Jean Plaidy (3 page)

“It has been done before,” our mother reminded her.

“But my father soon changed it.”

“He would be pleased to hear your confidence in him.”

“He is the king, really.”

“Hush, child! You should not say such a thing.”

“But one must speak the truth.”

“One must adhere to the truth but when it is dangerous to mention it it is better not to do so.”

“My father will soon have won,” said Isabel stoutly. “I do not want to go to Calais again.”

“Alas, Isabel, it might not be what we want but what is thrust upon us.”

I wondered why my mother was so apprehensive, and it occurred to me that it was because she was so much wiser than Isabel.

“So,” she went on. “We must pray for victory while we prepare for defeat.”

After that she talked to us often about the situation.

“It was a pity Edward the Third had so many sons,” she said. “It makes too many claimants to the throne. Strange, is it not, that men crave for sons.” She looked a little sad and I felt I ought to apologize for being a daughter as well as Isabel, but I was glad to be reminded that some men could have too many.

Poor Henry. She felt sorry for him. She was sure he did not want the crown. He would have been happy with religion, a life of contemplation. She had heard it said of him that he wished to be a monk or enter the Church. Perhaps if he had done that he would not have gone mad in the first place. And now he suffered from periodic attacks of insanity. It was the case of his grandfather, Charles the Mad of France, all over again. She wondered whether his madness had come to him through his mother, the family that lady was reputed to have had with Owen Tudor was equally affected.

She ended up by telling us that our father was a very clever man; he was the most important and powerful man in England and while he was in control England would be safe. On the other hand, we must not think it would be too easy. There were enemies all around us and we must be prepared.

But on this occasion we were saved from disaster. Messengers arrived at the castle. When news had reached Margaret that the Earl of Warwick, with the king, was marching on Bamborough, she immediately abandoned all thought of fighting and took to her ships. God must be looking after the Yorkists, for He sent a storm that shattered her fleet.

It was victory. But not entirely. More news came. Margaret had escaped and had arrived at Berwick with her son: she was well and ready to fight another day.

         

Having seen the magnificent Edward, I wanted to know more of him and his family, and Richard was not averse to telling me about them, which surprised me, he being so reticent about most things. But he was very proud of his family.

I said, “I thought your brother, the king, was all that you said of him.”

That pleased him, of course, and put him into a communicative mood.

“I have another brother, too,” he said. “George. He is almost as wonderful as Edward…only just not quite. And I have a sister Margaret. She is a wonderful person.”

“How lucky to have so many brothers and a sister when I only have Isabel.”

“There were seven of us,” he said. “Four boys and three girls.”

“Seven! Quite a large family.”

“Large families are good to have.”

“Sometimes there can be too many sons who claim the throne,” I said, remembering my mother's words.

He ignored that and went on: “It is those about my own age whom I saw most of. My brother Edmund was with my father when he was killed at Wakefield.” His voice shook a little. I doubted he would ever forget that terrible event. “Then I had two sisters, Anne and Elizabeth. They were sent away to be brought up in some other noble house. Edward and Edmund were at Ludlow. I stayed at Fotheringay with the younger ones George and Margaret. George is three years older than I. My brother made him Duke of Clarence when he made me Duke of Gloucester.”

“Tell me about George and Margaret.”

“George is very handsome and everybody loves him.”

“As tall and handsome as Edward?”

“Oh, not quite. Nobody could be. But he is very good-looking and clever.”

“And Margaret?”

“She is three years older than George.”

“And beautiful, I suppose.”

“Yes, she is very beautiful.”

“But not as beautiful as Edward.”

“Not quite.”

I laughed. “It is always ‘not quite.'”

“Well, although they are very handsome, they are…”

“…not quite as perfect as the king.”

“If you are going to laugh at my family, I shall not tell you any more about them.”

“I was not laughing. I was only admiring. Please tell me some more.”

“Well, what do you want to know?”

“I want to hear about when you were a very little boy.”

“My father was always away from home fighting.”

“Fathers always are.”

“My mother was often with him.”

“What is your mother like?” I stopped myself from saying, “Beautiful, of course, though not quite so beautiful as Edward.” But I restrained myself. I did not want to anger him. He was rational about most things, though perhaps taking a somewhat morose view of life, he was fanatically devoted to his family and appeared to consider all the members of it far above ordinary mortals.

“My mother is truly beautiful,” he said. “When she was young she was known as the Rose of Raby. She and my father were devoted to each other and she traveled with him whenever it was possible. She could not be with him in battle, naturally, but often when he was fighting, she would be somewhere near, so that she could see him often.”

“And she had all those children?”

He nodded. “We were all in awe of her…more so than we were of our father. Edward is very like her…in looks, and George perhaps more so. He was Margaret's favorite. I used to wish that I were. Margaret was very kind to us both but it was clear that she loved George best. He was always doing something that was forbidden and although she used to scold him she would make excuses for him and she always told him that, however wicked he was, she loved him just the same. She was good to me. Oh, but it was different with George. Well, he was tall and strong and golden-haired. I was never like that…not like him and Edward…Margaret did not mean it to show…but it did.”

Poor Richard, I thought.

“Well, you were lucky to have a big family,” I said. “I wish I had some brothers.”

He admitted that it was good. “Especially in war,” he added. “Families stand together.”

“Not always. Brothers fight over crowns and things.”

“We never would. We are a united family. Oh, how I wish I were old enough to go and fight with Edward!”

“Well, you will one day.”

I used to think a lot about Richard. What a pity he was not tall and handsome. It must be particularly galling, having been born into such a perfect family. I wanted to see them all…George, Margaret, and the Rose of Raby. It all sounded so romantic and exciting.

