"As you liked my brother d.i.c.kon the better of two evils?"

"As I like d.i.c.kon," he agreed, changing the tense.

Swift as a singing lark hope rose in her, just as it had when she chanced upon an entry among poor Anne's papers for the ordering of two silk doublets for "the Lord b.a.s.t.a.r.d," and then realized that it really proved nothing, since Richard had a natural son of his own. "Then he is alive?" she cried, all question of marriages forgotten.

But Richard turned on her in anger, gripping her by the shoulder until it hurt. "Must you always come back to that?" he snarled. "Consider young Warwick. Since Anne's death you know very well-everyone knows-that I have had him sent to one of my castles up North at Sheriff Hutton. No one at Court sees him any more. Yet n.o.body supposes that I have had him destroyed. He has his apartments, his servants, his horse to ride every day-he could have a tutor, though much good it would do him! Ask Stanley-ask anybody-if that is not so!"

"Then if you will but let me see Ned and d.i.c.kon..." began Elizabeth, prepared to bargain.

Richard made a great effort to control his anger, but he either could not or would not answer her appeal. He walked away to the window, stood there as if engaged in some sharp mental struggle, and then swung round suddenly. "I swear to you on my wife's soul that I did not destroy your two brothers," he burst out. "Does that satisfy you? Now will you marry me and keep the things we both care for safe?"

For a moment Elizabeth stared at him in speechless joy; but she did not really believe him. He would say anything to persuade her to his purpose. Because he was King he could force her to marry him to-morrow, she supposed; but if it seemed that she was his unwilling victim he would have pushed the people too far. "Give me time! Give me time to decide!" she entreated desperately.

He let her go then, sending for Mattie to attend her. But once free from his presence, from the strange hold he had over her, she found there was no need to decide-only to pray for strength of purpose equal to his own.

"The King is superst.i.tious. He would scarcely add blasphemous perjury to his crimes," argued Mattie, her only confidant.

"It might be that he has only sent them abroad and could not produce them," pondered Elizabeth. "Yet in my heart I feel sure that he lied. That if he considered it necessary, however much he hated the means, he would trick me."

"Whatever the Pope may say, and whatever they do in other countries, an incestuous marriage is sin," muttered old Mattie.

"And I would sooner die than marry my brothers' murderer," said Elizabeth; and going to her prie-dieu she fell upon her knees. "Forgive me for succ.u.mbing to his spell upon my senses," she prayed. "And somehow, dear G.o.d, show me a way to escape the widening web of his machinations!"

Elizabeth lay awake all night. And somehow, whether by prayer or by a process of elimination in her mind, the only possible source of help seemed to be shown her.

THERE WAS USUALLY so much coming-and-going in the Lord Steward's room, and so much urgent transaction of Court business, that Elizabeth was fortunate in catching Lord Stanley alone. She had waited while some foreign envoy concluded his interview, and Heaven had helped her by sending the secretary hurrying out after him with a bundle of forgotten papers. She could see Stanley standing by the window, momentarily alone, and had seized her opportunity to slip in through the half-open door. "As you were my father's friend, milord," she begged in a low voice, "take his place and help me now!"

He looked up in surprise from a map of the world he had been searching for some foreign city and tried good-naturedly to hide his annoyance. "Why, have they found you yet another objectionable husband?" he teased, as lightly as though he were speaking to young Cicely.

"Yes. This time it is the King," said Elizabeth.

The laughter left his round, jovial face immediately and he strode to the door and kicked it shut in the face of an astonished clerk and a couple of importunate place-seekers. "My dear Lady Bess, you are distraught!" he said more formally, but with obvious agitation. "You must go back to your apartments. This public rabbit warren is no place in which to speak of such things!"

"Such a thing is not fit to be spoken of anywhere!" she said, steadying herself against his table.

As if playing for both time and security, Stanley shot the door-bolt slowly. "It is probably only a rumour," he mumbled evasively, coming back to her.

"Yet I see that it does not really surprise you, milord."

"I understand that his Grace has discussed the-er-possible advantages of such a union with one or two of his councillors."

"But you were not one of them?"

