The Queen of Last Hopes (32 page)

Black Jack, of all people, put his head in his hands and started weeping. Relieved at this interruption in my thoughts, which had been taking such a dangerous turn, I put my good arm around him and patted his back until he had finally regained his composure. “She told me that I’d not come to a bad end, if I followed her.”

“Who?”

“The queen. She stood there in those woods like a ragged angel, telling me that I should give up my old life, or I’d come to the gallows. And here I am, at the gallows. Or at least the block.”

“And she was right,” I said. “If you’d kept up your old life, you would have died for a sheep, or a horse, or a jewel. But today you die for a king. And for a queen,” I added softly. “A very great lady.”

Black Jack pondered this. “That’s something.”

“It’s everything.” I heard a rattle of keys. “And it looks as if our time has come.”

Sir Edmund Fish, who’d been one of the ones praying, and perhaps weeping as well, cleared his throat. “I wish I could have done a better job for you back there, my lord. I fear that our cause is dead.”

“You did the best you could. All of you did.” I clapped him on the shoulder as Montagu’s men, followed by a priest, came to lead us to the block. I smiled at Fish and the rest of my men, then at the Yorkists as they hustled us out of our cell. “And our cause isn’t dead; it won’t be as long as one of us somewhere has breath left in his body. It’s only resting.”

I knew immediately from Doctor Morton’s expression that he had nothing to say that I would want to hear. In a low voice that was as equally alien to him as his bleak face, he said, “Your grace, I must prepare you for ill news.”

“The king is dead.”

“No. That is the one piece of news that is not entirely bad, and it is encouraging only by comparison. King Henry is free still, at least the last that I heard. No one knows his whereabouts. He is a fugitive. We have suffered a great reversal of fortune, however.”

I stood up straighter. “Tell me the rest.”

“There were two battles.” Morton swallowed. “The Duke of Somerset encountered John Neville’s men at Hedgeley Moor in late April. Neville was traveling to the Scottish border to meet envoys there, and the duke ambushed him. But the duke was outnumbered and defeated and Lord Ralph Percy was killed. Just a couple of weeks later, Neville surprised Somerset’s men near Hexham. The duke was attempting to move south, to force an encounter, I believe, before he was overwhelmed by the forces that Edward was raising. He and his men fought valiantly, but to no avail. More than thirty of our men were captured after the battle and beheaded. They put to death lords, knights, squires—all manner of men. Your yeoman Thomas Hunt. The king’s purser Roger Water. Lord Hungerford. Lord Ros. Your friend Black Jack. Somerset, God assoil his soul, was among those men, my lady. He in fact was the first to die.”

Katherine Vaux came from behind and held me as Morton’s voice blurred on, his litany of loss now barely comprehensible to me. “The duke was put to death at Hexham, in the marketplace, on May 15. They say he died with composure and courage. Lord Ros and Lord Hungerford managed to evade capture for a day or so but were caught and executed two days later at Newcastle. Lord Ros begged to be buried beside the Duke of Somerset at Hexham Abbey and was granted that one favor.”

“Edmund and John Beaufort? Do they live?”

“No one knows, your grace. All that can be said is that they were not known to have been among those that Montagu executed. Edward made him the Earl of Northumberland for his services.”

I struggled against the sickness that was beginning to overtake me. “Thank you for bringing me this news. Have masses said for the souls of these brave men. I would like to be alone.”

Doctor Morton nodded, his eyes full of pity, and left the room. As soon as he was gone, I sank to the ground and wept in Katherine’s lap as she stroked my hair. “My poor lady,” she said when my sobs had subsided. “You still loved him, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I whispered. I raised my eyes to Katherine, and the tears started to stream from them again. “God forgive me, but I did.”

