Margaret dismounted stiffly as rain began to fall, driven in from the sea. She pulled her cloak’s hood over her hair and rushed into shelter, shooing Edward before her. There were guards at the gate and every door within, men wearing black tunics who stared at her in fascination. She kept her head up and followed the lairds in until she was taken to a comfortable-looking room deep within the castle. That part of it had been furnished, though entire wings and walls were still unmade. Prince Edward rushed to a window of tiny panes of glass, all held in lead. He stared out at the sea while his mother smoothed her skirts and fixed a loose pin in her hair.
She had not known what to expect, but it had not been the pretty, black-haired young woman who entered the room and rushed over to her without any formal announcement. Margaret stood up quickly and found her hands taken and held.
Mary of Guelders was Portuguese in her coloring, though when she spoke, her accent was a gentle Scottish lilt.
“I wish we could have met in happier times,” she said. “But however it has come about, you are welcome here. Would this fine boy be your son?”
“Edward,” Margaret said, utterly disarmed. She had expected fierce Scottish leaders, not a woman younger than she was herself, with eyes still red from weeping.
“What a lad! What a fine, dear lad!” Mary cried, kneeling down and opening her arms.
Edward came very reluctantly, allowing himself to be gripped, though he squirmed.
“Now, Edward, you will find my own boy if you run down to the kitchens. Young James is about your age and you must not fight with him, do you understand? The cook will feed you broth, if you ask her nicely.”
Edward beamed at that. He held still while she kissed him on the cheek and then raced out of the room.
“James will look after him,” Mary said, smiling at the sound of his fading footsteps. “Sit, Margaret. I must hear it all.”
Margaret took a seat on a long couch, gathering her thoughts from where they had scattered.
“I heard the sad news from the lairds, my lady. I—”
“You must call me Mary! Are we not queens together? My husband was too in love with his cannon, Margaret. I warned him many times about the foul things, but he did not listen. Have you seen them? They are made for killing, and cruel-looking. And they will explode without warning, tearing good men too soon from the world.”
Her eyes filled with tears and, without thought, Margaret reached out and drew her into an embrace. Mary sobbed into her shoulder, mastering herself with difficulty, but finally pulling away and dabbing at her eyes.
“For my husband’s men, I have to be cold, do you understand? I cannot let them see me weep, with all of them wondering if I am strong enough to be regent while my son grows. Whisht, listen to me! A daft fishwife with my sorrows. You have known such pain, Margaret. Your poor man taken away by his enemies! I do not think I could bear such a thing, truly I don’t.”
Margaret blinked at her in surprise, guilt surging up into her throat. She would not speak of the sense of shame that bit at her every moment, like a summer fly. She had saved her son before her husband. No, she had saved herself and left him. She would not allow any comfort from lies. There had been spite as well, for a man who would not rouse himself, no matter how she begged him. The shame of that had left Margaret with a desperate need to bring Henry out of the clutches of his enemies. She knew she would do anything, give anything to see him again.
Margaret felt walls crumbling as her hands were held. She had thought to be hard and cold, but she had no defense against the kindness of this strange woman, who could go from tears to laughter in a single breath, speech rattling out of her the whole time. Mary saw her trembling and waved a hand as if to brush away sadness.
“We hear it all, my dear. My husband was in favor of York, but I never agreed with him! I think James would have sung a different tune if one of his lords marched against him, wouldn’t he just? No, you and I are the same. Brought to new homes to be queens, married and sold for a fine dowry. I remember how proud I was when William Crighton came for me, my own Scots warrior, bringing me to James. Oh, damn me, crying again. It is too raw.”
“William de la Pole came to fetch me to England,” Margaret said faintly. Tears came to her own eyes in reaction. She and Mary smoothed them away with the backs of their hands. Seeing their own action mirrored in the other suddenly made them both laugh.
“Look at us, in our grieving,” Mary said. “My husband’s men would pull their beards in disgust if they knew. Well, we will not tell them. We’ll say we faced each other and spoke like there was ice in our blood. They will not believe it, but we’ll say it anyway. A French queen of England, a Portuguese queen of Scotland. We are two rare flowers, Margaret: two sprigs of heather.”
“Then I am not ashamed to say I hope for your aid, Mary,” Margaret replied. “I need men to come south with me, if I am ever to free my husband.”
Mary sniffed and nodded, brushing her hand over her bound hair.
“I knew it when your man Brewer sent James the news of your coming. I think my husband would have sent you back empty-handed, Margaret, but I will not! I would not turn away a sister, though I must have something to show my lairds in return.”
Margaret nodded, wondering privately if the woman’s tears and affections were not at least partly feigned. Her doubts must have shown on her face, as Mary leaned in and pressed a hand on her arm.
“I won’t bargain with you or count the coins. I will help, with whatever I can. You must have thought of terms as you sailed. Tell me what you intended, Margaret, and I will agree to it all. You will have four thousand men, a rare crop of bonny lads to fight for you.”
