Thwarted Queen (18 page)

Richard bowed his head and covered his face with his hands.

“Where is Duchess Cecylee?” whispered Gloucester. “Surely your lady wife should be with you at such a time.”

York smiled briefly. “Cecylee is breeding. We expect to have our next child in May. She has not been well and I did not want her to become upset.”

“Indeed,” sighed Gloucester. “You are wise to let her stay at Fotheringhay.”

“I had to insist upon it,” remarked York. “You know how my wife is. She loves being at court, especially now that our new queen has made it livelier. Cecylee hates being left behind at Fotheringhay. The country is too quiet for her.”

Several hours passed. Finally, John de Mowbray, third Duke of Norfolk, rose. As premier duke of the realm, he was tasked with adjudicating this matter. “We have come to a decision.” He bowed to Suffolk. “We find Richard Duke of York to be not guilty of the charge of financial malpractice.”

There was a roar from Richard’s supporters. Gloucester thumped him on the back.

“Indeed,” continued Norfolk, “we find that York has conducted his affairs with great probity and thoroughness. We recommend that the Crown repay him his loan of thirty-eight thousand pounds.”

Chapter 17

Westminster Palace, London

December 1445

“My dear lord. You must fulfill the terms of the treaty. Can you not see that?”

“My dear wife, sit you down and we will talk,” replied King Henry.

He enclosed her delicate hand with his own as he drank her in. Sixteen-year-old Marguerite d’Anjou was the most ravishing beauty. She was small-boned and slender. Her russet-colored velvet gown clung to her well-turned waist and hips, outlining her lovely bosom. She had a well-cut profile, with high cheekbones and deep-set black eyes. They’d been wed for eight months, and he had yet to make love to her. His confessor had forbidden it, saying that lovemaking was a self-indulgent sport, and that he should not come near her any more than was absolutely necessary for the begetting of an heir. Henry had not dared to; One glimpse of his wife’s naked body would send him into paroxysms of lust, and then his soul would be damned to the second circle of hell for eternity. For had not Our Savior Jesus Christ called on us to live chaste lives dedicated to God? Had he not commanded his followers to forsake all family ties?

“You agreed to return Maine and Anjou to my uncle, King Charles.”

He started. “Yes, dearest, I did, but I have not informed Parliament of this matter.”

Marguerite leapt to her feet. “You are King of England!”

King Henry moved his head from side to side, his forehead creasing into a frown. “They are not going to like it,” he murmured.

“What do you mean? Who is not going to like it?”

She looked so lovely when she was angry, the color mounting those pretty cheeks. How he longed to cover those rosy lips with kisses. But his confessor had told him that he must sacrifice himself to a life devoid of earthly pleasure so that he could lead the English people to the gates of heaven.

The confessor continued the work of pious
Richard de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick
, who’d been his guardian from the time he was nine months. De Beauchamp had made the arduous pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He had been heralded the “Father of Courtesy” by the Holy Roman Emperor. He had instilled in the young king the values of kindness and piety, and well as a love for education. Indeed, he had been so successful in training his young charge in kingly craft that Henry had taken a precocious interest in politics. As a lad of twelve, he had attempted to intervene in some matter, astonishing his councilors. They had roundly told him to avoid becoming entangled in court intrigue and swayed by those who would manipulate him for their own advancement.

“Who is not going to like it?” repeated Marguerite.

“Parliament.”

“Does it matter? Are they not peasants?”

“There are two knights from every shire in the country,” replied Henry, eyeing his wife.
Deo Gracias
, but she was lovely. However, it was becoming clear that she didn’t understand English customs. The King of England could not ignore his parliament, unlike the King of France.

“They are peasants!” exclaimed Marguerite

“They represent my people,” replied Henry as he fingered the s-shaped gold collar around his neck. That and the signet ring on his right hand were the only marks of distinction he allowed himself. Otherwise, he dressed in unfashionable round-toed shoes and robes of indeterminate darkness.

Marguerite started to pace. “The people. Who cares what the people think. You should return these territories now as you promised, or you will dishonor your good name.”

