From that dreadful moment on, the news grew progressively worse.
“Your Grace, Richard of Gloucester has proclaimed King Edward’s marriage to you invalid and your offspring illegitimate!” Dr. Sergio reported.
The words he uttered roared in my ears.
“On what grounds?” cried my mother.
“Bigamy, Your Grace.” At Baynard’s Castle, Buckingham had declared Richard of Gloucester the rightful King of England. He stated that not only had my father’s marriage to my mother led to “great misgovernment, tyranny and civil war,” but that it was invalid, because King Edward stood troth-plighted to one Lady Eleanor Talbot, daughter of the old Earl of Shrewsbury at the time they were wed.
My stomach clenched tight, my heart pounded erratically in my chest, and I felt my entire body tremble as I listened. It was as if I had fallen into a dark river and its wild currents were sweeping me away to where I had no wish to go.
“Further, ’tis stated that King Edward’s marriage was invalid because it was made in secrecy, without the agreement of the lords of the land and—” Dr. Sergio broke off and averted her gaze.
“What else?” demanded my mother. “What else do they claim?”
Dr. Sergio flushed. “They claim it was secured through—through—witchcraft. By you and your mother, Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford.”
My mother gave a gasp and swayed where she stood. The penalty for sorcery was exile or death.
Dr. Sergio gave us a hurried bow and departed, leaving my distraught mother seated in the corner of the chapter house, sobbing. This frightened the babes, two-year-old Bridget and three-year-old Kate, who joined their cries to hers, and refused to sleep.
“Mother, mother, come to bed. Don’t let the children see you like this—” I pleaded, but she was deaf to all my entreaties.
We thought these were the worst tidings that could ever befall us until Dr. Sergio returned to attend my mother the next day.
“She has been this way since you left yesterday,” I told him as we watched my mother weep.
He gave her a posset. “She will soon sleep,” he said gently with pained eyes.
“Is there any further news?” I asked.
“I regret to say there is.”
I indicated a pair of velvet chairs set against the wall, beside a niche that held a statue of Mary cradling the babe, Jesus. We took our seats; he leaned close.
“Buckingham offered the throne to Gloucester. He was reluctant to accept but—”
I waited.
“He took the crown. This morning, accompanied by a number of nobles, the Duke of Gloucester went to Westminster Hall and seated himself in the marble chair. From this day, the twenty-sixth of June, King Richard dates his reign.”
Until this moment, the trembling that had seized me was a thing invisible to anyone but me, but now it burst into a shaking that convulsed my body. With great effort, I raised a hand to my dizzy head.
“I shall prepare you a posset, like your poor mother.” He summoned Cecily to my side to hold my hand and took out his herbs and medicines once again.
My head was giddy, as if I had twirled a thousand times around the room. I felt nauseated; I closed my eyes. And again came that feeling that I was being swept away in a dark, rushing river—to where I did not know and dared not contemplate.
AFTER A WEEK OF NURSING AND SEDATION, MOTHER was back to her old self, pacing to and fro in the room and swearing vengeance on Richard III.
“I shall gut him alive like the traitor he is! I shall gut Buckingham as well. All who have injured us—anyone who took part shall suffer the full penalty of treason. How dare they set aside my sons!”
“All these lies,” I said despondently. “Why are people so cruel, how can they make up such tales—” I looked at my mother for affirmation. She slowed her pacing but did not reply.
“They are lies, aren’t they? All lies, Mother?”
“Of course,” she said, but something in her tone struck a wrong note. Then she went to the door of the chapter house, opened it, and called out instructions to the nurse who played with the little ones outside on the green turf. From along the cloisters, Cecily’s laughter floated back to me for an instant as she jested with our guards. I had a moment’s longing for Thomas, whom I had not seen for nearly a week now.
Assailed by an inexplicable unease, I turned my attention back to Mother. “They are lies, aren’t they?”
“Where is my ruby and diamond brooch, you know, the one in the shape of a peacock—” she replied, searching through one of her jewel caskets. “I know I put it here last week. Did someone take it?”
