Chapter 3

Summer 1469

Some whispered that Elizabeth Woodville must be a witch, to have turned the king's head so quickly and so completely, but Richard didn't believe it. He knew Edward too well. Edward, who had anxiously wondered if it was true that Lady Bona was pockmarked. Edward, who scarcely paused to think before he charged forward. Edward, who must have his will, even if he tore his kingdom apart to get it.

He had urged Edward to simply persuade the Lady Grey to serve a stint as his mistress, or to forget her for any of the thousands of other beauties England could offer. He would not.

When it became clear that Lady Grey would become Queen Elizabeth, Richard had shifted tactics, urging Edward to placate the Earl of Warwick and his other allies in whatever ways proved necessary, and not to shower too much favor on his new bride's siblings. As was becoming his custom, Edward paid Richard's words little mind, and soon presided over a nest of vipers.

Lady Grey – the Queen – tried to charm and soothe, but it was not in her power. Richard wasn't sure if he respected the effort, or despised it. He staked out a kind of neutrality, where he was somewhat dismissive of the new queen, but not hostile enough to risk Edward's wrath. It seemed prudent, given that Edward might tire of her at any time and push away the faction that was growing around her. He might note that "hasty marriage seldom proveth well," but would immediately counter the effect with soothing words about those whom had God had joined together.

George never had the political instincts for that sort of dance. He said exactly what he thought: that an alliance with France was more important than any love Edward claimed to feel. This was, of course, correct, but Edward would not hear it. And now George had run to Calais, to be united with Warwick's daughter Isabel over the king's objections – another error of Edward's. If Edward had offered the Duke of Clarence a suitably attractive marriage prize, he might have kept his loyalty. Not that Richard entirely excused George in the matter. To go to Warwick was the height of foolishness. He would either fail, or succeed in bringing down his own house. The common people likely didn't care if it was better to be descended from the daughter of a former king's second son or a son of his third son, but there was no reason to believe they would support their current king's younger brother. The best he could hope for was the role of a marginal adviser – the husband of the older sister of Anne Neville, the wife of the restored crown prince.

Richard would have liked a moment of privacy to absorb the news of Anne Neville's surprising elevation in life. His late father and Warwick had discussed a marriage alliance between the two, though no formal engagement had been announced. He did not really know Anne, certainly not enough to love her, but it was an unpleasant reminder that he was twenty-four, nearing the end of his prime of manhood, and alone. Edward had never even discussed the matter of a potential marriage, and Richard wasn't sure how to interpret that. Did he believe the dukedom was enough to allow Richard to attract any woman he wanted, or think that no effort could overcome the revulsion his appearance engendered and determine not to try? Most likely, he gave the matter no thought. Thoughtlessness seemed to be Edward's defining characteristic.

Even so, Richard was too shocked to hide the wounded look on his face when Edward asked if he, too, would run to Warwick. Had his brother so swiftly forgotten all the work he had done to set up their house, that he believed Richard would hasten to tear it down?

"Will you stand by us?" Edward asked again, and Richard heard the closest thing to pleading to ever come from Edward's mouth. The question came from fear, then, not hate. It only remained to soothe the fear.

"Yea, and in spite of those who withstand you," Richard said, suppressing a groan as he knelt. Edward knew his misshapen frame could not bear kneeling without significant discomfort, and so exempted him and George from it as much as possible. The Queen, of course, did not know this, and saw insolence when he remained standing, but Richard could not bring himself to correct her. His deformity was a topic never to be broached; not even the King ever alluded to it. But Edward knew the peculiarities of his body, from growing up in the same nursery, and so knew what it cost him to kneel. There was love in the King's eyes as he rose, even as there was doubt in the Queen's. Well, let her think what she wished. The whole mess had its roots in her charms and her winning looks.

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At fourteen, Kate knew she could be married off at any time, if some more-illustrious relative gave the word. She doubted anyone would. Her uncle had not gone to ask the King for any favors, in case their connection to the Queen was not strong enough. She had no idea if her father might have asked for anything – she saw him perhaps once a year, and he said little other than that she was becoming a pretty thing.

She was also old enough for the convent, but knew her uncle wouldn't send her; she would go after his death. He was simply too fond of her and the little life they had developed: he and Joanna living like man and wife, and caring for Kate as their daughter. Kate knew, of course, that others would call it sinful, but she could not. She had seen the gentleness with which Joanna helped her uncle into the herbal baths she mixed to soothe his aching body, and knew that he had chosen Joanna as his one woman, not one of many, as she had heard some men did.

She and Joanna often spent their days in the garden. Joanna finally trusted her enough to let her handle the more dangerous plants ("Watch, girl: the difference between healing and death is a drop") and had taught her how to prepare all the medicines they used. Kate knew the plants well enough to identify almost any of them by smell, no need to see them. But the lavender was her favorite. To her, lavender always smelled of happiness, the warmth of the sun and Joanna's laugh.

They had just gotten back, their arms full of fragrant blossoms, when they found her uncle slumped over at the table.

"Now, my lord, it doesn't help your back to let it slouch like that," Joanna chided lightly, but fell silent when he looked up.

"The kingdom has fallen," he said wretchedly. "Henry is back on the throne. Worse, Margaret is."

"Will they come for us?" Kate asked. "Because of the Queen?"

Thomas shook his head. "I don't know, child. The best we can hope for is that we are too insignificant to be noticed."

"You were wise not to seek favor," Joanna said, and began rubbing Thomas' shoulders. "You have done nothing to offend, other than caring for a distant Woodville cousin. A girl who has never even been to the court. Isn't it so, Kate?"

"You know it is so," Kate answered.

"Aye, but it's well thou dost not forget it," Joanna responded.

"Sir Geoffrey has gone with the King into exile," Thomas continued. "But so have many other men. We have no reason to believe Queen Margaret would single out thy father's home for her revenge."

"And what will you do if they do come?" Kate asked quietly.

"Welcome them in," Thomas said wearily. "We are undefended here."

"And my father?"

"Welcome him back, should safety ever return," Thomas answered. "I will do what I must to ensure we survive and keep our property."

"So shall we all," Joanna said firmly, with a glance that Kate couldn't read. She wondered what it could be possible that they must do, and wasn't sure she liked the ideas her mind offered. "So shall we all."