Baynard’s Castle, London, Spring 1428
Baynard’s Castle, London, Spring
AS IF TO confirm that Jacqueline is on her own, a messenger from Rome in February brings us the pope’s final decision: that the marriage between my lady and John of Brabant was indeed valid; he had every right to her lands; she should never have left him, and she is now a widow with only her dower as her inheritance.
John of Brabant, the false-hearted fool, left everything he claimed to own to Philip of Burgundy, Jacqueline has lost her kingdom again, and this time beyond any appeal.
All Hainault is Philip’s now. And – in case anyone was ever in any doubt that the pope is completely in the pocket of Burgundy – the message emphasises that any other marriage made by Jacqueline before Brabant’s death always was and is still invalid.
The pope in Rome declares her marriage to Duke Humphrey was bigamous at the time and meaningless now.
Duke Humphrey refuses to open the letter but insists that I read it to him as he lies in his bed, his hands clasped on his belly, his eyes closed as if he is already a stone effigy on a tomb.
‘Again,’ he says, when I have read it once and am standing, looking blankly at Bolingbroke, who is seated in the window, and at Southwell the chaplain, who is kneeling at the foot of the bed.
I read it again.
‘She is no longer my wife,’ he says slowly. ‘And I am not – and never was – Count of Hainault.’
I am about to insist that this is the opinion of the pope of Rome and perhaps we could demand that the pope in Avignon overrule him when I see Bolingbroke lift his index finger very slightly, like a man might beat time to music that only he can hear, to warn me to be silent.
‘I would have chosen death before dishonour,’ Humphrey says gloomily from the bed. ‘I would have died before I failed her.’
‘You have not failed her; she was not your wife,’ Bolingbroke says gently. ‘You can rest your sorrowing heart and heal. You will feel better. You are not dishonoured, and you will not die.’
Humphrey gives a deep sobbing sigh, and Roger Bolingbroke beckons to me, and the two of us leave the room.
As I close the door, I hear the chaplain Canon Southwell chanting in his beautiful tenor voice: ‘I went naked out of the womb of my mother, and naked I shall turn again thither; the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; as it pleased the Lord, so be it done; the name of the Lord be blessed. Oh, blessed be the name of the Lord.’
AS SOON AS he can rise from his bed, the duke goes to court, and I go with him to visit the queen.
‘Is it true that she is no longer an English duchess nor my sister-in-law?’ she asks sorrowfully, and I hide my irritation that she is so quick to cry for Jacqueline but so slow to defend her. But this is what it is to be a beautiful queen. She has to do nothing but mourn when things go wrong.
The duke sits beside her in her privy chamber at Westminster, and the queen beckons him closer so they can speak low-voiced together, without being overheard.
He is pale with pain and leaning forward a little hunched over his belly.
I am standing beside the sideboard, ready to serve them, half-included in the conversation.
The queen looks up at me. ‘This is a sad day for you, Eleanor.’
I note that I am Eleanor now that we are all grieving, but Mistress Cobham when we last met at Leicester and she was furious.
I bow my head and put my fingertips to my eyelashes to blot away tears as feeble and powerless as any lady.
‘It’s a tragedy,’ I say. ‘Completely unjust to my lady and to all women. A sad end to a great quest. His Grace was like a knight, riding out from Camelot.’
‘I wanted no reward but her love,’ he says sadly. ‘And now it turns out she was not free to offer me even that.’
For a moment, the snaking turns of court-thinking amazes me.
I had not understood how quickly the wrongdoer would be not Philip of Burgundy, who has invaded and cheated his way into Jacqueline’s lands, not even her false husband, who insisted they were married when she denied him.
No – almost overnight the wrongdoer is Jacqueline, who has escaped prison twice and begged for help from the English twice and is, even now, fighting with the remnants of her army for her country and her freedom against her cousin Philip, the man her false husband made his false heir.
‘She thought she was free!’ I can’t stop myself from exclaiming. ‘The pope in Avignon—’
Both the queen and the duke shake their heads in sad contradiction. ‘She was not free,’ the queen says. ‘It is the Holy Father in Rome who has the last word.’
I open my mouth to say that it is just as well there was no Court of Ladies if this is the queen’s judgement, but then I remember Owen telling me that there would never be a Court of Ladies while men despise women’s judgement.
‘What will happen to her?’ I ask, wondering what will happen to me. If she returns to England, I cannot serve her: she will be neither a countess nor a duchess, and she will have no money.
Catherine – raised in a world where women are sent around Europe as if they are written contracts who have nothing to do but unroll and lie flat for signing – is bereft of any ideas. She looks to the duke. ‘What can she do?’ she asks helplessly.
‘If she escapes and comes here again, I will protect her,’ Humphrey promises.
‘Though she is not my wife, and I owe her nothing, I will defend her. If she can get to England, I will rescue her as a lady in distress, as I would save any lady in distress. But if she is wise, she will surrender to Philip of Burgundy; he’ll be generous if she submits to his rights.
My brother John will negotiate for her to keep her title, though she will never rule her lands. ’
Catherine, a queen who has never ruled anything and never will, does not protest at this. She gives her hand to Duke Humphrey. ‘As long as she has her good name,’ she says. ‘I am so sorry for your loss.’
I stand back respectfully and lower my eyes so that I do not stare at the two of them, hands clasped – the beautiful widowed queen, only twenty-six years old, and the handsome duke, only eleven years her senior.
She is painfully lonely and probably wants another baby, as her son is taken from her care.
He is a handsome man, a royal man who wants a beautiful wife, grateful for his protection.
She already thinks of him as a knight errant.
She saw her best friend choose him – over every other man in England.
Naturally, she will have wondered what he is like as a lover, as a husband?
Already, she depends upon him to keep a balance in England against the Beaufort family.
From his point of view, what could be more gratifying than to cut out young Edmund Beaufort?
What a riposte to the Beaufort seduction of the queen if he wins her from under the noses of the handsome young man and his horrible old uncle.
What an upward leap for Duke Humphrey if he can become the baby king’s stepfather!
It will not matter then if they call him regent or protector; he will have won the king as his little token of greatness and – if he can establish his authority over the child – he will rule even when the boy is fully grown and crowned.