Free The Dragon and the Rose by Roberta Gellis

"I will see that a letter and token are made ready for you. When you send to your son to tell him to come to England, that messenger can carry my daughter's consent and"—the petulant lips curled into a sneer—"her love token."
    It was done. Margaret returned home trembling, although she told herself no irrevocable move had yet been made. She knew that was false comfort. Having started on the path, she would tread it to the end; it was her nature. A week passed while Margaret's servants made tactful inquiries. Then she wrote to Lord Stanley that the heat of London oppressed her. If it was not disagreeable to him, she would ride into the country to refresh herself. His reply came as quickly as the messenger could travel. She was to do as she pleased. On no account should she trifle with her health but go where she would be most comfortable and be sure to take her physician with her. Thomas Stanley was, if possible, more deeply in love with his wife than when he married her. She was perfect. Her virtue, her prudence, and her wisdom had been of more use to him in these troubled times than any other person's. He trusted her implicitly.
    Margaret rode slowly northwest, heading for the cool hills of Gilbert Talbot's lands. He was her husband's brother-in-law. She could hardly pay a more respectable or less suspicious visit. Occasionally a man rode away from her entourage, made inquiries and rode back. She rested the night at Stratford-on-Avon, but in the morning they rode at great speed for Kidderminster. The horses were rested and baited and they rode forth again, but very slowly. Soon the sound of a large troop swelled behind them. Margaret bit her lips. This was the decisive step and, once taken, Henry would be committed.
    Buckingham, who had supported Richard against the Woodvilles and even agreed to the execution of Hastings, was growing dissatisfied with his royal master. Some said he was nauseated and horrified by the rumored deaths of Edward's children. Others believed that it was his hands that were stained with the princes' blood, and that he considered himself ill-used by Richard and ill-paid for his deeds. Margaret knew for a certainty that John Morton, bishop of Ely, who had been taken prisoner when Hastings was killed, was Buckingham's ward, and that he had been carefully feeding and nurturing Buckingham's dissatisfaction. Margaret had been in steady communication with John Morton, a brilliant, devious man, through her network of scholars and priests, but she did not know whether Buckingham wanted to seize the throne himself or whether he would throw his weight behind Henry. She had ridden to the cool hills to find out.
    Buckingham had a claim to the throne, but it was through Edward III's youngest son, Thomas of Woodstock, and broken by much female descent. Nonetheless, it was nowhere smirched by bastardy, legitimized or not. If Buckingham wished to contest Henry's right to the throne, he would have a most excellent case. Margaret heard his hail and pulled her horse to a halt. Her heart beat so hard that she could feel the pulsations in her throat, but she could not decide, even in those last few moments, whether she hoped or feared that Buckingham would agree to her plan.
    "Well, Margaret, a good greeting to you. What do you here?"
    "I fly from the heat—and other things—in London." Buckingham's face grew guarded. "Is the king back in London?" he asked with an assumption of casualness.
    He is afraid, Margaret thought. "I know not," she replied. "I have ridden very slowly, being troubled in my mind."
    They had pulled well ahead of their escorts and no one could overhear.
    "Troubled?"
    "Nay, I will speak the truth to you, my lord, for you were my brother when my second husband still lived. I am afraid … afraid for myself and for my son. I fear that Richard will not rest until no man, nor woman, who carries the blood of Edward III lives. He has already sent envoys to Brittany demanding Henry's