1 - THWARTED QUEEN

by Cynthia Sally Haggard

  “He’ll not cause me to go,” declared Jenet. “I was worried sick about you. You know how susceptible you are to the cold, and the weather has been evil. Look at the way you’re coughing, even now. ‘My place is with my lady,’ I said to myself. For no one else can make the cold tinctures that she needs.”

  “And I am right glad to see you,” I replied, kissing her on the cheek. “And all of you are welcome,” I added, “if you wish to stay in this grim place.”

  They assured me that they wished to stay with such a kind mistress and set about making needful repairs.

  Slowly, life returned to normal.

  Unfortunately, the same could not be said for my nearest kin. Things had curdled to sourness betwixt my son and my nephew. Warwick had given up much of his life, as well as a portion of his considerable fortune, to support the House of York. And what had Edward done for him in return? Promoted the Serpent’s family at the expense of everyone else.

  Now he made difficulties about the marriage between George and Bella. Edward’s opposition did not prevent Warwick from working behind the scenes to obtain a papal dispensation so that the marriage could proceed.

  I gazed out at the gloomy skies that seemed to hover over this ruined castle. What would Edward do when George defied him and married Bella?

  Chapter 58

  June 1469 to September 1470

  In June of 1469, three months after I was taken from my home in Fotheringhay, news came that George plotted to overthrow Edward.

  I motioned the messenger to leave and went to my prie-dieu for prayer and reflection. Wasn’t this what I wanted? But what about George? Would he have the backing of the magnates and the citizens of London? Or was this a ploy by Warwick to seize power?

  I let the polished jet beads of my rosary slip through my fingers. George was in great danger, I was sure of it. As his mother, I must do everything in my power to protect him.

  And so I hurried to Canterbury, where he was then staying, awaiting a favorable tide that would take him to Calais.

  “My son,” I said. “Do not do this. It will ruin your life.”

  “Edward is a bastard. You said so, yourself. Mother, I am the legitimate heir to the throne.”

  “I know, my son. But I know also that Edward has been anointed king, and that he is popular with the people.”

  “Warwick is more popular.”

  George had a point there. The people were growing weary of the taxes Edward imposed on them, and there was unrest in the north.

  I took a deep breath, then played my last card. “Warwick does not want you on the throne.”

  George’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, he looked exactly like Edward. “How do you know that?”

  “I feel it in my bones.”

  “Then why is he supporting me?”

  “He is using you.”

  George turned away. “Go home, Mother, and leave me in peace. I have pledged my word to Warwick’s cause, and I’ll not go back on it.”

  I argued with him for an hour or more, but there was nothing I could do to sway his judgment.

  And so I returned to Berkhamsted.

  At the beginning of July, George set sail for Calais with Warwick and his family. Shortly afterwards, the unrest in the north boiled over. Edward did nothing. Instead he took a boat to Fotheringhay and spent a week in my newly refurbished apartments. With the Serpent.

  On the eleventh day of July 1469, in defiance of Edward’s wishes, George wed Warwick’s daughter Bella in the Church of Our Lady in Calais. Then, Warwick issued a proclamation calling on the king to remove the Woodvilles from their high offices. Warwick sailed for Kent, marched on the city of London, where he was welcomed with great acclaim, then went north.

  On the twenty-sixth day of July 1469, Warwick scored a resounding victory at the Battle of Edgecote Moor.

  Edward, who had been woolgathering in the middle of the country, now sought shelter in a little village called Olney. When news of Warwick’s victory broke, all the lords left him, saving only his distant cousin William Hastings, whose father had long served the House of York, and my youngest son, Richard, Duke of Gloucester.

  On the second day of August 1469, Edward was captured and brought before Warwick and George.

  On hearing this news, I fainted.

  When I came to, I went to my prie-dieu and spent the rest of the day on my knees in prayer. For if Edward were now to be executed, I would be responsible. Little did I think that my bitter words would be used against him so quickly, and to such lethal effect.

