Archive of Our Own ^beta

My dear Agatha, I was lamenting to you the other day over tea about the lack of any training I had for how to be a Queen, much less the Queen of all Britain, and even less the wife of a beloved husband with….certain challenges. As I recall, you advised me, rather tartly, to seek out a library, since you naturally have no knowledge of how to be a Queen yourself. I did so – or rather, I summoned the Buckingham Palace librarian for assistance – and have procured the most beautiful if fragile little cedar box full of the letters of Queen Margaret of Anjou, the wife of Henry VI, to and from her daughter-in-law Anne Neville, the Princess of Wales, which deal precisely with this topic of Queenship. As you may remember if your tutors were sufficiently versed in history, Margaret’s husband Henry VI and my beloved George suffered from similar ailments. I have found these letters both fascinating and unexpectedly applicable and have asked the Royal Archivist to write out some copies for you and a few of our other friends with complicated marital relationships. I attach when appropriate my own commentary in the margins. --Charlotte the Queen

13th of December, Anno Domini 1470, Chateau d'Amboise

By the Quene,

To my right dere and well-beloved belle-fille, Anne.

I write these words to you on the morning of the day you wed my – our – beloved Edward. I know that they may come as a surprise, since I may have seemed to resist and delay your wedding these past few months since the betrothal in July. You cannot wonder too much at my reluctance to join my house with your father, who has so often betrayed his rightful -and usurping - liege lords alike. I did not seek to hide my pleasure when my cousin the King of France forced your father to beg my forgiveness on his knees. It was no more than the schemer deserved.

But you, Anne, shy maiden that you are, I have never scorned or feared, and I wish today to welcome you into our royal family, small though it may be, and to offer some reassurances, some comfort perhaps, and, most importantly, some advice on how to be a Princess and a Quene, since you are elevated by the grace of God to such a high status. Too often, armed only with our needlework and our prayers, ladies such as we are thrust suddenly into the world of high politics and trade, expected not only to preside over a court but to form alliances domestic and foreign, set an example of virtuous womanhood for all our people high and low, manage both personal and royal estates, and, of course, produce heirs and raise them into virtuous men and gentle lords.

I cannot change the truth that you have been plucked from your schoolroom, dragged across the seas in a dire storm into exile, and now thrown by our families into the marriage bed: this is the fate of a noblewoman. But I can, perhaps, give you a net to keep you from drowning, one I bitterly wish I had possessed in my first few years in England. It is not that I was unaware, mind you, of my duties or the influence and even real power that might be accorded to a lady. My mother Isabella ruled Lorraine in her own right and Naples and Anjou as my father’s regent. She led an army to rescue my father when he was captured – just as I have with my dear Henry. My grandmother Yolande, the Queen of Four Kingdoms, had, they say, “a man’s heart in a woman’s body,” and raised and protected the Dauphin until he could become king and brought Jeanne D’Arc to power. (I know, of course, you were raised to believe in Jeanne as a witch, but my grandmother swore to me that she was truly touched by the angels and was the best chance to protect France and to show the world that women could lead.) She, too, learned to manage a king who was not always in his right mind. 

When I was betrothed to Henry, my mother told me what a fortunate and blessed marriage it was – and that I was lucky not to have been married at ten like her. She said to follow her and her mother’s example – always to support my husband and to do whatever was necessary to keep our hold on the lands and rights given to us by God. She kissed me on the forehead, told me I was strong and would endure what I must, and watched the ship as I left shore. I never saw her again.

I was still only fifteen when I wed, and now, seeing you, also barely fifteen as you walk down the aisle to kneel beside my son, I remember again how very young that is to have so many burdens thrust upon you. So first, I want to reassure you – we will not, even in these dire times, rush the coming of your womanhood. In the negotiations for my own betrothal, my mother insisted upon one term: that the marriage need not be consummated immediately. She bore my brother at the tender age of fourteen, and had five more children before she was twenty, two of them twins. I believe it nearly killed her despite her force of will and strength of heart.

Note from Charlotte in the margins: Fourteen, the poor child! It was hard enough leaving my family and becoming Queen at seventeen. They do not let us grow up, perhaps the easier to be controlled, or so they think – and I know all too well the burdens of so many babes in so few years.

