Queen of Trial and Sorrow (30 page)

Who did the face belong to that looked out of the Venetian glass mirror, with its blotched skin and eyes still swollen in spite of the cold compresses diligently applied?  It was the face of a grieving and wretched widow for whom the sun had finally and irrevocably blinked out, leaving her in a drear and barren landscape, empty of all expectation of happiness, devoid of the color and the music that made the spirit soar.

  During the day I managed with an effort of will to hold myself together but as soon as my bedchamber door closed and the candles were doused I gave myself up to the relief and balm, the inevitability, of tears, while my ladies tried to hold me and keep my fingernails away from my flesh.  It was not good to so indulge my grief, I told myself, even as I was rocking and howling; it was not becoming in a queen.  I could hear his voice in my inner ear:
  Always look as if you are in control, even when your heart fails you.  You must be strong, always.
  So the face in the mirror had earned the swollen eyes, but surely the lines across my brow had not been there before his death had stolen all my joy.  Not that it mattered any more.  My beauty had been a tribute to Edward:
I have nothing to give you but this
.  It seemed fitting now to bid it
adieu
.

I reached for a cosmetic pot, but my hand fell away before I touched it.  Gone, forever gone, my magnificent husband.  His body – that beautiful instrument of pleasure and comfort, that sweet melding of hard and soft, of strength and vulnerability – was a shell, with all the parts that gave it function ripped out, torn from their housings, before what remained was displayed in St. Stephen’s Chapel, dressed in golden armor, looking as magnificent as ever he had in life – until one looked at the masklike face and saw the deadness there, saw there the irrevocability of death.

Solemn masses were sung by the bishops, many offerings made, and by day the people shuffled in quietly to say their own farewells to the man who had ruled over them for twenty-two years, and by night candlelit vigils were kept when knights of the household stood guard over the king’s body.  After eight days he made his final journey to his chosen resting place, the beautiful but still unfinished St. George’s chapel, Windsor, where two archbishops and ten bishops presided over the funeral rites.  Finally, he was laid within the magnificent marble tomb that had been erected just the year before on the north side of the altar.  The officers of his household flung their staves into the tomb, in token of being men without a master and cried:
The king is dead.  Long live the king,
an affirmation of continuity.    

With the lengthy obsequies done, everyone was looking to the future.  I resolved to do the same for the sake of my sweet son. And so… enough.  I had paid my due in tears.  

I turned away from that wretched face when Dorset entered the chamber and leaned down to kiss me casually on the cheek.  I had no doubt that he had been genuinely grieved at the death of his stepfather, who had always been good to him and generally winked at his most outrageous behavior.  But it wasn’t sorrow I was seeing in his face now, for although he was only twenty-eight, signs of dissipation were beginning to show in his pouched and bloodshot eyes and mottled complexion. 

“Where have you been?” I demanded, after this cursory examination.  

“You don’t want to know,” he said flippantly.

“You’re right, I don’t.  But don’t disappear, Thomas.  I need you.”

“What we need is a strategy, Mother,” he said, flinging himself into a chair and accepting a cup of wine from one of my ladies.  “How could he do it?  Can you tell me that?  He’s left everything in Gloucester’s hands.  What about us?  Did he spare a thought for us?  For you?  If Gloucester comes to power we’ll end up fighting for our lives!”

Would he, though?  None of us had seen a copy of the will.  None of us knew what changes had been made to the will he made in ’75 before he left for France.  In that will he had left a council to govern and me with authority over our children, and he had put Anthony in charge of our son’s household at Ludlow.  But there was a new will now, and on his deathbed he had added a codicil to the effect that his brother of Gloucester was to be defender and protector of the realm and of the young king.  Why would he now deprive us Wydvilles of all influence? 

But I wasn’t worried about Gloucester.  In spite of the fact that we were and likely always would be unpopular with both lords and commons, our position was unassailable.  I was the mother of the king; my older sons were his brothers; my brothers were his uncles.  Anthony was one of his most cherished advisers.   We were safe.

“What reason do we have to fear him?”

“He reeks of sulphur.”

