Queen of Trial and Sorrow (34 page)

Let me say here that Gloucester was a master of propaganda.  Ahead of the procession came four wagonloads of weapons, which bore the devices of the queen and other of the Wydevilles.  Criers walking beside the wagons made it known to the citizens assembled in great numbers to greet their king that these weapons had been stored at strategic points outside the city and were proof of the Wydevilles intention to ambush and murder the protector and his following.

It was an outrageous lie.  Those weapons had been collected before my husband’s death for use by Gloucester in the war against the Scots but for some reason had never been sent.  And he knew it. There wasn’t a scrap of proof that they were intended for use in an ambush.

Later he was to accuse us of stealing the treasure King Edward had amassed.  Supposedly, we had sent some to my brother Edward on the coast and Dorset and I had carried the rest into sanctuary.  I admit I had some jewels and coin hidden beneath my mattress, but they were my own, and no one knew better than Gloucester himself that Edward’s treasure had been depleted by the Scots’ war, for he chose to pay for it from his own revenues rather than go begging to parliament again.  Thus his cash reserves at the time of his death were low. 

Do you begin to see what a clever dissembler he was?  It was another indication of Gloucester’s willingness to use patent falsehoods in order to further his purposes.

All along the route, my son was cheered by a sentimental crowd that wept for his youth and took him to their hearts for the sake of his father.  He was to lodge in the Bishop of London’s palace adjacent to the cathedral, and Gloucester went on to Baynard’s Castle, his family’s home beside the Thames.  His mother no longer resided there; after Clarence’s death, she had retired to Birkhamstead Abbey to devote her remaining years to contemplation and prayer.

Seemingly, all the alarms of the last few days had come to nothing; the king was safe in his capital, in the care of the Bishop of London and the Archbishop of Canterbury and among people who wished him well.  The lords still present in the city as well as the leading citizens were summoned to the palace to do homage to him.  All of which presaged well for the future. 

Ah, Jesu, if only I had known, I would have run to London barefoot, plucked him from the grasp of those well-wishers and carried him back with me to the refuge of the church.

……….

Men who supported us were gathering at Westminster, but at Fleet Street Lord Hastings was assembling men who supported Gloucester, and they were many more.  On the day of the king’s arrival, Lionel joined us in sanctuary.  He came in disconsolate, weeping, and buried his face in his hands.  “We don’t have enough support,” he said, between his fingers.  “It’s over.  He’s won.”

Dorset startled us all with the vehemence of his response.  “He’s not won!  He’ll never win!  Come the coronation we’ll grind his face in the mud!”

Within a day or two Gloucester threw a cordon of guards around the sanctuary.  Even the river was guarded by boats and none were allowed to approach the water stairs without being questioned and sometimes searched.  Yet we were not without our sources of news.  The monks brought us our meals and drinks from the monastery kitchen as well as water, of which commodity we never seemed to have enough.  Although they were a secluded community and news trickled through slowly and late, some of them were as gossipy as a clutch of old grandmothers at a baptism.  Also, the captain of the guard, John Nesfield, was one of Gloucester’s Yorkshiremen, a great bear of a man with small bright eyes peering out from under a enormous shelf of a brow, and he stank like a bear too, so that when he came, presumably to count heads, it was best to keep him at a distance.  Had there been good news he wouldn’t have shared it with us, but he delighted in taunting us with the bad.  Thus it was that little by little, from here and there, we learned of the first council meeting after the king’s arrival.

The first item on the agenda was the removal of the king to a more comfortable establishment, for the Episcopal Palace is not a royal residence and is, in fact, rather shabby.  Not to Westminster, of course, which is the monarch’s principal residence as well as the headquarters of the government, but much too close to his mother.  The Tower of London contains a royal palace on the south side overlooking the river, between the Wakefield and Lanthorn Towers.  Traditionally the monarch always takes up residence there prior to his coronation, so to the Tower my Ned went.  For his exercise, he would have the use of two courtyards that lay between the royal complex and the south side of the White Tower, the great central keep, as well as the wall walk from which he would have been able to look down on the river and wave to people on the wharf or in boats sailing past.

