The news from the north was not good for Margaret of Anjou and her champion, the earl of Warwick. The news from the north was not good for Margaret of Anjou and her champion, the earl of Warwick.
Desperate, those of Warwick’s supporters who remained paraded the old king, Henry VI, through the streets of London to show him to the people. It was supposed to be a mighty display of power and confidence by Warwick’s adherents, but they got it wrong, seriously wrong.
George Neville, archbishop of York and brother to Earl Warwick, could feel the city turning against the cause of Lancaster in an almost physical way as he rode through the streets beside Henry. It was there in the sullen, closed faces of the Londoners as they hung out of their windows, watching the court party process along beneath them. None called the old king’s name or shouted “God bless King Henry.” Instead, they looked down, almost silent, as the strange old man, who’d been England’s king since he was a baby, rode past Saint Paul’s and on toward the Chepe beneath the clustered, leaning houses. George Neville rode alongside the king, holding the old man’s hand—a touching, loyal gesture, he thought. It was noted well by sharp, unfriendly eyes. Eyes that did not see it as loyalty, but for what it was: the only way to keep Henry reliably in his saddle, so fuddled was his state.
The people gossiped quietly to each other as they watched Henry pass. Their former king was pale as milk and wisps of his white hair flew fine as thistledown in the fresh breeze off the river. Someone’s been keeping him locked up and out of the light, they said. Look at his color—just like a ghost!
But Henry smiled sweetly at his people, even waved to them as a kindly grandfather might, and that counted for something—some small reminder of the old days. But his eyes wandered this way and that, as restless and vacant as a baby’s, and he was poorly dressed in a long stained gown of shabby blue velvet, with not even a decent bit of fur to keep his thin neck warm. That too was noted. The Londoners hated a poor display.
George Neville tried not to wince as he looked at Henry. Haste had undone the purpose of this procession and it could not end too soon for him. They should have taken the time to find the old king something better to wear, they should have brought out more jewels from the Chapel of the Pyx to dazzle the crowd. They should have made poor Henry look more like a king. Should have… would have… too late now. Neville could see in their eyes that the Londoners were disappointed and shamed. Henry of Lancaster didn’t look like their sovereign lord, no matter how many men rode in front of him shouting out his name and titles and blowing their silver trumpets. “Make way for Henry, by the Grace of God, king of England and France and Ireland and Wales. Lord of…”
Sonorous titles, but this old man’s time would shortly be over and all in the streets today knew it; even George Neville, though he pretended otherwise. The people of London also knew that Edward Plantagenet was close and that fact alone made this sad parading of the past even more embarrassing. They’d all heard how Edward had ridden down the country from York, gathering the support of thousands. At this rate there was great hope he’d be in London well ahead of the old queen, Margaret of Anjou, who was still stuck in port on the other side of the Channel. Londoners had something to look forward to at last, for Edward, their young king, would protect them from the old queen and all her fearsome hordes. They were certain of few things in these topsy-turvy days, but they were modestly certain of that.
Then came the moment that most frightened George Neville. One by one the Londoners turned away and closed their windows and their doors; soon the streets were nearly clear of people. The old king didn’t seem to notice, but the archbishop did and his heart squeezed tight in his chest. The Great Wheel was turning once again; he could hear its iron rim grinding…
The mud-flurried herald came through the door of the Jerusalem chamber so fast he skidded on the tiles. Heedless of the damage his filthy boots and spurs were doing to the floor, he knelt at Elizabeth Wydeville’s feet, dripping onto the hem of her skirts. For once, she didn’t care.
“What word is there? Where is the king now?”
The man was dazed but triumphant. “Not even ten leagues from the walls, madame, and he has a great company with him. Many, many supporters.”
“Clarence?”
“Clarence also.”
“Thank you, Lord Jesus. Praise to you, sweet Lord!”
