yet. It might never be and if it were a girl that would not be so dangerous, but a boy would be disaster.

  ‘Do you think it can be true?’ he asked Cecily.

  ‘I will believe it when I see the child,’ she retorted.

  ‘It is possible, of course. Perhaps it is just a rumour. I can’t believe that just at this time.’

  ‘You don’t think it is someone else’s?’

  ‘Somerset’s you mean?’

  ‘Can it be Henry’s? They say he is getting more and more feeble.’

  ‘He certainly is not interested in women. He has never had a mistress and I believe he has had to force himself to sleep with the Queen.’

  Lusty Cecily laughed aloud. Then she said seriously: ‘The Queen is capable of anything, I do believe.’

  ‘We must wait in patience. For one thing the rumour may not be true, for another the child might not live.’

  ‘And if it does, Richard, and if it is a boy?’

  ‘Then it may be necessary to take the crown by force,’ answered Richard grimly.

  ‘So thought I at the time when there was that hostility in the Temple Gardens between the wearers of the white and red roses.’

  ‘Civil war is the last thing I want.’

  ‘But the alternative...?’

  ‘If we cannot settle by peaceful means then we shall have to resort to arms.’

  Cecily nodded. ‘They are laughing, these Lancastrians, at their good fortune.’

  ‘They may not be laughing for long,’ answered Richard.

  ###

  Henry was pleased with life. He refused to see the trouble all about him. Somerset fretted about York and declared that he was fomenting trouble. Henry did not believe him really. Henry liked to feel that men were good though now and then a little misguided perhaps, but he could not accept the fact that his kinsman of York meant any harm to him. Margaret, of course, agreed with Somerset. She was always telling him that he must not be so gentle, so ready to believe the good in everyone. Margaret was so fierce at times—only because she was fond of him, of course, and cared so much about the prosperity of the country.

  This summer they were taking a long progress through the land. Henry liked to visit the monasteries and abbeys and colleges as he passed through the countryside and promised himself that he would build more. He was glad that they were getting out of France. Let others deplore their losses if they would; he thought that when they no longer had anything to fight for in France, it would be so much the better.

  He felt rather strange now and then, so listless that all he wanted to do was to be alone with his books. Then he would sometimes find himself half asleep in the middle of his reading. Sometimes he would awaken with a start and wonder where he was and for some time be unable to recall.

  He was delighted to see Margaret so contented now that she was to have a child. It was what she had desired more than anything.

  ‘At least now,’ she said, ‘they won’t be able to criticize me for my barrenness.’

  He tried to tell her that they were not really criticizing her. They were merely anxious for there to be an heir to the throne. It was love of the country that made them sad about there not being one. Now it would be very different.

  They were at Clarendon in the New Forest. Margaret was happy here. She loved to hunt but she was dispensing with that pleasure now for she was six months pregnant and growing larger every day. Some of the wise old women said that the way she carried the child indica
ted that it was a boy.

  How contented they would be if that were so. But a child of either sex would be welcome. It would at least show that they could get children. Although of course everyone would be wanting a boy.

  Well, they were at peace here at Clarendon. Henry had been feeling very tired of late. The long day’s riding had been more exhausting than usual. They would stay a little while at Clarendon.

  The next morning when his attendants came to his bedchamber they found him lying very still, his eyes wide open, staring ahead of him. He did not seem to see them. When they spoke to him, he did not answer. He lay very quietly and did not seem to be able to move his limbs.

  They went in consternation to the Queen, knowing that she would be angry if not informed at once of the King’s strangeness.

  She stared at him lying there supine on the bed. He looked different somehow—like a corpse.

  She took his hand. It fell from hers without Henry’s seeming to be aware of it. He did not appear to see her. He just lay— unseeing, unhearing, unthinking.

  ‘Call the doctors,’ commanded the Queen.

  They came but they could neither make him see nor hear. He responded in no way.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded the Queen impatiently.

  ‘It would seem that the King has lost his reason.’

  Margaret stood up, her hands on her body. She could feel the child moving. The King losing his reason. What nonsense! She must send for Somerset at once.

  She faced the doctors. ‘Say nothing of this...as yet,’ she commanded. ‘This may pass. We do not know yet what ails the King, but I do not wish to let loose disturbing rumours.’

  The doctors said that they would say nothing.

  ###

  Somerset cam riding with all speed to Clarendon and Margaret at once took him to see the King who was still in a form of coma, although he appeared to be conscious. His eyes were open; he was breathing; but apart from that he might have had no life at all.

  ‘Edmund, my dear friend.’ she cried, ‘what calamity is it that has fallen on us?’

  ‘The King, the doctors appear to think, has lost his reason.’

  ‘I fear that may be so. But there is a possibility that he will recover.’

  Somerset nodded, ‘it came upon him suddenly. It may well be that it will depart in the same way.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  Somerset said: ‘We should wait a while. Let no one know of this until we are sure what it means.’

  She nodded. ‘So thought I. I have commanded the doctors to say nothing.’

  ‘‘That is well, but there are spies everywhere, you know. The servants...’

  ‘I think I can trust them.’

  ‘You can never trust servants, dear lady. However we must hope that nothing of this reaches the ears of the people until we understand what it is and plan what we can do about it.’

  ‘My child is due in three months.’

  ‘If we can keep this quiet until the child is born...and if the child is a prince...’

  ‘Oh, Edmund, how glad I am that we think alike. We will wait until the child is born and by that time Henry may have recovered. But what can this condition mean?’

  ‘I fear he may be losing his reason.’

  She looked at him in horror.

  ‘You know who his mother was. That means that he could, I suppose, take after his grandfather.’