"No," he admitted.

Elizabeth struck swiftly, taking him unaware with her daring. "Then you know that he does not trust you?" she said.

"Not trust me?" he bluffed, nodding significantly towards the pile of important-looking doc.u.ments upon his table. But, in spite of the comfortable way in which he stuck both hands in his capacious belt, his laugh rang false.

"Queen Anne told me so before she died."

"Ah!"

The exclamation that escaped him was that of a man who suddenly finds confirmation of something he has long suspected, and Elizabeth was swift to pursue her advantage. She went down on her knees beside him and joined supplicating hands around the curve of his arm. "Listen, milord. In return for the vow you made my father to protect us I will make you one," she said. "But I warn you that I shall keep mine. I swear by his beloved soul that if you do not help me to avoid this horrible thing I will kill myself."

He saw that in spite of her obstinacy she was near to fainting, and, much as he deplored having to prolong the conversation, he was obliged in common humanity to raise her up and put her in his own chair. "But what can I do?" he asked grudgingly, his face the redder for the reminder of his vow.

"Send for Henry of Lancaster. Arrange for him to come and marry me, as Henry of Buckingham did."

"Buckingham was a fool," he bl.u.s.tered, stung by the comparison.

"He was a courageous friend."

"But what did you gain by it? The time was not ripe."

Hope began to s.h.i.+ne in Elizabeth's eyes. "You mean that if it had been you might have helped us, as your wife did?" she suggested softly.

"The new King was still too popular," he added, too wary to answer her question.

Elizabeth stretched a pleading hand to him. "Then you think that now, when the people hold him responsible for my brothers and will be horrified at this rumour about his wanting to marry me, the time might indeed be ripe to let Henry Tudor know?" she insisted.

Thomas Stanley had regained his poise. He was again his successful, purposeful self. "There is no need to let Henry Tudor know," he said cautiously. "But I prefer not to discuss these matters with women. Forgive me for saying so, but there is always someone who tells a bosom friend. See what happened to Buckingham!"

He had named no one, but it was not difficult for Elizabeth to guess upon whom he cast the blame. She stood up and faced him. He was not a tall man and she looked directly into his eyes. "Although I have lived subservient to her, I am a very different woman from my mother. You, who have known me all my life, should know that," she said. "Just as you know that Margaret, your wife, saved you from trouble by her silence."

There was a new, steadfast dignity about Elizabeth which compelled him. And, even more than his ambitions, he loved his wife to whom she paid tribute. "Everything remains as it was before-save that we bide our time. Once he has been persuaded to put his hand to something, my stepson, Henry Tudor, is not the kind to let go," he began to say slowly, as if repeating some well-conned formula. "His uncle Jasper Tudor, who brought him up, is a tower of strength. The French King has promised s.h.i.+ps. Bishop Morton's brains are of even more use to us now he is free overseas. Your half-brother Dorset keeps in touch. Margaret's man Lewis still comes and goes. There is no need to tell Henry Tudor anything."

Hope and excitement sprang in Elizabeth's heart. The colour came back into her cheeks. "So this time you will fight on our side!" she exclaimed.

But Stanley knew that it took subtlety to live through three such varied reigns. He had never been one to rely upon standard-raising and dramatics. "With four thousand armed retainers and a brother who has nearly as many it would probably be sufficient not to fight at all!" he said dryly.

"Then when Henry lands and Richard summons you to his aid-"

Stanley held up a plump, arresting hand. "Not so fast, dear lady! It is not as simple as all that. Do you suppose that the Lancastrian is such a fool as to risk putting himself into a noose without some written guarantee as to how many supporters are to be counted on, and in what places they will be? And, above all, a signed promise that you will marry him when he does come, and so lend his landing popularity and strengthen the weakness of his claim? Henry is capable, but cautious-a man after my own heart. Hearing through Lewis of your brothers' fate, he has even asked for a.s.surance that if any accident should befall you-which Heaven forbid!-he may have Cicely."

