Thwarted Queen (34 page)

“I miss Father,” whispered fourteen-year-old Margaret, sitting down beside me.

I covered her cold fingers with my own. “So do I,” I replied, looking at the thick snow falling outside. I shivered at the thought of Richard having to endure that cold. “Let us pray that he finds some peace and joy this Christmastide.”

“Your lord is gone, madam,” said the messenger, crossing himself.

“You say he was cut down?” I took a shaky breath.

“He was pulled off his horse.”

My hands flew to my mouth to prevent shrieks, for I didn’t want the children to hear.

Everything went black.

When I came to, I was bewildered to find myself in my bedchamber in the middle of the day.

Jenet wiped my face with a lavender-scented handkerchief. “You’ve had a nasty shock, my lady.”

I gazed up into her brown eyes. “Is it true?”

Jenet nodded.

I looked away. Only forty-nine. If only I’d loved him as he deserved. He’d never had an easy life. Orphaned by the time he was four. Then he married me—

By the time Richard reached Sandal Castle in Yorkshire, the poor weather left few supplies. He spent Christmas there and, shortly afterwards, sent a party of men to forage. They were ambushed by Lancastrian scouts. On hearing of this, my lord of York rode out of Sandal Castle with Salisbury and Rutland in a heroic effort to protect his men. The whole Lancastrian army surrounded him. They pulled him off his horse, and murdered him. Salisbury was killed during the ensuing battle. Rutland was murdered in cold blood after the battle ended. He was only seventeen years old.

As the truth of what had happened dribbled into my mind, I became ill. I sobbed for days as my heart squeezed out drops of guilt and pity. Only after my tears dried did my anger surface. Why had he impulsively rushed out of the castle? Didn’t he have scouts who could tell him that a whole army was waiting to cut him to pieces? His stupidity cost not only his life, but those of our son Rutland and my beloved brother Salisbury.

But he’d done his duty, I wept one night as his face floated before me. He couldn’t let his men be cut down without trying to save them. And people respected him for that, extolling his knightly virtues whenever they came to console me.

“I’ll make it up to you, my love,” I murmured into a pillow.

Over the years, at the Augustinian priory at Clare in Suffolk, I erected a shrine to my lord of York in the form of a repository of documents and other memorabilia commemorating his life. I built an image of the lost heroic father, the worthy statesman, the pious man chosen by God to be king, and the courageous warrior beleaguered by his enemies. It was imperative that the House of York pull together to fight its enemies. And folk needed a hero to inspire.

And so my marriage came to an end. But I did not have the luxury of grieving forever, for there was a war on.

After a month, I sat up in bed and took a deep breath. I was free. As a fabulously wealthy woman, I could live in comfort for the rest of my days. There would be no more pregnancies. I could indulge my slightest whim. And best of all, I need never marry again, for I was far too powerful to be cozened by an ambitious aristocrat seeking to feather his nest. I closed my eyes and silently thanked Our Blessed Lady.

Chapter 46

February to March 1461

After the massacre at Sandal Castle, Edward gathered the Yorkist forces together and fought a battle at Mortimer’s Cross, which he won on the Feast of Candlemas, the second day of February in 1461, just a month after Richard was murdered.

The main part of the Lancastrian army moved south, marching toward London via Grantham, Stamford, Peterborough, Huntingdon, Royston, and Saint Albans. My lady queen was unable to pay her soldiers, so she gave them license to loot. They robbed, burned, raped, and pillaged their way through the countryside. They sacked priories and abbeys. They burned whole villages, barns, and manor houses. Many people fled south from the wrath of the northerners, carrying with them dreadful tales of atrocities. These reports caused many towns to switch sides, furthering the Yorkist cause.

On the twelfth day of February, Warwick rode out of London at the head of a large army, making his way north. He met the queen’s army at Saint Albans on the seventeenth. Thus the Second Battle of Saint Albans commenced. Warwick would have won this engagement but for the treachery of one commander who held back, then raced to join the Lancastrian side. Under the cover of darkness, Warwick gathered up the remnants of his army and marched west to meet Edward of York.

As news of Warwick’s defeat reached London, panic spread. Streets emptied as merchants shut and locked their shops. Folk barricaded themselves inside their houses. Some wealthy merchants even went abroad. The queen sent a deputation to London’s mayor to negotiate the terms of the capital’s surrender. She ordered the Londoners to proclaim Edward of York a traitor and assured them of amnesty.

The Londoners did not trust her.

My lady queen countered by sending four hundred of her elite troops to march on Aldgate, where they demanded admittance to the city.

The people of Aldgate barred their entry.

Another group of the queen’s men made it to Westminster, but were driven away by the indignant Londoners. And so the queen retreated to Dunstable in Bedfordshire, some forty miles to the northwest.

