NOVEMBER 1483
It is dark, almost eleven o’clock. I am on my knees, praying at the foot of my bed before I sleep, when I hear a light knock on the great outside door. At once my heart leaps, at once I think of my son Edward, of my son Richard, at once I think they are come home to me. I scramble to my feet, throw a cape over my nightgown, pull the hood over my hair, and run to the door.
I can hear the streets are quiet now, though all day they have been buzzing with the return of King Richard to London, and there has been endless talk of what revenge he will take on the rebels, whether he will break sanctuary and come against me, now he has proof that I raised the country against him. He knows this, and he knows the allies that I chose: Lady Margaret and the false Duke of Buckingham.
No one can tell me if my kinsmen are safe, captured, or dead: my three beloved brothers and my Grey son Thomas, who were riding with the rebels in Hampshire and Kent. I hear every sort of rumor: that they are run away to join Henry Tudor in Brittany, that they are dead in a field, that they are executed by Richard, that they have turned their coats and joined him. I have to wait, as does everyone in the country, for reliable news.
The rains have washed away roads, destroyed bridges, cut off whole towns. News comes into London in excitable bursts, and nobody can be sure what is true. But the storm has blown itself out; the rain has stopped now. When the rivers go back into their banks, I will have news of my family and their battles. I pray that they have got far away from England. In the case of defeat, the plan was to go to Edward’s sister Margaret in Burgundy, find my son Richard in his hiding place, and continue the war from overseas. King Richard will grip the country with the power of a tyrant now, I am sure.
There is a repeated tap on the door and someone rattles the latch. This is no frightened runaway, not my boy. I go to the great wooden portal and slide back the porter’s grille and look out. It is a man, as tall as me, his hood pulled forward to hide his face.
“Yes?” I say shortly.
“I need to see the dowager queen,” he whispers. “A message of great importance.”
“I am the dowager queen,” I say. “Tell me your message.”
He glances from right to left. “Sister, let me in,” he says.
Not for a moment do I think it is one of my brothers. “I am no sister of yours. Who do you think you are?”
He pushes back the hood and lifts the torch that he carries so I can see his handsome dark face. Not my brother, but my brother-in-law, my enemy, Richard. “I think I am the king,” he says with wry humor.
“Well, I don’t,” I say without a smile; but it makes him laugh.
“Have done,” he advises me. “It’s over. I am ordained and crowned, and your rebellion has been utterly defeated. I am king, whatever your wishes. I am alone, and unarmed. Let me in, sister Elizabeth, for all our sakes.”
Despite all that has been, I do just that. I slide the bolts on the little lantern door and open it and he slips in. I bolt it behind him. “What d’you want?” I ask. “I have a serving man in earshot. There is blood between you and me, Richard. You killed my brother and you killed my son. I will never forgive you for it. I have laid my curse on you for it.”
“I don’t expect your forgiveness,” he says. “I don’t even want it. You know how far your plots went against me. You would have killed me, if you had the chance. It was war between us. You know as well as I. And you have had your revenge. You know and I know what pains you have given me. You have put an enchantment on me, and my chest aches and my arm fails me without warning. My sword arm,” he reminds me. “What could be worse for me? You have cursed my sword arm. You had better pray that you never need my defense.”
I look at him closely. He is only thirty-one now, but the shadows under his eyes and the lines in his face are those of an older man. He looks haunted. I imagine he fears his arm failing him in battle. He has worked hard all his life to be as strong as his taller, thicker-muscled brothers. Now something is eating away at his power. I shrug. “If you are ill, you should see a physician. You are like a child, blaming your own weakness on magic. Perhaps you imagine it all.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t come to complain. I came for something else.” He pauses, looks at me. He has that frank York look; he has my husband’s straight gaze. “Tell me, do you have your son Edward safe?” he asks me.
I can feel my heart thud with pain. “Why do you ask? You, of all people? You who took him?”
“Will you just answer? Do you have Edward and Richard safe?”
“No,” I say. I could wail like a heartbroken mother, but not in front of this man. “Why? Why d’you ask?”
He gives a sigh and slumps down in the porter’s chair, drops his head into his hands.
“You don’t have them in the Tower?” I ask him. “My boys? You don’t have them locked up?”
He shakes his head.
“You have lost them? You have lost my sons?”
Silent still, he nods. “I was praying that you had smuggled them out,” he says. “In the name of God, tell me! If you have done so, I will not hunt them, I will not harm them. You can choose a relic for me to swear on. I will swear to leave them wherever you have sent them. I won’t even ask where. Just tell me that you have them safe, so I know, I have to know. It is driving me mad not to know.”
Wordlessly, I shake my head.
He rubs his face, his eyes, as if they are gritty with lack of sleep. “I came straight to the Tower,” he says, speaking through his fingers. “The minute I returned to London. I was afraid. Everyone in England is saying they are dead. Lady Margaret Beaufort’s people have told everyone that the princes are dead. The Duke of Buckingham turned your army into his own, fighting to win the throne for him, by telling them that the princes were dead at my hand, and that they should have their revenge on me. He told them that he would lead them to avenge the princes’ deaths.”
“You didn’t kill them?”
“I did not,” he says. “Why should I? Think! Think it through. Why should I kill them? Why now? When your men attacked the Tower, I had them kept closer inside. They were watched night and day-I could not have killed them then, even if I had wanted to. They had guards all the time, one of them would have known, and they would tell. I have made them bastards and dishonored you. Your sons are no more threat to me than your brothers-beaten men.”
“You killed my brother Anthony,” I spit at him.
“He was a threat to me,” Richard replies. “Anthony could have raised an army and knew how to command men. He was a better soldier than me. Your sons are not. Your daughters are not. They don’t threaten me. I don’t threaten them. I don’t kill them.”
“Then where are they?” I wail. “Where is my boy Edward?”
“I don’t even know if they are dead or alive,” he says miserably. “Nor who ordered their death or capture. I thought you might have smuggled them out. That’s why I came here. If not you-then who? Did you authorize anyone to take them? Could anyone have them without your knowledge? Holding them as hostage?”
I shake my head, I cannot think. It is the gravest question I will ever face in my life, and I am stupid with grief. “I can’t think,” I say desperately.
“Try,” he says. “You know who your allies are. Your secret friends. My hidden enemies. You know what they might do. You know what they promised you, what you plotted with them. Think.”
I put my hands to my head, and I walk a few steps up and down. Perhaps Richard is lying to me, and he has killed Edward and the poor little page boy, and is here to throw the blame on others. But against that-as he says-he has no reason to do so, and also, why should he not admit it, and brazen it out? Who would even complain now that he has put down the rebellion against him? Why come here to me? When my husband murdered King Henry, he had his body shown to the people. He gave him a fine funeral. The whole point of killing him was to tell the world that the line was ended. If Richard had killed my sons to end Edward’s line, he would have announced it, now as he returned to London in victory, and given me the bodies to bury. He could say they had fallen ill. Better yet, he could say that Buckingham killed them. He could throw the blame on Buckingham, and he could give them a royal funeral and no one could do anything but mourn them.