1 - THWARTED QUEEN

by Cynthia Sally Haggard

  “Eleanor Cobham was indicted on charges of conspiring to kill the king by means of witchcraft,” said Jacquetta.

  Marguerite turned in her seat to look both ladies in the face. “Why does York support Gloucester then? Surely his behavior is most treasonous.”

  Alice sighed. “I do not understand York, save that he has a most unwholesome ambition.”

  “York is completely untrustworthy,” said Jacquetta. “He thinks only of gaining power, as if he is not the wealthiest peer in the kingdom.” She turned to Élisabeth. “Kneel, chérie, with the bowl just so. Now hand the queen a napkin.”

  Marguerite smiled as she took the linen offered by the eight-year-old and slowly dipped her fingers.

  “And his wife is little better,” said Alice. “She is not called Proud Cis for nothing.”

  “The Duke of York was most charming to me tonight,” remarked Marguerite. “And I have heard it said he is talented at administration and an excellent general.”

  “He can read Latin fluently,” said Eleanor.

  “He is well educated and intelligent, I grant him that,” said Jacquetta. “But everything he does is governed by ambition. Why do you think he has taken such care to win golden opinions in France?”

  “Do you think he should be recalled to England?” asked Marguerite.

  “Suffolk says there are others who could govern Normandy who are more loyal,” whispered Alice. “You might want to suggest to the king, my lady, that it would be most wise to keep an eye on York—”

  Chapter 16

  Placentia Palace, Greenwich, London

  October 1445

  “I had to pawn my collar. And now I’m back in England, what thanks do I get?” Richard, Duke of York, set his mouth into a grim line. It was seven months since he’d met Queen Marguerite in Pontoise and two months since King Henry had recalled him from Normandy.

  Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, shook his head and set his wine cup down. “I see nothing good in the fortunes of England. The king is so easily led. I know not why he’s not more like his father, Great Harry. You would think a great warrior would breed a more warlike son.” His voice trailed off as he stared gloomily out of the window at the thick fog that pressed inwards.

  Richard had known Gloucester since he was a boy. When Richard had arrived at court after the death of Cecylee’s father, Gloucester, also of the Plantagenet line, had befriended and persuaded him to use his wealth and family connections to act as a counterpoise against the ambitions of Cardinal Beaufort. Richard studied the face of his great mentor: The years had not been kind. Age had thickened his small frame and his dark hair was nearly white. Small wonder, thought Richard, with all he has had to endure in recent years.

  “I adored my brother, the king,” said Duke Humphrey. “I’ll never forget the day we fought together at Agincourt. He was my hero and I always considered it my sacred duty to further his war policies in France. His aim was to defeat the French and annex the whole of France to the English Crown.”

  “And I support you in that aim. I hate to see my labor in Normandy go to waste.”

  “I know, my friend. You don’t know how much I appreciate your support. Without it I would be a lonely man indeed. Cardinal Beaufort, his great-nephew Somerset, and his protégé Suffolk are all against the war, and they are in with the king.”

  “And now the queen.”

  “And now the queen,” repeated Gloucester. “It’s been a little over six months since the king’s marriage, and already you and I are left out in the cold.”

  York poured more mulled wine and took a sip.

  “Have they given you a position on the king’s council?”

  “No.”

  Gloucester sighed. “Of course not. After what happened to me—”

  “What happened exactly?”

  Gloucester drained his wine cup and held it out for Richard to pour another measure. “I was doing what I’ve been doing for the past twenty-five years, campaigning for the continuance of the war in France. We were so near victory, and we could have done it if only the king had given us money. But Beaufort and his friends dominate him. I protested vociferously against their anti-war policies, I believe them to be a betrayal of everything Great Harry stood for. They didn’t like what I said and set out to ruin my credibility.”

  He drained another wine-cup and slumped in his seat. “Around the time you arrived in Rouen, my lady wife was attending a dinner in London when she was arrested on charges of witchcraft. She and several others were tried. Her clerk was hung, drawn, and quartered. Her woman was burned at stake. My wife was sentenced to do three public penances, and then they shut her up in prison for life. I had to sit silently by, because they would have destroyed me as well. You have no idea what it was like seeing the lady you love being ruined before your very eyes.”

