by Livi Michael
Elizabeth Woodville said nothing to this, but she felt the force of conflicting emotions: outrage at the injustice of her situation; fear that she might have lost the prize so nearly within her grasp; and injury that her father should speak to her, his favourite daughter, in this way, making plain the exact nature of her value to him and to them all.
She understood her family’s disappointment in her perfectly; she had failed them as she had failed herself. But what did her father know about trying to fend off the attentions of a king?
You think it is easy? she wanted to say. You think I have not thought about it – about him – every second since he left?
In fact, his leaving had brought about the effect that he had failed to achieve by his presence. She desired him. She desired him utterly. She could not think about him without a rising flush of heat – the way he looked at her or touched her sometimes as if he could not restrain himself, but somehow, miraculously, he did. And sometimes he did not touch her but stood too close, so that the fine hair on her arms rose and she could feel a sensation of heat in the flesh of her thighs. Perhaps she did love him, she thought, with a sudden hollow feeling. Because if she did, then she had certainly failed.
Without realizing it, her steps had quickened and she had walked some distance ahead of her father.
‘I will not write to him,’ she said. ‘You can write if you must.’
Then no more was said of it until the letter arrived from the king to say that he would be travelling north in a few days and would be honoured to accept their invitation to lodge with them, for the space of one night.
Her first response was a rush of relief. The king was coming, she would see him again. But the relief was soon tinged with dismay. Her parents had obviously written to him, and it was almost as bad as if she had written to him herself. The dismay became tinged with a sense of humiliation, and something like fear. For they had evidently invited him to stay and he had accepted for the space of one night.
She finished her meal quickly, leaving them to discuss which room they would prepare for the king. She sat on the edge of her bed, then rose and went to the window as if she might already see him coming.
It would be her room, she guessed; he would sleep in her room because of its gracious aspect. Her younger siblings would be moved out of their room for the night and she would be expected to sleep there. Because of the adjoining door.
She touched her hair as though it might be coming astray, although it was not. With one part of her mind she was already calculating what she would wear, how she would look. Which was a distraction from her inner thoughts: that he was coming and would stay for one night, when he had never stayed before.
After the meal and all the usual pleasantries they would retire to bed. And then what? Would he come directly to her room, or would she be expected to go to his?
She could imagine, though she did not often exercise her imagination, them both lying in their separate rooms with only a thin partition between them, and an unlocked door. She could almost hear the sound of their breathing as they lay. But it was as if her mind went blank at this point; as if for the first time in her life she had no plan, and did not know what she would do.
14
The Duke of Somerset Writes a Letter
The king decided to ride into Yorkshire to see and understand the disposition of the people of the north. And he took with him the Duke of Somerset and 200 of his men, well horsed and harnessed. And the said duke, Harry of Somerset and his men were made the king’s guard, for the king had so much favour in him and trusted him well, as though a lamb rode among wolves, but almighty god was the shepherd. And when the king left London he came to Northampton on St James’ day [25 July 1463] and that false duke was with him. And the commons of the town of Northampton and that shire saw that the false duke was so closely in the king’s presence and was his guard, and they rose against that false traitor the Duke of Somerset and would have slain him within the king’s palace, but the king with fair speech and great difficulty saved his life for that time …
Gregory’s Chronicle
The attack at Northampton had shaken the duke. He had watched from one side of a small window as the king had talked them down, and seen their faces, ugly with rage.
‘They will forget,’ the king had said to him afterwards, explaining to him that it might be better if he went away for a little while; in any case, he needed someone in Wales to calm the rebels there. That would be his life now, in hiding.
The king’s compassion had been almost worse than the antagonism of the commons. It was a crushing thing, rendering him impotent. Once he was in Wales, free of this weighty benevolence, his mind had cleared. He thought more and more about his old allegiance, and his sleep was interrupted by dreams of the Northamptonshire mob. In their faces he saw himself revealed: cowardly, shameful. But what were the options, to save one’s own skin at the expense of others or to pin one’s colours to a dying cause? To go down with it or to try to turn that cause around?
He knew that the queen had gone to France, but King Louis had refused to see her. He had also refused to receive the Earl of Pembroke and John Fortescue, sent by King Henry to add their supplications to the queen’s. The conference at St Omer had resulted in a truce between France and Burgundy and England. King Louis wanted to recover his lands in the Somme that had been ceded to Burgundy some thirty years before, and also to pursue an alliance with England. Accordingly, he had withdrawn all support from King Henry and had also given up his protection of Scotland.
Scotland was dismayed by this, and by the damage that continued to be done by Edward’s ally, the Earl of Douglas. Also, there was the threat of invasion from England. Even Bishop Kennedy was prepared now to make a truce with England, the terms of which included offering no further aid to King Henry, Queen Margaret or their adherents.
Queen Margaret, using the little money given to her by the Duke of Burgundy, had set up a small court at Koeur-la-Petite, where he’d heard they all lived in great poverty. It could truly be said that Lancastrian fortunes were at their lowest ebb.
