The Queen of Last Hopes (16 page)

“This could go on all day,” I told Stafford. Standing with most of the other nobles near the king, we were only half clad in our suits of armor; with the negotiations dragging on as they were, it had hardly seemed worthwhile to arm ourselves head to toe. I glanced at our fathers, who were conferring together. Then I pointed to a tavern. “Why not get an ale? They don’t need us. We’ll be back before they’ve even miss—”

“To arms!” One of Lord Clifford’s men ran up, coming from the direction of our barriers at Shropshire Lane. “To arms! York has begun attacking!”

Gabriel, the bell in St. Albans Clock Tower, began to ring frantically as our pages, who had been dicing nearby, raced to help us into our remaining armor. The townspeople, who had been leaning from their upper windows as if watching a particularly dull pageant they kept hoping would get better, screamed warnings to each other and slammed their shutters tight. Men ran out of taverns, dropping in the street the ales they’d been drinking.

York’s men were attacking the barriers at Shropshire Lane; Salisbury’s, we learned just a minute or two after the first man had arrived, at Sopwell Lane. King Henry looked to his left, then to his right, stymied—at age thirty-three he’d never fought in a battle. As his servants frantically tried to get him into his armor, the king’s face changed, and he lifted his arm, as if he had suddenly recalled that he was Henry V’s son. “Unfurl our banner! I shall destroy them, every mother’s son, and they shall be hanged, drawn and quartered that may be taken afterward!”

Then an arrow hit the king in the neck.

Men were swarming into the marketplace, pushing their way in between buildings, knocking down market stalls, forcing their way through houses and into the street, their way assured by the arrows that were whining through the sky. Buckingham caught one in his unprotected face; so did my brother-in-law the Earl of Stafford. The Earl of Northumberland was down.

And I was fighting for my life, side by side with my father.

At St. Albans that day of May 22, 1455, armed scarcely better than a common soldier, taken completely off guard, and outnumbered, my father fought as I have never seen a man fight before, or since. As the few archers we had with us desperately tried to fend off Warwick’s men, he and I took down as many men as we could, our desperation lending us strength. But it was a hopeless task. Our men were falling, others were running, and when it became clear that all was lost, Father threw himself against the door of the Castle Inn, hard by the marketplace. It gave and we tumbled inside as the innkeepers—an elderly couple who hadn’t had the strength to drag furniture to barricade their doors—ran shrieking up the stairs.

For what seemed an eternity, we remained side by side by the door, doubled over and gasping. There was no doubt a back way out of the inn, but if York’s men had any sense, which I decided on reflection they probably did, they would have blocked it by now. And my father wasn’t looking for an exit anyway. He got his breath, then straightened and laid his arm across my shoulders. “Son,” he said. “About Rouen and Caen. I disgraced myself with that, and I disgraced your name as well.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that—”

“Don’t tell me it wasn’t! I saw your face the day when we left Rouen. You thought I wasn’t looking. There was nothing in it but contempt.”

“I was thirteen. Stupid.”

“No. You were a bright lad who knew a stain on a man’s honor when you saw one. I told you then I’d make it up to you. I never have. I will today.”

“Father! You don’t have to make up anything to me.”

“Yes, I do. And I have to make up something to myself as well.” He embraced me for a long time. “Be a good son to your mother, Henry. Give her and the rest my love. And God keep you.” Then he released me, smiling. “Here they are. Good timing.”

Warwick’s voice came from the street. “Somerset! We know you and your whelp are in there. We have possession of the king. All’s lost, you cur. Surrender!”

“Father! Please!”

My father shoved me aside and rushed through the door, sword raised high despite the blood dripping from his arm, and I and the men who remained to us followed. There were ten of us at the most; a hundred or more of them, circling us. My father took out four men, at least, before Warwick himself swung his battle ax and my father fell. As Father struggled to rise, his blood seeping around him, Warwick smiled. “Finish him off, men. Orders from the Duke of York.”

Three men, two with daggers, one with a mace, surrounded my father and raised their weapons as he lay helpless. This was no death in fair battle; this was an assassination.

I rushed with my sword toward the men closest to me, but it was too late. As two other men dragged me back, I heard my father mutter a fragment of a prayer, heard his skull crack, then crack again. As I struggled and cursed, my captors knocked me to the ground with their clubs, and a blinding pain shot through my head and through my arms as I landed next to my father and into a pool of his blood.

Someone was raising his dagger over me, I saw through the blood pouring down my face, but I could not move my arms to resist or even hold my eyes open to watch my killer. Then a panicky voice, close by but sounding miles and miles off, said, “For God’s sake, leave off!”

“You don’t want a brace of Beauforts? You shock me.”

“My quarrel wasn’t with the younger one. I’ll not have unnecessary blood on my hands. It invites trouble.”

