Virgin Widow

by Anne O'Brien

  I might turn to marvel at Clarence’s rude interruption, but Louis barely gave the Duke a passing glance. Louis kept his eyes fixed on my father’s face.

  ‘Well, my lord Warwick?’ he repeated. ‘What chance of success?’

  ‘Not good, sire.’

  ‘So you look to me for help.’ Louis smiled, leaning back in complacent ease, which was shared by no one else in the room.

  ‘Yes, sire, I do,’ the Earl admitted. ‘I can’t see my way to defeating Edward on the battlefield with only my own resources.’ Despite all his efforts to make a dispassionate assessment, I could feel the blow to his pride as he was forced to admit his failure to bring Edward to heel. Begging for help from a position of weakness was not something my father had ever had to do. I imagined it roiled like poison in his gut.

  ‘So you would want—what? A fleet. Finance. Troops. You want me to back your invasion.’ Louis compressed his downturned mouth, giving himself an even more jaundiced air. ‘It’s risky, my lord. Such a full-scale attack would not come cheap. I might lose all my considerable investment in such a chancy project. And you could end up dead or in prison.’

  ‘No!’ The Earl leaned forwards to press his point, pushing aside his platter, arms folded on the table. ‘There’ll be no talk of failure here, sire. I will be successful. Times have changed since the beginning of his reign. Edward is popular no longer. His wife is hated, the country groans under higher and higher taxation. If I can put myself forwards as a viable force able to defeat Edward, the English lords will give me their allegiance. Any investment in men or gold that you make will not be at risk.’

  He was so confident! I looked through my lashes at my mother. She sat immobile, but her fingers linked in her lap were white-knuckled. She too had given up on the poussin. Beyond her, Clarence kept silent, his angry eyes darting between the two protagonists.

  ‘So!’ Louis indicated for the table to be cleared of the debris of the meal, waiting as the servants went about their task, placing sweet jellies, silver bowls of sweetmeats and sugared nuts before us, intricate delicacies that caught my eye despite the strained atmosphere around me. ‘Let us say, then, that you overthrow King Edward. That you depose him. What then?’ Louis’s stare was astonishingly innocent. ‘Do you seek the crown yourself, Cousin Warwick?’

  ‘No,’ the Earl replied. ‘I have no designs on the throne, nor ever had.’

  ‘Yet you might claim that you are a Prince of the Royal Blood. And that you have, without doubt, the power and the aptitude for the position.’

  ‘No. I will not claim it, sire. It has never been—nor will it be—accepted as a legitimate claim.’

  My spoon hovered, then came to a halt between the dish and my lips. My father had a claim in his own right? I had not known this. A close family connection was one thing, but a claim in his own right? Although the Earl had quickly rejected any such pretensions, my interest was truly deflected from the Crustade Ryal with its spiced-egg filling.

  Louis appeared satisfied. ‘Who, then, will you make King in Edward’s stead?’ The French king knew the answer. I could see it in the tilt of his head, the glint in his eye. But if he knew, why ask the question? Illumination came blindingly as I brought to mind the deliberate lack of acknowledgement of Clarence here at Amboise. Louis did not want Clarence as King of England and so would manoeuvre the Earl to disown him.

  He wants my father to make a denial. He wants my father to reject Clarence! But if not Clarence, who will the French Spider support, and force my father to support, in return for French troops?

  ‘Who will be King of England, my dear Cousin of Warwick?’

  Clarence’s patience broke under the slow but sly probing. Again he forced himself into the debate. ‘Warwick will give the crown to me, of course. I am the legitimate heir of the House of York, your Majesty. I shall take the crown. This has been understood between my lord Warwick and myself since I wed the Lady Isabel. Who else has the right to rule but myself?’

  ‘I think you have not that right, your Grace,’ Louis observed, barely attempting to cover his displeasure. In the little silence that followed this impassioned declaration, we all looked to Louis, who turned his head and allowed his sardonic eye to rest on Clarence’s heated countenance. The coldness in that appraisal chilled me. It was my father who took up the strands of the negotiation.

  ‘True—it was originally in my mind to make Clarence King.’

