"And you, my lady?" asked Stafford, smiling across their bobbing heads at their grown-up sister.

"A new dress would scarcely come amiss," laughed Elizabeth, ruefully holding out the worn folds of her one-and-only black velvet. "But just to see you again is the best surprise of all." Inevitably their visitor went red with pleasure, and, embarra.s.sed by her own spontaneous candour, she turned hurriedly to her fifteen-year-old sister. "And what about you, Cicely? What do you hope Tom has brought us in that intriguing basket?"

"Food," said Cicely, with equal if less romantic candour.

Elizabeth made a shocked little gesture of reproof and Thomas Stafford was all concern at once. Having shared in the culturally rich life which their parents had hitherto provided for them, the idea that they might need the bare necessities of life had never occurred to him. It shocked him so much that he left his open basket to be rifled by Ann and Katherine and came to look more carefully at Elizabeth. She had always been attractively slender, but now it struck him that she had become altogether too fine drawn for a girl of eighteen. By the light of a long window by which she stood he could discern small hollows beneath the lovely moulding of her cheekbones so that it seemed for the first time that she bore some resemblance to the sharper beauty of her mother. "Does that mean that you are actually hungry?" he demanded, with rising indignation.

"No, no, of course not!" she denied cheerfully. "It is just that Cicely, as you know, is a horrible little gourmand. All the same," she admitted, compelled by his searching gaze, "it seems a long time since poor little Katherine had any sweetmeats, and I do wish the good lay brothers would sometimes devise some dainty morsels to tempt the Queen's appet.i.te. Though I suppose it is ungrateful of me to say so when we must all be such a sore burden to them."

"But surely you can send your servants out to buy whatever her Grace fancies, or your friends can bring in a capon or some fruit?"

"It used to be so until a few days ago, Tom, but now it is not so easy. I am sure we are quite safe in sanctuary, for my uncle is not the man to violate the protection of Holy Church. But, as my astute brother foretold, he can set a guard outside to prevent anyone from getting either in or out."

"Set a guard?" exclaimed Stafford. "I had not heard of it."

"It has happened only within the last day or so."

"Come and see, Tom," invited Cicely, catching at his hand and drawing him closer to the window. "Look, there is John Nesfield, that horse-faced squire of his, barking orders at the men-at-arms. Bullying them for allowing you to pa.s.s, no doubt."

"How did you manage to pa.s.s?" asked Elizabeth, who had been too overjoyed at seeing him to think about it before.

"No one challenged me, and I am afraid I did not even notice Nesfield's men," confessed the warlike Duke of Buckingham's son, shamed by his absentmindedness.

"Then you must have been making up a sonnet to Bess's eyebrows!" giggled Cicely.

"The fact is that as soon as the Countess of Richmond had your message she asked me to bring her physician to see if he could be of service to the-to your lady mother. I suppose she must have persuaded her husband, Lord Stanley, to get the new King's permission, for certainly Doctor Lewis was conducted immediately to your mother's room."

"That was very kind of the Countess, and I pray you convey to her my deep grat.i.tude. Although her sympathies must be Lancastrian, I sometimes think she is one of the best and ablest women in the realm."

"And certainly the greatest patron of learning. You should hear the students up at Oxford and Cambridge singing her praises!"

While Cicely joined her younger sisters and shared in the gifts he had brought to relieve their tedium, Stafford beckoned to his servant to bring the book of poems he had chosen for Elizabeth, and they sat for a while reading some of his favourite pa.s.sages.

"I so much miss the books my father used to bring me," she said gratefully, poring over the exquisite illuminations. "This will help to pa.s.s the hours and be a kind of-escape."

"You do not need to stay here. King Richard would willingly have you all at Court, you know."

"In his power, you mean."

"I think he would be kind."

"Ah, well, my mother is so certain this is best for our security; though, for myself, I would barter security for freedom."

"Because half your heart is in a place you cannot get to."

"Yes. I would sooner be a servant in the Tower so that I could make my brothers' bed!" Elizabeth forgot the poems and began moving restlessly about the room. "Is there still no news of them, Tom?"

"My father, although loyal at heart to all of you, is often called there to Council-meetings, and he makes what enquiries he can," answered Stafford, quietly laying aside the book. "But no one in the royal household ever sees them."

"They do not play with Anne Neville's little son? Nor share his tutor?"

"Not that I ever heard of."

