The Lady of the Rivers (56 page)

‘That will soon be over,’ I say. ‘And it’s good that he has strong legs.’ I draw her back to the day bed and lift up her feet. ‘Rest,’ I say. ‘You will have enough to do within a few days.’

‘Do you think days?’ Lady Grey asks.

I look at Elizabeth. ‘I can’t tell yet,’ I say. ‘And a first child often takes his time.’

Lady Grey leaves us, promising to send up a good dinner as soon as it grows dark. Elizabeth waits for the door to close behind her, and says, ‘You said “his”; you said “his” time.’

‘Did I?’ I smile at her. ‘What d’you think?’

‘I did the wedding ring spell,’ she says eagerly. ‘Shall I tell you what it said?’

‘Let me try,’ I say, as excited as a girl. ‘Let me try with my ring.’

I slip my wedding ring from my finger and take a thin gold chain from my neck. I put the ring on the chain, wondering a little that I should be so blessed as to be dowsing for my daughter, to see what her baby will be. I hold the chain over her belly and wait for it to hang still. ‘Clockwise for a boy, widdershins for a girl,’ I say. Without my moving it, the ring begins to stir, slowly at first as if in a breeze, and then more positively, round and round in a circle. Clockwise. ‘A boy,’ I say, catching it up and restoring the ring to my finger and the chain to my neck. ‘What did you think?’

‘I thought a boy,’ she confirms. ‘And what are you going to have?’

‘A boy too, I think,’ I say proudly. ‘What a family we are making, I swear they should all be dukes. What will you name him?’

‘I am going to call him Thomas.’

‘Thomas the survivor,’ I say.

She is instantly curious. ‘Why d’you call him that? What is he going to survive?’

I look at her beautiful face and for a moment it is as if I am seeing her in a stained-glass window, in a shadowy hall, and she is years away from me. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I just think he will have a long journey and survive many dangers.’

‘So when do you think he will come?’ she asks impatiently.

I smile. ‘On a Thursday, of course,’ I reply, and quote the old saying: ‘Thursday’s child has far to goquo;

She is diverted at once. ‘What was I?’

‘Monday. Monday’s child is fair of face.’

She laughs. ‘Oh, Lady Mother, I look like a pumpkin!’

‘You do,’ I say. ‘But only till Thursday.’

It turns out that I am right on both counts, though I don’t crow over Lady Grey, who would make a bad enemy. The baby is a boy, he is born on a Thursday, and my Elizabeth insists he shall be called Thomas. I wait until she is up and about, I take her to be churched myself, and when she is well and the baby feeding, and her husband has stopped coming to me ten times each day to ask if I am sure that everything is well, I go to Grafton to see my other children, and promise them that their father is bravely serving his king, as he always does, and he will come home to us, as soon as he can, as he always does, that their father has sworn to be faithful to us over and over, that he will always come home to me.

I go into my confinement in December, and the night before the baby is born I dream of a knight as brave and as bold as my husband, Sir Richard, and a country dry and hot and brown, a flickering standard against a blazing sun, and a man who is afraid of nothing. When he is born he is just a tiny crying baby and I hold him in my arms and wonder what he will be. I call him Edward, thinking of the little prince, and I feel certain that he will be lucky.

HERTFORD CASTLE, SPRING 1456

Richard does not come home, though I write to him from the hushed and fearful court to tell him he is a father again and now a grandfather too. I remind him that Anthony must be sent to serve some great lord; but how am I to judge which one, in this new world that is ruled by York once again? I don’t even know if he gets the letter; certainly I don’t get a reply.

The garrison and town of Calais are at war with themselves, and are no more welcoming to the newly nominated commander, the victorious young Earl of Warwick, than they were to the former constable, his ally, the Duke of York. I imagine, and I fear, that Richard is keeping the York allies out of the castle and holding the town for Lancaster. A forlorn hope, and a lonely posting. I imagine that he is keeping faith with Lancaster and thinks that to hold Calais for the silent king is the best service he can offer. But through the Christmas feast and the winter months, I cannot get any news of him, except to know that he is alive, and that the garrison has sent word that they will never admit the Earl of Warwick to the castle which is loyal to the man he killed: the dead Lord Somerset.

It is not until spring that things start to improve. ‘The king is better,’ Margaret announces to me.

I look at her doubtfully. ‘He speaks better than he did,’ I agree. ‘But he is not himself yet.’

She grits her teeth. ‘Jacquetta – perhaps he will never be as he was. His wound has healed, he can speak clearly, he can walk without stumbling. He can pass as a king. From a distance he can look commanding. That has to be enough for me.’

‘For you to do what?’

‘For me to take him back to London, show him to the council, and take the power from the Duke of York once more.’

‘He is the shell of a king,’ I warn her. ‘A puppet king.’

‘Then it will be me who pulls the strings,’ she promises. ‘And not the Duke of York. While we are here and allow the protectorate to reign, the Duke of York takes all the posts, all the fees, all the taxes and all the favours. He will strip the country bare and we will end up with nothing. I have to put the king back on his throne and York back in his place. I have to save my son’s inheritance for when he can come of age and fight his own battles.’

