The White Queen

AUGUST 1483

The summer grows very hot and Lionel slips out of sanctuary and out of London to join our brothers and our allies in the rebellion that is to defeat Richard. Without him I feel very much alone. Elizabeth is quiet and distant, and I have nobody to share my fears. Downriver my son remains a prisoner in the Tower, and Jemma tells us that nobody sees him or the little changeling playing in the Tower gardens anymore. They had been practicing archery on the green, but nobody sees them at the butts now. Since our rescue attempt their guardians have kept them close inside, and I start to fear the danger of plague in the heat of the city and think of them in those small dark rooms.

At the end of August there is a shout from a boatman on the river, and I swing open the window wide and look out. Sometimes they bring me gifts, often just a creel of fish, but this man has a ball in his hand. “Can you catch, Your Grace?” he asks, seeing me at the window.

I smile. “Yes, I can,” I say.

“Then catch this,” he says, and tosses a white ball up to me. It comes soaring through the window over my head, and I reach up and catch it double-handed and laugh for a moment at the fun of playing again. Then I see it is a ball wrapped in white paper and I go back to the window; but the man has gone.

I unwrap it and smooth out the paper and I put my hand to my heart and then to my mouth to silence my cry as I recognize the childish round hand of my little boy Richard.

Dearest Lady Mother, Greetings and blessings [he starts carefully]. I am not allowed to write often, nor to tell you exactly where I am, in case the letter is stolen, except to say that I arrived safely and it is quite all right here. They are kind people and I have learned how to row a boat already and they say I am good and handy. In a little while I am to go away to school for they cannot teach me all I need to know here, but I will come back for the summer and go fishing for eels, which are very nice when you get used to them, unless I can come home to you again. Give my love to my sisters and my love and duty to my brother the king, and my honor and love to you. Signed,

your son Richard, Duke of York. Though now I am called Peter, and I remember to answer to Peter always. The woman here, who is kind to me, calls me her little Perkin, and I don’t mind this.

I read the words through tears, then I mop my eyes and read them again. I smile at the thought of his being called handy, and I have to take a breath to stop myself crying out at the thought of his being called Perkin. I want to weep at his being taken away from me, so young, such a small boy; and yet he is safe, I should be glad that he is safe: the only one of my children away from the danger of being of this family in this country, in these wars, which will start again. The boy who now answers to Peter will go quietly to school, learn languages, music, and wait. If we win, he will come home as a prince of the blood; if we lose, he will be the weapon they do not know we have, the boy in hiding, the prince in waiting, the nemesis of their ambitions; and my revenge. He and his will haunt every king who comes after us, like a ghost.

“Mother Mary watch over him,” I whisper, my head in my hands, my eyes shut tight on my tears. “Melusina, guard our boy.”