She senses my eyes on her and she looks up. “I am sorry to disturb your studies, Lady Margaret,” she repeats. “I have written to my mother. It may be that I will be allowed to go and stay with her.”

“Why are you sent from court at all?” I ask. I try to smile to encourage her to confide in me. “Did you get into some silly trouble? I am quite in disgrace for my support of my son, you know.”

She shakes her head, and a little shadow goes over her face. “I think the king wanted me to be in a household where there could be no question against my reputation,” she says. “There has been some gossip-perhaps you have heard it?”

I shake my head as if to imply that I live so quietly, so remotely, that I hear and know nothing.

“The king is very kind to me and singles me out from the ladies of court,” she says, lying fluently as only beautiful girls know how. “There was gossip-you know how the court loves to gossip-and with Her Grace the queen dying so sadly, he wanted to make it clear that there was no cause. So he sent me to you. I am so grateful that you would take me in, thank you.”

“And what was the gossip?” I ask, and watch her shift uncomfortably on her little stool.

“Ah, Lady Margaret, you know how the world likes to whisper.”

“And what did they whisper?” I press her. “If I am to repair your reputation, I should know at least what has been said against it.”

She looks frankly up at me, as if she would have me for a friend and ally if she could. “They say that the king would have taken me for his wife,” she says.

“And would you have liked that?” I ask steadily, but I can hear my own heart pounding in my ears for rage at the insult to my son and to our house.

She blushes deep rose, as red as her cap. “It is not for me to decide,” she says quietly. “My mother must arrange my marriage. And besides, I am already betrothed to your son. Such things are for my mother and my guardians to decide.”

“Your maidenly obedience does you credit, I am sure,” I say. I find I cannot keep the cold scorn from my voice, and she hears it and flinches back and looks at me again. She sees the anger in my face and her color drains away and she is white, as if she would faint.

At that precise moment, my husband walks into the room followed by the steward with the wine and three glasses, takes in the situation in one second, and says urbanely: “Getting to know each other? Excellent.”

He sends her off to her private chambers after she has drunk her glass of wine with us and tells her to rest after the rigors of the journey. Then he pours himself another measure, seats himself in a chair the match of mine, stretches out his boots towards the fire, and says: “You had better not bully her. If Richard defeats your son, he will marry her. The north won’t rebel against him once he has won a strong victory, and then she will be queen and you will never get out of this rathole.”

“It is hardly a rathole, and I don’t bully,” I say. “I merely asked her why she had been sent to me, and she chose to tell me something of the truth and something of a lie, as any girl would, who does not know the one from another.”

“She may be a liar, and indeed, in your terms, she may be a whore, but she will be the next Queen of England,” he says. “If your son comes in like a dragon from Wales-did you know there is a new ballad doing the rounds about the dragon from Wales? – then he will have to marry her to secure the York affinity, whatever her past has been. If Richard defeats your son, as seems most likely, then Richard will marry her for love. Either way, she will be Queen of England, and you would be wise not to make an enemy of her.”

“I shall treat her with perfect courtesy,” I say.

“Do that,” he recommends. “But listen to me, and do something more …”

I wait.

“Don’t take this opportunity to ride roughshod over her, in case, when the times change, she rides her horses over you. You have to appear to be on her side, Margaret. Don’t be a Beaufort filled with wounded pride-be a Stanley: get on the winning side.”

MAY 1485

I disregard my husband’s advice, and I watch Lady Elizabeth and she watches me. We live together in a state of armed silence, like two armies drawn up, pausing before battle.

“Like two cats on a stable roof,” my husband says, much amused.

Sometimes she asks me for news of my son-as if I would trust her with the humiliation he has had to suffer at the French court to raise funds and support for his attack on England! Sometimes I ask her if she has heard from her sisters, still at court, and she tells me that the court is to move to Nottingham, the dark castle at the heart of England, where Richard has chosen to wait for the attack that he knows is coming. The younger York girls are to be sent to Sheriff Hutton for safekeeping, and I know Elizabeth longs to be with them. She obeys the rules of my household without demur, and she is as silent in prayer and as still as I am myself. I have kept her for hours in my chapel without her breakfast, and she has never breathed one word of complaint. She just grows paler, more and more weary in the devotional silence of my private rooms, and I imagine that she finds the days very long. The rose that she was when she rode in through my gate in her red riding dress has now faded to a white rose indeed. She is still beautiful, but now she is again the silent girl that her mother raised in the shadowy sanctuary. She had only a little time of glory, poor little thing: a very brief moment when she was the unofficial queen of a merry court. Now she is in shadow and silence again.

“But your mother must live as I do,” I remark one day to her. “She too lives alone in the country, and she has no lands to command and no people to supervise. She is robbed of her lands and alone as I am. She must be penitent and sad and quiet.”

To my surprise, she laughs aloud, and then puts her hand over her mouth and apologizes. But her eyes are still dancing with the joke. “Oh no, my mother is a very merry woman,” she says. “She has music and dancing every evening, and the mummers come, and the players, and the tenants have their festivals, and she celebrates the saints’ days. She rides out with a hunt most mornings, and they often picnic in the woods. There is always something happening at her house, and she has many guests.”