The Golden Widows

by Isolde Martyn

  ‘Arse about?’

  ‘Yes. You heard him yesterday, going on about the way their cook served up the beef. It’s everything, the food, the lack of ceremony, the Burgundian mother is very charming and exotic, and he can talk tournaments with Lord Rivers, and then there’s her.’

  ‘Well, he’ll soon be wed to the Queen of France’s sister if your brothers have their way, and she’s a southerner. That might keep him out of mischief.’

  Kate shrugged. They slowed their horses to let their retinue catch up. It was her own thoughts kept galloping ahead. What if Ned did not want an alliance with France like Richard did? What then? Life was uncertain. You could be sure of nothing.

  Elysabeth

  1st May 1464

  Grafton

  There were may blossoms that morning scattered over the daybed in her mother’s solar, sprays of flowers pinned in the braids that coroneted Elysabeth’s head and a naked dagger in his grace of England’s hand. There was no one else in the house and the blade was against the skin of her throat.

  ‘I could kill you and there would be no questions asked. I’ve killed men, Elysabeth, thrust my sword into them, ordered my enemies to be hanged or beheaded and much, much worse and I’m in no mood for a prickteaser. You’re dealing with a king not some lovesick ploughman.’

  She could feel the point sharp in the valley of her throat but she managed to say, ‘And you are dealing with a woman of…of virtue.’ Her hand thrust her skirts back down. Could he not read the trust and love in her eyes and have compassion for her stubbornness? ‘Virtue, Ned. It’s all I have left.’

  ‘Be damned to your virtue!’ There was a blatant sulky curl to his lower lip as he retreated, leaned back on his elbow. ‘You kiss me with passion as though you want me and then say no.’ The male eyes were speculative still, watching her as he meaningfully slid the blade slowly back into its sheaf. ‘I’ve never had a woman refuse me.’

  She sat up before he touched her again. ‘Of course you haven’t,’ she agreed, with a wistful sigh, easing her feet to the floor. ‘You’re young, handsome, virile and the lord of all England. And you are going to marry a princess who will give you a dozen sons and I shall hug my aching heart on the day of your wedding.’

  ‘It sounds ruddy tedious.’ He drew his finger wickedly down her spine. ‘We should live for the moment and at this moment I want you more than anything on God’s earth. I’m hurting, hot and hard for you.’

  ‘Please stop tempting me.’

  He knelt up to kiss the side of her neck and slid his hands down her arms to her wrists. ‘Then, you do want me?’

  ‘Yes, Ned, but I’ve been a wife ten years and a mother almost as long as that. I’m in love with you, not infatuated. Hastings says you have these infatuations.’

  ‘Mercy’s sake, Elysabeth, I am not infatuated and Hastings should mind his own friggin’ business. I, Elysabeth, am a lovesick fish at the end of your line. Please, for the love of Heaven, reel me in.’

  ‘No! My lord, no.’ She twisted to look at him. ‘I may not be good enough to be your queen but I am not going to become your mistress.’

  ‘I’m in love with you.’

  ‘And I with you, Ned.’ Tears made her gaze glassy. ‘By my faith, I never thought I could be in love again. It hurts, doesn’t it? It hurts knowing you will marry someone else.’ She felt the insistence in the fingers that had risen once more to caress her shoulder. ‘Ned, everyone will be back soon and you have to leave for Leicester. There’s an army waiting for you.’

  ‘Elysabeth.’

  She shook her head. ‘Please go, my dear lord.’

  His touch left her abruptly. There was a silence and then a rustle of sleeve.

  ‘Very well, become my queen! How about that for an offer? Now will you lie with me?’

  It had been said too easily.

  He’ll promise anything.

  She looked round at him. He was lolling back now on his arm, imperious, waiting. ‘Very well, my lord, prove it.’

  ‘Prove it?’ That put an end to the nonchalance.

  She turned, resting her forearms on the cushions. ‘Marry me and I’ll lie with you.’

  He looked at the valley between her breasts, then as though he had suddenly heard a trumpet call to battle, he sprang to his feet and paced. So she had caught him out. He strode back and forth, biting his thumbnail. And then he swung round. ‘Very well,’ he exclaimed, ‘find a priest and two witnesses and I’ll wed you.’

