The Queen of Last Hopes (31 page)

I embraced my younger brothers, both in tears. Then I watched as the three of them rode away with just a man apiece accompanying them.

***

Not long after my brothers left, news floated over from France and drifted slowly into Wales: England and France had entered into a truce, brokered by the Duke of Burgundy. One of the terms was that France would offer no help to Henry and Margaret. And where France went, Scotland soon might follow, especially since Edward had been threatening an invasion. Having been unimpressed by the Scots’ military might so far—it was hard to believe that this was the same nation that had won the battle of Bannockburn over a century before—I foresaw that an English-Scottish truce might soon follow. Henry would lose his safe refuge in Scotland. What would he do then? Hole up in Bamburgh? Flee abroad?

But there was a chance that Lancaster’s fortunes could be retrieved, even without Scotland and France. The treaty with France would anger some; the money that Edward kept exacting from his subjects would anger others. We held three castles in England; we held Harlech Castle in Wales. We had a friend in my old friend the Count of Charolais. We might have a friend in the Duke of Britt—

We
. That was the word I’d used in my thoughts. Not
they
.
We
.

***

The Lord and I had been on rather distant terms as of late, so it must have surprised Him when, in early November, I spent several hours closeted with my confessor, hitherto one of the most underworked men in Wales. Then I entered the chapel at Chirk and dropped to my knees in earnest prayer, not my most accustomed activity. The sheer novelty of all of this must have lent me favor in the Lord’s eyes, for when I finally rose and called two of my most trusted men to me, I felt better than I had in months. Or maybe it was the decision I’d at last taken.

“Go to Joan Hill and give her this,” I said, handing one of my men a bag of gold. “Tell her that it is all I can spare, and that I do not know when—if ever—I can send her more. Remind her that if she or Charles ever needs help and no one in our family is in a position to give it, she should contact one of the people I have told her about.” I felt my eyes tear when I thought of Joan and my fine little son, but I managed to go on firmly. “Tell her and Charles that I love them, and tell Charles that he will never be absent from his father’s thoughts. Tell Joan also that she was right about me and the House of York, much as I hate to admit it. And then go to my mother and tell her that I love her dearly, and am sorry for the trouble that I have brought upon her.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Give this to the king,” I continued, handing a ring—once my father’s—to the second man. “Tell him I have work to do here, and when I finish it, I will join him and serve him for all of my days.”

“King Henry, you mean,” the man said quietly.

“King Henry, of course. There is no other rightful king of England. I was a fool to ever pretend otherwise.”

***

By late November I had laid all of my plans, made all of my contacts. With a handful of men I rode out of Chirk. I was planning to travel secretly to Newcastle, where my men would seize the castle and the town for Henry. But someone recognized me and sent up the alarm at Durham while I lay abed, so I had to flee in my shirt and ride straight for Alnwick, fifty miles off. But at last—wearing clothes borrowed from someone at Alnwick—I arrived at Bamburgh. Less than a year ago, I’d been besieged here and had broken faith with the best man I knew.

My brothers were waiting for me at the castle gates. “We had a bet as to how long you’d last as a Yorkist,” Edmund said after we had embraced.

“Oh? Who won?”

“I did,” said Tom. “John gave you until the New Year. Edmund thought you’d last until Easter. But I didn’t think you’d last long at all after we left Chirk.”

“I’m glad you were right. Is the king expecting me?”

Tom smiled. “I think he’s been expecting you for months now. He never thought you’d desert us for good. But yes, he knows you’ve arrived here. Come. I’ll take you to him.”

If there was one castle I knew from top to bottom, it was Bamburgh. But as Tom led me along, I found that I needed his guidance. What would I say to the man I’d treated so shabbily?

King Henry smiled at me when I came through the door.

I fell at the king’s feet, sobbing. “Forgive me, your grace. Forgive me.” I could hardly speak the words, yet they kept tumbling forth. “I have wronged you in so many ways. I never shall again. If you will only pardon me and let me prove to you that I can be worthy—”

“Rise, Hal.” Henry hauled me up as he had that day at Coventry when I’d brawled with York’s men. He kissed me on both cheeks. “You are back with me now, and that is all that matters. Let us forget the past.” The king looked me straight in the eye. “All of it.”

I stiffened. “You know?”

