“Are you accusing me of something, madame?”
“I’m accusing you of suffocating everyone around you with your surety of purpose. Of trying to breathe their very air for them! You say you know best, yet ’tis not true. You are strong-willed and domineering, madame. Everything has to be your way, and nothing is right unless it is.”
I became aware that Henry stood at the threshold of the chamber, listening. On his face was a smile that reflected my own. Our eyes met, and we shook our heads to one another. I rose to greet him, and taking him by the elbow, brought him to sit at my side on the settle.
“May I sing for you, my lord?” I asked.
Henry understood. “Indeed, that would be most soothing. My ladies—” He turned and inclined his head to our mothers. Acknowledging his nod of dismissal, they swept out of the chamber, one fighting with the other to lead the way. Henry and I watched them, and when the chamber door shut, we burst into laughter.
It was a good moment for me to request the control of my own household, for his mother was truly driving me mad with her preparations for the “coming of the prince.” As if there were no doubt it would be a boy. But I decided against it. One day, perhaps, a peaceful household would be mine, but now a more urgent matter needed attention. I went to my lyre. Strumming the chords of a popular melody, I raised my voice in song while Henry gazed thoughtfully out the window. I decided the time had come to broach the subject close to my heart.
“My lord,” I said when the song was done,“have you ever wondered how remarkable it is that you came to be king? Surely, ’tis God’s plan and the fulfillment of the dream of Cadwallader eight hundred years ago.”
“The prophecy of the angel that the English would be displaced from power,” he mused. “That the line of ancient Britons preserved through the Welsh would take back the crown. Aye, it does seem so, does it not?”
“Indeed. Have you thought to trace your lineage to the greatest king of them all—Arthur?”
“What a fine idea, my lady,” he exclaimed. “Worthy of Morton’s own exemplary brain, I dare say. I shall inform my lady mother.”
“Then perhaps it would be good to have the child born in Winchester, the ancient seat of King Arthur.” I added hastily, “In case it is a son.”
“You are a veritable fountain of splendid advice, dear lady.”
“And to name him Arthur,” I said.
“Arthur,” Henry murmured. “Arthur. How apt. My lady, you outdo all my advisors with the excellence of your counsel this evening.”
He came to me and took my hand. As he raised it to his lips, I gave him a gentle smile. This was my first victory; it meant there could be more. I would cherish each one, no matter how small, for each would give purpose to my loveless life.
Over the next weeks, I caressed my enlarged stomach, and my prayers grew more fervent. Father in Heaven, grant me a boy-child. If You see fit to answer my prayer, I vow to dedicate my life to raising a son worthy of England, one who will care for his people, and seek to do Thy will always.
And if it’s a girl, whispered a small voice at the far reaches of my mind, a girl as helpless and useless as you are—as we all are—what then? I shut my eyes and banished the thought. I would await the judgment of God.
ON THE TWENTIETH DAY OF SEPTEMBER, 1486, AT ST. Swithin’s Priory in Winchester, the birthplace of King Arthur, I gave birth to a boy. Henry nearly went mad with joy. He sat at my bedside, holding my hand and kissing my fingers. I was grateful to him, for by his presence Margaret Beaufort withheld her shrill barking at the servants.
“I wish to make you a gift, my dear Elizabeth. What is your heart’s desire? Emeralds, diamonds, rubies—”
“A fool,” I replied sleepily. I know he will be a spy, I thought; but if a spy can bring me relief from your mother’s ordinances and make me laugh, I shall welcome him.
“A fool? That is all?”
“ ’Tis all.”
“Consider it done, Elizabeth. You shall have the cleverest fool in all England.” From inside his breast pocket, he removed the little black memorandum book he had taken to carrying around with him of late and wrote himself a reminder.
Margaret Beaufort departed for the privy, and I heaved an inward sigh of relief. The very air seemed lighter without her. Henry, too, finding me drowsy, left my side. I was about to close my eyes and let myself drift into slumber when my mother’s voice came to me near the threshold of my chamber where she had accosted Henry.
“Sire, are you king?” my mother said.
My lids flew open.
“What have you just said?” Henry demanded, stiffening.
“The people are declaring openly that you are ruled by the Lady Margaret, and it is she, not you, who wears the crown.”