  The next morning, I sent a messenger to invite the nuns from house of Ashridge to join me at Berkhamsted Castle. Thus, I gradually fell into the habit of rising early to pray at matins, of having religious works read aloud while I dined, and of relaxing in the evening with my women over a glass or two of wine. The daily rhythm of prayer as well as the company of the good sisters helped me to keep my sanity.

  For the news sent me spinning, like a top.

  The Serpent got exactly what she deserved, forced to lodge in the Tower in scant state. Now she would know how it felt to come down in the world. Her mother’s arrest on a charge of witchcraft was only to be expected since it was well known she practiced the black arts. That is exactly how she trapped my son into that awful marriage. The capture and beheading of the Serpent’s father and one of her brothers was regrettable. But how else was one to get rid of the Woodvilles? They were everywhere, a blight on the White Rose of York.

  Then I received a tear-stained letter from Cath in which she bewailed the passing of her fourth husband, Sir John Woodville:

  My Johnny was so sweet, wrote Cath, and such a good husband to me. I cannot imagine what he did to deserve such a death. I hope, dear sister, your dislike of the Queen did not cause you to say things you might regret. You always were headstrong, you know.

  I crumpled up the letter and tossed it in the fire. Then I took to my bed, Jenet fussing over me with her tonics and tinctures.

  Yes, the Serpent had gone. But what about my sons? What was going to happen to Edward, George, Richard?

  Despite his popularity, Warwick did not have the authority to rule. Without the support of the magnates, ruling England would prove impossible, and the majority of the magnates thought that this time Warwick had gone too far. By summer’s end, Warwick was losing his grip and the country was descending into anarchy. In London, angry mobs demanded the release of the king.

  Edward was released from captivity and taken to York where his supporters and the magnates acclaimed him.

  Early in October of 1469, Edward left York with his supporters and returned to London to the great joy of its citizens. One of his first acts was to give Richard, then only seventeen years old, full powers to secure the Welsh strongholds from rebel hands.

  I smiled when I read a letter from my youngest son, in which he earnestly told me how he had successfully carried out the king’s instructions. I locked the letter away in a box I kept by my bed to read when my spirits became low.

  Although Edward behaved courteously towards George and Warwick, it was plain to all that things were not going their way. By February of 1470, Warwick’s desperation with the situation had reached such a pitch, he incited a rising in Yorkshire and Lincolnshire. His plan was to distract Edward in this manner, then enlist the help of the French king in deposing him.

  This time, Edward acted quickly and marched north. The king’s army confronted the rebels at Empingham in Rutland on the twelfth day of March 1470, and it struck so swiftly that Warwick and George had no time to bring in reinforcements. The rebels fled with such speed they left their jackets behind. And so this battle became known as the Battle of Lose-Coat Field.

  On the twenty-fourth of March 1470, Edward issued a proclamation calling Warwick and George traitors and rebels. They fled to Calais, taking Warwick’s wife, George’s wife, and Bella’s younger sister, Nanette.

  Then tragedy struck.

  On the sixteenth day of April 1470, B
ella, heavily pregnant, went into labor.

  Our first child could not be saved, wrote George in a letter to me, for we were all on a ship at anchor in Calais Harbor, and Edward’s henchmen would not let us land in Calais. When Cousin Warwick pleaded with them, saying that his daughter was like to die, they replied that they had received direct orders from King Edward himself. Can you believe it? I had not thought him to be cruel. Bella lost a lot of blood. She owes her life to her mother, cousin Anne, who is skilled in midwifery.

  I shook my head. The continuation of the war was making men bitter. Even Edward, usually so genial and tolerant, forgot his knightly code. Taking George’s letter, I went to my prie-dieu and placed it between my hands. I spent an hour or so praying to God that George and Bella would have healthy children.

  Things continued to go badly for George. Warwick gained an audience with the King of France and was persuaded to make reconciliation with Marguerite of Anjou, then staying at the French court with her son, Édouard. As I had foreseen, George was set aside. For King Louis XI thought it better to try and reinstate Henry of Lancaster, rather than put George on the throne, telling Warwick that George was unreliable.