I was staying at my London residence of Baynard’s Castle, increasingly concerned that George and Richard might be taken hostage for Edward’s good behavior. Early one morning, I put them on a ship bound for Burgundy, where they would remain under the protection of Duke Philip until it was safe for them to return. Margaret remained in London with me, and every day we went from house to house, accepting hospitality from the good folk of London while persuading them to stay with the Yorkist cause despite the terrifying tales they were hearing about the queen’s army.

On February 27, Edward rode into London at the head of twenty thousand knights and thirty thousand foot soldiers. I was reading in my solar at Baynard’s Castle when the roar of the crowd reached my ears. I rose and went to my
prie-dieu
to pray. When I rose, the shouts of the crowd had become more distinct.

“Hail to the Rose of Rouen,” they roared. One imaginative young man sang:

Let us walk in a new vineyard,

and let us make a gay garden into the month of March,

with this fair white rose and herb,

the Earl of March
.

Smiling, I walked outside with Margaret. Edward was here, the Londoners behind him.

“Mother!” he exclaimed, vaulting off his gelding. “My fair sister!”

“Well met, my son,” I said loudly and clearly so that the crowd could understand. I had not seen Edward since the death of Richard. Now, he was the head of the House of York. Nearly nineteen, he cut a striking figure, and he held the Londoners in the palm of his hand. With him was his cousin Warwick, already beloved of the people.

“Greetings, dear nephew,” I said, kissing Warwick’s cheek. Warwick was an ambitious, proud aristocrat who wanted to serve as the king’s chief minister, but he had no thoughts of being king himself. As the grandson of Joan de Beaufort, born of an adulterous relationship between John of Gaunt and Catrine de Roet, Warwick did not have a tenable claim to the throne. And so, he supported his cousin Edward.

We waved to the crowd, then I took them inside for mulled wine and counsel, which I invited Margaret to attend, believing she should understand matters of state.

The discussion was not congratulatory. Edward’s position was not strong. Technically, he was an attainted traitor. He lacked funds, as well as the support of the majority of the magnates.

“It is imperative that you have the support of the London merchants,” I remarked.

“Don’t worry, Mother. We’ll test the waters first,” said Edward, kissing my cheek.

Chapter 47

Saint John’s Fields, London

Sunday, March 1, 1461

For the first time in a long time, it was safe enough to go out, and the Londoners wanted to see the army defending them from the marauding Lancastrians. After morning Mass, they poured out of the northern edge of the city toward Saint John’s Fields, where the Yorkist army camped.

It was a cool, blustery day with the wind whipping the ladies’ veils around their faces. Fine ladies huddled in their mounds of sables, while their less well-off neighbors donned thick, woolen mantles. Warwick vaulted off his horse and strode among them, basking in their affection and warmth, the Bishop of London at his side. Someone even found a couple of wooden boxes for him to stand on, so that he could be seen by all.

“Good people of London!” he exclaimed. “You may want to know why I say that King Henry is a usurper.”

The crowd laughed and inched closer.

“It’s simple,” remarked Warwick. “My cousin Edward is descended from Edward III’s second son, while Henry of Lancaster is descended from Edward III’s third son.”

“What happened to Edward III’s first son?” someone asked.

“A goodly question,” replied Warwick. “Edward III’s first son had an only child, who became King Richard II. But King Richard had no children, and so his line died out.”

“So you are saying that the Earl of March is the legitimate heir to the throne?” asked a well-dressed young man, wearing a thick mantle of beaver fur.

“Exactly, my friend,” replied Warwick. He turned to the Bishop of London.

“Good people,” intoned the bishop, “we want to know your opinion. Think you that Edward, Earl of March, should be King of England?”

“Yea! Yea! King Edward!” shouted the crowd, clapping their hands.

The soldiers of the Yorkist army accompanied this acclamation by drubbing on their armor.

“We must call a council, here at Baynard’s Castle,” I said, when Warwick returned bringing news of what happened in Saint John’s Fields. Certainly, events proceeded apace and it was best to strike while the iron was hot.

“We must invite the Archbishop of Canterbury, all the bishops, and all of the peers. Parliament is in session, so it will be an easy matter to manage. I will have the invitations sent out now.”

I snapped my fingers, sending people in all directions.

On the third day of March, the magnates present at the meeting that I convened at Baynard’s Castle agreed that Edward should be offered the throne.

Still, I couldn’t sleep that night. How was it that everything Richard had striven for so mightily was dropping into Edward’s lap? The people of London scarcely knew him, yet they’d taken him to their hearts. Was it out of respect for the late duke?

I felt a twinge of guilt, then quickly suppressed it. Since Marguerite did not feel guilty about her illegitimate son, why should I? Richard was in heaven, and nothing could hurt him now. Clearly no one knew that Edward was not the duke’s son, not even Edward himself. I vowed to keep it that way.