by Livi Michael
‘You said you would take me to land,’ she said.
De Brézé was drenched with spray. ‘There are rocks, my lady,’ he said. ‘Great rocks jutting out into the sea. We should wait until morning.’
‘You promised!’ she said.
De Brézé stared around. ‘We don’t even know where this is.’
But the queen was terrified of further storms and afflicted by the fear that she would never see land again, or regain her troops. Eventually de Brézé agreed to speak to the captain. After a long time he rejoined her.
‘We will sail a little further,’ he said, ‘and then I will take you. The captain will look for a more suitable landing.’
Within an hour a little boat was lowered down the side of the ship and a rope ladder dropped after it. The queen descended with some difficulty, de Brézé helping her, then the little prince was passed down to them both.
‘Now, we row,’ de Brézé said.
They sat behind him, watching the muscles of his back pull and strain to shift the boat over the final stretch of water. When they were still a little way from the sand he climbed out and waded, pulling them in.
‘Here we are,’ he said, with a touch of irony, for the beach was entirely deserted. The queen felt her legs give way as her feet sank into the sand, but she did not stumble.
It was getting dark. A fine rain fell, and all her clothes clung to her. But this was it. She had returned to England.
Beside her the little prince was quivering like a dog. She hugged him but could feel no warmth. ‘Where is the ship going, Maman?’ he said.
De Brézé turned. All three of them looked where the little prince was pointing. The ship had turned fully away from them. It did not seem to be heading along the coast, but retreating, turning back towards France. De Brézé swore, softly and fluently, as they watched the ship disappear, leaving them on the abandoned shore.
6
Shelter
They slept that night in a cave that de Brézé found, which was dry at least, if not comfortable. The queen was certainly not comfortable. De Brézé spread out his tunic for her, denying that he was cold, and she lay upon it, wrapping herself round the little prince. But the cold feeling soaked its way through her flesh, to her stomach and her heart. She could not stop shivering. The crackle of rain on rocks was like gunfire in her head.
When at last she did sleep she dreamed that she was being rowed towards England in a tiny fishing boat. Her son was with her, and a great wind blew up and tossed the boat about. She tried to tell de Brézé to keep rowing, but it was not de Brézé, it was an old fisherman with one milky eye.
‘Why’re you here?’ he asked.
‘I have come back,’ she said, ‘to reclaim my kingdom. I am your queen.’
The old man grinned, showing broken teeth. ‘Queen of fishes,’ he said.
She tried to tell him then that God had appointed her queen, that she had fought many battles for her country and would fight again. But it was difficult to make herself heard through all the wind and the spray rising over the sides of the boat, and the old fisherman only grinned again.
‘Worm on a hook,’ he said.
She could not believe he had dared to compare her to a worm, and she opened her mouth to abuse him, but the storm was so violent now that the little boat lurched and she had to fling herself across the body of her son. The water seemed alive – a monstrous thing intent on their destruction. She knew it would sweep them under and dash them against the cliffs. Then, as she lifted her head, she realized that the land she could see was not England but France, and she tried to cry out in protest, but the wind and the waves swept her voice away.
All at once she could see herself, the little prince and the fisherman as from a great distance: tiny dark shapes on the rolling water – very like worms or grubs caught on the vast hook of the sea. And in the next moment the boat was splitting apart.
She must have cried out because, half conscious, she became aware of a warmer, heavier presence. De Brézé was pressing himself up against her, wrapping one arm round her. ‘My lady,’ he said. Already she could feel the heat from his body spreading into hers.
‘Sssh,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘La Petite Marguerite,’ he said.
She did not protest, nor push him away. She lay absolutely still, registering him, her skin taking in the imprint of his skin.
After several moments, she turned towards him.
‘Marguerite,’ he said again softly, into her ear. He did not say anything else. Slowly, she unfolded herself so that the full length of her body was pressed against his and, slowly, he pushed her skirts up.
She did not want to think. She wanted, above all, to stop the inane chattering of her thoughts, which told her she shouldn’t be doing this, and that she should never have come back. She covered his mouth with hers, and gradually the terrible internal trembling stopped and was replaced by more primitive sensations.
They tried, because of the prince, to make as little noise, as little disturbance, as possible, and they succeeded in that he did not move. And afterwards she slept so deeply that even in her sleep she felt as though she would never wake.
But when she did, finally, it was to a sensation of cold and emptiness. De Brézé had gone.
Reluctantly, because she seemed to have stiffened overnight, the queen sat up. The little prince stirred but remained asleep, making a noise like a tiny, exasperated sigh.
Grey light poured into the cave; she could hear seabirds crying. Suppressing a moan, she crawled towards the mouth of the cave.
Grey sky and a vast grey sea, ending in mist. It was preternaturally calm, as though there had been no storm. Through the mist it was possible to make out a pale sun, like a fisherman’s milky eye.
There was no sign of de Brézé.
In the emptiness of her stomach she felt a cramping fear.
But it was nonsense, he would not abandon them; he had risked his life for them only a few hours ago.
The thought of what had passed between them returned to her, and she dismissed it with a peculiar sensation, like a pang. She wanted to call out to him, but she was afraid of waking the little prince.
