Tears glinted for a moment among Anne’s long lashes. Leaning down, she kissed her son and gave him the petals she’d so carefully hoarded. “There, Edward, you can throw mine.” Her son hopped forward and joyfully threw the flowers with all the force in his small body, shouting, “Bless you! Bless you!”
The villagers cast warm smiles in their direction as Edward ran back to Anne’s side. “And bless you too, child. And you, Lady Anne. Our May queen, you are.”
May queen? Anne was suddenly breathless with fear as a black fog descended and the church, the laughing people, the running children, disappeared.
Screaming, all she heard was screaming, and there was a red fog all about her. A fog in which she saw and heard the flash and clang of swords. Horrified, she looked down. Her dress was soaked with blood almost to the height of her knees. Men’s faces loomed at her, black mouths screaming, eyes slashed from their heads. Soon she would be engulfed, soon she would be swallowed by this horror, this rolling cloud of death and terror and pain.
One word. There was only one word among the screaming. A name, a name she had never heard before in her life. Tooksberry. Was that it? Turksbury? Tewkesbury. That was the name. And then she saw him and gasped. Edward, surrounded by men nearly as tall as he was, and though his face was covered in blood, she recognized him: he wore a gold diadem around the steel of his helmet and he was braying like a stallion, screaming like an eagle, as his axe rose and fell, rose and fell, with a terrible, remorseless rhythm. She would not look, she would not look as he bore down upon the boy, the stripling who screamed out in French, rallying his supporters, “I am the prince of Wales, to me, to me!”
“Did he kill the boy? Ah no, please God, no!” Anne swam toward consciousness, so deeply distressed that tears ran from her closed eyes. She smelled rosewater but that made it worse; rosewater and the wet, iron smell of blood were a nauseating combination. She struggled to sit, but didn’t have the strength. Cool hands soothed her, pressed her gently back against the bolster. With a sigh, Anne surrendered, her eyelids fluttering as Deborah held a wrung-out linen rag to her temples.
“It was the heat, Dame Meggan, after this long winter,” Deborah whispered to her companion. “She’ll be fine now.”
Meggan was not convinced. She whispered back, “Looked more like a fit to me.”
Anne lay still, apparently asleep once more. Deborah put one finger to her lips. “Come with me, Meggan. There are fresh curds you can take back to the marriage blessing—for the priest, from my mistress. We should let Lady Anne sleep.”
Anne, hearing their voices recede, struggled to sit up—and regretted it. The room swung and spun around as if she’d drunk too much new beer.
Tewkesbury. That was the name she’d heard. A real name. What did it mean?
Death, that’s what it meant, assuredly. Death.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
As the king’s army approached the walls of London, a large party of joyful citizens, all shouting, came running toward them across the green May meadows outside the city. That surging roar from many throats was as powerful as the sound of the sea and they made a vivid sight, this dancing mass of color—red, green, blue, gold—every face pink in the heat, every mouth open as they sang and shouted, waved banners, scared cows out of their way, and set the sheep running through the pasture.
William Hastings knew the king’s treasury would have to bear the cost, eventually, of all those missing animals, these trampled swathes of standing corn. But the money would be found; it would be his pleasure to find it.
Edward, dusty and sore after the fighting of the days and weeks before, was lifted by the sight of his joyous people. Energy streamed into him from the love they offered him. He forgot how mortally tired he was; now was the moment, the real moment to savor. He had truly come home at last and the country was his, was with him once more. He’d returned with an army at his back—his men stretched out behind him, bag and baggage, for some miles—and among that army were most of the important baronage and magnates of England. They’d been clever, they’d seen the change of the wind. One by one, like weathercocks, they’d swung around and many had abandoned Warwick even before Barnet.
Then more had come, until at Tewkesbury—the final battle, when he’d met the threat of Margaret of Anjou and her son, Edward, the so-called prince of Wales, and destroyed their army—they’d queued up to fight by his side.
