The Lady of the Rivers (67 page)

It takes us four days to get home and as we turn up the familiar track to the house I feel my heart lift. At least I shall see my children and stay with them safely and quietly here while the great changes in the country take place without me. At least I can find a refuge here. As we ride up, I hear someone start tolling the bell in the stable yard, to warn the household of the arrival of an armed troop, ourselves, and the front door opens and the men at arms spill out of the house. At their head – I could not mistake him, I would know him anywhere – is my husband Richard.

He sees me in the same moment and comes bounding down the steps at the front of the house, so fast that my horse shies and I have to hold her still as he pulls me from the saddle and into his arms. He kisses my face and I cling to him. ‘You’re alive!’ I say. ‘You’re alive!’

‘They let us go as soon as they had made landfall themselves,’ he says. ‘Didn’t even take a ransom. They just released us from the castle at Calais and then I had to find a ship to bring us home. Took us into Greenwich.e a;

‘Anthony is with you?’

‘Of course. Safe and sound.’

I twist in his arms to see my son, smiling at me from the doorway. Richard releases me and I run to Anthony as he kneels for my blessing. To feel his warm head under my hand is to know that the greatest joy of my life is restored to me. I turn back to my husband and wrap my arms around Richard once more.

‘Have you news?’

‘The York lords win all,’ Richard says shortly. ‘London greeted them like heroes, Lord Scales tried to get away from the Tower and was killed, and the Duke of York is making his way to London. I think they’ll appoint him Protector. The king is safe in the Palace of Westminster, completely under the rule of Warwick. They say his wits are gone again. What of the queen?’

I glance around; even on the terrace of my own manor house I am afraid that someone will hear where she is, and betray her. ‘Gone to Jasper Tudor,’ I whisper. ‘And from there to France or Scotland, I should think.’

Richard nods. ‘Come in,’ he says gently to me. ‘You must be weary. You weren’t near the battle, were you? You had no danger on the roads?’

I lean against him and feel the familiar sense of relief that he is by my side. ‘I feel safe now, at any rate,’ I say.

GRAFTON, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE,
WINTER 1460–61

We live as we did when we were first married, as if we had no work to do but to keep the lands around Grafton, as if we were nothing but a squire and his wife. We don’t want the attention of the York lords as they make the country their own, impose massive fines on the lords they now call traitors, take posts and fees from the men they have defeated. There is a greed here, and a thirst for revenge, and all I want is for it to pass us by. We live quietly and hope to escape notice. We hear, in snatches of gossip from travellers who ask for a bed for the night, and occasional visitors, that the king is living quietly at Westminster Palace in the queen’s rooms while his conquering cousin, Richard, Duke of York, has taken up residence in the king’s own apartments. I think of my king in the rooms that I knew so well and I pray that he does not slide into sleep again to escape a waking world which is so hard on him.

The duke forges an extraordinary agreement with the Privy Council and the parliament: he will be regent and Protector of the Realm until the death of the king and then he will become king himself. A peddler, who comes by with York ribbons of white and white roses of silk in his pack, says that the king has agreed to this and is going to take vows and become a monk.

‘He’s not in the Tower?’ I ask urgently. I have a horror of the king being sent to the Tower.

‘No, he is living freely as a fool at the court,’ he says. ‘And York will be the next king.’

‘The queen will never consent to it,’ I say incautiously.

‘She’s in Scotland, so they say,’ he replies, preading his goods before me. ‘Good riddance. Let her stay there, I say. D’you want some pepper? I have some pepper and a nutmeg so fresh that you could eat it whole.’

‘In Scotland?’

‘They say she is meeting with the Scottish queen and they are going to bring an army of harpies down on us,’ he says cheerfully. ‘An army of women – think of that as a horror! A nice little polished mirror here? Or look, some hairnets of gold thread. That’s real gold, that is.’

We celebrate Christmas at Grafton. Elizabeth comes to stay with her husband, Sir John, and their two boys: Thomas is five years old now and Richard just two. All my children come home for the twelve days of the feast, and the house is alive with their singing and dancing and chasing each other up and down the wooden staircase. For the six youngest children, from Kather ine, who at two can only toddle after her bigger siblings, imploring them not to leave her behind, through Edward, Margaret, Lionel, Eleanor, and Martha, the oldest of the nursery at ten years, the return of their older brothers and sisters is like an explosion of noise and excitement. Richard and John are inseparable, young men of fourteen and fifteen years, Jacquetta and Mary are thoughtful young women, placed in the houses of neighbours in these difficult times. Anthony and Anne are the oldest of course. Anne should be married by now, but what can I do when the whole country is turned upside down and there is not even a court for her to join as a maid in waiting? And how am I to find Anthony the bride he should have when I cannot tell who will be wealthy and in the favour of the king next month – let alone ten years from now? There is a promise between him and the daughter of Lord Scales, but Lord Scales is dead and his family disgraced like us. And finally, and most puzzling for me, who should be planning matches for my children and looking around for the great houses where they should be placed to learn the skills they need: how can I know which will stay loyal to Lancaster, when the House of Lancaster is a king living in the queen’s rooms, an absent queen, and a boy of seven? And I cannot yet bring myself to consider an alliance with anyone who serves the traitorous House of York.

