The Red Queen

by Philippa Gregory

  “Well, you have to choose. When our men go into the Tower, they will either save the boys or slaughter them. The choice is yours.”

  I cannot see what else I can do. Joan unsheathed her sword and rode out without fear, without hesitation. I must unsheathe mine. “They will have to kill them,” I say. My lips are cold, but I have to frame the words. “Obviously, the boys have to die.”

  I stand at the little gate that leads from our house to the London street and see the Stanley men slip out into the darkness. My husband has left London on the triumphant coronation progress with the new King Richard and Queen Anne. I am alone. The men are carrying no torches; they run out in silence, lit only by the moon. They are not wearing our livery; their cap badges, hat badges, and embossed belts are laid aside. They are wearing nothing that would identify them to our house, and each of them is sworn to say that they were recruited by the queen and serving only her. As soon as they are gone, my husband’s brother, Sir William Stanley, writes a warning letter to the Constable of the Tower, Sir Robert Brackenbury, to alert him to the danger of attack. It will be delivered just moments after the attack is launched. “Always be on both sides, Margaret,” William says to me cheerfully, as he seals the letter with the emblem of our house so that anyone can see our loyalty. “That’s what my brother says. At the very least, always appear to be on both sides.”

  Then I have to wait.

  I give the appearance of spending an ordinary night. I sit in the great hall before the Stanley household for a little while after dinner, and then I go to my rooms. My maids undress me for bed, and I dismiss them, even the girl who sleeps in my room, saying that I may pray through the night. This is normal for me and causes no comment, and I do pray for a while, and then I put on my thick, warm robe, pull up my chair to the fire, and sit and wait.

  I think of the Tower of London like a tall fingerpost pointing up to God. The queen’s men will enter the precinct through a little sally port that has been left open; my men will follow. The Duke of Buckingham has sent a small band of trained soldiers; they will try the door of the White Tower, whose servants have been bribed to leave it open. Our men will slip inside—they may get up the stairs before they are spotted—then they will fight their way, hand to hand, to the princes’ apartments, break in, and as the boys leap forward, to their freedom, they will plunge their daggers into their bellies. Prince Edward is a brave youth and trained to arms by his uncle Anthony; he may well put up a fight. Richard is only nine but he may shout a warning; he could even step before his brother to take the blow—he is a York prince, he knows his duty. But there must be a brief moment of determined slaughter, and then the House of York will be finished, but for Duke Richard, and my son will be two steps closer to the throne. I must be glad of that. I must be hoping for that.

  In the early hours of the morning, when the sky is just getting gray, there is a scratch on the door that makes my heart thud, and I hurry to open it. The captain of the guard is outside, his black jerkin torn, a dark bruise on the side of his face. I let him in without a word and pour him a glass of small ale. I gesture that he may sit at the fireside, but I remain standing behind my chair, my hands clenched on the carved wood to stop them trembling. I am as frightened as a child at what I have done.

  “We failed,” he says gruffly. “The boys were better guarded than we thought. The man who should have let us in was cut down while he was fumbling with the bolt. We heard him scream. So we had to ram the door, and while we were trying to lift it from its hinges, the Tower guards came out from the courtyard behind us, and we had to turn and fight. We were trapped between the Tower and the guards and had to fight our way out. We didn’t even get into the White Tower. I could hear the doors slamming inside and shouting as the princes were taken deeper into the Tower. Once the alarm was sounded there was no chance we would get to them.”

  “Were they forewarned? Did the king know there would be an attack?” And if so, does the king know who is in the plot, I think. Will the boar turn on us again?

  “No, it wasn’t an ambush. They got the guard out quickly, and they got the door shut, and the queen’s spy inside couldn’t get it open. But at first, we caught them unawares. I am sorry, my lady.”

  “Any captured?”

  “We got all our men away. There was one injured of ours; they’re seeing to him now, a flesh wound only. And there was a couple of York men down. But I left them where they fell.”