She remained crouching at the entrance of the cave, fingers gripping the rock. If he did not return she did not know what to do, she did not have a single idea in her head.
High above, the seagulls wheeled and called.
Then at last she heard a different cry. He was coming towards her over the rocks, alternately waving and calling. Relief so sharp she could taste it flooded into her mouth. But he would never desert them, it was her own weakness that had led her to think such a thing.
Even at this distance she could see he was urgently trying to communicate; pausing and waving both arms, then climbing again. He wanted her to go to him, but she would not leave her son. Eventually she climbed down a little way from the cave to a ledge of rock and waited for him. He began to shout breathlessly even before he reached her.
‘Your majesty, forgive me – I went to explore – to look for food – to beg if necessary – alas – I found nothing of that kind – but something far, far better –’
She was forced to wait as he stood before her, panting, and lifted his arms. ‘The ship,’ he said. ‘At least one of our ships has returned for us!’
‘Where? Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure – you cannot see it from here – but it is a mile or so away – no more – and it is coming this way!’
The queen felt suddenly dizzy with relief and joy. She clutched his arm and he held her.
‘Perhaps I should have stayed and flagged it down – but as soon as I saw it I knew that you would want to know. But it may be too far for you to walk?’
‘No – no – I can walk.’ She turned back towards the cave. ‘My son –’ she said, but de Brézé was already climbing to the entrance and, gripping her skirts, she followed.
She crouched over her son, who was in a fierce, concentrated sleep, and to
uched his shoulder. ‘Little swan,’ she said.
He did not want to wake. When she shook him gently he gave the kind of mewling cry he had not made since he was a baby and squirmed away. His face was flushed. She pressed her hand to his forehead.
‘He feels hot,’ she said, looking up.
‘A chill, perhaps,’ de Brézé said. ‘I will carry him – but you may need to help me get him out of here.’
The queen’s anxiety, like a prowling beast, seized first on one thing then another. Her son had not woken once, despite their hurried, surreptitious movements during the night, their stifled sounds. He should at least be hungry, but he would not wake properly even when de Brézé picked him up and passed him to her. He cried and fretted like an infant and tried to push her away.
‘The storm must have exhausted him,’ she said.
De Brézé climbed down from the cave to the ledge of rock and the queen passed the little prince to him. With some difficulty he began the descent. The queen followed anxiously, still murmuring encouragements to her son.
‘Come, my love, we are going to a castle – and when we get there we will have food and clothing and a bed.’
He did not respond directly but gradually began to lift his head and look around. De Brézé was able to transfer him to his back and the little prince wrapped his arms round his neck.
It took half an hour to get past the promontory of rocks on to the next stretch of beach, where there was another series of rocks, and then finally de Brézé said, ‘There, my lady – can you see it?’ And she did see it: the prow and keel of a ship rounding the next jutting outcrop of rocks.
De Brézé passed the little prince to her and she set him down – he was too heavy now, at nine years old, for her to carry. They watched as de Brézé set off across the shore, waving his arms and shouting.
As more of the ship came into view she saw her insignia – it was her ship! She made a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, then set off after de Brézé, pulling her son by the hand.
As the ship came fully into view, the tip of another one appeared. De Brézé ran into the waves like a lunatic, shouting. The queen too waved and shouted.
Two ships! She’d thought them all lost, or that they’d deserted her, but they’d sailed up the coast to rejoin her. That meant there might be more, somewhere, still looking for her. She clutched her son’s hand and tears of joy ran from her eyes. She could see the full beauty of the miracle that the Lord had worked. Two ships, to take them to Bamburgh.
7
The Castle on the Rock
It was even more amazing to see the archdeacon, Dr Morton, who greeted them as they climbed on board.
‘I thought you were lost!’ she said. ‘I thought you had all turned back for France!’
‘Oh no, no, my lady,’ the archdeacon said. ‘Though I was at one point forced to explain that Louis would not want them back in his country, and would have them all executed if they returned.’
He was the same as ever, balding, gnomish and diffident; apparently untroubled by mutiny, storm or near-shipwreck. But then he had come to her in France after an inexplicable, or unexplained, escape from the impregnable Tower.
‘You have survived the calamity of the whirlwind,’ she said fervently.
‘It was nothing, my lady,’ he said.
Then they said nothing more, for they could see the first glimpse of towers beyond a ridge of rock and her colours flying from the tallest tower. And soon they were sighted, and the great gates opened. As they disembarked, Richard Tunstall rode out to meet them.
‘Your majesty,’ he said, and he got down from his horse and knelt before her. ‘I cannot tell you how pleased we are to see you!’
De Brézé said that her majesty was in need of refreshment. And the prince too.
‘Of course,’ said Sir Richard, beaming, then a look of concern passed across his wrinkled face. ‘And – ah – all your men?’
He peered out to sea, beyond the two ships. ‘We are a little short of provisions,’ he said.
‘And we are a little short of men,’ said de Brézé. ‘So – there will be enough.’