I think I will keep all the children at home with us at Grafton till the spring, perhaps longer. There can be no positions for us at the new royal household which will be the York court – since there are now York placemen and lords and members of parliament I assume that soon there will be York courtiers and ladies in waiting. Cecily Neville, the Duchess of York, riding high on fortune’s wheel, is sleeping in the king’s apartments under a canopy of cloth of gold like a queen herself; she must think that every day is Christmas. Clearly, we can never attend a York court: I doubt that any of us will ever forgive or forget the humiliation in the great hall at Calais Castle. Perhaps we will learn to be exiles in our own lands. Perhaps I shall now, at the age of forty-five, with my last child learning to talk, live in a country that is like that of my childhood: with one king in the north of the kingdom and one in the south, and everyone forced to choose which they think is the true one, and everyone knowing their enemy, and everyone waiting for revenge.

I really despair of organising the future of our family in such a world, at such a time, and instead I take comfort in the future of our lands. I start to plan to enlarge our orchard and go to a farm near Northampton where I can buy some whips of trees. Richard tells me that the seas are safe for shipping and he will get better prices for the wool from his sheep this year in the market at Calais. The roads are safe to and fromLondon, the Duke of York is restoring the powers of the sheriffs and commanding them to see that justice is done in every county. Slowly, the counties are starting to rid themselves of bandits and thieves on the highway. We never admit it, not even to each other; but these are great improvements. We start to think, never saying it out loud, that perhaps we can live like this, as country land owners in a country at peace. Perhaps we can grow an orchard, farm our sheep, watch our children come to adulthood without the fear of treachery and war. Perhaps Richard Duke of York has thrown us down from the court, but given us peace in the country.

Then, at the end of January, I see three riders come splashing down the lane, their horses’ hooves cracking the ice in the puddles. I see them from the nursery window where I am watching Katherine as she sleeps, and I know at once that they are bringing us bad news, and that these cold winter months of stillness are over. It was not a peace at all, it was just the usual winter break in a war that goes on and on forever. A war that will go on and on forever until everyone is dead. For a brief moment I even think that I will close the shutters on the windows and sit in the nursery and pretend that I am not here. I will not have to respond to a call that I don’t hear. But it is only a moment. I know that if I am summoned I have to go. I have served Lancaster for all my life, I cannot fail now.

I bend over the little crib and kiss Katherine on her warm smooth baby forehead and then I leave the nursery and close the door quietly behind me. I walk slowly down the stairs, looking over the wooden banister as down below Richard throws a cape around his shoulders and picks up his sword, and goes out to see the visitors. I wait inside the great hall, listening.

‘Sir Richard Woodville, Lord Rivers?’ says the first man.

‘Who wants him?’

The man lowers his voice. ‘The Queen of England. Do you answer to her? Are you faithful still?’

‘Aye,’ Richard says shortly.

‘I have this for you,’ the man says and proffers a letter.

Through the crack in the doorway I see Richard take it. ‘Go round the back to the stables,’ he says. ‘They’ll see you have food and ale. It’s a cold day. Go into the hall and warm yourselves. This is a loyal house; but there is no need to tell anyone where you come from.’

The men salute in thanks, and Richard comes into the entrance hall, breaking the seal.

‘“
Greetings, well-beloved
. . .”’ he starts to read, and then breaks off. ‘It’s a standard letter, she has probably sent out hundreds. It’s a summons.’

‘To arms?’ I can taste my own fear.

‘Me and Anthony. We’re to go to York, she’s mustering there.’

‘Will you go?’ Almost, I want to ask him to refuse.

‘I have to. This may be the last chance for her.’ He is reading down the letter and he gives a long low whistle. ‘Good God! Her men have taken Richard Duke of York and killed him.’ He looks up at me, clenches the letter in his fist. ‘My God! Who would have thought it? The protector dead! She has won!’

‘How?’ I cannotbelieve this sudden leap to victory. ‘What are you saying?’

‘She just writes he rode out from his castle, that must be Sandal – why would he ever do that? You could hold that place for a month! And that they cut him down. Good God, I can’t believe it. Jacquetta, this is the end of the York campaign. This is the end of the Yorks. Richard of York dead! And his son alongside him.’

I gasp as if his death is a loss to me. ‘Not young Edward! Not Edward of March!’

‘No, his other son, Edmund. Edward of March is in Wales somewhere, but he can do nothing now his father is dead. They are finished. The Yorks are defeated.’ He turns the letter over. ‘Oh, look, she’s written a note at the end of the letter. She says, “Dear Sir Richard, come at once, the tide is turning for me. We have crowned Richard of York with a paper crown and set his head on a spike at the Micklegate. Soon we will put Warwick’s face up beside him, and everything will be as it should be again.”’ He puts the letter into my hand. ‘This changes everything. Would you believe it? Our queen has won, our king is restored.’

‘Richard of York is dead?’ I read the letter for myself.

‘Now she can beat Warwick,’ he says. ‘Without the alliance with York he’s a dead man. He’s lost the regent and lord protector, it’s all over for them. They have no-one who can pretend to be heir to the throne. Nobody would ever have Warwick as lord protector, he has no claim to the throne at all. The king is the only man who can be king, once more. The House of York is finished, we have only the House of Lancaster. They have made a mistake which has cost them everything.’ He gives a whistle and takes the letter back. ‘Talk about fortune’s wheel: they are thrown down to nothing.’

I go to his side and look over his shoulder at the queen’s familiar scrawl on the clerk’s letter. In one corner she has written,
Jacquetta, come to me at once
.

‘When do we leave?’ I ask. I am ashamed at my own reluctance to hear this call to arms.

‘We’ll have to go now,’ he says.