  “The Yorks were there, all of them?”

  “I saw the queen’s brother Richard was there, and her brother Lionel, her son Thomas who was said to be missing, and they had a good guard, well armed. I think there were Buckingham men among them too. They were there in strength, and they put up a good fight. But the Tower was built by the Normans to hold against London. You can hold it against an army for half a year, once you get the door shut. Once we lost the surprise we were beaten.”

  “And nobody knew you?”

  “We all said we were Yorks, we wore white roses, and I am sure we passed as that.”

  I go to my box, heft a purse in my hand, and give it to the captain. “Spread this around the men, and ensure that they don’t speak of tonight, even among themselves. It would cost them their lives. It was treason, since it failed. It would be death to a man who boasted he had been there. And no order came from my husband or from me.”

  The captain rises. “Yes, my lady.”

  “Did the queen’s kin all get safely away?”

  “Yes. But her brother swore that they would come again. He shouted aloud so that the boys could hear, that they must be brave and wait, for he would raise the whole of England to free them.”

  “Did he? Well, you have done your best—you can go.”

  The young man bows and goes from the room.

  I go on my knees before the fire. “Our Lady, if it is Your will that the York boys be spared, then send me, Your servant, a sign. Their safety tonight cannot be a sign. Surely, it cannot be Your will that they live? It cannot be Your will that they inherit? I am Your obedient daughter in every way, but I cannot believe that You would have them on the throne rather than the true Lancaster heir, my son Henry.”

  I wait. I wait for a long time. There is no sign. I take it to heart that there is no sign, and so the York boys should not be spared.

  I leave London the next day. It suits me not to be seen in the city while they are doubling the guard and asking who attacked the Tower. I decide to take a visit to the cathedral of Worcester. It has long been my wish to visit; it is a Benedictine cathedral, a center of learning. Elizabeth the queen sends a message that is brought to me as we are saddling up, to say that her kinsmen have gone to ground in London and the countryside nearby, and that they are organizing an uprising. I reply to pledge my support and tell her that I am on my way to the Duke of Buckingham to recruit him and his whole affinity to our side in open rebellion.

  It is hot weather for traveling, but the roads are dry and we make good time. My husband rides back from the court at Worcester to meet me for a night on the road. The new King Richard, happy and confident, greeted with enthusiasm everywhere he goes, grants Lord Stanley leave of absence for a night, assuming that we want to be together as husband and wife. But my lord is anything but loving when he comes into the guest rooms in the abbey.

  He spares no time on gentle greetings. “So they botched it,” he says.

  “Your captain tells me it could hardly be done. But he said the Tower wasn’t forewarned.”

  “No, the king was appalled; it was a shock to him. He had heard of my brother’s letter of warning, and that will do us some good. But the princes are to be taken to inner rooms, more easily guarded than the royal rooms, and not allowed out again until he returns to London. Then he will take them away from London. He is going to set up a court for the young royal cousins. The Duke of Clarence’s children, his own son, all the York children, will be kept in the north at Sheriff Hutton, and held there, far from any lands where Elizabe
th Woodville has any influence. She’ll never rescue them from Neville lands, and he will probably marry her to a northern lord who will take her away too.”

  “Might he have someone poison them?” I ask. “To get them out of the way?”

  My husband shakes his head. “He has declared them illegitimate, and so they cannot inherit the throne. His own son is going to be invested as Prince of Wales as soon as we get to York. The Riverses are defeated; he just wants to make sure they are not the figurehead of a forlorn hope. Besides, they would be worse for him as dead martyrs than they are as feeble claimants. The ones he really wants dead are the Rivers tribe: the Woodvilles and all their kin, who would rally behind the princes. But the best of them is dead, and the rest will be hunted down. All the country accepts Richard as king and the true York heir. You would have to see it to believe it, Margaret, but every city we go through pours out to celebrate his coronation. Everyone would rather have a strong usurper on the throne than a weak boy; everyone would rather have the king’s brother than go through the wars again for a king’s son. And he promises to be a good king—he is the picture of his father, he is a York, and beloved.”

