Lancaster and York Family Tree
Key Characters
Prologue
1. June 1462: Margaret of Anjou Visits the New King of France
2. Margaret of Anjou Receives a Visitor
3. The Summons
4. The Queen’s Forces Muster
5. Storm
6. Shelter
7. The Castle on the Rock
8. Berwick
9. Siege
10. Flight
11. King Henry Considers the Crown
12. The King’s Bed
13. Elizabeth Woodville Plays a Different Game
14. The Duke of Somerset Writes a Letter
15. Elizabeth Woodville Speaks
16. The Condemned Man
17. September 1464: Reading
18. The Earl of Warwick Speaks
19. The Visions of King Henry
20. July 1465
21. A Child is Born
22. Two Letters
23. Two Kings
24. Margaret Beaufort Receives an Invitation
25. The Kingmaker
26. The King’s Displeasure
27. Jasper’s Journey
28. Rumours and Lies
The Battle of Edgecote Moor: 26 July 1469
29. William Herbert Writes a Letter
30. Edward IV Hears the News
31. Margaret Beaufort Makes a Plan
32. The King’s Captivity
33. Henry Stafford Receives a Summons
34. The Earl of Warwick Suffers a Setback
35. Hard and Difficult
36. The Duke of Clarence is Not Content
37. Prince Edward is Not Content
38. Queen Elizabeth Hears the News
39. Mute as a Crowned Calf
40. Margaret Beaufort Receives a Letter
41. The Sanctuary Child
42. The Earl of Warwick Refuses to Fight
43. King Edward Speaks
44. Henry Stafford Makes a Choice
The Battle of Barnet: 14 April 1471
45. The Queen Arrives
46. Strategy
47. Pursuit
The Battle of Tewkesbury: 4 May 1471
48. Little Malvern Priory
49. The Tower of London
50. Consequences
About the Chronicles
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
‘A gripping story … Juxtaposing illuminating contemporary accounts of the Wars of the Roses with breathtaking insights into the minds of the principal players, Succession puts the conflict into a compelling context whilst exploring the human cost of the bloody, bitter birth of the Tudor dynasty’ Lancashire Evening Post
‘Livi Michael is new to historical fiction and it shows, in a good way. Focused on the earlier years of the Wars of the Roses (about which I knew nothing – and nor did she, by her own admission, before she started), this novel is wonderfully stylistically fresh, making inventive use of contemporary chronicles, which it mimics to blackly comic effect. But it’s also a heartfelt account of the eye-opening, hair-raising early life of Margaret Beaufort, mother of Henry VII’ Suzannah Dunn, Waterstones blog, ‘Authors’ Books of the Year 2014’
‘Succession is a powerfully written account of the 15th-century Wars of the Roses … finely balanced between history and fiction, and a fascinating, riveting read’ Historical Novel Society
‘In Succession Livi Michael engages meticulously with the diverse historical accounts of the Wars of the Roses, but she also invests intimate and poignant humanity into the personal tragedies of an era wrought with conflict and terror’ Elizabeth Fremantle, author of Queen’s Gambit
Livi Michael has published five novels for adults: Succession, published in 2014; Under a Thin Moon, which won the Arthur Welton award in 1992; Their Angel Reach, which won the Faber prize in 1995; All the Dark Air (1997), which was shortlisted for the Mind Award; and Inheritance, which won a Society of Authors award. Livi has two sons and lives in Greater Manchester. She teaches creative writing at the Manchester Metropolitan University and has been a senior lecturer in creative writing at Sheffield Hallam University.
