The Godmother’s Secret

Chapter 5

Spring 1471 | The Tower of London

I stare dry-eyed and parch-mouthed across the slate-grey waters of the Thames. Gripping the leather strap nailed to the barge to steady against the chop, I am being rowed along the fast-flowing river to the Tower of London, as ordered by the king. Will he honour me now as his blood relative, as the church decrees? Or will he imprison me as his enemy, as politics dictate?

The queen’s words roll over and over in my mind, keeping time with the dipping oars pulling me closer to my destiny.

Peace, she said. But whose peace?

Henry VI, the last true king of the Lancastrian dynasty, is insensible under lock and key in the Tower, his queen fled in exile, his heir slaughtered by his own countrymen.

Peace? At what cost?

Destruction. Carnage. Annihilation. This is war’s legacy.

I shudder away from a vision of my husband bleeding into the tender grass of spring on Tewkesbury’s fields. I have yet to hear of Jack’s fate, and I cannot think of my own destiny without agonising about his. I am a soldier’s wife, and with that comes the deep and constant fear that gnaws every time he leads his army for the king.

“What will happen today, Belle-maman?” Meg’s voice is fractured by the shrieks of gulls squabbling over rubbish on the riverbank. Her green eyes reflect my concern, and I wish I could give her more than cold comfort.

“I stand before the king as his child’s godmother. And as his Lancastrian enemy.”

“But surely he knows you had no choice.”

“In my oath? Or in saving his son’s life?” And there lies the heart of the matter. If King Edward refutes my appointment, labels me King Henry’s spy, I do have a choice.

“You would not tell of the witchcraft of that night?”

“To save you and me from being imprisoned as Yorkest traitors?” I pull my cloak closer, brace myself against a gust that cuts like jagged glass against my throat. “I will know when I stand before the king. And my God.”

On the north bank, just an arrow’s flight away, York Palace slides by, immutable and blank-faced. As we turn the great bend that slings the river east to the cold German Sea, the spiteful headwind whips whitecaps across its broad stretch and the oarsmen strain against the tide. Fickle April has hidden its sunshine behind a shroud of clouds, and the cold creeps into my marrow and settles in my bones.

We travel by barge, for the streets are impassable with the crowds pouring from every home and merchant’s shop to celebrate the return of King Edward. London turns its back on King Henry and all those who follow him. This is a hostile world, and my time in sanctuary seems safe and sacred, for what does life hold for me now? Uncertainty churns my thoughts sour, and I find no comfort in freedom’s wide horizons.

The Lancastrian royal line is no more.

Except for Margaret. And her Tudor son.

I clutch the strap until it chafes my palm red. God’s wounds, Margaret carries the last of the royal Lancastrian blood in her veins. But as a mere woman, she cannot muster men to support her claim to the throne. England will not tolerate a warrior queen.

But Henry Tudor as a warrior prince? She would think so. “We are here, Belle-maman.” Meg’s soft voice carries over the slopping of water against the side of the barge. “We are at the Tower.”