Now he was all impatience to become the lover of this woman.

‘Moreover,’ she went on, ‘I am several years older than you are.’

‘That is impossible.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am five years your senior. I am the mother of two boys.’

‘I find these matters no obstacle to my devotion to you.’

‘My lord, do you not understand? My mother is of the House of Luxembourg. She has brought her children up to respect their honour and their virtue. My father is a baron, but he was not born to high station. My mother married him for love, but she married him, my lord. I beg you, put all thought of me from your head. I am not for you by nature of my upbringing and my convictions. Never will I become your mistress and no other relationship is possible between us.’

‘I will not accept this,’ he cried.

‘I fear you must; I shall forever remember you with gratitude. You have restored my estates and for that I give you my heartfelt thanks. Alas, my lord, it is all that I can give you. And now may I have your leave to retire.’

He caught her hand as she rose but she withdrew it gently.

‘Goodbye, my lord. It is the only way.’

He sat staring after her as she went. Wild thoughts crowded into his mind. He could abduct her, force her ... Some of his acquaintances indulged in adventures like that. He never had. He had always jeered at them, explaining, ‘My friends, I have never yet had to force a woman.’

And Elizabeth Grey of all women. There was something aloof about her. She was cool. She did not respond as most women did, and yet at the same time she liked him. He was sure of that. There was a note of tenderness in her voice when she spoke of her dead husband. She had clearly been fond of him. She was a good mother, it seemed, to her boys; he had sensed that when he saw them together under the oak-tree. In fact the boys had added a little to the charm of the picture which was engraved on his mind and which he felt he would never forget.

It was maddening that she had these ridiculous notions of morality – although he admired them in a way. She was no light of love, that was clear enough. She had looked like a queen when she had drawn herself to her full height and stood there facing him.

He would have to go away and forget her.

It was hard to do that. It was the first time he had ever been refused. Oh no ... not quite the first. There had been Eleanor Butler. In a way this Elizabeth reminded him of her. That was why the Butler affair had been brought to his mind for the first time in several years.

Jacquetta came into the hall.

‘My lord, you are alone. What happened to my daughter? She cannot have left you thus ...’

‘Alas, she has wounded me deeply.’

Jacquetta looked alarmed. ‘Unwittingly I promise you,’ she said.

‘No, with intention.’ He looked at Jacquetta. A beauty herself, with quick warm eyes and understanding of human needs. There was about her an easy friendliness, the right amount of deference for a King and yet the implication that she herself was royal. She could feel completely at ease with him as he could with her.

‘Ah, you have been making suggestions to her.’

‘You have guessed.’

‘It did not need the powers of witchcraft to do that.’

He looked at her sharply. He had heard it whispered that Lady Rivers, who had been Duchess of Bedford, was some sort of sorceress. Was it true? he wondered. Many people were accused of that quite unreasonably.

‘My lady, are you mistress of such powers?’ he asked.

‘Nay, nay. I am just a wise woman – at least I think I am.’

‘I believe I would quickly share that view. So you know your daughter has refused me and made me utterly desolate.’

‘Oh my lord, you must not despair.’

He looked at her hopefully. She said quickly: ‘My daughter Elizabeth would never be any man’s mistress. I know that well. You must go and never let your hunting bring you near her again. There are many other forests in which to exercise your talents.’

He looked at her, liking her more each moment, and laughed. ‘Oh I do not give up as easily as that,’ he said.

‘Nor does Elizabeth,’ She leaned towards him confidentially. ‘She was the most strong-willed of my brood. Did you know that I had seven girls and seven boys? We are great breeders, you see. Ah, what a joy is a family. But it brings its sorrows. But knowing them, having them there in one’s life ... though they are scattered far and wide, that is a boon from heaven, as you will find, my lord, when you marry and settle down.’

‘I want your daughter,’ he said.

She signed. ‘I know it well. She is beautiful ... incomparably so. But perhaps I, as her mother, see her through loving eyes. I tell you this, my lord, she will never give in. For your own peace of mind leave her. To pursue her will mean nothing but frustration and disappointment. You are handsome, you are royal, and there are few women who would resist you. But Elizabeth is one of them. My dear lord, I feel as a mother to you. You have come here, and graced my home. I shall feel it honoured evermore. We were Lancastrians ... we shall be so no more. I shall not rest until my husband and every son of mine tears the red rose from his coat and his heart. From now on, the Rivers are for you, my lord. We shall stand for your cause. We shall be your good servants if you will allow us to be for I have in these few days seen a man who is indeed a king and the only one living in this realm whom I would accept as mine. My husband is away at this time. When he returns I will ask him to come to you. Will you receive him? He is a man who will be faithful to you if you will forget he once served Henry of Lancaster. He believed him to be the true King. You understand that, my lord?’

‘Indeed I understand. He was faithful to what he believed right. I respect that in men. Fidelity is what I look for in those around me.’

‘When I have talked to my husband, when I tell him what I have seen this day, I know he will understand. England needs a strong king and you are that, my lord. I promise you that the Rivers will serve you well.’

Edward kissed her hand. She was an unusual woman. He was drawn to her, partly for herself and partly because she was Elizabeth’s mother. And she was his friend. Somewhere in his mind was the thought that she would help him if she could.

