Faithful Traitor: The Story of Margaret Pole (Plantagenet Embers Book 2)

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  Mary came stomping in and demanded, “Why is our father leaving again?”

  Three sets of curious eyes locked onto Matilda as they were each very interested in the answer to this question that only Mary dared to ask.

  The nurse crouched down and the girls huddled around her as though they were a part of a conspiracy.

  “Your father goes to defend his right to be King.”

  “That’s nonsense! Of course he’s the King!” Mary exclaimed.

  “Yes, love. I know he is,” Matilda assured her. “But Margaret of Anjou fights for her son’s right to inherit more than her husband’s right to hold the throne. She must fight for her husband to benefit her son.”

  “But our brother, Edward, will be King,” Elizabeth said in a slightly questioning tone.

  “He will,” Matilda said with certainty. “Because your father will defeat these murderous Lancastrians once and for all!” The girls were used to outbursts such as this and none of them thought to wonder what had turned their soft-spoken Matilda so vehemently against King Henry.

  “Why do they fight father?” Mary asked. Elizabeth was quite glad that she had.

  Matilda sighed. “Well, that is a very long story, isn’t it? And too confusing for little girls.” She looked at each of their expectant faces and decided to try. “When your father became king, some people believed that it should still be King Henry VI no matter how unfit he was to rule. Your father’s father, the mighty duke of York, had put forward his own claim to the throne before he died, showing that he was rightful heir going all the way back to Edward III.”

  “But why does our uncle Warwick fight with them?” Elizabeth asked.

  “The earl of Warwick is anxious to have as much power as he can possibly possess, and has decided that any king will do if he is holding their reins,” she said slowly as if trying to be sure that she answered correctly, if not completely.

  “How could the wrong person be king?” Mary pressed on.

  “Yes, how?” Elizabeth added, ignoring Matilda’s raised eyebrows.

  “Well, this is a better question for one of your tutors than for me,” she huffed. “But it started with Henry IV taking the throne from his cousin, Richard II. That got the crown going along the line of the wrong son. Nobody worried too much about it until our King Henry started acting addled. Then your grandfather, Richard Plantagenet, decided it was time to advance the lines of the older sons of Edward III.”

  She examined the little faces gazing at her own. Could they really understand? She wasn’t sure that she did.

  “So, our family should have been kings all along.” Elizabeth stated.

  “I suppose that’s true,” Matilda agreed, though she was not sure it was. She dared not point out that if their grandfather had been king, Elizabeth Woodville would probably have never managed to marry their father.

  “And our father will prove again that he is the rightful king!” Mary cried out in obvious repetition of exclamations made throughout the castle.

  Smiling as she groaned to straighten up, Matilda agreed, “That he will, my little ladies. That he will.”

  For days after this conversation, Elizabeth had pondered what it all meant. Why had people not wanted her father to be king? She had seen the dreary, fragile Henry and couldn’t imagine him making a better king than her powerful, handsome father. As for Queen Margaret, she was not nearly as beautiful as Elizabeth’s own mother, and she had borne only one child compared to her mother’s six (if you counted Thomas and Richard, and she supposed she must). If her family also had the clear lineage required, why did the people fight?

