The Captive Heart (3 page)

“Mary, Jesu, have mercy!” Edmee cried, and she crossed herself. “They would not kill a child, would they?”

“Every moment Henry and Edward Plantagenet live, they present a danger to King Edward of York,” the physician answered. “The father they will kill outright when he is caught. The boy will suffer a tragic accident. It is the way of our world, old woman.”

Edmee and Fayme crossed themselves again.

“Papa, do not frighten us,” Alix said.

“I do not mean to frighten you,” Alexander Givet answered her. “It is the truth.”

“What will happen to us?” Edmee quavered.

The physician shrugged. “Who knows,” he said. “The queen has been leaving many of our retainers behind as we moved north. They were fortunate to be put with other noble families who will weather this storm. We are the last. Who knows what will happen to us, but I suspect nothing. We will take refuge in Scotland, and probably in the end return to Anjou. We three came with the queen when she was brought to England. It will not be so bad to go home again, eh?”

The two women smiled tremulously and nodded.

“She will not cast you two aside,” he assured them.

“But maybe the king will be restored,” Alix said hopefully.

Her father shook his head. “Perhaps” was all he said. Alexander Givet was a realist. Henry Plantagenet had, since his son’s birth, been subject to fits of madness. Some lasted as long as a year. Others but a few days or weeks. But he had never been a successful ruler, and now his condition made it impossible for him to rule at all. The rivalries at court had contributed to his downfall. That and his queen. The nobility did not like having a strong queen who was England’s actual ruler. It had been inevitable that the king would be dethroned eventually, but the Duke of York’s high-handed methods had rubbed Margaret of Anjou and her allies the wrong way. The past few years had been chaotic, and the chaos had but contributed to the king’s fragile mental state. Alexander Givet would not say it aloud, but he very much doubted if Henry VI would ever again sit upon his throne. A madman could not rule England, or any other land.

Sir Udolf had taken the physician’s suggestion. While he and his guests sat eating, his servants were cleaning up two small rooms to house the little prince, his nursemaid, and Alix. The young boy was so exhausted by the day he had lived, he fell asleep at the high board. One of the baron’s servants carried the lad to his bed, old Edmee following in their wake. After thanking their host, the queen and Fayme departed. Alix remained behind to see her father settled for the night.

“Nay,
mignon
, I am quite capable of putting myself to bed,” Alexander Givet assured his daughter. “The baron and I plan to drink a bit more wine and play some chess,” he chuckled, patting her small hand. “Go and rest yourself.”

The king’s body servant, John, came into the hall on his way to the kitchens for his meal. He had been watching over the king while the others had eaten. “Mistress Alix,” he called to her. “The queen needs you to sing to the king.”

“Go,” the physician said. “I am fine.”

Placing a kiss upon his cheek Alix hurried from the hall.

“She sings to the king?” Sir Udolf looked quizzically at Alexander Givet.

“When the king is restless and the dolor comes upon him, my daughter sings to the king the songs that his mother used to sing to him. It calms him.”

“She is a pretty girl,” the baron said, “and both faithful and true not just to her parent but to her lord and lady, as well I can see. You are truly blessed in your daughter.”

“Your son,” the physician said. “He was not in the hall tonight.”

“Hayle had many things to do for me, and he is devoted to Wulfborn,” the baron answered. “Ah, here is the chessboard all set up for us now. Will you play black or white, my good doctor?”

“White,” Alexander Givet said. “Wulfborn?”

“The name of our estate. This is Wulfborn Hall. Our distant ancestors were Vikings, or so the legend goes. Hayle looks very much like I would imagine a Viking warrior would look,” the baron said. “He is tall and blond.”

The two men sat down to play at chess, talking, sipping at their cups. The hour grew late, and after each man had won, the baron suggested they retire for the night. A servant helped the physician to his bedspace, which was made up with a feather bed and a goose-down coverlet. It was, as the baron had promised, the bedspace nearest the hearth, and the walls were warm. Alexander Givet settled himself comfortably, relieved. He was truly warm for the first time in days, and he prayed they would not have to move on too quickly. These past weeks had been hard on them all.