  Richard looked away. How would he have felt if Cecylee had been accused of witchcraft? He shuddered. Though Cecylee had wronged him greatly, he loved her still. One of the few pleasures in a life filled with duty was returning to the home she’d created for him. Richard always felt at peace when he saw her smile, inhaled her scent, and drank some concoction she’d prepared with her own hands. He didn’t think he could bear it if Cecylee were shut up for life. It would be like quenching a candle flame. That was why he’d been unable to lock her up as she deserved. He couldn’t quench her spirit. He looked up. Gloucester was blowing his nose on a handkerchief. “Was it true that Duchess Eleanor made a waxen image of the King?”

  Gloucester sighed heavily, as he wiped his eyes. “My wife liked to dabble in witchcraft. She had her horoscope cast and it is true she made a waxen image of the king and melted it in a fire. But what harm could she do? The king is a young man in the best of health. Nothing my Eleanor did could alter that.”

  “But—”

  “It was foolish, indeed, yes. And the poor lady is paying heavily for it now.”

  “But you continue to attend meetings of the king’s council?”

  “Not often. No one wants to listen to me because of this unfortunate business with my wife. They’ve discredited me, I tell you. This is all the doing of Cardinal Beaufort.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “As sure as I can be. He’s been trying to oust me from power for the past twenty years, and he’s succeeded.”

  Duke Humphrey went to his bookshelf. He’d invited Richard into his private library where spines upon spines obscured the walls; he owned over two hundred books, more than any other magnate in England. “Now, where was it? I wanted to show you the latest work by Aretino.” He put on a pair of spectacles and ran his fingers across the leather spines. “Ah, here it is. The History of the Florentine People, published about a year ago by the Republic of Florence.” He gave Richard a twisted smile. “I wonder what you will make of this, my friend.” He opened the book at a well-marked place and read:

  If one considers the savagery of Tiberius, the fury of Caligula, the insanity of Claudius, and the crimes of Nero with his mad delight in fire and sword; if one adds Vitellius, Caracalla, Heliogabalus, Maximinus, and other monsters like them who horrified the whole world, one cannot deny that the Roman empire began to collapse once the disastrous name of Caesar had begun to brood over the city.

  Richard threw back his head and laughed. “An apt comparison to the tyranny of our own times.”

  “My lord!” A messenger entered, wearing the badge of the falcon and the fetterlock, showing the Yorkist affinity. He was wet and muddy from a hard ride. Richard nodded, and the messenger came forward, knelt, and bowed his head. “I have ridden in from Westminster, my lord, from a meeting of Parliament to tell you—” He paused for breath. “To tell your lordship that Adam Moleyns, the Bishop of Chichester, has accused you of financial malpractice.”

  Richard’s skin prickled as he blanched.

  “No!” Gloucester whirled around, sending the book crashing to the floor. He jabbed a finger at the messenger. “This is a ploy to keep you off th
e king’s council. Don’t you see? Moleyns owes his bishopric to Suffolk. How dare they accuse you!”

  Richard turned to the messenger. “What exactly did the bishop say?”

  “He told Parliament that the campaigns in France were ruinously expensive. He said that so much money had been spent on Normandy, it didn’t seem possible it could have cost that much. Either the Duke of York was foolishly overspending, he said, or he had pocketed the money.”

  A bead of ruby red liquid inched over the rim and dropped onto Richard’s hand. He put his wine cup down. “How can he claim I pocketed the money when the King never paid me my annuity?”

  Gloucester picked up his book and placed it on the table. “We must avenge this insult.” He stormed downstairs, shouting for his horse. York hurried after him. Both lords mounted their horses, and set off at a fast gallop towards Westminster.

  York and Gloucester vaulted off their horses, tossed their reins to the groom, and strode into Westminster Hall where parliament was meeting. As the door closed shut, the heat of the room sucked them in. A fire roared in the grate, and familiar faces crowded the chamber. Richard waited for the sergeant-at-arms to announce them, and for the Duke of Norfolk to invite them to speak.

