The White Queen

JUNE 1483

Hastings’s reassurances do not delay me. I am set on war against Richard. I shall destroy him, and free my son and my brother and release the young king. I shall not wait, obedient as Hastings suggests, for Richard to crown Edward. I don’t trust him, and I don’t trust the Privy Council or the citizens of London, who are waiting, as turncoats, to join the winning side. I shall put us on the attack and we should take him by surprise.

“Send the message to your uncle Edward,” I say to Thomas, my younger Grey son. “Tell him to bring in the fleet battle-ready, and we will come out of sanctuary and raise the people. The duke sleeps at Baynard’s Castle with his mother. Edward must bombard the castle while we break into the Tower and get Edward our prince.”

“What if Richard means nothing but to crown him?” he asks me. He is starting to write the message in code. Our messenger is waiting in hiding, ready to ride to the fleet, who are standing by in the deep water of the Downs.

“Then Richard is dead and we crown Edward anyway,” I say. “Perhaps we have killed a loyal friend and a York prince, but that will be ours to mourn later. Our time is now. We can’t wait for him to strengthen his command of London. Half the country will still not even have heard that King Edward is dead. Let us finish Duke Richard before his rule lasts any longer.”

“I should like to recruit some of the lords,” he says.

“Do what you can,” I say indifferently. “I have word from Lady Margaret Stanley that her husband is ours though he seems to be Richard’s friend. You can ask him. But those who did not rise for us as Richard came into London can die with him, for all I care. They are traitors to me and to the memory of my husband. Those who survive this battle will be tried for treason and beheaded.”

Thomas looks up at me. “Then you are declaring war again,” he says. “We Riverses and our placemen, our cousins and kinsfolk and affinity against the lords of England with Duke Richard, your brother-in-law, at their head. This is York against York now. It will be a bitter struggle and hard to end once it has started. Hard to win, as well.”

“It has to be started,” I reply grimly. “And I have to win.”

The whore Elizabeth Shore is not the only one who comes to me with whispered news. My sister Katherine, wife of the prideful Duke of Buckingham, my former ward, comes on a family visit, bringing good wine and some early raspberries from Kent.

“Your Grace, my sister,” she says to me, curtseying low.

“Sister Duchess,” I reply coolly. We married her to the Duke of Buckingham when he was an angry orphan of only nine. We won her thousands of acres of land and the greatest title in England, short of prince. We showed him that, although he was as proud as a peacock chick of his great name, greater by far than ours, still we had the power to choose his wife, and it amused me to take his ancient name and give it to my sister. Katherine was lucky to be made a duchess by my favor, while I was a queen. And now the circle of fortune goes round and round and she finds herself married not to a resentful boy but to a man of nearly thirty, who is now the best friend of the lord protector of England, and I am a widowed queen, in hiding, with my enemy in power.

She links her arm in mine as she used to do when we were girls at Grafton and we drift over to the window to look out at the sluggish water. “They are saying you were married by witchcraft,” she says, her lips hardly moving. “And they are finding someone to swear that Edward was married to another woman before you.”

I meet her frowning gaze. “It’s an old scandal. It doesn’t trouble me.”

“Please. Listen. I may not be able to come again. My husband grows in power and importance. I think he will send me away to the country, and I cannot disobey him. Listen to me. They have Robert Stillington, the Bishop of Bath and Wells-”

“But he is our man,” I interrupt, forgetting that there is no “us” anymore.

“He was your man. Not anymore. He was Edward’s chancellor, but now he is the duke’s great friend. He assures him, as he told George, Duke of Clarence, that Edward was married to Dame Eleanor Butler before he was married to you, and that she had his legitimate son.”

I turn my face away. This is the price I pay for having an incontinent husband. “In truth, I think he promised her marriage,” I whisper. “He may even have gone through a ceremony with her. Anthony always thought so.”

“That’s not all.”

“What more?”

“They are saying that Edward the king was not even his father’s son. He was a bastard foisted on his father.”

“That scandal again?”

“That again.”

“And who is serving up these cold old meats?”

“It is the Duke Richard, and my husband, talking everywhere. But worse, I think the king’s mother Cecily is ready to confess in public that your husband was a bastard. I think she will do it to put her son Richard on the throne-and your son to one side. Duke Richard and my husband are claiming everywhere that your husband was a bastard, and his son too. That makes Duke Richard the next true heir.”

