Bertrice Small - The Captive Heart

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The third book in the Border Chronicles series, 2008

MARCH 29, 1461

The screams of the dying men could hardly be heard the howling wind. Foe was indistinguishable from friend amid the heavily falling snow that swirled about the combatants. It was bitterly cold as only an early spring in Northumbria could be. The king and his few remaining advisers huddled on the edge of the battlefield until one, braver than the others, reached out to take the bridle of the king's horse and lead it away. Then those who were with them followed. It was the end of an era. The end of a reign.

The wiser among them knew it. Understood it. They considered now how best to retain their heads as well as their fortunes with a new king in a Yorkist regime. They thought of the enemies and the friends that they had among the now favored. Which of those men would have influence enough to save or destroy them? The loyalists, however, were painfully aware that they now faced exile. They silently prayed for the safety of their own families, whom they might never see again in this life.

"Is it over?" the king asked softly. His eyes were beginning to lose their focus. It was a sure indication that one of his attacks of madness was approaching.

"Yes, my liege, it is over" came the quiet reply.

"Have we won?" the king inquired hesitantly.

"I think not, my liege, but until the snow stops we cannot really tell," the man said candidly as they rode away.

"Where is the queen? The queen will know if we have won. The queen always knows what is happening," the king said anxiously. He was still with great effort managing to cling to his sanity.

"I am taking you to her now, my liege," the man responded, "but we must hurry lest the Yorkists catch us." And before one of us decides to turn you over to them to save his own skin, the king's companion thought to himself. He noticed three or four of their party had already disappeared. Well, good riddance to them, the traitors!

"They will kill me," the king said fatalistically. "They have to in order to justify what they have done. And they must kill my son though he be just a lad, for he is the true heir to England's throne after me. But if I know my wife, Margaret, will fight like a tigress to protect our child." Henry VI had not yet released his hold on his sanity. But the few men left to accompany him knew it was but a matter of time before he was once more hurled into his private hell. His mind was simply not strong enough to manage this terrible change in his fortunes.

They hurried through the fierce storm to reach Queen Margaret and the little prince, who were sheltering in a nearby farmhouse. They would have to get deep into the borderlands before the storm ceased. Only then would their king and his family be truly safe, and then only temporarily. Sir Udolf Watteson, who now rode with them, would give them all shelter. At least for the few days it would take for the outcome of the battle to be known down in London, where the new king resided. Until the order was given, and came north for the arrest of Henry Plantagenet, his wife, and his son. The Lancasters were done. At least for now. Perhaps forever.

The queen knew all was lost. At least for now. Perhaps forever, but no! Not while there was breath in their bodies and their son remained healthy and strong.

They would not steal Edward Plantagenet's inheritance from him. Not while she lived. No! It was unthinkable that Edward of York would supplant them.

"Madame, we must go now," Sir Udolf Watteson said to the queen.

Margaret of Anjou nodded. "Oui" was all she said. She did not look about her. The others would be ready because it was their duty to anticipate what was to come. It would not do to be caught now, and besides, if they were, what was to become of their few remaining retainers? Their loyalty to her deserved better than to be caught and murdered by a pack of Yorkist traitors. The queen drew her heavy fur-lined cloak about her and pulled up its hood. "Allez!" she said as she stepped through the farmhouse door.

It was still snowing steadily. Fifteen-year-old Alix Givet followed her mistress, her arm about her physician father. "Are you certain you are warm enough, Papa?" she asked him softly, her hazel eyes concerned.

"I am fine, mignon," he told her. "You worry too much."

"You are all I have left, Papa," Alix said as a man-at-arms helped first her father to mount his horse and then boosted her into her saddle. The girl rode astride, for it was easier for her in their flight.

"We will have at least several days of rest before we must move on again," Alexander Givet replied. "I just need a little time to be dry and warm to recover, ma petite. This ride will be the worst of it, I promise."

"Where will we go then, Papa?" Alix asked him as she gathered her reins into her gloved hands. "We are being driven from England."

"The queen will ask sanctuary from her distant relation Marie of Gueldres, who is Scotland's queen. It will be granted, and then we shall probably take flight for France. You will finally see Anjou, ma petite" he told her. "We still have family there, and I shall make a good match for you, Alix, so you will be safe after I am gone."

"I do not want to marry, Papa. I want to remain with you," the girl told him.

The physician chuckled as they began to move north into the storm. "It is your duty to marry, mignon, so your papa may have a warm place by the hearth in his old age," he teased her. "Unless, of course, you wish to enter a convent."

"Nay, Papa, I am not meant for the church," Alix assured him.

"Then we must find you a good and generous husband who will take us both in," Alexander Givet said. "Or perhaps I could find a nice wealthy widow who would have us. But two women in a household is rarely a good thing. And besides, I could never marry again after all my years with your mama."

"Oh, Papa," the girl responded, "why did Mama have to die?"

