She stared at me, long and hard. ‘You will see, child,’ she answered. ‘You will see.’
I must admit that my recollection of these events is somewhat hazy. In fact, there are times when I wonder if they happened at all, or whether they are just recollections from some elaborate dream. Even my own dialogue, as I recall it, seems unlikely when you understand that I was only ten or eleven years old. But it is as I recall it.
My brother Edmund tells me that we were never at Newport. That neither one of us, to his certain knowledge, ever set foot in my father’s Lordship of Cemaes. That we were brought up entirely in Shropshire at the Red Castle, or Hawkstone as it is sometimes known. That, on a scale of one to ten, the likelihood of my father farming me out to a witch would score about minus seventeen. That he himself, while still a child, a future man of the cloth, would scarcely have suggested that we needed a poisoner in the family.
So where do the memories come from?
I draw to your attention the fact that Edmund is employed by a certain Henry Tudor who is allegedly a king. For him, therefore, lying is a way of life. Part of his job description. History is constantly being rewritten. Today’s fact is tomorrow’s doubt, and the next day’s ludicrous falsehood. You must make your own mind up about the truth.
It is acceptable, I believe, for a story to have alternative endings. I shall go further, and have an alternative beginning. This means that you can ignore everything I have written up to this point. Or not, as you choose.
I was thirteen years old in the 37th year of Mad King Harry the Sixth, when my father was foolish enough to get himself killed while leading the Lancastrian forces at the Battle of Blore Heath.
Queen Margaret of Anjou had been riding around Cheshire and Shropshire with her little son, Prince Edward, handing out the Prince’s badge, a swan, to all and sundry as she tried to build up an army big enough to tackle the Duke of York.
They made a fair sight, the beautiful French Queen and her sweet angel of a Prince. You could see all the men going weak at the knees at the prospect of dying for them. They cheered, and waved their swords in the air, and swore to risk the last drops of their blood. It was enough to make any sensible person throw up.
My father was sixty-one years old. In my opinion he should have made this his excuse and stayed at home by the fire. He probably would have done if it hadn’t been for Margaret of Anjou. She flashed her big, blue eyes at him – to say nothing of her big, white breasts – and asked him to take command. I can still see him now, kneeling, with tears flowing down his cheeks, as he thanked her for the honour.
We were at the Red Castle, just south of Whitchurch, not far from the border between Shropshire and Cheshire. It was always my father’s favourite home. (The castle is built of red sandstone, hence its name, which is not so much romantic as unimaginative.) Knights and squires from miles around flocked to join us, and clustered around the big map my father had laid out on one of the tables in the hall. They pushed bits of wood around on it, and grunted, and spilled their wine, and agreed that we were going to grind the Yorkists into the dust.
Second-in-command was Thomas, Lord Stanley, a young man then, although you could already see the mean little lines around his mouth. He suggested that his two thousand followers should form a strategic reserve, and place themselves so as to cut off the enemy’s retreat.
Stanley was a big cheese, and my father didn’t have much choice but to agree to this. He had plenty of men even without Stanley. From the information that was coming in he reckoned that he’d outnumber the Yorkist Earl of Salisbury and his followers by at least two to one.
(He also knew that Sir William Stanley, Lord Stanley’s brother, was with the enemy. And that Salisbury was Lord Stanley’s father-in-law. Too many Stanley liveries on the battlefield might have caused confusion.)
They rode out to meet the Yorkists, lambs to the slaughter. I remember my half-sister, Margaret, tying a favour around the arm of her husband, Sir Thomas Dutton. Their son, Peter, no more than seventeen, was honoured in the same way by his betrothed, Alicia Legh. Poor fools, they must have thought that they were going off to some blasted joust.
They were cut to pieces.
Whenever I hear some stupid sprig telling everyone that he longs to prove his manhood in battle I think of young Peter’s face that day.
Queen Margaret of Anjou had her horse’s shoes replaced back to front, and then made a strategic withdrawal to a prepared position. I don’t know where she drew rein, but it was a hell of a way from Blore Heath or the Red Castle. It was many a long year before I set eyes on her again.
2
As far as my brothers were concerned, I was a piece of useless baggage, like a spare bed, and they deposited me in a convent, out of the way, while they got on with the business of killing each other. I say this advisedly, because they didn’t all fight on the same side. I had Yorkist brothers and Lancastrian brothers, and they all had a change of coat from time to time. Confusing? You should have tried being me.
Anyway, after a couple of years most of the dust had settled, Daft Harry had been booted from his throne, and we had a new, young King, Edward IV of the House of York. From my point of view very little was happening. Convents are not noted for successions of exciting incidents. However, there was the night when the Bishop’s Vicar-General was murdered in the middle of his Visitation.
We found him lying on the grass in the middle of the cloisters. The whole Community gathered round. You could tell that this was going to keep them in gossip for the next century.
‘The poor man has obviously had a heart attack,’ announced the Prioress. ‘How very unfortunate.’
I moved forward to take a closer look.
‘I think not, Madame,’ I said. ‘Look at those marks on the grass. It’s quite clear that he’s been dragged to his present position. You can also see the mud on the back of his gown.’
‘That must have happened when he fell,’ she snorted.
‘Except that he fell on his face,’ I replied, smiling up at her.
I knelt over the body and lifted up his hood. ‘See, here in his collar. Unless I’m mistaken this is a leaf from the herb commonly known as Lady’s Mantle. Found in these precincts only in the herb bed adjacent to the passage leading from your apartments to the cloisters. And here, see, almost lost in the thickest part of his hair. A recent wound. Made, I venture, by a heavy blow from a blunt instrument.’
‘This proves nothing,’ said the Prioress, airily. ‘You are wasting time, child, which could be better devoted to our prayers for this unfortunate man’s soul.’
‘There’s one other small piece of evidence, Madame,’ I continued, standing up again. ‘You obviously dressed in some degree of haste. No doubt that’s why you’re wearing his drawers on your head instead of your wimple.’
The Prioress ripped off her unsuitable head-dress and threw it as far away from her as her strength allowed. Do you know, she was not the least bit amused.
‘Take this wretched girl away,’ she said to the Mistress of Novices. ‘Whip her well, and lock her up for a month on bread and water. There are far too many unlikely people wandering around solving crimes these days. I am not having one in this flaming nunnery!’