Marguerite had been at the court of Charles VII for only a year. She would have been perfect as Queen of France, thought Henry. Instead, she was Queen of England, and someone needed to explain to her about English politics, as de Beauchamp had done for him. But de Beauchamp had been dead these six years. Henry frowned with concentration. It was all so complicated. Where was the best place to start? Should he begin with the duties of the king? But she knew all about that. Perhaps he should tell her about the humble folk. But she seemed not to be interested—

“You promised to cede Maine and Anjou.”

“Yes, dearest, I did. But I have not informed all of my magnates. Gloucester and York don’t know about this provision of the treaty.”

Marguerite snorted. “You are king. What are Gloucester and York to you? They must obey their sovereign lord.”

“Your lady wife speaks the truth, my lord King,” remarked Somerset bowing low as he entered. Edmund Beaufort, fourth Earl of Somerset, was a gentleman nearing forty. Despite his graying hair, his appearance was pleasing, his charming smile showing he’d kept most of his teeth. “Gloucester and York are like yesterday’s vegetables, rotten to the core. You need not worry about them.”

Henry chewed his lower lip. Someone was always squabbling with someone else. “York is one of my most powerful magnates,” he said slowly, glancing at Marguerite. As such, perhaps he should begin Marguerite’s political education by talking about this cousin. “He owns vast tracts of land in Wales, Ireland, and thirteen English counties. He has inherited great wealth.”

“You are his liege lord,” said Marguerite.

“He could make difficulties,” replied Henry.

“What difficulties? What could he do?”

“He could embarrass me,” responded Henry, looking down and fiddling with his ring. “He and Gloucester together.”

“What does Gloucester have to do with this?”

Ah, the list of things Gloucester had to do with this. Gloucester was his uncle and was regent of England before Henry assumed his majority. He championed the war in France. But beyond that, how could he explain to his wife that the King of England had to consult with his magnates on matters of grave import? He heard de Beauchamp’s voice: “Never forget, my lord King, to consult your magnates. Woe betide you, if you do not. Your great-great-grandsire, King Edward III, was a master of consultative kingship, and he ruled this land peacefully for fifty years.”

“Gloucester is York’s mentor,” said Somerset, his voice gradually making its way through the thicket of Henry’s thoughts. “They are the best of friends. Gloucester has always championed the war in France. York backs him up.”

“That may be so,” said Marguerite. “But it doesn’t mean you can go back on your word.” She knelt before Henry, taking his large hand between her two small ones. “My dear lord, you must sign. Can you not see that?”

Henry patted her hand as he gazed into the middle distance. He really needed to explain these things to her, but the hour of nones was approaching, and he must go to chapel. Afterwards, he expected a visitor from Cambridge University to talk about his new college. Four years ago, Henry had laid the foundation stone for a royal college dedicated to Our Lady and Saint Nicholas, and he was most anxious to choose the provost and the twelve impoverished students who would study there. Henry had been pleased with his idea of having twelve students, because it was the number of Christ’s apostles, but should he increase it? Education was so important, and there were so many impoverished young men who could benefit. Seventy would be a goodly number, for it was the number of early evangelists chosen by Our Lord Jesus himself—

Dimly, Henry became aware of a dull and fiery light. He sat up in his chair. Had he gone to hell? Surely not; he didn’t remember dying. He looked up to see Cardinal Beaufort standing before him, his red robes vibrating against the gathering winter darkness. Now well into his seventies, Cardinal Beaufort supported himself by leaning on a stick. Henry motioned him to sit.

“In the matter of your marriage treaty,” said the Cardinal, “I can only advise you to abide by its terms. If you do not sign, you will be breaking your oath, and you will ruin your reputation.”

“And mine,” said Marguerite from her seat on a low stool by the king.

The cardinal bowed. “And your reputation, of course, my dear lady.”

Henry stared at the floor. Where was Somerset? Hadn’t he been here? And when had Cardinal Beaufort arrived? How much time had passed since Marguerite had started talking to him about Maine and Anjou? Was it hours, or days?

