An intriguing situation which had appealed to that arch intriguante Jacquetta. Her prospective husband was the mighty Duke of Bedford, the most important man in France at that time, some said, because he was the Regent and had been so since the death of his brother Henry the Fifth who had conquered France and married the French King’s daughter. No wonder her family had been eager for the match. She was not averse to it herself apart from the fact that she was being forced into it and Jacquetta always liked to make up her own mind – then she saw him. He was in his forties and he seemed to her a very old man.

However the marriage took place. He was not unkind. He thought her very pretty and charming – and she did not see very much of him because he was always engaged in weighty matters and with the ceremonies over there was another important concern for him – the pacification of the mighty Burgundy.

The marriage did not last long. Poor old man, he died worn out by his troubles and deeply depressed because he saw that the English were losing their grip on France.

And Jacquetta had been free. She had been seventeen when she saw the most handsome man in England. He was not so only in her eyes because she had heard him called that by others. Richard Woodville of the Mote Maidstone until his elder brother died and he inherited Grafton in Northamptonshire.

Richard had served Jacquetta’s late husband well and had been knighted by Henry the Sixth at Leicester about ten years before they met. Of course even with his knighthood he was only a humble squire and she was the daughter of the Count St Pol of the reigning House of Luxembourg. Jacquetta had known that if she had made known her desire to marry Richard Woodville there would be protests from her family. Protests? – More than that. It would be strictly forbidden and attempts would be made to hustle her into marriage with someone of high rank and very likely no physical attractions for her whatsoever. The fact was that after she had seen Richard Woodville no one else would do for her, so with what her uncle called a wanton lack of consideration for her rank she had married the handsomest man in England in secret, consummated the marriage with such verve that before her irate brother and her uncle knew of it she was enceinte with Elizabeth, which made any annulling of the marriage impossible.

Jacquetta had been ecstatically happy and had fourteen children one after the other and looked scarcely a day older than she had been when she had married her beautiful Richard. She knew it was whispered that she was a sorceress, for none but a witch could continue to look so young and beautiful and full of vitality after so much childbearing.

Jacquetta could and did. There were powders and concoctions besides lotions to help the hair retain its colour. She was knowledgeable in such arts and if that was witchcraft, then she was a witch. But she enjoyed her life, except when her husband and sons were torn from their homes to fight these wretched wars of the roses. But her nature was such that she knew the reunions could not have been so glorious but for the partings. There were great compensations in life.

Secretly she was glad that Edward now seemed firmly on the throne. He might be the enemy but the acceptance of him as king would stop the wars, and more than anything she wanted her family to be safe and with her whenever possible.

‘I am proud of my Woodvilles,’ she would say, ‘every one of them.’ And once more she would congratulate herself on her wisdom in snapping her fingers at convention and following the path of romance. It was an unwritten law that when a woman married once for state reasons, the next time – if there was a next time – she should choose for herself. And that was exactly what she had done. Poor Richard, he had been bewildered, a little fearful, but she had swept him off his feet, and he had been no match for the demanding determined Duchess of Bedford.

He had been right of course to fear there would be trouble. Her brother the Count of St Pol and her uncle, Louis of Luxembourg and Bishop of Therouanne, had sent bitter reproaches and declared they did not want to see her again. She snapped her fingers at them. She could endure the separation, she declared. They were naturally not the only ones who were angry. There was also the English royal house for in marrying the Duke of Bedford she had become a member of that.

Henry was lenient though and all that had been demanded was a fine of a thousand pounds. It was not easy to find that money, of course, for Richard was only a poor knight, but they had managed and very soon were forgiven for Richard was firm in his allegiance to the House of Lancaster and he had been raised to the peerage for his services and was now Lord Rivers, a name they had chosen from the old family one of Redvers. Happy years they had been, saddened only by separation and the fear of what might be happening to him in those stupid wars. In common with many women Jacquetta did not greatly care which side was successful as long as there could be an end to the senseless killing.

No one was safe – but when had they ever been? At any moment a man could offend someone in a high place and some pretext would be found for taking off his head. The best life was in the country, away from the Court and dangerous affairs, and that was where Jacquetta liked to be with her family about her.

