The queen-determined to keep the condition secret-took the king to Westminster and summoned a horde of doctors. They tried everything, to no avail. The king was described by his physicians to be non compos mentis. Perhaps, they suggested, their sovereign lord was possessed by devils. Various priests were invited to exorcise any evil spirits, to no avail. The King was sent to Windsor, to live out his days in seclusion.

And so it came to pa.s.s, at a time that could not possibly be worse, that England lost her head of state. This event put an end to any hopes of unity-however slight-between the opposing factions of government. It brought Queen Marguerite, who little understood English politics, to the forefront of power. And it removed the last check on feuding magnates and on the rapaciousness of the Court Party.

On the thirteenth day of October, some two months after this catastrophe, the queen went into labor and brought forth a son she named edouard, after King Henry's favorite saint, Edward the Confessor, whose feast day it was. The birth of the queen's son meant that neither York nor Somerset would be named heir presumptive. But at Windsor, the king was still in a stupor and did not even know he had a son.

That same month, the baby prince was baptized in a grand ceremony in Westminster Abbey. The queen did not attend, for it was not customary for a lady to appear in public after the birth of her child until she had been churched. As sponsors for the prince, the queen chose the Duke of Somerset, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and York's sister-in-law Anne Stafford nee Neville, d.u.c.h.ess of Buckingham. My lord of York was not best pleased by the choice of Somerset to be a sponsor for the new prince.

It was around this time that rumors began to swirl like the dead leaves of November: Folk whispered that the new baby was not the son of the king at all, for who could imagine saintly, pious King Henry siring a son? Indeed, it seemed more likely that the baby prince was the son of Somerset, who was known to have a rather intense ... friendship with the queen.

By now, the queen and her advisors realized they could not conceal the king's condition indefinitely, for he showed no sign of recovering. The queen-whose motto was Humble and Loyal-did consider the possibility of allowing the king to abdicate in favor of his son, thus granting herself fifteen years of untrammeled power as Queen Regent. Strangely, the lords of the council were unenthusiastic about this plan. But if not the queen, who was to be regent?

The birth of a son and heir necessitated the summoning of the magnates so that the baby prince could be formally acknowledged as heir-apparent to the throne. On the twenty-fourth day of October, therefore, Somerset, in the name of the queen, summoned such a council. York's name was omitted. This drew a storm of protest, especially from Norfolk, and so Somerset was obliged to invite York after all. When my lord of York finally arrived, he lost no time in gathering support against Somerset and the Court Party.

A little matter of the long-standing feud between the Nevilles and the Percies precipitated a change in the fortunes of my lord of York. Two things of note happened in the year 1453. In August, members of the Neville family were traveling to a family wedding at Sheriff Hutton when they were set upon by the Percies. This event drove the Nevilles-who had hitherto supported the House of Lancaster-to seek the powerful protection of York.

Another event confirmed this change of allegiance. Since the early part of 1453, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, had been involved in a bitter dispute with Somerset over the ownership of substantial lands in Wales that had formerly belonged to the House of Beauchamp, in particular, the lordship of Glamorgan. Warwick had held this lordship since 1450 and had administered it well. But early in 1453, Our Sovereign Lord the King, in his infinite wisdom, granted it to Somerset. Warwick fought for his rights and in the process realized what my lord of York had had to contend with all these years.

It so happened that York was Warwick's uncle-by-marriage, and Warwick himself was the most powerful Neville in his own right. This shabby treatment led Warwick to take sides, and whither Warwick led, so did the House of Neville follow. From the year 1453, therefore, Richard of York was to enjoy not only the influential support of my lord of Warwick-who was one of the richest and most powerful n.o.blemen in England-but also of his father Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury, d.u.c.h.ess Cecylee's eldest brother. Together, York, Salisbury, and Warwick made a formidable team that would influence the course of events for the next several years. As M. de Commines was later to write: It would have been better for the queen if she had acted more prudently in endeavoring to adjust the dispute between the Nevilles and Somerset, than to have said, "I am of Somerset's party. I will maintain it."

Finally, my lord of York had acquired powerful allies among the magnates.

Chapter 27.

October 1453 The queen could not keep the news of the king's condition hidden. Ancient custom demanded that the king recognize his heir, and so a deputation of twelve lords, spiritual and temporal, took the baby prince to visit his father. The cat came out of the bag as the sight of his heir failed to pull the king out of his strange state.

