‘They caught him at sea?’
‘They took him on board their ship and beheaded him on the deck,’ she says, her voice nearly muffled by sobs. ‘God damn them to hell for cowards. They left his body on the beach at Dover. Jacquetta!’ Blindly, she reaches out to me and clings to me as she wails. ‘They put his head on a pole. They left his head like a traitor’s head. How shall I bear this? How shall Alice bear this?’
I hardly dare to glance over to William de la Pole’s widow, who sits in silence while William de la Pole’s queen is breaking her heart over him.
‘Do we know who?’ I repeat. My first fear is, if someone dares to attack the king’s favourite advisor, who will they come for next? The queen? Me?
She is crying so hard she cannot speak, her slender body is shaking in my arms. ‘I must go to the king,’ she says finally, pulling herself up and wiping her eyes. ‘This will have broken his heart. How will we manage without him? Who will advise us?’
Dumbly, I shake my head. I don’t know how they will manage without William de la Pole, nor what sort of world is opening before us when a noble lord in his own ship can be kidnapped and beheaded with a rusty sword on a rocking boat and his head left on a pike on the beach.
GRAFTON, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE,
SUMMER 1450
As the warmer months come the king and queen agree to travel north. They give out that they want to be away from London during the hot weather when plague often comes to the city, they say that they want to see the good people of Leicester. But those of us who live in the palace know that the guards have been doubled at the gates, and that they are employing tasters for their food. They are afraid of the people of London, they are afraid of the men of Kent, they are afraid that whoever murdered William de la Pole blames them for the loss of France, for the continual stream of defeated soldiers and settlers who come every day into every English port. There is no money to pay the London suppliers, the queen mistrusts the people of the city. The court is going to Leicester; in truth it is running away to hide in Leicester.
Richard and I are granted leave to go and see our children at Grafton, as the court goes north, and we ride quickly out of London, which has become a surly city of secretive people whispering on street corners. There is a rumour that the king and queen will take a great revenge on the county of Kent. They blame the very seashore where William de la Pole’s dishonoured body was dumped. Lord Say of Knole and his heavy-handed son-in-law who is Sheriff of Kent say that together they will hunt down the guilty men and execute them and every one of their family; they say they will empty Kent of people, they will make it a wasteland.
Once we are out of the city, away from city walls, Richard and I ride side by side, holding hands like young lovers, while our small armed guard falls back and rides behind us. The roads are clear and dry, the grass verges dotted with flowers, the birds singing in the greening hedgerows, ducklings on the village ponds and roses in blossom.
‘What if we never went back to court?’ I ask him. ‘What if we were just to be the squire of Grafton and his lady?’
‘And our nursery of children?’ he smiles.
‘Many, many children,’ I say. ‘I am not satisfied with eight, and one on the way, I am hoping for a round dozen.’
He smiles at me. ‘I should still be summoned,’ he says. ‘Even if I were the smallest quietest squire of Grafton, with the largest family in England, I should still be mustered and sent to war.’
‘But you would come home again.’ I pursue the thought. ‘And we could make a living from our fields and farms.’
He smiles. ‘Not much of a living, my lady. Not the sort of living you want. And your children would marry tenant farmers and their children would run wild. Do you want a dirty-faced little peasant for a grandchild?’
I make a face at him. He knows how much I prizeur books and our musical instruments, and how determined I am that all my children shall read and write in three languages, and master all the courtly skills.
‘My children have to take their place in the world.’
‘You are ambitious,’ he says.
‘I am not! I was the first lady in France. I have been as high as any woman could dream. And I gave it up for love.’
‘You’re ambitious for your family and for your children. And you’re ambitious for me – you like me being a baron.’
‘Oh well, a baron,’ I say, laughing. ‘Anyone would want their husband to be a baron. I don’t count that as being ambitious. That is just . . . understandable.’
‘And I understand it,’ he says agreeably. ‘But would you really want to live always in the country and not go back to court?’
I think for a moment of the nervous king and the young queen. ‘We couldn’t leave them, could we?’ I ask wistfully.
He shakes his head. ‘It is our duty to serve the House of Lancaster, and – something else – I don’t know how they would manage without us. I don’t think we could just walk away and leave them. What would they do?’
We stay at Grafton for a week. It is the best time of the year, the orchards are rose-pink with the bobbing blossoms, and the cows are calving. The lambs are with their mothers in the higher meadows, running and frisking with their tails like woolly ribbons dancing behind them. The hay in the meadows is growing tall and starting to ripple in the wind and the crops are green and rich, ankle-deep. My older children, Elizabeth, Lewis, Anne and Anthony, have been staying with our cousins, to learn their manners and how to behave in a great household, but they come home to be with us for the summer. The four little ones, Mary, Jacquetta, John, and Richard, are beside themselves with excitement at having their big sisters and brothers home. Mary, the seven-year-old, is the leader of the little battalion, the others her sworn liegemen.
I am weary with this new pregnancy and in the warm afternoons I take the four-year-old, little Diccon, in my arms for his afternoon nap and we lie down together, drowsy in the warmth of the day. When he is asleep and it is very quiet, I sometimes take the painted cards and turn them over, one after another, and look at them. I don’t shuffle them or deal them out, I don’t attempt to read them. I just look at the familiar pictures and wonder what life will bring me, and these my beloved children.
