The King's Daughter (Rose of York)

by Worth, Sandra

  “Remind me what it was.” Henry’s voice.

  Margaret Beaufort answered in his stead. “He repeated the court opinion that Margaret of York spends all her days thinking of new outrages to damage you. Like Juno hurling storms at Aeneas, she lashes and rails at you.”

  “Spite never dies; a woman’s anger is eternal,” Morton recounted. “Sire, listening to his words, a new idea came to me.” He fell silent. Margaret Beaufort’s voice picked up again.

  “You know how the land keeps talking about your paternal heritage, dear son? Morton has suggested a way to make them forget it, and I agree with him.”

  Morton seized the opening she’d given him. “Sire, you need a royal lineage traced not only back to Arthur, as you suggested, but through Arthur to the Trojan Brutus who ruled Britain during the Dark Ages. Then, may I suggest that from Brutus, the legendary founder of Britain, we proceed to his ancestor, Aeneas himself?”

  “I like the idea, Morton, but can this be done? The people remember that my—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence, but I knew what it was: The people remember that my grandfather was a groom of the wardrobe, and his father a man wanted by the law for debt and murder.

  “The people have a short memory, sire, like children. That which is often repeated is believed, especially when it is accompanied by the rod. If I may be so bold, my liege?”

  “You may speak freely, Morton.”

  “Put terror into them, and people will not dare give offense, no matter how audacious the lie.”

  In my mind’s eye, I saw Morton giving Henry the lopsided sneer he considered a smile.

  Henry snickered. “Indeed, ’tis a splendid idea, well worth attempting.” Then he moved across the room to his desk and caught sight of me.

  “My lady, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he demanded.

  “I fear you shall not find it pleasurable that I come to ask you for money.”

  He exhaled an audible sigh.

  SOON AFTERWARD HENRY CALLED A COUNCIL AT Sheen and brought the real Warwick out of the Tower. Dear Edward was twelve years old now, never having known a day of liberty since Bosworth. Henry paraded him through the London streets to prove the falsehood of Lincoln’s claim, and ordered John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, and Jasper Tudor, Duke of Bedford, to prepare for invasion. Then he left for a progress to secure the land, traveling quickly through Essex, Suffolk, and Norwich, and to Coventry with Morton. Along the way Morton read a papal bull of anathema and excommunication against the rebels, for which Henry had paid the pope a great sum of money. This had been yet another of Morton’s ideas, hatched in the solar as I played the harp and they conversed over a game of cards following my birthday banquet.

  “What we need is a papal bull recognizing your right to the crown and cursing with bell, book, and candle all those who go against you.”

  “Will the pope issue us such a bull?” Henry had inquired, laying down three knights.

  “He will issue anything for a price,” Morton had replied, smiling as he presented three kings over them. “No matter how high the cost, it shall be worth paying. There can be no surer sign of God’s approval than the papal censure of all who threaten you,Your Grace.”

  Henry commonly called Morton “a clever devil,” and it had occurred to me listening to them that truer words were never spoken. In Morton, the cloth was a disguise of the devil.

  MY MOTHER CAME TO VISIT AS FEBRUARY DREW TO a close. As soon as I glimpsed her, I knew something was wrong. She entered without fanfare and took a seat by the window, where she fell into thoughtful contemplation. Accustomed as I was to her parading in with her demands, bursts of temper, fits of weeping, and angry recriminations, I was deeply unsettled by her behavior. I sent for wine, which she didn’t touch, and I sang her a song that was the rage at court. But she sat drooping and said little, though she smiled at me once. At length, I rose and went to her. Kneeling at her feet, I took her hand into mine. She turned her eyes on me. “Mother, what is wrong?”

  She gave me a barely perceptible nod and glanced over at my ladies-in-waiting chattering before the fire. I understood; we were being watched. Though the women seemed engaged in gossip, they had trained an ear on us and would report back dutifully to Margaret Beaufort, or Henry, or Morton. Tudor spies were everywhere through the land, and even beyond, in Spain, Burgundy, Scotland, and France. Yet there was a time when she hadn’t feared them. I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it tenderly. Settling down close beside her on the window seat, I draped my arm around her. She laid her head on my shoulder, and I glimpsed the sparkle of tears on her lashes.

