1 - THWARTED QUEEN

by Cynthia Sally Haggard

  “Have they apprehended the villains?”

  “No, no. It is all York’s doing. He is so powerful, he can do as he pleases. All he wants is to create trouble for me, and my most redoubted lord, the king.”

  “The government of this country should not ignore the people of England!” exclaimed York.

  The cheering was so loud, it nearly lifted off the hammer-beam roof of Westminster Hall. On that cold and chilly November morning, the temperature inside the hall rose as more and more people squeezed in to hear what York was saying. Assembled at one end of the hall were the great magnates of the land at the high table on the dais. Around the walls and packed several men deep stood the men-at-arms with their quarterstaffs, their badges clearly showing their affinities.

  Richard of York stood before the lords in front of the dais, half turned to face the people who were crowding into the hall below. There was a little space between the steps that led down from the dais and the body of the hall. In the front row stood all the important citizens of London, including the lord mayor and his wife and several prominent merchants with their wives. Behind these people were the people of London, looking expectantly at the almost stout figure with a forked beard pointing his finger at the lords on the dais.

  “I tell you, the people make reasonable demands,” continued Richard. “It is folly to tax them so heavily while royal favorites are richly rewarded. And not only that, these men - already bloated with wealth beyond the wildest dreams of any poor plowman or widow - do not have to pay taxes. Where is the sense in that? The country needs money, and so it should tax its richest citizens.”

  York’s voice was drowned out in cheers.

  “I ask this parliament to pass the Act of Resumption that requires royal favorites to return the land they have been given these past thirteen years, so that the value of this land may be used to get this country out of financial ruin.”

  Nan’s husband rose. “My lord of York, you have given a most interesting speech. But I don’t think you can expect these lands to be returned. It would be like asking your lady wife to return a present you’d given her.”

  Exeter laughed and the other lords laughed with him.

  “I think we can dismiss these complaints,” he continued. “They are trivial. What does an unwashed peasant know of land husbandry? I tell you these lands are in good hands, and they should remain so.”

  “You should not dismiss the concerns of the people so lightly,” said York, reddening. He glared at Exeter. But Exeter ignored him.

  “You should not be questioning the king’s judgment,” he remarked, smiling. “What makes you think you know better than our king?”

  The hall buzzed like a hive of angry bees.

  “What of the traitors?” bellowed someone.

  “What about the loss of Normandy?” shouted another.

  “Impeach Somerset!” cried a third.

  At this, the men-at-arms providing protection for the noble families brandished weapons and shouted: “Give us Justice! Punish the Traitors! Give us Justice! Punish the traitors!”

  Their voices echoed around that huge room, soaring up to the hammer-beams built in the time of Richard II and dropping down to the old stone walls built in the time of William II.

  Richard of York pointed his finger at the lords. “I demand that you impeach Somerset. Now.”

  Marguerite bit her lip. From her chamber in Westminster, she heard the roar of the crowd. No doubt, York stirred more trouble. She wished she were back in France. Her youth seemed so golden and faraway, a lost time that tugged at her heart. How could people who smelled so bad she wanted to retch, who went around with lice-infested hair, open boils, and unseemly rags make things so difficult? Marguerite could not understand why anyone would bother to listen to them. Yet her husband was afraid of them, and York manipulated their opinions to his own advantage.

  She must have spoken aloud, for Eleanor made sympathetic murmurs as she folded up the queen’s gowns.

  “It’s so lonely being queen,” said Marguerite, looking out of the mullioned windows at the grey, pillow-shaped clouds, that were scattering flakes of snow as if they were goose-down feathers.

  “You are not alone!” exclaimed Eleanor, turning and glaring. “Your husband, the king, indulges your every whim. And you have my Somerset.”

  Marguerite stared. She had never heard Eleanor speak so disrespectfully. She opened her mouth to say something when Eleanor interrupted. “My Somerset,” she said, pointing her finger at the queen, “is devoted to you. He would do anything you asked. Anything.”