Richard Tunstall looked questioningly at the queen, but de Brézé was already striding back towards the ships and his men. ‘I will send my own men to help you unload your munitions,’ Tunstall said, and the queen did not have the heart to tell him how few they had. Dr Morton said that the main thing was for them to get to the castle where they could wash and eat, and lie down in a proper bed.
‘Of course,’ said Richard Tunstall, sounding more reserved this time, but he led them up the steep hill to the castle gates.
When one of her trunks was retrieved from the ship, the queen washed and changed and lay down on a bed for a while without sleeping. The little prince had been given to the care of a maid; Dr Morton was resting in his own room. And de Brézé, of course, had his own room. She would not sleep with him here – or anywhere else. She hoped that would become clear to him without her having to say anything. It was a conversation she did not want to have. And she did not want to consider any possible consequences of the night they’d shared. She could not be pregnant. God would not do that to her. And if she was, she would deal with that when the time came.
She would sleep with her husband if she had to, when they met.
Even as she lay down she could feel the imprint of de Brézé’s body on hers.
Other queens took a lover, but it was not for her. She would not have the kind of scandal that had attached itself to her when the little prince was born – Warwick’s warmongering lies. Certainly she could not afford to take a French lover, who was already infamous for attacking the south coast of England. The Scottish queen might take an English lover – the Duke of Somerset – now that her husband had died, but it was a dangerous thing to do. She could just imagine how unpopular it would be with the Scottish lords.
And what was the Duke of Somerset thinking? She could not allow him to spread any such rumours about her.
She turned away from the aggravation of her thoughts towards the wall, and tried to sleep.
An hour or so later she rose and went to meet Richard Tunstall in one of the two dining halls, where salted fish and pickles and some kind of dry husk that resembled bread had been set out.
‘As you can see, our provisions are low,’ he said. ‘We send out our scouts but … it is not the foraging season.’ He smiled and shrugged.
‘You should requisition supplies,’ she said, but he said they did not want to alienate everyone in that part of the country.
‘Our main hope lies in retaking the other castles,’ he said. ‘We had hoped that you would be bringing aid.’
It was time to tell her news, about the flight from France, the storm, the near-shipwreck, the disappearance of her other ships. Richard Tunstall’s face seemed to lengthen as she spoke; the wrinkles deepened. They had found one of her ships dashed against the rocks, he said. That was how they knew she was coming. They’d hoped, desperately, that she too had not been lost in the storm.
‘And as you see, I have not,’ she said, but he did not smile.
The garrison that had fired at them would have been Warwick’s, he said. The Earl of Warwick had taken Alnwick and installed his cousin Lord Fauconberg there. John Neville, his brother, was in charge of Naworth. Ralph Percy had come to some kind of agreement with the Yorkists which meant that he was still in charge of Dunstanburgh, but he did not believe that Percy had entirely deserted their cause. Everywhere else, apart from Harlech in Wales, was in Warwick’s hands, so in effect Bamburgh was cut off and surrounded.
‘Where are my other lords?’ she said, and he told her that Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke, was in Berwick with the king. And the Duke of Somerset, the Duke of Exeter, Lord Roos and others – they were all in Berwick. Which was now full of Scotsmen, he said, his eyes wary. The English were not best pleased about that, of course – nor about the fact that she had apparently tried to give away Carlisle as well
. The Scots had attempted to take it, but John Neville had beaten them back.
The queen chose not to mention Calais.
‘It is a pity you tried to land near Alnwick,’ he said. ‘The garrison will have notified the Earl of Warwick by now – they have some kind of courier system that goes at speed. And the beacons, of course.’
She felt irritated by his tone. ‘We are not defeated yet,’ she said. ‘Berwick is only twenty miles off – we could ride there today.’
‘You should not travel through open country,’ he said. ‘Or through any towns. There are scouts on the roads – spies in the streets. You could sail there, perhaps?’
But the queen was not ready to board a ship again. ‘We will ride under cover of night,’ she said. ‘And you must send out your own scouts – in case any of my ships return.’
‘I will do that, my lady,’ he said. She did not like his resignation.
‘And prepare your own men,’ she said, ‘because I will return soon – with all my lords and their men. To retake my northern castles.’
8
Berwick
It was after midnight when they arrived. Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke, the Duke of Exeter, Lord Roos and many others rode out to meet them, carrying torches. She could tell they were overjoyed to see her.
But her husband was not there.
‘His majesty has not been well,’ Jasper said. ‘He will recover now you are here.’
After all the greetings and reconciliations, the queen was taken to his room. He was not in bed, as she’d feared, but sitting in a chair, on pillows. When he saw her, a look of tremulous joy spread across his face.
‘It is really you,’ he said, his face full of a wary delight as she approached. She knew at once that he was wondering whether or not she was real. He clasped her hands and would not let her kneel.
‘You have been away so long!’ he said. It was seven months since she had seen him, and there was an obvious change. His hair was entirely white, and lank, his face thinner, drawn about the mouth so that his teeth seemed longer. His lips were those of an old person though he was not yet forty-two. Before all the assembled company he touched her face, her hair. She allowed him to kiss her with those wrinkled lips, once on either cheek. Then, sensing her withdrawal from him, he turned to his son.
