Westminster Palace, Summer 1435
Westminster Palace, Summer
JOHN DUKE OF Bedford, his child bride, and the cardinal Henry Beaufort all go back to France trusting the ruling of England to the boy king.
He is supposed to rule in person; but everyone knows he prefers Westminster Abbey to Westminster parliament, and my husband rules in his place.
Humphrey has lost the title of regent; but he has kept all the power even though the boy is home.
When the king does attend court, he likes me to sit beside him and sometimes whisper to him who is speaking and what is happening.
I am at his side when a messenger comes from Arras.
Philip of Burgundy has given up his long pretence of being a friend to England and has changed sides.
We will lose France if we cannot get him back.
It is grave news, but the little king takes it as a personal blow.
He blenches white; he grimaces in horror.
I whisper urgently: ‘What is it? What is it, Your Grace?’
‘Such disloyalty!’ he says, his voice trembling. ‘Philip swore friendship to my father; he swore friendship to me. How can he betray us? How can he?’
My husband shoots a look at me and makes an urgent gesture with his hand that the little king must not be seen crying in his presence chamber.
Blandly, I ignore him. I know best how to turn this moment to our advantage.
Let people see that the little king is as emotional as a milkmaid with spilled buckets.
‘Oh, so terrible,’ I encourage him. ‘So hurtful. You met Philip in Paris? You felt that he loved you? He was like a father to you – like the father that you lost? And now he betrays you. It must be as if you’re losing your father all over again?’
The tears brim in his dark eyes; he gives a little sob.
‘I thought he’d defend my lands in France for me.
He told me to think of him as another uncle.
I trusted him. How can he support the other prince – the French prince?
How can there even be another prince?’ He raises his voice.
‘How can anyone think there is another prince of France when I was crowned king in Paris? When I had to go away from my mother for so long? When I had to see . . . When I had to watch . . . the witch was burned . . . they made me . . .’ He is so distressed, he cannot speak.
‘And the dauphin is your mother’s brother!’ I whisper. ‘Dear Sire, you must feel so alone. And your mother gone away from court, too – preferring her babies – leaving you like an orphan, alone!’
He fights to hold back his tears; he knows that as a young king, he should not cry; but I hold out my arms to him, and with a little wail, he falls against me and sobs against my neck.
My husband glares at me over the boy’s head; the nobles and ladies, standing around in court, are dumb with horror.
I smile like a Madonna and rock the boy, patting his back. ‘Come,’ I say as the storm subsides. ‘Let’s go to your private rooms until you can be composed.’
He gulps down his tears, and I rise to my feet and take him by the hand as if he were a toddler again.
‘We will withdraw,’ I say. ‘My lord, you will decide the best answer to send to Burgundy.You may send it in the name of the king. Isn’t that right, Henry?’
The child king nods, dropping his head to hide his tear-stained face from the staring faces. ‘Come,’ I say to him kindly, and I lead him away. My husband smoothly takes his place before the aghast lords.
ROGER BOLINGbrOKE ASKS if he may bring John Somerset, the king’s tutor, to see me.
I receive him in the royal rooms at Westminster Palace.
The two men walk through the queen’s great presence chamber, filled with people bringing petitions to me, requests, and prayers for my health, and are announced at the privy chamber door.
I wave my ladies to one side and beckon the two men to sit beside me.
My serving man brings a silver tray with three Venetian glasses filled with French white wine.
My ladies busy themselves with their work.
I have a loom warped up with threads ready for them to weave.
I take no interest in it myself, but it keeps them busy and out of my way.
I watch the ladies take their seats on the weaving bench and bend their heads to their work before I turn to the astrologer and the scholar.
I have a thrilling sense of taking power into my hand and weaving my own pattern.
Roger Bolingbroke takes it all in as he bows to me.
‘Has the king recovered from his distress?’ I ask John Somerset.
‘He is sleeping. I gave him a draught of Mistress Jourdemayne’s, St John’s wort and poppyseed.’
‘He was beside himself.’
‘He cannot tolerate a shock,’ he says gently.