I nod. Of course. Of course. Then we will be banished into exile and Duke Richard becomes King Richard and his whey-faced son takes my handsome boy’s place.

“And worst of all,” she whispers, “the duke suspects you of raising your own army. He has warned the council that you plan to destroy him and all the old lords of England. And so he has sent to York for men loyal to him. He is bringing an army of northerners down on us.”

I feel my grip on her arm tighten. “I am raising my people,” I confirm. “I have my plans. When do the men from the north arrive?”

“He has just sent for them,” she says. “They cannot be here for a few days yet. Perhaps a week, perhaps more. Are you ready to rise now?”

“No,” I breathe. “Not yet.”

“I don’t know what you can do from here. Had you not better come out and go before the Privy Council yourself? Do any of the lords or Privy Council come to you? Do you have a plan?”

I nod. “Be sure we have plans. I shall get Edward released, and I shall smuggle my boy Richard away to safety at once. I am bribing the guards at the Tower to free Edward. He has good men about him. I can trust them to look the other way. My Grey son Thomas is going to escape from here. He will go to Sheriff Hutton to rescue his brother Richard Grey and his uncle Anthony, and then they will arm and come back and release us all. They will raise our people. We will win this.”

“You will get the boys away first?”

“Edward planned our escapes years ago, before they were even born. I swore I would keep the boys safe, whatever happened. Remember we came to the throne through such battles; he never thought we were safe. We were always prepared for danger. Even if Richard would not hurt them, I cannot have him holding them and telling the world they are bastards. Our brother Sir Edward will bring in the fleet to attack Duke Richard, and one of the ships will take the boys to Margaret in Flanders and they will be safe there.”

She grips my elbow and her face is white. “Dearest…oh Elizabeth! Dear God! You don’t know?”

“What? What now?”

“Our brother Edward is lost. His fleet mutinied against him in favor of the lord protector.”

For a moment I am numb with shock. “Edward?” I turn to her and grip her hands. “Is he dead? Have they killed our brother Edward?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know for sure. I don’t think anyone knows. Certainly he is not proclaimed dead. He was not executed.”

“Who turned the men against him?”

“Thomas Howard.” She names the rising nobleman who has joined Richard’s cause hoping for profit and place. “He went among the fleet. They were doubtful at putting to sea anyway. They turned against the Rivers command. Our family is hated by many of the common people.”

“Lost,” I say. Still I cannot take in the enormity of our defeat. “We have lost Edward, and lost the fleet, and lost the treasure he was carrying,” I whisper. “I was counting on him to rescue us. He was going to come up the river and take us to safety. And the treasure would have bought us an army in Flanders and paid our supporters here. And the fleet was to bombard London and take it from the river.”

She hesitates, and then, as if my despair had brought her to a decision, she puts her hand inside her cape and brings out a scrap of thread, a corner of a kerchief. She gives it to me.

“What’s this?”

“It is a scrap I cut from Duke Richard’s napkin when he dined with my husband,” she says. “He held it in his right hand; he wiped his mouth.” She lowers her voice and her eyes. She was always frightened of our mother’s powers. She never wanted to learn any of our skills. “I thought you could use it,” she says. “I thought perhaps you might use it.” She hesitates. “You have to stop the Duke of Gloucester. He grows in power every day. I thought you might make him sick.”

“You cut this from the duke’s napkin?” I ask incredulously. Katherine always hated any sort of conjuring; she would never even have her fortune told by the gypsies at the fair.

“It is for Anthony,” she whispers fiercely. “I am so afraid for our brother Anthony. You will keep the boys safe, I know. You will get them away. But the duke has Anthony in his power, and both my husband and the duke hate him so much. They envy him for his learning and his bravery and because he is so beloved, and they are afraid of him, and I love him so much. You have to stop the duke, Elizabeth. Truly you do. You have to save Anthony.”

I whisk it into my sleeve so that no one, not even the children, can see it. “Leave this with me,” I say. “Don’t even think about it. You have too honest a face, Katherine. Everyone will know what I am doing if you don’t put it right out of your mind.”

She gives a nervous giggle. “I never could lie.”

“Forget everything about it.”

