‘Shall I make the arrangements, my lady?’ said Ankarette.

It was pleasant enough in the infirmary at Tewkesbury Abbey. Ankarette was with her for she had expressed her desire that the Queen’s woman should attend her until the child was born and Elizabeth had said that Ankarette was to stay as long as Isabel needed her.

George came to visit her at Tewkesbury. He was alarmed at the sight of her. She looked so pale. She was shortly to give birth to a child and she had never been strong but she certainly looked very ill. He was fond of Isabel, not only because she had brought him vast estates but she soothed him; she listened to his ramblings about his dreams and the glittering prizes he would have; she always seemed to believe him and he needed such an audience. He could not say to anyone else what he said to Isabel. It would be rank treason; but with his wife he felt safe. She would never betray him; she was always on his side. He needed Isabel.

Because he was worried he looked about to blame someone for her state.

‘What woman is that who is always in attendance?’ he demanded.

‘You mean Ankarette? The Queen sent her to me. She is very good and has been in the Queen’s service for some time.’

George grunted. ‘I cannot see why the Woodvilles want to send us a woman.’

‘It was only the Queen ... from one woman to another. She knows I have not been well and she says that Ankarette is an excellent nurse. She insisted on my having her.’

George nodded and went on to ask about her heatlh. He was not satisfied with the place. It was cold and a monastery was no place for a confinement especially one of such importance.

George could not contemplate his children without seeing them as heirs to the throne.

‘I am going to take you back to Warwick Castle,’ he said. ‘There we shall look after you as you should be looked after.’

Isabel smiled. She did not greatly care where she was.

It was November when they reached Warwick Castle. Her baby was due in the next few weeks and all was in readiness. But as the weeks passed Isabel’s cough grew worse and Ankarette and the other women became gravely anxious.

Three days before Christmas the child was born and it became clear that not only had the baby little chance of survival but Isabel was also in grave danger.

She did not recover from the birth. That was a gloomy Christmas at Warwick Castle. In his cradle the baby lay small and shrivelled, refusing nourishment, just lying quiet and still.

On the first of January he joined his mother.

George came to Warwick and was overcome with grief.

Isabel dead! He was desolate. He had wanted to tell her of his plans; he had been looking forward to greeting the new child. Dead, both of them!

Life was cruel to him. It had denied him a crown and now it had taken his wife and child.

He wept genuine tears. He would miss Isabel. There would never be anyone for whom he could care as he had cared for her.

He looked with narrowed eyes at the women of her bedchamber. He felt resentful towards them because they were alive and she was dead.

He went back to Court. The place was buzzing with the news of the Duke of Burgundy’s death. George’s sister Margaret was a widow now and the Duke’s son had died before he did but he had a daughter, Mary, and she would be heiress to the vast estates of Burgundy, surely the richest heiress in France, or the whole of Europe for that matter.

It was an interesting situation.

No one would replace Isabel in his heart, of course, but a man in his position was expected to marry and when he did he should marry in a way which would be advantageous not only to him but to his country.

It was perhaps too soon to be thinking of marrying again with Isabel scarcely cold in her grave, but matters such as this would not wait. The heiress of Burgundy would be snapped up with all speed. That was one thing they could be certain of.

He mentioned the possibility to Edward. ‘It would be to England’s advantage to get the Burgundian estates in English hands,’ he said.

Edward was pensive. The last thing he would give his consent to would be a match between his brother and Mary of Burgundy. He knew that the Duke of Burgundy believed that he himself had a claim to the English throne ... a flimsy one admittedly. His mother Isabel of Portugal was a granddaughter of John of Gaunt. This claim, slight though it might be, would strengthen Clarence’s. Certainly there should be no match between Clarence and Burgundy.

He discussed it with Hastings. ‘My sister Margaret, the Duchess of Burgundy, has always favoured George. Heaven knows why. But he was an attractive child when she knew him and you know how people in families have these favourites. She might try to influence Mary into taking him.’

‘You will never allow it,’ said Hastings.

