Philippa Gregory - The White Queen

She looks at me with her huge gray eyes. She always thinks more than she says, my little Elizabeth. She has been at war since she was a baby; she knows even now that she is a piece on the chessboard of England. She knows that she is to be traded, she knows that she has a value, she knows that she has been in danger all her life. “And will it end then?” she asks me.

“Yes,” I promise her doubtful little face. “It will end then.”

Three days we are under siege, three days of shelling and then the assaults from the men of Kent and the Neville ships with Anthony and our kinsman, Henry Bourchier, the Earl of Essex, organizing the defense. Each day more of my family and kin stream into the Tower, my sisters and their husbands, Anthony’s wife, my former ladies-in-waiting, all thinking it the safest place in a city under siege, until Anthony decrees we have enough officers and enough men for a counterattack.

“How far away is Edward?” I ask nervously.

“Last I heard, he was four days away,” he says. “Too far. We don’t dare wait for him to come. And I think we can beat them with the forces I have.”

“What if you lose?” I ask nervously.

He laughs. “Then, Sister Queen, you must be queen militant and command the defense of the Tower yourself. You can hold out for days. What we have to do is drive them back now, before they start to come any closer. If they tighten the siege on the Tower or increase the cannon fire, or if, God forbid, they get in somehow, you could die before Edward gets home.”

I nod. “Go on then,” I say grimly. “Attack them.”

He bows. “Spoken like a true Yorkist,” he says. “All the York family are a bloodthirsty lot, born and raised on the battlefield. Let us hope that when we finally have peace, they don’t kill each other out of sheer habit.”

“Let’s get peace first before we worry about the York brothers spoiling it,” I say.

At dawn Anthony is ready. The London-trained bands are well armed and well drilled. This is a city that has been at war for sixteen years, and every apprentice has a weapon and knows how to use it. The men of Kent, under the command of the Neville forces, are encamped all around the Tower and the city walls but they are sleeping when the postern gate to the Tower opens and Anthony and his men quietly file out. I hold the gate for them; Henry Bourchier is the last to go. “Your Grace, my cousin, bolt it behind us and get you into safety,” he says to me.

“No, I’ll wait here,” I say. “If it goes wrong for you, I shall be here to let my brother in and you all with him.”

He smiles at that. “Well, I hope we will come back with a victory,” he says.

“God speed,” I reply.

I should close and bolt the gate behind them, but I do not. I stand in the gateway to watch. I think of myself as a heroine in a story, the beautiful queen who sends out her knights to battle and then watches over them like an angel.

At first, it looks like that. My brother, bareheaded, in his beautifully engraved breastplate, goes quietly towards the camp, his broadsword in his hand, followed by his men, our loyal friends and those of our affinity. In the moonlight they look like cavaliers on a quest, the river gleaming behind them, the night sky dark above them. The rebels are camped in the field by the river; more of them are quartered in the narrow dirty streets around. They are poor men; there are a few with tents and shelters, but most are sleeping on the ground beside campfires. The streets outside the city walls are full of alehouses and whorehouses, and half the men are drunk. Anthony’s force forms into three, and then at the whispered word everything changes. They put their helmets on their heads, they drop their visors over their kindly eyes, they draw their swords, they release the heavy ball of their maces, they turn from mortals into men of metal.

I somehow sense the change that comes over them as I stand at the gate watching, and even though I have sent them out to battle and it is me they are defending, I have a feeling that something bad and bloody is about to happen. “No,” I whisper, as if I would stop them as they start to run forward, their swords drawn, their axes swinging.

Sleeping men stumble up with a cry of fright and get a blade in the heart or an axe through the head. There is no warning: they come out of dreams of victory, or dreams of home, into a cold blade and an agonizing death. The dozing sentries jump awake and scream the alarm, silenced by a dagger through the throat. They flail about. One man falls into the flames of the fire and screams in agony, but nobody stops to help him. Our men kick the campfire embers and some of the tents and the blankets catch fire and the horses rear up and neigh in fear as their fodder blazes up before them. At once the whole camp is awake and running in panic as Anthony’s men go through them like silent killers, stabbing men on the ground as they roll over and try to wake, pushing men down as they rise up, slitting an unarmed man’s belly, clubbing a man as he reaches for his sword. The army from Kent rolls out of sleep and starts to run. Those who are not brought down grab what they can and dash away. They rouse the men in the streets beside the Tower, and some come running towards the field. Anthony’s men turn on them with a roar and charge at them, their swords already red with blood, and the rebels, country boys most of them, turn and run.

Anthony’s men give chase but he calls them back: he won’t leave the Tower undefended. A group he sends down to the quayside to capture the Neville ships; the rest head back to the Tower, their voices loud and excited in the coldness of the morning. They shout at each other of a man stabbed in his sleep, of a woman rolling over to be beheaded, of a horse breaking its own neck, rearing from the fire.

I open the sally-port gate for them. I don’t want to greet them, I don’t want to see any more, I don’t want to hear any more. I go up to my rooms, gather my mother, my girls, and Baby, and bolt our bedroom door in silence, as if I fear my own army. I have heard men tell of many battles in this cousins’ war, and they always spoke of heroism, of the courage of men, of the power of their comradeship, of the fierce anger of battle, and of the brotherhood of survival. I have heard ballads about great battles, and poems about the beauty of a charge and the grace of the leader. But I did not know that war was nothing more than butchery, as savage and unskilled as sticking a pig in the throat and leaving it to bleed to make the meat tender. I did not know that the style and nobility of the jousting arena had nothing to do with this thrust and stab. Just like killing a screaming piglet for bacon after chasing it round the sty. And I did not know that war thrilled men so: they come home like laughing schoolboys filled with excitement after a prank; but they have blood on their hands and a smear of something on their cloaks and the smell of smoke in their hair and a terrible ugly excitement in their faces.

I understand now why they break into convents, force women against their will, defy sanctuary to finish the killing chase. They arouse in themselves a wild vicious hunger more like animals than men. I did not know that war was like this. I feel I have been a fool not to know, since I was raised in a kingdom at war and am the daughter of a man captured in battle, the widow of a knight, the wife of a merciless soldier. But I know now.

Edward rides in at the head of his men, looking like a king coming home in glory, no trace of battle in his bearing, on his horse, or on his gleaming harness. Richard is one side of him, George the other, my sons, thrilled, behind them. The York boys are come to their own again, the three of them as one, and London goes mad with joy to see them. Three dukes, six earls, and sixteen barons ride in with them, all of them heartfelt Yorkists and sworn to be faithful. Who would have thought that we had so many friends? Not me, when I was in a sanctuary that was more like a prison, bearing the child that is heir to this glory in darkness and fear and all but alone.