“I claim the regency for myself. As queen dowager, ’tis rightfully mine.” She addressed the council from the head of the table, holding her chin high, looking regal in a magnificent gown of rich crimson velvet edged with gold, a circlet of gold on her hair, which she wore braided on either side of her face, in the manner of Marguerite d’Anjou.
I thought it odd that Mother should think of raising that specter, for mad Henry’s French queen had ruled the land through Henry, who was as simple and malleable as a child. Eventually her abuse of power brought about widespread revolt against Henry himself, and my father came to the throne. Had my mother forgotten about Marguerite’s end? Sick, poor, defeated, abandoned, and alone, she’d died in exile mourning the death of her young son, the child that should have been king. But everything my mother did was calculated for effect. She must have calculated that reminding the nobles of Marguerite’s power would work in her favor, at least for now.
A murmur went around the room, but whether aye or nay, I could not tell.
“King Edward was sick and feverish at the end,” Mother resumed. “He was not in his right mind when he added that codicil appointing his brother of Gloucester Protector of the Realm. Was he, Bishop Morton?” she asked sweetly.
“I do not believe he was,Your Grace.”
“Archbishop Rotherham?”
“I dare say he was not,” the archbishop replied, his long narrow face looking even foxier than before.
“Lord Stanley?” My mother turned to one of the wiliest and most slippery of my father’s lords. Stanley had served under both a Lancastrian and a Yorkist king. He’d not only survived them both, but been heaped with honors by both. He was married to Henry Tudor’s mother, the pious little woman, Lady Margaret Beaufort. It was from her that Tudor inherited what little claim he held to the throne of England, for she was the daughter of John Beaufort, first Duke of Somerset, the grandson of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster.
“The matter deserves weighty consideration. I am reluctant to say aye or nay at this time,” Lord Stanley replied.
She smiled at Dorset and her brothers, Sir Edward Woodville and Bishop Lionel, clustered on one side of the table next to the rest of our Woodville relations and allies.
“Then we are agreed. Gloucester is to be set aside,” my mother said peremptorily to a murmur of ayes that came mainly from her side of the table. She picked up another sheaf of paper in order to move on to a different subject when a voice broke the silence.
“We are not agreed, madame,” Hastings said.
He rose from his seat. “By the king’s will, Gloucester was appointed Protector. Not you, madame. Your name wasn’t even on the list of executors, doubtless for precisely this very reason. King Edward feared you would attempt to seize power.”
“Lord Hastings, you are out of order. And in the minority here.” My mother was bristling, her eyes filled with fury and scorn. “Pray be seated.”A cold smile hovered on her lips. Ignoring Hastings, she moved on to the next matter of business. “We must send for my son, King Edward, immediately—and give him a strong escort. Ten thousand men.”
A dull murmur ran through the chamber.
“Against whom is our young sovereign to be defended?” demanded Hastings, still standing. He looked around. Many of those who supported my mother averted their gaze or bowed their head. “Such extreme measures are unnecessary. We are not at war,Your Grace.”
“But Lord Hastings,” my mother said haughtily, “I cannot have England’s king travel dangerous roads without a suitable escort to protect him.”
“The roads are not that hazardous,Your Grace, and if you insist on such a strong escort, you leave me no choice. I shall retire to Calais.” Hastings leaned his full weight on his hands and locked his gaze with her.
I could tell that my mother was remembering the decisive part that Calais had played in Warwick the Kingmaker’s day. Like Hastings, Warwick had been Captain of Calais. With an entire fleet at his disposal and an impregnable fortress for refuge, he had managed to evict my father from the throne and restore Henry VI. Warwick had kept Papa out for a full year until the battle at Barnet. My mother dared not let Hastings out of her reach, for Hastings was popular where she was hated, and the people would be sure to rally to him.
Hastings and Mother glared at one another for a long moment, and I had the sense that they were playing a game of chess.
“Very well, the king’s escort shall not exceed two thousand men. Are you satisfied?” my mother said at last.
The knight has captured the queen, I thought.
