The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [8]
Jacqueline shook her head violently. “No, Thomas, it’s too much. Granted that the girl was ambitious—granted that she was in love with her uncle. Even so…”
Thomas finished the sentence. “…it is inconceivable that she should want to marry the murderer of her brothers. I couldn’t agree more. It’s hard enough to explain how the queen mother could have entrusted her daughters to Richard’s protection after he had ruthlessly slaughtered her sons. She accepted a pension from him, even wrote to her son by her first marriage, who had fled abroad, urging him to return because Richard would treat him well.”
Jacqueline was still shaking her head. “Maybe the two Elizabeths didn’t know the boys were dead. The date, Thomas. What was the date of the letter?”
“That won’t wash. The letter was probably written in January or February of 1485—a year and a half after the boys were supposed to have been killed. All England prayed for saintly Henry Tudor to come over and rescue them from the monster. You can’t have it both ways. Either the truth was known—and in that case the boys’ family couldn’t help knowing it—or the boys were still alive and the accusations were malicious lies spread by Henry’s agents. Agitprop is not a modern invention, you know.”
“Hmm.” Jacqueline acknowledged his logic by abandoning the argument. “The letter would support your second alternative. It isn’t absolute proof, but—Good Heavens, Thomas, it’s an important document! And your little society is sitting on it like a broody hen. Who found it? Where was it found? Has the provenance been checked? Have any reputable authorities seen it?”
“An authority is about to see it.”
He had rarely seen Jacqueline taken aback. Now she gaped at him, unable to believe her ears.
“Me? Is that how you got me invited? Thomas, I’m not—”
“You took a course in authenticating manuscripts, didn’t you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake—just the usual survey sort of thing. I’m no—”
“And you studied handwriting analysis, didn’t you?”
“I can read your fortune in the Tarot, too, if you like. That has nothing to do with—”
“Could you spot an out-and-out fake?”
Jacqueline studied him thoughtfully. Her indignation faded as she realized his concern was genuine.
“A crude one—of course. Errors in vocabulary, spelling, and the like…. So could you. For anything more complex I’d need a laboratory. They can test the paper, the ink…. And I’m no expert on fifteenth-century orthography. What’s wrong, Thomas? Do you think one of your fellow enthusiasts forged this letter?”
“I don’t know! I’m sure the letter did exist. Buck couldn’t have invented it out of whole cloth. But it’s too damned fortuitous to have it turn up now, after all these years. The scholarly world and the press think we’re a bunch of crackpots now. If we make a big public spectacle of this—as we are planning to do—and then some goateed expert strolls in and says, ‘You’ve been had, ladies and gents; this is Woolworth’s best stationery….’ You can see how idiotic we would look. And…maybe you won’t understand this. But we honestly are concerned with a little matter of justice, even if it’s five hundred years late. A fiasco like this…”
“…could hurt Richard’s cause,” said Jacqueline, as he hesitated. She spoke tentatively, as if the words were too bizarre to be uttered; but as she studied the flushed face of the man across the table, her own face changed. “My God. You really feel…”
“I guess it sounds silly,” Thomas said, with no sign of anger. “I can’t explain it. In part, it’s the fun of an unsolved puzzle; in part, the famous Anglo-Saxon weakness for the underdog. But it’s more than that. Do you remember what they wrote about Richard in the official records of the city of York, after they heard the news of Bosworth? ‘King Richard, late mercifully reigning upon us, was…piteously slain and murdered, to the great heaviness of this City.’ The men of Yorkshire knew him well; he had lived among them for many years. It took guts