The king had slipped away into himself by morning, and was unresponsive to all, and everything about him. The queen put on a brave front, but she was frightened more for her husband and son than for herself. Sir Udolf, however, reassured her that the royal fugitives were more than welcome to stay at Wulfborn Hall. He reminded her that his home was isolated, and near enough to the Scots border for a quick escape should one be necessary. Margaret of Anjou was grateful.

“I wish,” the queen said, “that there were some way in which we might repay you, Sir Udolf.” They had been sheltering in his home for two weeks now, and it was mid-April. The snows had vanished, and the longer days were almost mild. “But as you know, we are little better than beggars now.”

“Madame, I am honored to have you as my guests,” the baron replied gallantly.

She nodded graciously, but then she said, “My lord, you have a son, do you not?”

“I do,” he acknowledged.

“But he is not wed,” Margaret of Anjou continued. “Why is that?”

The baron sighed deeply. “He is a good lad, madame, but to be most candid with you, Hayle is a bit odd. We have few neighbors, but those with daughters will not agree to any match with my son.”

“What makes him odd?” the queen asked.

Again the baron sighed. “He was a sweet-natured little boy, but when he was four he almost drowned in my mill pond. After his recovery he changed, becoming impatient, determined to have his own way, and subject to terrible tempers when he did not get it. He has a mistress. The miller’s daughter. He says he wants no other woman but Maida. I have told him he must have an heir. But there is no suitable bride for my son. I do not know what I will do. I cannot accept the child of a miller’s daughter as my son’s heir. But if I die before he weds, Hayle will have his way, I fear.”

The queen’s beautiful face was devoid of expression, and then she said, “Perhaps I may be of help to you, my lord.”

He looked at her questioningly. “Madame?”

“As fugitives who will soon have a price upon our heads, we must travel quickly. The fewer in our party the less difficult it will be to find sanctuary. We have not traveled in some months with the royal dignity due us. At the homes of various nobility I have had to leave our servants and beg for their safety.” The queen paused briefly, and then she continued. “Alexander Givet and his wife came with me from Anjou when I married the king. Blanche grew up with me. I am their daughter’s godmother. Alix is fifteen going on sixteen. Her parents come from noble families in Anjou. Minor nobility to be sure, but then you too, Sir Udolf, are counted among the lesser nobility here in England. The physician is a younger son. His wife was put in my father’s care when she was six. Their daughter was born in England. She would make a very suitable wife for your son, and I would know my godchild was safe.”

“Would her father accept such an arrangement?” Sir Udolf asked the queen.

“Ah, my lord, there is the small difficulty. If you would have my goddaughter for your son, you must give her father a home too. My doctor is not well, and hasn’t been in some time. He can travel no longer, I fear. The cough he had when we arrived has barely subsided in these few weeks despite Alix’s vigorous nursing. He misses his wife greatly, and has lived for their daughter. Once he sees her safe and settled at Wulfborn Hall, I suspect he will die at peace.”

“I will be happy to have him here,” the baron said generously. “I am enjoying his company in the evenings. Very well, madame. If Alexander Givet will let his daughter wed my son, we have a bargain.”

“How will you coerce your son into obeying you?” the queen wanted to know.

“He will obey me after much argument,” the baron said in a hard voice.

“I do not want my godchild abused,” Margaret of Anjou replied. “You must give me your word, my lord, that Alix will be treated with the respect due to the lady of this house. As much as I seek her safety, my conscience will not allow her to be put in jeopardy, my lord. Will you give me your guarantee?”

“I will, Your Highness!” the baron said. “I swear you my oath to treat Alix Givet with kindness and respect. She shall not be harmed in my care.”

“Thank you, Sir Udolf. I will speak with my physician on this matter, then,” the queen said, and she left the baron to find him.

He was seated in a sunny corner of the hall’s small garden. Alix was with him. Reaching them, the queen smiled and said, “
Non! Non!
Alexander, do not rise. Tuck the coverlet back around him,
ma chérie
Alix. Then go and relieve Edmee of her duty. I would speak privately with your father.”

Alix did as she had been bid, and then hurried off back into the house.

