She glances at my shocked face and hurries to me. ‘Jacquetta, were you there? Not hurt?’
‘Your Grace, the Earl of Warwick was attacked in the council chamber itself,’ I say bluntly. ‘By men in the livery of Buckingham and Somerset.’
‘But not by me,’ the twenty-two-year-old duke says, as pert as a child.
‘Your men,’ my husband observes, his tone level. ‘And it is illegal to draw a sword in the royal court.’ He turns to the queen. ‘Your Grace, everyone will think this is ordered by you, and it is most treacherous. It was in the council chamber, in the demesne of the court. You are supposed to be reconciled. You gave your royal word. It is dishonourable. Warwick will complain and he will be right to do so.’
She flushes at that and glances at the duke, who shrugs his shoulders. ‘Warwick doesn’t deserve an honourable death,’ he says pettishly. ‘He did not give my father an honourable death.’
‘Your father died in battle,’ Richard points out. ‘A fair fight. And Warwick has begged and been given your forgiveness, and paid for a chantry in your father’s name. That grievance is over and you have been paid for the loss of your father. This was an attack inside the safety of the court. How will the council do its business if a man risks his life attending? How will any of the York lords dare to come again? How can men of goodwill come to a council which attacks its own members? How can a man of honour serve such a rule?’
‘He got away?’ the queen ignores Richard to ask me, as if this is all that matters.
‘He got away,’ I say.
‘I should think he will get away all the way to Calais and you will have a powerful enemy in a fortified castle off your shores,’ Richard says bitterly. ‘And I can tell you that not one town in a hundred can be defended against attack on the south coast. He could sail up the Thames and bombard the Tower, and now he will think himself fre do so. You have broken his alliance for nothing and put us all in danger.’
‘He was our enemy at any time,’ young Somerset remarks. ‘He was our enemy before this.’
‘He was bound by a truce,’ Richard insists. ‘And by his oath of allegiance to the king. He honoured it. Attacking him in the council chamber releases him from both.’
‘We shall leave London,’ the queen rules.
‘That’s not the solution!’ Richard explodes. ‘You can’t make an enemy like this and think that all you need do is flee. Where will be safe? Tutbury? Kenilworth? Coventry? Do you think to abandon the southern counties of England altogether? Shall Warwick just march in? Is it your plan to give him Sandwich, as you have given him Calais? Shall you give him London?’
‘I shall take my son and go.’ She rounds on him. ‘And I shall raise troops, loyal men, and arm. When Warwick lands he will find my army waiting for him. And this time we will beat him and he will pay for his crime.’
ON CAMPAIGN, SUMMER–AUTUMN 1459
The queen is like a woman possessed by a vision. She takes the court with her to Coventry, the king in her train. He has no say in what happens now, he is startled by the failure of h
is truce and the sudden rush into war. She defies advice to be careful, she can smell victory and she is eager for it. She enters Coventry with all the ceremony of a reigning king, and they bow to her as if she were the acknowledged ruler of the country.
No-one has seen a Queen of England like this before. She is served on one knee, like a king. She sits under the royal canopy. She musters men, she demands a levy of every man from every county in England, ignoring the traditional way of raising an army which is that each lord calls out his own men. From Cheshire she recruits her own army, she calls it the prince’s army, and she distributes his own badge, the new livery of the swan. She calls his captains the Knights of the Swan and promises them a special place in the battle that is certain to come.
‘The swan children wore collars of gold and were hidden by their mother to appear like swans, and they all came back but one,’ I say, uneasy at her sudden love of this badge, at her invoking this old myth. ‘This is nothing to do with Prince Edward.’
The prince looks up at me and beams one of his sudden radiant smiles. ‘Swan,’ he repeats. She has taught him the word. She has sewn two swan badges of silver on his collar.
‘You said you had seen the crown of England taken by a swan,’ she reminds me.
