‘They could see us though. At dawn when they came at us out of the mist, they were far closer than we thought – they were on top of us. They had been hiding in the mist, as close as a stone’s throw, all night. They had known where we were when we were like blind men. We had been shooting cannon all night far over their heads. We parried the charge, we took them on, then through the day the battle lines shifted and though we locked forces with Edward and held him, the Earl of Oxford, our faithful ally, broke through them and then came back to the battle through the mist and our men thought the earl had turned traitor and was coming against them. Some thought it was reinforcements for Edward, coming at them again from behind, Edward often keeps a battle in reserve . . . at any rate, they broke and fled.’
‘They fled?’ She repeats the word as if she does not understand it. ‘Fled?’
‘Many of our men were killed, thousands. But the rest fled back to London. Edward won.’
‘Edward won?’
He goes down on one knee. ‘Your Grace, I am sorry to say that in this first battle he was victorious. He defeated your commander the Earl of Warwick; but I am confident we can defeat him now. We have mustered the army again, they are on their way.’
I wait. I expect her to ask where my father is, when he will arrive with those of his army who managed to get away.
She turns to me. ‘So Isabel did nothing for us, though we sent her ahead to be with her husband. She didn’t keep George to our alliance,’ she says spitefully. ‘I will remember this. You had better remember this. She failed to keep him faithful to you, to me, to your father. She is a poor daughter and a poor wife, a wretched sister. I think she will regret this. I will make sure that she regrets the day her husband betrayed us.’
‘My father?’ I whisper. ‘Is my father coming now?’
I see the Duke of Somerset wince and look at the queen for permission to speak.
‘My father?’ I ask more loudly. ‘What of my father?’
‘He died in the battle,’ he says quietly. ‘I am sorry, my lady.’
‘Died?’ she demands baldly. ‘Warwick is dead?’
‘Yes.’
She starts to smile, as if it is funny. ‘Killed by Edward?’
He bows in assent.
She cannot help herself. She lets out a peal of laughter, clapping her hand over her mouth, trying to silence herself but not able to cease laughing. ‘Who would have thought it?’ she gasps. ‘Who would ever have thought such a thing? My God! The wheel of fortune – Warwick killed by his own beloved protégé! Warwick against his own wards and they kill him. And Edward with his two brothers at his side again – after all we have done and sworn . . .’ Slowly she subsides. ‘And my husband, the king?’ She moves onto the next question as if there is nothing more to be said about the death of my father.
‘How did he die?’ I ask, but nobody answers me.
‘The king?’ she repeats impatiently.
‘Safe in London, back in the Tower. They picked him up after the battle and took him as their prisoner.’
‘He was well?’ she asks quickly.
Somerset shifts uncomfortably. ‘Singing,’ he says shortly. ‘In his tent.’ The mad king’s son and his wife exchange one brief look.
‘Did my father die in battle?’ I ask.
‘The York brothers went back to London victorious, but they will rest and arm and come on here,’ Beaufort warns her. ‘They will have heard that you have landed, just as we did. They will be marching after us as fast as they can come.’
She shakes her head. ‘Ah, dear God! If we had only come sooner!’
‘George Duke of Clarence might still have proved untrue. The Earl of Warwick might still have been killed,’ the duke says steadily. ‘As it is, your coming now brings us a fresh army, newly landed, and people gathering to support you as a new cause. Edward has marched, and fought, and is now marching again. He has drawn on all his credit, he has been joined by all his friends, there is no-one left to recruit and they have fought a heavy battle and suffered losses, and they are all tired. It was a hard battle and a long march. Everything is in our favour.’
‘He’ll be coming here?’
They all nod; there is no doubt that the House of York is coming to the table for a final throw of the dice.
‘For us?’
‘Yes, Your Grace – we have to move out.’
For a moment she draws a breath, then she makes a small gesture with her hand, drawing a circle in the air. ‘The wheel of fortune,’ she says almost dreamily. ‘Just as Jacquetta said. Now her son-in-law is coming to attack me, having killed my ally; and her daughter and my son are rivals for the throne and she and I are far apart. I suppose we are enemies.’
‘My father . . .’ I say.
‘They took his body to London, Your Grace,’ the duke says quietly to me. ‘Edward captured his body, and also that of your uncle Lord Montagu. I am sorry, Your Grace. He will show the bodies to the people of London, so that everyone knows he is dead and his cause lost.’
