“I pray you, Mother—” I cried, stepping forward. “May we at least consider King Richard’s offer?”
“What? Are you mad? You wish to wed some humble squire—you who were betrothed to the dauphin?” She turned back. “Give your master my refusal,” she said coldly.
The emissary bowed. I watched him leave, my heart plunging with despair, wishing with my every breath that I could draw him back.
In the days that followed, though I could still walk the cloisters and go to the pond, we didn’t even see the merchants who provided our basic necessities. We were required to hand our lists and our silver to the guards, who placed the orders and delivered our purchases to us. We didn’t even see our laundress, but would stuff our dirty undergarments in a pillowcase and hand them to the men-at-arms, who would deliver the laundered items back to us. Our cleaning woman was one of the few persons allowed direct access to us, and it was she who delivered the latest blow.
“What is it?” my mother asked her as she entered with red, swollen lids, as if she’d been weeping.
“Terrible, terrible it is!” she cried, wiping her eyes. “Unnatural in the ways of man and God—m’lady, there’s a rumor about the princes—something too terrible to be believed, yet it looks to be true. M’lady, the princes—’tis said the princes, the dear babes, are dead! Murdered.”
It was at the altar of the prie-dieu that my mother beseeched her God for vengeance.
“Blessed Mother, Holy Virgin,” she cried hoarsely, racked by sobs,“Thou who knowest what it is to lose a child, hear my plea—punish the monster Richard III who has taken from me all whom I loved! Take from him all whom he loves! Leave him bereft and alone! Destroy him with anguish and make him wish for death as I do!” She lowered her voice. “Blessed Mother, if Thou canst not or wilt not do this, then I call on those who can, though they be sinners. O hear my plea, hear my plea—I cry for vengeance on him who murdered my babes—who murdered my babes . . .” Depleted, she hung her head and collapsed against the wooden rail, weeping.
I shuddered at the grief that summoned her words.
“YOUR GRACE, I COME TO YOU WITH HOPE FOR THE spirit that I am certain will soon heal you.” The speaker was not Dr. Sergio, but another man, come to attend my ailing mother. I did not trust him and thought him surely one of Lady Margaret’s spies.
My mother made a motion with her hand. “What is this hope you bring?”
“I am Lady Margaret’s physician, Dr. Lewis,” he whispered. “She has sent me with an urgent message for you.”
My mother nodded.
“Lady Margaret wishes to inform you of a recent, unexpected and most welcome development. Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, King Richard’s cousin and his most trusted ally, has thrown his lot in with us!”
My mother and I both gasped at the same moment; she for joy, and I in distress. Buckingham was cousin to Sir Thomas Stafford. Was Thomas in on the plot? He hadn’t said anything to me before he left on the royal progress. Surely that meant he didn’t know? Either way, he stood in terrible danger now. Whether or not he took part in Buckingham’s treason, he was condemned by his ties of kinship. I knew I’d barely sleep for worry about him.
“Lady Beaufort desires your agreement to smuggle your daughters abroad so they can wed princes who will continue the fight against King Richard.”
It was finally arranged that Buckingham would lead the rebellion.
“Now is time for revenge!” my mother cried. “Down on your knees, everyone. Pray until your knees are raw! God willing, we shall soon dispatch this bloody usurper where he belongs!”
Then we waited.
IT WAS THOMAS WHO BROUGHT ME THE NEWS.
I was so elated to see his dear face as he passed me along the cloister in the first week of October that I halted, almost giving myself away. I resumed my steps to the privy and returned to the chapter house.
Thankfully, the heavy rains abated to a sprinkling by Matins. When everyone was asleep, I left to meet Thomas by the pond. The abbey clock struck the hour of midnight as I hurried over the damp turf. I threw myself into his arms and felt the rush of honeyed warmth and the great joy that always came to me with his touch. Then we drew apart and gazed at one another. Much had happened, and we were so anxious that we both spoke at once.
“How—”
“What—”
We fell silent at the same moment.
