Queen of Trial and Sorrow (17 page)

Relieved that my chamberlain agreed with my conclusion, I said: “Where?  Where will we be safe.”

“Madam, my own house – ” he started to say, but I cut him off with a shake of my head. 

“Thank you, my lord, but I’m afraid that won’t do.  If they want to find me they’ll come looking and I imagine your house is one of the first places they’ll look.  Nor can I move from house to house to elude pursuit as Henry did for so many years.  Not with three small children in my care.  So…” I took a deep breath to steady myself.  “I have come to the conclusion that there is only one place where we’ll be secure and inviolable: In the hands of the church.  In sanctuary.”

“Oh, Madam!  Sanctuary is full of the most wretched people, thieves and murderers and other riff-raff.”

“I know.  But unless you have a better suggestion that is where I intend to go.”

“It is unconscionable that the world has come to this,” Lord Berners lamented as I left him to tell my ladies of my decision and instruct them in packing.

There was some positive news among the bad.  It was now known that the king had already been on his way south and having reached Doncaster learned that John Neville was on the march from Pontefract with troops raised by a commission the king had sent him, and in battle array.  Lord Hastings had told me that Edward did not believe in throwing away lives in a battle he can’t win.  I was glad of that.  I wanted him
alive.
  I wanted him to do whatever was necessary to
live
and ultimately to
win.

Having no troops of his own, he had opted for flight.  I still didn’t know where he was but I no longer feared for him. 

This news changed things in the city.  A man named Sir Geoffrey Gate put himself forward as Warwick’s representative, emerging from sanctuary to join other vile and riotous persons in breaking open the prisons and freeing any thief, murderer, traitor, crooked lawyer, defrocked priest and molester of little girls or boys who claimed to love King Henry or the Earl of Warwick.  These criminals were now on the loose, joining disgruntled citizens in the kind of rampage of purposeless violence that inevitably seems to accompany any political upheaval.  

In response to the threats posed by the Kentishmen and the criminals, the common council took no chances. The courts were suspended and bombards placed at the gates, the bridge and the Guildhall.  When a call went out to the guilds for armed men, three thousand responded.  It must have been with something akin to relief that they learned the king had fled.  It absolved them of the necessity of making any decision that might get them into hot water later on when the matter was finally resolved.

Warwick was expected any day now and I had no doubt that he would restore order right quickly.  But I was running out of time.  If I was not to get caught in this stone trap, I must get out at once.  Having made up my mind to go, I decided we would leave that very night.  Lord Berners – God bless him, a very capable man – took much of the burden off my shoulders by arranging for boats to convey us upstream and sending a message off to the Abbot of Westminster alerting him to our coming.  Meanwhile, with the help and advice of my ladies, I had to decide what to take and what to leave behind. 

Another messenger arrived later in the day.  I dreaded receiving news; it was always bad, and this time was no different.  The city fathers had men patrolling the streets in an attempt to quell disorders, but violence was on the increase, and Sir Geoffrey Gate, that vile traitor, was demanding the surrender of the Tower in Warwick’s name.  We were making our escape just in time.

……….

Hours later, after dark, Anne and I entered the chamber in which my little girls were sleeping.  Lady Berners and Lady Fogge followed behind with candles.  The nursemaid who was to accompany us had slept in her clothes and rose as soon as we entered to kneel beside the little nest that held Cecily.  Leaving Anne to deal with Mary, the quietest of the three, I went to Bessie’s bedside and gently shook her.  She awakened without alarm, blinking in the candlelight.  After rubbing her eyes, she glanced at the window, which showed no sign of dawn.  That, along with the unusual activity in the room, caused her to raise up on her elbows.    

“Mama, what’s wrong?” she asked, with a little thread of alarm in her voice. 

“Hush, child,” I said softly.  “Do as you are told.  Come, get out of bed.  We must put your shoes and your cloak on.”

“It’s not yet dawn,” she protested.  “Why have you awakened me?”

Mary awoke more slowly.  She looked around, blinking in sleepy confusion at the unexpected activity, but she obeyed Anne’s instructions without question or protest.  There was no stopping Bessie’s questions.  Even as a small child she had wanted to know everything, as if it was her duty as the eldest to learn and pass on all relevant information to her siblings.

“Where are we going?”

“We have to take a boat ride,” I said, as Cecily’s protesting whimpers turned to outraged shrieks.

“To Shene?”

“No, only as far as Westminster.”

“Will papa be there?”

“Not yet.” 

“But I don’t want to go.  Why must I go?” she said, beginning to sound querulous.

