Derry Brewer made himself invaluable as each household arrived. He wore a simple dark tunic and hose, standing unremarked among the royal staff. He smiled vaguely at everything he saw, but his eyes were sharp and he missed nothing.
From just after dawn, servants in the colours of great houses would come running along the road, announcing their masters and mistresses long before they were in sight. Some would send stewards to prepare the way still further. By the time the heads of noble houses actually rode through the great gates, Derry had delivered a stream of whispered information to the queen’s ear. He carried no ledger, merely tapping his head when Margaret expressed surprise or even blushed at what he knew.
Baron Grey was one she would remember. He had sent no one ahead, arriving up from the town with his rather thin wife on horseback beside him and two fresh-faced lads struggling along in matched tunics, carrying a heavy box. Margaret warmed to the man instinctively, her expression freezing as Derry whispered, ‘Sodomite and pederast, like the Greeks. Fond of his wife, but I’m told he preys on poor lads. Discreet enough. Proud as the devil and about as cruel.’ Margaret glanced at her spymaster as Baron Grey approached. Derry had described a number of peculiarities in the noble guests, from suspicions of an old theft to a broken marriage promise and a ruined girl paid to keep silence. She had heard a tinge of humour in his voice more than once, but no sense of judgement, just a dry recital of old sins and weaknesses. Yet there was something unpleasant in Derry’s eyes as Lord Grey approached. Margaret caught a glimpse of it before it was shuttered away, something dull and flat and murderous.
Baron Grey bowed deeply to her. His eyes suited his name, rather small and hard in a fleshy, pink face. His wife curtseyed deeply, her entire head hidden by an elaborate bonnet. Words failed Margaret and she only stared, extending her hand to the man. Before that day, she could not honestly have said she knew what a pederast actually was. Derry’s brief description had filled her mind with unpleasant images that made it very hard not to shudder as Grey touched the back of her hand with moist lips. The moment passed and the baron moved on, his wife looking back with thin-lipped pride as they were ushered away. Margaret forced herself to breathe, focusing on Derry saying something about tin mines and an elderly baron bowing like a dancing master, though he was twice her age.
By nightfall, Margaret retired at last, her feet sore from standing. She had rested for brief periods during the day, called away from food or a welcome chair to greet another arrival. She had seen their pleasure that she had done so and, though she was weary, she did not regret the time lost. For the twelve nights following, she would know every man and woman in the castle.
With Derry’s aid, she had been able to place old enemies far apart. She had even ensured the prickly sensibilities of one senior countess were not inflamed by the view of a pretty young cousin as she rose each morning. On Derry’s suggestion, Margaret had made a great fuss of Baron Audley, a white-bearded old soldier who flushed delightedly at her attention. Yet when Baron Clifford arrived, her spymaster grew stern as he leaned close, facing Margaret so that his back was to the man coming towards them both.
‘Give him an inch and he will take it as weakness, my lady,’ Derry muttered. ‘Lord Clifford sees either wolves or deer – nothing in between. Needless to say, he does not respect the deer.’
Margaret had raised her head at that, determined not to wilt. Her expression had been chilly as she welcomed Baron Clifford. The man matched her for stiffness, following the servants to rooms far from the main halls.
The absence of one name was a source of enduring bitterness. Margaret counted Somerset as a friend and she hated to think of him being held prisoner. The earl’s rank allowed him some freedoms in the Tower, even as he was held for trial. Yet York had refused to allow the man his parole for the season, replying to Margaret’s request with a pompous letter about high crimes against officers of the state. York had sent his spidery script enclosed with her husband’s own seal. She knew she must not dwell on his pleasure in doing so. If she let herself think of York too long or too often, she would discover she had wound loops of her hair around her fingers until they had gone purple. She had already mourned for Somerset, his loss one more thorned branch on the fire within, a constant burn that she struggled to keep hidden.
Windsor Castle was busier than it had been all year. Huge and elaborate hunts kept the guests entertained, as well as plays, magicians and music in the evenings. The mood was light among them, despite the presence of so many armed retainers and servants, a symptom of the age. Even in the royal castle, there was fear, amidst the revelry.