  O Sweet Mother of God! This had gone too far.

  ‘No, no, no,’ she exclaimed, clapping a hand to her lips as she scrambled to her feet. She was uncertain whether to laugh in amazement or run from him for his own good. ‘This isn’t right, Ned. What about Bona of Savoy?’

  ‘Be buggered to Bona of Savoy!’

  Sensing his seriousness, she backed away towards the door, her hands patting the air. ‘I’m going to leave you to think about this.’

  ‘I have thought about it,’ he said haughtily. ‘Find your mother, organise a priest! Go!’

  A swift, strange wedding for a king. He with no finery and she clad in a simple gown, with a chaplet of spring flowers, swiftly woven by Tamsin, adorning her unbraided hair.

  Her mother, together with Tamsin and the duchess’s most trusted tiring woman, both lured from dancing around the maypole in the village, would stand as the only witnesses and a little blind chorister would sing the anthem. There would be no congregation.

  The chaplain, sworn to secrecy, awaited them with obvious unease at the door of the manor house chapel with the little chorister at his side All must be done before her family and the rest of their household came back from prancing in the field behind the alehouse. This was so hurried. Too hurried.

  Realising she already wore a wedding ring, Elysabeth silently beseeched God to bless John Grey’s immortal soul as she hurriedly slid off the gold band and handed it to her mother. That first time she had been blessed with the Queen of England’s presence; this time she would have the king’s. The king’s because he lusted for her or because he truly had fallen in love with her?

  If her questions were unspoken, the chaplain’s were not. Had the banns been read? Did the bride and groom have any family members in common?

  ‘Have done with this!’ muttered her mother. ‘Zey stand before you consenting. Waste no more time!’

  ‘Just make us handfast,’ Ned said with authority. ‘I must leave before noon.’

  ‘This is hasty and ill-advised then,’ said the priest bravely, fingers fumbling at his throat as though he already felt the noose of punishment.

  ‘Not so,’ Ned said, smiling down at Elysabeth. ‘I have given this much thought.’

  But still the chaplain hesitated. Behind her, she heard her mother’s impatient sigh, felt the tension in Ned’s fingers as he held her hand. This was madness, folly and unbelievable.

  ‘Lady Elysabeth?’ It was at her the chaplain was pleading, the message of fear in his eyes. At last she grasped the poor man’s terror. This was almost treason. If Ned changed his mind, was coerced by his counsellors into marrying Bona of Savoy or Isabella of Castle, he could order the chaplain’s death and hers as well. Warwick would probably see to it for him.

  Or the Kingmaker might destroy, even kill, his royal cousin for this stupidity. Ned was taking an immense risk, too.

  As if he sensed her fearful thoughts and needed to calm his own, the King of England lifted her hand to his lips and the irrepressible smile that she loved softened his face as he gazed at her.

  Then so be it! God’s will be done.

  ‘Trust us,’ she told the chaplain, assured now of her own truth, ‘as we trust in Almighty God to bestow his wisdom and his grace upon us and to hold us in his mercy for ever more.’

  ‘Then, so be it.’ The chaplain closed his eyes for a moment before he spoke the Latin words: ‘Si vero aliquis impedimentum aliquod proponere voluerit…’

  Afterwards they walked hand in hand into her parents
’ bedchamber. Ned was sterner now, perhaps troubled by what he had just promised or maybe his thoughts were already with his army.

  ‘There isn’t much time, sweetheart.’

  ‘There’s enough.’ She knelt upon the bed, curling her arms around him and drawing his face to hers. They kissed and kissed again hungrily now, and then he was unclothing her swiftly, wrenching the shoulders of her gown down to enjoy her breasts, pushing her skirts up. Some stroking between the thighs, the intense look, a short teasing of her nipples and then he was freeing his member from the entanglement of his clothing and ready to satisfy himself within her.

  ‘No!’

  ‘No? What the hell do you mean “no”? I’ve just wed you, damn it.’

  She wriggled back on the bed and knelt facing him. ‘I mean no, not yet. You’re not capturing Berwick and storming a gap in the town wall, my darling Ned, you’re making love.’

  ‘You’re so beautiful, I can’t help myself. Dear God, don’t you want me?’ Then his expression softened wickedly. ‘You look as though you do.’

