The Queen of Last Hopes (17 page)

“I don’t merely mistrust him. I want him dead, even though he kept Warwick’s thugs from killing me. He gave the order that my father be assassinated.” Hal stared around the chamber, and I suddenly remembered, with a pang, the day his father had brought him and his brothers there after their return from France. “But for now, I’ll settle for removing him as protector.”

“Alas, he can be removed as protector only if Parliament assents,” I said. “He took care to have that provision inserted, so the king couldn’t change his mind and have him removed on his own volition. But there is some hope there, actually. The resumptions.” Claiming that the royal household was living beyond its means, the commons had been demanding for some time that Henry take back the grants he had made over the years. I stood to lose by the resumptions, and so did those lords who could not obtain exemptions from them. York, in his favorite guise as man of the people, had stood behind the commons, who had somehow failed to notice that York had his own ambitions to acquire some of the resumed property. “The lords cannot be happy with them. If we could just take advantage of their unease…It is a pity you aren’t in Parliament, Hal.”

“And won’t be until I’m one-and-twenty; I don’t see York and his cronies summoning me before that. But I’m not without friends there; I can make my views heard. And as for you, all you have to do is smile sweetly at the lords, in that certain way you have like
this
”—Hal managed a most peculiar looking smile that I hoped did not resemble any expression of my own—“and they’ll do anything you please.”

“Hal!”

“It’s true. Try it.”

***

I did
not
smile sweetly at the lords, as that impertinent young man had suggested, but I settled down with my council that day, and the next, and the next, and composed a letter to the lords whom I thought would be sympathetic, expressing my deep reservations about the wisdom of the resumptions and begging that they would ensure that the rights of my son and my own rights were protected. More cautiously, I begged them to consider whether York, so close to the throne, was the best man to serve as protector, if a protector was needed at all. This second thread of my argument was what occupied my councillors for so many days, as its meaning had to be implied rather than said. Were I to openly say that York should be removed, my words would simply be disregarded as those of a meddling woman, and might end up only fixing him more firmly in power. “But it is time someone meddled,” I said to Katherine Vaux soon before Parliament was to open. “If poor Henry cannot, it must be me. Why, William? What in the world?”

William Vaux had rushed into the chamber. “Your grace! Kate! Do come outside. It is the most wondrous sight.”

We followed William outside to the lawn at Greenwich, where most of the household had gathered. And then I saw it, the brightest star I had ever seen, gleaming in the blackness of the night like the Star of Bethlehem must have glowed. “I have never seen such in my life. What could it mean?” Katherine asked.

“An omen, surely,” one of my older ladies said.

I smiled. “A good omen, surely. Nothing so beautiful could be a bad omen.”

And I was right. When Parliament met shortly thereafter, the lords talked of the marvelous star—and of the high-handed resumptions proposed by the commons and the Duke of York, which even threatened poor Henry’s beloved foundations at King’s College and Eton. So disgusted were the lords that a delegation of them went to Henry, who walked into Parliament on February 25, clad magnificently, and ordered York to resign as protector. Save for York and Warwick, the lords assented.

And that same afternoon, the Duke of York himself paid me a visit. “So, my lady. You may congratulate yourself on a job well done.”

“Whatever do you mean, my lord?”

“You will not attempt to deny that you sought my removal as protector. I saw the letter you wrote.”

“I had not been planning to deny it, but you must have noticed that I was not among the lords in Parliament. As I am not in the habit of wearing male dress, I would not have blended in. The lords acted as they would; I merely informed them of my opinion. They were free to disregard it; it appears that either they did not, or they happened to hold the same opinion as I did.”

“Tell me, your grace. What do you think will happen to the realm now that I am not protector? Do you truly think the king is fit to govern?”

I shrugged. “He has his council, does he not? And you remain on it. My lord, face the truth. Pleased as I am to see you gone, it was not my doing. It was yours.” I paused. “I do understand your frustration, my lord.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. As I am a woman, you cannot arrest me, or do battle with me, or have your men beat my brains out as I lie helpless in the street, as you did the Duke of Somerset. It must be extremely irritating to you.” I gazed at the interesting shade of red York was turning. “My lord, before you leave, there is one thing I would like to request of you.”

