The Kingmaker's Daughter (18 page)

We hear the shouts of the sailors as they cast off the ropes then the door of the cabin bangs open and the queen comes in, her face alight with excitement. ‘We are sailing,’ she
says. ‘We will be there before Edward.’ She laughs nervously. ‘We must get there before Edward and raise our troops to face him. He will be racing to catch this wind, just like
us, but we must outsail him. It is a race now; we must get there before him.’

CERNE ABBEY, WEYMOUTH, 15 APRIL 1471

The queen sits in state in the great hall of the Cerne Abbey, her son standing behind her chair as if he is her personal guard, his hand on her shoulder, his handsome face
grave. I am seated beside her on a lower chair – really, a stool – as if I were a little mascot, to remind everyone that the Warwick name and fortune is attached to this venture. We are
waiting for the Lancaster lords to welcome us to the kingdom. Seated like this we present them with a tableau of unity. Only my mother is missing, as her ship and a few others of our fleet made
landfall further up the coast at Southampton. She will be riding to join us now.

The double doors at the end of the hall swing open and the brothers of the House of Beaufort come in together. The queen rises to her feet and first gives her hands and then her cheek to Edmund
Duke of Somerset, the son of the man that people said was her only love, then she greets his brother: John the Marquis of Dorset. John Courtenay the Earl of Devon kneels to her. These are men who
were her loyal favourites when she was queen, who stayed faithful to her when she was in exile, and who rallied to my father for her sake.

I had expected them to come in shouting greetings, filled with excitement, but they look grim, and their entourage and the other lords behind them are not beaming either. I look from one dark
face to another and I know already that something has gone wrong. I glance at the queen and see that her face has lost its rosy colour. The excitement of greeting is draining away, leaving her pale
and stony. So she knows it too, though she greets one man after another, often by name, often asking after friends and family. Too often they shake their head, as if they cannot bear to say that a
man is dead. I start to wonder if these are new deaths, if there has been some sort of attack in London, an ambush on the road? They look like men with new fears, with fresh grief. What has
happened while we waited at the quayside in France? What disaster happened while we were at sea?

She makes up her mind to know the worst and turns, sweeping the train of her gown, to her throne, and seats herself. She clasps her hands in her lap, she grits her teeth. I see her screw up her
courage. ‘Tell us,’ she says shortly. She indicates her son and even me. ‘Tell us.’

‘The York claimant, the impostor Edward, landed in the North a month ago,’ Edmund Beaufort says bluntly.

‘A month ago? He can’t have done. The seas must have held him in port . . .’

‘He set sail into the very teeth of the storm and he was all but wrecked, he lost his fleet at sea, but they found each other again and marched on York and then London. As always, he has a
witch’s luck: his fleet scattered and then found each other again.’

Her son looks at her as though she has failed him. She says again, ‘The seas must surely have held him in port as they did us.’

‘Not him.’

She makes a small gesture with her hand as if to push away the bad news. ‘And my lord Warwick?’

‘Stayed true to you. Mustered his army and marched out against Edward. But he was betrayed.’

‘Who?’ The one word is like a cat’s spit.

Somerset throws a quick sideways glance at me. ‘George Duke of Clarence turned his coat and joined with his brother, Edward. The younger son Richard brought them together. They were, all
three, reconciled. It was the three sons of York together again and George’s army and wealth was thrown onto the side of Edward. All George’s affinity stood behind him, the Yorks were
reunited.’

She turns a burning glance on me as if I am to blame. ‘Your sister Isabel! We sent her ahead to keep him faithful! She was there to hold him to his word!’

‘Your Grace . . .’ I shrug. What could she do? What could she make George do, if he chose to change his mind?

‘They met near the village of Barnet, on the Great North Road.’

We wait. There is something terrible about the slow unfolding of this story. I clench my hands in my lap to prevent myself shouting out: ‘But who won?’

‘There was a mist like a low cloud that rolled in through the night, which they said was a witch’s mist. All night it grew thicker and darker, you couldn’t see your hand in
front of your face. One army couldn’t see the other. At any rate – we couldn’t see them.’

We wait, as they waited.

