The White Queen

JANUARY 1484

I hear from my son Thomas Grey, in a letter which comes to me travel-stained from Henry Tudor’s ragamuffin court in Brittany, dated Christmas Day 1483.

As he promised, he swore to his betrothal to your daughter Elizabeth in the cathedral in Rennes. He also claimed the title of King of England and was acclaimed king by all of us. He received our homage and oaths of loyalty, mine among the others. I heard one man ask him how he could claim to be heir, when the young King Edward might be living for all we know. He said something interesting…he said that he had certain proof that the young King Edward is dead, and that his heart is sore for it, and that we should have revenge on his murderer-the usurper Richard. I asked him what proof he had, and reminded him of your pain without a son to bury, nor any knowledge of him; and he said that he knew for a fact that Richard’s men had killed your boys. He said they had pressed them under their bedding as they slept, and then buried them under the stair in the Tower. I took him to one side and said that at the very least we could place servants or suborn those who are there and order them to find the bodies if he would only tell me where they are, which stair in the Tower. I said that if we found the bodies as his invasion of England began, we could accuse Richard of murder, and the whole country would be on our side. “Which stair?” I asked. “Where are the bodies? Who told you of the murder?” Lady Mother, I lack your skills of seeing into the dark hearts of men, but there was something about him that I couldn’t like. He looked away, and said it was no good, he had thought of it already, but a priest had lifted their bodies and taken them away in a chest to give them a Christian burial, and buried them in the deepest waters of the river, never to be found. I asked him the name of the priest but he did not know it. I asked him how the priest knew where they were buried and why he put them in the river instead of taking the bodies to you. I asked him if it was to be a Christian burial then why put them in the water? I asked him which part of the river and he said he did not know. I asked him who told him all this, and he said it was his mother Lady Margaret, and that he would trust her with his life. It will be just as she has told him; he knows this for a fact. I don’t know what you make of this. It stinks to me.

I take Thomas’s letter and put it into the flames of the fire that burns in the hall. I take up a pen to reply to him, trim the nib, nibble the feather at the top, and then write.

I agree. Henry Tudor and his allies must have had a hand in the death of my son. How else would he know they were dead and how it was done? Richard is to release us this month. Get away from the Tudor pretender and come home. Richard will pardon you and we can be together. Whatever vows Henry takes in church and however many men show him homage, Elizabeth will never marry the murderer of her brothers, and if he is indeed the killer, then he carries my curse to his son and his grandson. No Tudor boy will live to manhood if Henry had a hand in the death of my son.

The end of the twelve days of Christmas and the return of the Parliament to London brings me the unwelcome news that Parliament has obliged King Richard and ruled that my marriage was invalid, that my children are bastards and that I myself am a whore. Richard had declared this before, and no one had argued with him. Now it is law and the Parliament, like so many moppets, nods it through.

I don’t make any objection to the Parliament, and I don’t command any friends of mine to object for us. It is the first step in freeing us from our hiding place that has become our prison. It is the first step in turning us into what Elizabeth calls “ordinary people.” If the law of the land says that I am nothing more than the widow of Sir Richard Grey, and the former king’s former lover, if the law of the land says that my children are merely girls born out of wedlock, then we are of little value alive or dead, imprisoned or free. It does not matter to anyone where we are, or what we are doing. This, on its own, sets us free.

More importantly, I think, but I do not say, not even to Elizabeth, that once we are living in a private house quietly, my boy Richard might be able to join us. As we are stripped of our royalty my son might be with me again. When he is no longer a prince, I might get him back. He has been Peter, a boy living with a poor family in Tournai. He could be Peter, a visitor to my house at Grafton, my favorite page boy, my constant companion, my heart, my joy.