Текст книги "The Red Rose of Anjou"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Therefore there was no time for rejoicing. They must set out for the North and not rest until they had vanquished Margaret’s army.

###

Bitterly Margaret considered what had happened. What folly to have allowed Warwick and Edward to go to London. She had always hated the Londoners because they had hated her. And they had cheered for Edward and Warwick. They had dared call Edward their King.

Henry was with her. He was praying all the time. He was so weary of the wars, he told her. Would they never stop? He would do anything...anything to make them...give them what they wanted, anything.

‘Forsooth and forsooth, what life is this for us!’

‘We have our son to think of,’ Margaret told him fiercely. ‘Have you forgotten that?’

‘He will be happier in some quiet place,’ said the King, ‘far away from conflict ‘

‘He is not like you,’ retorted Margaret. ‘My son was born to be King.’

Henry sighed. He was so weary. Margaret could not sit quietly; she would find such comfort in prayer, he told her.

She paced up and down—over to the window, straining to see if a messenger was coming, then back to the fire, standing there staring into the embers, seeing Edward proclaimed by the treacherous Londoners...Edward in battle...the battle which was now taking place.

She was kept informed. No sooner had Edward declared himself King than he prepared for the march to the North. He was determined to destroy her and her armies,

‘Nay, my lord,’ she thought fiercely, ‘it is I who will destroy you.’

It was Palm Sunday. Henry would not go with the army. ‘This is a time for prayer,’ he said. ‘We should be kneeling together, those men of York and those of Lancaster. They should ask for God’s help to solve their differences.’

Margaret was contemptuous. ‘Meanwhile they should rely on their archers. If prayers were effective surely you would be the greatest king on earth.’

Henry shook his head sadly. Margaret spoke vehemently. He would never be able to make her understand his feelings.

‘It may be,’ she went on, ‘that God will be with us this day. He was at St. Albans. Then the snow worked to our advantage...not theirs. It blew in their faces and sent their wicked wildfire back into their ranks. The elements were with us then. Pray God they will be now.’ She walked up and down the room. ‘How dare they! We defeated them at St. Albans. We brought you back to us. It was a great victory. How could they have marched into London and proclaimed Edward King!’

‘They did it,’ said Henry.

‘And they shall pay for it,’ replied Margaret. ‘How I wish I were with the army now. I should love to see the enemy destroyed. Nothing will satisfy me until I have Warwick’s head on London Bridge...yes, London Bridge where they are so fond of him. As for Edward...King Edward. I wonder how he would fancy a paper crown like his father’s.’

‘I beg you do not talk so,’ said the King. ‘How happy I should be if we could settle this grievous matter in a friendly way.’

Oh, he was useless. She thanked God for her son. Without him life would be meaningless. Edward, dear Edward, he possessed the same name as the usurper. Edward, a King’s name, she had thought. And now that Edward dared call himself King.

Her rage threatened to choke her. Oh God, she prayed, send me news of victory quickly.

The snow was falling. It was bitterly cold. The snow had helped them at St. Albans. She could laugh aloud to think of how Warwick had so cleverly—as he thought—placed himself and then found that he had his men in the face of the wind.

What was happening now? The armies would be meeting...

Messengers at last. She hurried down to meet them.

‘What news? What news?’

The battle rages, my lady. They are at Towton. There was a skirmish at Ferrybridge. The enemy was at Pontefract and tried to secure passage across the Aire at Ferrybridge. Your army under Lord Clifford defeated them and slew their leader, Lord Fitzwalter.’

‘Oh God be praised.’

‘But they crossed farther down the river at Castleford, my lady.’

‘God curse them.’

‘And now they do battle at Towton.’

‘How goes the battle?’

The messenger paused and Margaret felt cold fear grip her.

‘It is early to say, my lady. The weather is bad. The snow is falling.’

‘Pray God he sends it in the traitors’ faces as he did at St. Albans.’

The messenger was silent.

‘If you have nothing more to tell me you may go to the kitchens for refreshment.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ said the messenger. He was glad to escape. He would not envy the one who must bring bad news to the Queen.

