cut low in the front, with a high girdle of pearls and long silky sleeves. I wear
it with a conical high headdress that is draped with a scarf of gray. It is bothgloriously rich and beguilingly modest, and when my mother comes to my room to see
that I am dressed, she takes my hands and kisses me on both cheeks. “Beautiful,” she
says. “Nobody could doubt that he married you for love at first sight. Troubadour
love, God bless you both.”
“Are they waiting for me?” I ask nervously.
She nods her head to the chamber outside my bedroom door. “They are all out there:
Lord Warwick and the Duke of Clarence and half a dozen others.”
I take a deep breath, and I put my hand to steady my headdress, and I nod to my maids-in-waiting
to throw open the double doors, and I raise my head like a queen, and walk out of
the room.
Lord Warwick, dressed in black, is standing at the fireside, a big man, in his late
thirties, shoulders broad like a bully, stern face in profile as he is watching the
flames. When he hears the door opening, he turns and sees me, scowls, and then pastes
a smile on his face. “Your Grace,” he says, and bows low.
I curtsey to him but I see his smile does not warm his dark eyes. He was counting
on Edward remaining under his control. He had promised the King of France that he
could deliver Edward in marriage. Now everything has gone wrong for him, and people
are asking if he is still the power behind this new throne, or if Edward will make
his own decisions.
The Duke of Clarence, the king’s beloved brother George, is beside him looking like
a true York prince, golden-haired, ready of smile, graceful even in repose,a handsome dainty copy of my husband. He is fair and well made, his bow is as elegant
as an Italian dancer’s, and his smile is charming. “Your Grace,” he says. “My new
sister. I give you joy of your surprise marriage and wish you well in your new estate.”
I give my hand and he draws me to him and kisses me warmly on both cheeks. “I do truly
wish you much joy,” he says cheerfully. “My brother is a fortunate man indeed. And
I am happy to call you my sister.”
I turn to the Earl of Warwick. “I know that my husband loves and trusts you as his
brother and his friend,” I say. “It is an honor to meet you.”
“The honor is all mine,” he says curtly. “Are you ready?”
I glance behind me: my sisters and mother are lined up to follow me in procession.
“We are ready,” I say, and with the Duke of Clarence on one side of me and the Earl
of Warwick on the other, we march slowly to the abbey chapel through a crowd that
parts as we come towards them.
My first impression is that everyone I have ever seen at court is here, dressed in their finest to honor
me, and there are a few hundred new faces too, who have come in with the Yorks. The
lords are in the front with their capes trimmed with ermine, the gentry behind them
with chains of office and jewels on display. The aldermen and councillors of London
have trooped down to be presented, the city fathers among them. The civic leaders
of Reading are there, struggling to see and beseen around the big bonnets and the plumes, behind them the guildsmen of Reading and
gentry from all England. This is an event of national importance; anyone who could
buy a doublet and borrow a horse has come to see the scandalous new queen. I have
to face them all alone, flanked by my enemies, as a thousand gazes take me in: from
my slippered feet to my high headdress and airy veil, take in the pearls on my gown,
the carefully modest cut, the perfection of the lace piece that hides and yet enhances
the whiteness of the skin of my shoulders. Slowly, like a breeze going through treetops,
they doff their hats and bow, and I realize that they are acknowledging me as queen,
queen in the place of Margaret of Anjou, Queen of England, the greatest woman in the
realm, and
it with a conical high headdress that is draped with a scarf of gray. It is bothgloriously rich and beguilingly modest, and when my mother comes to my room to see
that I am dressed, she takes my hands and kisses me on both cheeks. “Beautiful,” she
says. “Nobody could doubt that he married you for love at first sight. Troubadour
love, God bless you both.”
“Are they waiting for me?” I ask nervously.
She nods her head to the chamber outside my bedroom door. “They are all out there:
Lord Warwick and the Duke of Clarence and half a dozen others.”
I take a deep breath, and I put my hand to steady my headdress, and I nod to my maids-in-waiting
to throw open the double doors, and I raise my head like a queen, and walk out of
the room.
Lord Warwick, dressed in black, is standing at the fireside, a big man, in his late
thirties, shoulders broad like a bully, stern face in profile as he is watching the
flames. When he hears the door opening, he turns and sees me, scowls, and then pastes
a smile on his face. “Your Grace,” he says, and bows low.
I curtsey to him but I see his smile does not warm his dark eyes. He was counting
on Edward remaining under his control. He had promised the King of France that he
could deliver Edward in marriage. Now everything has gone wrong for him, and people
are asking if he is still the power behind this new throne, or if Edward will make
his own decisions.
The Duke of Clarence, the king’s beloved brother George, is beside him looking like
a true York prince, golden-haired, ready of smile, graceful even in repose,a handsome dainty copy of my husband. He is fair and well made, his bow is as elegant
as an Italian dancer’s, and his smile is charming. “Your Grace,” he says. “My new
sister. I give you joy of your surprise marriage and wish you well in your new estate.”
I give my hand and he draws me to him and kisses me warmly on both cheeks. “I do truly
wish you much joy,” he says cheerfully. “My brother is a fortunate man indeed. And
I am happy to call you my sister.”
I turn to the Earl of Warwick. “I know that my husband loves and trusts you as his
brother and his friend,” I say. “It is an honor to meet you.”
“The honor is all mine,” he says curtly. “Are you ready?”
I glance behind me: my sisters and mother are lined up to follow me in procession.
“We are ready,” I say, and with the Duke of Clarence on one side of me and the Earl
of Warwick on the other, we march slowly to the abbey chapel through a crowd that
parts as we come towards them.
My first impression is that everyone I have ever seen at court is here, dressed in their finest to honor
me, and there are a few hundred new faces too, who have come in with the Yorks. The
lords are in the front with their capes trimmed with ermine, the gentry behind them
with chains of office and jewels on display. The aldermen and councillors of London
have trooped down to be presented, the city fathers among them. The civic leaders
of Reading are there, struggling to see and beseen around the big bonnets and the plumes, behind them the guildsmen of Reading and
gentry from all England. This is an event of national importance; anyone who could
buy a doublet and borrow a horse has come to see the scandalous new queen. I have
to face them all alone, flanked by my enemies, as a thousand gazes take me in: from
my slippered feet to my high headdress and airy veil, take in the pearls on my gown,
the carefully modest cut, the perfection of the lace piece that hides and yet enhances
the whiteness of the skin of my shoulders. Slowly, like a breeze going through treetops,
they doff their hats and bow, and I realize that they are acknowledging me as queen,
queen in the place of Margaret of Anjou, Queen of England, the greatest woman in the
realm, and
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