“Come dearest, we will speed better if you keep your foot still.”  I had got one shoe on and buckled, but the other foot was wriggling about like an otter in a sack.

“Is it because Lord Warwick has come?”

The household had conspired to keep the news from the children.  Mary was prone to nightmares.  Bessie, with her curious nature and precocious perceptions, had picked up some hint of what was going on.

“I will explain everything once we are away.  Make haste, dearest.”

“I don’t like these shoes,” she said, sounding positively peevish now.

My poor little girls.  My heart ached for them.  What must it be like for small children to be plucked from their warm beds and taken into the chilly night, to be put into a boat and taken to a strange place with no explanation from anyone?  I would have to tell Bessie more – at least, a little more.  But in the meantime they would have to be very brave girls, and if I expected them to be brave I must be also.  And patient.

Unable to carry her, I took Bessie by the hand.  Anne carried Mary and the nursemaid laid Cecily against her shoulder.  The baby quieted at once and, I dare swear, was sound asleep a moment later.  We had already said our farewells.  Lady Berners curtsied and, on an impulse it seemed, seized my hand and kissed it as I passed by. 

The royal barge was tied up at the wharf but I had decided not to use it because it was easily identifiable and I preferred to take no chances.  Under the torchlit arch of St. Thomas’s Tower two of the many craft that plied their trade on the river bobbed beside the water stairs.  My sons, Thomas and Richard were to take the second boat along with some extra servants to help when we reached our destination.  Thomas, who was fifteen, had wanted to go north with his stepfather but I wouldn’t hear of it.  Now I was sorry.  He was a restless and rambunctious youth who needed a wide arena in which to play.  In sanctuary, with all its unavoidable restrictions, I was afraid he would be disruptive.  Richard was generally calmer, unless with his brother; the two of them together were capable of any mischief.  

Two more boats were already laden and waiting.  I had been forced to leave the State Cradle behind, but the small cradle, the sheets, blankets, cover and canopy, all so lovingly stitched and embellished for Bessie’s birth, were packed and brought with us. 

Being under water for part of each day, depending on the tides, the stairs were slick.  While the boatman held his vessel as still as possible, I descended cautiously; with Lord Berners and a groom each holding an arm, I stepped into the boat and was only released once I was sinking onto a seat.  Anne shared the same bench hugging Mary on her lap.  Bessie sat between us, quiet now.  I pulled her hood up and enfolded her in my cloak to keep her warm.

“I will be in the sanctuary house, as will the Lord Chancellor,” Lord Berners said, as the boatman pushed off.  “If you should need us.”

I didn’t think I would need the Lord Chancellor, but I would miss my dear and useful chamberlain.  “We shall see each other soon,” I said, not, I’m afraid, sounding very convincing.

It was cold and damp on the river as our little flotilla emerged from the sheltering walls of the Tower into the channel.  Wisps of low-lying mist curled and eddied on the impenetrable black surface.  A three-quarter moon sailed in and out of ragged clouds and lay like a splash of molten silver on the bend toward Westminster. 
Like moonglow,
he said of my hair, running his fingers through it.  Where
was
he?  Not dead, I prayed.  There were rumors that he was, but I could not believe it.   

Although it was late and all decent folk kept to their homes after dark, we were not alone on the river.  Another boat pulled abreast of us with four men aboard.  We kept our heads down, our hoods up but they must have seen there were women aboard, for they began to halloo and shout bawdy remarks.  My heart in my mouth, I told the boatman to slow down until they had pulled ahead.  As they disappeared into the inky blackness of London Bridge I heard an echo of their voices in drunken song.  Water swirled dangerously around the piers of the bridge bringing many a frail craft to disaster, but our boatman made it safely through the hazard without causing so much as a splash.  Another boat ploughed across our bow carrying another bevy of young men toward Southwark.

Helped by the tide, the boat glided past the darkened warehouses of St. Katherine’s Wharf.  Every now and then a torch flared, muted by mist, illuminating the ships rocking gently at the docks, bales of merchandise, tall cranes towering overhead, the silhouettes of men moving about, loading or unloading cargo. At one point I saw a group of men running between the warehouses on Thames Street and heard their menacing shouts.   

Beyond St. Paul’s Wharf was Baynard’s Castle.  It had originally been intended as the sentinel partner of the Tower of London, with the city snug and safe between them, but it’s defensive aspects had long since fallen into disuse and now it was the Duchess of York’s city home.  Its southern wall rose out of the river.  Low tide exposed a coating of black and green slime on the lower stones that looked to anyone passing on the river like a dirty petticoat on a squat dowager.  Her Grace was not in residence but even if she had been, I would not have gone to her for protection.  Sanctuary would be more comfortable than being under her disapproving eye day after day.