The suspense continued. It was unbearable. She sent for her son that he might share her vigil. She could not bear to see the King on his knees in prayer. He looked so frail, so ineffectual. He should have been there with his troops. His presence would have had its effect on them. What a King who could not fight because it was Holy Week!

The hours were passing. Still no news. The wind was howling about the castle walls. Margaret could not tear herself away from the window.

And at last news came.

That it was bad news was clear to her. She listened in horror to the tale the messenger had to tell.

The two armies had met at Towton which was a village not far from Tadcaster and the battle had been going on for ten hours. Lord Clifford after his brave defence at Ferrybridge had been slain. Many of the Lancastrian nobles who had not fallen in battle had been taken prisoner, Devonshire and Wiltshire among them.

The battle of Towton had been fought and won by the Yorkists; and the King and the Queen were in imminent danger.

Margaret was stunned with grief. What could she do? One thing was certain: she could not remain here to let herself be taken with the King and their son.

She must fly with all speed.

She went to the King. He was on his knees still.

‘Rise,’ she said imperiously. ‘There is no time for dallying. We must prepare to leave at once. There has been disaster at Towton. We have to get away before they come for us.’

‘The battle is over then...’

‘Over and lost. We are leaving at once. Delay could be the end of us. That is not yet.’

Her spirits were reviving. This was not the end of Margaret of Anjou. There had been disasters before, and always she had come out of them. She would win through yet. Was she going to be beaten by one single battle?

What of St. Albans? The glory of that had still not died.

She would win through yet. But she must live to do so. She must keep the King with her. And while she had her dear son Edward to fight for, she would go on. She would win in time. Not all of Warwick’s skill, nor all of Edward of York’s charm would prevent her from putting the rightful king on the throne.

‘Where can we go?’ said Henry.

She hesitated only for a moment.

‘We have good friends in the North,’ she said. ‘The North has always been with us. It is those perfidious Londoners who are against us. Never mind. They shall pay for their treachery. We will go to our good friends. We will go to Scotland.’

###

Edward rode into York with Warwick beside him. As he looked up at the walls he saw the heads of his father, his brother and his uncle and sadness overcame his triumph, but it was soon replaced by fury. His first act would be to remove those heads and give them a decent burial. Others should replace them. They would not be difficult to find.

Into York in triumph—King of England. It was what his father would have wished.

Margaret in flight; her armies in disorder. A new reign had begun.

THE WAITING YEARS

The years were taking their toll. She was no longer the young and beautiful Queen whose dainty looks belied her urgent determination. But nothing the years could do to her could subdue her spirit. Perhaps if it had not been for Edward – her darling, her beloved, her precious son – she would have given up. She had long decided that Henry was of no use in her ambitions. Strangely enough she still retained a lingering fondness for him. She thought of him often and wondered what was happening to him. He would never be able to fend for himself.

It was years since she had seen him. Edward was a young man now. He was devoted to her as she was to him and through all their adventures they kept their eyes on the goal. Something within her would not let her give up hope.

At first when they had flown from York and come to Scotland craving hospitality from Mary of Gueldres she had believed that in a short time they would return to England. It would be amusing if not tragic how people’s affection for them flickered and wavered according to their prospects. Edward the Fourth was crowned; the people of the South wanted him as their King. The North was more faithful to Henry though. It was amazing what a hold such a weak man could have on their affections. But he was useless to fight. She often told herself that if he had appeared at Towton at the head of his troops instead of spending the day on his knees because it was Palm Sunday, there might have been a different result to that battle—and that would have meant a complete reversal of their fortunes.

Well, it had not turned out to be so and here she was an exile in France...waiting...waiting for the moment which she still believed would come.

When they had arrived in Scotland straight from York at that terrible time they had found it necessary to keep the promise she had made to surrender Berwick to the Scots. Of course, the English hated her for that. She knew of course that they would consider it treason. But she had been forced to find a refuge for them. She had the King and the heir to the throne to consider. Berwick was surely a small price to pay for their safety.

