‘Margaret? You like them young, do you? And you a married man, William Pole! What does it matter what she looks like? She’s almost fourteen and a virgin; that’s all that matters. She could be covered in warts and moles and our Henry would say “If you think I should, Derry,” and that’s the truth of it.’
Derry came to stand at Suffolk’s shoulder, noting to himself how the older man seemed more bowed down than he had when he’d entered.
‘They know you in France, William. They knew your father and your brother — and they know your family has paid its dues. They’ll listen to you, if you take this to them. We’ll still have the north and all the coast. We’ll still have Calais and Normandy, Picardy, Brittany — all the way to Paris. If we could hold all that and Maine and Anjou as well, I’d be raising the flags and marching with you. But we can’t.’
‘I’ll need to hear this from the king before I go back,’ Suffolk said, his eyes bleak.
Derry looked away uncomfortably.
‘All right, William. I understand. But you know … No, all right. You’ll find him in the chapel. Maybe you can interrupt his prayers, I don’t know. He’ll agree with me, William. He always bloody agrees.’
Across a swathe of frozen, crunching grass, the two men walked in darkness to the Windsor chapel, dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, Edward the Confessor and St George. In starlight, with his breath misting before him, Derry nodded to the guards at the outer door as they passed through into a candlelit interior that was almost as cold as the night outside.
The chapel seemed empty at first, though Suffolk sensed and then caught glimpses of men standing among the statues. In dark robes, they were almost invisible until they moved. Footsteps on stone echoed in the silence as the watchers walked towards the two men, faces hard with their responsibility. Twice, Derry had to wait until he was recognized before he could make his way along the nave towards the lone figure at prayer.
The monarch’s seat was almost enclosed in carved and gilded wood, lit by dim lamps hanging far above. Henry knelt there with his hands out in front of him, tight-clenched and rigid. His eyes were closed and Derry sighed softly to himself. For a time, he and Suffolk just stood and waited, gazing on the upraised face of a boy, lit gold in the darkness. The king looked angelic, but it broke both their hearts to see how young he seemed, how frail. It was said his birth had been a trial for his French mother. She had been lucky to survive and the boy had been born blue and choking. Nine months later and his father, Henry V, was dead, torn from life by simple sickness after surviving a lifetime of war. There were some who said it was a blessing that the battle king had not lived to see his son become a man.
In the gloom, Derry and Suffolk looked at each other in silence, sharing the same sense of loss. Derry leaned close.
‘It could be hours yet,’ he whispered into Suffolk’s ear. ‘You’ll have to interrupt or we’ll be here till morning.’
In response, Suffolk cleared his throat, the sound louder than he had intended in the echoing silence. The king’s eyes fluttered open, as if he was returning from very far away. Slowly, Henry turned his head, taking in the two men standing there. He blinked, then smiled at them both, crossing himself and muttering a final prayer before rising on legs made stiff from hours of stillness.
Suffolk watched his king fumble with the latch of the monarch’s seat before stepping down and approaching him. Henry left the pool of light behind, so that they could not see his face as he came close.
Both men knelt, Suffolk’s knees protesting. Henry chuckled over their bowed heads.
‘My heart is full to see you, Lord Suffolk. Come now, stand up. The floor is too cold for old men. I’m sure that’s right. I hear my chambermaid complaining, though she doesn’t know I’m there. She’s younger than you, I think. Up, both of you, before you catch a chill.’
As Derry stood, he opened the lamp he carried, spreading light across the chapel. The king was dressed in the simplest of clothes, just plain dark wool and blunt leather shoes like any townsman. He wore no gold and, with the look of a boy, he might have been an apprentice in some trade that did not require too much strength.
Suffolk searched the young man’s face for some trace of the father, but the eyes were guileless and the frame was slender, showing no sign of the massive strength of his bloodline. Suffolk almost missed the bandages on Henry’s hands. His gaze snagged on them and Henry held them up into the light, his face flushing.
‘Sword practice, Lord Suffolk. Old Marsden says they’ll harden, but they just bleed and bleed. I thought for a while …’ He caught himself, raising one bound finger to tap lightly at his mouth. ‘No, you have not come from France to see my hands. Have you?’
‘No, Your Grace,’ Suffolk answered gently. ‘Can you grant me a moment? I have been talking to Master Brewer about the future.’
‘No beer from Derry!’ Henry said. ‘The only Master Brewer with no beer!’
It was an old jest, but both the older men chuckled dutifully. Henry beamed at them.
‘In truth, I cannot go from this place. I am allowed to take a break each hour, for water or to fill a pot, but then I must return to my prayers. Cardinal Beaufort told me the secret and the burden is not too great.’
‘The secret, Your Grace?’
‘That the French can’t come while a king prays, Lord Suffolk! With my hands, even bandaged as they are, I hold them back. Isn’t that a wonderful thing?’
Suffolk breathed slowly in and out, silently cursing the young man’s great-uncle for his foolishness. There was no purpose in having Henry waste his nights in such a way, though Suffolk imagined it made it easier for those around him. Somewhere nearby, Cardinal Beaufort would be sleeping. Suffolk resolved to wake him up and have him join the boy in prayers. A king’s prayers could only be gilded by those of a cardinal, after all.
Derry had been listening closely, waiting to speak.
‘I’ll clear the men away, my lord Suffolk. Your Grace, with your permission? This is a private matter, best not overheard.’
Henry gestured for him to carry on while Suffolk smiled at the formal tone. For all Derry’s bitterness and scorn, he was cautious in the presence of the king. There would be no blasphemy in that chapel, not from him.
The king seemed not to notice the half-dozen men Derry ushered out of the chapel into the frozen night. Suffolk was cynical enough to suspect one or two remained in the darkest alcoves, but Derry knew his own men and Henry’s patience was already wearing thin, his gaze drifting back to his place of prayer.
Suffolk felt a surge of affection for the young king. He had watched Henry grow with the hopes of an entire country on his shoulders. Suffolk had seen those hopes falter and then crumble into disappointment. He could only guess how hard it had been for the boy himself. Henry was not stupid, for all his strangeness. He would have heard every barbed comment made about him over the years.
‘Your Grace, Master Brewer has vouchsafed a plan to bargain for a wife and a truce together, in exchange for two great provinces of France. He believes the French will deliver a truce in exchange for Maine and Anjou.’
‘A wife?’ Henry said, blinking.
‘Yes, Your Grace, as the family in question has a suitable daughter. I wanted …’ Suffolk hesitated. He could not ask whether the king understood what he was saying. ‘Your Grace, there are English subjects living in both Maine and Anjou. They would be evicted if we give them up. I wanted to ask if it isn’t too high a price to pay for a truce.’
‘We must have a truce, Lord Suffolk. We must. My uncle the cardinal says so. Master Brewer agrees with him — though he has no beer! Tell me of the wife, though. Is there a picture?’
Suffolk closed his eyes for an instant before opening them.
‘I will have one made, Your Grace. The truce, though. Maine and Anjou are the southern quarter of our lands in France. Together, they are as great as
‘What is her name, this girl? I cannot call her “girl” or even “wife”, now can I, Lord Suffolk?’
‘No, Your Grace. Her name is Margaret. Margaret of Anjou.’
‘You will go to France, Lord Suffolk, and you will see her for me. When you return, I shall want to hear every detail.’
Suffolk hid his frustration.
‘Your Grace, do I have it right that you are willing to lose lands in France for peace?’
To his surprise, the king leaned in close to reply, his pale blue eyes gleaming.
