Rebellion (6 page)

All at once she could see herself, the
little prince and the fisherman as from a great distance: tiny dark shapes on the
rolling water – very like worms or grubs caught on the vast hook of the sea. And in the
next moment the boat was splitting apart.

She must have cried out because, half
conscious, she became aware of a warmer, heavier presence. De Brézé was pressing himself
up against her, wrapping one arm round her. ‘My lady,' he said. Already she could feel
the heat from his body spreading into hers.

‘Sssh,' he murmured into her hair. ‘La
Petite Marguerite,' he said.

She did not protest, nor push him away. She
lay absolutely still, registering him, her skin taking in the imprint of his skin.

After several moments, she turned towards
him.

‘Marguerite,' he said again softly, into her
ear. He did not say anything else. Slowly, she unfolded herself so that the full length
of her body was pressed against his and, slowly, he pushed her skirts up.

She did not want to think. She wanted, above
all, to stop the inane chattering of her thoughts, which told her she shouldn't be doing
this, and that she should never have come back. She covered his mouth with hers, and
gradually the terrible internal trembling stopped and was replaced by more primitive
sensations.

They tried, because of the prince, to make
as little noise, as little disturbance, as possible, and they succeeded in that he did
not move. And afterwards she slept so deeply that even in her sleep
she felt as though she would never wake.

But when she did, finally, it was to a
sensation of cold and emptiness. De Brézé had gone.

Reluctantly, because she seemed to have
stiffened overnight, the queen sat up. The little prince stirred but remained asleep,
making a noise like a tiny, exasperated sigh.

Grey light poured into the cave; she could
hear seabirds crying. Suppressing a moan, she crawled towards the mouth of the cave.

Grey sky and a vast grey sea, ending in
mist. It was preternaturally calm, as though there had been no storm. Through the mist
it was possible to make out a pale sun, like a fisherman's milky eye.

There was no sign of de Brézé.

In the emptiness of her stomach she felt a
cramping fear.

But it was nonsense, he would not abandon
them; he had risked his life for them only a few hours ago.

The thought of what had passed between them
returned to her, and she dismissed it with a peculiar sensation, like a pang. She wanted
to call out to him, but she was afraid of waking the little prince.

She remained crouching at the entrance of
the cave, fingers gripping the rock. If he did not return she did not know what to do,
she did not have a single idea in her head.

High above, the seagulls wheeled and
called.

Then at last she heard a different cry. He
was coming towards her over the rocks, alternately waving and calling. Relief so sharp
she could taste it flooded into her mouth. But he would never desert them, it was her
own weakness that had led her to think such a thing.

Even at this distance she could see he was
urgently trying to communicate; pausing and waving both arms, then climbing again. He
wanted her to go to him, but she would not leave her son. Eventually she climbed down a
little way from the cave to a
ledge of rock and waited for him. He
began to shout breathlessly even before he reached her.

‘Your majesty, forgive me – I went to
explore – to look for food – to beg if necessary – alas – I found nothing of that kind –
but something far, far better –'

She was forced to wait as he stood before
her, panting, and lifted his arms. ‘The ship,' he said. ‘At least one of our ships has
returned for us!'

‘Where? Are you sure?'

‘Quite sure – you cannot see it from here –
but it is a mile or so away – no more – and it is coming this way!'

The queen felt suddenly dizzy with relief
and joy. She clutched his arm and he held her.

‘Perhaps I should have stayed and flagged it
down – but as soon as I saw it I knew that you would want to know. But it may be too far
for you to walk?'

‘No – no – I can walk.' She turned back
towards the cave. ‘My son –' she said, but de Brézé was already climbing to the entrance
and, gripping her skirts, she followed.

She crouched over her son, who was in a
fierce, concentrated sleep, and touched his shoulder. ‘Little swan,' she said.

He did not want to wake. When she shook him
gently he gave the kind of mewling cry he had not made since he was a baby and squirmed
away. His face was flushed. She pressed her hand to his forehead.

‘He feels hot,' she said, looking up.

‘A chill, perhaps,' de Brézé said. ‘I will
carry him – but you may need to help me get him out of here.'

The queen's anxiety, like a prowling beast,
seized first on one thing then another. Her son had not woken once, despite their
hurried, surreptitious movements during the night, their stifled sounds. He should at
least be hungry, but he would not wake properly even when de Brézé picked him up and
passed him to her. He cried and fretted like an infant and tried to push her away.

‘The storm must have
exhausted him,' she said.

De Brézé climbed down from the cave to the
ledge of rock and the queen passed the little prince to him. With some difficulty he
began the descent. The queen followed anxiously, still murmuring encouragements to her
son.

‘Come, my love, we are going to a castle –
and when we get there we will have food and clothing and a bed.'

He did not respond directly but gradually
began to lift his head and look around. De Brézé was able to transfer him to his back
and the little prince wrapped his arms round his neck.

It took half an hour to get past the
promontory of rocks on to the next stretch of beach, where there was another series of
rocks, and then finally de Brézé said, ‘There, my lady – can you see it?' And she did
see it: the prow and keel of a ship rounding the next jutting outcrop of rocks.

De Brézé passed the little prince to her and
she set him down – he was too heavy now, at nine years old, for her to carry. They
watched as de Brézé set off across the shore, waving his arms and shouting.

As more of the ship came into view she saw
her insignia – it
was
her ship! She made a sound somewhere between a sob and a
laugh, then set off after de Brézé, pulling her son by the hand.