  “And yet there are many who would rise against him. I should know, I am mustering them.”

  He shrugs. “Yes—you would know better than I. But everywhere we have been, I have seen the people welcome King Richard as the great heir and loyal brother of a great king.”

  “The Riverses could yet defeat him. The queen’s brothers and her Grey son have secured the support of Kent and Sussex; Hampshire is theirs. Every man who ever served in the royal household would turn out for them. There is always support for my house in Cornwall, and the Tudor name will bring out Wales. Buckingham has tremendous lands and thousands of tenants, and my son Henry is promised an army of five thousand from the Duke of Brittany.”

  He nods. “It could be done. But only if you can be certain of Buckingham. You are not strong enough without him.”

  “Morton says that he has completely turned Buckingham against Richard. My steward Reginald Bray has spoken with them both. I will know more when I see him.”

  “Where are you meeting?”

  “By chance, on the road.”

  “He will play you,” my husband warns me. “As he has played Richard. The poor fool Richard even now thinks that Buckingham loves him as a brother. But it turns out that it is always his own ambition at the end of it. He will agree to support your son’s claim to the throne, but think to let Tudor do the fighting for him. He will hope that Tudor and the queen will defeat Richard and leave the way open for him.”

  “It is lip service for all of us. We are all fighting only for our own cause, all of us promising our loyalty to the princes.”

  “Yes, only the boys are quite innocent,” he remarks. “And Buckingham will be planning their deaths. No one in England would support his claim if they were still alive. And of course, as High Steward of England, with the Tower in his command, he is better placed than any of us to see them murdered. His servants are inside already.”

  I pause as his meaning becomes clear to me. “You think he would do it?”

  “In a moment.” He smiles. “And when he does it, he could give the orders in the name of the king. It could be made to look like the orders of Richard. He himself would make it look like Richard’s doing.”

  “Is he planning this?”

  “I don’t know if he has even thought of it yet. Certainly, someone should make sure it has occurred to him. For sure, someone who wanted the boys dead could do the deed no better way than to make it Buckingham’s task.”

  There is a rap on the door, and my lord’s guards admit the steward of the abbey. “Dinner is served, my lady, my lord.”

  “God bless you, my husband,” I say formally. “I learn so much from studying you.”

  “And you,” he says. “And God bless your meeting with His Grace the duke; may much good come of it.”

  I can hear the Duke of Buckingham approaching along the winding dirt road even before I can see him. He rides with a train as great as a king’s, with outriders going ahead and blowing trumpets to warn everyone to clear the highway for the great duke. Even when there is no one as far as the eye can see, but only a little boy herding sheep under a tree and a small village in the distance, the trumpeters sound the call and the horses, more than a hundred of them, thunder along behind, raising a plume of dust on the summer road that blows like a cloud behind the rippling banners.

  The duke is at the forefront of the riders, on a big bay warhorse, caparisoned with a saddle of red leather trimmed with golden nails, his personal standard before him, and three men-at-arms riding around him. He is dressed for hunting, but his boots, also red leather, are so fine that a lesser man would have kept them for dancing. His cloak, thrown back over his shoulders, is pinned with a great golden brooch; his hat badge is of gold and rubies. There is a fortune in jewels embroidered on his jerkin and his waistcoat; his breeches are of the most smooth tan broadcloth, trimmed with red leather laces. He was a vain, furious boy when Elizabeth Woodville took him as her ward and humiliated him by marrying him to her sister, and now he is a vain, furious man, not yet thirty years old, taking his revenge on a world that has never, in his mind, shown him enough respect.

  I first met him when I married Henry Stafford, and then he was a little boy, spoiled by the indulgent duke, his grandfather. The death of his father and then that of his grandfather gave him the dukedom while he was still a child and taught him to think of himself as born great. Three of his grandparents are descended from Edward III, and so he believes himself to be more royal than the royal family. Now, he considers himself the Lancaster heir. He would consider his claim is greater than that of my son.

