The Red Queen

by Philippa Gregory

  I receive a letter from Jasper:

  To Lady Margaret Stanley

  It is to be at the end of this month or early next. We will have fifteen ships and about two thousand men. This will be our last chance, I think. This time we have to win, Margaret. For the sake of your son, you must make your husband take the field. We cannot do this without him. Henry and I are counting on you to bring out the Stanleys. Please God I shall see you at our boy’s coronation, or else I shall never see you again. God bless you either way. This has been a long good cause, and I have been proud to serve your son and you.

  Jasper

  AUGUST 1485

  The fifteen ships set sail from Harfleur, financed by the French for the destruction of England, loaded with the worst men in Europe, drilled by Swiss instructors into some semblance of an army, commanded by Jasper, and led by Henry, more frightened than he has ever been before in his life.

  He has reached the English shore before, and sheered off, too afraid to face this enemy, certain he would be defeated. Now he has his chance once more, and he knows this will be his last chance. The Bretons supported him before, but he did not even land. The French support him now, but they will not do so again. If this fails, there will be no one else to join him. If he fails now, he will spend the rest of his life in exile, a pitiful pretender to the throne, begging for his living.

  They sail through summer seas, the winds are warm, the sea calm, the night is short and the dawn clear. The southern counties are held down by Richard, they do not dare land in the south. So they land as far west as they can, at Dale, in West Wales, hoping that Richard’s spies will not see them, hoping to enlist a flood of recruits eager to march against the tyrant, before he even knows that they are in his country.

  It doesn’t happen. They are greeted mostly with indifference. The men who marched out with the Duke of Buckingham and were defeated by rain don’t want to march out again. Many of them are loyal to Richard, some of them may even send a warning to him. Henry, a stranger in the country he is claiming as his own, cannot understand the Welsh language in this harsh western accent. He even speaks English with a Breton accent—he has been abroad too long. He is a stranger; and they don’t like strangers.

  They march north cautiously. Jasper’s former towns open their gates from old love and loyalty; others they skirt. Henry calls on Welshmen to support a Welsh prince. But the Welsh are not stirred by this call from a young man who has spent most of his life in Brittany, who marches with a French army of convicts.

  They cross the Severn at Shrewsbury. Henry has to confess he had a fear that the river would be up—as once it destroyed another rebel against Richard—but the crossing is low, and the evening mild, and at last they are in England, a raggle-taggle army of French convicts, German mercenaries, and a few Welsh adventurers. And they cannot even decide which way they should march.

  They start to march on London. It will be a long march across the breadth of the west country and then along the valley of the Thames, but both Jasper and Henry believe that if they can take London, then they have the heart of England, and they know that Richard is north of them, mustering his armies at Nottingham.

  To Jasper Tudor and my son Henry Tudor

  I greet you well.

  My husband and his brother Sir William Stanley have assembled two separate mighty armies, and are ready to meet you near Tamworth in the third week of August. I am in touch with the Earl of Northumberland, who, I think, will prove true to us also.

  Send me news. Reply to this—

  Lady Margaret

  In Nottingham, Richard the king commands Lord Stanley to return to court at once and bring his army. He waits for the reply, but when it comes he lets the letter sit on the table before him and looks at the folded paper and the red seal stamped with the Stanley crest. He opens it as if he knows what he will read.

  Stanley writes that he sends his king his love and loyalty. He writes of his duty to his king and his urgent desire to serve him at once. He writes that he is sick, dreadfully sick, but as soon as he is well enough to ride, he will come to Nottingham ready to do his duty.

  Richard raises his eyes from the letter and meets the stony gaze of his friend Sir William Catesby. “Fetch Stanley’s son,” is all he says.

  They bring George, Lord Strange, to the king, though he trails his feet like a prisoner. When he sees Richard’s face and the letter with his father’s seal on the table, they see him start to tremble. “Upon my honor—” he starts.

  “Not your honor, your father’s,” Richard interrupts. “Your father’s honor is what concerns us. You in particular, for you might die for his failure. He writes that he is sick. Is he meeting Henry Tudor? Has he agreed with his wife Lady Margaret that they will repay my kindness with treason?”

  “No! Never! No!” the young man says. “My father is true to you, Your Grace. He always has been, from the first, from the first days. You know that. He has always spoken to me of you with the most devoted—”

  “And your uncle, Sir William?”

  The young man chokes on his assurances. “My uncle, I don’t know,” he says. “He might … but I don’t know. We are all faithful … our motto is Sans Changer …”

  “The old Stanley game?” Richard asks gently. “One on one side, one on another. I remember them telling of Margaret of Anjou waiting for your father to come up and fight for her. I remember her losing the battle while she waited.”

  “My father will come in time for you, Your Grace!” the miserable young man promises. “If I could write to him and bid him to come in your name!”

  “You can write to him and tell him that you will be killed without sentence or ceremony if he is not here by the day after tomorrow,” Richard says swiftly. “And get a priest, and get yourself shriven. You are a dead man if your father is not here the day after tomorrow.”