“Oh?”

“That tiresome fellow, John Helton, who posted those bills claiming that the Prince of Wales was a changeling. I do not know if he was one of your creatures, or Warwick’s, but if he was yours, I hope you shall refrain from inciting any more of them to such deeds. Henry ordered him to be drawn, hanged, and quartered, and he hates commanding such things. Please spare him the further necessity of it.”

The Duke of Buckingham hauled Hal Beaufort into my chamber at Kenilworth Castle and shoved him upon the floor, where he rested unsteadily upon his knees, his hands tied. “Good lord, what has happened?” I sniffed. “Is he drunk?”

“He’s drunk, and he’s an utter fool,” snapped Buckingham. “He and his men decided it would be
amusing
to attack the Duke of York and his men at Coventry.”

“I heard just now that there had been a disturbance there. Was that the trouble?”

“Aye, all owing to this fellow. And there was trouble indeed. In the fracas two of the city watchmen were killed.”

“Hal!”

Hal hiccupped and mumbled, “Forgive me, your grace.”

“The city officials would have arrested the young fool, and some of the townspeople might have done worse to him, but I prevented it,” Buckingham continued. “No, don’t thank me, your grace. ’Tis only because his sister Meg is married to my son, and she frets herself to death over her favorite brother, and then Humphrey frets himself to death over her. I did it for their sake. If it weren’t for that I’d have told them to keep him.”

“But you should have seen the Duke of York,” Hal interjected, attempting to stand until Buckingham, who was not a particularly imposing-looking man but who could rise to an occasion, stopped him with a mere glare. “He was riding at the head of all of his men, looking so damned smug. We were coming out of the tavern and saw him, and we just couldn’t stand it. Or at least I couldn’t stand it,” Hal added sullenly. He looked up at me. “I’m sorry about the watchmen, your grace. We only wanted to fight with York, and they got in the middle of it.”

“And what else did you expect them to do? Tomorrow you will make reparations to their families. It is the least you can do.”

“It is the
only
thing he can do, unless he can raise the dead,” snapped Buckingham. “For God’s sake, your grace, keep him here until the council finishes meeting. He’s only likely to cause more troub—”

“Hal, what is this?” Henry, who had entered the room noiselessly, bent beside Hal and touched him gently. “They tell me your men were in a great affray.”

“I beg your forgiveness, your grace.” Hal’s eyes were filling with tears; either he was genuinely contrite by now or he was the lachrymose breed of drunk. “I saw him and I thought of Father; I
miss
him, your grace. And it drives me mad to see the Duke of York living, and not having suffered at all, and—” He took a breath. “I didn’t mean for anyone else to die, your grace.”

“I know, I know.” Henry patted Hal on the shoulder. “But you must forgive the Duke of York, haven’t we discussed that? Come. Let me take you to your chamber so you can rest. Tomorrow we can speak of these things more in depth.”

He raised an unprotesting Hal to his feet, untied his hands, and led him from the room, murmuring soothing words to him as I stared at my feet.

The court had for all purposes moved itself to Coventry and its environs earlier that year. That had been chiefly my doing; my estates mostly lay in the surrounding area, and I had realized that here, instead of in volatile London, I could find support against any mischief York might care to do to the king and to me—and to our son. It was also a chance for the people to meet their Prince of Wales. Taking him around was of course a task I delighted in anyway, for Edward at three was sturdy and bright and well worth showing off. Henry, strained from a summer of unrest in London that arose from long-simmering tensions between the locals and the Italian merchants who resided there, had joined me in September.

It was to Coventry, then, that Henry had summoned his council, and it was at Coventry, again mostly due to my efforts, that the Bourchier brothers, who had ties to York, had been removed from their positions as treasurer and chancellor and replaced with men I could trust. Yet the Bourchiers were Buckingham’s half brothers, to whom he was close, and I knew their removals had vexed him. He wasn’t a man I wanted to vex. I liked him, and I indeed wanted him to like me. I had never forgotten his kindness to me at the time of Henry’s madness.