‘They could see us though. At dawn when they came at us out of the mist, they were far closer than we thought – they were on top of us. They had been hiding in the mist, as close as
a stone’s throw, all night. They had known where we were when we were like blind men. We had been shooting cannon all night far over their heads. We parried the charge, we took them on, then
through the day the battle lines shifted and though we locked forces with Edward and held him, the Earl of Oxford, our faithful ally, broke through them and then came back to the battle through the
mist and our men thought the earl had turned traitor and was coming against them. Some thought it was reinforcements for Edward, coming at them again from behind, Edward often keeps a battle in
reserve . . . at any rate, they broke and fled.’

‘They fled?’ She repeats the word as if she does not understand it. ‘Fled?’

‘Many of our men were killed, thousands. But the rest fled back to London. Edward won.’

‘Edward won?’

He goes down on one knee. ‘Your Grace, I am sorry to say that in this first battle he was victorious. He defeated your commander the Earl of Warwick; but I am confident we can defeat him
now. We have mustered the army again, they are on their way.’

I wait. I expect her to ask where my father is, when he will arrive with those of his army who managed to get away.

She turns to me. ‘So Isabel did nothing for us, though we sent her ahead to be with her husband. She didn’t keep George to our alliance,’ she says spitefully. ‘I will
remember this. You had better remember this. She failed to keep him faithful to you, to me, to your father. She is a poor daughter and a poor wife, a wretched sister. I think she will regret this.
I will make sure that she regrets the day her husband betrayed us.’

‘My father?’ I whisper. ‘Is my father coming now?’

I see the Duke of Somerset wince and look at the queen for permission to speak.

‘My father?’ I ask more loudly. ‘What of my father?’

‘He died in the battle,’ he says quietly. ‘I am sorry, my lady.’

‘Died?’ she demands baldly. ‘Warwick is dead?’

‘Yes.’

She starts to smile, as if it is funny. ‘Killed by Edward?’

He bows in assent.

She cannot help herself. She lets out a peal of laughter, clapping her hand over her mouth, trying to silence herself but not able to cease laughing. ‘Who would have thought it?’ she
gasps. ‘Who would ever have thought such a thing? My God! The wheel of fortune – Warwick killed by his own beloved protégé! Warwick against his own wards and they kill
him. And Edward with his two brothers at his side again – after all we have done and sworn . . .’ Slowly she subsides. ‘And my husband, the king?’ She moves onto the next
question as if there is nothing more to be said about the death of my father.

‘How did he die?’ I ask, but nobody answers me.

‘The king?’ she repeats impatiently.

‘Safe in London, back in the Tower. They picked him up after the battle and took him as their prisoner.’

‘He was well?’ she asks quickly.

Somerset shifts uncomfortably. ‘Singing,’ he says shortly. ‘In his tent.’ The mad king’s son and his wife exchange one brief look.

‘Did my father die in battle?’ I ask.

‘The York brothers went back to London victorious, but they will rest and arm and come on here,’ Beaufort warns her. ‘They will have heard that you have landed, just as we did.
They will be marching after us as fast as they can come.’

She shakes her head. ‘Ah, dear God! If we had only come sooner!’

‘George Duke of Clarence might still have proved untrue. The Earl of Warwick might still have been killed,’ the duke says steadily. ‘As it is, your coming now brings us a fresh
army, newly landed, and people gathering to support you as a new cause. Edward has marched, and fought, and is now marching again. He has drawn on all his credit, he has been joined by all his
friends, there is no-one left to recruit and they have fought a heavy battle and suffered losses, and they are all tired. It was a hard battle and a long march. Everything is in our
favour.’

‘He’ll be coming here?’

They all nod; there is no doubt that the House of York is coming to the table for a final throw of the dice.

‘For us?’

‘Yes, Your Grace – we have to move out.’

For a moment she draws a breath, then she makes a small gesture with her hand, drawing a circle in the air. ‘The wheel of fortune,’ she says almost dreamily. ‘Just as Jacquetta
said. Now her son-in-law is coming to attack me, having killed my ally; and her daughter and my son are rivals for the throne and she and I are far apart. I suppose we are enemies.’

