CHAPTER 7
King Richard’s Court, 1484
FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE MY FATHER’S DEATH, WE slept. O how we slept—so joyously, so peacefully, so hopefully! With this proof that Richard never harmed my brothers, Mother accepted King Richard’s pardon and left sanctuary. Before she did, however, she wrote my brother Dorset in France that all was well and he should return to England. More than that, she dared not say. King Richard had given her the full story and a warning that no one must ever know that Dickon was alive—for his own safety.
King Richard, fearful for my brothers, had suspected there might be a plot to harm them soon after he took the throne. Therefore, he decided to move his nephews north, and hide them there, for safety’s sake. But Edward could not be moved. He was ailing with an infection of the jaw, and his high fever precluded a long journey. King Richard took Dickon, as planned, and secured Edward a servant companion so he wouldn’t be lonely in his brother’s absence.
“Mother, where is Edward now?” I whispered after a guarded look around.
She closed her eyes on a breath, and when she looked at me again, they were filled with agony. “No one knows, not even Richard—at least, not for certain, but he holds Buckingham responsible. While he was away, he received the news of Buckingham’s revolt and of Edward’s disappearance. Only Richard’s good friend, Sir Francis Lovell, knows that Dickon was taken from the Tower and replaced by the servant boy. So the evildoers think they have both your brothers, Elizabeth. You must never breathe a word of this to any living soul. Richard fears Buckingham had accomplices, and that they are still about and would finish their vile work, if given a chance. Do you understand?”
I nodded. The image of Mother giving Dickon the password flew into my mind. One day, when they met again, no matter how many years passed between them, no matter how much he changed, she would know him.
Our belongings were packed up by royal servants and were delivered to my mother’s country house in Hertfordshire, which King Richard had given her. We had the choice of moving in with Mother or going to court, if we preferred. ’Twas an easy decision for me and Cecily. But Cecily was overruled by Mother, who wished her presence in the country with our young sisters. As to be expected, Cecily was upset and blamed me.
I marveled as I was escorted to my room at Westminster Palace. It felt to me that I moved in a dream, so luxurious, so spacious were the palace chambers; so richly laden were the tables, so glittering were the gems, the silks, the damasks, and the velvets of the courtiers ; so courteous were the servants, and the nobles, all bowing and curtsying in welcome. Court dazzled with color.
I had forgotten.
Queen Anne received me in the anteroom of her privy chamber. She was lovely and petite, with delicate bones and hair that shone a pale gold, but her eyes were her most striking feature; so unusual a shade of blue, they seemed violet. I towered over her as we embraced and I was enfolded in the scent of lavender.
“Child, welcome. It pleases us more than you can know that you are here with us.” Taking my hand, she led me to a chair. “Pray sit by the fire, my dear, ’tis a cold day.” She gazed at me, a sweet smile on her lips. “You are even lovelier than I remember. Your eyes are as blue as your sapphire brooch, and your hair is spun gold and has a hint of fire, as mine did when I was young. No doubt you shall have your pick of gentlemen to wed.” Then her gaze went to my gown and her smile faltered. Though one of my best, it was stained and frayed from heavy wear and the hardships of sanctuary. “But you must have new gowns. Shall three suffice for now?”
“Your Grace, you are too kind. One would please me greatly,” I replied shyly, not feeling completely at ease in such opulent surroundings after my confinement. Though I had been born in this very palace and should have been accustomed to riches, I had come to appreciate the value of a shilling. And three gowns cost a fortune, even for a queen.
Queen Anne gave me a glowing smile. “Would you like to be my lady-in-waiting, Elizabeth?”
“Your Grace, I am honored.”
At dinner that first evening, she sat me at her side on the dais, next to King Richard’s natural daughter, Catherine, who they called Cat. The curvaceous, green-eyed redhead looked older than her thirteen years and was betrothed to the Earl of Huntingdon. She had been conceived before Barnet, when King Richard, then Duke of Gloucester, despondent with grief, sought solace in her mother’s arms after Lady Anne Neville was forced to marry Marguerite d’Anjou’s son, Prince Edward of Lancaster. He had thought Lady Anne lost to him forever, but when her husband died in battle, he sought her hand. Though the young widow was a traitor’s daughter and had no dowry to bring him, yet he begged Papa’s permission to marry her. As I had learned from my father’s head cook long ago, that was not the end of the story. For my uncle George of Clarence, to spite his brother, hid Anne away in a London kitchen. Months later, Richard found her and they eloped.