In the day Richard listens to the unending complaints of the people around us: the moving of a fence line, of cattle being allowed to stray and spoiling a crop. As lord of the manor it is his job to ensure that the rule of law and justice runs throughout our lands, whether or not our neighbours take bribes and order jurors what sentence they should bring in. Richard visits the local gentry to remind them of their duty to turn out for him in case of need, and tries to reassure them that the king is a strong lord, that the court is trustworthy, that the treasury is secure and that we will keep the remaining lands in France.
I work in my still room, Elizabeth my earnest apprentice, steeping herbs in oil, checking the cut and dried herbs, poundrs down into powder and conserving them in jars. I do this by the order of the stars and I consult my lord’s books for how it should be done. Now and then I find a book I had overlooked which talks of making the aqua vitae, the water of life itself, or of burning off impurities by the touch of distilled waters; but I remember Eleanor Cobham behind the cold walls of Peel Castle, and I take the book from Elizabeth and put it on a high shelf. I never grow or dry any but the herbs that would be known to a good cook. Knowledge is just another thing to conceal, these days.
I am hoping that we will stay at home for another month; I am tired by this pregnancy and daring to hope that I might spend the whole summer in the country, that the king and queen will prolong their travels and leave us in peace. We have been riding out to visit some neighbours and come home in the sunset to see a royal messenger waiting by the water pump. He gets to his feet when he sees us and hands Richard a letter sealed with the royal crest.
Richard tears it open and scans it. ‘I have to go,’ he says. ‘This is urgent. I shall have to muster a troop as I ride.’<
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‘What has happened?’ I ask as I slip down from my saddle.
‘There’s a rising in Kent, as any fool could have foreseen. The king commands me to ride at his side and carry the royal standard.’
‘The king?’ I can hardly believe that our king is going to ride out at the head of his men. His father was a remarkable commander of men at a far younger age; but our king has never worn his armour except for jousting. ‘The king is going himself?’
‘He was very angry about de la Pole – God rest his soul,’ he reminds me. ‘He swore vengeance and the queen swore she would see the murderers dead. Now he has his chance.’
‘You will be careful.’ I take his arm to look up into his face. Between us is the unspoken thought that his commander will be a young man who has never seen any sort of warfare, not even a distant siege. ‘You will have to advise him.’
‘I’ll keep safe,’ my husband says wryly. ‘And I’ll keep him safe too, if I can. They have ordered the Sheriff of Kent to turn the county into a deer park, to drive out every man, woman and child: there will be hell to pay. I have to get back and see if I can advise them into some sense. I have to find a way to persuade them to rule the country with some sort of harmony. They make enemies every time they address parliament. The queen rides through the streets of London as if she hates the very cobbles. We have to serve them, Jacquetta. We have to guide them to follow their best interests, we have to get this royal couple back into the hearts of their people. It is our duty. It is our task. It is what our lord the Duke of Bedford would have wanted us to do.’
I hold him in my arms in bed that night and in the cool morning I find I am filled with unease. ‘You will just ride out with the king to show his standard? You won’t go into Kent, Richard?’
‘I hope that nobody will be going into Kent,’ he says grimly.
He finishes his breakfast and I trail out into the stable yard after him, pursuing my fears. ‘But if there is some kind of guard put together to punish the people of Kent, you won’t join it?’
‘Burning thatch? Spit-roasting a poor man’s cow?’ he asks. ‘I have seen it done in France and I never thought it a way to win loyalty. The Duke of Bedford himself said to me that the way to win a man’s heart was to treat him fairly and make him safe. That will be my advice, if anyone asks me. But if anyone orders me out in the king’s name, I will have to go.’
‘I will follow you as soon as you send for me.’ I try to sound confident, but my voice is thin and anxious.
‘I will be waiting for you,’ he vows, suddenly warm, as he realises I am afraid. ‘You take care of yourself and the baby that you are carrying. I will be waiting for you. I will always be there waiting for you. Remember I have promised you – you will never look for me in vain.’
I tidy the house and command the servants to prepare them for my departure. I hear gossip that the king and queen have gone back to London and that the king himself has ridden out against the people of Kent. Then a message comes from Richard, written in his own hand.
Beloved,
I am sorry to trouble you. The king has been persuaded by the queen not to march into Kent himself, but he has ordered me to pursue the outlaws at the head of his guard and I am doing so. Trust me that I will be safe and come home to you when this is over. Your Richard.
I put the scrap of paper inside my gown, against my heart, and I go to the stable. ‘Saddle up,’ I say to the household guard. ‘And tell them to get my mare ready for a journey. We are going back to London.’
LONDON, SUMMER 1450
All the way I ride with a heavy heart. I have such a strong sense that Richard is in danger, that he is outnumbered, that the thickly forested county of Kent will hide ambushes, traps, armies of the people who will take him, as they took William de la Pole, and behead him without clergy, with a rusty sword.
