Jean Plaidy - The Sun in Splendour

‘Why should my lord Warwick choose my bride?’

‘Because my lord Warwick makes all the decisions for the good of the country, does he not? And he would consider the marriage of the King a matter of the greatest importance to the country and one which only he could decide.’

Edward was staring blankly ahead of him. There was a certain twist to his mouth which was not lost to Jacquetta. She laid a hand on his knee and then withdrew it with an apology.

‘Forgive me. I forget my place. I have grown so fond of you. I am beginning to look upon you as a son ...’

She turned away and then stood up. There was a faint pinkish colour in her face.

‘My lord,’ she floundered, ‘I think you must excuse me ... I am overcome by the honour you do us. I ...’

‘Pray sit down. Your affection moves me. Do not apologise for it.’

She smiled at him. ‘Then I will be frank. You must not try to see Elizabeth again. She is my daughter and you know I am of the royal House of Luxembourg. I have brought her up to have a great regard for herself. I married as they said beneath my station. I did not consider it so. I married one who was the best husband in the world to me. But in doing so I lost my standing. I was no longer considered royal. And that is the plain fact. Elizabeth will never be your mistress and you could never make her your wife ... which is the only way that you could be together. It is a cruel hard fact, my dear. Listen to an old woman whom you yourself have called wise. Go away from here. Make the marriage Warwick will arrange for you and try to be happy. I know you will find it very hard to forget Elizabeth. But it cannot be, my dear dear lord. The only thing that could make her yours is that which you, in view of your position, cannot give her. There, I have said it and now I am overwrought. I have spoken too clearly. I have forgotten to whom I speak. I pray you forgive me. Give me leave to go and you, my lord, must join your friends. It is better for us all if you never come here again ...’

With that she rose and kneeling before him kissed his hand.

Then she left him.

She went to her bedchamber and from her window watched him ride away.

I wonder, she thought. Is it possible? No, Warwick will never allow it. But if it did come to pass, what great good fortune their beautiful Elizabeth could bring to the Woodvilles!

There was an air of suppressed excitement in the household of the Duchess of York. The King was coming. He had promised his family that he would be with them for a while and he was always one to keep his promises. Cecily, the Duchess, now mother of the King, was said to be the proudest woman in England. She would naturally have been happier if her husband had lived and taken the crown, but that Edward should have it was the next best thing of course. Cecily’s greatest ambition had been to become Queen and when she thought how narrowly she had missed it she was filled with regrets.

But now she revelled in her new state. She would never forget that there was royal blood in her veins for her mother had been Joan Beaufort, daughter of John of Gaunt and Catherine Swynford. It had seemed only right that her husband should take the throne, descended as he was from two branches of the royal family, and it had been a great tragedy when he had died at Wakefield. She could not bear to think of that day when she had heard that they had stuck his head on the walls of York with a paper crown perched on it. Ah, it was different now; and their son, their beautiful Edward, was King.

Handsome Edward had always been her favourite. He had always been a big boy and now growing to his full height he towered above all those about him. He had not taken after his father who had been dark and rather short in stature. Edward was the golden Plantagenet born again. It was wonderful to contemplate that he took after his ancestors the sons of Edward III, Lionel and John of Gaunt. Edward was the perfect Plantagenet. He was a popular king. He looked like a king; and while he had good advisers like her nephew the Earl of Warwick he would act wisely and well.

She was proud of her son. It had turned out well for the family – if only Richard had not been so foolish at Wakefield in taking an unnecessary risk. He would not have done that if she had been there. But he had lost a battle and his life and deprived her of the title of Queen. But her glorious son had taken that honour and she lived now with the state of a queen even if she had failed to win the title. Everyone must treat her with the ultimate respect. Her women must kneel to her; they must behave in every way in which they would had she been a queen in name.

She knew that behind her back they called her Proud Cis. Let them. She was proud. Proud of herself and her family and most of all proud of her beautiful son who was the King.