In the end, he was sorry that the boy had had to die, but then, once mighty forces were in play, who could control one man’s fate among the carnage? Edward crossed himself as he saw an image of the youth’s broken body when it was brought to him after the battle, a body still not quite grown, but with the promise of a large man in his long legs and strong back.
The king sat straighter in his saddle and closed his eyes. He forced himself to summon up the death of his own brother, Edmund, when not much older than Margaret’s son. And the death of his father, Richard of York. He crossed himself. God would understand. Some deaths were necessary for the greater good. And as reparation.
Another image troubled him before he could banish it. The old man in the Tower who had looked at him so trustingly, called him “dear cousin,” and held out his hand in greeting. He’d not think of that now. The country’s stability was paramount; personal squeamishness was just that—personal. It would not be permitted to interfere with his duty. Throwing his cloak aside, Edward drew his father’s sword and held it up by the blade so that the sapphire set in the hilt caught and flashed light as he waved it.
Those who saw him do it—saw the cross formed by the hand guard and the pommel, saw the leopards of England and the lilies of France embroidered on the tabard over the king’s ringmail, the red-gold circlet in his sweaty hair—began to shout, “The king, the king.” And they kept shouting it, until the chant spread across the entire host, like wind across the sea, spreading from the army to the citizens of London: “The king, the king!”
And Edward, smiling, waving his sword, saw Clarence, his formerly treacherous brother, now as joyous as all the rest, shouting “The king, the king!” as if he too had been the most loyal supporter Edward had ever had. Edward nodded graciously, even bowed, never allowing the irony of the moment to register on his face. Clarence, beaming, bowed ever lower in his saddle while bellowing again, with all the force of his lungs, “The king! The king!”
Edward caught the eye of his other brother, his true loyalist, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and raised his eyebrows. Richard grinned back and waved his sword in the air. He too was shouting “The king! The king,” as was Hastings, faithful Hastings. Edward found he had tears in his eyes, but he was not ashamed. He would think about Clarence later. And Anne.
Now here was the mayor, John Stockton, and his aldermen, plus the valiant recorder of the city of London, Thomas Urswick, who, the king had told, had led the levies of Londoners he’d personally raised and paid to help see off the Warwick-backed bastard of Fauconberg, only lately besieging the city having sunk all the English merchant shipping in the pool of London. Edward hated seeing his merchants upset. He’d claim a price for that from the bastard later.
The king twisted in his saddle and looked back along the columns of men behind him, shading his eyes in the brilliant light. He shouted to Hastings over the noise, “Where is Margaret? I want her brought forward.” Hastings nodded and wheeled his mount out of the slow-moving press of men and horses around the king. This was something he would see to personally. Ever the pragmatist, he cantered back down the line on a wave of male voices, “The king, the king,” at peace with his task. If Edward chose to behave like a conquering Caesar returning to Rome, parading his captives before him, it would be done. He had earned the right. But then, he hoped, too, that his master would remember to be merciful. It would help to heal the kingdom.
Hastings could see the former queen of England, Margaret of Anjou, now. She was sitting on the floor of a wagon that had high sides made from wattle—a fragile cage to hold such
a woman. But all that was left of her former state and power was a filthy gown of jewel-embroidered velvet; no crown, no sign of rank. The old queen’s hair was loose around her shoulders. From this distance she was still a handsome woman, but she had aged in these last days after Tewkesbury and, as Hastings rode closer, ready to give the order to bring her cart toward the front, he could see rips in the material of her dress. One sleeve had even torn away from its lacings, exposing her upper arm upon which there were long, bloody scratches. Edward would be furious if any of his men had offered her violence, or worse. Margaret of Anjou had been an anointed queen, even if she was Edward Plantagenet’s enemy.
But, closer yet, Hastings could see the truth. The queen had slashed her own clothes; was doing it still, worrying at the skirt of her dress, trying to rip one of the seams open. Now he could see the blood on her nails and hands—she had mortified her own flesh. There were bloody marks on her face, too, deep gashes. And crowning her head, among the still dark hair, there was white powder. Ashes?