To Anna Pollard, for keeping the faith
NB children are not necessarily in order of birth
d.= died
k.= killed
*appears more than once
Margaret of Anjou, wife of King Henry VI
Anne Beauchamp, Countess of Warwick, married to the Earl of Warwick
Margaret Beauchamp, mother of Margaret Beaufort
Edmund Beaufort, cousin to Margaret Beaufort; takes the title Duke of Somerset after his older brother, Henry Beaufort, is executed
Henry Beaufort, 3rd Duke of Somerset, older brother of Edmund Beaufort
Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond; great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt; great-great-granddaughter of Edward III; mother of Henry Tudor
Pierre de Brézé, Seneschal of Normandy, supporter of Margaret of Anjou
Anne Devereux, Lady Herbert, guardian of Henry Tudor
Walter Devereux, Lord Ferrers, Anne Devereux’s brother
Edward IV, King of England (House of York)
Edward, Prince of Wales, son of Henry VI and Queen Margaret (Margaret of Anjou)
George, Duke of Clarence, brother of Edward IV
William Hastings, 1st Baron Hastings, close friend and Lord Chamberlain to Edward IV
Henry VI, King of England and France (House of Lancaster)
William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, guardian of Henry Tudor
Louis XI, King of France
John Morton, Archdeacon of Norwich, Lancastrian supporter
Anne Neville, younger daughter of the Earl and Countess of Warwick
Cecily Neville, dowager Duchess of York, mother of Edward IV
George Neville, Archbishop of York, brother of the Earl of Warwick
Isabel Neville, older daughter of the Earl and Countess of Warwick
Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, cousin of Edward IV
Richard, Duke of Gloucester, brother of Edward IV
Henry Stafford, son of the Duke and Duchess of Buckingham, third husband of Margaret Beaufort
Henry Tudor, son of Margaret Beaufort and Edmund Tudor; Earl of Richmond and nephew of Henry VI
Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke, half-brother of Henry VI, younger brother of Edmund Tudor, uncle of Henry Tudor
Richard Tunstall, Lancastrian general
Anthony Woodville, 2nd Earl Rivers, Lord Scales, brother of Elizabeth Woodville
Elizabeth Woodville, daughter of Sir Richard Woodville and Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford; wife of Edward IV
The last time Margaret Beaufort had seen her son he had not been well, but against the advice of his nurse she’d wrapped him up and taken him outside.
It was a bare day, with rags of light. They had walked slowly, investigating the crevices in a stone wall, the surface of a puddle, the underside of a leaf. She had registered his delight in the small creatures skimming the pond, the eager movements of ducks. His response to the curling pattern of lichen, the snail clinging to the underside of a stone and other hidden worlds was not exactly disturbed, no, but wary. He had spread his tapering fingers inquisitively across the snail, as though testing it.
They had sat together on the low wall and he’d fallen asleep, his hand curled round her thumb, his own thumb finding the knuckle of hers and stroking it even while he slept. She remembered vividly the feel of his child’s hand in hers; how the fingers moved.
She’d prayed earnestly, there on the wall, that by some miracle she might have him back.
And what had happened?
A new king had sent her son to a different guardian, in a different castle, where she might not visit. The same man who had killed her husband now had custody of their son.
She’d continued to pray as though she could haul him back by the sheer force of her prayer. But none of that was any use now. The world had changed, England had changed; she had a different husband.
He was a good husband. He had comforted her when she’d sobbed violently against his plump chest, then rested dry-eyed against it and tried not to remember all the things she no longer knew about her son. How tall was he now? Had the colour of his hair changed? Did he still wake sometimes in the middle of the night unable to breathe? Did he still like to find beetles in the cracks in a stone wall, or to look for hidden things beneath a rock?
Did he remember her at all?
He would not remember her in the vivid way that she remembered him – the smell of milk on his breath, the wrinkles on the underside of his feet.
She could not forget these things; the best she could do was to keep busy. And to stay near her husband, who would comfort her. So she walked urgently across the courtyard because her husband had talked that morning about the need to reroof the stables. If he wasn’t there he would be in the herb garden, because he was as fond of plants as she was. They had often gone out into the fields and woods together, looking for new plants to transfer into her garden. She called his name as she passed the outbuildings to one side of the courtyard.
Then she saw him, and felt a rush of relief. He was standing in front of the first stable, leaning forward a little as though intent; he didn’t even move when she called out to him.
She crept up on him, determined to surprise him, and to laugh at him for gazing so intently at a horse. Probably it was being shoed. Henry did sometimes get absorbed by the mechanisms of routine tasks.