“You, first, Elizabeth,” he said. “How much have you heard of what has happened?”
I seized his collar, drew his head close, and whispered, “My brothers have been murdered, Thomas! By King Richard, whom you thought an honorable prince!”
He caught my wrists. “Nay, ’tis not so.”
I stared at him in bewilderment.
“King Richard murdered no one, and your brothers are not both dead.”
“How do you know this?” I asked.
“I know it, as I know my own thoughts. Your brother Edward had an infection of the jaw, and may have died from it, for such things are often fatal, but no one knows for certain what has happened to him.”
“I don’t understand. How can this be?”
“Because he disappeared from the Tower.”
“Disappeared?” I gasped.
“Hush, my love!” Thomas whispered, looking around.
I covered my mouth with my hand to stifle any further cries that I might make thoughtlessly. He took my arm and walked me to the bench, where we took our seats and placed our heads close together.
“Your brother Richard has also disappeared. No one knows what has happened to him, but ’tis believed he lives.”
I closed my eyes on a breath and sent a prayer to God that it be so. “Now, I must speak—but you must swear never to divulge what I am about to tell you.”
Thomas inclined his head solemnly. “I swear it.”
“You are in great danger. Your cousin Buckingham has turned traitor and mounted a rebellion against King Richard.”
I was stunned to find that this was no news to Thomas, for he smiled and took my hand gently into his own.
“My dear princess, Buckingham’s rebellion failed, thanks in main to my brother, Humphrey, who blockaded the exits across the Upper Severn from Wales and destroyed the bridges. Buckingham’s forces couldn’t unit, so they dispersed. He was forced to flee.”
I regarded him with stunned amazement. So King Richard wasn’t toppled; my brothers weren’t freed. But Thomas was safe. Tears blinded my vision as I regarded him. “I am relieved for you, Thomas. But not for my brothers. If Dickon still lives, he is still captive, still in danger.”
For a long moment, Thomas didn’t reply. Then he heaved an audible sigh.
“Aye, ’tis a harsh, and brutal world,” he said softly.
Dr. Lewis was the one who officially informed us of the failure of Buckingham’s rebellion. “Lady Margaret Beaufort’s lands and titles, and even her person, have been given over in trust to her husband, Lord Stanley, as punishment for her involvement. Bishop Morton, the priest Christopher Urswyck, and Lady Margaret’s half-brother, Lord Welles, have fled to Brittany to join her son, Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond. Sir Reginald Bray has been imprisoned, but thankfully, there have been few executions.”
Until Buckingham himself, hiding in the north, was betrayed by a servant. He was executed on All Soul’s Day, the second of November.
“The second of November,” wailed my mother, sitting on the floor and rocking to and fro,“the second of November . . .”
The second of November was my brother Edward’s birthday. He would have been thirteen.
I sank down into a chair and bowed my head in my hands. ’Twas a curious coincidence. The second day of November was a feast day as well as a Sunday. Executions were never carried out on such days, so it seemed Edward’s birthday had been purposely chosen for Buckingham’s execution. If King Richard went against custom to send a message, it had to be that for some reason I could not fathom, he wished Buckingham to die on Ed
ward’s birthday.
When Dr. Lewis brought news of Lady Margaret’s plans to smuggle me abroad, my mother readily gave her assent. Perhaps I would be wed to a prince who would fight King Richard for the throne.
I was distraught; I could barely wait to see Thomas. But when I went to slip out of the chapter house that night, I found guards at the door. I looked at them in bewilderment.
“Mistress, you cannot venture forth at night. ’Tis no longer permitted.”
King Richard must have known of the plans afoot, for the guards stood there both day and night, and I didn’t see Thomas again.
WITHOUT MY BELOVED, SANCTUARY FELT LIKE PRISON. I couldn’t even escape to the herb garden and be alone with my thoughts. I was permitted to roam only as far as the circle of green between the cloisters.
