Queen of Trial and Sorrow (16 page)

From the roof of the Garden Tower, I had a wide view that encompassed the Southwark bank, the bridge with its row of shops and houses built over nineteen arches, and the streets of the city to the west all the way from Thames Street to St. Paul’s.  On the south side of the river armed men were pouring through Southwark toward the bridge like liquid going into a funnel.   The guns of the gatehouse blasted again and puffs of flying debris erupted among the rioters.  I clenched my fists, watching the smoke dissipating, wondering how close my husband was.  Whenever there was trouble in the city or its environs, I feared for the Flemings, many of whom lived in Southwark, for the citizens always seemed to want to take their anger and frustration out on foreigners, and at that time Duke Charles’ subjects were the victims of choice.  It was only a year or so earlier that a vast conspiracy was uncovered whose aim was to cut off the right hands of the Flemish weavers to prevent them plying their trade.  If these Kentish troublemakers didn’t get what they wanted, which was to enter and loot the city, they would surely turn on the Flemings.

I didn’t know where my husband was.  There had been a rebellion in the north, led by Lord FitzHugh, one of Warwick’s fistful of brothers-in-law.  Edward couldn’t count on John Neville to fight his brother.  And he didn’t know if he could count on Henry Percy at all.  Edward had set him free and restored his earldom.  Did he feel grateful or a sense of injustice that he had been locked up in the first place?  Besides, the northern coasts are riddled with a multitude of small coves nestling between rocky headlands, wherein a fleet could find safe anchorage and remain undetected for long enough to put an army ashore.

Fearful of having that turbulent part of the kingdom in arms if Warwick should land, Edward had decided to go north himself, and I hadn’t heard from him, or of him, since he arrived in Yorkshire to find that Lord FitzHugh had fled into Scotland and the rebellion had dissolved like a mist over the Thames when the sun rises.  Nevertheless, there was sufficient unrest in the city of York to call for his personal attention and he was probably there when the news came that was both anticipated and dreaded. 

You had to marvel at the Earl of Warwick: Even from afar he manipulated his puppets with great dexterity, causing the puppet-FitzHugh to create enough of an affray to draw the king from his capital.  And then, at just the right time, he whistled up a storm that scattered the fleets guarding the Seine and seized his chance to ride its tail on a course for England.  Ships could be stranded on the other side of the Narrow Sea for weeks due to contrary winds and weather, and the timing was crucial.  Given a few more days the king would have been back in his capital and in a better position to defend his kingdom.  How was it Warwick had command of storms?  I shivered in horror at the breadth of his influence.  He had landed at Dartmouth in Devon, while Jasper Tudor, Henry’s half-brother, had continued on to land at Plymouth, from where he would presumably go to Wales to raise the standard for Lancaster.  Unless the king was well on his way, Warwick would win the race for London. 

And now, when England was being torn asunder in a battle of the Titans, the Kentishmen were up in arms in support of Warwick, wandering through Southwark looking for trouble and no doubt finding it by the bushelful.  The beerhouses, also operated by Flemings, would be their first targets.

The smoke dissipated and they flowed away from the bridge, leaving behind a litter of bodies and body parts.  Below, men were massing at St Katherine’s Wharf, handing their weapons to other passengers before climbing into the boats that plied their trade up and down the river.  Once full, the boats pulled for the Surrey shore; some were going across empty.  I wanted to believe they were going to repulse the rebels but most likely they were going to join in the looting. 

I wondered if I should send for the mayor, to learn what defenses he intended to put in place and make sure he understood that his loyalty was to King Edward and no other.  Every day he called the common council into session to discuss the emergency and the arguments were heated, for the council, like the city itself, was divided.  Warwick was marching from the west and the king was believed to be on his way from the north and while the great men of London were inclined to favor the king, Warwick was not a man to be defied lightly.  Clashes were loud between those who followed the line of the mayor-elect in demanding that they must hold the city for the king, and those supporting the outgoing mayor who screamed that they must remain neutral; their first concern must be the city and people of London.

