Uneasy Lies the Crown

by Tasha Alexander

  I said nothing, respecting his reluctance to break a confidence. This is not to suggest that I waited patiently for him to decide what—and how much—to tell me. Anyone who knows me is all too aware that I cannot claim a close acquaintance with the virtue of patience, despite numerous attempts to woo it. I could hear the clock on the wall and the traffic in Park Lane. I chewed on my bottom lip. I avoided making eye contact. In short, I did everything possible not to pressure my husband to speak. And then, when I could stand it no longer, I crossed to his chair, sat on its arm, and dropped my head onto his shoulder, hoping the intimacy of the gesture would remind him that sharing a confidence with his wife was hardly a betrayal. Were we not, after all, joined by God, one soul in two bodies? I may mix my religious metaphors, but have never objected to a touch of the pagan at appropriate times.

  At long last he spoke. “The queen was not herself. Our conversation was muddled and she was confused. But she gave me this”—he removed an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to me—“and led me to believe it was a set of instructions I should follow.”

  “Une sanz pluis,” I read aloud. “One and no more. One and no more. Why is this familiar?”

  “It was a French motto used by Henry V at the time of Agincourt. You may have seen it on one of the tombs in the chapel at Anglemore Park.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I remember it now. The alabaster with the knight standing on a dog.”

  “It’s a lion, my dear, and it is beneath his feet as he reclines. He is not standing on it.”

  I frowned and vowed to take a closer look at the tomb the next time we went to the country. “Sapere aude … dare to know? My Latin is not what it ought to be. Margaret would be scandalized.” One of my closest friends, Margaret was a devoted Latinist, currently living in Oxford with her husband. I had met her more than a decade ago, soon after having embarked on my study of all things ancient Greek. Although firm in her belief that my time would be better spent focusing on the Romans, she had nonetheless encouraged my intellectual pursuits, the first of my friends to do so.

  “She is well aware of the gaping holes in your education,” Colin said. “Too much Greek, too little Latin. She reminds me of it whenever I see her. Sapere aude was a phrase common during the Enlightenment, championed by Kant, although I believe Horace was the first to use it, centuries earlier.”

  “You can always rely on the ancients,” I said. “Even the Romans. But what could the queen have meant by giving you this?”

  “I have not the slightest idea. I had hoped that your rampageous imagination might provide some insight.”

  “And it is intended as an instruction?”

  “Yes, so she said. I was inclined to dismiss it as a product of her illness until I found this when I arrived home today.” He handed me a second envelope. It and the three sheets of paper inside matched that given to him by the queen. The first page was covered in a sketch of a medieval-looking lance. The second, a map of the Tower of London. The writing—bold and confident—that covered the third had come from the same hand as that on the note he received at Osborne House.

  “The queen is sending you notes from beyond the grave?”

  “Don’t get so excited,” he said. “Neither is in the queen’s hand.”

  Again, I read aloud. “Lead me, thus wounded, to the front line so that I may, as a prince should, kindle our fighting men with deeds not words.” I read it to myself, silently, a second and a third time. “I do not recognize this at all.”

  “It is a translation of a life of Henry V written by Tito Livio Frulovisi, commissioned by the king’s brother, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester. Vita Henrici Quinti it was called.”

  “More Latin.” I wrinkled my nose. “How is it that you know so much about all this? I’ve never known you to have a particular interest in Henry V.”

  “You know perfectly well the land on which we live at Anglemore Park was given by Henry to an ancestor of mine who distinguished himself at Agincourt. Can you imagine there is any English boy who would not be obsessed by such a thing? I was quite taken with it when I was young.”

  “I’m picturing you getting into a great deal of trouble with a longbow.”

  “No, the ancestor in question was not an archer, but a man-at-arms, so I played with swords.”