We walk back to the front door. “Go with God,” I say to her. “And pray for me and our boys.”

The smile drains from her face. “These are dark days for us Riverses,” she says. “I pray you keep your children safe, sister, and yourself.”

“He will be sorry that he started this,” I predict. For a moment I pause, for suddenly, like a vision, I see Richard looking as young as a lost boy, staggering in the midst of a battlefield, his great sword slack in his weakened hand. He is looking around for friends, and he has none. He is looking around for his horse, but his horse has gone. He is trying to summon his strength, but he has none. The shock on his face would make anyone pity him.

The moment passes and Katherine touches my hand. “What is it? What do you see?”

“I see that he will be sorry that he started this,” I say quietly. “It will be the end of him and his house.”

“And us?” she asks, peering into my face, as if she could see what I had seen. “Anthony? And all of us?”

“And us too, I am afraid.”

That night when it is midnight and dark as dark, I get up from my bed and take the scrap of linen that Katherine gave me. I see the smear of food where the duke wiped his lips and I bring it to my nose and sniff at it. Meat, I think, though he is an abstemious eater and no drinker. I twist the material into a cord and I tie it round my right arm so tightly that I can feel the arm ache. I go to bed and in the morning the white flesh of my arm is blue with a bruise and my fingers are prickly with pins and needles. I can feel the arm ache and, as I untie it, I moan with the pain. I feel the weakness in my arm as I throw the cord in the fire. “So weaken,” I say to the flame. “Lose your strength. Let your right arm fail, let your sword arm grow weak, let your hand lose its grip. Take one breath and feel it catch in your chest. Take another and feel choked. Sicken and weary. And burn up like this.” The cord flares in the fireplace, and I watch it burn away.

My brother Lionel comes to me in the early morning. “I have had a letter from the council. They beg us to come out of sanctuary and to send your son Prince Richard to be with his brother in the royal rooms in the Tower.”

I turn to the window and look at the river as if it might bring me advice. “I don’t know,” I say. “No. I don’t want both princes in their uncle’s hands.”

“There is no doubt that the coronation is going to happen,” he says. “All the lords are in London, the robes are being made, the abbey is ready. We should come out now and take our rightful place. Hiding here we look as if we are guilty of something.”

I nibble on my lip. “Duke Richard is one of the sons of York,” I say. “He saw the three suns burning in the sky as they rode to victory together. You cannot think he will walk away from the chance of ruling England. You cannot think he will hand over all the power of the kingdom to a young boy.”

“I think he will rule England through your son if you are not there to prevent it,” he says bluntly. “He will put him on the throne and have him as his puppet. He will be another Warwick, another Kingmaker. He does not want the throne for himself-he wants to be regent and lord protector. He will call himself regent and rule through your son.”

“Edward will be king from the moment he is crowned,” I say. “We will see who he will listen to then!”

“Richard can refuse to hand over power till Edward is twenty-one,” he says. “He can command the kingdom as regent for the next eight years. We have to be there, represented in the Privy Council, protecting our interests.”

“If I could be sure my son is safe.”

“If Richard was going to kill him, he would have done it at Stony Stratford when they arrested Anthony, and there was no one to protect him, and no witness but Buckingham,” Lionel says flatly. “But he did not. Instead, he went down on his knee and swore an oath of loyalty to him and brought him in honor to London. It is we who have created mistrust. I am sorry, Sister: it is you. I have never argued with you in my life, you know this. But you are mistaken now.”

“Oh, easy for you to say,” I say irritably. “I have seven children to protect, and a kingdom to rule.”

“Then rule it,” he says. “Take up your royal rooms in the Tower and attend your son’s coronation. Sit on your throne and command the duke, who is nothing more than your brother-in-law and the guardian of your son.”

I am brooding on this. Perhaps Lionel is right and I should be at the heart of the planning for the coronation, winning men over to the side of the new king, promising them favors and honors at his court. If I come out now with my beautiful children and make my court again, I can rule England through my son. I should claim our place, not hide in fear. I think: I can do this. I need not go to war to win my throne. I can do this as a reigning queen, as a beloved queen. The people are mine for the taking: I can win them over. Perhaps I should come out of sanctuary into the summer sunshine, and take up my place.

