The two men ate in silence, as they digested food and thoughts alike. Finally, King Louis broke the silence.
‘While you are away, I will bring Margaret of Anjou around to our way of thinking. It may take some time, but she will be brought to heel. I will also have to obtain a special dispensation from the Pope for the marriage to take place, for I believe your daughter’s great grandmother, Joan Beaufort, was half-sister to Prince Edward’s great grandfather, Henry IV.’
Warwick looked up with concern on his face. ‘So they are related by blood!’ he cried.
King Louis nodded agreement.
‘Ye Gods! A holy dispensation could take months, even years, to obtain.’
‘It will be done quickly,’ said King Louis, with a smile. ‘I have two caged cardinals in La Conciergerie prison to barter with. The Pope would like them returned to the Vatican.’ Then, leaning closer to Warwick, he whispered, ‘While you are away, keep George close to your side, for as you entreat your brother, John, to join you, so Edward of England will be entreating his Duke of Clarence to join him.’
Royal Court, Château d’Amboise, France
15 July 1470
Margaret of Anjou sat in the antechamber to the throne room awaiting her audience with King Louis. She felt uneasy, but she did not know why. Sitting quietly, she sought the reasons for this sense of foreboding that filled her. Their journey from Paris had been pleasurable. Along the way, they had stayed with old friends who had entertained and spoilt them. Her son, Edward, had enjoyed the adventure of it all. His charm and good looks had won him many admirers at the grand houses they had stayed at, and they had finally arrived at the royal palace in good spirits.
It was later, when she was having dinner with her father and brother, that the first seeds of uneasiness had filled her. Their conversation had been stilted, of no account, as if they were afraid of saying something that would lead the conversation down a road of secrets. They had looked at each other nervously when she had asked questions about their visit or her son’s prospects with the king’s daughter; their answers had been evasive. Her womanly intuition told her something was wrong, and then that morning, just after dawn, as she was watching the sun creep across the dew-laden gardens, two riders had approached, riding as though their lives depended on it. She had lost sight of them as they had neared the great gate, and although they were some way off, she had felt a stab of apprehension. She was sure they wore the insignia of the Bear and Ragged Staff – Warwick’s colours. She had quickly dismissed the idea as too preposterous to contemplate. Her eyes had deceived her, and yet, now as she sat awaiting her audience with King Louis, it nagged at her. She felt a shiver of impending doom run down her spine.
A courtier dressed in the blue and gold uniform of the palace appeared, and asked her small entourage to form up by the great doors that led into the throne room.
‘When they swing open,’ he had whispered, respectfully, ‘you will be announced. Enter at a slow dignified pace. Once before the dais, curtsy, or bow, and remain in that position until the King tells you to rise.’
‘Margaret of Anjou, Queen of England,’ announced the senior courtier, as the massive doors swung open. ‘Edward, Prince of Wales,’ he continued.
Margaret hesitated. She had not been called the Queen of England since her exile had begun, and those three simple words confirmed her suspicions: there was a conspiracy afoot. Once in the room, she looked up to the dais. Her cousin, King Louis, sat on his throne, a small thin smile of welcome playing across his features.
He sits, Margaret thought, like a spider weaving his web of intrigues. She shuddered at the sight of him, and then straightened her back. Well, if they want the Queen of England then they shall have her, she thought, with steely pride. Squaring her back and shoulders, she stepped forward. The gold and silver gown she wore was inlaid with pearls and precious gems; they sparkled in the morning sun that streamed through the narrow windows like condensed shafts of gold.
As she moved forward, with her son on her arm, she looked at the men surrounding the throne. She recognised Georges Havart and Marshall Rouault, King Louis’s most trusted advisors. The church was represented by Jean Balue, the Bishop of Évreux. Next to him, stood Louis de Beaumont de la Forêt, who she knew to be a two-faced weasel of a councillor. On the other side of the throne, stood the king’s chancellor, Guillaume Juvésnal de Ursins, and the Governor of Paris, Robert d’Estouteville – both good men. The Grand Master of the royal household, Antoine de Chabannes, Count of Dammartin, hovered in the background and finally, through their dignity, Marshall Lohéac, General Tanneguy du Chastel, and the Duke of Bourbon, added weight and significance to the assembled royal council. Margaret knew it was a formidable gathering.
