Succession (3 page)

Our dear and best beloved wife the queen is yet sick of the labour and indisposition of the seas, by occasion of which the pox has been broken out upon her.

Letter from Henry VI to the Lord Chancellor

 

As soon as Suffolk was admitted to his presence, the king broke away from his attendants and went straight to him. The earl sank clumsily to his knees, but the king raised him up and kissed him on both cheeks and clung to him in a long embrace.

Suffolk, still suffering from his ribs, and unused to the awkward weight of a king in his arms, winced, and the king drew back at once in concern.

‘You are injured!’

‘It is nothing, your grace.’

The king immediately embraced him again, more carefully, and Suffolk noticed that he was quivering with excitement or relief.

‘She is really here?’ he said, finally releasing the earl.

‘She is, your grace.’

The king’s face was luminous with joy. He could look, in such moments, like a handsome man.

‘And – she is well?’

‘She is recovering marvellously, my lord.’

In fact, the princess was far from well. She had been taken to a convent to recuperate, but was showing no signs of improvement as yet. But Suffolk assured the king that it was nothing serious, she merely wanted to look her best, as women do, when she met her
new husband for the first time. As soon as she was well enough she would be taken in state to Southampton, and the king could meet her there.

Actually, the delay had allowed Suffolk to hire a dressmaker from London to create a new trousseau for the princess. When her cases and trunks had been recovered, and the contents inspected, the earl had been appalled by the state of her wardrobe: old dresses visibly made over and mended, some of them threadbare. He had felt a spasm of rage towards René, who had sent his daughter off so shoddily to be England’s queen. Then his wife had suggested that they should contact her dressmaker in London. There was nothing for it but to pay for this himself. The princess had no money; she had already begun to pawn her plate. To spare her feelings he had told her that the rest of her clothes had been lost in the storm.

But his majesty was still talking.

‘I hardly slept all night for fear, when I heard,’ he said, ‘but that is nothing now – God heard my prayers.’

You should have prayed harder
, Suffolk thought,
then maybe there would not have been a storm.

‘He heard my prayers,’ the king repeated, ‘and she is here at last, safe and well. The people will see this as a sign of God’s blessing on our union.’

The people, as the earl well knew, would see nothing of the kind.

‘It is all thanks to you – you have saved her from the teeth of the storm!’

Suffolk bowed and said words to the effect that he had done his duty to the best of his ability. Not even a storm at sea could part two people who were destined to be together. The king nodded emphatically.

‘Does she speak of me?’ he asked eagerly.

‘All the time, your grace.’

In fact, she hadn’t mentioned him at all; she seemed to have fallen into a state of melancholy, from which Suffolk hoped the new clothes would rouse her.

But the king was restless. Some perfunctory questions followed, about the health of Suffolk’s wife, then he said to his attendants, ‘I
would speak with my Lord of Suffolk alone,’ and ushered him into a tiny room.

Suffolk anticipated, with some anxiety, that awkward questions might follow about the deal he had brokered with the French, about the loss of lands and money. The cost of transporting the queen had exceeded the sum allotted, and some of the fifty-six ships were as yet unaccounted for, but as soon as the king turned to him he could see that he was full of suppressed excitement.

‘I have a great plan,’ he said, ‘for when we meet.’

He outlined his plan to the earl, who allowed his gaze to rest on the soft squares of sunset on the wall. Each square was alive with the nodding shadows of leaves, stirred now by a much gentler wind. He was thinking that the king, who had not yet seen his bride, had never once asked the question that any other king might have asked: whether she was as beautiful as her portrait had suggested. And this was because in his mind she was beautiful, fixed and eternally so; Suffolk might have presented him with an old washerwoman and he would have greeted her with the same delight. Suffolk thought of what the king’s tutor had said when he had begged to be released from his duty of instructing the king: that either he was a natural fool or a holy innocent, and he did not know which was more dangerous to the nation.

But the king was looking at him now with anticipation. He had pressed his fingers to his mouth in the kind of unkingly gesture that his tutor had always tried to train out of him, and Suffolk realized that he was expected to speak.

‘It is a marvellous plan, your grace,’ he said, and the king at once expanded upon it in greater detail, while Suffolk again contemplated the light from the windows, how beautifully it fell upon the wall. A few days ago he thought he had seen his death in the rearing waves, but now there was only this soft beauty. And the king’s voice, outlining his marvellous plan, with which he was expected to collude.

I am so tired
, he thought,
so tired
.

When the queen landed in England the king dressed himself as a squire, the [Earl] of Suffolk doing the same, and took her a letter which he said the King of England had written. While the queen read the letter the king took stock of her, saying that a woman may be seen very well when she reads a letter, and the queen never found out it was the king because she was engrossed in reading, and she never looked at the king in his squire’s dress, who remained on his knees all the time.

