Queen of Trial and Sorrow Read online

  ……….

  “He wants me to raise fifty men and take them north to join the Earl of Warwick in mopping up operations,” my brother Anthony told me that night when he came to my chamber to bid me good night. He was the eldest of my brothers, the same age as the king, nineteen, and although I was five years older we had always been close because he was mature for his years.

  I didn’t like to think of him going to war. He had fought at Towton because it was expected of him, but claimed to have used his sword only in self-defense. It was not cowardice, by any means, only a principled repugnance of any sort of violence and particularly what he was pleased to call ‘the wicked waste of war.’ Anthony loved to coin such pithy expressions. ‘It is high time civilized man found a better way to settle his disputes,’ he had once said. But when challenged, he had been unable to come up with a feasible alternative. I had advised him that he ought not to share his opinions with the warlike race he dwelt among.

  “Perhaps you won’t see any fighting,” I suggested half-heartedly.

  “Margaret won’t give up. She’s intriguing at the Scottish court. If she gets help there she’ll be back in England, sure as dusk follows day,” he said gloomily.

  Her husband was weak and ineffectual, of a monkish temperament and certainly no soldier, and her only son was a child, so she did the fighting for them. She would continue to fight for them till the breath left her body. Captain Margaret, the Yorkists called her.

  “Did he fine us?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “That was good of him. You didn’t expect to get off scot-free, did you? He’s been very lenient. Others have been fined, or placed under bond. We should consider ourselves fortunate, as it’s well known the royal treasury is empty.”

  “I don’t consider myself at all fortunate! I’m the one who has to go north. To Warwick, of all people!”

  The Earl of Warwick was the man who had done more than any other to help the new king win his throne. He had once taken my mother, father and Anthony captive, and although they had been used honorably Anthony would never forget how he and Father had been publicly berated for being lowborn upstarts.

  “We are all going to have to reconcile ourselves to the new rule, at least for the time being.” I found myself thinking that perhaps it would be a good thing for England if Henry and Margaret never had rule of this land again. Henry was no more than a puppet in the hands of others and Margaret had turned into a vengeful and cruel woman. “She threw the crown away,” I said. “Bringing a Scots army into England… How could she do such a thing?”

  She had promised unlimited plunder south of the Trent in mainly Yorkist lands, in lieu of wages. The Scots had gone much farther than she intended: setting fires, destroying livestock, orchards and fields, raping women and girls, stealing from religious houses and even killing monks who tried to protect church property. In other words, behaving like a conquering army on foreign soil. What did she expect – that those wild borderers would knock on a rich man’s door, ask for his goods and if refused go on to the next house? Margaret of Anjou was no fool. She was utterly ruthless, didn’t give a tinker’s curse about who suffered as long as she won in the end. The Scots had their revenge for hundreds of years of border warfare, in which they had come off worst.

  “How could she be surprised when the Londoners refused to open the gates to her army? She left them no choice. Rather than turn the city over to her Scots’ marauders they, in effect, rejected their king.” I had never before spoken so disloyally of my sovereigns, and I was surprised that Anthony didn’t rebuke me.

  Instead, he said: “And York’s son and Warwick were quick to take advantage. They were at the gates within days of her departure.”

  “And given a rapturous welcome.”

  How quickly they had turned things around! From the most abysmal defeat at Wakefield to a dizzying pinnacle of success – Edward of York crowned, Henry and Margaret driven from the kingdom – in just three short months.

  How Margaret had feared York who, according to the English laws of primogenitor, had a better claim to the throne than Henry did, who was standing in the wings eager for his chance at center stage and already had two sons close to manhood and two more following. She learned to fear Warwick too, as he grew in prestige and power. But never did she fear Edward, York’s heir, an unknown boy who had spent most of his years sequestered at Ludlow on the Welsh marches. She hadn’t anticipated him. She hadn’t even seen him coming.