As Christmas morning dawned, Margaret returned to her private rooms in time to watch her son feed from his wet nurse, sucking busily at the pink teat until he could be belched and put to rest for a short time. Young Edward was a year old and had discovered crawling, so that he could no longer be left with any expectation that he might remain in the same place, or even the same room. The nurse wiped away a little milky vomit and placed a cloth on Margaret’s shoulder before handing over the child. Margaret felt the warmth of him as he clucked and shifted, screwing up his tiny face in irritation at something. She smiled and the nurse responded to her unguarded expression, before dipping into a deep curtsey and leaving the room.
For a brief time, Margaret was alone. She found herself yawning and shook her head in amusement, thinking of all the things that still had to be done before the great feast later on. There would be a service in the chapel to attend and as they all prayed for the health of the king, the kitchens would be as busy as a battlefield. The staff would already be decorating and impaling carcasses, spicing and seething dishes to impress her husband’s nobles – all men and women who employed their own cooks. Margaret had insisted on a French flavour to all of it, knowing that the dishes of Anjou would be mostly unknown to her guests. There were geese, of course, roasted by the dozen, but there would also be woodcock, partridge and pigeon, delicate sugar tarts and pastries, savoury jellies cast in huge copper moulds and soups, stuffed prunes, cakes, eels in brine, a hundred different dishes for the Christmas Day feast.
She began to sing softly to the child on her shoulder, feeling him shuffle and peer around before he laid his head back down. Her breasts had ached terribly for a time after he was born, but the custom of a wet nurse was one she was happy to continue among the English.
Margaret looked up from the fussing child at a clatter of boots nearby. Someone was calling for her, asking loudly where she was to be found. She tutted to herself, looking down at the Prince of Wales as he sucked his thumb and opened his eyes for a moment. They were very blue. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him and he closed them again, but the shouting had not ceased. Margaret frowned. The moments alone with her son were precious and too rare. She only hoped no one had been injured out in the vast hunting park. One of the Duke of Buckingham’s servants had broken his ankle the previous day and she did not want the nobles to remember a spate of bad luck during the season.
The nurse came back in, her face unaccountably flushed. From instinct, the young woman reached for the sleeping child and Margaret handed him over, feeling a deep pang in her womb as the weight left her shoulder.
‘My lady …’ the nurse began, so nervous that she could hardly speak. Her movements were all unthinking as she settled Prince Edward once again in the crook of her arm. Of course he chose that moment to begin bawling, shaking tiny fists at the world in paroxysms of rage.
‘What is it, Katie? Did I not say to give me an hour? A single hour in the day, is it too much to ask?’
‘M-my lady, Your Highness …’ the voices and steps were still clattering closer. Margaret felt a sudden spasm of fear, imagining assassins or murder.
‘Out with it! What has you in such a flutter, Katie?’
‘Your husband, the king, my lady. They are saying he has woken.’
Margaret took a step back, so hard did the words strike her. Her eyes widened and she gathered her skirts, rushing to the door. By the time she reached it, the king’s chamber servants were already coming through, panting from running.
‘The king, Your Highness!’ one of them exclaimed. His presence across her path checked her in body and mind, allowing a moment of stillness.
‘Wait,’ Margaret retorted. She raised her hand as if to push the man out. He backed hurriedly away until she closed the door on his astonished face. She turned to the nurse and her son, both staring at her.
Margaret had cultivated dignity in her manner ever since arriving at the English court aged just fifteen. For Henry’s honour she had tried to become a queen in her bearing, a noble swan in manner as well as the symbol of her house. She had learned all she could, but being his wife was about far more than simply knowing the names of houses and estates. It was more than the laws of England and the peculiar little traditions that seemed so entwined about them. Above all else, being queen to a helpless king meant Margaret had to think before she rushed in. It meant she had to taste before she ate, and sip before she drank.
Henry had been weak and in danger for over a year. She ached to run to him, her skirts gathered up at her thighs, pelting down the corridors like a market urchin. Instead, she thought, and thought, finally nodding to herself and opening the door. Then she walked.