Womanlike, Elizabeth saw the matter from a more personal angle. Such caution sounded too cold and calculating. Although she had never seen the man, she had begun to weave roseate dreams about him, thinking of him as her personal deliverer, so that now a cloud seemed to obscure her new happiness. "Then why do you not send him what he wants?" she asked almost coldly.

"Because I cannot write," said the great Lord Stanley, who commanded an army almost as big as the King's, besides half the strongholds in Lancas.h.i.+re.

To a daughter of Edward Plantagenet and Elizabeth Woodville his confession came almost as a shock; yet she knew that many of the powerful barons could write only such things as were necessary to the management of their estates. "But you have a whole army of scriveners," she said, smiling at him affectionately.

"And do you suppose that I would trust any of them?" he countered. "No matter how loyal he might be, the lives of all of us would be in that man's hands." He took a turn towards the door as if to a.s.sure himself that there was no one there, and then sat opposite to her, leaning across the table and taking her into his full confidence at last. "I tell you, Bess, the only hope of success in this momentous scheme is that the King shall learn nothing of my personal intentions until the last moment. His mind is alert, his espionage good. As you say, he has never really trusted me. Until after Henry's landing I must remain the necessary makeweight which both men need-the unknown quant.i.ty for which even an experienced soldier like Richard can make no certain calculations."

Elizabeth saw the deep, treacherous wisdom of his words. If she sickened at the treachery, she knew that it was only fair to remember that he had had to choose between unwillingly serving the new King or sharing Will Hastings' fate. The deep scar on his forehead bore testimony to the treatment he had already received for trying to withstand the usurper. "Let me write those letters," she offered, after a moment's thought. "Surely you will trust me, whom it most concerns?"

His fine brown eyes opened wide. He stared at her in surprised silence. Here was a solution he had never thought of-an offer too good to be turned down. He knew her to be clever and dependable-the one member of her family to whom all the rest turned when in trouble.

He decided that he could trust her discretion. "We could not risk doing such a thing here in the Palace," he said tentatively. "Anyone might come upon us at any time. You see, there are others besides ourselves who must be present. Men who have promised to raise troops and must subscribe their names before Henry will move."

"Where would you normally meet for such a purpose?" asked Elizabeth.

Now that there was something definite and dangerous to do he noticed how calm and practical she was. "I do not know. In some London tavern kept by one of my own people, probably."

"Then let me come with you to the tavern," she suggested, with as little fuss as though she were proposing to meet him in the rose garden.

Stanley regarded her with new admiration. Because she was young and gallant and his friend's daughter, the hazardous, long drawn-out enterprise suddenly took on a more hopeful and splendid guise and seemed more worth risking men's lives for. "But how?" he asked, almost as if it were she who was taking the lead.

"Dressed as one of your servants," she said promptly. "I tried it once before when I wanted to get out of sanctuary."

So she had not always been the meek, dutiful elder daughter he had supposed. "It should be possible," he said, considering the tall, slender lines of her figure. "I could perhaps find means to smuggle in to you the livery of one of my lads."

Elizabeth blew him a grateful kiss across the table and laughed with relief; and when she laughed she endeared herself to him by looking absurdly like her father. Or like luckless young Edward the Fifth for that matter-the family resemblance was so strong. "There is no need to do that," she said. "Somewhere in my clothes chest I have an old suit of Ned's which I expect I can still get into. Oh, nothing gorgeous or conspicuous, I a.s.sure you! So give me but the eagle badge of your livery and I will pin it on."

So once again she looped back her golden hair so that it fell straight to her shoulders and put on her elder brother's plain black suit; but this time she was neither alone nor frightened. In spite of what Stanley had said about women's tongues, she was obliged to take Mattie into her confidence because there must be someone to bolt the door after her and say that she was sick abed if anybody asked for her. And Humphrey Brereton, who was her devoted slave, had a horse waiting in the courtyard. And outside, where the roofs and towers of London made such a lovely silhouette against the pale evening sky, she knew that she had the strongest backing in the country-so strong a backing that the country itself must surely be overturned! After the heat of the day the breeze from the river was exhilarating, and they rode quickly without speaking through Charing village. As they pa.s.sed through Lud Gate and the City houses began to close in upon them Brereton stopped at an inn, on the door of which someone had chalked an eagle's foot. He dared not help her to alight, but, calling to an ostler to take their horses, strode on before her up the stairs.

