The Captive Heart (2 page)

“Nay, Papa, I am not meant for the church,” Alix assured him.

“Then we must find you a good and generous husband who will take us both in,” Alexander Givet said. “Or perhaps I could find a nice wealthy widow who would have us. But two women in a household is rarely a good thing. And besides, I could never marry again after all my years with your mama.”

“Oh, Papa,” the girl responded, “why did Mama have to die?”

“Her heart was not strong in these last years,” the physician told his daughter. “The strain and the tension surrounding the royal couple over the past months were finally too much for her, Alix. I would have taken her home to Anjou, but she would not hear of it. She loved her mistress, and they had been friends since they were girls. Loyalty to each other was something that both the queen and your mother possessed in abundance.” He sighed gustily. “I miss her greatly,
mignon
. Blanche de Fleury was the only woman for me.” The tone of his voice was sad, and trembled just slightly as he remembered.

Alexander Givet had met Blanche de Fleury at the court of the Count of Anjou. It was a busy court forever on the move, for Rene, the count, who was also the titular king of Naples and Sicily, and his first wife, Isabelle, the Duchess of Lorraine, were sovereigns without a real throne. The youngest son of minor Anjou nobility, Alexander had become a physician. Brought to the court by his father to gain a place among the count’s retainers, he quickly found himself assigned to the household of Yolande of Aragon, the count’s mother, who was raising his second daughter, Margaret. He was twenty-two at the time.

Negotiations were already underway for Margaret of Anjou to marry the young king of England. Blanche de Fleury was one of the young girls who had grown up with Margaret of Anjou. She had been brought to the Count of Anjou’s court at the age of six. Her mother was dead, her father remarrying, and if the truth be known, she had been considered an encumbrance by her surviving parent. She was three years older than Margaret, but the duchess thought that Blanche de Fleury had beautiful manners and would make a suitable companion for her daughter, Margaret.

At first Blanche was like an older sister to Margaret. But as the young girl grew, the two became friends. When Margaret was sent at the age of twelve to her paternal grandmother to be trained to be a queen, Blanche went with her, as did the young physician, Alexander Givet. But before they departed for Yolande of Aragon’s household, it was decided that the young physician should be wed. The count’s mother looked among her granddaughter’s companions and concluded that the fifteen-year-old Blanche de Fleury was a sensible choice. She sent to the girl’s father for his permission, although it was actually no more than a formality since the count approved the match his mother was proposing. It was, Alix’s mother later told her, a fortunate match. She was acquainted with the young physician, and like most of the girls in Margaret’s circle, Blanche thought Alexander Givet handsome. She was not unhappy to find herself his wife.

Her new husband was, at twenty-five, ten years her senior. And to her surprise, he was interested in what she thought and what she wanted. And Blanche did indeed know what she wanted. She wanted to remain with Margaret of Anjou. In this her husband concurred, for to go to England among the household retainers of its new queen was quite an honor. So Blanche took the potion her husband fed her each morning to prevent any children from being born, and she told no one, not even her confessor. And if the wise Yolande of Aragon suspected, she said nothing. Blanche de Fleury was an excellent influence on her granddaughter, and it was Yolande who made the decision that the physician Givet and his wife would be among those accompanying Margaret to England.

But once in England Alexander and his wife began to long for a child. Perhaps a son who would grow up with their queen’s children. But their only child, a daughter, was born to them in April of 1446 while Margaret of Anjou remained childless until 1453. The English king was devout and shy of his young bride, who was acknowledged to be a beauty. Intelligent and vital, the young queen realized her husband’s weaknesses at once. Henry was not suited to rule. Still, she became fond of him, and allied herself with the Beaufort-Suffolk faction at court to see her husband’s position was protected by his competent relations while he pursued his religious and scholastic leanings, founding Eton College and King’s College in Cambridge.

But Henry Plantagenet’s weaknesses finally proved too much. His first bout with insanity occurred shortly after the birth of his only son, Prince Edward. In the year that followed, the next man in line for the throne following the king and his infant son, the Duke of York, reigned as Protector. Upon the king’s recovery a year later, the queen and Edmund Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset, grew all-powerful. Almost immediately, rivalries between the Lancaster and York factions broke out. Edmund Beaufort was killed at the first battle of St. Albans in May of 1455.

