1443 – Having produced an heir for England, Marguerite returns to court, hoping for a warm welcome.
After an uneasy Christmas season, the new year sees the divisions at court widening and deepening. I am convinced the great fissure has grown so wide that it will never now be healed. The uneasy friendship that once existed has inflated into the blackest enmity. York is like a great chained beast that, once unleashed, will tear me to pieces. I am the Frenchwoman, the whore, and he has even begun a rumour that Prince Edward is not the king’s son. It is an easy lie to believe; one look at Henry is enough to convince any man the king is not capable of begetting a child, let alone a son.
As the day of the council meeting approaches, I prepare myself. I stand at my window and watch as the dawn slowly reveals a white sky; cold, yet showing no threat of rain or worse. I have them dress me in my finest, most regal robes, and enter the meeting to discover proceedings have already begun without me. A gentleman speaking halts mid-sentence when I enter, and all heads turn toward me. Heedless of my interruption, I take a seat hastily vacated by Warwick at the head of the table.
“Gentlemen. My apologies for my late arrival. I see my absence hasn’t delayed you.”
They bow and wait for my permission to be seated. I keep them standing for as long as I can before reluctantly indicating they may sit.
“Gentlemen,” I repeat, endowing them with a brittle smile. “My advisor and I have prepared a list of five articles for the immediate future. The king is still not completely well, his illness is lasting longer than we had hoped, but the royal physicians assure me he is showing great signs of improvement. Therefore, for a short time, the governing of the country can be safely undertaken by myself and the gentlemen listed in this document.”
York stands up, opens his mouth to interrupt, but I continue to speak, raising my voice a little, determined to make my point. In truth, several of my former supporters are uneasy; not at my ability to rule in Henry’s stead, but at the obvious effect such a move will have on the atmosphere at court, where enmities increase daily, forcing men to take sides. No man should be required to choose between the Queen and the Duke of York, whose lust for power knows no bounds. But it is York who should withdraw, not I.
In more civilised countries, the solution would be obvious. There is nobody better suited to protect the well-being of my husband and son than myself, the queen. York, however, does not agree. As soon as he can make himself heard, he snarls his dissention.
“That is ludicrous. No man in England will feel safe under the rule of a woman. As the king’s heir, it is clearly my duty…”
“But you are no longer his heir,” I interject coolly. “My son, the Prince Edward, is now heir, and I am perfectly equipped for the role of regent. My own mother ran my father’s affairs for many years …”
“The affairs of a duchy! This is England, we do things properly here. There is not a man present who will agree to such a thing.”
I swallow my fear that he might be right. He will know that my allies, given the opportunity, will completely oust him from power. I school my expression to one of supreme confidence.
“You have not even glanced at the document, my lord. Perhaps you should do so and then we can continue with the day’s business.”
He snatches the parchment from the table and scowls at it, smacks it with the back of his fingers.
“This is preposterous nonsense. She demands the rule of the country, the right to appoint all officers of the realm, including the bishoprics! As you can imagine, that would leave many of us kicking our heels in the country while she turns England into another territory of France.”
I lean forward with my brows lowered.
“I would do no such thing. I am the Queen of England; the realm, the king and his heir are of supreme importance to me. I have no loyalty to France.”
He tosses the carefully drawn paper onto the table.
“I don’t know why you took the time and trouble to have such nonsense set to parchment. There are few here who will vote in your favour. Your role as queen I will grant you, but that role requires nothing more than the production of heirs. I suggest you see if you can rouse the king enough to give you one, if indeed it was he who sired your son.”
A gasp runs around the gathering. Even I am taken aback. Buckingham stands up.
“You speak treason, York, and defame your king! I demand an apology.”
I turn my head slowly toward Buckingham; it has not escaped my notice that he speaks out in defence of the king’s virility, but fails to defend my virtue. But York, knowing he has overstepped the mark, backs down.
“Forgive me, Gentlemen, I was too hot. I beg pardon.”
Again, I do not miss that he has omitted me from his apology.
“I suppose we must take a vote on it though,” he says. He reads slowly through the list of articles, his bored voice making no secret of how he expects his adherents to vote. “Those who are for, raise your hands.”
A few hands wave in the air; those I expected to cast in my favour.
“Those against?”
A bristling of fingers, as aggressive as spears, puts an end to my aspirations as Protector. Sickness washes over me, hatred and frustration that lies in my belly as bitter as poison. Without speaking, I stand up and quit the company and, as I hurry away, the sound of their derision follows me, the cruel masculine ridicule for a woman who has attempted to step from her allotted place.
God damn them all.
