1 - THWARTED QUEEN

by Cynthia Sally Haggard

  “Gloucester is York’s mentor,” said Somerset, his voice gradually making its way through the thicket of Henry’s thoughts. “They are the best of friends. Gloucester has always championed the war in France. York backs him up.”

  “That may be so,” said Marguerite. “But it doesn’t mean you can go back on your word.” She knelt before Henry, taking his large hand between her two small ones. “My dear lord, you must sign. Can you not see that?”

  Henry patted her hand as he gazed into the middle distance. He really needed to explain these things to her, but the hour of nones was approaching, and he must go to chapel. Afterwards, he expected a visitor from Cambridge University to talk about his new college. Four years ago, Henry had laid the foundation stone for a royal college dedicated to Our Lady and Saint Nicholas, and he was most anxious to choose the provost and the twelve impoverished students who would study there. Henry had been pleased with his idea of having twelve students, because it was the number of Christ’s apostles, but should he increase it? Education was so important, and there were so many impoverished young men who could benefit. Seventy would be a goodly number, for it was the number of early evangelists chosen by Our Lord Jesus himself—

  Dimly, Henry became aware of a dull and fiery light. He sat up in his chair. Had he gone to hell? Surely not; he didn’t remember dying. He looked up to see Cardinal Beaufort standing before him, his red robes vibrating against the gathering winter darkness. Now well into his seventies, Cardinal Beaufort supported himself by leaning on a stick. Henry motioned him to sit.

  “In the matter of your marriage treaty,” said the Cardinal, “I can only advise you to abide by its terms. If you do not sign, you will be breaking your oath, and you will ruin your reputation.”

  “And mine,” said Marguerite from her seat on a low stool by the king.

  The cardinal bowed. “And your reputation, of course, my dear lady.”

  Henry stared at the floor. Where was Somerset? Hadn’t he been here? And when had Cardinal Beaufort arrived? How much time had passed since Marguerite had started talking to him about Maine and Anjou? Was it hours, or days?

  The cardinal beckoned and one of his clerks came forward with the parchment. He dipped the pen in ink and held it out for the king.

  Henry looked away. He wanted more time to think. The situation was complex.

  “Sign it!” shrieked Marguerite.

  Henry jumped. The cardinal raised his hand. “My daughter—”

  “Sign it! Sign it!” she screamed at the top of her voice. She lunged toward Henry, snatched the quill from the clerk’s fingers, wrapped Henry’s fingers around it, and started to guide the movement of the pen to form a signature.

  Henry sat passively, fascinated by her energy. It emanated from her in waves, like narrow golden haloes. Henry never felt energetic, except when he was consulting with scholars. Recently, he’d had the idea of establishing several grammar schools around the country, so that poor boys could be educated—

  Cardinal Beaufort rose. “You cannot do that, my daughter. It is not legal by the laws of England. You must wait and possess your soul in patience.”

  Marguerite flung the pen down and jabbed her finger at King Henry. “You don’t care what this does to me or my reputation. You sit there like a larded duck and do nothing. Meanwhile, my father and uncle are left wondering what kind of man is this Harry of England that can’t even keep his word.” She sank onto the floor, sobbing, burying her face in her hands.

  I don’t sit here, thought King Henry. I am filled with thoughts and ideas. Haven’t I explained this to you, my dearest? He put out his hand to touch her pretty hair, but she had gone. He drifted into a sea of disconnected thoughts and images. When he came to, he saw the face of the French ambassador looming before him.

  Marguerite lifted her well-defined chin and turned to Henry. “I have here a letter to the King of France in which you give a solemn undertaking to cede the territories of Maine and Anjou to my father King Réné by the thirtieth of April of next year.” She laid the parchment in front of him.

  Henry looked away. Now where was he? It took him such a long time to get through his thoughts—

  “You are doing it to please Charles VII, the King of France, at the request of your wife,” remarked Marguerite as she dipped the pen in ink and held it out to him.