Unable to bear the loss of the man she loved, Cat’s mother retired to a nunnery and gave over to Richard of Gloucester the keeping of both their children, Cat and her brother, Johnnie of Gloucester. Since then, there had been no hint that King Richard had ever taken up with another woman. I thought of the contrast with my father, who was said to have left bastards over all England and half of Europe.
A servant brought a platter laden with roasted rabbit and various other meats. As was my custom, I declined. Without my mother to harp at me, I felt no need to eat meat, and instead, chose from among the wide array of food a wafer, a slice of pear, and a few shelled nuts.
“You do not eat flesh?” asked Queen Anne in surprise.
“Sometimes I eat chicken, and sometimes fish, but I care not much for either,” I said shyly. Then I noticed that Queen Anne’s plate was clear of all flesh. “Your Grace, do you not eat meat?”
“I never touch it, Elizabeth. Since childhood I’ve had an aversion. My mother used to punish me, but she couldn’t change me, and finally gave up trying. Now ’tis my lord husband who frets and worries that I’m too thin. Perhaps he’ll let me alone now that he has seen you. You are in glowing health.” She smiled and patted my hand beneath the white banquet cloth.
She is so slender she seems as fragile as a bird, I thought. Indeed, one of King Richard’s pet names for her was “my little bird.” Perhaps her disdain of flesh had something to do with her tenderness for animals. “They are innocent, helpless,” the gentle queen had told me earlier in the day as she stroked a small, emaciated hound on her lap that she’d rescued from the streets. “We cannot save them all, but we must do what we can for those that cross our path.”
I was the queen’s steady companion as she visited the many charities she had set up for the poor in the city. There were kitchens that ladled out soup to the hungry from dawn to sunset, and hospices that took in the sick and dying; for those who needed money, justice, or royal patronage, she stood for hours listening to their requests and turned no one away. I had not seen anything on this scale in my father’s court, for my mother detested seeing petitioners, and never let the sessions run long.
I watched the exhausting, steady stream of petitioners come through the state chamber: knights begging relief from taxes; squires seeking a position in the royal household; nuns requesting funds to repair a broken well; clerics seeking funds to take in an orphan without means; illuminators requesting parchment to make a breviary. None were refused, and to all, Queen Anne gave generously of both her purse and her time. I had never met a woman like her, so pure, so kind, so totally without rancor, bitterness, or envy. As I lay in my soft bed, I recalled the faces of the poor, the hungry, and the sick who had called out blessings to her as she’d passed. “God reward thee, O gentle queen!” they cried, kissing the hem of her garment. “God save Good Queen Anne!”
On my third day at court, I learned that we were making a royal progress north. Though King Richard would dispense justice along the way, the main reason for the journey was to see their son, for both king and queen sorely mis
sed their child, Edward, named for my father, who they called Ned. When a letter arrived from little Ned’s nurse, the king and queen put their heads close and clucked over the news she sent, delighting in their child’s antics and his progress in learning something new. At the end of the missive came a few misspelled words from the child himself. They admired his hand, finding joy in the sweetness of his expression as they worked out what he had written.
“I look forward to meeting Prince Edward,” I said, as I sat with my sewing.
A dreamy look came into the queen’s eyes. “I cannot wait to see my son, Elizabeth. ’Tis as if the sun rises to its zenith when my eyes rest on his sweet face.” She looked at me and added,“You will understand one day, when you have your own.”
Richard entered the chamber with his nephew, Clarence’s boy, Edward, at his side. We rose and dipped into our curtsies, but he had eyes only for his wife. He went directly to her, bent down, and gave her a kiss.
“I was just telling my ladies about our progress north, to see Ned,” the queen said.
“Indeed, I thought it would never come!” King Richard replied. “But I am finally done with pressing state business and here to tell you we can leave London in two days.”
