He would have been thirty-three years of age, had he lived.
I put down his book and drew away from the window. Richard was dead. The living must accept the life God gave them.
During this month of October, Tudor gathered the reins of government to himself. He summoned his trusted advisor, Bishop Morton, back from the Continent, appointed him Lord Chancellor, and sent Archbishop Rotherham back to York. Plague was rife in London, forcing Tudor to postpone his coronation. This the people took as an ill omen.
“ ’Tis a token that the reign shall be laborious, they say,” my mother told us,“because it began in sickness.”
By midmonth plague vanished, and the city was abuzz with talk of Tudor’s coronation, set for the thirtieth day of October. I heard my mother and Cecily chattering together. “For his coronation Tudor has created a personal guard of fifty yeomen in the French custom,” my mother marveled.
What surprise in that? I wondered. After all,Tudor was a quarter French, and reared in France for half his life. More French customs were sure to follow.
“They are clad in royal scarlet and gold, and heavily armed to protect him against those who would do him harm,” my mother added.
Aye, he must have been terrified when Richard cut around the army of three thousand men that shielded him from the fray, slew four of his bodyguards, and came within a sword’s reach of killing him as he turned to flee. Maybe now, I thought, with his French-style guard, he’ll rest easy.
During this time, my weariness became a silent retreat as Mother complained and paced whenever we were alone in our chamber.
“The wedding has been postponed. It seems Tudor will be crowned alone, and govern alone. Alone—” She stressed the word, and turned blazing eyes on me. “You know what that means, don’t you? He’s decided not to claim the crown through your right to it! He fears not to be seen as a true king, but king only as long as you live.” She quickened her frenetic pacing to and fro. My head grew dizzy watching her. “Nor has he claimed the throne by Lancastrian descent, for all know his claim is stained by bastard lineage on both sides. Nor does he claim it by right of conquest. For that would encourage others to do the same.”
“So how does he claim it?” I asked, bending my head to my lyre and plucking at a wrong note.
“It defies belief—he claims the throne by the fact that he possesses it!”
I lifted my head. “Simply because he is king? That is novel.”
“ ’Tis all Morton’s idea. He’s a crafty one, that Morton. He’s behind everything Tudor does—Morton and his mother both. The two of them shit out of the same arse.”
“I thought Morton had your favor, Mother,” I said, barely suppressing my smile.
“He did, when he was on my side. But Morton’s kind always finds the mountain peak as surely as water flows downhill. He’s run to the Tudors now, for that’s where power is.” She paused to gaze at me. Then she drew near and lowered her voice to a bare whisper. “By legitimizing you, he has legitimized your brother. Well he knows that if Dickon lives, he is a usurper. I fear Tudor may try to hunt him down and kill him.”
I took her hand in mine. “Have you heard from him?” I whispered.
“Nay, not a word. But that could be because Tudor’s spies are everywhere and the time is not right.”
I inhaled a deep breath. And it could be because something has happened to Dickon and they have not the heart to tell us.
“Mother, it troubles me that I do not have the password. Can you tell me what it is?”
She withdrew her hand from mine. “So you can tell the Tudor?” she hissed.
“Oh Mother, how can you think such a thing?” I whispered, wounded to the core. “So I can know Dickon, if something should happen to you!”
She rose abruptly.
“Wishing me ill, are you? I should have guessed!”
I looked up at her helplessly.
She bent down and snarled in my ear, “You pretend you’ve no wish to be queen, but you would betray my son in order to protect your position!”
She turned and swept out of the room. I watched her leave, my heart twisting in my breast that she could think such evil of me. But I did not call after her, for what good would it do?
HENRY TUDOR’S CORONATION WAS EXTRAVAGANT, and the tumult of the festivities reached us in our suite at Westminster as London glittered with sunshine, pageants, plays, and song. I watched from the windows of Westminster Palace. Bonfires were lit in the streets, and the entire city turned out to catch a glimpse of the new king being rowed by barge to Westminster Abbey. The blare of trumpets came to me from the river. I strained my eyes to see the purple-clad figure, but I could tell little from the distance before he disappeared from view. The splendor of the coronation service at the abbey could only be imagined. Amid the hangings of white and green cloth of gold, and red velvet roses and dragons, the man dressed in purple would be anointed and crowned King Henry VII.
