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From Chapter 13, The Palace of the Tower of London.
1483
Lady Elysabeth Scrope, under the command of the Duke of Gloucester, has escorted her godson Ned, the newly appointed King Edward V, to London for his coronation. She is instructed to deliver him to the Tower of London, and upon their arrival they are met by her sister Margaret Beaufort and the Duke of Buckingham, neither of whom Elysabeth trusts.
Ned steps forward as if to embrace me and hesitates.
“Lady Scrope, my thanks,” he says formally. “I will see you next at my coronation.”
I match his serious tone, belying the ache in my heart. For the sake of Ned, this is not the time to challenge Margaret. “I am honoured to have been part of your accession, my lord. Remember your catechism. Know I pray for you daily.” Ned’s hand touches his chest, where he keeps the crucifix concealed. “And be inspired by your father and King Arthur as you prepare to take the throne of England.”
Ned’s lip trembles, and he suddenly clings to me, his fingers fiercely gripping my arms. “I love you,” he whispers. “I love you.”
As I hold him close and tell him I love him too, Gloucester lays his hand on Ned’s shoulder.
“Come, Edward, let us escort you to your lodgings.” He politely nods to me, the informality of our ride south vanishing. “It has been quite a journey, Lady Scrope. I am deeply grateful for your care in escorting the prince to London and now the Tower.”
Harry steps forward, addresses Margaret. All this time he has been watching the interplay, and I have been wondering when he was going to insert himself into the discussion. “Lady Stanley, you have been most helpful over the past weeks. And now we can jointly prepare my nephew for his coronation.”
I have to say more, have to ensure Ned is nurtured as a boy, not just the new king. “Margaret, the prince still suffers from a sore jaw, an infection that lingers.” I fumble in my purse for the anise pastilles, find them, and hold them out to my sister. She does not take them. “I would ask you to—”
“We will care for him, Elysabeth. He is the king in all but anointing. He has his own household now.” Margaret frowns slightly at Harry, as if conveying a message. “Finish your good-byes. I will call on you later when you have settled in at Le Ryall. I am sure we will find plenty to talk about.”
Racing cloud shadows scamper across the hall as Ned is escorted into the royal apartments. Gloucester places a hand on my boy’s back, urging him forward. They vanish behind the great iron doors, Ned’s fair head gleaming golden in a final shaft of sunlight as he disappears.
I let out my breath with a shudder. My vow is fulfilled. I have done my duty. The succession is secured. I bid a silent farewell to my boy, not just from this journey, but to his youth and his unique time with me as his godmother. I swallow a lump in my throat, am determined to be brave. Margaret is the most devoted mother to her own child; she has navigated the roughest of waters for Henry, through war and treachery, long absences and sad farewells. Margaret knows how to prepare Ned for the throne
After all, she once considered her own son a candidate.
I repeat my prayer to King Edward in heaven.
God rest your soul and know that your son is safely delivered. I have kept my vow and carried out your wish.
Doors slam shut. Bolts rattle into place.
And God protect my boy, give him strength to rule with honour, to take counsel from those whom he trusts and avoid those who might betray him.
My eyes snap open. What demon of doubt scribed that prayer?
A faint call from far above. There, at an upper gallery, Ned’s pale face appears. He gestures for me to join him.
He needs me still. My heart lifts. I walk swiftly to the door, happiness springing in my heels. I’m coming, my darling.
The guards bar the way. Soldiers appear in each corner, at every door, double, triple deep. Their livery is a worryingly familiar black and red.
“I’m sorry, Lady Scrope. We have instructions not to let anyone through now.” The guard is apologetic, embarrassed even. He witnessed our triumphant arrival just minutes before.
“On whose orders?” Surely there is a mistake.
“The Duke of Buckingham.”
I stare up at Ned in the gallery. Harry looms at his side, steers him away from the rail. Ned clings to the edge for a moment, lifts his hand briefly, and then pulls a rueful face as he is led away.
“And so not even his godmother is allowed to enter?”
The guard shakes his head. “Best be going home, Lady Scrope.” He changes from kindly to distant. “Best leave.”
A flush of anger heats my cheeks. “As biddable as a bitch in whelp.”
Harry used me as a mounting block on his swift ride to power. I must share this truth with Margaret, warn her to be wary of his ambition. Tomorrow. When Margaret visits Le Ryall and we talk about Ned’s dreams for his future, the need to visit the queen in Sanctuary and reconcile the family.
Taking one last look at where Ned stood, I gather my skirts. Let Margaret deal with Harry tonight. I do not want to leave, but it is time to go home. Jack will be at Le Ryall shortly. I long to share my journey with him, talk with my beloved, who knows me better than any, who will put my scattered feelings into perspective.
The guards move forward, and I realise I am being escorted from the dais. Surely just a formality. I am spent, the emotion of the last week draining me.
Don’t falter, don’t fall.
My old creed from sanctuary bubbles up unbidden, and my footsteps echo through the cavernous hall as I leave my prince in the Tower.