“Oh, you are being fanciful,” I said, repressing a shudder.

Anne, coming to my defense warned him not to upset me with such talk. 

No one could deny that Gloucester’s career had been distinguished by conspicuous loyalty to his brother, the competent discharge of any assignment he had been given and governance of the northern parts that spoke well of his administrative abilities. In his record of service I could find no reason for the inchoate fears that stirred in me at the thought of the young king being ‘defended’ and ‘protected’ by that dark, stern, humorless man, who was very much a stranger to him.  Except that the same blood that turned Clarence traitor, lusting for a crown that was not his, flowed in Gloucester’s veins too.

Even if I had no reason to fear where my royal son was concerned, I did have reason to fear for the men of my family.  Gloucester was one of those who looked down on me as ‘lowborn’ and not nearly good enough for his brother.  He was barely civil to my family, while his courtesies to me, especially in recent years, had been cold and punctilious and only for the sake of Edward.  There was no doubt that he hated my family quite as much as Lord Hastings, who had taken Dorset’s hand over the king’s dying body and sworn to quarrel no more for the sake of the heir.  But how long would that false amity last?  Who would protect us all from the jealousies and enmities that had seethed around us all these years now that Edward’s shielding hand was gone?  Was Gloucester already planning his revenge?

“Mother, listen!” Dorset seized my hands and shook them to reclaim my attention.  “Every instinct I own is telling me to get the prince into our care, into your arms where he will be safe, and to keep him out of Gloucester’s hands so he can’t be used as a tool of vengeance against us.”

Oh, God!  I couldn’t think straight.  Gloucester was to be trusted.  Wasn’t he?  And Ned?  He could never, never be compelled to do anything to hurt his own family.

At that moment the door opened and my bother Lionel came in.  Dorset said: “I took the liberty of inviting my uncle.”

The cleverest of my brothers, Lionel was already well up the ecclesiastical ladder as Bishop of Salisbury.  Only these two were available to help me through the shoals ahead.  Anthony was still at Ludlow and the youngest of my Grey sons, Richard, was with him; my brother Edward, by good fortune, was on the south coast with a fleet and my brother Richard was on his estate in East Anglia.  Of my brothers, only Anthony had wed – twice – and none had produced a legitimate heir.

After saluting my hand, Lionel, somewhat fussily, invited me to remove myself to a chair, so placed that he could see both Dorset and I at once.  It was obvious that they had already been meeting, for having seated me to his satisfaction, he began by saying, as if carrying on an earlier conversation: “It occurred to me that what we have to do in our present circumstances is look at precedent.  The last time a minority government was needed was the reign of Henry VI in the twenties and thirties – not so long ago, you’ll agree – and a study revealed something interesting.  To wit: that the late king’s wishes with respect to the care of his heir and the kingdom are just that – his
wishes.
  They are not cast in bronze, they are not cut in stone, they are merely the late sovereign’s best effort to provide for the welfare of his kingdom and the safe succession of his heir at the time of his death.”

I rose to my feet, angry, requiring everyone around me to rise too.  “Are you suggesting, my lord, that we should ignore the king’s wishes?”

“Please, your Grace, hear me out.  Please,” he said, urging me back into my chair.  “It could be argued, for example, that a dying man might not be in full possession of his faculties and if that were the case, what monumental catastrophes might ensue! Or, with greater certainty, that he cannot be expected to see into the future and therefore cannot be expected to anticipate the problems that the future might bring.”

“Is this only your interpretation?” I asked.

“No.  I had my conclusions confirmed by Cardinal Bourchier, who knew Humphrey of Gloucester quite well.”

“Gloucester?” Dorset said sharply.

“Ironic, no?” Lionel said, with a twist of his fine mouth.  “Humphrey of Gloucester was uncle to the young Henry VI.”

“And protector?” I asked.

“Yes, and here is where we find our precedent, because Humphrey, like our own Gloucester, was a very ambitious man and wanted the power of regent in England, which his brother Bedford enjoyed in France.  In this, he overreached himself, and the council, concluding that the late king’s wishes had no force in law, succeeded in getting parliament to recognize
it
as the true government of the realm with control of the king.”