Moving from the southern view to the west, I leaned my folded forearms on the crenellations, pushing my great belly against the hard stones, and looked out over the wharves, where merchant ships nudged the stone jetties, the blank-faced warehouses where goods from all over the world were stored, the tumbledown stalls and stinking lanes of Billingsgate fish market, the huddle of roofs and the hundred or so spires of that noisy, dirty, muddy, overcrowded, malodorous, rat-infested, plague-ridden, decadent, proud, polyglot sewer of a city.  It was there that the danger lay, not with the Kentishmen, but there in those narrow streets and verminous alleys.  I couldn’t see them, nor hear their commotion, but I knew that certain elements of the populace were using the upheavals of their betters to loot and harass, to oppress their neighbors and settle old grudges.  My great fear was that they would try to take the Tower into their own hands.

“Madam, there is news.” A voice behind me spoke and I was so startled I managed to graze my knuckles on the stone.  It was one of my grooms – damn his soft-footedness.

“I will come.  Go before me.”

I had negotiated my ascent quite well, arriving on the roof only a little short of breath.  The going down was quite another matter in my condition but, with one hand sliding along the rough wall and the groom before me ready to catch me in case of mishap, I negotiated the worn spiral stair slowly and safely. 

Entering the solar, I saw to my surprise that Anne was weeping in the arms of Lady Fogge.  Lady Berners, my daughters’ governess, was weeping too, rather noisily. Alison Courteney was in the window seat, shoulders slumped, head hanging.   I had summoned the children from Shene as soon as I got word that Warwick had landed, and my two eldest daughters were sitting against a wall looking rather bewildered.  It was bad news then, I thought, trying to steel myself.  The chancellor was also in the room, standing in front of the fire with his hands behind his back.  As soon as he saw me, he murmured: “Collect yourselves, ladies.”

My sister made a commendable effort to do so, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands and taking a couple of steps forward, as if uncertain whether to come to me or not. 

Baby-face wreathed in gloom, Stillington said: “Madam, I bring grave news.  There has been a battle in the north.  His Grace, the king, I fear, has suffered defeat.”

I felt the infant move, a great lurch as if he turned over in sleep, and Stillington’s face wavered before my eyes.  I groped for something to hold onto, something solid and enduring, and Anne caught my hand and urged me to a chair that had been pushed behind me.  I sat down heavily.

“Can this be true?” I asked, of myself rather than anyone in the room.

“I had it from one who was there, Madam,” the chancellor said. 

No! 
No!  Not possible
.  I lifted my eyes to his face.  It was as grave as it ought to be when imparting such news, and yet… I had the feeling he enjoyed causing me pain.  Anne was kneeling at my side, holding my hand and wetting it with her tears. My mind was whirling but one thought floated to the surface.  “But Warwick is in the west.  How is it possible..?”

“Not Warwick, Madam.  John Neville, Lord Montagu.  The king lay at Doncaster and Montagu came upon him when he was defenseless.”

Ah, John Neville, the loyal Neville.  He had not joined his brother’s rebellions, but now it seemed his loyalty had been stretched too thin.  But could John Neville defeat my husband in battle?  My husband, who had commanded Mortimer’s Cross when he was only eighteen?  Who had won the terrible battle of Towton and emerged without a scratch when he was only eighteen?  Who had survived captivity by using his wits?  Who had told me more than once that he intended to die in his bed?  No.  I did not believe it.  I rejected it with every fiber of my being.  I didn’t know where he was, or in what state, but I did not believe he had been defeated.

All of a sudden I was calm.  “Stop blubbering,” I said to Anne, and looked at my two small daughters who were watching us with huge eyes.  Bessie’s chin was starting to quiver.  Perhaps they didn’t understand all that was said, but they knew something had happened to their papa.

I was almost afraid to ask. “And the king?”

“I have no word on him, Madam.”

“Thank you, my lord.  You have leave,” I said, and he bowed and backed away.