  “This charge would be laughable were it not so grave.” York looked around the chamber of Westminster Hall, meeting as many eyes as he could. “I’ve always dealt honestly with the Crown. When my uncle, the Earl of March, died, the custody of those lands should have been turned over to me because I was his nearest living male heir. However, the Crown saw fit to grant my lands to Cardinal Beaufort. As a lad of fourteen, there was not much I could do about that. Seven years later when I reached my majority, I was informed I would get my lands back only if I paid the king the sum of one thousand six hundred and forty-six pounds and six pence. I swallowed this insult and paid the king in full. The king has not treated me so courteously. When I was appointed lieutenant-general of France, I was promised an annuity of twenty thousand pounds, which I never received. I had to use my own personal funds to secure Normandy. I have summoned my officers from Normandy who will give you a full accounting of the money I have spent. You will see that far from pocketing money, I am so deeply in debt, I have had to pawn my collar to pay my soldiers. The crown owes me the sum of thirty-eight thousand, six hundred and seventy-seven pounds.” York sank down on the bench next to Gloucester and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

  The Earl of Suffolk rose. ”Call Master Elbeuf.” He looked around the room as a round gentleman appeared, bowed low, and declared himself to be the comptroller to the Duke of York.

  “Let us begin,” intoned Suffolk. “You say Duke Richard arrived in Rouen on Saint John’s Day in the year 1441. Tell us how much he spent that day.”

  It took several days for Master Elbeuf to explain to Parliament the details of my lord of York’s expenditure while he was in Rouen, for he had kept detailed records. Everything that was spent between June of 1441, when Richard of York took up his position as governor of Normandy, and October 1445, when he returned to England, was laid before Parliament. When York’s comptroller finally sat down, Suffolk rose. “Is Richard, Duke of York, guilty of financial malpractice or no? It is for you, my lords, to decide.”

  Richard bowed his head and covered his face with his hands.

  “Where is Duchess Cecylee?” whispered Gloucester. “Surely your lady wife should be with you at such a time.”

  York smiled briefly. “Cecylee is breeding. We expect to have our next child in May. She has not been well and I did not want her to become upset.”

  “Indeed,” sighed Gloucester. “You are wise to let her stay at Fotheringhay.”

  “I had to insist upon it,” remarked York. “You know how my wife is. She loves being at court, especially now that our new queen has made it livelier. Cecylee hates being left behind at Fotheringhay. The country is too quiet for her.”

  Several hours passed. Finally, John de Mowbray, third Duke of Norfolk, rose. As premier duke of the realm, he was tasked with adjudicating this matter. “We have come to a decision.” He bowed to Suffolk. “We find Richard Duke of York to be not guilty of the charge of financial malpractice.”

  There was a roar from Richard’s supporters. Gloucester thumped him on the back.

  “Indeed,” continued Norfolk, “we find that York has conducted his affairs with great probity and thoroughness. We recommend that the Crown repay him his loan of thirty-eight thousand pounds.”

  Chapter 17

  Westminster Palace, London

  December 1445

  “My dear lord. You must fulfill the terms of the treaty. Can you not see that?”

  “My dear wife, sit you down and we will talk,” replied King Henry.

  He enclosed her delicate hand with his own as he drank her in. Sixteen-year-old Marguerite d’Anjou was the most ravishing beauty. She was small-boned and slender. Her russet-colored velvet gown clung to her well-turned waist and hips, outlining her lovely bosom. She had a well-cut profile, with high cheekbones and deep-set black eyes. They’d been wed for eight months, and he had yet to make love to her. His confessor had forbidden it, saying that lovemaking was a self-indulgent sport, and that he should not come near her any more than was absolutely necessary for the begetting of an heir. Henry had not dared to; One glimpse of his wife’s naked body would send him into paroxysms of lust, and then his soul would be damned to the second circle of hell for eternity. For had not Our Savior Jesus Christ called on us to live chaste lives dedicated to God? Had he not commanded his followers to forsake all family ties?