  “My Queen.”

  Marguerite turned, and Somerset came swiftly forward. He knelt and brushed her hand with his lips. Marguerite’s mouth curved into a smile, regarding her friend. Though he was old enough to be her father, Edmund Beaufort, now Duke of Somerset, had the looks and manner of a much younger man. She was so absorbed in gazing into his eyes, she barely noticed Eleanor whisking out of the room with nary a curtsey.

  Somerset arched an eyebrow as he rose. “You seem troubled, my love.”

  “York is giving a speech before the Commons today.”

  “Ah.”

  Marguerite moved closer and placed her hands within his. “I fear for you, dearest cousin. I fear that he will try to destroy you.” A tear ran down her cheek.

  Somerset brushed the tear away with his finger and stooped to kiss her cheek. “York cannot touch me: I have your favor and the favor of the king.”

  “But he will try,” said Marguerite, lifting her face to his.

  He bent down and kissed her slowly on the lips.

  A sound of mailed feet made them turn. A detachment of guards rushed into the room, followed by the Constable of the Tower, who unrolled a parchment.

  “My Lord of Somerset, I hereby arrest you on charges of treason. I am bidden to take you to the Tower forthwith.”

  Marguerite recoiled. “You cannot do this.”

  “I have Parliament’s authority,” replied the constable, as the guards seized Somerset.

  “I am your queen!” shrieked Marguerite.

  But the constable merely bowed and escorted Somerset out.

  Marguerite sank down onto a window seat, sobbing. She could not understand it. How could Parliament have more power than the queen?

  Sir William Oldhall rose to his feet. “To the Duke of York!” he exclaimed, holding his wine cup high. “Today, he has set England on the right course—with the Duke of Somerset shut up in the Tower.”

  Applause and cheers came from the assembled company of merchants and noblemen finishing the splendid feast provided by the wealthy merchant who’d rented out his house to the Duke during his stay in London.

  “Sir William Oldhall, My Lord Mayor of London, and Master Simon Eyre, who graciously provided his house to me and this feast for us today, I thank you for your hospitality and for your vote of confidence in me. We have much to do to root out corruption and waste in this land.”

  Richard told the assembled gathering about his plans: How he wanted to raise revenues by cutting waste, rather than taxing the poor. How he wanted to bring justice back into the land so that murderers could not escape their crimes by bribing local juries. As he spoke, people nodded. They smiled. Their confidence stoked his excitement. “We have impeached Somerset,” he said, “and now let us turn our attention to other members of the Court Party who have profited so unscrupulously at the expense of the country—”

  “There was a duke who went to the Tower, Inducas,” sang the crowd outside, making Richard stop.

  “Who loved a queen full many a day, in temptationibus,” the crowd sang on, their voices muffled by the glazing in the windows.

  “This queen was lusty, proper and young, Inducas

  “She offered the duke a way out of jail, in temptationibus.”

  Richard strode to the window. Chairs scraped as the assembled company rose hastily and followed, thrusting open the casements. The crowd bubbled with shy merriment as they
recognized Richard of York:

  Hey hey, fiddle-de-dee

  What kind of queen have we?

  Loyal, loyal to those she loves

  And she loves this duke.

  Hey hey, fiddle de dee

  What’ll happen tonight think we?

  Jump jump, jump into bed

  And cuddle and kiss—

  “Good people, what is this?” called Richard down to the crowd.

  “Your bird has flown, my lord Duke!” shouted someone.

  “Queen’s got her lover back!” shouted another.

  A messenger rode up and reined in sharply. The horse quivered, its flanks still damp from exertion. It snorted through its nostrils, sending great puffs of steam into the air. “I’ve come from the Tower!” he shouted, gasping for breath. “My lady queen went to the king and prevailed upon him to set Somerset free.”

  Chapter 24

  1452 to 1453

  Richard passed a hand over his forehead. The water trickling down his face was not from the rain alone. His show of force would be interpreted as an act of treason against the king.

