"My lord," he said when Richard explained what we intended to do, "everything is in order. The late king's will has been properly signed and sealed. What objections do you have?"

I took a deep breath. "There are things you know not, my lord Archbishop. Things that cause me great sorrow."

Richard signaled and a servant brought me wine.

I sipped it slowly before continuing. "Long ago, when I was young, I sinned grievously against my lord husband. I bore a child that was not his."

There was a long silence as I thought of all that had gone wrong.

The archbishop leaned forward. "Are you speaking, my lady, of the late king?"

I nodded.

"You are quite certain, Lady Cecylee, that this is so?"

"I am willing to swear on holy relics," I replied.

The archbishop put his hands inside his long, wide sleeves, and considered.

"If it be true that Lord Edward was indeed illegitimate, then he should have been debarred from ascending the throne of England. Thus we have grounds for declaring his will to be illegal."

He turned to me. "Because you alone, Lady Cecylee, can answer that question, I believe it more politic if you would sign the statement declaring Lord Edward's will to be invalid."

Richard summoned a scribe, who drew up the doc.u.ment.

"What do you intend to do about Lord Edward's sons?" asked the archbishop in a low tone.

"I have not made a decision as yet," replied Richard. "Their mother is a dangerous schemer. I intend to deal with her, and with them, at a time and place of my own choosing."

On the tenth of May, Richard was made Lord Protector of England.

Chapter 66.

Baynard's Castle, London May 26, 1483 Richard sat tense in my big throne-like chair, taut as a harp string, turning his signet ring round and around. Any more of this and he would snap.

"My conscience has tormented me for years," said our guest, Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells. "But I made a promise to my king and liege lord, to your son, madam, that I would breathe no word of this to any living person."

I pressed a cup of mulled wine into Richard's hand and indicated a seat for the good bishop. The man was haggard with exhaustion, having traveled all the way from his seat at Wells, a distance of some one hundred miles.

"What has tormented you?" I asked, signaling to the servants to bring more wine.

"Madam. I ought to warn you. What I am about to say may horrify you and your son." He bowed to Richard.

I sat wearily in my chair, indicating to the servants to leave the flagon of wine and close the door.

"I know the late king's marriage to Dame elisabeth Grey caused your family great pain," continued Bishop Stillington as soon as the door shut. "Perhaps it might have caused even greater pain had you known he was already married."

Richard recoiled in his chair. My hands shook so, I spilled some drops of wine.

I busied myself with my handkerchief, cleaning the spill away. Finally, I said, "Edward committed bigamy?"

"Yes, madam."

"Who was the lady?" asked Richard.

"Lady Eleanor Butler."

I put my wine-cup down. "Not Lady Eleanor Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury's daughter?"

"Yes, madam. She was married to Sir Thomas Butler, Lord Sudeley's heir, some thirty years ago. I do not know exactly when her husband died, save that he'd pa.s.sed on by March 1461, when first I met the lady."

I sat back in my seat, turning the cup in my hands. My head filled with an image of Eleanor, a child of such striking beauty back in Rouen. The youngest daughter of my dearest friend Margaret, she had hair the color of silver and deep violet eyes. She had been a quiet child with surprising flashes of naughtiness. Most of all, she'd been the playmate of my beloved Joan.

I blinked away tears as the image changed and six-year-old Eleanor ran through the gardens of Rouen Castle hand in hand with three-year-old Joan.

Someone bent over me. It was Richard.

He chafed my hands. "You look pale, Mother," he murmured. He turned to the bishop. "My lady mother is distressed. Perhaps you should return."

At once, Bishop Stillington was on his feet, his face creased with concern. "Madam, I am more sorry that I can say to bring you such news."

I waved him back to his seat. "What you have told me is very shocking. Edward told me nothing of this"

I broke off as I remembered something Edward had said. What was it? I grasped at a thread of memory. It had been around the time Warwick and I had been negotiating his marriage with Bona of Savoy. Yes, he'd asked if his bride-to-be had silver hair and violet eyes.

Richard returned to his seat. "Tell us how this happened, when it took place and how you know about it."

"After the death of her husband, Lady Eleanor went to the King to ask him to return her manors. Her father-in-law, Lord Sudeley, had settled two manors on her at the time of her marriage, but after his son's death he wanted one of them back. However, his lordship did not complete the required doc.u.ments to transfer the t.i.tle. At that point, King Edward seized her lands, because the Butlers were Lancastrians who had fought against him. Lady Eleanor was forced to move in with her father-in-law.

"Shortly afterwards, she made her way to the Palace of Windsor to plead her case before the king. He was enchanted by her beauty. Lady Eleanor, however, rebuffed his advances, saying that she would not lie with him unless he married her."

"When did the marriage take place?" asked Richard.

"April of 1462."

I looked at the bishop. When did Easter Sunday fall that year? For it was customary for the Church to ban marriages during the Lenten season.

"How do you know this?" asked Richard.

"I was the officiating priest."

I grasped the handles of my chair and rose. "How could this have happened without my knowledge?"

The bishop went off into a coughing fit.

Richard filled his wine cup and motioned for him to continue.

"I married them in a private ceremony at a Carmelite house in Oxford. There were no witnesses."

I sank into my sear. "Are you saying that her lady mother did not know of this?"

The bishop nodded.

Richard leaned forward in his chair. "Why was the marriage kept so secret?"

