The Queen of Last Hopes (38 page)

“You swine!”

“Hush, Katherine. Let the king have his triumph. It is quite Roman of him.” I clasped my hands behind my back. “My husband bore this. I can too.”

Gently, Hastings completed his task. “Courage, my lady,” he said softly as he left to return to his own place. “You’ve plenty of it, I know.”

With a sound of trumpets, the procession began. Marie and Katherine steadied my box as my chariot began to move, lurched to a stop as some confusion far ahead of us brought our progress to a temporary halt, and began to move again at a more steady pace as matters were righted once more.

Twenty-six years before, on a fine May day very much like this one, I had ridden into London as its queen.

I gazed ahead as the procession cleared the city gate and the onlookers began to jostle each other for a better view. The splendidly clad king and nobles, some distance ahead of my chariot, caught all eyes, of course, but the knights who came after them were of little interest, the city officials who followed them of even less except to their friends. For the crowd, I was therefore a sweet sight.

“There’s the Bitch of Anjou!”

“Minus her bastard pup!”

“Not a bad looker, though!”

“Think she’d have you?”

“Why not? All of her pretty boys are dead!”

“She’s not blinking an eye. Is she real?”

“One way to find out, ain’t there?” A stone whizzed through the air and clipped me neatly on the cheek.

A horseman, evidently appointed to deal just with this sort of situation, swung a club in the direction from where the stone had been thrown, giving me a respite, but every few feet it was the same: the same jests, the same cold stares, the same clubbing when someone got out of hand. Only the missiles varied: eggs at one corner, cabbage at another, horse dung at the worst. With my hands tied I could not wipe my face, and my ladies were too busy holding my box to assist me either.

At last my chariot diverged from the rest of the procession, which was to go to St. Paul’s for a service of thanksgiving for the king’s victory. I was bound for the Tower.

***

My chariot had barely stopped moving when Katherine and Marie unbound my hands and took me off my box. I sank into the seat of my chariot as Katherine wiped my face with her skirts as best she could. “It’s over, dear,” she whispered as my tears began to blend with the filth on my face. “It shall never happen again.”

A man stepped forward. With a start, I recognized him as Sir John Dudley, who had served Henry for years. Once he had knelt when he came into my presence. Now he merely inclined his head as he handed me out of the cart, shaking his head with disapproval at the state of my face as if it had been my own idea to hurl horse turds at myself. “My lady, I am constable here and shall be looking after you.”

“Shall I be executed?”

“Goodness no, my lady. Who would do that to a woman?”

I was not sure whether this came as a relief or as a disappointment. “Might I see my husband?”

“I have not been given permission to allow you to do that, my lady.”

“For God’s sake! It is what has kept me sane while that mob jeered at me and threw muck at me, that I might have the comfort of my husband, and him of me. We have not seen each other in years.” I felt my lip begin to tremble. “Have you no compassion? Cannot you allow me one small indulgence? I am not asking to be quartered with him; I am not even asking to see him privately. I am only asking that I be allowed to look upon his dear face.”

“I cannot arrange it without the king’s permission.”

“Then get it!” I remembered my position. “
Please
.”

“I will ask the king; I can promise no more. But in the meantime, come. Your chambers in the White Tower have been prepared for you.”

It is strange, but despite the deadness in my heart I was still able to observe with some relief that the small comforts of life were not being denied to me. The bed, though narrow and old, looked sturdy and comfortable, and the bedding itself was clean, though faded. A garderobe provided more dignity than I had been used to as of late. The window was low enough for me to see the Thames flowing past. There were truckle beds for my companions, an altar for me to pray at, and an inexpensive book of hours for my devotions. “The queen didn’t want you to be uncomfortable, my lady. She remembers that King Henry was good to her own family.”

“I wish I could see my husband.”

“All in good time. In the meantime, I shall bring you materials with which to tidy yourself.”

“Yes, I would not want Henry to see me like this,” I admitted. “It would distress him.”

With the pots of warm water that Sir John directed be brought up, Katherine and Marie scrubbed me from head to toe, then scrubbed themselves. Cleaner than I had been in weeks and dressed in a fresh nightshift from the coffer I had brought with me from France and had been allowed to keep, I lay on my bed, drew the curtains, and fell asleep, though it was not yet dark.

It was late when the sounds of voices in and around the White Tower half-woke me; Edward’s court was lodging here tonight, I recalled dreamily. Poor Henry would find it difficult to sleep; he had always liked quiet…They were bound to let me see him. Weren’t they? He had been poorly kept during the last period of his imprisonment, I had been told. I would see to it that his keepers gave him proper attention. I would sew shirts for him, mend his hose, trim his hair as he liked it. We would grow old and die here, no doubt, but at least we would spend our last days together.

Tomorrow, they would let me see him. We would weep over the death of our son, but we would also comfort each other as no one else could. I would see him tomorrow. Tomorrow…

King Edward’s men always said that I was a fool—a holy fool, they said, as if this somehow softened the insult. But I was not the simpleton they said I was, for when all of my servants were dismissed the very same day Edward returned in victory to London, I knew what lay in store. I did not believe Edward’s men for a moment when they said that it was only a matter of reorganization and that new servants would be assigned to me in the morning. I would not live to see the morning; I was certain of it.

But when night fell and the supper I was served proved to be free of poison, I began to doubt myself, as I always did. Perhaps they were right: I was a fool and I would indeed get new servants in the morning. Perhaps, I thought as I finished my prayers and blew out the candle by my bedside, I would even be allowed to see my dear Marguerite, brought a prisoner to the Tower that afternoon.

