The Queen of Last Hopes (20 page)

“I know you can. But first, what has gone on?”

“I suppose you heard the Tower had been under siege?” I nodded. “It surrendered shortly after Northampton. Lord Scales, who was in charge of the garrison, had no real choice. They were running short on food, and the Tower was full of ladies—my wife included—who had decided to take shelter there. They didn’t leave much for the garrison, and the ladies were a nervous lot as well, which made things even worse. So Scales surrendered, and was allowed to leave—but then his barge was attacked by a mob. The Londoners were upset with him because he had been bombarding the city from the Tower. They killed him, stripped him naked, and dumped his body at a church in Southwark.”

“Christ,” I whispered.

“Warwick then executed some of my own men who had been in the Tower. Hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

That was the horrible death reserved for traitors. “But they were fighting for the king!”

“That’s nothing to Warwick. He’s power-mad. Somerset in Guînes had to surrender to him also. The king—that is, Warwick—issued an order for him to give it up, and he had no hope of holding out longer if he had refused. He and Warwick came to terms and kissed.”

“Oh, poor Hal! That must have been agonizing for him.”

Exeter, perhaps not as sympathetic toward Hal’s sensibilities as I, raised an eyebrow but went on. “Somerset went into France. King Charles is sheltering him; he was impressed with his actions at Guînes. I have been in communication with him; he is ready to sail to his castle at Corfe when the time is right. And I believe the time will soon be right. The Duke of York is expected back from Ireland any day. He may be here in England already, in fact.”

I shivered, then asked the question that I had been most wanting, and most dreading, to ask. “And Henry?”

“I have not seen him, of course—his household has been swept almost clean of all his own men, so access to him is controlled by Warwick’s creatures. The king went to pilgrimage to Canterbury in August; he even hunts. But the few of our friends who have seen him say he is like a man in a daze. They believe that the deaths of Buckingham and the others, and his worry about you and the Prince of Wales, have shattered him.”

I put my head in my hands and began to weep as Exeter gingerly held me. “I will do anything in my power to help you,” he said quietly after I had calmed. “Just give me the word.”

“Good,” I said. “Then you must help me raise an army. We need Henry out of these men’s hands.”

***

As Exeter and I began our task, York finally returned to England and began to move slowly toward London, his arrogance and presumption growing with every step he took. He’d sent for his duchess to join him, and Cecily was borne into her husband’s presence seated in a splendid chariot, covered in blue velvet.

If Cecily was traveling in fine state, her husband had decided it was time to travel in royal state. At Abingdon, he sent for trumpeters to accompany him on his progress toward London, and the banners he unfurled bore the royal arms. He even ordered that the sword of state be carried before him. When he reached Westminster, he forced Henry out of his own chambers and into mine.

And then, on that same day, October 10, 1460, York walked into Parliament and put his filthy hand on the throne.

York’s gesture did not received the rapturous assent that he had expected. Instead, the lords had looked on in shocked silence until the Archbishop of Canterbury pricked up the courage to ask York if he wished to see the king. York had made a belligerent reply to the effect that it was York the king should be seeking to see and had stalked out of the chamber and into the rooms he’d commandeered from Henry. York was still polluting Henry’s chambers while the lords discussed this new state of affairs.

Warwick and his men had not come to England alone. With them they brought a papal legate, Francesco Coppini, the Bishop of Terni, with whom they had thoroughly ingratiated themselves. At Northampton, he had been supposedly negotiating between the two sides, but poor Buckingham, recognizing that Coppini was no more than Warwick’s tool, had ignored his overtures. It was even rumored that he had excommunicated everyone who had supported Henry at Northampton, and I for one did not doubt the rumor. Naturally, the good bishop had followed his new friends to Westminster, and it was from one of his subordinates, the friar Lorenzo de Florencia, that I had heard of York’s attempt to claim the throne.

The reply I had made to this piece of news really will not bear repeating.

