The Red Queen (19 page)

I had thought him a coward when he would not go to war and when he came back so silent from the battlefield; but I was wrong. He is a very cautious man, and he believes wholeheartedly in nothing. He would not be a priest for he could not give himself wholly to God. He was glad that he was not born the oldest, for he did not want to be duke and head of such a great house. He is of the House of Lancaster, but he dislikes and fears the queen. He is enemy to the House of York, but he thinks highly of Warwick and admires the courage of the boy of York, and surrendered his sword to him. He would not dream of going into exile like Jasper; he likes his home too much. He does not align himself with any lord but thinks for himself, and I see now what he means when he says he is not a hound to yelp when the huntsman blows the horn. He considers everything in the light of what might be right, and what would be the best outcome for himself, for his family, his affinity, and even for his country. He is not a man to give himself easily. Not like Jasper. He is not a man for these times of passion and hot temper.

“A little caution.” He smiles at me as Arthur splashes stolidly through the great river crossing of the Severn, the gateway to Wales. “We have been born into difficult times, when a man or even a woman has to choose their own way, has to choose their loyalties. I think it is right to go carefully and to think before acting.”

“I have always thought one should do the right thing,” I say. “And nothing but that.”

“Yes, but then you wanted to be a saint.” He smiles. “Now you are the mother of a child; now you have to consider not only what is the right thing to do, but if it is likely to keep you and your son safe. You will want to keep your son safe more than anything in the world. The safety of your son may matter to you more than the will of God.”

For a moment I am puzzled by this. “But it must be the will of God that my son is safe,” I say. “My son is without sin, and he is of the royal line. He is of the only true royal house. God must want him to be safe to serve the House of Lancaster. What I wish and what God wishes must be the same.”

“Do you really think God, in his heaven with all the angels, there from the beginning of time and looking towards the Day of Judgment, really looks down on all the world and sees you and little Henry Tudor and says that whatever you choose to do is His will?”

It sounds like blasphemy somewhere. “Yes, I do,” I say uncertainly. “Jesus Christ Himself promised that I am as precious as the lilies of the field.”

“And so you are,” he says with a smile, as if he comforting me with a story.

That silences me and makes me think for the rest of the ride. “So, do you think there are many men like you, who have not given their hearts to one side or another?” I ask as he helps me down from the saddle in the yard of a dirty little inn, on the road to Cardiff, that evening.

He pats Arthur’s dark neck. “I think most men will choose to follow the house that can promise them peace and safety,” he says. “There is loyalty to the king, of course; no one can deny that King Henry is crowned King of England. But what if he is not fit to rule? What if he is ill again and can do nothing? What if he is commanded by the queen? What if she is ill advised? How can it be a crime to want the next heir in his place? If that claimant was of the royal line also? If he was as close as a cousin? If he has as good a claim to the throne as Henry?”

I am so weary that I lean back against Arthur’s big comfortable shoulder, and then my husband draws me to him and holds me. “Don’t you worry about this now,” he says. “The main thing is that we get your boy and make sure he is safe. Then you can consider who God and you would prefer to rule the kingdom.”

On the tenth morning of our journey, traveling now on tiny, stony lanes through high, mountainous country, my husband says to me, “We should be there by midday,” and I gasp at the thought of seeing my boy again so soon. We send scouts ahead to the castle to see if it is safe to approach. It looks as if everything is quiet. We wait out of sight, and my husband points out to me that the gates of the castle are open and the drawbridge down, and as we watch a girl comes out with a flock of geese and calls them down to the river.

“Looks safe enough,” my husband says cautiously, and gets off his horse and helps me down, and the two of us go to the other side of the river. The geese are swimming on the water, some are dabbling their yellow beaks in the mud; the girl is seated on the bank, fiddling about with some lace.

“Girl, who is the master of the castle?” my husband asks her.

She jumps at the sound of his voice and scrambles to her feet and bobs a curtsey. “It was the Earl of Pembroke, but he ran away to the wars,” she says, her accent so strong I can hardly make out what she is saying.

“Anyone taken the castle since he left?”

“Nay, we’re just hoping he’ll come back. D’you know where he is, sir?”

“I don’t know. Is the little lad in the castle nursery?”

“The little earl? Yes, he’s there. I keep the hens too, and I send in a good new-laid egg for him every morning.”

“Do you?” I am unable to silence my delight. “Does he have a fresh-laid egg for his breakfast every day?”

“Oh yes,” she says. “And they say he likes a slice of roast chicken too for his dinner.”

“How many men-at-arms?” my husband interrupts.

“A hundred,” she says. “But three times that rode out with Jasper Tudor and didn’t come back. They say it was a terrible defeat. They say that God set three suns in the sky to curse our boys, and now the three sons of York will curse our country.”

My husband spins a coin across the river to her, and she catches it with snatching hands. We go back to where our men are hidden by the turn in the road, and we mount up. My husband orders them to unfurl our standard and to go forwards at slow walk and halt when he gives the word. “We don’t want a flight of arrows as our welcome,” he says to me. “You and Will and Stephen go to the rear of the ride, just to be safe.”

I am desperate to ride into the castle that was once my home; but I do as he orders me, and we go slowly forwards until we hear the shouted challenge from the castle walls and at the same time we hear the roar of the chain and the great portcullis comes clanging down. My husband and his standard-bearer ride up to the gate and shout our name to the officer on the walls of the castle, and then the portcullis creaks up and we ride into the courtyard.