Dorset jumped to his feet and walked around his chair to rest his hands on its back.  “How instructive ancient history can be!  This means that if we can get control of the council we can oust Gloucester.”

“I hope you are still being nice to Hastings,” I said to my son, who looked amused.

“Toadying for all I’m worth.”

“Good.  He has a great deal of influence both with the council and in the city.  We may need him.”

“Winning control of the council is certainly one of our objectives,” the bishop continued.  “We can use it to defeat any claims to power Gloucester may think he has.  We must lobby to that end for all we’re worth.  I have already made a start with the cardinal and the theme I adopted is this: With so much power in the hands of one man usurpation will always be a temptation.”

“
Usurpation!
” I gasped.

“Yes, an excellent word, packed with all manner of innuendo,” my brother said urbanely.  “If questioned on it, we must say that we mean the temptation is to accrue more power.  Otherwise let it lie.  Let it do its insidious work. Our second objective is almost achieved: the young king is with Anthony in Ludlow.  We must get him to London and into our hands.  I need hardly point out what clout we shall have with the heir in our possession.  Our third objective – not necessarily contingent on the first one – is to see that he is crowned as soon as possible.” 

  I fidgeted with my wedding ring, twisting it around and around, while my mind jumped with imagined terrors.  Were we precipitating something we couldn’t win?  Were we creating an enemy where none existed?  I had never thought of myself as a particularly fearful woman.  God knew, I had faced the crises of the past bravely enough; I had even once or twice acted decisively, and yet now I felt so defenseless, so vulnerable and, yes, so incomplete.  That was it, I told myself.  Grief had me so tightly bound it was a wonder I could function at all.  I said: “The council is to meet tomorrow at nine o’clock.  We’ll have a better idea of how matters stand after the meeting.” 

My brother said: “I think you should address them, sister.”

“That would be most inappropriate.  I have never attended a council meeting.  My appearance may prejudice our chances from the start.”

“Thomas will soften the members up, don’t worry.  But you, in your dual roles as widow and mother, will be far more eloquent than I, particularly with the churchmen.  The simple fact that you have appeared before the council in person will demonstrate how anxious you are.”

“As you wish,” I said doubtfully.

The next morning found me again before my mirror, after having heard Mass in the chapel and broken my fast on a little bread and wine to sustain me.  A restless night had convinced me that my brother and son were right, and we must get the prince to London and crowned as soon as possible.  Once he was in our hands Gloucester could do his worst and not hurt us.  After I had made some repairs to my appearance, Lionel arrived to escort me to the council.

The Star Chamber in Westminster Hall, where the council conducted its business, was a large and magnificent chamber with silver stars painted on its indigo ceiling and triple windows of stained glass that spilled a many-hued facsimile of themselves across the floor as the sun moved across the sky.  I steadfastly kept my eyes from the empty seat at the head of the council table where a score of men were seated, all wearing black.  It was a full complement that day, testimony of the councilors’ determination that the transition from one reign to the next should proceed smoothly. They rose and bowed as I entered, each according to the respect in which he held me.  Lord Hastings, I noted, inclined his head the merest inch.  He had not been so uncivil when Edward was alive.

“Forgive the intrusion, my lords and sirs,” I said, moving forward, the blue silk of my gown whispering behind me like a dirge. 

Dorset vacated his chair and stood behind it when I had seated myself.  The councilors regained their own seats and looked at me enquiringly.  And I looked back at them, the men who would serve my son as advisers.  First and foremost among the temporal advisers was William, Lord Hastings, a very powerful and influential man, Edward’s chamberlain for the entire reign, diplomat, competent soldier, consummate courtier and such a dear friend that Edward had made provision in his will that a place be reserved for Hastings near his own burial place in St. George’s Chapel.  Generally he was viewed as an honest, upright and decent man, well regarded in both city and court and liked by all who knew him.  He had even managed to get along tolerably well with Clarence and even Gloucester appeared to approve of him.  His charitable ventures were many and he was a patron of the arts.