Margaret of Anjou

  The Palace of Westminster had been built upstream of the city, away from the foul miasmas that brought disease each summer. Henry took the road that followed the banks of the river, with Buckingham on one side, Earl Percy on the other, and Derry Brewer following with the rest in serried ranks behind. By then, the king was walking his horse to eke out his strength. It had already taken five hours or more to ride the miles from Windsor, and Henry was worried his will had taken him beyond the strength of his body. He knew if he fainted and fell, it would be a blow to his standing from which he might never recover. Yet Somerset was still imprisoned by York’s order. Henry knew that if he tarried too long, the earl might be made to vanish. Even without that concern, he wanted his Royal Seal from York. He had no choice but to push on and ignore the fluttering heart in his chest as well as the pain in every joint and sinew. He could not recall such physical exhaustion before, but he reminded himself over and over that Christ had fallen three times on his way to Calvary. He would not fall, he told himself, or if he did, he would rise and mount and go on.

  With Westminster in sight, Henry could feel the expectations of those riding at his back, the weight of faith from all those who had been shoved aside by York’s favorites over the previous year. Their complaints against the Nevilles had gone unheard, their cases in law dismissed by judges in the pay of the Protector. Yet the king had woken and they were jubilant, almost drunk on it. It helped that villages around London emptied out onto the road to see Henry pass. They left their Christmas meals and services to stand and cheer, recognizing the banners and understanding the king had returned at last to the world. Hundreds ran alongside where there was room, trying to keep the monarch in sight, while Henry only wanted to rest. His legs were shaking inside the armor and more than once he reached up to wipe itching sweat from his eyes only to have the gauntlet scrape noisily against the iron.

  He had thought at first that he would enter the city and cross to the Tower to free Somerset from his imprisonment. Shuddering pain made him reconsider, so that the Palace of Westminster became the only place he could reach that night. He prayed to God as he went that he would be able to recover there, at least for a time.

  Henry rode in, between the royal palace and Westminster Abbey, bringing his horse around in a tight circle to dismount. Buckingham sensed his king was close to collapse and jumped down from his own saddle to stand by Henry, shielding him from staring eyes as best he could. Henry leaned forward and struggled to the ground, standing for a moment with his gauntlets still on the saddle-horn until he was sure his legs would take his weight. Royal heralds blew long notes across the yard, though there were already men running to carry the news of the king’s arrival, shouting it as they went.

  Henry stood upright, feeling he had the strength. He reached out and rested his hand on Buckingham’s shoulder for just a heartbeat.

  “Thank you, Humphrey. If you lead me in, I would have my Seal brought to my hand.”

  Buckingham’s chest swelled, making his armor creak. On impulse, he knelt. Earl Percy was in the process of dismounting, tossing the reins to one of the men he had brought with him. Though the wind was bitter and the old man’s knees protested, he too sank slowly to the cobbles, clasping his furs around his shoulders. All around them, the noblemen and knights did the same until only Henry remained standing. He took a sharp breath, looking over their heads to the great door into the Palace of Westminster.

  It had been too long.

  “Rise, gentlemen. It’s too cold to stand here in the dark. Lead me in, Buckingham. Lead me in.”

  Buckingham rose with joy written on his face, striding forward. The rest followed Henry like a regiment in his wake, ready for anything.

  —

  HENRY COULD HAVE BLESSED his armor as he walked down the long central corridor of the Palace of Westminster. The weight surely sapped his strength, but it gave him bulk, making him appear the man he might have been. The palace staff were red-eyed with weeping at his recovery, striding ahead to lead the king’s party to the royal apartments, where York was in residence. At least the Protector had not been off somewhere in the north, though that would have made some aspects of the day easier. The Seal was no more than two pieces of silver in a bag and a chest, but no royal proclamation or new law could be made without it. For all it was a mere symbol, whoever held the Seal held some semblance of power in the land.

  It was a little warmer out of the wind, though the Palace of Westminster was a cold, damp place at the best of times. Henry was still sweating from his ride, walking bareheaded in clanking plate down the long route to his rooms overlooking the river. As he went, he struggled to find the right words to say to the Protector and Defender of his realm. He knew by then that Richard Plantagenet had not ruined the kingdom, that he had not beggared her with a war. From the comments of his lords, it seemed York had not suffered rebellions or riots, or much of anything, while Henry drowsed and dreamed in Windsor. It was difficult to explain why such news had kindled anger in the king, but that emotion too had its uses, whatever the cause. He would not allow himself to falter until he had dismissed the man who ruled in his name.

  After climbing a long flight of stairs, Henry was forced to stop and pant, waiting for his shaking muscles to recover. In part to conceal his need to rest, he gave orders for Buckingham to have fast riders ready to take an order for Somerset’s release to the Tower, the moment the Seal was in his hands. Instructions to fetch the keepers of the Seal from their rooms were passed back down the crowd of men accompanying their king.

  Henry’s mouth was dry. He touched his throat and coughed, then accepted a flask from Derry Brewer as the spymaster held it out without a word. The king turned red and choked as he discovered it was whisky. Derry tilted his head in amusement, smiling wryly.

