The Lady of the Rivers Read online

  She nods. ‘I want to know that,’ she whispers longingly. ‘Do you think he loves me, Jacquetta? You have seen him with me. Do you think he loves me?’

  ‘Spread the cards,’ I say.

  She makes a fan of the cards, their bright faces downwards.

  ‘Now choose.’

  Slowly, one finger moving across the painted backs, she muses on her choice, and then she points. ‘This one.’

  I turn it over. It is the Falling Tower. The tower of a castle, struck perhaps by lightning, a jagged streak of light flaming into the roof of the tower, the walls going one way, the roof the other. Two little figures fall from the tower to the grass below.

  ‘What does it mean?’ she whispers. ‘Will he take the tower? Does it mean he will take the kingdom?’

  For a moment I cannot understand her meaning. ‘Take the kingdom?’ I repeat in horror. ‘Take the kingdom!’

  She shakes her head, denying the very thought, hand over her mouth. ‘Nothing, nothing. But what does it mean? This card – what does it mean?’

  ‘It means an overturning of all things,’ I say. ‘Disruption of the times. Perhaps a fall of a castle . . . ’ Of course, I think of Richard, who is sworn to hold the castle of Calais for this very commander. ‘A fall from on high, look, here are two people falling down from the tower, a rising of those who are low, and in the end, everything different. A new heir takes the throne, the old order is changed, everything is new.’

  Her eyes are shining. ‘Everything is new,’ she whispers. ‘Who do you think is the king’s true heir?’

  I k at her in something close to horror. ‘Richard, Duke of York,’ I say flatly. ‘Like him or not. Richard, Duke of York, is the king’s heir.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Edmund Beaufort is the king’s cousin,’ she whispers. ‘He could be the true heir. Perhaps this is what the card means.’

  ‘It never comes out quite how I think it will be,’ I warn her. ‘This is not a prediction, it is always more like a warning. D’you remember the Wheel of Fortune card? The card you drew on your wedding day that promises what rises will fall, that nothing is certain?’

  Nothing I can say can dull her joy, her face is shining. She thinks I have foreseen the change of everything and she is longing for something to change. She thinks that the tower shown in the card is her prison; she wants it broken down. She thinks the people who are clearly falling are breaking free. She thinks the lightning shaft that destroys and burns will break down the old and make new. There is nothing I can say that she will hear as a warning.

  She makes the gesture that I showed her on her wedding day, the circling forefinger that shows the rise and the fall of life. ‘Everything new,’ she whispers again.

  In bed, that night, I confide my worries to Richard, skirting over the queen’s infatuation for the duke, but telling him only that she is lonely and that the duke is her closest friend. Richard is sitting up, beside the warmth of the fire, his gown thrown over his naked shoulders. ‘No harm in friendship,’ he says stoutly. ‘And she is a pretty girl and deserves some companionship.’

  ‘People will talk.’

  ‘People always talk.’

  ‘I am afraid that she may become too fond of the duke.’

  He narrows his eyes as if he would scrutinise my thoughts. ‘Are you saying she might fall in love with him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. She is young, he is handsome, she has nobody else in the world who shows any sign of caring for her. The king is kind to her and considerate, but he has no passion in him.’

  ‘Can the king give her a child?’ Richard asks bluntly, going to the very core of the matter.

  ‘I think he can,’ I say. ‘But he does not come often to her room.’

  ‘The man’s a fool,’ my husband says. ‘A woman like Margaret cannot be neglected. D’you think the duke has eyes for her?’

  I nod.

  Richard scowls. ‘I think you could trust him to do nothing which would endanger her or the throne. It would be a selfish villain who would seduce her. She has everything to lose, and it would cost the throne of England as well. He’s no fool. They are close, they are bound to be close, they are both in attendance on the king for most of every day. But Edmund Beaufort is running this kingdom through the king, he would not jeopardise his own future – never mind hers. The most important thing is for her to get an heir.’

  ‘She can hardly do it alone,’ I say crossly.

  He laughs at me. ‘No need to defend her to me. But while there is no child then Richard, Duke of York, is the rightful heir, but the king keeps favouring others of his family: Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham, who takes precedence, and Edmund Beaufort. Now I hear he is bringing his half-brothers, the Tudor boys, to court as well. It makes everyone uneasy. Who does he think is his heir? Would he dare to put Richard, Duke of York, aside for one of these favourites?’

  ‘He’s young,’ I say. ‘She’s young. They could get a child.’

  ‘Well, he’s not likely to die on campaign like his father,’ my husband the soldier says cruelly. ‘He keeps himself safe enough.’

  At the end of the twelve days of Christmas Richard has to go back to his post at Calais. I go down to the river to see him set sail. He is wearing his thick travelling cloak against the cold wintry mist and he wraps it around us both as we stand on the quayside. Inside the warmth, my head against his shoulder, my arms tight around his broad back, I hold him as if I cannot bear to let him go. ‘I’ll come to Calais,’ I promise.

  ‘Sweetheart, there is nothing for you there at all. I will come home again at Easter, or earlier.’

  ‘I can’t wait till Easter.’

  ‘Then I will come sooner. Whenever you bid me. You know that. When you want me I will come.’

  ‘Can’t you just go and inspect the garrison and come back?’

  ‘Perhaps; if there is no expedition into Normandy this spring. The duke hopes to mount one. Does the queen say anything?’

  ‘She says whatever the duke says.’

  ‘If we don’t have an expedition by spring there won’t be one this year, and I can come home to you,’ he promises.

  ‘You had better come home in the summer,’ I warn him. ‘Whatever happens. I will have something I will want you to see.’

  In the warm shelter of the cloak his hand goes to my belly.

  ‘You are a ruby, my Jacquetta. A wife of noble character worth more than rubies. Are you with child again?’

  ‘Yes, again,’ I say.

  ‘A summer baby,’ he says with pleasure. ‘Another for the House of Rivers. We are making a nation, my love. The Rivers are becoming an estuary, a lake, an inland sea.’

  I giggle.

  ‘Will you stay at court with the queen for now?’

  ‘Yes, I will. I’ll go down to Grafton for a few days to see the children and then I’ll come back to court. At the very least, I can guard her from slander.’

  Concealed by his cloak he squeezes me. ‘I like the thought of you as a model of respectability, my love.’

  ‘I am a very respectable mother of nine,’ I remind him. ‘Soon ten, God willing.’

  ‘Good God, that I shou feel like this for a mother of ten,’ he remarks, taking my hand and holding it against his breeches.

  ‘God forgive me that I should feel like this for a married man and a father of ten,’ I say, pressing against him.

  There is a shout from the deck of the ship above us. ‘I have to go,’ he says reluctantly. ‘We have to catch the tide. I love you, Jacquetta, and I will come home soon.’

  He kisses me hard and quickly, and then he steps back and runs up the gangplank to the ship. Without his cloak, without his warmth, without his smile, I feel very cold and alone. I let him go.

  THE TOWER OF LONDON, SPRING 1453

  I come back to court after

  a week at Grafton in time for the great celebration in the Tower of London where the king’s half-brothers Edmund and Jasper Tudor are made ear