There is a little tap at the door and a man’s voice says, “Confessor for the dowager queen.”

I open the grille. There is a father of the Dominican order, his hood up so his face is hidden. “I am ordered to come to you to hear your confession,” he says.

“Enter, Father,” I say, and open the door wide to him. He comes in quietly, his sandals making no noise on the flagstones. He bows and waits for the door to be closed behind him.

“I am come on the order of Bishop Morton,” he says quietly. “If anyone asks you, I came to offer you a chance to confess, and you spoke to me of a sin of sadness and excessive grief, and I counseled you against despair. Agreed?”

“Yes, Father,” I say.

He passes me a slip of paper. “I shall wait ten minutes and then leave,” he says. “I am not allowed to take a reply.”

He goes to the stool by the door and sits, waiting for the time to pass. I take the note to the window for the light, and as the river gurgles beneath the window I read it. It is sealed with the crest of the Beauforts. It is from Margaret Stanley, my former lady-in-waiting. Despite being Lancaster born and bred, and mother to their heir, she and her husband Thomas Stanley have been loyal to us for the last eleven years. Perhaps she will stay loyal. Perhaps she will even take my side against Duke Richard. Her interests lie with me. She was counting on Edward to forgive her son his Lancaster blood and let him come home from his exile in Brittany. She spoke to me of a mother’s love for her boy and how she would give anything to have him home again. I promised her that it would happen. She has no reason to love Duke Richard. She might well think her chances of getting her boy home are better if she stays friends with me and supports my return to power.

But she has written nothing of a conspiracy nor words of support. She has written only a few lines:

Anne Neville is not journeying to London for the coronation. She has not ordered horses or guards for the journey. She has not been fitted for special robes for the coronation. I thought you would like to know. M S

I hold the letter in my hand. Anne is sickly and her son is weak. She might prefer to stay at home. But Margaret, Lady Stanley, has not gone to all this trouble and danger to tell me this. She wants me to know that Anne Neville is not hastening to London for the grand coronation, for there is no need for her to make haste. If she is not coming, it will be at her husband Richard’s command. He knows that there will be nothing to attend. If Richard has not ordered his wife to London in time for the coronation, the most important event of the new reign, then it must be because he knows that a coronation will not take place.

I stare out at the river for a long, long time and think what this means for me and my two precious royal sons. Then I go and kneel before the friar. “Bless me, Father,” I say, and I feel his gentle hand come down on my head.

The serving maid who goes out to buy the bread and meat every day comes home, her face white, and speaks to my daughter Elizabeth. My girl comes to me.

“Lady Mother, Lady Mother, can I speak with you?”

I am looking out of the window, brooding on the water as if I hope Melusina might rise out of the summertime sluggish flow and advise me. “Of course, sweetheart. What is it?”

Something about her taut urgency warns me.

“I don’t understand what is happening, Mother, but Jemma has come home from the market and says there is some story of a fight in the Privy Council, an arrest. A fight in the council room! And Sir William…” She runs out of breath.

“Sir William Hastings?” I name Edward’s dearest friend, the sworn defender of my son, and my newfound ally.

“Yes, him. Mother, they are saying in the market that he is beheaded.”

I hold the stone windowsill as the room swims. “He can’t be-she must have it wrong.”

“She says that the Duke Richard found a plot against him, and arrested two great men and beheaded Sir William.”

“She must be mistaken. He is one of the greatest men in England. He cannot be beheaded without trial.”

“She says so,” she whispers. “She says that they took him out and took off his head on a piece of lumber on Tower Green, without warning, without trial, without charge.”

My knees give way beneath me and she catches me as I fall. The room goes dark to me, and then I see her again, her headdress knocked aside, her fair hair spilling down, my beautiful daughter looking into my face, and whispering, “Lady Mother, Mama, speak to me. Are you all right?”

“I’m all right,” I say. My throat is dry, and I find I am lying on the floor with her arm supporting me. “I am all right, sweetheart. But I thought I heard you say…I thought you said…I thought you said that Sir William Hastings is beheaded?”

“So Jemma said, Mother. But I didn’t think you even liked him.”

I sit up, my head aching. “Child, this is no longer a question of liking. This lord is your brother’s greatest defender, the only defender who has approached me. He doesn’t like me, but he would lay down his life to put your brother on the throne and keep his word to your father. If he is dead, we have lost our greatest ally.”