Lady Margaret Beaufort did not give up, however. Henry Tudor’s determined mother, as scheming as my own ever was, sent Dr. Lewis to Mother with an altered plan. If my mother would agree to betroth me to her son, Henry would mount a rebellion to rescue us and topple the usurper.
“I would betroth her to Satan himself, if he could rid us of Gloucester and restore us to court!” Mother told him.
I bit down on my misery and averted my face to hide my emotion. I had always accepted this as my destiny, but that was before I’d known love. Thomas had changed my world, and the possibilities.
Dr. Lewis came to us one more time after Christmas. Now I learned that, days earlier in Brittany, Henry Tudor had promised to wed me and prepare for invasion.
Dr. Lewis turned to me. I looked away, my heart filled with aversion, my hands trembling. A smothered sob escaped my lips. I fled behind the curtain and gave vent to my despair.
Meanwhile, as we sewed new gowns for Kate and Bridget and repaired the torn hems of our dresses, the cleaning woman kept us informed of all that was taking place in King Richard’s happy court. He celebrated a joyousYuletide and held a disguising to welcome in the new year of 1484. In January he opened Parliament and enacted laws to protect the common man from abuses of the law.
“King Richard says innocent people should be allowed bail, and no one should be put in prison unless he’s proved guilty of the crime he’s accused of. A good law, I say,” she proclaimed as she scrubbed a section of tiled floor on her hands and knees. She squeezed the water from her rag and bent back down. “An’ he says no one should have their property seized before they’re found guilty—seems that’s in memory of poor old Mayor Cooke who was persecut—” She broke off in horror, a hand to her mouth, and looked at my mother, who had lowered her sewing to glare at her. “Oh, the babe—the babe just spilt some milk—there, there, no matter—Oona’s here, Oona’s a-comin’—” She rushed over to fuss over Bridget.
Oona went about her tasks without another word all day. It was useless to ask her what she meant, for it involved something my mother had done, and Oona wouldn’t dare tell me. Our only other visitor was Dr. Lewis, and I knew he didn’t approve of me for my protests against marrying Lady Margaret’s son. I filed the information away in my mind, determined to know one day just what had transpired with “poor old Mayor Cooke.”
But as I went silently about my own tasks, I wondered most about my uncle. How could someone who showed such caring concern for his people be so evil as to murder young children for a throne? He had even restored to John Howard the dukedom of Norfolk that was rightly his, which my father, at the behest of my mother, had given to Dickon. No injustice seemed to escape his notice, yet here we were. Thomas had assured me King Richard had not murdered my brother, Edward, although he may have died of natural causes. But what of Dickon?
Another royal emissary came on my birthday, the eleventh day of February, 1484. I had turned eighteen, and my thoughts were filled with my father and the carefree happiness of my childhood. So despondent was I that I could barely stir myself to open the door. The emissary, dressed in King Richard’s colors of gray and crimson and bearing the royal insignia of the boar on his tunic, gave my mother a deep bow.
“King Richard offers greetings, Dame Grey, and states that he is prepared to pardon you and take a public vow to restore you to your dignity if you abandon sanctuary and bring your daughters to court.”
“Pardon me for what?” she demanded. “For taking what belonged to us? Never will I accept anything from the man who murdered my sons!”
She turned her back on him.
My eyes met his, and a sense of sorrow and sympathy passed between us as I escorted him out. At the door, he turned and gave me a gracious bow and kissed my hand with the greatest deference. I knew from his look, without any words being uttered between us, that we both wished things could be different.
March blew in on an icy wind that lifted swirls of snow in the courtyard. Despite the cold, the North Walk was lined with clerics sitting on benches by tables and bookcases, and along the West Walk others were washing. The sound of splashing water and the voice of the Master of Novices instructing his charges filled the cloisters as usual, yet something felt different. I felt it in my bones. I climbed to the window, and what I saw then made me gasp. From far down in the cloisters, King Richard, accompanied by a lone companion, was striding toward us.