  I smiled at Anthony. “Now that you’ve met him, don’t you find the change of allegiance less repugnant?”

  Having looked into those blue eyes and listened to him talk over dinner of his policies and plans, I certainly felt more optimistic about the new rule and about the future. After Henry’s feeble ineptitude and Margaret’s ruthlessness, he was like a breath of fresh air.

  Anthony raised his brows at me. “Oh, not you too!”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been seduced from your allegiance by a fair face. And don’t give me that prim look. You’re as bad as our idiot sisters.”

  “I certainly am not!” I declared, feeling my color rising. “Go away. You may be a lord, with fifty men to command, but you’re still a brat.”

  ……….

  The king came for another visit in September, after touring the western shires, and this time there was no doubt who it was he came to see. My sisters were greensick with envy when he invited me to show him the gardens. My hand rested on his, and even that touch was enough to make my body vibrate like a plucked harp string.

  We spoke of many things that day, but I particularly remember him telling me about the deaths of his father and younger brother while he had been raising an army to take to his father’s support and, to his everlasting grief, roistering away the Christmas season with his friends in Shrewsbury. The Lancastrians, under the command of the Duke of Somerset had broken a Christmas truce and York was lured from his castle of Sandal and slain on the battlefield. His second son had survived and been taken captive by men who hoped to have a fat ransom from him. And so it might have happened, but that the vengeful Lord Clifford, whose father had been killed at the first battle of St. Albans, was riding by and, seeing him there, stepped down from his horse, drew his dagger and butchered the bound and helpless seventeen year-old like a hog. In the end, the king said, all that was left to him was to die with dignity, on his feet, facing his killer, but because he was injured even that was denied him. Even then there was a thread of sorrow in his voice and he said that he didn’t think he would ever be whole without the brother who had been his constant companion since infancy.

  He had his revenge in the end though. The night before the battle of Towton there was a fight for the bridge at Ferrybridge. Butcher Clifford was there. Lord Herbert put an arrow in his eye.

  The Yorkist leadership was wiped out that day, not only York and his son but also Warwick’s father and brother. God forgive us, when we of the queen’s party heard, we gave thanks to God, hoping for peace. And when we heard how those noble bodies had been desecrated, their heads cut off and set above the gates of York, the duke’s head festooned with a paper crown, we were shocked, for it was not our way, but not too much so. As for the young earl, I remember my mother saying that he’d been in harness and if he was old enough to fight he was old enough to die. How different things are from another perspective.

  It soon became apparent that Sandal had merely swept away two fathers to make way for two abler sons.

  My father said it was Sandal that changed Edward from a careless youth into an effective and capable man who showed from the start qualities of leadership and battlefield skills amazing in one so young.

  Barely a month later be fought and won Mortimer’s Cross, the famous battle where three suns appearing in the sky presaged his victory; and then less than two months after that came his greater victory on that snow-laden Palm Sunday at Towton, of which Anthony had said no man who lived through it could remain unchanged.

  He told me of his mother, who he clearly adored, and of his two younger brothers, who she had sent to Burgundy for safekeeping in case her eldest son should follow his father and brother to the grave. He had brought them home in the summer and bestowed dukedoms on them.

  A hand was resting on his silk-clad thigh and I covered it with my own, just the gentlest of pressure. It was forbidden to touch the king without his leave, but I did it. I felt humbled that he had shared these memories with me.

  The sun was going down beyond the garden wall. We had talked for hours and I knew he would soon have to leave to return to Stony Stratford. I wanted to keep him with me as long as possible. I admit he fascinated me.

  “I don’t believe I have ever seen anyone so beautiful,” he said softly.

  He was beautiful too. I lowered my eyes and blushed at my wayward thought. We were sitting on the stone coping beside the carp pool; it was my favorite spot. He was so close that he pinned the skirts of my gown beneath him; I was quite unable to move until he was ready to let me go.

