"Could you not speak to the king, my lady? George's fate is in his hands."

"I have spoken to the king. Naturally I spoke to him first."

"And did he not listen?" asked Richard.

"He listened. He was all charm and sympathy, but there was a hardness in his face. It is that woman. She is against George. Edward should never have married her."

"I believe that at this time it is not the queen but Edward himself who is beginning to realise what a danger George is to him."

"Listen to me, Richard. Edward is fond of you. You are his favourite. You always adored him so blatantly. Edward is a fine man ... a great king ... but he grows hard. And we are speaking of his brother."

"Edward is the most forgiving man I know. He has forgiven George over and over again. But this time George has gone too far."

"But you will speak to him, Richard. I, your mother, beg you to. No ... I command you to. George is mischievous. Edward knows this. It is not to be taken too seriously. If you will talk to Edward ... explain he means no harm ... he will listen to you."

"I think he will make up his own mind in this matter. George has been judged a traitor and you know the penalty for that, my lady."

"Edward cannot allow his own brother to be put to death!"

"I am sure he will not allow that. He will soften towards him as he has done so many times before."

"Richard, you must speak to your brother. I beg you to."

"Then I will speak to him."

"Remind him that George is his brother."

"He is not likely to forget that, my lady."

"I rely on you."

"I will tell him of your feelings, but it may be that this time George has gone too far."

He would promise nothing more. She was displeased. She was one of those women who expect immediate obedience from everyone around them, and that includes their own children.

The wedding of the Duke of York to the little Norfolk heiress was a grand affair. The bridegroom was very handsome as all the king's children were with his sturdy young body and fair looks. The king was clearly proud of his family and he had good reason to be, and so had the queen. She was very contented. There was no question about her beauty; she was dazzlingly so, even now. But there was something very cold about her; she was statuesque and her perfect features might have been cut out of marble. She was clearly proud of her achievements widow of a humble knight to become Queen of England and moreover hold her place in the heart of the philandering king all these years. Of course, she was clever. Many still said she relied on witchcraft and her mother had undoubtedly been a witch. A strong woman, the queen's mother. She had been married to the mighty Duke of Bedford and had become a widow when she was only seventeen years old; and then she had fallen passionately in love with Sir Richard Woodville, had married this comparatively humble man and had remained in love with him, it was said, all through their married life. She was an exceptional woman and belonged to the royal house of Luxembourg. She was the one, it was said, who had bewitched the king into marrying her daughter.

And now here was Elizabeth Woodville, proud of all she had achieved. Her eldest son Edward was now Prince of Wales and his brother, the little bridegroom, Duke of York. There was one of her children whom I noticed particularly. This was Elizabeth, the eldest of her daughters, for whom she demanded great homage because of the proposed union with the Dauphin of France, which had been one of the results of the Treaty of Picquigny. Elizabeth was addressed as Madame la Dauphine, which I thought a little premature, remembering what often happened to these proposed alliances.

The marriage of the two children was taking place in St. Stephen's Chapel from the walls of which hung blue velvet decorated with the golden fleur-de-lys. Lord Rivers led in little Anne Mowbray.

Both children did as they had been told, although I am sure neither of them had a notion of what it was all about. And when the ceremony was over, it was Richard's duty to scatter gold coins among the crowd waiting outside. And then Anne Mowbray, with Richard on one side and the Duke of Buckingham on the other, was escorted to the banqueting hall.

There were shouts of loyalty from the people. Weddings were always a source of interest and enjoyment and the wedding of such a young pair was particularly delightful to them.

It was on this occasion that I exchanged a few words with the queen. She said how grieved she had been to hear of Isabel's death.

"She was delicate, of course," she said.

"There are some of us who should not bear too many children." She was a little complacent, implying she, who had borne several children and still retained her youthful looks and beauty, was most certainly not one of them.

"I sent Ankarette to her to help her." Her face hardened. That was a terrible case. Ankarette was a good woman. She served us both well."

"I know, your Grace," I said.

She touched my hand lightly.

"There are some wicked people among us," she whispered.

"It is best that they are under restraint. I must go to Madame la Dauphine. I am pleased to see you here, duchess."

It was gracious of her to speak to me. I think she wanted to stress to me that the Duke of Clarence was unworthy to live.

The next days were given over to jousting. Knights came into London from all over the country to take part. The Woodvilles, of course, were very much in evidence and the occasions were graced by the presence of the queen and Madame la Dauphine. The absence of the Duke of Clarence was very noticeable.

Richard told me that he had spoken to Edward about their mother's plea for leniency.

"I should add mine, Anne," he said.

"But I am so unsure. He is our brother. He has been near me all my life. We were brought up together."

"Edward, too."

"No, Edward was not with us. There were just the three, Margaret, George and myself. We were the only ones in the Fotheringay nursery the young ones. I am glad no decision rests with me. Poor Edward. I know what he must be feeling now. His thoughts will be in the Bowyer Tower with George."

He told me later that Edward had sent for him and had talked of Clarence. In fact Edward could think of nothing else. He said that if he were wise he would let George suffer the penalty of treason.