When she had almost reached him she could see what he was looking at. The stable boy stripped to the waist, moving bales of hay with unhurried, rhythmical movements. A pattern of muscle moved under his skin; beads of sweat had collected between his shoulders.
The rush of knowledge that came to her then was like a shock of cold air. She made a small sound, not speech, and Henry looked round. His face was a little flushed, as though from sleep.
She turned and hurried back towards the house.
She didn’t know where her knowledge came from. She knew little of the world except what she had gathered from her books. And the Bible. Once in church the priest had held up two men to shame for the sin of Sodom; they had been whipped in the marketplace.
Look what happened in the Inferno to sodomites.
But this was Henry, her Henry, the kindest man she knew.
She made her way to the room they didn’t share and sat down suddenly on her bed because her legs were trembling. So many things made sense now.
They had borne together the curiosity of other people about their childless state, the barbed comments of both their mothers, the unspoken criticisms of those who, knowing she’d had to give up her first child, thought that she should have replaced him by now with at least one other. All the time assuming it was her fault.
In fact, it was her fault, though they couldn’t know that. Even Henry didn’t know it – what the doctor had said after she’d had her son had been left out of the marriage negotiations. That she was permanently damaged; it was unlikely she would ever conceive again. She’d been easily cowed by the criticisms, understanding what her duty was and that she’d failed.
But now this.
She couldn’t even finish the thought. She pressed her fingertips to the sides of her head.
Yet what had she seen, really?
Her husband, watching a stable boy.
It did not mean anything.
She remembered that when they had visited his mother they had shared a bed and he had taken care not to touch her. Unwilling, she had supposed, to rush her into anything she was not ready for.
But sometime after the loss of her son, when it was still unbearable to her, her mother had made some comment about ‘starting a new family instead of mourning the old’. And she had said sharply that she was not looking to replace her son, but at the same time she had realized that she did, in fact, want another baby. So fiercely that she could suppress the knowledge of what the doctor had said, and her own inner knowledge of the workings of her body.
Are you saying, Jasper had said to the doctor, that a miracle cannot happen? And, of course, the doctor would say no such thing.
And it was spring, the time for miracles. So the next morning she’d gone into her husband’s room while he slept, and her fingers found the swollen part beneath the sheets, and he had ejaculated swiftly before he was fully awake.
He had got up at once, and avoided her for the rest of the day.
Of course, she knew she was not attractive; bony-chested and woefully small. It was as though her early experience of childbirth had caused her body to reject all the natural processes of maturity. She hadn’t grown since.
Still, that hadn’t stopped Edmund.
But Henry was her loving, good husband, who liked her better than anyone else, who preferred her company. Not like Edmund, who was always going away. And so they’d carried on, like brother and sister.
Did she want to lose that now?
There was a tapping at the door. Gentle, but it made her flinch. She lowered her hands from her face as the door opened.
There was Henry, looking at her.
It was a painful look, shy, eager, full of concern for her, and a kind of desperation for himself. And the shade of fear that must have been on her own face.
‘Margaret,’ he said.
In that moment she knew there was knowledge that could be allowed and knowledge that could not. And the knowledge that could not had to be suppressed.
Henry took a step towards her. ‘Is something wrong?’ he said. Between them was the image of that boy, his naked back. She would not look at it. Her gaze fell on the papers on her desk.
‘I have some accounting to do,’ she said.
She saw his face change, could sense the alteration in his silence. But she didn’t want him to speak; she must prevent him from speaking.
‘It’s an inventory,’ she said, ‘of old clothes and hangings. To take to the Sanctuary.’
‘I see,’ said Henry. ‘Will you come down for food?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ she said, then was sorry that she’d said it, because it was a bone of contention between them, her rejection of food, and now he would want to know why, to open a discussion that she wished to avoid.
‘I’ll have some soup in here,’ she said, then felt again that it was the wrong thing to say, because now he would think that she was punishing him, and she did not want to punish him, she did not want any acknowledgement of what had happened at all.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’ll come down later?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, adding in a rush, ‘I could read to you if you like – from the book your mother sent us – but I have to write to her – she will want to know if we like it.’
