“Why is it not possible?” I insist.

He extends his thin hands. “One”—he counts on his fingers—“the King and Queen of Spain will not send their daughter to marry Arthur unless they are sure our succession is certain. If you want to see your son married, we have to see the boy and your cousin dead.”

I nearly choke. “They can’t demand such a thing! They have no right to order us to kill our own kinsmen!”

“They can. They do. It is their condition for the wedding and the wedding must go ahead.”

“No!”

He continues listing his reasons. “Two—he’s plotting against me.”

“No!” It is such a contradiction of what my servants have told me about the boy in the Tower, a boy quite without his own will. “He is not! It’s not possible. He does not have the strength!”

“With Warwick.”

Now I know that it is a lie. Poor Teddy would plot with no one, all he wants is someone to talk to. He swore loyalty to Henry when he was a little boy; his years in terrible solitude have only made his decision more certain for him. He thinks of Henry now as an all-seeing, all-powerful god. He would not dream of plotting against such a power, he would tremble with fear at the thought of it. “That can’t be so,” I say simply. “Whatever they have told you about the boy, I know that it can’t be said of Teddy. He is loyal to you and your spies are lying.”

“I say it is so,” he insists. “They are plotting and if their plots are treasonous, they will have to die as traitors.”

“But how can they?” I ask. “How can they even plot together? Are they not kept apart?”

“Spies and traitors always find ways to plot together,” Henry rules. “They are probably sending messages.”

“You must be able to keep them apart!” I protest. Then I feel a chill as I realize what is, more probably, happening. “Ah, husband, don’t tell me that you are letting them plot together so that you can entrap them? Say you wouldn’t do that? Tell me that you would not do such a thing? Not now, not now that the boy is in your power, and broken on your orders. Tell me that you wouldn’t do such a thing to poor Teddy, not to poor little Teddy, who will die if you entrap him?”

He does not look triumphant, he looks anxious. “Why would they not refuse each other company?” he asks me. “Why should I not test them and find them true? Why would they not stay silent to each other, turn away from men who come to tempt them with stories of freedom? I have been merciful to them. You can see that! They should be loyal to me. I can test them, can’t I? It is nothing but reasonable. I can offer them each other’s company. I can expect that they shrink from each other as a terrible sinner? I am doing nothing wrong!”

I feel a wave of pity for him, as he leans forwards to the little fire, and I am shaken by nausea at what I fear he is planning. “You are King of England,” I remind him. “Be a king. No one has the power to take that from you. You don’t have to test their loyalty. You can afford to be generous. Be kingly. Release them to exile and send them away.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t feel generous,” he says meanly. “When is anyone ever generous to me?”










GREENWICH PALACE, LONDON, WINTER–SPRING 1499

This is bitter for any woman, and especially hard on Cecily. She will stay away from court until she has put off her black gown. I am sorry for her, but there is nothing that I can do, so I say farewell to the court and step into my beautiful rooms for my first confinement without her.

My Lady the King’s Mother has the best rooms adjoining Henry’s as usual, but I like my own set of rooms that I have prepared for my confinement. They face the river and I order my ladies to pin back the dark tapestries showing scenes from the Bible that My Lady has hung for my edification, and instead I watch the boats going by and people, wrapped up against the cold, striding up and down the riverbank, hugging themselves, their breaths making little clouds around their muffled heads.

I am not well with this baby; it was an unlovely conception and I fear a difficult birth. While I am confined I cannot help but think of the two in the Tower, my cousin and the boy who called himself my brother, and I wonder what they can see from their windows and if the winter afternoons and evenings when the sun sets so early and the sky is so dark seem so very long to them. Poor Teddy must be accustomed, it has been nearly thirteen years since he was free; he has grown to manhood in prison, knowing nothing but the cold walls of his chamber and the little square panes of his window. When I think of him I believe that the baby stirs in me, and I know that I have been very wrong not to save him from this life that is more like death. I have failed him, my kinsman, my cousin. I have failed as a cousin and I have failed as a queen.

Now another young man looks out of a small window at a darkening sky and sees the winter day slide away, and I put my hand on my broad belly and whisper, “Never. That will never happen to you,” as if I could save my baby though I cannot save my brother.

Lady Katherine Huntly comes into confinement with me for company and stitches an exquisite nightcap in white pin-tucked linen for my child, though she is never allowed to see her own. She is allowed to visit the prisoner in the Tower and she is away for a day and a night and comes back in silence, and bends over her sewing, trying to avoid speaking to anyone of what she has seen or heard.

I wait till the ladies are at the door of my chamber, taking the dishes for dinner from the servants at the threshold and bringing them in to spread on the big table before the fire so that we can feast and be merry during our long time of waiting before Lent reduces the choice. “How is he?” I ask shortly.

At once she glances around to see if they can hear us, but there is no one in earshot. “Broken,” she says simply.

“Is he ill?”

“Wasted.”

“Does he have books? Letters? Is he very alone?”

“No!” she exclaims. “People are constantly allowed to come in to see him.” She shrugs. “I don’t understand why. Almost anyone can go and speak to him. He lives in a presence chamber, the door standing open, any fool in London can come in and pledge allegiance. He is hardly guarded at all.”

“He doesn’t speak to them, does he?”

A little shake of her head shows that he says nothing.

“He must not speak to anyone!” I say with sudden energy. “His safety depends on his not speaking to them, to anyone.”

“They speak to him,” she tries to explain to me. “His guards don’t keep the door shut, they force it open. He is surrounded by people who come and whisper promises to him.”

“He must not reply!” I take her hands in my anxiety that she understands. “He will be watched, he is being watched. He must do nothing that could cause suspicion.”

She looks up and meets my eyes. “He is himself,” she says. “He has caused suspicion all of his life. Even if he does nothing but breathe.”

The labor is long and I am faint with pain by the time that I hear a little weak cry. They give me birthing ale and the familiar scent and the taste remind me of when I had Arthur and my mother was there with her strong arms around me and her voice leading me into dreams where I felt no pain. When I wake, hours later, they tell me that I have given birth to a boy, another boy for the Tudor dynasty, and that the king has sent his congratulations and a rich gift, and his Lady Mother is on her knees for me in her chapel even now, giving thanks that God continues to smile on her house.