She shakes her head in bewilderment. “Could he have done something very wrong? Something that offended the lord protector?”

There is a light tap at the door and we all freeze. A voice calls in French, “C’est moi.”

“It’s a woman, open the door,” I say. For a moment I had been certain it was Richard’s headsman, now come for us, with Hastings’s blood unwiped on the blade of his axe. Elizabeth runs to open the lantern door in the big wooden gate and the whore Elizabeth Shore slips in, a hood over her fair head, a cloak wrapped tight around her rich brocade gown. She curtseys low to me, as I am still huddled on the floor. “You’ve heard then,” she says shortly.

“Hastings is not dead?”

Her eyes are filled with tears but she is succinct. “Yes, he is. That’s why I’ve come. He was accused of treason against Duke Richard.”

Elizabeth my daughter drops to her knees beside me and takes my icy hand in hers.

“Duke Richard accused Sir William of conspiring his death. He said that William had procured a witch to act against him. The duke said that he is out of breath and falling sick and that he is losing his strength. He said he has lost the strength in his sword arm, and he bared his arm in the council chamber and showed it to Sir William from the wrist to his shoulder, and said surely he could see it was withering away. He says he is under an enchantment from his enemies.”

My eyes stay on her pale face. I don’t even glance at the fireplace where the twist of linen from the duke’s napkin was burned, after I tied it around my forearm, and then cursed it, to rob him of breath and strength, to make his sword arm weak as a hunchback’s.

“Who does he name as the witch?”

“You,” she says. I feel Elizabeth flinch.

And then she adds, “And me.”

“The two of us acting in concert?”

“Yes,” she says simply. “That’s why I came to warn you. If he can prove you are a witch, can he break sanctuary, and take you and your children out of here?”

I nod. He can.

And in any case, I remember the battle of Tewkesbury, when my own husband broke sanctuary with no reason or explanation, and dragged wounded men out of the abbey and butchered them in the graveyard and then went into the abbey and killed some more on the altar steps. They had to scrub the chancel floor clean of the blood; they had to resanctify the whole place, it was so fouled with death.

“He can,” I say. “Worse has been done before.”

“I must go,” she says fearfully. “He may be watching me. William would have wanted me to do what I can to keep your children safe, but I can do no more. I should tell you: Lord Stanley did what he could to save William. He warned him that the duke would act against him. He had a dream that they would be gored by a boar with bloody tusks. He warned William. It was just that William didn’t think it would be so fast…” The tears are running down her cheeks now and her voice is choked. “So unjust,” she whispers. “And against such a good man. To have soldiers drag him from council! To take off his head without even a priest! No time to pray!”

“He was a good man,” I concede.

“Now that he is gone you have lost a protector. You are all in grave danger,” she states. “As am I.”

She pulls the hood back over her hair and goes to the door. “I wish you well,” she says. “And Edward’s boys. If I can serve you, I will. But in the meantime I must not be seen coming to you. I dare not come again.”

“Wait,” I say. “Did you say Lord Stanley remains loyal to the young King Edward?”

“Stanley, Bishop Morton, and Archbishop Rotherham are all imprisoned by order of the duke, suspected of working for you and yours. Richard thinks they have been plotting against him. The only men left free in the council now are those who will do the duke’s bidding.”

“Has he run mad?” I ask incredulously. “Has Richard run mad?”

She shakes her head. “I think he has decided to claim the throne,” she says simply. “D’you remember how the king used to say that Richard always did what he promised? That if Richard swore he would do something it was done-cost what it may?”

I don’t like to have this woman quoting my husband to me, but I agree.

“I think Richard has made his decision, I think he has promised to himself. I think he has decided that the best thing for him, and for England, is a strong new king and not a boy of twelve. And now he has made up his mind, he will do whatever it takes to put himself on the throne. Cost what it may.”

She opens the door a crack and peers out. She picks up the basket to make it look as if she was delivering goods to us. She peeps back at me around the door. “The king always said that Richard would stop at nothing once he had agreed a plan,” she says. “If he stops at nothing now, you will not be safe. I hope you can make yourself safe, Your Grace, you and the children…you and Edward’s boys.” She dips a little curtsey and whispers, “God bless you for his sake,” and the door clicks behind her and she has gone.