She glanced at him then, at the look of baffled pain and disappointment in his eyes. But all he said was, ‘Very well then. I’ll eat now, and you’ll come down later, and read to me.’
There was no bitterness; Henry was not a bitter man. But there was something in his face, stricken, bleak, that she would remember for a long time. There was another pause in which one of them might have spoken, and then he turned and she could hear his heavy steps descending the stairs.
At once she got up and went to her desk.
She was relieved that she’d handled it this way. Because already she was halfway to believing that she had seen nothing really, nothing had happened. Henry had been watching a stable boy, that was all. He did sometimes watch the servants, as she did; servants needed watching. And he was often fascinated by mundane tasks such as fencing or cropping.
There was no need to discuss something that hadn’t happened.
Everything would continue, just as it had before.
She had waited for several days outside the palace at Amboise. She was dusty and shabby from the journey, but there was nowhere to wash and no clothes to change into. So as soon as she was allowed in, with her son and one or two attendants, and conducted to the room where her cousin the king sat in his robes of state, she took two or three steps forward then fell to the floor, the full length of her body embracing the cool tiles.
She felt rather than saw the ripple of shock that passed through the room; all those painted, enamelled faces turning to the king. But before the king could speak, ignoring all protocol, she began her impassioned plea.
‘Oh, most gracious majesty,’ she said, barely lifting her head, ‘I come to you destitute of friends, of honour, of aid. A queen expelled from her nation, reduced to utter wretchedness and misery.’
‘I cannot hear you if you talk to the floor,’ said the king.
When he made no move to help her rise, one of her attendants stepped forward. She leaned on him heavily, getting up with none of her usual energy and grace, and looked for the first time at her cousin with desperate appeal.
‘If you do not help us, we must die outside your walls,’ she said.
King Louis’ hooded eyes scarcely flickered; his fleshy nostrils quivered once. She could not tell if he was pleased to see her so reduced or annoyed in the extreme. He was only a few years older than she was, unprepossessing as ever, but in possession of such superior power. Infinitely malign he seemed to her as he squatted there like a great toad. She could not help but think of his father, her beloved uncle, in whose court she had always been made welcome. But Louis had never liked his father and he despised the House of Anjou.
Lack of food made her sway slightly.
‘Madame,’ her cousin said, ‘please be seated.’ And miraculously it seemed, because she had thought there was no other chair in the room, one appeared. Smaller than her cousin’s seat, of course, but placed next to his so that they could speak. And she was offered a goblet of wine and some bread and oil.
She looked towards her son, who was still standing where she had left him, directing the full force of his stare at the king.
‘Your majesty, may I present my son the prince,’ she said.
The king leaned forward in his seat and beckoned the little boy, who glanced at her before approaching, then dropped elegantly to one knee. She watched eagerly as the king assessed him; the straightness of his back, his silky hair. The king’s own sons had died in infancy; he had only one daughter, the princess Anne, who was just one year old.
‘You have travelled a long way,’ he said to her son. ‘I think you must be hungry. And thirsty.’
Without looking at her the little prince replied, ‘It is nothing now that I have seen your majesty.’
She was so proud of him. Even in her distress she smiled.
But the king did not look at her.
‘I think you would like some refreshment,’ he said. He motioned to a servant, and the prince and her attendants were ushered away before she could protest. She had been going to make her appeal with her son at her side. But now she was alone, with the king and his attendants.
King Louis leaned towards her. ‘Tell me what brings you so far into our country,’ he said.
As if he didn’t know.
However, the queen recounted her tale. The sorry tale of King Henry, a good and pious man, whose cousins had risen against him and torn the nation apart in one battle after another until all the land was bathed in blood. Nothing could equal their treachery, their iniquity. And now the son of one of these cousins, Edward of York, had set himself up as king.
‘He is not king!’ she burst out. ‘He will never be anything other than a usurper. He will die the death that all such traitors die!’
King Louis commented only that he must have had considerable support.
‘They have turned the hearts of the people with their lies and malice!’ said the queen.
