The king’s other favourite is Edmund Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset, and Margaret is dazzled by the dashing penniless duke who calls her cousin and kisses her on the mouth in greeting. He is the most handsome man at court, always beautifully dressed in velvet studded with jewels, always riding a big black horse, though they say he has not a penny in the world and is sworn up and down from his handsome dark head to his best leather soles to the moneylenders of London and Antwerp. He brings the queen little gifts, fairings that he picks up in the market, and they delight her, as he pins a little brooch to the hem of her dress, or offers her a piece of candied peel, popping it in her mouth as if she were a child. He speaks to her in rapid intimate French, and tucks a blossom behind her ear. He teases her as if she were a pretty maid and not a queen, he brings musicians in, and dancers; the court is always merry when Edmund Beaufort is in attendance and the king and queen command him to stay at court all the time.
Perhaps it would have been better if they had not done so. But the handsome young duke is ambitious and he asks and gets the command of the English forces in Normandy, as if they were toy soldiers for his amusement. The young king and queen can refuse him nothing. They load all their favourites with offices and money, and the court becomes a hen-house of strutting jealousy.
We all do well out of this. They are prodigal with titles and posts, they give away their own lands, the places at court for free, the opportunities for trade and bribery, licences to import, licences to export. Crown lands, which are supposed to pay for the king’s living throughout his reign, get thrust into greedy hands, in a helter-skelter of generosity. William de la Pole finds himself ennobled beyond his dreams, made into a duke, the first man without royal blood ever to take such a title. Edmund Beaufort gets a dukedom too, it is a hiring fair of honours. The king and queen take it into their heads that Edmund Beaufort should be given a fortune to match his title, he should be given a fortune to match the famously wealthy Richard Duke of York, a royal kinsman. No – better still – he should overmatch the great Duke of York, and the young king and queen say they will give him whatever it takes to do so.
Even Richard and I are swept along on this torrent of gifts. They give us a great London house, and then my husband comes to me and says, smiling, ‘Tell me, my darling, what name d’you think I should have?’
‘Name?’ I ask, and then I realise what he is saying. ‘Oh! Richard! Is the king to give you a title as well?’
‘I think it is more the favour of the queen to you,’ he says. ‘But at any rate I am to be a baron. I am to be awarded an order of nobility for great service to my country – or at least, because the queen likes my wife. What d’you think of that?’
I gasp. ‘Oh, I am so pleased. I am so very pleased for you. And for our children too! We will be so very grand.’ I pause uncertainly. ‘Can the king just make up titles like this?’
‘The two of them think they can and, what is more dangerous: they do. Never was a young couple with so little power and money in more of a hurry to give it all away. And they will drive the rest of the court mad. Anyone that she likes, or that he trusts, gets loaded with favours; but good men are excluded. Richard, Duke of York, gets nothing, not even a civil hearing. They say they won’t have him in the council now; though he is known as a good man and the best advisor they could have. But he is ignored and worse men than he are praised to the skies. I shall be made a baron for no better reason than you keep her company.’
‘And what name shall we have, my lord? You will be Sir Richard Woodville, Baron – what?’
He pauses for a moment. ‘Baron Grafton?’ he asks.
‘Baron Grafton,’ I repeat, listening to the sounds. Even after all these years in England I still have a strong accent. ‘I really can’t say it.’
‘But I wondered if you would like a title which came from your family. One of your family names?’
I think for a moment. ‘I don’t really wantremind everyone that I am a daughter of Luxembourg, that I am French,’ I say cautiously. ‘The mood is more and more against the French. I was telling the queen, only the other day, that she should speak English in public. I am an English dowager duchess and I am a good Englishwoman now. Give me an English name and let our children have English titles.’
‘Water!’ he exclaims. ‘For your ancestor.’
I laugh. ‘You can’t be Baron Water. But what about Baron Rivers?’
‘Rivers . . . ’ He rolls the word over in his mouth. ‘That’s fine. Rivers. It’s a good English name, and yet it is a tribute to your family. Baron Rivers I shall be and, please God, one day I shall be an earl.’
‘No, really, would they ever make you an earl? Would they give away so much?’
‘My dear, I am afraid they would give away the kingdom itself. They are not careful monarchs and they are advised by rogues.’
I mention my husband’s anxiety about their extravagance as tactfully as I can to the queen but she tosses her head. ‘We have to keep our friends satisfied,’ she says to me. ‘We cannot rule the country without William de la Pole: he is the greatest man in the land. And Edmund Beaufort is in such debt! We have to help him.’
‘Richard Duke of York?’ I suggest as a man they should reward.
‘We cannot hold France without Edmund Beaufort. He is the only man we could trust to hold our French lands, and to restore those lands that we should return to their true owner.’
‘Your Grace?’ I am dumbfounded at the suggestion that we should restore our lands to the French, and she flushes, as guilty as a child. ‘To hold our lands,’ she corrects herself. ‘Edmund Beaufort is the only man we can trust.’
‘I think that Richard, Duke of York, is the only man to succesfully hold French lands since my first husband, the Duke of Bedford,’ I observe.