  ‘I do. I’m wet, creamy with longing for you but we need to take this slowly.’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘Not yet!’ She leaned back swiftly out of reach as he tried to grab her.

  ‘What am I supposed to do? Chase you round the friggin’ bed? None of the other women I’ve lain with have ever complained.’

  ‘Did you give them a chance of fulfilment? Or did you fall asleep or ride off somewhere like you want to do now?’

  ‘Fulfilment?’ Haughty, furious, chin jutting. ‘As I said, no complaints. Can’t we just do this first and then—’

  Some cunning was needed. ‘Wouldn’t you like me begging, desperate, panting for you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then let us take matters a little more slowly so that we both enjoy this.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can. You’ve kept me waiting. By heaven, I have an army waiting. Hastings is waiting.’

  ‘I want you hungry, my lord king, rrraavenous.’ She bit the air like a lioness ‘And I want skin to skin not a swift taking.’

  ‘Very well,’ he murmured, pulling his shirt up and flinging it to the floor. ‘The King of England is not slow in learning.’ He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back against the pillows. ‘I know you like this.’ His lips and tongue swirled and teased, satisfying each breast in turn.

  ‘I’d like this, too.’ She pressed his fingers down between her thighs. ‘Can you do both?’

  ‘Not if we hold a conversation.’

  His fingers instinctively knew their craft. She arched back, enjoying the pleasure of his lovemaking and then he was kissing her on the mouth again while his touch wrought its magic. Thirteen years, she thought sliding her hand about his hardness and her body was crying out with need.

  Not long, not long, not—

  ‘Now,’ she gasped, guiding him into her. ‘Now, now, now!’

  In a yield of self, gazes locked, a beauteous, goodly unison of pleasure. Ned collapsed back on the pillow when he was spent, with a whistle of breath, his hand seeking hers where it lay beside him. ‘Good, very good. You were right.’

  ‘Because the act was fulfilled with love,’ she whispered, leaning over to kiss him.

  ‘Yes, you spoke true, it does make a difference.’ He gathered her against his breast and for a little while they lay in silence.

  Then with a deep sigh, cuddling her even closer to him he murmured, ‘Know that I wed you in full knowledge of what this will mean so do not claim any more that you are not worthy. You are the daughter of a duchess, the mother of sons and the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. I honour you, my lady.’ He kissed her hair. ‘You will make a fine queen.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said, pulling back from him, shaking her head in wonderment.

  The dimples reappeared. ‘Actually, I’m lying. I just want someone to snuggle up to at night. I still miss Edmund. It gets very cold in the big bed at Westminster and it would be good to have someone I can grumble to. Ow! Stop hitting me. I can’t lead an army with—Sweet Jesu! Look at the sun’s height. I have to go.’

  They embraced laughing and then she helped him dress.

  ‘Take care,’ she whispered, when he was ready to leave. ‘Come back to me.’

  ‘As soon as I may. You realise this may be a secret for a while.’ He tucked a finger beneath her chin. ‘You understand that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No one must know. It has to be announced at the right time?’

  ‘I understand.’

  From the window, she watched him ride away, the brim of his hat pulled down to hide his face.

  It was ridiculous, unbelievable, scandalous but she was a widow no more.

  Kate and Elysabeth

  28th September 1464, Michaelmas Eve

  Reading, Berkshire

  Across the chapter house of Reading Abbey where the royal court was gathered, Kate watched Ned’s beautiful queen without envy of the woman’s new status, in fact, with sympathy. Tomorrow Elysabeth Woodville would be formally announced as Ned’s consort before the great altar of the abbey with his brothers and the royal council in attendance (including Richard, who was still steamed up over the matter, it was a wonder his hat hadn’t blown across the chamber when the announcement was made). Ned was also talking about holding a coronation for her in the Abbey of St Peter’s, Westminster, sometime next year. Determined, Kate supposed, to make everything as public and legal as possible after the scandal of his secret wedding.

  Well, she hoped ‘Queen’ Elysabeth would never fall into Queen Margaret’s vengeful hands. This woman and that impoverished family of hers were sailing into perilous waters but then the rewards undoubtedly made the gamble worthwhile. Life never ceased to amaze Kate. Nothing was certain or stable. The Lord God must be really bored sometimes, the way He let things happen. He probably said ‘what if…’ and moved the human chess pieces for sheer whimsy.