‘We must all take care, especially in public. While the spheres are in tune, he is well enough; but he cannot bear bad news. My fellow Oxford scholar, your chaplain, Canon Thomas Southwell, says that the Chinese philosophers have instruments to measure an earthquake from miles away – they can feel the trembling of the world. Our little king is like that: he can feel the earth move beneath his feet. He cannot bear it.’
I nod, thoughtful. ‘Can we, who love him, hold him steady?’
Bolingbroke and Somerset exchange looks. I know at once that they have discussed this. They think that the boy cannot be held steady, that he is on the brink of falling.
‘He has to avoid distress,’ Somerset says. ‘When one of his fits comes on, I encourage him to lie in a silent dark room and try to sleep. I wrap him tightly like a swaddled baby. I hood him like a falcon and hold him. This world is too much for him. It is a sign of his saintliness, I am sure.’
His condition is far worse than I had imagined – far better for us.
I keep my gaze down. ‘Who knows of his faintness?’
‘The grooms of his bedchamber, his nurse, his mother, of course.’
‘It is a secret?’
He gives an awkward bow that indicates that it is a secret. But this is far more than a nursery secret: it is a conspiracy to hide the unfitness of the king.
‘Would you call it a fit?’ I ask. ‘Is it the falling sickness? Can it be cured?’
The two Oxford philosophers look grim. ‘Only the most ignorant would call it a possession,’ Dr Bolingbroke says carefully. ‘But we have no explanation . . .’ He tails off. ‘I thought you should know. I will speak to the duke also.’
I make sure my face is sweetly concerned; there is no trace of excitement in my soft voice.
Hooded like a falcon! Swaddled like an infant!
We are in the middle of a war that has lasted nearly a hundred years!
We cannot be led by a king who cannot tolerate shocks.
He was born into a world of danger and shock.
If he cannot ride a storm, he cannot be king. It is as simple as that.
‘Have you told Dr Somerset of the horoscope you drew for Duke John?’ I ask Bolingbroke.
He bows. ‘Dr Somerset was helpful with his own mathematics.’
‘You both saw the shadow on the duke?’
‘Dr Somerset confirmed it.’
‘So John will die without an heir, and my husband will be the next heir to this king, who cannot bear loud noises, bright lights, or shocks? Who has to go to a dark room if he is distressed by anything? But he is distressed by everything?’
The two philosophers exchange a glance. ‘Yes,’ Bolingbroke says shortly. ‘This is why we came to you. This is a grave question to which there are a number of answers. Much depends on your husband’s opinion, and on yours.’
I turn my honest grey gaze on John Somerset.
‘Tell me truly, Dr Somerset.You are the king’s chaplain and his tutor.
Would it not be a kindness to him if my husband were to take his place on the throne and spare him the loud noises, the bright lights, and the shocks of his position?
This can only get worse: what will happen when he has to lead an army to France?
When he has to face cannon and a cavalry charge and the frightful sights of a battlefield? ’
John Somerset shakes his head. ‘The poor boy can’t do it,’ he says frankly. ‘He won’t do it. I couldn’t make him.’
I look at Roger Bolingbroke. ‘We must find a way to spare him,’ I say. ‘As loving subjects, as loyal subjects, as his only family, we will find a way to spare him and to save our country.’ I pause for a moment. ‘But we have to win the war – Cardinal Beaufort cannot drag us to dishonourable peace.’
The two men nod, like serious puppets.
‘When Duke John dies, my husband will be freed to protect the king,’ I rule. ‘All of us who love the king must take him into safekeeping, somewhere quiet and peaceful, and put Duke Humphrey to the throne in his place. It is the only way for the little boy and for the country.’
There is a moment’s hesitation, but the two philosophers cannot resist the logic.
‘Yes,’ Bolingbroke says with a sigh, as if he is grieved. ‘That is why we came to you. We both think the same. The king must be spared and the country protected.’
‘For the king’s sake,’ his tutor adds. ‘God bless His Grace.’
‘Amen,’ I say devoutly.