  Henry looked at her. She had a dimple in her cheek.

  “Please, my lord,” she said sweetly. “For the love you bear me.”

  Love. That was the word. How he loved his wife. And she wanted him to sign this document. Aye. It was the only way he could show her that he loved her, until he plucked up enough courage to take her to his bed. He picked up the pen and slowly signed his name.

  Marguerite clapped her hands.

  Silence descended. The next thing he knew, his wife was kissing his cheek. “Thank you, my most redoubted lord,” she murmured.

  Henry sank back in his chair, pleased that she was happy. Now, who should explain English customs to her?

  Chapter 18

  Eltham Palace, Greenwich, London

  April 1446

  “It is beautiful in London, my lady, at the queen’s gardens in Eltham with the flowers so fresh after a shower,” began Jenet.

  “Were there any celebrations? It’s now a year since King Henry married.”

  “There was a service of thanksgiving held in their private chapel. As soon as it ended, the queen asked my lord to walk with her in the gardens. My heart sank, for you know how the Queen is, she never keeps still—”

  Cecylee had sent Jenet to spy on Richard. Well, perhaps that was rather a dramatic way of putting it, but just as she was about to give birth to her seventh child, a message came from the Queen asking Richard to visit her at Eltham on a matter of some importance. Richard did not know what the Queen wanted, and Cecylee could not go with him. She instructed Jenet to go.

  Cecylee gave Jenet a long list of things needed from London for the new baby’s christening to provide subterfuge. But privately, she instructed Jenet to wear nondescript clothing, not pretty hand-me-downs, to kept her head down, and to speak only English, hoping that Richard wouldn’t recognize her when she followed him through the streets of London.

  “After the queen asked my lord husband to walk in the gardens, were you able to keep up with them?” she asked.

  “Fortunately, my lord wanted to sit. He looked tired.”

  Jenet paused, and Cecylee nodded.

  So let me tell you what happens next, my lady. The place where my lord and the queen sat is not far from the stables, so I was able to go around a corner out of sight, but near enough to listen.

  “I am so glad you could come,” said the queen in her high, bell-like voice.

  Holy Mother be thanked, I thought, it will be easy enough to hear everything she has to say.

  “I understand your wife is about to birth your child.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said my lord. “If she is a girl, the duchess and I would like to name her ‘Margaret’ after you. Of course with your permission.”

  The queen clapped her hands together. “Another Margot!” she exclaimed. Then she got up and started pacing. “I have another matter I would discuss with you. You know, my lord, that one of the provisions of the Treaty of Tours is that the truce holds until July 1446?”

  “Indeed, my lady.”

  “The King of France and I wish to bind together the royal houses of France and England. So, we propose to you a marriage between his daughter Madeleine de Valois and your eldest son.”

  There was a long pause and it seemed to go on forever. Finally my lord said, “You would like for Princess Madeleine to marry Edmund?” I know he said ‘Edmund,’ my lady, because his voice rises as he gets to the end of the sentence.

  Next thing I heard was peals of laughter, followed by gasps of breath. Finally the queen managed to say, “Surely, mon duc, you cannot have forgotten your own son’s name. I mean your eldest son, your four-year-old
son called Édouard – is not so?”

  Cecylee raised her hand to stop Jenet’s narrative flow. Six-year-old Nan was tapping her arm. “Mama, they are arguing again. I have told Edward not to tease Edmund, but he just laughs at me and tells me to go away.” She frowned. “Why can’t they play nicely together?”

  Cecylee felt her unborn baby kick as she laughed and kissed her daughter’s soft cheek. Nan was going to be a wonderful mother. At six, she was already playing peacemaker to her brothers, trying to curb Edward’s natural exuberance so that his much quieter brother got his fair share of playthings and attention.

  “Do you see what I mean?” inquired Nan, pointing.