The bulbous end of King Louis’ nose twitched once. ‘And where is the king, your husband?’ he said.
King Henry was in Scotland. But the Scottish queen had made it clear that she could not support him indefinitely. Scotland had been subjected to threats and harassment from the House of York, and especially from the Earl of Warwick, who had led his troops across the border to attack Scottish castles after taking several castles in the north of England, so that there was nowhere for the Lancastrian court to go.
‘The position would seem to be hopeless,’ the French king murmured. But Margaret of Anjou protested that it was not hopeless: she had many supporters – there were many loyal subjects of the true king. In fact, as his majesty knew, the Earl of Oxford had recently led a conspiracy to overthrow the so-called ‘new king’ and organize an invasion from Scotland.
‘But that did not end well, I think,’ said King Louis, and the queen was forced to admit that, in fact, due to the efforts of a Yorkist spy who had intercepted one of the messages from the earl, the uprising had been brutally suppressed.
The Earl of Oxford fastened to a stretcher, disembowelled, castrated, then burned alive, and his oldest son executed with him.
The French king dipped his fingers into a bowl. ‘So how would you describe your position?’ he said. An expression of distress flitted across the queen’s face.
‘We still have our supporters,’ she said. The Scottish queen would give them money to leave Scotland, she believed. And Queen Mary had agreed to a marriage between her daughter and Prince Edward, who was the rightful prince and heir.
The French king sat back. She could see him thinking that it might suit him to have a member of his own family, half French, on the English throne as his vassal. But all he said was, ‘Certainly we could not have two King Edwards in England at the same time – that would confuse the people, eh?’
‘Edward of York is not king,’ she said clearly. ‘And when I have finished with him he will not be earl either. He will be nothing – less than nothing!’
The French king’s nose twitched again. He indicated to a servant to fill her goblet. ‘What other support do you have?’ he said.
So she told him, hesitating only a little, that she could count on the Duke of Somerset and the Earl of Devon, whose supporters were in the south. That was where she thought an invasion might be made – through the Channel Islands. Or alternatively to the north – through the lands of the Earl of Northumberland, who had died for King Henry’s cause at Towton. The lands no longer belonged to him, of course – they had been granted to the Earl of Warwick’s brother – but still the family and tenants remained loyal.
‘If we can retake the castles,’ she said, warming to her theme, ‘the Scots will support us – I am sure of it.’
As she spoke, all her energies, all the old fire, revived in her. But the French king gave no indication at all of his response. He listened impassively, only occasional expressions of doubt or discouragement flitting across his face like shadows across a deep pool.
Seen from the palace windows, the meadows were a soft gold. Occasionally a bird flitted across the hillside, but other than that nothing moved. Sheep stood or sat in absolute stillness, each one depositing an imprint of shadow to the right.
As the day passed the heat would become unendurable; the grass parched, sheep and horses seeking the shade afforded by a rare tree or shrub. But in the early morning the world seemed saturated in stillness, as if holding its breath, but content to wait.
Only the English queen was not content. Waiting was not something she did well.
King Louis had promised her nothing, she said. He had ushered her from his presence with only the pledge that he would give her situation some thought.
‘As if I am not thinking enough for both of us,’ she said, gazing out of the window to where the sheep stippled the hillside, motionless, without urgency.
The archdeacon, Dr Morton, with whom she said Mass every morning, observed that thinking was indeed man’s curse. ‘That is why God has given us prayer,’ he said, ‘to channel thought.’
‘I do pray,’ said the queen. She had prayed every day that Edward of York would fall on his sword, or Warwick from his horse and break his neck.
The archdeacon refrained from saying that perhaps this was not what was meant. The queen was in no mood to be instructed about prayer. Ever since she’d heard that Warwick had made a truce with the Scots she had been beside herself. God, she said, no longer listened to her prayers.
He said instead that at least Louis had given them lodging in the palace.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And I am kept here, waiting, without purpose. Every day the usurper secures his grip on my throne and all I can do is wait to be summoned, for Louis to tell me what he will or will not do. He has already decided – that much I know – but it pleases him to make me wait. And wonder. And wait again. When will it come?’ she said, turning round to him. ‘When will I hear the knock at the door?’
