The Golden Widows

by Isolde Martyn

  ‘Your grandfather says the king will be riding past Pottersbury tomorrow morning after hunting in Whittlebury Woods.’

  ‘Well, I am not going to kneel in the dirt to the king.’

  Elysabeth could have shaken Tom. ‘It’s your inheritance. If you want to be a real beggar for the rest of your life, stay at home.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you are about to do, Mother, beg?’ He slammed the book down, even though it was one of the precious few his grandmother had managed to retain from her first husband’s library, and folding his arms, strode to the window.

  ‘Tom’s angry,’ Dickon observed like some alchemist watching a heated powder give off vapour.

  ‘Yes, I noticed,’ Elysabeth growled.

  ‘Grandfather says you can climb back up by marriage,’ Dickon remarked.

  Elysabeth took a deep breath, counted to ten and said, ‘You don’t realise what’s involved, Dickon. It doesn’t happen that way often. Other people, the nobility, don’t respect you for it.’

  Tom turned. ‘So, instead we are going to grovel in front of the royal horse.’

  ‘Yes, we are. We all are. And this is Grandfather’s idea.’

  Calculating where the grovelling should take place had necessitated several Woodville expeditions, a great deal of arguing and some palm-greasing to be certain that Lord Hastings’ master huntsman would guide the king’s company along a particular bridlepath. The latter ran through a shallow valley below the fields of Pottersbury and it was agreed that the petitioning should be made at a clump of trees large enough to shelter a woman and two children as well as provide an ample view up the track. They didn’t want the hunting party to spur past them.

  They left their ponies at the farm on the western rise and walked down through the meadow. Elysabeth was not in good temper when they arrived at the gate onto the lane. Her hem was sopping and heavy from the dew and a wave of rain cloud was breaking on the horizon.

  ‘What are we supposed to do, burst out from the thicket like savages?’ muttered Tom.

  ‘I still say it will frighten the horses,’ Dickon pointed out.

  ‘Over there!’ Elysabeth said firmly, pointing to a clump of young oaks at the end of the hedgerow.

  ‘It’s starting to rain,’ Tom complained. ‘We are going to look like drowned rats.’

  ‘Good,’ snapped Elysabeth. ‘Maybe he’ll feel all the more sorry for us.’ But she wasn’t even sure what ‘he’ looked like. She could recognise Lord Hastings but the others? It would be embarrassing to kneel before the wrong man. At least the king would be one of the youngest and dressed more regally. Mind, King Henry had always looked as though he had bought his clothes from a slopseller.

  If she could get her beloved Astley back this would be worth kneeling in the mud. They had been over three years now at her parents’ hall and she desperately wanted her independence. Late last year, the Chancery case had been decided in her favour but the attainder had not been reversed. She was still the widow of a traitor.

  By the time they had endured a swift but heavy shower, her veil was as soggy as her spirits, and she felt like murdering rather than grovelling. This was the most foolish scheme her imbecile parents had ever—

  The sound of cheerful male banter reached her at last and she grabbed the boys’ hands.

  ‘Ow, you’re hurting,’ wailed Dickon.

  ‘Nervous, Mother?’ smirked Tom.

  ‘We are doing this for you, you ingrate.’ But she could see that behind the scowl, he was primed like a taut crossbow. ‘They must have had a good morning. That’s in our favour. Whatever happens, don’t let them force you off the path.’

  From the easy jingle of harness, the hunting party were ambling along, thank God!

  ‘Now!’ They stepped out quickly, a threesome hand in hand but spread out enough to prevent the royal progress.

  The party had no choice but to draw rein.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ drawled someone. ‘Not another plaguey petition!’

  Elysabeth was frantically searching their faces. Not the two men at the front. Nor Lord Hastings – his eyes narrow with disapproval. She glimpsed the astonished face of the youth who had been at Kirby Muxloe. There were so many young men, all well clad. Oh, God help her!

  ‘What is it, woman, we haven’t got all day?’ bawled someone.

  Woman? She was a duchess’s daughter.

  ‘I…I have a petition for the King’s grace.’ Spoken gravely, clearly.

  ‘Ha, told you,’ crowed the first voice.

  She fell on her knees, tugging the children down with her and letting go their hands, she tugged the petition from her cleavage.