I don’t hesitate. It is as if the thud of axe through Hastings’s neck on Tower Green is a trumpet blast that signals the start of a race. But this is a race to get my son to safety from the threat of his uncle, who is now on a path of murder. There is no doubt in my mind anymore that Duke Richard will kill both my sons to make his way clear to the throne. I would not give a groat for the life of George’s son, either, wherever he is housed. I saw Richard go into the room of the sleeping King Henry to kill a defenseless man because his claim to the throne was as good as Edward’s. There is no doubt in my mind that Richard will follow the same logic as the three brothers did that night. A sacred and ordained king stood between their line and the throne-and they killed him. Now my boy stands between Richard and the throne. He will kill him if he can, and it may be that I cannot prevent it. But I swear, he will not get my younger boy Richard.

I have prepared him for this moment, but when I tell him that he will have to go at once, tonight, he is startled that it has come so soon. His color drains away from his cheeks, but his bright boyish bravery makes him hold his head up and bite his little lip so as not to cry. He is only nine, but he has been raised to be a prince of the House of York. He has been raised to show courage. I kiss him on the top of his fair head and tell him to be a good boy, and remember all that he has been told to do, and when it starts to grow dark, I lead him down through the crypt, down the stairs, even deeper, down into the catacomb below the building, where we have to go past the stone coffins and the vaulted rooms of the burial chambers with one lantern before us and one in his little hand. The light does not flicker. He does not tremble even when we go past the shadowy graves. He walks briskly beside me, his head up.

The way leads out to a hidden iron gate, and beyond it a stone pier extending out into the river, with a rocking rowing boat silently alongside. It is a little wherry, hired for river traffic, one of hundreds. I had hoped to send him out in the warship, commanded by my brother Edward, with men at arms sworn to protect him; but God knows where Edward is this night, and the fleet has turned against us, and will sail for Richard the duke. I have no warships at my command. We will have to make do with this. My boy has to go out with no protection but two loyal servants, and the blessing of his mother. One of Edward’s friends is waiting for him at Greenwich, Sir Edward Brampton, who loved Edward. Or so I hope. I cannot know. I can be certain of nothing.

The two men are waiting silently in the boat, holding it against the current with a rope through the ring on the stone steps, and I push my boy towards them and they lift him on board and seat him in the stern. There is no time for any farewells, and anyway there is nothing I can say but a prayer for his safety that catches me in the throat as if I have swallowed a dagger. The boat pushes off and I raise my hand to wave to him, and see his little white face under the big cap looking back at me.

I lock the iron gate behind me, and then go back up the stone steps, silent through the silent catacombs, and I look out from my window. His boat is pulling away into the river traffic, the two men at the oars, my boy in the stern. There is no reason for anyone to stop them. There are dozens like them, hundreds of boats crisscrossing the river, about their own business, two workingmen with a lad to run errands. I swing open my window but I will not call to him. I will not call him back. I just want him to be able to see me if he glances up. I want him to know that I did not let him go lightly, that I looked for him until the last, the very last moment. I want him to see me looking for him through the dusk, and know that I will look for him for the rest of my life, I will look for him till the hour of my death, I will look for him after death, and the river will whisper his name.

He does not glance up. He does as he was told. He is a good boy, a brave boy. He remembers to keep his head down and his cap pulled down on his forehead to hide his fair hair. He must remember to answer to the name of Peter, and not expect to be served on bended knee. He must forget the pageants and the royal progresses, the lions at the Tower, and the jester tumbling head over heels to make him laugh. He must forget the crowds of people cheering his name and his pretty sisters who played with him and taught him French and Latin and even a little German. He must forget the brother he adored who was born to be king. He must be like a bird, a swallow, who in winter flies beneath the waters of the rivers and freezes into stillness and silence and does not fly out again until spring comes to unlock the waters and let them flow. He must go like a dear little swallow into the river, into the keeping of his ancestress Melusina. He must trust that the river will hide him and keep him safe, for I can no longer do so.

