Well, it had not turned out to be so and here she was an exile in France...waiting...waiting for the moment which she still believed would come.

When they had arrived in Scotland straight from York at that terrible time they had found it necessary to keep the promise she had made to surrender Berwick to the Scots. Of course, the English hated her for that. She knew of course that they would consider it treason. But she had been forced to find a refuge for them. She had the King and the heir to the throne to consider. Berwick was surely a small price to pay for their safety.

She had quickly realized that her only hope lay with her native land, with her own people. She would go to France, she told Henry. She would muster help. Then with an army behind her she would come back. Pierre de Brézé would help. She would rally their loyal supporters in the North and they would march against the usurper.

Henry had shaken his head in sorrow. He wanted only to live in peace.

But her indomitable spirit would not be stilled. For the first time she had parted from her son. What an agony that had been! Every day she had been uneasy, wondering what was happening to him. She had made up her mind that once they were together again they should never more be parted.

It was hard to come as a suppliant. She had so looked forward to reunion with her father and how warmly he had greeted her! He had changed little; he was still the same optimistic failure. Margaret’s mother had died some nine years before and he had married again. He was absorbed by his young wife, Jeanne de Laval, and it very soon became clear to Margaret that although her lather would give lavish entertainments for her which he could ill afford, he was not really interested in helping her regain the throne. A glazed look would come into his eyes when she broached the matter. He agreed that it was a fearful thing which had happened, and Edward of York was a traitor who should pay for his wickedness with his head. Words...all words. But of course what she should have expected of René.

It was a pleasure to see her sister Yolande yet sad to hear from her the account of their mother’s death. Yolande and her husband Ferri de Vaudémont had nursed Isabelle through a long illness. ‘It was terrible to see her suffering,’ said Yolande. ‘You were spared that, Margaret.’

For a few days they were inseparable, recalling old days— such as they could remember, but after a while Margaret realized how far she and her sister had grown apart. Yolande thought her obsessed by revenge and overbearing, and Ferri agreed with his wife. After all, Yolande had not been brought up by that forceful grandmother.

There had been another blow. Margaret’s uncle, the King of France, had died. He had always been fond of Margaret and she had been relying on that tenderness. Now that the Dauphin Louis was the King, it was a different matter. Louis was artful, already earning the nickname of The Spider; he was not so enamoured of his cousin as his father had been and was certainly not going to put himself out to help her.

There had been one faithful friend, Pierre de Brézé. Ah, Pierre. He had been her constant friend; he had always had such a regard for her that she sometimes thought he was in love with her. He had changed...not in his regard for her, but he had suffered a short term of imprisonment in the Château of Loches, for on the death of King Charles, Louis had remembered old scores and attempted to settle them. Fortunately for Pierre and Margaret he had quickly been released.

Louis had not shown any animosity to Margaret. In fact he had greeted her with a show of affection, calling her cousin, and giving entertainments for her at his court; but as Pierre had warned her, one could not be sure of Louis. His methods were secretive.

It had been a great joy when Jasper Tudor had arrived in France with Sir John Fortescue who had been another faithful friend. Negotiations had then begun with Louis who made it clear that if Pierre de Brézé was to help Margaret there must naturally be some compensation. Louis knew exactly what he wanted. Calais. The transfer had been hinted at before; now he wanted Margaret to complete documents which would give that important town to him.

There had been long consultation and expressions of apprehension from Jasper and John Fortescue who knew that if Margaret signed Calais away the English would never forgive her. She must not, said Jasper. But, Margaret had reasoned, what did it matter? Calais was in the hands of the English; Warwick was the captain still; she might sign it away but that would not necessarily give it to the French. The situation was desperate for they could do nothing without the help of France.

Finally she agreed that when the Lancastrians recovered

Calais, Jasper should immediately be made captain. Louis would lend her twenty thousand livres and if that sum was not repaid immediately Calais would be his.

It was the best bargain Louis could get and he was sure in due course Calais would be his.

She would never forget that cold October day when she sailed from Barfleur with fifty ships and the two thousand men whom Louis had allowed her to raise. She had believed up till then that all she had to do was land. Alas, it was not so. Ill luck dogged her. Although she did manage to land at Tynemouth people did not come flocking to her banner and she quickly realized that survival meant sailing with all speed for Scotland. Greater ill fortune awaited her; her ships were lost—money, supplies, everything. Men were drowned and some washed ashore to give themselves up to Edward’s men.

She and Pierre managed to reach Berwick where she was greeted with the news that Edward was marching north.

That was not all. The Scots were less inclined to offer hospitality now. Berwick was in their hands. What else had she to surrender to them and make their help worthwhile? Mary of Gueldres wanted to be friendly; she was sorry for Margaret, but what could she do? She had difficulties of her own.

News came from France that Louis was no longer so friendly. The Duke of Burgundy had made it clear to the King of France that he did not approve of his supporting Margaret’s cause. Edward was King and seemed firm on the throne; trade between Burgundy and England was important. The Duke could make trouble in France if the King persisted in his policies against Edward in Margaret’s favour.

Louis was wily. He wanted no trouble at this time with Burgundy so he made it clear that no more help could come from him.

It seemed that God had deserted her. Her only joy was in her son. He was so delighted to be with her. He was growing up and she promised herself that when he was a man everything would be different, for her troops would then have a leader whom they could follow. She was sure that her Edward would possess all those virtues which were necessary in a leader. It was said that the usurper, that other Edward, had them; but everyone knew what a wild life he led; the wives of the London merchants were not safe from his lechery. What was maddening was that when people talked of it they did so with a twinkle in their eyes as though this was some virtue. It was because he was said to be so charming and handsome to look at. As if they could be an excuse for his monstrous behaviour! But sometimes it seemed to Margaret that they were bemused by him. It would not always be so, but in the meantime her Edward was but a boy and there was a crown to be won.

There had been a brief moment of hope when de Brézé had marched with her into England and captured Alnwick Castle. But how short-lived that triumph had been. The Earl of Warwick had come marching north and within a lamentably short time had recaptured the castle and she had been forced to retreat in haste, her army in disorder. It was at this time that one of the most terrifying moments of her life had occurred. She had been with Edward alone in the forest, lost for the moment. She kept Edward with her always and at such times would never allow him out of her sight. She had known that some of her friends were not far off but temporarily she had lost her way. The trees were so thick. They all looked alike and she was not sure which way to turn. And as she stood there holding her son’s hand tightly in her own, from among the trees there appeared the most hideous man she had ever seen. Perhaps it was some fearful disease which had enlarged his features; he seemed enormous, and he was quite terrifying.

Edward had shrunk near to her and she had put a protective arm about him. The touch of her own son gave her an even greater courage than was usually hers, though she had never been easily afraid and had always trusted in her own powers of survival.

He was a robber, this creature, an outlaw...living apart from his fellows, bearing a grudge against them for making him an outcast because of his grotesque appearance. He approached, a knife in his hands.

She dared not show her fear. She had to protect her son. Instead of retreating, she held Edward firmly by the hand and approached the robber.

‘My friend,’ she said, ‘this is the son of your King. We are lost in the forest. We are in retreat from our enemies. I know you will save him.’

The robber had paused. That he was astonished was clear. He must have been startled to find himself face to face with the Queen.

He stammered: ‘You place yourself in danger wandering through these woods.’

‘That we know, and we do it because there is nothing else left to us.’

‘If you go on you will be captured by soldiers. The woods are full of them.’

I know,’ said Margaret.

‘Would you trust me?’

She looked at him fearlessly. ‘I would,’ she answered.