  ‘Can I put my hand down there, too?’ guffawed one of the youths. Lord Hastings was not entertained. He was looking angrier by the instant. ‘Bring it here!’ he commanded.

  But, then, the tall youth from Kirby Muxloe kneed his horse forward to the front of the company. His hazel eyes took in the dark wet of her gown across her shoulders and around her neckline.

  ‘Lady Grey?’

  She nodded, uncertain how to address him. Was he a lord or a knight? Laughter rumbled through the party as he dismounted. He gave her a hand to help her up and gestured to Tom and Dickon to stand.

  ‘And who are you?’ he said to Tom.

  ‘Thomas Grey, sir. I was Lord Ferrers but Grandmother has married again.’

  One of the other young men ‘ahhed’ with mock sympathy.

  Tom flinched. ‘The petition is about my inheritance, sir. I didn’t fight at St Albans,’ he added, glaring in the direction of the mockery. ‘And there was only one king when my father died.’ Now he, too, was scanning the faces, seeking out the king.

  ‘Hmm,’ said the young giant, pulling a face that shared Tom’s dilemma. ‘And now there are two kings, which one would you like to serve?’

  Say the right thing, Tom, Elysabeth prayed. Whoever this youth was, he seemed to be the only one who would intercede. Oh God, which one was the king?

  ‘Whoever is most likely to give us peace, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s a clever answer but you’re not exactly jumping off the fence, are you?’

  ‘I am open to advice, sir,’ Tom was saying audaciously, a rare grin lighting his face. Elysabeth drew a sharp breath at his recklessness.

  This isn’t the time, Tom. You don’t provoke—

  ‘Which would you pick, sir?’

  ‘Why, me, of course,’ answered the young man. ‘Give it here, Lady Grey, I’ll read it, I promise you.’

  He was the king? Her jaw slackened. Speechless, she handed the parchment over and fell to her knees totally mortified, unable to stare anywhere but at the mud and stones. God’s mercy, did he believe she had known all along? What must he think of her?

  ‘Do you live near here?’ he was asking pleasantly.

  ‘She’s Sir Richard Woodville’s daughter.’ Hastings had dismounted to join the king. He made the information sound like a slur.

  ‘My mother is Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford, your grace.’ She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘We are staying with my parents because we have nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Difficult, eh?’ The royal humour was inappropriate and he was appraising her with the same teasing smile that he had used at Kirby Muxloe. This is no light matter, she wanted to exclaim. We are penniless.

  ‘Yes, your grace, not easy,’ she affirmed.

  He was helping her to her feet again, both hands now. ‘Maybe I should call on her grace. Where is it you live?’

  ‘Grafton, your highness.’

  At the corner of her vision, Lord Hastings looked as stony as the path, but his royal master appeared not to notice his disapproval.

  The king tucked the petition into the breast of his hunting brigandine, ruffled Dickon’s head and shook Tom’s hand. One of his retinue had brought his horse alongside and he mounted and then looked down at Elysabeth with his slow lazy smile.

  ‘Good day to you, Lady Grey.’

  Tom dragged h
er out of the way as the company gave spur. She was still standing like Lot’s wife after they vanished from sight.

  ‘Well, that went better than I thought it would.’ Tom’s voice oozed with self-congratulation.

  Dickon appeared to be the only one not in a state of awe. ‘That man surely was not the king. Kings are old with grey whiskers and crowns on their head.’

  ‘That’s the other king, Dickon, you ass.’ Tom pushed him towards the gate. ‘Come on, Mother, let’s go home to breakfast.’

  Kate

  29th April 1464

  Stony Stratford, Northamptonshire

  ‘You’re mighty quiet, Ned,’ Kate observed.

  The king was sprawled in a chair in the private parlour of the Rose and Crown with his boot soles to the fire. His belly might be full of venison but his head was full of something else. He was chewing his thumbnail.

  Laying a sheaf of papers aside on the small table, her husband muttered, ‘He’s met the delectable widow Grey. The wretched woman waylaid us on the way back from the hunt this morning. How she knew we were going to ride that way concerns me, Ned. I’ll have to look into that.’

  Ned shrugged.

  ‘It’s a matter of your protection,’ William persisted.

  ‘I don’t think Ned needs that kind of protection, my love,’ Kate murmured. ‘Have I met this beauteous paragon?’