This woman was deep in biblical grief. She mourned her son as she saw fit, and she did not care how she was judged, what she looked like. It was all she had left of her queen’s pride: indifference to the opinions of others.
“Bring the queen’s wagon up to the king. He has commanded it.” As Hastings shouted the order he bowed to Margaret from his horse. She ignored him, but stood up, no easy feat in a lurching wagon that was picking up speed on the rutted track.
“Madame, are you thirsty?” Hastings addressed the ex-queen directly as he rode beside the wagon, the easier to clear a path around and through the slow-moving mass of men.
“The king! The king!” The soldiers were shouting it, yelling it, bellowing it. Not to insult this woman—they weren’t frightened of her anymore, she was just a woman—but to express the relief of coming home as winners. It might so easily not have been the case.
Margaret of Anjou, straight-backed, swayed as she balanced herself against the movement of the wagon. She looked, unseeing, at Hastings. “I shall never be thirsty again.” “The king! The king!” She could not stop the sound. It wrapped her like a cloak, binding her, stifling her, filling her throat and head. She had played to win, and she had lost. She would hear them screaming those words in her dreams for the remaining days of her life. Please God that life was short.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Elizabeth Wydeville had returned to her rightful place and station in life. She was, once again, the acknowledged queen of England and co-ruler with her husband, Edward Plantagenet, the fourth of that name. As she processed down the nave of Saint Peter’s Abbey, it was hard, very hard, to keep from smiling.
It was a hot and glorious day in early June and the bells of the great church were ringing, ringing for her, ringing for her much-delayed churching after the birth of her child, the most noble, the most high Prince Edward. The king’s precious son.
The queen felt herself smile, widely, blissfully, as she turned the words over inside her mouth and tasted their sweet strength. The king’s son. Delicious; they were the most delicious words she’d ever heard. Words with the power to transform her life. The mother of the king’s most undoubtedly legitimate son, the first lady in the kingdom, smiled like a living saint. And those who did not know her were awed. Beauty incarnate walked before them. Their queen.
As was fitting, after living in sanctuary in the most straitened way, Elizabeth Wydeville was now brilliantly dressed. Hers was the stiffest, the heaviest gown in the abbey today. Cloth of gold made up her dress, along with purple velvet and white silk; winter miniver lined her enormously long train, carried by the daughters of four dukes and six earls. The queen gloried in the handsome weight of her clothing, welcomed the heat the layers of fabric brought to her body, welcomed, too, the burden of her crown. Never before had her graceful neck carried that grave mass more gladly, not even at her coronation, years ago. The rich gems, the gold of its construction, flashed and glimmered as she bowed, left and right, acknowledging friends, ignoring enemies.
She shone and she knew it. Brighter than candle flame and more glorious than the icons of the saints adorning the high altar beyond the rood screen, she drew and magnified light in a way that challenged even the tomb of Saint Edward, confessor and king. She was only an earthly woman and yet, when she passed the entrance of the Lady Chapel, she bowed as one monarch to another. Today, she was the equal of that other reigning deity, Mary, empress of Heaven, and those who were in the abbey knew it well.
And here they all were, her witnesses, for the church itself was full, stuffed full, with all the barons, the lords, the earls, the dukes in England and their wives and daughters. Dressed as richly as idols, slung around with ropes of pearls, ropes of jewels, they waited, row behind shimmering row, for Elizabeth Wydeville to pass; hopeful that she would nod, would acknowledge them, as she paced her measured way out of the abbey and toward the rest of her glorious, beckoning destiny.
But the queen had not forgotten, even if Edward pretended to. She had not forgotten the treachery of so many of them standing here today. There was Clarence—traitor, jealous brother, ally of Warwick and that other woman who had dared call herself queen, Margaret of Anjou—and yet he presumed to smile at Elizabeth Wydeville so radiantly, to bow so deeply, that none might suspect the rage in his heart. But she knew his malice, and her fury matched his when she saw him. As she drew level to where the duke now knelt, very deliberately she turned her head away, almost turned her back on him, ostentatiously directing her tender glance toward Richard of Gloucester, kneeling beside George of Clarence. There, that is what I really think of you, George, the gesture said. You are dust beneath my shoes.