She had quickly realized that her only hope lay with her native land, with her own people. She would go to France, she told Henry. She would muster help. Then with an army behind her she would come back. Pierre de Brézé would help. She would rally their loyal supporters in the North and they would march against the usurper.

Henry had shaken his head in sorrow. He wanted only to live in peace.

But her indomitable spirit would not be stilled. For the first time she had parted from her son. What an agony that had been! Every day she had been uneasy, wondering what was happening to him. She had made up her mind that once they were together again they should never more be parted.

It was hard to come as a suppliant. She had so looked forward to reunion with her father and how warmly he had greeted her! He had changed little; he was still the same optimistic failure. Margaret’s mother had died some nine years before and he had married again. He was absorbed by his young wife, Jeanne de Laval, and it very soon became clear to Margaret that although her lather would give lavish entertainments for her which he could ill afford, he was not really interested in helping her regain the throne. A glazed look would come into his eyes when she broached the matter. He agreed that it was a fearful thing which had happened, and Edward of York was a traitor who should pay for his wickedness with his head. Words...all words. But of course what she should have expected of René.

It was a pleasure to see her sister Yolande yet sad to hear from her the account of their mother’s death. Yolande and her husband Ferri de Vaudémont had nursed Isabelle through a long illness. ‘It was terrible to see her suffering,’ said Yolande. ‘You were spared that, Margaret.’

For a few days they were inseparable, recalling old days– such as they could remember, but after a while Margaret realized how far she and her sister had grown apart. Yolande thought her obsessed by revenge and overbearing, and Ferri agreed with his wife. After all, Yolande had not been brought up by that forceful grandmother.

There had been another blow. Margaret’s uncle, the King of France, had died. He had always been fond of Margaret and she had been relying on that tenderness. Now that the Dauphin Louis was the King, it was a different matter. Louis was artful, already earning the nickname of The Spider; he was not so enamoured of his cousin as his father had been and was certainly not going to put himself out to help her.

There had been one faithful friend, Pierre de Brézé. Ah, Pierre. He had been her constant friend; he had always had such a regard for her that she sometimes thought he was in love with her. He had changed...not in his regard for her, but he had suffered a short term of imprisonment in the Château of Loches, for on the death of King Charles, Louis had remembered old scores and attempted to settle them. Fortunately for Pierre and Margaret he had quickly been released.

Louis had not shown any animosity to Margaret. In fact he had greeted her with a show of affection, calling her cousin, and giving entertainments for her at his court; but as Pierre had warned her, one could not be sure of Louis. His methods were secretive.

It had been a great joy when Jasper Tudor had arrived in France with Sir John Fortescue who had been another faithful friend. Negotiations had then begun with Louis who made it clear that if Pierre de Brézé was to help Margaret there must naturally be some compensation. Louis knew exactly what he wanted. Calais. The transfer had been hinted at before; now he wanted Margaret to complete documents which would give that important town to him.

There had been long consultation and expressions of apprehension from Jasper and John Fortescue who knew that if Margaret signed Calais away the English would never forgive her. She must not, said Jasper. But, Margaret had reasoned, what did it matter? Calais was in the hands of the English; Warwick was the captain still; she might sign it away but that would not necessarily give it to the French. The situation was desperate for they could do nothing without the help of France.

Finally she agreed that when the Lancastrians recovered

Calais, Jasper should immediately be made captain. Louis would lend her twenty thousand livres and if that sum was not repaid immediately Calais would be his.

It was the best bargain Louis could get and he was sure in due course Calais would be his.

She would never forget that cold October day when she sailed from Barfleur with fifty ships and the two thousand men whom Louis had allowed her to raise. She had believed up till then that all she had to do was land. Alas, it was not so. Ill luck dogged her. Although she did manage to land at Tynemouth people did not come flocking to her banner and she quickly realized that survival meant sailing with all speed for Scotland. Greater ill fortune awaited her; her ships were lost—money, supplies, everything. Men were drowned and some washed ashore to give themselves up to Edward’s men.

She and Pierre managed to reach Berwick where she was greeted with the news that Edward was marching north.

