The Red Rose of Anjou

by Jean Plaidy

  She had just turned to give an order to hurry when out of the woods came a band of men. She recognized the livery of one of the nobles and with sinking heart she believed that these were Lord Stanley’s men and he was a firm Yorkist supporter.

  The men stood a little distance from her.

  Margaret, fearless as ever, rode ahead of the company.

  ‘Good day to you,’ she said. ‘You are not attempting to impede our progress, I hope.’

  The arrogant tone betrayed her.

  ‘You are the Queen,’ said the leader of the men.

  ‘You appear to have forgotten that,’ she answered coolly.

  ‘Nay, we were expecting you to come this way. We had news of your arrival.’

  ‘You have come to join me?’

  The men laughed.

  ‘Go to it,’ shouted their leader.

  ‘Ay, John Cleger, we will!’ shouted the others.

  To Margaret’s horror she saw that they were making for the saddle horses and some of them had begun to unstrap the baggage.

  ‘Stop them!’ she cried. ‘Why are you standing there, you oafs?’

  It was a fearsome moment for her own men were standing by not attempting to stop the robbers. Then she saw a few of them go over to the saddle horses.

  ‘Do your duty,’ she cried. ‘Kill these robbers.’

  One of the robbers came over to her and the Prince who was beside her.

  ‘We want the horses,’ he said. ‘Better dismount, lady. You and the boy.’

  ‘How dare you talk to your Queen in such a way!’

  ‘I reckon you’re not that now, lady, or if you are it won’t be for much longer. Get down, boy.’

  Edward watching his mother, remembering her instructions that he must be brave, sat his horse looking straight ahead of him.

  The robber seized him and dragged him to the ground.

  Margaret cried out, and leaping out of the saddle went immediately to her son.

  ‘It’s all right, lady. I wanted your horses, that’s all. As fine a pair as I ever saw.’

  This was nightmare. She gripped her son’s shoulder and held him close to her. The robbers and her own servants were quarrelling over the contents of the saddle bags.

  Her jewels! Her beautiful clothes! All lost!

  One of them turned and looked in her direction. She did not Like what she saw. What would they do when they had everything she had? She knew. Instinct told her. She had identified them as Stanley’s men. Her own had deserted her for the sake of getting a share in the booty. Every one of them should die the traitor’s death if they were ever brought to justice and they knew it.

  They would prevent that at all costs and there was one way of doing it.

  She knew that these men would have no compunction in killing her and the Prince.

  She drew her son closer to her. It was characteristic of Margaret that she should think of his safety before her own. In her turbulent heart this boy had first place. He was her beloved son for whom she had waited so long; she would fight for him with every spark of strength she possessed. She would die for him if need be. She was fond of the King but she despised him. She wanted to care for him and govern him. It was possible that she wanted to govern this boy too. But she wanted him to grow up strong, not like his father. And now he was in acute danger. She knew that neither of them would be allowed to leave this scene alive if those wicked men could help it.

  Keeping her eyes on them she withdrew a little into the trees. She must not go too openly. She must tread cautiously. If she could get one of the horses...but that was impossible, they would see her mounting.

  Edward was looking at her with eyes that were full of hope. She was there. The mother who seemed to him invincible. He knew they were in danger but he believed that no one could ever stand up for long against his mother.

  The men were still wrangling over the jewels. How long would it last? The moment of doom was getting nearer and nearer.

  ‘Lady...’ It was a soft voice in the trees.

  She was alert. A young boy looked at her from behind the trunk of a tree.

  ‘I have a horse here. I know a way through the woods...a special way. I could take you and the Prince...’

  Who was this boy? She did not know. In any case he looked very young and could not do her the harm these men could.

  ‘How...’ she began.

  ‘Let the Prince come first,’ he said.

  ‘Edward,’ she whispered. ‘Go!’

  She could stand there watching the robbers while Edward might well slip into the trees unseen. He went, accustomed to obeying his mother without question.

  Her heart was beating wildly. She kept her eyes on the men. They were not watching her. They thought it would be quite impossible for her to leave without a horse and if she attempted to mount and her son with her they would immediately be aware of it.

  ‘Now, lady...’

  She was in the trees. Edward was already mounted. Hastily the boy helped her to get up beside him. Then he was up and they were off.

  They had gone a little way through the trees when she heard the shout.

  She clung to the boy and Edward clung to her; her lips were moving in prayer.

  The boy was right. He knew the woods far better than the robbers or her own servants could. In any case those men would rather lose the Queen and the Prince than the contents of the saddle bags.

  So they rode on, all through the rest of the day and the night.

  The boy told her that he was fourteen years old, and had always wanted to serve the King and the Queen. His name was John Combe and he lived in Amesbury. He had been riding through the woods when he saw the robbers and realized what was happening.

  His eyes shone with devotion and loyalty. ‘It was my chance, my lady, to do you good service. I thank God for it.’

  ‘You are a good boy and you shall not be forgotten for what you have done this day.’