John Russell, Bishop of Lincoln, was chosen as chancellor, although Rotherham was allowed to keep his seat on the council.  Russell who, like the Archbishop of Canterbury, had remained neutral, was a unanimous choice, himself being the only dissenter, for he did not feel it was right that he should be promoted above his superior, the Archbishop of York.  Some members were arbitrarily dismissed by Gloucester, these including Sir John Fogge and Sir Richard Haute, my kinsmen.  The Duke of Buckingham and Viscount Lovel were appointed.

Then the matter of who should hold effective power during the king’s minority came up for discussion.  Having removed some opposition and soothed the remaining councilors’ anxieties by fair words, Gloucester now had a clear majority of support, and was able to have himself confirmed as Protector and Defender of the Realm and as such he would be proclaimed.  It was understandable of course that the councilors would want a man of proven ability to govern at this time, and his record of loyalty to Edward IV and to Edward V – so far – had been outstanding, and if we Wydevelles suffered imprisonment and persecution in the meantime that was nothing to disturb the sleep of most, and some, indeed, would rejoice.  But on two crucial matters, he was not allowed to have his way.  Following the earlier precedent set during the minority of Henry VI, his appointment was to lapse with the king’s coronation and a regency council would take over. Although he was assured that he would be head of that council, he must have known that after the coronation his powers would be seriously curtailed.

Having gained so much, he then demanded the execution of his captives in the north, to whom he had denied even the comfort of each other’s company, for they were all housed in separate castles.  One of his first acts had been to seize the estates of Rivers, Dorset and my son Richard Grey, with no semblance of legality, as if they had already been forfeited.  It was with heartfelt relief and gratitude toward the lords of the council that I heard they had strongly resisted this suggestion, for the men concerned were clearly loyal to the Crown and the council could not see what crime had been committed.  Even if they had been manifestly guilty of what the duke accused them, how could it be treason?  He had not been appointed regent, had not even had his title of defender confirmed; although he wished everyone to believe otherwise, his appointment began only that day when the council confirmed him in the office. Whereupon he belatedly suggested they be tried, when their guilt would be proved beyond doubt.

Then he set his sights on the Wydeville who had got away.  Since steps had to be taken to defend the kingdom at this critical time, my brother Edward had been appointed Admiral of the Fleet and commissioned to equip ships, recruit men and put to sea to protect the Narrow Seal against French and Breton pirates.  With the approval of the council, Gloucester branded my brother an enemy of the state if he didn’t immediately return to port (and to arrest, no doubt) and offered a large reward to anyone taking him dead or alive.  As a result, almost the entire fleet returned except for two ships that conveyed Edward to the coast of Brittany.  He, at least, was safe from hostile hands.

Still, I was terrified for my kin.  My only solace was in prayer

……….

The coronation was postponed until the twenty-second of June, just five more weeks.  I told my children: “Dear hearts, it will only be for a little while longer.  Just until your brother’s coronation.  We shall all be with him on that happy day.”

“But Mama, what if our uncle of Gloucester doesn’t want to let us out?” Cecily asked.

“He will.  He doesn’t want us here any more than we want to be here.  We are a reproach to him.”  Worse, if he were to head the government, he would soon have to take up the threads of Edward’s foreign policies:  How would the European leaders deal with a man whose brother’s widow and children had fled into sanctuary to escape his clutches?

Perplexed, Dickon said: “Is our uncle of Gloucester a bad man?”

“Yes,” I told him.  “Make no mistake about it.  He is a very bad man.”

