Philippa Gregory - The Red Queen

His weary smile would have told me-if I had been looking at him-that he understood this completely, and much more. “Come, wife,” he says gently, and at that bidding Jasper gets to his feet and bows over my hand, so I have to go to bed with my husband, and leave my dearest friend, my only friend, sitting alone over the fire for his last evening in the home that we used to share.

In the morning I see a different child in my boy Henry. His face is bright with happiness; he is his uncle’s little shadow, following him like an enthusiastic puppy. His manners are still beautiful, perhaps even better when he knows that his guardian is watching him, but there is a joy in every movement when he can look up and see Jasper’s approving smile. He serves him like a page boy, standing behind him proudly holding his gloves, stepping forwards to take the reins of the great horse. Once, he stops a groom bringing a whip: “Lord Pembroke doesn’t like that whip,” he says. “Get the one with the plaited end,” and the man bows and runs to obey.

Jasper and he walk side by side to inspect the guard who have assembled to ride with us to Tenby. Henry walks just as Jasper does, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes intent on the faces of the men, though he has to look up as they tower above him. He stops, just as Jasper does, from time to time to remark on a well-honed weapon, or on a well-groomed horse. To see my little boy inspecting the guard, the very mirror of the great commander who is his uncle, is to watch a prince serving his apprenticeship.

“What does Jasper think his future will be?” my husband wonders in my ear. “For he is training a little tyrant here.”

“He thinks he will rule Wales as his father and grandfather did,” I say shortly. “At the very least.”

“And what at the most?”

I turn my head and I don’t answer, for I know the extent of Jasper’s ambition in the regal bearing of my son. Jasper is raising an heir to the throne of England.

“If they had weapons, or even boots, this would be a little more impressive,” my husband the Englishman remarks quietly in my ear; and for the first time I notice that many of the guard are indeed barefoot, and many of them have only sickles or coppicing hooks. They are an army of country men, not professional soldiers. Most of Jasper’s battle-hardened, well-equipped guard died under the three suns of Mortimer’s Cross, the rest of them at Towton.

Jasper reaches the end of the line of soldiers and snaps his fingers for his horse. Henry turns and nods to the groom as if to tell him to hurry. He is to ride before his uncle, and from the confident way that Jasper swings up into the big saddle and then bends down to offer Henry his hand, I can tell that they have done this often. Henry stretches up to reach Jasper’s big hand, and is hauled up to sit before him. He nestles back into his uncle’s firm grip and beams with pride.

“March on,” Jasper says quietly. “For God and the Tudors.”

I think that Henry will cry when we get to the little fishing port of Tenby and Jasper swings him down to the ground and then jumps down beside him. For a moment Jasper kneels, and his copper head and Henry’s brown curls are very close. Then Jasper straightens up and says, “Like a Tudor, eh, Henry?” and my little boy looks up to his uncle and says, “Like a Tudor, sir!” and solemnly the two of them clasp hands. Jasper claps him on the back so hard as to nearly knock him off his little feet, and then turns to me.

“Godspeed,” Jasper says to me. “I don’t like long farewells.”

“Godspeed,” I say. My voice is trembling, and I don’t dare to add more before my husband and the men of the guard.

“I’ll write,” Jasper says. “Keep the boy safe. Don’t spoil him.”

I am so irritated by Jasper telling me how to care for my own son that I can hardly speak for a moment, but then I bite my lip. “I will.”

Jasper turns to my husband. “Thank you for coming,” he says formally. “It is good to hand Henry over in safety, to a guardian I can trust.”

My husband inclines his head. “Good luck,” he says quietly. “I will keep them both safe.”

Jasper turns on his heel and is about to walk away when he checks, turns back to Henry, and sweeps him up for a quick, hard hug. When he puts the little boy gently down, I see that Jasper’s blue eyes are filled with tears. Then he takes the reins of his horse and leads it carefully and quietly onto the ramp to the boat. A dozen men go with him; the rest wait with us. I glance at their faces and see their aghast look, as their lord and commander shouts to the master of the ship that he can cast off.

They throw the lines to the ship; they raise the sail. At first it seems as if it is not moving at all, but then the sails flap and quiver and the wind and the force of the tide slides the ship from the little stone quayside. I step forwards and put my hand on my little son’s shoulder; he is trembling like a foal. He does not turn his head at my touch; he is straining his eyes to see the last possible sight of his guardian. Only when the ship is a little distant dot at sea does he take a shuddering breath and drop his head and I feel his shoulders heave with a sob.

“Would you like to ride before me?” I ask him quietly. “You can sit up before me like you did with Jasper.”

He looks up at me. “No thank you, my lady,” he says.

I devote myself to my son in the following weeks that we spend at Pembroke Castle. An armed band, little better than brigands, is threatening the road to England, and my husband decides that we are safer waiting at Pembroke for them to move on, than to ride out and risk meeting them. So I sit with little Henry when he takes his lessons from the tutor that Jasper has employed, I ride with him in the morning, I watch him as he jousts at the little quintain that Jasper had built for him in the field behind the stables. We ride to the river together, and we go out in a fishing boat and have the servants build a fire on the beach so we can eat our catch roasted on sticks. I give him toys and a book and a new pony of his own. I personally transcribe his prayers for the day into English, in a better translation from the Latin. I play catch and cards with him. I sing nursery rhymes with him, and I read to him in French. I put him to bed and spend the evening planning what he might like to do the next day. I wake him in the morning with a smile. I never discipline him-I let his tutor do that. I never send him to change his clothes or scold him for getting dirty-I let his nurse do that. To him, I am a perfect playmate, always happy, always ready for a game, happy to let him name the game, happy to let him win; and every night he kneels at his bedside in prayer, and I kneel beside him. And every night, whatever we have done during the day, however carefree he seems to have been, he prays God to send his uncle Jasper home to him so that they can be happy again.

“Why do you still miss Jasper so much?” I ask him, as I tuck him up. I make sure my voice is light, almost indifferent.

His little face brightens against the white linen pillow. He beams at the thought of his uncle. “He is my lord,” he says simply. “I am going to ride out with him when I am big enough. We are going to bring peace to England, and when that is done, we are going on crusade together. We will never be parted. I shall swear fealty to him and be the son that he does not have. He is my lord. I am his man.”

“But I am your mother,” I remark. “I am here to take care of you now.”