"Her heart was not strong in these last years," the physician told his daughter. "The strain and the tension surrounding the royal couple over the past months were finally too much for her, Alix. I would have taken her home to Anjou, but she would not hear of it. She loved her mistress, and they had been friends since they were girls. Loyalty to each other was something that both the queen and your mother possessed in abundance." He sighed gustily. "I miss her greatly, mignon. Blanche de Fleury was the only woman for me." The tone of his voice was sad, and trembled just slightly as he remembered.

Alexander Givet had met Blanche de Fleury at the court of the Count of Anjou. It was a busy court forever on the move, for Rene, the count, who was also the titular king of Naples and Sicily, and his first wife, Isabelle, the Duchess of Lorraine, were sovereigns without a real throne. The youngest son of minor Anjou nobility, Alexander had become a physician. Brought to the court by his father to gain a place among the count's retainers, he quickly found himself assigned to the household of Yolande of Aragon, the count's mother, who was raising his second daughter, Margaret. He was twenty-two at the time.

Negotiations were already underway for Margaret of Anjou to marry the young king of England. Blanche de Fleury was one of the young girls who had grown up with Margaret of Anjou. She had been brought to the Count of Anjou's court at the age of six. Her mother was dead, her father remarrying, and if the truth be known, she had been considered an encumbrance by her surviving parent. She was three years older than Margaret, but the duchess thought that Blanche de Fleury had beautiful manners and would make a suitable companion for her daughter, Margaret.

At first Blanche was like an older sister to Margaret. But as the young girl grew, the two became friends. When Margaret was sent at the age of twelve to her paternal grandmother to be trained to be a queen, Blanche went with her, as did the young physician, Alexander Givet. But before they departed for Yolande of Aragon's household, it was decided that the young physician should be wed. The count's mother looked among her granddaughter's companions and concluded that the fifteen-year-old Blanche le Fleury was a sensible choice. She sent to the girl's father for his permission, although it was actually no more than a formality since the count approved the match his mother was proposing. It was, Alix's mother later told her, a fortunate match. She was acquainted with the young physician, and like most of the girls in Margaret's circle, Blanche thought Alexander Givet handsome. She was not unhappy to find herself his wife.

Her new husband was, at twenty-five, ten years her senior. And to her surprise, he was interested in what she thought and what she wanted. And Blanche did indeed know what she wanted. She wanted to remain with Margaret of Anjou. In this her husband concurred, for to go to England among the household retainers of its new queen was quite an honor. So Blanche took the potion her husband fed her each morning to prevent any children from being born, and she told no one, not even her confessor. And if the wise Yolande of Aragon suspected, she said nothing. Blanche le Fleury was an excellent influence on her granddaughter, and it was Yolande who made the decision that the physician Givet and his wife would be among those accompanying Margaret to England.

But once in England Alexander and his wife began to long for a child. Perhaps a son who would grow up with their queen's children. But their only child, a daughter, was born to them in April of 1446 while Margaret of Anjou remained childless until 1453. The English king was devout and shy of his young bride, who was acknowledged to be a beauty. Intelligent and vital, the young queen realized her husband's weaknesses at once. Henry was not suited to rule. Still, she became fond of him, and allied herself with the Beaufort-Suffolk faction at court to see her husband's position was protected by his competent relations while he pursued his religious and scholastic leanings, founding Eton College and King's College in Cambridge.

But Henry Plantagenet's weaknesses finally proved too much. His first bout with insanity occurred shortly after the birth of his only son, Prince Edward. In the year that followed, the next man in line for the throne following the king and his infant son, the Duke of York, reigned as Protector. Upon the king's recovery a year later, the queen and Edmund Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset, grew all-powerful. Almost immediately, rivalries between the Lancaster and York factions broke out. Edmund Beaufort was killed at the first battle of St. Albans in May of 1455.

A rough peace of sorts was made, but four years later the hostilities broke out once again. King Henry was captured at Northampton in the summer of 1460, and forced to accept the Duke of York as his heir, eliminating his own son, little Edward Plantagenet. Furious at this attempt to exclude her child from the succession, Queen Margaret rallied the Lancastrian forces and five months later won a victory at Wakefield, where the Duke of York was slain. Two months later the queen's forces won the second battle of St. Albans, freeing the king, who had been help captive by the Yorkists since the previous July.

But the king's victory over his rivals was brief. The Duke of York's heir was crowned King Edward IV two week later in London, formally deposing Henry Plantagenet. The new king then went on to drive the old king and his family up the length of England until they reached Towton, where the final battle had taken place. Now Henry Plantagenet, his wife, his son, and their few remaining followers rode north into the borders as the early spring snows swirled about them.

They were relying upon the hospitality of Sir Udolf Watteson, a Northumbrian baron of minor family and no court connections at all. Their brief presence in his home was unlikely to ever be noted by the powers that be because Sir Udolf was one of those unknown factors, being an unimportant man who, until the battle of Towton, had never even laid eyes on King Henry. He had little but his lands, which were rugged and not particularly arable, a stone house of no distinction, and nothing of value that would appeal to anyone. How did you punish a man like that even if those now in power down in London learned of his part in sheltering Henry Plantagenet? But it was unlikely King Edward would ever learn of Sir Udolf Watteson or that he sheltered the former king and his family. In the important scheme of things, the unknown baron didn't matter at all.