not there. Had it not been for the question of rank, of course you would have been and I’m sure you’d have been more thrilled and proud than anyone. The king has asked me to assure you that when parliament meets next week, after the Act of Royal Title has been repealed and every copy consigned to the bonfire, there will be parliamentary endorsement of his long-avowed intention to marry you and to unite the warring factions of Lancaster and York under a new Tudor dynasty.’
Gently and politely Elizabeth removed her hand, clasping both of hers tightly together in her lap once more. ‘I will look forward to hearing that from the king’s own lips, my lady,’ she said. Her back grew straighter and her head seemed to rise above Lady Margaret’s.
My glance swung from one to the other and I noticed a marked similarity in their expressions. Both women were direct descendants of King Edward the Third and pride was etched into each face; steely resolve glinted in the blue eyes and the grey. For a time I had fretted that Elizabeth might have met her match in My Lady the King’s Mother but at that moment I recalled her recent forceful declaration that she would be first lady and walk beside the king. ‘I was reared to be a queen, Joan. She was not.’
I felt a surge of relief. The wedding was on and Elizabeth was exerting her authority. The fear of rebellion receded and with it the prospect of violence in the streets of London and a resurgence of civil war. I wished I could be at the Tower, to see if ravens were flocking in on a new sense of national security.
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