Heads turned as he passed the long row of rush-strewn chambers with doors cracked open for air. At the East Walk, which led to the chapter house, he parted company with the noble. A hush fell over the cloisters. The last time King Richard had come to sanctuary was to remove Dickon from my mother’s custody. Even then he had sent as his emissaries Lord Howard and Archbishop Bourchier.
He was close now—
“What is it, Elizabeth?” my mother demanded from the table, where she sat stitching a hem, her needle moving swiftly in her half-mittened hands. Her fingers paused their busy stitches, and she looked up.
Outside, the captain of his guards snapped to attention. He turned to unlock the door. I looked back at Mother. Everyone was staring at me. I could barely find the words. “The king is coming!” I cried hoarsely, clambering down. “The king is coming!”
We heard the hushed murmur of low voices outside our door, then the clinking of the key in the lock. The door was thrown open.
Richard III stood before us.
He looked most royal in a richly embroidered silver and black doublet of velvet and cloth of gold that he wore beneath a gray mantle edged with sable. There was a velvet cap on his dark head, set with a jeweled boar of diamonds and rubies.
King Richard’s gaze touched on us in the far corner, where I cowered with my four sisters. Here was the monster that had killed my brothers! Had he come to seize us? Would he slay us? What manner would be our death? Bridget was too young to die—only four, and Kate not much older. I held them tight to me, for they were frozen in terror.
I stared at him as he stood at the threshold, and thought that he flushed. But not with anger; it seemed more like shame. He waited until the door had closed behind him before he spoke.
“Dame Grey, I wish to set matters right between us,” he said.
“Indeed? So you intend to take your life?” She hissed the words with the venom of a snake, and I stared at her. Was she brave, or a fool, to bait the boar? I saw King Richard’s hand clench into a fist at his side.
“You do me an injustice,” said the king, with dignity.
“You—” my mother cried, snarling the word, taking a step forward. “You dare to speak to me of injustice? You who set aside my marriage to Edward, who imprisoned me here and took the throne from my son!”
“Lady, you knew of my royal brother’s bigamy long before the rest of us. You even murdered my brother George to protect your secret. As to your so-called imprisonment—guilt drove you into sanctuary. You disregarded King Edward’s will and tried to seize power. That is treason by any definition, and well you know it.”
“Are we to be blamed for protecting ourselves?” Mother demanded.
“By pointing a false finger first? That, madame, is how you have always justif
ied your crimes against others. It was the same with Sir Thomas Malory, and Sir Thomas Cooke, whom you persecuted with false charges, and with Warwick, and with his brother, Montagu—and many others I never knew who paid for your ambition and greed and perished in the battles of your creation. You, Dame Grey, have much to answer for before God!”
“And you who dare judge me—’tis by your hand my sons are dead! May God punish you in eternity, you foul babe-killer!”
“Dame Grey, you condemn yourself with your words. For unlike you, who sent your executioner, the Butcher of England, to murder the Earl of Desmond and his two little boys—I have not stained my hands with infants’ blood. As you’ll soon learn from the lips of your son, Richard of York.”
Mother’s mouth fell open. So, I realized, had mine.
Was this true?
Had my mother murdered babes?
Was Dickon alive? Even my sisters stared at King Richard with their mouths agape.
“Dickon?” she murmured feebly, shuffling toward King Richard on unsteady legs. She searched his face. “My Dickon lives?”
I saw King Richard retreat as my mother moved forward, as if she were the monster, and he her intended victim. I felt utter confusion and disbelief. At that moment the door was thrust open and a grimy stonemason entered, carrying a pail and tools, his boy helper at his side. The door slammed shut behind them and my mother swayed where she stood. “Dickon!” she cried, stumbling toward him, her arms open wide. “Dickon!”
“Mother, Mother!” cried Dickon, running into them.
My mother fell to her knees. Her body racked by sobs, she clasped my brother to her breast and held him tightly to her, kissing his cheeks, wetting his soft face with her tears of joy. In the corner of the room, I dropped my hold of my sisters’ hands, and they let go of mine, and we all came forward to gaze on Dickon in frozen, dumbfounded silence.
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 9