“That is preposterous.”
“There is a way to put these rumors to rest once and for all, sire.”
“What way is that, madame?” Henry said warily.
“ ’Tis for me as queen dowager to stand as godmother to Prince Arthur. However, the Lady Margaret has informed me of her decision to take the place that is rightfully mine. I thought you would wish to know, so that you, as king”—she laid a heavy stress on the word and paused before continuing—“can show the land that you are not ruled by your mother.”
Henry’s back was turned to me, so I did not know his answer until I saw my mother’s broad smile. She inclined her head and gave a curtsy. Henry left, the footsteps of his throng of yeoman guards resounding behind him. Before my mother and I could speak, however, Margaret Beaufort returned from the privy. I turned my gaze on her.
She stood for a moment, her glance moving from my mother to me. “What has just happened?”
Mother and I exchanged a glance. Thank goodness for the privy, I thought.
“Nothing, Lady Margaret,” I replied sleepily.
“Nothing,” my mother echoed, staring at Margaret Beaufort with a triumphant gleam in her eyes.
Henry was so proud of his new son that he barely left my side during the week after Arthur’s birth. We spent much time admiring our child. He was a healthy babe with dark hair, light eyes, and long fingers who ate hungrily, slept much, and rarely cried.
“He shall be a warrior king,” I murmured. Like Richard, I added silently to myself.
“He shall have no need of arms, for I shall rid the land of all his enemies,” Henry replied.
Messengers were sent to the far reaches of the kingdom with the happy news. Bonfires were lit in the streets and butts of wine opened in the crossroads. People sang, and drank, and cheered. I heard them celebrating every night.
“All is proceeding splendidly for Prince Arthur’s christening at Winchester Cathedral,” Margaret Beaufort announced, sweeping into my chamber one morning. “The work is nearly completed.”
“And how does it look?” inquired Henry absently, smiling at Arthur.
“The walls are covered with tapestries, and I have commanded a special platform be built with seven steps covered in red carpet. The baptismal font is of silver, lined with fine linen. Over the font, from a large gilt ball, hangs a richly fringed canopy. The entire event will be a glittering pageant, one worthy of a new dynasty, dear son.”
“Very impressive,” murmured Henry as Arthur grabbed his finger, gurgling sweetly.
Sunday, the day of my babe’s christening, dawned bright with sunshine and noisy with birdsong.
“ ’Tis a good omen,” Lucy Neville noted.
Lucy, niece to the late Warwick who had caused my father such grief all those years ago, was my principal lady-in-waiting among the horde of thirty the Beaufort woman had appointed to keep me under firm control. Her father, John Neville, Lord Montagu, had died with his brother fighting for Lancaster at Barnet, but he was found to be wearing the colors of York beneath his armor, for he and his family had ever been Yorkist and would never have left the fold had it not been for my mother’s enmity. Some at court still called him a traitor to Lancaster, and for this reason, Lucy had not many frie
nds. She had joined my household when her husband died in Henry’s cause at Bosworth. I had thought her merely another spy, but I quickly came to realize it was an injustice to dismiss her this way. She went about her duties quietly and never participated in the gossip of my other ladies. Her kindness to others, especially the servants, was remarkable.
I extended my hand to King Richard’s sister, Elizabeth, duchess of Suffolk, who had just arrived. Her husband had not fought for Richard at Bosworth, though his oldest son, Jack, Earl of Lincoln, was his heir. Jack had sought Henry’s pardon, and she and her four sons were welcome at Henry’s court. “Dear Liza, how are you?” I asked.
Liza cooed to Arthur, who was wrapped in a rich mantle of crimson cloth of gold lined throughout in ermine. She reminded me of Richard and I would have liked to converse with her, but my uncles, Edward and Richard Woodville, entered with many other guests streaming behind them. The room filled with a cross-current of greeting and salutations.
Clarions blared. “Everyone, take your places!” called Margaret Beaufort.
A glittering procession began to form in the Prior’s Great Hall.
“Where is John de Vere, Earl of Oxford?” Margaret Beaufort demanded, casting a look around. “He is to stand as godfather, and was supposed to be here an hour ago.”