And then we were sliding noiselessly past the city walls, past the Inns of Court, which contained offices, dining halls, lecture rooms and living accommodation where students, sergeants-at-law and attorneys lived and worked and played hard.  From somewhere within those halls of learning came the faint obtrusive sounds of laughter and music.  Then came the great houses of the nobles, with their rear gardens and wharves on the river, some in darkness and some showing windows full of light.  What is it about lighted windows that make one feel so lonely and bereft?  Or should I say: lonelier and more bereft?

Beyond the great bend the twin towers of the abbey came into view, a breathtaking opus of carved figures, soaring arches, corbels and capitals, amazingly fine stone fretwork and of course some of the most glorious stained glass windows in England. 

The boat nosed against the jetty.  Mary had fallen asleep, but Bessie was awake, although unusually quiet.  The groom lifted her from the boat and set her down well away from the water’s edge, and then he and Anne helped me out.  This was one occasion when I didn’t mind being preceded.

The boats were unloaded and our baggage placed around us on the dock.  Abbot Millyng came hurrying down the path toward us.  As he bowed over my hand, I said: “Father, my children and I claim sanctuary.”

“My dear lady,” said the abbot, who surely must have been felled by the pathos of our small party, “my own quarters are at your disposal.  Rest there in safety.”

The abbot, I was happy to discover, lived in better state than his monks.  His bed was quite large enough to contain Anne and I, and three cots, presumably of the kind used by the monks, had been moved into the chamber, the good abbot being unaware that a child of Cecily’s age could not be put into a bed.  We put one of the straw mattresses on the floor and covered them in linen before putting the girls down to sleep once again.  The groom, whose name was Walter Worthy, went in search of another mattress for the extra cot so that the nursemaid could remain in the room with the children.  Walter would sleep in the dining hall with Thomas and Richard. 

By this time I was thoroughly exhausted, and when Anne and I had helped each other undress and crawled into the bed, I had no time to lament my reduced circumstances before I fell fast asleep.

The groom was a blessing.  I had thought only that he might be needed for heavy work such as carrying water but he proved far more useful.  He did not sign the sanctuary book and therefore could come and go as he pleased, and every day he walked into the city, sat in taverns, idled through the markets, briefly joined men gathering on streets corners, chatting amiably with all and sundry and then sauntered back to the abbot’s house with the information he had picked up.  Thus I learned that the mayor and aldermen had been obliged to come to terms with Sir Geoffrey Gate.  The Tower’s garrison and its officers installed by the king, along with those who had accompanied me and a couple of ministers who hadn’t made away in time, were allowed to depart for their homes or for sanctuary at Westminster or St. Martin-le-Grande without hindrance and without loss of goods.  The fortress was surrendered and a new garrison installed comprised of both city guard and Gate’s unruly confederates the very day after we had departed. 

Warwick arrived in the city, leaving the army he had collected in Devonshire and on his march camped in St. John’s Field to show that his intent was peaceable and also that he didn’t need an army to restore order.  The name Warwick was enough.  With him were the moody Clarence, the young Earl of Shrewsbury, Lord Stanley, the Bastard of Fauconberg, a Neville cousin, and Sir John Langstrother, the Prior of the Hospital of St. John.

His cynical
volte-face
had won few admirers.  The citizens in general were pro-Edward, although some still held a kind of wistful affection for the old king.  But no one, it seemed, harbored any sympathy for the Earl of Warwick and the position he found himself in.  Not that the citizens vocalized their disapprobation, but averted faces and turned backs could speak volumes.  Warwick showed a haughty profile as he rode west along the busy thoroughfare of Chepe, and Walter, who was there, was struck by how quiet the people were. 

The day after Warwick’s arrival, Walter brought news of Henry, who, after five years of captivity, had settled comfortably into a peaceful and ordered life of study and communion with God, so it was said.  His polygon chamber in the Wakefield Tower was more of a haven than a prison.  He lacked for nothing and was treated always with respect, both by his attendants and by the officers of the Tower.  He was allowed a chaplain, who was truly his only friend, and Edward paid the chaplain’s salary as well as Henry’s expenses and those of his attendants.  From time to time Edward sent cloth to be made into gowns for him and also wine from his own cellars.  Friends were allowed to visit him, with a license from his keepers, and for the first couple of years his visitors had been many.  Then for the next couple of years the numbers had begun to drop off, and now hardly anyone went. 