She was implanting that thought there, trying to draw him into the family, visualising a glorious prospect for Elizabeth without giving him a glimmer of what it was ... in fact, she scarcely admitted it to herself, because it seemed impossible.

‘We shall serve you,’ she said. ‘Elizabeth will be your faithful subject but never never anything else.’

‘My lady, I believe you to be my friend. You will make my cause yours.’

‘The King’s cause shall be mine,’ she answered solemnly. ‘Bless you, my bonny lord. I shall wish for you everything that will serve you best.’

He rode somewhat disconsolately away from Grafton. He was beginning to believe that Elizabeth meant what she said. She was a virtuous woman. She would not take a lover outside marriage.

Marriage! But he was the King. That was impossible.


Edward was so quiet in the days that followed his visit to Grafton that his friend Hastings was quite concerned for him.

He enquired how the King had fared with the beautiful widow lady.

Edward shook his head.

‘She was a disappointment,’ said Hastings. ‘I thought she might be. There was a frigidity in her. A plague on frigid women.’

Edward was not pleased to hear Elizabeth discussed lightly as though she were the participant in some ordinary brief affair.

He said shortly: ‘She is the most beautiful woman I ever saw.’

‘Oh, I grant you that. But I personally have no fancy for statues.’

‘It would avail you nothing if you had,’ said Edward shortly.

‘Do you mean to tell me that it did not come to fruition?’

‘Lady Grey is a virtuous widow.’

‘A plague on virtuous women ... widows especially.’

‘I have no wish to discuss the Lady Elizabeth Grey with you, Hastings.’

God in Heaven, thought Hastings, what has come over him? The lady refused him. It must be the first time that has happened. Well, it will do him no harm. But it has affected him considerably.

He did not mention the visit to Grafton Manor after that.

At Westminster the Earl of Warwick was impatiently waiting. Edward always felt a slight deference in the presence of Warwick, who was known by the soubriquet of Kingmaker. Everyone was aware, and Edward would be the first to admit it, that but for Warwick’s prompt action in marching on London after the Yorkist defeat in the second battle of St Albans Edward might not be king today. Warwick was not going to let anyone forget it. Nor did Edward want to. He was grateful for his friends and Warwick had been his hero from childhood. Ever since his early days in Rouen where he and his brother Edmund had been born he had known he was destined for greatness. His mother Cecily Neville had made him aware of that; and Warwick’s father was her brother, so there was a bond of kinship between him and the great Earl, and Warwick had always been part of his youth. Warwick was fourteen years older than Edward and had seemed almost godlike to the boy.

If Edward had the bearing of a king, Warwick had an even more powerful image. Kings were glorious but they depended on kingmakers and Warwick fitted without doubt into the second category.

Warwick spoke with authority. Ever since the first battle of St Albans which had been won by his strategy he had been distinguished throughout the country; and when he had become Captain of Calais and had held that important port for England and the Yorkists, he had won the hearts of the English by his exploits against the French; he had seized their goods and played the part of pirate-buccaneer with such verve that he was accepted as a great hero, one of that company of men of which England was in need since the disastrous losses in France.

The Earl had never been one of Edward’s boon companions such as Hastings and men of that kind. It was a serious relationship between them. Warwick did not frown on Edward’s adventures. They had kept the young man occupied while Warwick ruled. That was all very well when Edward was in his teens, but he was now twenty-three years of age and Warwick had plans.

They embraced when they met and Edward’s affection for his cousin was obvious.

‘You are looking pleased with yourself, Richard,’ he said. ‘What have you been doing? Come, tell me. I know you are longing to.’

‘I am as you notice rather pleased with my negotiations at the French Court. We must have peace with France and, Edward, you must marry. The people expect it. They love you. You look like a king. They smile at your pursuit of women. They expect a young king to have his romantic adventures. Not too many though, and they want a marriage. The people want it, the country wants it ... and that is a good enough reason. What say you?’

‘Well, I am not averse.’

Warwick looked at the King with affection. He had made him and he would keep him on the throne. Edward was amenable. He was the perfect puppet; and while this state of affairs remained Warwick could rule without hindrance. It was what he had always wanted. Not for him the heavy crown of office; how much more comfortable to rule behind the throne, to be the Kingmaker rather than the King. And Edward was the perfect tool. His easy-going, pleasure-loving nature made him that.

‘Then let us get to business. Do you realise you are one of the most eligible bachelors in the world? Not only are you King of England but the whole world knows that in addition to your crown you have an outstanding charm of person.’

‘You flatter me, Richard.’

‘Never will I do that. But let us face facts. I have become on excellent terms with Louis. I can tell you he treats me as though I were a king.’

‘Which you are in a way, Richard,’ said Edward.

Warwick looked at him sharply. Was there something behind that remark? Was Edward growing up, resenting someone else’s use of the power that was his? No, Edward was smiling his affable, good-natured smile. He was merely reminding Warwick of his power and implying that he felt it was right and proper that it should be his.

‘I have decided against Isabella of Castile. Her brother is eager for the match. He is impotent, poor fellow and it is certain that there will be no children, so Isabella would be the heiress of Castile.’