It was a piercing cry of gleeful triumph and Elizabeth Wydeville, once a queen and close to that state again, joined the herald on her knees, mud and all. She crossed herself and crossed herself with such intensity that the happiness on her face could be mistaken for pain. That upset her baby son, Edward, who, wailing from fear in his grandmother’s arms, had to be taken from the room to find comfort elsewhere.
“Lady Mary, Mother of Sorrows, Mother of the Lord Jesus, hear me. Support the king, I beg, in this journey. Bring him here, safe to me, at last, so that he may see our son, the prince.”
“Amen,” intoned Elizabeth’s newly arrived confessor, the eerily oily Dominican, Brother Peter. Brother Duckshit they called him—well behind his back, however—so smooth was he. He’d not been seen since last October, “on retreat” as he’d styled it, but in recent days he’d popped up at the abbey again, declaring God had called him “back from the wilderness to minister to the queen.”
Elizabeth said nothing, welcoming him back as if his absence had been for days, not months. The wind was changing its quarter and this migratory bird was testament to that fact. Loathe him as she did, resent his opportunism as she might, his presence filled her heart with fierce joy. She would deal with Brother Peter later.
Piously, the queen crossed herself for one last time and then a storm of activity was let loose in the holy surrounds of Sanctuary at Westminster Abbey.
“I must dress! Mother! Where are you?”
It seemed to the suave confessor that women erupted as mushrooms might and filled the abbot’s noble parlor in a twittering, chattering flurry as Elizabeth Wydeville, heedless of the presence of the priest, began tearing at the plain gown of tawny velvet she’d been wearing while praying the morning away with her few women. Brother Peter, a seasoned courtier, discerned that his presence was no longer required. There would be no more prayers from the ladies today; now Mammon must be served and, with him, primpings of the hair and the person that no righteous priest should witness or condone. Therefore, rather than offend the sight of God with worldly opulence, the retreat of his servant was to be preferred. Silently, the Dominican bowed to the queen and began to back away from the Presence. Elizabeth Wydeville barely noticed.
Poor lady, thought the monk as he left the chaos of the Jerusalem chamber behind him, poor faithful wife! Penelope to Ulysses. Surely the Lord was merciful to reunite this virtuous woman with her noble husband, the anointed king. And yet, as Brother Peter strode on through the abbey, bowing gravely to acquaintances among the brothers as they paced together in pairs, contemplating “heaven” in the center of the cloisters, were there not shortly to be two anointed kings within London? Could God—would God—allow that? Brother Peter shook his head. This must be part of the Lord’s greater plan, or it would not take place. And it was not for him, a lowly monk, to ponder or question the doings and the will of the Lord God.
“The gold, Your Majesty, or the red?”
Elizabeth Wydeville was stripped to her silk undershift. Her women clustered around, brushing out her hair, swabbing beneath her arms with a sea sponge soaked in rosewater, adding color to her lips with red geranium petals ground to pulp and mixed with sheep’s lanolin and almond oil.
“The white. I want the white damask! Pure, holy, that is how he must see me first.”
Elizabeth Wydeville had worked hard to restore her figure after the birth of this, her sixth child. She had starved herself, resisting even her favorite violet comfits, since there was little else she could control in her life. Blessed by nature, she was one of those women whose body seemed made for children, since it was still supple and pleasing to the eye—supernaturally so, it was whispered.
Elizabeth was now seriously distraught, however, for when the delicate dress of glistening white damask was dropped over her head, it was too tight in the bust and the waist. She’d put on weight. Despair! Catastrophe! How would the king ever reignite his lust for her if she was fat! “I knew it. I should never have allowed that child suck! What will I do?” The queen began to drive herself into a tantrum, convinced she had become old and ugly in an instant.