The room above was small and stifling with drawn curtains, and full of men who stood and spoke together in anxious undertones. They turned as she followed Brereton through the low doorway, and in that second she ceased to be a squire's page. Lord Stanley detached himself from the rest and went down on one knee and kissed her hand. Brereton leaned with drawn sword against the bolted door. Some of the men Elizabeth recognized as Lancastrian supporters, some of them she was more than surprised to see there. Sir Gilbert Talbot's presence showed her how uncertain were Richard's friends.h.i.+ps. There were important personages like Hungerford, Bourchier, Sandford, Savage, Digby-all men with resolution written upon their faces, prepared to put their hand to what they had promised.

Candles and paper had been set upon the table; their plans were made and no man wished to loiter. Then and there Elizabeth sat in the midst of them in boyish doublet and hose and wrote to Henry of Lancaster all that they told her. As they named times and places the full momentousness of the plan unfolded itself before her. And she herself, by her promise to marry her Lancastrian rival, was the pivot upon which it all hinged. Never had she been more grateful to her parents for the careful education they had given her. When at last she had finished writing in her fine, clear hand about armies and supplies and landing ports she laid upon the table a sealed letter from herself-a love-letter telling Henry Tudor that she, as a woman, wanted him to come. And warm from her finger she drew a ring. "I pray you, Humphrey, give the Earl of Richmond these from me," she said to Brereton, who was to take the risk of being their messenger.

The ride back to Westminster was always in her mind a confused blur. This time they rode with Lord Stanley and the rest of his party. After that overcrowded room the fresh air outside was like wine. It was dark, and save for an occasional lighted window only the stars above the overhanging gables lighted their way through the narrow streets. Elizabeth was half frightened, half elated by what she had done. High-sounding words which had been said to her flitted through her mind. "The red and white roses will be united at last." "The country will know peace and prosperity." And closer and more personal her mother's tragic voice saying "Now my sons will be avenged!" And closer still Margaret of Richmond's lovely voice saying gently about her son, "He is studious and competent and gentle." Would he be gentle to her, his wife? Riding home under the stars, though she rode like a page at Stanley's stirrup, Elizabeth felt herself to be a Queen. A sovereignty which she was prepared to share. In her warm generosity all that she had she gave to Henry Tudor, who would come like a legendary knight to deliver her. "This night," she thought, glancing down from the immensity of the stars to her ringless finger on the reins, "I have perhaps changed the destiny of England."

Only as the dark ma.s.s of the Palace loomed before them did her spirits begin to fall. Elation pa.s.sed and cold fear gripped at her because of the inevitableness of this thing she had done. Seeing a light still burning in the private apartments, she thought for the first time of Richard. Of Richard, not as the representative of a dynasty, but as a person. A person whom she had talked and laughed with-and betrayed. Betrayed to his death perhaps. Like her self, he was a Yorkist-not a stranger Lancastrian. Suppose, nagged her veering conscience, it should ever be proved that he was innocent of her brothers' death? Suppose young Ned still lived somewhere and she had deprived him, too, of all hope of his rightful inheritance. Might she not regret this night's impulsive work during all the rest of life? In spite of the cloak which Brereton had lent her, she s.h.i.+vered as they rode quietly into the Palace courtyard.

Seeing Lord Stanley, the guard saluted. Men stumbled from the guardroom, hastily fastening their belts. Grooms came for the horses and a sleepy servant brought a torch. Elizabeth, stiff from riding astride, slid down from the saddle as she had seen her brothers do. She let Humphrey Brereton's cloak fall where he would be sure to see it. "Here, boy, hold my hat and gloves a moment!" called Stanley, giving her an excuse to keep near him as they went through the gatehouse archway; and later gave her an unceremonious push towards the backstairs. "Up you go and get you to bed, or you'll be more of a dunderpate than ever in the morning!" he ordered, so that all should hear.