November was about a week old when Lorenzo de Florencia appeared at Harlech again. “Your grace,” he said, speaking in French, “we have reached a settlement.”

“Oh?”

“The king—”

“King Henry, I trust? Or is York calling himself King Richard now?”

“King Henry,” said Florencia, with a look that suggested that he was beginning to wish he was back in his city of origin.

“Well, that is something. Tell me about it, then.”

“The king shall keep his crown, and reign the rest of his natural life.”

“And then?”

“And then upon his death, the crown shall pass to the Duke of York, and then subsequently to York’s heirs.”

“So you are telling me that our son is disinherited.”

“I am telling your grace that King Henry has accepted that the Duke of York has a superior claim to the throne than King Henry himself, and that in order to preserve peace, he has agreed to this compromise. You see, your grace, York’s lawyers have made a persuasive case. King Henry’s grandfather, the fourth Henry, had an inferior claim to the throne. When he took the throne from the second Richard—”

“Damn the lawyers, and damn the second Richard, and damn the Duke of York and his heirs! The fourth Henry was accepted as king, and his house has held the throne for sixty years!” I leaned into Florencia and shook my finger in his face. “Where were these lawyers when the fifth Henry was conquering France? Where were they when the Duke of York was accepting favors from the king he now claims has no valid title to the throne? I am no naïve fool. I know my husband has been ill, and I know that he will be never be the king his late father was. But I know he is an anointed king and that he has expected his son to reign after him. If he agreed to this—this travesty—it was under duress. Has his life been threatened? Has my own life been threatened?” I stood back. “That is it, isn’t? York’s men have told Henry that if he does not agree to this farce, I and our son will be killed. That is the one thing that would make him agree to disinherit Edward.”

“Your grace, there has been nothing of the sort! You talk too wildly, too passionately. Your husband did not agree to this out of fear, but out of his love for peace and his affection toward his dear cousin, the Duke of York.”

“Oh? Tell me what else he agreed to.”

“The Duke of York and his eldest two sons are to have ten thousand marks a year in land, apportioned among them—”

“Nothing for the two youngest sons? Well, no doubt their snouts will be at the trough when they are a little older. Pray tell, from where is this land to come?”

Florencia ran his tongue over his teeth. “Well, your grace, it must naturally come from your son’s lands, as he is no longer the heir to the throne. But he might be allowed to succeed to the duchy of Lancaster.”

“So my son will not be king, but at best the Duke of Lancaster?”

“Yes. A perfectly respectable title, held by no less than the great John of Gaunt, after all.” Florencia paused in case I wanted to say something, but I simply stared at him. “Your grace, the Bishop of Terni—and I am certain, the king and the Duke of York also—would be greatly pleased if you and your son would accompany me to Westminster, and show yourselves to be in harmony with this agreement. I have given you all of its salient points. I fully realize that the settlement is not entirely palatable to your grace, but your grace must understand that the lords and the king found this agreement to be necessary to the peace of the realm—”

“The peace of the realm be damned. You tell the Duke of York that.” Once more, I leaned into the unfortunate friar. “I will not let my son be disinherited by a terrified man, a greedy duke, and a pack of cowards. Who sat in this puppet Parliament, anyway? Not the noble Duke of Buckingham, murdered by your Duke of York’s followers as your good bishop stood by and yawned. Not the Duke of Somerset, one of the bravest men I know. Not the Duke of Exeter. And my husband to rule the rest of his natural life! How long a natural life do you think he will be allowed to have, with York and two grown sons waiting for him to die?”

“Upon my word! I assure your grace the Duke of York would never let any harm come to King Henry!”

“No, not if he can get Warwick to do his filthy work for him, like he did at St. Albans and at Northampton. But I have no intent of prolonging this conversation. You can take this message back to your Duke of York and that creature in a bishop’s miter you serve: I am not friendless or helpless, and I will not see my son deprived of his birthright without a fight.”

“So you will not accompany me to Westminster?”

“I would as soon journey to hell.”