Jacquetta attempted, unwisely, to calm her. “Now, daughter, it is well known that feeding a child strips fat from the body. Perhaps you might consider—” “No! I am the queen, not a cow! I only let the baby have my paps because he will be the king one day, and it seemed right to me that he should know his mother’s milk, if only for a time. But now, what shall I do? Oh…” Tears and rage, in Elizabeth Wydeville’s case, were potent and frightening twins. Once begun, the tempest was best left to run its course, which this one did in an unusually short time because Jacquetta, seeking inspiration, saved them all an hour or two of further anguish with a remarkable statement.
“I believe it has shrunk, Your Majesty. See, here and here? Yes, it is much shorter from the waist to the floor. And that explains the tightness in the waist and bosom.” It was a wild leap of logic, but a comforting one. “Those foolish laundresses—in cleaning this dress they have allowed it to shrink! They shall be found out and removed from your service! This cannot be tolerated.”
Elizabeth Wydeville raised a tear-streaked face made brick red with passion—an unbecoming shade even on skin as beautiful as hers. “Yes. Yes! I see you are right, Mother.” Surreptitiously, all the women in the room turned away and crossed themselves. “But the problem remains. I cannot allow the king to see me as anyone but his queen. What do I have, after all these weary months, that is good enough, and clean enough?”
“Your Majesty?” An insignificant girl stepped forward from behind the other women. Though she was plain and drab as a sparrow, the expression on her narrow face, in her dark brown eyes, was disconcertingly direct.
“Yes, Lady Leonora?” The queen found the earl of Shafton’s daughter set her teeth on edge, since she was generally silent, even dour; however, she’d been a faithful companion in Sanctuary and deserved civility, not least on account of her powerful father, an important Yorkist supporter in the north.
“Does this please the queen?” Lady Leonora was displaying a dress of fine silk-velvet of a shade between amethyst and purple. Silver flushed through the material as it slid through the girl’s hands for the queen’s inspection. There was a deep sigh through the room.
“Oh. I’d forgotten that one. Where did you find it, Leonora?”
“It was hung in the anteroom of the abbot’s private garde-robe, Your Majesty. Many of your dresses are there, where we left them first.” She meant when the party of women had fled into Sanctuary at the abbey with the heavily pregnant queen.
“The poor abbot. We really have taken up far too much of his space for far too long. How happy he will be to see us in our rightful domain once more!”
All the women laughed, heartily and freely, for the first time in a very long while. Yes, it would be good to leave Thomas Milling to his own concerns. He would be particularly pleased to have his parlor returned.
“But do you think it will fit me?” The queen was eyeing the lovely dress fearfully as Leonora held it up to the light from the casements.
Jacquetta nodded vigorously. “Certainly, Your Majesty. Perhaps you would like to see for yourself? But first…” She made shooing movements with her hands. “Leave. All of you. Go, now. And prepare for the return of our rightful king as his subjects should. With prayers. Go!”
Elizabeth breathed in happily and almost smiled, though at the last moment she stopped herself. It would not do for her mother to think she had found a way to influence her through understanding, in an uncanny manner, just what she, Elizabeth, most desired. In this case, she was grateful to try the dress on without her usual band of women. That way, if the fate of this lovely garment was the same as the white one, only she and her mother would know it.
Jacquetta advanced toward her daughter, a reverent expression on her face, the dress laid out across her upturned palms as if it were an offering to the Holy Virgin.
Regally, Elizabeth stood to receive her mother’s gift. She would breathe in, and in, until the dress fitted her—with the assistance of tight lacing. And she would not eat until the king returned to her. That would help. She was the queen and, if she desired it, she would be thin. Edward would still love her, their little princesses, and now their son, his legitimate heir. All would soon be right with the world. She would be queen once more, her sanctified place in the bed of the king secure. And in his heart also. She would resume her place there because she had given him this precious boy.
Elizabeth Wydeville smiled as Jacquetta dropped the lustrous velvet over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips. It fitted like the skin of a snake. The queen rejoiced.
Where was Anne de Bohun now? Lost, long lost, and she, Elizabeth, had won.