  She wondered if sometimes men actually enjoyed having something to fight about.

  ~~~~

  As they waited for news of her father, Elizabeth’s mother appeared more in the nursery. The pinched look that had been etched into her face during their time in sanctuary was replaced by a more confident, peaceful one, but Elizabeth was certain that fear still loomed behind her eyes.

  “Father is the greatest soldier in all of England, is he not?” she asked her mother.

  The queen blinked as though she were being shaken from a dream. “Certainly he is. None can begin to compare to your father on the field.” She stated it as she said everything, as though there was no room for debate.

  “Then why do they fight him?” asked Mary.

  “Because they are sentimental idiots,” blurted the queen.

  “Will father win?” Elizabeth asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “Yes.” The queen straightened her back and tilted her head back ever so slightly, giving power to her husband’s troops through her own regality.

  At that moment, a page rushed in and bowed low before the girls’ mother.

  “Yes, what is it?” she demanded.

  “Pardon me, your grace,” he said without completely straightening. “A messenger from the king has arrived.”

  “Have him brought to my chamber immediately,” she ordered as she swept past the boy without waiting for a response.

  When the girls heard cheering in the courtyard, they knelt in prayer to thank God for the news that nobody had bothered to give them yet.

  Tidbits of news were gathered by Elizabeth as she eavesdropped on conversations people assumed that she was too young to be interested in. Her father had defeated the traitorous Warwick at Barnet. She knew that she should be happy. Richard Neville of Warwick had executed her grandfather, Richard Woodville, and uncle, John Woodville. He had hoped to kill her father, but part of her was still sad that cousin fought cousin in these battles.

  With the disadvantages her father had faced at Barnet, everyone at court said that it was God who had given him victory as the rightful king. Elizabeth thought that it all must be over. Then she heard that Margaret of Anjou and her son, whom some people called Prince Edouard and others called Edouard of Lancaster, had landed on England’s shores to attempt once more to restore Henry’s throne.

  It was difficult to embroider, practice her lessons, or even to eat, knowing that her father was out there, fighting for his kingdom and his life. Her life seemed too ordinary for something so important to be going on. She tried to keep herself occupied with Cecily and Mary as they awaited messengers from the battlefield.

  On May 6, the news came. Edward and his army had crushed this final Lancastrian challenge at Tewkesbury two days earlier. Margaret’s son, Edouard, had been killed in battle, and Margaret taken prisoner. Elizabeth wondered if the sometime queen would be allowed to join her husband in the Tower.

  Certain that there would be peace now with both Warwick and Margaret defeated and Henry’s heir dead, Elizabeth found more energy for her daily tasks and was enjoying assisting her grandmother with an altar cloth she was working on when another exhausted looking messenger was ushered in. Cecily Neville had a proud, aristocratic face that may have at one time been beautiful. Her auburn hair was pulled back severely, emphasizing her clear blues eyes that quickly took in all around her. Though she was strict, she was not unkind, and Elizabeth enjoyed their time together.

  “What is it?” demanded the duchess.

  “Rebels are approaching the city”

  “Rebels? What rebels are left?”

  “Fauconberg,” he replied breathlessly. “With an army of almost 20,000. The mayor suggests that the royal family,” he tipped his head toward Elizabeth, “move to the greater security of the Tower.”

  Elizabeth did not know who this Fauconberg was or what this latest enemy had against her father. She looked at her grandmother questioningly. This lady who had faced much stronger opponents in her long and tragic life looked barely perturbed by this latest threat.

  “Thank you. You may find sustenance and rest in the hall.”

  The messenger bowed and accepted his dismissal.

  “Who is Fauconberg, grandmother? Does he want to be king, too?”

  Cecily snorted in a quite undignified manner. “No, he is simply causing trouble. Sometimes men
have no idea what they will actually do if they are victorious in their ridiculous quests!”

  Elizabeth scrunched up her face doubtfully. Surely this man must have some objective, and men must have their reasons for following him. She had no time to consider it further or ask additional questions as her grandmother had moved on to ordering servants to prepare for a move to the Tower.

  The city of London refused to open its gates to Fauconberg’s army, despite his assurances that they had no intentions of ravaging the townspeople. Their only goal was reinstating Henry on the throne. In the Tower, Elizabeth could hear evidence of the attack on London Bridge and smell smoke of burning buildings.

  Elizabeth’s uncle, Anthony Woodville, had joined them at the Tower and assisted in its defense. Anthony, Lord Rivers since his father’s death, was handsome and intelligent. His stories kept Elizabeth in rapt attention for as long as he was willing to tell them. An able soldier like her father, Anthony was even more passionate about intellectual pursuits and had a library larger than any Elizabeth had ever seen.

  When news of Edward’s approaching army sent Fauconberg into retreat, Anthony pursued them. With breathtaking quickness, Fauconberg was captured and executed. Elizabeth heard the news and breathed a sigh of relief. Surely there was nobody left to take up the fight against her father.

  She was correct.

  With no one left to fight for King Henry VI, he died in his rooms at the Tower on May 21. Elizabeth heard that his death had been ordered by her father to avoid any further uprisings, but she chose to believe the official statement that he had died of melancholy following the death of his only son and heir.

  April 1483

  Elizabeth dreaded entering sanctuary again, especially since she was less than convinced that it was necessary. She was no longer the little girl who worshipped her beautiful mother, but was now an intelligent young woman wondering if her mother wasn’t making everything worse. As if things could be worse, when her father was dead.

  On April 9, just days short of his 41st birthday, Edward had sickened and died after a damp day of hunting. It seemed lacking in honor for a man who had gloriously led troops and reigned over the greatest kingdom in the world to meet death because of cold and wetness, though she supposed that the extra weight he had put on in recent years didn’t help either.

  Maniacal screaming and the sounds of scurrying came from the room she was about to enter. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin, preparing for the onslaught before pushing the door open. Her mother was in the middle of the room surrounded by open trunks haphazardly filled with gowns, jewels, and gold plate. A cloud of disarrayed silvery blond hair flew around Queen Elizabeth’s head as she barked out orders to the stooped men and women around her. Elizabeth was the calm in the middle of the storm.

  “Mother, surely this is all unnecessary,” she insisted. “Why are you so sure that our uncle Richard means us harm?”

  “You are a young fool!” her mother retorted. “Your dear uncle has kidnapped your brother, and you would like to sit here embroidering while he comes for the rest of us?”

  Elizabeth refused to raise her voice. “It can hardly be considered kidnapping for him to take custody of Edward. After all, father did name him Lord Protector.”

  The queen snorted as though she had never heard such idiocy. “Your father put too much faith in his brother of Gloucester. I will not be making that mistake, and you are coming with me.”

  “Of course, I will do as my lady mother pleases,” Elizabeth allowed. “But I feel that we are creating undue conflict when we should all be preparing together for my brother’s crowning.”

  “If there is a coronation,” her mother mumbled.

  “Why would you say that?” Elizabeth asked, feeling some of Mary’s bravery at the moment. If only Mary were still alive, she thought. She would be bold with mother and possibly more able to convince her of her folly. If only her father had not suddenly died! That strong true prince – how could he be taken from this world so unexpectedly and so young? The loss of those she loved weighed heavily on Elizabeth’s slender shoulders.

  Her mother stopped short in her chaotic movements to look Elizabeth in the eye. “Richard has . . . . taken custody of your brother. He has arrested my brother and son. Do you think this is simply so that he may come to London for the crowning ceremony?”

  Elizabeth wasn’t sure how to answer for her uncle’s actions. Why had he arrested her uncle, Anthony, and her half-brother, Richard Grey? His motives were not clearer to her. She was just more willing to trust in him because her father always had.

  “I will go see to my own packing,” she said and left the room.