She sent a page to search the castle and paced to and fro as she waited. My mother watched her with an expression of arrogant disdain. When Margaret Beaufort had discovered that Henry had set her aside as godmother, there had been a huge scene. She had accused her son of ingratitude, and my mother of living up to every name the land had ever called her.
“They care not for you either,” my mother had replied, “my dear usurper queen. At least, no one can deny I am a true queen.”
I had hidden my face from them both, for a wide smile had come to my lips.
One of the yeoman of the guards appeared with a messenger from the Earl of Oxford. The man entered and strode up to Henry.
“Sire, the Earl of Oxford was caught by surprise at the prince’s unexpected birth a month early. He is hurrying from his own estate in the west and expects to be here shortly. He begs you to delay the ceremony and wait for him.”
Leaning against a tall gilt chair, Henry regarded the man a long moment. Along with William Stanley, Oxford was the prime reason for his victory at Bosworth, yet he had not received any significant reward for the service he had rendered. Henry had no wish to ennoble supporters with titles and wealth that he regarded as coming from his own pocket. This honor of godfather he’d bestowed on Oxford was meant to keep him satisfied for a very long time.
Finally, Henry gave a nod. “We shall delay the proceedings as long as possible.”
Everyone wiled the time away as best they could, playing cards, throwing dice, and reading. One hour passed; then two, and three. They began to fidget; women fanned themselves and men loosened their collars, for the day was warm, and their jewels and finery grew heavy.
“We’ve waited long enough,” Henry announced at last. He turned to his father-by-marriage, the newly created Earl of Derby. “Lord Stanley, will you accept the honor of standing as godfather to our firstborn son, Prince Arthur?”
Stanley gave a low bow and took up his position beside my mother. The others fell in behind them two by two. Flanked by knights, my sister Anne bore the chrism, and after them walked Cecily, carrying in her arms my little prince. They filed out of the chamber, trumpets blaring.
I moved to the window to catch a glimpse of them crossing the court, where they were joined by Henry’s henchmen, squires, gentlemen, and yeomen of the guards, each bearing an unlit torch. But I grew fatigued, and returned to bed.
My sister Anne was the first to arrive back from the baptism.
“Lady Margaret wept again, nearly ruining the ceremony,” she whispered before assuming a normal tone. “Yet all went well. Stanley accompanied our mother to the font where Arthur was christened. Torches were lit, and hymns sung. Then Oxford arrived. He took Stanley’s place. He held him as the Bishop of Exeter confirmed him. Everyone sang a Te Deum.” Anne dropped her voice again. “Mother missed Dorset, but she was proud of taking precedence over Lady Margaret.”
I nodded sadly. My brother Dorset was not welcome in Henry’s court.
Trumpets blared, and the yeomen entered with their flaming candles. Anne moved to the side, and Cecily laid my babe in my arms. Arthur received the gifts of his godparents. My mother gave him a cup of gold, and Oxford a pair of gilt basins. From Margaret Beaufort’s husband, Stanley, he received a saltcellar of gold. My mother beamed with joy from ear to ear. Not only had she prevailed over the king’s mother, but the birth of Arthur had secured her position. In addition, Henry had begun negotiations for her marriage to King James III of Scotland. She bent down to me.
“Next is your coronation,” my mother whispered. “And then my royal wedding.”
I looked down at my babe, seeing my own victory and fulfillment in those tiny fingers, that tiny mouth. One day he will be king, God willing; I need nothing more than this. Suddenly, my brothers’ faces rose up before me. I closed my eyes and added, Pray God Henry lives long enough for my child to reach manhood.
Reluctantly, I gave my babe up to be taken away to his nursery, where he would be fed and rocked by three nurses under the supervision of a doctor. At least I don’t have to worry about him, I thought. Yeomen and squires who had sworn oaths of allegiance to Arthur would reach out to rock his cradle each time he cried, and everything would be done according to the directives of Margaret Beaufort. She would stand guard at his cradle against all harm, except that sent by God.
CHAPTER 14
Of Roses and Thorns, 1486
HENRY SURPRISED ME BY ASKING WHERE I SHOULD like to spend my churching, for I was sure he would decide this with his mother. I chose Greenwich Palace.