  “Better than water. It will give you strength, Your Highness,” he said.

  King Henry almost snapped an angry reply at him, then decided it was having an effect, so took another swig before passing it back. The “water of life,” they called it in some places. He could feel its warmth spreading.

  Another long set of steps brought him onto the floor of his own rooms. Henry picked up the pace then as servants opened doors ahead. He could remember the trial of poor Suffolk in that place, William de la Pole, who had been condemned to banishment and then murdered at sea as he left England. Such events were glimpsed through gauze in his mind, the memories of a different man almost, one who was drowning even then. As he went through, Henry realized his mind was clear, as if the smothering cloth had been ripped into tatters. The thought of losing himself once more was a dull and chilling horror, as a sailor who had been cast out of the sea might look back at dark waves still tugging at his feet.

  “God grant me the will,” Henry muttered as he entered the room, his gaze falling on the two men who were already standing to greet him.

  Richard of York had grown a little heavier in the time since King Henry had last seen him, losing the last traces of the lithe young man he had once been. He was clean-shaven and black-haired, his strength showing in wide shoulders and a thick-muscled waist. Richard, Earl of Salisbury, was older than York by a generation, though he remained wiry, a Borders man, with a healthy bloom of color in his cheeks. Henry saw Salisbury’s expression darken as he caught sight of Earl Percy, but then both York and Salisbury dropped to one knee, their heads bowed.

  “Your Highness, I am overjoyed to see you well,” York said as Henry gestured for them to rise. “I have prayed for this day and I will give thanks in all the churches on my lands.”

  The king glared at him, realizing that part of his anger was that the man had been too skilled at the position he had won for himself. It was surely beneath him to find fault with either York or his chancellor, but then Henry recalled Somerset, held for trial and execution on York’s orders. His will firmed. Spite of any kind was unfamiliar to him but, for just a moment, he reveled in the
advantage of his position.

  “Richard, Duke of York, I have ordered the Royal Seal brought to this room,” Henry said. “You will pass it into my hands. When you have done so, you are dismissed as Protector and Defender of the Realm. Your chancellor, Richard, Earl Salisbury, is dismissed from that post. By my order, those you have bound will be freed. Those you have freed will be bound!”

  York went pale as he felt the lash of the king’s anger.

  “Your Highness, I have acted only in the interest of the country, while you . . .” He chose his words carefully, to remove all insult. “While you were ill. Your Majesty, my loyalty, my faith is absolute.” He looked up from under lowered brows, trying to judge the differences in the man who stared so coldly around him. The Henry he had known had been weak in thought and body, a man with no desires of his own beyond a love of prayer and silence. Yet the king standing before him seemed stronger in will, though he was white as candlewax.

  However Henry might have responded, the men in the room all turned to the door as the four Seal carriers entered behind the king, bearing the silver box that was their charge. All of them were panting from a long run through the royal palace with it, the hands of the Chaff-wax shaking as he placed it on the table.

  “Open it, Richard,” Henry ordered. “Hand me my own image, my Seal.”

  York took a deep breath, doing as he was told, though he could hardly believe it was the same man, giving commands so clearly. Where had the beardless boy gone, to have come back so hardened and angry? York opened the box to reveal the silk bag, with its chinking halves of silver within. He tugged at the drawstring and removed the metal pieces, passing them to the king’s hand.

  “You have my thanks, Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York. Now, you are dismissed from my presence until I call you again. Both of you. Leave me to rest. And if you would pray, pray that Lord Somerset is still hale and whole, in the Tower.”

  York and Salisbury bowed deeply, side by side, holding themselves with whatever stiff dignity they could muster as they left the room. Earl Percy watched them go with enormous satisfaction written on his face.

  “This is a day I’ll long remember, Your Highness,” Percy said. “The day you came home to rule, casting out snakes and villains.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Margaret could hear the Westminster bell struck seven times as she approached the royal palace. The dawn sun was hidden somewhere behind a great bank of dark clouds across the city, barely more than a dim brightening. She had sat through nightfall in Windsor, in a castle suddenly emptied of all its life and Christmas bustle. Midnight had come and gone while she waited for news and then decided she would not wait any longer. Her husband had gone to London with his most loyal lords, but it was too easy to imagine Henry pushing himself too hard, collapsing or fainting or losing himself once again, while she sat safe by a warm fire, forcing the night to run through her fingers. Though she knew there was no sense in thinking it, it felt like a betrayal that Derry Brewer had gone with her husband. His place was at Henry’s side, she knew it, yet she had grown used to his companionship. Without his presence, she spun alone, in tightening loops.

  She’d roused the servants from their beds to attend her, not just the ones who remained awake at night or walked the walls of the castle. The twelve days of Christmas were traditionally a time of truce. She had no regrets in stripping the castle further, taking two dozen guards to keep her safe from brigands on the road. The three men who had overseen Henry’s care in his illness were not slow in asking to accompany her. Without the king to tend, his doctors had nothing to occupy them and she could see Hatclyf, Fauceby, and Scruton were delighted at the chance to observe Henry’s recovery more closely.

