Thwarted Queen (22 page)

Several days later, the messenger returned and was ushered into the solar of Dublin Castle, where Cecylee was packing up her gowns and jewels, surrounded by her women and children, for Richard had instructed his wife to make all haste in leaving Ireland. Baby George was suckling his wet-nurse, four-year-old Margaret was playing with Jenet, while seven-year-old Beth kept close to her mother. Though Beth was now the same age as Nan had been at her marriage, thankfully her father had said nothing about marrying her off. Cecylee hoped that the deteriorating situation in England would keep him occupied for many moons to come. She motioned for the messenger to rise. “How is my lord?”

“In good health, and spirits, my lady,” replied the messenger, bowing. “He successfully crossed to Wales and rode to Ludlow. There, he mustered a force of four thousand men and marched towards London. He is in London now, seeking an audience with the king.”

Cecylee sighed and crossed herself, praying that common sense would prevail and that Richard would be safe. Nothing had gone right for him in recent years. The queen, fearing him, blocked all of his attempts to participate in government. Instead of making use of his considerable talents, she’d appointed York to be the king’s lieutenant in Ireland. The position sounded like a great honor, but Richard and Cecylee were both painfully aware that the queen had banished him from London.

“Have you news of my daughter, the Duchess of Exeter?”

The messenger hesitated and looked at the floor.

“You heard something?”

He coughed. “Yes, my lady. But nothing good, I am afraid.”

“Tell me,” said Cecylee, motioning Annette to take Beth and the other children away.

“I happened to have business in that part of the country, and so I rode over to Exeter Castle. It is a fine fortress, tucked into one corner of the City of Exeter, and the Duke of Exeter lives in a fine mansion within, so I am told.”

“You did not go into the castle yourself?”

“Alas, no, madam. I was turned away at the gate. But it was nighttime, and there was a full moon, so I let my horse linger nearby and—” He ran his tongue over his lips.

Cecylee felt her unborn baby kick as she sank into her seat. “And what?” she whispered.

“I swear I could hear a cry coming from the castle.”

“A cry? What do you mean?”

The messenger was silent.

She rose. “I insist that you tell me.”

“It sounded like someone screaming.”

Chapter 23

London

Late November 1450

Richard pulled his palfrey to a halt and turned his head at the clarion call. There it came again, and again. As the notes died away, Richard’s ear caught the thunder of hooves, and around a bend in the road came a large group of riders bearing the badge of the lion. John de Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, had arrived as promised on the outskirts of London.

“Well met, nephew Norfolk.” York clasped hands with his powerful nephew-in-law, the son of Cecylee’s sister Cath. As premier Duke of the Realm, Norfolk’s opinion counted.

“How is your lady wife?”

“She is recovering from the birth of our son Thomas,” replied Richard, nudging his horse into a trot beside Norfolk’s. “The child is sickly, and Cecylee spends every waking hour nursing him.”

The horses’ breath rose up in a steam in the chill November air. It was two months since Richard had hurried back from Ireland to confront his cousin over the mismanagement of affairs in France. Henry had bowed to York’s wishes and summoned Parliament to meet in London on November sixth.

As the procession wound its way through the narrow streets of London, the people of London opened their upstairs windows to look down on them. These upper rooms jutted out over the lower ones, and were so close in places that it was possible for two lovers on opposite sides of the street to hold hands. When the people saw York, they took up his cry: “A York! A York! A York!”

“I see you are popular with the people”, murmured Norfolk. “How many men did you bring?”

“Three thousand.”

“A goodly number. I brought a similar number myself.” He motioned for one of his men to dismount and knock at the nearest house.

Presently, the casement window above was thrust open, and a dame with an elaborately starched white headdress, setting off her rosy cheeks, looked down on their company.

“I have no rooms, good sir,” she said, when Norfolk’s man explained what he wanted. “This house and all of the surrounding ones are taken by men of my lord of Somerset’s affinity.”

“There’s not a bed to be had between here and Whitechapel!” exclaimed another woman, opening the casement opposite. “London’s an armed camp. Why every fellow who fancies he can wield a stick has come here.”

A child scampered into the street. York pulled on the bit so savagely, his horse reared. He quickly brought it under control. The child ran away unharmed.

“Holy Mother be blessed,” said a dame, turning her head. “ ‘Tis indeed my lord of York. Good e’en to you, sir.” She dropped a low curtsey that made her head disappear below the sill of the open window. “May God prosper your cause.”

York smiled and waved. “Did you hear what she said? I must find Somerset.”

“Is that wise?”

“A York! A York!” chanted the people, thrusting open their casements and leaning over the procession.

“Garday loo!” shouted a maid as she prepared to heave a bucket of slops out of the window. “’Tis my lord of York,” hissed her mistress. “Wait.”

“Thank you, good madam,” said Norfolk, inclining his head.

