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Authors: Philippa Gregory
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breathlessly, looking at the boxes of furs that Father has sent her.
‘Father has taken her goods. These are her furs.’ She buries her face in the thick pelts, and gives a little awestruck gasp. ‘Smell them! They still smell of her perfume. He has
taken her furs, he will have taken her perfume. I shall wear her perfume too. He says I am to have all her furs from the royal wardrobes to trim my gowns. He will send me her jewels, her brocades,
her cloth-of-gold dresses to be fitted to me. He has done it.’
‘You can’t ever have doubted that he would?’ I ask, stroking the creamy ermine with the dark spots, which only kings and queens are allowed to wear. Isabel will have all her
capes trimmed with it. ‘He defeated King Henry, and holds him prisoner. Now he has defeated King Edward and holds him. Sometimes I think of him, high on the back of his horse, Midnight,
riding across the whole country, unbeatable.’
‘Two kings in prison, and a new one on the throne?’ Isabel questions, putting the furs aside. ‘How can it be? How shall the third king be safer than the other two? And what if
Father turns against George as he turned against Edward? What if my father’s plans don’t just neglect me but come to oppose me? What if the kingmaker wants a new king after
George?’
‘He won’t do that; there is no-one for him but you and George now, and you are carrying the prince, his grandson,’ I say certainly. ‘He’s done all this for you,
Isabel. He will put you on the throne and keep you there, and then the next king of England will be a Neville. If he had done it for me I would be so happy. If he had done it for me I would have
been the happiest girl in England.’
But Isabel is not happy. My mother and I cannot understand why she is not exultant. We think she is tired in her pregnancy for she will not walk out in the bright cold mornings, and takes no
pleasure in the sharp autumnal air. She is anxious, though we and all our loyal household are triumphant, revelling in our rise to power. Then one day at dinner, my father’s Master of Horse,
the most trusted and reliable man of his household, is announced. He walks the length of the hall, which falls silent and whispers as he hands a letter to my mother across the high table, and she
takes it, surprised that he should come into the hall still dirty from the road, but knowing from his grave face that it is urgent news. She looks at the seal – my father’s standard of
the bear and ragged staff – and then, without saying a word, she goes through the door at the back of the dais into the solar, leaving us in silence.
Isabel and I and the dozen ladies of her chamber eat our dinner, trying to look untroubled under the hushed scrutiny of the great hall, but as soon as we can we withdraw to wait in the presence
chamber outside the solar, pretending to talk cheerfully among ourselves, horribly aware of the locked door and the silence behind it. If my father were dead, would my mother be weeping? Does she
weep? Actually, can she weep? I have never seen my mother weep. I find I am wondering if she has that capacity, or if she is forever hard-faced and dry-eyed.
If my father’s Master of Horse had given her a letter telling us to come to London at once for Izzy’s coronation would she not have burst out through the door with the good news?
Does she cry out in joy, I wonder? Have I ever seen her dancing with exultation? The red afternoon sun walks slowly along the tapestried walls lighting up one scene, and then another, and still
there is no sound from her room.
Finally, in the evening as it is starting to get dark and the servants are bringing in the candles, the door opens, and my mother comes out, the letter in her hand. ‘Fetch the captain of
the castle,’ she says to one of her ladies, ‘and the commander of the personal guard. Command my lord’s steward, and the groom of the chambers, and his Master of Horse.’
She sits in her great
‘Father has taken her goods. These are her furs.’ She buries her face in the thick pelts, and gives a little awestruck gasp. ‘Smell them! They still smell of her perfume. He has
taken her furs, he will have taken her perfume. I shall wear her perfume too. He says I am to have all her furs from the royal wardrobes to trim my gowns. He will send me her jewels, her brocades,
her cloth-of-gold dresses to be fitted to me. He has done it.’
‘You can’t ever have doubted that he would?’ I ask, stroking the creamy ermine with the dark spots, which only kings and queens are allowed to wear. Isabel will have all her
capes trimmed with it. ‘He defeated King Henry, and holds him prisoner. Now he has defeated King Edward and holds him. Sometimes I think of him, high on the back of his horse, Midnight,
riding across the whole country, unbeatable.’
‘Two kings in prison, and a new one on the throne?’ Isabel questions, putting the furs aside. ‘How can it be? How shall the third king be safer than the other two? And what if
Father turns against George as he turned against Edward? What if my father’s plans don’t just neglect me but come to oppose me? What if the kingmaker wants a new king after
George?’
‘He won’t do that; there is no-one for him but you and George now, and you are carrying the prince, his grandson,’ I say certainly. ‘He’s done all this for you,
Isabel. He will put you on the throne and keep you there, and then the next king of England will be a Neville. If he had done it for me I would be so happy. If he had done it for me I would have
been the happiest girl in England.’
But Isabel is not happy. My mother and I cannot understand why she is not exultant. We think she is tired in her pregnancy for she will not walk out in the bright cold mornings, and takes no
pleasure in the sharp autumnal air. She is anxious, though we and all our loyal household are triumphant, revelling in our rise to power. Then one day at dinner, my father’s Master of Horse,
the most trusted and reliable man of his household, is announced. He walks the length of the hall, which falls silent and whispers as he hands a letter to my mother across the high table, and she
takes it, surprised that he should come into the hall still dirty from the road, but knowing from his grave face that it is urgent news. She looks at the seal – my father’s standard of
the bear and ragged staff – and then, without saying a word, she goes through the door at the back of the dais into the solar, leaving us in silence.
Isabel and I and the dozen ladies of her chamber eat our dinner, trying to look untroubled under the hushed scrutiny of the great hall, but as soon as we can we withdraw to wait in the presence
chamber outside the solar, pretending to talk cheerfully among ourselves, horribly aware of the locked door and the silence behind it. If my father were dead, would my mother be weeping? Does she
weep? Actually, can she weep? I have never seen my mother weep. I find I am wondering if she has that capacity, or if she is forever hard-faced and dry-eyed.
If my father’s Master of Horse had given her a letter telling us to come to London at once for Izzy’s coronation would she not have burst out through the door with the good news?
Does she cry out in joy, I wonder? Have I ever seen her dancing with exultation? The red afternoon sun walks slowly along the tapestried walls lighting up one scene, and then another, and still
there is no sound from her room.
Finally, in the evening as it is starting to get dark and the servants are bringing in the candles, the door opens, and my mother comes out, the letter in her hand. ‘Fetch the captain of
the castle,’ she says to one of her ladies, ‘and the commander of the personal guard. Command my lord’s steward, and the groom of the chambers, and his Master of Horse.’
She sits in her great
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