She saw, with surprise, that many men were kneeling to her as she walked towards the king. It took her a second or two to realise that they were men from her past, ghosts appearing from some far away world. She slowed her pace. She was not being haunted. These were either men exiled from England, or their sons, who had supported her cause as Queen of England. Her heart warmed to them as first she recognised the new Duke of Somerset, then the Earl of Oxford, followed by the Duke of Exeter, and finally, Jasper Tudor. All bowed with a flourish before her. All brave men who had given and lost so much in the struggle to keep the crown of England upon her husband’s head. She felt bewildered, though. Why were they all here? As she moved closer to King Louis, she could feel his sticky web of intrigue begin to glue itself around her. Then, she was curtsying.
King Louis rose from his throne and quickly descended the steps of the dais. Raising her up, he kissed her on both cheeks. Then, turning to the assembled court, he held her hand and bowed. She followed his lead and curtseyed. The assembled court clapped and cheered with delight; all of them oblivious to the turmoil that was filling her.
One hour later, Margaret of Anjou was sitting alone with King Louis, who had finally stopped talking. She stared at him in silence, grateful that there was only the two of them present, for what he had just said to her was utter madness, the ravings of a lunatic.
She looked around the chamber as her mind tried to unscramble his insane requests. The chamber was tastefully furnished with beautiful Chinese chairs and tables, carved, or engraved, with dragons and warriors. Elegant blue and white porcelain vases, and figurines, took pride of place. She knew the secrets of porcelain manufacture had yet to be discovered in Europe – a king’s ransom awaited the man who could solve the mystery. Elegant oriental paintings adorned the walls; their simple clean brushstrokes conveyed a world of tranquillity, a world far removed from the one she lived in. Her eyes slowly returned to the king’s face.
King Louis could see the anger burning deep within Margaret’s eyes as she focused on him.
‘You demand my son marries Warwick’s daughter?’ Margaret hissed.
The venom in her voice made King Louis hold his breath.
‘You dare to ask me to touch Warwick’s hands, those cruel hands that are covered in the blood of my loyal subjects, the hands that took the crown from Henry’s head, and the hands that stole my throne. Were I in Heaven with the angels, I would still cut out his heart.’
King Louis flinched as Margaret spat the words at him with hatred. He slowly let his breath out, realising the anger within her went far deeper than he had thought. He let the silence between them lengthen, hoping it would cool her anger. ‘My dear cousin,’ he finally began, his voice soft and gentle. ‘This is about your son. I realise your animosity runs deep, but you cannot deny the throne of England to him, and remember, madam,’ he said, with sudden force, ‘your husband, Henry, rots in the Tower of London. I am offering you his freedom as well.’
Margaret threw her head back and laughed mockingly. ‘Henry is happier in the Tower praying at his makeshift altar than sitting on the throne of England, and I vowed long ago that I will never again set foot on that accursed island.’
‘But what of your son?’ cried King Louis, his v
oice full of passion. ‘Would you deny him his birthright? He must be crowned with Anne Neville as his Queen. Imagine: a king and queen with no Yorkist or Lancastrian blood on their hands – a king who is acceptable to all.’
Margaret rose from her chair, and slammed her hands on the table in frustration. ‘My son,’ she shouted, ‘will never be King, and while Warwick is pulling the strings of power, he would be lucky to last a year.’
King Louis sprang from his chair in frustration, his face suddenly close to hers. ‘Warwick,’ he snarled, ‘arrives here in two days’ time with his wife and daughters, and before he does, you will agree to this marriage, one way, or another,’ he said threateningly, his eyes flashing with anger.
‘Over my dead body,’ Margaret jeered back. ‘Over my dead body.’
‘That dammed woman is as stubborn as a mule!’ shouted King Louis to his advisors. ‘She will not bend an inch to accommodate my wishes.’