We take the London road in silence, but as we pass through the vegetable gardens and little dairy farms, the captain of my guard orders the men to close up, and starts to look around him, as if he fears we are unsafe.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, my lady. Something . . . ’ He pauses. ‘Too quiet,’ he says, speaking to himself. ‘Hens shut up before sunset, shutters closed on the cottages. Something’s not right.’
I don’t need to be told twice. Something is wrong. My first husband the duke used to say that if you ride into a town and feel that something is wrong it is usually because something is wrong. ‘Close up,’ I say. ‘We’ll get inside the City before the gates close, and we’ll go to our London house. Tell your men to be alert and look about them. We’ll go on at a canter.’
He beckons the men to close up and we ride towards the City gates. But almost as soon as we are through Moorgate and in the narrow streets I can hear the swell of noise, people cheering, laughing, trumpets tooting and the banging of a drum.
It sounds like a May Day procession, it sounds like joy unleashed, but there must be hundreds of people on the streets. I glance at my men, who draw their horses closer to mine in a defensive square.
‘This way,’ the captain says, and leads us at a swift trot through the winding streets till we find our way to the great wall that runs around my London house. The torches, which are always kept burning either side of the gateway, are missing from the sconces. The gates themselves, which should be either barred for night or flung hospitably wide, are half-open. The sweep of the cobbles approaching the house is empty; but there is a scattering of litter and the front door is ajar. I glance at George Cutler, the captain, and see my unease in his eyes.
‘Your ladyship . . . ’ he says uncertainly. ‘Better that I go in, and see what’s amiss here. Something has gone wrong, perhaps . . . ’
As he speaks a drunken man, no servant of mine, weaves out through the half-open gates and shambles past us, disappearing down the lane. Cutler and I exchange glances again. I kick my feet out of the stirrups and swing down from my horse, and throw her reins to one of the guard.
‘We’ll go in,’ I say to Cutler. ‘Draw your sword and have two men behind us.’
They follow me as I walk across the cobbles to the house, my London home, that I was so proud to receive and so pleased to furnish. One of the front doors is thrown off the hinges, there is the smell of smoke. As I push the other door open and go inside, I can see that a mob of people has run through the rooms, and taken whatever they thought was of value. There are pale squares on the walls where my tapestries, the Duke of Bedford’s tapestries, once hung. A huge wooden sideboard, too heavy to carry off, has been stripped of the pewter ware that it held, carved doors left banging. I go to the great hall. All the trenchers and wine jugs and drinking vessels are gone, but, absurdly, the huge beautiful tapestry which was behind the great table is still there, untouched.
‘My books,’ I say and jump up to the dais and through the door behind the great table and up the short flight of stairs into the upstairs solar. From there it is two steps through a wreckage of precious broken glass, into the gallery, and there I pause, and look around me.
They have taken the brass grilles off the shelves, they have taken the brass chains that fettered the books to the reading desks. They have even taken the quills and the pots of ink. But the books are safe, the books are untouched. They have stolen everything made of metal but damaged nothing of paper. I snatch up a slim volume and hold it to my cheek.
‘Get these safe,’ I say to Cutler. ‘Get your men in to put them in the cellar and board it up and mount a guard. These are worth more than the brass grilles, more than the tapestries. If we can salvage these then I can meet my first husband at the Last Day of Judgement. They were his treasures and he trusted them to me.’
He nods. ‘I am sorry about the rest of it . . . ’ He gestures at the wrecked house where the wooden staircase is scarred by sword cuts. Someone has hacked off the carved newel post, and taken itaway, as if to behead me by proxy. In the painted beams above, there is smoke blac
kening the ceiling. Someone tried to burn us to the ground. I shudder at the smell of the scorched plaster.
‘If the books are safe, and my lord is safe, then I can start again,’ I say. ‘Board the books up for me, Cutler. And take down the big tapestry too, and anything else you find of value. Thank God we took the best stuff with us to Grafton.’
‘What will you do?’ he asks. ‘My lord will want you to find a safe haven. I should go with you.’
‘I’ll go to the palace,’ I say. ‘I’ll go to Westminster. Meet me there.’
‘Take two men with you,’ he advises. ‘I will make all safe here. And then we’ll follow you.’ He hesitates. ‘I have seen worse done,’ he volunteers. ‘It looks as if they came through on a whim and took anything that was of great value. It was not an assault. You need not fear them. It was not directed at you. They are people driven to despair by poverty and fear of the lords. They are not bad people. It’s just they cannot bear it any more.’
I look around the smoke-blackened hall, at the spaces where the missing tapestries used to be and the hacked banister. ‘No, it was an assault,’ I say slowly. ‘They did all that they wanted to do. It was not directed at me – but it was directed at the lords, at the wealthy, at the court. They no longer think that they have to wait at the gates, they no longer think they have no choice but to beg. They no longer think that we command them by right. When I was a girl in Paris and married to the Duke of Bedford we were hated by the people of the city, by the people of France. We knew it, and they knew it. But nobody even dreamed that they could breach the gates and come inside and destroy our things. They think this now in London. They no longer obey their masters. Who knows where they will stop?’