The White Queen (38 page)

Now we are here again, but this time it is hard to hope. In this season of early summer,
which has always before been my favorite, filled with picnics and jousts and parties.
The shade of the crypt is oppressive. It is like being buried alive. In truth, there
is not much cause for hope. My boy is in enemy hands, my mother is long gone, and
my husband is dead. No handsome tall man is going to hammer on the door and block
the light as he comes in, calling my name. My son who was a baby then is a young boy
of twelve now, and in the hands of our enemy. My girl Elizabeth, who played then so
sweetly with her sisters when we were last confined, is now seventeen. She turns her
pale face to me and asks what we are going to do. Last time we waited secure in the
knowledge that, if we could just survive, we would be rescued. This time there are
no certainties.

For nearly a week I listen at the tiny window set into the front door. From dawn till
dusk I am peering through the grille, straining my ears to hear what people are doing,
for the sound of the streets. When I turn from the door, I go to the river and look
out on the boats passing by, watching for the royal barge, listening for Melusina.

Every day I send out messengers for news of my brother and my son, and to speak to
the lords who should be rising to defend us, whose liveries should
be arming for us. And on the fifth day I hear it: a rising swell of noise, the cheering
of the apprentice lads, and another sound beneath it, a deeper sound, a booing. I
can hear the rattle of harness and the sound of many horses’ hooves. It is the army
of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, my husband’s brother, the man he trusted with our
safety, entering my husband’s capital city to a mixed reception. When I look out of
the window at the river, there is a chain of his boats around Westminster Palace:
a floating barricade, holding us captive. Nobody can come in or out.

I hear the clatter of a cavalry charge and some shouting. I start to wonder: If I
had armed the city against him, declared war in the first moment, could I have stood
against him now? But then I think: And what about my boy Edward in his uncle’s train?
What about my brother Anthony and my son Richard Grey, held hostage for my good behavior?
And yet again: perhaps I have nothing to fear. I simply don’t know. My boy is either
a young king, processing in high honor to his coronation, or a kidnapped child. I
don’t even know which for sure.

I go to bed with that question haunting me like the beating of a drum. I lie down
in my clothes and I do not sleep at all. I know that somewhere, not far from me tonight,
my son is lying sleepless too. I am restless, like a woman tormented, to be with him,
to see him, to tell him that he is safe with me again. I cannot believe, daughter
of Melusina as I am, that I cannot squeeze through the bars of the windows and simply
swim to
him. He is my boy: perhaps he is afraid, maybe he is in danger. How can I not be with
him?

But I have to lie still and wait for the sky to turn from deepest black to gray in
the small panes of the window before I allow myself to rise up and walk down the crypt
to the door and open the spy hole to look out and see the quiet streets. Then, I realize
that no one has armed to protect my boy Edward, no one is going to rescue him, no
one is going to liberate me. They may have booed as the lord protector marched in
at the head of his army with my son in his train, they may have raised a little riot
and fought a little running scrap; but they are not arming this morning and storming
his castle. Last night, I was the only one in all of London wakeful, worrying about
the little king for all the long hours.

The city is waiting to see what the lord protector will do. Everything hinges on this.
Is Richard, Duke of Gloucester, the beloved loyal brother of the late king, going
to fulfill his brother’s dying command and put his son on the throne? Is he, loyal
as ever, going to play his part as lord protector and guard his nephew till the day
of his coronation? Or is Richard, Duke of Gloucester, false as any Yorkist, going
to take the power his brother gave him, disinherit his nephew, and put the crown on
his own head, and name his own son Prince of Wales? Nobody knows what Duke Richard
might do, and many—as always—want only to be on the winning side. Everyone will have
to wait and see. Only
I would strike him down now, if I could. Just to be on the side of safety.

I go to the low windows and I stare down at the river which flows by so close that
I could almost lean out and touch it. There is a boat with armed men at the water
gate to the abbey. They are guarding me and keeping my allies from me. Any friends
who try to come to me will be turned away.