Once more Margaret was assailed by doubt and suspicions. If this was negotiation, it was either too simple, or far more complicated than she had expected. She rather missed the gruff honesty of Owen Tudor at that moment, for all the fellow feeling she had been shown.
“I hoped your husband would agree to a betrothal between my son and one of your daughters. Their children will sit on the throne of England.”
“Agreed!” Mary said, sweeping her arm through the air between them. “There! My daughter’s name is Margaret, named for you. She is five years old and she will make your lad a fine queen when she is grown.”
“Named for me?” Margaret said, her eyes widening.
“The French queen of England who kept her husband safe from wolves for so long? What better name for a daughter of mine? I am only sorry we have not met before. I could have helped you, if my James would have let me. He was a rare man. I will not see his like again.” A frown crossed her face then, at the memory of her husband. Her head tilted, almost as if she could hear his voice. “I recall he always talked of one place, one thorn in his big paw that he wanted and could not have. Perhaps in honor of his memory, I should add that to our agreement, but no, I will not! I have said I will support you with four thousand men and the betrothal is enough, more than enough.”
“What place do you mean?” Margaret said faintly.
“Berwick, on the River Tweed. It is almost Scotland, he said. Right on the borders. It would mean moving the border a single mile, but it would please his shade and I should honor him. His lairds will think me clever if I could tell them I had won that.”
“I’m sure they think it already,” Margaret murmured. She was certain by then that the young woman had run the conversation exactly along the lines she wanted, but even so, the price was not too high. Losing Henry was a guilt and shame she could bear no longer, no matter what it cost. Just the thought that men like York might hurt him wrenched at her womb and stomach as if she had been kicked. Margaret dipped her head.
“Berwick is yours, Mary. My husband would not begrudge the loss of a mile, compared to all his kingdom.”
Once more, Mary of Guelders took up her hands, holding them tight.
??
?Then it is agreed. You’ll have the best fighters in Scotland to come south with you. My husband was the Clan Chief, do you understand? The word is ‘Clanna,’ children. They were all his children and he was a fine father to them. I will pick them myself for beards and muscle and skill with a sword. You’ve made me your ally, Margaret, as if I was not before. We’ll announce the betrothal immediately. Will you sit at table with me now? I want to hear so much more of London and France.”
—
YORK COULD HEAR RAIN SPATTERING against the windows of the bishop’s palace. The king’s room was lit by a fire burning low along one wall and a single lamp of copper and polished iron, placed by the king’s elbow so that he could read. Beyond the noise of the rain, the only sounds were the whisper of Henry’s hand running across paper and the gentle murmuring of his voice as he spoke the words aloud, his lips moving constantly.
They were alone. The bishop’s servants had all been sent downriver to London for the evening, escorting their master so that no one had seen York arrive and shed his dripping cloak. The main door had come open at his touch and he’d walked through empty corridors carrying his own lamp, hearing only his footsteps.
York sat by the king’s chair, facing the fire and close enough for any observer to have believed they were deep in private conversation. Though the logs burned low, the room was warm, the walls paneled in the dark gold of ancient oak. York wondered who had been king when those trees were felled. The oak planks had certainly been cut long before the Norman invasion, old even then. Athelstan? Before even him. They could have been dried and polished when the kingdoms of Wessex and Mercia had not yet been joined under a single English throne. York thought he could feel the weight of history in that room. He breathed in the odors of wax and smoke as if they were the finest incense.
A small round table sat between them, bearing a single cup, a flask of wine, and a much smaller wooden bottle with a glass stopper. York’s gaze was drawn to that collection, watching the raindrops from his cloak scattered around it, gleaming the reflections of the embers, like spilled drops of gold.
The murmuring stopped and York raised his head slowly, seeing that Henry was looking at him in mild interest.
“I know why you are here,” Henry said suddenly. “I have endured this sickness, this madness for such a long time, I think whole years have been stolen from me. But I am not a fool. I was never a fool.”
York looked away, leaning further over with his elbows on his knees as he sat there, staring down at the polished wooden floor. He did not raise his head as the king spoke again.
“Have you news of my wife and son, Richard? The servants move around me with empty faces, as if I am a ghost, as if they are all deaf. You see me though, don’t you? You hear me?”
“I hear you, Your Majesty. I see you,” York said in a breath. “Your wife and son are well, I am certain.”
“Margaret named my boy Edward, just as you did with yours, Richard. He is a fine lad, always laughing. How old is your boy now, thirteen? Older?”
“He is eighteen, taller than most men.”
“Ah, I’m sorry. I have missed so much. They say a son is his father’s greatest pride, a daughter his comfort,” Henry said. “I would have liked daughters, Richard, though perhaps they will come to me yet.”
York’s gaze flickered to the bottles on the table.
“Perhaps, Your Majesty.”
“My own father died before I could ever know him,” Henry said, looking off across the dim gold light of the room. “He took no pride in me, he could not. I wish sometimes that I had known him. I wish he had known me.”