  “I have thought of you often,” he said, silky-soft, “with longing and desire.”

  He contrived to capture one of my hands; it was pale and perfect, with slender fingers and manicured nails. He lifted it to his mouth, touching and tasting with lips and tongue before I gently disengaged it.

  “I think perhaps it is time we returned to the house, your Highness.”

  “A kiss before we must part.”

  “No, Sire,” I said as firmly as I dared.

  The fair brows went up; the blue eyes clouded. I think he was more surprised than angry or disappointed. It was a word he was unaccustomed to hearing, especially from the mouths of those upon whom his attention had fallen. He had, of course, been utterly spoiled by women throwing themselves at him, falling at his feet. He didn’t have to pursue them; generally a little artful persuasion was enough to coax the object of his lust into his bed.

  Then he smiled, and it was like the sun coming out. “Are you so bashful because of the spies?”

  “Spies?” I echoed, and he nodded toward the house. Every window that looked down upon the garden had two or even three faces peering out.

  ……….

  I cannot deny that I was both flattered and thrilled by the attentions of the king, and my family were, if possible, even more flattered and thrilled, with the exception of Father and Anthony who opined frequently that he ought not to be let loose around decent women. But what I really wanted was to marry again, and quickly while I still had my looks, for I had little else to recommend me. What is a woman alone but a useless beggar, a drain on her family’s resources, growing old and bitter without ever having a bowl or spoon to call her own and never being in a position to help her children rise in the world? There were suitors once my year of mourning was up. They sighed at my beauty and toasted my eyes, which were like woodland pools, like emeralds, like wells of unending happiness. But I quickly learned that beauty is a poor substitute for a dowry, and when they discovered my circumstances expressions of undying devotion turned to regret. Hand over heart, a forlorn wave, and another prospect was gone down the lane.

  Another visit: He was on his way north to conduct the campaign in person. He was always on his way somewhere or returning from somewhere. We took a blanket out to the orchard. It was in the season when the trees were in full flower. I spread out the blanket in the shade of a tree and he shook the trunk until tiny petals fell like snow. We were alone, where we could not be overlooked from the house, alone with the bees in the blossoms.

  “Is it true,” I asked, “as I’ve heard, that you are a thriving merchant?”

  Father thought it a scandal, but mother said because he wasn’t born to be king, he tended to be unconventional and what was wrong with that?

  “I must do something magnificently innovative to make the Crown solvent.”

  “The merchants will say you have an unfair advantage.”

  He laughed. “They might have a point.”

  “There are many who’ll say it’s demeaning; that a king should not involve himself in something as crassly commercial as trade.” I rather felt that way myself.

  “True. But only those who don’t know how crassly commercial is the business of running a kingdom.”

  “What do you trade?”

  “Only wool and woolfells so far, but next year I intend to ship some woolen cloths from Coventry to Flanders. Try as they might the Flemings cannot replicate Coventry’s blue and make it fast. I want to improve England’s cloth trade and feel I can better understand the complexities from the inside. Later perhaps I shall ship other things, such as tin and lead, though they aren’t nearly so lucrative as wool. I intend to make exorbitant profits.”

  He sprawled out beside me, propping his head on one hand. “Will you like me better if I’m rich?”

  “I like you well enough now,” I said brazenly.

  I turned my head to look at him through lowered lashes. It was all the invitation he needed. He leaned over and kissed the corner of my mouth and then my lips. A tongue of flame darted to my loins. I moved away with a sigh.

  “Why do you keep coming back? Why?”

  “Because you are a Circe, a siren. Because I cannot resist you. I think you know you have snared my heart.”

  I veiled my eyes. “It is to no avail,” I said sadly. “I know I am not good enough to be your wife but I am too good to be your mistress.”

  At these words it seemed to me he withdrew slightly.

  “Madam…” he said. He had lately taken to calling me Bess but now it was back to formality “…there is no dishonor in being the mistress of the king. You would be envied and celebrated.”

