The Lady of the Rivers

by Philippa Gregory

  The armies break off from engagement, retreating to their own lines. From the banks of the river, even in the water, the wounded men stir and call for help.

  ‘Why don’t they attack?’ Margaret demands, her teeth bared, her hands gripped tight together. ‘Why don’t they attack again?’

  ‘They’re regrouping,’ I say. ‘God spare them, they are regrouping to charge again.’

  As we watch, the horsemen who are left of the Lancaster force charge once more, down the hill at a brave pace; but still they have to get through the stream. This time, knowing the danger, they force the horses into the water and then in a great bound, up the steep banks, spurring them on to the York lines, and battle is joined. They are followed by the men who are fighting on foot, I know that my son and my husband will be among them. I cannot see them, but I can see the movement of the Lancaster forces as they come forwards like a wave, struggle through the stream, and break on the rock of the York line which holds, and fights, and they slug at each other, until we can see our line fall back, and the men on the wings start to slip away.

  ‘What are they doing?’ the queen demands incredulously. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘We are losing,’ I say. I hear the words in my own voice but I cannot believe it, not for a moment. I cannot believe that I am here, high as an eagle, remote as a soaring gull, watching my husband’s defeat, perhaps watching my son’s death. ‘We are losing. Our men are running away, it is a rout. We thought we were unbeatable; but we are losing.’

  It is getting darker, we can see less and less. Suddenly, I realise that we are in terrible danger, and we have put ourselves here by our own folly. When the battle is lost and the York soldiers chase the Lancaster lords to their deaths, hunting them down through the lanes, they will come to this village and they will scale this tower and they will find the greatest prize of the battle: the queen. Our cause will be lost forever if they can take the queen and win control of the prince and the king. Our cause will be lost and I will have lost it, letting her persuade me to come to this church and climb up to watch a life-or-death battle as if it was a pretty day of jousting.

  ‘We have to go,’ I say suddenly.

  She does not move, staring into the greyness of the twilight. ‘I think we’re winning,’ she says. ‘I think that was another charge and we broke through their line.’

  ‘We’re not winning, and we didn’t break through, we are running away and they are chasing us,’ I say harshly. ‘Margaret, come on.’

  She turns to me, surprised by my use of her name, and I grab her by the hand and pull her towards the stone stairs. ‘What d’you think they’ll do with you if they catch you?’ I demand. ‘They’ll hold you in the Tower forever. Or worse, they’ll break your neck and say you fell from your horse. Come on!’

  Suddenly she realises her danger, and she races down the stone steps of the tower, her feet pattering on the stone treads. ‘I’ll go alone,’ she says tersely. ‘I’ll go back to Eccleshall. You must stop them coming after me.’

  She is ahead of me as we run to the forge where the blacksmith is just about to put the shoes on her horse.

  ‘Put them on backwards,’ she snaps.

  ‘Eh?’ he says.

  She gives him a silver coin from her pocket. ‘Backwards,’ she says. ‘Put them on backwards. Hurry. A couple of nails to each shoe.’ To me she says, ‘If they want to follow me they will have no tracks. They will see only the horses coming here, they won’t realise I was going away.’

  I realise I am staring at her, the queen of my vision, who had her horseshoes on backwards. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I’m going,’ she says. ‘Back to Eccleshall to fetch the prince and the king and to raise the main army to chase the Earl of Salisbury all the way to Ludlow if we have to.’

  ‘And what am I to do?’

  She looks at the blacksmith. ‘Hurry. Hurry.’

  ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘Will you stay here? And if they come through, you are to tell them that I was going to meet my army at Nottingham.’

  ‘You’re leaving me here?’

  ‘They won’t hurt you, Jacquetta. They like you. Everyone likes you.’

  ‘They are an army hot from the battlefield, they have probably just killed my son-in-law, my husband and my son.’

  ‘Yes, but they won’t hurt you. They won’t make war on women. But I have to get away, and get the prince and the king safe. You will save me if you tell them I have gone to Nottingham.’