Christmas was on the way. My father was absent most of the time, for although Margaret had eluded capture at Bamborough she was still around to make trouble, and there were several castles in the North that were still in Lancastrian hands. My father and the king were making war on these.

A messenger came to the castle with news from the king. He was ill and at Durham Castle. It was not a serious illness but his physicians said he should take a short rest. He wanted his brother, Richard, to come to Durham and spend Christmas with him.

To my chagrin and Richard's great joy, he left Middleham to spend the festive season with his brother.

         

My mother was growing less apprehensive. The storm had passed, but she was ever on the alert for danger.

I said to Isabel, “I suppose there could be times when people do not have to worry and the king who is on the throne is left in peace.”

“That would be rather dull,” she replied. “And what about our father? How could he be a kingmaker if there was not any need to make a king and keep him on the throne?”

“I think our mother would like it better.”

“And every day would be the same. Lessons, needlework, riding, walking. Whereas now people come here. One never knows when the soldiers will come…and you can wonder what will happen next.”

“I still think it would be rather pleasant,” I said.

“That's because you are so young,” she said in her usual contempt for my youth.

I missed Richard. He had not returned after spending Christmas with his brother. Our father came home for periods and there would be the usual activity: entertaining went on and there were often a great many people at the castle for whom lavish meals were provided. I often wondered how many of these people who paid such homage to my father would have done so without the benefits they received.

Many of them came to the castle from France.

This made Isabel very excited. She was always reminding me of her age, for she was very proud of being nearly five years older than I. I was ten at this time so she must have been nearly fifteen. It was an age when the daughters of powerful men were found husbands.

Desperately Isabel longed for a husband. There was no one else to talk to about this except her little sister; so it was to me that she talked.

“You realize, do you not, that our father is the most powerful man in the kingdom. He is also the richest. What does that mean?”

“That he is the most powerful and richest man in the kingdom, I suppose.”

“Idiot! It means that we are great heiresses. I more than you because I'm the elder. I suppose there will be something for you, too…quite a lot, as a matter of fact. Our parents have no sons. So it will come to us.”

“I had not thought of that.”

“You don't think of anything but being with Richard of Gloucester. Mind you, he is the brother of the king. But
I
wouldn't want a brother. I would want a king. And why shouldn't I? After all, I am great Warwick's daughter…his elder daughter…so what if…?”

“What?”

“Didn't you think the king was the most handsome man you ever saw?”

“Why yes, I suppose he is. I cannot think of anyone else…”

“Well, just suppose…”

“Do you mean…?”

Her eyes were sparkling. Then she said, “After all, who made him king? If my father didn't like what he did, he could say, ‘You are no longer king. I'll put Henry back.'”

“Henry already has a wife…Margaret…the one they all hate.”

“I was not thinking of marrying Henry, stupid. Oh, I do wish you had a little more sense.”

“But you are thinking of marrying Richard's brother.”

“Do not tell anyone. It would not do to talk.”

“Has our mother said…?”

“Nobody has said anything. I'm just telling you. I am just saying it could be.”

“Richard would be your brother-in-law.”

“Richard is not important. He is too young and too small. He might do for you.”

“What do you mean—do for me?”

“Well, if I married the king it would be rather nice if you married his brother. Particularly as I think you like him better than anyone else. And I think he likes you, too, because he talks to you.”

I was pleased. “Yes,” I agreed. “He does. I wonder when he will be coming back.”

Isabel was not interested in that. She was dreaming of herself as Queen of England.

Our father came home for a while and there were more visitors from France, and it was obvious that he was very pleased to have them in the castle. They brought letters for him. Isabel and I wondered whether my father might be arranging a match for her in France.

“Poor Edward will be disappointed,” I said.

She glowered at me. “I might be Queen of France.”

“I believe the King of France is an old man and already has a wife.”

“Well, he'll have a son, won't he? I expect I'm for him.”

She was certain that that was what the messengers were arranging. It was a bitter blow when she discovered how wrong she was.

My mother talked to us often while we did our needlework. Isabel was old enough to know what was going on, and it could be true that they were trying to find a suitable husband for her. My turn for that was a little way ahead, for which I was thankful. I often saw my mother looking at Isabel anxiously and I knew she was thinking of the fate of young girls who were thrust into marriage before they knew what it was all about, and with her daughter it would have to be a marriage of state.

One day Isabel said to our mother, “Why are there so many French at the castle these days, my lady?”

My mother looked up from the altar cloth that she was embroidering and said, “The King of France is very anxious to be friends with your father.”

“I know.” Isabel smirked. “Is there some special reason?”

“I believe that the King of France is a very wily man,” went on my mother. “They call him the Spider King.”

“Are spiders wily?” I asked.

“So many people are afraid of him,” said my mother. “Many people have a fear of spiders. I suppose it is because they lie in wait for their prey and watch them being caught in the sticky web and then the spider comes out and makes his victim powerless.”

“It sounds horrible,” I said, looking at Isabel. She was thinking of marriage, of course. How would she like to be in a family at the head of which was such a man?

“The King of France,” went on my mother, “likes to be on good terms with the important men in all countries that might affect him, so that he can have good friends all around him. That is why he seeks your father. He has only been on the throne for three years. He became King of France at very much the same time as your father made Edward King of England. He is full of admiration for your father's management of this country. That is gratifying and pleases your father mightily. Not only is he pleased to be on good terms with such an important country as France, but France is the country where Margaret takes shelter. Your father is always hoping that out of friendship for him, Louis may agree to a treaty that would prevent Margaret's taking refuge in his country.”