‘Unless,’ I pointed out, ‘she involves Stanley in them.’
He nodded. ‘Stanley’s loyalty has been tested, and did not fail. This is a further test. However much he slips and slides, he’ll not be able to escape the responsibility for Margaret’s future conduct.’
I nodded. It was shrewd to give Stanley enough rope to hang himself, and yet at the same time every opportunity and encouragement to stick with us.
‘And now, what of you, Alianore?’ he asked. ‘What recompense do you wish to claim?’
‘I am content to be nothing more than the Queen’s waiting-woman and Roger Beauchamp’s wife,’ I said. ‘I seek no reward for myself. I couldn’t have done anything at Brecon without the Vaughans. They should benefit from Your Grace’s favour. My servant, Guy Archer, would appreciate a few additions to his collection of gold coins. And for my husband’s services, if you can see your way clear, I suggest a small grant of land. Nothing too fancy. Half a dozen forfeited manors or so. I’ve always liked Kent, especially in the summer.’
‘Granted,’ said Richard, so quickly that I knew at once that I’d not asked for enough.
Still, with the new manors we were very rich indeed.
The Parliament that met in January passed an Act called Titulus Regius which confirmed Richard’s right to the crown in terms that should have put any remotely sensible man out of doubt. The rebels were attainted, of course, but the rest of the legislation dwelt too much on the rights of the common people. The common people are all very well in their place, but when the chips are down it’s no use looking for them on the battlefield unless some lord, knight or gentleman has taken the trouble to fetch them with him. Richard was buttering the wrong parsnips, and the lawyers, who are never happy with any Parliament that does not fatten their purses, grumbled mightily.
It was not long after this that Elizabeth Woodville came to terms with the King and emerged from Westminster Sanctuary with her tail of daughters. She had been sorely beguiled by Margaret Beaufort and Bishop Morton, and we were now in a position to prove this even to her satisfaction. Not that that prevented her from asking Richard for additional safeguards, including a public oath of his good intentions.
Dame Elizabeth Grey, as we all had to learn to call her, retired to the country with her younger daughters and a pension of seven hundred marks a year, which was certainly enough to keep even an ex-Queen in hennins. The eldest girls, Elizabeth and Cecily of York, were deposited at Court, in Anne’s care.
‘Gorgeous, aren’t they?’ asked Roger, as we watched them dancing on their first night back in circulation.
‘Don’t get any ideas,’ I said, warningly, ‘or you could have a very nasty accident with my knife.’
He was right, though. They were gorgeous, even in the shabby gowns they wore before the King got around to making proper provision for them. Cecily took after her mother, and gave you an idea of what that beautiful lady must have looked like as a girl, while Elizabeth of York, or Bessy as everyone called her, was tall and fair and just a little plump around the face. Oddly enough she reminded me of a young Anne Neville, both in figure and feature, and this is not so hard to explain when you bear in mind how very closely they were related. However, looks can be deceptive. Anne was always practical and ambitious, as well as downright clever. Bessy lived in a dream, and just went where the tide took her, without fuss or complaint.
We remained at Westminster until March. Anne was now quite ill, there was no doubt of it. There was no strength in her and sometimes, when she coughed, she brought up blood. Her waist was as slender as that of a starved weasel, and she had herself laced into a corset for the fashion of it, not for constraint. The formal duties of a Queen were becoming an ordeal for her, but she had an iron will, and didn’t give up, although she often collapsed as soon as she was out of public view. I swore her other women to secrecy, laying it on particularly thick with Bessy and Cecily, but I was well aware that I was wasting my time. Such things cannot be kept private for ever. I was fool enough to think that we were deceiving the King until one night when I saw his eyes on her. He knew.
There was ill news from Burgundy. Anne gave me the letter to read for myself. The Duchess wrote to say that there had been another attempt on the life of King Edward’s sons, and this time it had met with partial success. Young Ned had been killed a hunting accident that hadn’t really been an accident and Dickon, fearing for his life, had fled her Court. She did not know what had happened to him.
The King said nothing, but you could see the sorrow and guilt on his face. His sister had warned him that the boys were not safe in Flanders, but with one thing and another he’d not got around to doing anything about it. He could not acquit himself of the responsibility.
I knew now why Morton had chosen Flanders as his place of exile, and I blamed myself not a little for putting him on the trail – though it was true that I had not told him where they were. He had obviously worked this out for himself.
Richard decided upon another great progress to the Midlands and the North, for we were having serious hassle with the Scots again. Anne brightened, realising that she would have a chance to visit Middleham and see her son.
Unfortunately it was not to be. We were no further north than Nottingham when a messenger arrived from Middleham, clad in mourning. The Prince had died, suddenly, and in agony.
Richard and Anne locked themselves up in a room for two days, draining their tears in privacy. How they contrived to comfort each other I shall never know, for they were both near mad with grief, but when they emerged they wore calm, fixed expressions, and made polite conversation with the rest of us.
‘I must bear my lord another son,’ Anne told me, when we were next alone together. She was quite calm about it, as if it was no more than a matter of ordering a cheese from the local market.
‘You almost died over Edward,’ I pointed out, ‘and that was nearly eight years ago. You were told then that you must have no more.’
‘One way or another, my life is over,’ she snapped. ‘You have skill with herbs, Alianore. I command you to help me.’
‘I cannot work miracles even for Your Grace,’ I said, for two of us could play at the game of being formal.
‘Then kill me. Let me make way for someone who can give Richard the heir he needs. You would only be speeding up the work of nature.’
‘I have never poisoned anyone in my life,’ I told her, ‘and I am certainly not going to start with you. If Richard wishes to be rid of you he has ample grounds for divorce. You should have had a dispensation for your marriage in the first place, being such close cousins. Ask him to write to the Pope if that’s what you want. I doubt very much whether he will take you up on your offer.’
I knew he wouldn’t. If anything he clung to her more than ever, and brought in the very best of physicians in an attempt to restore her to health. These fellows poured all manner of filth down Anne’s throat, but it did no good.
Anne, of course, was right. Setting aside all sentiment, Richard needed an heir. To be without one was a serious weakness. The one available to him was their nephew, Warwick, George’s son by Isabel, who was far too slow of wit to be considered suitable.
Richard struck a deal with Brittany by which, in return for our help in defending them from the French, plus the revenues from the earldom of Richmond, they would hand over Henry Tudor. Someone warned Tudor, and he managed to escape into France, not an hour too soon.
Elizabeth Woodville wrote to her eldest son by Lord Grey, the Marquis of Dorset, to come home from exile and make his peace with the King. This was a great boost to us, but, unfortunately, Dorset was captured by Tudor’s agents and made prisoner before he could leave France.