  Cecylee glanced over to see four-year-old Edward stick his tongue out as he made a large hoop roll around the room by beating it with a stick, while three-year-old Edmund stood there, balling his hands into fists and crying. She beckoned to Annette de Caux. “Take the children outside, for it is fine enough to play. And make Lord Edward share with his brother.” Edward rushed off, laughing in his boisterous way, followed more sedately by Annette, who held Edmund’s hand.

  “May I stay and listen to Jenet’s tale?” asked Nan.

  “No, my child,” replied Cecylee stroking Nan’s dark brown hair, which coiled down her back in soft waves. “Jenet and I have something private to discuss. But when we’re done, I shall tell you a story.”

  “You won’t be long, Mama?” she called as she skipped away.

  Cecylee shook her head, smiled, and turned back to Jenet.

  The queen continued, “I mean your eldest son, your four-year-old son called Édouard – is not so? Your French son, monsieur le duc.” She pealed with laughter. “Not the other one, the three-year-old, what is his name? Edder-mund, so English. Oh, I cannot say it.”

  There was dead silence from milord, but the queen seemed not to notice. She laughed again and then continued, “You know, Édouard is so charmant. Don’t you remember how he sang to me those songs last year? Why, he had not quite three years. And he looked so well, so handsome. Oh I think he would be the husband for the little princesse. She has only three years, but is already extremely pretty. I think that Édouard would want a pretty woman to be his wife, is it not so?”

  There was another pause, and then I heard a deep intake of breath. “This is a great honor, Your Grace,” my lord said, spacing out each word slowly. “But I must give a little thought to it. Edward is only four years old.” His voice trailed off.

  The next thing I noticed, milord was walking right past me. He disappeared in the direction of the river. I peeped around the corner to see the queen raise her eyebrows.

  “This marriage has the backing of Suffolk,” she called after him.

  But my lord seemed not to hear.

  The queen lifted her elegant little shoulders in a shrug and turned to go indoors. However, she caught sight of me and frowned. I made a bob, as if I’m an ignorant wench who’s never seen the queen before and mumbled in English, as your ladyship instructed. She relaxed and walked off. Obviously I can’t have understood a word she said, since she and my lord have been speaking French.

  As soon as she was gone, I ran after my lord, keeping a distance. He went to the river, where some women were spreading out their washing to dry. There’s a pile of wet clothing that needs attending to. So I set to, and lay it out on the bushes. It is indeed a fine day.

  Meanwhile my lord stormed up and down on the strand, saying to himself, “Edmund, Edmund, I want you to be my heir.”

  He was very loud, my lady. The folk by the riverside, the women with their washing, the fishermen, the tavern keeper, the barmaids, they all gaped, but one look at his fine clothing and aristocratic bearing and they left him alone. Fortunately he was ranting and raving in French, so they can’t have understood him.

  I edged closer, for he was muttering to himself now. “What can I give my son? What can I give my son?” I heard him swearing under his breath, he even called the queen something I should not like to repeat. Then he struck his fists together and roared, “By Our Lady, how these women torment me.” He drew his sword and started whacking at the trees, hedges, weeds, anything that happens to be near.

  Everyone edged back then.

  “She told me who my eldest son was! I know who my eldest son is, but she had the temerity to tell me who my own son is!” He worked himself into quite a lather by now.

  The groom appeared with my lord’s palfrey, but he took one look at him and hesitated. I signal for him to wait.

  “I have it!” my lord exclaimed, sheathing his sword and panting hard. “I will make Edmund Earl of Rutland. That title belonged to the first Duke of York’s heir, and it carries prestige. It will be my way of letting everyone know that Edmund is my true heir. I will have to give that bastard something, however, to prevent gossip.” He paced up and down, rubbing his forked beard. “If I give that bastard the title Earl of March, it will remind everyone of that troublemaker, the last Earl of March, who plotted against King Henry V and succeeded in having my father executed.” He struck one hand against the other and gave a harsh bark of laughter. “My wife will have to agree, she’ll have no choice.” Suddenly, he noticed the groom standing there with his horse. He stopped dead, got onto his horse, and thundered off. We didn’t see him for the rest of the day.