Milanese ambassador

 

She had hated it, of course; who wouldn’t?

They had knelt before her for some time while she read the letter with the utmost concentration. And several times over, or so it seemed to Suffolk, who knelt behind the king with his head lowered, and thought about his complaining knees. It was not a complicated letter, nor overly effusive; the king had read it to him for his approval. It bade her cordial welcome and assured her of the king’s affections.

Suffolk hoped that, whatever the king thought he might see in her preoccupied face, it would not change his mind or his heart. And that the princess would not keep them waiting too much longer or, worse still, lose her temper with them for bringing her a letter rather than the king. As it was, when she had finally finished, she turned to her chamberlain and said, ‘But why does he not come here in person?’

Suffolk thought then that the king might give them both away; he could see suppressed laughter in his majesty’s shoulders. It might have been the moment for him to declare himself, but the
princess turned away in evident disappointment and, after a pause, the king rose somewhat clumsily and left the room, and Suffolk followed.

Outside, the king put back his hood from his thinning hair, and Suffolk was relieved to see that he was smiling. But he said nothing, only with a series of gestures and nods conveyed that Suffolk should go back in. Then he mounted his horse and rode away.

Resisting the urge to sigh, Suffolk took off the cloak and hood identifying him as squire and went back into the room. The princess looked up at him with a face full of eager uncertainty, and the earl said, ‘Most serene highness, what do you think of the squire who brought you the letter?’

The princess’s eyes moved fractionally from left to right as she scanned Suffolk’s eyes. She was disconcerted, but not yet suspicious of a trick.

‘I did not think anything of him,’ she said. ‘I was reading the letter.’

But realization dawned on her with that quick apprehension that often caused her to respond to what people said before they had finished speaking.

‘Ah!’ she cried. ‘Why did he not tell me?’

And Suffolk, who had every sympathy for the princess in that moment, said, ‘It was a whim, your highness – it pleased his majesty to see you unawares.’

She turned away from him, biting her lip, and said, ‘But I kept him on his knees all that time!’

The earl assured her that she had done nothing wrong.

‘But why? Did he want to see what he thought of me? What did he think of me?’

‘He thought you were delightful – his most gracious beloved, soon to be queen.’

‘But what did he
say
?’

The king had said nothing, but she would not believe that, and so for the next few minutes Suffolk had a hard time of it, until he promised to go and escort the king back to her in proper guise that evening.

And when they returned with the king looking almost regal, tallish and slender in his royal clothes, she was waiting for him in a new gown created for her by the dressmaker. She had been sitting, but rose, of course, at the king’s entry, then sank into the deepest curtsy with admirable grace. He raised her and said nothing, seemingly overcome, and she looked at him earnestly, and Suffolk wondered what she saw. The king had a boyish face, overly sensitive, almost raw, as if he had never grown that extra skin that all courtiers necessarily developed. Then he smiled at her, that unique smile of great kindness, and Suffolk was startled to see that her eyes filled with tears. She stood blinking rapidly, momentarily unable to speak. The king said a few words, extended his hand and led her to the table. And Suffolk saw that it was all right between them, and he felt a vast relief – he had not realized until that moment how oppressed he had felt by the whole business. But the king’s ideal passion was undimmed, and she had responded, not to the way he looked, but to his kindness, which was what she needed, after all.

And if the king and queen were all right with one another, he thought, surely the nation would follow.

The next time Suffolk saw the king he was restless, and inclined to talk about the things that vexed him. The Duke of Gloucester, his uncle, was speaking out of turn again. He still assumed an authority over the king that was no longer his, and had spoken openly against his nephew’s marriage. Then there were all the demands for money from his cousin the Duke of York, in Normandy, and the trouble in Brittany caused by another cousin, the recently deceased Duke of Somerset.

Suffolk and his wife, Lady Alice, sat to one side of the king, making commiserating noises when necessary. To Suffolk’s relief, he did not mention the loss of Maine and Anjou (it had been decided that it would be best not to break this news generally just yet); the fact that Suffolk had only brokered a truce rather than peace with France; the excessive cost of transporting the princess. He returned several times to the subject of the Duke of York, whose overweening pride made him ever more demanding, and to the tragic Duke of Somerset – who had driven a much harder bargain than York, it had to be said, because he had never wanted the commission in Gascony in the first place.

The king’s voice was becoming somewhat querulous. He was not like his father, whose rage was to be averted at all cost; he was an injured boy, complaining that it wasn’t
fair.
Also, he was distressed by his cousin’s death. However aggravating Somerset had been, and incompetent – failing to settle the war in Gascony and almost causing war in Brittany in the process – his death was something of a calamity for the king, who had so few relatives to rely on. Every attempt had been made to suppress the rumours of suicide, but rumour, like the tide, could not be suppressed.

‘How is my lady, the duchess?’ Lady Alice said, her large blue eyes raised sympathetically to the king, who shook his head.