  “Promise me you will not breathe a word of any of this to the boys until they are at least twelve years old,” I said. The three of them would soon turn five. Tom, our adopted ward, had a saintly disposition, and I thought it unlikely he would ever get into an awkward scrape. Richard and Henry, our twins, were altogether different. While Richard would likely be more interested in studying the method of manufacturing swords—he had already begun to show great proficiency for building, analyzing, and all things mechanical—I did not doubt for a moment that Henry could cause a great deal of chaos in a shockingly short span of time the instant he learned of any family connection to Agincourt.

  “You cannot stop little boys from reenacting battles,” my husband said, in a tone that signaled no room for debate. “The passage in the note refers to the Battle of Shrewsbury, where Henry, then Prince of Wales, took an arrow to the cheek. Despite the severity of the wound, he made a full recovery, although he was left with a not insignificant scar.”

  “I’ve never pictured him with a scar,” I said. “More like a shining example of English goodness. Golden hair, bright eyes, polished armor, rallying his troops to follow him once more unto the breach. Who would not do the bidding of such a man?”

  “He had brown hair, my dear, and you’re getting carried away. What do you think it can all mean? Particularly in the context of the queen’s death followed by a murder staged—in the Tower, no less—to mimic the violent demise of another king.”

  “Another king who just happened to be Henry V’s son.” I studied the map of the Tower, but no location was marked on it. “It would be less confusing if the murderer had reenacted Henry V’s death.”

  “Dysentery would not make for such a visually effective scene.” Colin crossed his arms over his chest. “As I said, Henry was Prince of Wales when he fought at Shrewsbury. Bertie, er, King Edward, was Prince of Wales when the queen gave me the first note.”

  “Do you think it is a warning of some sort?” I asked. “The queen’s mind was failing when you saw her. Perhaps she received the note, recognized it as a threat to her son, and passed it on to you, not realizing that she failed to give you the necessary context to understand. Although why the drawing of a lance instead of a sword?”

  “That I cannot explain. Regardless, your notion that it’s a threat to the king is the same conclusion I reached. If we’re correct, Bertie could be in a great deal of danger.”

  1415

  4

  Cecily did not weep when William departed for France. She stood motionless in front of Lord Burgeys’s manor, the only home she had ever known, as her husband mounted his chestnut-colored horse, his plate armor, perfectly fitted to his lean body, gleaming in the sun. He left the visor of his bascinet raised so she could see him grinning as he set off, eager for the challenge of battle. She watched until she could no longer see his standard, carried by his squire, who followed behind. And then, when he was out of sight, she let her tears flow free and readied herself for her own journey, to Adeline’s new home.

  Alys, her old nurse, prepared the chests of clothing and jewelry and other essentials, but Cecily packed her most prized belonging herself: a beautifully illuminated copy of Christine de Pizan’s The Treasure of the City of Ladies, given to her by Lady Burgeys. It offered what Cecily considered excellent advice for ladies, the authoress providing instruction on how to behave in nearly every situation. She stressed the importance of a wife being able to competently run her estate, going so far as to suggest she must even know how to use any weapons necessary for defense. Cecily pored over the vellum pages, tracing the letters some anonymous monk had copied so carefully, and vowed she would follow the French w
oman’s advice.

  Adeline had never shown a glimmer of interest in de Pizan’s work. Her marriage to the Baron Esterby had elevated her social status, bringing with it a retinue of ladies and followers eager to do her bidding, and she saw no need to exert herself for anything but pleasure. The baron’s estate in Sussex encompassed tens of thousands of acres and countless tenants, ensuring the family fortune did not suffer, even during the agricultural depression that followed the great plagues of the previous century. This meant Adeline could surround herself with every luxury. The day Cecily arrived, she found her friend—for she had decided she would view this chapter of her life as a new start, and make every effort to befriend Adeline—choosing fabric for new gowns. Bolts of the finest silk and the softest furs surrounded her, and her laughter, which Cecily had always considered one of Adeline’s best charms, echoed through the castle.