  Beside her, Richard stood in sullen silence not at all happy. Ned was sliding out of the nursery reins and he did not like it one whit. He was muttering treasonous words like ‘lunatic’ and ‘idiot’ and ‘that’s the alliance with France shattered, all that cursed labour for nothing!’ She and William were in the doghouse, too, for not keeping Ned under watch at all times.

  Well, what’s done was done, though disputing whether Ned had been right or wrong would keep the court whispering for weeks, let alone every marketplace in England. It wasn’t just the secrecy of the marriage or that the woman was half-Burgundian but that she was not a virgin princess. The marriage to a woman whose maidenhead had already been breached meant a lot of English widows and mothers would be suffering the deadly sin of envy and sighing over lost opportunities. Elysabeth Woodville would be hated because her dream of fabulous riches and a princely husband had come true. Poor woman, Kate decided again. The new queen’s immediate duty was to bear Ned sons – many sons, as fast as possible. If she did not give him any children, the secret marriage would provide an easy excuse for Ned to shut her in a nunnery and marry a real princess.

  ‘Niece.’ She turned to find it was Catherine Neville, clothed in hunting green with a soaring cap of gold brocade, who had touched her arm. ‘Good day to you, Kate Hastings.’

  ‘Oh, Godmama, I heard you’d arrived.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Lovely, isn’t she? I think we should go and be sweet to her. She cooked me a rather tasty dinner a couple of years since.’

  Kate bit her lip. ‘What?’

  ‘I could have paired her up with one of my household knights but she was clearly saving herself for something better. Come, let’s try her manners.’

  Old Catherine Neville, their visitor at Grafton two years ago, did not curtsey. Maybe she couldn’t. A sort of stoop and deep duck of the head sufficed. Lady Hastings curtseyed beside her. At least I recognise these people, Elysabeth thought with relief. Part of the skill in being queen would be to make sure s
he remembered everyone as well as some little morsel about their interests or concerns that would make them feel singled out and valued.

  ‘Lady Catherine, how is your tiring woman? I trust she did not suffer any further hurt from the chariot accident?’

  Beside her she sensed Ned’s approval.

  ‘Ah, yes, you are already acquainted.’

  ‘Indeed we are,’ exclaimed the dowager. ‘Stayed with her family overnight in a snowstorm. Now, forgive me if I ask a favour, your graces, but at my age, one doesn’t sit upon one’s hands. You’ll be looking for husbands and wives for your queen’s family, shall you not, nephew?’

  ‘Yes.’ A husbandly smile beamed down at Elysabeth. ‘I suppose we shall. I’ll leave you ladies to discuss the matter.’ He bestowed a kiss on Elysabeth’s hand, and beckoning Lord Hastings over to accompany him, strode down the hall to invade a cluster of councillors.

  Elysabeth was left to deal with the dowager’s request. She looked across at Lady Hastings but Warwick’s sister was looking equally puzzled.

  ‘Very well, Lady Catherine, pray feel free to ask.’

  ‘Well, since I’m a widow, your grace, and heaven knows how little time I can expect before the Devil beckons me across his doorstep, I’m putting my order in first. If he’s still available in the marriage market, I’ll have him.’

  Elysabeth followed the jab of the dowager’s finger and suppressed a gasp. The only man in that corner of the chamber was her brother, John. He was busy telling some tale that had already Meg Plantagenet and Bessie Scales laughing heartily.

  ‘John! You want my brother John, for a husband?’

  John, who was scarce twenty years old!

  ‘Yes, madame,’ said the old dowager. ‘I do! At least he won’t bore me to death like some.’

  ‘Christ’s Blessed mercy, Godmother!’ The jaw of the duchess’s niece, Lady Hastings, almost hit the tiles. ‘There would be…why, over forty years difference in your ages. That’s outrageous.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it,’ chortled the sixty-five year old. ‘But I’m game, if the lad agrees, that is.’ She smiled wickedly at Elysabeth. ‘You look as though you’ve been whacked on the head with a very large cudgel, your highness.’