The White Queen

by Philippa Gregory

  “Next time you shall,” Edward promises him.

  “How long have you been in England?” I ask, my words muffled as he starts to pull my hair down. “Have you an army?”

  “I came with your brother and with my true friends,” he says. “Richard my brother, your brother Anthony, Hastings, of course, the ones who went into exile with me. And now others are coming to my side. George, my brother, has left Warwick and will fight for me. He and Richard and I embraced each other as brothers once more, before the very walls of Coventry, under the nose of Warwick. George has brought Lord Shrewsbury over to us. And Sir William Stanley has come over to my side. There will be others.” I think of the power of Warwick and the Lancastrian affinity, and the French army that Margaret will bring, and I know that it is not enough.

  “I can stay tonight,” he says. “I had to see you. But tomorrow I have to go to war.”

  I can hardly believe him. “You will never leave me tomorrow?”

  “Sweetheart, I took a risk just coming here. Warwick is holed up in Coventry and will neither surrender nor give battle, for he knows that Margaret of Anjou is coming with her army and together they will make a mighty force. George came out and is with us, and he has brought Shrewsbury and his tenants; but it’s not enough. I have to take Henry as a hostage, and ride out to face her. They will be hoping that I will be cornered here, but I will take the battle to them and, if I am lucky, then I will meet Warwick and defeat him before I have to meet Margaret and defeat her.”

  My mouth grows dry and I swallow in fear at the thought of his facing one great general, and then the great army of Margaret. “The French army will come with Margaret?”

  “The miracle is that she has not yet landed. We were both ready to sail at the same time. We were about to race each other to England. We have both been pinned down by the weather since February. She had her fleet ready to sail from Honfleur nearly a month ago, and she has been out and driven back by a storm over and over again. There was a gap in the wind in my favor for no more than a day. It was like magic, my love, and we got away, blown all the way to Yorkshire. But at least it gives me the chance to take them one at a time and not face a united army led by the two of them at once.”

  I glance at my mother at the mention of the storm, but her face is smilingly innocent. “You will not go tomorrow?”

  “Sweetheart, you have me tonight. Shall we spend the time talking?”

  We turn and go into my chamber, and he closes the door with a kick of his foot. He takes me into his arms as he always does. “Bed, Wife,” he says.

  He takes me as he has always done, passionately, as a dry man slaking his thirst. But for once, tonight, he is a different man. The smell of his hair and his skin is the same, and that is enough to make me beg for his touch, but after he has had me, he holds me tightly in his arms, as if for once the pleasure is not enough. It is as if he wants something more from me.

  “Edward?” I murmur. “Are you all right?”

  He does not answer but buries his head against my shoulder and my neck as if he would block out the world with the warmth of my flesh.

  “Sweetheart, I was afraid,” he says. I can hardly hear him he speaks so low. “Sweetheart, I was most afraid.”

  “Of what?” I ask, a foolish question of a man who has had to flee for his life and put together an army in exile and is facing the most powerful army in Christendom.

  He turns and lies on his back, his hand still gripping me close to his side so I press against him from breastbone to toes.

  “When they said Warwick was coming for me, and George with him, I knew this time he would not take me and hold me. I knew this time it would be my death. I have never thought anyone would kill me before, but I knew Warwick would, and I knew George would let him.”

  “But you got away.”

  “I ran,” he said. “It was not a careful retreat, my love, it was not a maneuver. It was a rout. I ran in fear of my life, and all the time I knew myself for a coward. I ran and left you.”

  “It is not cowardice to get away from an enemy,” I say. “Anyway, you have come back to face him.”

  “I ran and I left you and the girls to face him,” he says. “I find I don’t think well of myself for that. I didn’t run to London for you. I didn’t get here and make a desperate stand. I ran to the nearest port and I took the first boat.”

  “Anyone would have done so. I never blamed you.” I lean up on my elbow and look down into his face. “You had to get away to get an army together and come back to save us. Everyone knew that. And my brother went with you, and your brother Richard. They judged it the right thing to do as well.”

