The Lady of the Rivers (46 page)

I say nothing. I am too old a hand at court to be led into speculation about the future of a king by the man who is standing in his shoes.

‘You must have thoughts,’ he says impatiently.

‘I may have thoughts; but I have no words,’ I say and leave him. But that night I dream of the Fisher King of the legend: a country commanded by a king too frail and too weak to do anything but go fishing, while a young woman has to rule the land alone, and longs for a man who can stand at her side.

The queen finds her confinement tedious, and the daily reports from Windsor Castle only make the days worse. They are torturing the king with one remedy after another. The reports speak of draining him of cool fluids, and heating of his vital parts, and I know that they mean cupping him to draw off his blood and then burning him where he lies, silent as a crucified Christ, waiting to rise again. Some nights I get up from the little bed that I have in the queen’s room and pull up the corner of the tapestry over the window; so that I can see the moon, a big warm harvest moon, so near to earth that I can see every wrinkle and pockmark on her face, and I ask her, ‘Did I bewitch the king? Did I ill-wish him? In that moment of fright when I bade him see nothing did I, in truth, make him blind? Could such a thing be? Could I be so powerful? And if it was me – how can I take the words back and restore him?’

I feel very alone with this worry. Of course I cannot share it with the queen who has her own guilt and fear. I dare write nothing to Richard; such thoughts should not be in my mind, never on paper. I am sick and tired of being trapped in these shadowy rooms: the queen’s confinement is long and anxious for us all. This should be the happiest autumn of her life, with a baby on the way at last; but instead we are all filled with fear about the king, and now some of the ladies are whispering that the baby will be born asleep too.

When I hear this I go down to the river and sit on the pier as the sun is setting and look over the swiftly moving water that flows towards the sea, and I whisper to Melusina that if I ever said a word that wished the king blinded, I take back that word now. If I ever had a thought that he should see nothing, then I deny that thought now, and I wish with all my heart that the baby born to the queen will be well and healthy and live long and happy. I go slowly back to the palace not knowing ithe river has heard my wishes, or if the river can do anything anyway, or if the moon can understand how desolate a mere woman can feel, far from her husband and in a world that is filled with danger.

I walk in to a hushed bustle. ‘Her waters have broken,’ a maid hisses, running past me with some clean linen.

I hurry into the bedroom. The midwives are here already, the rockers are making up the cradle with clean sheets and the softest blanket, the mistress of the bedchamber is heating a poker to mull the special birthing ale, and the queen herself is standing at the foot of the best bed, bent over, holding the bedpost, sweat on her white face, gripping her lower lip in her teeth. I go straight to her. ‘The pain passes,’ I say. ‘Moment by moment, it comes and it goes away again. You have to be brave.’

‘I am brave,’ she says furiously. ‘No-one shall ever say otherwise.’

I see the irritability of childbirth and I take a damp cloth soaked in lavender water and gently wipe her face. She sighs as the pain recedes and then braces herself for the next wave. It takes a long time to come. I glance at the midwife. ‘Going to take a while,’ she says wisely. ‘We’d all better have a mug of ale and a sit down.’

It does take a while – all night – but next day, on the day of St Edward, she gives birth to a boy, a precious Lancaster boy, and the safety and the inheritance of England is assured.

I go outside to the presence chamber and there are the lords of England, waiting for news. Edmund Beaufort is among them, not standing forwards, as he usually does, commanding the room, but away from the bedchamber door, a little aside, making himself one of the crowd. For once in his life he is not claiming pride of place and this makes me hesitate, not knowing if I should go directly and tell him. He is the Constable of England, he is the most favoured lord in the land, he commands the Privy Council, they are his nominated men in parliament. He is the favourite of king and queen and we are all accustomed to giving way to him. I would normally speak to him before any other.

