The Rose of York (12 page)

A stony-faced Warwick broke the silence. “Who is she?”

“Elizabeth Woodville,” replied Edward.

Shocked voices protested. Warwick drowned them out.

“She’s a married woman!”

“A widow,” corrected Edward. “Her husband, Sir John Grey, was killed at the second battle of St. Albans.”

“She’s of low birth!” Warwick shouted.

Richard heard the uncomfortable rustle around the table. Anger hardened his own jaw. No matter what he had done, Edward was king. Warwick had no right to take that tone. But Edward seemed strangely unruffled.

“You forget, my lord of Warwick, that they said the same about Katherine Swynford, from whom we are both descended. Besides, her mother is a Princess of Luxembourg.”

“Our noble ancestor, John of Gaunt, was an honourable prince who did his duty to the realm! Twice he married for dynastic reasons. Only late in life, when it no longer mattered, did he marry the woman he loved.”

“The woman I love refused to be my mistress,” Edward replied.

“So you offered her the crown of England?” Warwick blustered. “You offered the crown of England to a woman whose family is despised throughout the realm?”

“I offered the crown of England to a woman of virtue whose father is a lord and whose mother is of royal blood,” Edward said coldly, his patience clearly at an end. “May I remind you, my lord Warwick, that Elizabeth Woodville’s mother, the Duchess of Bedford, was the first lady in the land before Marguerite d’Anjou married Henry?”

“And may I remind you, my lord King,” Warwick retorted acidly, “that her father was nothing but a low-born knight before the Bitch of Anjou raised him to lord? As for Elizabeth Woodville’s mother, the Duke of Bedford stooped to marry her— she brought him no dowry and her family is descended from the monstrous serpent, Melusine. ’Tis even said she’s a witch, that she consorts with alchemists and occultists!”

“You don’t believe that folly any more than I do, Warwick!” Edward hurled back. “The House of Luxembourg traces its lineage even further than we Plantagenets—all the way to Charlemagne, no less.”

“Luxembourg means nothing to England! Charlemagne less!” Red-faced, Warwick slammed a hand on the table and pushed to his feet. Hunching over the table, he rested his weight on his fists and stared down at Edward. “An alliance with Burgundy would have cemented our ties of commerce. An alliance with France would have prevented the Bitch of Anjou from invading us with a French army at her back.”

“We had a French queen once, and she brought us neither peace nor riches.” Edward’s tone had chilled and his narrowed eyes held warning. “Besides, too late now—’tis done. We shall have to find other means to pacify Louis and Marguerite.”

“For God’s sake, how could you? She has two sons.”

Edward’s sensuous mouth curled into a smile. “That means she can have many more.”

“She’s five years older than you.”

“And the most beautiful woman in England.”

“Her father and brothers fought for Lancaster—her husband died for them. My father and brother gave their lives to make you king!”

Edward scraped his chair back and rose. His brilliant blue eyes flashed dangerously. “And king I am. Best you remember that, Warwick.”

The two glared at one another. Then Edward swung on his heel and strode from the room, leaving Warwick and his councillors staring at the open door. Warwick’s friend Lord Wenlock heaved himself from his chair. “The King is right, my lord.” His shrewd eyes looked up at the Kingmaker from beneath their craggy brows. “’Tis a
fait accompli
. We must accept it.”

John knew he must add his warning to Wenlock’s before more damage was done. After the initial shock, he had become more concerned by his brother’s reaction than by Edward’s marriage. So a treaty was lost. No real harm was done. But a feud with a king…

“My lord brother, ’tis well known that Elizabeth Woodville’s mother is a sorceress. She must have cast a spell on the King…” A medley of voices cried, “
Aye, sorcery
!”

“The King is bewitched,” John added. “He knows not what he’s done.”

“What he’s done, brother, is to make a fool of me before all of England and Louis of France!” Warwick stormed, his bright blue eyes pained, his sharp-etched face taut. “He’s treated me like a common varlet.”

Aye, Edward had made it clear to the world that he ruled alone, that he deferred to no one, not even to the mighty Kingmaker. He had brought his proud cousin down in men’s eyes knowing that, more than any man alive, Warwick measured himself by his reputation. He was richer than Edward, a famed soldier and a friend to foreign kings, but now Edward had tarnished the image. No longer would men bow as low to the great Earl of Warwick, or kings embrace him as an equal.

“You’re no varlet,” said John. “You’re the most powerful baron in the land. It’s not a mortal blow, brother. Men will forget this insult. And I pray you to forgive… For England’s sake.”

Warwick turned his proud head and stared at the open doorway through which Edward had left. Slowly, he sank back into his seat. John rested a hand on his shoulder. His brother had suffered a sore wound. A worthier ruler he might make— more dedicated, capable, and wiser than Edward—but he was not born to the throne. By birth God had appointed Edward king and Warwick his servant. Edward answered to no one. Warwick answered to the King—like a common varlet, aye; in that his brother was right. Even a baron, mighty though he be, was not master of his own destiny. And that knowledge, striking its mark with this day’s work, had to taste as bitter to Warwick as a cup of hemlock.

John felt compelled to add, softly, “There is no way to go over the wall without bringing it down, brother.”

Warwick twisted in his chair and gazed up at him with unseeing eyes. He had heard, but whether he had understood, John could not be sure.

~ * * * ~

“…she hung her head…
the braid slipped and uncoiled itself
and the dark world grew darker towards the storm.”