“Your father was a great man, Your Majesty, a great king.” York’s head drooped further. “If he had lived a dozen years longer, so much would be different.”
“Yes. I would have liked to know him. Yet I must be content. I will see him again, with my mother. That brings me comfort, Richard, when the illness presses on me. There will be a day when I stand before him. I will tell him I was king, for a time. I will describe Margaret to him and my son, Edward. Will he be disappointed, Richard? I have won no wars, as he did.” His eyes were large in the dim light, the pupils black pools of sorrow as he turned to York. “How will he know me? I was just a child when he died.”
“He will know you, Majesty. He will embrace you.”
Henry yawned, looking around for the servants that were not present, and frowning.
“It is late, Richard. I rise very early now, before the sun. I have been too long at my reading and my head is aching.”
“Shall I pour your wine, Your Majesty?”
“Yes, please. It helps me to sleep without dreams. I must not dream, Richard. I see such terrible things.”
York broke the wax seal on the wine and removed a paper plug, filling the cup with dark red liquid that looked black in the dim light. Henry seemed to have forgotten him, his attention drawn to the glowing embers as the fire burned down. York might as well have been alone for all he could feel the presence of the other man. Silence filled the room like warm air, thick and sluggish, as York’s hand reached for the second bottle. He flicked open the glass stopper on a tiny hinge, but he did not bring them together. Henry’s face was lit in gold and shadows, his eyes hooded as he stared into the coals.
York closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead, the open bottle still held in his fingers.
He stood suddenly, startling Henry into looking up at him.
“God be with you, Your Majesty,” York said, his voice hoarse.
“You will not stay with me?” Henry asked, his gaze falling on the cup of wine.
“I cannot. There are armies gathering in the north. Armies I must meet and break. Your servants will have returned when you wake.”
Henry took the cup and put it to his lips, tilting it high. His eyes remained on York as he drank and put it down empty.
“I wish you fine fortune, Richard. You are a better man than they know.”
York made a rough sound in his throat, almost a cry of pain. He swept out of the room, the small bottle still clenched in his hand. Henry turned back to the fire, pressing his head against the chair’s cloth and feeling sleep steal over him. York’s footsteps seemed to echo in that empty place for a long time, until they could be heard no more.
CHAPTER 29
Winter lay hard on the land as York rode back along the river to the Palace of Westminster. Rain beat against his skin until it felt as if he wore a mask. There was no moon or any stars to be seen under a low bank of cloud over the city, so York was forced to walk his horse for five miles, warmed only by simmering anger. Even that could not withstand the bitter cold, so that he arrived drenched and stiff at the royal apartments, his teeth chattering and even his thoughts reduced to drifting lumps of ice in his mind. He reached a crackling fire and stood mute before it, pools forming on the rugs at his feet. Dawn was still some way off and he was weary to the bone, to the point of swaying slightly as he closed his eyes and stretched out his hands to the heat.
Salisbury entered the room as York’s cloak began to steam. The earl had clearly been summoned from his bed as his hair stood up in tufts of gray and he looked ten years older. Even so, his eyes were sharp as he caught sight of the tall, dark figure staring into the flames as they crackled and huffed. Salisbury knew very well where he had been that night and he ached with the desire to ask. When York turned to him, the man’s eyes were red-rimmed and wild and the questions dried in Salisbury’s throat.
“What news?” York asked. His hands had turned bright red and slightly swollen as he held them to the fire. Salisbury found his gaze drawn to the outstretched fingers.
“Nothing more on how many they have gathered. In this weather, too many are snugged away in tents or behind city walls.”
York scowled at him.
“We need to know.”
“I can
not work miracles, Richard,” Salisbury said, coloring. “I have six good men in place in Coventry, three in the city of York, but only two now in the whole of Wales—and no word from them for a month.”
It had taken years to place informers in the major households of their enemies. After the battle of St. Albans, Salisbury had set about it with a will, determined to match Derry Brewer in his reach and depth of information. Over time, Salisbury had begun to glimpse the difficulties of establishing such a group—and the quality of his far more experienced opponent. All too often his men had been found murdered, almost always as if they had suffered a terrible accident. Yet some had survived, remaining silent and overlooked, until they’d been able to report a massive force forming in the north.
It made little sense. No one fought in winter. Marching armies could not forage as they went. Rain ruined bows and made men slip in clotted muck, halving the distance they could march each day. Numb hands dropped weapons and entire armies could slip past each other on dark, windy nights and never know how close they’d come.
Despite all that, a dozen powerful lords were all bringing soldiers to the same spot, planting banners in the mud and bitter cold. Worse, one of Salisbury’s men had come in to report recruiters in Wales, with hundreds gathering under the drenched banners of the Tudors. No one ever fought in winter. Only the fact that Henry was a prisoner could have brought them out to march on London, desperate to save the king.
“Have you heard from your son, Warwick?” York asked.
Salisbury shook his head, irritated.