Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) (20 page)

‘As you say, Margaret,’ he murmured.

There was nothing in Henry’s eyes beyond a perfect peace. Margaret had wondered if she would feel the sting of tears in her own, but she did not. All the battles were lost. The hand had written ‘
Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin
’ on the wall, those ancient words in a language no one knew. Not a letter could be taken back and all her decisions were made.

Without another word, she walked up on to the ship, grasping a rail as the sailors cast off and leaped aboard behind her, agile as apes. The wind and tide bore Margaret away: to France, to her childhood estate of Saumur and to her father. She had no doubt the old slug would scorn her for her failures, yet she had come so close. She had been a queen of England and tens of thousands had fought and died in her name, for her honour. She raised her head in pride again at that thought, banishing despair as the wind picked up.

Her son Edward clattered out on deck as soon as he felt movement, leaning out to watch the dark water sliced into foam and calling to his mother in excitement to come and see. Spring was on the way and Margaret took heart from that. She did not look back at the men standing on the shore, left behind.

‘Who
is
this woman?’ demanded King Louis of France, fanning himself against the still, heated air of his palace. ‘To write so often, to beleaguer me in such a way?’

‘Margaret of Anjou is your first cousin, Your Majesty,’ his chancellor whispered, leaning forward to speak into the king’s ear. Louis turned to him with an expression of scorn.

‘I know very
well
who she is, Lalonde! I exclaimed aloud as a question
théorique
, or
de rhétorique
, given that none of you seem able to explain my best course.’

The rumour at court was that Chancellor Albert Lalonde was at least eighty or even ninety; no one knew for certain. Lalonde moved and spoke slowly, but his skin was surprisingly smooth, with lines so fine they remained invisible until he frowned or suffered pangs from his two remaining molars. He admitted only to being in his sixth decade, though his childhood companions were all long dead. There were some in the court who said the chancellor’s earliest memories included a sighting of the ark. King Louis tolerated him for the stories Lalonde could recall of his father as a boy and young man. It was certainly not for the chancellor’s intelligence.

The French king watched in fascination as the old man chewed at his loose mouth, made restless in the heat. The upper and lower lips slid over each other with extraordinary slackness. With some reluctance, Louis pulled his gaze
away. Half a dozen lords waited on him, marshalling between them both fortunes and a huge number of armed soldiers, if he had need. He rubbed the length of his long nose, polishing the bulb of the tip between forefinger and thumb as he thought.

‘Her father, Duke René, is not a fool, for all the failed claims he has made on Jerusalem and Naples. Still, I will not criticize a man for ambition. In turn, it means I must not assume his daughter lacks wits. She knows I would rather not find a match for her son, a boy without lands, without title, without coin! No, my concern is more with
King
Edward in England. Why would I choose to support a beggar prince of Lancaster? Why would I antagonize Edward Plantagenet, at the beginning of his reign? He fills the years ahead, Lalonde. He sends his friend Warwick to my court to ask for a princess, offering gifts and islands and flattering me with talk of a hundred years of peace to follow a hundred years of war. All lies, of course, but such pretty,
pretty
lies.’

The king rose from his throne and began to pace, with his fan fluttering once again. His lords and servants scurried back so they would not touch him by accident and perhaps lose a hand.

‘Should I send such a king into the arms of my enemies, Lalonde? I do not doubt the Duke of Burgundy would welcome his interest, or milord of Brittany. All my rebellious dukes have daughters or sisters unwed. And there is Edward, king of England and without an heir.’

His fan stirred the air only sluggishly and he dabbed at fresh sweat on his forehead with a silk cloth.

‘Cousin Margaret will surely know all this, but still, Lalonde …
still
she asks! As if …’ He touched a finger to
his lips, pressing in the centre. ‘As if she knows Edward will never be a friend to this court. As if I
must
support her and that I will know there is no other choice. It is all very odd. She does not beg, though she has no favours owed to her, nor funds beyond a few small rents from her father. All she has to offer is her son.’ Louis brightened suddenly, a smile crossing his face. ‘It is like a wager, Lalonde. She is saying, “My little Edward is the son of King Henry of England. Find a wife for him, Louis – and perhaps one day you will be repaid.” Poor odds of that, Lalonde, eh?’

The elderly chancellor looked at him from half-closed eyes. Before he could respond, Louis waved a hand in the air to show his frustration.

