Philippa Gregory - The Red Queen

Henry flashes him a tight, small smile.

“Let them get ahead.” Jasper nods to their own slowly advancing army. “Let them get out of sight and then double back. I’ll get them settled for the night and then come out for you. Do what you can with the Stanleys. I won’t show myself unless you get into trouble.”

“You don’t think they’d kill me?” Henry asks, as if it is a question of tactics.

Jasper sighs. “I don’t think so. I think they are more likely to tell you their terms. They must think you have a good chance; they wouldn’t even be meeting us if they were not intending to back you. I don’t like you meeting them alone, but with his son as hostage, Stanley has to be careful. You have your knife in your boot?”

“Of course.”

“And I won’t be far behind you. Godspeed, Your Grace. I’ll be just behind you. I’ll have you in earshot for most of the time.”

“God help us all,” Henry says bleakly. He checks the road ahead to see that the stragglers of his army have turned a corner and he is out of sight, then turns his own horse and rides away to meet the Stanley servant, waiting cloaked on his own horse, in the shadow of the hedgerow.

They ride in silence, Henry scanning the darkening landscape to be sure of finding his way back to his army. The servant gestures to a little roadside inn, the skeletal holly bush strapped over the door as a sign that it is open for poor business, and Henry dismounts. The servant takes his horse to the back of the building, and Henry ducks his head, takes a deep breath, and pushes open the door.

He blinks. The room is filled with smoke from the dirty rushlights and the greenwood fire, but he can make out Sir William and three other men. He can see no one else: there is no way of knowing whether to expect an ambush or a welcome. With a Breton shrug, Henry Tudor steps into the darkened room.

“Well met, Your Grace, my son.” A tall stranger stands up and drops to his knee before Henry.

Henry puts out a hand that shakes only slightly. The man kisses the glove, and the other two men, and Sir William, drop to their knees as well, pulling off their caps.

Henry finds he is grinning in relief. “Lord Stanley?”

“Yes, Your Grace, and my brother Sir William, whom you know, and these are men of my household for our safety.”

Henry gives Sir William his hand and nods at the other men. He has a sensation of having fallen from a very great height and somehow, luckily, landed on his feet.

“You are alone?”

“I am,” Henry lies.

Stanley nods. “I bring you greetings from your Lady Mother, who has pleaded your cause with me with such passion and determination from the very first day she did me the honor to marry me.”

Henry smiles. “I don’t doubt it. She has known of my destiny from my birth.”

The Stanleys get to their feet and the unnamed servant pours wine for Henry and then his master. Henry takes the glass farthest from the one he is offered and sits on a bench at the fireside.

“How many men do you have under your command?” he asks Stanley bluntly.

The older man takes a glass of wine. “About three thousand under my command; my brother has a further thousand.”

Henry keeps his face composed at the news of an army twice the size of his own. “And when will you join me?”

“When will you meet with the king?”

“Is he marching south?” Henry answers a question with a question of his own.

“He left Nottingham today. He has summoned me to join him. My son writes to me that he will answer with his life if I don’t go.”

Henry nods. “Then he will be upon us within-what? – the week?”

The Stanleys do not remark on Henry’s lack of knowledge of his own country. “Perhaps within two days,” Sir William says.

“Then you had better bring your troops up to mine so that we can pick out the battleground.”

“Certainly, we would do so,” Lord Stanley says, “but for the safety of my son.”

Henry waits.

“He is held by Richard as hostage for our support,” Stanley says. “Of course, I have commanded him to escape, and as soon as he is in safety, we will bring our army over to yours.”

“But if he escapes without getting word to you? The delay could be serious …”

“He won’t do that. He understands. He will get word to me.”

“And if he can’t escape?”

“Then we will have to join with you, and I will have to mourn my son as a man of courage, and the first of our family to die in your service,” Stanley says, his face grave.

“I will see him honored. I will see you rewarded,” Henry says hastily.

Stanley bows. “He is my son and heir,” he says softly.

There is silence in the little room. A log shifts on the fire, and in the flare of the flame Henry looks into the face of his stepfather. “Your army doubles the size of mine,” he says earnestly. “With your support there is no doubt that I can win. Our combined forces will outnumber Richard. You hold the key to England for me.”

“I know that,” Stanley says gently.

“You would command my gratitude.”

Stanley nods.

“I have to have your word that when I am on the battlefield, facing Richard, that I can count on your forces.”

“Of course,” Stanley says smoothly. “I have given my word to your mother, and now I give it to you. When you are on the battlefield, you may be sure that my army is yours to command.”

“And you will march to the battlefield with me?”

Regretfully, Stanley shakes his head. “As soon as my son is free,” he says. “You have my word on it. And if battle is joined before George can escape, then I will join with you and make the greatest sacrifice a man can make for his rightful king.”

And with this, Henry has to be content.

“Any good?” Jasper asks him, as Henry comes out of the inn and leads his horse from the poor shelter to mount him on the road.

Henry grimaces. “He says he will be there at the battle for me, but he cannot join us while his son is held by Richard. He says that the moment Lord Strange is free, he will come to us.”

Jasper nods, as if he expected this, and the two ride on in silence. The sky starts to lighten; it is the early summer dawn.

“I’ll go ahead,” Jasper decides. “See if we can get you into camp without anyone noticing.”

Henry turns his horse to the side and waits while Jasper trots into camp. At once, there is a flurry of activity; obviously they have already missed Henry and are in a panic that he has run away. Henry sees Jasper get down from his horse, gesticulate as if explaining that he has been riding around. The Earl of Oxford comes out of his tent to join the conference. Henry spurs his horse onwards and rides towards his camp.

Jasper turns. “Thank God you are here, Your Grace! We were all anxious. Your page says your bed has not been slept in. I have been out looking for you. But I was just telling my Lord de Vere that for sure you were meeting some supporters who are coming over to our cause.”

A sharp look from Jasper’s blue eyes prompts Henry to take up the story. “Indeed, I was,” Henry says. “I cannot give their names for now, but be assured that more and more are coming to our cause. And this new recruit will bring in many men.”

“Hundreds?” asks the Earl of Oxford, glancing around at their small army with a worried scowl.

“Thousands, praise God,” says young Henry Tudor, smiling confidently.

Later that day, with the army on the move again, shuffling through the dust of the dry roads and complaining of the heat, Jasper brings his warhorse alongside Henry. “Your Grace, give me leave,” he says.