  He pretends surprise at suddenly seeing my more modest train, though it must be said, I always travel with fifty good men-at-arms, and my own standard and the Stanley colors go before me. He raises his hand to halt his troop. We approach each other slowly, as if to parley, and his young charming smile beams out at me like a sun rising. “Well met, my lady cousin!” he cries out, and all his troop’s banners dip in respect. “I didn’t think to see you so far from your home!”

  “I have to go to my house at Bridgnorth,” I say clearly for any spies who might be listening. “And I had thought you were with the king?”

  “I am returning to him now from my house at Brecon,” Buckingham says. “But do you want to break your journey? There is Tenbury just ahead of us. Would you do me the honor of dining with me?” He casts a casual wave towards his troop. “I have my kitchen servants with me, and provisions. We could have dinner together.”

  “I should be honored,” I say quietly, and I turn my horse and ride beside him as my outnumbered guard stand aside and then follow the Buckingham troops to Tenbury.

  The little inn has a small room with a table and a few stools, adequate for our purpose, and the men rest their horses in lines in the nearby field and light their own campfires to roast their meats. Buckingham’s cook takes over the meager kitchen of the inn, and soon has servants running backwards and forwards to kill a couple of chickens and fetch his ingredients from the wagon. Buckingham’s steward brings us two glasses of wine from the cellar wagon and serves them in the duke’s own glassware, with his seal engraved at the rim. I note all his worldly extravagance and folly and think, This is a young man who thinks he is going to play me.

  I wait. The God I serve is a patient God, and He has taught me that sometimes the best thing to do is to wait and see what comes. Buckingham has always been an impatient boy, and he can hardly pause for the door to be closed behind his steward before he starts.

  “Richard is unbearable. I meant only that he should protect us against the ambition of the Riverses, and I warned him against them for that reason; but he has gone too far now. He has to be pulled down.”

  “He is king now,” I observe. “You warned him early and served him so well that he has become the tyrant that you
feared the Riverses would be. And my husband and I myself are sworn to serve him, as are you.”

  He waves his hand and spills a little wine. “An oath of fealty to a usurper is no oath at all,” he says. “He is not the rightful king.”

  “Who is, then?”

  “Prince Edward, I suppose,” he says quickly, as if that is not the only question of importance. “Lady Stanley, you are older and wiser than me, I have trusted your holy judgment for all of my life. Surely, you feel that we must free the princes from the Tower and restore them to their state? You were such a loving lady to the Queen Elizabeth. Surely, you feel that her boys must be freed, and Prince Edward must take his father’s throne?”

  “Surely,” I say. “If he were a legitimate son. But Richard says he is not; you yourself proclaimed him a bastard, and his father a bastard before him.”

  Buckingham looks troubled by this, as if it were not he who swore to everyone that Edward had been married before he promised marriage to Elizabeth. “Indeed, I fear that much is true.”

  “And if you put the so-called prince on the throne, you would stand to lose all the wealth and positions you have been given by Richard.”

  He waves away the post of High Steward of England as if it were not the greatest honor in the land. “The gifts of a usurper are not what I want for my house,” he says grandly.

  “And I would gain nothing at all,” I remark. “I would still be lady-in-waiting to the queen. I would return to the service of the Dowager Queen Elizabeth, having served the Queen Anne—so I would be still in service. And you would have risked everything to restore the Rivers family to power. And we know what a grasping, numerous family they are. Your wife, the queen’s sister, would rule you once more. She will repay you for keeping her at home in disgrace. They will all laugh at you again, as they did when you were a little boy.”

  His hatred for them flares in his eyes, and he quickly glances away at the fireplace, where a little fire licks at the logs. “She does not dominate me,” he says, irritated. “Whatever her sister is. Nobody laughs at me.”