Georges Havart moved quickly to pacify him. ‘Her own court sits with her now,’ he said. ‘They are to a one behind your plan. She cannot refuse them.’
‘I hope you are right,’ replied the king, wearily. ‘The whole enterprise rests on this dammed marriage. As we speak, Warwick is making ready his invasion fleet and now that this great undertaking is in motion, I will allow nothing to stop it.’
Margaret sat with her father, René of Anjou, and Sir John Fortescue in the Oriental room. A frustrated silence hung around them. The rest of her old court, the exiled lords and dukes, had just left them with the bitter taste of disappointment in their mouths. She had refused to comply with their wishes, although she had been understanding of their situations, and had professed her love for them all, but to return to England, she had refused.
‘There was more honour amongst thieves than between the nobles of England’, she had cried. ‘You are welcome to go with that pirate, Warwick, place Henry back upon his throne, and regain your estates, but I will have no part of it. My hatred for this man has not been cooled by my years in France’.
They had flattered, begged, and cajoled, but her memories of Warwick’s deeds had never dimmed. Her answer to them had been, ‘No, no, no!’
Sir John Fortescue took Margaret’s hand, and looked into her eyes. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We must prepare to travel home; there is no more to be said, or done, here.’
She looked up into his kindly face, and nodded her head. ‘Why,’ she sighed wearily, as tears formed in her eyes, ‘do they not leave me in peace?’
‘Because you offer them hope, and Warwick, power,’ replied René of Anjou. ‘You must do what is right by your conscience and your God, but remember, your son will one day wish to fulfil his destiny, and claim the throne of England, and you will not be able to stop him.’
At that moment, they heard the sounds of marching footsteps, growing louder. They rose from their chairs, exchanging worried looks. The door burst open. Armed troops of King Louis’ personal guard stormed into the room and positioned themselves around the walls.
The king swept in, his face red with anger. ‘You have refused men who have given their all for you!’ he shouted. ‘Men, whose fathers have died in your cause. You have a cold heart, Margaret of Anjou, that’s if you have a heart at all. Shall we see? Bring in the prisoner!’ he commanded.
A man was roughly manhandled into the room. Etienne de Loup forced him to his knees.
Margaret’s hands flew to her mouth as Simon Langford looked up at her.
‘Marguerite, don’t—’
Simon’s words were cut short as Etienne de Loup’s fist smashed into his face. He slumped to the floor, bloodied and dazed.
Margaret screamed and fell to her knees beside him. ‘Simon!’ she cried.
King Louis circled around them like a bird of prey. ‘If you do not agree to this marriage,’ he hissed, with quiet malevolence, ‘then this criminal, who attempted to murder the Earl of Warwick will be handed over to him for execution, but if you agree to our demands, he will be set free. It is a simple choice: life or death.’
Margaret looked up at the king with loathing in her eyes. Her father, and Sir John Fortescue, looked on with repugnance.
King Louis clapped his hands, and ushered everyone from the room. ‘I will give you both some time to think on your answers,’ he said, closing the door.
The City of Valognes, France
15 July 1470
Rose stood quietly in the shadows that were thrown by the low, curved roof of the main hall. The Earl of Warwick and his family were staying at a sumptuous château that formed the centre of a great vineyard estate on the outskirts of the city. After their frantic escape from England, the serenity of the locality had lifted all their spirits – until now.
All their faces were white with shock, for the earl’s words had turned their world upside down. George, the Duke of Clarence, was no longer to be king, and as such, Isabel no longer queen. The pair of them had lost their futures within the blink of an eye, both now redundant in the earl’s plans. George glared at Warwick with anger in his eyes. Isabel, tears running down her cheeks, stared at her younger sister, full of resentment, for Anne was now to be queen in her place. She was to marry Margaret of Anjou’s young bastard son, Edward, although, now conveniently, according to her father’s latest wisdom, he was no longer a bastard, but Holy Harry’s rightful heir. Lord Warwick, it would seem, would marry the devil himself, to rule England.
