Succession (4 page)

On that Friday the mayor of London with the aldermen, sheriffs and commons of the city, rode to Blackheath in Kent, where they remained on horseback until the queen’s coming. Then they accompanied her to the Tower of London, where she rested all night. The king, in honour of the queen and her first coming, made forty-six new Knights of the Bath. On the morrow, in the afternoon, the queen came from the Tower in a horse-bier with two steeds decorated all in white damask powdered with gold, as was the clothing she had on; her hair was combed down around her shoulders with a coronel of gold, rich pearls and precious stones and there were nineteen chariots of ladies and gentlewomen as well as all the crafts of the city of London, who proceeded on foot in their best array to St Paul’s.

Brut Chronicle

 

Suffolk’s men rode among the crowds, ushering those who were cheering to the front, rounding up and harrying those who expressed dissent, who shouted that their new queen had beggared the country and ‘was not worth ten marks’
.
They saw to it that the conduits ran with red and white wine for the full three hours of the procession, that the streets were hung with silver and gold silks, that no one should tear down or make off with the valuable hangings, and that everyone was supplied with bunches of daisies, or marguerites, the new queen’s emblem, to throw in her path. Suffolk himself rode ahead of the queen, carrying a sceptre of ivory with a golden dove on its head. The procession stopped in several places, where musicians played and children sang, and verses by the court poet, John Lydgate, were recited. An array of gods and goddesses, lowered on harnesses from the heavens, reminded the
new queen that her main duty was procreation
,
to bring forth an heir to the throne, and the figures of Peace and Plenty blessed the fruit of her womb. Three days of feasting, tournaments and miracle plays followed, and in all that time Suffolk sat at the king’s side while his wife tended the new queen.

It was enough time to ponder his changing fortunes; the fact that he was descended not from the nobility but from wool merchants in Hull who had grown wealthy enough to bail kings out of their debts. After his older brother had died at the Battle of Agincourt he had inherited the title of Earl of Suffolk. Now he might soon be duke, though the king had not mentioned this again. At any rate, his pedigree was now held to be unimpeachable.

The same could not be said for the Duke of York, whose father had been executed for plotting to kill Henry V – and whose mother came from the Mortimer line; from that Mortimer, in fact, who had deposed the second King Edward and, it was commonly believed, had arranged to have him killed. Yet this man had his ardent supporters, men who said that his claim to the throne was better than the king’s. He had money and influence and a growing brood of children.

It was, of course, fervently to be hoped that the king would have children. If there were no heir, either the Duke of Gloucester or the Duke of York would be in line for the throne. Neither of them was a supporter of Suffolk, nor of his policy in France. It could be said, however, that little Margaret Beaufort, who had already been to stay at Suffolk’s home, would have her own claim. For the king had been an only child, and his family was not extensive. There were his half-brothers, of course, though they were the sons of a Welsh steward; Suffolk did not think anyone would take them seriously.

At the end of the first feast, after all the ladies had danced together, Suffolk rose to dance with the queen. His wife handed her to him with her dazzling smile. He could feel the tension in the queen’s young body, lithe and bristling. Her face was flushed with open affection for him, and it seemed to the earl, as he whirled her around on his arm, that they were natural partners.

At the time we are talking about there were in the kingdom of England two parties contending for the government and administration of the king and his people. In one of these parties there was Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, King Henry’s uncle, and Richard Duke of York … the other was an alliance between [the earls of] Somerset and Suffolk.

Jean de Waurin

 

While it was obviously unfortunate that all three of his older brothers were now dead, the Earl of Somerset could not help but see it as significant. Who would have thought that he, the fourth son, would have inherited all those lands and titles? Was it any coincidence that he was the only brother to have a large family of his own, and the only one to enjoy the special favour of the king? Not to mention the queen, who was, even now, waiting breathlessly for him to defeat his opponent.

It had to be said that he cut a better figure than any of his brothers, especially poor John, who might have been mistaken for a clerk of law rather than a courtier or general. No one would make that mistake about Edmund Beaufort. Sunlight glinted on his helmet and the tip of his lance as he paraded round the field; he wore a whole garland of marguerites in the queen’s honour, and a silk ribbon as her token.

The king and queen sat in the gallery, with Suffolk at their side: Suffolk, who was descended from a family of wool-pedlars but was richer than Midas, people said. He had been granted wardship of Somerset’s niece, little Margaret Beaufort, and was assiduously
cultivating an alliance with Somerset – who had not discouraged this, because it seemed to him that something was necessary to offset the influence of the Dukes of Gloucester and York.

The king had already said that there should be more dukes in the land.

And Somerset, like York, was cousin to the king. His great-grandfather was Edward III, but the Beaufort line was illegitimate, and had been debarred by the fourth King Henry from any claim to the throne.

Still, it was not beyond one king to correct what another had done.

It seemed to the Earl of Somerset, as the crowds cheered for him, that while the mind of God might be impenetrable to some, to him it was transparently evident. He, the fourth son, had been chosen to restore the family fortunes, its honour, its greatness, as he had done once before in France. He had already suggested to the king that he would do a better job there than the Duke of York. York, who had referred to the Beauforts as ‘that bastard clan’
.

