1 - THWARTED QUEEN

by Cynthia Sally Haggard

  “My lord King: I have here a letter to the queen.” He paused and flushed red. “Pardon me, I mean Marguerite of Lancaster.”

  Warwick swung around. He cut a magnificent figure in a tunic of red velvet, a cloak of purple draped elegantly over one shoulder. “A letter?” he snapped.

  “Yes, Your Grace. I mean, your lordship. I’m sorry, good sirs, my wits are that addled—” He gasped for breath.

  Edward came forward. At six feet four inches, he was about six inches taller than his cousin. He also dressed magnificently. Today he was wearing a blue satin tunic, slashed to reveal a silver silk undershirt. He placed a large hand on the messenger’s shoulder.

  “Take a breath, my good man. You look as if you’ve run all the way from Scotland.” He called to his squire. “Bring a cup of ale for this good fellow.”

  “That’s very kind of you sir, I mean, my lord, Your Grace—”

  “What is your message?” snapped Warwick, his grey eyes hardening. Now in his early thirties, his fair hair was beginning to grey, and he had lines of experience around his mouth and eyes.

  Edward smiled gently and patted the messenger again.

  “Have some ale, and tell us how you came by this letter.”

  “One of your spies intercepted it,” replied the messenger, quaffing his ale.

  Edward held his hand out and scanned the letter.

  Madam, fear not, but be of good comfort, for we have been summoned to see King Louis. Therefore, beware ye venture not your person by sea till ye have other word from us—

  Edward glanced up as Warwick came forward. His young unlined face showed little emotion, save for a clenching of the jaw. Silently, he handed over the letter.

  “Christ’s bones!” exclaimed Warwick. “I thought we had the favor of the new King of France. It is said he hates the House of Anjou. But that doesn’t stop her from seeking his aid.”

  Edward moved to the table in the middle of the room and unrolled a large map that showed England, Scotland, Wales, and France. “We could be invaded at any time,” he remarked. “Where do you think she’s likely to strike?”

  Warwick motioned for the messenger to leave and pointed to the Cotetin peninsula of Normandy. “Her plan might be to try and capture the Channel Isles to make a bridgehead to England from France.”

  “At the moment, she’s in Scotland,” replied Edward. “She can only attack the Channel Isles if she’s in France. And that depends on King Louis giving her money.”

  “I have it on good authority that she’s already exhausted her own funds. That letter can mean only one thing.”

  Edward looked up.

  “She’s worn out her welcome at the Scottish court,” remarked Warwick.

  Edward frowned. “She might strike from the north.”

  “Aye, she might,” agreed Warwick, rubbing his chin. “All we need is more unrest there.”

  “Therefore, I think that you, cousin, should march to Alnwick,” said Edward, pointing to the far north of England, “and capture it.”

  “Right,” said Warwick, nodding. “I’ll go there forthwith. We cannot have the Bitch of Anjou take a major Northumbrian stronghold.”

  He bowed and disappeared, followed by his large train of retainers, all bearing his badge of the staff and ragged bear on scarlet tunics.

  Warwick captured not only Alnwick but also Bamburgh Castle, thus ensuring that the new king had the most important Northumbrian strongholds to serve as a bulwark against any invasion from Scotland.

  On November 1st 1461, Edward opened his first parliament. On that day, he made his youngest brother Richard Duke of Gloucester and sent him to live at Middleham, with my blessing, to train as a knight under Warwick’s supervision.

  Chapter 50

  Summer 1463

  The crowning of my son Edward seemed to be a vindication for all the sacrifices made. I was given my lands back and admitted to the highest councils of the land. Folk said that Duchess Cecylee ruled the king as she pleased. Never before had a lady had such influence, unless you counted the activities of Queen Alainor of Aquitaine of three centuries before. No more would England have to endure a warrior queen who struck terror into the hearts of men with a rampaging army of animals she was unable to control. Instead, I modeled myself on Queen Alainor, known for her fair dealing whenever she dispensed justice at the various assizes held around the country.

  In all of this, I was ably assisted by my nephew Warwick. And yet this was a time of peril for the new king, for the Bitch of Anjou was creating havoc, both by negotiating with the French and Burgundian princes and by repeatedly taking the Northumbrian fortresses. Finally, Warwick arranged a peace conference between Edward, King Louis XI of France, and Duke Philip of Burgundy in the summer of 1463. The objective was to close France and Burgundy to Marguerite d’Anjou and Henry of Lancaster.

  After that, Warwick set about finding a suitable bride for Edward, for in the two years he had been king he’d not had time to think about this matter.

  “The Duke of Burgundy has offered his two nieces,” I remarked, “Lady Marguerite de Bourbon and her sister Jeanne.”

  “How old are these ladies?” asked Warwick.

  “Lady Marguerite has twenty-four years. Lady Jeanne, her sister, is a little younger. She has twenty-one years.”

  Warwick steepled his fingers as he leaned back in his elaborately carved chair. How he reveled in his power and influence. Indeed, in those days, Warwick appeared to have so much power that folk called him The Kingmaker. Or as one wit at the French court put it: “They have but two rulers in England, Monsieur de Warwick and another whose name I have forgotten.” At that moment he was securing the northern border, negotiating with the French and Burgundians, and helping Edward sort out the country’s finances and judicial system. He strode about, followed by his huge army of retainers, always busy, always preoccupied.