  Then she raised it to look at me. “Growing up in uncertain times,” she said, “all I had to rely on was family. I tried to do my best for them all. When you were born, I obtained for you the best I could . . . queen . . . Life is better on top, Elizabeth.”

  “Mother, not everyone wants the same thing. I would have liked a different life, if I could have chosen.”

  “You are young; you know not what is best,” she sighed. “You know not what it is to go hungry and to worry about money.” She dug her fingers onto my hand and lowered her voice to a bare whisper. “But know this now—everything I do is for you and your sisters and br—”

  I felt myself blanch at the dangerous slip of her tongue. She broke off, then bowed her head. A silence fell. I looked up, fearing that someone had overheard, and to my dismay, I found that people were looking at us. They resumed their conversation and busied themselves, but my unease grew to unbearable proportions. I stared at the top of my mother’s jeweled headdress with heavy dread. Was she plotting again? Plotting against Henry? If so, there could only be one reason. The scene in sanctuary rose before me: my mother and Dickon whispering together in a corner. Dickon has sent her the password. The knowledge sent me reeling where I sat. I raised a hand to my brow. My brother lives! Dickon has sent her the sign. She is torn between us. She has had to choose, and she has done so.

  I didn’t need to ask which of us she’d chosen.

  She lifted her head and gazed at me fully. Under her breath she said, “No matter what happens, you and Arthur will be safe. Never doubt that. Now I must go.”

  Steadying myself with a hand against the rough stone embrasure, I rose to my feet and watched her leave.

  My uncle Edward Woodville broke the news to me two weeks later when he came to see Henry by slipping me a note that I burned after I’d read it. As March stormed in with violent winds and black clouds that released a deluge of rain over London, my mother was abruptly stripped of all her goods and sent to Bermondsey Abbey. I placed a hand to my dizzy head and sank down into a chair. This is the day I promised my mother would come when she’d destroy herself, and I would rejoice at her destruction.

  But rejoice I did not. Despite everything, she was my mother, and I could not help but love her. Henry was still away, and for once I regretted his absence. I could learn nothing about the banishment until he returned, and I knew Margaret Beaufort would tell me naught. Nevertheless, after breaking fast the next day, I confronted her.

  “I understand my mother has retired to Bermondsey Abbey. I wish to see her.”

  Margaret Beaufort looked up from the document she held in her hand. To my surprise, without further ado, she said,“It shall be arranged.”

  We took a barge across the river. The water stretched before me, murky and forbidding. At Bermondsey we followed the abbess to the royal residence where my mother was installed. The room was not unpleasant, but the idea that my mother, who loved the gaiety and color of court, would be confined here in this drab grayness with nothing but silence and the prayers of the nuns for the rest of her life cut me to the core.

  Mother sat listlessly at the window. She had seen us disembark, but she had not risen. I knelt by her side as she turned her head slowly to gaze at me. But she would not speak, and the nuns took us away.

  Palace whispers claimed that she was caught throwing her support to the rebellion and had w
ritten the Earl of Desmond in Ireland to put his faith in Lincoln and Lovell. The dread tidings, and the fearful emptiness that engulfed me on the loss of my mother, sent me to prayer. But the angry Fates were not done with me yet. From my jester Patch I learned that my brother Dorset had been taken to the Tower.

  On the heels of this report, I received a missive from Henry that Margaret Beaufort read to me in her stern fashion, commanding me to join him at Coventry with Arthur. There we maintained our court and sat through the pageants of welcome, indulging our subjects with spectacle and the royal presence, seemingly unruffled by rumor or rebellion. But beneath this deceptive display of tranquility, my heart churned in my breast day and night. I knew the feigned boy was not Edward, Earl of Warwick, and he was standing in for my brother who was too young to be brought forward yet—if he was still alive. But clearly, my mother believed one of them had survived. Was it my younger brother, Dickon? All the rumors held that he was alive, but no rumor had given out that Edward still lived. Poor Edward, God grant him rest.

  Henry came to my chamber on the first evening of my arrival at Coventry. He stood, waiting for everyone to leave. His mother was the last to depart.

  “I am giving you the properties I have confiscated from your mother,” he said. “But in so doing, I must remind you that it is now your obligation to support your sisters.”