  “I don’t know what they felt while they were running like deer, but I know what I felt. I was as scared as a child with a bully coming after him.”

  I fall silent. I don’t know how to comfort him, or what to say.

  He sighs. “I have been fighting for my kingdom or for my life ever since I was a boy. And in all that time I never thought I might lose. I never thought I would be captured. I never thought I would die. It’s odd, isn’t it? You will think me foolish. But in all that long time, even when my father was killed and my brother too, I never thought it could happen to me. I never thought it would be my head chopped off and stuck on a spike on the city walls. I thought myself unbeatable, invulnerable.”

  I wait.

  “And now I know I am not,” he says. “I have told no one this. I will tell no one but you. But I am not the man you married, Elizabeth. You married a boy who knew no fear. I thought that meant I was brave. But I was not brave—I was just lucky. Until now. Now I am a man and I have felt fear and fled from it.”

  I am about to say something to comfort him, a sweet lie; but then I think I will tell him the truth. “It’s a fool who is afraid of nothing,” I say. “And a brave man is one who knows fear and rides out and faces it. You ran then, but you are back now. Are you going to run away from battle tomorrow?”

  “God, no!”

  I smile. “Then you are the man I married. For the man I married was a brave young man, and you are a brave man still. The man I married had not known fear, nor had he a son, nor did he know love. But all these things have come to us and we are changed by them, but not spoiled by them.”

  He looks at me gravely. “You mean this?”

  “I do,” I say. “And I too have been very afraid, but I am not afraid with you here again.”

  He draws me even closer. “I think I will sleep now,” he says, comforted like a little boy, and I hold him tenderly, as if he were my little boy.

  I wake in the morning wondering at my joy, at the silky feel of my skin, at the warmth in my belly, at my sense of renewal and life, and then he stirs beside me and I know that I am safe, that he is safe, that we are together once more, and that this is why I have woken with sunshine on my bare skin. Then, in the next moment, I remember that he must go. And though he is now stirring, he is not smiling this morning. That shakes me again. Edward is always so confident, but this morning his face is grim.

  “Don’t say one word to delay me,” he says, getting out of the bed and throwing on his clothes. “I cannot bear to go. I cannot stand to leave you again. If you hold me back, I swear I will falter. Smile, and wish me good luck, sweetheart. I need your blessing; I need your courage.”

  I swallow my fear. “You have my blessing,” I say, strained. “Always you have my blessing. And all the good luck in the world.” I try to sound bright, but my voice quavers. “Are you going right away?”

  “I am going to fetch Henry that they have been calling king,” he says. “I will take him with me as a hostage. I saw him yesterday at his rooms in the Tower, before I came to you. He knew me. He said that he knew he would be safe with me, his cousin. He was like a child, poor thing. He did not seem to know that he had been king again.”

  “There is only one King of England,” I say staunchly. “And there has only been one King of England since you were crowned.”


  “I shall see you in a few days,” he says. “And I’ll go now without saying good-bye to your mother or the girls. It’s better like this. Let me go quickly.”

  “Won’t you even have breakfast?” I don’t mean to wail, but I can hardly bear to let him go.

  “I’ll eat with the men.”

  “Of course,” I say brightly. “And my boys?”

  “I’ll take them with me. They can serve as messengers. I’ll keep them as safe as I can.”

  I feel my heart plunge in terror for them too. “Good,” I say. “Besides, you will be back within the week, won’t you?”

  “God willing,” he says.

  This is the man who used to swear to me that he was born to die in his bed with me beside him. Never before has he said “God willing.” Always before it has been his will—not God’s.

  He pauses in the doorway. “If I die, then get yourself and the children away to Flanders,” he says. “There is a poor house at Tournai where a man owes me a favor. He is a bastard cousin or something to your mother’s family. He would take you in as his kinswoman. He has a story ready to account for you. I went to see him, and we agreed how it should be done in time of need. I have paid him money already, and written his name down for you. It is on the table in your room. Read it and then burn it. You can stay with him and when the hunt is over you can get a house of your own. But hide there for a year or two. When my son is grown, he can claim his own, perhaps.”