I would have to find some way to get back on good terms with Buckingham. “Thank you, my lord, for intervening on Hal’s behalf.”

“He must learn to govern himself, your grace. Antics like this do nothing to help him or those who favor him.”

I flushed at this reference to myself, for it was true that Hal had been much about me since the court had moved to Coventry. I found his company pleasant, especially with Henry so tense and fretful, and I had believed—up until now—that my company had a softening effect on Hal, who otherwise was greatly inclined to dwell on the prospect of avenging his father’s murder. “I will use what influence I can, and Lord Ros may be able to reason with him. Of course, the king may work a good influence upon him. You saw him listening to him just now.”

“Listening; yes, well, that’s one thing. Whether young Beaufort actually acts upon what he hears is another matter. If he won’t heed your grace’s advice, I doubt he’ll heed anyone’s.”

I decided that a subject change was in order. “You spoke of your son and daughter-in-law, my lord. How does your grandson fare?”

“Harry does well,” Buckingham said, visibly softening, though with obvious reluctance, at his mention of his year-old grandson, born the September after St. Albans. “At present he looks more like a Beaufort than a Stafford; poor Somerset, God assoil him, would have been pleased by that, no doubt. He would have doted on the boy, as do I.” He sighed. “I know young Hal genuinely mourns the man, and I understand he wants retribution. I saw his father’s body, and trust me, even a saint, not to mention our hot-blooded Hal, would have difficulty not lusting for revenge after such a sight. But he needn’t drag all of Coventry into his grief and grievance either. I had best go back there and see that order has been restored.”

“I don’t know what we would do without you, my lord.” I was sincere, and I hoped Buckingham realized it.

Evidently he did, for he smiled faintly. “Me neither, your grace.”

***

“I have paid for the watchmen’s burials, offered prayers for their souls, and provided compensation for their families,” a hung-over Hal informed me the next afternoon.

“Hal, that’s commendable, but you cannot involve innocent people in your quarrels like this. Not only have men doing their duties died because of this, your actions put the whole court in a bad light.”

“I know, your grace.”

“You must do better in the future.”

“Yes, your grace.” Hal bowed his head. “I have also thanked Buckingham; he went with me this morning on my rounds, and I sorely needed his presence as a mediator or I might have found myself in a spot of trouble. Now that I have made what amends I could in Coventry, the king has given me leave to depart from here. My servants are packing. I’ll be gone within an hour.”

“That is best, I think.”

Hal raised his head and fixed his dark brown eyes on me. All of a sudden, I felt as if I had kicked a puppy. “Do you hate me that much, your grace, after what happened?”

“Hate you? Goodness, no. Come sit with me a while before you leave.”

Hal obediently sat on the stool I indicated, and my ladies flocked into a corner to give us privacy, though I had not requested that they do so. I took his hand, which like the rest of Hal was lean and strong. “I only want you to keep the peace. It is something the king wants so much.”

“I know. I try, I truly do, but it’s harder than you might think. When I’m not thinking of my father running out of that inn, then getting slaughtered by those whoresons, I’m dreaming of it. It makes me wake up screaming sometimes. Only Joan and my pages and now you know that.” He managed a smile. “I hope your grace is conscious of the honor.”

I squeezed Hal’s hand, which I had neglected to release. “I am glad you can confide in me.”

“And then I see York swanning around Coventry as if he’s the Messiah come back to earth, and my blood boils, especially when he looked at me the way he did last night, as if we Beauforts were dirt beneath his feet. He seems to have forgotten that his duchess’s mother was one of us.” Hal snorted. “What does that make his own children? An eighth Beaufort? My head aches too much to cipher it.”

I sighed. “The king seems to be on good terms with York. He believes that he has the good of the realm at heart.”

“And you, your grace? Do you believe that?”

“Not for a moment.”

We smiled at each other, and then Hal brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. “I should be off, your grace. I think Kenilworth will be more than glad to see the back of me, and Mother will be glad to see me home.”

“You are staying with her, then?”

“Yes, for a few days, but naturally, it is Joan I shall be staying with most of the time. But that’s not what I told the king. That will be our own secret, won’t it, your grace?”

