The Stolen Crown: The Secret Marriage That Forever Changed the Fate of England (24 page)

The next wedding, between the Duke of Gloucester and Anne Neville, which took place just weeks later, was more promising, especially as the bride was only a couple of years older than myself. Accordingly, I dressed

1 5 6 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m myself as alluringly for the festivities as I could, even coaxing Cecilia to dab a tiny bit of rouge on my cheeks and to let me wear a tad more scent than usual.

I felt quite confident when we were finished. Poor, sweet John had been overly kind in his prediction that I would match my sister in looks, but I knew I was by no means unattractive. My scattered freckles were so small that only a man kissing me could notice them, and then wouldn’t he have his eyes shut anyway? My hair was sandy, but indisputably on the safe side of blond, my eyes were bright and blue, and my features were regular. I had wide, red lips, covering white teeth. My bosom, though not magnificent, was more than adequate. I was neither too thin nor too wide, and although I was on the short side, there was no harm in that, as it would have been a dreadful thing had I towered over Harry. Any false modesty I might have possessed had been destroyed some time ago by Lord Hastings, a known connoisseur of women who had often cast his approving eye in my direction as of late. I knew that his admiration was harmless, as he was not the sort of man to toy with a married lady who was also the queen’s sister, and I took some comfort in his appreciative glances.

The Gloucester wedding was a stately one though not an elaborate one, the newlyweds having wished to get it over with quickly so that Richard could attend to his affairs in the North, in which he was greatly interested. The bride’s mother did not attend, being still in sanctuary in Beaulieu Abbey, but the Duchess of York made one of her rare appearances, along with the Duchess of Exeter (minus her imprisoned Lancastrian husband) and the Duchess of Suffolk (with her faithfully Yorkist husband). Anne’s sister, the Duchess of Clarence, was there too, of course, as was the Duke of Clarence, who played his role in the proceedings with a martyred air, it having been his hope, Harry said, that Anne would take the veil and that he would get all of the Warwick lands for himself.

Harry was an especially honored guest at the wedding. Evidently he had done Richard some service in finding Anne, who had been hidden away

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by George for a time, and this was confirmed when I noticed that George reserved some of his most sullen looks for my husband. But with the king himself at the wedding, along with the queen and a couple of the older royal daughters, he could do no more than sulk and glare.

By the end of the evening, I was sulking and glaring nearly as much as George. Harry paid my finery no attention whatsoever. We danced together, once or twice, but we might have been sister and brother as we moved together palm to palm. His only concession to our married state was to escort me to my chamber, where he gave me the most formal of good-night kisses and left. With him gone, I relieved my frustration in the only way I knew how: by dashing an expensive container of scent across the room.

Cecilia, who fortunately had been out of harm’s way, stared. “Good Lord, girl, what is the matter?”

“I shall never be Harry’s true wife! All of this was for naught.” I yanked at a hand cloth and began removing my spot of rouge. “I might as well be old and dried up. He’ll never lie with me.”

“Child, you are still very young.”

“But I’m ready now! And I’m not getting any younger. Why, I’m fourteen, for heaven’s sake!”

Cecilia repressed a smile. “Oh, I think it’ll be a while before you’re past your prime, my lady. And Harry is young too, you must remember. Not all men are like the king, you know, who they say was seducing ladies when he was younger than you. Some men start later.”

“The Duke of Gloucester has two bastards already, and he’s but nineteen.”

“Aye? You want Harry to sire some bastards, then?”

“No, of course not.” I scowled at Cecilia. “I want him to sire children on me, and don’t tell me I’m too young. The Countess of Richmond, that Margaret Beaufort—”

“Had a child when she was barely thirteen, and it almost killed her. Her husband should have waited.”

“I’m more developed than she ever was.” I pouted as Cecilia, having removed my hennin, began to pull pins out of my hair until it finally fell

1 5 8 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m around my waist. Thick and slightly curling, it was a fine sight for a man’s eyes, I privately thought, one that I wondered if Harry would never see.