The bugle sounded and the earl took his place to one side of the wooden fence. He could feel the tension in his horse; a coil of power. As he lifted his lance and prepared to charge, all he could see was not his opponent in the field, but his absent enemy, the Duke of York.

As Governor-General of the duchy of Normandy, Richard of York’s duty was to protect this country from the French our enemies, and during this time in office he governed admirably and had many honourable and notable successes. Nevertheless envy reared its head among the princes and barons of the kingdom of England and was directed against the Duke of York. Above all envy prompted Somerset, who found a way to harm him so that the Duke of York was recalled from France to England. There he was totally stripped of his authority to govern Normandy …

Jean de Waurin

 

He left the council meeting feeling a rage such as he had never felt before, so that once he was outside he had to stand for a moment against a tree and close his eyes.

Few people had ever seen Richard of York really angry. But now he was sweating and his heart was banging unevenly, as though it might burst out of his ribs. For the first time he understood what it must be to suffer ‘an attack of the heart’
.
In the meeting his face had congested with blood; he hadn’t been able to help it. For they had all been there: Somerset, Suffolk and that smiling fox Moleyns, Suffolk’s lapdog, who had dared to accuse him of financial malpractice.

‘Your majesty is pleased to believe many things of me without evidence,’ York had said. And that was all he had said before leaving. He could not have trusted himself to say anything else.

He had spent almost forty thousand pounds of his own money in the service of the king; he had pawned his most prized possession, a gold collar enamelled with the roses of York and adorned by a
great diamond. The king had repeatedly ignored his requests for money and troops. And Edmund Beaufort, Earl of Somerset, had stood there smiling while false charges were made against him.

What was it Beaufort had said to Moleyns?

‘My dear bishop, it is not fair to reproach the duke with miscalculation, when it is not at all clear that he can count.’

And this, of course, had raised a general laugh.

Even with his eyes closed he could see Beaufort’s smiling face as though it were printed against his eyelids.

It was not hard to imagine stamping that smile out.

When he opened his eyes he was surprised to feel the fine rain on his face, cooling his heated skin. He got on to his horse and rode hard, without giving any orders to his men, who followed him wondering whether they were being pursued, or in pursuit. Then, gradually, his anger congealed into something more brooding and sullen. He settled to a slow trot, and then a walk, soothed as ever by the motion of his horse, that rhythmic movement of muscle and bone. He could feel his horse’s ribs moving against his knees.

He had learned in childhood to suppress his rage. Shortly after his father had been executed he had been sent to stay in the noisy and burgeoning household of the Earl of Westmorland. It was the first of several visits to the castle of Raby, before he went to live there. No one had spoken of his father’s disgrace, though he had always been a little set apart. Solid and taciturn, he had made few friends, though some of the earl’s children had been roughly his own age. He had recoiled from kindness, endured cruelty with a stoic silence and learned to be alert and more observant than he seemed.

On that first visit, he had seen, by chance, the earl’s new baby daughter. He had somehow evaded his nurse, the other children and their tutor, and was trying to find his room, when a door opened very softly. He saw a maid leaving a chamber, carrying a small bundle. He hung back, but she smiled at him. ‘Would you like to see?’ she said, and sat on a stool to one side of the door.

Cautiously, he approached the linen bundle, which might
almost have been laundry, apart from a tiny fist that waved defiantly in the air.

‘Her name is Cecily,’ the maid said, and when he didn’t respond she said, ‘What do you think?’ But he didn’t know what he thought. The baby’s face was somewhat blotchy, its eyes tightly closed and its mouth a small bud, continuously working, now puckered and pursed, now stretched as if to cry, then folded in on itself so that the lips entirely disappeared. The little arm waved erratically as though summoning aid. The maid touched the baby’s fist and it opened promptly, grasping, the fingers splayed wide like the rays of a star. Richard’s own fingers moved and he touched the baby’s palm, which was so soft, like wrinkled silk. At once, the baby’s fingers curled round his own, and in that moment something changed. He had the sudden, keen sense of being her one connection in this alien and shifting world. He smiled, astonished, and the baby clung on as though she had no intention of ever letting go.

That was thirty years ago, of course, but the little girl had not outgrown her attachment to him. On subsequent visits she had toddled after him where possible, so that he was forced to discourage her at times, though secretly he looked for her when she wasn’t there. At the age of three she had loudly declared her intention of marrying him, and everyone had laughed. By the time she was nine, however, most of his titles and estates had been restored to him, and they were betrothed.

Now he was riding back to her as though drawn by an invisible rope, seeking restoration in her eyes, so that his heart could begin to heal. She would come to meet him, and her eyes would seek his and he would not need to explain anything, not at first. In her eyes he would find a sense of connection in this alien and shifting world.