  ‘No.’ Louis played a new card from his hand. ‘I am not in favour of this, Warwick,’ he stated simply, unequivocally, as if the furious subject of his disfavour were not present. ‘My agents tell me Clarence would not be acceptable in England. He does not have a strong base of support.’

  ‘I would refute such claims,’ Clarence leapt in. ‘I have every right to rule. It’s well known that Edward is a bastard, the illegitimate product of some base union between my mother the Duchess of York and a common archer. He should never have claimed the crown in the first place…’

  I watched him in growing disgust as he continued to heap disgrace on his brother. Even Isabel dropped her eyes to her plate in embarrassment. How despicable he was to blacken his mother’s name so. It’s well known that…Only because the rumours had been spread by Clarence’s poisonous tongue. Did anyone truly believe the Duchess of York capable of consorting with a mere archer in her husband’s employ? I doubted it. But Clarence had no compunction in using it as a political weapon to sully Edward’s golden reputation. My pity for Isabel swelled, that she should be married to a man so unprincipled.

  ‘I would be prepared to swear that it is so!’ Clarence ended his diatribe.

  Louis looked again at Clarence, lingering on the vividly handsome features as if he would dissect the character behind the impressive appearance. The tension around the table tightened a notch. ‘I am not persuaded,’ Louis addressed Clarence directly. I suspect he had not liked what he saw.

  Clarence slammed his cup to the table. ‘I will not be so cast aside…I am my brother’s heir!’

  ‘Your brother’s heir is a three-year-old child—a girl. Your legitimacy, your Grace, as the future ruler of England does not have sufficient credibility.’ Louis swung back to the Earl, his decision made. ‘I will not put my money or fleet, or an army, at your disposal, my lord Warwick, if the object of my generosity is to be his Grace of Clarence.’

  My father’s expression remained completely impassive. I had expected to see some flicker of anger, of resentment, at least of frustration. There was nothing but bland interest. Again it made me think. Had he expected this rejection of Clarence, this destruction of his plans? What was it that he had said at Honfleur? There is a price to pay. Perhaps this was the price, the end of Clarence’s ambitions was the final reckoning. And I knew beyond doubt that it had come as no surprise to my father. The Earl had been prepared for this from the moment he had begun the bargaining with Louis.

  ‘Then I would ask, your Majesty,’ the Earl continued as if following a carefully proscribed set of steps in a dance, ‘if Clarence is not to replace Edward, whom do you suggest?’

  Louis’s smile widened. ‘I think it would be wise for you, my dear cousin, to speak with Margaret of Anjou.’

  Clarence’s chair was thrust aside, toppling backwards to smash against the floor as he lurched to his feet, his hands gripping the edge of the table regardless of the stiffening in the watchful figures of the royal bodyguards who ringed the walls of the banqueting chamber, hands on weapons. Face bone white, his eyes blazed as his features were twisted into a snarl of rage. He leaned to tower over my father’s seated figure.

  ‘No. No, I say. You’ll not rid me of my birthright. I married your daughter. You vowed to support me.’

  ‘Yes. I did.’ The Earl was unmoved.

  ‘Have we not collaborated together for this moment, when I will take what is rightfully mine?’

  ‘His Majesty has the truth of it. There are too many who will question your right. The climate in England has changed,
’ admitted the Earl softly.

  ‘By God, it has changed beyond recognition if you would consider a union with the French Whore!’

  The Earl did not even hesitate. ‘I will consider it if I must.’

  ‘You’ve betrayed me, Warwick!’

  ‘No. I have not yet made my decision.’

  ‘Have you not, by God?’ Clarence’s harsh humourless laugh echoed off the walls. ‘You’ve effectively disinherited me. You’ve betrayed me for a purse of French gold. God damn you!’ He thrust himself away from the table. ‘Isabel! Come with me.’ And strode from the room with Isabel, an apologetic look over her shoulder, pattering in his wake.

  The shock at the outburst remained in the room. It was to be expected, yet it still left an uneasy taste on the tongue. Clarence might be uncontrolled, but his words could not be denied. My father had abandoned him for a purse of French gold. The Earl would argue that he had no choice, but I felt the shame of it. And my father in alliance with Margaret of Anjou? It was an unthinkable situation. My mother placed her spoon down with careful deliberation and folded her hands in her lap. I think she was as awestruck as I.