“Yes,” I said a little coldly, not caring to analyze the odd pang I felt in my heart or the even odder sensation I had felt when Hal’s lips brushed my hand. But that night when I lay in my bed, unvisited by Henry, I found myself imagining, as I had begun to do on these lonely nights, myself in the ardent grasp of a man. A man, I realized with a start, who looked a great deal like Hal.

I blushed with shame and turned over on my side.

There was sad news a few weeks later: Edmund Tudor, the Earl of Richmond, Henry’s younger half brother, was dead, leaving behind a very young widow, Margaret Beaufort, who was great with child despite having just turned thirteen. Her father, long deceased, had been the older brother of the late Duke of Somerset. There were doubts as to whether the poor girl, who was really too young and small to safely bear a child, would survive her forthcoming ordeal, but she gave birth to a healthy son, named after the king, in late January, and lived through the experience herself. In a matter of months, the Duke of Buckingham and Edmund’s brother, Jasper—with my blessing—were negotiating a new marriage for the young widow, with Buckingham’s second son, Henry. This, I was pleased to see, improved my relations with Buckingham.

Meanwhile, in March 1457, Hal Beaufort returned to Coventry to take formal possession of his father’s dukedom and his lands, and to explain his latest escapade, this one over Christmas. “I was riding in London from Joan’s place, and who did I see riding toward me but John Neville?” John was a younger brother of Warwick. His feuding with the younger Percy sons, which had started years before for reasons no one outside of the families involved had quite figured out, had caused Henry much irritation before St. Albans. “So he started giving me hard looks, and naturally I started giving him hard looks, and before we knew it, we were trading insults.”

“Fancy that.”

“I would say on the whole that I did better with mine,” Hal said reflectively. “Anyway, we decided to have it out once and for all, but neither one of us was properly armed, so we rode off to gather our men to fight in Cheapside.”

I groaned. “How many lives were lost this time?”

“Oh, none. The mayor sent the watch out and kept us from fighting.”

“You promised me at Coventry you would not do this sort of thing again.”

“This was different. It wouldn’t have been an attack, but an honest fight. No need for outsiders to be involved.”

“An honest fight between dozens of men on either side? Hal, you are not even of age yet! Try not to get yourself killed before you turn one-and-twenty. Joan would miss you, for one. And your mother and the rest of your family.”

“And you, your grace?”

“And me.” I dropped my eyes. “And the king would miss you as well,” I added firmly.

***

In August, the quiet we had enjoyed in England was broken abruptly when Pierre de Brézé, the seneschal of Normandy, attacked the town of Sandwich. I knew Brézé from my father’s court—in those innocent days when I was preparing for my marriage, he and Suffolk had arranged an archery contest during the festivities at Tours—and he was to be one of the best friends I ever had later. But to say, as some did even then, that I had encouraged the attack was nonsensical.

“No sensible person would believe that,” Henry said mildly one evening at Coventry after I had held forth on this topic for a time.

“Well, these are not always such sensible people,” I muttered.

Henry’s long stay in the Midlands had improved his mental state greatly—so greatly, in fact, that he had resumed marital relations with me, though without resulting in the second pregnancy for which I so longed. “This incident makes me realize how important it is that England be as one again,” he said, stroking my hair one night after we had loved each other. “I must return to London, and I must exert myself to bring the lords together.” They had not been causing trouble lately, but their quietude in itself was somehow ominous and had more of a sullen quality than a peaceful one.

“If there is a man who can do it, I am sure it is you. You have the patience.”

Henry tapped me on the nose. “I hear the emphasis you put on
if
, my dear skeptic. But I am determined to do so.”

And somehow he did, although the situation could have hardly looked less promising when a great council convened in January 1458. Every lord arrived with a small army at his back: the old Earl of Salisbury with five hundred men; the Duke of York with four hundred, the Percies and Lord Clifford with fifteen hundred. How in the world Somerset and Exeter managed to raise eight hundred men between them baffled me, for neither was very rich for a duke. Warwick, who had been appointed Captain of Calais and who had been residing there, arrived with six hundred followers, each wearing a red jacket bearing his symbol of the ragged staff.