‘Of
course
,’ the boy replied scornfully, making the old man grin.
Margaret reached out and twisted Edward’s ear, so that he yelled.
‘Be respectful, Edward,’ she said. ‘You are a guest.’
‘Your pardon, sir,’ the boy replied, rubbing his ear and glaring at his mother.
28
Derry Brewer wondered if the Earl of Northumberland was going to have a fit of apoplexy. The wind soared and sobbed around Alnwick Castle, whistling falling notes like a horn blowing retreat. At the head of the dining table, Henry Percy had grown darker and darker, his face swelling like a child holding his breath until he fainted.
‘Lord Percy, we have common cause,’ Derry reminded him. ‘The queen must find her army where she can, if we are ever to see peace restored.’
‘But, the Scots! She might as well deal with the devil himself!’ Henry Percy said. His mouth stayed open as he shook his head, giving him a foolish aspect that made Derry want to smile. He merely waited for the young earl to find calm. To his surprise, it was Somerset who spoke then, a man who could hardly understand the ancestral resentment of those who guarded the borders.
‘My lords, Master Brewer, I would accept any force of men, aye, even the French, if it gave us a chance to right these wrongs. I accept my part of the blame for Northampton. If I had known York’s supporters would come north, I would have been there to break them. We all took a debt that day, a responsibility for King Henry’s capture.’
‘My brother Thomas
died
there,’ Henry Percy snapped. ‘Do you not think I feel the pain of that? Because of York, I lost my father. Because of attainted traitors, I lost my brother as well.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps I have suffered enough to endure the Scots in England, Master Brewer. Though I am only grateful my father did not live to see it.’ He shook his head in wry bitterness. ‘I think it would have killed the old man.’
‘I do not know they will even come,’ Derry said. ‘Though I would truly deal with the devil if I thought …’
To his irritation, Baron Clifford snapped a reply, talking over him before he had finished speaking.
‘Don’t say that, Brewer. Not even in jest, or foolish boast. The devil listens to such airs and promises – and he acts on them.’
Derry clenched his jaw.
‘… if I thought it would bring us victory. My lords, I have seen York, Salisbury and Warwick turn disaster into triumph. I have lived to see King Henry captured and held prisoner.’ He included Baron Clifford in the look he swept over them. ‘You three lost fathers at St Albans – and brothers or friends since. All the while, these traitors have grown strong, with every coin-toss falling well for them. The Attainders have been torn up by Parliament. York has made himself the heir to the throne – and how long will king Henry live, now that he is a stone in York’s boot? I tell you, my lords, this is the bitter heart of it. We will need every loyal man and, if we fail, the house of York will rule for ever. There will
be
no Northumberland, or Somerset or Clifford. They will not forgive the Attainders against them, if they ever have you at their mercy. Mercy is not a Neville trait, my lords, when they are strong. You know that is the truth. So I
would
welcome Scots and Welsh, even French … by God, even
Irish
to these shores if they could restore the rightful king and queen to the throne! I would risk my soul and the last breath in my body to see York beaten.
Nothing
else will do.’
The three lords could only stare at the strong emotion revealed in the man before them. Derry Brewer was filthy from weeks on the road. They knew he had travelled to Wales and all over the country, passing word for men to gather. He had been urbane and amused throughout the discussion, but for one moment, he had allowed them to see his anger and his determination.
‘Do you know yet where they have the king?’ Somerset asked him.
‘Not in the Tower,’ Derry replied. ‘It is still being repaired, after that fool Scales let the mob blow down a wall. I am only surprised Salisbury allowed him to surrender, with all of London calling for his blood. There’s one man whose death I will not grieve, though I fought at his side, once. Using wildfire and cannon on the people of London! I’m told Scales was found with his throat cut in his cell. I’d buy a pint for the men who did it, if they ever find them.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘No, my lord, they’ll have the king somewhere close by. I have lads looking, but there are a thousand different houses and no way to know which it is.’ A memory came to him of racing through the Palace of Westminster, searching for William de la Pole years before. He did not share it with those present, knowing that they would not understand, or care.