I flush, thinking of the lie I told to hide the real vision, of my daughter Elizabeth laughing with a ring shaped like a crown on her finger. ‘It came to me like a daydream, Your Grace, and I warned you that it might mean nothing.’
‘I will take England, if I have to turn into a swan myself to do it.’
We move to Eccleshall Castle fifty north of Coventry in September, and we are less and less like a court, more like an army. Many of the ladies in waiting have gone back to their homes as their husbands have been summoned to march with the queen militant. Some of them stay away. The few ladies who travel with me and the queen all have husbands in her rapidly growing army; we are like a baggage train on the march, not a court. The king is with us, and the prince; both of them go out daily to attend the musters of men as Margaret brings in more and more recruits that she houses in the buildings inside the castle walls and in tents in the fields around. She calls on the loyal lords to come to her support, she parades the young prince before them. He is only six years old, he rides his little white pony around the ranks of the men, straight-backed and obedient to his mother’s commands. His father comes to the castle gate, and holds up his hand as if blessing the thousands of men who are under his standard.
‘Is it the French?’ he asks me wonderingly. ‘Are we going to take Bordeaux?’
‘There is no war yet,’ I reassure him. ‘Perhaps we can avoid war.’
Old James Touchet, Lord Audley, is to command the army, and Lord Thomas Stanley is to support him. Lord Audley comes to the queen with the news that the York lords are assembling their forces in England and mustering their men. They are planning to meet at York’s castle at Ludlow; and so the Earl of Salisbury will have to march south from his castle of Middleham, in the North of England, to Ludlow, on the borders of Wales. Lord Audley swears that we will catch him as he marches nearby, and take him by surprise as he hurries to join the other treasonous lords. Our forces will be about ten thousand men; thousands more will come with Lord Stanley. Salisbury has a force of less than half that number – he is marching to his death, hopelessly undermanned, and he does not know it.
I find it a grim process, watching the men arm, check their weapons and their equipment, and form up in ranks. Elizabeth’s husband, Sir John Grey, on his beautiful horse, leads an armed band of his tenants on the two-day march from his home. He tells me that Elizabeth cried unstoppably as he left and seemed filled with foreboding. She asked him not to go, and his mother ordered her to her room, like a naughty child.
‘Should I have stayed with her?’ he asks me. ‘I thought it my duty to come.’
‘You are right to do your duty.’ I repeat the worn phrase which allows wives to release their husbands, and women to send their sons to war. ‘I am sure you are right to do your duty, John.’
The queen appoints him as head of cavalry. Anthony, my heir and most precious son, comes from our home at Grafton and will fight alongside his father. They will ride to the battle and then dismount and fight on foot. The thought of my son in battle makes me so sick that I cannot eat for fear.
‘I am lucky,’ Richard says stoutly to me. ‘You know I am lucky, you have seen me ride out to a dozen battles and I always come safe home to you. I will keep him at my side, he will be lucky too.’
‘Don’t say it! Don’t say it!’ I put my hand over his mouth. ‘It’s to tempt fate. Dear God, do you have to go out this time?’
‘This time, and every time, until the country is at peace,’ my husband says simply.
‘But the king himsehas not commanded it!’
‘Jacquetta, are you asking me to turn traitor? Do you want me to wear a whi
te rose for York?’
‘Of course not! Of course not. It’s just . . . ’
Gently, he takes me in his arms. ‘It’s just what? Just that you cannot bear to see Anthony in danger?’
Ashamed, I nod. ‘My son . . . ’ I whisper, anguished.
‘He is a man now, danger comes to him like snow in winter, like flowers in springtime. He is a brave young man, I have taught him courage. Don’t you teach him to be a coward.’
My head comes up at that, and my husband chuckles. ‘So you don’t want him to go to war; but you don’t want him to be a coward? Where’s the sense in it? Now you be brave, and come and see us march out, and wave your hand and smile and give us your blessing.’
We go to the door together, his hand warm on my waist. The queen has ordered the army to troop before the drawbridge of the castle and the little prince is there on his white pony. Anthony comes from the ranks and kneels swiftly before me, and I put my hand down on the warm soft hair of his precious head.
