I send to Grafton for my mother to come to us in the Tower. I need her advice and company, and if we are indeed lost and I have to go abroad, I will want her with me. But the messenger comes back and his face is grave.

“Your Lady Mother is not at her home,” he says.

“Where is she?”

He looks shifty, as if he wishes someone else could tell me bad news. “Tell me at once,” I say, my voice sharp with fear. “Where is she?”

“She is under arrest,” he says. “Orders of the Earl of Warwick. He has ordered her arrest, and his men came to Grafton and took her away.”

“Warwick has my mother?” I can hear my heart thudding in my ears. “My mother is a prisoner?”

“Yes.”

I hear a rattling noise, and I see that my hands are shaking so badly that my rings are clicking against the arms of the chair. I take a breath to steady myself, and grip tight to stop myself shaking. My son Thomas comes closer to stand on one side of my chair. Richard steps up to the other.

“On what charge?”

I think. It cannot be treason: nobody could argue that my mother has done more than advise me. Nobody could charge her with treason when she has been a good mother-in-law to the crowned king and a loving companion to his queen. Not even Warwick could stoop so low as to charge a woman with treason and behead her for loving her daughter. But this is a man who killed my father and my brother without reason. His desire must only be to break my heart and rob Edward of the support of my family. This is a man who will kill me if he ever gets hold of me.

“I am so sorry, Your Grace-”

“What charge?” I demand. My throat is dry and I give a little cough.

“Witchcraft,” he says.

There is no need of a trial to put a witch to death, though no trial has ever failed: it is easy to find people to witness on oath that their cows died or that their horse threw them because a witch had overlooked them. But in any case, there is no need of either witnesses or a trial. A single priest is all that is needed to attest a witch’s guilt, or a lord like Warwick can simply declare her guilty and no one will defend her. Then she can be strangled and buried at the village crossroads. They usually get the blacksmith to strangle the woman since he, by virtue of his trade, has big strong hands. My mother is a tall woman, a famous beauty with a long slim neck. Any man could choke the life out of her in minutes. It does not need to be a brawny blacksmith. Any one of Warwick’s guard could easily do it; would do it, in a moment, on a word, gladly on Warwick’s word.

“Where is she?” I demand. “Where has he taken her?”

“Nobody at Grafton knew where they were going,” the man says. “I asked everyone. A troop of horse came, and they made your mother ride pillion behind their commanding officer, and they took her north. They told no one where they were going. They just said that she was under arrest for witchcraft.”

“I must write to Warwick,” I say quickly. “Go and eat and get a fresh horse. I shall need you to travel as fast as you can. Are you ready to leave at once?”

“At once,” he says, bows, and goes out.

I write to Warwick demanding her release. I write to every archbishop we once commanded, and anyone who I think would speak for us. I write to my mother’s old friends and family attached to the House of Lancaster. I even write to Margaret Beaufort, who, as the heir of the House of Lancaster, may have some influence. Then I go to my chapel, the Queen’s Chapel, and I get down on my knees all night to pray that God will not allow this wicked man to take this good woman, who is blessed with nothing more than a sacred foresight, a few pagan tricks, and a total lack of deference. At dawn, I write her name on a dove’s feather and send it floating downstream to warn Melusina that her daughter is in danger.

Then I have to wait for news. For a whole week I have to wait, hearing nothing and fearing the very worst. Daily, people come to tell me that my husband is dead. Now I fear they will say the same of my mother, and I will be utterly alone in the world. I pray to God, I whisper to the river: someone has to save my mother. Then, at last, I hear that she is freed, and two days later she comes to me in the Tower.

I run into her arms and I cry as if I were her daughter of ten years old. She holds me and she rocks me as if I were still her little girl, and when I look up into her beloved face, I see there are tears on her own cheeks.

“I’m safe,” she says. “He didn’t hurt me. He didn’t put me to question. He held me only for a few days.”

“Why did he let you go?” I ask. “I wrote to him, I wrote to everybody, I prayed and I wished; but I didn’t think he would show you any mercy.”

