Philippa Gregory - The White Queen

I do not pause for a moment. I have only been waiting for the terms and these are exactly what I expected. Not through foreseeing but through the commonplace sense of what I would demand if I were in Lady Margaret’s strong position: married to the third greatest man in England, in alliance with the second, planning to betray the first. “I agree,” I say. “Tell the Duke of Buckingham and tell Lady Margaret that I agree. And tell them my price: I have to have my sons restored to me at once.”

Next morning, my brother Lionel comes to me smiling. “There is someone to see you at the water gate,” he says. “A fisherman. Greet him quietly, my sister. Remember that discretion is a woman’s greatest gift.”

I nod and hurry to the door.

Lionel puts a hand on my arm, less a bishop, more a brother. “Don’t shriek like a girl,” he says bluntly, and lets me go.

I slip through the door and go down the stone steps that lead to the stone corridor. It is shadowy, lit only by the daylight filtering through the iron gate that opens out to the river. A little wherry is bobbing at the doorway, a small fishing net piled in the stern. A man in a filthy cape and a pulled-down hat is waiting at the doorway, but nothing can disguise his height. Forewarned by Lionel I don’t cry out, and dissuaded by the stink of old fish I don’t run into his arms. I just say quietly, “Brother, my brother, I am glad with all my heart to see you.”

A flash of his dark eyes from under the heavy brim shows me my brother Richard Woodville’s smiling face, villainously covered with a beard and a mustache. “Are you all right?” I ask, rather shocked at his appearance.

“Never better,” he says jauntily.

“And you know about our brother Anthony?” I ask. “And my son Richard Grey?”

He nods, suddenly grim. “I heard this morning. That’s partly why I came today. I am sorry, Elizabeth, I am sorry for your loss.”

“You are Earl Rivers now,” I say. “The third Earl Rivers. You are head of the family. We seem to be getting through heads of our family rather quickly. Do you, please, hold the title a little longer.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he promises. “God knows, I inherit the title of two good men. I hope to hold it longer, but I doubt I can do better. Anyway, we are close to an uprising. Listen to me. Richard feels himself secure with the crown on his head, and he is to go on progress to show himself to the kingdom.”

I have to stop myself spitting into the water. “I wonder the horses have the brass neck even to walk.”

“As soon as he is out of London, his guard with him, we will storm the Tower and get Edward out. The Duke of Buckingham is with us and I trust him. He has to travel with King Richard, and the king will force Stanley go with him too-he still doubts him; but Lady Margaret will stay in London and command the Stanley men and her own affinity to join us. Already she has her men placed in the Tower.”

“Will we have enough men?”

“Near on a hundred. The new king has made Sir Robert Brackenbury the constable of the Tower. Brackenbury would never hurt a boy in his care-he is a good man. I have put new servants in the royal rooms, men who will open the doors for me when I give them the word.”

“And then?”

“We get you and the girls safely away to Flanders. Your sons, Richard and Edward, can join you,” he says. “Have you heard from the men who took Prince Richard yet? Is he safe in hiding?”

“Not yet,” I say fretfully. “I have been looking for a message every day. I should have heard that he is safe by now. I pray for him every hour. I should have heard by now.”

“A letter could have gone astray; it means nothing. If it had gone wrong, they would have sent you news for sure. And just think: you can collect Richard from his hiding place on your way to Margaret’s court. Once you are with your boys and safe again, we raise our army. Buckingham will declare for us. Lord Stanley and his whole family is promised by his wife, Margaret Beaufort. Half of Richard’s other lords are ready to turn against him, according to the Duke of Buckingham. Lady Margaret’s son Henry Tudor will raise arms and men in Brittany, and invade Wales.”

“When?” I breathe.

He glances behind him. The river is busy as ever with ships coming and going, little trading wherries weaving in and out of the bigger boats. “Duke Richard-” He breaks off and grins at me. “Forgive me, ‘King Richard’ is to leave London at the end of July on progress. We will rescue Edward at once, and give you and him long enough to get to safety, say two days, and then, while the king is out of touch, we will rise.”

“And Edward our brother?”

“Edward is recruiting men in Devon and Cornwall. Your son Thomas is working in Kent. Buckingham will bring out the men from Dorset and Hampshire, Stanley will bring out his affinity from the Midlands, and Margaret Beaufort and her son can raise Wales in the name of the Tudors. All the men of your husband’s household are determined to save his sons.”

I nibble at my finger, thinking as my husband would have thought: men, arms, money, and the spread of support around the south of England. “It is enough if we can defeat Richard before he brings in his men from the north.”

He grins at me, the Rivers’s reckless grin. “It is enough and we have everything to win and nothing to lose,” he says. “He has taken the crown from our boy: we have nothing to fear. The worst has already happened.”

“The worst has already happened,” I repeat, and the shiver that goes down my spine I attribute to the loss of Anthony my brother, my dearest brother, and the death of my Grey son. “The worst has already happened. There can be nothing worse than our losses already.”

Richard puts his dirty hand on mine. “Be ready to leave whenever I send the word,” he says. “I will tell you as soon as I have Prince Edward safe.”

“I will.”

I am waiting at the window, dressed in my traveling cape, my chest of jewels at my hand, my girls with me, ready to leave. We are silent, we have been silently waiting for more than an hour. We are straining to hear something, anything, but there is only the slap of the river against the walls and the occasional burst of music or laughter from the streets. Elizabeth beside me is tight as a lute string, white with anxiety.

Then there is a sudden crash of noise, and my brother Lionel comes running into the sanctuary and slams and bolts the door behind him.

“We failed,” he says, gasping for breath. “Our brothers are safe, your son too. They got away down the river and Richard went to earth in the Minories, but we couldn’t take the White Tower.”

“Did you see my boy?” I demand.

He shakes his head. “They had the two boys in there. I heard them shouting orders. We were so close I could hear them shouting through the door to take the boys inward, to a more secure chamber. Dear God, sister, forgive me. I was the thickness of a door away from them but we could not batter it down.”

I sit down as my knees give way beneath me and I drop the box of jewels to the floor. Elizabeth is ashen. She turns and slowly starts to take the girls’ capes off, one by one, folding them up, as if it is important that they are not creased.

“My son,” I say. “My son.”

“We got in through the water gate, and then across the first lane before they even saw us. We were starting up the steps as someone sounded the alarm, and though we sprinted up the steps to the door of the White Tower, they slammed it shut. We were just seconds away from it. Thomas was firing at the locks and we threw ourselves against it, but I heard the bolts slam from the inside and then they came pouring out of the guard room. Richard and I turned to face them and we fought, holding them off, while Thomas and the Stanley men tried to batter the door in, or even lift it from its hinges, but you know-it is too strong.”