‘God bless you, my son.’ I can hardly speak for the tightness in my throat. I can feel the tears hot in my eyes. He rises up and stands before me, excited and ready to go. I want to add, ‘And do what your father tells you, and keep your horse near you so that you can get away, and stay out of danger, and there is no need to get too close to the fighting . . . ’ but Richard draws me close and kisses me quickly on the mouth to silence me.
‘God bless you, my husband,’ I say. ‘Come home safely to me, both of you.’
‘I always do,’ Richard replies. ‘And I will bring Anthony safe home too.’
The queen and I, her ladies in waiting, and the prince and his household stand and wave as they march past us, the standards flapping in the breeze and the men looking eager and confident. They are well equipped, the queen has used the money granted her by parliament which was supposed to improve defence against the French to pay for weapons and boots for this army. When they are gone and the dust has settled on the lane, the queen orders the prince to go with his nurse and turns to me.
‘And now we wait,’ she says. ‘But when they find Salisbury and join battle I want to see it. I’m going out to watch it.’
I almost think she is joking, but the next day we get a message sent from James Touchet to say that his scouts have found the Earl of Salisbury’s men and he is lying in wait for them near a little village called Blore Heath. At once the queen orders her horse as if we are going out on a ride for pleasure. ‘Are you coming with me?’ she asks.
‘The king would not like you to put yourself in danger,’ I say, already knowing that the king’s opinions mean nothing to her.
‘He won’t even know that I have gone and come back again,’ she says. ‘And I have told my ladies we are going out hawking.’
‘Just you and me?&squo; I ask sceptically.
‘Why not?’
‘No hawks?’
‘Oh, come on!’ she says, as impatient as a girl. ‘Don’t you want to watch over Richard? And your son Anthony?’
‘We’ll never be able to see them,’ I say.
‘We’ll climb a tree,’ she replies, and then steps up on the mounting block, swings her leg over her horse and nods to the groom to pull down her gown over her boots. ‘Are you coming? For I will go without you if I have to.’
‘I’m coming,’ I say, and I mount and ride beside her as we go towards Blore Heath.
We are greeted with a messenger from James Touchet who suggests that we might like to go to the church at nearby Mucklestone, where we will be able to see the battlefield from the belfry. The noble lord is arranging a viewing tower as if for a day’s jousting. We clatter into the little village, sending chickens fluttering away from our horses’ hooves, and leave the horses at the village forge.
‘You can shoe my horse while he is waiting here,’ the queen says to the blacksmith, throwing him a penny, then she turns and leads the way to the church.
Inside it is quiet and dim, and we take the winding stone stair upwards and upwards to where the bell is hung in the tower. It is like a great watchtower, the bell behind us, a stone parapet before us, and clearly across the fields we can see the road from the north, and in the distance the trail of dust that is the marching army of the Earl of Salisbury.
The queen touches my arm, her face alight with excitement, and points ahead. We can see a great hedge and behind it the standards of our army. I put my hand over my eyes and scowl, trying to identify the Rivers flag in case I can make out Anthony or my husband nearby, but it is too far to see. Our forces are perfectly positioned, Salisbury will not know they are there, nor in what numbers, until he comes out of the little wood either side of his road, and then they will face him. There is something very dreadful about looking down on the battlefield, as if we were stone gargoyles on the tower, watching the deaths of mortals for sport. I look at the queen. She does not feel this, she is alight with excitement, her hands clasped tight together as the outriders at the front of the York army come briskly out from the wood, and fall back when they see the mighty force before them arranged in battle order on the little hill with a small river between them.
‘What are they doing?’ the queen demands irritably, as we see a herald ride out from each side and meet in the middle ground between the two armies.
‘Parleying?’ I ask.
‘There is nothing to talk about,’ she says. ‘He is named a traitor. Lord Audley’s instructions are to take him, or kill him, not to talk to him.’