The usurper and his kin have uttered many, many calumnies and slanders about the King my husband. But I, who know him best, will tell you one thing they do not value enough: Henry is kind. Even in the throes of sickness, even during the worst periods when he did not recognize me or know even that he had become a father, he remained kind and gentle. Even though he was marrying me without a dowry, attracted mostly by the stories of my beauty – though to be honest in the eyes of God I was still a gangly girl with bony hips – he acceded to my mother’s pleas and till I was eighteen he only visited my bed upon the wedding night, to formalize the marriage. Even though we both knew we needed a Prince to stave off all the greedy Dukes eying our thrones, none more so than York – he cared for my health and my childishness. Some of this, at least, was due to kindness, although, unlike most Kings, Henry also has sired no bastards. He is a temperate man in every regard, and, indeed, I believe, would rather have continued to avoid such marital duties were it not for the need for children. This has been a great relief and comfort to me. 

Note in the margins from Charlotte: Well here at least Margaret and I are different. It does not seem that she ever found much joy in the marriage bed or that her King was much interested in such pleasures. I pity her – for all that George has given me trials and tribulations, our quiet moments lying in each other’s arms and truly knowing each other body and soul have been the greatest joys of my life. Yet no wonder that she might have feared the result of such joys given her mother’s experiences and my own.

So I wish to reassure you here that I have spoken, most firmly, with my lovely Edward. After the bedding tonight, he will not press his embraces upon you until you are a full-grown woman – although, like his father, as an only child the country does of course require of him – and of you – an heir as soon as the Lord may will it. But you may choose when you feel ready to become a mother and to open your bed and, I hope, your heart to him.

17th December Anno Domini 1470, Chateau d'Amboise, By Anne Neville, Princess of Wales, to the Quene,

Honored mother-in-law and Quene, I wished to write you myself to thank you for your kind letter, which, indeed, was more reassurance and comfort than my own mother or elder sister Isabel thought to provide to me in this wedding week. They have their own troubles, I know; my sister still mourns the loss of her child, and my mother is not fond of exile. Still, I am most grateful that you amidst preparations for war took a moment to think of me and to offer me such grace. I know my duty to the realm and to my lord husband, and I will do my best to fulfill the need for an heir. But I tremble at the thought of bearing a babe when I am but newly flowered, even more after seeing my sister suffer such pains and the death of her child at birth. You spoke of advice on how to be a Princess and one day a Quene, and I would be most grateful to hear it, having been told all my life that ruling was the province of men. Yet I have seen also how, especially in times of war,  ladies must so often take on the reins at least until their husbands and fathers have returned. I do not know what to do if God bestows upon me such a burden.

15 January Anno Domini 1871 By the Quene to her belle-fille, the Princess Anne,

Perhaps ruling was the province only of men in the Golden Age where there was no war at our doorstep and where all lords upheld their oaths of fealty and duty. But that has never been my path, nor will it be yours, I fear, sweet Anne. I do not know if I would have been content to be merely a wife to Henry and a mother to my sweet Edward. I tried to be, at first, and to spend my days in a country castle attending to women’s matters, only to find that while I idled my time listening to the lute and weaving a tapestry the Yorkists were stealing my son’s inheritance out from under him. My choices, of course, were shaped by necessity due to the King’s illness.

Illness, I say, referring to the deeper malady that struck him soon after I told him we were expecting an heir, but truth be told to you, if none else – Henry was never entirely well. On our wedding night he told me he saw angels standing at the bedposts and offering their blessings, and I did not know whether he was truly gifted with divine vision, speaking gentle falsehoods to a trembling maiden, or touched with madness. So I thanked and prayed to the angels, though I could not see them. All was well till a few months later, when he burst into my chambers with a sword in the middle of the night, convinced that he heard traitorous murderers lurking in the garderobe, and nearly slaughtered my chambermaid. But then many more months would go by and Henry would remain my sweet, gentle, forgetful prince, who plucked daisies in the meadow and brought them to me to honor my name. Once he forgot his coronet in the woods and we must needs send all the privy gentlemen to search for it, swearing them all to secrecy lest the mortifying news break out.

In Charlotte’s handwriting: She understands – perhaps the first person I have read who truly does. It is the uncertainty that eats most away at the soul for wives such as we are. Much of the time – in the early days far more often than not – our husbands are as others are – loving, kind, good men if not perhaps those best suited to wear a heavy crown. And then in an instant everything can change, he knows us not, and we cannot trust him with our babes or sometimes even our own safety – and then, mostly, it passes again, but no doctor or wise man can say how or when or what treatment works for certain.