Elizabeth climbed the stairs with thankfulness, glad that the episode was over. Up to the present, excitement had kept her unaware of how much it had taken out of her. Now she trailed up yawning in the darkness, plucking the eagle badge from her shoulder as she went. Small need to tell her to go to bed, she thought, with a reminiscent smile. All she longed for was to get there. She would ask Mattie to stay and would snuggle down beside her.

At the top of the stairs Elizabeth paused to make sure that no one was about. Mercifully everyone else in the Palace seemed to be asleep. Through a closed door she could hear someone snoring. How good G.o.d had been to her!

In order to reach her unpretentious bedroom in the wardrobe wing she had yet to traverse some of the private apartments which were full of memories of Anne. She paused again to listen when she came to the Long Gallery at the end of them; but that, too, seemed to be deserted. A lamp was always kept burning beneath the arch at either end of it. The wind had risen and somewhere a cas.e.m.e.nt banged, stirring the life-size figures embroidered on the wall-tapestries so that they moved a little in the s.h.i.+fting half-light as they so often did. Elizabeth stepped softly through the threshold, wis.h.i.+ng she were well past them. And only then, when it was too late, did she see a figure at the far end detach itself from the more shadowy ones and move into the circle of lamplight beneath the archway.

Elizabeth's hand flew to her mouth, stifling an unborn scream.

It was the King himself standing there.

"He overlooked my part in the Buckingham affair. If he sees me now he will kill me," she thought in panic. The livery badge crumpled in her hand would be death warrant enough.

But his head was turned away from her. He was in his damasked bedgown and looking along the pa.s.sage that branched off at right angles towards his bedroom. More over he was twisting the rings up and down his long fingers as he always did when ill at ease. Something in the nervous stealth of his movements suggested that he might be watching for someone or something.

Elizabeth was certain that he had not seen her.

She had only to step back as silently as she had come. To retreat into one of the other rooms and hide behind some piece of furniture. Or gain the backstairs, perhaps. And G.o.d would deliver her.

But before she could bring her petrified limbs to move Richard must have detected some sound. He swung round, his hand flying to his dagger. Quick as a man attacked from behind he had drawn it. Standing there motionless and mercilessly illumined, Elizabeth could imagine the sharp steel in her heart. She felt the blood drain from her face and was powerless to move. She just stood there looking at him across the length of the gallery with terrified and beseeching eyes.

She knew the strength of his wrists, the rare but terrible unleas.h.i.+ng of his wrath. All the fine plans which had filled her mind for days were wiped out as if they had never been. Chance had delivered her up to him. "Now," she thought, "I shall join my brothers."

But the moments pa.s.sed and Richard did not move. He only stared at her with a terror surpa.s.sing her own. Seeing his shrinking body and contorted face, coherent thought began to come back to her. For the first time it struck her as odd that beneath his damask bedgown he should be wearing a mail s.h.i.+rt and poignard belt. Instinctively she knew that he always wore it now, by day and night; and the inconsequent thought occurred to her that perhaps this had been the real reason why he would not sleep with Anne. He hadn't wanted Anne to know. In case she guessed at the fears which are bred by guilt...

Gradually the true explanation was seeping into Elizabeth's mind, quieting the beating of her heart but filling her with unspeakable horror. She remembered that she was wearing her brother Edward's suit, that her fair hair was arranged like his, and that she must seem spectrally illumined with the darkness all around her and the lamp above her head. She knew she must be deathly pale. And that Richard had not heard her come into the gallery, but had suddenly looked round and seen her standing there. As he stared at her in horror she was shaken to the soul by the knowledge that he believed her to be Edward's ghost.

His dagger clicked back into its sheath, useless against a murdered wraith. He covered his face with both hands as if he could bear no more, and fled down the pa.s.sage back to his tormented bed. She supposed that no one else had even seen him shake with fear.

The moment Elizabeth heard his door bang she forced her trembling legs to move. Across that guilt-haunted gallery and the waving tapestries she ran, not daring to stop until Mattie let her into the familiar comfort of her own room.

