The House of York has three sons: Edward, George and Richard. As weeks fade to months, and my stay at court drags on, I am learning about each of them.

I learn that Edward, though the eldest, a father in his own right and ruler of our realm, has the spirit of a young boy. He likes frivolity. He likes to play, and he wants those around him to join in his revels. He clawed his way to the throne amidst bloodshed, my father at his side, and now that he possesses the crown, he seems loath to let it rest heavily on his head. He feels safe, now that Lancaster has been crushed and he has two young sons to follow him as king. He is quick to forgive. He enjoys a jest, often at another's expense, but never one that will cause true harm. He is devoted to the queen with wholehearted and reckless abandon. The easy intimacy between them serves to flaunt their love before the entire court. I see the careless touches, the whispers, the perpetual physical closeness, and envy sings in my veins.

I learn that George is vain. I buy my freedom slowly, day by day, through flattery. He fancies himself a great soldier, a skilled horseman, an accomplished flirt. I tell him that I am grateful for his protection and watch his chest puff with pride. He is a man of insatiable appetites. At meals, he gorges himself. More often than not, his lips are stained red with wine. His carnal appetites extend beyond my sister's bed. I hear boasts from the men about their trips to the whorehouse, and whispers from the ladies of midnight tumbles and torn dresses. There is no shame in his handsome face when he looks at Isabel, at me. He is swaggering, full of vigor, taking no pains to hide his prowess. If no child comes from the marital bed, that is my sister's fault, and not his own. We are daughters of a traitor. We cannot rebuke him.

I learn the least about Richard, for I already know him the most, of the three. But every scrap of knowledge is precious to me.

I learn that Richard has a scar on his right forearm from a jousting accident when he was fifteen. He will not touch sweet pastries, or sugary delicacies, because he thinks they render the body slow and useless in battle. He likes it when I wear red, and when I tell him that it is Lancaster's color, he laughs and says that it doesn't matter, he is sick of white, it reminds him of bones. He has a pair of hunting dogs who follow him around the castle grounds and who learn to press their muzzles into my palms, knowing that I will sneak them cheese and sweetmeats from the kitchens. His favorite weapon is the broadsword. He likes to walk about the gardens in the evenings, and that is how we come to see each other every day.

Sometimes he brings a book, in Latin or Greek, and says that he is having trouble translating a passage. It is a lie, for he received a royal's education, but it offers me an excuse to sit beside him on the grass for hours, close but not too close, and I will not refuse. If I have done something to offend George or Isabel, and I am banned from attending dinner, he will bring me his share of dessert, folded neatly in a napkin. I always offer it to him and he always refuses. We race each other. We climb trees. I slip back into my room each night with blades of grass in my hair and flower petals falling from the folds of my gown.

I learn that he will not touch me until I make contact first. When we sit, when we walk, there is always distance between us. But as soon as I close the gap, he is there, ready. If I lean toward him, his head is bent over me. If I take his hand to drag him this way or that, he is tracing his thumb across my palm. If I walk close to him, arms brushing, his hand is on my back, guiding me.

We are lounging on the grass, in the soft glow of a summer evening, when I nudge my slippered foot towards him. "I just noticed that the laces are ripped."

He looks amused. "Thank you for informing me."

"It's your fault for racing me to the footbridge."

"Or yours, for taking any foolish bet– even one that you'll certainly lose."

"It wasn't a bet!" I prop myself up on my elbows, curls spilling down around me. I see in his face that I am desirable like this, flushed and rosy. "I didn't promise you anything if you should win."

"Do you want to promise me something?"

Everything, I think. I giggle instead. "What I want is for you to fix my shoe."

He sighs in mock annoyance, and then he is holding my foot gingerly, careful to avoid disturbing the hem of my gown. He examines the shoe. "It's not ripped, the laces have just come undone. Cruel Anne, making me think I caused the ruin of your shoe."

He is going to release my foot, and then his hands won't be on me. "Tie them again." I smile. I hope it is coquettish.

He shakes his head, but he is smiling too. "Whatever my lady wishes." I feel his fingers against my ankle, and they are cool and smooth. He wraps the thin leather cords carefully, pulling them snug against my skin.

"It laces up the calf," I say, before I can stop myself.

His eyes are shining. "Cruel, cruel Anne," he whispers.

I lift the hem of my gown slightly. I am glad my leg is bare of stockings, glad my skin is smooth and supple. In one fluid motion, he rises so he is seated, and places my raised foot against the place where his shoulder meets his chest, so the sole of my slipper is against his shirt.

He is wrapping the laces again, and again, brushing my calf with his fingertips, and I am thinking that I could die from this, from wanting him, and that I am not afraid, and I don't want to leave my body, to lose this moment with him.

He ties the final knot and his eyes meet mine. His hand is resting against my bare knee, now without a purpose.

His gaze is hot on me, unwavering. I wonder if he would look at me like this if we were in his bed. I wonder what lovemaking is like, if he knows, if he would teach me.

He pulls the hem of my skirt down. He slides his hand to my ankle, as if steadying himself. When he speaks his voice is dark with desire. "I should take you inside."

I don't want to return to the castle. I want to stay like this, with his eyes and his hands on me. No harm can befall me when I am the object of his focus, his years of a knight's training honed on me, kneeling at my feet. But if I do not stop, I think that I will give him everything.

I let him lead me inside.

—-

Isabel and her ladies are gossiping. I hear their hushed voices and quiet laughter from across the room, where I sit with my needlework. "Of what do you speak?"

She strolls over to me, pale and languid. "Of the Duke of Gloucester."

"And what do you say of him?"

"There is a rumor that he will soon be married."

My needle slips and plunges into my finger. I hiss as I watch a drop of my blood stain the cloth.

"Married to Margaret Beaufort," she continues. "The mother of Henry Tudor, the boy who the Lancasters would put on Edward's throne."

"The Duke is loyal to the House of York," I say. "He would not choose a Lancastrian bride."

Her smile is serpentlike, her green eyes narrow. "She is just like you, Anne. The widow of a man of Lancaster. Only she has demonstrated her ability to bear a son, and she is older, learned, and wealthy, besides."

"I would be wealthy, if your husband did not insist upon having me in his keeping. If you would not turn a blind eye while he locks up our mother and prays for her death– if you would not do the same."

For a moment I think she will slap me. I see the little jerk of her elbow. But she smooths her skirts and fixes me under an icy stare. "It is jealousy that makes you say these hateful things. As if you have a right. As if Richard would ever look twice at you."

I cannot contradict her. I cannot offer proof, for no promise has been made, no future offered. I wonder if I have been taken for a fool, if when his hands were up my skirts and his voice shook, he was planning his marriage to Margaret Beaufort.

I do not go to the gardens that night. I stay in my room, surrounded by a dozen flickering candles, alone in the sanctity of my cold bed.