As if to confirm the instructions, the heralds break off and ride back to their own ranks and almost at once there is a storm of arrows from the Lancaster side, shooting downhill and finding targets. A sigh, a defeated sigh, comes from the York side and we can see the men going down on their knees in a swift prayer, before rising to their feet and pulling on their helmets.
‘What are they doing?’ asks avidly.
‘They are kissing the ground,’ I say. There is something terrible about the doomed men putting their lips to the earth that they think will be their deathbed. ‘They are kissing the ground where they will be buried. They know they will be defeated and yet they are not running away.’
‘Too late to run,’ the queen says harshly. ‘We would chase them and kill them.’
From our vantage point we can see that the Yorks are outnumbered by almost two to one, perhaps even more. This is not going to be a battle, it is going to be a massacre.
‘Where is Lord Stanley?’ the queen demands. ‘He wanted to lead the attack but I ordered him to be in support. Where is he?’
I look around. ‘Could he be hiding in ambush?’
‘Look!’ she says.
The very centre of the York army, where they should be at their strongest, is giving way before the arrows. ‘They’re retreating!’ the queen cries. ‘We’re winning! So quickly!’
They are. The men at the very centre of the line are turning, dropping their weapons, and running away. At once I see our cavalry come forwards and start the charge downhill, towards the stream. I clasp my hands together as I see Elizabeth’s husband, out in front, thundering into the shallow water and riding across, struggling up the steep banks of the far side, just as the York forces inexplicably swing round and run back into the very heart of the battle, picking up their weapons and returning to the fight.
‘What’s happening?’ Margaret is as bewildered as I am. ‘What are they doing?’
‘They’ve come back,’ I say. ‘They’ve turned. It was a trick, and now our cavalry is bogged down in the river and the Yorks are able to fight them from the bank. They have tricked us off our good position, into the river, and our men can’t get out.’
It is a terrible sight. Our men in battle armour on their metal-plated horses go plunging into the water, and then struggle to get up the other side of the stream where they are battered by the York men at arms, wielding great swords, war axes and pikes. The knights fall from their horses, but cannot get to their feet to defend themselves, the horses’ hoove
s crash down through the water to crush them as they struggle to rise, or weighed down by their flooded breastplates they drown, scrambling in the churning waters of the stream. Those who can grab a stirrup leather try to pull themselves up but the Yorks are dancing up and down the dry banks, quick to thrust a knife in an unguarded armpit or lean towards the stream to slash at a throat, or one of the strong soldiers steps into the stream, swinging a great battle axe, and down goes the Lancaster knight into the water, which blooms red. It is a savage muddle of men and horses. There is nothing beautiful about it, or noble, or even orderly, nothing like the battles that are made into ballads or celebrated in the romances. It is a savage mess of brutish men killing each other for blood lust. A few of the Lancaster lords scramble up the bank on their great war horses and tear through the York lines and disappear – they simply run away. Worse, even more of them, hundreds of them, drop their swords point down to indicate they are not fighting, pull up their horses into a walk, and go slowly, humbly, towards the enemy lines.
‘They are changing sides,’ I say. My hand is on the base of my throat as if to hold my thudding heart. I am so afraid that John Grey may be turning traitor as the queen and I watch. Hundreds of cavalrymen have turned from our side to the Yorks’: surely, he must be among them.
‘My cavalry?’ she asks disbelievingly.
Her hand creeps into mine and we stand in silence, watching the slow progress of the horsemen across the battlefield, towards the Yorks, with their standards drooped down low in surrender. Stray horses plunge and kick and pull themselves out of the stream and trot away. But many, many men are left struggling in the stream until they do not struggle any more.
‘John,’ I say quietly, thinking of my son-in-law at the head of the cavalry charge. For all I know he is drowned in his armour, and not turned traitor at all. From this distance I can see neither his standard nor his horse. He will leave my daughter a widow and two little boys fatherless, if he is choking in that red water this afternoon.