Philippa Gregory - The Red Queen

But then-and who could have predicted it? – everything changes again. Queen Margaret, our precious Queen Margaret, in desperate exile in France, running out of money and lost without soldiers, agrees to an alliance with the snake Warwick, her old enemy, formerly our greatest adversary. Amazingly, she lets her precious son Edward, Prince of Wales, marry Warwick’s younger daughter Anne, and the two parents agree to invade England together, to give the young people a bloodbath for a honeymoon and put the Lancaster son and the Warwick girl on the throne of England.

The end for York comes as swift as sunset; Warwick and George land together and march north. William Herbert calls out his men to join with the king, but before they can meet with the main force of York, Herbert sights the enemy outside Banbury, at Edgecote Hill. He did nothing more than his duty when he took my son with him that day, but I will never forgive him. As a nobleman should, he took his ward into battle to give him a taste of violence and a lesson in real fighting, as he should, as he should; but this is my son, my precious son, my only son. Even worse-I cannot bear to think it, but it is true-my son first put on his armor, first took a lance in his hand and then rode out to fight for York, against a Lancaster army. He fought for our enemy, at the side of our enemy, against our own house.

It was over quickly, as God’s will is sometimes done in battle. The York troops were overpowered, and Warwick took a feast of prisoners, including William Herbert himself. Warwick, already stained in blood, already a turncoat, did not add uncertainty to his crimes. He had Herbert beheaded on the spot, and my son’s guardian died that day, perhaps as my son watched.

I am glad of it. I never had a moment of pity for him. He took my son from me and then he raised him so well that Henry loved him as a father. I never forgave him for either, and I was glad to hear he was dead.

“We have to fetch Henry,” I say to my husband, Sir Henry, as the news comes to us in snippets of gossip and gales of rumor. “God knows where he is. If Warwick has him, he will surely keep him safe; but if Warwick had him, surely he would have sent us a message? Perhaps my boy is in hiding, or perhaps he is injured …” I break off. The rest of my sentence, “perhaps he is dead,” is as clear as if it were written on the air between us.

“We’ll get news soon,” my husband says calmly. “And be sure that if he were dead or injured, we would have heard straightaway. See, we have the news of Herbert’s death quick enough.”

“We have to fetch Henry,” I repeat.

“I will go,” he says. “You can’t come with me; the roads will be filled with men running from the battle and those seeking plunder. Warwick has brought danger and turmoil back into York’s England. God knows where this will all end. You will have to stay here. I will even have to leave you with an extra guard in case any of the armed bands come through this way.”

“But my son-”

“Herbert will have told him what to do in the event of the battle going against them. He will have appointed someone to take care of him. I’ll go first to Lady Herbert and see what news she has, then I’ll go to Edgecote. Trust me, I will find your boy.”

“And when you find him, bring him here.”

He hesitates. “Depends who his new guardian is to be. We can’t just take him.”

“But who will decide that now? If York is defeated?”

He smiles. “Lancaster, I suppose. You have victory, remember? Your house will now decide everything. Warwick will put King Henry back on the throne just as he took him off; then I imagine Warwick will rule the country until the prince is of age, and possibly thereafter.”

“We have won?” I ask uncertainly. With my son missing and his guardian dead, it does not feel like victory, it feels like more danger.

“We have won,” my husband says, and there is no gladness in his voice at all. “At any rate, Lancaster has won, and that is us, once more, apparently.”

On the very morning that my cautious husband is about to set out, we have a letter in Jasper’s familiar scrawl.

I have our boy; he was safe with Lady Herbert, staying with her late husband’s family. I will bring him to London to present him to our king. Will you meet us there, with our king on his throne again, at court? England is ours again, and your prayers are answered, thank God.

It is like a dream, a dream as bright as those I used to have as a child when I prayed myself into visions. We are in the Stafford barge sailing down the Thames, the rowers keeping their pace with the low thudding of the drum, my boy gazing at the people on the riverbank who cheer to see our standards flying, and to glimpse my boy in the prow of the boat, a prince-in-waiting. We go past Westminster, and I look at the low buildings that huddle down by the river’s edge. Somewhere in the sanctuary of the abbey is the former queen, Elizabeth Woodville, the King of York’s famously beautiful wife, hiding from her enemies and wondering if she will ever see her husband again. She is thrown down and alone, and I am up high. I wonder if she is looking out from those dark little windows, if her eyes are on my standard even now. I shiver, as if I could feel a baleful glance on me; but I shrug it off. I am the chosen daughter of God, of His chosen house. She can stay there till she rots for all I care, and her beautiful daughters with her.

From the prow of the boat, my son Henry turns back to me with a shy smile, and I say: “Wave to them, wave at your people. They are glad to see our family back in honor, back in power. Show them that you are glad to be here.”

He makes a little gesture, and then he steps back to where I am seated under the Stafford canopy, the red rose of Lancaster embroidered overall.

“Lady Mother, you were right all along,” he says shyly. “I must beg your pardon. I did not understand.”

I put my hand to my heart to feel it thud. “Right about what?”

“We are a great family, and the King Henry is the true king. I didn’t know. When you told me it, I didn’t understand. But I understand now.”

“I am guided by God,” I say earnestly. “I look beyond the fleeting days, to the wisdom of God. Will you be guided by me in the future?”

He gives a solemn little bow. “I shall be your son and your liege man,” he says formally.

I turn my head so he cannot see the triumph in my face. Henry the King has won England, and I have won my son. Thirteen years old and he swears fealty to me. He is mine for life! I feel the tears well up into my eyes. “I accept your service,” I say quietly. Then the barge noses up to the pier, the gangplank is run aboard, and Henry my son shows his beautiful Herbert manners and gives me a hand to help me ashore. We walk through the garden where everyone is smiling in joy that the country has come to its senses and we can all be in our rightful places again. And here is our king, back on his throne, his face so bright with happiness that I hardly see the five years of pallor from his imprisonment. Here is the royal canopy over his head, embroidered with the red rose of Lancaster in full bloom; here are his courtiers around him. It is as if I were a child again and he about to assign me to the Tudors as my guardians. It is as if my childhood joys have come back to me again and the world can start anew.

And here is my son, my boy, his short-cropped hair as bright as a chestnut mane, his shoulders broad, grown taller yet again, standing beside his uncle Jasper, a handsome boy from a handsome family. We are restored. England is returned to its senses, Jasper is Earl of Pembroke once more, my son is in my keeping.

“You see?” I demand of him quietly. “You see now? I was keeping my faith to this king, my cousin, and here he is restored to his throne. God has me in His special keeping, as He has you. I knew that the York reign would be short; I knew that we would all be restored to our true places.” I glance past my son and see that the king has nodded to Jasper to bring him forwards. “Go,” I prompt him. “The king wants you, his cousin.”