  ~~~~

  By the time Richard, duke of Gloucester, and the newly declared Edward V had entered London, Elizabeth Woodville and her other children had once again entered sanctuary at Westminster Abbey. Elizabeth had reclaimed the window seat that had been hers as a child. More than enough time was now available to think about the past and about where the future would take her.

  Continued efforts to convince her mother that Richard was simply fulfilling his role as Lord Protector had fallen on deaf ears. When Anthony Woodville and Richard Grey, the queen’s brother and son from her first marriage were executed for treason on Richard’s orders, Elizabeth made no further attempts to discuss it.

  Elizabeth remembered the fun-loving yet shy Richard, and wondered what treason he could have possibly participated in. Many hours were spent in prayer, not only because there was little else to do, but Elizabeth truly felt comforted when she gave up her troubles to God. She wished for the opportunity to speak with her uncle. Her father had trusted Richard with his armies, large portions of his country, his life, and his heir. For these reasons, Elizabeth was hesitant to not trust him, but her mother’s ranting was starting to take root. Whispered rumors and the unmistakable truth that he had ordered the killing of her beloved half-brother made her mind a fertile ground for doubt. Maybe her father had made a mistake.

  Once again she wished for Mary’s comforting presence. Elizabeth’s younger sister had been carried off by illness not a year before their father. Mary would not have been afraid to ask the difficult questions and probably would have marched right up to the duke of Gloucester and asked him exactly what his intentions were. But Mary was gone and would no longer speak the words Elizabeth only dared to think.

  She also couldn’t help but selfishly wonder what this would all mean for her. At seventeen, she was at an age for marriage, and had almost been given to the Dauphin of France before he had humiliated her by choosing to break their betrothal and make his promise to Margaret of Austria. To be put aside for a mere child! Elizabeth was happy to not have to leave her home country, but the offense still stung her pride. Who would her brother, now that he was king, marry her to? Or would it be the decision of her uncle Richard?

  For weeks Elizabeth dwelled on these questions bouncing around in her mind, not solving any of the mysteries that assailed her.

  Elizabeth’s father, her sister Mary, and her half-brother Richard Grey, were all dead. Her younger brother, Richard, duke of York, born three years after Prince Edward during much happier times, had been allowed to join Edward at the Tower of London. That left Elizabeth with her increasingly unstable mother, and four young sisters for comfort and company. She longed for the day that she would be able to leave this place and the gloom of her mother’s paranoia.

  Elizabeth’s story continues in

  Plantagenet Princess, Tudor Queen.

  Available in paperback and Kindle formats

  on Amazon.

 

 

 
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