Queen of Trial and Sorrow (22 page)

“So… I am now a disillusioned and war-weary twenty-nine year old, which means I have half a lifetime behind me, mostly wasted years, in which I achieved few of the goals I set myself when first I took possession of the throne.  But it also means I have half a lifetime left, and I am determined to devote those years to the pursuits of peace.  By which I mean a building program – and not just the fortification of castles – encouraging art and literature and the new learning that is sweeping the continent, removing my father and brother from the humble tombs in which their bones rest to a place worthy of them and, above all, what every man strives for, be he pauper or prince, watching my children grow in tranquility and security.  So that when my name is spoken by future generations it will not be associated only with war.”

I had hardly dared breath during this recital, but now he fell silent, and was silent for so long that I felt the need to break it and said softly: “These are worthy endeavors for a prince.”

“Yes.  But in spite of all my labors, peace is still tenuous.  My throne and our son’s future are not secure while one man continues in life.  All our enemies are not dead.  Chief of them all, most dangerous of them all, as he proved by allowing himself to be used to further Warwick’s ambition, is Henry of Lancaster.  While his son was alive there was no point in putting Henry to death because his supporters would merely have transferred their loyalty to the son, but now that the son is dead… Is there anything to be gained by keeping Henry alive?”

My heart gave a little flutter.  He had come to me for carnal comfort but it was not enough.  Now I had a rare opportunity to give him comfort of a different kind.  Who else but I could?  Not Gloucester, certainly, not even the beloved Hastings.  Only I, because we were partners in every sense of the word: king and queen, husband and wife, parents of future generations of kings, allies against the rest of the world. 

“No,” I said without hesitation.  “There is no point in keeping Henry alive, and there are very good reasons for seeing him dead.  While he lives there will always be fools to raise the standard of rebellion in his name.”

A tapestry fluttered in a stray breeze.  His eyes flicked to it and then back to the bed canopy above.  “Christ be my judge, Bess, what I had to do did not come easily, but it had to be done.  I tell you true, I am sick of it.  I’m sick of war, I’m sick of shedding the blood of my own people, I’m sick of having to ride north to put down rebellions.  I want peace in my kingdom and I will have peace even if that means I must commit an act the mere contemplation of which makes my soul shudder.  Do you think I, an anointed king, can order the murder of another anointed king without the most awful fear and trepidation, and without the most rigorous search of my soul.”

I grabbed his hand in both mine and pressed it to my breast. “Murder?” I whispered.

“It is nothing else.”

“Did the lords of the council agree?”

“They were silent apart from Canterbury, who said if innocence and goodness and a pious spirit are not sufficient reasons to stay my hand, he doubted the power of his words to move me.  He was right.”

“So… is it done?”

“The order is dispatched.  My brother of Gloucester will see that it’s carried out.  But the guilt rests upon my shoulders.  I bear the burden in this world and the next.” 

I stroked his damp brow, rested my hand against his cheek.  “Almighty God, who knows the hearts of princes, will look upon you and judge with pity.”

“Will He?” he said hollowly.

“I am sure of it.”

We said no more but composed ourselves for sleep.  It was slow in coming.  My thoughts kept leaping to what was happening at the Tower: to the unspeakable images of Henry being cut down while at prayer or sleeping peacefully in his bed.  Edward was awake, too, restless and fidgety.  I don’t suppose his thoughts were much different from mine.  But sleep claimed me in the end.  When I awoke it was just a short time later judging by the hours marked on the night candle and there was empty space beside me. 

Quickly donning a bedrobe, I went out through the outer chambers into the torchlit passage beyond.  I asked the guard outside in which direction he had gone and realized he must have gone to the nursery.  When death is close, one needs an affirmation of life, and death was very close that night.  It was hiding in shadowed doorways, behind pillars and in dark stairwells, like an outlaw with a net to trap the unwary.  It was in the dank weedy smell of the river that glided past the palace to the sleeping city and beneath the window of Henry’s chamber at the Tower.  It was in the very air I breathed. 

The nursemaid, who slept in the same room as the children to attend them in the night, was still in the warm nest of her pallet.  The room was dark, lit only by a solitary candle and the embers of a fire burned mostly to ash.  Edward was there beside the cradle, our son curled into his shoulder and slumbering on in all his ineffable innocence.