  He groaned as he slid off his horse. The past fifteen months had not been good. He hadn’t been able to prevail in his plans for reform, and things went from bad to worse. Somerset, who just presided over the ignominious loss of Normandy, had been appointed Captain of Calais, the largest garrison maintained by the Crown. In August 1451, the entire duchy of Aquitaine surrendered to the French King. The merchants of England were shocked and dismayed, for in the space of two months they’d lost their grip on the lucrative wine trade that flowed through Bordeaux.

  By summer’s end it was plain to all that King Henry VI had no plans to implement government reform. France was all but lost, his government as rotten as a barrel of bad apples, justice was as scarce as hen’s teeth, and disorder and anarchy prevailed. Yet the king was content to let things remain as they were.

  York worked tirelessly for months, courting public opinion and sending his agents up and down the country to tell the good people of England that the king was fitter for a cloister than a throne. Then York left Ludlow and led his army towards London, intending to take the capital. The Londoner’s response was to man the defenses, for they knew full well that supporting Richard of York would be construed as treason.

  Finding London barred to him, York swung his army south, crossed Kingston Bridge and led his army towards Dartford. There, he waited for the king’s army.

  “My lord, there is an embassy come to speak with you from Her Grace the Queen.”

  Richard set his jaw. But he jerked up in surprise when a well-known figure was ushered in. “Salisbury!” he exclaimed. The Nevilles had been keeping distant from him during these campaigns against Somerset, and Salisbury had large problems of his own with the Percies.

  “May I present my eldest son, Warwick?” Salisbury motioned to a tall, young man with fair hair. “And the Bishops of Ely and Winchester.”

  Richard snapped his fingers, and squires came forward to place chairs for his guests and to tie down the tent flaps, protecting the party from the soaking, cold rain.

  The bishops sat, but Salisbury and Warwick remained standing. “I am come from the queen,” said Salisbury, a member of the king’s council, “to command you in the king’s name to return to your allegiance.”

  York thinned his lips. “I have one condition: Somerset must be punished for his crimes against the state.”

  There was dead silence as his guests looked at one another.

  Richard rose. “I will have the Duke of Somerset, or die therefore.”

  The Bishop of Winchester coughed. “Perhaps matters could be arranged to your liking if you were to have a private interview with the king.” He looked at the Bishop of Ely.

  Ely turned towards Richard, “I could engage Her Grace the Queen in a game of chess.”

  Richard smiled.

  Next day, as Richard adjusted to the gloom inside the king’s tent, the first thing his eyes lighted upon was Somerset. He jerked back.

  Somerset bowed low with a flourish.

  Another figure emerged from the gloom. It was the queen. She scowled.

  Richard felt an icy finger crawling up his spine. Somerset was like a weevil who wouldn’t go away.

  “Welcome, my cousin of York,” came the dull tones of the king’s voice.

  Coming forward, Richard knelt and kissed the king’s ring. Then he brought out a parchment. “As you requested, my lord King, I have drawn up a the list of articles of indictment against my lord of Somerset.”

  The king nodded slightly.

  Richard slowly unfurled the parchment.

  “What’s this?” shrieked Marguerite.

  Henry slid his eyes towards his wife.

  “Give that to me!” she screamed, making to reach for the document.

  Henry sat stone still.

  “How could you connive in this underhanded way with this—this viper?”

  Richard took a deep breath and looked up. “My lady Queen, you do me an injustice. I am merely asking for the law of the land to be followed, and Somerset to be tried for his crimes.”

  “I am merely asking for the law of the land to be followed,” sneered Somerset, mimicking Richard’s lisping r’s. “Poppycock. You want power, my lord of York.”

  “My cousin has come in good faith to sue for peace,” remarked Henry.

  Richard turned to look at his cousin. Henry rarely stood up to anyone, least of all his wife. But Marguerite turned on him. “How could you go behind my back to your own worst enemy?” She jabbed a finger at Richard: “He’s as cunning as a fox.”