“Cecilia, do you think he could be what they call a—a sodomite?” The very word made me blanch.

“No, child. I think you just need to give him time. When the hour is right, he will come to you.”

“If I’m not dead by then,” I groused. “And buried.”

At Windsor Castle that autumn, the court gathered to welcome Louis of Gruuthuse, who had sheltered the king during much of his exile. In gratitude, the king had planned a round of festivities, which would culminate in Louis being made the Earl of Winchester.

As we women waited for Louis to be brought to meet the queen in her chambers, the Duchess of Exeter and I played at ninepins. It is a game for which I have always had a gift, and I was trouncing my opponent handily.

The duchess didn’t seem to mind, for she was much preoccupied by other matters. “Ned has finally agreed to help me get my annulment,” she announced as a servant set up my pins again. “Soon, the Lord willing, I shall be shed of that man.”

I nodded sympathetically, though I secretly felt a little pity for the Duke of Exeter. A servant of his had found him stripped of his armor, lying half dead on the field at Barnet. The man had taken his master to a surgeon, then smuggled him into sanctuary at Westminster, but the king had removed him from there and confined him in the Tower, where he was said to live a comfortable but very dull existence.

The duchess read my mind. “If he’d switched his allegiance to the House of York like any sensible person, now he’d be in a world of difference, wouldn’t he?” Her ball sailed past the patiently waiting ninepins, and I shook my head in disbelief. Little Bess, my niece, could do better than that.

“But no. He had to stay true to Lancaster. All well and good, his loyalty,

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but there comes a time when it becomes stupidity. Though I’m not sure York would have had him anyway. The man could quarrel with a tree.”

My ball slammed into the pins, producing a gratifying sound of crashing ivory as I tried to think of a suitable reply. It was a sign of my maturing appearance, I supposed, that the duchess was bothering to speak to me of such adult matters. I finally managed, “Shall you remarry, my lady?”

This was a much less innocent question than it might appear, and actually almost an impertinent one, it being common knowledge that the duchess had long had a lover, Thomas St. Leger. He was only a knight in the king’s household, though—hardly a suitable husband for a king’s sister. Belatedly, I hoped the duchess did not take offense. Anne, however, merely smiled archly. “The king has promised I may marry as I wish, provided it is to a man who has been loyal to him, and my choice shall produce no worries on that score.” She rolled her ball again and gasped as it grazed two pins, knocking both down. “Now, will you look at that! How about you, my dear? My old charge, your husband, has just turned seventeen, if I recall correctly. Are plans being made for you to live with him?”

“I wish!”

“Aye?” The duchess glanced at me appraisingly. “Have you bedded with him yet? You look of a condition to do so.”

“I certainly am. But I have not,” I added mournfully.

“I suppose the queen won’t allow it until you’re older.”

“She has not forbidden it. Neither has the king.”

“I see.”

“It is Harry,” I confessed, lowering my voice, though it was hardly necessary in the noise of the room. The queen and some of her ladies were playing at tables, and another group was dancing to a lively tune. “I have encouraged him in every way possible, but nothing happens. I contrive to stand in dark corners with him, perfume myself, dress my best—and nothing! Is it something in me, do you think? Is my breath sour?” I exhaled for the duchess’s benefit.

“No, not at all.”

1 6 0 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m “Then what is it, do you think?”

“You are hardly speaking to an authority on the subject of marriage, child. The Duke of Exeter and I bedded together just long enough for him to sire my girl, and no more. It was not until later that I realized that the act need not be unpleasant—but I speak too frankly. My husband and I did not suit, plain and simple, in or out of bed. Yours is a different situation, I think.

Shyness, maybe. Harry never was a very forward lad when he was living in my household, at least around women. He is fond of you, isn’t he?”

“Like a sister,” I grumbled. I stared at the ninepins thoughtfully. “But he does treat me like a wife in one way at least. He doesn’t like it when men flirt with me. He got angry back when that Jasper Tudor did, or at least Harry said he did. I think he was just being pleasant.”

“Then perhaps what he needs is a reminder that you are not his sister.”