I felt nothing but pride that, when the Yorkists first sought to spread their rumors, they did not even dare to aver at first that Edward was not a true Lancaster – nay, they claimed that he was entirely a changeling, smuggled into the birthing chamber by some serving woman, because they could not allege or point to any scandal concerning my own behavior. Later, of course, they did slander me with gossip about my dear lord Somerset, most faithful of allies, but still never with proof or evidence. I know what they say -that our Edward’s lovely shining golden locks are not like the dull brown of his father or my own tresses, but I was blonde when I was young, as was my father -though you may be very grateful that your Prince is far handsomer than was his grandsire.

But – as advice for you, since my mind has wandered into the past – give the enemy no cause for suspicion whatsoever. If your lord husband does not share your bed -and as I have said he will not for some time – then do make sure to always share it with a trusted lady-in-waiting or two, as I did for many years with Jacquetta Woodville, before she betrayed me and worked her foreign magics on the usurper so that her own daughter might become a false queen. Still, Jacquetta would in our youth have sworn that none ever shared my bed but she and Henry. Perhaps the greatest trial of my life so far has been when I presented the newborn Prince to his father and he did not recognize or name him, but when the strangeness finally passed, he was the most loving parent that any boy could hope for.

So, to ruling – no one will let a woman rule alone. So you must make friends and alliances with men you can trust, men like Somerset. Do not let them ever think they could take power alone, but treat several fairly and generously, balancing their titles and positions so that each knows he may rise only with your support. Smile to all, give gifts to those whom you cannot afford to ignore, remember their children’s names and offer them positions as ladies and squires within your court. I can see now that my anger has often blinded and weakened me; rage is not a luxury a queen of England can afford. If vengeance is to be found, it will be served in winter and behind closed doors, not in open confrontation or on the battlefield. Remember, always, what your goals are - to protect your family - and who the true enemy is.

22nd January Anno Domini 1470, Chateau d'Amboise, By Anne Neville, Princess of Wales, to the Quene,

Your counsel is wise, although, while in exile, making such alliances and bestowing courtesies and favors upon the nobles is difficult, at best. Nor is it to my preference; I would rather spend my time with those I know truly care for me and enjoy my company, than those merely seeking to fawn upon me in return for benefits and good marriages. But I will do what I must to keep my family safe and to protect us from the danger of exile or death once again. I follow the Neville motto, even though my cousins used to tease me about the wordplay – ne vile velis – nothing distasteful or vulgar – and it is hard for me not to find the buying and selling of influence quite distasteful. But it is less so than losing all those I love and all the places that are home to me.

15th April Anno Domini 1471, Weymouth,

By the Quene to the Princess Anne,

We could not wait until you had awakened from your illness at crossing the Channel. Edward and I are marching north towards Wales to muster the troops of my husband’s Tudor cousins. You should remain here until you are recovered and then join us in Wales, for you are, after all, its Princess.

I regret to inform you that we have received news that the usurper met your father in battle and slew him and much of our army. This is a great loss for the cause of the true King and I fear for our Edward’s safety, but he is determined to press on and to fight for his - and of course, his father’s – throne. Henry is said to be in the Tower but the people of London have never been a friend to me and mine, too easily swayed by the usurper’s pretty face and generosity of coin.

Your mother has sought sanctuary in Beaulieu Abbey and sent messages to the usurper pledging her loyalty. As we heard rumors of before we set sail, your thrice-Judas brother-in-law George has indeed rejoined his brother the usurper, and your sister has now gone to join him. They seem to have spared no thought for you nor have they left any letters.

Anne, you are not alone.

I know what it is to feel abandoned by all those you once trusted and loved – those who you wrote in your last letter to me you wished to spend your days with – and it can shatter your very soul. While there was no love betwixt your father and myself, it is understandable that you may feel some grief at his loss. But remember, first and foremost, that your loyalty is and must be to Edward, to the King, and to me your lady mother-in-law, and we pledge in return to keep our faith with you. I will protect you as far as I am able, I swear it by the Sacred Heart of Jesus that we both hold so dear.

Follow us as soon as you are able, and may we soon be able to crown you properly as Princess of Wales.