If the duke stayed loyal to King Edward, more honours might be heaped upon him; the promised pension might finally materialize. He would be dependent on the favour of the king, but Edward was not a man who lightly changed his favour.
The duke had been ordered to renew the attack on Harlech, which he had not done. Because it had occurred to him that now, at their lowest point, King Henry and Queen Margaret might be prepared to forgive him, and accept his aid.
But what could he tell them? That Edward was no longer as popular as he had been, and his government even less so. They had demanded excessive taxes from the people to fund the war in the north, without bringing that war to a conclusion. And certainly if the king went ahead with his foolish notion of marrying the daughter of a knight, the people might turn against him completely.
Would he do it? Would he turn traitor again? He sat a long time staring at the paper in front of him, the blank sheet that contained as yet no treacherous words.
What did it mean to be a traitor? He no longer knew. What did words like truth, honour, really mean? True to yourself, to your family, to an ancient allegiance begun before you were born? He remembered again the faces of the crowd at Northampton. They would not forget, whatever the king said. Had he forgotten seeing his father hacked to death at the first battle of St Albans?
He picked up his quill and began to write, humbly begging the forgiveness of his king. But which one? By the time he got to the end of the letter he hoped he would know.
He wrote for some time and it was a good letter; there was no need to read it through. Hopefully he had struck the right note of confidence, assuring his majesty that many of the chief men in Wales and others in the south and west of England would be ready to rise on his behalf. He went so far as to say that he believed he could orchestrate rebellions in fifteen counties, from Kent to Cornwall, if his majesty gave the word. He swore that in his
heart he had never been unfaithful, never given up his love for his true king, and he hoped that his most gracious sovereign would find it in his heart to accept the service of his most penitent subject, who would lay down his life in his cause.
He wrote all this rapidly, without pause. When he’d finished, he saw that there was another sheet of paper left. An image of the Yorkist king came powerfully to his mind.
What could he say to this king?
That he appreciated his kindness and his many qualities – in every way he was a fine king. And he did not doubt the reality of his affection, no, but it tormented him; it was killing him more surely than the sword. He could not be the person the king wanted him to be. And he could hardly wish him luck, as from now on he would bend all his efforts towards destroying him.
The Duke of Somerset sat with his eyes closed, feeling the rough grain of the paper in his hands. It seemed that it was no longer possible to live without regret. The Yorkist king loved him, that was the truth. As he apparently loved this woman. These two loves would undo him if anything would. Perhaps he should just warn the king against himself. He loved wrongly, he could say, and too well.
15
Elizabeth Woodville Speaks
The king was moved to love her by reason of her beautiful person and elegant manner, but neither his gifts nor his threats could prevail against her jealously guarded virtue. When Edward held a dagger to her throat in an attempt to make her submit to his passion, she … showed no sign of fear, preferring rather to die than to live unchastely with the king.
Dominic Mancini
He would not do it, of course he wouldn’t. I wasn’t even afraid, though he had locked the door and I did not know that anyone in my family would come if I called for help.
He had drawn his short sword. He said, Now, lady, you must give up this game.
And he advanced towards me, his eyes never leaving my face.
Why do I remember it so clearly if I wasn’t afraid?
I still remember the look on his face when I seized the blade. It cut my hand as he tried to pull it away; he flinched when the blood came. Yet still I held it, pressing the tip of it towards my own throat.
‘Kill me, then. It is the only victory you will have this day.’
I could see his eyes startle and falter, his throat work strangely. For this fearless warrior, this bloodstained killer of men, would no more have taken me by force than he would piss on his own crown.
I blame his mother, the she-wolf.
Since he had nothing to say, I spoke for both of us. Did he think I was going to become another of his cast-offs? Passed on to his friends perhaps? Or bearing his bastards and receiving from him his token purse of gold? I would rather die, I said.
The look in his eyes was terrible, as if I had just stabbed him. He lowered the sword; I thought he would weep. Then he was full of remorse, kissing my hand where the blade had cut it, and the place on my throat where I had pressed the tip, saying that I was the only true person in his realm.
‘As God is my witness,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘I will have you for my wife.’
He took the ring from his finger, the great ruby set with pearls, and slipped it on mine, holding it, because it was too large. Still he looked at me with those haunted eyes, then he fell to his knees and buried his face in my gown, and I clenched my fist swiftly to stop the ring slipping off.
‘Lady Elizabeth,’ he said, ‘will you marry me?’
Later, years later, he would say I had given him nothing – I who had borne him ten children – and asked for everything. While she who was at that time his mistress asked for nothing and had given him all.
Easy to give something of so little worth, I spat at him.
And he was angry then, and stood very close, so that I could not help but feel a qualm of fear, though he had never, in all the years I knew him, offered me violence, apart from that one time in my father’s house.
And you, who kept me waiting so long, he said softly in my ear. What was that worth in the end? What was it worth?
But that earlier time, in my father’s house, he knelt and kissed me through my clothes and said that if I would only agree to marry him he would not ever wish for more.
