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Excerpt 3:
1481 - Dampierre-sur-Loire, Anjou
I am the dowager queen, and I should be in England, housed in splendour, lauded, pampered, surrounded by royal grandchildren but instead I am exiled, confined to this backwater in France. Queen of obscurity, of notoriety. I curse each day as it dawns, bringing another unendurable four and twenty hours in which to think … to remember. Little more than a pauper, I am a pensioner of King Louis. I am exiled, ousted and excluded from the country over which I once ruled. Defeat sits heavily on me. My body pains me, my heart aches and my mind is tortured. How did it ever come to this?
I am a victim of treason, betrayal and regicide. Yes – regicide, the cold-blooded murder of an anointed king and the theft of his crown. Gentle Henry, my husband was brought low by the ambition of the cursed Duke of York and his devil-spawned son.
Even while serving the fifth Henry in France, York chafed against Lancaster, smarting each time a better man was shown greater favour than himself. He coveted riches, he coveted power, no matter the cost, and he sneered at Henry’s efforts to reign peaceably.
The moment I arrived in England as Henry’s queen, I became the focus for York’s hatred. He despised me as a foreigner and a woman, and believing their claim superior to that of Lancaster, the House of York coveted the crown for years. They misliked the way Henry heeded my advice. My directives influenced the king more often than York’s and oh, how that wounded him!
For a long time, our mutual dislike simmered, increasing and spreading like bubbles in a boiling pot until it became so hot, so virulent that it overflowed, splitting the court asunder and forcing cousin to side against cousin.
As England’s noble houses wrought violence against themselves and kin slaughtered kin, dark clouds gathered over England and the rivers ran with blood. With York so close to the crown he could almost grasp it, civil war was inevitable. Spurred on by his kinsmen and his litter of flea-ridden pups, York reached out for what was mine, and in the end, he took it.
On the day we slew York and his son at Wakefield I thought we had won, but his spawn soon replaced him. The repugnant Edward took up his father’s banner. Edward the regicide, the usurper who killed my son, and murdered my king. They locked me away but even when I begged to be allowed to die, he forced me to live.
My life since has been worse than a thousand deaths.
I can barely recall the young, green girl I once was, unskilled in policy, and a stranger to the country I would come to love.
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| The story of the events that led to The Battle of Hastings in 1066 Harold the King (UK edition) I Am The Chosen King (US edition) AND 1066 Turned Upside Down an anthology of 'What If'' 1066 tales  |
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Morning Helen, thank you for hosting. It looks like auto correct has changed my name to ‘Arnold’ but it’s not the first time - lol.
ReplyDeleteHa, Judith! My blog also keeps suggesting that every time I type your last name. ;-)
DeleteThank you so much for hosting Judith Arnopp today, with an intriguing excerpt from her compelling novel, Marguerite: Hell Hath No Fury!.
ReplyDeleteTake care,
Cathie xx
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