  This did not surprise me. Henry was not one to give away something for nothing, and he always had the better of the deal. Remembering my mother’s words, I tried to please Henry in bed that night, though his breath was as foul as a dragon’s and he took inordinately long to reach his climax. When he was finally done, I found courage.

  “Henry, my mother—”

  Before I could broach the subject that weighed down my heart, he flung back the sheets. “Do not meddle in my affairs, lady! I am not your father to be twisted around by a woman in a bed.” Then he stormed out of the room.

  I turned my face into the pillow and sobbed.

  CHAPTER 15

  Trumpets of War, 1487

  WHEN THE REBELS LANDED IN LANCASHIRE, HENRY sent us to the safety of Greenwich. Tidings dribbled in, none of the news good for the Yorkists. Francis Lovell could gain no support from the people; they were all terrified of Henry. Tudor spies were everywhere, and in any case, after thirty years of fighting, they’d had enough of war.

  It was when I heard Margaret Beaufort’s loud weeping outside my privy chamber that I knew the rebellion had failed. Francis and Jack invaded England with the Earl of Kildare. They brought many Irish followers and two thousand Germans financed by Henry’s bitter enemy, my Aunt Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy. The battle took place on the sixteenth day of June at Stoke, and Francis was soundly defeated.

  Jack, Earl of Lincoln, was slain.

  Pain shot through me when I heard these words. I rose and went to my bedchamber so no one would see my anguish. There, at my prie-dieu, I remembered Jack’s laughter, his joy in placing wagers, the pleasure he took performing sleight-of-hand tricks for the children, and I bowed my head in tearful prayer.

  Henry remained in the north for a few weeks to secure the region and then returned to London like a conquering hero. Margaret Beaufort and I went by barge from Greenwich to a private London house near Bishopsgate to observe the pageantry of London’s greeting, but we didn’t meet Henry in public. Margaret Beaufort was adamant that the triumph was his to enjoy alone. I noted that the greeting of the mayor and aldermen was more effusive than after Bosworth; the banners in more profusion; and more citizens lined the streets to cheer. We watched him pass, and as sunset threw jewel colors across water and sky, we took the barge back to Greenwich.

  Henry arrived the next evening. “ ’Tis unfortunate about Lincoln,” he murmured. “I would that he were captured alive, so we could get to the bottom of the trouble.”

  I had been grieved by the tidings of Jack’s death, but now I rejoiced and thanked God that He, in His mercy, had spared Jack the horrors of torture. Later, I pondered Henry’s words, for it meant he himself was not certain of the fate of at least one of my brothers.

  I was struggling to determine if one or the other was still living when Margaret Beaufort came to me with an announcement.

  “Henry wishes that you go on a royal progress and be seen by the people. It would settle the land. Naturally, I shall accompany you. If your progress goes well, it shall go well for your mother at Bermondsey, and for your brother Dorset in the Tower. They are both ailing, as you may know.” Margaret Beaufort gave me a hard, meaningful look.

  “If . . . if there is difficulty . . . with the progress—” I stuttered.

  She gave me a look that left me in no doubt. “They may not recover from the sickness that has gripped them. I dare say your mother, at least, will not leave behind many mourners. There is not a woman alive who has contrived to make more personal enemies.”

  A silence fell. I laid aside my mending and rose stiffly. I searched my mother-in-law’s face, and as I did so, realization washed over me. Hard and resolute, her wolfish features bore a cruelty I had not fully appreciated until this moment. She is a woman capable of murdering babes with her bare hands, I thought with a shudder. And now that I have given birth to a son, I too am dispensable, along with my entire family. She would not flinch to do whatever it took to keep the crown on her son’s head.

  These Tudors were made of steel. I dropped back into my chair and turned my face to the window. I stared at the cold and dreary Thames and the oppressive clouds, my mind utterly stripped of feeling and thought. Dimly, I heard Margaret Beaufort’s footsteps tapping against the glazed tile as she left my chamber.

  Lifting the lid of the coffer by my chair, I reached for Richard’s book. Boethius’s De Consolatione. I opened it, and bent my head to his words.

