The Stolen Crown: The Secret Marriage That Forever Changed the Fate of England (38 page)

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not bring myself to make that suicidal gesture. Instead, I contented myself with fixing upon him a look of utter hatred, hoping against hope that looks could, occasionally at least, kill.

They could not.

Presently the queen’s procession came into view. It was a spectacle that occasioned more interest than that of the king, for he’d been a familiar sight around London for the past few days, clattering around town with Harry and their hordes of retainers, whereas hardly anyone outside of the North had seen the queen since she had married Gloucester.

As was the custom for a queen about to be crowned, Anne, clad in white cloth of gold and seated in a richly draped litter, wore her hair loose. I had thought when I saw her at Northampton that she looked a bit peaked, but with her golden hair falling past her shoulders, framing her face, she appeared to be a few years younger than she was, which flattered her. If she had any misgivings about the way her husband had reached the throne, they didn’t show. No doubt Warwick the Kingmaker, if he had managed somehow to wrangle his way into Paradise, was mighty pleased with the twists of fortune that made his daughter a queen after all.

Richard Wingfield suddenly squeezed my hand. I did not think it overfa-miliarity, for I knew he sought to comfort me. The duchesses were coming.

There were six in England at the time, including myself, but only four were in the procession: the Duchess of Suffolk, who was the old King Edward’s sister (King Richard’s too, of course, but I did not like to think of that), and three Duchesses of Norfolk. I sighed inwardly as Katherine Neville, my brother John’s widow, came closer. Among the tales put out by Richard’s creatures was that she’d been forced to share John’s bed, even though she was eighty and had cried pitifully at the thought. In a couple of weeks, she’d probably be a hundred and forced at knifepoint to lie with my brother, I thought bitterly. I fingered the rosary that hung from my belt.

At least John would soon be joined in Paradise by Anthony. Perhaps he was there even now, being idolized by John once more. It brought a slight smile to my face.

2 5 8 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m Beside John’s widow sat Elizabeth Talbot, whose sister Eleanor Edward had supposedly married before Bessie. Did she care how much trouble her careless words had caused? Was she pleased at their effect? Next to them sat the newest Duchess of Norfolk, John Howard’s wife. Margaret Howard had been a duchess for only a couple of weeks and still looked bedazzled by her elevation. I knew the feeling; it had worn off only recently.

But where was the Duchess of York, the king’s own mother? It was true that she was an aged lady, close to seventy, but she was a good fifteen years younger than her sister Katherine Neville, who was wrinkled and fragile now but still looked alert. Berkhamsted was not terribly far from London; surely the Duchess of York could have made it to the city in time for the coronation, traveling in easy stages. Had she not considered her son’s coronation an important enough event to drag her from her religious devotions even for just a few days? Or—I hoped—had her son’s means of acceding to the throne appalled her?

The women beside me were counting up duchesses too. “No Duchess of York.”

“Too old, maybe.”

“Well, after what they said about the old king being a bastard!”

“Plenty of Duchesses of Norfolk, ain’t they? But where’s the Duchess of Buckingham?”

“That’s her.”

“No, you bird-brain, that’s the Duchess of Suffolk.”

“’Tis odd that she’s not here, then. They say that the Duke of Buckingham had the arranging of all of this.”

“So where’s his duchess?”

The loudest of the women dropped her voice. “I don’t know, but they say he was forced to marry her when he was just a wee lad. By the old queen, of course. Dragged the poor little mite kicking and screaming to the altar, they say. He’s hated the whole lot of the Woodvilles ever since, and all their kin.”

“Is his duchess old?”

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“Now, I don’t know that, but they say she’s not much to look at.”

“Oh, she is old—at least a dozen years older than the poor duke. Starved for a man, they say, by the time they married him off to her. They forced the lad to lie with her to satisfy her devilish lusts, though he was not even in his teens.”

“Witches, those Woodville wenches, all of them.”

