Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors by Conn Iggulden Page B

little else beyond the clothes on her back.
    The thought made anger blaze in her even then, after years. How strange to have the French king show her moremercy and kindness than her own father! They called King Louis the Universal Spider, for all his clever plans and his schemes. Yet he had visited a stipend on Margaret and allowed her to take rooms at the Louvre Palace in his capital, complete with the servants whose manners had changed so abruptly over the last month. She and her son had been little
moules
on his ship of state, it was true. Yet Warwick had kept his word and her husband had been freed from the Tower.
    ‘And Henry wears the crown once more,’ she whispered to herself. It was not just the answer to her prayers, it was the result of years of work. She inclined her head, staring out of a window lined in gold leaf, each delicate flake pasted on by a master who did no other work. She could see her own reflection as she focused more closely. Time had stolen the youthful bloom from her skin, clawing at her. She smoothed her hair with a palm as she examined herself, but each day required a little more artistry with paint and powder – and even then her teeth had either been drawn or grown brown. She snorted to herself, irritated at the signs of a weakness she did not feel. She was in no pain, which was a blessing. Forty was the beginning of old age, especially for one who had seen and lost so much in the quarter century she had given to England. Yet she had been given another throw in return.
    Even after so long, she did not know for certain that she could trust Warwick.
    ‘Show me,’ she had said, when he made his promises, imperious and unbending. His father had been killed by her men, that was what troubled her and made her fear. Salisbury had fallen together with York – and though she’d felt only triumph at that moment, it had been her greatest failure. In bringing down the fathers, she had unleashed the sons.
    Could Warwick ever forgive? He had no love for her, sheunderstood that much. The bare truth seemed to be that he had no other choice, now that he had fallen out with Edward and his precious, traitorous house of York. He said he wished to undo the pain and grief he had caused. As if that was ever possible.
    Margaret sniffed, the first sign of the winter colds that plagued her each year for months. A life was lived like paths forking in the deep forest. Each choice was made and a man or woman had to go on, with no opportunity to return and find a way back to some happier time. All they could do was stumble deeper and deeper in, blind and weeping.
    Yet Warwick had promised to free Henry of Lancaster, the true king of England – and he had. He had promised to put a crown on Henry’s bowed head and her spies swore he had done so. That was why the courtiers who had sneered at her faded finery now looked abashed. Her husband was once again the king of England; her enemies were hunted down. She raised her head a fraction further, feeling the strain in her neck. She had been bowed down, for too long. She could look at herself in a glass, the odd doll of her reflection staring steadily back – and feel no shame.
    All Warwick had asked was that his remaining daughter be married to her son. Margaret had laughed when he’d first broached the idea. His oldest daughter was already married to George of Clarence. Seeing a second girl wed to Lancaster would give Warwick a son-in-law in both camps. Some bloodline boy of his could even be king of England when they were all gone. His ambition was greater than she had ever known and Margaret could only sigh at the things she could have told her younger self. The paths all lay behind, the decisions made, for good or ill.
    Her son entered the room at the far end, his spurred boots muffled on the carpets. Servants bowed as he appeared andagain, Margaret saw that they were suitably respectful. Her beautiful young Edward was once more Prince of Wales.
    ‘Have you heard