  ON A WARM AUGUST MORNING, WHEN WE WERE TO leave on my progress, I awakened to find I had been crying in my sleep. I knew I had been dreaming of my childhood. In my dream, I’d been with Papa again, playing Hoodman’s Bluff in a sunlit chamber. He chased me through the room and out to the passageway, along the hall and to the tower stairs. There was laughter all around, and smiling faces wherever I looked. Down I went; down the steps, shrieking with joy, his footsteps clicking on the stone behind me, his laughter filling my world. Then I couldn’t hear him anymore. I stopped and looked around; it was dark and quiet. I was alone. I called out his name, but there was no answering reply from the silence; I stretched out my hands for him but touched only emptiness.

  It had rained in the night, and the wind rattled the shutters. The fire had died in the hearth, leaving behind a pile of gray ash. Wearily, I rose from bed and went to my prie-dieu as the castle began to stir. Under Margaret Beaufort’s eagle eye and a myriad of instructions read by her clerk, my ladies-in-waiting prepared me for my journey. Accompanied by the usual escort of men-at-arms, servants, and baggage carts, we left London for Nottingham.

  I had forgotten how beautiful the world was. Enjoying my first taste of freedom since Bosworth, I saw golden haystacks crowning the farmlands, sunny orchards laden with ripe plums, and the lovely green gloom of woods damp with the smell of earth and dense with willow and elm. We emerged from terrain covered with fern and pine needles into bright fields blanketed with crimson poppies and fireweed, a strange plant of rugged loveliness that grows only on the scars of ruin and flame. We passed serene lakes and rushing waterfalls, stone cottages and hillsides pastoral with sheep. Nightingales sang to us from thickets, and turtledoves screeched, and everywhere we went, we were greeted by smiling faces.

  I loved meeting my people. From far and wide, in rain and cold, they came to the market squares and castle gates with gifts of pike, dried fruits, pies, and carvings they had made. They showered me with compliments and told me of the love they bore my father. I gave them presents in return: a few yards of woolen fabric, a silver trinket, a flask of wine and fine cheeses, ale and a pheasant, and a few small purses of coin. Margaret Beaufort stood guard at my elbo
w, grumbling under her breath at the expense, but she knew what an important service I rendered her son, and dared not curtail my expenditures.

  Since the Beaufort woman supported the universities of Oxford and Cambridge and ran a home for poor scholars, some thought her a generous person. That was not so. She kept a sharp eye on expenses and was as tainted by avarice as Henry himself. With the army of lawyers she retained, she persecuted tenants and farmers, taking away their carts and plows as punishment for trespass and minor offenses. She even sued the widows of her most loyal servants for small debts, some going back a hundred years to her paternal grandfather, John, Duke of Somerset, sending them to prison when they were unable to pay.

  Only my mother matches the Tudors in love of money, I thought. Hastily, I crossed myself and begged God’s forgiveness for the disloyal thought. Mother’s faults seemed insignificant now.

  Sometimes in the silence of the night, I tossed fitfully as I considered how vulnerable my sisters and I were; how we could be murdered with impunity. In the end, who was there to protect us? They were all powerless, my people. Henry had modernized the Tower with implements of torture imported from France that instilled terror through the land. Morton’s words hammered in my head: “We have made torture an art, sire.” I bit down hard against the thought. No longer was the Tower known for the beauty of its residence and its royal menagerie, but for its chambers of horrors, and men trembled to enter its gates of Hell. Many of Richard’s loyal followers, good knights with whom I’d laughed that last Yuletide of Richard’s life, had disappeared into the Tower. Of them all, the one that burned my memory was young Johnnie of Gloucester. At least Edward, Earl of Warwick, lived; I could take comfort in that. But Johnnie—

  He was surely dead. I made the sign of the cross and offered a prayer for his soul as I rode.

  Everyone in the land knew someone who had disappeared. Fear kept them in check and made Henry’s throne more secure. Petitioners shrank and grew silent before Henry’s mother, and it was only when they turned their gaze on me that they forgot their cares and broke into smiles. I reminded them of the old world, the world of chivalry that had belonged to Papa and died with Richard at Bosworth Field. Morton’s advice to Henry rang in my ears: “King Richard with his mercy and his justice was here one day and gone the next, but Rome lasted a thousand years, for it was built on terror.”