  They take him to his room, and they lock him in; they bring him paper and a pen, and he shakes so badly that he can hardly write. Then he waits for his father to come for him. Surely, his father will come for him. Surely, a man such as his father would not fail to come for his son and heir?

  Henry Tudor and his army marches east to London. The hay is in and the hayfields greening up with the new growth. The fields of wheat, barley, and rye are golden. The French in particular have to be marched in strict columns; they see the rich villages and think of pillage and theft. They have been on the march for three weeks, and they are tired, but the captains keep them together, and there are few desertions. Jasper reflects that the advantage of foreign mercenary troops is that they have no homes to run to—their only way home is with their commanders. But it is a bitter thought. He had counted on his people flocking to the Tudor standard; he had thought that men whose fathers had died for Lancaster would come out for their revenge, but it seems that it isn’t so. It seems he has been gone too long and they are accustomed to the peace of Richard III. Nobody wants another war, only Jasper and Henry and their army of strangers. Sitting heavily in the saddle, Jasper thinks that this is an England he doesn’t know. It has been many years since he was commander of an English army. Perhaps the world has changed. Perhaps—he makes himself wonder—perhaps they serve Richard as a rightful king and see his boy, the Lancaster boy, the Tudor boy, as nothing but a pretender.

  The promise of a meeting with the Stanleys, the first great recruits to their cause, makes them halt their eastward march on London and turn for the north. Sir William Stanley comes out with just a small bodyguard to meet them as they get to the town of Stafford.

  “Your Grace,” he says to Henry, and puts his fist to his chest in a soldier’s salute. Henry shoots a quick glance at Jasper. This is the first English nobleman on English soil to greet him with the title of a king. Henry is well schooled; he does not grin, but he returns the salute with warmth.

  “Where is your army, Sir William?” he asks.

  “Just one day away, awaiting your orders, sire.”

  “Bring them to joi
n us; we are marching on London.”

  “It will be my honor,” Stanley says.

  “And your brother, Lord Thomas Stanley?” Jasper asks.

  “He is raising his men and will join us later,” Sir William replies. “He is at Lichfield, a little south of here. He was going to bring them to Tamworth. We thought you would march on Nottingham and give battle to Richard at once.”

  “Not London?” Jasper queries.

  “London is all for Richard,” Sir William warns. “They will close the gates, and you will face a hard siege; they are well armed, and Richard has prepared them. If you sit down before London, Richard will come marching up behind you.”

  Henry’s young face is still—he shows no fear, though his hands tighten on the reins.

  “Let’s talk,” Jasper says, and motions Henry to dismount. The three men turn off the lane into a field of wheat; the men of the army fall out from their ranks on the road and sit on the grassy verge, drinking small ale from their flasks, spitting, and swearing at the heat.

  “Will you march with us on London? Will Lord Stanley?”

  “Oh, neither of us would advise it,” says Sir William. Henry notices that this does not answer the question.

  “Where would you join us?” he asks.

  “I have to go to Tamworth, I am promised to meet my brother there. I can’t come with you immediately.”

  Jasper nods.

  “We would come after,” Sir William assures him. “We would be your vanguard for your march on London, if you are determined on London. But Richard’s army will come along behind us …”

  “We’ll take counsel with Lord Stanley and yourself at Tamworth,” Jasper rules. “And decide then what to do. But we will march all together or not at all.”

  Sir William nods. “And your men?” he asks tactfully, gesturing to the motley bunch of two thousand, scattered down the road.

  “They call it the English adventure,” Jasper says with a harsh smile. “They are not here for love but for money. But they are well drilled, and they have nothing to lose. You will see that they will stand against a charge and advance when ordered. They are certainly as strong as a bunch of tenants called from their fields. They will be free and wealthy if we win. They will fight for that.”

  Sir William nods as if he doesn’t think much of a convict army, and then bows to Henry. “Outside Tamworth then,” he says.

  Henry nods and holds out his hand. Sir William bows to kiss the gauntlet, without a moment’s hesitation. They go back to the lane, and Sir William nods to his guard to bring up his great charger. His page kneels in the mud, and he steps regally on the lad’s back to reach the stirrup and swing into the saddle. Once there, he turns to Henry and looks down on the young man.

  “My nephew, Lord Strange, our family’s heir, is held hostage by Richard,” he says. “We can’t risk being seen with you before the battle. Richard would kill him. I will send a servant to guide you to us at night.”

  “What?” Jasper demands. “Secret doings?”

  “He will show you my ring,” Sir William says, shows them the ring on his glove, and then turns his horse and trots away, his guard falling in behind him.

  “For God’s sake!” Jasper exclaims.

  He and Henry look blankly at each other. “We have no choice,” Henry says grimly. “We have to have the Stanleys. We will fail without them; we just don’t have the numbers.”

  “They won’t declare for us.” Jasper keeps his voice low, glancing around at the men-at-arms. Any one of them could be a spy rather than a volunteer. “They are finding ways to delay.”