Joyous murmurs sounded around the room.
“M-m-may I c-come, too, L-lord Uncle?” stuttered a small voice at his waist. Richard looked down at his brother’s son.
My heart twisted with pity as I gazed at my little cousin. With his rosy cheeks, bright blue Neville eyes, and wealth of wheat-colored curls, Edward, Earl of Warwick, was a beautiful child and exceptionally sweet-tempered, but his mind was weak, and he was unable to comprehend at nine what most understood at five. When Uncle George of Clarence had died and left him orphaned, my mother prevailed on my father to grant his wardship to my brother Dorset, and Dorset, caring only for the child’s wealth, abandoned him on one of his estates. Alone, unloved, untutored, and forgotten, little Edward of Warwick withdrew into an inner world while in the care of strangers, and many blamed my brother’s neglect for the boy’s condition.
“Of course you may, Edward. You don’t think we’d leave you behind, do you?” King Richard tousled his fair hair.
I blushed with shame, but young Edward beamed, and King Richard and Queen Anne shared a smile with one another over his head.
Thus passed my first week at court. The king and queen spent every evening together, singing, reading, sharing laughter, and playing with their hounds. I had never seen such love, such a happy home, such joy in the exchange of a touch of a hand, a glance, a kiss on the cheek, and I thought with longing of Thomas, whom I had not seen since before Yuletide. I had written him but had not heard back. It seems he was sent to the Scottish border and given a high command, for his brother, Humphrey Stafford, was now one of King Richard’s favorites and a most trusted ally.
One day, I thought, fingering the sapphire brooch from Thomas that was always pinned to my bodice, when King Richard broaches the subject of marriage, I shall request Sir Thomas Stafford to be my wedded husband. Then maybe I, too, would have a home like theirs, glowing with happiness and serenity.
IN THE BLUSTERY COLD OF A MARCH DAY, THE ROYAL entourage set out for their progress north to Yorkshire. King Richard was accompanied by his queen, some of his lords, and a great train of bishops, justices, and officers of his household. The crowds were sparse in the streets, and the procession only drew the curious, but those present remarked on the king’s lack of an armed escort. When King Richard heard this remark, he said, “I rest my rule on loyalty, not on force.”
What a kind and noble king he makes, I thought.
I saw my mother briefly as we passed through Hertfordshire. Her joy at the knowledge that Dickon was safe and in good hands was now marred by concern for my brother Dorset. He had left Paris secretly as soon as he received her letter, intending to reach England by way of Flanders. But at Compiegne, he was apprehended by Henry Tudor’s men and brought back to Paris, where he was placed under guard. I gave my mother a hug, promised her my prayers, and begged her not to worry. As always, Cecily was cold to me. When I tried to embrace her, she stood as still and hard as a frozen leg of mutton.
“What is the matter, Cecily?” I asked.
“Don’t feign ignorance!” she retorted.
“Of what?”
“That she has to marry Ralph, Lord Scrope of Masham,” replied my sister Anne.
“You’ve sent me to live deep in the country to wither and waste away,” Cecily bawled. “I hate you, Elizabeth!”
“Cecily, I have no influence with the king and queen and had naught to do with this. You shouldn’t have flirted with Scrope and made him fall in love with you when he came to court two years ago. ’Tis your own fault.”
“I know you’re behind it! You shall probably wed a king somewhere and be queen, and live at court and throw disguisings and feasts, and wear jewels and satin gowns. It’s not fair!”
Then she burst into tears again, and nothing I said persuaded her that I was not responsible for her misery.
We crossed the River Rhee, climbed atop hills, traversed valleys, and passed through wintry woods where narcissus and snowdrops peeked through half-melted snow to brighten our path. Our progress was slow, for King Richard wished to hear the petitions of the common people and to dispense the king’s justice wherever he passed. No matter seemed too small for his attention. In the villages and hamlets along the way, he was welcomed with pageants and processions and offered gifts of money. But each time, he refused.