“You do not even have a message for your husband?”

“You tell my husband that I love him dearly and that I pray for him daily. You tell the Duke of York I will see him soon.” I spat out the next word. “Dead.”

I
like
traveling by water,” Edward pronounced as he leaned over the side of the ship while two of my servants kept a firm grasp on him. “Seasickness is for women.”

“It certainly is,” I agreed, willing my food to stay down. It had been fifteen years since I had been to sea, and it had not improved in my absence. “But there is really no need to boast about it.”

Edward—always a loving boy, God bless him!—obediently put on a humble expression, and I laughed and tousled his hair. “At least we have one sailor in the family.”

My son and I were taking ship to Scotland, where I planned to meet with that nation’s queen mother, Mary of Gueldres. Her husband, James II, had died just months before while besieging Roxborough, leaving his eight-year-old son, James III, king. Unlike me, Mary had been named regent during her son’s minority; also unlike me, she had three more healthy sons and two daughters. I was making my trip on the advice of Somerset, now in England, He and Exeter and others were raising an army to oppose the Duke of York. Any help we could get from the Scots, Hal had told me, would be much desirable. And while I was there, could I pick up a recipe for their biscuits for Joan, as they were said to be delicious?

I smiled, as I could not help doing when I thought of Somerset, and for a moment even my thoughts of seasickness disappeared.

Mary of Gueldres was several years younger than me and, I am sorry to say, far more pleasing in her person, even when she was dressed in widow’s weeds. A worry line had begun to etch its way between my eyes, and I had begun fasting once a week in a desperate attempt to get some heavenly help on my side. As a result, I had become too thin, whereas Mary’s six pregnancies had left her pleasingly plump and with an ineffable glow of self-satisfaction that was not much dimmed by her recent bereavement. This was irritating, as was the perpetual chilliness of Lincluden Abbey, where I was staying in early January 1461. Since coming to Scotland I had developed a permanent sniffle. “You’ll get used to it, my dear!” Mary said, snuggling herself more deeply in her fur-lined cloak that reminded me painfully of the fine clothes I’d left behind me in my flight. “It was hard for me coming here from Burgundy, trust me. Now, do you really have hopes of defeating the Duke of York?”

“I have some of the finest men in England bringing troops to the North. All I ask from Scotland now is that hostilities at the border cease so that my men in the North can feel free to leave their lands and fight for me. When the Duke of York is defeated, then perhaps we can make a permanent peace.”

“But what can you offer in the meantime?”

It was irritating as well to realize that for all she reminded me of a pampered lap dog, Mary of Gueldres was not the slightest bit stupid. “I am offering to make one of your daughters my son’s bride.”

Mary batted her eyelashes, a gesture wasted on me but perhaps one that had worked with the men who had made her regent. It was a trick, I thought sourly, that I should have tried myself on the lords after poor Henry went mad. “That hardly seems enough, my dear, given that his position is so uncertain at present.”

“Well, then, what were you thinking?”

“Berwick would be nice,” Mary said sweetly.

I winced. “It has been in English hands since 1333.”

“Oh, yes. Which is why we miss it so much.” Mary studied her nails. They were beautifully shaped; mine, which I bit from time to time out of tension, were scraggly.

“I do not think the English will countenance its being ceded.” I had a certain gift for understatement.

Mary shrugged. “Yet it might be necessary for your husband to recover his throne. It depends, I suppose, on how badly you want it.”

I was in the midst of formulating a reply, other than the slap on Queen Mary’s smug face I longed to deal out, when a knock came and a servant obeyed Mary’s answer to come in. “Your grace, a man is here for Queen Margaret from the Duke of Somerset. He says that it is most urgent.”

“Then by all means allow him to come in.” Mary rose and shook out her skirts. “I will leave you to discuss your business in private.”

Somerset’s man did not so much as bend to me as to drop before me, so exhausted did he appear, but he was smiling when he held out an object. “Your grace, my lord asks that you and the Prince of Wales travel to York, where he shall be waiting for you. And he has sent you this with his compliments, your grace.”