This King Henry was chaste and pure from the beginning of his days. He eschewed all licentiousness in word or deed … and neither when he espoused the most noble Lady Margaret … did he use his wife unseemly, but with all honesty and gravity … this prince made a covenant with his eyes that they should never look unchastely upon any woman. Hence it happened once, that at Christmas time a certain great lord brought before him a dance or show of young ladies with bared bosoms who were to dance in that guise before the king, perhaps to prove him, or to entice his youthful mind. But the king … angrily averted his eyes, turned his back upon them, and went out to his chamber saying:

Fy, fy, for shame, forsothe ye be to blame.

 

John Blacman

 

The queen had told no one about the problem that had come to preoccupy her excessively. No one, that is, until one of her ladies, an older woman who had come with her from France, had come across her one day when she was vexed almost to tears, and had persuaded the young queen to tell her what the matter was. Scarlet with mortification, the queen had eventually conveyed her belief that she would never have a child. Her lady’s shaved eyebrows shot upwards.

‘But why not?’ she said.

This was harder.

‘Because the king – seems not to – desire me in that way.’

There was a moment’s startled silence, then the lady asked whether the king had performed his duty.

‘– Yes,’ the queen said hesitantly. On her wedding night she had produced a small amount of blood.

‘And he still comes to you …’ It was not a question. All her ladies knew when the king came to her.

‘He – prefers us to pray,’ the queen said.

‘To pray? Does he pray for a son?’

The young queen nodded miserably.

‘Does he think an angel will appear?’

The queen was sorry she had started this.

‘I … think he believes … that if a child comes … it will be by divine grace.’ Her lady’s silence spoke louder than words, so she added, ‘He thinks it is different for kings.’

‘I can assure him it is not.’

The young queen looked at her sharply. She had often had cause to wonder about this lady and her father, King René.

‘Have you not spoken to him? Have you not told him that God’s grace works in particular ways?’

‘The king is fully conversant with God,’ said the queen, and there was hardly any bitterness in her tone.

Then the advice began. She was to ensure that the king came to her more often – ‘Tell him you must pray together every night, if possible’ – and when she was with him she must not be contentious.

‘Contentious – how?’

The lady paused, then suggested that, lately, on certain subjects, her majesty’s voice had become a little – shrill.

‘You mean because he has not kept his promise to my father and my uncle? But he must keep it!’ The queen rose and began to pace. ‘There will be war, I know it – war between my father and my husband – between my two nations. And the king promised to hand over Maine and Anjou – he signed the treaty. They will not wait much longer. And what will I do then – what will I do?’

Her voice had risen again, and her face was flushed.

The lady waited for this outburst to finish, then said merely that no man likes to be told that he is in the wrong, and the queen sank down again, as though collapsing into her chair.

‘Is it my fault then?’ she said.

The lady doubted that, given what she knew of the king. She
assured the queen that it was not a question of
fault
, as such, but she must talk to him sweetly, always look her best, have music playing where possible, take scented baths … She clapped her hands suddenly. ‘I can arrange it so that the king comes to you when you are
in
your bath!’ she said.

‘No,’ said the queen, very definitely. She would never forget the look of horror on the king’s face when she had pushed back the bedclothes suddenly and revealed herself without her chemise. What was that quote he was so fond of? ‘The nakedness of a beast is in man unpleasing.’ At any rate, for the next few days he had avoided her, and had seemed to be in the grip of an excessive melancholy.

But her lady was thinking. And when she had finished thinking she ventured to say that it was possible to arrange … certain entertainments … of the kind favoured by the goddess of love, featuring certain young ladies, perhaps … or, perhaps, young men.

At this the queen turned to her with an intensity of expression that would have cowed another woman. She spoke in a low voice, but quite vehemently.

‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘The king, my husband, is a good man – you do not know him if you think such vulgar tricks will work on him. I forbid you to talk about him in this way – I forbid you to talk about any of this – to anyone at all.’

Her lady looked as if she would say something, regardless, then thought better of it and inclined her head. ‘I will not speak of it, my lady,’ she said. ‘Of course I will not. You may count on my discretion – I will not tell a soul.’

And she had told everyone, of course. Or at least the queen noticed a change in the attitude of those around her. Her other ladies attempted to dress her hair in different ways, to suggest propitious dates for the fostering of love, when the moon was in certain signs or Venus made an angle to Mars. Elizabeth Butler suggested a potion that she herself had used in order to get her husband through a period of difficulty. The queen had vented her wrath upon her French lady, but she had merely said that it was no secret
that the queen wanted to produce an heir: all the court was hoping for it.

And, indeed, though it might have been the queen’s imagination, it seemed to her that even the minstrels were looking at her with a certain speculative pity, and the other lords at court with a different kind of speculation. For she was beautiful – everyone said so. Only recently, she had been called ‘the most beautiful woman in the world’
.
But none of that was real to her. It was as if she could not know her own beauty without her husband’s touch; she needed to see herself through his hands.

And still when he visited her rooms it was in order that they should pray. Whenever she was with him, she could sense the subtle turning away from her if she stood too near. Even when he got into her bed he kept his distance, and despite her inexperience she knew that nothing could happen like this, while there was enough space for another body to lie between them.