Life in Westminster sanctuary was beyond tedious.  Every day the family heard Mass at dawn and then breakfasted together with our few attendants in the abbot’s hall.  After the dishes were cleared away, the hall was turned into a schoolroom and the children attended their several lessons.  Lionel helped Dickon with his Latin. Some of the monks came to help with other subjects. The infirmarian taught the girls about herbs and simples. I myself read with the younger ones, set them exercises in handwriting, deportment and courtly manners, and never let them forget for a moment that they were royal, destined to make important marriages to great princes.

With the entrance of the midday meal the books were put away, but even the meals were monotonous, tending toward simple monks’ fare rather than catering to refined royal tastes.  After dinner, if the weather was fine everyone went outside into the garden; if not it was the hall again.  While the younger children ran about and played with the toys I had brought, and two year-old Brigit napped in her nurse’s arms, my two elder daughters and I sat in the shade plying our needles.  Often we were engaged in darning a hole in hose, or repairing a ragged hem or letting a seam out for one of the younger children.  Only when such mundane tasks were done were we able to turn our attention to the kind of fine work that highborn ladies usually engaged in, and then every detail of color and design led to a long and critical debate. The younger children were encouraged to sing or write and recite poetry, or tumble on the grass.  Anything, anything at all, to keep their minds from the numbing dreariness and the dreadful uncertainty of our present circumstances.

After supper the children were allowed to play quiet games or read or be read to.  It was, for me, the saddest time of the day, reminding me of those evenings spent in the king’s presence chamber with our close friends, or at lavish banquets in the hall while minstrels played and all manner of entertainers amused the court.  Edward and I had shared a love of music, but there was no music now, no dancing, no interesting company, no entertainers to enliven my children’s dull evenings.  It was spring, my favorite time of the year, but there would be no picnics, no lazy evenings on the river.  Whenever I caught myself looking back, I forced my thoughts into other channels, and whenever my children began to reminisce I cut them off sharply.  It was too painful to remember all that once had been and was no longer. 

Bedtime came as almost a relief.  Another day was done and there was always the faint hope that tomorrow might bring something better.

Sometimes the night laid its own ambushes.  One night when I fell asleep I felt his arms go around me, pressing me close to his breast.  I awoke so aching with desire it was almost a physical pain, and then I wept quietly because I would never lie in his arms again, and because in the short time he had been gone the world had changed beyond bearing.

My poor, poor children. In spite of Edward’s ambitions and efforts to wed them to the great houses of Europe, only one had a settled future.  Louis had repudiated his treaty with Edward and Bessie as future wife of the dauphin.  The plans to betroth Cecily to Prince James had come to naught with the Scots war.  Even my little Dickon was a widower at the age of nine.  Negotiations for the hand of the Infanta of Spain had been abandoned when her parents produced an heir, thus greatly diminishing her status, but Ned was now betrothed to the Duke of Brittany’s daughter.

On the whole, we were more fortunate than most in our children, Edward and I.  Ten I had borne him and seven yet lived.  I now had five daughters and two sons, Ned and Dickon, who had finally learned not to trip over his own feet. 

I watched them making often-painful adjustments to life in sanctuary and wondered: When would they sleep in a palace again?  Hear Mass in church or chapel?  Take their rightful places as royal children?   Born to privilege and status, they had enjoyed a carefree, joyous childhood in a close family, and nothing had prepared them for the calamity that had blighted their lives.  Bessie and Cecily were twin towers of strength to me.  Cecily in particular had a very buoyant spirit.  Nothing could keep her down for long.  They helped with the younger children, for we had only one nursemaid with us, and tried to remain cheerful. 

Dickon was a trial.  A very active little boy, (which nine year-old is not?) being cooped up was harder on him than the girls, and there was so little to do, so little we could think of to keep him and the others entertained.  He began to relieve his boredom by being willful, naughty and unmannerly, particularly toward his elder sisters, furtively kicking and pinching whenever he thought he could get away with it.  When I chided him for his behavior, he would always apologize very sweetly, and then tug Cecily’s hair in passing.