It was said that when a mass of excited people barged into his tower room and told him he was to be king again, he had asked plaintively: ‘But where is King Edward?’  Poor fool.

Furthermore, when George Neville, the Archbishop of York arrived, having dismissed the guard Edward had set over him and raised quite a large number of men, he knelt before Henry.  But Henry was barely acquainted with him and angrily insisted he was an imposter, as everyone knew that the Archbishop of York was the most reverend Cardinal Kempe.

“Oh, he’s as befuddled as ever,” I said to Anne.  “Kempe was Archbishop of Canterbury, not York, and he passed to his heavenly reward years ago.” 

Henry had little interest in the temporal world and probably had no idea of the epic events that were happening around him and hurtling him toward another span on the throne.  And this was the man they proposed to put in Edward’s place?  Henry wasn’t the only one who had lost his wits!

Fortunately, small children adapt very easily.  My older sons chafed at the restrictions, but at least we had the abbot’s garden for our pleasure when the weather was fine.  It was a cold and blustery day, the first of November, All Saints’ Day, and the day the new mayor was installed in office. The girls were fractious, so I had sent them out to play in the abbot’s garden with Thomas and Richard there to make sure they remained where they were supposed to be.  Thomas was surprisingly good with his little sisters.  If one were upset for some reason, he would toss her into the air or tickle her until her tears turned to squeals of laughter.  He invented games that required Richard and he to descend several degrees in dignity and told them fantastical tales once they were in bed, his voice getting softer and slower until they dropped off into sleep.  For all his faults, he was a godsend.  As was the abbot’s garden.  For a blessed hour or so, I was free of childish shrieks, demands and quarrels.

They had come in for their supper in much better spirits, faces cold and rosy, and with hearty appetites.  Our meals were quite satisfactory, if bland and not always as well prepared as we were accustomed to.  That day we had medallions of beef with mushrooms, a medley of late vegetables, frumenty made with eggs and almond milk, fresh bread, a cheese that the monks made, baked apples and some custard and syrup confections for the children.  Mealtimes were noisy affairs and not very decorous except when the abbot joined us, when my children, both big and small, brought their manners out of hiding and put them on display.  The abbot’s appearances were a pleasant diversion for the adults among us, although he was not a very satisfactory source of news.

I was trying to coax a little mush of barley and milk into Cecily, not yet two but with a mind of her own.  She had decided she didn’t like barley and milk this week and my gown was spotted with her ejections.  Thomas was trying to repair a puppet Bessie had broken.  Seated on a bench against the wall, fist propping up his head, Richard glumly contemplated his crossed ankles. 

We had a new addition to our sorry little household.  Lady Scrope, wife to Lord Scrope of Bolton, a very good friend of my lord of Warwick’s, arrived one day, stern and matronly, and addressed me without the slightest deference to my royal status.  Of course, in her eyes I was no longer queen, anymore than Edward was king, and the last decade had been a mere hiccup in the natural order of things.

I had been hearing terrible rumors: that Edward had been taken by pirates, that he never left England at all but was killed in battle.  One man claimed he had seen the king’s body pierced with wounds.  I didn’t believe such nonsense but the rumors were distressing.  Unaware that we were still in ignorance, Lady Scrope let slip the news that he was safe in Flanders.  With him were the Duke of Gloucester, my brother Anthony, now Earl Rivers after Father’s death, and the faithful Hastings.  God helping, it wouldn’t be long before we saw him again.

Lady Scrope was an experienced and respected midwife.  I was attended by my usual midwife, Margery Cobb, but it was kind of Warwick to send Lady Scrope and I was very glad of her ministrations, although I disliked her intensely and suspected her services were to extend to spying for him.

After her first examination of me, she said: “You should be in confinement,” which made me gurgle with bitter amusement.

I had prevailed upon her to mend a rent in one of Thomas’s shirts, and although she had intimated that such work was beneath her, she had now knuckled down to it and was taking pains to do a neat job. 

I was about to give up on my recalcitrant daughter and send her to bed hungry when the first pain assaulted me.  “
Deo Gratias,
” I murmured.  I was eager to shed my burden and anxious (How can I relate how anxious I was?) to behold my son.

Frowning over his work, Thomas said: “I haven’t fixed it yet.”

I smiled at him.  “The baby is coming.”

He shot up out of his seat as if he were a puppet jerked by invisible strings.  “Bid you good night, my lady mother.  I think I will join the monks for Complin.”

