She flushes at that, but she cannot deny that George has been the most selfish spoiled boy who ever turned coat.
“He thought when he went with Warwick that Warwick would make him king,” I say bluntly. “Then they found that nobody would have George for king if they could have Edward. Only two people in the country think George is a better man than my husband.”
She waits.
“George himself and you,” I say precisely. “Then he fled with Warwick because he did not dare face Edward after betraying him again. And now he finds that Warwick’s plan has changed. Warwick will not put George on the throne. He will marry Anne his daughter to Edward of Lancaster; he will put the young Edward of Lancaster on the throne and become father-in-law to the King of England that way. George and Isabel are no longer his choice for King and Queen of England. Now it is Edward of Lancaster and Anne. The best that George can hope for is to be brother-in-law to the usurping Lancaster King of England instead of brother to the rightful York king.”
George’s mother nods.
“Little profit for him,” I observe. “For a great deal of work, and dreadful danger.”
I let her think on this for a moment. “Now, if he were to turn his coat again and come back to his brother, penitent and truly loyal, Edward would have him back,” I say. “Edward would forgive him.”
“He would?”
I nod. “I can promise it.” I don’t add that I will never forgive him, and that he and Warwick are dead men to me and have been ever since they executed my father and brother after the battle of Edgecote Moor, and they will be dead men hereafter, whatever they do. Their names are in the black locket in my jewelry case, and their names will never see the light again until they themselves are in the eternal darkness.
“It would be such a good thing if George, a young man without good advisors, could hear from someone, in private, in secret, that he could come back safely to his brother,” my mother observes at random, looking out of the window at the scudding clouds. “Sometimes a young man needs good advice. Sometimes he needs to be told that he has taken a wrong turning but that he can come back to the high road. A young man such as George should not be fighting for Lancaster, dying with a red rose on his collar. A young man like George should be with his family, with his brothers who love him.” She pauses to let his mother think this through. It is really beautifully done.
“If only someone could tell him that he was welcome at home, then you would have your son back, the brothers would be reunited, York would fight for York once more, and George would lose nothing. He would be brother to the King of England, and he would be Duke of Clarence as he has always been. We could undertake that Edward would restore him. There lies his future. This other way he is-what would one call him?” She pauses to wonder what one would call Cecily’s favorite son, then she finds the words: “An utter numpty.”
The king’s mother rises to her feet; my mother gets up too. I stay seated, smiling up at her, letting her stand before me. “I always so enjoy talking with you both,” she says, her voice trembling with anger.
Now I rise, my hand on my spreading belly, and I wait for her to curtsey to me. “Oh, me too. Good day, My Lady Mother,” I say pleasantly.
And so it is done, as easily as an enchantment. Without another word said, without Edward even knowing, a lady from the king’s mother’s court decides to visit her great friend, George’s wife, poor Isabel Neville. The lady, heavily veiled, takes a boat, goes to Angers, finds Isabel, wastes no time on her crying in her room, finds George, tells him of his mother’s tender love and her concerns for him. George tells her in return of his increasing discomfort with the allies to whom he is not only sworn but also married. God, he thinks, does not bless their union since their baby died in the storm, and nothing has gone right for him since he married Isabel. Surely, nothing as unpleasant as this should ever happen to George? Now he finds himself in the company of his family’s enemies and-far worse for him-in second place again. Turncoat George says that he will come to England with the invading army of Lancaster, but as soon as he sets foot in his beloved brother’s kingdom he will tell us where they have landed, and what is their strength. He will seem to stand by them as brother-in-law to the Lancaster Prince of Wales until the battle is joined, and then he will attack them from behind, and fight his way through to his brothers once more. He will be a son ofYork, one of the three sons of York again. We can rely on him. He will destroy his present friends, and his wife’s own family. He is loyal to York. In his innermost heart, he has always been loyal to York.
My husband brings this encouraging news to me, unaware that this is the doing of women, spinning their toils around men. I am resting on my daybed, one hand on my belly, feeling the baby move.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” he asks me, truly delighted. “George will come back to us!”
“I know that you love George,” I say. “But even you have to admit he is an absolute crawling thing, loyal to no one.”
My generous-hearted husband smiles. “Oh, he is George,” he says kindly. “You can’t be too hard on him. He has always been everyone’s favorite; he has always been one to please himself.”
I find a smile in return. “I am not too hard on him,” I say. “I am glad he has come back to you.” And inwardly, I say to myself: But he is a dead man.
SUMMER 1470
I am running behind my husband, my hand on my large belly, down the long winding corridors of the Palace of Whitehall. Servants run behind us carrying goods. “You can’t go. You swore to me you would be with me for the birth of our baby. It will be a boy, your son. You must be with me.”
He turns, his face grave. “Sweetheart, our son will have no kingdom if I don’t go. Warwick’s brother-in-law, Henry Fitzhugh, has raised Northumberland. There’s no doubt in my mind that Warwick will strike in the north, and then Margaret will land her army in the south. She will come straight to London to free her husband from the Tower. I have to go, and I have to go fast. I have to deal with the one and then turn and march south to catch the other before she comes here for you. I don’t dare even stop for the pleasure of arguing with you.”
“What about me? What about me and the girls?”
He is muttering orders to the clerk, who runs behind him with a writing desk as he strides towards the stables. He pauses to shout orders at his equerries. Soldiers are rushing to the armory to draw their weapons and breastplates; sergeants are bawling at them to fall in. The great wagons are being loaded again with tents, weapons, food, gear. The great army of York is on the march again.
“You have to go to the Tower.” He swings round to order me. “I have to know you are safe. All of you, your mother as well, go to the royal rooms in the Tower. Prepare for the baby there. You know I will come to you as soon as I can.”
“When the enemy is in Northumberland? Why should I go to the Tower when you are riding out to fight an enemy hundreds of miles away?”
“Because only the devil knows for sure where Warwick and Margaret will land,” he says briefly. “I’m guessing they’ll split into two battles and land one to support the uprising in the north and the other in Kent. But I don’t know. I’ve not heard from George. I don’t know what they plan. Suppose they sail up the Thames while I am fighting in Northumberland? Be my love, be brave, be a queen: go to the Tower with the girls and keep yourselves safe. Then I can fight and win and come home to you.”
“My boys?” I whisper.
“Your boys will come with me. I shall keep them as safe as I can, but it is time they played their part in our battles, Elizabeth.”
The baby turns inside me as if he is protesting too, and I am silenced by the heave of the movement. “Edward, when will we ever be safe?”