‘My lords, I think sometimes I have given my whole life to the lamb, to keeping Henry safe from his enemies. It is like a burr under my skin to know they have him and that his life is as fragile as a glass.’ He closed his eyes for an instant, his brow furrowing. ‘Perhaps we cannot save him now. But I will see York dead by the end, if I have to climb his towers and knife him in his sleep!’
Earl Percy chuckled, enjoying the spite in Derry Brewer’s expression. It echoed his own feelings on the matter perfectly and he gripped the king’s spymaster by the arm to show his support. A cloud of road-dust rose around them both.
‘We have twelve thousand, Master Brewer. True soldiers with pike and cavalry and cannon. If the queen can bring a few more great hairy Scots as well, I do not think it will come to you climbing any towers. We’ll put York’s head on a city wall yet.’
‘I pray for it, my lord,’ Derry replied.
Margaret pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, feeling a bite to the wind that she had not known before. The sea voyage had been almost pleasant at first in the late summer sun, a week of sailing up the coast with nothing to do but plan and watch Prince Edward scamper about the deck on bare feet. His skin had reddened and then grown gold with the exposure, though she had kept her own well covered. As they went north, it seemed to have become colder with every sea mile. Margaret had been astonished to see sleet spatter the waves as they came into dock.
She found a country in mourning, with no gaiety at her arrival. The lairds of three clans met her on the docks, bowing deeply as they explained King James had been killed just a week before. She heard no more details as they escorted her deeper into the lowlands, with Jasper Tudor’s troop of soldiers bringing up the rear in polished mail. The Scots had not seemed impressed by those men, though she thought it was no accident that they outnumbered her small force four to one, a party of more than a hundred riding away from the border with England.
It took three days to reach a huge castle still being built on the coast, with black crags on one side and screeching gulls in the air all around it. Margaret felt stronger, though her back ached after so long spent in the saddle. She had eaten with the lairds each evening in roadside inns, making light conversation that never strayed into her reasons for coming. They looked on her with pity in their eyes and she had grown angry with them as a result, feeling almost as if she was heading into battle. Time and again she had asked about King James and been gently rebuffed, with sighs and shrugged shoulders, as the lairds fell silent and called for whisky to toast the dear departed.
Margaret dismounted stiffly as rain began to fall, driven in from the sea. She pulled her cloak’s hood over her hair and rushed into shelter, shooing Edward before her. There were guards at the gate and every door within, men wearing black tunics who stared at her in fascination. She kept her head up and followed the lairds in until she was taken to a comfortable-looking room deep within the castle. That part of it had been furnished, though entire wings and walls were still unmade. Prince Edward rushed to a window of tiny panes of glass, all held in lead. He stared out at the sea while his mother smoothed her skirts and fixed a loose pin in her hair.
She had not known what to expect, but it had not been the pretty, black-haired young woman who entered the room and rushed over to her without any formal announcement. Margaret stood up quickly and found her hands taken and held.
Mary of Guelders was Portuguese in her colouring, though when she spoke, her accent was a gentle Scottish lilt.
‘I wish we could have met in happier times,’ she said. ‘But however it has come about, you are welcome here. Would this fine boy be your son?’
‘Edward,’ Margaret said, utterly disarmed. She had expected fierce Scottish leaders, not a woman younger than she was herself, with eyes still red from weeping.
‘What a lad! What a fine, dear lad!’ Mary cried, kneeling down and opening her arms.
Edward came very reluctantly, allowing himself to be gripped, though he squirmed.
‘Now, Edward, you will find my own boy if you run down to the kitchens. Young James is about your age and you must not fight with him, do you understand? The cook will feed you broth, if you ask her nicely.’
Edward beamed at that. He held still while she kissed him on the cheek and then raced out of the room.
‘James will look after him,’ Mary said, smiling at the sound of his fading footsteps. ‘Sit, Margaret. I must hear it all.’
Margaret took a seat on a long couch, gathering her thoughts from where they had scattered.
‘I heard the sad news from the lairds, my lady. I …’
‘You must call me Mary! Are we not queens together? My husband was too in love with his cannon, Margaret. I warned him many times about the foul things, but he did not listen. Have you seen them? They are made for killing, and cruel looking. And they will explode without warning, tearing good men too soon from the world.’