Soon the details were brought to us.
“His mother, the Lady Margaret, is said to have wept most marvelously,” Bridget’s nurse related.
I suppose Margaret Beaufort’s cup overflowed as she watched her son crowned, I thought. I couldn’t help but wonder what it felt like to have one’s cup overflow with joy; to see cherished dreams realized; to achieve the heart’s greatest, most impossible desire.As I contemplated Lady Beaufort’s happiness, my own losses, my captivity, my anguish, and the uncertainty of the years since my father’s death struck me with the force of a steel blow.
“Come to me, Kate.” I held my hand out to my precious little sister. She climbed into my lap, and I tightened my arms around her sweet body and laid my head against her fragrant golden curls. “I love you, my little Kate,” I whispered. “I love you so much.”
ON THE SEVENTH DAY OF NOVEMBER, THE NEWLY crowned King Henry met his first Parliament and shocked the land by enacting into law what had previously been a rumor: he did indeed date his reign by one day prior to the battle of Bosworth, and attainted for treason all who had fought for Richard—including Sir Humphrey Stafford.
“But it makes no sense,” I said from my window seat. “If someone challenges Henry Tudor, who will show up to fight for him?”
My mother paused thoughtfully in her needlework as she sat in a chair near me. Leaning close she whispered, “That is good for us—when Dickon returns.” She made another stitch and added, “Henry’s act repeals Richard’s statutes. You, Elizabeth, are no longer a bastard, but recognized as the king’s daughter.”
“I have always been my father’s daughter,” I murmured absently, the memory of Papa’s return from the French war stirring in my mind. I saw him again bending down to swoop me up in his great arms as I ran to him.
My mother’s voice roused me from reverie. “Aye, indeed you have always been your father’s daughter,” she murmured bitterly.
Cecily, who was plucking her eyebrows, turned from the mirror and went to Mother’s side. She draped an arm around her neck, and Mother drew her down and kissed her. Cecily smiled at me like a cat.
O Mary, I cried inwardly, how I miss you, my sister!
I rose, fetched my lyre, and returned to the window seat. Night was falling. I bent my head and strummed a few chords, forcing Mary from my thoughts, for I didn’t wish to weep. Inhaling deeply, I raised my voice in song. Sir Humphrey Stafford had been attainted, Mother had said. I took heart in the knowledge, for it meant he had survived the battle. Maybe it meant that Thomas was safe, too. I touched my sapphire brooch. O Thomas, those were good days in sanctuary, weren’t they?
I ended my song when I heard Mother discussing the estates that King Richard had confiscated from her.
“ ’Tis my great hope that King Henry will restore them to me. I particularly miss my London residence of Cold Harbor.”
“If he does, Mother, would it mean we could leave Westminster?” I asked.
“Why would we wish to leave?” Cecily demanded. “ ’Tis comfortable here. W
e have fine clothes, good food, and the guard has been lifted.”
“I’m talking about freedom, Cecily, not clothes. We can roam the palace, but we take our meals in our chambers and are not permitted into the gardens or the streets. We’re still captives.”
Cecily scowled at me. “Nothing’s ever enough for you!” she cried. “Not even being queen!”
“I’ve no desire to be queen. I’d rather be free. Then I could wed a squire and live a contented life far away from court.”
“Wed a squire?” Cecily said, shocked.
“Fool!” cried my mother, rising to her feet. “What nonsense are you spouting now? Do you not realize our predicament? What lies at stake? There’s no assurance you will be queen! I am working my fingers to the bone to arrange it, and instead of helping me, all you do is whine about being free—whatever that is supposed to mean.”
“I’m nineteen years old,” I said, almost to myself, knowing they would never understand, “and my life is ebbing away in confinement.”