Sudden realization swept me. Now I knew for certain that my mother was hiding something. A chill gripped me as I rose from the rushes. I grabbed my mother by the arm and turned her toward me.
“Dear God, it’s all true, isn’t it?” I cried, dropping my hand.
My mother made no answer; she just looked at me.
“My father committed bigamy, didn’t he?” I screamed. “You knew all along, didn’t you? We are illegitimate—illegitimate! ” I examined her face with horror. “How did he hide it so long?”Again, she made no reply. “He didn’t, did he—Clarence found out, didn’t he? Is that why he died? Answer me, Mother. I am entitled to know!”
My mother closed her jewel case with a heavy sigh. “Very well, I suppose you are.”
We stood in the center of the chamber, and the dismal light of day seemed to grow dimmer with each word she spoke.
“Bishop Stillington, the man who married your father and that . . . woman, broke his silence. He told Clarence, just as I knew he would, God rot him.”
“Why didn’t Clarence tell Warwick?” I cried, trying to comprehend the knowledge that we were bastards, as Gloucester had claimed. “Why didn’t Warwick use it against us before Barnet?”
“Warwick didn’t know. He was dead by then. Stillington didn’t tell Clarence until the death of Clarence’s wife and child—whom Clarence in his madness claimed I poisoned.”
“Did you?” I demanded. I did not know what to believe any longer.
My mother threw me a look of disgust. “No, but I would happily have had Stillington killed and be done with the whole business once and for all. But your father wouldn’t hear of it.” She quickened her pacing. “He sent Stillington to the Tower for three months, and released him after an interview. Your father always was soft. He fell for the old fool. Said Stillington had promised him never to divulge the secret again—‘I never spoke of it before,Your Grace,’ ” she mimicked, “ ‘and never will again! Believe me, sire, it was a momentary weakness brought about by too much wine and sympathy for poor Clarence—’ ” She spat on the rushes. “ ‘Poor, grieving Clarence, whose misery touched my heart—‘twill never happen again, sire. I swear it on my soul, sire.’ And your sop of a father fell for his promise! And here we are! Here—” She slammed a silver tray from its perch on a stack of folded Saracen carpets and yanked a tapestry down. “Here we are in this hole! All thanks to your father. He hadn’t the guts to be king. I was the real king! And he betrayed me, God damn him!”
Ripped from my shock by the fury that swept through my veins, I seized her arm.
“How dare you curse my father’s memory! Papa had his faults, but ’tis to you we owe everything that has happened to us—the hatred of the people, the jealousy of the nobles, the wars, the blood— we owe it all to you. To you, and your ambition, Mother! You will stop at nothing to get what you think the world owes you.”
She slapped me. Without thinking, I slapped her back. She stared at me for an instant, stunned by my action, then struck me again, cutting my face with her ring. I felt a stinging pain and touched my burning cheek; I stared at the blood on my hand. Fury, hatred, and anger at the captivity and deprivation I had known for months in sanctuary blinded my vision. I gave a cry and lunged at her, yanking her hair with all my strength, kicking and punching her. We fell to the floor and tumbled over one another, tearing on
e another’s clothes, scratching one another’s faces, screaming our curses.
“How dare you? How dare you—after all Papa did for you, you witch—” I cried.
A gasp of horror sounded at the door. From the corner of my eye as I rolled around on the floor striking and beating my mother, I saw Cecily make the sign of the cross at my words. Then she screamed for help and several soldiers appeared at her side. They rushed in and grabbed me. They pulled me off my mother, and held her, for she attempted to strike me again as they pinned me by the arms.
“How dare you? How dare you—after all Papa did for you! Don’t you dare insult my father’s name in front of me again. We are here because of you,” I screeched, hoarse with anger. “And you alone!”
THE WASHERWOMAN WHO CAME, THE MERCHANTS who delivered us their goods, the soldiers, the servants who ran our errands and obtained small necessities for us still treated us with respect, but there was a subtle change in attitude and no mistaking our fallen rank.