Arthur goes at once to the old mounting block, and I dismount without help and let his reins go. He heads at once for his old stall, as if he were still Owen Tudor’s battle horse. The stable lad exclaims to see him, and I go quickly to the front door and the groom of the household flings it open before me, recognizes me though I have grown taller, bows to me, and says: “My lady.”

“Where is my son?” I ask. “In his nursery?”

“Yes,” he says. “I will have them bring him to you.”

“I’ll go up,” I say, and without waiting I run up the stairs and burst into his nursery.

He is eating his dinner. They have laid a table for him with a spoon and a knife, and he is seated at the head of the table and they are waiting on him as they should, as an earl should be served. He turns his little head as I come in, and he looks at me without recognition. His curly hair is brown, like a bright bay horse as Jasper said;
his eyes are hazel. His face is baby-round still; but he is not a baby anymore, he is a boy, a little boy of four years old.

He climbs down from his chair—he has to use the rungs of the chair as steps—and comes towards me. He bows; he has been well taught. “Welcome, madam, to Pembroke Castle,” he says. He has the slightest lilt of a Welsh accent in his clear, high voice. “I am the Earl of Richmond.”

I drop to my knees so my face is level with his. I so long to snatch him into my arms, but I have to remember that to him I am a stranger.

“Your uncle Jasper will have told you about me,” I say.

His face lights up with joy. “Is he here? Is he safe?”

I shake my head. “No, I am sorry. I believe he is safe, but he is not here.”

His little mouth trembles. I am so afraid that he will cry, I put my hand out to him, but at once he straightens up and I see his little jaw square as he holds back tears. He nips his lower lip. “Will he come back?”

“I am sure of it. Soon.”

He nods, he blinks. One tear rolls down his cheek.

“I am your mother, Lady Margaret,” I say to him. “I have come to take you to my home.”

“You are my mother?”

I try to smile, but I give a little choke. “I am. I have ridden for nearly two weeks to come to you to make sure you are safe.”

“I am safe,” he says solemnly. “I am just waiting for my uncle Jasper to come home. I can’t come with you. He told me to stay here.”

The door behind me opens, and Henry enters quietly. “And this is my husband, Sir Henry Stafford,” I say to my little son.

The boy steps away from the table and bows. Jasper has taught him well. My husband, hiding his smile, bows solemnly in return.

“Welcome to Pembroke Castle, sir.”

“I thank you,” my husband says. He glances at me, taking in the tears in my eyes and my flushed face. “Is everything all right?”

I make a helpless gesture with my hand as if to say—yes, everything is all right, except my son treats me as a polite stranger, and the only person he wants to see is Jasper, who is an attainted traitor and in exile for life. My husband nods as if he can understand all of this, and then turns to my son. “My men have ridden all the way from England, and they have extremely fine horses. I wonder if you would like to see them in their harness before the horses are put into the fields?”

Henry brightens at once. “How many men?”

“Fifty men-at-arms, a few servants and scouts.”

He nods. This is a boy who was born into a country at war and was raised by one of the greatest commanders of our house. He would rather inspect a troop than eat his dinner.

“I should like to see them. I will get my jacket.” He goes into his private chamber, and we can hear him calling for his nursemaid to fetch his best jacket as he is going to inspect his mother’s guard.

Henry smiles at me. “Nice little fellow,” he says.

“He didn’t recognize me.” I am holding back tears, but the quaver in my voice betrays me. “He has no idea who I am. I am a complete stranger to him.”

“Of course, but he will learn,” Henry says soothingly. “He will come to know you. You can be a mother to him. He is only four; you have missed only three years, but you can start again with him now. And he has been well raised and well educated.”

“He is Jasper’s boy through and through,” I say jealously.

Henry draws my hand through his arm. “And now you will make him yours. After he has seen my men, you show him Arthur and tell him that he was Owen Tudor’s battle horse, but that you ride him now. You’ll see—he will want to know all about it, and you can tell him stories.”

I take a seat in silence in the nursery as they prepare him for bed. The mistress of the nursery is still the woman that Jasper appointed when my son was born; she has cared for him all his life, and I find myself burning with envy at her easy way with him, at the companionable way she hauls him to her knee and strips off his little shirt, at the familiar way that she tickles him as she pulls on his nightshirt and scolds him for wriggling like a Severn eel. He is deliciously at ease with her; but now and then he remembers that I am there and shoots me a little shy smile, as a polite child at a stranger.

“Would you like to hear him say his prayers?” she asks me, as he goes through to his bedroom.

Resentfully, in second place, I follow her to see him kneel at the foot of his tester bed, fold his hands together, and recite the Lord’s Prayer and the prayers for the evening. She hands me a badly transcribed prayer book, and I read the collect for the day and the prayer for the evening and hear his soprano “Amen.” Then he crosses himself and rises up and goes to her for her blessing. She steps back and gestures to him that he should kneel to me. I see his little mouth turn down; but he kneels before me, obediently enough, and I put my hand on his head and say: “God bless you and keep you, my son.” Then he rises up and takes a great run and a leap into his bed and bounces until she folds back the sheet and tucks him up and bends and kisses him in one thoughtless gesture.