The Lady of the Rivers (63 page)

‘Here,’ the blacksmith says kindly, coming out of his little cottage to put a dirty mug in my hand. ‘What are you going to do, lady?’

I shake my head. There is no pursuing force to misdirect, the York men are not coming through this way, just the broken remnants of our army. I fear that my husband is dead but I don’t know where to look for him. I am weak with fear and with a sense of my own lack of heroism. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. I feel utterly lost. The last time I was lost and alone was in the forest when I was a girl in France, and Richard came for me then. I cannot believe that Richard will not come for me now.

‘Better come in with us,’ the blacksmith says. ‘Can’t stay out here all night. And you can’t go to the battlefield, my lady, there are thieves working the place, and they’d stab you as soon as look at you. You’d better come in with us.’

I shrug, I don’t know what I should do. There is no point standing in the street if no-one is going to come past me to ask where the queen has gone. I have done my duty by hurrying her away, I don’t need to stand out till dawn. I duck my head under the narrow doorway of the cottage and step into the small dark earth-floored room and the stench of five people sleeping, cooking, eating and pissing in the same space.

They are kind to me. What they have, they share. They have a corner of black bread made with rye; they have never tasted white bread. They have a thin gruel made with vegetables and a rind of cheese. They have small ale to drink which the goodwife brewsherself and they give me the first gulp from an earthenware cup which tastes of mud. I think that these are the people we should be fighting for, these are the people who live in a rich country, where land is fertile and water is clean, where there are more acres to grow than farmers to harvest. This is a country where wages should be high and markets should be rich and busy. And yet it is not. It is a land where no-one can sleep safely in their bed at night for fear of raids or brigands or thieves, where the king’s justice is bought and paid for by the king’s friends, where an honest working man is tried for treason and hanged if he asks for his rights, and where we cannot seem to stop a French courtier landing in our own ports and laying them waste.

We say that we are the rulers of this country but we do not make a rule of law. We say that we command these people but we do not lead them to peace or prosperity. We, their own lords, quarrel among ourselves, and bring death to their door as if our opinions and thoughts and dreams are worth far more than their safety and health and children.

I think of the queen, riding through the night with her horseshoes on backwards so that no-one can know where she has gone, and her army lying face down in Hempmill Brook, perhaps my husband and my son among them. The blacksmith’s wife, Goody Skelhorn, sees me grow pale and asks me if the gruel has turned my stomach.

‘No,’ I say. ‘But my husband was fighting today, and I am afraid for him.’ I can’t even bear to tell her of my fears for my boy.

She shakes her head, and says something about terrible times. Her accent is so broad that I can hardly make out what she says. Then she spreads a flea-filled rug on a straw mattress that is their best bed, beside the dying fire, and shows me that I can lie down. I thank her, I lie down, she joins me on one side and her daughter on the other. The men sleep on the other side of the fire. I lie on my back and wait for the long sleepless night to wear away.

Through the night we hear the clatter of hooves down the village street, and occasional shouts. The girl, the woman, and I cower like frightened children together: this is what it is like to live in a country at war. There is nothing of the grace of the joust or even the inspiration of great principles – it is about being a poor woman hearing a detachment of horse thunder down your street and praying that they do not stop to hammer on your frail door.

When dawn comes the goodwife gets up and cautiously opens the door and peers outside. When it seems safe she goes out and I hear her clucking to her hens and releasing the pig to roam around the village and eat the rubbish. I get up from the bed and scratch the swelling insect bites on my arms and neck and face. My hair is falling down from the careful coiled plait on the top of my head, I feel filthy, I am afraid that I smell; but I am alive. I did not stand and misdirect the invading lords as the queen asked me to do, I hid like a serf in a peasant’s cottage and was glad of their kindness. I ducked out of sight when I heard the horses in the night and I lay down on dirty straw. In truth, I would have given anything to stay alive last night, and I would give anything to know my husband and sons are alive this dawn. I am fearful and low. I don’t feel much of a duchess this morning.

The girl gets up, shakes out her petticoat which serves as both underwear and nightgown, pulls on a dress of coarse fustian over the top, rubs her face on the corner of a dirty apron and she is readyn the othethe day. I look at her and think of the scented bath that is waiting for me at Eccleshall Castle and the clean linen that I will put on. Then, before I grow too confident of my own future comforts, I remember that I can’t be sure that the court will be at Eccleshall Castle, nor that my son and husband will come home to me.

‘I must leave,’ I say abruptly.

I go outside and the smith is tacking up my horse. His wife has a mug of small ale for me, and a heel of stale bread. I drink the ale and dip the bread in it to make it soft enough to eat, then I give them my purse. There is silver in it, and some copper coins, a fortune for them, though it was next to nothing for me. ‘Thank you,’ I say, and I wish I could say more: that I am sorry for the ruin that this king and queen have brought upon them, I am sorry that they work hard and yet cannot rise from the poverty of their home, I am sorry that I have slept on linen all my life and seldom thought of those who sleep on straw.