A bed so huge the three girls hardly made any impression in it dominated the chamber.  Bessie and Mary slept with their heads close together and Mary’s dimpled fist lying on Bessie’s shoulder, breathing each other’s breath.  Cecily was lying upside down on top of the covers with her thumb in her mouth and her four fingers curving over her nose, cheeks plump as pillows, rosy as apples.  When I picked her up she was limp as a rag doll and when I put her down, she sighed, muttered something unintelligible and snuggled against her sister.  After covering them all, I deposited a kiss on each brow, and moved to my husband’s side, to gaze into our sleeping son’s face.  Young Edward gave a contented sigh, followed by a gentle burp.  Here, indeed, was vindication. 

“After I gave birth, I used to ask that he be brought to me simply so that I could hold him and assure myself he was real.”

“They are our posterity and our immortality and our great joy.”

I looked up into his face.  He looked tired; he looked… hollow, as if some integral part of him was missing.  Never before had he made a decision that gave him such grief.  Already the crime was a burden on his soul.

“Princes cannot be judged like other men,” I said.  “Princes cannot be judged at all except by the highest court, by God Himself.  You did what you had to do.  He is only one man.  If his death brings us a future free of the strife of these last years and ensures the safe succession of our son, it is a small price to pay.” 

“It was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make.  Yet to let him live would not have been an act of compassion, but a demonstration of weakness.  He had to die.”

“There is forgiveness in Heaven even for such as this.”

“That’s a comforting theory,” he said sardonically.

I rested my cheek against his hand where it lay against the sleeping baby’s back.  “Come back to bed, my love.  Let me help you to forget.”

He placed the baby back in the cradle and tucked the blankets around him.  Leaning down, he put his lips to that smooth warm brow, and as I waited by the door, I heard him murmur: “Sleep in peace, my son.  None of this is on your head. 
Mea culpa.
”

In a ceremony that gave the king and I great joy, our son was created Prince of Wales.   The child born eight months earlier in sanctuary sat contentedly in the lap of his nurse, while the lords both temporal and spiritual took the oath of allegiance to him as undoubted heir to the crown.  With the advice of his council, the king had appointed a household of officers and servants to see to his needs as well as to govern his principality until he reached the age of majority, of which I was the head.  I would have him for two more years, Edward said, and then he must go to Ludlow to be raised as a future king.  But by that time, he added, ever the optimist, perhaps he would have a brother, one that I could keep.

The venue was the magnificent Painted Chamber, so called because of the biblical scenes painted on every wall, complete with texts.  It was lit by huge clusters of beeswax candles and had a floor of polished wood.  The banners of England stirred in the rising hot air beneath the painted ceiling. The only furnishings the chamber contained were the two state chairs, side by side on a raised dais, intricately carved, comfortably upholstered and each with a canopy of silk embroidered with the leopards of England and the
fleur de lys
of France.  The king and I were seated, too practiced in the discipline of regal impassivity to actually beam with pride on the son we had created, but proud we were.

The ceremony was both a validation and a promise, I reflected., as I watched the lords come forward to kiss the dimpled little hand.  It told the world that Edward of York was once again in possession of his crown and his kingdom, and his dynasty, albeit in the person of a tiny prince, was secure.  When his turn came, young Edward would have no rivals to contend with as his father had, and could expect a peaceful accession and a reign that, full of burdens though it might be, at least ought not to be troubled by the specter of civil war.  This was Edward’s legacy to his son.  Rivers of blood had been shed in the last sixteen years, culminating in those two ferocious battles at Barnet and Tewkesbury earlier that year, and now all the king’s enemies were in their tombs and not even the most jaundiced eye could look ahead and see anything but bright prospects.  Oh, there were a few survivors of course.  The Duke of Exeter had been carried from the field at Barnet, seriously wounded, but the king’s agents had tracked him down and he had now joined Margaret of Anjou in the Tower of London.  The Earl of Oxford and Jasper Tudor were free, and both quite capable men, but they had been rendered ineffective by the simple fact of having no prince to rally to.

There was one other… my eyes roamed the chamber.  There he was, talking with his elderly uncle, the Earl of Essex: George, Duke of Clarence, the king’s treacherous brother, gorgeous and volatile. 

Here was the wasp in the heart of the White Rose, not as dangerous as he had been with Warwick leading him by the nose, but still capable of a sting.  How I longed to see his still white body lying on a bier, but in his case vengeance would have to be deferred.  Edward had forgiven him, at least on the face of it.  I had a feeling that deep down there was still a little worm of resentment gnawing at him.  To everyone he expressed himself confident that his brother had learned his lesson, but then Edward had a large and willful blind spot where his family was concerned.