“Dame Grey,” said the yeoman farmer,“I have brought you fine plums picked from my own small orchard this day. See—”
My mother took one from him, but her eyes never left his face. No longer was she addressed as “Your Grace,” for now she was not queen dowager but merely the widow of Sir John Grey, slain at the Battle of Northampton. As for us, we were bastards, without lands or money, except for what my mother had hauled into sanctuary.
I no longer played my lute, for my heart lay too heavy for music, but I liked to go to the garden after Matins, to be alone, to taste the air that was fragrant with the scent of herbs, to listen to the sound of the rushes sighing in the breeze. Above me the stars sparkled in the night sky, as they had for thousands of centuries. They have heard all the cries of mankind, both of joy, and of sorrow; there is nothing new for them in mine.
Sir Thomas Stafford finally returned. He found me one night as I stood at the edge of the pond. His voice came at my shoulder. “My princess.”
His dark hair stirred in the breeze, and he looked so handsome, so pure. I smiled to see him again, and then I remembered. “You are aware of all that transpired in your absence?”
He nodded.
“Then you know I am not princess any longer.”
“You are your father’s daughter, and you will always be my princess.”
We stood side by side, silently. In his presence, the furious rage and despair I felt about our circumstances abated. He took my hand and turned me to face him fully.
“Elizabeth—”
I lifted my blue eyes to his brown. ’Twas the first time he had called me by my name. And why not? I had no title; I was neither princess nor queen. And despite his words, I was even unsure if I could call myself “the king’s daughter.” Only one thing remained certain. I was still Elizabeth.
“Elizabeth . . . Surely you know? No matter what life brings, my heart is yours forever.”
He kissed my hand tenderly, oh so tenderly! I moved nearer and before I knew it, his lips were on mine and my arms went around his neck. My heart was racing again, and once more I felt I was in a river. But this time the currents were sweet with promise and they bore me gently along through the glimmering night.
At last we broke apart to look at one another.
“Now that you are no longer princess to anyone but me, all things are possible, my beloved.” He removed something from his breast pocket that glittered in the moonlight: a beautiful sapphire brooch in the shape of a star.
“I want you to have this. It was my mother’s, God assoil her soul.” He pinned it to my bodice and said softly, “It matches the deep blue of your eyes.”
I gazed down at the brooch, swept with a wild sweet joy. As he took my hand to his lips, his eyes never left mine. I could not tear my gaze from his; I did not want this moment to end. I wanted to capture it and hold it to me forever.
But I knew I could not.
CHAPTER 6
Of Kings and Princes, 1484
THE SUMMER OF 1483 MOVED PONDEROUSLY. THOMAS departed to join King Richard and Queen Anne on a progress north to their castle of Middleham, leaving a large void in my life, and my mother grew despondent, for she missed Dickon, who had always been at her side to laugh and give her kisses.
“Are my sons well?” she’d ask our cleaning woman each day.
“Aye, well,” the cleaning woman would reply each day,“though sure I am they miss you, m’lady. The princes, they’re seen shootin’ their arrows in the garden at the Tower, God bless ’em.”
One evening in late July, in the twilight after Vespers, a knock came at our door. A priest stood before me.
“I am here to see Dame Grey,” the man said. He seemed agitated. I stepped back, and he entered. He cast an anxious glance around, and then, with purposeful strides, approached my mother, who was seated at the table, embroidering by candlelight. He gave her a low bow, as if she were still queen.
“Your Grace, my name is Christopher Urswyck. I am in the service of Lady Margaret Beaufort and have come on a most urgent matter—” He lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “There is much dissatisfaction in the realm against the treatment of King Edward’s sons. Efforts are underway to free the princes and depose King Richard. Will you grant your blessing?”
My mother set down her embroidery. Excitement brought a blush to her face. “Who leads the rebellion?”
“Lady Margaret Beaufort is the prime mover of the conspiracy, Your Grace. She is joined by her husband Lord Stanley; his brother William; her half-brother John, Lord Welles; and also by Edward Courtenay, and your own relatives and various other lords. She wishes to rescue your sons the princes from the Tower where they have been moved, and send them abroad.”
“Lady Margaret has my blessing,” my mother said.