“Yes. Marguerite told me the night before she left for France. It weighed on her mind, poor girl.”

“It was all my fault, your grace.”

“Really? She said that it was all her fault. I suspect that it was rather both of yours. I have no experience in these matters, but I do believe it is how those things work.” Henry half smiled. “I am not that naïve anymore, Hal.”

I gripped his hand. “It will never happen again.”

“I know. She promised me.” He sighed. “She has undergone great hardships for me, more than any man has a right to ask of his queen. And so have you. How can I pass judgment upon the two of you?” He cut me off before I could once again beg his forgiveness. “But no more of this. You look tired and hungry, and you must tell me your adventures of these past few days.”

We talked for several hours more until the hour for the king to retire arrived. He smiled at me shyly. “They say you and March shared a bed. I never invited you or your father to do so. Would you do me the honor of sharing mine tonight?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Good.” Henry gave me his sweetest smile. “It gets chilly in here at night; I like the company.”

A single man prepared the bed, then brought Henry a clean nightshirt and helped him into it as my own page helped me undress. Then we settled into bed together, and the man drew the curtains. They kept the worst of the cold out, but Henry was right: this was a chilly chamber. I remembered Margaret’s being more hospitable, but I could hardly say so. Then Henry said, “I do not sleep in the queen’s chamber, though it is more comfortable than any of the rest; it is my little way of honoring her until she can return someday. Do you think I’ll see her again, Hal?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I was not so sure of it a couple of months ago; things have gone hard with us as of late. But now that you are returned, I feel more confident. Good night, Hal.”

I lay in bed beside the king and waited until he fell asleep before I rolled over on my own side, just as I’d done when I shared Edward’s bed. This bed was much less comfortable than Edward’s, and the furnishings were threadbare in places. But in this bed I had no difficulty in falling asleep, as I had when I was Edward’s bedfellow; instead I was dozing within minutes, my conscience clean as a newborn babe’s. I was back in the House of Lancaster, home at last.

Letters have come for you, your grace.”

I looked up from the household accounts of Koeur Castle, which no matter where I looked or how I turned the paper screamed the same message: we were poor. “If you bring them yourself, Doctor Morton, they must be ill tidings. Who has deserted us now? Who is putting us off with fair words?”

“Your grace, you must not be so pessimistic.”

“It is hard not to be sometimes.” I sighed. When I had left England in July, I did so with the knowledge that there was to be a peace conference between England and France, aided by the Duke of Burgundy, which I had done my best to prevent, or at least to postpone, by trying to win over Burgundy. Landing at Sluys, I had sent a man to inform the Duke of Burgundy that I was coming to meet him, and when Burgundy had done his best to put me off, I had left Edward at Bruges and commandeered a humble cart, the type that one might use to take goods to market. From there, accompanied by only three attendants and Pierre de Brézé, I had set off with the intent of intercepting the duke, who out of sheer exhaustion had finally agreed to see me. At St. Pol, he had given me a grand banquet, presented me and my women—none of whom had a change of clothing—with money and jewels, and sent his womenfolk to me to show me hospitality. But he had given me no promises and no aid for my cause, and there’d been no alternative for me but to go back to Bruges, then to make my way to my father’s castle at Koeur. The peace conference had gone on without me, and England and France were now officially at peace. If that were not bad enough, we had learned just days before that Scotland and England had entered into a truce, with the promise of further negotiations to come. Peace was breaking out all over, and it was not doing us a bit of good. I glared at the smiling Doctor Morton. “How do you stay so optimistic?”

“I have faith in the Lord, your grace. You might try to cultivate more yourself. But here are your letters. They are to be read in the order in which I shall give them to you.”

I opened the first one, from Henry.
My dear, I have seen the letter that you are about to read, and I know you will be pleased at its contents. Henry R
. “This is like one of those boxes within boxes that someone once brought as a gift to my father. Well, let me see the second.”

Bishop Morton handed it to me. It bore my name,
Margaret the Queen
, in a hand that was unfamiliar to me. My jaw dropped as I looked at the seal.
Somerset
. “What does this mean?”

“Read it.”

Madam, I have returned to the side of the king’s highness, and begged and received his forgiveness for all of the wrongs I have done him. I pray that your highness will do me the same gracious favor. And I shall not stray again, but shall live and, if God wills it, die the king’s loyal subject.