Unencumbered by any such handicap myself, I was certain that Clarence was simply incapable of learning a lesson and remained the single greatest threat to future peace.  And I was not wrong.  There was tension in the palace.  Something was going to happen.  Even on this most pleasant occasion, the smell of trouble brewing blew through the chambers like a hot wind.  .

Yawning sweetly, the prince was carried from the chamber, and several servitors clad in the royal colors of blue and murrey darted about filling empty goblets from the dewy pitchers they carried.  I watched Clarence moving purposely toward Lords Hastings and Howard, who were talking together.  Howard’s hair was fast disappearing from the crown and he wore the rest in a greyish brown fringe, through which two large ears obtruded like jug handles.  His build was even bulkier than Hastings’ and both carried a small paunch comfortably.  Hastings’ chestnut hair was marred by streaks of silver at the temples, but his brown eyes still sparkled with humor.  They had been friends since serving together in Northumberland in the troubled early years of Edward’s reign.    

Seeing Clarence bearing down on them with an ingratiating smile plastered on his face, Hastings casually turned his back and Howard followed his example.  People often turned their backs on Clarence; groups broke up and dispersed when he tried to join them.  Gloucester could barely hide his contempt.  Even his mother burdened him with reproaches for his past and admonitions concerning his future conduct.  As for Edward, his remote courtesy toward one brother was in striking contrast to his deep affection for the other, obvious to all. 

Lord Thomas Stanley joined the other two lords and let out a roar that was louder even than his usual speaking voice.  “Look at that!  Did you see how high his doublet was cut?  It’s an outrage!  Why would any decent Christian man want his balls on display like that?”

The duke had reacted to the obvious snub by turning in another direction, his face red, his shoulders hunched inside his velvet doublet, still managing to keep an ingratiating smile on his face as he moved away.  He was an ostentatious dresser, favoring rich fabrics in eye-catching colors and big jewels.  No one should mistake him for less than he was: a prince of the blood.  That day he had followed the current fashion among the youthful members of the court by wearing a doublet cut so high as to expose the contours of the appendages he carried between his legs.  My own son Thomas affected the same fashion.

“To show he has balls, I suppose,” Hastings said dryly.  “In his case there may be some doubt.”

The three men burst into laughter, Howard’s shoulders heaving up and down as he rasped and wheezed, which caused many a head to turn in their direction.  No sooner had it subsided than Stanley caused another outbreak by saying:  “I notice he’s always dressed elegantly.  Is that because he changes his coat so often?”

While I had been engaged listening to this little exchange, the king was talking to his sister, the Duchess of Exeter, who, as everyone knew had been living with the handsome Sir Thomas St. Leger for some years and wished to marry him.  Mortified that her long-estranged husband had survived Barnet, she wanted Edward’s help in appealing to the pope for a divorce.  When she had retired, Clarence, a vision in azure and cream velvet, with every finger and each thumb loaded with rings and a gold and enamel Yorkist collar of white roses spanning his narrow shoulders, came forward and bowed gracefully.  Edward’s greeting was not unfriendly, but there was a wariness in his eyes these days. 

“My lord,” he said pleasantly.  Only I saw the slight stiffening of his shoulders under the dark green velvet, as he put himself on guard.

Still a remarkably handsome man was my husband and in the prime of life.  There were enough similarities between him and Clarence to proclaim them brothers, but the differences all favored Edward.  He was taller than any man I had ever seen, with a magnificent, muscular physique, whereas George lacked both height and an imposing build.  Edward’s features were more pleasingly arranged; his mouth did not possess a petulant droop but turned up at the corners, ever ready to curve in a smile. Clarence’s were stamped with the weaknesses of his character. 

Edward listened with his fingertips pressed together and his index fingers hiding his mouth while his brother told how the previous day Richard of Gloucester had attacked him in his own house.

Gloucester had been about the king’s business in the north in recent weeks, but before he left he had asked Edward for the hand of the Lady Anne Neville, Warwick’s second daughter and widow of Edward of Lancaster.  The match had been proposed several years earlier by her father and Edward had refused.  Now everything was changed: Warwick was moldering in his grave and Edward had no more reason to fear his power.  After the loyalty and support Gloucester had shown, he had earned the right to ask what he would of his brother.  It was an eminently suitable match.  Edward could see no impediment.