  I hesitate for a moment. ‘I am afraid.’

  She holds out her hand to me and she makes the gesture that I taught her myself. The pointing-finger gesture that draws the circle in the air, which shows the wheel of fortune. ‘I am afraid too,’ she says.

  ‘Go on then.’ I release her.

  The smith hammers in the t nail, the horse walks a little awkwardly but he is sound enough. The smith drops to his hands and knees in the dirt and Margaret steps on his back to get into the saddle. She raises her hand to me. ‘À tout à l’ heure,’ she says as if she is just going out for a little ride for pleasure, and then she digs her heels in her horse’s sides and she goes flying off. I look down at the ground; the marks in the soft earth clearly show a horse coming into the forge, but there is no sign of one leaving.

  Slowly, I walk to where the track goes through the little village of Mucklestone, and wait for the first York lords to ride in.

  It grows dark. In the distance at Blore Heath I hear a cannon shot, and then another, slowly through the night. I wonder that they can see anything to fire upon. Groups of men come by, some of them supporting their wounded companions, some of them with their heads down, running as if from fear itself. I shrink back inside the forge and they don’t see me as they go by. They don’t even stop to ask for drink or food, all the windows and doors in the village are barred to all soldiers – whatever badge they wear. When I see a Lancaster badge I step out into the lane. ‘Lord Rivers? Sir Anthony Woodville? Sir John Grey?’ I ask.

  The man shakes his head. ‘Were they on horses? They’ll be dead, missus.’

  I make myself stand, though my knees are weak beneath me. I lean against the door of the forge and wonder what I should do, alone at a battlefield, and if Richard is dead out there, and my son, and my son-in-law. I wonder if I should go out to the heath and look for Richard’s body. I cannot believe I would not know of his death. I would surely sense it, when I was so close to the battle that I could even see the churning of the stream where he might have drowned?

  ‘Here,’ the blacksmith says kindly, coming out of his little cottage to put a dirty mug in my hand. ‘What are you going to do, lady?’

  I shake my head. There is no pursuing force to misdirect, the York men are not coming through this way, just the broken remnants of our army. I fear that my husband is dead but I don’t know where to look for him. I am weak with fear and with a sense of my own lack of heroism. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. I feel utterly lost. The last time I was lost and alone was in the forest when I was a girl in France, and Richard came for me then. I cannot believe that Richard will not come for me now.

  ‘Better come in with us,’ the blacksmith says. ‘Can’t stay out here all night. And you can’t go to the battlefield, my lady, there are thieves working the place, and they’d stab you as soon as look at you. You’d better come in with us.’

  I shrug, I don’t know what I should do. There is no point standing in the street if no-one is going to come past me to ask where the queen has gone. I have done my duty by hurrying her away, I don’t need to stand out till dawn. I duck my head under the narrow doorway of the cottage and step into the small dark earth-floored room and the stench of five people sleeping, cooking, eating and pissing in the same space.

  They are kind to me. What they have, they share. They have a corner of black bread made with rye; they have never tasted white bread. They have a thin gruel made with vegetables and a rind of cheese. They have small ale to drink whi
ch the goodwife brewsherself and they give me the first gulp from an earthenware cup which tastes of mud. I think that these are the people we should be fighting for, these are the people who live in a rich country, where land is fertile and water is clean, where there are more acres to grow than farmers to harvest. This is a country where wages should be high and markets should be rich and busy. And yet it is not. It is a land where no-one can sleep safely in their bed at night for fear of raids or brigands or thieves, where the king’s justice is bought and paid for by the king’s friends, where an honest working man is tried for treason and hanged if he asks for his rights, and where we cannot seem to stop a French courtier landing in our own ports and laying them waste.

  We say that we are the rulers of this country but we do not make a rule of law. We say that we command these people but we do not lead them to peace or prosperity. We, their own lords, quarrel among ourselves, and bring death to their door as if our opinions and thoughts and dreams are worth far more than their safety and health and children.