Dr Morton was about to say something when there was, in fact, a knock at the door, and they both froze, comically startled. The queen drew herself up, very pale. ‘Enter,’ she said.
She did not at first recognize the man who stood in the doorway. He was somewhat shabby, unshaven, grey stubble covering his face and head in roughly equal amounts. There was a scar beneath his eye and it was this she recognized first.
‘Chevalier?’ she said wonderingly, and in two strides he crossed the room, sank to his knees and kissed her hand.
‘My lady,’ he said.
Margaret of Anjou looked at the archdeacon, who seemed as astonished as she but more wary.
‘It is the Seneschal,’ she said, her face breaking into a smile.
‘Pierre de Brézé, at your service,’ the kneeling man said.
‘I thought you were in custody,’ she said, and the man made a dismissive noise.
‘His majesty has released me,’ he said. ‘I was told I could come to you and I came, at once. I have had no time to change.’ He indicated his clothing.
The queen’s heart quickened. This was surely a good sign – the best indication that Louis intended to help her. She looked at the archdeacon. ‘The Seneschal and I have many things to discuss,’ she said. The look of wariness on Dr Morton’s face intensified. ‘Perhaps you will wait in the outer chamber,’ she said, and after a moment in which it seemed as if he might argue or offer a cautionary sermon, he bowed and left.
The queen helped de Brézé to rise. He moved more stiffly than she remembered, but his lopsided face creased into a smile. He had a new scar, running from his chin to his mouth.
‘You’ve been fighting,’ she said.
‘It was nothing, my lady – a duel only. A man unfit to be named accused me of cheating at cards.’
‘Of course you would never do such a thing.’
‘I would never allow it to be said that I would do such a thing.’
‘And you were in prison.’
‘No, no, my lady – I was confined to a chateau. It is not the same thing at all.’
‘You look as though you have been in prison,’ she said. ‘You look like a pirate.’
He knew she was referring to the acts of piracy he had undertaken without any authority, plundering the south coast of England. On one occasion he had burned the town of Sandwich, his men playing tennis afterwards in the smoking ruins. Of course, the English had blamed her for this as well. And Louis had imprisoned him, in an unaccountable show of solidarity with the new Yorkist regime. But de Brézé failed to look penitent. He passed a hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘I look like a man who would do many things for his queen,’ he said.
‘Louis should not have imprisoned you,’ said the queen. Then she sat down at a little table and indicated that he too should sit. ‘Tell me,’ she said in a low voice, ‘what else did he say?’
‘My lady, I have not seen the king. I was told only that I was being released, and that I could come to you. And so I came.’
The queen did not know what to make of this. What game was Louis playing? But before she could speak, de Brézé continued, ‘Enough of me. Tell me about your situation.’ And there was an expression of such tender concern on his face that the queen felt an impulse to weep.
She controlled it, however, and spoke quite calmly as she told him about everything that had happened in the past year – the battles she’d fought, the immense march south from Scotland to St Albans. Half the country had flocked to her cause, and she’d won a great victory. But then London had closed its gates against her and she’d been forced to retreat. And as she’d retreated, the Earl of March, son of the great traitor Richard of York, had entered London and declared himself king by consent of the citizens who had believed his lies, and the lies of Warwick. And then they’d fought the greatest battle of all, Towton, on Palm Sunday in the whirling snow, and so many had been slaughtered that the corpses were strewn all the way to York on a road some nine miles long and three wide.
‘Many of our supporters are gone,’ she said, emotional now.
De Brézé leaned forward and took her hand. ‘And you?’ he said. ‘How did you escape?’
They had escaped by torchlight, riding north into Scotland through dense forest, as though all the hosts of hell were behind them. They’d been besieged at Wark Castle, relieved only by retainers of the Earl of Northumberland, and had escaped through a small gate at the back of the castle. From there they’d ridden to Berwick and Galloway. And then her husband the king had been too ill and devastated to proceed further. He had taken refuge in the convent at Kirkcudbright, while the queen and her son had gone to the Scottish court, where Mary of Guelders had given them a somewhat distant welcome. Then they had stayed wherever room could be found for them.
