NORTHAMPTON, SUMMER 1460
In June, in the richest greenest easiest month of the year, the York lords make their move from Calais, and Richard, Duke of York, bides his time in Ireland, letting them do his dirty work for him. They land, as my husband predicted, with only a small force of about two thousand, but as they march their ranks are swelled with men who run out of the fields and from the stable yards to join them. Kent has not forgotten Jack Cade or the harvest of heads, and there are many who march out for Warwick now, who remember the queen swearing that she would make a deer park of their home. London throws the City gates open to Warwick and poor Lord Scales finds himself once again alone in the Tower, with orders to hold it for the king, whatever the cost. The York lords do not even trouble themselves to starve him out, they leave Lord Cobham in charge of the City and march north, to Kenilworth, looking for their enemy: us.
Every day they add recruits, everywhere they go men flock to join them. Their army swells, they grow stronger, they pay wages with money voted to them by the towns that they march by. The mood of the country has swung against the queen and her puppet king. The people want a leader they can trust to hold the country to peace and justice. They have come to think that Richard, Duke of York, will be their protector and they fear the queen for the danger and uncertainty that comes in her train.
The queen makes the Duke of Buckingham the commander of the king’s armies and the king is taken out of his monastic retreat to fly the royal standard, which flaps miserably in the wet weather. But this time, nobody deserts before a blow is struck because they cannot bear to attack the king’s personal flag. No powerful troop abandons the cause of the York lords. Everyone is becoming hardened. The king sits quietly in his tent below his standard and the peacemakers – among them the Bishop of Salisbury – go to and fro all morning, hoping to broker a settlement. It cannot be done. The York lords send personal messages to the king but the Duke of Buckingham intercepts them. They will settle for nothing less than the queen and her advisors banned from their influential place beside the king, they will trust nothing else. And the queen will not compromise. She wants to see them dead: it is as simple as that. There are really no grounds for parley at all.
The royal army is before Delapre Abbey at Northampton, dug in before the River Nene with sharp staves set in the ground in front of them. No cavalry charge can take them here, no head-on attack can possibly succeed. The queen, the prince and I are waiting at Eccleshall Castle again.
‘I almost want to ride out and watch,’ she says to me.
I try to laugh. ‘Not again.’
It is raining now, and it has been raining for the last two days. We stand together at the window looking out at the lowering grey skies with the dark clouds on the horizon. Below us, in the courtyard, we can see the bustle of messengers arriving from the battlefield. ‘Let’s go down,’ says Margaret, suddenly nervous.
We meet them in the great hall as they are coming in, dripping wet.
‘It’s over,’ the man says to the queen. ‘You told me to come the moment that I could see which way it was going and so I waited for a while and then I came.’
‘Have we won?’ she asks urgently.
He makes a grimace. ‘We are destroyed,’ he says bluntly. ‘Betrayed.’
She hisses like a cat. ‘Who betrayed us? Who was it? Stanley?’
‘Grey of Ruthin.’
She rounds on me. ‘Your daughter’s kinsman! Your daughter’s family are unfaithful?’
‘A distant relation,’ I say at once. ‘What did he do?’
‘He waited till York’s son, the young Edward of March, charged him. Our line was well protected, we had the river behind us and a ditch before us fortified with sharp staves, but when the York boy came up at the head of his men, Lord Grey put down his sword and just helped him over the barricades with all his troop, and then they fought their way down our own lines. They were inside our lines, our men couldn’t get away from them. We were perfectly placed when we started, then we found we were perfectly trapped.’
She goes white and staggers. I hold her by the waist and she leans against me. ‘The king?’
‘I went as they were fighting their way towards his tent. His lords were outside, covering his retreat, they were shouting to him to get away.’
‘Did he go?’
The darkness of his face tells us that he did not, and perhaps the lords gave their lives for nothing. ‘I didn’t see. I came to warn you. The battle is lost. You had better get yourself away. I think they may have the king.’
She turns to me. ‘Get the prince,’ she says.
Without a word I hurry to the royal nurseries and find the boy in his travelling cape and riding breeches, his toys and books packed. His governor stands beside him. ‘Her Grace the queen commands that her son shall come at once,’ I say.
The man turns gravely to the six-year-old boy. ‘You are ready, Your Grace?’
‘I am ready, I am ready now,’ the little prince says bravely.
I hold out my hand but he does not take it. Instead he walks ahead of me and stands before the door, waiting for me to open it for him. At another time this would be amusing. Not today. ‘Oh, go on!’ I say impatiently, and open the door and bustle him through.
In the great hall the queen’s jewel boxes and chests of clothes are being rushed through the door to the stables. The queen is outside, her guard is mounting up. She pulls her hood over her head and nods at her son as he comes out with me.
‘Get on your horse, we have to hurry,’ she says. ‘The bad York lords have won and perhaps captured your father. We have to get you to safety. You are our only hope.’
‘I know,’ he says gravely, and steps up on the mounting block as they bring his horse to him.
To me she says, ‘Jacquetta, I will send for you as soon as I am safe.’
My head is whirling at the speed of this rout. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To Jasper Tudor in Waes to start with. If we can invade from there I will, if not France, or Scotland. I will win back my son’s inheritance, this is just a setback.’
She leans down from her saddle and I kiss her, and smooth her hair under the hood. ‘God speed,’ I say. I try to blink the tears from my eyes but I can hardly bear to see her fleeing, with her baggage and her guard and her little son, from the country that I brought her to with such hopes. ‘God speed.’
I stand in the courtyard as the small train walks to the road and then sets off, at a steady canter, due west. She will be safe if she can get to Jasper Tudor; he is a faithful man and he has been fighting for his lands in Wales ever since she gave them to him. But if they catch her on the way? I shudder. If they catch her on the way then she and the House of Lancaster are lost.
I turn to the stable yard. The grooms are carrying away everything they can take, the looting of the royal goods is beginning. I shout for one of my men and tell him to pack up everything that is mine and guard it. We are leaving at once. We will go home to Grafton and all I can do is hope that Richard and Anthony come there.