Philippa Gregory: The Red Queen

Richard raises his eyes from the letter and meets the stony gaze of his friend Sir William Catesby. “Fetch Stanley’s son,” is all he says.

They bring George, Lord Strange, to the king, though he trails his feet like a prisoner. When he sees Richard’s face and the letter with his father’s seal on the table, they see him start to tremble. “Upon my honor-” he starts.

“Not your honor, your father’s,” Richard interrupts. “Your father’s honor is what concerns us. You in particular, for you might die for his failure. He writes that he is sick. Is he meeting Henry Tudor? Has he agreed with his wife Lady Margaret that they will repay my kindness with treason?”

“No! Never! No!” the young man says. “My father is true to you, Your Grace. He always has been, from the first, from the first days. You know that. He has always spoken to me of you with the most devoted-”

“And your uncle, Sir William?”

The young man chokes on his assurances. “My uncle, I don’t know,” he says. “He might … but I don’t know. We are all faithful … our motto is Sans Changer …”

“The old Stanley game?” Richard asks gently. “One on one side, one on another. I remember them telling of Margaret of Anjou waiting for your father to come up and fight for her. I remember her losing the battle while she waited.”

“My father will come in time for you, Your Grace!” the miserable young man promises. “If I could write to him and bid him to come in your name!”

“You can write to him and tell him that you will be killed without sentence or ceremony if he is not here by the day after tomorrow,” Richard says swiftly. “And get a priest, and get yourself shriven. You are a dead man if your father is not here the day after tomorrow.”

They take him to his room, and they lock him in; they bring him paper and a pen, and he shakes so badly that he can hardly write. Then he waits for his father to come for him. Surely, his father will come for him. Surely, a man such as his father would not fail to come for his son and heir?

Henry Tudor and his army marches east to London. The hay is in and the hayfields greening up with the new growth. The fields of wheat, barley, and rye are golden. The French in particular have to be marched in strict columns; they see the rich villages and think of pillage and theft. They have been on the march for three weeks, and they are tired, but the captains keep them together, and there are few desertions. Jasper reflects that the advantage of foreign mercenary troops is that they have no homes to run to-their only way home is with their commanders. But it is a bitter thought. He had counted on his people flocking to the Tudor standard; he had thought that men whose fathers had died for Lancaster would come out for their revenge, but it seems that it isn’t so. It seems he has been gone too long and they are accustomed to the peace of Richard III. Nobody wants another war, only Jasper and Henry and their army of strangers. Sitting heavily in the saddle, Jasper thinks that this is an England he doesn’t know. It has been many years since he was commander of an English army. Perhaps the world has changed. Perhaps-he makes himself wonder-perhaps they serve Richard as a rightful king and see his boy, the Lancaster boy, the Tudor boy, as nothing but a pretender.

The promise of a meeting with the Stanleys, the first great recruits to their cause, makes them halt their eastward march on London and turn for the north. Sir William Stanley comes out with just a small bodyguard to meet them as they get to the town of Stafford.

“Your Grace,” he says to Henry, and puts his fist to his chest in a soldier’s salute. Henry shoots a quick glance at Jasper. This is the first English nobleman on English soil to greet him with the title of a king. Henry is well schooled; he does not grin, but he returns the salute with warmth.

“Where is your army, Sir William?” he asks.

“Just one day away, awaiting your orders, sire.”

“Bring them to join us; we are marching on London.”

“It will be my honor,” Stanley says.

“And your brother, Lord Thomas Stanley?” Jasper asks.

“He is raising his men and will join us later,” Sir William replies. “He is at Lichfield, a little south of here. He was going to bring them to Tamworth. We thought you would march on Nottingham and give battle to Richard at once.”

“Not London?” Jasper queries.

“London is all for Richard,” Sir William warns. “They will close the gates, and you will face a hard siege; they are well armed, and Richard has prepared them. If you sit down before London, Richard will come marching up behind you.”

Henry’s young face is still-he shows no fear, though his hands tighten on the reins.

“Let’s talk,” Jasper says, and motions Henry to dismount. The three men turn off the lane into a field of wheat; the men of the army fall out from their ranks on the road and sit on the grassy verge, drinking small ale from their flasks, spitting, and swearing at the heat.

“Will you march with us on London? Will Lord Stanley?”

“Oh, neither of us would advise it,” says Sir William. Henry notices that this does not answer the question.

“Where would you join us?” he asks.

“I have to go to Tamworth, I am promised to meet my brother there. I can’t come with you immediately.”

Jasper nods.

“We would come after,” Sir William assures him. “We would be your vanguard for your march on London, if you are determined on London. But Richard’s army will come along behind us …”

“We’ll take counsel with Lord Stanley and yourself at Tamworth,” Jasper rules. “And decide then what to do. But we will march all together or not at all.”

Sir William nods. “And your men?” he asks tactfully, gesturing to the motley bunch of two thousand, scattered down the road.

“They call it the English adventure,” Jasper says with a harsh smile. “They are not here for love but for money. But they are well drilled, and they have nothing to lose. You will see that they will stand against a charge and advance when ordered. They are certainly as strong as a bunch of tenants called from their fields. They will be free and wealthy if we win. They will fight for that.”

Sir William nods as if he doesn’t think much of a convict army, and then bows to Henry. “Outside Tamworth then,” he says.

Henry nods and holds out his hand. Sir William bows to kiss the gauntlet, without a moment’s hesitation. They go back to the lane, and Sir William nods to his guard to bring up his great charger. His page kneels in the mud, and he steps regally on the lad’s back to reach the stirrup and swing into the saddle. Once there, he turns to Henry and looks down on the young man.

“My nephew, Lord Strange, our family’s heir, is held hostage by Richard,” he says. “We can’t risk being seen with you before the battle. Richard would kill him. I will send a servant to guide you to us at night.”

“What?” Jasper demands. “Secret doings?”

“He will show you my ring,” Sir William says, shows them the ring on his glove, and then turns his horse and trots away, his guard falling in behind him.

“For God’s sake!” Jasper exclaims.

He and Henry look blankly at each other. “We have no choice,” Henry says grimly. “We have to have the Stanleys. We will fail without them; we just don’t have the numbers.”

“They won’t declare for us.” Jasper keeps his voice low, glancing around at the men-at-arms. Any one of them could be a spy rather than a volunteer. “They are finding ways to delay.”

“As long as they are there when battle is joined …”