THE MIST SWIRLED AROUND ME LIKE A CLOUD, HIDING the world, and I knew not where I was. The only thing clear to me was that night had fallen. I risked a step forward. The whiteness shifted to reveal a glimpse of something—but what? There, it came again! A glint of silver—a shimmer in the distance. Cautiously, I peered ahead and took another step. All at once the fog parted. Galloping toward me was a knight in white armor on a shining pale horse! He emerged from behind the veil of mist, and I saw the circlet of gold on his helmet. A gasp escaped my lips and I gave a joyous cry. I put out my arms to him. “Richard!”
I awoke to darkness.
I could not sleep for the rest of the night, but lay in my bed watching the glittering stars in the sky through the window, his name echoing in the black stillness of my mind.
PARLIAMENT CONTINUED TO SIT THROUGH NOVEMBER, but for all the talk of coronation, there was no mention of marriage, which distressed Mother deeply.
“Though the king took an oath to wed you,” my mother fretted, pacing, “he seems to lack desire for this marriage. I fear he might yet find a way to evade it. Lady Beaufort tells me he would prefer to wed Lord Herbert’s sister, whom he knew as a boy. There’s more to it than that, I am sure.”
The days dragged on, and Mother grew more frantic. She bribed and cajoled until she got to the heart of the matter.
“It appears King Henry is jealous of your right to the crown.” Mother wrung her hands as she paced. Her confinement was not as strict as mine, and somehow she knew everything, whether secret or not. “But so much depends on this marriage for him, too. Surely he sees that? What in God’s name is he waiting for?”
“For me to show if I am with child,” I said, unable to help myself from lashing out at her. I wished to wound her, to watch her writhe. Of late, I had become convinced that by going against Papa’s wishes and fleeing into sanctuary, she had brought about the very thing she’d feared. Had she reached an accommodation with King Richard, all would have been different for us. Now, I might even be wed to Thomas. She was the cause of my misery, and sometimes I felt I loathed her.
My mother swung around. “What?” she snarled.
“He’s waiting for me to show if I am with child,” I repeated. “With Richard’s child.” I clarified, giving her a smile.
“How dare you taunt me?” my mother screamed. “How dare you make light of our situation? Our future depends on you. And you, disgraceful girl, may have undone us all! We must set aside that fear immediately—” Mother turned and left the chamber.
As I watched her swiftly retreating figure, sudden apprehension seized me. I dropped my mending and ran after her. “What are you going to do?” I cried at the top of the tower stairs. But Mother was gone, and I heard only the echo of her footsteps as they faded away.
I gave Kate and Anne their singing lesson, and their French lesson, and waited anxiously for Mother’s return. For I knew that look in her eyes; she was up to something and I feared what it might be. Had I gone too far? If I didn’t wed Tudor—if I didn’t become queen—what would become of my sweet little sisters? We had to survive until Dickon returned. If he returns, I added to myself on a breath. For we live in dangerous times, and who knows what might happen to a child?
Mother returned hours later. “I have dug deep and now I know the truth.” She glared at me.
“The truth?”
“King Henry has been repulsed and incensed by your rumored affair with Richard and is most reluctant to wed you.”
“That suits us both then,” I challenged, lifting my chin. “For the thought of wedding the man who killed King Richard incenses and repulses me.”
My mother slapped my face hard. I nursed the stinging blow, but I didn’t raise my hand to her as I had in sanctuary. This wasn’t so important; nothing was so important anymore.
“We have to keep a foot in both camps,” whispered my mother. “Until Dickon returns. ’Tis the only way.”
Pity flooded me. She still hoped. But what can a boy do against a man? I thought. And by the time Dickon is grown, all might be changed.
Remembering Richard, who had died accepting the judgment of God, I spent many nights at my prie-dieu seeking strength from the Almighty to endure my fate, whether that meant confinement, or freedom, or life as Tudor’s consort. While I worried about my sisters, I was not displeased by Tudor’s reluctance, for it bought me time to sing at my lyre and nurse the hopes of my heart: marriage to someone not high-born who would pose no threat to this king; a good man who would care for me and heal my heart.