Calling for his brother, he grabbed his cloak and fled into the night but not quickly enough to avoid hearing Lady Scrope say briskly: “Well then, let’s get you out of that gown before your waters break.”

Some hours later, while my daughters slept in the same chamber, I gave a final roaring grunt and expelled from the cozy nest of my womb…

“A boy,” Lady Scrope murmured, clearly vexed.

“A boy!” Anne shrieked, loud enough to disturb Bessie, who mumbled something and turned over away from us. 

“Sure enough, it is,” Margery Cobb said, as if the matter was in doubt without her verification.

“Here, let me see.” My mother took the child from Lady Scrope’s hands at once and I watched a proud, grandmotherly smile spread across her features.  “A fine lad.  And long.  Look how long he is, Anne.  Isn’t he his father’s boy?”

Anne peered over her shoulder.  “Oh, he’s beautiful, your Grace.  Beautiful,” she said, furtively wiping away a tear.

He wasn’t really, not at that moment.  He tumbled from the womb a grayish lump and went from purple to red in moments, but after he had been washed, dried, swaddled, cooed over some more, and after my nightgown and sheets had been changed, my face and body bathed, he was placed in my arms, and I saw that he was beautiful: a lovely pink and white complexion, tiny puckered mouth always mobile, eyes dark and unfocussed but nicely shaped and spaced.  At last!  My son.  My beautiful boy. 

“His name,” I said, “shall be Edward.”

I found myself glancing toward the door, as though expecting any moment he should come bursting through with a wide happy grin on his face, to kiss me on the mouth and pluck our son from my arms.  It was a moment lost in the great maw of time past, a moment of triumph and joy that we would never be able to share, and I mourned its passing.

“How sad,” Lady Scrope said, courteously vicious.  “Had he been born just a little earlier, there would have been bonfires in the streets and all the bells would be rung in thanksgiving.  As it is – ” she lifted her shoulders with a sigh “ – there will be little rejoicing for this birth.”

“Would you like me to brush and rebraid your hair?” Anne asked, but I shook my head.  Who was there to see me?

My mother, who had more than a little vinegar in her nature, said sharply:  “There you are wrong, my lady.  All over England those who love his Grace the king will be raising their cups to drink to the health of this sweet prince.  His birth will be celebrated quietly but with great joy.”

Mouth primly pursed, Lady Scrope said: “Might I respectfully remind your Grace that Henry is our king.”

“Mummery, Madam!  Nothing but mummery!” my mother hooted.  “Henry is a puppet and Warwick the puppet-master.”

“My lord of Warwick is the king’s lieutenant, which is as it should be since he is the greatest man in the kingdom,” Lady Scrope said with quiet pride.  In her eyes Warwick could do no wrong.

“A title he awarded himself.  And I’m the Queen of Sheba.  A puppet-master, Madam!  But for how long, eh?  How long will he be allowed to pull the strings when Margaret returns?  I’ll wager he sweats the nights through thinking about that!”

Struck by a dreadful thought, I said: “Is it past midnight?”

“Well past.  Soon be time for Matins, I shouldn’t wonder,” said my mother, sinking with a weary sigh onto the edge of the bed.

Lady Scrope clicked her tongue annoyingly.  “Not an auspicious day on which to be born, is it?”

It was All Souls Day, when souls suffering in Purgatory are able to return in the guise of toads or witches to punish those who have not supported them with prayer, and sometimes even enter the warm full-blooded bodies of the living.  No one ventured far from his own hearth on this day when hobgoblins, banshees and other evil spirits walked the earth and when Hell Mouth gaped its widest. 

I turned my face into the pillow, suddenly overcome with a deep sadness.  Why was it that God, in His infinite wisdom, granted in adversity the great blessing that He repeatedly denied my husband and me during the years of our prosperity?  My poor little son.  Born in sanctuary in circumstances meaner than if he were the child of a poor tradesman on the unluckiest day of the year and with his father far away.  What did it mean?  Was it an omen?  If so, was it an omen of good or evil?  Was he a child of destiny, or a child of sorrow?  And was it not a cruel irony? 

My emotions were all out of kilter.  Now there was joy, now a storm of helpless rage, now a bottomless sorrow.  I was blessed with the son I had prayed for for six years, but he was born into a dangerous and uncertain world and his father was not there to protect him.

“Go to bed,” I said to the ladies cleaning up.  “That will wait till morning.” When they demurred, I ordered them to go.  I wanted to be alone.

Outside it was a clear and frosty night.  Inside the fire sang and spat merrily as it ate foot-thick logs.  Firelight and candle flame gleamed on the cherubic faces of my sleeping daughters.