  “Cecily, dear, you must have a new gown, too,” Adeline said, greeting her with a distracted kiss. “Pick anything you like. Lord Esterby is rich enough to pay for both of us. But I don’t think silk for you; it would be a waste on someone of your curious intellectual leanings. Whatever you desire, though, make it known quickly. I want to go for a ride this afternoon and you must come with me.”

  Cecily did not mind eschewing the silk, asking instead for a soft, midnight blue wool and not commenting when her hostess all but dragged her to the stable. Given past experience, Cecily half expected to be introduced to a handsome groom, but instead, a middle-aged man, stocky and competent, took them to their waiting horses and helped them mount. Adeline treated him with perfect courtesy; Cecily hardly recognized her.

  “The baron is most generous,” Adeline said as they set off across a green meadow to explore the estate. “I knew not how fortunate I was in my marriage until I came here and saw what my life will now be. My husband is kind and gives me anything I desire. It’s what I’ve always wanted, and what I always knew I deserved.”

  Cecily murmured a reply, knowing all too well that Adeline had no interest in anything she might have to say. They rode along in silence until they reached a stream. Adeline stopped her horse and slid off of her saddle, urging Cecily to follow suit. A charming picnic awaited them. Servants had set up a low table covered with a fine damask tablecloth. Pewter dishes held cold pies, fruits, and an astonishing assortment of sweets. A servant handed Cecily a glass of wine cut with just the right amount of water.

  “I brought you here so that we might speak privately,” Adeline said. “Understand that I am the mistress of this house and you are here, at great inconvenience and expense, only because my husband wanted it so. He thought I should have a companion from home and erroneously identified you as the best choice. I seek neither your counsel nor your friendship. You will wait on me as I require, but your pert opinions and that look of judgment that creeps onto your face are not welcome here. Pray that your husband returns safely, because you will not remain here if you are widowed.”

  The wine no longer tasted sweet, and Cecily bit back nervous laughter at Adeline’s final statement. How could anyone think that she would want to stay here, widowed or not?

  * * *

  William’s trip to Southampton passed quickly. The roads were good, the weather fair, and the Duke of Gloucester made sure his men were well-supplied with every comfort one could hope for on such a journey. William’s squire could not contain his excitement as they reached the town and could see the king’s standard flying above Portchester Castle. Not that he expected to see the king—William had counseled him against unreasonable hopes—but just to be part of the invading force thrilled the young man.

  The summer was hot, and they were all eager to embark for France. But their mission would not start quite yet. William had been in a pub thinking about his pretty wife when the chatter began. Something had happened—something that threatened the king. He assumed the danger came from the French—perhaps there were spies among them?—but instead, it was traitorous Englishmen behind a nefarious plot to kill their sovereign and his three brothers, the Dukes of Clarence, Bedford, and Gloucester, as they boarded their ship for France. Edmund Mortimer, the Earl of March, the man they planned to put on the throne once Henry was dead, learned of the plan and informed the king straightaway. Henry did not hesitate to act.

  First, he invited the conspirators to Portchester Castle. Then, he had them tried and executed. Their lofty titles and high positions could not protect them from such grievous villainy. And so, on the warm August day when the army at last set off for France, the heads of the Earl of Cambridge, the Baron Scrope, and Sir Thomas Grey remained in England, stuck on spikes for all to see. A gory scene, but nothing so bad as what awaited them abroad. They were soldiers, though, and none among them balked at the horrors of battle. If anything, they looked forward to heaping violent misery on their opponents. They knew too well of the ghastly horrors inflicted by the French on the defeated English archers at the siege of Soissons the year before; mercy was something the French no longer deserved.