"Nor ever go out riding in the suns.h.i.+ne, of course. Oh, Tom, how they must long to speak to us, and how heavily the hours must hang!"

"At least I have something to tell you which may comfort you," he said, having kept his best tidings to soften the rest. "I invented some errand which took me by boat down-river, and as we rowed past the Tower I saw them looking out from the walk upon the battlements. I was not near enough for speech, of course, but one of them waved to me."

"Oh, that is wonderful! How kind of you!"

"It is no more than many others do. I do a.s.sure you that many a good citizen of London grows anxious for them and takes boat that way. And several swear they have seen them."

"Then it is certain they are alive!"

"Why, Bess, my dear, you must not let yourself think like that!" he remonstrated, taking her firmly by the shoulders so that she must stand still and heed him. "We, who have grown up in a country rent by civil war, know only too well the danger of a weak King from whom any man with ambition may try to s.n.a.t.c.h the throne. It is to prevent such wanton bloodshed that my father and Lord Stanley ultimately supported those who offered Gloucester the crown. But neither of them would have done so had he not sworn to them that no harm should befall the Princes. They say that when Stanley was released, after Hastings' execution, he made that a condition in return for his powerful allegiance. The times we live in have forced your uncle to violent deeds, but he is not an inhuman monster. Why must you torment yourself so?"

Elizabeth turned her head aside and stood plucking at the ta.s.sel of a cus.h.i.+on, as if debating within herself whether to tell him something. "I had a terrible dream," she said at last, with slow reluctance.

"When?" asked her cousin, releasing her.

"A few nights ago. Just before Gloucester set the guard, I think."

"What was it?" asked Stafford, gently taking the cus.h.i.+on from her and throwing it onto the stone window-seat.

She tried to smile at him, as if deprecating her stupidity. "Truly, I cannot remember. It was one of those nebulous nightmares, full of feelings rather than of facts. You know how sometimes one does not even see the people in one's dreams but is only aware that they are there?"

"Yes, of course."

"It was Ned. He was crying out to me. Calling me in some horrible fear, and I could not get to him to help him. That was really all. Except that my feet felt heavy as if I were shod like a warhorse so that I could not hurry. I tried and tried, and all the time his desperate, pitiful crying grew fainter and fainter until it was smothered in the blackness of the night..."

There was such urgent horror in Elizabeth's voice, and she- unlike the rest of the family-was a person so little given to imaginings, that even Stafford, who wished most to rea.s.sure her, could think of nothing to say.

"It may have been because I was worrying about my mother's health," she added, striving to speak more lightly. "Or because someone told us that ever since he understood that the coronation was not for him Edward has seemed to care for nothing. That he is not eating his food or bothering to dress properly. Poor handsome Ned, who used to think so much about his appearance! But, there, it may not be true. One hears such rumours!"

"I should try not to give heed to them," advised Stafford. "After all, as I told you, I saw them with my own eyes standing in the morning sunlight."

"But how long ago was that?"

"Only a week, perhaps."

"Ah! Before my dream."

"Please, Bess-"

"Oh, I am sorry. I know I am behaving as dramatically as my mother," she apologized, blaming herself for scant filial sympathy in the past. "But tell me this. Did the boys recognize you?"

"I imagine so since one of them waved."

"Which?"

"d.i.c.kon, I feel sure."

"It must have been a great comfort to them. Oh, how much I wish I could go on the river too. To see them. Just to see them!"

"You worry about the Dowager Queen's health and she is prostrate with grief, while you go about your daily affairs. Yet I think the love you bear your family is beyond hers. It is incredible," said Stafford, watching her pitifully. "You try to hearten and instruct your sisters here while half your heart is caged with your brothers in the Tower. And best of all I believe you love that young imp Richard. Or ought I not to have said that?" he added, as she did not reply immediately. "Do I, perhaps, presume?"

Elizabeth laid a rea.s.suring hand upon his arm. "No, dear friend, you who have cared so much for my griefs and joys could never presume. And you are more discerning than I had supposed a man could be. Yes," she admitted, almost as though voicing some newly realized truth to herself, "I do not know why, but best of all I love Richard."

"Better than she will ever love me," thought Stafford. "And why must I try to make her, since in all men's minds she is still the King's daughter and it could only bring her useless pain?"

And so he stood in silence until her glance, happening to come to rest upon the lad who had carried the book, gave birth to an idea. "Tom, that yellow-haired page of yours," she began tentatively. "He is about Edward's height, would you not say? Do you suppose he would like to have some gay old suit of the real King's, if I can find one, and leave that plain serving-man's livery behind?"