A rough peace of sorts was made, but four years later the hostilities broke out once again. King Henry was captured at Northampton in the summer of 1460, and forced to accept the Duke of York as his heir, eliminating his own son, little Edward Plantagenet. Furious at this attempt to exclude her child from the succession, Queen Margaret rallied the Lancastrian forces and five months later won a victory at Wakefield, where the Duke of York was slain. Two months later the queen’s forces won the second battle of St. Albans, freeing the king, who had been held captive by the Yorkists since the previous July.

But the king’s victory over his rivals was brief. The Duke of York’s heir was crowned King Edward IV two weeks later in London, formally deposing Henry Plantagenet. The new king then went on to drive the old king and his family up the length of England until they reached Towton, where the final battle had taken place. Now Henry Plantagenet, his wife, his son, and their few remaining followers rode north into the borders as the early spring snows swirled about them.

They were relying upon the hospitality of Sir Udolf Watteson, a Northumbrian baron of minor family and no court connections at all. Their brief presence in his home was unlikely to ever be noted by the powers that be because Sir Udolf was one of those unknown factors, being an unimportant man who, until the battle of Towton, had never even laid eyes on King Henry. He had little but his lands, which were rugged and not particularly arable, a stone house of no distinction, and nothing of value that would appeal to anyone. How did you punish a man like that even if those now in power down in London learned of his part in sheltering Henry Plantagenet? But it was unlikely King Edward would ever learn of Sir Udolf Watteson or that he sheltered the former king and his family. In the important scheme of things, the unknown baron didn’t matter at all.

The snow fell steadily as horse followed horse. Nose to tail was the only way they were able to keep from getting lost in the storm. At their head, Sir Udolf led them onward until, finally, after almost two hours in the bitter cold and freezing winds, they saw the faint outline of a house ahead of them. Coming to a stop, they waited briefly, but Sir Udolf jumped from his mount and pounded upon the door of the dwelling. It opened, and the faint light of the interior beckoned to them.

“Come in! Come in!” the baron called to them.

And then there were several boys coming to take their horses to the safety of the barns. Alix Givet dismounted from her small mare, patting the beast to comfort it. Its dark mane was frozen stiff. She went to her father’s side. He was being helped down from his own gelding and could barely stand. “Lean on me, Papa,” she said softly.

“I am rigid with the cold,” he murmured quietly, and then came the ominous cough that had been worrying her these past weeks. He balanced himself a moment, his hand upon her small shoulder as he began to walk towards the house with his daughter.

Once inside, they were brought to the hall, where a hot fire was burning in the large hearth. The queen was already warming her hands over it, the little prince by her side. The king had been seated in a high-backed chair near the warmth, and there was quickly a goblet of wine in his hand. His eyes were closed, and Alix could see he was shaking ever so slightly.

“Welcome to my home!” Sir Udolf said. “I have instructed my servants to prepare a place for you. Your Highness,” he addressed the queen. “My house is not grand, but you shall have the best I can offer you. My own apartment is yours.”

“
Merci
, Sir Udolf,” Margaret of Anjou said softly. “Is there to be food soon? The king needs to eat, and then he must be put to bed to rest. This has been a terrible day for him, and he is not well, as you know.”

Seeing the expression of distress upon their host’s face, Alix spoke up. “Madame, perhaps it would be best if the king were made comfortable first, and a warm supper brought to him,” she suggested quietly.

“Ah,
ma chérie
Alix, that would indeed be best,” the queen said, sounding relieved, for she herself had suddenly realized that Sir Udolf’s cook would not be ready for guests. Margaret of Anjou went to her husband’s side. “Henry,” she said, “let us go now to our chambers, and Alix, will you watch over little Edward? I see his nurse has fallen asleep, poor woman. She is too old for all this excitement.” The queen helped her husband to stand, and then following Sir Udolf’s steward, the royal fugitives walked from the hall.

“This is terrible,” Sir Udolf said when they were gone. “That the king should be driven from his lands. He is a good man, and she a good queen. I am glad now more than ever to be a simple man. To have so much power that others would covet it is frightening.” And he shook his head, sighing.

