The White Queen (10 page)

“Aye, for now I am in a different choir. But it is true nonetheless. You could not
be a worse queen for this country than she was, God help her, wherever she is now.”

“Mother—she was married to a husband who was out of his wits for half of the time.”

“And whether he was saintly, sane, or raving mad, she always went her own way. She
took a lover,” she says cheerfully, ignoring my scandalized gasp. “Of course she did.
Where d’you think she got her son Edward? Not from the king, who was struck deaf and
dumb nearly for the whole year that the child was conceived and born. I expect you
to do better
than her. You cannot doubt that you can do better than her. And Edward cannot help
but do better than a sainted half-wit, God bless the poor man. And as for the rest,
you should give your husband a son and heir, protect the poor and innocent, and further
the hopes of your family. That is all you need to do, and you can do that. Any ninny
with an honest heart, a scheming family, and an open purse can do that.”

“There will be many people who hate me,” I say. “Many who hate us.”

She nods. “Then make sure that you get the favors that you want and the places that
you need before they take the ear of the king,” she says simply. “There are only so
many great positions for your brothers; there are only a few noblemen for your sisters
to marry. Make sure that you get everything you want in the first year, and then you
have taken the high ground, and are in battle array. We are ready for whatever comes
against us, and even if your influence declines with the king, then we are still safe.”

“My lord Warwick . . .” I say nervously.

She nods. “He is our enemy,” she says. It is the declaration of a blood feud. “You
will watch him, and you will be wary of him. We will all be on our guard against him.
Him and the king’s brothers: George, the Duke of Clarence, who is always so charming,
and the boy Richard, the Duke of Gloucester. They too will be your enemies.”

“Why the king’s brothers?”

“Your sons will disinherit them. Your influence will
turn the king from them. They have been three fatherless boys together; they have
fought side by side for their family. He called them the three sons of York; he saw
a sign for the three of them in the heavens. But now he will want to be with you,
not with them. And the grants of lands and wealth that he might have given to them
will come to you and yours. George was the heir after Edward, Richard the heir after
him. As soon as you have a boy they drop one place.”

“I am going to be Queen of England,” I protest. “You make it sound like a battle to
the death.”

“It is a battle to the death,” she says simply. “That is what it means to be Queen
of England. You are not Melusina, rising from a fountain to easy happiness. You will
not be a beautiful woman at court with nothing to do but make magic. The road you
have chosen will mean that you have to spend your life scheming and fighting. Our
task, as your family, is to make sure you win.”

In the darkness of the forest he saw her, and whispered her name, Melusina, and at
that summoning she rose out of the water and he saw that she was a woman of cool and
complete beauty to the waist, and below that she was scaled, like a fish. She promised
him that she would come to him and be his wife, she promised him that she would make
him as happy as a mortal woman can, she promised him that she would curb her wild
side, her tidal nature, that she would be an ordinary wife to him, a wife
that he could be proud of; if he in return would let her have a time when she could
be herself again, when she could return to her element of water, when she could wash
away the drudgery of a woman’s lot and be, for just a little while, a water goddess
once more. She knew that being a mortal woman is hard on the heart, hard on the feet.
She knew that she would need to be alone in the water, under the water, the ripples
reflected on her scaly tail now and then. He promised her that he would give her everything,
everything she wanted, as men in love always do. And she trusted him despite herself,
as women in love always do.

My father and all my brothers ride out of Reading to greet us, so I might enter the
town with my kinsmen at my side. There are crowds along the road and hundreds watching
my father pull off his hat as he rides towards me, and then dismounts and kneels to
me in the dust, honoring me as queen.

“Get up, Father!” I say alarmed.

He rises slowly and bows again. “You must become accustomed, Your Grace,” he says
to me, his head bent to his knees.

I wait till he comes up smiling at me. “Father, I don’t like to see you bow to me.”

“You are Queen of England, now, Your Grace. Every man but one must bow to you.”

“But you will still call me Elizabeth, Father?”

“Only when we are alone.”

“And you will give me your blessing?”

