The Lancastrian Queen

Chapter 8

December of 1449 – London, England.

 

A few months living in the English court were enough to teach Margaret that she had been lied to.

She would not be a merry wife; she was barely a wife at all. After the disastrous wedding night, the King had barely visited her rooms. It was no surprise to her that people would whisper about her, wondering what was wrong with the Queen, who had not yet conceived. The truth was, that was the kind version of the true rumour, that was that the young couple had not consumed the act. What could possibly be wrong with the Queen? Because King Henry was obviously a young, strong man, not to mention he was very handsome. Any woman in Europe would die for such match. There was no reason to believe he would not be able to do his duty, unless the Queen did not please him. What could possibly be wrong with the fair-faced French princess? Because, as Margaret came to realise in a bitter morning, God forbid the English to think there was a problem with their King.

She would not be a beloved Queen either; at first, the Londoners were fascinated by her. An exquisite beauty from France, so willing and graceful, she seemed to be the perfect match. But then, someone had discovered the deal between England and France to hand over the lands of Maine and Anjou back to the French, and spread the fact. Suddenly, the new Queen did not seem so appealing anymore. It was as if she had specially requested for the lands herself, as the whim of a vain French girl. Once again, the animosity between the kingdoms had been awakened. And Margaret was the pivot of all that.

“This is not fair,” she said one day to Jacquetta, who calmly combed her long fair hair. “Jacquetta, why is it being so hard? This is supposed to be my greatest joy; I’m married to the King of England, I am his Queen, but my people hate me. My own people!”

“It is part of being a Queen,” the Duchess replied patiently. “Sometimes, you will have to deal with hardness. Just be graceful.”

“Hardness?” She turned her head to look at Jacquetta with surprise. “Jacquetta, they hate me!”

“Now, do not exaggerate!” The older woman smiled to the Queen. “After all, you are the woman who will give birth to the next King of England!”

Margaret turned her face away to hide her expression, but Jacquetta did not miss it from the reflection on the mirror.

“Has it not yet happened?” she whispered.

“It barely has.” Margaret sighed. “I think ever since our wedding night, he has bedded me twice. And it was… awkward and quick. ”

And so, the Queen became the main target of laughter, after four years wearing the Crown of England and being unable to bear a son. Her popularity had only gotten worse because of this fact. Jacquetta had advised the young Queen to try conquering their hearts by being a merry queen.

“Oh, it is easy for you to say, Jacquetta.” Margaret would reply bitterly. “You don’t know the pain that is to not have a baby in the cradle. You don’t know the pressure, the feeling that everyone is judging you…”

Because Jacquetta, ever since Margaret had become queen four years before, had given birth to three healthy River babies, two girls and a boy, and she was already expecting the next.

“You deliver babies like Merry the Mare,” Margaret remarked with jealousy, looking at the Duchess’ tall belly. “Every year you are with child.”

“Yes.” Jacquetta could not help but to beam with pride; she had left everything behind to marry the man she loved, the squire of her first husband. She was married to the Duke of Bedford, the most powerful man in England after the King himself, being his uncle and the keeper of his lands in France. That was where he met the seventeen year-old Jacquetta of Luxembourg, a lady of such high rank as of a princess, the granddaughter of the Demoiselle of Luxembourg, and the most beautiful creature he had ever laid his eyes upon. They married after a brief engagement, and Jacquetta moved to England, a strange land she had only heard about all her life. She feared the mud roads, the freezing winters and the deadly heat. Most of all, she feared what people would think of her, a girl, practically a child, married to a man old enough to be her father, maybe even her grandfather. And a French girl, to make things more complicated.

But Jacquetta did not count on the open hearts of the Londoners. They loved her at first sight, when she walked into London mounted in her white mare, her young face irradiating happiness, a fresh vision to everyone. Jacquetta’s beauty had been a target of gossip all over the kingdom, but no one could ever imagine that the Duchess of Bedford would be so beautiful. She seemed to have come out of a fairytale; her golden hair waved perfectly down her shoulders, framing her delicate angelic face. Her eyes were of a mystique grey, a watery tone that well suited the heiress of the House of Luxembourg, famous for the legend of Melusina, the water goddess, being the founder of the dynasty. No one who laid eyes on Jacquetta would doubt she was the descendent of a goddess.

John, the Duke of Bedford, died a year after his marriage to Jacquetta, leaving her as the wealthiest widow in England. She had inherited land in England and France, houses and a fortune, and she was not yet nineteen, a blossoming young woman on the edge of her beauty and with all the marriage prospects a girl could ever wish for. However, she put it all aside and married Richard Woodville, the squire of the late Duke, a man whose most valuable property was a small manor in Kent. The young Duchess chose to live with her new husband, and lost all her fortune, since she married without royal consent. It did not matter; that was the life she had chosen, her happy place.

Eventually, the King forgave them, after they paid a fine of £1000. Even after marrying so below her ranking, Jacquetta still outranked all ladies in court, with the exception of the Queen. Everyone addressed to her as the Duchess of Bedford, and she was still beloved by the Londoners, who remembered the beautiful lady entering London years back. At the age of thirty-three, her beauty had not faded at all.

“It is not as easy for me as it is for you,” Margaret said. “You are beautiful, the people love a pretty face.”

“You are beautiful as well.”

The Queen smiled sadly; in truth, Margaret was beautiful. She had arrived in England as a pretty French princess, scared, innocent and willful, but four years had transformed her into a cold beauty; the hardness in her light eyes, sharp as knives, were enough to silence anyone. Her traces seemed to have been sculpted in marble. Margaret was not yet twenty years old, yet she had the posture of a much older woman.

“Compared to you, I am nothing.”

“Then do not compare, why should you compare us?” Jacquetta censured her. “You are the Queen of England, the most important woman in the kingdom.”

“And my own people won’t acknowledge that.”

“Smile,” she replied sharply. “And do not stop smiling. As you said so wisely, the people do love a pretty face. And it takes more than fair looks to form beauty. A smile, a warm glance, a sigh, all that highlights your beauty and makes you much more likeable.”

“How can I smile, Jacquetta?” Margaret protested. “How can I go out there and smile to them, when I know they speak behind my back? I shall not make a fool of myself!”

The Duchess looked down, discreetly shaking her head. Then there was no help, that was she would be thinking. Margaret knew her friend was right, and she should try anything to conquer her people. But her female pride was too hurt for that.

“They will have to like me,” she said, uncertain. “I am the Queen.”