Your true subject and liege man,

Somerset

“Is this true?”

“It is, your grace. The messenger took the letter from Somerset himself.”

I stared at the letter, tears beginning to course down my face.
All of the wrongs
, with
all
slightly underlined. I knew what that, and the formal language of the letter, meant: there would be no more stolen moments between me and Somerset. That suited me well; I had already promised Henry, and the Lord, that I would never wrong my husband again. Hal serving Henry faithfully again was all I wanted, and more than I had ever dared to wish for. With Somerset’s youth and military ability, his friendship with the Count of Charolais, his contacts in Wales and in the South, our dying cause might gain new life.

And Hal had already gained back his honor.

I turned to Doctor Morton again. “You are right. I must cultivate more faith.” I smiled at the letters in my hands. “And I must listen more to my husband. He knew all along that Somerset would come back.”

You will forgive me if I do not dwell too much on the last two battles of my life. What man wants to recount another’s triumph, when it has cost him all?

We should have won the battle that took place in April near Hedgeley Moor. John Neville, Lord Montagu (I suppose I must call him by his rightful title) was on his way to lead a delegation to York to treat with the Scots, and we had set out to ambush him. We had every hope of succeeding: with the help of Sir Ralph Percy, we’d brought much of Northumberland under our control. But there was a spy in our midst, and when Montagu’s men encountered mine, they were ready for us—more than ready. When they killed Ralph Percy, together with his horse, it was if they had ripped the very hearts out of the northerners in our forces, for the Percies were all but kings here. Our line broke, and there was nothing for us to do but to limp back to Bamburgh and to plan our next move.

But “plan” is the wrong word, perhaps, for it implies a choice, of which we had little. We were short of men, supplies, and money; we were dispirited over the loss of Ralph Percy; we knew that Scotland was barred to us from henceforth; we knew that Edward, who was mustering men from thirty counties at Leicester, would soon be heading north with an army to finish us off. I had stirred up some trouble in Wales and elsewhere before I left Chirk, but these disturbances were not enough to distract Edward from his northern progress. Margaret was trying her best to persuade the Duke of Brittany and the Count of Charolais to help us, but beyond worthless words of encouragement and a little money we had been able to get very little aid.

“We can hole up here,” I said as my brothers and I paced outside Bamburgh Castle. “Another siege. How long can we hold out? Probably not much longer than in ’62, even without the—er—temptations of last time.” My cheeks burned as I thought of my conduct during the last siege of Bamburgh, and Tom gave me a consoling pat on the shoulder. “Our only hope would be to have relief from abroad, because it’s sure as hell not coming from Scotland now. And no one seems inclined to incur Louis’s wrath. God, I wish King Charles were still alive.”

“And even if they did send us some men, would they be enough?” Edmund asked.

I shook my head. “Staying here would be suicide. Slow suicide, but suicide nonetheless. There won’t be terms for any of us this time; we’ll be dragged out and beheaded straightaway. But if we can go south, we have a chance, at least. If we can make one gain, just one gain, we can lure more men to our side. And perhaps gain some support from abroad.”

“And if that doesn’t work?” John said.

“We can get the king safely abroad, at least. And as for the rest of us, well, Bruges is an attractive city. Or there’s always piracy.” I grinned. “All four of us pirating together, how do you think we’d do? The Buccaneering Beauforts. But that doesn’t account for Tom.”

“Or there is death,” said Edmund.

“Yes, that’s at the back of my mind.” I stared out at the sea. “Not very far back at all, actually. But there’s no need to dwell upon it.”

***

Near the middle of May, we—including the king—left Bamburgh Castle and began moving south. I looked back at Bamburgh, where I’d made love to a queen and shared a bed with a king, and I knew that whatever happened next, good or ill, I’d miss the place.

***

By and by we encamped near Hexham, lodging Henry at the more comfortable quarters of Bywell Castle—Bywell Tower, it should have been called, for that was all that had been completed—some ten miles off. We set up camp near a stream, called rather uncheerfully the Devil’s Water. I was dozing in my tent at dawn on May 15 when I was shaken awake and told the news: John Neville was within five miles of our camp.

“How many men?”

“A good six thousand.”