5th of May, Tewkesbury. By the true Quene Margaret, to Anne Neville.

Your cousin, Richard, the young Duke of Gloucester, has allowed me to write to you, though I am certain he will read whatever I write to forestall any potential machinations on my part. Let him. There is naught to fight for anymore. Edward perished on the battlefield where he insisted on fighting despite my entreaties. I have lost my son, my one dear child, my sole light and last hope, and you, Anne, have lost your Prince and husband. The usurper is triumphant. I am to be sent under guard to Wallingford Castle and then perhaps to join Henry in the Tower. It will be good to see my dear, kind, gentle love again, though I fear it will not be for long. It would be foolish for the usurper not to sweep all the pieces off the board now that he has control of the game.

I swore that I would protect you, but I have nothing to offer but my counsel. Even if my cousin the King of France ransoms me, as by duty he ought, I cannot imagine they will let me keep my lands, which were never in my own name, since I was married without a dowry. I cannot provide you with a home.

But you, dear Anne, still might have a chance for some happiness in the end. You can attest– and I will swear if you wish – that there is no chance that you bear an heir for our throne. You are still an heiress in your own right, indeed, one of the wealthiest women in England. Use that wealth and the affection your Yorkist cousins may still hold for you. Gloucester asked if you were well, and, oddly, if you had well loved my son – to which I told him tartly that you well loved your duty to your family and your king and were besides but a maid of fifteen married a few scant months. He seemed pleased by my response.

Do not trust your brother-in-law of Clarence. He cares for naught but himself and perhaps your sister, and he is petty and greedy. In truth, his rages and fears remind me far too much of the darkest days endured by my dear Henry, yet without the blessings of his gentle and quiet moods. Find allies, perhaps the usurper’s mother the Duchess Cecily, and protect yourself, and do not let them take your security and your safety from you.

It is unlikely we shall meet again. Go with God, my child, and may you one day find that quiet home with your loved ones you so deeply crave. My hope is gone, but some remains for you.

25th December 1476, Anne, Duchess of Gloucester, Middleham Castle to Margaret, the Quene, Dampierre-sur-Loire.

I do not know how to address you these days, Madame, but you were once my belle-mère and in truth I still think of you as such.

I write to tell you most happy news. Richard and I have been blessed with a son, whom we have named Edward. It is, of course, for his brother the King, but I thought perhaps you might find some small comfort that I do also still remember your son and hope to offer a more peaceful and longer life to my little Ned than that granted to the Prince. We live quietly for the most part here at Middleham, in the same castle where Richard and I once played as children. My mother – who, strangely, was declared legally dead so that my sister and I might claim her lands – has come out of sanctuary finally to stay with us. While I still perhaps have trouble forgiving her for having abandoned me in my time of desperation, she dotes upon my babe. My sister Isabel has just perished of childbed fever, and George – who you were most wise to tell me not to trust at all – is behaving like a man possessed by demons or madness. So I have written to see if I may also take in my niece, another Margaret once named for you, and my young nephew.

While I mourn Isabel's loss, and indeed the losses of so many of our kin and friends in these last years, I must confess that I cannot imagine being happier than I am now. I write this beside the glowing fire in our pleasant castle surrounded by snowdrifts here in the North, with my babe in the crib beside me and my beloved husband reviewing charters at his desk in the corner. Blessings be upon you, always, for telling me to hold onto hope and offering some chance of safety and peace in the end. I hope that in your own homeland you have yourself found at least a measure of peace and serenity. I will never need now your lessons on Queenship, ones far better suited in any case to a great and ambitious lady like yourself or Elizabeth, and I am content with my small goods here at Middleham. Peace be upon you, Margaret, always.

A last note in Charlotte’s hand: I must confess, Agatha, that I found these last letters harder to read than I had imagined, especially once I spoke with the librarian about Margaret and Anne’s eventual destinies. Yet it offers me some perspective amidst my own trials and tribulations. I may shake my head at the foibles of my children, yet at least I have many, and they are healthy and strong-willed. I will wonder, always, if Margaret was able to say farewell to her Henry in the Tower before he so mysteriously died. I hope she did, and I hope that he knew her at that moment and perhaps could find one last daisy to offer her on the Tower Green as a token of his love. But perhaps I am merely wishing for one more moment myself where my husband looks at me and knows truly who I am.