“Aye, madame,” said Hastings. “You have been prudent.” He sat down, leaned back in his chair, and watched her as warily as a mouse watches a cat. I knew that Hastings had better watch his back now; she would be avenged on him for this insult.
In the solar at Westminster later that evening, while Cecily braided her hair and admired her image in the mirror and Dickon built a tower out of wood blocks and arranged toy soldiers on the ramparts, I told my sisters, Anne and Kate, a tale about knights and dragons while two-year-old Bridget played with a rag doll and Mother railed against Hastings and his veiled threat to use Calais against her. Summoning her scrivener again, she dispatched another missive to my Uncle Anthony, commanding him to hurry to bring Edward to London to be crowned.
But the days passed, and then the weeks. Soon it would be May. Still Edward did not come.
CHAPTER 4
Sanctuary, 1483
“GLOUCESTER SENDS YOU HIS CONDOLENCES, MADAME,” Hastings said as he read a letter that had arrived for the council from my uncle Richard of Gloucester.
“I have been loyal to my brother King Edward at home and abroad, in peace and in war. I am loyal to my brother’s heir and my brother’s issue. I desire only that the kingdom be ruled with justice, according to law. My brother’s testament has made me Protector of the Realm. In debating the disposition of authority, I ask you to consider the position rightfully due me according to the law and my brother’s order. Nothing which is contrary to my brother’s order can be decreed without harm.’ ”
The council thought it a most gracious letter, and many who had been uncommitted before now voiced support for Uncle Richard. But my mother took it as proof of Richard’s ill will toward us. “See—he writes ‘nothing which is contrary to my brother’s order can be decreed without harm’—he means to seize power from us!”
I leapt to my feet. “He does not mean that, Mother! He’s merely stating he will not stand for you to try to seize power from him. Because it is contrary to what Papa wanted.”
“How dare you gainsay me?” my mother cried.
I had never challenged her before. For I hated argument and she thrived on it, and once an argument was started, she would not let it end. But I remembered my father’s last wish, and it was for him that I stood up now. Before I could reply, she spoke again. “He means to seize power, and I shall not let him! We’ll see who wins this battle!”
When we finally received a missive from Uncle Anthony, my mother almost tore it from the messenger’s hands. She read frantically.
“He has left Ludlow, thank God, but he waited until after the celebrations of St. George’s Day on the twenty-third of April! He says he saw no need to rush—the imbecile—” She waved the missive furiously at the west window. “No urgency!” she screamed, as if she were talking to him. “You mad fool! You great and utter fool!” She bent her head down again to read. “Oh Blessed Mother, help us! He writes that he has arranged to meet Gloucester in Northampton on April twenty-ninth! The half-wit! The addle-brained, noodle-headed dullard! Summon your brother Dick Grey—hurry, girl!” she yelled at me. Because Mother had two Richards from her two marriages, she distinguished between them by calling her elder Richard by his full name.
Dorset and I exchanged a helpless look before I left to fetch my brother.
Dick had been playing dice with a friend, and winning. He was somewhat annoyed to find himself dragged away from the game. “What is it n
ow, Mother?” he asked sullenly when he strolled in with me.
“Does no one understand what is at stake here?” my mother snarled, looking around at us. “Am I the only one with the sense to realize that our lives, our very treasure, our futures are in peril?”
So treasures were as valued as lives. I bent my head to hide my smile.
Mother drew an audible breath. “Dick Grey, you must leave for Northampton at once. Tell your uncle this—under no circumstances should he meet with Gloucester! Tell him ’tis urgent he makes haste to London. Explain that, for our own protection, we are setting aside Edward’s will and taking power ourselves. Go, now! Take the fastest horse in the stable and as many men as you can gather on short notice, and go!”
“Aye, Mother,” he said, turning to hurry from the chamber.
WE RECEIVED NO FURTHER WORD FROM DICK OR from Uncle Anthony. Instead, one dark night, messengers clattered into the courtyard, awakening us all. My mother met them in her chamber robe.