  ‘The mad King of France! I have heard gruesome tales of him.’

  ‘He was of a different temperament from Henry. Henry is so gentle, so peace-loving. The malady – if it be the same – has affected him differently. It has just robbed him of his senses. Charles the Sixth was a raving lunatic at times violent, wreaking havoc wherever he was so that none dared go near him.’

  ‘Pray God it does not come to that.’

  ‘Not with gentle Henry. But it is a calamity none the less. All we can do is wait. We do not want this to come to York’s ears.’

  ‘God forbid. He would want to set himself up as Protector or Regent or some such post before we could plan anything.’

  ‘York must not know. It may well be that it is a temporary stage. How long has he been like this?’

  ‘Since his attendants went to his bedchamber and found him, so only a few days ago.’

  ‘We will wait then. Keep the matter as secret as possible and you should make your way to Westminster where the child should be born. You cannot remain at Clarendon. That would most certainly give rise to gossip.’

  ‘It will not be easy to convey him to Westminster without it’s being noticed that there is something strange about him.’

  ‘We will do it as best we can and I suggest that you begin to make the move as soon as possible.’

  ‘I will do it, and I thank God that you are beside me.’

  ###

  Margaret lay in her bedchamber in Westminster awaiting the birth of the child. This should have been the happiest time of her life and instead it was fraught with uneasiness.

  In nearly three months Henry’s condition had changed little. He could move his limbs now; he could eat; he slept; but he did not speak and he was completely unaware of what was going on around him. She had tried to speak to him about the child and he, who had been .so overjoyed at the prospect of becoming a father, clearly did not know what she was talking about.

  She had summoned the doctors William Hacliff, Robert Warren and William Marschall to his bedside because there were none in England to equal them for skill, but they shook their heads and conferred together. The King had lost his reason, they had to admit. The malady could have descended from his grandfather even though it had attacked him in a different form. They were with him constantly. I hey concocted syrups and potions, baths, fomentations and plasters. The King took them all patiently and lay or sat quietly saying nothing, hearing nothing and not responding in any way.

  She knew there were wild rumours for it was quite impossible to keep the secret. Soon the true state of affairs would have to be divulged for many of the rumours were more horrific than the reality. .

  The doctors had said she most certainly must not fret. Her big ! f task now was to produce a healthy child. It was unfortunate that this should have happened at this time of all times, but she must think of her all-important task.

  They were right, of course. She must purge her mind of all anxiety. She must not think beyond the birth. Nothing must go wrong with that. She wondered how much of what was happening had reached the ears of the Duke of York.

  Then her pains had started. Her women were with her, and at last after hours of agony she heard the cry of a child.

  So prepared was she for misfortune that she could scarcely believe the truth when they told her that she had a boy—a beautiful, healthy boy.

  She lay still rejoicing; and after a while they came and laid him in her arms.

  ###

  Somerset came to see her with the Duchess. They expressed their delight in the child and the Duchess walked round the bedchamber with him in her arms.

  ‘But he is beautiful!’ she cried. ‘He looks the true son of a King.’

  ‘The people will be pleased,’ said Margaret.

  ‘We will have the christening and purification as soon as possible,’ said Somerset. ‘Have you decided on a name for the child?’

  ‘I have indeed,’ replied Margaret. ‘He was born on St. Edward the Confessor’s day, and Edward is a good name, is it not, for a King?’

  ‘One of the best,’ said the Duchess.

  The Duke said: ‘The people loved two of the Edwards. The second they despised. But I think they will like the name for when they think of Edward they think of Longshanks and his grandson Edward the Third. Yes, Edward is a good name.’

  ‘York’s eldest is Edward,’ the Duchess reminded them.

  ‘I know.’ said the Queen, ‘and by all accounts every inch a Plantagenet. Is he really as tall as they say h
e is?’

  ‘He is a fine-looking young fellow—fair and tall and, young as he is, a favourite of the women. At least that’s what I hear.’

  ‘A curse on him,’ said Margaret lightly. ‘But why do we talk of that Edward when we have this little one here?’ She turned to the Duke. ‘I wonder if the sight of him might move Henry.’

  ‘If anything could it would be the child,’ said Somerset.

  Margaret nodded. She was half fearful for something told her that Henry would not even know his own child.

  There was no time for resting on her triumph.

  Everyone would know now that there was something very wrong with the King if he did not appear at the christening of his son.

  So it was proclaimed that the King was ill but the truth could not for long be withheld.

  The christening ceremony was splendid. A costly chrisom was provided for the baby—richly embroidered in exquisitely coloured silks and studded with pearls and rich gems, but lined with linen so that the child’s delicate skin should not be scratched. There were twenty yards of cloth of gold needed to decorate the font and Margaret’s own churching-robe contained five hundred and forty sables. The cost of this was over five hundred pounds.

  Margaret tried hard to live for just that day and refused to look ahead. It was not easy. The dark clouds were gathering.

  ###

  ‘So,’ said York, ‘the Queen has a son. Whose son? Not that idiot’s surely! I believe him to be impotent. In such case how is it that our beautiful Queen produces a child?’

  ‘Whom do you suspect?’ asked Warwick.

  ‘She is on very intimate terms with Somerset.’

  ‘He is rather old.’

  ‘But capable of begetting a child.’

  ‘She is friendly with Buckingham.’

  ‘Ah, she has her friends. But there must be a Regency, a protector of some sort now. Henry is incapable of governing.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Warwick. ‘And you, my lord, should be our Protector. As the next in line of succession—recently displaced by this little Prince—it is your due.’

  ‘So I thought,’ said York. ‘A Parliament must be called without delay.’