It was some moments before Stafford picked up the trend of her thoughts. "I can only imagine that he would be delighted," he laughed. "But I would not let him."

"Not if I asked you?"

"Not if you bribed me with all the kisses that I hunger for," he told her, with intentional lightness. "I can guess what is in that fond and desperate mind of yours, but I care for your safety even more than for forbidden ecstasies. There will be no boat-rides past Gloucester's well-manned Tower for you, my lady."

"Then I must wait and pray for patience, I suppose," shrugged Elizabeth, turning away. There was an edge to her pleasant voice which betokened nervous strain. "Doctor Lewis is a long time with the Queen. I thought her Grace would have sent for me," she complained presently. "I trust he finds her no worse."

Even as she spoke a door was flung open at the far end of the parlour and the sound of Elizabeth Woodville's voice reached them, lilting to laughter. "On the contrary, she sounds much better," smiled Stafford. "It would seem that he has effected a cure, and-since I fear my royal aunt's tongue even more in health than in sickness-I will, by your leave, await him in the garden."

To Elizabeth's surprise, her mother, whom she had left propped up in bed, walked almost briskly into the parlour leaning on Doctor Lewis's arm. It was weeks since she had looked so well, with brilliance in her dark French eyes, a spot of colour high on either cheek and much of her old becoming vivacity. "Bess, my child, you were wise as usual," she called gaily, as Elizabeth rose from a formal curtsy. "I am glad you persuaded me to see the dear Countess's physician. See how much good he has done me already!"

Glancing at the grizzled, simian-looking little man, Elizabeth decided that he looked clever enough to cure the Devil. "What have you prescribed, Doctor?" she asked, in that kindly way she had of putting even the humblest people at ease. "Some potent elixir of youth, I should imagine!"

"At least something to live for," laughed the flattered patient. "Come and sit beside me, Bess. Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, has sent us a message, and as it is confidential we will send the others away." With a wave of one bejewelled hand Elizabeth Woodville cleared the parlour, but to her daughter's surprise the physician remained. "Doctor Lewis will be attending me frequently. He understands my symptoms," explained the deposed Dowager Queen, with apparent irrelevance.

"Is it about the Princes, Madam?" asked Elizabeth eagerly, the moment the three of them were alone.

"No, there is no more news about them, alas! I begin to doubt if I shall ever see them again."

"Then what particularly is there to make life more attractive?" murmured her daughter, seating herself reluctantly.

But even while the pessimistic Dowager Queen sighed over her misfortune her acquisitive mind seemed to have moved on to some fresh field of interest. "The Countess sends me word how gifted and personable a young man her son has grown," she said.

"Naturally, since he is her only son," smiled Elizabeth.

"But all reports confirm the trend of her devotion. Doctor Lewis here, who has just returned from Brittany, has been telling me in what high esteem Henry of Richmond is held."

The clever little doctor was quick to take up his cue. "He is handsome and prudent and a great lover of learning," he said, his shrewd eyes having observed Stafford's gift book lying beside the Princess's embroidery.

"And his mother says it is high time he took a wife," added the Dowager Queen.

"Probably he will marry the Duke of Brittany's daughter. I heard the French Amba.s.sador talking about it the other day," remarked Elizabeth, with polite indifference.

But her mother leaned forward and placed a hand upon her knee. "The message was particularly for you," she said impressively.

Elizabeth came out of her own private thoughts with a start. Her blue eyes stared almost uncomprehendingly. During her short life she had become accustomed to being offered as matrimonial bait for some political reason or another; but the implications of her mother's words appeared to have neither rhyme nor reason. "A message for me about Henry Tudor of Lancaster?" she exclaimed; and the scornful abhorrence in her voice was as unmistakable as it was purely hereditary.

"Better a well-disposed Lancastrian than a treacherous Yorkist!" snapped the Dowager Queen.

"But my father would never have heard of such a thing," stammered Elizabeth, realizing that the suggestion was being made in earnest.

"Were your father alive to hear there would be no need of such a thing," pointed out his widow. "But times have changed and we must change with them."

"Have you forgotten, Madam, that Henry Tudor is attainted of treason and still in exile?"

"He might be persuaded to come home."

"Persuaded?"

"Doctor Lewis goes back and forth, seeing to accounts of the vast estates and bearing loving messages from mother to son. The Lancastrian heir is not so cut off from affairs here as you suppose."