I stared at the cloth he slowly unfolded. It was blue and murrey and bore a familiar emblem: a falcon within a fetterlock. It was also stained with blood. “This means—”

“Yes, your grace. The Duke of York has been slain. He met his death on the next to last day of December, just outside of Wakefield.”

***

At York, Somerset and Exeter and a number of other lords were waiting for Edward and me at Micklegate Bar. I was about to accept assistance off my horse when Somerset stopped my page. “Wait, your grace, you’ll have a better view from your horse. Look at the top of the gate.”

I craned my neck upward obediently. Perched upon Micklegate were three human heads. “Here on the left, madam, you see the Earl of Salisbury,” Hal said cheerfully, pointing with a flourish. “And here on the right, madam, you see the Earl of Rutland. And here in the center, madam, you see the noble Duke of York. Wearing the crown he so deeply desired, you see. We felt that it was only proper to give one to him, albeit made of paper.”

My lips curved into a smile, and if you think that wrong of me, remember that these were the men who had schemed to deprive my son of his crown and who would have surely shortened my husband’s life so that York and his descendants could sit upon the throne sooner rather than later. “How can I thank you?”

“It is Somerset your grace must thank,” said Exeter with some reluctance. “He was chiefly responsible for winning the fight.”

“No,” said Somerset. “It is Andrew Trollope your grace must thank.” He grasped the shoulder of the man twice his age who stood next to him. “York got wind of our movements toward the North and marched here himself, leaving Warwick in London and sending the Earl of March to Wales. He didn’t bring that many men with him, and thanks to Trollope here, we deprived him of quite a few of them near Worksop. But they were his advance guard, so York was able to press on to his castle at Sandal, where he holed up and celebrated Christmas. And as we had all arrived here, we decided to make it his last one.” Somerset took his sword and drew a sketch in the snow that blanketed the ground. “See? Here’s Sandal Castle—notice the little turrets, if you please—and here we are, all round.”

“How on earth did you lure him out?”

“Well, to a large extent, it was pure luck. They were getting hungry in Sandal Castle, and they really hadn’t bargained on having so many of us in the area. They sent out a foraging party, and Trollope suggested that we seize our opportunity and attack it. York got wind of this—I do believe he spotted our forces and thought that some of us were men coming to relieve him—and rode out. And by the time he realized how outnumbered he was, it was too late. He put up a fight before we dispatched him, I’ll grant him that. None of us can personally can take credit for his death, I’m sorry to say. It was a group of Devonshire men who took him out.”

“Good work,” I said grimly. I nodded upward in the direction of Rutland’s seventeen-year-old head. “Did Rutland die beside him?”

“That was my work,” Lord Clifford put in. “He fought well, I’ll say, but when his father fell, the rout began, and I caught him on Wakefield Bridge, trying to flee. He’s young, I know, but we had the same orders that Warwick gave at Northampton, my lady. Go for the lords. He’d have killed me if our positions were reversed, I know it.”

“As York’s son, he could hardly expect otherwise,” I said, trying not to think of the small boy who’d peeped at me at Rouen when I’d stopped there on my way to England. “You did right. And Salisbury?”

“Him we captured and sent to Pontefract. We would have held him for ransom, as he would have been a profitable hostage for us, but unfortunately for him he’s not popular in the area. The people mobbed him and beheaded him. And so there you have them: the Unholy Trinity. Though I’d sacrifice that epigram to have Warwick’s head perched up alongside the others. The Foul Four would have been pleasantly alliterative.”

I dismounted and embraced each of the men in turn. “You have served me well, and I heartily thank you.” I turned to Trollope. “You should be knighted, but I would rather have it done in my husband’s presence.”

Trollope bowed. “Then I will be most honored to wait.”