  I think of the queen, riding through the night with her horseshoes on backwards so that no-one can know where she has gone, and her army lying face down in Hempmill Brook, perhaps my husband and my son among them. The blacksmith’s wife, Goody Skelhorn, sees me grow pale and asks me if the gruel has turned my stomach.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘But my husband was fighting today, and I am afraid for him.’ I can’t even bear to tell her of my fears for my boy.

  She shakes her head, and says something about terrible times. Her accent is so broad that I can hardly make out what she says. Then she spreads a flea-filled rug on a straw mattress that is their best bed, beside the dying fire, and shows me that I can lie down. I thank her, I lie down, she joins me on one side and her daughter on the other. The men sleep on the other side of the fire. I lie on my back and wait for the long sleepless night to wear away.

  Through the night we hear the clatter of hooves down the village street, and occasional shouts. The girl, the woman, and I cower like frightened children together: this is what it is like to live in a country at war. There is nothing of the grace of the joust or even the inspiration of great principles – it is about being a poor woman hearing a detachment of horse thunder down your street and praying that they do not stop to hammer on your frail door.

  When dawn comes the goodwife gets up and cautiously opens the door and peers outside. When it seems safe she goes out and I hear her clucking to her hens and releasing the pig to roam around the village and eat the rubbish. I get up from the bed and scratch the swelling insect bites on my arms and neck and face. My hair is falling down from the careful coiled plait on the top of my head, I feel filthy, I am afraid that I smell; but I am alive. I did not stand and misdirect the invading lords as the queen asked me to do, I hid like a serf in a peasant’s cottage and was glad of their kindness. I ducked out of sight when I heard the horses in the night and I lay down on dirty straw. In truth, I would have given anything to stay alive last night, and I would give anything to know my husband and sons are alive this dawn. I am fearful and low. I don’t feel much of a duchess this morning.

  The girl gets up, shakes out her petticoat which serves as both underwear and nightgown, pulls on a dress of coarse fustian over the top, rubs her face on the corner of a dirty apron and she is readyn the othethe day. I look at her and think of the scented bath that is waiting for me at Eccleshall Castle and the clean linen that I will put on. Then, before I grow too confident of my own future comforts, I remember that I can’t be sure that the court will be at Eccleshall Castle, nor that my son and husband will come home to me.

  ‘I must leave,’ I say abruptly.

  I go outside and the smith is tacking up my horse. His wife has a mug of small ale for me, and a heel of stale bread. I drink the ale and dip the bread in it to make it soft enough to eat, then I give them my purse. There is silver in it, and some copper coins, a fortune for them, though it was next to nothing for me. ‘Thank you,’ I say, and I wish I could say more: that I am sorry for the ruin that this king and queen have brought upon them, I am sorry that they work hard and yet cannot rise from the poverty of their home, I am sorry that I have slept on linen all my life and seldom thought of those who sleep on straw.

  They smile. The girl is missing a rotting tooth at the front of her face and it gives her a gap-toothed grin like a little child. ‘D’ye know the way?’ the woman worries. It is all of nine miles, she has never been so far from her home.

  ‘You go to Loggerheads and they will set you on the road there,’ the smith volunteers. ‘But take care, the soldiers will be making their way home too. Shall I send the lad with you?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You will be busy in the forge today, I should think.’

  He hefts my purse and grins up at me. ‘It’s a good day already,’ he says. ‘The best we’ve had in all our lives. God bless you, my lady.’

  ‘God bless you,’ I say, and turn my horse to the south.

  I have been riding for about half an hour when I hear a blast of trumpets and see the dust of a great army on the move. I look around me for somewhere to hide but this is wide empty country, the fields are broad and bare and the hedges are low. I pull my horse over to an open gateway by a field and think that if they are the York army or York reinforcements then I can rein in, sit tight, look like a duchess, and let them go by. Perhaps they will have news of my husband and my boy.

