April 1477. Kings Langley, England.
Someone spoke to her, and told her to drink and eat. She ignored them, though they came at every moment. Newcomers came, physicians and priests. Father Etienne who came with her from France was the most insistent, telling her about the healing attributes of time, the price of life and the pain of death. He thought he could rouse her from her bed with his words, but he didn't know.
No one knew what it was like. No one could understand her properly. Whenever someone new came, she simply blinked her tears away and when she opened her eyes once more, they were gone.
Even if they stayed, it would not work. Magdalena could not hear them properly; she felt as if she was underwater, removed from the world and of men. Trapped in an ocean of her own, the waves coming to swallow her down every few seconds. Her stomach felt heavy with the water she had swallowed, her lungs wet with salty tears that spilt down her eyes.
She thought of Peggy. Sweet Peggy, with deep dimples on her chubby cheeks and large smiles that came easily. She had been born in February, on a cold day without snow or rain and Magdalena named her after Lady Richmond. She gave her the name of her first friend in England, the same friend she trusted to look after the Princess of Wales and be godmother to Peggy. Was it some sort of joke that the day the nursemaid kissed her sweet cheek was the same day she completed three years of age?
And Nan. Too young, far too young. She wasn't even a year of age, and could not talk nor walk. Lady Hastings said she had four teeth already, but she didn't want to be introduced to solid food and insisted on nursing as frequently as she did before. Why would the Lord take her so soon? Why would He not allow them both the chance to enjoy life as He created?
As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Magdalena sobbed harder. Grief made her blasphemous, but she held tightly to the rosary in her hand, kissing the beads and the silver cross. The Lord had a plan, she knew He did, and it was not her prerogative to question Him.
In those long days where she ate little and spoke even less, Magdalena thought about her children. Not just Ned, Magdalene or Ceci and the others, but the ones she had lost. George, Peggy and Nan. They all died of illnesses that could have been avoided, they were all killed at the hands of others.
She opened her Book of Hours to the page where she noted down the births of her children, and the happy moments in their lives so she could remember them in her prayers.
15th of April, 1465 AD Edward
7th of April, 1466 AD Magdalene
27th of December, 1467 AD Cecily
13th of October, 1468 AD Richard
24th of November, 1469 AD Catherine
26th of February, 1472 AD George 2nd of March, 1473 AD
3rd of March, 1473 AD Mary
13th of February, 1474 AD Margaret 11th of March, 1477
2nd of February, 1475 AD Edmund
7th of June, 1476 AD Anne 15th of March, 1477
In the thirteen years since she became Queen of England, Magdalena had given birth to ten children. Four boys and six girls, beautiful and precious children that stole her heart for every breath that they took. They had grown and matured deep in her body, giving her constant nausea and pain, but she had done it because it was her duty. Because Louis told her to marry Edward and look happy while doing so. The least they could do, after all she had done for them, was to stay alive.
Was it fair? No, it was not fair. Nothing was ever fair. If it was fair, Gaston would have… He would have…
Magdalena stopped. She had no thought of her first husband in months, maybe even years. At first, she had loved and adored him with all her heart, but now, she could see the truth. If Gaston had lived, she never would have produced those precious ten children. She never would have lived the life and perhaps, she would have suffered less, but…
She thought of George. Not her brother-in-law, who was surely burning in Hell at that moment for his many crimes, but her little son. The Duke of Bedford. If he had lived, George would be all of five. He would have been given over to his tutors and would have stopped wearing those heavy gowns that little boys wore. Maybe, he would have been the one to marry Maggie of Clarence instead of Ed.
How different would life be if George had lived? Magdalena closed her eyes and tried to imagine, but she couldn't. She couldn't even try to think about his little face beyond the age of one, grown into middle childhood.
She opened her eyes at the thud before her. Magdalena was sitting in her chair before the hearth, with a table pushed close and Edward had entered the room while she was distracted. By his order, someone placed a platter of food on the table, a man who quickly scurried away and left her alone with her husband.
"Eat," said Edward.
Magdalena, who was looking at him, averted her eyes. She stared at the flames, tall flames that seemed to her like women dancing in fiery halls.
"I'm not hungry," she answered.
"I don't care," Edward responded and she looked at him, really looked at him. He was towering over her, engulfed by shadows. "Will you waste away because of the loss? What of the children that we still have? Will they lose their mother as well as their sisters?"
“How can you say this to me?” Magdalena asked, forcing herself to stand up. She felt dizzy and woozy, but she placed one hand on the back of her chair and looked up at her husband. “How can I eat when Peggy and Nan…? When they are lost to me?”