The cardinal beckoned and one of his clerks came forward with the parchment. He dipped the pen in ink and held it out for the king.

Henry looked away. He wanted more time to think. The situation was complex.

“Sign it!” shrieked Marguerite.

Henry jumped. The cardinal raised his hand. “My daughter—”

“Sign it! Sign it!” she screamed at the top of her voice. She lunged toward Henry, snatched the quill from the clerk’s fingers, wrapped Henry’s fingers around it, and started to guide the movement of the pen to form a signature.

Henry sat passively, fascinated by her energy. It emanated from her in waves, like narrow golden haloes. Henry never felt energetic, except when he was consulting with scholars. Recently, he’d had the idea of establishing several grammar schools around the country, so that poor boys could be educated—

Cardinal Beaufort rose. “You cannot do that, my daughter. It is not legal by the laws of England. You must wait and possess your soul in patience.”

Marguerite flung the pen down and jabbed her finger at King Henry. “You don’t care what this does to me or my reputation. You sit there like a larded duck and do nothing. Meanwhile, my father and uncle are left wondering what kind of man is this Harry of England that can’t even keep his word.” She sank onto the floor, sobbing, burying her face in her hands.

I don’t sit here, thought King Henry. I am filled with thoughts and ideas. Haven’t I explained this to you, my dearest? He put out his hand to touch her pretty hair, but she had gone. He drifted into a sea of disconnected thoughts and images. When he came to, he saw the face of the French ambassador looming before him.

Marguerite lifted her well-defined chin and turned to Henry. “I have here a letter to the King of France in which you give a solemn undertaking to cede the territories of Maine and Anjou to my father King Réné by the thirtieth of April of next year.” She laid the parchment in front of him.

Henry looked away. Now where was he? It took him such a long time to get through his thoughts—

“You are doing it to please Charles VII, the King of France, at the request of your wife,” remarked Marguerite as she dipped the pen in ink and held it out to him.

Henry looked at her. She had a dimple in her cheek.

“Please, my lord,” she said sweetly. “For the love you bear me.”

Love. That was the word. How he loved his wife. And she wanted him to sign this document. Aye. It was the only way he could show her that he loved her, until he plucked up enough courage to take her to his bed. He picked up the pen and slowly signed his name.

Marguerite clapped her hands.

Silence descended. The next thing he knew, his wife was kissing his cheek. “Thank you, my most redoubted lord,” she murmured.

Henry sank back in his chair, pleased that she was happy. Now, who should explain English customs to her?

Chapter 18

Eltham Palace, Greenwich, London

April 1446

“It is beautiful in London, my lady, at the queen’s gardens in Eltham with the flowers so fresh after a shower,” began Jenet.

“Were there any celebrations? It’s now a year since King Henry married.”

“There was a service of thanksgiving held in their private chapel. As soon as it ended, the queen asked my lord to walk with her in the gardens. My heart sank, for you know how the Queen is, she never keeps still—”

Cecylee had sent Jenet to spy on Richard. Well, perhaps that was rather a dramatic way of putting it, but just as she was about to give birth to her
seventh child
, a message came from the Queen asking Richard to visit her at Eltham on a matter of some importance. Richard did not know what the Queen wanted, and Cecylee could not go with him. She instructed Jenet to go.

Cecylee gave Jenet a long list of things needed from London for the new baby’s christening to provide subterfuge. But privately, she instructed Jenet to wear nondescript clothing, not pretty hand-me-downs, to kept her head down, and to speak only English, hoping that Richard wouldn’t recognize her when she followed him through the streets of London.

“After the queen asked my lord husband to walk in the gardens, were you able to keep up with them?” she asked.

“Fortunately, my lord wanted to sit. He looked tired.”

Jenet paused, and Cecylee nodded.

So let me tell you what happens next, my lady. The place where my lord and the queen sat is not far from the stables, so I was able to go around a corner out of sight, but near enough to listen.

“I am so glad you could come,” said the queen in her high, bell-like voice.

Holy Mother be thanked, I thought, it will be easy enough to hear everything she has to say.

“I understand your wife is about to birth your child.”