“Richard of Gloucester intercepted the king at Stony Stratford with the help of Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham!” the messenger cried. “He has taken Anthony, Lord Rivers, and Sir Richard Grey prisoners.”
“Jesu—” breathed my mother.
“Gloucester and Buckingham are now escorting him to London,” he said.
“Dear God, we are in great danger!” my mother cried. Her worst fears were being realized. Buckingham hated her. At the age of eleven, Mother had forced him to wed my aunt, Catherine Woodville, so Catherine could be a duchess, and he’d never forgiven her for it. “We must flee into sanctuary! Hurry, Elizabeth, help me pack up our treasure—”
“Our treasure?” I asked in disbelief.
“All our precious belongings—my plate, my gowns, my carpets, my jewels—everything!” my mother replied. “We can’t go without our things. Remember how uncomfortable we were last time?”
Servants rushed to gather belongings and drag heavy coffers and furniture to the stables, to be hauled onto wagons and borne to the abbey.
“You must get away, Dorset!” my mother cried when my brother walked into the Great Hall, where she was supervising the packing of the silver plate and tapestries that adorned the room. “God knows what Gloucester will do if he gets his hands on you—he’s always hated you! Where will you go?”
“I shall go to Jane Shore,” he said.
Mother gave a nod. Everyone except Papa knew that Dorset and Jane Shore had loved one another for years.
With Cecily’s help, I gathered all our clothes and locked our jewels in caskets after putting on several of the rings. Then they couldn’t be lost, and besides, they were pretty, especially a little gold ring wrought in the shape of a rose that Papa had given me. As twilight descended over London, the chambers emptied. Amid the chaos, a messenger rushed into the palace and fell to a knee before my mother.
“Your Grace, Gloucester is but a mere twenty-four hours’ journey away!”
My mother gazed around in panic. “But there’s so much still to be taken to sanctuary!” she exclaimed to her chamberlain. “Can you not work faster?”
“Your Grace, the treasure has been rolling into the abbey all day. Everyone is working as fast as they can. But some of the larger pieces get stuck in the passageways. They have trouble pushing them through.”
“Then break down the walls between the palace and the sanctuary, you fool!” Mother exclaimed. “And work through the night! Gloucester will be here soon, don’t you understand? We must have everything safe in sanctuary before he gets here or he’ll steal every last cup!”
WE HAD AT LAST BEEN ESCORTED BY MY UNCLE EDWARD Woodville to the abbey with all of our belongings. As dawn broke, the Thames was drenched in glorious crimson and gold.
I’d slept fitfully, and at first light I climbed up to the high window that looked out on the river. There, with a cushion at my back, I listened to the cry of the river birds, the ringing of the church bells, the chanting of the monks. All seemed so serene. I closed my eyes, drank in the freshness of the air, tasted the tang of the river water. A sudden rap at the door came as a rude reminder that there was no serenity.
Mother stirred on the pallet where she slept, for we’d been too fatigued to set up her featherbed for the night. I climbed down from my window seat and went to see who had awakened us. It was Bishop Edward Story, my mother’s old confessor.
“Story!” Mother cried, dusting off the straw from her hair and gown as she rose. “ ’Tis good to see you, dear Story!” She gazed up at him with emotion. “We have been through so much! So much. We are in need of the happy sight of your kind face.”
“Your Grace, I deeply regret your presence in sanctuary again. ’Tis a terrible reminder of the old days—the days we thought were past. Here is trouble, yet again.”
Mother took his arm and drew him inside. “I wish I had something to offer you, but I have naught. No wine, no sweets. Not until the monks break their fast and fetch us some bread.”
That wasn’t quite true. Our coffers of gold and silver would buy us whatever we wished, once we arranged to purchase them. But Mother loved playing the martyr. My brother Dickon came to her side and hugged her knees. He laid his cheek against her skirts, and looked at Story. He was nine years old now, a beautiful child with an ivory and rose complexion, bright blue eyes, and hair as gold as wheat shimmering in the summer sun.