And now here was Elizabeth come home in her trouble: beautiful Elizabeth with her long golden hair and face that resembled a Greek statue, tall, willowy, still with a figure unimpaired by the bearing of children.

Jacquetta fingered the serpent’s device on the brooch she was wearing.

She was certain that her beautiful daughter would find a way out of her troubles. Of all her children, Elizabeth was the one who knew best how to take care of herself.


During the months that followed Elizabeth had plenty of time to brood on her fate. It seemed worse to her because she had planned it all so differently. Being exceptionally beautiful for as long as she could remember she had expected to reap benefits from her outstanding physical perfections. She had been aware of admiration from the cradle; and although she knew that her father was not one of the powerful nobles of England, she had expected a good marriage.

Perhaps she would have been wiser to have accepted Sir Hugh Johnes. He was, it was true, of no great significance but he had been under the patronage of the great Earl of Warwick and might have risen. But she had declined, and it was only now that this calamity had befallen her that she was wondering whether she should have taken him.

Elizabeth had always felt that some special fate was in store for her. Her mother had hinted at it more than once and whether Jacquetta really could see into the future was not certain, but like most people Elizabeth liked to believe auguries that were good and only doubted when they were not.

To have been born the daughter of a mesalliance was in itself dramatic. Of course they had been poor and there were so many brothers and sisters; Jacquetta had dominated the family for their father was away a great deal and in any case was completely under the spell of his exciting wife. Warm-hearted, lively Jacquetta, about whom there was an aura of mystery because of the serpent of Melusina, had formed close family ties and Elizabeth, in spite of the calculating streak in her nature, was one of them and could never forget that she was a Woodville.

Woodvilles stand together, Jacquetta had said. The good fortune of one of us is the good fortune of all and so shall it be if troubles are to come. It was the code of the family and none would ever forget it.

She remembered with excitement the day she left for Windsor there to play her part of lady of the bedchamber to the Queen.

Margaret of Anjou had liked her even though there could not have been two women less alike. Margaret was impulsive, fiercely vindictive to her enemies and as fiercely faithful to her friends. Elizabeth was cool, and rarely acted on impulse; she was always looking for the advantage to herself as she must, being born without the means to buy a rich and powerful husband. But marriages were rarely arranged by the young people concerned; they were not the result of demanding passion, devoted love. Oh no, lands, possession, titles came into it; and the least physically desirable parti had far greater chance if possessed of a fortune than the most beautiful woman on earth who was without one.

Such knowledge rankled; and Elizabeth was wary. If her father was a humble knight who had managed to get into the peerage for service to a cause which was now out of favour, her mother though disowned was of the reigning House of Luxembourg. Elizabeth had decided that she was not going to throw away her chances lightly.

Margaret had become quite fond of her. Elizabeth knew how to please her, and that was to listen to her tirades against the Duke of York, to murmur sympathetically, to admire the Prince of Wales as the most perfect baby that ever had been born, and to show an interest in Margaret’s gowns which was not difficult for Elizabeth herself liked splendour. We are of a kind in one way, she thought. We have both had impoverished childhoods, but she has become a queen. What a triumph – and yet now Margaret had lost her crown ... or not exactly lost it. Margaret would never agree to that. But she was in exile and the young godlike Edward, who had so caught the people’s fancy, was on the throne. To stay, some said.

And that brought her back to the ever recurring theme. And we are on the wrong side.

If only her father had sported the white rose instead of the red! He might have known that Henry was not going to prevail over York. York had had everything on his side. He was energetic while Henry was lethargic as far as war was concerned; Henry wanted to read his books, listen to music, plan buildings and pray. Oh those prayers! They went on interminably. Elizabeth was grateful that Margaret had become a little impatient with them. York was a ruler; he even declared he had a greater claim to the throne and some agreed with him. The usurpation of Henry’s grandfather was a constant topic, and York’s having descended from two branches of the royal tree was true enough. York had the greater claim; he was more fitted to be the king. Moreover he had the Earl of Warwick on his side. It should have been obvious to any that York was going to succeed. A clever man would have arranged something to enable him to change sides but her father had not done it; nor had her husband.