Of course, the first man to have the news should be the baby’s father: the king. But he, God bless him, is far, far away. There is no protocol for today, and I don’t know what I am supposed to do. I hesitate for a moment, and then as all the talk dies down and the men turn to look at me in expectant silence, I say simply, ‘My lords, I give you joy. The queen has been brought to bed of a handsome boy and has named him Edward. God save the king.’

A few days later, as the baby thrives and the queen rests, I am coming back to the queen’s chambers after a walk in the gardens of the palace when I hesitate. At the closed door of her rooms is a young boy and a couple of guards wearing the white rose of the House of York on their livery. I know at once that this will mean trouble, as I open the door and go inside.

The queen is seated on her chair by the window, the wife of Richard Duke of York standing before her. Margaret has not invited her to sit, and the flush of colour in Cecily Neville’s cheeks tells me that she is well aware of the snub. She turns as I come in and says, ‘Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess, will confirm all that I say, I am sure.’

I sweep her a small curtsey. ‘Good day to you, Your Grace,’ I say politely, and I go and stand beside the queen, my hand resting on the back of her chair, so that rk standinn be in no doubt which side I am on, whatever she is here for, whatever she hopes I will confirm.

‘Her Grace has come to ask me to make sure that her husband is invited to all meetings of the royal council,’ the queen says wearily.

Cecily nods and says, ‘As he should be. As his family always has been. As the king promised he would be.’

I wait.

‘I have been explaining to Her Grace that since I am in confinement I can play no part in the business of ruling,’ the queen says.

‘Really, you should not be seeing visitors at all,’ I remark.

‘I am sorry to come, but how else is my husband’s position to be considered?’ the duchess says, looking remarkably impenitent. ‘The king will see no-one, and is not even attended by a court. And the Duke of Somerset is no friend to my husband.’ She turns to the queen again. ‘You do the country a great disservice when you do not let my husband serve,’ she says. ‘He is the greatest magnate in the kingdom and his loyalty to the king is unquestioned. He is the king’s closest cousin and his heir. Why is he not invited to attend the king’s council? How can business be agreed without considering his opinion? You call on him quickly enough when you want arms and money; he should be there when the decisions are taken.’

The queen shrugs. ‘I will send the Duke of Somerset a note,’ she offers. ‘But I understand that not much is being undertaken. The king has withdrawn into prayer and I am still confined. I imagine the duke is managing day-to-day affairs as best he can with a few advisors.’

‘My husband should be one of the advisors,’ the duchess insists.

I step forwards and make a little gesture towards the door. ‘I am sure the queen is glad that you brought it to her attention,’ I say. Unwillingly, the duchess allows herself to be guided away. ‘And since Her Grace has said that she will write a note to the duke, I am sure your husband will receive his invitation to the council.’

‘And he must be there when they present the baby to the king.’

I freeze at this and exchange a quick aghast look with the queen. ‘Forgive me,’ I say when Margaret is silent. ‘You know I was not brought up in an English court. And this is the first time I have been present at the birth of a prince.’ I smile, but she – a born and bred Englishwoman – does not. ‘Please tell me. How is the baby presented to the king?’

‘He has to be presented by the Privy Council,’ Cecily Neville says with just a hint of glee at my discomfort. I think she knows that we had not planned for this. ‘In order for the baby to be accepted as the heir to the throne and the prince of the realm he has to be presented by the Privy Council to the king, and the king has to formally accept him as his son and heir. Without that – he is not the heir to the throne. If he is not recognised by his father he cannot be recognised as heir to England. He cannot take his titles. But there can be no difficulty, can there?’

Margaret says nothing, but leans back in the chair as if she is exhausted.

‘Can there?’ the duchess asks again.

‘And you will make sure that my husband is invited to attend,’ Cecily insists. ‘As is his right.’

‘I will take the queen’s note to the duke myself,’ I assure her.

‘And of course we will all be so happy to attend the baptism,’ she adds.