She had three of the children with her in London now and it was rarely that they were together. There was Margaret who was eighteen. They would find a husband for her soon, and that should not be difficult as she was the sister of the King; George was also with them; he was fifteen, her least favourite among her sons. George was inclined to be plump, self-indulgent and somewhat arrogant but she had to admit he had his share of the Plantagenet good looks; he was fairish and tall of stature but not as tall as Edward of course. Next to Edward her favourite was young Richard. Richard was quieter than his brothers, a serious boy given to learning. He was shortish and dark, taking after his father in looks. He lacked that gaiety which was a characteristic of Edward and George; he lacked their impulsive ways. He was serious, thoughtful and she had always believed cleverer than the others. He would always hesitate before giving an answer and one felt he wanted to weigh all points of view before speaking.

Sometimes she was a little worried about Richard. His frame was delicate and now that he was growing – he was twelve years old – it seemed to her that one shoulder was a little higher than the other – almost imperceptible but detected by a maternal eye. She had spoken to Warwick about it for she feared that at Middleham Richard might be set strenuous martial exercises which were too much for him.

Like all boys of noble houses Richard had been sent into another noble house to be brought up and Edward had thought Warwick’s castle of Middleham was the right place for Richard. Edward doted on Warwick. No wonder. It was Warwick who had made him King. So to Middleham to be brought up in Warwick’s household Richard had been sent. Warwick himself would almost always be away somewhere, but he would have laid down the rules of conduct for the noble boys who came into his castle. Cecily was glad that the Countess of Warwick was there for she was a gentle lady. It was strange to think that through her Warwick had received his wealth and titles. Richard was very fond of the Countess as he was of Warwick’s two daughters Isabel and Anne. So perhaps she should not worry too much about Richard’s health. When she had mentioned it to Edward he had laughed at her.

‘Richard has to grow up as a man, dear lady,’ he said. ‘And I can tell you there is none more qualified to bring out the best in him than my cousin Warwick.’

Even when Edward spoke his name she could hear the reverence in it. She was glad he felt like that. She, too, had the utmost faith in Warwick, for Edward, she was fully aware, much as she loved him, was too fond of pleasure. This continual pursuit of women was all very well while he was so young but when he married he would have to give it up, or conduct his adventures more discreetly.

Perhaps she should have a word with him about that. He would be a little impatient, but he would never silence his mother of course. He was too well mannered to do that.

Margaret, George and Richard were awaiting the King’s arrival with great excitement. Richard was thinking: As soon as I hear the horses I shall be down there to greet him. I will stand and wait and perhaps he will notice me.

Richard adored Edward. From the time he was a child this great and glorious brother had been like a god to him. He had followed his adventures avidly. When Edward was defeated Richard was sunk in melancholy; when Edward was victorious none rejoiced more than he.

‘You are besotted about our brother,’ George had said contemptuously.

‘Our brother is the King,’ Richard had replied with dignity.

George had shrugged his shoulders. It was only an accident of birth. If he had been the eldest he would have been King. He would have been the one everyone came out to cheer and all the women beckoned into their beds. Life was rather unfair, he thought. It could so easily have been George.

Margaret also admired Edward. He was always good-natured and made everyone feel slightly more important than they were. Perhaps that was the secret of his charm. It might be, but even if he did not mean it it was pleasant to pretend for a while that he did.

Soon he would find a husband for her. It was inevitable really now that he was King. Her two elder sisters Anne and Elizabeth were already married; Anne to Henry Holland Duke of Exeter and Elizabeth to John de la Pole the Duke of Suffolk. Yes, it would certainly be her turn next and now that Edward was King – her sisters had been married before that happy event – hers might well be a very grand marriage indeed.

But what they were all discussing now was the King’s marriage. Her mother had told her that the bride would very likely be Bona of Savoy, sister to the King of France. It would be a very grand wedding of course and after that there would be the new Queen’s coronation.