“I should think leaving the whelp alive would invite even more trouble, but they’re your orders to give and mine to follow. In any case, I suppose it wouldn’t accomplish much anyway, as there are two more at home where he came from. Somerset was capable in one respect, anyway.” Warwick chuckled. “Fine armor he brought here too, what there is of it; it was a stroke of luck that the fools hadn’t fully protected themselves, wasn’t it? I trust my men can have it, or would yours prefer it?”

“Yours,” said York.

“Where’s Clifford?”

“Dead. It wasn’t necessary to see to his death. He was killed fighting at the barricades. Northumberland is slain too.”

Another pair of feet halted near me. A youthful voice asked with interest, “Father, is he dead too?”

This had to be Edward, Earl of March, York’s thirteen-year-old son, who no doubt had been brought here to wait upon his father and to get a taste of battle from a safe distance. In reply, York bent and prodded me. “He’s alive. Post a guard here so no one harms him further.”

“You’re not going to kill him?” asked the Earl of March. The brat sounded vaguely disappointed.

“We’ve been through that,” snapped York. “No. Go see to the horses as I ordered you to.”

Warwick gave me a casual kick. “He probably won’t survive anyway, though. Look at the blood he’s lost, or is that all Papa’s?”

“For God’s sake, let’s go to the king and get this behind us. It can’t end well.”

Warwick snorted. “You should have thought of that earlier.”

***

After they walked away, I remained lying there, my own blood blending with my father’s as I drifted in and out of consciousness. Then I saw a familiar face staring into mine. “Tom?”

“Yes, it’s me,” my half brother said.

I made an effort to stay conscious. “They killed Father. They murdered him.”

“I know. Hal, don’t try to move. I’ve got some monks coming to take you to the abbey, and I’ll get a surgeon for you once we’re there. York only just gave the word that the monks could bury the dead. They’ll be coming for your father soon.”

I looked at the figure next to mine. Someone had thrown a cloak over it. I struggled to rise but could not move off my back. “I want to see him before they take him away. Move that thing off his body.”

“No,” Tom said. “I’ll not let you see your father like that.” He took a flask from his side and raised my head slightly. “Have a little wine.”

I managed a sip. “Won’t they take you prisoner if they find you with me?”

“Probably.” Tom shrugged and helped me take another sip of wine.

In a few minutes, two monks arrived, carrying a bier. As they loaded Father’s body onto it, not removing the cloak, Tom wrapped his arms around me. I tried to say something, but instead tears just ran down my face.

By and by, two more monks came and gently lifted me onto another bier as Tom superintended. Even so, the pain of my removal must have made me lose consciousness for a moment, for when I next stirred, I heard one of the monks asking the other in a whisper, “Do you think he’ll live?”

“No. Just look at him.”

But he was wrong, I told myself as they carried me away, Tom holding fast to my hand. I would not die; I would live to kill the men who had murdered my father. Vengeance would keep me alive.

Your grace, you were not sent for.”

“I am well aware of that,” I said, trying to force my way around the Duke of York into Henry’s chambers at the Bishop of London’s palace the day after Somerset had been murdered at St. Albans. “When did you plan to send for me? Michaelmas?”

Very late the previous evening, one of Henry’s knights, who had somehow escaped the strict surveillance of York following the slaughter, had come to Greenwich and told me what had transpired after Somerset’s death. York, Salisbury, and Warwick had gone to the abbey at St. Albans, where a shocked and wounded Henry, along with a badly wounded Buckingham, had taken shelter. The three whoresons had first demanded, and received, Buckingham’s surrender, having threatened to take him by force, and Henry, terrified of despoiling the abbey with bloodshed, had agreed. Then the victors had knelt before Henry, begged his forgiveness for endangering him, and assured him of their loyalty. The next day, they had escorted Henry back to London, York on his right, Salisbury on his left, and Warwick bearing the sword of state. With Henry still in tow, they had even held a grand procession through the streets of London, ostensibly to show their loyalty to Henry but in reality to flaunt their newfound power. The mummery had ended only a half hour or so before.

“The king needs to rest,” York said.

“Of course he does, after you dragged him from St. Albans, wounded and grieving.” Taking advantage of an opening around York’s squat body when the duke switched position suddenly, I pushed my way past him into the inner chamber where Henry, his neck bandaged, sat in a chair, Warwick standing beside him. For a horrid moment, I thought from his dazed look that my husband had relapsed into madness, but then he stood and let me take him into my arms.

“Marguerite. You have heard the news, I suppose.”

“Yes, that these brave men have murdered Somerset and the rest.”

“We have relieved the king of the burden of those who worked against his interests,” corrected York, as if reciting the words by rote. “With the canker removed, the whole kingdom will heal and thrive.”

“The canker you speak of was a father and a husband. A good one. As were the others who died.”