  “He has the support of the Commons,” replied Henry, but Marguerite was not listening.

  “How could you listen to him? How could you arrest my dearest cousin to suit the whims—”

  “He has the support of the people,” said Henry. “That does count for something in this country.”

  “The people. Piffle,” retorted Marguerite. “He goes on and on about the supposed crimes of our dear cousin. But what of his own ambition? I tell you, my lord King, York should be arrested. Immediately.”

  “No,” said Henry.

  The scene blurred before Richard’s eyes. He’d dismissed his army. He’d come alone with only a few trusted retainers, believing he would have a private meeting with the king. How could he have blundered into this trap? Facing him, not two feet away, were his worst enemies. If they chose to arrest him—if they decided to try him for treason and execute him—Richard clenched his jaw as sweat trickled down his back. How was he going to get word to Cecylee?

  An image of Cecylee filled his head, as he’d last seen her. She’d looked like a wounded bird. And they’d been arguing.

  About Nan.

  When Cecylee had returned from Ireland, she’d insisted, with a persistence and determination he did not know she had, that he allow her to send Jenet to Exeter to inquire into the health of their daughter. Richard had agreed; he would have no peace unless he did. Cecylee had packed up several boxes of things, medicines, Nan’s favorite sweetmeats, even some things she’d left behind when she’d married Exeter, and sent Jenet off. It took her three months to return, bruises still visible upon her cheeks.

  “I begged and pleaded, my lady, but he wouldn’t let me in. Why, one of my lord of Exeter’s men hit me in the face when I told him that your ladyship insisted that I see the duchess.”

  She rubbed a mark the size of a man’s fist.

  After Jenet had curtseyed and left, Cecylee had sat there silently, staring at the fire. It had unnerved him, to have his lively and talkative wife sitting there, unnaturally still. Finally, she’d lifted her head.

  “You’ve killed her, Richard,” she remarked before she stalked out and shut the door behind her.

  He’d not been allowed into her bed since.

  And now, as he took in his perilous condition, the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

  “I’ll send for the Consta
ble of the Tower,” declared Marguerite. “He is hard by.”

  “No,” said King Henry.

  Marguerite turned to pull the tent flap aside.

  Henry rose. “I tell you no,” he said loudly, his usually pale face flushed. “I agreed to arrest Somerset to be tried on charges of treason. He should be taken to the Tower.”

  Marguerite froze, poised in the action of leaving the tent. Her black eyes lost their sparkle as her face slackened. “You cannot mean that, my dearest lord.”

  She moved swiftly, knelt before the king, and took his hand. “What has he ever done to deserve this?” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

  And so the king agreed to let Somerset go free.

  “Your lord is in grave danger.”

  Cecylee stared at Sir William Oldhall. Richard? Danger? As she sagged into the cushions of her chair, she thought she saw Blaybourne standing before her: “Would you have me?” he asked. “I have always loved you, my love,” she said, the words torn from her lips. “I will keep you safe,” he replied, as his face dissolved into the face of her father. “I will lock you up,” said Earl Ralph, ”for you may be queen one day.”

  Someone touched her arm; Sir William’s face swam into view.

  “My lady,” he said, touching her with a mud-splattered glove, “you look overwrought. Would you like me to come back when you have rested awhile?”

  Cecylee came to with a jolt.

  “What has happened?” she whispered.

  “He has been taken prisoner.”

  Cecylee felt the color drain from her face. She’d been married to Richard now for fifteen years, and her lady friends envied her for the way he doted on her. She was never long out of his company. She traveled with him everywhere. She sat in on the various meetings he held. She held court with him in the great halls of various castles. She provided him with counsel in the privacy of their bedchamber—along with other pleasures, which caused her to breed nearly every year.

  Her lady friends sighed as they talked about how lucky they were if their husbands merely ignored them. One lady considered herself fortunate that her husband was never around. Too often, husbands shouted at their ladies, or worse.