The fantastic scheme began to unfold itself as a reality. None but a Woodville, thought its victim, could have conceived anything so daringly incongruous. "What chance would he have of even landing here against the will and ability of Richard of Gloucester?" asked Elizabeth contemptuously, unconscious of the involuntary compliment she paid her uncle.

Her mother's slim shoulders lifted themselves in that inimitable French shrug of hers. "None, at the moment," she admitted. "But married to King Edward's eldest daughter-"

When an ambitious woman's world crumbles about her she can still meddle in the advancement of her children, thought Elizabeth bitterly. "Nothing would induce me to marry him," she said, and, having always rendered sweet obedience to both her parents, was amazed at her own words.

The Dowager Queen flushed red with anger. She dismissed her new physician with a gracious but hurried gesture. "I think you forget, Elizabeth, that in his will your father expressly left me charge of my daughters' marriages. Even our enemies who dispute your legitimacy cannot dispute that," she said.

Elizabeth knew that that was true, and that scheming was indeed the breath of life to her. This latest idea seemed so far beyond the realms of possibility that one should be glad of it, perhaps, since it helped to take the poor Queen's mind off cruel realities. All the same, it angered Elizabeth intensely. "Do you love the white rose of York so little?" she demanded, standing defiantly before her mother as soon as they were alone.

The older woman rose, too, and faced her. "I hate Richard of Gloucester," she answered, tight-lipped.

"So you must plot with a Lancastrian? White rose or red, I suppose it can be all the same to you Woodvilles!" accused Elizabeth Plantagenet, for the first time insulting her mother's birth. They were no longer Queen and subject, mother and daughter, as they stood there, but two women racked beyond endurance or courtesy. Yet without the memory of Stafford's kisses still warm in her heart Elizabeth could not have said it. Apart from her horror of union with a rival dynasty, he had made the thought of any marriage of diplomacy abhorrent to her.

Before such rare defiance the Dowager Queen's vivacity wilted to self-pity. She leaned back in her chair and asked for her women, complaining to high Heaven that the one person upon whom she had supposed she could always count should so insult her in adversity. Automatically Elizabeth began ministering to her, all anger spent. After all, it seemed, it had been but an idle conversation, ending in the kind of scene which her mother always worked up to whenever life began to stagnate. And surely there was no need for anxiety, since, however much she might want her daughters to marry, there was nothing she could do about it while shut up in sanctuary. "Probably I shall never marry anybody," thought Elizabeth, almost too hara.s.sed to care.

"You do not consider me at all," her mother was wailing, as Elizabeth dutifully dabbed rose-water to her brow.

"It is the boys who need considering," said Elizabeth, in the flat, unemotional voice with which she unconsciously countered her mother's facile spurts of emotion. "In what way would your proposal benefit them? Judging by what my father has told me of Henry of Lancaster, it would not get Edward back his crown."

"No, but it might save their lives."

Elizabeth straightened herself with the damp kerchief still in her hand, as though physically meeting the impact of the thought.

"We could make it a condition," went on the Woodville woman, softly pressing home the argument which Lewis had suggested to her. "You could offer him your precious Plantagenet blood, couldn't you, in return for a promise that he would keep your brother honourably in his household?"

An odd a.s.sortment of thoughts and memories pa.s.sed through Elizabeth's mind before she answered. A pa.s.sionate longing for the warm security of her father's presence-an enchanting echo of young Richard's laughter-the firm tenderness of Tom Stafford's mouth. "I do not see that Henry of Richmond has the least hope of landing," she said at last, with detached common sense. "And as for promises, has not Uncle Gloucester sworn exactly the same thing? Why should I sell myself in the hope that a Lancastrian's word may prove more reliable than a Yorkist's?"

"Because your uncle has already broken his word. He has not kept them in his household but in prison," pointed out their mother incontrovertibly.

Elizabeth stood aside as the solicitous waiting-women came to escort the Dowager Queen to her room. "I begin not to believe much in any promise," she said sadly.

YOUNG RICHARD PLANTAGENET was kneeling on the window-seat in one of the smaller rooms of the royal apartments in the Tower and pressing his nose against the leaded panes in an effort to see something more interesting than the stone wall of the tower across the garden. "Do you remember when Dorset showed us the menagerie down by the moat where they keep all those wild beasts?" he asked over his shoulder.

His elder brother Edward, sitting at a table in the middle of the room, grunted disinterested a.s.sent.