There was one, however: Clarence.  Willfully selfish, shockingly ungrateful, he was still jealous of the brother who had been born before him and bitterly resentful of the one whose competence, diligence, energy, and above all, fidelity shone all the more brightly compared to his own faithlessness and whose rewards reflected not only the gratitude but also the love of the king.

While Gloucester had been in the north, addressing breaches of the truce with Scotland, the king granted him Warwick’s Yorkshire and Cumberland estates, including the great administrative centers at Middleham, Sheriff Hutton and Penrith, which were part of the Neville patrimony.  Furious, Clarence made no secret of the fact that he felt they ought to be his as the husband of Warwick’s eldest daughter.  But to reward a faithful brother wasn’t Edward’s only motive.  As was often the case with him, generosity was allied to policy. 

Gloucester was to share the burden of keeping the peace in the north with Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, who had not yet proved either his loyalty or his mettle. Percy was warden of the east march.  Gloucester was to be warden of the west march. Hence the gift of Warwick’s lands in the north, which had displeased Clarence no end.

I couldn’t wait to hear how he had received the news of his brother’s intended nuptials, which I assumed had occasioned Gloucester’s ‘attack’ on him.

Indignantly, Clarence pulled down the high collar of his doublet to expose the bruising on his neck where he claimed Gloucester had attempted to strangle him.  The king leaned forward for a closer look, frowning, and then settled back.

“What happened?  The truth, my lord.”

“I told you.  He went berserk.  He was like a wild man.  He tried to kill me!”

“Why was he at your house?”

“He came to visit the Lady Anne, but she wasn’t there.  That’s when he went mad.”

“Where was she?”

“I have no idea.”  The duke was admiring his perfectly manicured fingernails, but the look on his face was that of a cat licking the cream off its whiskers.  

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, she has disappeared.”

Edward’s shock was plain.  “You can’t be serious!  Ladies like Anne Neville don’t just disappear!”

“It’s perfectly true.  We’ve searched everywhere.  She’s can’t be found.”

“Are you telling me that I trusted a high-born lady to your care and you’ve lost her?” Edward said, voice rising with each word.  “Get me Gloucester,” he growled at those clustered around us and waved the rest off.

No wonder Gloucester tried to strangle him, I thought.  After she had been widowed at Tewkesbury, Edward had given her into the care of her sister and brother-in-law until he decided how best to dispose of her very valuable hand. What had George done with the girl?

“It’s true!  I’m to blame, I’m afraid, but I meant well.”  He heaved a regretful sigh, his lambent gaze flickering over Edward to see how he was taking it.  “You see, I heard that our brother wanted to wed her, so, mindful of my duty as her guardian, I tried to prepare her.  She was dead set against marrying again, but I had no idea she would react like this.  Rather than wed him the foolish girl appears to have run away.”

Gloucester had joined us in time to hear the last sentence. He seemed older than his eighteen years; that was due in part to the air of authority he wore so comfortably and in part because of his old face.  There was nothing youthful about it, or him; it was pale, lean and stern, with a thin, uncompromising mouth.  He had the most unsettling eyes: a chilly grey, opaque most of the time, guarding their owner’s secrets, sometimes light as a winter sky and moving through all the shades to the dark of a storm-tossed sea.  When he smiled the corners crinkled, but they never, ever warmed and he seldom smiled. When speaking he had a habit of drawing his brows together creating creases between them that would soon become a permanent scowl.  His demeanor was reserved, his affect stern and his manner of speech clipped and concise.

“Where is she?” he snarled.  “What have you done with her, you lying wretch, you whoreson?” He took a step toward Clarence, who took a step back, holding up his hands palms forward as if to ward off the blast of icy malevolence that emanated from his younger brother.

“Do you see how he speaks to me?” he bleated.

“My lord!” Edward barked, bringing Gloucester up short.

“It’s obvious he’s spirited her away so that I can’t have her to wife!”

“You sly little viper,” Clarence sneered.  “I see your plan very clearly.  You want to marry her in order to claim a share of the Warwick inheritance.  You can’t bear that it should all be mine!”  

The lands that Gloucester had been given were only part of Isabel and Anne’s inheritance.  They had come to Warwick through his father, the Earl of Salisbury, and were extensive enough, but the greater part of the inheritance, the Beauchamp and Despenser lands, had come to him through his wife.  The Countess of Warwick had fled to sanctuary at Beaulieu Abbey after the death of her husband, so that she could not be married against her will, and she was still the legal possessor of those vast estates. 

At the moment all the revenues were pouring into Clarence’s greedy hands and would continue to do so if the little sister never remarried.