***

My health had been delicate for some days before I learned of Somerset’s beheading, and soon after hearing the news I became gravely ill. But for the skill of my father’s best physician, who was summoned specially to Koeur Castle to attend me, I might well have died. But he was not a man to submit tamely to losing a patient, and brought me around through sheer willpower, so that by July I was well enough to contemplate just how grim our situation was. It had grown even worse while I was ailing: of the castles we had held in the North, Alnwick and Dustanburgh had surrendered. Only Ralph Grey, in Bamburgh Castle, held out. This time, there had been no effort to starve him out: Edward brought his three great guns to the castle and began firing upon the castle walls. Gravely injured by a falling wall, Grey was hauled to Doncaster and beheaded. By mid-July, only Harlech Castle in Wales still belonged to us. And no one knew where poor Henry was.

Then in October, Doctor Morton again brought me news. “It appears that Edward of England has married.”

“Married?” I stared at Doctor Morton, who bore an expression entirely out of keeping with the gravity of his words. A marriage to a foreign princess would bring the possibility of new, or stronger, alliances for Edward, and make it all of the harder for us to get help from anyone. “That is horrid news. To whom?”

“You do remember Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford, and her many children.”

“Yes.” I scowled at the thought of the fecund duchess, whose large family had made its peace with Edward after Towton. And why had I heeded her request to stay out of London after the second battle of St. Albans?

“You might remember that she had a lovely daughter, Elizabeth.”

“Yes. She gave Somerset her favor at a joust once,” I added sadly. “But what does she have to do with this?”

“Everything. Edward thought she was lovely too, it appears. He has married her. In secret, without a word to his councillors. He announced the marriage to his council at Michaelmas.”

“A commoner? A secret marriage? Has the man lost his mind?”

“No, I believe he has lost his heart. Evidently she refused to lie with him as his mistress, and he was so smitten that he decided to marry her rather than to give her up. They say Warwick was outraged. And, of course, King Louis is irked, as he was pushing for a match between Edward and Bona of Savoy.”

So there would be no French match for Edward, no great European match at all. Thanks to the lust of this young king and to Elizabeth Woodville’s unassailable virtue, we were safe from that at least. For the first time in weeks, I smiled. I did more than that: I laughed outright.

“And I have more good news for you,” Morton continued, his smile matching my own. “The younger Beauforts are safe in Paris.”

A month later, Edmund and John Beaufort were shown into the modest chamber where I received visitors. I embraced both of them in turn. “I cannot tell you how grieved I was by the loss of your brothers. And I cannot tell you how glad I am that you were spared. You were at Hexham, then?”

Edmund’s eyes shadowed. “Yes. Hal screamed for us as he was captured to save ourselves, and we did. I knew that he would not survive when he fell into their hands, and he knew it too.” He crossed himself. “I can say no more about that day, your grace.”

“Don’t, then. Only know that I have masses said for Somerset daily. He will soon be reunited with your father in Paradise, which is a thought that has given me great comfort when I think of how I miss him. And I have them said for Lord Ros too.”

Edmund smiled his thanks and looked around at the room, which was furnished adequately, thanks to my father, but no more. “I fear that you can ill afford them. They tell me that you are in straitened circumstances here.”

“We manage, and my father is as generous as he can be. Don’t think for a moment that you are not welcome here. There are always means by which we can economize more than we do.”

John spoke up. “We are hoping to take service with the Count of Charolais; I believe he will welcome us for Hal’s sake, so we will not be a burden upon you here for long. But there is another recruit to our cause who has come from England. May I bring him here, your grace?”

I nodded, and John left the room. When he returned, it was with a pretty, rather large woman of about two-and-thirty and a small boy, both dressed in black. In the instant I viewed them before they dropped to their knees, it took no keen eye to guess the identity of the lad’s father. “This is Joan Hill, your grace, and her son, Charles. He is Hal’s son.”

“Rise, Mistress Hill,” I said. “What brings you abroad?”

