MARCH 1484

I receive a message from Lady Margaret. I had been wondering when I would hear again from this my dearest friend and ally. The storming of the Tower that she planned failed miserably. Her son tells the world that my sons are dead, and says that his mother alone knows the details of their death and burial. The rebellion that she masterminded ended in defeat and my suspicions. Still her husband is high in favor with King Richard, though her part in the rebellion is well known. For sure, she is an unreliable friend and a doubtful ally. She seems to know everything, she seems to do nothing, and she is never punished.

She explains she has not been able to write, and that she cannot visit me herself, for she is cruelly imprisoned by her husband Lord Stanley, who was Richard’s true friend, standing by him in the recent uprising. It turns out now that Stanley’s son Lord Strange raised a small army in support of King Richard; and that all the whispers that he was marching to support Henry Tudor were mistaken. His loyalty was never in doubt. But there were enough men to testify that Lady Margaret’s agents had gone back and forth to Brittany to summon her son Henry Tudor to claim the throne for himself. There were spies who could confirm that her great counselor and friend Bishop Morton persuaded the Duke of Buckingham to turn against his lord Richard. And there were even men who could swear that she had made a pact with me, that my daughter should marry her son, and the proof of that was Christmas Day in Rennes Cathedral when Henry Tudor declared that he would be Elizabeth’s husband and swore that he would be King of England; and all his entourage, my son Thomas Grey among them, knelt and swore fealty to him as King of England.

I imagine that Margaret Beaufort’s husband Stanley must have had to talk fast and persuasively to convince his anxious monarch that, though his wife is a rebel and a plotter, he himself had never for a moment thought of the advantages that might come to him if his stepson took the throne. But he seems to have done it. Stanley “Sans Changer” remains in favor with the usurper, and Margaret his wife is banished to her own house, forbidden her usual servants, banned from writing or sending messages to anyone—especially her son—and robbed of her lands and wealth and inheritance. But they are all given to her husband on the condition that he keeps her under control.

For a powerful woman she does not seem much disheartened by her husband taking all her wealth and all her lands into his own hands, and imprisoning her in her house, swearing that she shall never write another letter and never stir another plot. She is clearly right not to be too disheartened, for here she is, writing to me and plotting again. From this I think I can assume that Stanley “Sans Changer” is faithfully and loyally following his own best interests as perhaps he has always done—promising fealty to the king on one hand, letting his wife plot with rebels on the other.

Your Grace, dear sister—for so I should call you who is mother to the girl who will be my daughter, and who will be mother to my son, she starts. She is flowery in style and emotional in life. There is a smudge on the letter as if she has overflowed with tears of joy at the thought of the wedding of our children. I look at it with distaste. Even if I did not suspect her of the wickedest of betrayals, I would not warm to this.

I take the letter to my Elizabeth and watch her smile broaden until she laughs outright. “Oh my God, what a crone!” she exclaims.

“Elizabeth! This is your mother-in-law to be!”

“Yes, on that Happy Day. Why does she not want us to go to court? Why do we have to be protected from temptation?”

I take back the letter and reread it. “Richard will know that you are betrothed to Henry Tudor. Tudor announced it so that everybody knows. Richard knows that will put the Rivers affinity on Tudor’s side. The House of York follows you now. You are our only heir. It would be in his interest to take all you girls to court and marry you well within his own family and friends. That way Tudor is isolated once more, and you York heiresses are married to commoners. The last thing Lady Margaret wants is you dancing off with some handsome lord, leaving her Henry looking like a fool, without his bride and without your supporters.”

She shrugs. “As long as we get out of here, I am happy to live with you in the country, Lady Mother.”

“I know,” I say. “But Richard wants you older girls at court, where people can see you are safe in his keeping. You and Cecily and Anne shall go, and Bridget and Catherine will stay with me. He will want people to know that I allowed you be with him, that I consider you safe in his care. And I would rather you were out in the world than cooped up at home.”

“Why?” she asks, turning her gray gaze on me. “Tell me. I don’t like the sound of this. You will be plotting something, Lady Mother, and I don’t want to be in the center of plots anymore.”

“You are the heir to the House of York,” I say simply. “You will always be at the center of plots.”

“But where will you go? Why won’t you come to court with us?”

I shake my head. “I couldn’t bear to see that skinny stick Anne Neville in my place, wearing my gowns cut down to her size with my jewels around her scrawny neck. I couldn’t curtsey to her as Queen of England. I couldn’t do it, Elizabeth, not to save my life. And Richard will never be a king to me. I have seen a true king and loved him. I have been a true queen. These are mere imposters to me—I cannot bear them.

“I am to be put in the charge of John Nesfield, who has guarded us here. I will live at his manor of Heytesbury, and I think it will suit me very well. You can go to court and you girls can get a little court training. It is time you were away from your mother and out in the world.”

She comes to me like a little girl, and kisses me. “I shall like it better than being a prisoner,” she says. “Though it will be so strange to be away from you. I have never been away from you in all my life.” Then she pauses. “But will you not be lonely? Won’t you miss us too much?”

I shake my head and draw her close to whisper, “I won’t be lonely, for I hope that Richard will come home. I hope to see my boy again.”

“And Edward?” she asks.

I meet her hopeful gaze without evasion. “Elizabeth, I think he must be dead, for I cannot see who would have taken him and not told us. I think Buckingham and Henry Tudor must have had both of the boys killed, not knowing that we had Richard safely hidden, thinking to open their way to the throne and put the blame on King Richard. If Edward is alive, then pray God he will find his way to me. And there will always be a candle in the window to light his way home, and my door will never be locked, in case one day it is his hand on the latch.”

Her eyes are filled with tears. “But you don’t expect him anymore?”

“I don’t expect him,” I say.