The White Queen: A Novel Read online

  My eyes stay on her pale face. I don’t even glance at the fireplace where the twist of linen from the duke’s napkin was burned, after I tied it around my forearm, and then cursed it, to rob him of breath and strength, to make his sword arm weak as a hunchback’s.

  “Who does he name as the witch?”

  “You,” she says. I feel Elizabeth flinch.

  And then she adds, “And me.”

  “The two of us acting in concert?”

  “Yes,” she says simply. “That’s why I came to warn you. If he can prove you are a witch, can he break sanctuary, and take you and your children out of here?”

  I nod. He can.

  And in any case, I remember the battle of Tewkesbury, when my own husband broke sanctuary with no reason or explanation, and dragged wounded men out of the abbey and butchered them in the graveyard and then went into the abbey and killed some more on the altar steps. They had to scrub the chancel floor clean of the blood; they had to resanctify the whole place, it was so fouled with death.

  “He can,” I say. “Worse has been done before.”

  “I must go,” she says fearfully. “He may be watching me. William would have wanted me to do what I can to keep your children safe, but I can do no more. I should tell you: Lord Stanley did what he could to save William. He warned him that the duke would act against him. He had a dream that they would be gored by a boar with bloody tusks. He warned William. It was just that William didn’t think it would be so fast…” The tears are running down her cheeks now and her voice is choked. “So unjust,” she whispers. “And against such a good man. To have soldiers drag him from council! To take off his head without even a priest! No time to pray!”

  “He was a good man,” I concede.

  “Now that he is gone you have lost a protector. You are all in grave danger,” she states. “As am I.”

  She pulls the hood back over her hair and goes to the door. “I wish you well,” she says. “And Edward’s boys. If I can serve you, I will. But in the meantime I must not be seen coming to you. I dare not come again.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Did you say Lord Stanley remains loyal to the young King Edward?”

  “Stanley, Bishop Morton, and Archbishop Rotherham are all imprisoned by order of the duke, suspected of working for you and yours. Richard thinks they have been plotting against him. The only men left free in the council now are those who will do the duke’s bidding.”

  “Has he run mad?” I ask incredulously. “Has Richard run mad?”

  She shakes her head. “I think he has decided to claim the throne,” she says simply. “D’you remember how the king used to say that Richard always did what he promised? That if Richard swore he would do something it was done—cost what it may?”

  I don’t like to have this woman quoting my husband to me, but I agree.

  “I think Richard has made his decision, I think he has promised to himself. I think he has decided that the best thing for him, and for England, is a strong new king and not a boy of twelve. And now he has made up his mind, he will do whatever it takes to put himself on the throne. Cost what it may.”

  She opens the door a crack and peers out. She picks up the basket to make it look as if she was delivering goods to us. She peeps back at me around the door. “The king always said that Richard would stop at nothing once he had agreed a plan,” she says. “If he stops at nothing now, you will not be safe. I hope you can make yourself safe, Your Grace, you and the children…you and Edward’s boys.” She dips a little curtsey and whispers, “God bless you for his sake,” and the door clicks behind her and she has gone.

  I don’t hesitate. It is as if the thud of axe through Hastings’s neck on Tower Green is a trumpet blast that signals the start of a race. But this is a race to get my son to safety from the threat of his uncle, who is now on a path of murder. There is no doubt in my mind anymore that Duke Richard will kill both my sons to make his way clear to the throne. I would not give a groat for the life of George’s son, either, wherever he is housed. I saw Richard go into the room of the sleeping King Henry to kill a defenseless man because his claim to the throne was as good as Edward’s. There is no doubt in my mind that Richard will follow the same logic as the three brothers did that night. A sacred and ordained king stood between their line and the throne—and they killed him. Now my boy stands between Richard and the throne. He will kill him if he can, and it may be that I cannot prevent it. But I swear, he will not get my younger boy Richard.

  I have prepared him for this moment, but when I tell him that he will have to go at once, tonight, he is startled that it has come so soon. His color drains away from his cheeks, but his bright boyish bravery makes him hold his head up and bite his little lip so as not to cry. He is only nine, but he has been raised to be a prince of the House of York. He has been raised to show courage. I kiss him on the top of his fair head and tell him to be a good boy, and remember all that he has been told to do, and when it starts to grow dark, I lead him down through the crypt, down the stairs, even deeper, down into the catacomb below the building, where we have to go past the stone coffins and the vaulted rooms of the burial chambers with one lantern before us and one in his little hand. The light does not flicker. He does not tremble even when we go past the shadowy graves. He walks briskly beside me, his head up.

  The way leads out to a hidden iron gate, and beyond it a stone pier extending out into the river, with a rocking rowing boat silently alongside. It is a little wherry, hired for river traffic, one of hundreds. I had hoped to send him out in the warship, commanded by my brother Edward, with men at arms sworn to protect him; but God knows where Edward is this night, and the fleet has turned against us, and will sail for Richard the duke. I have no warships at my command. We will have to make do with this. My boy has to go out with no protection but two loyal servants, and the blessing of his mother. One of Edward’s friends is waiting for him at Greenwich, Sir Edward Brampton, who loved Edward. Or so I hope. I cannot know. I can be certain of nothing.

  The two men are waiting silently in the boat, holding it against the current with a rope through the ring on the stone steps, and I push my boy towards them and they lift him on board and seat him in the stern. There is no time for any farewells, and anyway there is nothing I can say but a prayer for his safety that catches me in the throat as if I have swallowed a dagger. The boat pushes off and I raise my hand to wave to him, and see his little white face under the big cap looking back at me.

  I lock the iron gate behind me, and then go back up the stone steps, silent through the silent catacombs, and I look out from my window. His boat is pulling away into the river traffic, the two men at the oars, my boy in the stern. There is no reason for anyone to stop them. There are dozens like them, hundreds of boats crisscrossing the river, about their own business, two workingmen with a lad to run errands. I swing open my window but I will not call to him. I will not call him back. I just want him to be able to see me if he glances up. I want him to know that I did not let him go lightly, that I looked for him until the last, the very last moment. I want him to see me looking for him through the dusk, and know that I will look for him for the rest of my life, I will look for him till the hour of my death, I will look for him after death, and the river will whisper his name.

  He does not glance up. He does as he was told. He is a good boy, a brave boy. He remembers to keep his head down and his cap pulled down on his forehead to hide his fair hair. He must remember to answer to the name of Peter, and not expect to be served on bended knee. He must forget the pageants and the royal progresses, the lions at the Tower, and the jester tumbling head over heels to make him laugh. He must forget the crowds of people cheering his name and his pretty sisters who played with him and taught him French and Latin and even a little German. He must forget the brother he adored who was born to be king. He must be like a bird, a swallow, who in winter flies beneath the waters of the rivers and freezes into stillness and silence and does not fly out again until