  “Edward has now twenty-one years,” he remarked. “He might be happier with someone younger.”

  I nodded. “Perhaps you are right. There is a younger lady with whom I have been in correspondence. Lady Isabella of Castile has now turned twelve. She is very suitable, for she is the half-sister of King Henry of Castile and possible heiress to the throne of Castile.”

  “What of Lady Bona of Savoy?”

  My ears pricked up, as an image of Blaybourne dressed in his finery materialized. I was now so confused about the swirl of events surrounding my lover, that I knew not whether he was a humble archer, a scholar, or a nobleman called Philippe of Savoy.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She is sister to the Queen of France. Her father is Duke Louis of Savoy, the eldest son of Duke Amadeus of Savoy.”

  Since Richard’s death, I’d made discreet inquiries and learned that Philippe of Savoy was the youngest son of Duke Amadeus. Strangely, he remained unmarried. Lady Bona would be his niece, and thus a possible cousin to Edward.

  “She is a little older than Princess Isabella,” continued Warwick, “and would now be turning fourteen.”

  “She would be able to bear Edward sons sooner. But what are the political implications?”

  “This match would close France to the Lancastrian exiles,” replied Warwick. “As we speak, the Lancastrian usurper Henry is at large in Scotland, while the Bitch of Anjou and her son Édouard are in Burgundy, pleading for the Duke to give them succor.”

  “We should do something about that.”

  Warwick smiled. “We need do nothing, dear Aunt, providing that France is on our side. It is King Louis’s ambition to crush Burgundy. And he will succeed. He’s crafty and wily, and France is a much greater power than Burgundy.”

  “That may be so,” I replied. “But is Louis trustworthy? King Henry of Castile is weak and therefore malleable. I have it on good authority that he would be pleased to marry off his half-sister Isabella to a foreign power, for he has a newborn daughter to think of and the Lady Isabella is her rival for the throne. I believe he would agree to very acceptable
terms.”

  The door opened and Edward suddenly appeared. “Mother,” he said. “What are you discussing?”

  “Your marriage,” I replied, smiling up at him. He was my golden boy with his unusual height, thick head of golden hair, and bright blue eyes.

  “We were just talking of two promising young ladies,” said Warwick. “Isabella of Castile and Bona of Savoy.”

  “And what do these ladies look like?”

  “Lady Isabella is highly intelligent and pleasing to look at,” I replied, making a mental note to obtain a portrait of her. Of course Edward would want an attractive wife.

  “Does she have violet eyes?” asked Edward. “Or hair the color of silver?”

  There was only one person who met that description, and that was Lady Eleanor Talbot, the youngest daughter of my dearest friend Margaret and now Lady Butler. She’d been married years ago.

  Warwick looked at Edward intently. “Do you have someone in mind?”

  Edward shrugged and smiled.

  I waited for him to speak, a strange sensation of unease crawling up my spine.

  “Do not look so serious, Mother,” said Edward finally. “I wish only for a beauty.”

  “And that you shall have,” declared Warwick, rising and slapping him on the back. “I have already turned down two ladies your mother suggested on the grounds they were too old.”

  Edward grimaced.

  “I understand your tastes,” said Warwick. He glanced at me and forbore to say more.

  I thinned my lips. It was greatly disquieting that every young woman in the land was flinging herself at Edward.

  “Find me a bride who is young, lively and very beautiful,” said Edward, clasping Warwick’s hand. And with a quick kiss on my cheek, he disappeared.

  Chapter 51

  The Abbey of Our Lady and Saint John the Evangelist

  Reading, Berkshire

  September 14, 1464

  Knowing that my son had chosen for his motto Confort et Liesse (Comfort and Joy) should have prepared me. For Edward had one fatal flaw, he could be dangerously impulsive.

  One fine September day in the Year of Our Lord 1464, I was waiting to talk with him about his forthcoming marriage to the Lady Bona of Savoy when the door to the chapter house burst open and everyone poured out. Edward hurried over.

  “What’s happened?” I asked, noticing the hubbub and the long faces of his councilors.

  “Mother, I am married. I have just told my councilors—”

  “Married!” The color drained from my face. “Who is she?”

  “You do not know her, Mother. She is Dame Élisabeth Grey.”

  “Dame Grey. You mean she was married before?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  My stomach lurched and I staggered.

  Edward signaled to hovering servants to bring me a chair and some wine. At another signal, everyone left. I sat and sipped my wine slowly while marshaling my swirling thoughts. Eventually, I looked up at Edward. “Who are her parents?”

  “Her mother is Jacquetta of Luxembourg, the daughter of the Count of St. Pol.”

  I knew that name—it could not be. “Her father?”

  “Earl Rivers.”

  “You mean that jumped-up squire Sir Richard Woodville,” I snapped, “Sir Nobody.”

  Edward winced.