“Well,
I
heard that she was young, but that she’s an idiot. Her keepers take her to the Duke of Buckingham once a month or so, so he can try to beget a child upon her. They hold her down for him. And when she does quicken, her keepers mind her until she pops out a babe. So she’s good for that much, at least.”

“Poor man. It’s a sad life for one so handsome, and so rich. I thought he looked melancholy, with all of his finery and burning carts.”

“A reason we should all be grateful for the station to which the Lord has called us.”

I stared fixedly at the procession, thinking that doing so would stop me from trembling with rage. Then a young male voice spoke loudly beside me.

“I have seen the Duchess of Buckingham through my master’s business with the duke. She is only five-and-twenty, younger than the duke, and she is not an idiot. Not by any means. And as for her person—she is most seemly. Some think her as beautiful as an angel. And I agree with them.”

Someday I would have to find a way to show my gratitude toward Richard Wingfield.

“Well, if you say so, young man,” said the senior of the goodwives. “But why isn’t this angel of yours here with the other duchesses? Can you tell me that, Master Know-All?”

Richard hesitated. Then he shrugged. “Because the Duke of Buckingham has nothing but rags between his ears. That is why.”

Even if I could have contrived to view the coronation itself the next day, I had no stomach to try. I had seen, and heard, enough.

2 6 0 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m It was four or five days later, when the post-coronation festivities had finally ceased, that Harry returned to Bread Street. We greeted each other civilly before Harry closeted himself with his chamberlain. After a polite supper and some music, we retired to our separate chambers.

Cecilia was taking down my hair when Harry stormed in, scattering her and my other ladies. When they were gone, he said, “You were watching the procession. Without my permission.”

So someone in our household had turned traitor. It hardly mattered who.

“Well, what of it? I was told not to participate, and I did not. I was not told that I could not be a spectator like anyone else in London.”

“How do I know you were not recognized? It would be humiliating for me if you were.”

“I took great care to disguise myself. I have the flea bites to prove it.”

For a moment Harry looked almost admiring. Then he snapped, “That’s no better. You’re not used to wandering around London unaccompanied; what if some churl had ravished you? Or found out who you were and held you for ransom?”

My, Harry had a wild imagination when he worked at it. “As a Woodville, my ransom would have been cheap, surely? But in any case, I had a protector.”

Harry frowned. “Who?”

“I shall not say. It is past, and he discharged his duty well and faithfully.

There is no vice, after all, in protecting a lady.”

“You needn’t. It was that impudent Wingfield boy, wasn’t it? The one who always makes sheep’s eyes at you.”

“So what if he does? It is a far sight better than hearing that I am a dozen years your senior, an idiot, or sore disfigured, or all three, and that I ravished you when you were a small boy, all of which is gossip making the rounds.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “What vile rumors.”

“You think them so? Only because you and that creature Gloucester weren’t clever enough to start them yourselves, I suppose.”

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“Who?”

“You heard me. That creature Gloucester.”

“You will address my friend the king properly.”

“I will address your friend the usurper as I please. He is a whoreson, a devil’s spawn. A murd—”

“Silence! I’ve put up with much of your insolence since you came to London—without my permission also—knowing of your grief. But no more! You shall do my bidding and speak of the king with respect.”

“He deserves no respect.” I snorted. “A brave man, to take a throne from a boy!”

“He was entitled to it, as I have told you time and time again! I am warning you, you shall give him respect, just as you shall give me the respect due to a husband and to your better!”

“My better?”

“Yes, your better! I’m of the blood royal; you’re the daughter of a Frenchwoman who married above herself and who then degraded herself by marrying a handsome nobody who took her fancy. He brought nothing to their marriage, just like you brought nothing to ours when it was pushed upon me. No royal blood, no prestige, no dowry—nothing.” He snorted.

“Nothing but your Woodville cunt. That’s all you and your sisters ever had to offer, wasn’t it? By God, it ought to be on your family’s coat of arms!”