What to do? Parliament could not pa.s.s legislation confirming the child's right to the throne until the king acknowledged his son. The queen, who spared little thought for the people of England, found that her determination to conceal the king's condition cost her heavily, for folk interpreted the King's seeming hesitation as evidence that the baby prince was definitely a b.a.s.t.a.r.d!

Warwick wasted no time in making hay out of this predicament. He went before the people at Saint Paul's Cross one day in late October when it was fine but chill. London was bursting at the seams as all the magnates were in town to attend the christening of the baby prince, together with their servants. Folk scurried hither and thither, shopping for vegetables, for simples, for thread and bolts of cloth, at the grocers, the apothecaries, and the haberdashers, when my lord of Warwick appeared before them, dressed in a purple velvet cloak flung over a crimson velvet tunic. He stood tall in his black leather riding boots at the top of the steps leading to the cross, his long gloves slicing the air.

"I have come, good people, to bring you tidings from court in the matter of the queen's child."

A ripple of laughter went around the crowd.

"I know you must marvel at the king's hesitation." Warwick paused; the crowd rustled and went silent. It would have been possible to hear a needle fall.

"Why?" asked Warwick, his word as clear as a bell. "Why does the king delay in acknowledging the child to be his son?"

The question dropped into the cold air. The crowd rustled and came to life, as people turned to one another. Their murmurs grew louder and louder.

Warwick held up his hand. "One of two things is true about this child," he said. "Either he has appeared as a result of a fraud, smuggled up the backstairs into the queen's chamber after her own child died. Or he has come into this world as the offspring of an adulterous relationship."

The crowd roared with catcalls and whistles.

Warwick smiled and accepted a cup of ale from the keeper of the tavern hard by Saint Paul's Cross. The tavern stood empty as its inhabitants spilled out onto the street, sipping ale, cider and mulled wine, and dressed in everything from poor person's homespun to the magnificent furs and jewels of the London merchants and the aristocracy. The barman set up a line of boys to run into the tavern and get as many tankards of ale to the earl and his other customers as was needful.

"Thank you kindly," said Warwick to the barman as he quaffed the br.i.m.m.i.n.g tankard. "You brew the finest beer in London."

The barman flushed with pleasure at the laughs and cheers from the crowd. He signaled for more ale.

Warwick held up his hand and waited for silence.

"The king has not acknowledged the child as his son," he said slowly. "And furthermore, he never will."

There was a sudden intake of breath.

"It's true!" exclaimed a young woman, holding a twig basket that held a dried up turnip, a withered carrot, and some wilted sprigs of rosemary. Her high voice sailed over the noises from the crowd. As people turned to stare, she went bright pink.

"Holy Mary, Mother of Christ!" she exclaimed, blushing again as she crossed herself.

"Indeed, madam," said Warwick, stepping down from the cross, bowing, and offering her one of his cups of ale. "You put it well." He turned to the crowd as he remounted the steps of the cross.

"It is very shocking, is it not, that a crowned Queen of England, a queen anointed by holy oil, would stop at nothing to gain power? That such a queen, invested in spiritual power by the Archbishop of Canterbury, would lie to us? That she would stoop so low as to foist her b.a.s.t.a.r.d on us? What does she think we are, good people? Stupid?"

The crowd roared with laughter.

Warwick laughed along with them, and then he held up his hand. "Good people, we must be serious now, for things are not good in this land of ours. We've lost our wine trade, our cloth trade, prices are going up, and it is getting harder and harder to feed our families."

People nodded and edged closer.

"Now I am for the good of this country. I think this country should be prosperous and strong."

"Hear, hear!" shouted someone from the back of the crowd.

"But things must change," said Warwick. "Things must change for the better. And I want you all to know one thing. I want you to know that I will defend the interests of the people with all my power."

He looked around the crowd. "I will defend the interests of the people with all my power," he said again, and then bent down and seized another br.i.m.m.i.n.g tankard, which he held high in the air. "To the people of England," shouted Warwick, then quaffed it in one gulp.

"To Warwick!" roared the people, as they raised their tankards, wine cups, hats, hands and daggers.

"A Warwick! A Warwick! A Warwick!" chanted some apprentices at the back of the crowd, who then took up the chant.

Warwick smiled warmly and held out his arms.

The crowd silenced immediately.

"Now, good people, I know many of you go to bed hungry and that you don't have enough to feed your children. I have a surprise for you."

He paused and scanned the crowd.

Everyone's face was turned towards him.

"I would like to invite you to my house on the Strand, where I roast six oxen every day. There, you may have as much meat as you like, and you may carry away as much meat as you can, provided that it fits onto the point of one dagger."

By these means, Warwick won the affection and esteem of the people of England, who put their greatest faith and trust into his hands.