  Nor should he be. Margaret was as fierce in her devotion to her friends as she was in her hatred of her enemies.

  ‘There are many who lurk in the woods to rob, my lady,’ he told her. ‘I am ever watchful when I am there. But I have my

  secret ways through. It is easy to be lost there. The trees are like a maze.’

  ‘I thank God that you came when you did. You have saved the life of your Queen and your future King.’

  The boy was clearly quite moved, so was Margaret and all through that arduous journey she marvelled at the fortuitous appearance of John Combe. She had told him that she wanted to go to Wales.

  ‘That is a journey through mountainous country, my lady.’

  ‘Nevertheless I have loyal friends there, and that is where I must go.’

  John Combe then turned the horse westward and they rode on.

  It was easier when he was able to acquire two more horses and they could dispense with the need to ride all three on one.

  Even so the journey was long and had it not been for the ingenuity of the boy they would have been lost.

  What joy it was when they came in sight of Harlech Castle.

  Margaret was very happy with her reception. Warmly she told of John Combe’s courage and skill in bringing her and the Prince out of an acutely dangerous situation. It was not long before she was joined by Owen Tudor.

  She had been right to come here. There was strength in these Tudors. It was a great tragedy that Edmund had died but Jasper soon joined them and he gave a good account of how young Henry was living in Pembroke Castle with his mother.

  ‘A bright child, my lady,’ he told her. ‘A Tudor every inch of him and a touch of his royal grandmother without a doubt.’

  Margaret had only a little patience to spare for young Henry Tudor. She wanted to know what help she could get here in Wales.

  They understood at once.

  Owen said: ‘Jasper has a great fondness for his nephew, my lady. You would think the b
oy was his own son.’ And then he went on to discuss what troops they could muster and what would be the best plan for taking an army into England.

  ‘The victory was Warwick’s, I’ll trow,’ said Owen. ‘Warwick is the one whom we have to battle with. York is a good administrator but I believe he lacks that which a leader needs.’

  They were a little outspoken, these Tudors. No one could lack that quality more than the present King. Ah, but the King had a Queen.

  It was to the Queen that the Lancastrians would have to look in the future.

  ###

  She was desperate. She needed help. Henry had deserted her, his wife, and what was worse their son, so she believed. He had promised the throne to York when he died. There could not be a worse betrayal.

  Everything depended on her. The King of France had always been fond of her. Some might have thought he was attached to her because of the good she could bring to France, but Margaret was guileless in such matters. Most of her difficulties throughout her life had come from her habit of judging everyone by herself and believing they would act in such a way because she would.

  Now her fierce energies were concentrated on her son, and she would use any method to regain the promise of a crown which Henry had so wantonly thrown away to their enemies.

  Why should not the King of France help her? That he would for a consideration she was sure. With help from France she could defeat Warwick, York, Salisbury, the whole lot of them. But Charles of France would want a very big prize to supply the sort of help she needed. What was the biggest plum she could offer?

  Even as the idea had struck her she turned away from it. It would be a little too daring. But suppose she said to Charles: ‘Help me to defeat Warwick and make the crown of England safe for Edward and I will give you Calais.’

  Calais! That port so dear to the heart of Warwick and the English people! That centre of trade right on the edge of the continent of Europe! Calais was of the utmost importance to the prosperity of England. Wool, leather, tin and lead were all sent to Calais to be sold into Burgundy. In Calais these goods were taxed and sorted. For trade and for defence Calais was essential to England. The French could not attack it without first coming through Burgundy to do so and as the King of France was on uneasy terms with the Duke of Burgundy, Calais was comparatively safe. Warwick as Captain of Calais had shown its worth. Calais had made it possible for him to increase his power. It seemed likely that Charles of France would do a great deal for Calais.

  And yet without help how could she defeat her enemies? How could she make the crown safe for her son?

  Calais. She dreamed of it.

  She sent a messenger with a tentative suggestion to her old friend and supporter Pierre de Brézé.

  While she was in Wales the Duke of Exeter arrived. He had fled from the battlefield, lucky to be alive. But he was determined to fight on and he believed that he could rally men to his banner in the North of England.

  ‘It is help we need,’ said Margaret. ‘We want to overwhelm them with our strength. If my good uncle the King of France would only come to my aid...’

  She thought of the message she had sent to Brézé. She eagerly awaited the response and every morning when she awoke it was with the word Calais on her lips. Sometimes she was appalled by what she had done; and yet she knew that if she had the chance to go back she would do it again.

  With the Tudors raising an army in Wales and Exeter going to the North, the scene was hopeful. But what she must do was outnumber Warwick and York; she must meet strength with greater strength; she must let the men know that if certain people in England were determined to destroy her, she had friends in other places.

  They would hate to lose Calais; but better that than that young Edward, Prince of Wales, should lose his throne.

  She decided that she would go to Scotland and seek help there. A ship was found for her and on a cold December day she set sail from Wales with her son.