His wide smile assures me that everything is the same as ever. “Daughter, we have
to play at being kings and queens. You are the newest and most unlikely queen to a
new and unlikely house. I never dreamed that you would capture a king. I certainly
never thought that this lad would capture a throne. We are making a new world here;
we are forming a new royal family. We have to be more royal than royalty itself or
nobody will believe us. I can’t say I quite believe it myself.”

My brothers all jump down from their horses, doff their caps, and kneel to me on the
public highway. I look down at Anthony, who called me a whore and my husband a liar.
“You can stay down there,” I say. “Who is right now?”

“You are,” he says cheerfully, rising up, kissing my hand, and remounting his horse.
“I give you joy of your triumph.”

My brothers come around me and kiss my hand. I smile down at them; it is as if we
are all about to burst out laughing at our own presumption. “Who’d have thought it?”
John says wonderingly. “Who would ever have dreamed it?”

“Where is the king?” I ask as we start our small procession through the gates of the
town. The streets are lined on either side with townspeople, guildsmen, apprentices,
and there is a cheer for my beauty and laughter at our procession. I see Anthony flush
when he hears a couple of bawdy jokes, and I put my hand on his gloved fist, clenched
on the pommel of his saddle.
“Hush,” I say. “People are bound to make mock. This was a secret wedding, we cannot
deny it, and we will have to live down the scandal. And you don’t help me at all if
you look offended.”

At once he assumes the most ghastly simper. “This is my court smile,” he says out
of the corner of his upturned mouth. “I use it when I talk to Warwick or the royal
dukes. How d’you like it?”

“Very elegant,” I say, trying not to laugh. “Dear God, Anthony, d’you think we will
get through this all right?”

“We will get through it triumphantly,” he says. “But we must stick together.”

We turn up the high street and now there are hastily made banners and pictures of
saints held from the overhanging windows to welcome me to the city. We ride to the
abbey; and there, in the center of his court and advisors, I see him, Edward, dressed
in cloth of gold with a scarlet cape and a scarlet hat on his head. He is unmistakable,
the tallest man in the crowd, the most handsome, the undoubted King of England. He
sees me, and our eyes meet, and it is once again as if no one else is there. I am
so relieved to see him that I give him a little wave, like a girl, and instead of
waiting for me to halt my horse and dismount and approach him up the carpet, he breaks
away from them all and comes quickly to my side and lifts me off my horse and into
his arms.

There is a roar of delighted applause from the onlookers
and a shocked silence from the court at this passionate breach of protocol.

“Wife,” he says in my ear. “Dear God, I am so glad to have you in my arms.”

“Edward,” I say. “I have been so afraid!”

“We have won,” he says simply. “We will be together forever. I shall make you Queen
of England.”

“And I shall make you happy,” I say, quoting the marriage vows. “I shall be bonny
and blithe at bed and board.”

“I don’t care a damn about dinnertime,” he says vulgarly, and I hide my face against
his shoulder and laugh.

I still have
to meet his mother; and Edward takes me to her private chambers before dinner. She
was not present during my welcome from the court, and I am right to read this as her
first snub, the first of many. He leaves me at her door. “She wants to see you alone.”

“How do you think she will be?” I ask nervously.

He grins. “What can she do?”

“That is the very thing I would like to know before I go in to face her,” I say dryly,
and walk past him as they throw open the doors to her presence chamber. My mother
and three of my sisters come with me as a makeshift court, my newly declared ladies-in-waiting,
and we step forward with all the eagerness of a coven of witches dragged to trial.

The dowager Duchess Cecily is seated on a great chair covered by a cloth of estate,
and she does not
trouble herself to rise to greet me. She is wearing a gown encrusted with jewels at
the hem and the breast, and a large square headdress that she wears proudly, like
a crown. Very well, I am her son’s wife but not yet an ordained queen. She is not
obliged to curtsey to me, and she will think of me as a Lancastrian, one of her son’s
enemies. The turn of her head and the coldness of her smile convey very clearly that
to her I am a commoner, as if she herself had not been born an ordinary Englishwoman.
Behind her chair are her daughters Anne, Elizabeth, and Margaret, dressed quietly
and modestly so as not to outshine their mother. Margaret is a pretty girl: fair and
tall like her brothers. She smiles shyly at me, her new sister-in-law, but nobody
steps forward to kiss me, and the room is as warm as a lake in December.

