Thwarted Queen (44 page)

Chapter 61

1473 to 1478

During this time, my prayers were answered, and George and Bella had more children. Their second child, named
Margaret
after my daughter, the Duchess of Burgundy, was born August 14, 1473. Their third child, named
Edward
after the king, was born February 25, 1475.

However, tensions rumbled on between my sons. George and Edward barely tolerated each other, and even Richard grew more critical of the king. In 1475, Richard had gone over to France with the army, ready to give the French another Agincourt. But Edward allowed himself to be bought off by the King of France like a wealthy merchant who will prostitute his services to the highest bidder.

“This is insupportable,” Richard told me later. “Edward does not behave as a prince of blood. He cheats us of an honorable peace at Picquigny.”

I could only sigh. Every year, Edward did something that seemed to demonstrate his low origins.

In the summer of 1476, Richard finally prevailed upon Edward to re-inter my lord of York in a proper resting place at Fotheringhay. Richard acted as chief mourner and led the seven-day procession from Pontefract – where my lord had been hastily interred after his foul murder – to Fotheringhay.

I wished to be present, of course. But in the end, I begged off, saying it was too painful. The reason was that the Serpent insisted on being there, and Edward was unable or unwilling to say no to her. Richard blamed the delay of the re-internment on Edward’s irresponsibility.

I had other things to think of. One day earlier in that year of 1476, I was at my prayers when the steward announced the Duchess of Suffolk. I was surprised; January was a bad time for traveling. I rose at once.

“Mother, dearest!” Beth kissed my cheek as she entered my bedchamber. Her black woolen cloak was covered in snow from the storm outside.

“My dearest child, what has happened?”

“My lord John and our children send you their affectionate greetings. They are well.”

“But?”

Beth drew up a chair, and bade me sit.

“Margaret?” I whispered.

“Nan.” She sat down beside me, and took my hands. “Nan is dead.”

“No.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Rising swiftly, I nearly knocked over my chair. “No. It can’t be true.” I folded my arms over my chest and gazed at the white flakes tumbling down outside. “All these years, I’ve been trying to reach her.”

Beth was silent.

“How did she die?”

“In childbirth, Mother.”

“Childbirth? I didn’t know she was expecting.”

“Her daughter Anne died last year, at the age of twenty.”

I sank into a chair, my arms wrapped around me, and rocked to and fro. Nan’s daughter, Anne Holland, had been married to the Serpent’s son Thomas Grey. He’d made her die in childbirth.

“Nan decided to have another child. The child lives and is called Anne St. Leger.”

“I didn’t know,” I whispered. “Was she happy, with her—her lover?”

“They were married, Mother dear,” said Beth, chafing my cold hands. “Anne got her divorce three years ago and has been married for two years.”

“It’s all my fault,” I burst out, rising. “I should never have let her go. I’ll never forget the day she was torn away from me. If only—”

The rest of the sentence disappeared as I flung myself onto my bed. “If only I’d never met Blaybourne,” I sobbed into a pillow, “then Richard would not have punished me with Nan’s marriage.”

Beth sat by me and held my hand.

“We can’t have run out of time.” I wept. “I had plans to see her again.”

Beth summoned Jenet, who mixed up a potion to help me sleep.

I slept that day. But it was many moons before I slept well again. The sands of time had run through my fingers, and Nan was gone, dead at the age of thirty-six. I paced around my chamber during the dead of night. Why hadn’t I done more to reach her? Dark waves of guilt washed over me as I gazed at the stars.

In October 1476, Bella presented George with their fourth child, a son they named Richard. But she never recovered. By mid November, she was so ill, she was taken home to Warwick Castle to die. She passed on just before Christmas 1476, at the age of twenty-five. Their child died ten days later.

George was heartbroken, and I was consumed with worry. Naturally, George wished to marry again, for he had two children under the age of five. His first choice was Mary of Burgundy, now nearly twenty years old. On her father’s death in January 1477, she had become the heiress to his vast duchy. But Edward thwarted George at every turn, and the Serpent added fuel to the fire by proposing her own brother Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, as bridegroom. In the end, Mary married Maximilian of Austria with Edward’s blessing.

George’s second choice of bride was Princess Margaret of Scotland. But Edward again forbade the match. Surmising that the Serpent was responsible for these decisions, George decided to strike at her through one of her women, Ankarette Twynho, who’d served Bella before her death. Taking the king’s justice into his own hands, George arrested, tried, and executed Dame Twynho on the grounds that she had poisoned Bella, being the means by which the Serpent had put a curse on Bella to make her die.