  “You agreed to return Maine and Anjou to my uncle, King Charles.”

  He started. “Yes, dearest, I did, but I have not informed Parliament of this matter.”

  Marguerite leapt to her feet. “You are King of England!”

  King Henry moved his head from side to side, his forehead creasing into a frown. “They are not going to like it,” he murmured.

  “What do you mean? Who is not going to like it?”

  She looked so lovely when she was angry, the color mounting those pretty cheeks. How he longed to cover those rosy lips with kisses. But his confessor had told him that he must sacrifice himself to a life devoid of earthly pleasure so that he could lead the English people to the gates of heaven.

  The confessor continued the work of pious Richard de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, who’d been his guardian from the time he was nine months. De Beauchamp had made the arduous pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He had been heralded the “Father of Courtesy” by the Holy Roman Emperor. He had instilled in the young king the values of kindness and piety, and well as a love for education. Indeed, he had been so successful in training his young charge in kingly craft that Henry had taken a precocious interest in politics. As a lad of twelve, he had attempted to intervene in some matter, astonishing his councilors. They had roundly told him to avoid becoming entangled in court intrigue and swayed by those who would manipulate him for their own advancement.

  “Who is not going to like it?” repeated Marguerite.

  “Parliament.”

  “Does it matter? Are they not peasants?”

  “There are two knights from every shire in the country,” replied Henry, eyeing his wife. Deo Gracias, but she was lovely. However, it was becoming clear that she didn’t understand English customs. The King of England could not ignore his parliament, unlike the King of France.

  “They are peasants!” exclaimed Marguerite

  “They represent my people,” replied Henry as he fingered the s-shaped gold collar around his neck. That and the signet ring on his right hand were the only marks of distinction he allowed himself. Otherwise, he dressed in unfashionable round-toed shoes and robes of indeterminate darkness.

  Marguerite started to pace. “The people. Who cares what the people think. You should return these territories now as you promised, or you will dishonor your good name.”

  Marguerite had been at the court of Charles VII for o
nly a year. She would have been perfect as Queen of France, thought Henry. Instead, she was Queen of England, and someone needed to explain to her about English politics, as de Beauchamp had done for him. But de Beauchamp had been dead these six years. Henry frowned with concentration. It was all so complicated. Where was the best place to start? Should he begin with the duties of the king? But she knew all about that. Perhaps he should tell her about the humble folk. But she seemed not to be interested—

  “You promised to cede Maine and Anjou.”

  “Yes, dearest, I did. But I have not informed all of my magnates. Gloucester and York don’t know about this provision of the treaty.”

  Marguerite snorted. “You are king. What are Gloucester and York to you? They must obey their sovereign lord.”

  “Your lady wife speaks the truth, my lord King,” remarked Somerset bowing low as he entered. Edmund Beaufort, fourth Earl of Somerset, was a gentleman nearing forty. Despite his graying hair, his appearance was pleasing, his charming smile showing he’d kept most of his teeth. “Gloucester and York are like yesterday’s vegetables, rotten to the core. You need not worry about them.”

  Henry chewed his lower lip. Someone was always squabbling with someone else. “York is one of my most powerful magnates,” he said slowly, glancing at Marguerite. As such, perhaps he should begin Marguerite’s political education by talking about this cousin. “He owns vast tracts of land in Wales, Ireland, and thirteen English counties. He has inherited great wealth.”

  “You are his liege lord,” said Marguerite.

  “He could make difficulties,” replied Henry.

  “What difficulties? What could he do?”

  “He could embarrass me,” responded Henry, looking down and fiddling with his ring. “He and Gloucester together.”

  “What does Gloucester have to do with this?”

  Ah, the list of things Gloucester had to do with this. Gloucester was his uncle and was regent of England before Henry assumed his majority. He championed the war in France. But beyond that, how could he explain to his wife that the King of England had to consult with his magnates on matters of grave import? He heard de Beauchamp’s voice: “Never forget, my lord King, to consult your magnates. Woe betide you, if you do not. Your great-great-grandsire, King Edward III, was a master of consultative kingship, and he ruled this land peacefully for fifty years.”