I curtsey low, but not very low, to Duchess Cecily, out of respect to my husband’s
mother, and behind me I see my mother sweep her grandest gesture and then stand still,
her head up, a queen herself, in everything but a crown.

“I will not pretend that I am happy with this secret marriage,” the dowager duchess
says rudely.

“Private,” my mother interrupts smartly.

The duchess checks, amazed, and raises her perfectly arched eyebrows. “I beg your
pardon, Lady Rivers. Did you speak?”

“Neither my daughter nor your son would so far forget themselves as to marry in secret,”
my mother says, her Burgundy accent suddenly revived. It is the very accent of elegance
and high style for the whole of Europe.
She could not remind everyone more clearly that she is the daughter of the Count of
Saint-Pol, Burgundian royalty by birth. She was on first-name terms with the queen,
whom she alone persists in calling Margaret d’Anjou, with much emphasis on the “d”
of the title. She was the Duchess of Bedford by her first marriage to a duke of the
royal blood, and the head of the Lancaster court when the woman seated so proudly
before us was born nothing more than Lady Cecily Neville of Raby Castle. “Of course
it was not a secret wedding. I was there and so were other witnesses. It was a private
wedding.”

“Your daughter is a widow and years older than my son,” Her Grace says, joining battle.

“He is hardly an inexperienced boy. His reputation is notorious. And there are only
five years between them.”

There is a gasp from the duchess’s ladies and a flutter of alarm from her daughters.
Margaret looks at me with sympathy, as if to say there is no escaping the humiliation
to come. My sisters and I are like standing stones, as if we were dancing witches
under a sudden enchantment.

“And the good thing,” my mother says, warming to her theme, “is that we can at least
be sure that they are both fertile. Your son has several bastards, I understand, and
my daughter has two handsome legitimate boys.”

“My son comes from a fertile family. I had eight boys,” the dowager duchess says.

My mother inclines her head and the scarf on her headdress billows like a sail filled
with the swollen
breeze of her pride. “Oh, yes,” she remarks. “So you did. But of that eight, only
three boys left, of course. So sad. As it happens, I have five sons. Five. And seven
girls. Elizabeth comes from fertile royal stock. I think we can hope that God will
bless the new royal family with issue.”

“Nonetheless, she was not my choice, nor the choice of the Lord Warwick,” Her Grace
repeats, her voice trembling with anger. “It would mean nothing if Edward were not
king. I might overlook it if he were a third or fourth son to throw himself away .
. .”

“Perhaps you might. But it does not concern us. King Edward is the king. The king
is the king. God knows, he has fought enough battles to prove his claim.”

“I could prevent him being king,” she rushes in, temper getting the better of her,
her cheeks scarlet. “I could disown him, I could deny him, I could put George on the
throne in his place. How would you like that—as the outcome of your so-called private
wedding, Lady Rivers?”

The duchess’s ladies blanch and sway back in horror. Margaret, who adores her brother,
whispers, “Mother!” but dares say no more. Edward has never been their mother’s favorite.
Edmund, her beloved Edmund, died with his father at Wakefield, and the Lancastrian
victors stuck their heads on the gates of York. George, his brother, younger again,
and his mother’s darling, is the pet of the family. Richard, the youngest of all,
is the dark-haired runt of the litter. It
is incredible that she should talk of putting one son before another, out of order.

“How?” my mother says sharply, calling her bluff. “How would you overthrow your own
son?”

“If he was not my husband’s child—”

“Mother!” Margaret wails.

“And how could that be?” demands my mother, as sweet as poison. “Would you call your
own son a bastard? Would you name yourself a whore? Just for spite, just to throw
us down, would you destroy your own reputation and put cuckold’s horns on your own
dead husband? When they put his head on the gates of York, they put a paper crown
on him to make mock. That would be nothing to putting cuckold’s horns on him now.
Would you dishonor your own name? Would you shame your husband worse than his enemies
did?”