  “Don’t speak of it,” I say fiercely. “You have never lost a battle, you never lose. You will be home within the week, I know it.”

  “It’s true,” he says. “I have never lost a battle.” He manages a grim smile. “But I have never come against Warwick himself before. And I can’t muster enough men in time. But I am in the hands of God, and with His will, we will win.”

  And with that, he is gone.

  It is Easter Saturday, it is dusk, and the church bells of London slowly start to peal, one after another. The city is quiet, still somber from the prayers of Good Friday, apprehensive: a capital city which had two kings and now has no king at all, as Edward has marched out and taken Henry in his train. If they are both killed, what will become of England? What will become of London? What will become of me, and my sleeping children?

  Mother and I have spent the day sewing, playing with the children, and tidying our four rooms. We said our prayers for Easter Saturday and we boiled and painted eggs, ready to give as gifts for Easter Day. We heard Mass and received Holy Communion. If anyone reports on us to Warwick, they will have to say that we were calm; they will say we seemed confident. But now, as the afternoon goes gray, we stand together by the little window over the river that passes so close below us. Mother swings open the casement to listen to the quiet ripples, as if the river might whisper news of Edward’s army, and whether the son of York can rise again like a Lenten lily, this spring, as he rose once before.

  Warwick has left his stronghold at Coventry for a heavy-footed march to London, certain that he can beat Edward. The Lancastrian lords have flocked to his standard, half of England is with him, and the other half is waiting for Margaret of Anjou to land on the south coast. The witch’s wind that trapped her in harbor has died down: we are unprotected.

  Edward collects men from the city and then the suburbs of London, and then he heads north to meet Warwick. His brothers Richard and George go with him and ride down the line of the foot soldiers, reminding them that York has never lost a battle with their king at the head. Richard is beloved of all the men. They trust him, though he is still only eighteen. George is followed by Lord Shrewsbury and his army of men, and there are others who will follow George into battle and don’t care which side they are on as they follow their landlord. Altogether, they are an army of about nine thousand men, no more. William Hastings rides at Edward’s right hand, faithful as a dog. My brother Anthony brings up the rear, watching the road behind, skeptical as always.

  It is getting dark and they are starting to think of making a camp for the evening, when Richard and Thomas Grey, sent out by Edward to go before the army on the great north road to scout the land ahead, come riding back. “He’s here!” says Thomas. “Your Grace! Warwick is here, in force, and they’re drawn up outside Barnet, in battle formation, on a ridge of high ground that runs west-east across the road. We won’t be able to get past. He must know we are coming: he is ready for us. He’s blocked our way.”

  “Hush, lad,” Hastings says heavily. “No need to tell the whole army. How many?”

  “I couldn’t see. I don’t know. It’s getting too dark. More than us.”

  Edward and Hastings exchange one hard look. “Many more?” Hastings asks.

  Richard comes up behind his brother. “Looks like twice our number, sir. Perhaps three times.”

  Hastings leans out of the saddle towards him. “And keep that to yourself too,” he says. He nods the boys away, and turns to Edward. “Shall we fall back, wait for morning? Perhaps fall back to London? Hold the Tower? Set a siege? Hope for reinforcements from Burgundy?”

  Edward shakes his head. “We’ll go on.”

  “If the boys are right, and Warwick is on high ground, with double our numbers and waiting for us…” Hastings does not need to finish the prediction. Edward’s only hope against a greater army was surprise. Edward’s battle style is the rapid march and the surprise attack, but Warwick knows this. It was Warwick who taught Edward his generalship. He is thoroughly prepared for him. The master is meeting his pupil and he knows all the tricks.

  “We’ll go on,” Edward says.

  “We won’t see where we’re going in half an hour,” Hastings says.