I watch the boat from my window and at first I can see him in the stern, rocking as the little wherry moves in steady pulses, as the boatman pulls on the oars. Then the current catches it and they go faster and there are other boats, barges, fishing boats, trading ships, ferryboats, wherries, even a couple of huge logging rafts, and I can see my boy no longer and he has gone to the river and I have to trust him to Melusina and the water, and I am left without him, marooned without my last son, stranded on the riverbank.

My grown son, Thomas Grey, goes the same night. He slips out of the door dressed like a groom into the backstreets of London. We need someone on the outside to hear news and raise our forces. There are hundreds of men loyal to us, and thousands who would fight against the duke. But they must be mustered and organized, and Thomas has to do this. There is no one else left who can. He is twenty-seven. I know I am sending him out to danger, perhaps to his death. “Godspeed,” I say to him. He kneels to me and I put my hand on his head in blessing. “Where will you go?”

“To the safest place in London,” he says with a rueful smile. “A place that loved your husband and will never forgive Duke Richard for betraying him. The only honest business in London.”

“Where d’you mean?”

“The whorehouse,” he says with a grin.

And then he turns into the darkness and is gone.

Next morning, early, Elizabeth brings the little page boy to me. He served us at Windsor, and has agreed to serve us again. Elizabeth holds him by the hand for she is a kind girl, but he smells of the stables, where he has been sleeping. “You will answer to the name of Richard, Duke of York,” I tell him. “People will call you my lord, and sire. You will not correct them. You will not say a word. Just nod.”

“Yes’m,” he mumbles.

“And you will call me Lady Mother,” I say.

“Yes’m.”

“Yes, Lady Mother.”

“Yes, Lady Mother,” he repeats.

“And you will have a bath and put on clean clothes.”

His frightened little face flashes up at me. “No! I can’t bathe!” he protests.

Elizabeth looks aghast. “Anyone will know at once,” she says.

“We’ll say he is ill,” I say. “We’ll say he has a cold or a sore throat. We’ll tie up his jaw with a flannel and put a scarf around his mouth. We’ll tell him to be silent. It’s only for a few days. Just to give us time.”

She nods. “I’ll bathe him,” she says.

“Get Jemma to help you,” I say. “And one of the men will probably have to hold him in the water.”

She finds a smile, but her eyes are shadowed. “Mother, do you really think my uncle the duke would harm his own nephew?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “And that is why I have sent my beloved royal son away from me, and my boy Thomas Grey has to go out into the darkness. I don’t any longer know what the duke might do.”

The serving girl Jemma asks if she can go out on Sunday afternoon to see the Shore whore serve her penance. “To do what?” I ask.

She dips a curtsey, her head bowed low, but she is so desperate to go that she is ready to risk offending me. “I am sorry, ma’am, Your Grace, but she is to walk in the city in her kirtle carrying a lighted taper and everyone is going to see her. She has to do penance for sin, for being a whore. I thought if I came in early every day for the next week you might let me-”

“Elizabeth Shore?”

Her face bobs up. “The notorious whore,” she recites. “The lord protector has ordered that she do public penance for her sins of the flesh.”

“You can go and watch,” I say abruptly. One more gaze in the crowd will make no difference. I think of this young woman who Edward loved, who Hastings loved, walking barefoot in her petticoat, carrying a taper, shielding its flickering flame while people shout abuse or spit on her. Edward would not like this, and for him, if not for her, I would stop it if I could. But there is nothing I can do to protect her. Richard the duke has turned vicious and even a beautiful woman has to suffer for being beloved.

“She is punished for nothing but her looks.” My brother Lionel has been listening at the window for the appreciative murmur of the crowd as she walks around the city boundary. “And because now Richard suspects her of hiding your brother Thomas. He raided her house but he couldn’t find Thomas. She kept him safe, hidden from Gloucester’s men, and then got him out of the way.”

“God bless her for that,” I say.

Lionel smiles. “Apparently, this punishment has gone wrong for Duke Richard anyway. Nobody is speaking ill of her as she walks,” he says. “One of the ferryboat men shouted up at me when I was at the window. He says that the women cry shame on her, shame, and the men just admire her. It’s not every day that they see such a lovely woman in her petticoat. They say she looks like a naked angel, beautiful and fallen.”

I smile. “Well, God bless her anyway, angel or whore.”

My brother the bishop smiles too. “I think her sins were ones of love, not of malice,” he says. “And in these hard days perhaps that is what matters the most.”