  Jenet paused to help Cecylee ease a cushion behind her back. She was so large now, she could scarcely move. She motioned for Jenet to continue.

  “I am loath to tell you, my lady, in your condition.”

  “I want to know!” snapped Cecylee.

  Jenet opened a jar of ointment and massaged Cecylee’s feet.

  I spent the next several days going to Cheapside, to visit the drapers, silversmiths, and haberdashers, so that I could get everything to furnish the new baby’s christening. On the evening of the fifth day, I am just returning to our lodgings when the groom mentions that an unnamed visitor was ushered into the duke’s private chamber.

  I think quickly. It is nigh on vespers, evening is drawing in, and my lord has not yet returned. I go to the kitchen and bribe one of the cooks to let me wear a cap and a sack apron so that I look like a humble kitchen maid.

  I pick up a tray of beer and make my way up the stairs. Keeping my face bent, I try out the local London accent on a dark-haired lady dressed in a red riding habit, sitting in a carved chair by the fireplace. She shoots me a sharp glance and then returns to her thoughts. What can Duke Richard be doing with her?

  Next thing, I hear a thud of heavy steps and my lord shouting for his bath. I use the time to look quickly around the room for a suitable hiding place, mending the fire as I do so. Dipping a curtsey to the lady’s back, I make my way to a small door leading to a spiral staircase that goes back down to the kitchens. I close the door without shutting it, wedging some material from my skirts into it so that it stays open a crack. Balancing the tray on my knees I sit and wait.

  Eventually my lord enters. I hear him whistling to himself as he enters the room, and then the sound ceases abruptly. Perhaps he’s been stopped dead in his tracks with astonishment.

  A chair scrapes back. “My lord of York. I wanted a word with you about—a private matter.”

  My lord does not reply at first. He pours himself some beer, and then sits. “Yes?” His tone is terse, like that of a military commander.

  “I bring you important news, for the which you will have cause to thank me.”

  My lord snorts, taking a gulp of beer.

  “Your wife, Lady Cecylee—“

  “What about my wife?”

  “She is unusually broad-minded for such a great lady in her choice of companions.”

  “My wife is my private affair,” says my lord.

  “You are a great military man, Duke Richard,” replies the lady sweetly. “But you have one weakness: your lovely wife. She has you wrapped around her little finger, doesn’t she?”

  The silence is taut.

  “I think you should know who Lady
Cecylee’s lover was. He was the son of a blacksmith.”

  “No!” roars my lord. “He was a nobleman of the House of Savoy!”

  “He pretended to be the Duke of Savoy’s son, but he was not. He was only a blacksmith’s son.”

  “How do you know that?” shouts Duke Richard.

  “He came from the village of Blay, near Bayeux in Normandy. There is a merchant from Bayeux, at this very moment, awaiting you in the Blue Swan in the village of Greenwich. He knows her lover’s family. Go you there, my lord. You will find that I tell you true.”

  Jenet paused and looked down. Cecylee tapped her on the arm. Jenet sighed.

  My lord thrust the door open and shouted for his horse. He banged downstairs, each footfall getting fainter with each descending step. Shortly afterward, the sound of galloping hooves floated up through the open window.

  My lord didn’t return until dawn.

  A while after the duke left, the door to the back stairway opened and the lady stood there, smiling down at me. It was Lady Lisette, your brother’s wife.

  The tray of beer glasses rattled on my knees.

  “Blaybourne,” she snorted. “What a stupid name. It’s obvious it is made up.” She signaled for me to stand and walked ahead of me back into the room.

  I followed her, head held high and put the tray down on a table.

  “As your lady’s sister,” Lady Lisette said to me, “I made it my business to find out more about her lover. I made some inquiries and discovered that there was a village named Blay near Bayeux. I sent my personal servant there, and he found Blaybourne’s brother. He had an interesting tale to tell.”

  “My lady,” I said. “Forgive my boldness, but what you did was not well done. It was not kind.”