Yet not long before midnight I awoke to find a young man standing over me with a large pillow. “Edward?” I said.

“How dare you confuse me with Margaret of Anjou’s bastard whelp?”

It was a foolish mistake; I realized immediately. I had seen this young man before: he was Richard, Duke of Gloucester, King Edward’s youngest brother. He had been at Barnet, to which I had been taken with Edward’s forces as a prisoner. Gloucester was a competent man and a brave one, I had noted in the dispassionate way I had learned to observe things during my long captivity, and a man who was well liked and respected by his own men, but with something else in his character as well, I had sensed. Something that made him well suited for the task that he was about to perform. “I beg your pardon. You are about the same age as my own son, or just a little older. For a moment, in the darkness, I thought you might be him. Tell me, young man. Is my son dead, as they tell me?”

“Yes.” For the first time I realized that there were two other men in the room, standing on either side of Gloucester. They were burly, silent men, who watched me with blank faces and crossed arms, and I knew then that there was no point fighting against what was soon to happen, even if I had been inclined to fight.

“God assoil his soul. And do you know what the king will do with my Marguerite?”

“How should I know?” The young man raised the pillow again and brought it down.

“God protect you, my sweet girl,” I whispered. “
Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum
…”

“Nicely done, if I must say so myself,” Gloucester said. He removed the pillow from my face, tucked it under my head, and arranged the sheets neatly around me. “Why, that doddering old fool Dudley might actually believe that he died in his sleep.” He chuckled and turned toward the men. “Well, I’ve done Edward’s dirty work tonight, while he frolics in bed with that Woodville wife of his. He has a talent for delegation, I’ll say. If he asks, I’ll tell him that the worst part of it was having to make conversation with the useless fool.”

He turned away, having made the common mistake of thinking that the dead cannot hear, and that God is not watching all. If I could have spoken, I would have told him that. I would have also told him that someday, the Lord would exact a price and that a man, having gained everything he wants, can very easily lose it.

But I could not speak, so I would let him find out those things for himself, in time. Meanwhile, I could look forward to beholding my son’s dear face. And in the course of time I would clasp my sweet Marguerite in my arms again and be the strong husband in heaven for her that I never was on earth.

It was Gloucester, not I, who was the fool.

I am very embarrassed, Sir John. I was so tired, I slept very late today.” I gathered my cloak around me to hide my dishabille. “You have asked the king about my seeing Henry?”

“My lady, I am very sorry to tell you this. Your husband was informed of your son’s death, and your imprisonment here, as gently as we could. We could not have been more gentle. But the knowledge broke his will to live, and broke his very heart. This morning he was found dead in his chambers.”

How many people can say how it feels, the moment when they have lost everything? For the time being, I felt only numbness, and the knowledge dawning at the back of my mind that I should have guessed my husband’s fate all along. “I should have known,” I said after a pause.

“Should have known what?”

“Should have known that Edward would murder him. It makes perfect sense, now that our son is dead. So. How did he do it? Strangulation? Suffocation? A stab? A blow to his head while he knelt at his prayers? Poison? Did someone at least see to it that he made his confession first?”

“My lady! I told you! The late king died of sheer melancholy.”

“My husband has known nothing but sorrow for the last ten years. Am I to think that he could not bear this latest ill news? No. He has his faith; it has sustained him and would have yet.” I began to laugh. “Is it not ironic? The one person of all of us who could not bear violence dies a violent death.”

“I tell you, it was not a violent death!”

“You lie.”

“My lady, this will not do. I was going to offer to let you see him before he was taken from here, but if you persist in these wild accusations, I cannot allow you to do so.”

There was no point in arguing further, no point in much of anything anymore. “You will let me see him?”

“Only if you behave yourself and hold your tongue.”

“Then I will.” I took a breath. “I promise.”

“Then make yourself seemly and get your words under control. I will be back in an hour.”

***

“Where are they to bury him?” I asked Sir John as he led me to the Chapel of St. Peter of Vincula. “Here?”

“The king plans to bury him at Chertsey.”

I frowned. “Why Chertsey? He had no ties there. He wished to be buried at Westminster by his mother and by other kings. Or why not Eton?” My eyes glistened as I thought of Henry poring over his plans for that school. “That would please him.”

“I don’t know, my lady. The king specified Chertsey.”

“It matters not,” I said, crossing myself. “He will be with the Lord soon.”

Sir John pushed open the chapel door and led me inside. There, my husband, clad in a shroud, but with his face visible, lay on a bier as a priest read psalms over his body. The priest started when he recognized me, but went on chanting as if he had not been interrupted.

The murderers had been tidy; there was no sign of violence visible. Though the years and illness had aged Henry, time had been kinder to him than I would have thought. Only two things had changed greatly: his neatly trimmed hair, which had had a few strands of gray when I last saw him, had turned completely that color, and he had grown a beard. No one had ever told me. “I was his wife for six and twenty years. Might I have a lock of his hair as a remembrance?”

Sir John said nothing, but took out his dagger and lifted a strand of Henry’s hair, then cut it. He pulled out a handkerchief and carefully wrapped the hair inside it before giving it to me.

I thanked him. Then, expecting to be stopped, I knelt and kissed my husband’s cheek, but no one interfered. “Rest in peace, my dear Henry,” I said softly, putting my hand on the cheek where my lips had rested. “You will soon meet our son in Paradise, and there you will have the peace you have always longed for.” My tears began falling hard. “I meant well, my love,” I said. “I truly did. All I wanted was what was right for you and our son. All I did was for your sake.”

I turned away, unable to hold back my sobs anymore, and Sir John supported me out of the chapel. His own eyes were wet when he said, “He knows it, my lady.”