“He will take the crown,” I say quietly to the river, to Melusina, to my mother. They
listen to me in the flow of the waters. “If I had to put my fortune on it I would
do so. He will take the crown. All the York men are sick with ambition and Richard,
Duke of Gloucester, is no different. Edward risked his life, year after year, fighting
for his throne. George put his head in a vat of wine rather than promise never to
claim it. Now Richard rides into London at the head of thousands of armed men. He
is not doing that for the benefit of his nephew. He will claim the crown for himself.
He is a prince of York. He cannot help but do it. He will find a hundred reasons to
do so, and years from now people will still be arguing over what he does today. But
my bet is he will take the crown because he cannot stop himself, any more than George
could stop being a fool or Edward stop being a hero. Richard will take the crown and
he will put me and mine aside.

I pause for a moment of honesty. “And it is my nature to fight for my own,” I say.
“I shall be ready for him. I shall be ready for the worst that he might do.
I shall prepare myself to lose my son Richard Grey and my dearest brother Anthony,
as I have already lost my father and my brother John. These are hard times, sometimes
too hard for me. But this morning, I am ready. I will fight for my son and for his
inheritance.”

Just as I am certain of my determination, there is a visitor at the sanctuary gate,
an anxious tappety tap, and then another. I walk towards the big barred door very
slowly, stamping down my fear with each footstep. I open the spy hole and there is
the whore Elizabeth Shore, a hood drawn up to hide her bright-gold hair and her eyes
red from weeping. Through the grille she can see my white face like a prisoner’s glaring
out at her. “What do you want?” I ask coldly.

She starts at my voice. Perhaps she thought I still keep an equerry of the household
and a dozen grooms of the chamber to open my door. “Your Grace!”

“The same. What do you want, Shore?”

She disappears altogether as she curtseys so deeply that she sinks below the sight
of the grille in the door, and I have a moment when I see the comical aspect of this
as she rises up again like a pale moon on the horizon, into my vision. “I am come
with gifts, Your Grace,” she says clearly. Then she drops her voice. “And news. Please
admit me, for the king’s own sake.”

My temper flares as she dares to mention him, then I consider that she seems to think
herself still in his service and that I am still his wife, and I draw back the bolts
of the door and slam them quickly shut as she darts inside like a frightened cat.

“What?” I ask flatly. “What do you mean by coming here? Unbidden?” She comes no further
into my sanctuary than the cold step of the door. She puts down a basket that she
has carried like a kitchen maid. I quickly note the cured ham and the roasted chicken.

“I come from Sir William Hastings, with his greeting and the assurance of his loyalty,”
she says in a rush.

“Oh, have you changed keepers? Are you his whore now?”

She looks me directly in the face and I have to stop myself gasping at her proud beauty.
She is gray-eyed and fair-haired. She looks like I did, twenty years ago. She looks
like my daughter Elizabeth of York: a cool English beauty, a rose of England. I could
hate her for this, but I find I do not. I think that twenty years ago if Edward had
been married, I would have been no better than her, and become his whore rather than
never know him at all.

My son Thomas Grey comes out from the shadows of the crypt behind me and bows to her
as if she were a lady. She slides a quick small smile to him as if they are good friends
who need no words.

“Yes, I am Sir William’s whore now,” she concurs quietly. “The late king sent my husband
abroad and he annulled our marriage. My family will not have me home. I am without
protection now that the king is dead. Sir William Hastings offered me a home and I
am glad to find some safety with him.”

I nod. “And so?”

“He asks me to be his envoy to you. He cannot come
to you himself—he fears the Duke Richard’s spies. But he tells you to be hopeful and
that he thinks all will be well.”

“And why should I trust you?”

Thomas steps forward. “Listen to her, Lady Mother,” he says gently. “She loved your
husband truly and she is a most honorable lady. She won’t come with false counsel.”

“You go in,” I say harshly to him. “I will deal with this woman.” I turn to her. “Your
new protector has been my enemy since he first set eyes on me,” I say roughly. “I
don’t see why we would be friends now. He brought Duke Richard down on us, and supports
him still.”

“He thought he was defending the young king,” she says. “He was thinking of nothing
but the young king’s safety. He wants you to know this, and to know that he thinks
all will be well.”