Story’s gaze went from my mother to Dickon, and his expression turned even more somber. “Your Grace,” he said, “regretfully, there is a grave purpose to my visit here this day.” He hesitated. “If I may be so bold?”At Mother’s nod, he continued. “As long as you keep His Grace, Richard of York, with you in sanctuary, the life of young King Edward V is secure.”
My mother paled. She turned her gaze on Dickon, who was looking up at her with a puzzled expression. I had the sense that, until this moment, Mother herself hadn’t fully comprehended what she had set into motion. Driven by fear and hatred, she had tried to seize power without assessing the risks of failure. Still, I was not concerned. George of Clarence, with his irrational behavior would have posed a clear danger, but not Richard of Gloucester. My Uncle Richard was loyal and prudent, and my father had placed his trust in him with good cause.
Noise and shouts suddenly came from the Thames. I scrambled up to the window, and a gasp escaped my lips when I looked out. The White Boar emblem was everywhere; the entire river was covered with boats crowded with the Duke of Gloucester’s men.
“What is it?” my mother breathed, standing motionless in the middle of the room, clasping Dickon.
I swallowed. “Uncle Richard’s men are guarding the river entrances.”
A commotion in the cloisters drew our attention to the door. We waited, trying to decipher the meaning of the sounds: men’s voices; clanging armor; the long strides they took. For an instant, time barreled backward and I was reminded of the precious moments before my father rescued us from sanctuary. We had thought him dead in battle, and then the door had been thrust wide, and there he stood, towering, magnificent, a shining golden god, smiling at us.
But the men standing in the open doorway did not smile at us. Their faces could not have been more grave. I recognized one of them: a dark-haired young man from the palace who had been a Knight of the Body to my father. Our gaze locked, and I felt an instant’s warmth. Then his captain stepped forward, and gave my mother a stiff bow.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” she demanded haughtily.
“Sir John Nesfield at your service,Your Grace. We are sent by His Grace, the Duke of Gloucester, to make sure you are comfortable.” His gaze touched on our belongings stacked high, coffer on coffer.
“We shall never be comfortable here. But at least we are safe from our enemies,” she said pointedly.
Sir John Nesfield, one of Richard of Gloucester’s most faithful retainers, raised an eyebrow, and made another stiff bow. “We shall be outside, if you need us.”
The door closed. I began t
o search the coffers. Moving stuff aside, I came across a French grammar book. “Cecily, here’s something for you, dear sister,” I said, passing it to her. Then I picked up my lute.
LATER THAT EVENING, THE MONKS BROUGHT US A jug of wine, a pot of leek soup, and some loaves of freshly baked black bread. I tore into this simple supper, thinking it more delicious than many feasts at the palace. When my mother and sisters were resting, I quitted the chamber and moved into the cloisters with my lute. A thin moon hung low in the dark sky, surrounded by a myriad of twinkling stars, and the air was warm and fragrant with the scent of roses, lilies, and a blossoming pear tree. The shadows of soldiers and monks flitted across the courtyard, and I knew they all watched me, but I did not care. Taking a seat on a bench at the edge of a pond in the herb garden, I strummed the chords of my lute and raised my voice in song to the heavens:
We blow hither and thither,
We know not whence we go,
nor why.
But memories are time’s gift to keep
They comfort still,
And thou art there, though we see you not . . .
Though we see you not.
A vision of my laughing father engulfed me. Blinded by tears, I lifted my eyes to the stars that sparkled in the night sky. Suddenly a twig crunched underfoot behind me. I leapt to my feet and swung around, my heart pounding.
“Forgive me,Your Grace,” a man’s voice said. He emerged from the shadows. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I followed the beautiful melody, and it brought me to you.”
It was the young man who had been Knight of the Body to my father.
“Sir Thomas Stafford of Grafton,” he said, with a bow. “You have an exquisite voice, my lady. Like an angel.”
I bit my lip to stifle the sob that threatened my composure. “My father used to tell me that.”
“Your father was a splendid king. Nothing is the same without him.”
“I know.”
“I miss him sorely.”
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 6