  Louis was singularly unruffled. ‘So,’ he continued as if nothing had happened to disturb the tenor of the pleasant gathering, ‘Margaret of Anjou must figure in your planning.’

  The Earl’s brows became a black bar of resistance. ‘God’s Blood!’

  But you knew, didn’t you? This is no surprise. You knew this would be the outcome and you know you must! I could see it in the Earl’s carefully governed features.

  Margaret of Anjou was a name as familiar to me as my own, for she was our sworn and bitter enemy. Wife to Henry of Lancaster, once King Henry VI, Margaret sat in exile at Louis’s Court, petitioning any who might listen to her strident pleas for gold and troops to take her back to England. Since the Earl had been instrumental in her husband’s defeat and her own exile, she hated the Nevilles with a venom that was only matched by the detestation that my father felt for her. Unlikely bedfellows, all in all. What would it take for him to enter into an alliance with that woman, the French Whore? I could not imagine it.

  ‘Think of the advantages, my dear cousin.’ Louis at his most urbane. ‘It is by far the swiftest route to your return to power in England. The best pawn you can have in this evenly matched game between yourself and King Edward is Margaret’s son, Edward of Lancaster. He is now seventeen years, his blood is true, his claim genuine as son of Henry VI. Since you need a suitable candidate for the throne, this is the best you can get. He is personable and I wager can be groomed to bear himself as the future king. Also…’ Louis’s hooded eyes gleamed ‘…the boy will do as his mother instructs him. Margaret keeps her son on a tight rein—he should be easy enough for you to handle.’

  ‘That woman has been my sworn enemy since the day I was old enough to first attend Court.’ I saw my father’s fingers tighten around the stem of his cup. ‘I will never negotiate with her.’

  Undeterred, Louis chuckled. ‘And she sees you in exactly the same uncomplimentary light. She blames you for her husband’s downfall. But you are a man of many talents, Warwick, and great charm. You can rewrite the relationship between you.’

  ‘I could…but I don’t desire it.’

  ‘Listen, my lord.’ Now Louis stretched out his hand and fastened his fingers around my father’s wrist as if to shackle him to the idea. He painted an attractive picture in low, urgent tones. ‘Bury your past differences. Speak with Margaret, join forces with her. Return to England under the banner of Lancaster, overthrow King Edward and rescue Henry from the Tower. Make him King again. He can’t live for ever. Once he is dead, then Edward of Lancaster will be king, with you at his side as his most trusted counsellor, restored to your lands and position of power. A far better prospect for you than Clarence’s dubious loyalties.’

  Still the Earl resisted. ‘Margaret of Anjou will be at his side, not me.’

  It was the obvious weakness in the whole plan. Louis acknowledged it with a twist of his lips, but continued to pursue the hare. ‘Margaret will not be short of gratitude if you win the crown for her son.’

  ‘Perhaps. I still don’t like it.’

  I watched as a little muscle quivered at the corner of the French King’s mouth. Louis’s patience had a finite quality. He withdrew his hand from my father’s wrist and raised it palm upwards as if to make a final offer. ‘Think of it from this angle. I will give you all you require for an invasion, but only on one condition—that your invasion is in the name of Lancaster and with Margaret as your ally. Without that, I am not open to an agreement between us, however sympathetic I might be to your plight.’ The hooded eyes gleamed. ‘Do you desire to remain in exile, impotent and dependent on my charity for the rest of your life, my lord Warwick?’

  Their eyes locked and held, but there was really no more room for manoeuvre.

  ‘You give me no choice, sire.’

  ‘No, I don’t, do I? But this should soften the blow. Margaret needs a man of military skill to lead an invasion for her. That man, I suggest, is you, my lord. So, as you see, a dual dependence here.’ Louis’s smile was not without appreciative malice. ‘She has no choice either, however much your name might be anathema to her. Do you not agree? With myself and Lancaster at your side, you cannot fail but to be victorious.’

  ‘Then I must accept, sire.’

  They joined in a firm handclasp of mutual respect.