“Save your wastewater for Somerset!” shouted a voice across the way.

The crowd erupted into cheers and guffaws.

“We must do something about the money woes of this country,” said Richard, pacing up and down.

“Certainly, my lord,” replied Sir William Oldhall, picking up his pen. Richard had known Sir William for years, first as a councilor in Normandy, and latterly as his chamberlain. The House of Commons had demonstrated their support of York by recently electing Sir William to be their Speaker.

“The king’s councilors are prepared to discuss fixing the income for the royal household,” said Richard. “But we need to go further. I propose that we pass an
Act of Resumption
that returns the huge swaths of land the king has given away to his favorites for the past thirteen years.”

Sir William stroked his beard.

Richard smiled. Sir William was a wealthy Norfolk landowner with powerful friends and relations. “Find out if public opinion would support this demand.”

Sir William rose. “We should also get a promise from the king to restore law and order in the shires.” He bowed and left.

“The seamstress has arrived with your gown,” said Eleanor, now Duchess of Somerset, curtseying low before the queen.

Marguerite motioned her friend to rise.

Eleanor slowly straightened but would not meet the Queen’s eye.

Marguerite sighed. Eleanor had been so kind when she’d first come to England, lending her money so that she could pay her sailors. But as her relationship with the Duke of Somerset had grown closer, the friendship with his wife deteriorated.

Marguerite could not really blame her. Like most aristocratic ladies, Eleanor had been married off as a child, but when her husband died, leaving her a widow at the age of twenty-three, she’d fallen in love with Somerset and married him secretly. But recently, Queen Marguerite had turned to her dearest cousin Somerset. Her great friend, the Earl of Suffolk, had been murdered that spring, and the queen needed someone to take his place in her counsels and as leader of the Court Party. She and Somerset saw each other every day, and he was beginning to look at her—

Marguerite never allowed herself to criticize her husband. She placed him in a special category, for he was like no man she’d ever known. Every day, he devoted himself to his prayers and to his charities. He was the most kind-hearted and sweetest-tempered lord, denying her nothing. Except that he would not, could not, Marguerite corrected herself, give her a child after five years of marriage. And she so longed for a baby, not only for political reasons, but for herself. If only she could have a son, York would be put in his place, for he would no longer be heir presumptive. And if not the king, then who? Marguerite smiled until her gaze landed on Eleanor. She bit her lip as her lady-in-waiting gently put the purple velvet gown embroidered in crimson thread over her head.

Eleanor gave Marguerite her mirror and stood beside her to study the effect of the gown. It set off Marguerite’s sculpted profile and made her look much older than her twenty-one years. Marguerite sighed as she studied her face in the mirror, noting a couple of lines around her mouth. “How old I look. Don’t you think so, Eleanor?”

Eleanor, who was some twenty years older than the Queen, glanced at her mistress, then turned and gathered up the Queen’s discarded gowns. Marguerite looked glorious, but she wasn’t going to tell her that. She too had noticed the way her husband looked at the queen. “It is true you have not the freshness you had when first you came to this land five years ago,” she said. “But you have been sorely tried, my lady. Especially this year.”

Marguerite caught her friend’s hand as she passed by. “You are so good to me, Eleanor. I do not understand why.”

Eleanor reddened as she averted her face. She turned to the queen’s dressing table and busied herself with clearing it, putting the stoppers back on the jars of rosewater, lavender water, and angelica water.

There was silence.

“How I miss Suffolk,” sighed Marguerite.

“Have they apprehended the villains?”

“No, no. It is all York’s doing. He is so powerful, he can do as he pleases. All he wants is to create trouble for me, and my most redoubted lord, the king.”

“The government of this country should not ignore the people of England!” exclaimed York.

The cheering was so loud, it nearly lifted off the hammer-beam roof of Westminster Hall. On that cold and chilly November morning, the temperature inside the hall rose as more and more people squeezed in to hear what York was saying. Assembled at one end of the hall were the great magnates of the land at the high table on the dais. Around the walls and packed several men deep stood the men-at-arms with their quarterstaffs, their badges clearly showing their affinities.

Richard of York stood before the lords in front of the dais, half turned to face the people who were crowding into the hall below. There was a little space between the steps that led down from the dais and the body of the hall. In the front row stood all the important citizens of London, including the lord mayor and his wife and several prominent merchants with their wives. Behind these people were the people of London, looking expectantly at the almost stout figure with a forked beard pointing his finger at the lords on the dais.

“I tell you, the people make reasonable demands,” continued Richard. “It is folly to tax them so heavily while royal favorites are richly rewarded. And not only that, these men - already bloated with wealth beyond the wildest dreams of any poor plowman or widow - do not have to pay taxes. Where is the sense in that? The country needs money, and so it should tax its richest citizens.”