Her eyes filled with tears and, without thought, Margaret reached out and drew her into an embrace. Mary sobbed into her shoulder, mastering herself with difficulty, but finally pulling away and dabbing at her eyes.
‘For my husband’s men, I have to be cold, do you understand? I cannot let them see me weep, with all of them wondering if I am strong enough to be regent while my son grows. Whisht, listen to me! A daft fishwife with my sorrows. You have known such pain, Margaret. Your poor man taken away by his enemies! I do not think I could bear such a thing, truly I don’t.’
Margaret blinked at her in surprise, guilt surging up into her throat. She would not speak of the sense of shame that
bit
at her every moment, like a summer fly. She had saved her son before her husband. No, she had saved herself and left him. She would not allow any comfort from lies. There had been spite as well, for a man who would not rouse himself, no matter how she begged him. The shame of that had left Margaret with a desperate need to bring Henry out of the clutches of his enemies. She knew she would do anything,
give
anything to see him again.
Margaret felt walls crumbling as her hands were held. She had thought to be hard and cold, but she had no defence against the kindness of this strange woman, who could go from tears to laughter in a single breath, speech rattling out of her the whole time. Mary saw her trembling and waved a hand as if to brush away sadness.
‘We hear it all, my dear. My husband was in favour of York, but I never agreed with him! I think James would have sung a different tune if one of
his
lords marched against him, wouldn’t he just? No, you and I are the same. Brought to new homes to be queens, married and sold for a fine dowry. I remember how proud I was, when William Crighton came for me, my own Scots warrior, bringing me to James. Oh, damn me, crying again. It is too raw.’
‘William de la Pole came to fetch me to England,’ Margaret said faintly. Tears came to her own eyes in reaction. She and Mary smoothed them away with the backs of their hands. Seeing their own action mirrored in the other suddenly made them both laugh.
‘Look at us, in our grieving,’ Mary said. ‘My husband’s men would pull their beards in disgust if they knew. Well, we will not tell them. We’ll say we faced each other and spoke like there was ice in our blood. They will not believe it, but we’ll say it anyway. A French queen of England, a Portuguese queen of Scotland. We are two rare flowers, Margaret: two sprigs of heather.’
‘Then I am not ashamed to say I hope for your aid, Mary,’ Margaret replied. ‘I need men to come south with me, if I am ever to free my husband.’
Mary sniffed and nodded, brushing her hand over her bound hair.
‘I knew it when your man Brewer sent James the news of your coming. I think my husband would have sent you back empty-handed, Margaret, but I will not! I would not turn away a sister, though I must have something to show my lairds in return.’
Margaret nodded, wondering privately if the woman’s tears and affections were not at least partly feigned. Her doubts must have shown on her face, as Mary leaned in and pressed a hand on her arm.
‘I won’t bargain with you or count the coins. I
will
help, with whatever I can. You must have thought of terms as you sailed. Tell me what you intended, Margaret, and I will agree to it all. You will have four thousand men, a rare crop of bonny lads to fight for you.’
Once more Margaret was assailed by doubt and suspicions. If this was negotiation, it was either too simple, or far more complicated than she had expected. She rather missed the gruff honesty of Owen Tudor at that moment, for all the fellow-feeling she had been shown.
‘I hoped your husband would agree to a betrothal between my son and one of your daughters. Their children will sit on the throne of England.’
‘Agreed!’ Mary said, sweeping her arm through the air between them. ‘There! My daughter’s name is Margaret, named for you. She is five years old and she will make your lad a fine queen when she is grown.’
‘Named for me?’ Margaret said, her eyes widening.
‘The French queen of England who kept her husband safe from wolves for so long? What better name for a daughter of mine? I am only sorry we have not met before. I could have helped you, if my James would have let me. He was a rare man. I will not see his like again.’ A frown crossed her face then, at the memory of her husband. Her head tilted, almost as if she could hear his voice. ‘I recall he always talked of one place, one thorn in his big paw that he wanted and could not have. Perhaps in honour of his memory, I should add that to our agreement, but no, I will not! I have said I will support you with four thousand men and the betrothal is enough, more than enough.’