She does not touch me, she does not put her arm around my shoulders or reach for my tear-drenched fingers. ‘It’s over,’ she says. She takes a handkerchief from her sleeve, and she dries her eyes, folds it, and puts it back. She is resigned to grief, to our defeat. ‘It’s over. We were fighting against the House of York and they were always certain to win. They have Edward before them and they have witchcraft behind them, they are unbeatable. I am of the House of York now, and I will see them rule England forever. You, in my household, will be faithful to York too.’
I keep my hands over my mouth and I direct my frightened whisper to her ears only. ‘Do you know for sure that they won by witchcraft?’
‘It was a witch’s wind that nearly drowned me and killed my baby,’ she says, her voice so low that I have to lean against her cheek to hear her words. ‘The same witch’s wind raged all spring and kept us in port but blew Edward to England. At the battle of Barnet, Edward’s armies were hidden by a mist that swirled around them, only them, as they crept forwards. Father’s army was on a ridge in plain view, it was Her magic that hid the York troops. It is not possible to defeat Edward as long as he has Her at his side.’
I hesitate. ‘Our father died fighting them. He sacrificed Midnight to fight them.’
‘I can’t think about him now,’ she says. ‘I have to forget him.’
‘I won’t,’ I say, almost to myself. ‘I won’t ever forget him. Not him or Midnight.’
She shrugs, as if it does not matter very much, gets to her feet and smooths her gown over her slim hips, arranging her golden belt. ‘You have to come to the king,’ she says.
‘I do?’ I am frightened at once.
‘Yes. I am to take you. Make sure you don’t say anything wrong. Don’t do anything stupid.’ She looks me over with a hard critical glare. ‘Don’t cry. Don’t talk back. Try and act like a princess though you are not.’
Before I can say another word she beckons her ladies and leads the way out of her rooms. I follow her and the three ladies in waiting fall in behind me. I watch very carefully that I don’t step on her gown as she leads the way through the castle to the king’s apartments. Her train slips down the stairs, trails through the sweet-scented rushes across the great hall. I follow it like a kitten follows a skein of wool: blindly, like a fool.
We are expected. The doors swing open and Edward is there, tall, fair and handsome, seated behind a table that is spread with papers. He does not look like a man who has just fought a bloody battle, killed his guardian, and then led a desperate forced march to another battle to the death. He looks full of life, tireless. As the doors open he looks up and sees us, and he smiles his open-hearted beam as if we were still all friends, as if we were still the little daughters of his greatest friend and mentor. As if we adored him as the most glamorous older brother a girl could ever have.
‘Ah, Lady Anne,’ he says, and he rises from his seat and comes round the table and gives me his hand. I sink down into a deep curtsey and he raises me up and kisses me on both cheeks, first one then the other.
‘My sister begs for your pardon,’ Isabel says, her voice tremulous with sincerity. ‘She is only young, she is not yet fifteen, Your Grace, and she has been obedient to my mother who judged ill, and she had to obey her father who betrayed you. But I will take her into my keeping and she will be faithful to you and yours.’
He looks at me. He is as handsome as a knight in a storybook. ‘You know that Margaret of Anjou is defeated and will never ride out against me again?’
I nod.
‘And that her cause was without merit?’
I can sense that Isabel is flinching with fear without looking at her.
‘I know that now,’ I say carefully.
He gives a short laugh. ‘That’s good enough for me,’ he says easily. ‘Do you swear to accept me as your king and liege lord and support the inheritance of my son and heir, Prince Edward?’
I close my eyes briefly at the name of my husband, in the place of my husband. ‘I do,’ I say. I don’t know what else I can say.
‘Swear fealty,’ he says quietly.
Isabel pushes me on the shoulder and I go down to my knees to him, who has been like a brother to me, then a king, then an enemy. I watch him to see if he will gesture that I have to kiss his boot. I wonder how low I am going to have to go. I put up my hands together in a gesture of prayer and Edward puts his hands on either side of them. His hands are warm. ‘I forgive you, and I pardon you,’ Edward says cheerfully. ‘You will live with your sister and she and I will arrange for your marriage when your year of widowhood is over.’
‘My mother . . .’ I start.
Isabel makes a little movement as if to stop me. But Edward holds up his hand for silence, his face stern. ‘Your mother has betrayed her position and her obedience to her king,’ he says. ‘It is as if she were dead to me.’
‘And to me,’ says Isabel hastily, the turncoat.
THE TOWER OF LONDON, 21 MAY 1471
