VIII Read Free Page A

I glance fearfully at the hall’s great oak door, as if he might knock it down right now and come crashing in to kill us all.
    My mother mutters, “God preserve the King.”
    “Oh, He will,” says my grandmother. “I have faith in that.” She hands the crumpled napkin to a passing maid. “Arthur is not being moved?”
    “He has a garrison protecting him at Ludlow. It’s best he stays where he is.”
    My grandmother grunts, which I think means she agrees.
    “And the girls will be safe enough at Eltham,” adds my mother.
    My grandmother doesn’t even bother to reply.
    Arthur is my older brother and, being the heir to the throne, has his own household at Ludlow. He is also my grandmother’s favourite. I don’t think, in fact, that she knows what younger brothers like me are for, let alone sisters – of any age. She had only one son herself: my father. She gave birth to him when she was thirteen years old, and people say that he ripped her insides so badly she could never have another child.
    “Mass will be said in the White Tower at eight,” my grandmother is saying. “Your chambers should be ready soon.” She is about to leave, heading for the door behind us at the far end of the hall. But, as she comes close to pass by us, she stops. “By the way, Elizabeth, it occurs to me that I haven’t asked you…”
    “What?”
    “Who you are hoping will win, my dear.”
    I feel my mother stiffen. She whispers, “Not in front of my son, ma’am. Please.”
    There’s a tiny moment of silence. Then my grandmother sweeps past, flicking a bony finger painfully hard against the side of my head as she does so, and saying, “Stand on your own, boy.” I jerk to attention, leaving go of my mother’s skirts.
    When she’s gone, I let out a breath. My mother does too; we catch one another doing it and grin. Then my mother puts her hands on my shoulders and bends to look me full in the face.
    “May—” I begin, but she cuts me off.
    “God favours your father,” she says. “You know that, don’t you, Hal? There is nothing to fear.”
    “I know,” I say. “May I have a drink now, please?”
    ♦   ♦   ♦
    When my drink has been fetched and my mother and I are in her chamber, I say, “Why did Grandmama ask who you want to win, like that?”
    My mother’s been busy with two of her gentlewomen, unpacking some clothes from a newly arrived trunk. Now she looks at me sharply. For a moment she seems to hesitate, then she comes over and takes my hand. She says, “You’ve heard of the man they call the Pretender?”
    I nod.
    “Well, he claims he is my brother: Richard, Duke of York.”
    “But I’m Duke of York!”
    “Exactly – so you are. It’s the title given to the king’s second son. When I was a child, my father was king, so the younger of my two brothers was made Duke of York. And your father is king now, so you – as his second son – are Dukeof York too.”
    “You mean there are two of us with the same title?”
    “No, sweetheart. My brothers died years ago. This man, the Pretender, is telling lies. He isn’t my brother, and he has no right to any title.”
    I’m sitting on a wooden chest. She sinks down next to me and sighs, putting my hand back in my lap and patting it. “But your grandmother… is worried I might not believe that. She thinks I’m hoping my brother is still alive. She thinks I’m hoping the Pretender really is him. And that I might want him to come with an army and take the crown and be king. It’s all completely ridiculous.”
    We’re both quiet for a moment. I drain my cup. I say, “Why doesn’t Grandmama like you?”
    “Oh!” My mother stands up suddenly. She takes my cup and puts it on a nearby table. “She does , she just…” There’s a pause. More quietly she says, “For complicated reasons.” She looks at me. She can see I’m still expectant; bending to hook my hair behind my ear, she whispers, “Because I have more royal blood running in my veins