That was not all. The Scots were less inclined to offer hospitality now. Berwick was in their hands. What else had she to surrender to them and make their help worthwhile? Mary of Gueldres wanted to be friendly; she was sorry for Margaret, but what could she do? She had difficulties of her own.

News came from France that Louis was no longer so friendly. The Duke of Burgundy had made it clear to the King of France that he did not approve of his supporting Margaret’s cause. Edward was King and seemed firm on the throne; trade between Burgundy and England was important. The Duke could make trouble in France if the King persisted in his policies against Edward in Margaret’s favour.

Louis was wily. He wanted no trouble at this time with Burgundy so he made it clear that no more help could come from him.

It seemed that God had deserted her. Her only joy was in her son. He was so delighted to be with her. He was growing up and she promised herself that when he was a man everything would be different, for her troops would then have a leader whom they could follow. She was sure that her Edward would possess all those virtues which were necessary in a leader. It was said that the usurper, that other Edward, had them; but everyone knew what a wild life he led; the wives of the London merchants were not safe from his lechery. What was maddening was that when people talked of it they did so with a twinkle in their eyes as though this was some virtue. It was because he was said to be so charming and handsome to look at. As if they could be an excuse for his monstrous behaviour! But sometimes it seemed to Margaret that they were bemused by him. It would not always be so, but in the meantime her Edward was but a boy and there was a crown to be won.

There had been a brief moment of hope when de Brézé had marched with her into England and captured Alnwick Castle. But how short-lived that triumph had been. The Earl of Warwick had come marching north and within a lamentably short time had recaptured the castle and she had been forced to retreat in haste, her army in disorder. It was at this time that one of the most terrifying moments of her life had occurred. She had been with Edward alone in the forest, lost for the moment. She kept Edward with her always and at such times would never allow him out of her sight. She had known that some of her friends were not far off but temporarily she had lost her way. The trees were so thick. They all looked alike and she was not sure which way to turn. And as she stood there holding her son’s hand tightly in her own, from among the trees there appeared the most hideous man she had ever seen. Perhaps it was some fearful disease which had enlarged his features; he seemed enormous, and he was quite terrifying.

Edward had shrunk near to her and she had put a protective arm about him. The touch of her own son gave her an even greater courage than was usually hers, though she had never been easily afraid and had always trusted in her own powers of survival.

He was a robber, this creature, an outlaw...living apart from his fellows, bearing a grudge against them for making him an outcast because of his grotesque appearance. He approached, a knife in his hands.

She dared not show her fear. She had to protect her son. Instead of retreating, she held Edward firmly by the hand and approached the robber.

‘My friend,’ she said, ‘this is the son of your King. We are lost in the forest. We are in retreat from our enemies. I know you will save him.’

The robber had paused. That he was astonished was clear. He must have been startled to find himself face to face with the Queen.

He stammered: ‘You place yourself in danger wandering through these woods.’

‘That we know, and we do it because there is nothing else left to us.’

‘If you go on you will be captured by soldiers. The woods are full of them.’

I know,’ said Margaret.

‘Would you trust me?’

She looked at him fearlessly. ‘I would,’ she answered.

‘Then follow me.’

She had done so fearlessly because oddly enough she did trust this man, robber that he was. In time they had come to a cave. He went into it, giving a low whistle as he did so, and within a few moments a woman had appeared. She stared at Margaret and the Prince and Margaret said: ‘Good day to you, my friend.’

‘It’s the Queen and her Prince,’ said the man.

‘What’ll she be wanting with us?’ asked the woman.

‘Shelter and a hiding-place from her enemies.’

The woman nodded.

There were sounds in the woods. Yorkist soldiers were at hand. What would they not give to capture the Queen and the Prince? They should not! She would risk anything rather than fall into their hands. Better be robbed of everything she possessed. Not that she had much.

So she and Edward had entered the cave. The home of the robber and his wife was divided into two apartments. One of these they gave up to Margaret and her son, and for two days she and Edward had stayed there; they had eaten with the robber and his wife until that time when the robber came in to report that it would be safe for her to emerge.

