Afterward, they rowed to Dover shore and tossed his body there in a heap, like debris from a slaughterhouse. They stuck his head on a pole they had and set it near the body; his confessor had to watch all this. Then they came back for us and stripped us of any valuables we had and brought us to shore alongside him in the same boat they’d used to murder the duke in.”
“Does he lie on Dover sands now?” Lady Scales asked.
“No. There was a crowd that collected to jeer at him and us, but a couple of us managed to slip away and borrow a horse to get to the sheriff, and he sent armed men to assist us and linen to wrap the body in. And a wagon to take him away. He lies at St. Martin’s in Dover now, and the sheriff has sent to the king for instructions about what to do with the body.”
“Does his widow know of this?”
“Yes. She was in London—arranging some of her lord’s business, in fact. She is on her way home to Ewelme and is bearing up as well as can be expected.”
I commanded myself enough to rise and to say to my chamberlain, “See to it that every assistance she needs is given to her. And make certain the king is informed of this so he can assist her also.”
“Yes, your grace.”
“And now I wish to be alone. Lady Scales, take me to my chamber.”
Lady Scales obeyed and led me to my private chamber. There, I clutched the poem Suffolk had copied for me to my chest and wept for three days straight.
***
“Your grace cannot keep on like this,” said Jacquetta of Luxembourg, Duchess of Bedford, three days later. A Frenchwoman like myself, she had been married at seventeen to John, Duke of Bedford, a younger brother of Henry V. Widowed after scarcely two years of marriage, she had scandalized her family by marrying one Richard Woodville, the son of her husband’s chamberlain. The marriage was by all accounts a most happy one, and a fruitful one as well; even in my bleary-eyed state I noted that yet another Woodville was growing in the duchess’s belly. “You will die at this rate, weeping and not sleeping and not eating, and what if perchance your grace should be with child?” She patted her belly absently. “It cannot thrive if you mourn so.”
“The Duchess of Bedford is right,” put in the Duchess of Buckingham, the older of the ladies for whom Lady Scales, fearing for my life, had sent. She sighed, for she had lost four of her seven sons in early childhood. “We know that the Duke of Suffolk was close to your grace’s heart, but you can do him no good by starving yourself.”
“And the king will be most grieved if you sicken,” said Lady Scales. “Please, your grace, for his sake. The Duke of Suffolk would not want to see you ruin your health,” she added coaxingly.
I stared listlessly past the gaggle of ladies standing round me to my damsels, who had given way to their seniors. They had been sewing, but now I noticed that they were passing a piece of paper around. “What is that?” I demanded.
Katherine Peniston made a move as if to hide the paper she held. “N-nothing, your grace.”
“Of course it is something, or you would not be saying that.” I frowned. “I hope you are not receiving letters from William Vaux.” William, thirteen like Katherine and one of my pages, had been eying the well-developed Katherine for some time, I had noticed. She had been eying him back as well. “I will not have you conducting yourself in such a manner. Don’t you think I have more to concern myself with at present than your love business? Give it here.”
Katherine sighed and handed it over. “I wish it were what your grace thinks it is, but it is not. It is a horrid thing. Please pay it no mind.”
I took the paper impatiently. As soon as I took it into my hand I found that it was certainly not a personal letter; it bore nail holes and had obviously been ripped from a wall. It read:
In the month of May when grass grows green,
Fragrant in her flowers with sweet savor,
Jack
“Does he lie on Dover sands now?” Lady Scales asked.
“No. There was a crowd that collected to jeer at him and us, but a couple of us managed to slip away and borrow a horse to get to the sheriff, and he sent armed men to assist us and linen to wrap the body in. And a wagon to take him away. He lies at St. Martin’s in Dover now, and the sheriff has sent to the king for instructions about what to do with the body.”
“Does his widow know of this?”
“Yes. She was in London—arranging some of her lord’s business, in fact. She is on her way home to Ewelme and is bearing up as well as can be expected.”
I commanded myself enough to rise and to say to my chamberlain, “See to it that every assistance she needs is given to her. And make certain the king is informed of this so he can assist her also.”
“Yes, your grace.”
“And now I wish to be alone. Lady Scales, take me to my chamber.”
Lady Scales obeyed and led me to my private chamber. There, I clutched the poem Suffolk had copied for me to my chest and wept for three days straight.
***
“Your grace cannot keep on like this,” said Jacquetta of Luxembourg, Duchess of Bedford, three days later. A Frenchwoman like myself, she had been married at seventeen to John, Duke of Bedford, a younger brother of Henry V. Widowed after scarcely two years of marriage, she had scandalized her family by marrying one Richard Woodville, the son of her husband’s chamberlain. The marriage was by all accounts a most happy one, and a fruitful one as well; even in my bleary-eyed state I noted that yet another Woodville was growing in the duchess’s belly. “You will die at this rate, weeping and not sleeping and not eating, and what if perchance your grace should be with child?” She patted her belly absently. “It cannot thrive if you mourn so.”
“The Duchess of Bedford is right,” put in the Duchess of Buckingham, the older of the ladies for whom Lady Scales, fearing for my life, had sent. She sighed, for she had lost four of her seven sons in early childhood. “We know that the Duke of Suffolk was close to your grace’s heart, but you can do him no good by starving yourself.”
“And the king will be most grieved if you sicken,” said Lady Scales. “Please, your grace, for his sake. The Duke of Suffolk would not want to see you ruin your health,” she added coaxingly.
I stared listlessly past the gaggle of ladies standing round me to my damsels, who had given way to their seniors. They had been sewing, but now I noticed that they were passing a piece of paper around. “What is that?” I demanded.
Katherine Peniston made a move as if to hide the paper she held. “N-nothing, your grace.”
“Of course it is something, or you would not be saying that.” I frowned. “I hope you are not receiving letters from William Vaux.” William, thirteen like Katherine and one of my pages, had been eying the well-developed Katherine for some time, I had noticed. She had been eying him back as well. “I will not have you conducting yourself in such a manner. Don’t you think I have more to concern myself with at present than your love business? Give it here.”
Katherine sighed and handed it over. “I wish it were what your grace thinks it is, but it is not. It is a horrid thing. Please pay it no mind.”
I took the paper impatiently. As soon as I took it into my hand I found that it was certainly not a personal letter; it bore nail holes and had obviously been ripped from a wall. It read:
In the month of May when grass grows green,
Fragrant in her flowers with sweet savor,
Jack
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