The Red Queen Read online

  “There,” I say to my husband. “The king himself favors Henry. I expect the king can foretell he will have a great future. He will know that this is a special boy. He has the vision of a saint; he will see the grace in Henry, as I do.”

  The storm, which blew away the little boat of the usurper Edward and his runaway companions after their defeat at Edgecote Hill, blows around the coast for almost all the winter. Our lands are flooded both in Surrey and elsewhere, and we have to lay out on ditching and even build dykes against the rising rivers. The tenants are late with their rents, and the crops are sodden in the fields. My husband is pessimistic about the state of the country, as if the loss of the usurper House of York brings rain and discontent.

  The news gets out that the former queen, Elizabeth Woodville, who turns out to be so beloved of her king that he ran away and left her, is going to give birth to another child, even though she is in sanctuary in Westminster, on holy ground. Even this final act of grossness and folly is forgiven by our sainted king, who refuses to have her taken from her place of hiding, and instead sends her midwives and ladies to care for her. The attention that this woman attracts continues to amaze me. I managed to give birth to my boy Henry with no more than two midwives and they under instruction to let me die. Elizabeth Woodville has to have midwives and physicians and her own mother in attendance, when she is in hiding for treason.

  She continues to attract admiration, even though nobody can see her fabled beauty. They say that the citizens of London and the farmers of Kent keep her supplied with food, and that her husband is in Flanders, raising an army to rescue her. The thought of her, reveling in all this attention, makes me grit my teeth. Why cannot people see that all she has done, in all her life, is use a pretty face, or the snare of her body or worse, to capture a king. This is neither noble nor holy—and yet people speak of her as beloved.

  The worst news of all is that she has a boy. He cannot inherit the throne since his father has so thoroughly abandoned it, but a York son born just now is bound to have an influence on gullible people, who will see the hand of destiny in giving the York family an heir in prison.

  If I were the king, I don’t think I would be so very scrupulous about respecting the laws of sanctuary for such a person. How can a woman who is widely regarded as a witch invoke the protection of the Holy Church? How can a baby claim sanctuary? How shall a treasonous family live untouchable in the very heart of London? Our king is a saint, but he should be served by men who can take worldly decisions; and Elizabeth Woodville and her mother Jacquetta, whom I now know to be truly a most notorious and proven witch and a turncoat, should be bundled onto a ship and sent off to Flanders; there they can weave their magic and practice their beauty, where they are likely to be better appreciated among foreigners.

  My childish stunned regard for Elizabeth Woodville’s mother Jacquetta quickly changed when I learned what sort of woman she was, and when I saw her bump her daughter upwards to the throne. There is no doubt in my mind that the grace and beauty which caught my eye when I was a little girl at the court of King Henry was a mask over a most sinful nature. She allowed her daughter to stand at the roadside when the young king rode by, and she was one of the few witnesses at their secret wedding. She became chief lady-in-waiting and leader of the York court. No woman with any sense of loyalty or honor could do any of these things. She, who had served Margaret of Anjou, how could she bow the knee to her light-minded daughter? Jacquetta had been a royal duchess with the English army in France, and then she was widowed and married her husband’s squire, at most shocking speed. Our kindly king forgave her lustful indiscretion, so her husband, Richard Woodville, could call himself Lord Rivers, taking his title as a tribute to the pagan traditions of her family, who sprang from streams and name a water goddess as their ancestor. Since then, scandal and rumors of dealing with the devil have followed her as waters flow downhill. And this is the woman whose daughter thought she should be Queen of England! No wonder he is shamefully dead and they are cast down to little more than prison. She should use her black arts and fly away, or summon the river and swim to safety.

  SPRING 1471

  I say nothing of these thoughts of mine to Sir Henry, who is so gloomy through the dark, wintry days of January and February that one would think he was mourning the exile of his king. One evening at dinner I ask him if he is well, and he says that he is much worried.

  “Is Henry safe?” I ask at once.

  His weary smile reassures me. “Of course, I would have told you if I had any bad news from Jasper. The two of them are at Pembroke, I don’t doubt, and we can visit them when the roads are clear of all this rain, if there is no more trouble.”

  “Trouble?” I repeat.

  Sir Henry glances at the server of wine, who stands behind us, and then looks down the great hall where the servants and tenants on the nearest tables can overhear our speech. “We can talk later,” he says.

  We wait till we are alone in my bedroom, with the hot-spiced wine served, and the servants gone for the night. He sits before the fireside, and I see that he looks weary and older than his forty-five years.

  “I am sorry for your unease,” I say; but he is of an age when a man makes a nonsense out of a nothing, and if my boy Henry is well, and our king on the throne, then what trouble need we fear? “Please tell me your worries, husband. Perhaps we can put them to naught.”

  “I have a message from a man loyal to York, who thinks that I too am loyal to York,” he says heavily. “It’s a summons.”

  “A summons?” I repeat stupidly. For a moment I think he means to serve as a justice, and then I realize he means that York is recruiting again. “Oh, God spare us! Not a summons to rebel?”

  He nods.

  “A secret plot of York and they have come to you?”

  “Yes.” He sighs. For a moment I lose my fear and am tempted to giggle. His correspondent cannot know my husband very well if he thinks he is a Yorkist. And not well at all if he thinks he will arm to command, and joyously ride out to war. My husband makes a most reluctant soldier. He is not made of heroic stuff.

  “Edward is planning to invade and take back his kingdom,” he says. “We will have the wars starting again.”

  Now I am alarmed. I grip my chair. “It’s not his kingdom.”

  My husband shrugs. “Whoever has the right of it, Edward will fight for it.”

  “Oh no,” I say. “Not again. He cannot hope to come against our king. Not now that he has just been restored. He has been back on his throne—what?—five months?”

  “My friend who wrote me to turn out for Edward said more,” my husband goes on. “My friend is not just Edward’s man, he is a friend of George, Duke of Clarence.”

  I wait. Surely, George of Clarence cannot have turned his coat. He has staked everything on being his brother’s enemy. He is in thrall to Warwick, married to his daughter, standing in line for the throne only second to our Prince of Wales. He is a key member of the court, a most beloved cousin of our king. He has burned his boats with his brother; he cannot go back. Edward would never have him back. “George?” I ask.

  “He is to join his brother again,” my husband tells me. “The three sons of York are to be reunited.”

  “You must send this at once to the king, and to Jasper,” I insist. “They have to know; they have to be prepared.”

  “I have sent messages to both Wales and the court,” my husband says. “But I doubt I am telling either of them anything that they don’t already know. Everyone knows that Edward is arming and raising an army in Flanders—he would be bound to come again to reclaim his throne. And the king …” He breaks off. “I don’t think the king cares for anything anymore but his own soul. I truly think he would be glad to surrender his throne if he could go into a monastery and spend his days in prayer.”

  “God has called him to be king,” I say firmly.

  “Then God will have to help him,” my husband replies. “And I think he will need all the