Philippa Gregory - The Red Queen

On the road, when I am exhausted and aching in every bone in my body, I learn that Henry Stafford cares for me, without ever making a fuss over me, or suggesting that I am a weak woman and should not have come. He lifts me down from my horse when we take a rest, and he sees that I have wine and water. When we stop for dinner, he gets my food himself, even before he is served, and then he spreads out his own cloak for my bed, and covers me up and makes me rest. We are lucky with the weather, and it does not rain on our journey. He rides beside me in the mornings and teaches me the songs that the soldiers sing: bawdy songs for which he invents new words for me.

He makes me laugh with his nonsense songs, and he tells me of his own childhood, as a younger son of the great House of Stafford, and how his father meant him for the church until he begged to be excused. They would not release him from their plan until he told the priest that he feared he was possessed by the devil, and they were all so anxious about the state of his soul that they gave up the idea of the priesthood for him.

In return, I tell him how I wanted to be a saint, and how glad I was when I found I had saints’ knees, and he laughs out loud at that and puts his hand over mine on my reins, and calls me a darling child, and his very own.

I had thought him a coward when he would not go to war and when he came back so silent from the battlefield; but I was wrong. He is a very cautious man, and he believes wholeheartedly in nothing. He would not be a priest for he could not give himself wholly to God. He was glad that he was not born the oldest, for he did not want to be duke and head of such a great house. He is of the House of Lancaster, but he dislikes and fears the queen. He is enemy to the House of York, but he thinks highly of Warwick and admires the courage of the boy of York, and surrendered his sword to him. He would not dream of going into exile like Jasper; he likes his home too much. He does not align himself with any lord but thinks for himself, and I see now what he means when he says he is not a hound to yelp when the huntsman blows the horn. He considers everything in the light of what might be right, and what would be the best outcome for himself, for his family, his affinity, and even for his country. He is not a man to give himself easily. Not like Jasper. He is not a man for these times of passion and hot temper.

“A little caution.” He smiles at me as Arthur splashes stolidly through the great river crossing of the Severn, the gateway to Wales. “We have been born into difficult times, when a man or even a woman has to choose their own way, has to choose their loyalties. I think it is right to go carefully and to think before acting.”

“I have always thought one should do the right thing,” I say. “And nothing but that.”

“Yes, but then you wanted to be a saint.” He smiles. “Now you are the mother of a child; now you have to consider not only what is the right thing to do, but if it is likely to keep you and your son safe. You will want to keep your son safe more than anything in the world. The safety of your son may matter to you more than the will of God.”

For a moment I am puzzled by this. “But it must be the will of God that my son is safe,” I say. “My son is without sin, and he is of the royal line. He is of the only true royal house. God must want him to be safe to serve the House of Lancaster. What I wish and what God wishes must be the same.”

“Do you really think God, in his heaven with all the angels, there from the beginning of time and looking towards the Day of Judgment, really looks down on all the world and sees you and little Henry Tudor and says that whatever you choose to do is His will?”

It sounds like blasphemy somewhere. “Yes, I do,” I say uncertainly. “Jesus Christ Himself promised that I am as precious as the lilies of the field.”

“And so you are,” he says with a smile, as if he comforting me with a story.

That silences me and makes me think for the rest of the ride. “So, do you think there are many men like you, who have not given their hearts to one side or another?” I ask as he helps me down from the saddle in the yard of a dirty little inn, on the road to Cardiff, that evening.

He pats Arthur’s dark neck. “I think most men will choose to follow the house that can promise them peace and safety,” he says. “There is loyalty to the king, of course; no one can deny that King Henry is crowned King of England. But what if he is not fit to rule? What if he is ill again and can do nothing? What if he is commanded by the queen? What if she is ill advised? How can it be a crime to want the next heir in his place? If that claimant was of the royal line also? If he was as close as a cousin? If he has as good a claim to the throne as Henry?”

I am so weary that I lean back against Arthur’s big comfortable shoulder, and then my husband draws me to him and holds me. “Don’t you worry about this now,” he says. “The main thing is that we get your boy and make sure he is safe. Then you can consider who God and you would prefer to rule the kingdom.”

On the tenth morning of our journey, traveling now on tiny, stony lanes through high, mountainous country, my husband says to me, “We should be there by midday,” and I gasp at the thought of seeing my boy again so soon. We send scouts ahead to the castle to see if it is safe to approach. It looks as if everything is quiet. We wait out of sight, and my husband points out to me that the gates of the castle are open and the drawbridge down, and as we watch a girl comes out with a flock of geese and calls them down to the river.

“Looks safe enough,” my husband says cautiously, and gets off his horse and helps me down, and the two of us go to the other side of the river. The geese are swimming on the water, some are dabbling their yellow beaks in the mud; the girl is seated on the bank, fiddling about with some lace.

“Girl, who is the master of the castle?” my husband asks her.

She jumps at the sound of his voice and scrambles to her feet and bobs a curtsey. “It was the Earl of Pembroke, but he ran away to the wars,” she says, her accent so strong I can hardly make out what she is saying.

“Anyone taken the castle since he left?”

“Nay, we’re just hoping he’ll come back. D’you know where he is, sir?”

“I don’t know. Is the little lad in the castle nursery?”

“The little earl? Yes, he’s there. I keep the hens too, and I send in a good new-laid egg for him every morning.”

“Do you?” I am unable to silence my delight. “Does he have a fresh-laid egg for his breakfast every day?”

“Oh yes,” she says. “And they say he likes a slice of roast chicken too for his dinner.”

“How many men-at-arms?” my husband interrupts.

“A hundred,” she says. “But three times that rode out with Jasper Tudor and didn’t come back. They say it was a terrible defeat. They say that God set three suns in the sky to curse our boys, and now the three sons of York will curse our country.”

My husband spins a coin across the river to her, and she catches it with snatching hands. We go back to where our men are hidden by the turn in the road, and we mount up. My husband orders them to unfurl our standard and to go forwards at slow walk and halt when he gives the word. “We don’t want a flight of arrows as our welcome,” he says to me. “You and Will and Stephen go to the rear of the ride, just to be safe.”

I am desperate to ride into the castle that was once my home; but I do as he orders me, and we go slowly forwards until we hear the shouted challenge from the castle walls and at the same time we hear the roar of the chain and the great portcullis comes clanging down. My husband and his standard-bearer ride up to the gate and shout our name to the officer on the walls of the castle, and then the portcullis creaks up and we ride into the courtyard.