I hesitate, thinking of the king’s nervous tremor of the head, of the way he flinches at sudden noise. He will be unhappy in London, he will be frightened in Westminster. The lords will appeal to his judgement and demand that he rules. He cannot do it. ‘There will be continual quarrels in the council and shouting. He will break down, Margaret.’

‘I will order your husband home,’ she tempts me. ‘I will tell the king to pardon the garrison and allow the guard home. Richard can come home and see his grandson, and meet his son. He has not even seen your new baby.’

‘A bribe,’ I remark.

‘A brilliant bribe,’ she replies. ‘Because it’s irresistible, isn’t it? So do you agree? Shall we set the king to claim his throne again?’

‘Would you stop on this course if I disagree with you?’

She shakes her head. ‘I am determined. Whether you are with me or not, Jacquetta, I will take command through my husband, I will save England for my son.’

‘Then bring Richard home and we will support you. I want him in my life again, in my sight, and in my bed.’

WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON,
SPRING 1456

Richard’s recall from Calais is one of the first acts of the restored king. We go in state to Westminster and announce the king’s recovery to the council. It goes better than I had dared to hope. The king is gracious and the council openly relieved at his return; the king is now to govern with the advice of the Duke of York. The king pardons the garrison of Calais for refusing to admit both York and Warwick, and he signs a pardon especially for Richard, to forgive him for his part in the rebellion against the lord protector.

‘Your husband is a loyal servant to me and my house,’ he remarks to me, when he comes to the queen’s rooms before dinner. ‘I will not forget it, Lady Rivers.’

‘And may he come home?’ I ask. ‘He has been away such a long time, Your Grace.’

‘Soon,’ he promises me. ‘I have written to him and to Lord Welles that I myself appoint the Earl of Warwick as Captain of Calais and so they can take it as my command that they are to admit him. When they admit the earl, and he takes up his post, youd can come home.’ He sighs. ‘If only they would live together in loving kindness,’ he says. ‘If only they would be as birds in the trees, as little birds in the nest.’

I curtsey. The king is drifting into one of his dreams. He has a vision of a kinder world, a better world, which nobody could deny. But it is no help for those of us who have to live in this one.

The king’s pain at his unexpected wound, his shock at the brutality of battle and the cruelty of death in the streets of St Albans seems to have gone very deep. He says that he is well now, we have given thanks in a special Mass, and everyone has seen him walk without stumbling, talk to petitioners, and sit on his throne; but neither the queen nor I can feel confident that he won’t drift away again. He especially dislikes noise or disagreement, and the court, the parliament and the king’s council is riven with faction; there are daily quarrels between the followers of the York lords and our people. Any trouble, any discord, any unhappiness, and his gaze drifts away, he looks out of the window and he falls silent, slipping away in a daydream. The queen has learned never to disagree with him, and the little prince is whisked from the room whenever he raises his voice or runs about. The whole court tiptoes about its business so as not to disturb the king, and so far we have managed to keep him in at least the appearance of kingship.

The queen has learned to control her temper, and it has been very sweet to see her discipline herself so that she never startles or alarms her husband. Margaret has a quick temper and a powerful desire to rule, and to see her bite her tongue and hear her lower her voice so as not to confront the king with the usurpation of his powers is to see a young woman growing into wisdom. She is kind to him in a way that I thought she could never be. She sees him as a wounded animal, and when his eyes grow vague or he looks about him, trying to remember a word or a name, she puts her hand gently on his and prompts him, as sweetly as a daughter with a father in his dotage. It is a sorry end for the marriage that started in such hopes, and the king’s hidden weakness is her hidden grief. She is a woman sobered by loss: she has lost the man she loved, she has lost her husband; but she does not complain of her life to anyone but me.

To me, her temper is not muted, and often she blazes out when we are alone. ‘He does whatever the Duke of York tells him,’ she spits. ‘He is his puppet, his dog.’

‘He is obliged to govern with the agreement of the duke, and with the earls of Salisbury and Warwick,’ I say. ‘He has to answer the objection that the Privy Council made against him: that he was only for Lancaster. Now there is a parliament which is influenced by all the great men, York as well as Lancaster. In England, this is how they like it, Your Grace. They like to share power. They like many advisors.’

‘And what about what I like?’ she demands. ‘And what about the Duke of Somerset who lies dead, thanks to them? The dearest, truest . . . ’ She breaks off and turns away so that I cannot see the grief in her face. ‘And what about the interest of the prince, my son? Who will serve me and the prince? Who will satisfy our likes – never mind those of the council?’

I say nothing. There is no arguing with her when she rages against the Duke of York. ‘I won’t stand for it,’ she says. ‘I am taking the prince and going to Tutbury Castle for the summer, and then on to Kenilworth. I won’t stay in London, I won’t be imprisoned in Windsor again.’