Edward was furious, but did nothing.

“The king is showing a great deal of forbearance,” I remarked, listening to
Robert Stillington, the Bishop of Bath and Wells
, explain the situation. “You have seen George much of late. How is he?”

Bishop Stillington cleared his throat. “I have some news that I fear will greatly distress you, and that is the reason for my visit.”

I gripped the chair handles.

“The Duke of Clarence is publicly declaring the king to be a bastard.”

“Not that,” I murmured. But of course he would say such a thing. I had taught him to say it, and it was becoming clear that in the wake of Bella’s death, George was becoming unhinged.

The bishop signaled to my women. “I fear I have greatly distressed you.”

I waved them away and sipped my wine. I must do penance for my sins, and one way I could do that was to hear the worst.

“What else does George say?”

The bishop sighed and lowered his voice: “He declares the king to be a necromancer and says that his marriage to the queen is null and void because tradition forbids the King of England to marry widows.”

I shook my head. “George is not well. The death of his wife has been a great shock.”

“You might be right, my lady. His actions seemed designed to cause the most offense. Why, yesterday he publicly accused the queen of murdering his duchess by poison and sorcery. And he refuses to eat or drink anything at court.”

My hands trembled as I put my wine-cup down. “What of the king?” I whispered.

“He is very patient with his brother.”

But that could not last much longer. As I paced my chamber that night, gazing at the moon, I could imagine the Serpent’s reaction:

“I tell you, he’s gone quite mad,” she would say. “He thinks he can do anything he likes, such as storming into your council chamber and demanding that the king’s justice be overturned.”

Edward would sigh. It was true that George was becoming a problem, but he was loath to act. His brother was amusing. And they were both so alike, much more so than their youngest brother Richard. “George has no real power. He is greatly upset by his wife’s death.”

“Edward! He’s dangerous. Don’t you remember how he plotted against you with Warwick? But worst of all is what he’s said against me. He says I’m not your legitimate wife!”

“No one takes him seriously.”

“Sweeting, think about this. If Clarence believes I’m not your legitimate wife, then what is he going to think about our children? He’s going to say they are bastards. And so he’ll not allow our Edward to inherit the throne. What say you to that?”

“You have a point there.”

“And so you will see to it that Clarence is removed, won’t you, my sweeting?”

And so it came to pass that George was incarcerated in the Tower of London. Months passed and Edward did nothing. Then, he summoned Parliament to meet in January 1478 to try George publicly for his offenses.

“I have a copy of the attainder with me.”

The Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Bourchier, handed me his scroll and bowed. Thomas Bourchier, a kinsman-by-marriage of my lord husband Richard, had been chosen by Richard to be Archbishop of Canterbury when he was regent of England. Over the years, we had developed a close friendship.

“Pray be seated,” I said, “and read it to me. My eyes are tired today.” I sat opposite him in front of the fireplace, my face concealed by shadows.

The Archbishop cleared his throat. “The king read the indictment himself. He accused his brother, George, Duke of Clarence, of new treasons to exalt himself and his heir to the regality of the crown of England. He said that he had ever loved and cherished his brother, giving him so large a portion of possessions that seldom had been seen. The duke’s love, for all this, did not increase but grew daily more and more in malice. He falsely and traitorously intended the destruction and disinheriting of the king and his issue.”

I put my hand in front of my face as the Archbishop stopped. I could not deny the charges. And, yet, Edward had never handled George well. What would have happened if George had been allowed to have a position in Edward’s cabinet? Would he have used it to try and take the throne that way?

“What will happen now?”

“The Lords and the Commons demand that the sentence be carried out.”

I gripped the chair so hard, my knuckles went white. If that were true, George would suffer the full horrors of a traitor’s death, the hanging, the drawing, and the quartering. Couldn’t Edward lock him up for the duration of his lifetime? But Edward had done that for Henry of Lancaster, only to find he became the focus of opposition. Henry of Lancaster had been removed, a threat to Edward’s throne.

I pinched my lips together and rose, then wobbled. The Archbishop rushed to put a hand under my elbow. I sank into my seat.

“I must write to the king.”

Dear Edward,
I wrote,
Archbishop Bourchier has told me that George has been indicted on charges of treason. I beg you not to let him die a traitor’s death. I humbly request that you commute the sentence to a beheading, or some other way preferred by George, and that you allow it to be done privately to spare our family further scandal.

In sorrow, Cecylee, Duchess of York.