  It did not take George long to realize what was afoot, and the letter he wrote me was an angry one. I resisted telling him off. Instead, I wrote a soothing note in which I expressed the hope that he might reconcile himself to Edward, for he is your sovereign lord, I wrote, and greatly beloved by the people.

  I wondered how Louis XI had persuaded Marguerite d’Anjou to make peace with Warwick. I had an opportunity to find out when the French ambassador traveled up from London to pay his respects.

  “It was not easy, madam,” he replied, smiling faintly in reply to my question. “Queen Marguerite cried out that Warwick had pierced her heart with wounds that would bleed until Judgment Day, when she would appeal to the justice of God for vengeance against him.”

  “Not an auspicious beginning,” I remarked, signaling for more wine to be poured.

  Now that I had been at Berkhamsted for over a year, the place was beginning to look like a royal palace again, where I might entertain visitors without embarrassment. Edward had graciously forgotten to take my revenues away from me, so I was able to pay for the upkeep and refurbishment of this place, which had been home to so many English queens.

  “It was not an auspicious beginning,” agreed the ambassador, wiping his lips with a napkin. “But King Louis is very patient. He heard her out and, when she finished, told her bluntly that while her arguments might be valid, she should put her personal feelings aside if she wished to win the throne back for her husband.”

  “And she agreed to this?”

  “Only after a discussion that lasted many, many days.”

  On the fifteenth of July 1470, Warwick’s wife, Anne, and his daughter Nanette were formally presented to Marguerite d’Anjou. Ten days later, on July 25, Nanette was betrothed to Marguerite’s son Édouard in Angers Cathedral. Five days later, on July 30, Warwick swore to keep faith with the Lancastrians on a fragment of the true cross.

  In August, Edward, who had ignored the warnings from his diplomats and went hunting, was drawn north to Yorkshire by news of a rebellion.

  On the thirteenth of September, Warwick’s fleet of ships arrived in the West Country harbors of Dartmouth and Plymouth. So many men flocked to Warwick’s banner, by the time he reached Coventry, he had an army numbering some fifty thousand men.

  Edward marched south to deal with Warwick’s rebellion only to find his soldiers deserting in large numbers. And so he fled to Burgundy, taking with him his boon companion William Hastings, his brother-in-law Rivers, and my youngest son Richard.

  Chapter 59

  October 1470 to October 1471

  My three sons now fought over the throne of England. It was impossible for me to take sides; however much I disagreed with Edward over his choice of wife, he had been a good king. Moreover, Richard, of whom I was so proud, adored his brother the king. He had followed him into exile, even though it meant fighting against his former mentor and friend, Warwick. As for George, I could never now think of him without the greatest anxiety. What was to become of him? His life seemed rudderless and dark.

  We rode into London at the head of a triumphal procession, wrote George, and made homage to King Henry. Cousin Warwick ordered the king to be newly arrayed in a robe of blue velvet, and we rode from the Tower along Cheapside to the Bishop of London’s palace. Warwick had him sit on the throne and placed the crown on his head. He paid him great reverence. But I could not help noticing that King Henry sat on the throne as if he were but a sack of wool. Was he always like that, Mother? For you knew him well in his younger days.

  I smiled grimly as I tucked that letter away. The fact the King Henry seemed so inert caused a small spark of hope to light in my heart. But where were Edward and Richard?

  Soon after, I received a letter from Richard.

  Madam,

  I recommend me to you as heartily as is to me possible. Edward and I and others of our party have arrived in The Hague, so you need fret no more, Mother. We are safe. We are going to seek out Charles of Burgundy, and in my next, I hope to bring you tidings of our sister Margaret.

  On the second day of November 1470, the Serpent gave birth to a son, named Edward. It should have been a day of great rejoicing, for after three daughters, she had given Edward his heir. But the Serpent was perching in Westminster Abbey where she had taken sanctuary. And Warwick reigned supreme.