I smiled at my daughters to show them all was well.  “Read them a story,” I told Lady Berners.  “Make it a happy story.”  And then I helped Lady Alice finish cutting the panels for a new gown for her daughter and got Anne involved in the business.  When all was back to normal – reasonably normal, anyway – and the girls were exclaiming in delight and the ladies were fussing with scissors and pins, I went to lie down – not in my bedchamber but in the chamber I had prepared for my lying-in.  The walls had been freshly painted and tapestries hung of the Virgin and Child. An oak chest overflowed with clean linen, nightgowns, bed sheets and swaddling for the baby.  A stack of black drapes lay on a table ready to be hung over the windows.  Copper kettles stood by the hearth.  There were books and board games to help us while away the long hours.

In a corner stood the State Cradle and a smaller one used by Elizabeth, Mary and Cecily in turn.  My ladies and I had made the sheets from finest lawn, edged the blankets with gold ribbon and created the canopy, embroidering it fulsomely with flowers and butterflies and angels.  My sister-in-law of Suffolk, whose hobby was lacemaking, had made a lovely border of lace.  He (Please God, let it be a boy this time) should arrive in about three weeks, but what state of affairs would he be born to?  Was his father dead?  Was he king in the womb?  I touched the lace and rubbed the sheets and blankets between thumb and forefinger.  Everything seemed as pristine as it was for Elizabeth’s birth.

I should have been in confinement already, but I couldn’t bring myself to it.  How could I banish news and concentrate on the coming birth without first knowing the result of the confrontation that would finally end the vexatious reign of the great earl who for the past fifteen years had cast a gigantic shadow over the face of England.

I lay down on the bed where, soon enough, I would be striving to bring another child into the world (A son!  Dear God, this time let it be a son.)  My husband was
not
defeated, I told myself.  His enemies had gathered a formidable force against him, with Louis the Spider hovering in back of them all, but he would prevail because in battle he was a Caesar, an Alexander.  It was impossible that John Neville could have beaten him.  But then I thought: Perhaps I believe only what I want to believe, what I
have
to believe.  What would become of me, of my daughters and my family without Edward and in a realm ruled by Margaret?  I daren’t think about that.  Anthony was with him in the north.  What had become of Anthony?  I groaned, wrapping my arms around my swollen belly.  Think only good thoughts, I warned myself, but there were none.  

The fire grate was stacked with wood, waiting to be lit once I was ready to occupy the chamber, and it was cold.  The windows revealed nothing but a monochrome sky and rain pattered against the panes, a pleasant enough sound when one is ensconced in a cozy room, but today I found it depressing.  Confirmation would come, one way or another.  It might take some time, but it would come.  Meanwhile, I could do nothing but wait. 

Thus it is to be a woman.  We wait and we worry.  We have to be strong, otherwise the waiting and worrying would drive us mad.  And we must be calm, we must maintain an impression of normalcy for the sake of those around us, especially the little ones.

……….

“How defensible is the Tower?”

Lord Berners, organizing some papers, looked up and said: “It is strong and well fortified.  I imagine it can hold out against assault and siege for a long time.  The trouble is… All it requires is a traitor within, a postern opened, a few guards knocked senseless, and in these times one can be certain of no one.” 

I made up my mind at that instant.  “My children and I cannot stay here.”

“Sadly, I agree, Madam.  The Tower will inevitably become a focus of attack either by the rioters or by Warwick, who dare not allow the fortress to defy him.  Once he enters the city nothing is more certain than that he will demand its surrender and your Grace and the royal children will fall into his hands.”

I didn’t believe for one moment that Warwick would want to harm my children or me, but he certainly might use us as hostages.  And what of Margaret? What would she do to the woman who had sat in her place all these years, to the children who were a threat to her son?  Oh, I very much feared Margaret.  Besides, no one was safe in a city given over to mob violence.

For the first time in my life, I was without either father or husband to give me shelter and guidance.  The decisions were mine to make.  And while I wished I had the courage to hold the Tower for my husband, I saw that my first priority was to keep my children and myself safe, out of the hands of the vengeful former queen.