She did not even snicker when she saw her nephews in their highly inappropriate attire. Instead she gave them each a brief hug and told one of her women to take them into her private apartments. Before they went, the two boys very politely thanked us for our trouble.
‘Come on,’ cried Dickon at last, ‘let’s get out of these things and find a ball to kick around. I’ve forgotten what my legs look like.’
‘I hope you can manage without us, Dame Beauchamp,’ said Ned, grinning. ‘I never realised how difficult it was to get in and out of a woman’s gown.’
Margaret frowned, and waited until they were gone. Then she seated herself, on a big chair that stood under a cloth-of-estate.
‘The King my brother should have had more sense than to send them here,’ she said, her eyes fixed somewhere above our heads. ‘We have our own political difficulties, as he should be well aware. We are overrun with French agents, and those fellows are undoubtedly swapping notes with Henry Tudor, or whatever his name is.’
‘Is Madame implying that the Lords Bastard will not be safe here?’ Tyrell asked.
‘Madame is more than implying it,’ snapped Margaret. ‘Tell Richard that he had better come up with a more secure hiding place for them and pretty damned quick.’
We stared at each other uncomfortably. We’d never thought for a minute that they’d be in any danger in Margaret’s domains.
‘Perhaps, Madame, if the boys were to live here under assumed names,’ Roger suggested. ‘One in one household, one in another. There is nothing, after all, to connect them with your nephews.’
She snorted. ‘Of course not! Flanders is full of boys who speak only English and look like Plantagenets! Tell my brother that he must make other arrangements as soon as possible.’ There was no point in arguing with her. She was like Richard in that as well. We made our way out of the room, counting off our obeisances as we backed away and hoping that we’d understood the instructions in the manual. It doesn’t do to be thought ill-mannered.
Roger and I returned to Horton Beauchamp, while Tyrell rode off north to report to the King. I was looking forward to my new life of retirement, and I rolled up my sleeves and got down to the October brewing. All the children helped with this, while my husband devoted himself to reducing the number of deer in our park.
Then it began to rain. And rain. And rain.
Later, men called it the Duke of Buckingham’s Water. Well, if it was, all I can say is that he must have had a hell of a lot to drink.
Roger and I gave up and retired to bed. Hunting isn’t much fun in torrential rain, and making ale is nowhere near as enjoyable as making the beast with two backs.
Afternoon or no, it was pitch black in our chamber, and we didn’t even bother to draw the curtains around the bed. I submitted twice to my husband’s lust, gritting my teeth as one does on such occasions. I was just in the middle of arranging matters so that I would have to submit to it once more when we were interrupted by a discreet cough. It was Guy. Again.
‘Guy,’ I said angrily, ‘this is the second time in twelve years. You’d better have a bloody good excuse.’
‘Sorry, my lady. A letter from the King, marked “urgent” and some chap in livery waiting downstairs for an answer.’
Roger tore the letter open. I could see from his face that we had big trouble.‘Buckingham is revolting.’ he cried, already half out of bed.
‘I know that,’ I said.
‘I mean he’s up in arms. Against the King.’
I had to read it for myself before I could believe it. Buckingham, beguiled by that rat Morton, had turned against Richard. He was raising men in Wales, proclaiming his support for Henry Tudor, and half the gentlemen of southern England, from Kent round to Dorset, had risen with him. The Woodvilles were part of it, of course, but there were others with them, including Sir George Browne. Morton was busily spreading rumours that King Edward’s sons were murdered. And Tudor, having sworn to marry their eldest sister Elizabeth of York, was on his way with an army to invade us.
‘Margaret Beaufort is behind this,’ I snarled. ‘She pulls Morton’s strings to serve that poxy son of hers.’
Roger was appointed a Commissioner of Array for Gloucestershire, which made it his business to set about raising men for the King, rain or no rain. He wasted no time. There were two or three days of hustle and bustle, with urgent messages going off in all directions pleading for more recruits, and then he was off to meet Lovell at Banbury, stripping the manor of almost every man under sixty. He left Guy behind to protect me, much to Guy’s disgust. Horton Beauchamp was suddenly a very quiet place.
‘Fancy a trip behind enemy lines?’ I asked.
‘Sir Roger won’t like it,’ Guy predicted gloomily.
‘I’m not proposing anything too dangerous,’ I explained. ‘Just a little visit to my kinsmen, the Vaughans of Tretower. In Wales.’
‘I didn’t know you had any kinsmen in Wales, my lady.’
‘I’ve kin all over the place. My sister Margaret married into that lot, before she went on to be wedded to Lord Grey of Powys. The Vaughans are a big family. There’s umpteen branches of them, and I never did manage to work out their full pedigree. Anyway, I dare say they’re all my cousins by courtesy. Even if they’re not, I’ll swear to God that they are. The point is that they’re good Yorkists, support King Richard and hate the very sight of Buckingham, so we should be able to stir a few pots with them.’
A toothy grin spread over Guy’s face. Within an hour, we were on the road.
It was quite a journey. The rain was endless, and I was soaked all the way through to my skin and out again before we got so far as Gloucester. The roads were one big quagmire, and we found bridges broken down and fords impassable, so there were any number of diversions. I don’t know how we ever got to Tretower without swimming, but we did.
The Vaughans were holding a Council of War when we arrived, but they welcomed us and sat us down with a large bowl of broth each and about half a dozen blankets. The Welsh are a very hospitable race, especially when you can claim kindred.
There seemed to be any number of Vaughans present in the hall, a formidable bunch, darkbrowed and muscular, and obviously very wound up. Some of them spoke in English, some in Welsh, and some in a mixture of the two, and they seemed to be holding a competition to see who could describe Buckingham in the most abusive terms. (They didn’t go much for Tudor, either. This may surprise those of you who are under the absurd delusion that the entire Welsh race thinks that the sun goes out whenever he sits down, but the Vaughans had some kind of hereditary feud with his Uncle Jasper.) They weren’t going to need much urging from me, that was clear.
‘May I make a little suggestion?’ I asked.
Thomas Vaughan, the head of the family, made a gracious gesture towards me. I think he expected me to point out that the broth needed a tad more in the way of salt, or that one of the wall-hangings needed a stitch or two to stop it fraying.
‘Buckingham has left his castle at Brecon behind him. It isn’t very far from here, is it? I should think that he’d be jolly cross if someone went along and set fire to it. Of course, one could remove a few things first. I dare say that there’s the odd valuable lying around.’
I could tell that I’d hit the right note. A faraway gleam came into their eyes, and some of them started banging their weapons on the table. (A disgusting habit this, and one which I would never allow in my household.) At the far end of the hall a chap started plucking at a harp, and before I knew what was happening the whole hall had burst into song. The words were in Welsh, and so I haven’t the vaguest clue what it was all about, but it sure as hell wasn’t a lullaby.