Lady of the Rivers Read online

  I have to go back into the room past the dead man to get my cape, which was spread over the bed for warmth. I don’t look at him, and we leave him there, unshriven, dead in his own blood with his throat cut.

  ‘Jacquetta!’ she says.

  ‘Margaret.’ We hold each other, arms wrapped around each other, cheeks warm one to the other. I feel the energy of her joy and optimism coursing through her slight body. I smell the perfume in her hair and her fur collar tickles my chin.

  ‘I have had such adventures! You will never believe the journeys I have made. Are you safe?’

  I can feel myself still trembling with shock from the violence in the bedroom. ‘Richard had to kill one of your men,’ I say. ‘He came in my bedroom window.’

  She shakes her head disapprovingly, as at a minor foible. ‘Oh! They are hopeless! Good for nothing but killing people. But you must see our prince,’ she says. ‘He is a young man born to be king. He has been so brave. We had to ride to Wales and then take ship to Scotland. We were robbed and wrecked! You’ll never believe it.’

  ‘Margaret, the people are terrified of your army.’

  ‘Yes, I know. They are tremendous. You will see, we have such plans!’

  She is radiant, she is a woman in her power, free at last to take her power. ‘I have the lords of Somerset, Exeter and Northumberland,’ she says. ‘The north of England is ours. We will march south and when Warwick comes out to defend London we will crush him.’

  ‘He will be able to raise London against you,’ I warn her. ‘And the country is terrified of your army, not welcoming at all.’

  She laughs aloud. ‘I have raised the Scots and the north against him,’ she says. ‘They will be too afraid even to lift a weapon. I am coming like a wolf into England, Jacquetta, with an army of wolves. I am at the very height of the wheel of fortune, this is an unbeatable army because nobody will dare to take the field against them. People run from us before we even arrive, I have become a bad queen to my people, a scourge in the land, and they will be sorry that they ever raised a sword or a pitchfork against me.’

  We ride south with the queen’s army, the royal party at the head of the marching men, the pillaging, looting and terror going on behind us in a broad swathe that we know about, but ignore. Some of the men ride off from the main column to forage for food, breaking into barns, raiding shops and isolated little farms, demanding a levy from villages; but others are madmen, men from the north like Vikings going berserk, killing for the sake of it, stealing from churches, raping women. We bring terror to England, we are like a plague on our own people. Richard and some of the lords are deeply shamed and do what they can to impose some order on the army, controlling their own levies, demanding that the Scots fall in and march. But some of the other lords, the queen herself, and even her little boy, seem to revel in punishing the country that rejected them. Margaret is like a woman released from the bonds of honour, she is free to be anything she likes for the first time in her life, she is free of her husband, she is free of the constraints of the court, she is free of the careful manners of a French princess, she is free, at last, to be wicked.

  On the second day of our march, the four of us riding at the head of the army see a lone horseman, standing by the roadsideith iting for us to come up. Richard nods to Anthony and John. ‘Go and see who that is,’ he says. ‘Take care. I don’t want to find that he’s a scout and Warwick is the other side of the hill.’

  My two boys canter slowly towards the man, holding the reins in their left hands, their right hands held down, outspread, to show they are holding no weapon. The man trots towards them, making the same gesture. They halt to speak briefly then all three turn and ride towards us.

  The stranger is filthy from the mud of the road and his horse’s coat is matted with sweat. He is unarmed, he has a scabbard at his side but he has lost his sword.

  ‘A messenger,’ Anthony says with a nod to the queen who has pulled up her horse and is waiting. ‘Bad news, I am afraid, Your Grace.’

  She waits, impassively, as a queen should wait for bad news.

  ‘Edward of March has come out of Wales like a sun in winter,’ the man says. ‘I was there. Jasper Tudor sent me to tell you to beware the sun in splendour.’

  ‘He never did,’ my husband interrupts. ‘Jasper Tudor never sent such a message in his life. Tell us what you were ordered to say, fool, and don’t embroider.’

  Corrected, the man straightens in his saddle. ‘Tudor told me to say this: that his army is defeated and that he is in hiding. We met the York force and we lost. Sir William Herbert led the Yorks against us; Edward of March was at his side. They broke the Welsh line and rode right through us, Jasper sent me to you to warn you. He was on his way to join you when Edward blocked our path.’

  The queen nods. ‘Will Jasper Tudor come on to join us?’

  ‘Half his army is dead. The Yorks are everywhere. I doubt he’ll get through. He might be dead now.’

  She takes a breath but says nothing.

  ‘There was a vision,’ the man offers, one eye on Richard.

  ‘Who else saw it?’ he demands irritably. ‘Anyone? Or just you? Or you just think you did?’

  ‘Everyone saw it. That’s why we lost. Everyone saw it.’

  ‘No matter,’ my husband says.

  ‘What was it?’ the queen asks.

  My husband sighs and rolls his eyes.

  ‘In the sky, over Edward Earl of March, when he raised his standard, the morning sun came up, and then there were three suns. Three suns in the sky above him, the middle one shining down on him. It was like a miracle. We didn’t know what it meant; but we could see he was blessed. We didn’t know why.’

  ‘Three suns,’ the queen repeats. She turns to me. ‘What does it mean?’

  I turn away as if she might see, reflected in my eyes, the three suns I saw, dazzling on the water of the Thames. These are three suns I know, these three suns I have seen. But I did not know then what they meant, and I still don’t know now.

  ‘Some said it was the blessed Trinity honouring Edward March. But why would Father, Son and Holy Ghost bless a rebe Some said it was him and his two living brothers, born to rise high.’

  The queen looks at me. I shake my head and stay silent. I was hoping that I would see the season when the king would recover when I went out in that cold dawn and looked at the shine on the waters of the river. I was looking for the rising of my king but instead I saw three suns rising out of the mist and burning brightly.

  ‘What does it mean?’ The man asks the question in my direction, as if he expects me to know.

  ‘Nothing,’ my husband says stoutly. ‘It means that there was a bright dawn and you were all dazzled by fear.’ He turns back to the man. ‘I don’t want to know about visions, I want to know about a day’s march. If Edward brings his troop due west and marches as quick as he can, when d’you think they will get to London?’

  The man thinks, he is so weary he cannot calculate the days. ‘A week? Three, four days?’ he asks. ‘He’s fast. He’s the fastest commander in battle I have ever seen. Could he be here tomorrow?’

  That night my husband disappears from our camp, and comes back late, as the queen is about to retire. ‘Your Grace, I ask permission to bring a friend to join us.’

  She rises. ‘Ah, Richard, you are a good man in my service. You brought me a great commander in Sir Andrew Trollope who won Ludford for us without raising his sword. Who do you have now?’

  ‘I have to have your oath that you will forgive him for former error,’ he says.

  ‘I forgive him,’ she says easily.

  ‘He is pardoned?’ Richard confirms.

  ‘He has a royal pardon. You have my word.’

  ‘Then, may I present Sir Henry Lovelace, who is proud to come to serve you,’ he says.

  She extends her hand and Richard’s friend steps forwards, bows and kisses it. ‘You have not always been my friend, Sir Henry,’ she observes coolly.

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