In that moment I could see my father’s face and my mother’s and each of my sisters’ and my brothers’ faces. They had urged me on as honours and rewards had been conferred upon them. And I was proud, I suppose – pride is what I remember most clearly. For I knew I had him then, when he thought he would have me.
In most secret manner … King Edward spoused Elizabeth, late the wife of Sir John Grey, knight, which spousals were solemnized early in the morning at a town named Grafton near Stony Stratford; at which marriage was no person present but the spouse, the spousess, the Duchess of Bedford her mother, the priest, two gentlewomen and a young man to help the priest sing … in which season she nightly to his bed was brought in so secret manner that almost none but her mother was of counsel.
Robert Fabyan
In April the Scots sued unto our sovereign lord King Edward for peace and Lord Montague was assigned to fetch the Scots and took his journey towards Newcastle. [He] rode to Norham, fetched the Scots and there was concluded a peace for fifteen years. On 14th May Lord Montague took his journey toward Hexham …
Gregory’s Chronicle
An exceedingly great number of men [led by the Duke of Somerset, Lord Hungerford and Lord Roos] assembled quickly so that for force King Henry was thought not much inferior to his enemy. And everywhere they went they wasted, plundered, and burnt town and field. Thus robbing and destroying they came to a village called Hexham where they met and encountered Lord Montagu [on 15th May].
Polydore Vergil
Lord Montague, who was at that time Earl of Northumberland, attacked them with ten thousand men. The commoners fled and the nobles were captured.
Warkworth’s Chronicle
16
The Condemned Man
Henry VI with continual flight retreated to Scotland and others by similar means saved themselves, but there were taken Henry, Duke of Somerset, Robert, Earl of Hungerford and Thomas Roos.
Polydore Vergil
The Duke of Somerset was led, none too gently, before a line of jeering men, wearing only his shirt and breeches. He would not look at their faces; he glanced upwards at the sky.
It seemed to him that it had never been so blue; pristine, as if it had been washed by all the bloodshed of a few hours ago.
It was nine years ago, almost to the day, that his father had been killed. Had the sky been as blue then? If so he had missed it, as he must have missed many things in the course of his life.
In fact, he remembered little of that day, which was the day of the first battle he’d ever fought. The sense of excitement, of trepidation, and the smell of his horse, he remembered that. His horse had seemed also to be in a state of nervous excitement. He could not remember if he’d felt then the same feeling of nausea as he felt now.
All the men fell silent as John Neville, Lord Montague, approached. He looked very like his brother, the Earl of Warwick; a little smaller than the duke, chin lifted, that same wide smile. He came close to the duke as though he would kiss him and said, ‘Well, traitor and thief, what have you to say to his majesty, King Edward?’
For a moment the duke was puzzled. Edward is not my king, he thought. And he wasn’t a thief – he’d taken nothing. Then he understood that he’d taken the honours that Edward had heaped upon him, his hospitality, affection and esteem.
He had nothing to say about that. But Lord Montague was still looking at him; it seemed he was expected to say something. So he said, ‘Tell your king that I am sorry I feigned my friendship.’
Lord Montague’s face changed. His smile vanished entirely and the duke thought he might spit.
‘Liar and coward,’ he said, ‘you are lucky you are not to be hanged, drawn and quartered. It is no more than you deserve.’
He looked as though h
e would say something else, then he turned and walked sharply away.
The Duke of Somerset kept his gaze fixed above Lord Montague’s head, at the trees which were in perpetual motion, light rippling through them as though blown by the breeze.
Then he saw that Lord Montague had stopped by the stone they would use as a block. He spoke to a man, and the man held out his sword.
The duke’s nausea returned. He hoped, as he could now remember hoping on the day of his first battle, that he would not be sick.
His shirt was already open at the neck.
Behind him, in the fields, were the corpses of many men who had fought that day, who only that morning had lived and breathed, and had plans, maybe, for their future lives. Now they lay on the earth with mouths and eyes open to the sky; flies crawling in.
The man speaking to Lord Montague lifted his sword and brought it down, testing it. The Duke of Somerset felt a twist of nausea again. He closed his eyes in a reflex action, then thought that maybe he would keep them closed; he would see nothing as they led him to the block.
He tried to think the kind of thoughts that might be appropriate to the situation – confessional, apologetic – but he could think of nothing to say and no one to say it to. And this struck him as strange, that he had come so far through life with nothing to say.
As if his mind had emptied suddenly like an upturned bowl.
He wondered whether it would be over quickly, with a single blow. He had seen executions before, of course, and had seen them take several blows. He had seen severed heads with their lips still moving in prayer. He wondered whether the mind went on thinking after the head was severed; what its last thoughts were likely to be.
Try as he might, he could think of nothing now that made sudden sense of his life, that told him he should have done this or that thing differently, or that any of it had been worthwhile in the end. He had given his allegiance, but he could no longer remember why. And this thing he’d had, almost without knowing it – this thing called life – that was over now; completed like a poem or a song.