  “Exactly,” Edward replies. “And neither will they. Have the men march up in silence, give the order: I want absolute silence. Have them line up, battle-ready, facing the enemy. I want them in position for dawn. We’ll attack with first light. Tell them no fires, no lights: silence. Tell them that word is from me. I shall come round and whisper to them. I want not a word.”

  George and Richard, Hastings and Anthony nod at this and start to ride up and down the line, ordering the men to march in utter silence and, when the word is given, to set camp at the foot of the ridge, facing the Warwick army. Even as they set off in silence up the road, the day gets darker and the horizon of the ridge and the silhouettes of the standards disappear into the night sky. The moon is not yet risen, the world dissolves into black.

  “That’s all right,” Edward says, half to himself, half to Anthony. “We can hardly see them, and they are up against the sky. They won’t see us at all, looking downhill into the valley; all they will see is darkness. If we’re lucky, and it is misty in the morning, they won’t know we are here at all. We will be in the valley, hidden by cloud. They will be where we can see them, like pigeons on a barn roof.”

  “You think they will just wait till morning?” Anthony asks him. “To be picked off like pigeons on a barn roof?”

  Edward shakes his head. “I wouldn’t. Warwick won’t.”

  As if to agree, there is a mighty roar, terribly close, and the flames of Warwick’s cannon spit into the darkness, illuminating, in a tongue of yellow fire, the dark waiting army massed above them.

  “Dear God, there are twenty thousand of them at least,” Edward swears. “Tell the men to keep silent, pass the word. No return fire, tell them, I want them as mice. I want them as sleeping mice.”

  There is a low laugh as some joker gives a whispered mouse squeak. Anthony and Edward hear the hushed command go down the line.

  The cannons roar again and Richard rides up, his horse black in the darkness, all but invisible. “Is that you, brother? I can see nothing. The shot is going clear over our heads, praise God. He has no idea where we are. He has the range wrong; he thinks we are half a mile farther back.”

  “Tell the men to keep silent and he won’t know till morning,” Edward says. “Richard, tell them they must lie low: no lights, no fires, absolute silence.” H
is brother nods and turns into the darkness again. Edward summons Anthony with a crook of his finger. “Take Richard and Thomas Grey, and get a good mile away; light two or three small fires, spaced out, like we were setting up camp where the shot is falling. Then get clear of them. Give them something to aim at. The fires can die down at once: don’t go back to them and get yourself hit. Just keep them thinking we are distant.”

  Anthony nods and goes.

  Edward slides from his horse Fury, and the page boy steps forward and takes the rein. “See he is fed, and take the saddle off him, and drop the bit from his mouth but leave the bridle on,” Edward orders. “Keep the saddle at your side. I don’t know how long a night we will have. And then you can rest, boy, but not for long. I shall need him ready a good hour before dawn, maybe more.”

  “Yes, Sire,” the lad says. “They’re passing out feed and water for the horses.”

  “Tell them to do it in silence,” the king repeats. “Tell them I said so.”

  The lad nods, and takes the horse a little way from where the lords are standing.

  “Post a watch,” Edward says to Hastings. The cannons roar out again, making them jump at the noise. They can hear the whistle of the balls overhead and then the thud as they fall too far south, well behind the line of the hidden army. Edward chuckles. “We won’t sleep much, but they won’t sleep at all,” he says. “Wake me after midnight, about two.”

  He swings his cloak from his shoulders and spreads it on the ground. He pulls his hat from his head and puts it over his face. In moments, despite the regular bellow of the cannon and the thud of the shot, he is asleep. Hastings takes his own cloak and drapes it, as tenderly as a mother, over the sleeping king. He turns to George, Richard, and Anthony, “Two-hour watches each?” he asks. “I’ll take this one, then I’ll wake you, Richard, and you and George can check the men, and send out scouts, then you, Anthony.” The three men nod.

  Anthony wraps his cloak around him and lies down near to the king. “George and Richard together?” he asks softly of Hastings.