  1901

  5

  While my husband stuffed himself with kedgeree that morning before setting off for Marlborough House, I retreated to my desk in the library, the room I had always considered the most comfortable in the house. There is no greater pleasure than being surrounded by books. At the moment, however, frustration tainted that pleasure, as I considered the body found at the Tower. Colin and the wretched Inspector Gale had both agreed that a stab wound—even if made by something other than the sword found in the body—had ended Mr. Grummidge’s life. But as I would have access neither to the coroner’s report nor Scotland Yard’s file on the case, I had only my wits to rely upon. I rang for the carriage—lamenting that we did not have a motorcar—and set off for the East End. Once there, I convinced my driver that he did not need to escort me from shop to shop (he, despite all evidence to the contrary, remained convinced Jack the Ripper might resurface at any moment) and began my search for Mr. Grummidge’s widow. Jonathan Swift rightly observed that falsehood flies, and the truth comes limping after it, but I have found that if anything is capable of traveling more quickly than a lie, it is bad news. Particularly bad news that contains any hint of gore or violence. Truly, people are a dreadful lot.

  I had only to inquire in three shops before I found someone who was eager to discuss Mr. Grummidge’s demise. Ironically, it was a woman in a butcher shop who offered assistance. The glee with which she reported what she knew, coupled with the wild state of her hair and a terrifying look in her eyes, reminded me of the awful Mrs. Lovett, who baked Sweeney Todd’s victims into meat pies. She was purchasing soupbones, not something suitable for pies of any sort, and I found this filled me with an inexplicable sense of relief. Rumor had it, she said, that Mr. Grummidge (who owned a grocery in Whitechapel) had not returned home the previous evening. Something, she confided, leaning uncomfortably close to me and exposing a shockingly long set of yellowing teeth, that most likely had not surprised his wife, who would be used to his philandering ways. I asked her if she knew where I might find Mrs. Grummidge. She offered to take me there herself.

  Not wanting to burden myself with a companion who seemed likely to terrify the new widow, I thanked her and said I only required the address. Disappointment clouded her face, but she complied with my request, and before long I was knocking on the door of a snug terrace house in a section of Whitechapel that was very nearly respectable. I introduced myself to the young girl who answered, dressed in a worn but well-cared-for maid’s uniform, and asked to see her mistress. She hesitated and I leapt on her uncertainty, explaining that I had come to assist Mrs. Grummidge after her heartbreaking loss.

  This convinced the girl to let me in. She led me to a small parlor and went off to fetch the lady of the house. The furniture was solid and well made, the tables covered with gorgeous lace doilies. The work was finer than I had seen anywhere, impossibly delicate and perfectly executed, the sort of thing that would inspire even the famed lacemakers of
Burano to envy. Two photographs stood on the mantel, one showing a couple dressed in wedding clothes—I recognized the unfortunate Mr. Grummidge—and the other of his bride, this time dressed in a mourning gown, holding an infant, presumably deceased. The image unsettled me. I turned away from it and took a seat near the piano situated between the two front windows.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Grummidge entered, her face pale and drawn. I rose, introduced myself, and expressed my condolences for her loss. She looked more flustered than bereaved, and this endeared her to me. She offered tea, which I accepted, hoping the genial beverage would help her open up to me, and as soon as she had sent the maid off to fetch it, she met my eyes directly and spoke.

  “While I am most grateful for your kind attention, Lady Emily, I am confused as to why you have come to me. Surely a lady of your status has better things to do than to pay social calls in the East End?”

  “My husband, who works for the palace, was called to the scene of your husband’s demise,” I said, deciding it was not necessary to explain that his body had been moved. “I happened to be with him, and as a result feel a personal connection. I wanted to seek you out, first, to offer any assistance that might be of use to you in this difficult time, and, second, in the hope that you might be able to tell me something—anything—about Mr. Grummidge that could assist in bringing him justice.”

  “Justice?” she asked, her eyebrows shooting almost to her hairline. “I don’t think Edmund will ever get that.”

  “I can assure you, Mrs. Grummidge, that with my husband on the case, justice will be achieved. No doubt Scotland Yard have already called on you and asked loads of tedious questions, and I am more sorry than I can say if you feel I am piling on. I help Mr. Hargreaves with challenging cases when I can, and more often than not find that we ladies know more than detectives give us credit for. Men don’t always realize what details are important. Can you tell me when you last saw your husband?”