Lady of the Rivers Read online

  Richard starts to say that when he gets the order to sail he will leave me behind, he dare not take me to Bordeaux if the place is going to come under siege. I walk along the protective wall of the harbour and look south to the lands of France that my first husband used to command, and wish that we were both safely home in Grafton. I write to the queen myself, I tell her that we are ready to go to the rescue of Gascony but we can do nothing without money to pay the soldiers, and that while they kick their heels in the farms and villages they complain of their treatment by us, their masters and lords, and the working men and women of Devon see how badly the soldiers and sailors are treated and say that this e suingdom where a man is not rewarded for doing his duty. They mutter that the men of Kent had it right – that this is a king who cannot hold his own lands here or abroad, that he is badly advised. They whisper that Jack Cade called for Richard, Duke of York, to be admitted to the king’s councils and that Jack Cade was right, and died for his belief. They even say – though I never tell her this – that she is a French woman squandering the money that should go to the army so that her own country can seize the land of Gascony, and England be left with nothing in France at all. I beg her to tell her husband to send the order for his fleet to set sail.

  Nothing comes.

  In July we hear that Bordeaux has fallen to the French. In September the first refugees from Bayonne start to arrive in tattered craft and say that the whole of the duchy of Gascony has been captured by the French while the expedition to save them, commanded by my unhappy husband, waited in the dock at Plymouth, eating the stores and waiting for orders.

  We have been living in a little house overlooking the harbour for all of this long year. Richard uses the first-floor room as his headquarters. I go up the narrow stairs, to find him at the small-paned window, looking out at the blue sea, where the wind is blowing briskly towards the coast of France, good sailing weather; but all his fleet is tied up at the quayside.

  ‘It’s over,’ he says bluntly to me as I quietly stand beside him. I put my hand on his shoulder; there is nothing I can say to comfort him in this, his moment of shame and failure. ‘It is all over, and I did nothing. I am seneschal of nothing. You have been the wife firstly of John Duke of Bedford, a mighty lord, the regent of all of France, and secondly to the seneschal of nothing.’

  ‘You did all that you were commanded to do,’ I say softly. ‘You held the fleet and the army together, and you were ready to sail. If they had sent the money and the order you would have gone. If they had sent the order alone, you would have gone without the money to pay them. I know that. Everyone knows that. You would have fought unpaid, and the men would have followed you. I don’t doubt that you would have saved Gascony. You had to wait for your orders; that was all. It was not your fault.’

  ‘Oh,’ he laughs bitterly. ‘But I have my orders now.’

  I wait, my heart sinking.

  ‘I am to take a force to defend Calais.’

  ‘Calais?’ I stumble. ‘But surely the King of France is at Bordeaux?’

  ‘They think that the Duke of Burgundy is massing to attack Calais.’

  ‘My kinsman.’

  ‘I know, I am sorry, Jacquetta.’

  ‘Who will go with you?’

  ‘The king has appointed Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, as Captain of Calais. I am to go and support him as soon as I have dismissed the ships and sailors and the army from here.’

  ‘Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset?’ I repeat, disbelievingly. This is the man who lost us Normandy. Why would he be trusted with Calais, but for the king’s unswerving belief in his kinsman and the queen’s misplaced affection?

  ‘Please God he has learned how to soldier through defeat,’ my husband says grimly.

  I lean my cheek against his arm. ‘At least you can save Calais for the English,’ I say. ‘They will call you a hero if you can hold the castle and the town.’

  ‘I will be commanded by the man who gave away Normandy,’ he says gloomily. ‘I will be in service to a man that Richard, Duke of York has named as a traitor. If they don’t send us men and money there either then I don’t know that we can hold it.’

  GRAFTON, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE,

  AUTUMN 1451

  Richard’s mood does not lift as he prepares to leave for Calais. I send for Elizabeth, my oldest girl, to come home to see her father before he leaves. I have placed her at the house of the Grey family at Groby Hall, near Leicester, just fifty miles away. They are a wealthy family, with kinsmen all around the country, ruling thousands of acres. She is supervised by the lady of the house: Lady Elizabeth, heiress to the wealthy Ferrers family. I could not have chosen anyone better to teach my girl how a great woman runs her household. There is a son and heir at home, young John Grey, who rode out against Jack Cade, a handsome young man. He will inherit the estate, which is substantial, and the title, which is noble.

  It takes her a day to ride home, and she comes with an armed escort, the roads are so dangerous with wandering bands of men, thrown out of France without a home to go to, or wages. Elizabeth is fourteen now, nearly as tall as me. I watch her, and have to stop myself smiling: she is such a beauty and she has such grace. At her age I was probably her match for looks but she has a calmness and a sweetness that I never had. She has my clear pale skin and my fair hair, she has grey eyes and a perfectly regular face like the sculpted marble face of a beautiful statue. When she laughs she is a child; but sometimes she looks at me and I think, dear God, what a girl this is: she has the Sight from Melusina, she is a woman of my line, and she has a future before her which I can neither imagine nor foresee.

  Elizabeth’s sister Anne is her little shadow; at just twelve she copies every gesture of Elizabeth’s and follows her around like a devoted puppy. Richard laughs at me for my adoration of my children and my favourite of them all is Elizabeth’s brother: Anthony. He is nine and a brighter scholar never lost count of the hours in a library. But he is not just a boy for his books, he plays with the village lads and can run as fast and fight as hard as they, with fists or in wrestling. His father is teaching him to joust and he sits on a horse as if he were born in the saddle. You never see him shift to the leap of the horse: they are as one. He plays tennis with his sisters and is kind enough to let them win, he plays chess with me and makes me pause and puzzle over his moves, and sweetest, warmest of all, he goes down on one knee for his mother’s blessing night and morning, and when I have put my hand on his head, he jumps up for a hug and will stand at my side, leaning lightly against me, like a foal at foot. Mary is eight this year, growing out of her dresses every season, and devoted to her father. She follows him everywhere, riding all day on her fat little pony so that she can be at his side, learning the names of the fields and the tracks to the villages so she can go out to meet him. He calls her his princess and swears he will make a marriage for her to a king who will have no kingdom but will come and live with us so no-one will ever take her away. Our next child, just a year younger, Jacquetta, is named for me but she could not be less like me. She is Richard’s daughter through and through, she has his quiet humour and his calmness. She keeps a distance from her brothers’ and sisters’ tumblings and quarrels, and she laughs when they appeal to her to serve as judge and jury from the pinnacle of the wisdom of a seven-year-old. In the nursery, unruly as puppies, are my two boys John and Richard, six and five years old, and in the well-polished cradle is the new baby, the sweetest best-tempered baby of them all: Martha.

  As Richard assembles the men he will take to Calais and starts to teach them how to use the lances, how to stand against a charge, how to march in an attack, I have to keep telling myself that this is the right thing to do – to send him off with the blessings of all his children; but there is something about gathering them together to say goodbye that fills me with dread.

  ‘Jacquetta, are you fearful for me?’ he asks me one evening.

  I nod, almost ashamed to say yes.

  ‘Have you seen anyt