Elizabeth is in a desperate place. Recently widowed by the Wars of the Roses, she is left with two young sons and no inheritance for them. When the enemy king offers marriage, she decides to accept in order to secure her future. In marrying Edward, she enters a world of politics, danger, and intrigue- and meets a dangerous enemy in the Kingmaker and his friends.

The letter was cream-colored, with a seal of crimson wax, and my name- Lady Elizabeth Grey of Groby- scratched on the front in my father’s spidery handwriting. For a moment, I was taken with it entirely, turning it over and caressing the folds. It had completely escaped me that I did not normally receive letters unless they carried dire news. I was a wife, and a mother of two little boys, at that time. John was my husband: John Grey of Groby. Thomas was six, and Richard was three- both as boisterous and mischievous as little boys could be expected to be. They depended on their father for the majority of these little adventures, and when he had left for battle they (as well as I, of course) suffered greatly.
The muster had felt different from all the others. It all was as normal: horses swishing flies with their tail, men kissing their families goodbye, and women clinging to red roses- the symbol of Lancaster, the house of our king- so hard that many had blood running from their hands from the thorns they were too lazy to remove. And still I sobbed throughout the whole. It was odd for me to be so emotional, for at my age I knew that causalities were the “fortunes of war”, as we called them. I knew that there was always a chance that he would not come home. I was at peace with that knowledge- and still I worried.
Since then, Thomas and Richard had got into less trouble. I never found spiders in the bed, or earthworms in my soup. They never spoke out at dinner, and their behavior was excellent. I knew they missed their father as much as I.
At last I managed to break the seal, and unfold the letter. I knew what was coming, but I couldn’t stop myself from crying out and dropping the letter when I read it. John was dead. He had died at St. Albans, leading the cavalry charge: doing the very thing he loved best.
“Mama? What’s wrong?” Thomas and Richard were running towards me. I smiled through my tears, and gathered them into my lap. Thomas- being the ‘man of the house’ in his father’s absence squirmed out, but Richard remained.
“Mama?”
I hugged him even tighter, tears staining his linen shirt. Thomas picked up the letter, and read it, stuttering aloud.
“My dea-dearest daughter. I wish that I wer-were not the one to have to tell you this.” He finished it, and looked at me. “Father is dead?”
I nodded, unable to say a word. Richard burst into tears, and buried his face in my dress. I placed my arm around him and his brother: we were a family of three now.