Wildly she fell upon her knees, burying her face in the old woman's lap. Grief, horror, moral relief and grat.i.tude for her deliverance were among the conflicting emotions that tore at her. "I know now. I know at last that he did it!" she cried incoherently. "Even my father could not blame me for betraying him. Whatever may come of the Lancastrians' plan, I regret nothing that I have done this night."

ALTHOUGH IT WAS ONLY August, the ling on the Yorks.h.i.+re moors was burned to autumnal brown. The oaks looked clumped and heavy in the fullness of their foliage. The strong walls of Sheriff Hutton Castle were bathed in sunlight, and across the still water of the moat where the far end of the tiltyard merged into open country the ground s.h.i.+mmered in the noonday heat. It was almost too hot to move, and down in the outer bailey the Constable's hounds sprawled in the small patch of shade against the gatehouse tower.

Yet Elizabeth Plantagenet paced restlessly about the battlements, her mind too tensed to endure physical immobility.

It seemed hours since her young cousin Warwick had returned from his ride, docile between his two attendants, and looked up from the drawbridge to wave. And now it was nearly dinnertime and he had slipped away from them to sit near her, singing tunelessly as he thrummed upon the lute she had brought him from London. "At least it gives him pleasure that I am here!" she thought. For herself it was misery, because she was not allowed to go out of the castle at all. She was both a prisoner and a prize. Like the legendary princesses in their ivory towers, she was part of the guerdon for which two princes fought.

"Blanc sanglier and Beaufort's son

Are fighting for the crown-"

sang Warwick; and the silly jingle which he must have picked up from the guardroom went round and round in her aching head as giddily as the heat seemed to swim in the tiltyard. "Why must the poor lad choose to sing that?" she thought, pus.h.i.+ng back the moist tendrils of her hair. "Of course it is only the means to the crown, not me, they are fighting for!"

"The white boar beats the Welshman back

And knocks his castles down,"

went on the boy's high-pitched falsetto.

"Heaven help me if he does!" prayed Elizabeth, sinking exhausted on to a low crenel in the wall. "The white boar being Richard, he will either kill me or force me to marry him. Neither of them loves me, but Henry Tudor does not kill people. He hates violence. His mother said so."

Elizabeth strained her eyes in an effort to see across the endless moors. If only she knew what was happening out there beyond them in the rest of England! If only someone would send her some news! Even bad news, she felt, would be more bearable than this suspense. All these important people who took one side or the other for politic motives did not realise how much more intimately it concerned her. The two descendants of prolific Edward the Third might be fighting even now for the crown, and because she had a better right to it than either of them she would be made to marry whichever of them won!

"This waiting will drive me as witless as poor Warwick!" she thought; and tried to steady her nerves by deliberately going over everything which had happened up to the day when she had left London. She suspected now that the King had heard of the Tudor's plans for invasion even when he was keeping that last splendid Christmas at Westminster; and as soon as he knew for certain that Henry's borrowed fleet had set sail he had sent her under strong escort into the heart of his own country, so that the invader should not get her. Some weeks before that he had had to give up for a time his own intention of marrying her. The temper of the people had grown too ugly. So ugly and menacing that he had even issued a public declaration to the effect that these rumours about his marrying his niece were all malicious gossip, and that he had never entertained any such idea. And because they went on muttering that Elizabeth had been living in the Palace since his wife's death, he had sent her for a time to live in Lord Stanley's town house. Considering his underlying mistrust of the man, that must have been the last thing Richard wanted to do, she supposed. But the indignation of the Londoners and the secret treachery among his barons had forced him to make many unwilling concessions of late.

It had been wonderful to be living freely in an ordinary friendly household, and the few days she had spent there had given her the longed-for opportunity to hear and discuss all the latest developments of those plans which had first been outlined to her so secretly in a tavern. And to her delight Stanley's intrepid Countess had risked a secret visit to them. Even now, sitting on the gatehouse battlements so many miles away, Elizabeth's strained face relaxed into a smile as she recalled those brief, happy hours during which she had listened with rapt intentness to Margaret of Richmond talking about her son. "If he is anything like you I shall be happy with him," she had prophesied, having already formed a deep attachment for the kind and spirited woman whom she hoped would soon be her mother-in-law.