‘The boy is not even Edward’s heir,’ his mother suddenly interjects.
Richard holds up his hand to stop her. ‘Anne doesn’t know of this.’
‘Time she did,’ she says briskly. She turns to me. ‘Edward was married to a lady, a kinswoman of yours: Eleanor Butler. Did you know?’
‘I knew she was . . .’ I look for words. ‘A favourite.’
‘Not just his whore, they were married in secret,’ the duchess says bluntly. ‘Just the same trick as he played on Elizabeth Woodville. He promised marriage, went through a form of words with some hedge priest . . .’
‘Hardly a hedge priest,’ Richard interrupts from his place, glowering into the fire, one hand resting on the chimney breast. ‘He had Bishop Stillington perform the service with Eleanor Butler.’
His mother shrugs away the objection. ‘So that marriage was valid. It was a priest with no name and perhaps no calling with the Woodville woman. His marriage to Elizabeth Woodville was false. It was bigamy.’
‘What?’ I interrupt, grasping none of this. ‘Lady Mother, what are you saying?’
‘Ask your husband,’ she says. ‘Bishop Stillington told the story himself – didn’t he?’ she demands of Richard. ‘The bishop stood by and said nothing while Edward ignored Lady Eleanor and she went into a nunnery. Edward rewarded his silence. But when the bishop saw that the Rivers were putting their boy on the throne, and he a bastard, he went to your husband and told him all he knew: Edward was married when he made his secret agreement with Elizabeth Woodville. Even if it was a valid priest, even if it was a valid service, it still was nothing. Edward was already married. Those children, all those children, are bastards. There is no House of Rivers. There is no queen. She is a mistress and her bastard sons are pretenders. That is all.’
I turn in amazement to Richard. ‘Is this true?’
He shoots a swift beleaguered look at me. ‘I don’t know,’ he says shortly. ‘The bishop says he married Edward to Lady Eleanor in a valid ceremony. They are both dead. Edward claimed Elizabeth Woodville as his wife and her son as his heir. Don’t I have to honour my brother’s wishes?’
‘No,’ his mother says bluntly. ‘Not when he was wishing wrong. You don’t have to put a bastard on the throne in preference to yourself.’
Richard turns his back to the fire. His hand cups his shoulder. ‘Why did you never speak of this before? Why did I hear it first from Bishop Stillington?’
She takes up her sewing. ‘What was there to tell? Everyone knows that I hate her and that she hates me. While Edward was alive and prepared to call her his wife and own the children, what difference would it make what I said? What anyone said? He had Bishop Stillington silenced, why should I speak out?’
Richard shakes his head. ‘There have been scandals about Edward ever since he took the throne,’ he says.
‘And not one word against you,’ his mother reminds him. ‘Take the throne yourself. There is not one man in England who would defend Elizabeth Woodville unless he was one of her family or she had already bribed him into her service. Everyone else knows her for what she is: a seductress and a witch.’
‘She will be my enemy for life,’ Richard remarks.
‘Then keep her in sanctuary for life,’ she says, smiling, hag-like herself. ‘Keep her on holy ground, in the half-darkness, and her little coven of daughters with her. Arrest her. Keep her there, the troglodyte with her bastard breed.’
Richard turns to me. ‘What do you think?’
The room is silent, waiting for my decision. I think of my father who killed his great horse and then lost his own life fighting the battle to put me on the throne of England. I think of Elizabeth Woodville, who has been the bane of my days and the murderer of my sister. ‘I think that you have a greater claim to the throne than her son,’ I say out loud. And I think: ‘And I have a greater claim to the throne than her. I shall be, as I was supposed to be, Queen Anne of England.’
Still he hesitates. ‘It is a big step, to take the throne.’
I go to him and take his hand. It is as if we were handfasted, plighting our troth once more. I find I am smiling and I can feel my cheeks are warm. In this moment of decision I am indeed my father’s daughter. ‘This is your destiny,’ I tell him, and I can hear my own voice ringing with certainty. ‘By birth, by inclination, and by education, you are the best king that England could have in these times. Do it, Richard. Take your chance. It is my birthright as it is yours. Let us take it. Let us take it together.’
THE TOWER OF LONDON, JULY 1483
Once more I am in the royal apartments of the Tower, looking through the slit windows at the moon laying a silver path on the dark waters of the river. Once more I am conscious of the silence of the night and from far away the distant sound of music playing. It is the night before our coronation, and I have come away from the celebration feast to pray and look out at the swiftly flowing water as the river rushes down to the sea. I am to be Queen of England. Once more I whisper to myself the promise that was first made to me by my father. I am to be Queen Anne of England, and I will be crowned tomorrow.
I know that She will be at her little window, peering out at the darkness outside the sanctuary, her beautiful face twisted with grief as she prays for her sons, knowing that we have them both in our keeping, and that neither of them will ever be king. I know she will be cursing us, twisting some bloody rag in her hands, moulding some wax figure, pounding herbs and burning them on the fire. Her whole attention will be on the Tower just like the moon that tonight makes a silvery path on the water that points to their bedroom.
Their bedroom, the bedroom of her boys. For they are here, both boys, in the Tower with me, on the floor above. If I went up only one turn of the circular stone stairs and told their guard to step aside I could go into their rooms and see them sleeping, in one bed, the moon pale on their pale faces, their eyelashes dark on their cheeks, their warm little chests in white lace-trimmed linen, rising and falling, in the deep peace of infant sleep. The prince is only twelve years old, with the faintest of fair down on his upper lip, his legs sprawled on the bed as gangly as a colt. His brother Richard is ten years old next month; he was born in the same year as my son Edward. How can I ever look at her son without thinking of my own? He is a merry little boy, even lost in sleep he smiles at some amusing dream. These boys are in our keeping now, they will be our wards until they grow into men. We will have to hold them at Middleham Castle or Sheriff Hutton, one of our northern homes where we can trust the servants to keep them close. I foresee that we will have to hold them forever. They will grow from enchanting boys to prisoners. We can never let them go.
They will always be a danger to us. They will always be a focus of any discontent, for anyone who wants to question our rule. Elizabeth Woodville will spend her life trying to get them away from us, trying to restore them to the throne. We will be taking our gravest threat into our own home. Their father, King Edward, would never have tolerated such a danger. My father would have felt the same. My father held King Edward once and said that after Edward escaped and put himself back on the throne he knew that there was no choice next time but to capture and kill him. Edward learned this lesson from my father. When he held the old king, Henry, he kept him safe only as long as there was a Lancaster heir. My husband Prince Edward’s death was the death warrant for his father. When King Edward saw that he could end the House of Lancaster he did it that night: he killed King Henry and his brothers George and Richard aided the murder, the regicide. They realised that alive he would always be a focus of rebellion, a danger to them. Dead he could be mourned; but he was no threat. There is no doubt in my mind that the Woodville boy alive is a danger to us. Really, neither of these boys should be suffered to live. It is only my weak tenderness and Richard’s love of his brother that makes us decide that they should be spared. Neither my father nor Richard’s brother would ever have been such soft-hearted fools.