I excused myself to my husband for all of June, and I went to the nuns at Bermondsey Abbey. I spent four weeks on my knees praying for the soul of my king, and for the soul of his son, and for his defeated widow. I prayed for vengeance on the House of York and on Edward, and I prayed that he would lose his son too and that his wife-the relentlessly successful, beautiful, and now triumphant-Elizabeth would know the agony of losing a boy, as our queen had done. I could only bear to go home when I heard God whisper to me, in those dark nights of my prayer, that I would have vengeance, that if I would be patient and wait and plan, then I would triumph. Then, at last, I could return home and smile at my husband and pretend to be at peace.

Jasper held out in Wales until September, and then he wrote to me that he thought both he and Henry would be safer out of the country. If Edward could make war on men in sanctuary, on a saint himself, helpless in his private rooms, then he could certainly murder my son for no greater crime than his name and his inheritance. The true Prince of Wales died at Tewkesbury, God bless him; and this puts me still closer to the Lancaster throne, and Henry is my son and heir. If in future years men look for a Lancaster claimant to the usurped throne of England, they could call on Henry Tudor. This is his destiny and his danger, and I see both coming to him. York is predominant; nothing can destroy him now. But Henry is young and has a claim to the throne. We must keep him safe and prepare him for war.

I go to my husband’s room and note his comfortable arrangements. He has a well-made bed, his jug of small ale on a table at his side, his books in their box, his writing paper for memoranda on his writing desk: everything around him that he could wish. He is seated in his chair, strapped tight around his belly, the pain making him gray and older than his years. But his smile to me is cheerful as always.

“I have heard from Jasper in Wales,” I say flatly. “He is going into exile.”

My husband waits for me to say more.

“He will take my son with him,” I volunteer. “There is no safety in England for a boy who is heir to the Lancaster line.”

“I agree,” my husband says equably. “But my nephew Henry Stafford is safe enough in the York court. They have accepted his fealty. Shouldn’t your Henry approach King Edward and offer to serve him?”

I shake my head. “They are going to France.”

“To plan invasion?”

“For their own safety. Who knows what will come next? These are troubled times.”

“I would see you spared from trouble,” he says gently. “I wish you would ask Jasper to avoid trouble and not make it.”

“I don’t seek trouble for myself, and neither does Jasper. I only ask that you will allow me to ride to Tenby and see them sail. I want to say good-bye to my son.”

He pauses for a moment. This turncoat, this coward, snug in his bed, has the right to command me. I wonder if he dares to forbid me to go, and if I dare to defy him.

“It is to put yourself in danger.”

“I have to see Henry before he leaves. Who knows when it will be safe for him to return? He is fourteen years old; he will be a man before I see him again.”

He sighs, and I know I have won. “You will ride with a full guard?”

“Of course.”

“And turn back if the roads are closed?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can go to say good-bye to your son. But make no promises to them, nor to the future of the House of Lancaster. Your cause was finally defeated at Tewkesbury. Henry’s house was destroyed at Tewkesbury. It is over. Your advice to them should be to seek for a way to return in peace.”

I look at him, and I know my face is defiant and cold. “I know it is over,” I say. “Who should know better than I? It is my cause that is defeated, the head of my house executed, my husband wounded fighting on the wrong side, and my son going into exile. Who should know better than I that all hope is dead for my country?”

SEPTEMBER 1471

TENBY, WALES

I look disbelievingly over the bright water of the harbor at Tenby. The sunshine sparkles, and there is a light wind blowing; it is a day to sail for pleasure, surely not for me to stand here, amid the smell of fish, with my heart breaking.

This tiny village is heart and soul for Jasper, and the fishwives and the men are clattering in their rough wooden pattens down the cobbled street that leads to the quay where bobs the little boat that is waiting to take my son away from me. Some of the women are red-eyed at their lord’s exile; but I do not cry. Nobody would know from looking at me that I could weep for a week.

My boy has grown again; he is now as tall as me, a youth of fourteen, starting to thicken around his shoulders, his brown eyes level with mine, and he is pale though his summertime freckles are speckled on his nose like the markings on a warm bird’s egg. I stare at him, seeing both the child that has grown to a man and now the boy who should be king. The glory of majesty has come down to him. King Henry and his son Prince Edward are both dead. This boy, my boy, is heir to the House of Lancaster. This is no longer my boy, the child in my possession: this is England’s rightful king.