“Then he should have been a better subject,” York said coolly.

“And the king!” I looked at Henry’s bandage. “If that arrow had gone only slightly to the left or right, he might have been killed. Did you people have no care for your anointed king? Or was his life as cheap to you as the others’?”

“My lady,” said Henry, “have done. I have extended my forgiveness to them.”

“Henry, you would forgive the devil himself!” I tried to compose myself, though. “Well, what of the others? Buckingham and his son survived with wounds, I heard, but what of the Earl of Dorset?”

“He’s badly hurt,” York said, not a trace of concern in his voice. “He was taken away this morning in a cart.”

“Taken where? Home?” York shook his head. “Then do so, or better yet send him here, where he can be cared for by our own surgeons.”

“I am afraid that cannot be, your grace,” Warwick put in. “He is in my custody.”

“
Your
custody? After—” I bit my lip.

“The young man is getting medical attention,” York said in a polite, bored tone. “Your grace need not concern yourself with that. Though his injuries were grave, he’s young and fit and will probably mend quickly.”

“Is he even conscious?”

Warwick snorted. “Quite so, at least he was this morning. Indeed, once he was cognizant that he was in my custody, he said some most disagreeable things. I have sent him to be tended by my lady; she is, after all, his aunt. I just hope he does not try her temper.”

“Can you blame him? For God’s sake, let him be tended by his own people. Or by someone from here.”

Henry roused himself to say, “The queen is right. The Earl of Dorset has been like a son to us. You must allow our surgeon to attend him. And a chaplain as well. You cannot deny him spiritual comfort in light of what he has suffered. If you are our loyal subject as you claim, you will comply with our wishes in this small matter.”

“Very well,” Warwick said.

“Now, let the king rest.”

“Your grace, there are some matters we had wished to discuss with the king—”

“Your damned discussion can wait! You yourself said earlier that he needs to rest. No doubt he does, after his ride here and that farce in the streets.”

Warwick looked at York, who grimaced an apparent assent. After they took a suitably cringing leave of Henry, I sat beside him, holding his hand tightly. When some moments had passed, he said, “I don’t want to talk about it. It was too horrible. But I must talk about it, or I shall go mad again. What they did to Somerset…”

“Surely to God they did not make you witness it?”

“No. But they carried his body into the abbey to lay him to rest there, and I was lodged there overnight. When I heard he was brought there, I went to pay my respects and pulled down the sheet they’d wrapped him in before they could stop me. He’d been so loyal to me, and he was my kinsman—I couldn’t just let him go without a look. I shouldn’t have. They’d beaten his skull in—you could see his brains, for pity’s sake!—and there were knife wounds all over his body. All inflicted when he was past fighting back, one of his men who saw it told me. I was almost sick at the sight of him.”

“He must have been beyond all pain when they did most of those things to him, Henry. His soul had long since fled his body.”

“I pray that was how it was.”

“You know that was how it was.”

“Dear Marguerite,” Henry whispered. He sat staring straight ahead for a few minutes. “The Earl of Dorset must have seen all that was done to his father; he fell beside him. I sat with him an hour or two that night at the abbey infirmary. The monks tended him well and he was better when we left the abbey, Warwick wasn’t lying, but for a time that night he was delirious and didn’t know me or Lord Ros, who was also taken prisoner. He just lay there talking out of his head, mostly begging his father not to leave the Castle—he was killed by the Castle Inn. But once in a while he called out for a Joan. Do you think in his disturbance of mind he could have meant the Maid of Orléans? Or maybe one of his relations?”

In spite of myself, I smiled. “Hardly, Henry. Joan is his mistress, and has been since about the time our son was born. Hal was not discreet in proclaiming his conquest to all and sundry, I am afraid.”

“His mistress? But I thought he would avoid the ways of the flesh. He once promised me he would.”

How could I help but love my unworldly Henry? I kissed him tenderly. “I am sure he tried his very best.”

Henry sighed. “Hal was such a lighthearted lad. After St. Albans, I fear he will never be the same again.”

None of us would, I thought.

My husband gazed at his hands. Finally, he said, “You know, my dear, that after it was all done, York and the others came to the abbey and begged my forgiveness. They said that they were acting for the good of the realm, not against me. I did forgive them; it is what the Lord teaches. But I also know I had no real choice. Somerset, Percy, and Clifford dead, Buckingham and his son wounded, Dorset wounded, my men scattered—I could not have resisted them. And now I can only hope their intentions are good, for they are the men I must work with now.”

“For now,” I echoed, giving the last word an emphasis that Henry, who did indeed look and sound exhausted, missed.

***

Shortly before Christmas, a visitor was announced at Greenwich. “The Earl of Dorset, your grace.”