SINCE KING RICHARD AND HIS QUEEN HAD LEFT London for their progress north to York and would be gone all summer, my mother and her allies were free to plot. The conspiracy was soon in full bloom with secret letters going back and forth, disguised messengers speeding all over the country, and armed men collecting at designated points. In addition to Christopher Urswyck, one other of Lady Beaufort’s most trusted accomplices in her employ was a man named Reginald Bray.
“Matters have been made ready more speedily than we had hoped,” Bray said, his furtive eyes darting around the room. “King Richard’s absence has proven most helpful.” He gave us a smile that I found oddly sinister.
As the days lengthened and then grew short again, the birds hurriedly gathered themselves into flocks and left to fly south. I watched them enviously. To be free to go where one willed—
I couldn’t remember what freedom felt like anymore. Sometimes it seemed to me I’d been in sanctuary all my life.
One fall night, as rain fell in torrents, a knock came at the door. I opened it to find a Benedictine nun standing before me. “Dr. Argentine sent me,” she whispered. I threw the door wide. Dr. Argentine was my brother Edward’s beloved physician.
My mother rose from the table, where she was playing dice with Cecily.
The nun made her obeisance. “Your Grace, Dr. Argentine wishes to inform you he has been unable to see your son King Edward. No one seems to know where he is.”
“But he is at the Tower,” she said uncertainly. “He was moved from the bishop’s palace some time ago.”
“Aye, Dr. Argentine has been tending him at the Tower until this month. When he went there yesterday, however, he was turned away. The last time anyone saw the princes was in August, when King Edward and his royal brother were shooting arrows in the garden at the Tower.”
The nun hesitated, then spoke again. “Dr. Argentine bids me to tell you that King Edward was suffering from an infection of the jaw that caused him pain and mired him in a sadness that sapped his well-being. He was making confession daily. For he expected not to live much longer.”
My mother gasped, then leaned both hands on the table to steady herself. Cecily and I rushed to her side and helped her into her c
hair. “Didn’t expect to live?” she repeated.
There was no further news. The waiting reached unbearable, laborious proportions. A sense of doom seemed to shadow us, felt even by the children. Seated at the table alone, my mother played dice morosely, with an absented air, as I stared into space, mulling my thoughts.
Thomas didn’t return. My mother gave vent to her anxiety by pacing more feverishly, and I took to the prie-dieu to pray my heart out for my brothers, and for Thomas. Had the plot succeeded, or failed? Were they all safe, or—
Shutting my eyes tightly, I dedicated myself to my devotions. Not knowing what to ask God for, I left it in His hands.
ONE THING THAT DID NOT CHANGE WAS THE STEADY procession of King Richard’s emissaries, who came to request my mother to abandon sanctuary for court.
“Why?” demanded my mother haughtily. “King Richard has my sons imprisoned. Why does he need my daughters? Is sanctuary not prison enough for them?”
Sanctuary, I thought, watching her now, has been especially hard on my mother. Her mass of glittering jewels couldn’t hide the fact that she was no longer beautiful, for in these months of confinement she had lost a front tooth and her figure had run to fat. To hide her pallor, she overrouged her cheeks, and her once famous gilt hair had grayed so heavily that it had to be dyed. Even her lashes had to be blackened with charcoal, for they had grown scanty.
“Dame Grey,” the emissary said, “King Richard and Queen Anne are concerned for your daughters, and for your babes. The deprivations of sanctuary are hard on them. If you allow Elizabeth, Cecily,Anne, Katherine, and Bridget to come to court, King Richard vouches for their safety. He promises to grant them each an endowment and to find gentlemen of good repute to marry them.”
My heart leapt in my breast. Find gentlemen to marry them! Oh, dear God, if Thomas was safe, if he was as willing as I believed him to be, there was chance yet for happiness, for love—
My mother’s voice broke in harshly,“Never! King Richard shall have to drag our dead bodies out himself. But that should not prove difficult for a man without conscience, should it?” Clad in blue velvet trimmed with ermine, she stood rigidly erect near the central pillar in the octagonal room.
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