Queen Marguerite swore never to forgive him.

Chapter 28.

Feast of Saint Anselm November 18, 1453 The queen behaved as if the birth of a son consolidated her power and standing in the country.

On the eighteenth day of November 1453, around a month after the birth of the baby prince, all n.o.ble ladies were summoned to Westminster Abbey to partic.i.p.ate in a magnificent ceremony for the churching of the queen. But Cecylee was too distracted to get caught up in the excitement, for she realized that after a span of more than six years, she would finally be able to see Nan.

Heart in mouth, Cecylee looked around the crowded room. Alice Chaucer, d.u.c.h.ess of Suffolk, was laying out the Queen's robe, which had been trimmed with over five hundred sables. She was helped by Eleanor Beauchamp, d.u.c.h.ess of Somerset, and by Anne Beauchamp, Countess of Warwick. The rising temperature of the room mingled the odors of woodsmoke, wet leather, and the slightly rancid smell of fur pelts as more ladies crowded into the room.

Cecylee made her way to the only cas.e.m.e.nt that was open.

And there she was.

Nan.

Only her blue-grey eyes were recognizable, but even these had changed. Gone was the wide-open innocence of the six-year-old child whom Cecylee had last seen. In their place was a hard, shut-in quality, as if a portcullis had gone down.

"Nan," called Cecylee softly, as she came closer. "Nan. It is you, isn't it?"

She examined the pallid countenance of her elegantly thin daughter, trying to reconcile the sharply etched profile of this young lady with the soft curves of the seven-year old girl.

Nan didn't respond.

Cecylee scrutinized her daughter. Nan was magnificently arrayed in blue velvet embroidered all over with silver thread. Her brown hair was neatly coiled around her head. She wore a heart-shaped headdress with a translucent veil and the requisite number of jewels. Outwardly, Nan looked like a duke's wife. But her face was white, her eyes dull, and her clothes hung on her.

As Cecylee stared, Nan kept her eyes lowered, hands clasped in front of her, the very picture of a decorous n.o.blewoman.

"What is wrong?" Cecylee whispered.

Nan favored her mother with one brief glance, before lowering her lashes again.

Cecylee's hands trembled as she eased her daughter into a private corner of the room.

"He mistreats you, doesn't he?"

Nan stared at the floor.

Cecylee gently tilted her chin with one finger, but Nan closed her eyes.

"My dearest child, I will take you home if you wish."

Nan turned away.

Cecylee twisted her hands together. Where was her daughter? She remembered how Nan had looked after her brothers Edward and Edmund. She remembered how she'd adored Chatelaine and wept for several days when the little thing had been killed. She remembered her smile.

"Nan, come home with me. I beg of you."

Nan remained silent.

"Nan?"

Nan stared at the floor.

"Nan!"

Not a flicker pa.s.sed across Nan's countenance.

"Nan, speak to me please, my sweet."

Cecylee's voice grew louder. She took a deep breath.

Nan edged away.

Cecylee looked around the room. Her eyes lighted on Jacquetta Woodville, d.u.c.h.ess of Bedford, who stood by the fireplace with her sixteen-year-old daughter, elisabeth, now Baroness Grey after marrying Sir John Grey of Groby. Both ladies were admiring one another's clothes, exchanging morsels of gossip and child-rearing advice. Tears p.r.i.c.ked as Cecylee compared their easy relationship with the difficulties she now encountered with her abandoned child.

Nan spoke. "Go away."

Cecylee strained to hear those softly spoken words.

"But I'm your mother!"

Too late-others were becoming interested in their conversation. Jacquetta lifted her head and turned, scenting out a morsel of gossip. She turned back to Nan, who stared at her with thin lips. Her expression reminded Cecylee of how her aunt Isabel-Richard's sister-would look at her, most disapproving.

"Please," Cecylee whispered as she touched the sleeve of Nan's gown. "Please let me take you home. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

Nan was silent. There was no expression on her face.

This was not Nan. This was what remained of her.

There was a rustle as Jacquetta appeared with elisabeth in tow. With only the briefest of nodes to Cecylee, she turned to Nan. "Cherie, you seem discomposed. It would never do to spoil our lady queen's triumph, now would it?"

Her words were like a dagger, shredding Cecylee's heart. "There is no need-"

But Jacquetta ignored her.

"Come with me, my sweet," continued Jacquetta smoothly to Nan, "and let my elisabeth help you find your place."

Nan rose obediently and allowed the ladies to take each arm.

Cecylee rose also. "Nan-"