As the ship came fully into view, the tip of
another one appeared. De Brézé ran into the waves like a lunatic, shouting. The queen
too waved and shouted.

Two ships! She'd thought them all lost, or
that they'd deserted her, but they'd sailed up the coast to rejoin her. That meant there
might be more, somewhere, still looking for her. She clutched her son's hand and tears
of joy ran from her eyes. She could see the full beauty of the miracle that the Lord had
worked. Two ships, to take them to Bamburgh.

It was even more amazing to see the
archdeacon, Dr Morton, who greeted them as they climbed on board.

‘I thought you were lost!' she said. ‘I
thought you had all turned back for France!'

‘Oh no, no, my lady,' the archdeacon said.
‘Though I was at one point forced to explain that Louis would not want them back in his
country, and would have them all executed if they returned.'

He was the same as ever, balding, gnomish
and diffident; apparently untroubled by mutiny, storm or near-shipwreck. But then he had
come to her in France after an inexplicable, or unexplained, escape from the impregnable
Tower.

‘You have survived the calamity of the
whirlwind,' she said fervently.

‘It was nothing, my lady,' he said.

Then they said nothing more, for they could
see the first glimpse of towers beyond a ridge of rock and her colours flying from the
tallest tower. And soon they were sighted, and the great gates opened. As they
disembarked, Richard Tunstall rode out to meet them.

‘Your majesty,' he said, and he got down
from his horse and knelt before her. ‘I cannot tell you how pleased we are to see
you!'

De Brézé said that her majesty was in need
of refreshment. And the prince too.

‘Of course,' said Sir
Richard, beaming, then a look of concern passed across his wrinkled face. ‘And – ah –
all your men?'

He peered out to sea, beyond the two ships.
‘We are a little short of provisions,' he said.

‘And we are a little short of men,' said de
Brézé. ‘So – there will be enough.'

Richard Tunstall looked questioningly at the
queen, but de Brézé was already striding back towards the ships and his men. ‘I will
send my own men to help you unload your munitions,' Tunstall said, and the queen did not
have the heart to tell him how few they had. Dr Morton said that the main thing was for
them to get to the castle where they could wash and eat, and lie down in a proper
bed.

‘Of course,' said Richard Tunstall, sounding
more reserved this time, but he led them up the steep hill to the castle gates.

When one of her trunks was retrieved from
the ship, the queen washed and changed and lay down on a bed for a while without
sleeping. The little prince had been given to the care of a maid; Dr Morton was resting
in his own room. And de Brézé, of course, had his own room. She would not sleep with him
here – or anywhere else. She hoped that would become clear to him without her having to
say anything. It was a conversation she did not want to have. And she did not want to
consider any possible consequences of the night they'd shared. She could not be
pregnant. God would not do that to her. And if she was, she would deal with that when
the time came.

She would sleep with her husband if she had
to, when they met.

Even as she lay down she could feel the
imprint of de Brézé's body on hers.

Other queens took a lover, but it was not
for her. She would not have the kind of scandal that had attached itself to her when the
little prince was born – Warwick's warmongering lies. Certainly she could not afford to
take a French lover, who was already
infamous for attacking the south
coast of England. The Scottish queen might take an English lover – the Duke of Somerset
– now that her husband had died, but it was a dangerous thing to do. She could just
imagine how unpopular it would be with the Scottish lords.

And what was the Duke of Somerset thinking?
She could not allow him to spread any such rumours about her.

She turned away from the aggravation of her
thoughts towards the wall, and tried to sleep.

An hour or so later she rose and went to
meet Richard Tunstall in one of the two dining halls, where salted fish and pickles and
some kind of dry husk that resembled bread had been set out.

‘As you can see, our provisions are low,' he
said. ‘We send out our scouts but … it is not the foraging season.' He smiled and
shrugged.

‘You should requisition supplies,' she said,
but he said they did not want to alienate everyone in that part of the country.

‘Our main hope lies in retaking the other
castles,' he said. ‘We had hoped that you would be bringing aid.'

It was time to tell her news, about the
flight from France, the storm, the near-shipwreck, the disappearance of her other ships.
Richard Tunstall's face seemed to lengthen as she spoke; the wrinkles deepened. They had
found one of her ships dashed against the rocks, he said. That was how they knew she was
coming. They'd hoped, desperately, that she too had not been lost in the storm.

‘And as you see, I have not,' she said, but
he did not smile.

The garrison that had fired at them would
have been Warwick's, he said. The Earl of Warwick had taken Alnwick and installed his
cousin Lord Fauconberg there. John Neville, his brother, was in charge of Naworth. Ralph
Percy had come to some kind of agreement with the Yorkists which meant that he was still
in charge of Dunstanburgh, but he did not believe that Percy had entirely deserted their
cause. Everywhere else, apart
from Harlech in Wales, was in Warwick's
hands, so in effect Bamburgh was cut off and surrounded.

‘Where are my other lords?' she said, and he
told her that Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke, was in Berwick with the king. And the Duke
of Somerset, the Duke of Exeter, Lord Roos and others – they were all in Berwick. Which
was now full of Scotsmen, he said, his eyes wary. The English were not best pleased
about that, of course – nor about the fact that she had apparently tried to give away
Carlisle as well. The Scots had attempted to take it, but John Neville had beaten them
back.