  I knew who Dame Élisabeth Grey was. Her mother Jacquetta had created a scandal nearly thirty years before when, as the widowed Duchess of Bedford and aunt-by-marriage to the king, she had married Sir Richard Woodville shortly after her husband’s death. Sir Richard was far below her in rank and only had his good looks to commend him.

  As for Dame Grey, that doll-like child now had gilt-gold hair, pointed features, and a sly smile. She was a year older than my beloved daughter Joan would have been, had she lived, which meant that at twenty-seven, she was five years older than Edward. She was the widow of a Lancastrian knight who’d fought against us in the recent wars—Sir John Grey of Groby. She had two boys. She was poor. She had a large number of relatives. In short, she had nothing to recommend her. Moreover, she and her mother had interfered the day of Marguerite’s churching, the day I struggled to have Nan come home to me. I turned on Edward.

  “How could you be such a fool?”

  He flinched.

  “How long have you been married?”

  He flushed and the silence held. Finally he lifted his chin and looked at me squarely. “Since May.”

  “Since May? Edward, that cannot be so.”

  There was silence again.

  “Are you saying you have been married for the past four months?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He hung his head. A flush crept up his neck.

  I sagged in my seat. If only I’d been allowed to spend time with Edward when he was growing up. If only Richard hadn’t taken him away.

  “Edward,” I said, “I am devoted to you, you know that. I have worked tirelessly for you all my life. Why could you not confide in me, your own mother?”

  “I knew you would talk me out of it.”

  I looked at him steadily for a moment. He was a coward, as well as completely irresponsible. “Do you truly think she is suitable?”

  “Yes.”

  I picked up my wine-cup. “The fact that you have been married for four months and have told no one will indicate to everyone you do not think her to be suitable.”

  “She is the most beautiful woman in England.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” I put my wine-cup down. “Did the wedding occur in a church?”

  He shook his head.

  “Who were the witnesses?”

  “Élisabeth came with her mother. There was the priest.”

  I gazed at him. It was like his christening, that underhanded affair in a private chapel away from prying eyes.

  “That was a very private ceremony,” I murmured eventually. “I was planning a magnificent celebration for you, my son, something that would befit a King of England. I was hoping to meet your bride beforehand, to welcome her into the family.”

  Edward took my hand in his. “And you will know Élisabeth,” he said. “Mother, I would like you to befriend her.”

  I stared at him and withdrew my hand.

  “How well do you know her?”

  “I have been courting her for several months.”

  I tapped the arm of my chair to control my surging feelings. My golden boy had just crushed all my hopes and dreams. “There are many reasons to marry,” I said. “If you had to marry for love, could you not have chosen someone who you had serious reason to believe would make you happy?”

  “She does make me happy.”

  “How?”

  He flushed.

  I drained my cup of wine. “Remember, Edward, you have a soul to keep. Your wife will have a great deal of power over you.”

  “She is sweet and charming.”

  “She wants to be Queen of England.”

  Edward fiddled with his ring.

  “She will not make you happy. Apart from that, there are political reasons for not marrying her.”

  I rose and stood stiff and tall.

  “When you succeeded my lord of York as head of the family, you assumed certain duties and responsibilities. You are now king, and it is the king’s duty—for the sake of his family and his country—to marry into a noble or royal house from the continent to enhance his status and increase his possessions. Your cousin has traveled to France on your behalf, and negotiations for your marriage to Bona of Savoy are now far advanced.”

  “Cousin Warwick will accept my marriage.”

  I raised an eyebrow: “You didn’t confide in your cousin?”

  Edward was silent.

  I folded my arms. “It is the height of folly to antagonize the Earl of Warwick so unnecessarily. Why he was expecting to conclude these marriage negotiations within the month.”

  Edward twisted his signet r
ing again.

  “As you know, I have also been in correspondence with Isabella of Castile, in case the French marriage negotiations broke down. Either of these princesses would have been fit to be your queen.”

  “But I don’t know them,” protested Edward. “What makes you think they would have made me happy?”

  “They are young,” I ticked my fingers. “Bona has fifteen years, and Isabella has thirteen. They are schooled to be queens, having lived their lives in the finest courts of Europe, and it was my hope, as your mother, to train them myself. I wanted to tell them about you, I wanted to mold them to English life, and to the ways of your life. I wanted to supervise their religious instruction and to educate them in literature and the arts, the way my mother did.”

  “Mother!”

  I glared. “I would have ensured they had your best interests at heart.”

  There was silence.

  I had said everything I could. Was there any way of annulling this ridiculous marriage?

  But Edward said nothing.

  “It is wholly inappropriate,” I remarked, staring at his downcast eyes and shut-in face, “for a monarch to marry his own subject where no honor or lands can be gained by it. A rich man marries his maid only for a little easy pleasure. In such marriages, folk admire the maid’s good fortune, but think her master lacks judgment. And in this matter, there is no difference so great between any master and maid in this land as between you and this widow.”

  I paused.

  Edward did not react.

  “And the fact that she is a widow makes everything much worse.”

  Edward lifted his chin and stared at me.

  I gazed back. There was a long silence. Finally I snapped, “This marriage is a blemish and a disparagement to the majesty of a prince!”