‘How can she be?’ he murmured. For Somerset’s wife was beside herself, it was said. She had taken to her rooms and would not come out.

‘I have visited her, of course,’ Lady Alice said, and the king looked at her in some surprise.

‘She is accepting few visitors,’ Suffolk added, ‘but my lady wife is always welcome.’

‘I took gifts for the little girl,’ said Lady Alice. ‘She is such a bright little creature – you should have heard her prattling to our son, John – they played together so sweetly. It was good for them both to have a playmate.’

Suffolk gave her an appreciative glance. He had often had cause to be grateful that he had married, late in life, a clever woman.

‘They are of an age, are they not?’ said the king.

‘Just a few months apart,’ his wife said. ‘And they took to one another right away.’

Suffolk could almost hear the king thinking. Somerset’s daughter, Margaret Beaufort, was heiress to a great fortune and everyone at court was competing to be her guardian. It was known that Somerset had stipulated that custody of his only child should remain with his wife, but then, the king could not afford to pay Suffolk directly for his services in France.

‘I believe that both mother and daughter would benefit from a little time apart,’ his wife was saying, ‘while the duchess recovers from her illness.’

But the king’s restless mind had shifted back to York, whose latest bill for his expenses was almost forty thousand pounds.

‘So much money!’ he said, bewildered. ‘How can he have exceeded his budget by such an amount? He has not even accomplished his project.’

‘I hear that rumours of his efficiency are greatly exaggerated,’ Suffolk said.

‘Forty thousand pounds!’

Suffolk said that bills, like rumours, were also often exaggerated. ‘Your majesty has no way of knowing how he is spending his money,’ he said.

‘I am his
king
,’ the king said, as if this should settle the matter.

‘He has the mind of a market trader,’ Suffolk said. ‘He should know that your majesty has better things to spend his money on at this time. Your loyal subjects would not dream of asking you for money.’

Suffolk thought the king looked at him sharply at this point, before returning to his theme. The Duke of York and the Duke of Gloucester were in league together, he did not doubt it – they conspired against him at every turn.

‘There should be more dukes,’ the king said suddenly. It was not good for one or two men to be so elevated above other nobles – it was time to rock the bastion of their pride. Suffolk dared not look at him. He glanced instead at his wife, who had dropped her own gaze downwards.

But the king was looking at Suffolk with luminous eyes; he would have to make some response.

‘His majesty giveth, and his majesty taketh away,’ he ventured, and the king’s eyes registered uncertainty for a moment, then understanding.

‘You have asked for nothing, for all your services,’ he said, in a voice full of suppressed emotion, and Suffolk hastily assured him that he wished for nothing – service to his king was his best reward – and Lady Alice said, with apparent inconsequence, that if it were the king’s wish, she would ask the Duke of Somerset’s widow to stay with them for a while.

‘With little Margaret, because she would be such an excellent companion for our son.’

‘She would be like a sister to him,’ Suffolk added, and the Lady Alice said that she would treat Margaret as her own daughter, placing one hand on her stomach in a poignant reminder that she was unlikely to have any more children.

‘I am sure she would benefit from the company,’ said the king after a pause.

Suffolk’s wife leaned forward earnestly. ‘I would instruct her myself, to the best of my ability. It would be my great pleasure to do so.’

The king nodded slowly. ‘She would have much to gain from the care and instruction of the most cultivated woman in the realm,’ he said.

He was referring, of course, to the fact that Lady Alice was the granddaughter of the great poet Chaucer, and was herself the patron of poets and scholars. ‘She should come to you,’ he said, then, remembering that he had promised the duke that his only child should remain with her mother, added, ‘Perhaps not to stay – but she should visit you often. I will write to my lady the duchess, and to the archbishop – the matter should be settled.’

Lady Alice was overwhelmed, and Suffolk’s gestures indicated that he was lost for words. ‘Your majesty is more than gracious,’ he said.

On the way home they did not discuss it further, for their marriage had reached the stage where there was an understanding between them about all important matters, and the smile in his wife’s eyes said it all. Suffolk sat with more ease than he had in months: the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, proclaimed a sense of well-being. The mission which so far had brought nothing but disaster now seemed set to yield a greater benefit than he had thought. For little Margaret Beaufort, Somerset’s daughter, brought with her the Beaufort fortune, and the advantageous alliance with her uncle, Edmund Beaufort. Who was currently the Earl of Somerset, but might soon be the new duke. All because of the fortuitous demise of little Margaret’s father, the late Duke of Somerset.

The noble heart of a man of such high rank … was moved to extreme indignation; and being unable to bear the stain of so great a disgrace, he accelerated his death by putting an end to his existence, it is generally said; preferring thus to cut short his sorrow rather than pass a life of misery, labouring under so disgraceful a charge.

Crowland Chronicle