‘My father . . .’ I say.

‘They took his body to London, Your Grace,’ the duke says quietly to me. ‘Edward captured his body, and also that of your uncle Lord Montagu. I am sorry, Your Grace. He will
show the bodies to the people of London, so that everyone knows he is dead and his cause lost.’

I close my eyes. I think of my grandfather’s head on the spike on the walls of York, put there by this queen. Now my father’s dead body will be put on show to the people of London by
the boy who loved him like a brother. ‘I want my mother,’ I say. I clear my throat and say it again: ‘I want my mother.’

The queen hardly hears me. ‘What do you advise?’ she asks Edmund Beaufort.

I turn to my husband, the young prince. ‘I want to be with my mother,’ I say. ‘I have to tell her. I have to tell her of the death of her husband. I must go to her. I must find
her.’

He is listening to the duke; he barely glances at me.

‘We have to march north and west, join up with Jasper Tudor in Wales,’ the duke replies to the queen. ‘We have to go at once, get ahead of Edward. Once we join with
Tudor’s forces in Wales, we can come back into England in strength and attack Edward at a place of our own choosing. But we have to recruit men.’

‘We should go now?’

‘As soon as you are ready to travel. We need to start the march. Edward always travels fast, and so we need to be ahead and stay ahead of him. We have to get to Wales before he can cut us
off.’

I see her change at once, from a woman receiving a warning into the commander who will drive the march. She has ridden at the head of an army before now, she has taken an army into battle. She
responds to the call to action, she is quite without fear. ‘We are ready! Order the men. They have disembarked and eaten and drunk, they are ready to march. Tell them to fall in.’

‘I need to see my mother,’ I say again. ‘Your Grace, I need to see my mother, she may not even know of the death of her husband. And I need to be with her.’ Like a child
my voice quavers. ‘I have to go to my Lady Mother! My father is dead, I have to go to my mother.’

At last she hears me. She glances at Edmund Beaufort. ‘What of Her Grace the Countess of Warwick?’

One of his men comes in and whispers to him and he turns to me. ‘Your mother has been told of the death of her husband. Her ship made landfall down the coast, and the men who were on board
are just joining us now. They say they had the news in Southampton of the battle. She was told.’

I get to my feet. ‘I must see her. Excuse me.’

‘She did not come with the men.’

Queen Margaret clicks her tongue in irritation. ‘Oh, for God’s sake! Where is she?’

The messenger speaks to the duke again. ‘She has retired to Beaulieu Abbey. She has sent word to say that she will not ride with you. She says she has taken sanctuary.’

‘My mother?’ I cannot understand what they are saying. ‘Beaulieu Abbey?’ I look from the duke to the queen and then to my young husband. ‘What am I to do? Will you
take me to Beaulieu Abbey?’

Prince Edward shakes his head. ‘I can’t take you. There’s no time.’

‘Your mother has abandoned you,’ the queen says flatly. ‘Don’t you understand? She is in hiding in fear of her life. Clearly she thinks that Edward is going to win and we
will be defeated and she doesn’t want to be with us. You will have to come with us.’

‘I don’t . . .’

She rounds on me, her face white with fury. ‘Understand this, girl! Your father has been defeated, his army all but destroyed. He is dead. Your sister cannot keep her husband on our side.
Your mother has hidden herself away in an abbey. Your influence is worthless, your name means next to nothing. Your family do not stand by you. I have bound my son in marriage to you thinking that
your father would defeat Edward but it is Edward who has defeated him. I thought your father was the man to destroy the House of York – the kingmaker as they call him! – but his
protégé turns out to be the better man. Your father’s promises are empty, your father is dead. Your sister is a turncoat and your mother has tucked herself up safely in
sanctuary, while we fight for our lives. I don’t need you, you can do nothing for me. I don’t want you particularly. If you want to go to Beaulieu Abbey you can go. You mean nothing to
me. Go to Beaulieu Abbey and wait to be arrested as a traitor. Wait for Edward’s army to come in, and rape you with the rest of the nuns. Or ride with us with the chance of
victory.’