“And I do have a good bit of news—though it pales beside this.” I tilted my head in the direction of York’s and smiled. “Queen Mary and her council have agreed to a truce while we head south, and to further negotiations once we recover the king. Before the news arrived, she thought we were well and truly desperate—that she could get me to cede Berwick. The audacity!” I laughed. “You have never seen a woman’s face change so much as when I told her York was dead. Why, what is it, my dear?”

Edward had been staring up in fascination at the heads. “Mother, won’t they blow down?”

“If they do, we will put them right back up,” I promised him. For the first time, I noticed the sharp wind that was rustling York’s paper crown. “Come, gentlemen, let us go inside and speak of what we are to do next.”

***

“Can’t you sleep, your grace?”

I started as Somerset, a cloak thrown over his shoulders, joined me at the bottom of Clifford’s Tower at York Castle. “No.”

“Neither can I. Were you about to climb up? Then it’s good I’m here to help you.”

He led me up the winding stairs until we finally stood at the top of the tower, where we stared down at the city of York below us. “I didn’t mention it before, your grace, but I have had some disturbing news. My brother Edmund is a prisoner. I left him behind to hold Carisbrooke, and he was captured last month.”

“Oh, Hal.”

“It’s one of the reasons I agreed to hold Salisbury for ransom, and it’s one reason why I would rather have not had the Earl of Rutland killed. But Rutland was fighting, as Clifford said, and would have slain Clifford if he’d been able to, I daresay.” He crossed himself, a gesture I’d seldom seen him make except during mass. “I can only hope Warwick and the Earl of March don’t take revenge on Edmund.”

“If Henry has any say, you know he will prevent it.”

“Aye, if he has any.” Hal’s shoulders sagged. “But the good news is, I am a father. Joan gave birth to a healthy boy. Charles. She named him for the Count of Charolais and for your uncle Charles, who were gracious to me when I was abroad.”

“And you haven’t had a chance to see him.”

“Joan assures me that he is the image of myself. Not that I had any doubts about the matter, but it is good to know. But I do hope I get to see the lad. I would hate to end up like Exeter, who’s seen his daughter only a couple of times.”

“You and the rest of the men have sacrificed a great deal, Hal. Don’t think I forget it for an instant.”

“You’ve sacrificed too, your grace.” He touched my shoulder cautiously. “You’re too thin, and your clothes are shabby. I don’t like to see you this way.”

We were standing far too close together. “Oh, it is just that I have no one but a laundress taking care of my things,” I said, moving back a little.

Hal took the hint and moved back himself. “So what keeps you up at this hour?”

“Henry. I am afraid of what they might have done to him, what they still might be doing. He is so vulnerable, and there is hardly anyone there he can trust. What if they have turned him against us?”

“Don’t worry. Henry might be weak but as long as he has some degree of sanity, I don’t think he could ever be turned against you.”

“And that is what frightens me. What if he has lost his sanity again? Or is in danger of losing it? I think sometimes I would almost rather see the crown on the head of York’s son than to see Henry in that state again. And then I start to doubt myself.”

“You mustn’t. How could his resigning the crown that his father and his grandfather wore possibly help his state of mind? It would wrack him with guilt, more likely, and might well topple him over the edge. Don’t worry. Being reunited with you is bound to improve his state of mind, whatever that is.”

“Thank you, Hal. That does make me feel better.” Without consciously intending it, we had stepped close to each other again. “I am getting very cold. I should go inside.”

“Yes.” Hal moved even closer to me.

“You have done so much for Henry and me over these past weeks. I do not know if I properly expressed my gratitude for what you did at Wakefield.”

“I wish I had been the one to have slain York for you.”

“It hardly matters as long as he is dead.”

“It matters very much to me.” Hal moved so close to me that I could feel his breath come and go.

My heart began to pound. “I had best go now. Edward will be wondering where I am,” I said lamely.

“He’s sound asleep.” Hal brushed my cheek with his fingers, then tipped my chin upward. “I want to serve you, my lady,” he said softly. “In every possible way.”