Philippa Gregory - The Kingmaker's Daughter

L’ERBER, LONDON, FEBRUARY 1472

George the duke and Isabel his duchess keep great state in London, where their house is as grand as a palace, with hundreds of servants and George’s own guard in his livery. He prides himself on his generosity and copies my father’s rule that anyone who calls at the kitchen door at dinner time can spear his dagger with slices of meat. There is a constant stream of petitioners and tenants asking favours and needing help and the door to George’s presence chamber stands open, since he will be denied to no man, not even to the poorest tenant on his lands. Everyone is to know that if they give George their fealty they can trust him to be a good lord to them. So dozens of people, hundreds, who would otherwise be indifferent, think of George as a good lord to have, a true ally on their side, a friend they would like – and George’s power and influence widens like a flooding river.

Isabel shows herself as a grand lady, processing to her chapel, giving alms to the poor, interceding for George’s mercy whenever she may be observed to do good. I trail behind her, one of the many objects of her ostentatious charity, and from time to time someone remarks how good my sister and my brother-in-law are to me, that they took me in when I was disgraced, and that they keep me in their home though I am penniless.

I wait until I can speak to George, since I think Isabel has become nothing more than his mouthpiece, and one afternoon I happen to be passing the stable yard when he comes in and dismounts from his horse and for once there is not a great crowd around him.

‘Brother, may I speak with you?’

He starts, for I am standing in a shadowed doorway and he thought he was alone.

‘Eh? Sister, of course, of course. It is always a pleasure to see you.’ He smiles at me, his confident handsome smile, and he runs his hand through his thick blond hair in his practised gesture. ‘How may I serve you?’

‘It is about my inheritance,’ I say boldly. ‘I understand that my mother is going to stay in the abbey and I wonder what is going to happen to her lands and fortune?’

He glances up at the windows of the house as if he wishes Isabel would see us in the stable below her, and hurry down. ‘Your mother chose to take sanctuary,’ he says. ‘And her husband was a warranted traitor. Their lands are forfeit to the crown.’

‘ His lands would be forfeit, if he was an arraigned traitor,’ I correct him. ‘But he was not arraigned. And his lands were not lawfully confiscated, I don’t think. I believe the king simply gave them all to you, did he not? You are holding my father’s lands as a gift from the king without the rule of law.’

He blinks. He did not know that I knew this. Again he glances around; but though the lads come to take his horse and his whip and his gloves there is no-one to interrupt me.

‘And, anyway, my mother’s lands are still in her keeping. She has not been declared a traitor.’

‘No.’

‘I understand that you propose to take her lands away from her and keep them for Isabel and for me?’

‘This is business,’ he starts to say. ‘No need . . .’

‘So when will I get my share of the lands?’

He smiles at me, he takes my hand, he draws it through his arm and he leads me from the stable yard, through the arched door into the house. ‘Now, you should not be troubling yourself with this,’ he says, patting my hand. ‘I am your brother and your guardian, I will take care of these things for you.’

‘I am a widow,’ I say. ‘I don’t have a guardian. I have the right to own my own lands in my own right: as a widow.’

‘The widow of a traitor,’ he corrects me gently, as if he is sorry to say such things. ‘Defeated.’

‘The prince, being a prince, could not be a traitor in his own country,’ I correct him. ‘And I, though married to him, was not arraigned as a traitor. So I have a right to my lands.’

Together we walk into the great hall and, to his relief, Isabel is there with her ladies. She sees the two of us together and comes forwards. ‘What’s this?’

‘Lady Anne met me in the stable yard. I am afraid she is grieving,’ he says tenderly. ‘And worrying about things that need not concern her.’

‘Go to your room,’ Isabel says abruptly to me.

‘Not until I know when I will receive my inheritance,’ I insist. I stand still. Clearly there is not going to be a graceful curtsey and withdrawal.

Isabel looks at her husband, unsure as to what she can do to make me go. She is afraid I may start brawling again and she can hardly ask the men of the household to take hold of me and drag me away.

‘Ah, child,’ George says gently. ‘Leave this all to me, as I have told you.’

‘When? When will I receive my inheritance?’ Deliberately, I speak loudly. People are staring, the many hundreds of people that George and Isabel have as their court can hear.

‘Tell her,’ she says under her breath to him. ‘She’ll make a scene if you don’t tell her. All her life she has been the centre of attention, she will throw a tantrum . . .’

‘I am your guardian,’ he says quietly. ‘Appointed by the king. You know this? You are a widow but you are also a child, you need to have someone to house you and care for you.’

I nod. ‘I know that is what is said but—’

‘Your fortune is in my keeping,’ he interrupts. ‘Your mother’s estate will be transferred to you and Isabel. I will manage the estate for both of you until you are married, and then I will hand over your share to your husband.’

‘And if I don’t marry?’

‘Then you will always have a home with us.’

‘And you will always keep my lands?’

The swift guilty flicker across his handsome face tells me this is his plan.

‘Then surely you will never permit my marriage?’ I ask shrewdly; but he simply bows to me with great respect, kisses his hand to his wife and walks from the hall. People uncover their heads as he goes by, the women curtsey, he is a most handsome and beloved lord. He is quite deaf to me as I say again, loudly: ‘I don’t . . . I won’t . . .’

Isabel is icy. ‘Let this be the last we hear of this,’ she says. ‘Or I will have you locked in your room.’

‘You have no rights over me, Isabel!’

‘I am your guardian’s wife,’ she says. ‘And he will lock you in your room if I tell him you are slandering us. You lost at Tewkesbury, Anne, you were on the wrong side and your husband is dead. You will have to get used to being defeated.’

There are always people coming and going through the great hall of L’Erber. The duke orders that the gates to the street are open during the day, that there are braziers burning before the doors at night. I go to the hall and look for a lad, any sort of lad – not a beggar and not a thief, but a lad that might run an errand for a groat. There are dozens of them, come to work for the day, mucking out the stables or carting away the ash, bringing little things from the market to sell to the maids of the wardrobe. I crook my finger at one of them, a tow-headed urchin with a leather jerkin, and wait for him to come to me and bow.

‘D’you know the Palace of Westminster?’

‘’Course I do.’

‘Take this, and give it to someone in the household of the Duke of Gloucester. Tell them to give it to the duke. Can you remember that?’

‘’Course I can.’

‘And don’t give it to anyone else, and don’t say anything about it.’