The Yorkists had not been idle, of course. Warwick had been sent north to retake the castles of Bamburgh, Alnwick and Dunstanburgh. He had made the Scots promise they would give no military aid to the Lancastrians. And now he had managed to secure a truce between the House of York and the young Scottish king, James III.
‘But they cannot ignore the betrothal,’ she said. Her son, the rightful prince, was betrothed to Margaret Stewart, sister of James III.
While all this was happening, she, Margaret of Anjou, had sent emissaries to France to ask for aid from her uncle Charles VII. But then, of course, came the greatest blow. Her beloved uncle had died and was replaced by her less-beloved cousin Louis. The news had taken a long time to reach her because Louis had imprisoned her emissaries, including the Duke of Somerset, and their letters to her had been intercepted. And then, equally mysteriously, Louis had released the prisoners, welcomed them to his court and offered help to the Earl of Oxford, whose uprising had failed.
Her uncle had offered de Brézé money and ships before he died, but now his son Louis was prevaricating. ‘He keeps me waiting like a prisoner myself,’ the queen said.
‘He is not like his father,’ de Brézé said, and for a moment they both contemplated the difference between father and son. Then de Brézé said, ‘The Duke of Somerset –’
‘The House of Somerset has always been loyal to me,’ the queen said warmly. ‘I know that I can trust them completely.’
De Brézé pulled the corners of his mouth down.
‘What?’ said the queen. ‘They have fought one battle after another for me.’
‘“Completely” is an extravagant word,’ de Brézé said, and the queen stared at him until he went on. ‘The young duke is … somewhat free with his speech.’
‘You mean – he has betrayed us?’
‘No, no,’ de Brézé said. ‘But he may have given the impression that he is somewhat more than your knight.’
Colour stung the queen’s cheeks. ‘He would not do such a thing!’ she said. ‘Where did you hear this?’
‘It has been said.’
‘Rumours! You are listening to gutter news.’
‘If I am listening, other people will.’
‘But it is not true! And he would not say such a thing – what is he supposed to have said?’
De Brézé lifted his hands as though to ward off blows. ‘I do not know that he has said anything, my lady. Except to boast of your particular favour. And people will make of that what they will.’
‘People!’ she said. ‘I do not believe it – that is what matters.’
At the same time she knew it could be true. The young Duke of Somerset had already boasted of bedding the Scottish queen.
De Brézé suggested it was what King Louis believed in this particular situation that actually mattered. ‘That’s why I told you, my lady – not to distress you, but to make you wary of any traps he might spring.’
‘You think he is trying to trap me?’
‘It would not be out of character – if he is looking for a reason not to supply you with money and ships.’
The queen rose and began to pace around the room.
‘But this is monstrous,’ she said.
‘All I am saying,’ said de Brézé, ‘is that when he finally grants you an audience you must be clear that any help he may give is for your husband and your son. I know,’ he said, lifting his hands again, ‘your loyalty is not in question. But Louis would rather help a king than a queen – despite any ties of blood.’
The queen turned away. ‘If he sees me,’ she said. ‘How long is he going to keep me here? Weeks pass and our enemies sit on the throne unchallenged. I should be raising an army – preparing to invade – this summer while the weather holds. Will he make me wait until the middle of winter? Or until the English people have forgotten my name? They will be eager to forget,’ she added bitterly. ‘They never wanted me there in the first place.’
De Brézé rose and stood behind her. ‘I have two thousand men at my command,’ he said quietly. ‘They will sail whenever you give the word. Their lives are yours.’
She inclined her head. ‘Are they all brigands like you?’ she said.
‘They are men like me,’ de Brézé said, ‘who would do anything for you.’
The queen nodded. ‘If they are all like you, we are lost,’ she said. ‘You act without orders, and your actions rebound on me – they cause my people to hate me. And they do hate me,’ she said. ‘That is the simple truth.’
‘Your majesty,’ de Brézé said into her ear, ‘do you remember when you first left this country to sail to England?’