‘Of course.’ I wait to see if she has the gall to ask if she can be godmother but she contents herself with curtseying to the queen and stepping backwards for a few paces before letting me escort her to the door. We go out together. Outside in the presence chamber is the handsome boy that I noticed earlier, who jumps to his feet. It is her oldest boy, Edward, and as he sees me he makes a bow. He is the most bonny child, golden-brown hair, dark grey eyes, a merry smile, and tall, perhaps up to my shoulder, though he is only eleven.

‘Ah, you have your boy with you,’ I exclaim. ‘I saw him as I came in but I did not recognise him.’

‘This is my Edward,’ she says, her voice warm with pride. ‘Edward, you know Lady Rivers, the Dowager Duchess of Bedford.’

I extend my hand and he bows and kisses it.

‘What a heartbreaker,’ I say to her with a smile. ‘He is just the same age as my boy Anthony, isn’t he?’

‘Only months apart,’ she says. ‘Is Anthony at Grafton?’

‘Staying with his sister at Groby,’ I say. ‘Learning his manners. I think your boy is taller than mine.’

‘They shoot up like weeds,’ she says, disguising her pride. ‘And the shoes they get through! And the boots! Of course I have two other boys and Richard in the cradle.’

‘I have four boys now,’ I reply. ‘I lost my first, Lewis.’

At once she crosses herself. ‘God keep them safe,’ she says. ‘And Our Lady comfort you.’

This talk of children has united us. She steps closer to me and nods towards the queen’s chamber. ‘Did it go well? Is she well?’

‘Very well,’ I say. ‘It took all night and she was brave and the baby came out quite perfect.’

‘Healthy and strong?’

‘Giving suck, giving tongue,’ I tell her in the old country saying. ‘A bonny boy.’

‘And the king? Is he well? Why is he not here? I would have thought he would have come to see his son?’

My smile is guileless. ‘He is serving God and his people in the best way that he can,’ I say. ‘On his knees for the safe delivery of his son and the security of an heir for England.’

‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘But I had heard he was taken ill at Clarendon Palace, and came home in a litter?’

‘He was tired,’ I say. ‘He had spent most of the summer pursuing and sentencing rebels. Both this year and last he spent all days of summer making sure that justice runs through the lands. Sometimes your lands, as it happens.’

She flings up her head at the implied rebuke. ‘If the king favours one man over his closest kin, his true friends and best advisors, there is always going to be trouble,’ she says hotly.

I raise my hand. ‘Forgive me,’ I say. ‘I did not mean to suggest that your tenants are exceptionally unruly, or your father’s family, the Nevilles, make exceptionally irritable neighbours in the north of England. I meant only that the king has worked hard to see that his rule runs through all England. When the duke your husband comes to council I am sure he will be able to reassure his peers that there is no hint of rebellion anywhere on his lands, and that his kinsmen, your family, can learn to live in peace with the Percys in the north.’

She folds her lips on an angry reply. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘We all want only to serve and support the king. And the north cannot be divided.’

I smile at her boy. ‘And what do you hope to do when you are grown, Edward?’ I ask. ‘Will you be a great general like your father? Or is it the Church for you?’

He ducks his head. ‘One day I shall be head of the House of York,’ he says shyly to his shoes. ‘It is my duty to be ready to serve my house and my country however I am needed, when my time comes.’

We have an impressive christening for the royal baby. The queen herself orders a cloth-of-gold train for his gown that is brought from France, and costs more than the gown of his godmother, Anne the Duchess of Buckingham. The other godparents are the Archbishop of Canterbury and Edmund Beaufort the Duke of Somerset.

‘Is that wise?’ I ask her quietly as she tells her confessor the names of the godparents she has chosen. She is on her knees before the little altar in her privy chamber, I am kneeling beside her, the priest behind the screen. Nobody can hear my urgent murmur.

She does not turn her head from her clasped hands. ‘I would have no-one else,’ she whispers. ‘The duke shall care for him and protect him as if he was his own.’