  When they are half a mile from me, I can make out the king’s standard, and I know that I am safe for the moment, as the army comes up, the queen and the king himself at the head.

  ‘Jacquetta!’ she cries out with genuine joy. ‘God bless you! Well met!’

  She pulls her horse over to the side of the road to let the army keep on marching past us. Thousands of men are following her. ‘You are safe!’ she says. ‘And well! And the king here is so angry at the death of Lord Audley that he is marching himself to bring the York lords to account.’ She lowers her voice. ‘He has suddenly come to his senses and said he will lead the army himself. I’m so happy. He says he will never again forgive them, and he is going to avenge the death of our true friend.’

  ‘Lord Audley is dead?’ I ask. I can feel myself starting to tremble at the thought of what her next words might be. ‘And do you have news . . . ’

  A man from the centre of the kn thrusts his horse forwards and pushes up his visor to show his face. ‘It’s me!’ my husband yells. ‘Jacquetta! Beloved! It’s me!’

  I gasp, he is unrecognisable, as they all are, weighed down in their armour and with helmets on. But he comes forwards, jumps down from his horse with a clatter, throws his helmet aside and pulls me into his arms. His breastplate is hard against me, the greaves on his arms cut into my back but I cling to him and kiss him and swear to him that I love him.

  ‘And Anthony is safe,’ he says. ‘And Elizabeth’s husband. We all came through scot-free. I told you I was lucky.’

  ‘Don’t look at me, I must smell,’ I say, suddenly remembering my clothes and my hair and the raised welts of flea bites on my skin. ‘I am ashamed of myself.’

  ‘You should never have stayed there,’ he says, glancing at the queen. ‘You should never have been there. You should never have been left there.’

  Margaret gives me a merry smile. ‘He has been most angry with me,’ she says. ‘He is not speaking to me for rage. But see, here you are, safe now.’

  ‘I am safe now,’ I agree.

  ‘Now come! Come!’ she urges. ‘We are on the trail of the traitor Salisbury. And we are not far behind him.’

  We have a wild couple of days, riding at the head of the royal army. The king is restored to health by action, he is once again the young man that we thought might rule the kingdom. He rides at the head of his army and Margaret rides beside him, as if they were true husband and wife: friends and comrades in deed as well as by contract. The weather is warm, a golden end of summer, and the harvest is in from the fields leaving golden stubble, criss
-crossed by hundreds of loping hare. There is a big harvest moon in the evenings so bright that we can march late into the night. One night we set up tents and camp, just as if we were on an evening hunting party. We have news of the York lords; they have met together at Worcester and swore a solemn oath of loyalty in the cathedral, and sent a message to the king.

  ‘Send it back to them,’ the queen snaps. ‘We have seen what their loyalty is worth. They killed Lord Audley and Lord Dudley, they killed Edmund Beaufort. We won’t parley with them.’

  ‘I think I might send a public pardon,’ the king says mildly. He beckons the Bishop of Salisbury to his side. ‘A public pardon so that they know they can be forgiven,’ he says.

  The queen compresses her lips and shakes her head. ‘No message,’ she says to the bishop. ‘No pardon,’ she says to the king.

  Like a rat outside its hole, Richard, Duke of York, takes his stand outside his own town of Ludlow. He and the two lords, Warwick and Salisbury, take up position, on the far side of the Ludford Bridge. On our side of the river the king flies the royal standard, and sends one last offer of pardon to any soldier who abandons his loyalty to the Duke of York, and comes over to us.

  That night, my husband comes into the royal chambers where the queen and I and a couple of ladies are sitting with the king. ‘I have a comrade who served with me in Calais who wants to leave Earl of Salisbury and come to our side,’ Richard says. ‘I have promised him full pardon and a welcome. I have to know that he can trust this.’

  We all look to the king who smiles mildly. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Everyone can be forgiven if they truly repent.’

  ‘I have your word, Your Grace?’ Richard asks.

  ‘Oh yes. Everyone can be forgiven.’

  Richard turns to the queen. ‘And I have yours?’