They smile. The girl is missing a rotting tooth at the front of her face and it gives her a gap-toothed grin like a little child. ‘D’ye know the way?’ the woman worries. It is all of nine miles, she has never been so far from her home.

‘You go to Loggerheads and they will set you on the road there,’ the smith volunteers. ‘But take care, the soldiers will be making their way home too. Shall I send the lad with you?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘You will be busy in the forge today, I should think.’

He hefts my purse and grins up at me. ‘It’s a good day already,’ he says. ‘The best we’ve had in all our lives. God bless you, my lady.’

‘God bless you,’ I say, and turn my horse to the south.

I have been riding for about half an hour when I hear a blast of trumpets and see the dust of a great army on the move. I look around me for somewhere to hide but this is wide empty country, the fields are broad and bare and the hedges are low. I pull my horse over to an open gateway by a field and think that if they are the York army or York reinforcements then I can rein in, sit tight, look like a duchess, and let them go by. Perhaps they will have news of my husband and my boy.

When they are half a mile from me, I can make out the king’s standard, and I know that I am safe for the moment, as the army comes up, the queen and the king himself at the head.

‘Jacquetta!’ she cries out with genuine joy. ‘God bless you! Well met!’

She pulls her horse over to the side of the road to let the army keep on marching past us. Thousands of men are following her. ‘You are safe!’ she says. ‘And well! And the king here is so angry at the death of Lord Audley that he is marching himself to bring the York lords to account.’ She lowers her voice. ‘He has suddenly come to his senses and said he will lead the army himself. I’m so happy. He says he will never again forgive them, and he is going to avenge the death of our true friend.’

‘Lord Audley is dead?’ I ask. I can feel myself starting to tremble at the thought of what her next words might be. ‘And do you have news . . . ’

A man from the centre of the kn thrusts his horse forwards and pushes up his visor to show his face. ‘It’s me!’ my husband yells. ‘Jacquetta! Beloved! It’s me!’

I gasp, he is unrecognisable, as they all are, weighed down in their armour and with helmets on. But he comes forwards, jumps down from his horse with a clatter, throws his helmet aside and pulls me into his arms. His breastplate is hard against me, the greaves on his arms cut into my back but I cling to him and kiss him and swear to him that I love him.

‘And Anthony is safe,’ he says. ‘And Elizabeth’s husband. We all came through scot-free. I told you I was lucky.’

‘Don’t look at me, I must smell,’ I say, suddenly remembering my clothes and my hair and the raised welts of flea bites on my skin. ‘I am ashamed of myself.’

‘You should never have stayed there,’ he says, glancing at the queen. ‘You should never have been there. You should never have been left there.’

Margaret gives me a merry smile. ‘He has been most angry with me,’ she says. ‘He is not speaking to me for rage. But see, here you are, safe now.’

‘I am safe now,’ I agree.

‘Now come! Come!’ she urges. ‘We are on the trail of the traitor Salisbury. And we are not far behind him.’

We have a wild couple of days, riding at the head of the royal army. The king is restored to health by action, he is once again the young man that we thought might rule the kingdom. He rides at the head of his army and Margaret rides beside him, as if they were true husband and wife: friends and comrades in deed as well as by contract. The weather is warm, a golden end of summer, and the harvest is in from the fields leaving golden stubble, criss-crossed by hundreds of loping hare. There is a big harvest moon in the evenings so bright that we can march late into the night. One night we set up tents and camp, just as if we were on an evening hunting party. We have news of the York lords; they have met together at Worcester and swore a solemn oath of loyalty in the cathedral, and sent a message to the king.

‘Send it back to them,’ the queen snaps. ‘We have seen what their loyalty is worth. They killed Lord Audley and Lord Dudley, they killed Edmund Beaufort. We won’t parley with them.’

‘I think I might send a public pardon,’ the king says mildly. He beckons the Bishop of Salisbury to his side. ‘A public pardon so that they know they can be forgiven,’ he says.

The queen compresses her lips and shakes her head. ‘No message,’ she says to the bishop. ‘No pardon,’ she says to the king.

Like a rat outside its hole, Richard, Duke of York, takes his stand outside his own town of Ludlow. He and the two lords, Warwick and Salisbury, take up position, on the far side of the Ludford Bridge. On our side of the river the king flies the royal standard, and sends one last offer of pardon to any soldier who abandons his loyalty to the Duke of York, and comes over to us.

That night, my husband comes into the royal chambers where the queen and I and a couple of ladies are sitting with the king. ‘I have a comrade who served with me in Calais who wants to leave Earl of Salisbury and come to our side,’ Richard says. ‘I have promised him full pardon and a welcome. I have to know that he can trust this.’

We all look to the king who smiles mildly. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Everyone can be forgiven if they truly repent.’