I started to slap him, but he grabbed my arm, so instead I spat in his face. He gasped, then with one sure blow knocked me against the bed, onto which I clambered instinctively, like a pursued animal seeking higher ground. “So that’s your game?” he said softly. “Well, for once you’ll do as I say!”

Harry was on the bed with me now, his hands on my shoulders. “Harry!

No! Please!”

He pushed me onto my back and pinned me underneath him, slapping me hard when I tried to resist. Dazed and winded as I was, I still protested and struggled, but it only aroused him. It was over quickly—though I would not have said that at the time—and when he had spent himself he

2 6 2 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m also seemed to have exhausted whatever demon had possessed him as well.

I willed myself not to cry as he lay shuddering on top of me. “Are you all right?” he finally asked.

“What do you think?”

“Kate—”

I managed to extricate myself from beneath him and sat up. He had held me so tightly my arms ached, and I knew I was bleeding where he had forced himself into me. I had never known that the sexual act—or Harry—could hurt so badly. I caught my breath. “Our marriage and my Woodville cunt, as you so graciously put it, have brought you four beautiful, healthy children, Harry. Five if the Lord had not taken poor Humphrey. You might remember Edward and the rest of them if you choose to free yourself from me. I suppose you can find grounds for an annulment if you work at it.”

Any one of my remarks might have merited another blow, but I no longer cared. “One of the king’s creatures can advise you, I am sure. Who knows?

Perhaps I was precontracted to one of our grooms at Grafton.”

“Kate, I—”

“Please. Leave.”

To my surprise, he did.

When he was gone, I huddled, fully clothed, on my bed, too miserable to move. After a few minutes a knock came, and Richard Wingfield came in at my barely audible response. He was holding an all-night of bread and ale—a redundancy since one had been brought earlier—and his hands were shaking as he set it down. “Thank you, Richard.”

He nodded and turned toward the door. Then he swung around. “My lady! I can’t leave without saying anything. I heard— Did he hurt you?”

“I am fine. Go to bed. I shall soon be doing so myself.”

“I wish I could kill him for you. I do.”

“That would create more problems than it would solve.” Believing that I had not been as firm as the situation might require, and not fancying myself in the role of Henry II and Harry in that of Thomas Becket, I added sternly, “There will be no killing, Richard. These things happen

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among married people on occasion. You will understand when you are older and married.”

“But I don’t see how he can treat you like this. You’re so pretty, and so sweet. If you were my wife—”

“Now, Richard. I am a Woodville, and that is a liability at the moment, so perhaps it is just as well that I am not your wife.” I smiled at my page. If I were the witch the king’s creatures said we Woodvilles were, I thought, I would use all of my powers to make Harry a youth again such as the one before me now, guileless and kind. “There is one thing you can do for me.”

“Only tell me what.”

“Tell my chamberlain that I wish to be gone from here tomorrow as soon as possible. I think Brecon is the best place for me at the moment.”

There was no place for me in Gloucester’s and Harry’s England, that was for certain. “And tell my ladies that they may return to my chamber. And, Richard—tell them that I do not wish to discuss what took place tonight.

Not now or ever.”

Richard looked disappointed, probably because I had not ordered him to slay anyone, but he nodded, kissed my hand, and left. My ladies— Harry’s spy, perhaps, among them—appeared almost instantly, then helped me into my nightshift and without comment sponged off the area around where Harry had hurt me so. I went to bed positively reeking of rosewater, but it did nothing to make my dreams—the few I had, for I scarcely slept—rose-colored.

The next morning, I made my impending departure no secret from Harry. How could I have? Everything I owned, everyone who waited on me, was under his control. Indeed, he could have ordered me to stay, and the law would have bound me to obey him, but to my relief, he raised no objection. Instead he treated our parting as the perfectly routine desire of a mother to see her children, though by this time there was probably not a soul in the household who had not learned of his shouted words to me the evening before and of what had followed. It suited me well