  The weather was even more bleak when she arrived in Edinburgh, but the warm welcome of the Queen Dowager, Mary of Gueldres, gave Margaret new hope. The late King’s sister had been the Dauphiness of France and Margaret had known her in the past. She felt therefore that she was going among friends.

  If she could prevail upon Mary of Gueldres to give her help that, with whatever the King of France would send her, would enable her to swell her armies to such an extent that the Yorkists would soon be fleeing before them.

  Mary of Gueldres it was true had her own problems at this time. Her husband, James the Second, had been killed in battle, for he had taken advantage of the defeat of Northampton to attack the old enemy; and now Mary was acting as regent for her nine-year-old son. However, she showed sympathy for

  Margaret’s troubles and, needing Margaret’s help almost as much as Margaret needed hers, it seemed likely that they might strike a bargain.

  A reply had come from Pierre de Brézé. He could not believe he had read her hints correctly. Did she really mean that in exchange for help from France she would give up Calais? Did she realize what this would mean to her cause? The English would never forgive her. If she did this she would see what their actions would be when they heard it. Oh yes, the King of France would be delighted; there was nothing she could offer him more to his taste, but Pierre was her good friend and he wanted her to think very earnestly of this matter before she committed herself to an act which would set the English crying for her blood.

  She was half relieved, half angry.

  I will do it, she thought. Brézé is too weak.

  But that was unfair. He had shown himself a good friend to her. Their relationship had been an almost tender one. He admired her strength and her beauty and in a way was in love with her. His thoughts were for what would benefit her most.

  For the time being she would shelve the matter and turn her attention to Mary of Gueldres.

  Mary was sorry for her. She wanted to be of help; but naturally she must not be foolish, when her own position was so precarious. It was always dangerous when a King died leaving a young heir—a minor who must be surrounded by those who wished to govern for him.

  In Lincluden Abbey where Mary had given Margaret apartments, the two women talked and bargained together— Margaret with a kind of feverish intensity, Mary more coldly, calculating each step before she made it, in contrast to Margaret’s impetuosity.

  There was a fellow feeling between them. Both had young sons to protect. Mary was without a husband it was true but Margaret felt that hers could sometimes be an encumbrance rather than an asset.

  ‘It is only temporary help I need,’ Margaret explained fervently. ‘Once I have regained what is mine everything shall be repaid.’

  ‘I know it,’ replied Mary, ‘but conflicts go on for years before they are resolved and I have difficulties here. We have very unruly nobles in Scotland.’

  ‘They could not be more so than those of England. I often wish I could get rid of them all.’

  ‘Ah, we have to take care that they do not get rid of us.’

  ‘You and I should make a bargain. We should help each other. My dear cousin, give me men, give me arms and let our children marry. Let that be the bond between us. Your little Mary could be my Edward’s bride.’

  It was tempting. The daughter of a Scottish king was not as desirable a parti as some might be. Her father was dead, her mother was struggling to keep the throne safe for her son—and if Margaret succeeded in defeating the rebels Edward would one day be King and little Mary of Scotland Queen of England.

  It was a golden prospect if only the war could be won, if Edward was not to be ousted from the throne; but it seemed very likely that he would be, since after Northampton, Richard of York had been declared heir to the throne on the death of Henry.

  Mary of Gueldres hesitated.

  She knew how desperate Margaret was. She knew that she would do almost anything for help. She would consider nothing too high a price to be paid for w
hat she wanted.

  Mary of Gueldres said: ‘For myself I would agree willingly to this marriage, but it is those about me...I fear before they would be willing to help they would want something more...’

  ‘What?’ cried Margaret. ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Berwick,’ said Mary quietly.

  Berwick! That border town which was so important to the English.

  Well, she had been ready to give Calais. Why hesitate at Berwick?

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Berwick shall be yours...in exchange for an army which will help me destroy these rebels.’

  ###

  Cecily Duchess of York had arrived in London in great style with three of her children—her daughter Margaret and her two youngest sons George and Richard.

  They must all behave with the utmost dignity, she had told them. Their behaviour was of the utmost importance because they had become Princes. They had always been of the highest in the land—but then so had others; now they had stepped up with their father who when the King died would be King in his place. As for their brother Edward—anyone must realize just by looking at him that he was surely born for a crown.

  Edward was the children’s god. He was always so dazzling to look at and stories of his adventures reached them; he was a great soldier, a great adventurer and he never seemed out of temper. He would be King one day, their mother told them, but not yet praise God because their noble father came first.

  The Duke was coming from Ireland to join them and when he arrived it would be a great day of rejoicing for everybody. Cecily decided that it would be fitting for her to go to meet him and therefore the children would be left behind in the mansion in Southwark where they had been living since they came to London.

  ‘Your brother Edward will come often to see you,’ she told them. ‘But you must not expect too much attention from him. He has great affairs with which to concern himself and he will spend much time with the great Earl of Warwick. If the Earl should come here, make sure you treat him with the correct respect. Edward will notice if you don’t.’