Philippa Gregory - The Kingmaker's Daughter

After a month of this I cannot eat my dinner at the ladies’ table. It sticks in my throat. I cannot sleep at night; I am always cold as if my bedroom in her household is whistling with a chill draught. My hands shake when I have to pass something to the queen, and my sewing is hopeless, the linen covered with spots of blood where I have pricked my fingers. I ask our Lady Mother if I may go to Warwick, or even back to Calais, I tell her that I feel ill, living at the court among our enemies is making me sick.

‘Don’t you complain to me,’ she says shortly. ‘I have to sit beside her mother at dinner and be chilled to my soul by that witch’s ice. Your father risked everything and lost. He could not hold the king a prisoner on his own, the lords would not support him and without them, nothing could be done. We are lucky the king did not have him executed. Instead we are in a fine place: at court, your sister married to the king’s brother and your cousin John betrothed to the king’s daughter. We are close to the throne and may get closer still. Serve the queen and be grateful that your father is not dead on a scaffold like hers. Serve the queen and be glad that your father will seek a good marriage for you and she will approve it.’

‘I can’t,’ I say weakly. ‘Really, Lady Mother, I can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to, nor that I could disobey you or Father. It is that I simply can’t do it. My knees will give way rather than walk behind her. I can’t eat when she watches me.’

The face she turns to me is as kindly as stone. ‘You come from a great family,’ she reminds me. ‘Your father took a great risk for the good of his family and for the benefit of your sister. Isabel is lucky that he thought her worth the effort. We may now be in some discomfort but that will change. You show your father that in your turn it is worth us making an effort for you. You will have to rise to your calling, Anne, there is no point being weak and sickly now. You were born to be a great woman – be one now.’

She sees I am pale and shaking. ‘Oh, cheer up,’ she says roughly. ‘We’re to go to Warwick Castle for your sister’s confinement. It will be easier for us there, and we can stay away from court for four months at least. There is no pleasure in this for any of us, Anne. It’s as bad for me as it is for you. I will keep us at Warwick as long as I can.’

WARWICK CASTLE, MARCH 1470

I thought we would be happier every mile we were away from the court; but only weeks after we get to the castle, my father sends the groom of his chamber to tell us that he wants to see the two of us in his room. We enter his privy chamber, Isabel leaning heavily on my arm and holding her swelling belly as if to remind anyone who might forget for even a moment that she is still carrying the child of the heir of the King of England, and he will be born next month.

Father is seated in his carved chair with the Warwick crest of the bear and the ragged staff bright in gold leaf behind his head. He looks up when we come in and points with his quill pen at me. ‘Ah, I don’t need you.’

‘Father?’

‘Stand back.’

Isabel quickly releases me and stands perfectly well on her own, and so I take my place at the back of the room, put my hands behind my back and trace the linenfold panelling with my fingers, waiting until I am called on to speak.

‘I am telling you a secret, Isabel,’ Father says. ‘Your husband the duke and I are riding out to support King Edward as he marches on a rebellion in Lincolnshire. We go with him to show our loyalty.’

Isabel murmurs a reply. I can’t hear what, but of course it doesn’t matter what she says, or what I think, this is what the men have planned to do, and it will happen whatever our opinion may be.

‘When the king lines up his men on the battlefield we will turn on him,’ my father says bluntly. ‘If he puts us behind him we will attack from the rear, if he has me on one wing and George on another we will come together from both sides and crush him between us. Our forces outnumber his and this time we will take no prisoners. I shall not be merciful and try to come to an agreement with him this time. The king will not survive this battle. We will finish it on the battlefield. He is a dead man. I will kill him with my own sword, I will kill him with my own hands if I have to.’

I close my eyes. This is the worst thing. I hear Isabel’s muted gasp: ‘Father!’

‘He is not a king for England, he is a king for the Rivers family,’ he continues. ‘He is a cat’s-paw of his wife. We did not risk our lives and our fortunes to put the Rivers in power and their child on the throne. I did not throw my fortune and my life into his service to see that woman queen it around England like a drab in borrowed velvets with your ermine stitched to her collar.’

His chair scrapes as he gets to his feet and pushes it back and walks round the table towards her. Ignoring her belly Isabel drops to her knees before him. ‘I am doing this for you,’ he says quietly. ‘I will make you Queen of England, and if that child you are carrying is a son, he will be a royal prince and then king.’

‘I will pray for you,’ Isabel whispers almost inaudibly. ‘And for my husband.’

‘You will take my name and my blood to the throne of England,’ Father says with satisfaction. ‘Edward has become a fool, a lazy fool. He trusts us and we will betray him, and he will die on the battlefield like his father, who was a fool as well. Here, child, get up.’ He put his hand under her elbow and hauls her ungently to her feet. He nods at me. ‘Guard your sister,’ he says with a smile. ‘The future of our family is in her belly. She could be carrying the next King of England.’ He kisses Isabel on both cheeks. ‘Next time we meet you will be the Queen of England and I shall kneel to you.’ He laughs. ‘Think of that! I shall kneel to you, Isabel.’

The whole household goes to our chapel and prays for Father to be victorious. The whole household, thinking that he is fighting for the king against the rebels, prays without understanding the real danger he is in, the great risk he is running, challenging the King of England in his own kingdom. But Father has prepared the ground; Lincolnshire is alive with rebels, one of our kinsmen has roused the country complaining of the king’s ill-judged rule and false councillors. George has an army of his own sworn to him whatever side he takes, and Father’s men would follow him anywhere. But still, the fortunes of war are changeable and Edward is a formidable tactician. We pray for Father’s success morning and night, and we wait for news.

Isabel and I are sitting in her chamber, Isabel resting on her bed and complaining of a pain in her belly. ‘It’s like a gripping pain,’ she says. ‘Almost as if I had eaten too much.’

‘Maybe you have eaten too much,’ I reply unsympathetically.

She pulls a face. ‘I am nearly eight months into my time,’ she says plaintively. ‘If Father were not marching out I should be going into confinement this very week. I should have thought you would be kinder to me, your own sister.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I am sorry. Shall I call the ladies, shall I tell Mother?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘I probably ate too much. There’s no room in my belly, and every time he moves or turns I can’t breathe.’ She turns her head. ‘What’s that noise?’

I go to the window. I can see a troop of men coming down the road towards the castle, out of their lines, stumbling like a weary crowd not marching together like a force, and ahead of them the mounted knights going slowly, wearily. I recognise my father’s warhorse Midnight with his head bowed, and a bleeding wound deep in his shoulder. ‘It’s Father, coming home,’ I say.