She throws her hands in the air. ‘Perhaps, perhaps, but I can trust no-one but Edmund Beaufort and William de la Pole. The king himself can neither take decisions nor lead an army. These men are everything to me. They are the father and’ – she breaks off and blushes – ‘friend that I need. They both deserve the highest of honours, and we will give honours where they are due.’
WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON,
SUMMER 1449
I can tell at once that something terrible has happened. Richard comes into our private rooms and takes my hands, his face grim. ‘Jacquetta, you must be brave.’
‘Is it the children?’ My first thought is always for them, and my hand goes to my belly where another life is growing.
‘No, thank God. It is my lord’s legacy, the lands of Normandy.’
I don’t really have to ask him, I guesst once. ‘Have they been lost?’
He grimaces. ‘All but. Edmund Beaufort has offered the French almost all of Normandy including Rouen, in return for his safety in Caen.’
‘Rouen,’ I say quietly. My first husband John, Duke of Bedford’s grave is there. I have property there.
‘This is a bitter blow,’ Richard says. ‘And all of us who fought to keep the English lands in France, nearly a hundred years of long warfare, and so many lives lost – good comrades and brothers –’ He breaks off. ‘Well, we will find it hard to forgive the loss.’
WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON,
SPRING 1450
Richard was right. Nobody can forgive the loss. The parliament turns on William de la Pole, and his new titles and his new honours cannot save him from the rage of the English as the men who had farmed and the soldiers who had fought in Normandy come home defeated and homeless, and complain bitterly, bitterly, at every market cross and crossroads, that they have been betrayed by their commanders who should have stood by them, as they had stood to arms for more than a hundred years.
In the streets the London traders call out to me as I ride by, ‘What would Lord John have thought of it, eh? What would your lord have said?’ and I can do nothing more but shake my head. I feel with them – what did we fight for, what did we die for, if the lands we won are to be hande
d back as part of a treaty, as part of a marriage, on the whim of a king who never fought for them as we fought for them?
They blame it all on William de la Pole, since it is treason to speak against the king. And they call him to parliament and accuse him of treason, extortion, and murder. They say that he has been planning to seize the throne and set up his little son John and his ward Margaret Beaufort as king and queen, claiming the throne in her right.
‘What is going to happen?’ I ask the queen, who is striding back and forth in her rooms, the long train of her gown swishing like the tail of an angry cat.
‘I will not allow him to face the charges. He will not be demeaned by such charges. His Grace the king has saved him. He has ruled that he, the king, shall be judge and jury of his friend William.’
I hesitate. After all this is not my country, but I really don’t think the king can just step in like this. ‘Your Grace, I think he cannot. A nobleman has to be tried by his peers. The House of Lords will have to examine him. The king may not intervene.’
‘I say that no good friend of mine will be questioned in public like that. It is an insult to him, it is an insult to me. I have demanded that we protect our friends and the king agrees with me. William will not go before parliament. He is coming to my rooms tonight, in secret.’
‘Your Grace, this is not the English way. You should not meet any man alone, and certainly not in secret.’
‘You will be there,’ she says. ‘So they can say nothing vile about our meeting. Though, God knows, they say enough vile things already. But we have to meet in secret. The has become mad with jealousy, and now they are calling for his death. I cannot rule this kingdom without William de la Pole. I have to see him and decide what we should do.’
‘The king . . . ’
‘The king cannot rule without him. The king cannot choose a course and hold to it on his own. You know what the king is like. I have to have William de la Pole at the side of the king; he cannot be steady without William to hold him to a course. We have to have William at our side. We have to have his advice.’
At midnight, the queen orders me to let William de la Pole in through the little door that connects the two royal apartments. The duke strides through, ducking his head under the stone lintel, and then, to my amazement, the king comes in quietly behind him, like his pageboy. ‘Your Grace,’ I whisper and sink down.
He does not even see me, he is shaking with distress. ‘I am forced! I am abused!’ he says at once to Margaret. ‘They dare to insult me. They want to rule me! William – tell her!’
She looks at once to de la Pole as if only he can explain. ‘The lords are refusing to accept that the king can examine me alone, as you wanted,’ he explains. ‘They are demanding that I am tried by my peers for treason. They deny the king’s right to judge on his own. I am accused of betraying our interests in France. Of course, I have only ever done what you commanded. And the peace treaty demanded the return of Maine and Anjou. This is an attack on you, Your Grace, on you, and on me, and on the king’s authority.’
‘You will never stand trial,’ she promises him. ‘I swear it. They shall withdraw.’
‘Your Grace . . . ’ I whisper, taking hold of her sleeve,‘you cannot promise this.’
‘I have found him innocent of all charges,’ the king says. ‘But still they are calling for him to be tried and executed. They have to obey me! They must be made to listen to me!’
‘If they want you, they will have to come and get you!’ she swears passionately to William de la Pole. ‘They will have to get past me if they want to get you. They will have to take you from my chambers, if they dare!’
I slide my hand into hers and give her a little tug. But the king looks at her with admiration, he is fired up by her anger. ‘We will defy them! I will be king. I will rule how I choose: with you as my wife and William as my advisor. Does anyone dare say I cannot do this? Am I king or not?’
