Philippa Gregory - The White Queen

She starts at my voice. Perhaps she thought I still keep an equerry of the household and a dozen grooms of the chamber to open my door. “Your Grace!”

“The same. What do you want, Shore?”

She disappears altogether as she curtseys so deeply that she sinks below the sight of the grille in the door, and I have a moment when I see the comical aspect of this as she rises up again like a pale moon on the horizon, into my vision. “I am come with gifts, Your Grace,” she says clearly. Then she drops her voice. “And news. Please admit me, for the king’s own sake.”

My temper flares as she dares to mention him, then I consider that she seems to think herself still in his service and that I am still his wife, and I draw back the bolts of the door and slam them quickly shut as she darts inside like a frightened cat.

“What?” I ask flatly. “What do you mean by coming here? Unbidden?” She comes no further into my sanctuary than the cold step of the door. She puts down a basket that she has carried like a kitchen maid. I quickly note the cured ham and the roasted chicken.

“I come from Sir William Hastings, with his greeting and the assurance of his loyalty,” she says in a rush.

“Oh, have you changed keepers? Are you his whore now?”

She looks me directly in the face and I have to stop myself gasping at her proud beauty. She is gray-eyed and fair-haired. She looks like I did, twenty years ago. She looks like my daughter Elizabeth of York: a cool English beauty, a rose of England. I could hate her for this, but I find I do not. I think that twenty years ago if Edward had been married, I would have been no better than her, and become his whore rather than never know him at all.

My son Thomas Grey comes out from the shadows of the crypt behind me and bows to her as if she were a lady. She slides a quick small smile to him as if they are good friends who need no words.

“Yes, I am Sir William’s whore now,” she concurs quietly. “The late king sent my husband abroad and he annulled our marriage. My family will not have me home. I am without protection now that the king is dead. Sir William Hastings offered me a home and I am glad to find some safety with him.”

I nod. “And so?”

“He asks me to be his envoy to you. He cannot come to you himself-he fears the Duke Richard’s spies. But he tells you to be hopeful and that he thinks all will be well.”

“And why should I trust you?”

Thomas steps forward. “Listen to her, Lady Mother,” he says gently. “She loved your husband truly and she is a most honorable lady. She won’t come with false counsel.”

“You go in,” I say harshly to him. “I will deal with this woman.” I turn to her. “Your new protector has been my enemy since he first set eyes on me,” I say roughly. “I don’t see why we would be friends now. He brought Duke Richard down on us, and supports him still.”

“He thought he was defending the young king,” she says. “He was thinking of nothing but the young king’s safety. He wants you to know this, and to know that he thinks all will be well.”

“Oh does he?” I am impressed, despite the messenger. Hastings is loyal to my husband in death as in life. If he thinks things will be all right, if he is convinced of the safety of my son, then everything might come right. “Why is he so confident?”

She steps a little closer, so that she can whisper. “The young king has been housed at the Bishop’s Palace,” she says. “Just nearby. But the Privy Council agree that he should be housed in the royal apartments in the Tower and everything be made ready for his coronation. He is to take his place at once as the new King of England.”

“Duke Richard will crown him?”

She nods. “The royal apartments are being made ready for him; they are fitting his coronation robes. The abbey is being made ready. They are ordering the pageants and raising the money for the celebration of his crowning. They have sent out the invitations and summoned Parliament. Everything is being made ready. She hesitates. “It is all rushed, of course. Who would ever have thought…?”

She breaks off. She has obviously promised herself that she will show no grief before me. How could she? Could his whore dare to cry before his queen for the loss of him? So she says nothing, but the tears come to her eyes and she blinks them away. And I say nothing, but the tears come into my eyes too, and I look away from her. I am not a woman to be overcome by a sentimental moment. This is his whore; I am his queen. But God knows, we both miss him. We share the grief as we once shared the joy of him.

“But you are certain?” I ask, my voice very low. “The wardrobe is preparing his coronation robes? Everything is being made ready?”

“They have set the date for his coronation as the twenty-fifth of June and the lords of the kingdom are summoned to attend. There is no doubt,” she says. “Sir William ordered me to tell you to be of good heart, and that he does not doubt you will see your son on the throne of England. He told me to tell you that he himself will come here on the morning to escort you to the abbey, and you shall see your son crowned. You will attend the young king’s coronation as the first in his train.”

I take a breath of this hope. But I see that she may be right, that Hastings may be right, and that I am in sanctuary like a frightened hare that runs when there are no hounds, and lies low, ears flat on its back, while the reapers walk past it to another field.

“And Edward, the young Earl of Warwick, has been sent north to the household of Anne Neville, the Duke of Gloucester’s wife,” she goes on.

Warwick is the boy who was orphaned by the barrel of wine. He is only eight and a frightened foolish little lad, a true son of his fool of a father George of Clarence. But his claim to the throne comes after my sons; his claim is greater than that of Duke Richard, and yet Richard is keeping him safe. “You are sure? He has sent Warwick to his wife?”

“My lord says that Richard fears you and your power, but he would not make war on his own nephews. All the boys are safe with him.”

“Does Hastings have news of my brother and my son Richard Grey?” I whisper.

She nods. “The Privy Council have refused to charge your brother with treason. They say he has been a good and faithful servant. Duke Richard wanted to charge him with kidnapping the young king, but the Privy Council disagreed-they won’t accept a charge. They have overruled Duke Richard, and he has accepted their opinion. My lord thinks your brother and son will be released after the coronation, Your Grace.”

“Duke Richard will make a settlement with us?”

“My lord says that the duke is much opposed to your family, Your Grace, and your influence. But he is loyal to the young king for King Edward’s sake. He said you can be certain that the young king will be crowned.”

I nod. “Tell him I shall be glad of that day, but I shall stay here till then. I have another son and five daughters and I would prefer to keep them safely with me. And I don’t trust Duke Richard.”

“He says you have not been so trustworthy yourself.” She drops into a deep curtsey and keeps her head down as she insults me. “He orders me to tell you that you cannot defeat Duke Richard. You will have to work with him. He orders me to tell you that it was your husband himself who made the duke lord protector, and that the Privy Council prefer his influence to yours. Excuse me, Your Grace, he commanded me to tell you that there are many who dislike your family and want to see the young king free of the influence of his many uncles, and the Riverses out of their many places. It is noticed also that you stole the royal treasure away into sanctuary with you, too, that you took the Great Seal, and that your brother the Lord Admiral Edward Woodville has taken the entire fleet to sea.”