“Margaret d’Anjou,” she answers with a wry smile. “Of all the women in the world! She commanded him to release me as soon as she heard that he had arrested me. We were good friends once, and we are kinswomen still. She remembered my service at her court, and she ordered Warwick to release me, or face her extreme displeasure.”

I give an incredulous laugh. “She commanded him to release you, and he obeyed?”

“She is his daughter’s mother-in-law now, as well as his queen,” my mother points out. “And he is her sworn ally and counting on her army to support him as he recaptures the country. And I was her companion when she came to England as a bride, and her friend through all the years of her queenship. I was of the House of Lancaster then, as we all were, until you married Edward.”

“It was good of her to save you,” I concede.

“This is a cousins’ war, indeed,” my mother says. “We all have those we love on the other side. We all have to face killing our own family. Sometimes we can be merciful. God knows, she is not a merciful woman, but she thought she would be merciful to me.”


I am sleeping uneasily in the rich royal apartments of the Tower of London, the flicker of moonlight reflected from the river onto the drapes over my bed. I am lying on my back, the weight of the baby heavy on my belly, an ache in my side, drifting between sleep and wakefulness when I see, as bright as moonlight on the arras above me, my husband’s face, gaunt and aged, bent low over the galloping mane of his horse, riding like a madman through the night, less than a dozen men around him.

I give a little cry and turn on the pillow. The rich embroidery presses against my cheek and I sleep again; but again I wake to the image of Edward riding hard through darkness on a strange road.

I half wake, crying out against the picture in my mind, and as I drift between sleeping and wakefulness, I see a small fishing port, Edward, Anthony, William, and Richard hammering on a door, arguing with a man, hiring his boat, forever looking over their shoulders to the west, for their enemies. I hear them promise the ship’s master anything, anything! if he will launch his little ship and take them to Flanders. I see Edward strip off his great coat of furs and offer it as payment. “Take it,” he says. “It’s worth more than your boat twice over. Take it and I will think it a service.”

“No,” I say in my sleep. Edward is leaving me, leaving England, leaving me and breaking his word that he would be with me for the birth of our son.

The seas are high outside the harbor, the dark waves topped with white foam. The little ship rises and falls, rolling between the waves, water breaking over the bows. It seems impossible that it should climb to the top of the waves, and then it crashes down in the troughs. Edward stands at the stern, clutching to the side for support, thrown about by the movement of the boat, looking back at the country he called his own, watching for the flare of the torches of the men coming after him. He has lost England. We have lost England. He claimed the throne, and he was crowned king. He crowned me as queen, and I believed that we were established. He never lost a battle; but Warwick has been too much, too fast, too duplicitous for him. Edward is heading for exile, just as Warwick did. He is heading out into a vicious storm, just as Warwick did. But Warwick went straight to the King of France and found an ally and an army. I cannot see how Edward will ever return.

Warwick is back in power, and now it is my husband and my brother Anthony and my brother-in-law Richard who are the fugitives, and God knows what wind will ever blow them back to England again. And the girls and I, and the baby in my belly, are the new hostages, the new prisoners. I may be in the royal apartments of the Tower for now, but soon I shall be in the rooms below, with the bars over the window, and King Henry will sleep in this bed again, and I shall be the one who people say should, for Christian charity, be released, so that I do not die in prison, without sight of the free sky.

“Edward!” I see him look up, almost as if he can hear me call for him in my sleep, in my dream. “Edward!” I cannot believe that he could leave me, that we could have lost our fight for the throne. My father laid down his life that I might be queen; my brother died beside him. Are we now to be nothing but pretenders, dismissed after a few years of good luck? A king and a queen who overreached themselves and for whom the luck ran out? Are my girls to be the daughters of an attainted traitor? Are they to marry small squires on country estates and hope to live down their father’s shame? Is my mother to greet Margaret of Anjou on her knees, and hope to worm her way back into favor again? Am I to have the choice of living in exile or living in prison? And what of my son, the baby not yet born? Is Warwick likely to let him live-he who lost his own grandson and only heir, as we closed the gates of Calais to him, his daughter losing her baby in rough seas with a witch’s wind blowing them on shore?