Margaret of Anjou sat next to her physician upon the small stone bench. “Well,
mon ami
, we have come to the end of our travels together. You are not well enough to go on, and I cannot let you die by the wayside.”

Alexander Givet nodded. He, his daughter, Fayme, Edmee, and the king’s servant, John, were the bare remnants of what had once been a large royal household. “I will take Alix home to Anjou,” he said. “My brother will see my daughter married to a good husband, Highness. It has been my honor to serve you all these years.” Then he began to cough, struggling to control the spasms that racked his thin body.

“You have not the strength to reach Anjou,” the queen said gently when her physician’s coughing had subsided. “And traveling alone with a young girl would be much too dangerous for you in your condition and especially for Alix.”

“Then what, Highness, am I to do?” Alexander Givet asked his mistress.

“Sir Udolf has a son who needs a wife. If you will agree to give your daughter in marriage to Hayle Watteson, you will both have a home and a place,” the queen said. “Sir Udolf likes Alix, and has given his oath that she will be treated with kindness and respect as his son’s wife and the mother of his grandchildren.”

“The son is odd at best,” the physician said. “He has a mistress to whom he is devoted, madame. Sir Udolf himself has told me his son is prone to unreasonable anger when he cannot gain his own way. I am not certain my daughter would be safe as his wife, especially as he so dotes on this miller’s child.”

“The girl cannot wed Sir Udolf’s son. Her birth is low. Her children, should she have any, cannot be heirs to Wulfborn. Hayle Watteson must have a wife who is suitable,” Margaret of Anjou said to her physician. “His heirs must be got on the body of that wife, and no other. This is a good solution, Alexander. You will live far longer safe here at Wulfborn, and you will be here for Alix. And Sir Udolf is a good man. The son will obey his father. Many a marriage has begun like this, between two strangers, as did my own. Yet I came to love my husband, and Alix will learn to love Sir Udolf’s son. But should she not, at least they may come to have respect for each other. That is far more common in marriages among our kind than is love.”

“Blanche and I loved each other,” the physician replied softly.

“I know,” the queen said with a small smile of remembrance. “It was your love for each other that gave me courage and hope when we came to England.”

“Ahh, so many years ago now, it seems,” he answered her.

“You can negotiate your own marriage contract for Alix with Sir Udolf,” the queen told him gently but firmly. “Satisfy yourself that Alix will be well cared for by this family. But do not delay,
mon ami
. In another few days, when my messenger returns from my cousin of Gueldres, we will have to move on into Scotland in order to be completely safe from the Yorkists.”

Alexander Givet sighed. “I know if there were another choice, madame, you would give it to me,” he said.

“Better she wed here in England than Scotland,” the queen said. “I am told the Scots are a wild and uncivilized people. I have always been surprised that the Duc de Gueldres allowed his daughter, Marie, to be sent to their king in marriage.”

“I will speak with Sir Udolf this evening while we play chess, as has become our custom. He is a bit rough, but I believe him honest and fair,” the physician said. “But if I am gone, madame, who will care for you?”

“I must care for myself now, Alexander,” the queen answered him. “Fortunately, you have been careful of my health, and I have learned a thing or two from you over our years together. I will manage, for I must.” Then she rose from her seat. “Come,” she said to him, “the air is growing chill again, and the sun has gone behind those clouds.” She helped him to stand, and together they walked back into the hall.

That evening Alexander Givet and Sir Udolf Watteson sat separated by a game table as they discussed a union between their only children. “My daughter is not penniless,” the physician said. “She will come to your son with a dower portion of five gold pieces and ten of silver. Unfortunately, her dower trunk with her linens and her feather bed had to be left behind at Windsor. But she has been raised in the queen’s household, and knows all there is to know about running a nobleman’s hall. And, of course, she is a virgin. She is modest, obedient, and devout. Your son cannot be dissatisfied with her.”

“Your wife had but one child,” Sir Udolf noted.

“Blanche chose to have one child because her service to the queen came first. There are ways to prevent conception, though the church might not approve,” Alexander Givet told his companion. “Blanche’s mother had several healthy children. It was my wife’s birth that was her undoing. I am one of nine.”