  “But I don’t wish to be envied and celebrated. I wish to be wed and cherished. When I go to a new husband, I hope to do so with an unblemished reputation.”

  “Unblemished! A liaison with the king would enhance not blemish your reputation. You have too much pride.”

  I risked a peek at his profile. I think he was quite mystified that I wasn’t willing to jump into his bed. He still had the vanity of a boy and I had wounded it.

  “Please, your Grace – ”

  “God’s Breath, I am a man! I have needs. Don’t women have such needs?”

  “Only wantons indulge them lightly.”

  “I assure you, many women, very many, are not so fastidious as you!”

  He was becoming angry now. I was going to lose him. I put my face in my hands to hide my distress. “Oh, why do you come here? You torment me!”

  After a moment, he pushed my hands away and tilted my chin up. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I can’t bear to see you unhappy.”

  Sweetheart. He called me sweetheart.

  I am quite sure he was genuinely perplexed by an attitude he had never encountered before, and went away enduring all a young man’s wretchedness at an unexpected rejection. When he left me I didn’t expect him to come back, but he did. He always came back. I didn’t understand at first why he didn’t move on to an easier conquest.

  As for me, I was fully aware that I was pushing him away with one hand while beckoning him on with the other. It wasn’t calculated. The thought of never seeing him again was unbearable, yet I couldn’t bring myself to yield. Whenever I saw him coming down the lane my heart sang as sweetly as s thrush in the hedgerow. Plato says the madness of love is the greatest of heaven’s blessings. I didn’t want to love him. God knows, I fought against it. Why did it have to be him, a man as far above me in station as a distant star and for who I could never be anything but a brief dalliance?

  He called me his green-eyed goddess and said I had as much ice as ichor in my blood. I played the part well. He would have been surprised to know that I yearned for him when he was gone, remembering each caress, each stolen kiss in my lonely bed at night, becoming drenched between my thighs at the mere thought of lying naked in those powerful arms, his long body straining against mine. I wanted him, ached for him, lusted as fiercely as he, but not for one quick hot tumble, not even for long enough to bear a royal bastard as Lady Lucy had. But for always.

  “I wish I didn’t feel as I do,” I sighed to my mother. “I know nothing can come of it.”

  She was snipping early lilies, examining them as closely as she did eels in the market, before placing them in the basket I carried. “That’s how it was for me too,” she said with a smile in which there was more than a trace of lasciviousness. “Ah, daughter, I well remember how the blood runs hot when a certain man walks into the room.” My father was notably uxorious, and my youngest sister was younger than my eldest boy. Perhaps the blood still ran hot.

  “Why do you fight it? Give him what he wants.”

  “What! Become his mistress?” I was shocked that she would suggest it.

  “Certainly. If you want to bed him, why not? Think of what it would mean to your family.” She straightened and turned to me, a bright lily in her hand. “Think of all the favors that would come our way. Your father would be advanced and honors would trickle down to your brothers. Titled bachelors would queue up to wed your sisters, dowry or no dowry.”

  “But what of me? I would be nothing but a whore, adored one day and cast off the next.”

  She gave a characteristic shrug. “Perhaps. But if you were clever, and you are clever, you could secure your future. Think about never being in want again. Think about your sons. You could obtain lands for them that would make the loss of Astley and Bradgate negligible.”

  The king had asked his good friend Lord Hastings, who was my overlord in Leicestershire, to look into that matter, and he had come to the conclusion that Lady Ferrers had the right of it. I was at a severe disadvantage because my former mother-in-law was now wed to Sir John Bourchier who was first cousin to the king through his father’s sister. I was furious and disappointed and not at all certain that Lord Hastings had rendered an impartial decision. It was the beginning of a lifelong bias against him.

  On the other hand, I was pleased that the king had not used the fact that I wanted something from him as a weapon of seduction.