  Her son, Edward, would be safe enough with the wet nurse in the warm, she told herself yet again. They had not spent a night apart since his birth and it was painful to think of him snuffling and looking around for his mother, then crying when she was not there. She thinned her lips against the stinging cold and the decision, wrapping a huge hooded cloak even more closely around herself, the folds long enough to drape the haunches of her horse.

  The road had been too dark to ride hard and fast, but even a walking pace had eaten the miles, while her face had grown completely numb, her eyebrows bright with tiny crystals of snow or ice. She had ridden toward the dawn and yet she felt no weariness, not with the prospect of seeing Henry once again. That joy had not begun to pale. It filled her with every breath, an inner warmth to defeat the winter cold.

  She felt resentment as well, much as she tried to deny it. For all the time her husband had been helpless, she had worked to keep his authority alive, yet the moment he woke, he was off with men like Buckingham and Percy, leaving her behind. It was a bruise in her mind, a painful spot she could not help prodding, returning to it over and over without relief.

  The great hall of the Palace of Westminster resembled a barracks at her arrival, with horses brought inside to stand and whicker, where only lawyers and Parliament men walked by day. Lamps had been lit, so that she could see the gleam from outside. Margaret dismounted there and followed her guards as they led her horse into the vaulted building, with sparrows looping far above in the gloom. Her face felt like a board, as if it might crack apart if she smiled. Away from the wind, she took a moment to rub her cheeks with gloved hands, bringing a little color and life back to the frozen flesh. The hall was quiet, but as well as the horses ambling or tied, dozens of men slept wherever they’d been able to find a spot, regardless of their rank. One of King Henry’s stewards saw her come in and rushed over, dropping awkwardly to one knee on the straw.

  “Where is my husband?” Margaret whispered.

  “He sleeps, Your Highness. In the royal rooms. Please, follow me.”

  Without a word, the two royal physicians and the serjeant surgeon fell in behind her, carrying their black leather bags. Margaret felt like a ghost as she stepped around the sleeping men as quietly as she could, smiling as they grumbled and twitched in their sleep. Those men had come to that place for King Henry and she felt affection for them all.

  She knew the way well enough, but her husband’s steward seemed pleased to lead her little group through the corridors and up two flights of stairs to the king’s rooms. The men there were more alert, including two guards at the doors who stood ready with drawn swords at the approaching footsteps until they recognized the young queen.

  Margaret could hear a muted conversation as she entered the outer drawing room, breaking off as the door opened. Buckingham and Earl Percy both rose in silence, then bowed deeply. Margaret saw Henry Percy’s face was mottled with broken veins and he seemed irritated at the interruption, saying nothing as Buckingham came forward to her.

  “Your Highness, I did not expect to see you today. You must have ridden all night, and in this cold! Earl Percy and I were considering a cup of hot mead to take the chill from our old bones. Will you join us?” Buckingham ignored the doctors at her back. For their part, they stood with their heads bowed.

  Margaret shook her head, sensing that she was an interloper in that room and resenting Earl Percy’s sullen expression as he regarded her.

  “Where is my husband, Humphrey?” she said, touching him on the arm.

  “Asleep beyond that door, but sleeping well, Your Highness. Sheer will kept him in the saddle and he is exhausted.” His tone eased slightly, becoming gentler. “If it is your wish, I shall have him woken, but Margaret, I think the king needs to rest. Can these men not wait to bleed and poke at him?”

  Margaret turned to the doctors, still standing with their bags clutched in front of them and their heads dipped like children being punished.

  “Wait outside, gentlemen. I will have you called when the king wakes.”

  They trooped out, closing the door behind them without a sound and leaving Margaret alone with the two older men. With studied dignity, she took a seat on a padded chair,
settling her skirts and showing no sign of the aches in her legs, still sore from riding.

  “Sit, please, both of you. If Henry is asleep, there is no urgency. Is Master Brewer abed?”

  “He was worn out, my lady,” Buckingham replied. “He’s been like a dog with two tails ever since your husband dismissed York and Salisbury. He’ll be somewhere close by, if you’d like me to have him brought to you.”

  Margaret opened her mouth to agree, then changed her mind, determined not to show the two men any trace of weakness.

  “No, I don’t think so. Let him sleep. You can tell me all that has happened—then perhaps we can consider our choices.”

  Buckingham smiled to himself as he took a seat on an ornate oak bench along the side of the room. Earl Percy remained on his feet, his overlarge eyebrows and great blade of a nose seeming to make a glower his permanent expression. Under Buckingham’s quizzical stare, the earl made a sound deep in his throat and lowered himself into a chair across from them both, three points of a triangle with the crackling fire behind Margaret.

  Buckingham repeated the king’s actions since his arrival at Westminster the night before, a short list of orders given, though Margaret made him repeat every detail of York’s dismissal along with Salisbury’s. Earl Percy shifted in his seat while Buckingham spoke, failing to hide his impatience. Under such provocation, Margaret was tempted to have Humphrey go through it all again, not least for the joy of hearing her husband’s firm orders. Yet she allowed the duke to fall silent. Buckingham leaned over his knees and stared amiably into the fire as she considered his words.