  “As long as they are there when battle is joined …”

  Jasper shakes his head. “That’s only the half of it. If everyone knows the Stanleys are for you, then everyone knows that we are the winning side,” he says. “If they meet you in darkness, or here, half hidden in a bloody wheatfield, then they are not declared for you. They could still turn out for Richard, and everyone knows that. Damnation. Damnation. I hoped your mother had secured her husband for us, but if his son is held by Richard, he could spend the whole battle sitting on the side, doing nothing for us, and join Richard for a final charge. Damnation.”

  Henry takes his uncle’s arm and marches him away from the listening men. “What shall we do? We have to go on.”

  “Yes, we can’t retreat now without even having met Richard, but we are in a worse state than I had hoped, my boy.”

  “Should we march on London?”

  “No, they will be right about London being all for Richard, and now we will have them hot on our heels, not knowing if they are friends or enemies, and Richard close behind them. For all we know, they are not our vanguard but his forerunners. And now we have told them that we are headed for London. Damnation.”

  “So what?” Henry presses. His face is pale, his young face grooved with lines of worry.

  “We turn north and go to meet them; we do our best to persuade them that we can win. We do our best to get their promise. And then we will go onwards, north, and choose the best battleground, for Richard in Nottingham will know where we are by tomorrow, know our numbers and our disposition. I don’t doubt that Stanley will deliver all that information to Richard by midnight tonight.”

  “We agree to meet the Stanleys in secrecy? What if it’s a trap? What if they will serve Richard by handing me over to him?”

  “We have to try. We do whatever will bring them to our side,” Jasper says. “I don’t think we can beat Richard without them. I am sorry for this, my boy.”

  “Your Grace,” Henry reminds him with the ghost of a smile.

  Jasper puts his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Your Grace, Your Grace, and England never had a braver king.”

  From Lady Margaret Stanley

  Husband, I greet you well.

  Ned Parton tells me he can find you, and that he knows where you are. In that case, he knows more than your wife or your pledged ally, my son.

  Husband, with all my heart, I beg you to remember that you could be the stepfather of the King of England within the week. Richard may have made you Constable of England, but that will be nothing to the future we might have. We will be the royal family and our grandson will be king. Nothing can be greater than this—it must be worth every risk.

  I hear that Lord Strange, your son, is with Richard, and held by him, as warranty for your loyalty. Husband, for all our sakes, order him to escape, so that you can be free to support the true king, and we can find our way to our destiny as the rulers of England.

  And know this, that the Earl of Northumberland has not called out the north for Richard; he will serve my son. The nobles of England are coming out for my son. Will you not be the foremost?

  I beg you to serve your own best interests.

  Your wife,

  Lady Margaret Stanley

  Henry’s march brings him to Lichfield, where Lord Stanley’s army have occupied the town. He hopes that his stepfather will open the gates to him and bring out his own army to join the march, but this doesn’t happen. As soon as Stanley’s scouts bring him news that Henry Tudor’s army is on the road to the town, he simply withdraws and advises the townspeople to open their gates to avoid bloodshed. Richard in Nottingham, like Henry at the town gates, cannot be certain whether this is a gesture of rebellion or loyalty. Lord Stanley’s army marches away and is now quartered at Atherstone, his brother a little to the north. They look like armies choosing a battleground. Lord Stanley sends daily messages to Richard, telling him where the Tudor army is headed, their numbers, their discipline. He does not come himself, as he should do, but he appears loyal.

  Richard orders his army out of Nottingham Castle and onto the road south. He orders square battle—as his brother Edward would have ordered, with men in square ranks and the cavalry riding up and down the line, on guard. The king himself and his household guards ride at the front: everyone can see the royal standard ahead of them; everyone knows that Richard is determined t
o crush this threat to his peace once and for all. This will be the last rebellion of his reign, the end of the long wars of the cousins.

  Before they leave Nottingham, Catesby delays the king with a question. “The Stanley boy?”

  “He can come with us. Under guard.”

  “Should we not kill him now?”

  Richard shakes his head. “I can’t make an enemy of Stanley on the very eve of battle. If we kill his son, we guarantee he goes to Tudor for his revenge. Bring Lord Strange with us, in my retinue, and if Stanley moves against us, we will behead him on the spot.”

  The royal army and the Tudor army are not the only forces marching to meet. The two Stanley armies are positioned and waiting; the Earl of Northumberland is bringing a force of cavalry behind Richard, promised faithfully both to his service and to Margaret Stanley. The greatest single army to take the field is undoubtedly the king’s. But the Stanleys’ and Northumberland’s forces would tip the balance.

  AUGUST 19, 1485

  Jasper, his big warhorse jogging in a trot beside his nephew’s charger, leans over and clasps his gauntleted hand on the reins. “Courage, my boy.”

  Henry flashes him a tight, small smile.

  “Let them get ahead.” Jasper nods to their own slowly advancing army. “Let them get out of sight and then double back. I’ll get them settled for the night and then come out for you. Do what you can with the Stanleys. I won’t show myself unless you get into trouble.”