We had about four thousand. “How the devil did our scouts miss them? But never mind that. Go to King Henry and tell him that he must get away.” I turned to my men, still groggy from sleep. “We can’t meet Montagu here; it’s a death trap. We’ll assemble on Swallowship Hill.”

We armed quickly, not pausing to break our fast or to say our morning prayers—though we could have done with both—and marched to the crest of Swallowship Hill. Barely had we aligned ourselves there when we saw Montagu’s men marching up the hill. There were even more of them than we had expected.

Our archers—of which we had relatively few—did their best to drive them back; they couldn’t. We all did our best, God knows, or at least the core of men who were loyal to us did. The rabble, the men who had joined us only for pay, soon broke rank and fled under the weight of the onslaught, but the rest of us fought on until there was absolutely nothing left to fight for, until our chances had crumbled like the clods of dirt beneath my feet. “Save yourselves!” I yelled to my brothers.

For I myself was past saving. I was down, my weapons knocked out of my hands, my sword arm broken, and there were men surrounding me. They were about to dispatch me as they had my father on an equally beautiful May day nine years before. May was not my month…Had they laid hold of my brothers? I whispered the Lord’s name, either in prayer or reproach I am not quite sure. Then someone yanked my captors off me. “Are you mad? Save the duke for Lord Montagu. Don’t spoil his fun.”

***

Four men, securely bound, were already standing before Montagu when my captors, having stripped me of my armor and bound my hands, haled me into his presence. Three of them—Edmund Fish, Edmund Bradshaw, and Wate Hunt—were my own followers; the fourth, one Black Jack, was more my brother Tom’s man than anyone’s, having joined him after he helped Margaret flee from Norham. Montagu, who had been looking at these lowly prisoners with unconcealed contempt, brightened visibly when he saw me surrounded by my captors (Sir John Middleton and his men, to give credit where credit is due). “Now, that’s more like it. No one’s found the other leaders, then?”

“They made off toward those woods, they say. We’ll find them.”

“Aye, we shall. We’ll make a hunting party of it.” Montagu turned toward me. “Kneel, Beaufort.” Someone forced me to my knees when I did not obey fast enough. “What do you think we’re going to do with you?”

Evidently Montagu was the sort of victor who enjoyed asking rhetorical questions. “Hold another tournament in my honor? Marry me to one of your sisters?” I offered.

The Nevilles will not be recorded in the chronicles for their sense of humor. “Hang, draw and quarter you? Or just beheading?”

“You might recall that after our second little get-together at St. Albans, we didn’t execute you,” I pointed out.

“Yes, I recall that, and it’ll do you no good. You were a traitor to King Edward, you might recall.”

“No. I was a traitor to King Henry. The rightful king,” I added pleasantly.

Montagu drew his foot back and methodically but firmly kicked me in the balls.

“That,” he observed as I collapsed groaning to the ground, “is for the Duke of York. And for my father,” he added, almost as an afterthought. And this”—he slapped my face with his gauntlet—“is for not knowing when to keep your mouth shut. Get him on a horse, men, when he’s able. We’ll have the sorry whoreson’s head cut off at Hexham marketplace.”

Having given himself the gratification just described—I must be honest and say that if our positions had been reversed, I might have similarly indulged myself—Montagu seemed disinclined to abuse me further, perhaps because there was more satisfaction to be had in displaying me as his prize during the short ride into town. They’d found my abandoned standard, and one of my captured men was made to carry it while I rode behind, my hands tied to the pommel and my feet tied to the stirrups. This wasn’t conducive to easing the pain in my arm, but I’d not give the Yorkists the pleasure of complaining about it. I tried to fix my mind on the ride I’d taken with Joan and my son the previous July, when the world had been a happier place.

“I’m talking to you, Beaufort.” Montagu’s irritated voice broke in on my daydream. “Answer my question. Did you ever tumble her? Rumor has it that you did.”

“Her? Can you narrow it down a bit?”

“You know what wench I mean. The Frenchwoman you call your queen.”

A vulgar question, so typical of a Neville. My great-grandfather and great-grandmother, John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford, had been adulterous lovers, God knows, but they had not been vulgar about it. “What business is it of yours?”

“Answer, Somerset, or you’ll find the headsman has a poor aim.”