Rose looked at Anne, who sat straight-backed and motionless, but she knew her heart must be breaking, for she was betrothed to Duke Richard. They had played together at Middleham, danced, laughed, grown fond of each other, and now her father had betrayed that love, and had sold her virginity to the French king so that he, the mighty Earl of Warwick, could strut upon the stage of England once again. Her heart went out to her. The poor girl had become her father’s last hope, his final throw of the dice. She watched as Anne tried to suppress the tears that welled up in her eyes. The pain and anguish was etched with heart-rending sadness across the young girl’s face. Anne was being ordered to marry a boy she had been taught to hate, ever since she had been born.
Rose felt hot anger welling up within her. The injustice against Anne made her head swim with emotion. All she could see was the earl with his small hard eyes staring at Anne, daring her to refuse. ‘The Lady Anne…’ she blurted out.
Warwick turned towards her, his hard eyes seeking her out amongst the shadows, his features a mix of surprise and anger.
Rose continued. ‘Is she now just a farmyard animal to be bartered and sold to the highest bidder? So, you, the mighty Earl of Warwick can uncrown one king and place the crown on another.’
All eyes in the room looked at her with a mixture of horror and fascination. Nobody moved.
Rose rushed from the shadows and threw herself at the earl’s feet. ‘My Lord!’ she cried. ‘You cannot be this cruel to your own flesh and blood. Anne loves Duke Richard, she cannot marry—’
The back of Warwick’s hand caught Rose a vicious blow across the side of her face, his cluster of gold rings slicing deep cuts across her cheek. She swayed on her knees, her mind stunned. She felt warm blood running down her neck, then his other hand, curled into a tight fist, smashed into her other cheek. She felt the inside of her mouth lacerate against her teeth, and then fell back, her mouth oozing blood.
Through her spinning mind, she vaguely heard the earl shouting. She saw the glint of a dagger in his hand. She saw it being raised over her, and then, as the darkness descended, she heard in the dim distance, Anne screaming.
Royal Court, Château d’Amboise, France
15 July 1470
As the door closed, Margaret stared at Simon with disbelief.
‘Simon,’ she whispered, ‘are you real?’ She reached out and touched his blooded face; he winced in pain. ‘You are in Paris, in prison, not here,’ she cried. ‘I came to this royal palace to seek your freedom.’ She raised her hands up to the heavens. ‘Oh God!’ she cried. ‘How you must
laugh at us, we who make plans, for now my son must marry the daughter of my bitterest enemy, and I must forgive that Devil, Warwick, his crimes against me and allow his savage lips to kiss my hand in pardon. No, no, no!’ she wailed. ‘This cannot be, and yet if I refuse, my one true love will be executed by this same monster who wishes to be my ally.’
‘Warwick? Did you just say, “Warwick”? Is the bastard here?’ cried Simon, as he struggled to his feet.
Margaret helped him up. Using the sleeve of her dress, she gently wiped the blood from his face. ‘He is coming here shortly,’ she said, softly, ‘with his daughter, to marry my son, and if I refuse, they will kill you.’
‘You cannot agree to their demands,’ said Simon. ‘I would rather be dead than see you in that Devil’s pocket. To do as he orders, because of me, is unthinkable. I—’
Margaret reached up and kissed Simon with wild hungry passion. His arms encircled her. Their longing for each other made the world disappear. ‘You cannot die,’ she breathed, huskily.
He ran his hands up under her skirts. He caressed her silky thighs. When his hand moved further upwards, she moaned softly.
‘It has been so long,’ Simon whispered, as he forced her down on to the table.
‘I will give them a little longer,’ said King Louis, with impatience. ‘I imagine they are still getting over the shock of seeing each other. He, I would assume, must be praying that she still loves him enough to sacrifice her son for him, and she must be asking herself if she does.’
When King Louis entered the room, his patience finally exhausted, Margaret and Simon sat quietly, facing each other across the table.
‘Well, madam,’ the king said, sharply, ‘do you have your answer? Is it to be life or death?’
The Dreams of Kings Page 30