“I will not go. No! Not until I know where the king is and if he is safe.” “I will not go. No! Not until I know where the king is and if he is safe.”
The scene in the queen’s rooms at Westminster Palace was chaotic. Elizabeth Wydeville’s chamber women and her lady companions stumbled over each other, cursing, as they shoved clothes, veils, linen, and jewels into coffers and boxes, terror making fingers clumsy and tempers short. The queen herself sat immovable on her chair of state, her straight back rigid with defiance.
“But, Your Majesty, we have word that the army is outside the wall. The Londoners and the city will not hold them for long. Earl Warwick and—” The queen’s personal chamberlain, John Ascot, gulped and, swallowing air, choked into a fit of coughing. It was the stress of this terrible day—and the fact that he must tell the queen the truth.
“Clarence? Go on, man, say his name. My husband’s brother, that traitor, Clarence, is with him, isn’t he? Isn’t he?”
John Ascot was pale with the effort of persuading his pregnant mistress to leave the palace. For her sake, and his, one of them had to stay calm, though it was hard.
“Your Majesty, I understand that the duke does accompany the earl. This may be a good thing—”
“A good thing, Master Chamberlain? A good thing!”
The chamberlain winced at the queen’s tone but forced himself to meet her frigid glance. He bowed as deeply as he could and spoke the shocking truth; there was no time for niceties now.
“The duke is popular with the London commons, Your Majesty. That may buy us a little time. But you must come with me immediately. For the sake and safety of the prince still to be born. And his father.”
Elizabeth Wydeville closed her eyes so the chamberlain would not see the sudden tears. Unconsciously, her hands clenched around her greatly swollen belly. The child kicked vigorously beneath her fingers. “There is no other place?”
She spoke so low, John Ascot had to lean forward to hear her words. His mistress was a difficult woman, little loved by those who served her, but unexpectedly he was touched by more than duty. There was despair in that whisper.
He shook his head. “I dearly wish I could offer you another refuge, but you and the prince to come will be safe there. The holy abbot, Dr. Milling, has offered his own personal quarters to Your Majesty and”—he looked around at the women in the chamber, all of whom were now listening breathlessly—“some of your women.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes at that and skewered him with her glance. “How many?”
“Five, Your Majesty.”
There was an instant of stricken silence, then a low agitated tide of noise rose higher, and higher.
“Five? That is impossible!” The queen was implacable.
John Ascot turned to face the queen’s women. “It must be so. There is no room for more.” He caught the eye of the queen’s mother, Jacquetta of Luxembourg, with a pleading glance. Help me!
The duchess, who had been supervising the queen’s women as they packed, was not the daughter of a great nobleman for nothing. She clapped her hands for silence, and was rewarded. Her, they respected. “Very well. You, you, and you. And you—and you, there, holding the green veil.” Jacquetta pointed around the room at individual women. “You five will accompany the queen and myself.” A bright glance stopped John Ascot, who had been about to protest. Jacquetta made six. “Hurry now, we must finish packing for the queen and leave immediately for sanctuary in the abbey.”
The train of the duchess’s black velvet gown was encrusted with silver embroidery and very heavy; normally at least two ladies were required to hold it up as she walked. Now, she swept the material up in one hand, as if it had been silk sarcenet, and held out the other to the queen.
“Come, my daughter. It is time. Let me help you; lean on my arm.”
The queen exhaled a deep breath; the sigh became a sob between clenched teeth. “I can’t. I can’t stand.”
“Chamberlain?”
One on each side of her, Elizabeth Wydeville’s bulky body was levered out of her Presence chair by her mother and John Ascot. As they helped her walk slowly from the bed chamber, past rows of kneeling, crying women, Elizabeth cast a glance back toward the massively carved chair. Who would sit in it next?
And would she ever see the king, her husband, again?