So now we were up to my ducal title, at least. “Well, then. No.” I looked at Montagu wearily. “Does that answer disappoint you? If so, I’m sorry, but it happens to be the truth.”

Montagu did indeed look somewhat disappointed, and I wondered if he would have pressed me for details had I told the truth. “You never even tried?”

“No. Neither did she.” At least I could go to my death knowing that I had not compromised my lady’s honor.

“Did you want to?”

There was no point in lying about this. “Since I first saw her when I was fourteen.”

Montagu gave his version of a smile. “So did I.”

“How charming. We have something in common after all.” We were passing over a rough spot, which jounced my arm, and I could not forbear groaning at the pain.

“You’re injured? Where?”

About time he noticed. “My arm. It’s broken. In the same place your brother’s men broke it at the first battle of St. Albans. Where, since the topic of old grudges came up when you kicked me back there, your brother murdered my father.”

Montagu gave me a look that I couldn’t read, then turned round to one of his men. “Get the surgeon up here. We need him to put Somerset’s arm in a sling.”

“That’s not necessary,” I said. “Almost a waste of time, really.”

My captor shrugged. “It’ll be a good two hours before everything’s ready.”

“That long? I’d hoped for sooner. Purgatory or no purgatory, this day can’t be over faster to suit me. Speaking of purgatory, I trust I shall be able to confess my sins before I die?”

“Why, of course,” Montagu replied, a little huffily. “What do you think I am?”

I wisely kept silent.

We were now in the town, where spectators had gathered to see me being brought in. (News travelled fast here in the North.) Some of the women, I was touched to see, were weeping, and I was able to catch the eye and smile at a few of them. I nodded toward Hexham’s abbey, the town’s most prominent building. “Is that where you’ll take my body?”

“Most likely.” Montagu scowled at the crying women, whom he too had noticed. “You weren’t expecting Westminster, were you?”

I looked again toward the abbey, a fine old structure that dated back to Saxon times. “No, a man could do worse,” I conceded. Maybe some of those weeping women might even bring me some flowers from time to time, and say a prayer for me. Probably no one from my own family or Joan would be able to come up here any time soon. My shoulders sagged as I thought of those I’d never see again, and for a moment I almost gave Montagu the satisfaction of losing my composure.

Near the abbey stood the jail, which turned out to be my and my fellow prisoners’ destination. “Don’t worry, you won’t be troubled with them long,” Montagu explained to the jailer, who was looking nonplussed at this unexpected company. “All five of them are for the headsman.”

I pushed forward. “Aren’t you going to release them?” Except for Sir Edmund Fish, they weren’t even knights; such men who survived a battle were usually relieved of whatever possessions they might have and sent on their way home. “They’ve done nothing other than fight for me bravely and loyally. Surely that’s nothing to die for.”

“They’re your followers. They’re to be an example for anyone else in this part of the country who might be tempted to join your cause, or what’s left of it once you’re gone. And we’ll do the same with the rest of your adherents when we catch them.”

I stared at the four men. All I could say was, “I’m sorry.”

In our cell, the five of us sat in a dismal little circle, sipping what passed for ale and trying to keep each other’s spirits up by making grim conversation. Would the executioner grow in skill as the heads piled up, making it more advantageous to go last, or was it better to go early, while he was still fresh and not tired? How great was our likelihood of getting a competent executioner up here, anyway? Or would the ever-resourceful Montagu provide his own executioner, not trusting to the local facilities? Whose neck would prove the easiest to cut? We bantered as best we could, until a couple of the men turned to prayer and the rest of us grew silent.

I settled, half dozing, against the wall. I wished I had one of Joan’s delicious wafers to munch upon; it would bring a smile to my face. I wished I had Joan to hold me one last time and to kiss me good-bye. I wished I could know what the future held for my mother and my brothers and my sisters, and above all, my little son. I wished I could write Charles a letter of fatherly advice and concern; though I was not exactly the best preceptor in the world, at least he would know that he had been in my thoughts. I wished I knew what would become of the king and of the queen. I knew one thing at least: as long as there was breath in Henry and Edward’s bodies, Margaret would never stop fighting for them. Margaret…No, with my Maker and I soon to improve our acquaintance, it was best not to think of Margaret as I’d seen her that last afternoon at Bamburgh, lying naked and lovely in my arms. Much better to think of her only as my queen.