How strange that helpers appeared in unexpected places. The outlaw had taken her to her friends and she had parted with him with tears of gratitude in her eyes. She had little to give him, she told him, but she would never forget him. She could give him only a ring in exchange for his services.

‘Of all I have lost,’ she told Brézé, with whom she was delighted and greatly relieved to be reunited, ‘I regret nothing so much as being unable to reward in a manner suited to their deserts those who are of service to me.’

They had found their way back to Scotland, but what a cool reception she had received there. It was as though everyone but herself considered her cause to be hopeless. Being unwelcome in Scotland, what was she to do?

Brézé advised her that she should return to France. There surely she would find more sympathy than anywhere else. Her father must help her; and the Duke of Burgundy could, she believed, be persuaded to do so.

She said goodbye to Henry. He was bewildered, scarcely aware of what was happening. He reiterated that he wanted only to be left in peace with his books and his prayers.

Exasperated, but in a somewhat tender manner, she had taken her leave of him. ‘I shall get help,’ she had said. ‘It is the only way.’

He had nodded, scarcely listening.

So she sailed once more for France with Pierre and his son Jacques, with Exeter and Sir John Fortescue, those faithful few whom she could trust. And this time with her was Prince Edward. She was never going to be separated from her son again.

###

Looking back she saw that in her determination she had followed will o’ the wisps—any little lights in the darkness which might offer some hope. She should have known that the wily Duke of Burgundy would not want to help a cause which he, like so many, thought to be a lost one.

But leaving Scotland, where could they go? Her hope had been the Duke of Burgundy. Brézé did not think that they could look for much help there but she was adamant, for if not to Burgundy, where else? Louis had shown her that he was not inclined to help.

She had very little money; she must get a loan quickly. They could not afford to waste time so as soon as she landed at Sluys she sent a message to the Duke of Burgundy telling him where she was and asking to be received by him without delay.

The Duke was astounded and dismayed. He had no wish to see her. The position with the King of France was delicate; he knew that Louis was watching him more closely and that Edward, backed by Warwick, was becoming a power to be reckoned with.

He immediately sent Philippe Pot, one of his most reliable followers and a man of immense tact and diplomatic talents, to Margaret with the message that the Duke was unable to receive her at this time because of pressing duties.

Margaret had snapped her fingers at such limp excuses and retorted that she came from King Henry of England and she was determined to see the Duke.

‘My lady,’ said the diplomatic Philippe Pot, ‘do you realize the hazards of the journey? To meet the Duke you would have to pass close to Calais. It would be known that you were travelling there and your enemies would make every possible effort to capture you.’

Of course she had brushed aside his warnings. He should know better than to tell Margaret of Anjou what she must or must not do, and even the great Duke of Burgundy discovered that he would have to do as she wished.

But though she had forced herself into his presence in such a manner that his natural gallantry would not allow him to repulse, she was quickly made to realize that there was little he would do to help her. He managed to intimate that although he was happy to receive her, the King of France was not very pleased that she should be his guest.

How humiliating! A Queen of England to be so treated! To make her feel again and again that her presence was unwanted. They all seemed to have accepted Edward as King of England and showed clearly they had no wish to be embroiled in her quarrels.

There was nowhere she could turn; Scotland, France, Burgundy; she was an embarrassment to them all.

A message came from her father. She must retire for a while to his estates in Bar. There she could live quietly while she decided what she would do.

And so to this little town of St. Michiel she had come. She could not be more isolated. The town seemed to be cut off from the world. There was peace there, but when had she ever wanted peace? She knew the countryside well because she had been born not very far away at Pont-à-Mousson. She remembered the days of her childhood when she had ridden along the banks of the Moselle.

René had given her a small pension. She was grateful for she knew that he would have had to borrow to provide it. It was not much, but adequate for her to rent a house and form a little court there. But even he had little time to worry about her and her affairs. He was absorbed by his pretty young wife and he had always been a man to live for the moment and it would be a somewhat self-indulgent moment at that.