The news was everything she had hoped for, everything she had wished a thousand times, but the reality brought its own fears. There were many who would rejoice at Henry’s waking, while others would rage and flap and curse. She did not doubt some of his lords had expected him to die – and planned for that end. Margaret came up short at the entrance to Henry’s rooms. She sent the door crashing back, stinging the hands of those fumbling to open it.
The sun was rising behind her husband. Margaret raised a hand to her heart, unable to speak as she saw he was standing –
standing
, by God – looking back at her. King Henry was thin, his skin stretched over his bones. He wore a long white shift that reached to his ankles, one hand resting on the bedpost. Two men fussed around him as he looked at her, touching the king’s wrists with their fingers and leaning across his view. Doctors John Fauceby and William Hatclyf were the royal physicians, with three yeomen assistants and Michael Scruton, the serjeant-surgeon for the king’s person. Bowls of urine and blood steamed on tables by the bed, with two of the men peering into them and calling out their observations on clarity and sediment for the recording scribe. As Margaret stared, Hatclyf dipped his fingers and tasted the urine, noting to the scribe that it was too sweet and recommending bitter green plants be added to the king’s meals. His colleague sniffed at the king’s blood and he too touched the liquid in the bowl, rubbing his fingers together to check its grease before his pink tongue darted out. Their voices clashed and called over one another, each man struggling to be heard and to have his observations written down first.
It was a bustling scene, but at the centre of it, the king was there, awake, very still and very pale. His eyes were clear and Margaret felt her own fill with tears as she went to him. To her astonishment, he held up a hand to halt her.
‘Margaret? I am surrounded by
strangers
. These men are telling me I have a son. Is it true? God’s wounds, how long have I been lying here?’
Margaret opened her mouth, shocked to hear her husband use an oath for the first time she could ever recall. She had known him as a drowned man, pushed under by agues and dreams until he was completely lost. The man staring at her neither blinked nor looked away. She swallowed, nervously.
‘You do have a son. Edward is just over a year old. I showed him to you when you were taken by illness. Have you no memory of him?’
‘Not that, nor anything else, no … moments, instants, nothing I can … a son, Margaret!’ His eyes narrowed suddenly, an expression of dark suspicion. ‘When was he born, this Prince of Lancaster?’
Margaret flushed, but then raised her head, suddenly angry.
‘The thirteenth day of October, the year of Our Lord 1453.
Six
months after you fell ill.’
Henry stood for a moment, rubbing the fingers of his right hand against each other as he thought. Margaret could only wait, overwhelmed as he nodded and seemed satisfied.
‘And yet you stand there still! Bring him to me, Margaret. I would see my heir. No, by God, send someone else. I must hear everything that has happened. I can hardly believe I have lost so much time. It is as if a year was stolen from me, torn out of my life.’
Margaret gestured to one of the chamber servants, sending the young woman running back to fetch the Prince of Wales.
‘Longer, Henry. You have been … absent, no, ill for over eighteen months. I prayed and I had services said every day. I … you don’t know what it means to see you awake.’ Her lip quivered suddenly and tears spilled down her cheeks, wiped quickly away. She watched as her husband’s gaze turned inward, a frown creasing his forehead.
‘How fares my England, Margaret? The last I remember … no, it does not matter. Everything I remember is so long ago. Tell me quickly. I have lost so much!’
‘Richard of York was made Protector, Henry, a regent to rule the country while you were … unable.’ She watched in wonder as her husband’s fists clenched, almost in a spasm. Not once had he given thanks to God for his deliverance, this man who had prayed for hours every day in all the time she had known him.
‘York? How very pleased he must have been to have my crown dropped into his lap.’ The king twisted a ring on his finger almost viciously, as if he wanted to take it off. ‘Which of my lords forgot their honour to such a degree? Surely not Percy? Surely not Buckingham?’
‘No, Henry. They stayed away from the vote with many others. Somerset too, though he was put in the Tower for his refusal to accept York’s authority.’