“Oh does he?” I am impressed, despite the messenger. Hastings is loyal to my husband
in death as in life. If he thinks things will be all right, if he is convinced of
the safety of my son, then everything might come right. “Why is he so confident?”

She steps a little closer, so that she can whisper. “The young king has been housed
at the Bishop’s Palace,” she says. “Just nearby. But the Privy Council agree that
he should be housed in the royal apartments in the Tower and everything be made ready
for his coronation. He is to take his place at once as the new King of England.”

“Duke Richard will crown him?”

She nods. “The royal apartments are being made ready for him; they are fitting his
coronation robes. The abbey is being made ready. They are ordering the pageants and
raising the money for the celebration of his crowning. They have sent out the invitations
and summoned Parliament. Everything is being made ready.” She hesitates. “It is all
rushed, of course. Who would ever have thought . . . ?”

She breaks off. She has obviously promised herself that she will show no grief before
me. How could she? Could his whore dare to cry before his queen for the loss of him?
So she says nothing, but the tears come to her eyes and she blinks them away. And
I say nothing, but the tears come into my eyes too, and I look away from her. I am
not a woman to be overcome by a sentimental moment. This is his whore; I am his queen.
But God knows, we both miss him. We share the grief as we once shared the joy of him.

“But you are certain?” I ask, my voice very low. “The wardrobe is preparing his coronation
robes? Everything is being made ready?”

“They have set the date for his coronation as the twenty-fifth of June and the lords
of the kingdom are summoned to attend. There is no doubt,” she says. “Sir William
ordered me to tell you to be of good heart, and that he does not doubt you will see
your son on the throne of England. He told me to tell you that he himself will come
here on the morning to escort you
to the abbey, and you shall see your son crowned. You will attend the young king’s
coronation as the first in his train.”

I take a breath of this hope. But I see that she may be right, that Hastings may be
right, and that I am in sanctuary like a frightened hare that runs when there are
no hounds, and lies low, ears flat on its back, while the reapers walk past it to
another field.

“And Edward, the young Earl of Warwick, has been sent north to the household of Anne
Neville, the Duke of Gloucester’s wife,” she goes on.

Warwick is the boy who was orphaned by the barrel of wine. He is only eight and a
frightened foolish little lad, a true son of his fool of a father George of Clarence.
But his claim to the throne comes after my sons; his claim is greater than that of
Duke Richard, and yet Richard is keeping him safe. “You are sure? He has sent Warwick
to his wife?”

“My lord says that Richard fears you and your power, but he would not make war on
his own nephews. All the boys are safe with him.”

“Does Hastings have news of my brother and my son Richard Grey?” I whisper.

She nods. “The Privy Council have refused to charge your brother with treason. They
say he has been a good and faithful servant. Duke Richard wanted to charge him with
kidnapping the young king, but the Privy Council disagreed—they won’t accept a charge.
They have overruled Duke Richard, and he has accepted
their opinion. My lord thinks your brother and son will be released after the coronation,
Your Grace.”

“Duke Richard will make a settlement with us?”

“My lord says that the duke is much opposed to your family, Your Grace, and your influence.
But he is loyal to the young king for King Edward’s sake. He said you can be certain
that the young king will be crowned.”

I nod. “Tell him I shall be glad of that day, but I shall stay here till then. I have
another son and five daughters and I would prefer to keep them safely with me. And
I don’t trust Duke Richard.”

“He says you have not been so trustworthy yourself.” She drops into a deep curtsey
and keeps her head down as she insults me. “He orders me to tell you that you cannot
defeat Duke Richard. You will have to work with him. He orders me to tell you that
it was your husband himself who made the duke lord protector, and that the Privy Council
prefer his influence to yours. Excuse me, Your Grace, he commanded me to tell you
that there are many who dislike your family and want to see the young king free of
the influence of his many uncles, and the Riverses out of their many places. It is
noticed also that you stole the royal treasure away into sanctuary with you, too,
that you took the Great Seal, and that your brother the Lord Admiral Edward Woodville
has taken the entire fleet to sea.”