hold the throne of England without his permission.
‘The kingmaker,’ my mother murmurs, savouring the word. She smiles at her ladies, she even smiles at me. ‘Lord, what foolish things people do say,’ she remarks.
Then a ship from England brings us a packet of letters and the captain comes to the castle, to see my mother in private, and tell her that the news is all over London that King Edward was born a
bastard, not his father’s son but the misbegotten child of an English archer. Edward was never the heir of the House of York. He is base-born. He should never have been on the throne at
all.
‘Are people really saying that Duchess Cecily lay with an archer?’ I ask out loud as one of the ladies whispers the gossip. The king’s mother, our great-aunt, is one of the
most formidable ladies of the realm, and no-one but a fool would believe such a thing of her. ‘Duchess Cecily? With an archer?’
In one swift angry move, my mother rounds on me and boxes my ears with a ringing blow that sends my headdress flying across the room.
‘Out of my sight!’ she shouts in a rage. ‘And think before you dare to speak ill of your betters! Never say such a thing in my hearing again.’
I have to scuttle across the room to get my headdress. ‘My Lady Mother . . .’ I start to apologise.
‘Go to your room!’ she orders. ‘And then go to the priest for a penance for gossiping.’
I scurry out, clutching my headdress, and find Isabel in our bedroom.
‘What is it?’ she asks, seeing a red handprint across my cheek.
‘Lady Mother,’ I say shortly.
Isabel reaches into her sleeve and lends me her special wedding handkerchief to dry my eyes. ‘Here,’ she says gently. ‘Why did she box your ears? Come and sit here and
I’ll comb your hair.’
I stifle my sobs and take my seat before the little silvered mirror, and Isabel takes the pins out of my hair and combs out the tangles with the ivory comb that her husband gave her after their
one night of marriage.
‘What happened?’
‘I only said that I couldn’t believe that King Edward was a bastard foisted on his father by the duchess,’ I say defensively. ‘And even if I am beaten to death for saying
it, I still can’t believe it. Our great-aunt? Duchess Cecily? Who would dare to say such a thing of her? She is such a great lady. Who would say such a thing against her? Won’t they get
their tongue slit? What d’you think?’
‘I think it’s a lie,’ she says drily, as she twists my hair into a plait and pins it up on my head. ‘And that’s why you got your ears boxed. Mother was angry with
you because it’s a lie that we are not to question. We are not to repeat it, but we’re not to challenge it either. It’s a lie that our men will be telling all over London, Calais
too, and we are not to contradict it.’
I am utterly confused. ‘Why would our men say it? Why would we not forbid them to speak, as I am forbidden? Why would we allow such a lie? Why would anyone say that Duchess Cecily betrayed
her own husband? Shamed herself?’
‘You think,’ she advises.
I sit staring at my own reflection, my brown hair shining with bronze lights where it is elegantly plaited by Isabel, my young face creased in a frown. Isabel waits for me to follow the tortuous
path of my father’s plotting. ‘Father is allowing the men to repeat this lie?’
‘Yes,’ she says.
‘Because if Edward is illegitimate, then George is the true heir,’ I say eventually.
‘And so the true King of England,’ she says. ‘All roads lead to George taking the throne and me at his side and Father ruling us both forever. They call him the kingmaker. He
made Edward, now he unmakes him. Next, he makes George.’ Her face in the mirror is grave.
‘I would have thought you would be pleased to be queen,’ I say tentatively. ‘And to have Father win the throne for you.’
‘When we were little girls playing at being queens we didn’t know the price that women
‘The kingmaker,’ my mother murmurs, savouring the word. She smiles at her ladies, she even smiles at me. ‘Lord, what foolish things people do say,’ she remarks.
Then a ship from England brings us a packet of letters and the captain comes to the castle, to see my mother in private, and tell her that the news is all over London that King Edward was born a
bastard, not his father’s son but the misbegotten child of an English archer. Edward was never the heir of the House of York. He is base-born. He should never have been on the throne at
all.
‘Are people really saying that Duchess Cecily lay with an archer?’ I ask out loud as one of the ladies whispers the gossip. The king’s mother, our great-aunt, is one of the
most formidable ladies of the realm, and no-one but a fool would believe such a thing of her. ‘Duchess Cecily? With an archer?’
In one swift angry move, my mother rounds on me and boxes my ears with a ringing blow that sends my headdress flying across the room.
‘Out of my sight!’ she shouts in a rage. ‘And think before you dare to speak ill of your betters! Never say such a thing in my hearing again.’
I have to scuttle across the room to get my headdress. ‘My Lady Mother . . .’ I start to apologise.
‘Go to your room!’ she orders. ‘And then go to the priest for a penance for gossiping.’
I scurry out, clutching my headdress, and find Isabel in our bedroom.
‘What is it?’ she asks, seeing a red handprint across my cheek.
‘Lady Mother,’ I say shortly.
Isabel reaches into her sleeve and lends me her special wedding handkerchief to dry my eyes. ‘Here,’ she says gently. ‘Why did she box your ears? Come and sit here and
I’ll comb your hair.’
I stifle my sobs and take my seat before the little silvered mirror, and Isabel takes the pins out of my hair and combs out the tangles with the ivory comb that her husband gave her after their
one night of marriage.
‘What happened?’
‘I only said that I couldn’t believe that King Edward was a bastard foisted on his father by the duchess,’ I say defensively. ‘And even if I am beaten to death for saying
it, I still can’t believe it. Our great-aunt? Duchess Cecily? Who would dare to say such a thing of her? She is such a great lady. Who would say such a thing against her? Won’t they get
their tongue slit? What d’you think?’
‘I think it’s a lie,’ she says drily, as she twists my hair into a plait and pins it up on my head. ‘And that’s why you got your ears boxed. Mother was angry with
you because it’s a lie that we are not to question. We are not to repeat it, but we’re not to challenge it either. It’s a lie that our men will be telling all over London, Calais
too, and we are not to contradict it.’
I am utterly confused. ‘Why would our men say it? Why would we not forbid them to speak, as I am forbidden? Why would we allow such a lie? Why would anyone say that Duchess Cecily betrayed
her own husband? Shamed herself?’
‘You think,’ she advises.
I sit staring at my own reflection, my brown hair shining with bronze lights where it is elegantly plaited by Isabel, my young face creased in a frown. Isabel waits for me to follow the tortuous
path of my father’s plotting. ‘Father is allowing the men to repeat this lie?’
‘Yes,’ she says.
‘Because if Edward is illegitimate, then George is the true heir,’ I say eventually.
‘And so the true King of England,’ she says. ‘All roads lead to George taking the throne and me at his side and Father ruling us both forever. They call him the kingmaker. He
made Edward, now he unmakes him. Next, he makes George.’ Her face in the mirror is grave.
‘I would have thought you would be pleased to be queen,’ I say tentatively. ‘And to have Father win the throne for you.’
‘When we were little girls playing at being queens we didn’t know the price that women
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