Standing on the banks of the Thames with its semioctagonal towers newly faced in red brick, its emerald parks and grand vistas, its graceful pillared hall and terra-cotta floor tiles adorned with the white daisy emblem that had belonged to Marguerite d’Anjou, Greenwich echoed with the soft sound of lapping water and cries of river birds diving for fish. From my childhood, it had been my favorite residence, and it welcomed me now with the warmth of memories. On these lawns Papa had run with me on his great shoulders, pretending to be my horse, while I had lashed him and urged him on. There, beneath a shady elm, I had frolicked with my pup, Jolie, and learned to ride my palfrey.
Away from the noise and smells of London, life was simpler at Greenwich. I was not restricted to the use of a walled garden, and Margaret Beaufort relaxed her stern eye on me, for no one could approach unnoticed as they might at Westminster. There was less ceremony of court; the political intrigues were distanced, and the outside world seemed far away. In quiet and privacy, we took our leisure as a family. While Margaret Beaufort and my mother argued about the treatment and nursing of my baby prince, Henry hawked and rode to the hounds, or played a game of tennis with a stuffed pig’s bladder to serve as a ball; I strolled in the parks amid serenity, free from reminders of Richard. For Richard had never found time for Greenwich; only the troubled halls of Westminster had been his haunt as king. Even so, the day of his birth, the second of October, still proved difficult. I watched the leaves wither and fall from the trees, and thought of him, felled in the prime of life.
Before I realized it, the hourglass had emptied again and the lawns turned white with a November snowfall. My churching was over and we left for Westminster to celebrate Yule.
WHEN MARGARET BEAUFORT WASN’T GUARDING ME, she watched my babe. She tried to curtail my time with Arthur and dictate when I could see him. The woman is a born jailer, I thought with disgust. She had removed Arthur from my side after my purification sixty days after his birth, and now he lodged in his nursery. A few days before my coronation, I went to his room.
“He cannot be disturbed at this time,” Margaret Beaufort announced when I appeared. “He has jus
t been fed and shall take a four-hour nap.”
I glanced at the physician, Arthur’s three nurses, and the two women rockers who stood waiting against the wall. Then I looked at my babe. He was cooing joyfully and waving his little arms and legs in the air. My heart melted to see him, and I knew that if I didn’t take a stand, Margaret Beaufort would as happily strip me of my mother’s rights as she had of my queenship. But this child, England’s future king, embodied my sole purpose for living, my entire reason for enduring a loveless existence. I stood my ground.
“Am I to be kept from my son?” I seethed, closing the distance between us. Though I was slow to anger, and preferred to suffer in silence rather than engage in confrontation, this was too important to ignore. Such a fierce wrath had seized me that I trembled.
“For his sake you must abide by my ordinances.”
“He is my child, and if you want any more grandchildren from my Plantagenet blood, you’d better step aside now.” Though I hated argument, I had reached the end of my tether with Henry’s dreadful mother. I preyed on her deep-seated fear that as long as there were no more children, Henry’s dynasty would be left hanging by a single thread and could be toppled as easily as Richard’s. She made no reply for a long moment, then stood aside and let me pass. I strode over to the cradle and took my child into my arms. From the corner of my eye, I saw her leave.
I dismissed the servants with a wave and sat down. Rocking my babe in my arms, I laid my cheek to his. “You are born to be a king, my little one,” I whispered in his ear,“and kings have much to learn. Soon you shall be taken from me. Only now, in these precious days of infancy, do you belong to me. I have only a short time to teach you to be loving and kind, to be a gentle master to the animals you hold, to be pleasant to those who serve you, to do your best, to do your duty.”
As King Richard had.
A tear trembled at the corner of my eye. I saw him again in my mind’s eye, his sad, gentle face. He had tried to defend the poor, but in bringing them justice, he had alienated the powerful nobles on whose support his throne rested. Henry didn’t care a reed for justice, or for the happiness of the people, and he had no use for the nobles who posed a threat to him. But they had killed one another off in these Wars of the Roses, and few remained to trouble him; no doubt they slept uneasy in their beds, for they could see that power had drained from their hands into Henry’s fists. And Henry had made it clear that he would take the opposite tack from Richard. After all, Rome had lasted a thousand years.
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