“I would rather have your hearts than your money,” he said. Then he made the people gifts of his own. In Stanstead Abbotts it was a grant of royal forest land that would greatly ease their burden gathering food for their families; in Barwick, it was a charter of liberties. And everywhere, it was justice. Tirelessly, he presided at the local courts and heard the complaints of the poor. Patiently, with probing questions, he arrived at the truth, and punished offenders.
I thought of a line from Malory—
He rooted out the slothful officer
Or guilty, who for bribe had winked at wrong . . .
Clear’d the dark places and let in the law.
Justice, I realized, was King Richard’s passion. Why he cared so much that the law be dispensed fairly without regard to one’s station in life, I couldn’t fathom. Everyone knew that the nobles stood above the law, and always had. The world was a place where the strong did what they wished, and the weak suffered what they must, and never would that change. Yet King Richard seemed determined to make a difference. Many a heart was gladdened by his visit.
We finally reached Cambridge, where we would rest for a few days before progressing north to Nottingham. Though I had noticed that King Richard owned an extensive library of well-worn books, it still surprised me that he, unlike my father, had a scholarly bent to his mind. He indulged himself in two days of lively discourse on moral philosophy and Latin theology with the chancellor and eminent doctors, and before we left, he bestowed generous grants on the university.
I had been at court only ten days, and already I found much to admire in King Richard and Queen Anne. Here, it seemed to me, stood a true knight from the pages of King Arthur’s tales, and at his side, his true love fair.
“King Richard knew Sir Thomas Malory, didn’t he?” I asked Queen Anne as we rode along in the cold sunshine.
“Aye, he knew him. But Malory was Warwick’s man, and in the end they fought on opposite sides at Barnet. But my lord husband didn’t fault him for that, for Malory was a good soul, and had suffered much in life. The law that my dear lord enacted in January, giving the right of bail to the innocent, was in Malory’s memory.” She let out an audible sigh. “Poor Malory, he’d been confined to prison and denied trial for ten years for offending persons in high places. My father had him released when he returned to England with the Lancastrians, but he didn’t live long after that . . .” her voice drifted off.
I averted my face. One o
f those “persons in high places” was my mother. Evidently, the queen didn’t think I knew of her involvement in Malory’s persecution.
“Let us speak of more pleasant matters,” said the gentle queen, more brightly. ’Tis a splendid day, is it not? Listen to the cries of the blackbirds. How loudly they shrill! Truly such melody is God’s gift to us.”
But that was the last bit of sunshine we saw, and it was a dreary, drizzling morning in late March when we rode up the hills encircling Nottingham, the royal retinue clattering behind us. High above towered the massive fortress of Nottingham Castle, built on a jutting outcrop of rock that glistened black in the rain. Queen Anne reined in her palfrey.
“What’s the matter, dear lady?” inquired the king.
“I don’t know, Richard . . . It must be the weather,” she said. “Nottingham seems gloomier than ever this day.”
“Aye, ’tis indeed a dismal place despite all the money Edward and I poured into it. Even my new tower with its spacious royal apartments and oriel window scarcely seems to brighten it up.”
“ ’Tis not a place that can be brightened, Richard. It has an air about it.”
King Richard gave her a rueful smile. “We’ll not stay long, my love.”
But affairs kept King Richard in Nottingham far longer than he anticipated, and the queen grew restive and ever more anxious to leave the gloomy fortress behind for Middleham Castle and her son’s embrace. March gave way to April and still we could not depart. Easter found us at Nottingham.
“I swear to you, my flower-eyes,” King Richard told his queen, “once we have celebrated the Feast of St. George we shall leave the very next morning.”
At Nottingham, on the fourteenth of April, we observed the anniversary of the death of Queen Anne’s father, the Earl of Warwick, and his brother, John Neville, Marquess of Montagu, who died together at Barnet in the Lancastrian cause. But the Feast of St. George that followed that somber day banished gloom, for the twenty-third of April dawned bright with sunshine. Church bells rang over rolling meadows, which glittered with white and gold wildflowers. Kegs of wine were rolled out into the streets, and everyone drank and laughed. The banquet in the Great Hall that evening was wondrously merry, with a troubadour to recount tales of King Arthur’s court and a mummer disguised as a sorcerer to conjure feats of amazement.
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 10