‘She gambles her future on my dislike of English kings. Yes, if I had a dozen sisters still unwed, I might consider one of them to give to her son, but I have seen so many die, Lalonde.
You
know. The twins, poor Isabella. And I have seen three dead children of my own, Lalonde! I have reached out to shake the shoulders of more little bodies than any father should ever see.’

The king stopped talking for a time, staring across the great empty hall of his palace. Every man and woman present held still so as not to break his chain of thought. After what seemed an age, he cleared his throat and shuddered.

‘Enough of such things. My mind pricks me with old sorrows. It is too hot. No. Lady Margaret will be disappointed, Lalonde. Draft a reply, expressing my eternal regrets. Offer her a small pension. Perhaps then she will cease to trouble me.’

His chancellor bowed over his cane in response.

‘As for King Edward Plantagenet, who stole his crown
from another of my cousins …
mon Dieu
, Lalonde. Should I give my daughter Anne to such a wolf when she is grown? Should I throw my dear lamb to a rough English giant? When my father gave a sister to the English, their King Henry decided he was king of France! I remember when the English still strutted through French towns and cities, Lalonde – and claimed them. If I honour this King Edward with my little girl, how long before the horns blow again? If I do not, how long before Burgundy and Brittany blow their horns for war? It is most vexing.’

To his surprise, Chancellor Lalonde responded.

‘The English have bled themselves white, Your Majesty, at the battle they call York Field, or Towton. They will not threaten France again, not as long as I live.’

Louis regarded the old man dubiously.

‘Yes, though we will be lucky if you survive another winter, Lalonde. And this Edward is a son of York. I remember his father, before this enormous pup was even born. Duke Richard was … impressive – cruel and clever. My father liked him, as much as he liked anyone. I cannot make an enemy of his giant son, who triumphed against thirty thousand on the field of war! No, I have made my decision. None of my sisters remain unwed. My daughter is three, and of course the newborn, God grant she lives. I could betroth Anne to marry him when she is fourteen, eleven years from now. Let him cool his ardour for a decade! Let him prove himself as a king first before I send another daughter of France over the sea.’

‘Your Majesty …’ Lalonde began. Louis held up a hand.

‘
Yes
. I am
aware
he will not wait. Do you not understand a flight of fancy, Chancellor Lalonde? Do you comprehend humour at all? Or is it the deafness? I will send a
delegation of lords and pretty birds to meet King Edward, with spies and scribes and pigeons ready to bring news back to my hand. They will suggest my daughter, perhaps, but he will demur, refuse! Impossible to wait for so long, without heirs! Then we will offer him my widowed sister-in-law, Bona, or one of the nieces who cluster so at Christmas and beg for gifts from my hand. He will accept and perhaps we will have prevented the giant from bringing an army across that sleeve of tears they call the English Channel. Do you understand now, Lalonde? Must I explain myself again?’

‘Once … is enough in this heat,’ the old man said, his eyes cold.

King Louis chuckled.

‘Spirit! In one so very ancient!
Incroyable
, monsieur. Bravo! Perhaps you should be part of that delegation, yes? To meet the king in London. No, don’t thank me, Lalonde. Merely go from here and make ready. Immediately.’

The summer seemed to have lasted a lifetime, as if there had never been a winter before it. The entire country baked, wilting listlessly as every day broke with a new promise of heat. The inner walls of Windsor Castle remained somewhat cooler, so many feet of stone proof against even the hottest days. As Warwick watched, King Edward pressed his forehead against smooth limestone and closed his eyes.

‘Edward, until you have an
heir
, nothing is written in stone!’ Warwick said, exasperated. ‘If you suffered an apoplexy after one of your feasts, or if a cut spoiled and made your blood sour …’ He summoned the nerve to say the words to the enormous man who glowered through the
window. ‘If you
died
, Edward, with things as they are, what do you think would be the result? You have no son, but your brothers are too young to inherit. George is, what, fourteen? Richard is only eleven. There would have to be a regent. How long then before Margaret and Henry and their
son
set foot in England once more? It is not so long ago that every family in the country lost someone at Towton, Edward. Do you want to see chaos return?’

‘This is all madness. I
won’t
die,’ the king said, turning away. ‘Unless, of course, a man can be lashed to death by your tongue,’ he went on, half to himself. ‘How is Richard now? Has he settled at Middleham?’

‘You see, this is why I never know what you will
say
!’ Warwick replied, throwing up his hands in exasperation. ‘In one fell swoop, you can refuse all good advice and then remind me you have placed a brother into my care! Yet if you trust me, you should listen!’