The bishop bowed his head. "Lady Eleanor was deeply spiritual. She was beautiful both inside and out. She felt she'd sinned by agreeing to a clandestine marriage with Lord Edward. She was greatly distressed to find herself expecting a child shortly after the marriage took place. She went into seclusion at the Augustinian priory of Wigmore, where she gave birth to a son."

"A son!" exclaimed Richard.

"Yes, my lord. A son named Edward after his father. The child was known as Edward of Wigmore."

"Why did no one say anything?" demanded Richard.

"Lady Eleanor made Lord Edward take a vow of silence. She felt she had wronged her family, wronged her mother, wronged you, my lady," he turned towards me. "She had great respect and love for both her mother and you," he bowed to me. "She did not want power for herself, and she disliked court life. She doubted her ability to be Lord Edward's queen. She wanted only safety and security for herself and her son."

"But if she had come to court as Edward's acknowledged lady and queen, the whole tone of the court would have been different," I said. What would have happened? Would Edward have been as greedy and debauched, lazy, and irresponsible? Maybe not. For I always thought that the Serpent's greed and selfishness brought out the worst in him.

Richard glanced at me, motioning for the bishop to continue.

"Lord Edward tried to change Lady Eleanor's mind, but he could not wait forever."

"And then another Lancastrian widow came along," I put in.

"Indeed," said the bishop. "When Lady Eleanor heard of Lord Edward's marriage to Dame Grey, she was heart-sick. But after her hesitations, she did not feel it right to put forward her own claim. She entered the Carmelite priory at Ludlow."

"Is she alive?" I asked.

"No. She was buried on the thirtieth of June 1468. Truly, I believe, she died of a broken heart."

"What of her son?" asked Richard.

"The child did not survive her."

I rose and walked to the window to hide tears. How different everything could have been.

The bishop coughed. "Of course," he added, "this does have implications."

I turned.

"Since Lord Edward was previously married, his marriage to Dame Grey was unlawful," said Bishop Stillington. "And so the children of that union are not legitimate, thus have no claim to the throne of England."

I glared. Had Edward let me ruin my reputation rather than admit he was a bigamist? Had he been laughing behind his hand while I struggled with the Serpent? What about all those freezing winters spent in a residence that did not have glazed windows? Or my years of remorse following my outburst?

I had gone through all that humiliation so that Edward could keep his secret. He must have kept it well, for the Serpent could not have known.

The bishop rose and made a deep bow to Richard. "You, my lord," he said, "are the rightful King of England."

Richard's face went quiet.

I looked up. Richard was the most sensitive of my children, the one with the finest mind. He could read Latin fluently and was exceedingly familiar with the laws of the land, having acted as Edward's Justiciar for the past twelve years. He would be a superb king, for he was just and would use his knowledge of the law to protect his people. But he was so modest, so unlike Edward and George.

"I did not look for this," said Richard eventually.

"No you did not," I replied. "But it is yours by right. You know you can do it, for what is kingship if not administering justice to all people?"

Chapter 67.

Early June 1483 Richard immediately went about securing his claim to the throne. He didn't have much time, for the coronation of Edward's b.a.s.t.a.r.d son had been set for Saint John's Day, less than one month away.

On the fifth day of June, my son moved from Baynard's Castle to his own town house at Crosby Place in Bishopsgate, allowing him secret meetings with those of the king's council who supported him, while continuing to hold open meetings either at my residence or at Westminster. During the open meetings, my son took control of daily matters of the government, permitting my grandson's coronation to go ahead.

But things did not proceed smoothly. For some unaccountable reason, Hastings saw fit to go over to the Woodvilles. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, for Hastings was an unsavory character who'd led Edward into the depths of debauchery. Naturally, it was Hastings who'd suggested the boating outing that resulted in Edward's death. Folk said that they even shared mistresses.

On the ninth of June, Richard discovered Hastings plotting with the Serpent to remove him as Lord Protector. Up until that point, Richard hadn't disturbed the Serpent's sanctuary. But it was now imperative that Richard gain custody of Prince Edward's younger brother, the Duke of York, before the Serpent could do further damage. To do this, Richard hit upon the clever idea of bringing forward the date of the coronation by two days to June 22, giving reason to place the young Duke of York in the Tower with his brother, the new king. If the king's brother were not allowed to appear at his coronation, even the Serpent would be embarra.s.sed.

On the tenth of June, Richard wrote to the great northern magnates and the civic council in York, telling them of the Woodville plots and asking for arms and men.

On the eleventh of June, he ordered the executions of Rivers, Grey, and others of their affinity, ensuring that the Woodvilles did not regain power.

On the thirteenth of June, he divided the council. The open meeting met in Westminster and was ordered to finalize plans for the coronation. Richard's secret meeting took place in the Tower. During that, he publicly accused Hastings of treason and had him executed on the spot, without a trial.

Folk will wonder why he did this. After all, Hastings was a n.o.bleman, and the law said he had to be tried by his peers. But Hastings was a dangerous enemy, the Serpent's henchman, and spy.

On the sixteenth of June, Archbishop Bourchier went with many others to the sanctuary to confront the Serpent. They conveyed my son's request that nine-year-old Richard, Duke of York, be removed to the Tower. The Serpent expressed some reservations about her sons' safety. However, our kinsman Bourchier was able to calm her fears, and she handed over her youngest son.

I breathed a sigh of relief upon hearing the news. The Woodvilles were being stripped of their power, and all seemed much easier than I'd dared hope.

On that day, my son took up residence in the royal lodgings at the Tower. Shortly afterwards, the two boys were moved to the inner apartments. They were never seen again.

Chapter 68.