  ‘I will arrange a meeting. She’ll be reluctant, but she can be brought to see sense.’ Louis paused, and when I looked from my father to the French King to see what had taken his notice, I found his eyes resting on me. They were keen and considering, not a casual glance. I thought there was some humour there, but not much. I quickly looked away, my cheeks heating under his assessment.

  ‘Think about this, my lord of Warwick,’ Louis remarked. ‘You have a major card that you can play in this alliance with the Lady of Anjou, if you have the skill to do so in the diplomatic game. I think you will understand me.’

  ‘Yes, sire. I think I do,’ the Earl replied slowly as if he would read through Louis’s wily words.

  A major card?

  The content of the negotiations swirled in my head to form a series of uneasy patterns. I caught the look on the Earl’s face, a deep complacency quickly hidden, but I had not been mistaken. This is what he had wanted all along. A Lancastrian alliance to ensure his restoration to power, to guarantee the return of our estates and property. The day of Clarence’s usefulness had passed. If it had become necessary to abandon York and step in tune with Lancaster, then so be it. A victory indeed. Louis might plot and scheme, but I thought he had met his match in my father.

  I took to my bed, too concerned with Isabel and her thwarted husband to sleep. What was it my mother had said before we retired? ‘Clarence’s pride will be hurt beyond bearing.’

  To which the Earl had replied, ‘Better hurt pride in France than he become involved in an unplanned, failed attack on England, resulting in an axe on his pretty neck! I am not concerned. I shall keep him at my side.’

  But would it be so simple? Perhaps it would. Clarence could no longer pretend to have any place in Louis’s plans, yet unless brother Edward was willing to forgive him, an unlikely prospect in the circumstances, the Earl was his only friend, which gave Clarence no choice but to stay and swallow his pride.

  Poor Isabel. What manner of marriage was she now committed to, Clarence stoked with a fury of resentment? I found it in me to feel sorry for my sister.

  And then when I finally closed my eyes, it was only to see again Louis’s speculative stare turned on me, making my flesh creep. Tossing until the bedcovers were impossibly awry, it was a relief when my mother came into the room, carrying a night candle, hair tidily braided, nightshift covered by a heavy bed robe.

  ‘You look tired, love.’ She plumped the bolster, smoothed the coverlet with casual efficiency. ‘Can you not sleep?’

  ‘My brain races with
all I have heard.’ I sat up, grateful for the intrusion and seeing the possibility for some enlightenment. ‘Edward of Lancaster. Have I ever met him? I don’t remember.’

  ‘Well, I think you might, before his father Henry was deposed. You would have been—what?—three years old. I doubt you’ll remember.’

  ‘No. I have no recollection. What is he like? As lacking as Henry?’

  ‘Just a young lad, mad for horses and battle when I last saw him.’

  I was not sufficiently concerned. I turned my mind to a matter of far greater interest. ‘When Louis asked my father if he would claim the throne, my father agreed that he has a claim. Is that true? And why will he never act on it?’

  ‘The legality of it is not strong.’ The Countess made herself more comfortable. ‘It’s no secret. Your father’s grandmother, who died long before your own birth, was a lady called Joan Beaufort. Her father was John of Gaunt, one of the sons of Edward III. John married three times, and his third wife was Katherine Swynford. She had been his mistress for well over twenty years, all through his previous marriages.’

  ‘A scandal?’ I was intrigued.

  The Countess smiled. ‘It was a scandal. She was a widow, and governess to the daughters of John’s first marriage. Most unsuitable, but their love proved indestructible, despite the condemnation of their unholy union, and so John wed her. He’d had four children by her outside the blessing of marriage, and one of them was Joan. These children were called Beaufort after a lordship John had once held in France. Hence all your Beaufort relatives.’

  True. There were any number of Beaufort uncles and aunts I could claim.

  ‘The children were all illegitimate,’ continued the Countess, ‘but after John of Gaunt wed Katherine they were all legitimised.’

  ‘So my father could make a claim to the throne.’ My interest peaked.

  ‘Not so,’ the Countess explained. ‘Excepta dignitate regali.’

  My Latin was good enough to take the meaning. Legitimate, but barred from taking the Crown. It opened my eyes to a thing or two. So I had royal blood in my veins.