  ‘Well, I have,’ William muttered across the rim of his winecup. ‘Several times. All low neckline so you get an eyeful. Jacquetta, the mother, is a Burgundian and the father, Woodville, was my

  Lord of Bedford’s steward. Fellow probably got a leg over before the old man was even in his coffin. Don’t look so blank, Ned, you pardoned him and his son, Scales, after Towton. And you reappointed him to the royal council last year.’

  ‘You mean Richard appointed him.’ Ned removed his thumb and rose to his feet. ‘Jacquetta was sister-in-law to Hal of Agincourt. I’d like to meet her.’

  Kate held a cup of wine out to him. ‘The duchess or the daughter?’ she teased.

  ‘Reconciliation,’ murmured Ned silkily, sucking in his cheeks and watching her husband’s face. ‘Isn’t that the name of the game at the moment, William, my friend? Re-con-silly-ation.’

  Elysabeth

  29th April 1464

  Grafton Hall

  With all the children present at breakfast, the older members of the family made no comment as Elysabeth told them of her meeting with the king. She recognised a gleam in her mother’s eyes that boded mischief.

  ‘He was just being polite,’ her father said later, when the king’s promise to visit was again mentioned in the privacy of the solar. ‘The royal party have left the hunting lodge at Penley, so I’m told. He’s at Stony Stratford tonight but soon to be riding north to deal with the Scots. There’s commissions gone out for the king’s army. We have as much hope of him calling here as finding a golden egg in the henhouse.’

  The duchess snorted. ‘No, I believe ’im, Richard. Mind, it eez not good that we may ’af to make a feast – and we are not talking salted ’erring – but you do not make omelettes without cracking eggs, hein?’

  ‘What omelette did you have in mind, my darling?’ asked Elysabeth’s father, exchanging a meaningful look with her mother.

  ‘A golden one, of course. What other colour eez there?’

  *

  When his highness did ride in with a small group that afternoon, Jacquetta refused to let Elysabeth downstairs to greet him.

  ‘You will stay up ’ere. We need to see how hungry he eez?’ She wasn’t talking about supper.

  ‘No, Maman. I am not going to let you use me like this. I am not some green girl.’

  ‘Non, non, non, you come down and ’e will think you are a mercenary baggage. You stay here then ’e will come back again. You do this or I will lock you in. See!’ she waggled the chatelaine keys on her belt.

  ‘You are being ridiculous.’

  ‘Non, clever.’ She tapped the side of her nose.

  It was torture to stay upstairs. Elysabeth risked looking out as King Edward mounted to leave and she caught him looking up at the windows as if seeking her and her heart turned over.

  Surprisingly it was Tom who reaped some joy from the royal visit. Perhaps King Edward had restored something that had been missing for him. Manly approval? Hope?

  Catching her eldest in rare good humour after the king had left, Elysabeth came to the point. ‘Did his grace say anything about restoring your lands, dearest? Has he read our petition?’

  ‘No.’ Tom shrugged. ‘Grandfather says we have to take it slowly. That it’s really my lord of Warwick who makes those sorts of decisions.’

  Maybe Lord Hastings, too, thought Elysabeth.

  Outside she found her mother leaning on the fence of the horse paddock with her chin in her hands and her brow like a winter field of furrows.

  ‘Has his company emptied the larder?’

  ‘No, I am just thinking ’ow the king can you see you naked.’

  ‘Maman!!!!’

  She was about to march away but her mother caught her arm. ‘Maybe ’e sees you bathing in the river.’

  ‘What! In a river in April! Surely you want the king to marry a living woman not one who’s dying from cold water and stupidity!’

  Marry! Did she say marry? Jesu! Her wits were failing her. But Elysabeth had no intention of becoming a royal mistress, if that’s what her mother had in mind.

  ‘’ush,’ her mother commanded, laying her fingers upon Elysabeth’s lips. ‘If ’e sees how beautiful you are, ’e will not be able to resist. It eez not witchcraft, it’s womancraft.’

  Invited to return for supper, the king happily allowed himself to be seated at the board in her father’s chair between her mother and herself. The repast was simple but the viands were accompanied by sauces that had been served in the palaces of Bruges and Paris.