Sir Thomas Stafford.
How lovely that would be. To retire to the country, to gallop across the moors with the wind in my face, as I had done while Richard lived. But then, what about Edward of Warwick and those I’d vowed to help once I was queen?
Awash with guilt for my selfishness, I silently asked God for forgiveness. Whatever God willed, I would accept with an open heart.
Thus I tried to drown out my mother with my lyre, and gave my sisters their lessons; I darned my dresses, and dreamed my dreams. But I often caught a triumphant gleam in my mother’s eyes as we did needlework together; the kind of look she had when something she was plotting was about to come to successful fruition. I found it disquieting.
“Prepare yourself,” my mother informed me one cold night in December. “Tonight the king comes to test your virginity.”
I pushed myself to my feet slowly, barely conscious that I did so. “You’ll stop at nothing to get what you want, will you?”
“Oh, don’t play the pope-holy saint with me. You wish to be queen as much as I wish it for you.” But she was unable to suppress the triumph shining in her eyes.
“By all that is sacred in Heaven, I shall rejoice the day you destroy yourself, Mother, as you surely will do.”
Mother smiled. “What difference if the bedding comes sooner rather than later? You know it has to come.” She leaned close to my ear. “Put a good face on it.”
Aye, there was nothing I could do. I had to submit, for little Edward’s sake, and for the sake of my sisters. What would become of them if Tudor didn’t wed me? Though women were never imprisoned in the Tower like men, they could be confined in a nunnery against their will and grow old, bereft of all joy. For royal blood pulsed in my sisters’ veins as surely as in young Edward of Warwick’s. I shut my eyes.
DESPITE THE POSSET I TOOK, I WAS TREMBLING WHEN Henry Tudor entered my bedchamber. Slender in build, and of medium height, with pronounced cheekbones, limp blond hair and small eyes of undetermined color,Tudor might have been pleasant looking but for a long, pointed nose that brought to mind a ferret. I stood in my shift, my hair loose around me, shivering for cold. He seemed taken aback at the sight of me for a moment and halted in his steps. Then he resumed his pace and drew near. After all, this was business—for both of us. I braced myself not to recoil at his touch, which was icy; at his breath, which was stale; at his scent, which was musty. I felt cold, so cold . . . If only it were�
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If only I could close my eyes and pretend it was—
No. I couldn’t. Such a thing was sin. Thomas, then—OThomas—I could have been happy with you,Thomas . . .
I couldn’t help myself; Tudor touched my cheek, and it was Richard’s touch I remembered. I closed my eyes.
O Blessed Mother, help me now, help me in the depth of my despair!
The vision of a frozen lake rose before me; I watched the ice water drain slowly, inexorably, into my veins, drop by fated drop. Strength, I told myself; strength is what is needed to endure life . . . I do this for my sisters . . . so they don’t end in misery . . .
I lay back on the bed, in the darkness, and held my breath. The sound of panting came to me, and into my mind flashed the image of a winded wolf, his red eyes glowing as he chewed on his prey. A short, sharp pain stabbed my groin, and I cried out; then another stab. Was this what poets had in mind when they wrote of love? Surely not; this was something repellent; disgusting; an awful business ; naught but pain . . .
I turned my face away from the one who crouched over me, and I held my breath, for a vile smell assailed me each time I took in air. When will this end, Blessed Mother? Time passed and the horror of Tudor’s body in mine finally ceased. He rolled off me with a sigh of satisfaction. I heard movement on the bed; movement in the chamber. But I didn’t open my eyes. I lay there like a corpse, for dead I felt. A shadow stirred at my bedside, and I stiffened; I clutched the sheets to my chin. I held my breath. The shadow bent down and planted a kiss on my cheek.
Tears welled up behind my eyes and rolled slowly down my cheek. I felt the shadow recede. I opened my eyes then, and watched the shadow leave in the moonlight.
CHAPTER 12
Consort of the King, 1486
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 17