“They are lost to me too,” Edward said, jaw tense. “They were my daughters too, Magdalena. I loved them and I miss them every day.”
She shook her head. “A mother’s love does not die with her child,” she answered. “But you can never know the measure of my pain. In truth, you never truly cared for your daughters, not like you love your sons.”
His blue eyes burned with anger, but she could not hold back. For years, those feelings had been stuck in her throat, choking her and she could not swallow them down any longer. Magdalena stepped forward until her nose was close to his chest, feeling the smell of lilies and rosewater stuck to the fabric.
“I can smell her in you,” she murmured. “Your little whore.”
“Magdalena…” Edward started.
“Do you take me for a fool?” Magdalena asked, raising her eyes to look at him. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice, you sneaking around with the Countess of Erroll? Or how the Duchess of Gloucester barely talks to the woman who was once a close friend of hers? Do you really think I’m that blind?”
“It is my right to take mistresses when you are with child,” said Edward. “A King has his needs.”
“But do you have to do it so often?” she shrieked. “Do you have to humiliate me so eagerly, unable to hide your taste for pretty ladies or the money you pay to their husbands? Do you have to do that, Edward?”
“These liaisons mean nothing to me…”
“But they mean everything to me!” Magdalena responded, shaking with anger. “Every single one of your little doves is a stab at my dignity, at my self-love. They are standing proof that you don’t see me as good enough for you, not womanly enough.” She shook her head. “I know about Lady Erroll’s child, about the house down in the Thames that you bought for her. You lay with her as if you love her!”
“Is this what this is about?” Edward asked. He walked away from her, turning his back to her. “I thought you were grieving our girls, but you only nurse your wounded pride.”
She slapped him. It was not a decision made in advance, but one on instinct. A sudden urge to have him ache as she did, to hurt him as he did hers. “Salaud,” she whispered in a harsh tone that would have made her mother box her ears.
But Marie de Anjou had been dead for more than a decade and there was no one else to hear her but her husband.
Edward ran a hand down the cheek she had slapped, the skin blooming red and she held her breath, even as she could feel her chest aching to expand to take in more air. She could not breathe, she could not even think.
“I see you can’t restrain yourself,” he murmured, not looking at her. “I will not bother you again. Be sure of that, my lady wife.”
The formal strictness in his voice made her pause, merely watching as he turned and walked out. Magdalena jumped when the door closed with a bang, her ankles weak and she sat down once more, pressing a hand to her forehead. Her entire body felt weak, her head heavy and she wanted nothing more than to sleep again, but she knew she couldn’t. When was the last time she had eaten anything more than a few bites of bread in the morning? In truth, the Queen could not remember.
But what truly made her eat again was not her broken heart or the reasonable voice in her ear. Instead, it was the sharp, sudden movement deep in her belly, like a butterfly first opening its wings to take flight. A sob, lodged in her throat, escaped her open mouth and Magdalena cried, for sorrow, for guilt and for happiness. She had been distracted with grief, with pain that she didn’t even notice the telltale initial signs. Now, she saw them for what they truly were: not a recognition of death, but the start of life.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” she whispered to her belly. “I’m sorry you had to see this. I will eat now, I promise.” Then, with a ravenous stomach, she cut a large slice of the cheese available, thinking about the new heir to the House of York that would come by the end of the year.
--
Church of St Leonard, England.
Philippa and Joan were weeping before the altar, faces red and breaths gasping as Richard placed a hand on their shoulders. He tried to be a haven for them, a place of comfort and Joan turned to press her face against his stomach, sobbing even harder. Teddy cried too, rubbing at his cheeks as he pretended not to, and Rick was far too young to even understand what was happening. He merely pulled at the hem of his governess’ sleeve and whispered out, “Why is Mama and Brother Edmund sleeping, Lady Frogenall?”
The woman could not answer. No one could. How can you possibly explain to a boy of two that his mother and brother had perished? Though they had been healthy one moment, and thriving in Edmund's case, they were gone the next. In that case, smallpox had acted swiftly and with disregard.
Richard merely looked at his son as the priest continued to talk about the Duchess' strength of character, her love for her children. Even her charity towards her husband's illegitimate children, who wept silently as they stood behind their father and siblings. Mary had never treated John or Katherine any different than she did their own heirs.
So the Duke of Gloucester stayed quiet. He was a widower now, with motherless children and he knew there was nothing he could do to soften their pain. He could say nothing. Nothing at all.