“Your grace,” Joan stammered. I smiled at her, and she continued awkwardly, “I’m sorry, your grace. I never expected to be in conversation with a queen, I guess. Hal—I mean, my lord Somerset—told me that if anything should happen to him, I should get in touch with some people he knew, and they would help me and Charles. I could have kept him in London after my lord died; it wasn’t as if that Edward person was beating down my door trying to seize my boy. He’s not the rightful king, but he’s not that great a scoundrel that he would go after a little bastard child. What would be the point? But I know my lord wanted my son to acquire more manners and graces than he ever could from living with me, though he was kind enough never to say so. He was always a kind man, my lord was.”

I dabbed at my eye. “He was indeed. Go on.”

“He wanted our son to be a knight and to marry well, and I thought that was the least I could do for him, to honor his wishes as best I could. So I found the men—some merchants who had been friendly with my lord and my lord’s father—and we decided to send my Charles abroad, where he could live with some friends of my lord in Bruges and get a proper upbringing until things got better in England. I didn’t know that Sir Edmund and Sir John were alive then, you see, and I didn’t want to push myself on their mother or sisters. We were trying to make arrangements when we heard that Hal’s brothers were safe and sound, and that they were looking to the same merchant to help them get abroad to safety. So we decided to send my Charles with his uncles, and I decided to go too—I wanted to see him safely settled.” Joan blushed. “I did go on, your grace, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”

“You told me what I wanted to hear, and I am glad to hear it.” I beckoned the boy closer. “Come here, Charles. That is a fine name. Do you know I had an uncle named Charles? Well, I did. Do you miss your father, my dear?”

“Yes, mum. He played games with me and took me riding on his ’orse.”

“He was as brave as any man could be, and he was very proud to be your father.” I patted Charles on the cheek. “Your father was very dear to the king and me, and you will always have friends in us for his sake. Now, will you go with Lady Katherine here for a few minutes?”

Katherine Vaux—big with her second child—led Charles away. I turned back to Joan Hill. “You do not plan to stay abroad?”

Joan sighed. “No, your grace. I think I would stand in Charles’s way if I were to stay with him. I don’t speak the languages; I’m a bit like a fish out of water here. When I see Charles settled safely in Bruges, I’ll go back to my shop in London, and when King Henry is back on the throne, as I pray daily he will be, then maybe my Charles will come back and we can visit.”

“I do not want you to return to England unless you can do so safely. If Edward thought you might be spying…”

“The men I know are careful, your grace. They’re back and forth between here and England doing their trading; they will bring me back safely.” Joan dropped her eyes. “I can’t tell you, your grace, how much I cried when that Edward had it told in London how that Neville creature had beheaded my lord. You wouldn’t believe that a woman could hold so many tears, even a woman of my size. Him meeting his death is what I dreaded when I heard that he’d gone back to supporting Lancaster. But I knew that supporting York clawed at him, and that his mind at least was at ease when he died. Still, I miss him so very much.”

“We all do. I am very glad he has left a part of him behind.”

Joan sniffled. “My Charles will grow up to be a fine man, I daresay, and know more than I will ever know. And to think it is all because my lord liked the smell of my wafers and decided to come inside my shop.”

“Bring Charles back in,” I said to one of my men. “And bring me one of my son’s badges.”

Charles returned. Like other boys his age, he had the remarkable facility of getting dirty quickly, for he already was a little grimy. He made a neat little bow that Katherine must have taught him just moments before. “Yer grace.”

“Look what I have for you. It is a badge. My son’s badge of the House of Lancaster. It is the house your father served so bravely. Will you wear it in his honor?”

“Yes, yer grace.”

I pinned it on him. “Be a good servant of the House of Lancaster, Charles,” I said softly.

“I will,” Charles promised me. “It was my father’s ’ouse.”

I was coming in from my morning’s hunting, eager to boast to my mother of my success, for she herself had been a keen hunter when she was younger and always liked to hear of my triumphs. Sometimes she still joined me on the hunt, on those days when she wasn’t dictating letters begging someone or the other to help us regain my father’s throne or thinking of whom she could enlist in our cause next.

Today, however, she stopped me before I even opened my mouth. “Not now, Edward. There is something I must tell you, and you must be man enough to bear it. Can you promise me that?”