Of the three of them, only the newly minted duke does not bluster. ‘Yes, but we can’t resist them,’ he says quietly. ‘What if they come for me? What if the lords turn out their forces? Despite all you have said? You have allowed every lord in London to keep his own small army. Every enemy of mine can command hundreds of men. What if their armies come for me?’
‘Could you go to France?’ I ask him very softly. ‘To Flanders? You have friends there. Till it all blows over?’
The king looks up, suddenly flushed. ‘Yes, yes, go now!’ he commands. ‘While they are planning their next move. Go now. They will come for you and find the bird flown! I will give you gold.’
‘My jewels!’ the quecommands me. ‘Fetch them for him.’
I go as she orders, and pick out a few of her smallest pieces, marguerites made of pearls, some inferior emeralds. I put them in a purse and when I come back to the shadowy room the queen is weeping in the duke’s arms and he has the king’s own cloak around his shoulders and is slipping a fat purse into his pocket. Begrudgingly, I give him the queen’s pearls and he takes them without a word of thanks.
‘I will write to you,’ he says to them both. ‘I will not be far, just Flanders. And I will come home as soon as my name is cleared. We will not be parted for long.’
‘We will visit you,’ she promises. ‘This is not goodbye. And we will send for you, and write. You shall send messages with your advice. And you will come home soon.’
He kisses her hand and pulls his hood over his head. He bows to the king and nods to me and slides through the little door and is gone. We hear his footsteps going quietly down the stair, and then the muffled closing of the outer door as the king’s chief advisor goes out into the night like a thief.
The king and queen are cock-a-hoop like children who have defied a stern governor. They do not go to bed at all that night, but stay up by the fireside in her rooms whispering and giggling, celebrating their victory over the parliament of their own country, praising themselves for defending a man named as a traitor. At dawn the king goes to Mass and orders the priest to say a prayer of thankfulness for danger passed. While he is on his knees, praising the mercy of Jesus and exulting in his own cleverness, the City of London wakes to the astounding news that the man it blamed for the loss of France and the arrival of a penniless French princess, for rewarding himself from the royal treasury, for the destruction of the peace of England, has been released by the king and is sailing away, merrily away, for a brief exile, gold in his pocket, the queen’s jewels in his hat, and will return as soon as he can be certain that his head is safe on his shoulders.
The queen cannot hide her delight, nor her contempt for those who say that she is utterly misguided. She will heed no warning, neither from my husband nor the other men who serve the king, who say the people are whispering that the king has forgotten his loyalty to his own lords and commons, that a friend of a traitor is a traitor himself – and what can be done with a treacherous king? She remains stubbornly delighted, thrilled with their defiance of parliament, and nothing I can say warns her to take care, not to blazon her triumph in the face of people who were, after all, only calling for good government of a country which is flung about like a toy of spoiled children.
I think that nothing will dampen their joyous high spirits. The news comes that William de la Pole has had to flee from the mob out of London, that he is hiding for as long as he dares at his own house in the country, and then finally that he has set sail. All over the country there are uprisings against men who are blamed for giving the king bad advice, who are blamed for associating with William de la Pole. Then, a few days later, one of the queen’s maids in waiting comes running to find me and says I must go at once! at once! to the queen who is gravely ill. I do not even stop to find Richard, I run to the royal apartments, bustling past the guards on the door, shooing pages out of my way, and find the rooms in an uproar, and the queen nowhere to be seen.
‘Where is she?’ I demand, and someone points to the bedroom door.
‘She swore we could
not go in.’
‘Why?’ I ask. They shake their heads.
‘Is she alone?’
‘The Duchess of Suffolk, William de la Pole’s wife, is in with her.’
At that name, my heart sinks. What has he done now? Slowly, I go to the door, tap on the panel, and then try the handle. It opens, and I step inside.
At once I remember what a young woman she is, just twenty years old. She looks very small in the big royal bed, lying hunched up as if wounded in the belly, her back to the room, her face to the wall. Alice de la Pole is seated on a stool by the fire, her face buried in her hands.
‘C’est moi,’ I whisper. ‘It’s me. What’s wrong?’
The little queen shakes her head. Her headdress has fallen off, her hair is tumbled all around her, her shoulders are shaking with silent sobs. ‘He’s dead,’ is all she says, as if her world has ended. ‘Dead. What will I do?’
I stagger and put my hand out to steady myself. ‘My God, the king?’
Violently, she bangs her head into her pillow. ‘No! No!’
‘Your father?’
‘William. William . . . my God, William.’
I look at Alice, his widow. ‘I am sorry for your loss, my lady.’
She nods.
‘But how?
Margaret raises herself on her elbow and looks over her shoulder at me. Her hair is a mass of gold, her eyes red. ‘Murdered,’ she spits.
At once, I glance at the door behind me, as if a killer might come in for us. ‘By whom, Your Grace?’
‘I don’t know. That wicked Duke of York? Other lords? Anyone who is cowardly and vile and wants to pull us down and destroy us. Anyone who denies our right to govern as we wish, with the help of whoever we choose. Anyone who sails in secret and attacks an innocent man.’