The insult hit home and instantly the veil of joy—so well counterfeited for this occasion—was ripped from the face of Edward’s younger brother and something uglier was seen for just one moment. But then the smile returned to George of Clarence’s face. Fixed, but certainly a smile. Beside his elder brother, Richard of Gloucester dropped his head piously, hoping none had seen his own sardonic twitch of amusement. He’d never liked Edward’s wife, but he was proud of her today. They felt alike about his brother George.
Whispers flew from mouth to mouth and rippled away to the altar, to the doors, to the galleries above as the queen processed down the nave of the abbey. Without even turning, Elizabeth Wydeville could see the courtiers muttering to one another as she walked on, head humbly bent. She did not care. Let Edward chastise her later for her treatment of Clarence; she would not allow this moment of triumph to be taken from her.
She had borne Edward Plantagenet a son. There would be others. She was fertile. She was the queen and she had reclaimed her kingdom.
Processing toward the banqueting hall at Westminster Palace for the churching feast, bowing right and left to the throngs of his newly reassembled court, the king nodded and smiled graciously as he carried on a very private conversation.
“Where is she, Hastings?”
Justly reinstated after his master’s comprehensive victories at Barnet and Tewkesbury, the lord high chamberlain of England suppressed an irritated sigh. Today of all days, with Edward and Elizabeth worshipped like deities at the very center of this triumph, and the king was still, only and always, thinking of the troublesome Anne de Bohun.
“Sire, I do not know. There’s been no time to—”
The king said sharply, “Now is that time, William. Sir Mathew Cuttifer—he’ll know where she is, I’m certain of it. I want you to send a message to him. I will formally revoke Anne’s exile tomorrow, he’s to tell her that. Then, when order has been properly restored in London, I want her to join the court. Sir Mathew is to reassure the Lady Anne that I remain her loving friend.”
For a moment Hastings had a flash of the queen’s radiant face in the abbey and it took all his self-control to present an untroubled expression as he nodded pleasantly to his master. Over Elizabeth Wydeville’s dead body would Anne de Bohun ever come to court.
“But if Sir Mathew does not know where Lady Anne is, sire…?”
Edward frowned. “Then we shall cast our net more widely. After the feast, we’ll talk about what’s best.”
“Your Majesty, does the queen know of your intentions?”
Only a long and close friendship with Edward Plantagenet could allow William Hastings such liberty. Sometimes the king preferred to ignore the emotionally difficult things in life, but it was the restored chamberlain’s duty to be plain.
“No. And I do not intend to tell her.”
Sweat sprang from William at the thought; for a moment he felt dizzy. “Sire, forgive me, but… you will permit the queen to hear of this invitation without telling her yourself?”
Edward shrugged. He gazed into the middle distance and wiped the sweat from his own eyes, waving cheerfully at no one in particular. His cloak of scarlet velvet was very heavy on such a hot day and the stiff collar of the black damask jerkin chafed his neck. He’d forgotten the tedium and inconvenience of correct appearance.
“Sire, I would not ordinarily speak—”
“Then do not!” Suddenly Edward was truculent, his face dangerously flushed, whether from heat or anger it was hard to tell. June warmth did not sit well with velvet and both heated the blood.
William gazed at his master. Very well, he would say nothing more. Today.
“I can see what you’re thinking, William. You might as well be lecturing me still!” The king was laughing now and that was fortunate. There’d been too little laughter in all their lives in the last long months. Defeated, Hastings smiled and sighed. “Well, lord, if we’re to call up this storm, perhaps we should enjoy the calm before it.”
The king was suddenly sunny as the day. “Much better, William. Why would I seek to annoy the queen with my intentions today of all days? Let us all be peaceful and happy. As my father told me, the science is all in picking the ground. And not engaging in the fight, unless you are sure you can win. I have not yet selected where my ground should be in this matter. I will tell you when I know. Then, perhaps, I will speak with the queen. But only perhaps.”
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