My eyes filled with tears as Hal Beaufort entered the room, and I forestalled his attempt to bow with a hearty embrace and a kiss. As we moved apart, I saw for the first time that his right cheek bore a large scar. I touched it gently. “Oh, Hal.”

“It’s not so bad. Mother said it makes me look like a pirate, but Joan said it made me look mysterious.”

I frowned in mock outrage. “You visited your mistress before you visited your queen?”

“Well, there are certain inducements with her that your grace lacks,” Hal said, grinning.

Silently, I thanked the Lord that St. Albans had not robbed Hal of his sense of humor. “But how did you get free?”

“Much as I would like to say that I overpowered Warwick and made my escape, the ignoble truth is that he simply let me go. He really couldn’t come up with a good excuse to keep me in ward indefinitely, after all, and I suspect it was beginning to become an embarrassment for York, with all of his lofty talk about reconciliation. So he made a pious speech about the season of the birth of the Lord being a time to show mercy, and here I am. He was actually quite pleasant toward the end. It was rather unnerving; he even suggested that we joust sometime. Joust, as if I would trust him to fight fairly! I don’t think he realizes how much I heard and saw at St. Albans.” Hal’s brown eyes clouded over, then grew hard, before he continued, “But I am sorry. I spoke of the topic that must not be named in polite company.”

“Ah, you have heard that?” The York-controlled government had strictly forbidden anyone from discussing the events of St. Albans. “I daresay you may have a dispensation here.”

“I’m not sure I want one,” Hal said quietly.

“Well, how does Joan fare?”

Hal visibly brightened at my hasty change of subject. “I was afraid she would take another lover in my absence, but no. I got quite the welcome. Oh, and she told me that an unnamed friend of mine sent her a sum of money for her support while I was imprisoned, in case she was in need. My mother is a kindhearted lady, but her charity doesn’t extend to my harlot, as she calls her. I suspect it came from another source.” I blushed tellingly. “Thank you, your grace.”

“I think we had better not mention this to the king. He would not approve in the least. How fares your mother?”

“Edmund said that she was a wreck at first, terrified that York might harm her or us; she dragged the family to my aunt’s at Maxey Castle. She’s better now.” Hal grimaced. “There’s even talk that she might remarry. One of my aunt’s servants, Walter Rokesley, of all people. It seems a little sudden to me to talk of remarriage, but he’s been kind to her, and she’s been lonely without my father. She loved him very much.”

“As he loved all of you, Hal.”

Hal cleared his throat. “Tell me, your grace. Is what I heard true? Is the king ill again? I heard that York had been named protector once again.”

“He does not suffer from the same malady as he did before, God be thanked, but he has not been entirely himself either. He sleeps far too much—he goes to bed much earlier than a man his age usually does. He becomes agitated very quickly, and he seems to get confused more easily than before. I noticed it just slightly after—after St. Albans—but it has been gradually going worse. One can’t give him too many details in a single conversation or he gets overwhelmed; it can almost be seen on his face. And he thinks much about his own death, too much for a man of only four-and-thirty. He has even been talking of where he shall be buried. And—” I bit my lip.

“Your grace, what is it?”

What I had been about to blurt out was that Henry no longer had sexual relations with me. We needed another child; what if our little Edward succumbed to one of the illnesses that could take the healthiest of children? And yet Henry these days did no more than lie beside me, gently rebuffing my tentative attempts at lovemaking. But this was hardly a topic I could discuss with a man, and particularly not with a handsome young man like Hal. “Nothing. I was merely running on.”

Hal did not meet my eyes again, and I wondered if he had guessed my thoughts. Then he said briskly, “Who knows, perhaps in a few months his situation will improve. So that is why York took over as protector? The king’s state of mind?”

I nodded gratefully. “Mind you, I don’t think he would have needed much of an excuse, but with Henry so abstracted recently, and York so alert for the slightest sign of incapacity, it was easy for him to get Parliament to agree. He even convinced the king that it was in his own best interests to take a rest from his duties for a time.” I hesitated. “Hal, I don’t want to cause you pain, but I suppose you have heard what York’s Parliament said about St. Albans.”

“Yes. That it was all the fault of my father. Not a word about York’s men attacking while negotiations were still going on. Not a word about his being butchered by those cowards when he was helpless, lying on his back, not even able to raise his hand.”

“I want Henry out of York’s control. How could he not have realized that he was putting my husband’s life in danger when those arrows were shot?” The words, so long repressed, were tumbling out of my mouth so quickly that my English was inadequate for them, and I switched to French. “If Henry had died, there would have been a protectorate for our son, and who would then rule in all but name? York! And what security would our boy have, being controlled by the man who stood next in line to the throne? I do not trust him, Hal. I don’t believe those sugared words he speaks about loyalty to Henry and to the realm. There is one person the Duke of York is loyal to above all others, and that is the Duke of York.”