The Queen of Last Hopes (2 page)

I became my Henry’s queen long before I saw him: at Tours in 1444, to be precise. I was fourteen. My marriage was supposed to end a conflict between England and France that had been going on for decades before I was even born.

“You will be our lady of peace,” my uncle by marriage, King Charles VII of France, informed me. I had come to Tours with my father, King René of Anjou, whose sister Marie was Charles’s queen, and my mother, Isabelle. The English delegation had just inspected me, though “introduction” was the word everyone had used.

“They were satisfied, then?” I asked.

“My dear, how could they not be?”

“I have always said that I had a treasure at Angers,” my father said.

Charles halfway raised his eyebrows before he caught himself. I suspected that he was thinking that I was my father’s only treasure, for it was true that my father was not, for his position, an especially wealthy man. Though he was known as King of Sicily and Jerusalem, Duke of Bar, Lorraine, and Anjou, and Count of Provence, his title to Jerusalem was flimsy, it had to be admitted, and he had given up his quest for Naples two years before. His lands of Maine were under English occupation. “What dowry shall I have?” I asked. It seemed only right that I as the bride should know.

“Majorca and Minorca,” my uncle said, and I winced. If anything was as empty as my father’s claim to Sicily and Jerusalem, it was his claim to Majorca and Minorca. “And twenty thousand francs. Well, of course the English shall get a two-year truce; I suppose that counts also.”

It was humiliating being sold so cheaply, even with the truce thrown in. My distress must have shown on my face, for Charles said, “You see, my dear, they want this marriage and peace as much as we do, and frankly, they need it more. The sixth Henry isn’t the warrior his father was, by all reports. Not a warrior at all.”

“But a good man, they say,” added my father, putting his arm around me. “Don’t worry, my dear.”

***

I was formally betrothed in the Church of St. Martin at Tours on May 24, 1444, with William de la Pole, then the Earl of Suffolk, standing proxy for Henry. My uncle led me to the choir where the Bishop of Brescia, the papal legate, stood, and Suffolk and I promised to love and cherish each other.

If a heart can break more than once, mine was to break for the first time six years later, when the whoresons—but that is for another time. I like to remember my friend Suffolk as I saw him that day at the altar, his dark eyes alive with amusement as he gave his strong responses following my somewhat shaky ones. “Don’t worry, my lady, you’ll be an old hand at this when it comes time to marry the king in person,” he whispered as the ceremony ended and we processed to the Abbey of St. Julien, where I was to be feasted like a queen.

There was dancing much, much later in the evening. Whether I was a trifle affected from the wine that had been flowing in abundance or simply from it being well past my usual hour of retirement—for my life at Angers was not a boisterous one—I was feeling giddy when Suffolk partnered me at the dance. “If you were a proper husband to me, you wouldn’t stare so at one particular lady,” I said demurely.

He followed my eye to where his had just been: fixated upon the figure of Agnes Sorel, my uncle’s mistress. Suffolk gave an excellent English version of a French shrug. “I beg your pardon, your grace. But it is difficult not to look, you must admit. She is very lovely—though not, of course, as our new English queen.”

“Flatterer,” I said, and Suffolk did not gainsay me. Agnes Sorel was blond and stately; I was little and darker, though not, I knew, charmless. “She is my uncle’s official mistress,” I babbled on—quite unnecessarily, I realized later, for Suffolk, who was in his late forties, had been serving in France since he was a young man and probably knew as much about the court here as I did, if not more. “Do you have such things in England?”

Suffolk shook his head gravely. “We are not nearly as advanced, I fear. Our mistresses are entirely unofficial.” We paused to take some intricate turns, to general applause, for my grandmother, who had had the rearing of me, had never stinted on dancing masters, and Suffolk was an accomplished partner. “I shall be returning to England shortly. Do you have anything you would like to ask me about the king?”

I considered this question as best I could while dancing. As I turned in harmony with Suffolk, Agnes Sorel once again passed into my line of sight, which suggested a natural topic. “Does
he
have a mistress? I suppose I should know these things in advance.”

My partner nearly stumbled, and had to put a hand to his mouth to stifle laughter. “I beg your pardon, your grace.”

“I do not see how that is such a foolish question,” I said frostily.

“In the case of most men, it would not be—but for anyone who knows our king! He is a very pious man. Indeed, some of the entertainment here tonight would have appalled him. Those rather underclad Moorish dancers we had earlier—There’s none such to be seen at his court. Nor will you find any mistresses in your husband’s life, in or out of court. You’ll have nothing to worry about on that score.”

Did that mean I had to worry about anything else? But the dance had ended and it was time to take my place back at the dais beside the Queen of France, so I never got a chance to ask my next question.

Though I was Queen of England in name now, further preparations and negotiations had to be made before I could come to my new country, and my uncle and my father had military affairs to take care of, so I returned home to my father’s castle of Angers. There I passed nearly another year before it was at last time to begin my journey to England. Though I kept myself busy learning the language of my new country, I also devoted much time to reminding all at Angers of my new position, for as the youngest of my father’s four legitimate children I had hitherto been of limited importance, and previous proposals for my marriage had come to nothing. In enjoying my chance to preen I was, after all, only human, and only fourteen.

At last, in February, my family traveled to Nancy, where my older sister, Yolande (who had long been affianced to Ferry de Vaudemont and thus had missed the opportunity to become Queen of England herself ) was to finally marry her betrothed. It was an important occasion for me as well, for I was to travel on to Rouen and thence finally to my husband across the Channel.

It was a grand occasion, at which my uncle King Charles and most of the French nobility were present, and a hugely expensive one, but my uncle found leisure to call me to him during one of the rare moments of inactivity. “Queenship suits you,” he said, nodding at me. “You’ve grown taller since you were last here.”

