Rebellion Read Free Page B

piracy he had undertaken without any authority, plundering the south coast of England.
     On one occasion he had burned the town of Sandwich, his men playing tennis afterwards in
     the smoking ruins. Of course, the English had blamed her for this as well. And Louis had
     imprisoned him, in an unaccountable show of solidarity with the new Yorkist regime. But
     de Brézé failed to look penitent. He passed a hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘I
     look like a man who would do many things for his queen,’ he said.
    â€˜Louis should not have imprisoned you,’ said
     the queen. Then she sat down at a little table and indicated that he too should sit.
     ‘Tell me,’ she said in a low voice, ‘what else did he say?’
    â€˜My lady, I have not seen the king. I was
     told only that I was being released, and that I could come to you. And so I came.’
    The queen did not know what to make of this.
     What game was Louis playing? But before she could speak, de Brézé continued,‘Enough of me. Tell me about your situation.’ And there was an
     expression of such tender concern on his face that the queen felt an impulse to
     weep.
    She controlled it, however, and spoke quite
     calmly as she told him about everything that had happened in the past year – the battles
     she’d fought, the immense march south from Scotland to St Albans. Half the country had
     flocked to her cause, and she’d won a great victory. But then London had closed its
     gates against her and she’d been forced to retreat. And as she’d retreated, the Earl of
     March, son of the great traitor Richard of York, had entered London and declared himself
     king by consent of the citizens who had believed his lies, and the lies of Warwick. And
     then they’d fought the greatest battle of all, Towton, on Palm Sunday in the whirling
     snow, and so many had been slaughtered that the corpses were strewn all the way to York
     on a road some nine miles long and three wide.
    â€˜Many of our supporters are gone,’ she said,
     emotional now.
    De Brézé leaned forward and took her hand.
     ‘And you?’ he said. ‘How did you escape?’
    They had escaped by torchlight, riding north
     into Scotland through dense forest, as though all the hosts of hell were behind them.
     They’d been besieged at Wark Castle, relieved only by retainers of the Earl of
     Northumberland, and had escaped through a small gate at the back of the castle. From
     there they’d ridden to Berwick and Galloway. And then her husband the king had been too
     ill and devastated to proceed further. He had taken refuge in the convent at
     Kirkcudbright, while the queen and her son had gone to the Scottish court, where Mary of
     Guelders had given them a somewhat distant welcome. Then they had stayed wherever room
     could be found for them.
    The Yorkists had not been idle, of course.
     Warwick had been sent north to retake the castles of Bamburgh, Alnwick and Dunstanburgh.
     He had made the Scots promise they would give no military aid to the Lancastrians. And
     now he had managed tosecure a truce between the House of York and the
     young Scottish king, James III.
    â€˜But they cannot ignore the betrothal,’ she
     said. Her son, the rightful prince, was betrothed to Margaret Stewart, sister of James
     III.
    While all this was happening, she, Margaret
     of Anjou, had sent emissaries to France to ask for aid from her uncle Charles VII. But
     then, of course, came the greatest blow. Her beloved uncle had died and was replaced by
     her less-beloved cousin Louis. The news had taken a long time to reach her because Louis
     had imprisoned her emissaries, including the Duke of Somerset, and their letters to her
     had been intercepted. And then, equally mysteriously, Louis had released the prisoners,
     welcomed them to his court and offered help to the Earl of Oxford, whose uprising had
     failed.
    Her uncle had offered de