  However, the birth of the Yorkist heir disquieted Warwick. On the thirteenth of December 1470, his fourteen-year-old daughter Nanette was married to seventeen-year-old Édouard of Lancaster, now styled Prince of Wales, in the Château d’Amboise. Marguerite of Anjou was in attendance.

  Then, Warwick blundered.

  I received this news one cold, wet morning in February of 1471 when a messenger ran into the great hall of Berkhamsted Castle.

  “He’s ordered the Calais garrison to attack Burgundy!”

  I straightened in my seat on the dais, and frowned. “What mean you, my good fellow?”

  The messenger gasped out something that I could not clearly hear.

  I signaled to my steward. “Bring a pitcher of ale and some pies from the kitchens.”

  As he hurried off to do my bidding, I recognized the messenger as being one of my late husband’s agents. I beckoned him closer.

  “Tell me your message more slowly, my good friend. Of whom are you speaking?”

  “Warwick, my lady. Warwick has ordered the Calais garrison to attack Burgundy.”

  “Are you sure?” I said, watching his face closely.

  The messenger gazed squarely into my eyes, his expression never changing.

  I frowned as I settled more comfortably against the cushions in my carved chair: “That seems extremely foolhardy. If he did that, there would be no better way of throwing Charles of Burgundy into Edward’s arms.”

  “Indeed, madam. Which is why I am here. To bring you good comfort.”

  I smiled. Edward and Richard would have an opportunity to invade England after all. But their path would be fraught with danger.

  “Tell me about the London merchants,” I said, motioning him to rise. “Do they know of this matter?”

  “Indeed they do, and they are furious. The do not want England dragged into a war with Burgundy without Parliament’s consent. They know this could ruin their trade. And so, they are refusing to lend Warwick any more money.”

  The tide is turning, I thought, giving the messenger a sovereign.

  On the fourteenth of March 1471, Edward landed in Ravenspur, Yorkshire with an army funded by the Duke of Burgundy. Four days later on March 18, he was welcomed into the city of York. On the twenty-ninth of March, Edward appeared before Coventry, one of the most heavily fortified towns in England, for his spies had told him that Warwick was there with seven thousand men.

  Edward spent three days sending formal challenges to Warwick to
come out and fight, to no avail. Edward then marched his army to Warwick and captured the castle. There, he was formally proclaimed king.

  I took this opportunity to write to George:

  My beloved son,

  You can see how little you stand with Warwick, for I am told that he recently forced you to hand over some of your property to Marguerite d’Anjou. I pray you, therefore, to put aside your differences and give Edward your assistance in regaining his throne. Edward is generous with his rewards, and your elderly mother will rejoice to see her sons reunited.

  On the third of April, George, Duke of Clarence, led his army of twelve thousand men into King Edward’s camp at Banbury and knelt in submission. On the eleventh of April, another messenger ran into Berkhamsted Castle.

  “The king has arrived in London!” he exclaimed.

  I rose from my seat, flooded with energy. “Heavens be praised. How was he greeted?”

  “With great joy, madam,” replied the messenger bowing. He handed me a letter with a flourish. “He had with him his brothers of Clarence and Gloucester.”

  “Thanks be to God,” I exclaimed, crossing myself.

  Edward’s letter invited me to meet him in London. And so, it came to pass, that Edward, George, and Richard attended a solemn service in my private chapel on April 12, 1471, Good Friday.

  As I walked down the stairs into the great hall of Baynard’s Castle to greet my three sons, I finally felt some measure of peace. How wonderful that they were together at last. For this was the way it was supposed to be, brother supporting brother.

  To celebrate the occasion, I invited several leading citizens of London and their wives. It was heart-warming to hear so many kind folk inquire after my health and express their delight that I was back in London. I was in the middle of talking with Sir Simon Eyre, former sheriff and mayor of London, who was telling me his memories of my lord Richard, when twenty-eight-year -old Edward strode boisterously into the hall, looking fit and lean after his exertions in the field. As was his wont, he had no trouble filling that huge room with his presence.