“I must agree with you, sir,” Alexander Givet said from his place near the fire. “But once King Henry’s court was a pleasant place to be. He is a learned man.”

“What place had you among it all?” Sir Udolf asked, curious.

“I am the queen’s physician. I came with her from Anjou many years back with my late wife, who was one of the queen’s ladies. The young girl playing now with the prince is our daughter, Alix. My name is Alexander Givet.”

“I, too, am widowed,” Sir Udolf replied.

“Have you children?” the physician inquired.

“A son, Hayle. He is twenty. His mother and I were wed several years before he was born. Audrey was not strong. She died when Hayle was four, birthing our daughter, who lived but a day. I married again eight years ago, but she turned out to be a nag. I was not unhappy when she died three years later of a winter ailment. I have a farm wife now, who satisfies my manly urges when I need her. I do not need another wife.”

Alexander Givet chuckled. “I am widowed two years now, and I have no need for a wife. My daughter takes good care of me, and we are content in the queen’s service.”

“Tell me, physician,” the baron said, “how am I to house the royal party? My house is not large, but I would not stint on anything or appear inhospitable.”

“The king, the queen, and their two remaining servants will share your apartment, Sir Udolf. If there is a chamber for the little prince; Edmee, his nurse; and my daughter, the rest of the party will sleep wherever you have the space for us.”

“You must have the bedspace nearest the hearth,” Sir Udolf said. “You are not well, physician. I hear the rattle in your chest.”

“It has been cold for spring,” Alexander Givet said.

“The season can be cruel here in Northumbria,” the baron admitted. He waved to a servant, who came to stand by his master’s side. “Ask the cook when the dinner will be ready, and bring this gentleman more wine,” Sir Udolf said. It was pleasant having another man with whom he could talk. He had had some small education in his youth, but his son could not even write his own name or read. Hayle had not wanted to learn, and could be neither forced nor cosseted into doing it. He was not a man to sit talking of a winter’s evening. He preferred the company of his little mistress, Maida.

The servant returned to say, “The meal will be ready within the hour, my lord.”

Sir Udolf nodded his acknowledgment. “Go upstairs and tell the queen,” he said. Then, turning to the physician, he said, “The meal will be simple compared to what you have at court, I fear.”

“The king will be content with a good soup and some bread,” the physician surprised his host by saying. “He has never been a man to enjoy a heavy, oversauced meal, Sir Udolf. Sauces often hide spoilage of the meat. The king prefers light meals. Watch what the queen eats when she comes to the high board, and you will see her preferences. She has a delicate belly, and always has.”

Sir Udolf nodded and gave the orders to his servant. The queen returned to the hall just as the steward announced that the dinner was served. She and her son joined Sir Udolf at the high board while the others took their places at the trestles below. Edmee and the queen’s tiring woman, Fayme, sat with Alix and her father. The physician had more color in his face now that he was warm again.

“The queen was pleased with the food they brought the king,” Fayme confided to the others. “A nice thick hot soup, fresh bread, butter, and a baked apple. We were able to get him to eat it all. I did not believe in a place so rough there would be good food.”

“We’re fortunate to have a place at all tonight to lay our heads,” Edmee remarked. “My poor wee princeling being robbed of his rightful place and his heritage. Well, if those Yorkist pretenders believe they can hold on to their stolen goods, they’re wrong. You mark my words, the queen will see to it, and we’ll be back in London before you know it.” She popped a piece of meat pie into her mouth. Edmee was an old woman now, at least sixty. No one knew for certain. A hot meal had restored her spirits.

“I do not think that we will be back in London quite so soon,” Alexander Givet said quietly. “I know for a fact that the queen means to send to Queen Marie of Scotland and ask for refuge once the storm has stopped. She means for us to shelter in Scotland. Queen Marie must give her refuge, for their shared blood demands it, but she will be able to do little more than that. Her own child has only recently become king, and he is near our prince in age. It will take time to rebuild our king’s forces. She might even send her son to Anjou for his own safety. He and his father will now be hunted down with an eye towards killing them both.”