Of course she remembered it. The feasting had lasted more than a week, there had been eight days of tournaments. All the streets were hung with garlands of marguerites, her symbol, and banners with silver and gold daisies on them. And her weeping father had begged her to forgive him for having no dowry to send with her.
‘You were La Petite Marguerite,’ de Brézé said. ‘The Flower of France. You held your head so high – you would not cry, not you – and you stepped like a dancer.’
The queen did not answer but she was listening. She could see herself as she was then, so many years ago, setting off with such high hopes, such expectations, to be queen of a land she did not know. She had been fourteen then and now she was thirty-two – sometimes she felt that she was already old.
‘We sent them the best France had to offer,’ de Brézé said, ‘and how did they treat this gift?’
He had pledged himself to her then, he had promised that he would always be her chevalier. She turned part way towards him. ‘Two thousand only?’ she said.
‘You have your own men, do you not?’ he said. ‘Here, and in England. And King Louis will support you – what else can he do? He cannot keep you here indefinitely. And then,’ he said, picking up a stray lock of her hair and kissing it, ‘then we will remind an ungrateful nation of your name.’
She dressed in the least shabby of her clothes and put on what jewellery she had not pawned. Her mouth was entirely dry.
The little prince was dressed in the blue velvet that he had nearly outgrown. He insisted on carrying his sword.
Together they approached the royal chamber.
‘You are hurting my hand, Maman,’ he said, pulling away from her. He was nearly nine now and did not want to hold his mother’s hand.
She released him as the doors swung open.
The king sat in his robes of state, surrounded by his ministers. His face was severe, she noted, but as they stepped forward, he smiled.
Somehow it made him look even less approachable.
They knelt before him, making the usual obeisance, and she began to thank him for his great bounty and hospitality, but he cut her short. ‘Cousin,’ he said, ‘I have given your situation much consideration.’
Not as much as I have, she thought, but he carried on. ‘I have given you a general. De Brézé has my authority to muster men in Normandy. I can offer you ships and twenty thousand francs. In return for a small consideration –’
He indicated that they should rise.
Margaret of Anjou stood. She could hear her own heart pounding.
‘I wish only for the town and fortress of Calais.’
Her heart and stomach lurched, then seemed to fall.
‘I cannot give you Calais,’ she said.
King Louis’ eyebrows raised fractionally and a murmur ran around the room.
‘The English people would never accept it,’ she added faintly.
Calais was the last bastion of the English in France. All the other territories, hard won by Henry V, were lost.
The English already blamed her for the loss of territories in France.
‘Your majesty,’ she said, ‘I need the people to fight for me, not against me. They must see me as their queen, not their enemy.’
‘Then I cannot help you,’ said the king, and a chorus of assent arose.
Margaret of Anjou could feel tears stinging her eyes. ‘Your majesty –’ she began.
‘I have given you so much already,’ said Louis. ‘What can you give me in return?’
Margaret of Anjou was keenly aware that she had nothing else to give.
‘Everything you give me,’ she said, ‘will be repaid, twice over, when I have won back my country.’
Several of the nobles shook their heads or looked away as though casting doubt on her ability to win back her country. She felt the injustice of it burning in her breast. But then, unexpectedly, the young prince spoke.
‘My lady mother will win back her country,’ he said, ‘and I will be king.’
Everyone held their breath, waiting for the French king’s reaction.
Louis smiled again. It was not pleasant.
‘Well, my young fellow,’ he said roguishly. ‘So you want to be king, eh? Perhaps you would like to try on my crown?’
Margaret of Anjou shot her son a warning glance, but he was already speaking.
‘I wish only to wear the crown that is rightfully mine, your majesty.’
‘Well said,’ responded the king, looking around, and there was a small scattering of applause.
Margaret of Anjou begged the king’s permission to approach. When she was within earshot of only a few of his council she said in a low voice, ‘Your majesty, I cannot give you Calais – I have already given Berwick to the Scots.’
‘Exactly so,’ said King Louis. ‘One nation helps another. That is how the great game of diplomacy is played.’