The door to Bessie’s chamber swung open and the king, unannounced, strode inside, followed by Louis of Gruuthuse and a crowd of courtiers, including Harry. “Is not this a splendid sight?” Edward shouted to his guest over the din. “The fairest ladies of England at their play.”

“There can be none more pleasant.”

I puffed out my chest and hoped that Harry found it a pleasant sight, too.

Six-year-old Bess, the king’s eldest daughter, had been dressed in her prettiest clothes for Louis of Gruuthuse’s visit, and her dancing master had been just as hard at work as her tailor. The evening before, after Louis arrived at the queen’s chamber, she had danced with her tall father, to the delight of all of the onlookers. Tonight Harry partnered her. Being much shorter than the king—as most men were—Harry was rather better suited for her. He was a good partner, leading little Bess around gracefully and amending his pace to hers.

The king, never one to sit and watch others dance, led my brother Anthony’s wife to the area that had been cleared for the dance, and soon others were following suit.

“May I?”

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“Why, of course, Lord Hastings,” I said.

From the moment Lord Hastings led me out to dance, I knew something was very odd. He never directed any of his remarks to my face, but to my bosom, which I admit was as much in evidence as it could be without going beyond the pale of respectability. He touched me much more often than was necessary to the dance, and his hands lingered where they had brushed.

I was utterly baffled, for Lord Hastings, though his glance might linger on a woman, was never other than perfectly correct in his outward conduct.

The Duchess of Exeter, partnered by the discreet Thomas St. Leger, brushed against me heavily. When I glanced over, irritated at her clumsi-ness, she gave me a wink. Light dawned.

Never in my life have I entered into a conspiracy so gladly as I did on that day—with one notable, later exception. I bestowed my best smiles upon Lord Hastings. I threw my shoulders back so that my bosom was even more prominent. I made arch conversation and laughed.

And all the while, Harry danced studiously with the Lady Elizabeth.

William Hastings shook his head as I looked over to Harry to see some sign of a reaction. “It’s not working, is it?”

“No,” I muttered.

“Then perhaps, my lady, more drastic measures are called for.” And with that, Lord Hastings gave my rear a mighty pinch.

“Lord Hastings!” I squawked. I slapped him across the face as hard as I could. “How dare you!”

I had not even had a chance to pull my hand back when Harry was at my side, eyes ablaze. “What mean you by this? Did you take liberties with my wife, you blackguard?”

Lord Hastings was the soul of contrite sheepishness. “My lord, I know not what came over me. Forgive me, your grace. And especially you, my lady.” He bowed and reached for my hand, but before he could bring it to his lips, Harry was dragging me out of the room and to my chamber.

“Out!” he yelled to Cecilia, who lost no time in obeying. He shoved me onto a stool. “What were you doing to lead that creature on?”

1 6 2 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m “Nothing,” I said sullenly. “I was merely enjoying the dance and the company.” The Duchess of Exeter’s and Lord Hastings’s plan, if it could be dignified as such, plainly had not worked.

“Hastings doesn’t usually do that sort of thing uninvited. You must have done something.” He eyed me coldly. “You dress too provocatively, I’ve noticed.”

“I dress like every other lady at court.” I dabbed at the tears that were beginning to fall down my face. “I put on my prettiest gowns for you, and you pay no mind. I spend hours on my headdress, and you pay no mind. I might as well be old and covered with warts. I might as well be shut away in a nunnery.” I snatched off my towering, sharply pointed hennin—perhaps one of the most idiotic contraptions women have ever been known to put on their heads, and a fashion that I have had the pleasure to outlive—and stamped on it with my foot. “Why don’t you send me to one? It can’t be worse than this.”

Harry stared. “You’ve been dressing like a harlot for
me
?”

“I have not been dressing like a harlot, and yes, I have been doing it for you.” To stop my tears, I retrieved my hennin and started to make a great production of securing it back on my head, but such a task seemed impossible without the help of Cecilia. “But no more, as it has been a wasted effort.” I returned to my work on my hennin.