‘My God no. I should like to get him out of the country ... but not to Burgundy. With this extra claim you can imagine what he would be planning.’

‘I can indeed,’ said Hastings.

While the King was considering this and preparing the refusal he would give to Clarence, Elizabeth mentioned the matter to him.

‘A union between England and Burgundy would be an advantage,’ she said quietly.

‘It would depend, my dear, very much on the bridegroom.’

‘So thought I. Have you ... ?’

‘Selected him? It is hardly for me to do that. Mary I believe is a strong-minded young lady and will want some say in the matter.’

‘She will marry where it is best for her to do so, I doubt not, and your sister Margaret will have some say in the matter perhaps. I believe they are very good friends.’ Elizabeth hesitated and looked sharply at the King. He was smiling slightly. He knew what was coming. Dear Elizabeth, she was full of schemes for bettering her family. Who had she in mind now? He could guess. Anthony. For recently, like George, he had lost his wife and was in the market. Trust Elizabeth to try to pull down this very important prize.

He had to admire her. What hope had Earl Rivers of marrying the heiress of Burgundy, but since Elizabeth herself had married the King of England she believed anything was possible.

‘It would seem,’ he said, taking one of the tendrils of golden hair which hung over her shoulder and twirling it round thoughtfully in his fingers, ‘that my Queen has a husband in mind for this fortunate child.’

‘I would not presume to suggest ...’

‘Then whisper to me, my love.’

‘Well, Edward, I think that if Anthony were to have the girl it would bring great good to this country.’

‘Anthony! Did you know, Elizabeth, that my brother George is after her?’

‘You will never allow that.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Never.’

‘Then Anthony?’

He was still smiling at her. He did not answer. To what lengths did her ambition for her family go? Did she really think the greatest heiress of the day would be allowed to marry a mere Earl and one who had inherited his titles because of his sister’s relationship with the King?

Yet she looked so appealing. Why not grant his permission? Nothing would come of it in any case. The suggestion would be laughed to scorn in Burgundy and perhaps it would teach Elizabeth not to aim quite so high for her family in future. It was different with herself. She had won her place through her outstanding beauty and her determination never to irritate her husband with criticism of his actions.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘let Anthony try. Nothing will come of it, I assure you. But there is no harm in trying.’

That was it. He would not refuse her. He would please her as always. Let someone else do the unpleasant part, which was of course inevitable.

It was different with Clarence. When he came and asked permission to put forward his suit to the heiress of Burgundy he was met with a blank refusal.

As Edward had expected scorn was poured on Anthony’s hopes; but when George realised that Rivers had been allowed to try while he himself had been refused even that, his fury knew no bounds.

He had had enough. The King and the Queen were now his bitter enemies and he would act accordingly.


Sulking he went back to Warwick Castle. He was in deep mourning, he said, for the wife he had loved so well.

He was lonely. He might have been contemplating another marriage if all had gone smoothly with the Burgundy project. Not that that would compensate for the loss of Isabel, but it would take his mind off this miserable lonely state.

Edward had refused him that consolation. And what was more had given it to Anthony Woodville. My lord Rivers! That upstart! Where would he have been if his sister had not attracted the King and had the cunning to refuse him till he married her.

A curse on the Woodvilles. And that sly woman the Queen had tried to pretend she was Isabel’s friend by sending her the woman ... Ankarette somebody. Curse curse curse the Woodvilles and in particular the Queen who was responsible for their rise. Edward was a fool to have married a woman of no standing. They were always the worst when it came to grabbing titles and lands.

He ground his teeth in rage and wished with all his might that he could raise an army and destroy Edward.

How dared the Queen send a woman to serve Isabel! And why had she done it? Why?

Pictures were darting in and out of his fevered mind. That woman ... sent by the Queen! For what purpose? Why should the Queen send Isabel a woman to serve her?

There was something behind this. The more he thought of it the more excited he became. He revelled in his excitement. It took his mind off the disappointment in the loss of Mary of Burgundy.