"For," he went on, "there have been so many of his acts which are treasonable."

"I had to admit that that was so. But I asked him how he would feel if he gave the order for his brother's execution. That order would have to come from him.

"It would lie heavy on my conscience." he answered.

"And it would. Poor Edward, I pity him."

I said: "He should not reproach himself. He has been a good brother to George and George has scarcely been the same to him."

"I have suggested that he go to George and talk to him. Give him one last chance ... and if he should err again ... then make his decision."

"And what said he to this?"

"I believe he is going to do it. I feel sure he will forgive George."

Then I said: "The trouble will start again. It is inevitable."

"You think the king would be justified in signing the death warrant of his brother?"

"Justified, yes. But I do understand what you mean about its lying heavily on his conscience."

"We shall have to see. Edward is going to the Tower. He will go without ceremony. We shall soon know the outcome."

We did. When the king returned from the Bowyer Tower, the first thing he did was send for Richard.

I waited in trepidation to hear the news, for I guessed something of significance must have happened. Richard was absent for a long time and when he came back to our apartment he shut himself in. I went to him and he allowed me to enter his chamber where I found him looking very distressed.

"Richard!" I cried.

"What is it?"

"I... cannot believe it!" he said.

"This is the end. It must be."

"The king has forgiven him?"

He said nothing. He just stared ahead.

I sat on the arm of his chair and stroked the hair back from his face.

"Tell me, Richard," I said.

"I feel I should know, because of what I have suffered at his hands."

"It is a most astonishing turn of events." murmured Richard.

"He is mad ... completely mad. He has thrown away his chance. This must be the end. He himself made the decision."

"Richard, I beg of you tell me what has happened."

"Edward went to him ... ready to forgive him once more. But no sooner did George see him than he began to abuse him, shouting that he had brought a breed of reptiles into the family, that he had married a witch and not only had he married her but it seemed he had married her blood-sucking relations also."

The king would have been in no mood for such talk, I should have thought."

"You would have thought correctly. He ordered George to be silent. He accused him of acts of treason. He told him he had come to help him, but was growing less and less inclined to do so. George was reckless. He had clearly been drinking. A great butt of malmsey had been delivered to his cell on George's orders. Edward went on trying to reason with him. George is shrewd at times and he knew that the king was trying to find reasons for releasing him. Oh, what a fool George is! He could have been a free man today, but he was never very good at reasoning. He was always caught up in the passion of the moment. He went on ranting against the queen and the Woodvilles. Then he said a terrible thing. He said that when our father was away in battle our mother took a lover and the result was Edward which meant that Clarence was the rightful heir to the throne."

"What a monstrous story!"

"An insult not only to Edward but to my mother."

"I wonder what she would say if she knew?"

"She would be incensed as Edward is. He said to me, "You see how he is? What can I do? He is my brother. If I let him go free, how can I know from one day to the next what he will do?" I said to him, "You shall be confronted by our mother. Perhaps then she would not plead for you so earnestly"."

"I cannot imagine what she would do if she heard such a rumour." I said.

"Edward does not want her to know what Clarence has said of her. He said it would shock and depress her too deeply. She was always a devoted wife to our father. She was even with him in campaigns whenever she could be. This is a terrible slight on her good name, and so unjustified: But it shows that George will say anything that occurs to him."

"Do you think this will be the end of him?"

Richard was thoughtful.

"There is one other matter," he said slowly.

"I think Edward was on the verge of telling me, but changed his mind. I am of the opinion that it shocked him so much that he could not speak of it even to me."

"So you have no idea what it was?"

"None at all. As I remember, Edward spoke somewhat incoherently. He said: "There is something else ... disastrous if he succeeded." Then he paused for a long time. I asked him what it was and he said: "Oh, 'twas nothing in truth ... just slanderous nonsense. The sort of thing George would think up." I again asked him to tell me, because I could see that, in spite of the manner in which he was trying to brush aside this thing, it had affected him deeply.

"Nothing ... nothing," he said, and he made it clear to me that the matter was closed."

"Do you think that Clarence has offended him beyond forgiveness?"

"I do."

"I suppose the slur on his legitimacy is enough."

"I think it is such nonsense that it could easily be disproved."

"But it shows he is his brother's enemy."

"That is no new discovery. I have a notion that it is this other matter which has made up the king's mind. But knowing Edward, I am unsure. Our mother begged for Clarence's life, and Edward hates there to be rifts in the family. There is Margaret, whom he has offended by refusing to consider Clarence's marriage to Mary and allowing Lord Rivers' name to go forward. He wants harmony all around him ... so ... I do not know what George's fate will be."

We were not long kept in doubt.

Next day we heard that the Duke of Clarence, the worse for drink, had fallen into a huge butt of malmsey and been drowned.

The court was stunned by the news. It was well known that the Duke of Clarence was a heavy drinker, and it seemed plausible that, in a drunken stupor, he had reached to fill his goblet, toppled into the butt and, being intoxicated, was unable to get out. It was ironical that he had been killed by his favourite drink and in a butt which he himself had ordered to be brought into his cell.