“Yes, your grace.” I forbore from pointing out that I was still at an age where one could be expected to grow.

“It is time we spoke of your duties as queen.”

I frowned, hoping that this was not the sort of talk my mother had had with Yolande and me as we traveled to my sister’s wedding. “I know my duties,” I announced. “I am to be virtuous, to manage my household carefully, to intercede with my husband’s subjects, to—”

The king cut me off impatiently. “Yes, yes, all those. But you are a daughter of France, my dear. It is your duty to your country of which I speak.”

“I am Queen of England,” I reminded him.

“Yes, but you will never cease to be a Frenchwoman. You have the opportunity to do much good with this marriage. Good to our country, and even to England.”

“Through peace?”

“Through peace on the terms we want. And what we want is the return of Maine. Suffolk refused to promise it to us when he was here; he said that doing so would exceed his instructions. Well, I can’t blame him for that. Such a promise is best given by King Henry himself. You, my dear, are the best person to persuade him to give it.”

“Me?”

“Why not? A pretty face and soft words can do wonders.” The king gave me a chuck on the chin.

“But won’t his people be upset if he simply agrees to give it up?” I discreetly moved just out of chucking range.

My uncle shrugged. “That’s his concern.”

Were it not impertinent, I would have said that it would presumably be my concern too. “I will do my best, Uncle.”

“Good girl. Mind you, the timing must be right; it’s not something you need bring up on your wedding night, say. Even Henry will have better things on his mind.” I blushed, and my uncle chuckled. “But after a few months of marriage, it will be quite natural to bring it up. I trust your instinct will tell you when. You ladies are instinctive, they all say.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said, grateful that I was getting a reprieve of sorts.

***

By and by, I arrived in Rouen, which of course in those days was still occupied by the English, most notably its lieutenant, Richard, Duke of York, and his wife and young children, who lived at Rouen Castle. The duke and duchess had four children at the time: two daughters, Anne and baby Elizabeth, and two little sons, Edward and Edmund, almost three and almost two respectively. I am not a woman to have premonitions, it appears, for I remember the Edward who was to have such a great effect on my life only as a boisterous little boy who was big for his age and who to his nurse’s dismay derived great satisfaction from smacking his thumb, not out of fretfulness but out of the sheer joy of having a thumb so conveniently at hand to smack.

At Rouen, I promptly fell ill. Whether my indisposition was caused by greensickness (for I had just turned fifteen), by the arrival of my monthly course (which for me was an unpredictable event and one that always caused me a great deal of pain), by some ailment picked up from one of the four sneezing York children, or by the sheer exhaustion of having been greeted and feted in every town I passed through in Normandy, I do not know. Still, I had thought myself much improved when I boarded the
Cokke John
, which was to take me to England. Then I discovered that my malady in Rouen was a mild one compared to that caused by the sea.

William de la Pole (now Marquess of Suffolk, thanks to his role in arranging King Henry’s marriage to me) and his wife, Alice, had been put in charge of me during the voyage. It had been Suffolk who had taken over my care after I had left the last of my family behind at Paris, and it was Suffolk who held me in his arms in my cabin (when I was not vomiting) and comforted me when I begged him to put me out of my misery then and there. “Let me die!” I moaned over and over again in French, the English I had been learning having abandoned me for the time being. “Just take out your dagger and kill me now.”

“Now, now,” Suffolk comforted me in his impeccable French, which he spoke with only the slightest English accent. “You’ll be in England before you know it, your grace. Think of something pleasant. Think of the hounds the king will be buying you. Think of the beautiful gown you will have for your coronation.”

“That is right!” said Alice, who was not feeling very well herself, but was bearing it with far more fortitude than I was. “You will be the most beautiful queen England has ever seen.”

I closed my eyes and pictured the pack of bloodhounds my groom had promised me, word having made it across the sea that I was fond of hunting, though one couldn’t have guessed it from my prostrate state now. Then I began to miss the dogs I’d left behind in France (for they were my father’s, not my own), and my eyes welled with tears just as another bout of nausea began to claim me. “I want to go home to Angers,” I whimpered. “I don’t want to be queen.”

“Well, you are,” snapped Alice. I suspected that were it not for her husband’s presence, she would have lost her patience with me long ago. “Act like one, for goodness’s sake.”

Suffolk (usually the most devoted of husbands) glared at his wife, and I myself mustered enough self-command to say, “I will not be addressed in that disrespectful manner.”

“That’s it,” said the marchioness approvingly. “Pluck up some spirit, your grace.”

For a short time, I did, even going so far as to walk around the cabin. Then the winds and waves grew rougher, and I sicker, though I no longer had anything in my stomach to bring up. I had no strength left, even to cry or complain. Instead, I simply curled up in a ball on my berth, heedless of the undignified picture I was presenting.

Finally, someone lifted me, and I thought contentedly as I was borne along in a pair of strong arms that death had indeed taken me. Then a man’s beard and a cool breeze brushed my cheek, and I blinked to find myself in the open air, being carried by Suffolk. “See, your grace?” he said, smiling down at me. “We’ve dropped anchor, and that’s the English coast. We’ll be on dry land before you know it.”

Though the day was a miserable one, a band of locals had gathered at Portchester, where we had landed, to give me a proper welcome as their queen. Still in Suffolk’s arms—for when he had tested my ability to stand before we disembarked, I had swayed too dangerously—I managed to wave my hand at them and part with a few smiles. But the marchioness was gazing at me oddly, this time without the impatience she’d shown earlier. “Will,” she said in a low voice, “I fear that the queen is coming out in a pox.”