  ‘Created for Philippe le Bel, your grace,’ her mother assured King Edward. ‘Monseigneur, my first ’usband, ’ad a very good master cook that ’e poached from Queen Ysabeau of France. We ’ave zer recipes.’ She darted Elysabeth a see-I-was-right smile.

  King Edward nodded enthusiastically, his mouth full, swallowed and said, ‘Very good. Very good indeed.’ Then he asked, ‘Did you ever see Jeanne d’Arc, your grace?’

  ‘Once, eet was in—’

  ‘Maman,’ protested John and only a Woodville would have recognised the swift rustle and responding flinch from a kick below the board.

  ‘You ’ave something to say, my son? Ah, you haven’t, so let me finish. Oui, I saw la Pucelle in Rheims.’ That caused another exchange of glances between her older children. ‘You ’ave been to Rheims, sire?’ The king shook his head. ‘D’accord, Jeanne was a young girl with her hair cut like a soldier’s. Not beautiful, like my

  Elysabeth here, but like a boy. No breasts to speak of.’

  ‘Do you believe she was a witch, madame?’

  ‘Non, my lord, but she ’eard the voices of angels in ’er ’ead, but then so does the son of the innkeeper in Towcester and that is because he slept with ’is sister and ’e did not know because she was zer love-child of ’is father by the Stony Stratford priest’s daughter and—’

  ‘Maman!’ Elysabeth risked a bruising. ‘His highness doesn’t need to hear all that.’

  ‘But ’e eez the king. This is ’ow zeez things ’appen. Maybe la Pucelle’s grandfather had many children outside wedlock.’ A shrug. ‘Sometimes princes need to bring fresh blood into the family. You be careful marrying this Bona of Savoy, sire.’

  ‘Why?’ asked the king, most amused.

  ‘Because she is the French Queen’s sister. If you marry Princess Bona, and you ’ave a beautiful daughter, it is not ’ealthy that she marry the Dauphin because that would make them first cousins and that is not good. Too close. Their child could be stupid. The French are stupid enough already.’

  ‘There speaks a true Burgundian,’ commented Elysabeth’s father.
‘Elysabeth tells me you are a keen fisherman, my lord.’

  The conversation moved into safer waters – the River Tove and its scaly inhabitants. The king seemed hooked by the suggestion of a morning’s fishing. He could afford the time. It would take a few days more for his army to gather at Leicester.

  ‘Do you fish?’ he asked Elysabeth, when he could get a word into the rapid Woodville conversation of interruptions.

  ‘Of course she does,’ exclaimed the duchess, and John swiftly endorsed the lie before Elysabeth could protest otherwise.

  ‘Oh, you have to take Elysabeth, Father,’ he quipped, ‘and if it’s a Grey day, you don’t have to get up so early.’

  *

  Elysabeth’s daydreams had not included worms.

  ‘You can wear a pair of Lionel’s hose and wading boots,’ John suggested, as he potted the bait and prepared their equipment for next morning.

  I’m supposed to be a respectable widow. If his highness brings Hastings with him, then I am not going.’

  ‘I’ll wager ten marks he won’t.’

  ‘You haven’t got ten marks.’

  ‘Oh, I shall before long. Once I marry a wealthy widow.’

  ‘More fool her.’

  Trying to tie a pair of Lionel’s hose to a gypon before daybreak was easier if you were on the outside but she managed. She also took care to cram a wide winter cap with lappetts well down on her braids so the local birdcatchers, labourers and any other neighbours who rose early would not recognise her.

  The king proved to be a wake-up-cheerful kind of fellow. He arrived with a couple of esquires and was instantly taken round the back of the house where the rods had been arranged for his selection.

  Elysabeth watched him for a moment from the doorway. He did not waste time deciding. Instead, he looked round, saw her standing there as if he already knew and smiled.

  ‘Hey, good morning,’ he said, admiration in his voice as his gaze absorbed her male attire, the sleek-fitting boots and the belted doublet.

  Her hands lifted instinctively to grasp her missing skirts for a curtsey and they laughed together as she bowed instead.

  ‘Elysabeth!’ exclaimed her father frowning, but whether he feigned his scowl or was genuinely disapproving of her clothing, she could not be certain. It was a mercy their local priest was not a fisherman. She’d be on her knees for a week, if he glimpsed her now.