John’s wise counsel prevailed. Warwick decided to accept with as much grace as possible what he couldn’t change. On Michaelmas Day, ten days after the council meeting, Elizabeth Woodville was escorted into the chapel of Reading Abbey by the Earl of Warwick and the King’s brother, George, Duke of Clarence, and honoured as queen. Though of common stock, she looked very royal in her gold and blue brocade robes with an ermine cloak over her shoulders and her abundant white-gold hair loose in shimmering ringlets down to her knees. Warwick himself knelt before the lovely bride and kissed her hand. He even paid assiduous attention to her throughout the event. Edward, in gratitude, raised Warwick’s brother, George, to the Archbishopric of York.

Everyone rejoiced at the amity between the King and Kingmaker, but John was unable to shake his unease. In the recesses of his mind, a small voice warned that all was not well. Still troubled, he left for Carlisle after the ceremony to meet with the Scottish embassy, who wished to sue for peace.

At the same time, Warwick left for York to inform the members of parliament gathering there that Parliament was adjourned. Explanations were unnecessary. Everyone knew the King was frantically making love to the bride who had withheld her virtue for a crown. “My Liege,” Bess Woodville was reported to have told Edward, “full well I know I am not good enough to be your queen. But ah, my Liege, I am far too good to be your mistress.”

They had met after the battle of Towton in 1461, when Edward paused at Stony Stratford, a few miles from Grafton, where Bess Woodville’s father, Lord Rivers, lived with his wife, the former Duchess of Bedford.

John, Duke of Bedford, the most able and trusted brother of Henry V, had been a mature widower when he met Jacquetta of Luxembourg, daughter of the Count St. Pol. He’d never expected to marry again, being quite comfortable and set in his ways, but he fell hopelessly in love with the lively, beautiful, fifteen-yearold French princess and married her in France while presiding over the trial of Joan of Arc. When he died soon afterwards, the lovely Jacquetta was escorted to England by a guard of English knights under the command of Sir Richard Woodville, the handsomest man in England.

Without the royal permission necessary for a royal to marry a commoner, Jacquetta married Richard Woodville. Parliament was furious and confiscated the duchess’s lands. Later it was restored by a sympathetic young Frenchwoman who’d just become Queen of England—Marguerite d’Anjou.

Jacquetta and her handsome knight took up residence in Grafton Manor. Elizabeth was the first of twelve children born to them and a dazzlingly lovely child. When she was old enough, she was appointed lady-in-waiting to Marguerite d’Anjou and at twenty-one married a Lancastrian knight, Sir John Grey. Grey was commander of Queen Marguerite’s cavalry and died in battle, leaving his widow with two sons. As soon as Edward became king, he confiscated Bradgate, seat of the Grey family, and Bess Woodville and her sons found themselves in poverty.

It was Bess’s mother, Jacquetta, who devised a way to get back her lands.

“They say the new King is more ardent in the pursuit of ladies than of the deer in the royal forest,” she told her daughter in her sweetly accented English. “
Alors
, don your prettiest mourning dress and go to him and plead our case, Bess.”

“God’s mercy,
Maman
, they’d never let me see him.”

“Ah, that is why you must go to him when he is hunting in Whittlebury forest.”

“But…”

“Listen to me,
ma fille
. I am always right, no?” she demanded, bustling about the chamber, checking coffers and wardrobes. “I have found out he is hunting there today. Take the boys and wait for him under the oak tree—you know the one. For certain, he will come. Then he will see you, eh?”

Bess nodded. Her mother was French and used to intrigue, and so far most of her schemes had worked. She’d had no relatives to protect her, she’d fought her own battles, yet she’d married the man she loved against the will of powerful men and had him made lord. It was why they called her a witch. Her success defied all other explanation.

“Fortune favours us,
m’enfant
. The midnight blue of mourning is your best colour,” Jacquetta said, removing a gown from one of the coffers and helping her daughter into it.

Bess regarded herself in the mirror and eyed the glittering ruby at her mother’s throat with longing. “A pity I can’t wear jewels. I suppose it wouldn’t be seemly, would it?”

Her mother fingered the necklace that had been a gift from a queen. “
Ma fille
, your violet hood is more flattering than any gem. Only be certain to let the King see your so lovely hair.” Jacquetta combed the abundant masses of silver-gold locks that rippled down to her daughter’s waist. “Angel hair, soft as petals of the lily.” She met Bess’s eyes in the mirror. “They say the King, he is most handsome.”

“Theyalsosayhe’sdebauchedandsportswithwantonwomen,” Bess said, lifting her chin with disgust. “I am no harlot.”

Jacquetta watched her daughter slyly. “
Non
, you are certainly not. Your head is always clear to reason.”

“He favours merchants’ wives.” Bess lifted her chin higher. “I’m no lowly merchant’s wife.”

“
Non
, indeed. He has never met anyone like you. You can manage him.”

Bess smiled coldly. “The King is a man, and men are fools. They think with what hangs between their legs. If I play the part with timid glances and soft words, I shall get back my lands without compromise.”

“And he can go back to his merchants’ wives,” said Jacquetta, suppressing a smile. She threw her daughter a glance that was part admiration, part pity. Admiration for the cool remoteness that protected her from the pain of emotion. Pity that she’d never know the ecstasy of passion. She tied her daughter’s hair loosely with blue ribbons to match her dress and carefully arranged Bess’s violet satin cloak over her graceful shoulders. “
Alors
, go now and save our fortune!”

With a child in either hand, Bess walked the short distance to the stately oak tree, a landmark of Whittlebury forest. Massive and splendid, it stretched out its branches as if to bless the woods it dominated. Her two sons, six-year-old Thomas and four-year-old Richard, could scarcely contain their excitement at the prospect of seeing the King. Taking up her stance beneath the oak, she waited.