So here she was in the little walled town living the life of an impoverished gentlewoman and yet somehow maintaining what appeared to be a Court. She would be ever grateful to her friends and in particular to Pierre de Brézé and Sir John Fortescue. Pierre had spent the larger part of his fortune in her service and his admiration and devotion was a constant prop to her in all her troubles; as for Sir John she knew he was ready to follow her whither her ill fortune led her. What especially endeared him to her was his devotion to the Prince. Being a scholar himself—judge and lawyer—he was well equipped to undertake the Prince’s education and this he did. For the Prince he had written De Laudibus Legum Angliae, a work which explained the Constitution of England and royal behaviour, because he feared—he had secretly confided to Margaret—that the Prince was more interested in martial excellences than in learning.

And so the years were passing. The Prince was growing up and was a source of great joy to Margaret. He was the very reason for living as far as she was concerned. He was devoted to her and as he grew older he realized more and more all that she had done and was doing was for him.

Secretly he despised his father, but that only made his love for his mother more intense.

Watching events—as far as was possible in her remote village—looking after her son and seeing Sir John train him for kingship was her delight in those years. She never doubted—nor did Sir John—that one day Edward would be King of England.

Seasons came and seasons went...seven years passed by while Edward of York remained King of England and Margaret waited.

###

Meanwhile Henry had fared even worse than Margaret. After Hexham he had become a fugitive, escaping capture so narrowly that his pages and his very cap of state had fallen into the enemy’s hands. He had flown from the battle with a few of his followers...riding through the night...anywhere.

He had his friends though. The North was faithful. There were many who believed that the anointed King was the true King and any who replaced him, however strong, whatever his claim, was the usurper. There was many a manor house to offer hospitality where he could rest and be fed and treated as a King. But after one or two narrow escapes when someone had betrayed him he would have to move on. There were many who wished to help him but who were afraid to do so, for King Edward would have little mercy on any whom he considered to be traitors and to harbour King Henry would be called a deed of treachery to Edward.

He was a fugitive. He marvelled. He who had been a King in his cradle was now pursued through his kingdom by one of his subjects. If only he could be left alone to pray, to meditate, to read his holy books, he would not care who ruled the kingdom. He just wanted peace.

But he did not think he would get that if they captured him.

At some of the houses where he was given hospitality he had stayed in more prosperous days during his progresses through England. He remembered the ceremony of welcome when all the servants were overawed and deeply respectful. How different it was now when he must creep in—very often be given a small room which his host would say was safe.

All he wanted was just enough room to kneel and pray to God and perhaps a pallet on which to lie for a few hours of necessary sleep.

One night they came to Crackenthorpe near Appleby in Westmorland. Riding through the night, they had passed a monastery. Henry had looked at it with eyes of longing. What would he not have given to be one of those happy monks. Fate had been cruel to make him a King.

John Machell, the owner of the manor of Crackenthorpe, came out to the courtyard after one of Henry’s friends had gone into the house to tell him he had visitors.

Taking the King’s hand John Machell kissed it assuring him of his loyal service at all times.

‘This is the time we need it, John,’ said Henry. ‘We are worn out with travelling. Can you give us a bed for the night?’

‘My lord, my house is at your service.’

‘Nay, nay John, that would not do. What comment there would be. Your King comes as a fugitive. There is another who calls himself King in England now.’

John Machell said there was one King as far as he was concerned and he would serve that King with his life.

‘There is need for caution,’ he was told.

He realized that and was persuaded to let his household believe that some travellers on their way to York were spending the night at the house.

There was a fine chamber for Henry. He sank to his knees and remained there for a long time. Food was sent to his apartment and he found great rest and comfort in the house of John Machell at Crackenthorpe.

He was able to rest there for a few days and then John noticed that one of the servants was regarding the King in a rather curious manner and he knew that it was time for him to move on.

He had an idea. The Abbot of the nearby monastery was known to him, and he believed him to be one who deplored the usurpation of the throne and was a true Lancastrian.

‘I will go to see him,’ he said. ‘Stay quietly in your chamber but be ready to leave if there should be any alarm. There may be people here who would betray you to the enemy. I will be back before nightfall.’