Jean Plaidy Read Online Free Page A

was awakened in the early morning by the clattering of horses’ hoofs and voices below. And then all was quiet.

    They were anxious days. My mother talked to us about the state of affairs in the country more than she ever had before. I think it was because she was afraid. With a Yorkist king on the throne we were all safe, but that could change suddenly. When I was very young, there had been an occasion when we had all had to leave with great speed for Calais, of which town my father held the captaincy. That was when, briefly, Henry was king again.
    Now I was eight years old and Isabel thirteen—of an age, I suppose, to understand a little of what was going on around us. Perhaps my mother thought that she should prepare us for a possible change in our fortunes.
    â€œIt is Margaret,” she said, as we sat over our needlework. “She is a persistent woman, and now she has a son who, she hopes, will inherit the throne one day and she is determined that he should do so.”
    â€œMy father will never allow that,” said Isabel.
    â€œIt might be beyond his control. There will be battles…and if it should go against him…oh, how I wish we could all be at peace!”
    â€œWe were until this woman landed,” said Isabel.
    â€œShe is the kind of woman who will never give up. She knows what she wants and is determined to get it—and that is the throne of England.”
    â€œTo get it she will have to beat our father and that she can never do,” said Isabel firmly.
    â€œIt has been done before,” our mother reminded her.
    â€œBut my father soon changed it.”
    â€œHe would be pleased to hear your confidence in him.”
    â€œHe is the king, really.”
    â€œHush, child! You should not say such a thing.”
    â€œBut one must speak the truth.”
    â€œOne must adhere to the truth but when it is dangerous to mention it it is better not to do so.”
    â€œMy father will soon have won,” said Isabel stoutly. “I do not want to go to Calais again.”
    â€œAlas, Isabel, it might not be what we want but what is thrust upon us.”
    I wondered why my mother was so apprehensive, and it occurred to me that it was because she was so much wiser than Isabel.
    â€œSo,” she went on. “We must pray for victory while we prepare for defeat.”
    After that she talked to us often about the situation.
    â€œIt was a pity Edward the Third had so many sons,” she said. “It makes too many claimants to the throne. Strange, is it not, that men crave for sons.” She looked a little sad and I felt I ought to apologize for being a daughter as well as Isabel, but I was glad to be reminded that some men could have too many.
    Poor Henry. She felt sorry for him. She was sure he did not want the crown. He would have been happy with religion, a life of contemplation. She had heard it said of him that he wished to be a monk or enter the Church. Perhaps if he had done that he would not have gone mad in the first place. And now he suffered from periodic attacks of insanity. It was the case of his grandfather, Charles the Mad of France, all over again. She wondered whether his madness had come to him through his mother, the family that lady was reputed to have had with Owen Tudor was equally affected.
    She ended up by telling us that our father was a very clever man; he was the most important and powerful man in England and while he was in control England would be safe. On the other hand, we must not think it would be too easy. There were enemies all around us and we must be prepared.
    But on this occasion we were saved from disaster. Messengers arrived at the castle. When news had reached Margaret that the Earl of Warwick, with the king, was marching on Bamborough, she immediately abandoned all thought of fighting and took to her ships. God must be looking after the Yorkists, for He sent a storm that shattered her fleet.
    It was victory. But not