Page 73 of The Forgotten Boy

But the ghost—who seemed to have taken on a more solid outline, whose face was young and whose hair, Juliet could now see, swung free around her shoulders—extended her right hand and pointed.

Juliet followed the pointed finger with her eyes. What was she meant to see? It’s not as though the ghost were providing an especially strong light—no theater overheads or spotlights here—but Juliet crouched down and ran her gaze over the rubble of the collapsed well.

Something glinted. Holding her breath, Juliet reached out with a feather-light touch, afraid that it might vanish, but this was no ghostly object. Her hand closed around a ring. The glint came from the gold band, much dulled by time and dirt, but heavy enough that Juliet was sure it was solid gold. There was a dark square stone in the center. Trying to think of the safest place for it, Juliet slipped the ring onto the little finger of her left hand.

When she looked back at her ghost, the pointed finger had not wavered. So, not the ring. Or not just the ring. Juliet dropped to her knees for better stability and delicately began brushing at the dirt around where the ring had lain. It took only a minute or two for her fingertips to distinguish a new texture. Not dirt, not stone, not man-made …

Holding her breath again, Juliet drew back her hands with care and clasped them beneath her chin. It was an unconscious imitation of prayer, her body’s recognition that what she’d uncovered demanded reverence even before her mind caught up.

Bones. The pitted, yellowed, distinctive bones of a human rib cage.

Juliet released her breath in a gasp and looked up at her ghost.

Who chose that very moment to vanish, taking all the light with her.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

ISMAY

MARCH 1471

Ismay met Warwick and his men outdoors in the forecourt. She only managed to keep calm because her son’s life depended on it, and because she’d spent years watching the Duchess of York in the most stressful moments of her life. She channeled the erect posture, the lifted chin, the neutral expression that Cecily Neville had evinced on the day Ludlow fell to the Lancastrians and she waited for Warwick to come to her.

Though he was more than ten years older than the last time she’d seen him—which had been on that same day of Ludlow’s fall—at forty-two, Warwick retained the energy that had always been his most marked characteristic. He dismounted, tossed his reins to one of his men-at-arms, and commanded the dozen others to “secure the gate and the yard. No one leaves until I say so.”

“Do you always treat those you visit like you’re entering an armed camp?” she asked.

He stood at the base of the steps and studied her with the impersonal manner with which he’d assessed her at age twelve. He didn’t smile, but then Warwick rarely did, leaving the charm to his royal nephew.

“My aunt would be proud,” he said. “But then, you always had a little spirit to you. You know why I’m here.”

“To offer me another Neville marriage?”

“Right now you must be wishing that you’d accepted Johnny.”

“John Neville—a man who sold out his king.”

“A man who chose his family.”

“Edward is your family as well. What does your aunt think of your new allegiances?”

“As one of her sons stands with me, she is … pragmatic about the matter.”

“Is she pragmatic about your alliance with Margaret of Anjou?” Ismay would never believe that the Duchess of York would accept her nephew’s alliance with the hated former queen and the Lancastrian men who’d murdered her husband and second son.

Warwick ignored the thrust. “If you’ve sent your servants away, as it appears you have, it must be because you don’t want me spreading rumors about your son’s true parentage.”

“It’s no secret that he does not carry the name of his father.” She couldn’t bring herself to openly call her child a bastard.

“Shall we continue this discussion inside, Lady Ismay? Do you really wish to discuss your most personal affairs in the open air?”

“I will not have armed men in my home.”

“They will remain here. Would you like me to discard my sword, as well?” he asked with elaborate politeness.

“That won’t be necessary.” If Warwick wanted to kill her, he’d manage it with or without his sword.

She brought him to the ground-floor study, where she’d met with Edward nine years ago. Warwick chose to lean against the table, arms folded. Ismay remained on her feet.

---