I noticed for the first time that her eyes were red. Had she been crying, like she had the year before when I fell ill and everyone thought for a day or so that I might die? “I promise.”

“Your father was captured.”

“Is he dead?” I managed to ask.

“No.” My mother’s eyes clouded over. “He is a prisoner.” She clenched her fist. “He was hiding in the North, moving from place to place, but finally someone betrayed him, and he was taken to the Tower.” I had the sense that my mother was losing her sense of me as her audience. “The whoresons could not be content with just imprisoning him. They tied his feet to the stirrups, paraded him through London for the crowds to jeer at—and he a king since he was nine months old! My God, such treatment will send him over into madness again! I hope it does; it is better that he be mad than he be miserable and lonely there, mocked by those creatures. I pray he goes mad!”

She dropped to her knees and began weeping, all sense of self-control lost. I had never seen her like that in my life—and I had seen her after she’d lost battles, after she’d been confronted by robbers, after thirty of our men had been executed following Hexham. I wished more than ever that I was not a boy who still had to wait a couple of months for my twelfth birthday, but a man who could come back and claim my kingdom and put my mother back in her palace at Greenwich instead of in a borrowed castle in France. I wished I could take my sword and sweep off all of the heads of the men who were making my mother cry so hard.

But I couldn’t do any of these things yet, so I knelt beside her and awkwardly patted her on the back until her sobs subsided. Sitting next to her, I realized for the first time how small she really was: I would soon be taller than she. “Mother, I promise, someday we’ll free him. And if he is mad, he’ll get better. Just like he did after I was born.”

My mother lifted her head and tried to smile. “You have to practice your fighting harder from now on,” she said, sniffling. “Your poor father can do nothing now that he is locked up. You are our very last hope now.”

***

When I left my mother (dry-eyed now, and beginning to dictate more letters), I went to my tutor, Sir John Fortescue, who in better days had been chief justice of the king’s bench. This was not a very spacious castle, but because Sir John was a scholar, my mother had allotted him a tiny chamber all to himself. It was crammed with stacks of books and paper, which teetered dangerously upon my arrival but remained bravely upright. “Good day, your grace. You have heard the news?”

“Yes.”

“Sad. Very sad. Now, where is the book we were reading? It was here yesterday.”

I instantly spotted the great red book he was seeking—it was at the bottom of a particularly unsteady pile by the door—but decided to say nothing. “Sir John, I was wondering if you could tell me something.”

“Well, I shall certainly try.” Sir John, having given up searching for our book of yesterday, began to extract one from the middle of another pile. It was a delicate process, one that I thought would have required his full concentration, but he said over his shoulder, “Go on.”

“Am I a bastard?”

“No,” Sir John told the pile of books.

I noticed that he didn’t appear to be shocked at the question. He drew his quarry from the pile triumphantly. Only then did he say, “Has someone here been telling you that you are a bastard? Because he has no business in this household if he has.”

“No, but I have heard that the Yorkists say that I am.”

“They have been claiming that since you were a small child. But there’s nothing to it. Your mother the queen has been—how shall I say this—in a unique situation. When a woman takes charge, as she has been forced to do, she breeds enemies, who reach for what weapons they can, and attacking her virtue is the easiest to wield. Of course, it is a doubly useful weapon, for by challenging your legitimacy, they can also challenge your very right to the throne.” He opened the book. “Warwick is more responsible for the rumors than anyone, I believe. Now, shall we read?”

“No. Not yet. Do you think they will kill my father?”

“I would think they would have done so immediately if they planned to do so.” Fortescue looked at me for a moment or two, then closed the book quietly. “I can see your grace has much on his mind, and quite understandably so. We’ll not study today.”

“Wait.” I looked at the book,
De Re Militari
, by Flavius Vegetius Renatus. “I should like to hear of a battle, but not one that took place in Roman times.”

“Which one, my lord?”

“Agincourt,” I said. “I want to hear about my grandfather.”