‘I
do
listen,’ Edward replied. ‘Though you worry too much, I think. The worst will not happen! As for my brother Richard, he is about the age I was when I went to Calais with you. You were a good teacher to me then – and I have not forgotten how I looked up to you. I had some thought of sending him to the garrison there, but he is … well, more delicate than I was at his age. My mother coddled him, I am sure. He needs sword work and hours with an axe each day. You’ll know what to do, just as you did with me.’

Warwick sighed, fed up with the role he was forced to play, some combination of older brother, stepfather and chancellor that meant he had no real power whatsoever over the headstrong young king. He had thought it a great honour at first when Edward had passed his youngest brother
into Warwick’s care. It was common enough to allow young men to grow to manhood away from their families. It toughened them and allowed them to make their last childish mistakes away from those they would disappoint. It built alliances as well, and Warwick was pleased Edward thought it worth his while. None of that obscured the utter emptiness of Warwick’s role as king’s companion.

It had not mattered much for the first two or three years, while he and Edward tore through Lancaster rebellions in the north. That had been a heady time, with small-action battles and racing across the land to catch spies and traitors. Hundreds of great houses and titles lay unfilled as a result, with their owners either still hiding from justice, or dangling from trees or spiked on London Bridge. Edward had taken immense satisfaction from attainting the noble houses which had supported Lancaster, removing both the titles and the wealth of their lands. He and Warwick had been ruthless, of a certainty, but they had been given cause.

It had been exciting, dangerous work while it went on, but then the country had fallen quiet and there were no more rebellions for an entire summer, not even a manor burned or news of a rising in King Henry’s name. It was those airless, sweat-soaked months that had Edward scratching at any door, wanting to be out hunting. He had always been happier in the cold, where he could wrap himself in fur. There was no relief from summer heat and it stole even his great strength, leaving him as weak as Samson shorn of hair.

Warwick watched him, wondering at the cause of his restlessness. One suspicion came to his mind and he gave it voice.

‘You know, Edward, since Towton, we are not yet strong enough to consider crossing the Channel, no matter how much you might want it. We don’t have the army for it.’

‘They were just six thousand at Agincourt,’ Edward snapped, stung to anger at having his thoughts read. ‘Five thousand of them were archers.’

‘And that army was led by a king who had
already
fathered his son and heir,’ Warwick exclaimed. ‘Edward, you are twenty-two and a king of England. There is time for any campaign you wish in the years ahead, but please secure your heirs first. There is not a princess alive who would not consider your suit.’

Warwick paused for a moment, aware that Edward was staring out over Windsor grounds. Warwick had no doubt the young man was considering throwing off duty and vanishing for a week or a fortnight, turning up reeking of sweat and blood, as if he had no other responsibilities. It didn’t take much more than a rumour of some wild animal menacing a flock or a village for Edward to be gathering his knights and sounding a hunting horn.

Warwick sensed he was losing the king’s interest and attention as Edward’s gaze sharpened and he leaned close to the glass panes, his breath misting them. The Thames was visible from the tower. No doubt Edward had seen ducks skimming down to land. If it wasn’t hunting with dogs, it was falconry that obsessed the young king. He seemed to have a touch for it, or so they said in the royal mews. Something in the savage birds of prey put Edward in a joyous mood and he was never happier than riding out with his great speckled gyrfalcon on his arm, or coming back with a few brace of pigeon or ducks over his shoulder.

‘Your Highness?’ Warwick said softly.

Edward turned from the glass at his title. They had fallen into the use of first names from long association. Edward knew Warwick only used one of the royal forms of address when he thought something was truly important. He nodded, standing with his hands clenched at his back, wondering if he should give voice to what was truly troubling him. For once in his life, Edward was embarrassed.

‘This French king Louis is Margaret’s first cousin,’ Warwick went on, unaware of the inner struggle in the man he faced. ‘In her exile, she might have asked for land or a title, but instead she calls on him to arrange a marriage for her son. King Louis is said to be clever, Edward. I cannot say I felt any especial warmth from him as he considered our request. I do know any union of Margaret’s boy and the French throne would be a dangerous thing.’

‘None of that would matter if Margaret’s simple husband hadn’t lost France!’ Edward retorted.

Warwick shrugged.

‘That is in the past. Yet if we allow her son to marry a French princess, he could one day be king of France – and then claim England as his birthright. Do you see the danger now? Do you see why I have spent two years flattering King Louis and the French court and sending gifts in your name? Do you see why I have feasted a dozen of their ambassadors and entertained them at my estates?’