The King's Daughter (Rose of York)

by Worth, Sandra

  I shivered, remembering.

  Now here I was, alone in this frightening place, clinging to the past for strength, struggling to endure the present, so I could banish the darkness of Henry’s court with the light of a future King Arthur. To this end, I felt an awesome responsibility to survive. Under Margaret Beaufort’s tutelage, without me to teach my babe the ideals of my father, he would grow up into another shrewdly calculating, power-hungry tyrant.

  Thus did my thought ramble as we rode to Nottingham. The next morning, at the castle, after we had broken fast and attended chapel prayers, I received petitioners in the Great Hall, dressed in one of my black silk gowns with Thomas’s brooch pinned to my collar, as always. And, as always, Margaret Beaufort admonished me for not standing on the dais.

  “You forget you are queen. You should not be in the center of the room like a common peasant,” she said.

  “Pray, my lady Margaret, allow me this one liberty. My wish is to mingle with the people.”

  She gave in reluctantly, a sour look on her face as she took up her position at my elbow. The doors were opened and the common folk filed in. I noticed her recoil as the room filled with the stench of unwashed bodies, and I took a certain pleasure in her discomfort. These people were my people, not Henry’s, and I loved them, washed or unwashed. For me, hearts counted more than the weight of gems or titles.

  One after the other, they filed in, and I delighted at their pleasure in seeing me, in their love, which warmed me, in their small gifts: oranges, cheese, a pair of doves, a clavichord. Some begged for my aid: a widow pleaded for money to rebuild her cottage, which had been destroyed by fire; a metalworker asked for patronage to make religious vessels; a man beseeched me for money to pay a physician for his sick son.

  I stole a glance down at Margaret Beaufort. She stood silently beside me, not uttering a word, a look of disdain on her face. Aware how much she valued pomp and royal ceremony, I took a secret joy in her misery. After an hour had passed and there was still a crowd of folk pressing in the antechamber, she whispered that she would be gone for a few moments. I gave her a smile and remembered my mother’s words:“Thank God for the privy!”

  Aye, it offers us relief in more ways than can be counted, I thought wryly.

  At this moment, an older man with white curls stepped forward. He knelt before me and bowed his head. “My lady queen, I failed to bring you this long ago when it was entrusted to me. My horse went lame and you were gone by the time I arrived.” His voice was low, meant for me alone. He handed me a book.

  My body began a fierce trembling at the sight of the worn brown leather volume, and my hands shook as I took it. I kept my eyes lowered to hide my emotion, but I could scarcely speak, for my throat had closed up.

  It was Richard’s book, Tristan.

  The last time I’d held it, I’d been in a small chamber at Westminster, leaping from the window seat as King Richard entered the room. Again I saw his gaunt face, his eyes alive with unspoken pain as they fixed on me, and again my heart took up a fierce pounding and I dropped the book.

  “My lady queen,” the man said, jolting me into the present as he picked it up and inserted back into its pages a small painted image that had fallen out,“forgive my clumsiness.”

  “Nay, forgive me mine,” I breathed. “What is your name?”

  “John Hewick, my queen.”

  There was so much to say and so little time! Margaret Beaufort would return at any moment. “How did you come by this?”

  “It was given me by a wounded knight with instructions to bring it to you at—in August—after—”

  I met his eyes as I took his hand and raised him to his feet. Aye, I understand only too clearly what you are trying to tell me. “My good man, you have done me more service this day than you can ever know. Here is a gift for you of a purse, and this ring—” I slipped off my gold ring wrought in the shape of a rose that my father had given me. “I would that it could match the value of your gift to me, but that is impossible. Tell me, what living have you?”

  “I was Yeoman of the King’s Crown.”

  “Was?”

  “No longer, my queen.”

  I did not delve.

  “Why did I not see you at the palace?”

  “You are well guarded, my lady queen, and permission was always denied.”

  “I know it—”

  “What is this?” Margaret Beaufort had crept up on us so stealthily that neither of us had noticed. “John Hewick, what do you here, taking up the queen’s time, be gone, man!”

  As she chastised him, I hid the book in a small basket beside me, beneath a handkerchief embroidered crudely with white roses. My thoughts were a tumult in my mind. I wanted only to get away with my book and see if the painted image was what I hoped it was—the portrait I had requested of Richard.

  Later that morning, before Margaret Beaufort had a chance to search its contents, I retrieved my book from the basket, hid it in my skirts, and stole into my privy. A fierce wind whistled through the arrow slits, fluttering the curtains and nearly putting out the candle that lit the gloomy garderobe. With a thundering heart, I removed the painted image from within its pages and held it up to the light. My breath caught in my throat.

  O Richard, Richard! To see your face again, even here, in this place, even for a moment—

  Tears stung my eyes, and I gave vent to an uncontrollable fit of sobbing. At length, drained of emotion, I dried my eyes, smoothed my dress, and left the sanctuary of the privy. Hiding the book in a hidden compartment of a small coffer, I locked it with the key I wore around my neck and lay down on my bed. The chanting of the monks from the chapel drifted through the open window, and I stared at the dismal sky, flooded by memories. Too soon my rest period was ended by a knock at the door.

  “Your Grace,” said Lucy Neville, my lady-in-waiting, “Lady Margaret the king’s mother wishes to leave for Kegworth in a half hour. May we prepare you for the journey?”

  “Pray first send Patch the Dwarf to me,” I said, rising. I needed a moment of humor to soothe my nerves.

  Patch entered with a sweeping, courtly bow. He leaned close and whispered in my ear,“I heard what the man called Lady Margaret when he left you—”

  I stared at him, not comprehending. “What man?”

  “The one who gave you the book.”

  I froze. “You saw?”

  He nodded.

  “Anyone else see?”

  “I doubt it, my lady. They don’t notice things the way I do.”

  “So, my dear Patch, you see things and hear things that others don’t. You would make a good spy.” I threw him a knowing look, and he gave me an affectionate grin in return. Margaret Beaufort had hired Patch to spy on me, as she hired everyone to do, but I’d detected a change in him in recent weeks and I dared to hope he’d transferred his loyalty to me. “So tell, what was it?”

  “A friend of his asked how he’d done, and he said he’d seen you and would have talked more with you, but for ‘that strong whore’ who chased him away!” Patch sallied across the room, swinging his hips, and ended his sashay with a kick. I giggled at his sly jest, and Patch smiled as he watched me. Have I found a friend at last? I wondered. “Patch, would you be willing to do something for me?”

  He knelt at my feet and turned his head to me. “By the faith of my heart!” he whispered, pressing both hands to his breast as he gave voice to Lancelot’s favorite oath.

  I bent down to him. “I wish you to get someone to take marchpane to Edward of Warwick in the Tower. And find out what else he would like.”

  “Consider it done, my lady queen.”

  HENRY SEEMED WELL PLEASED WITH ME WHEN I RETURNED. That same night he came to my privy suite. After dismissing everyone present, including his mother, he requested that I sing for him. I ran my fingers over my lyre and raised my voice above the rippling chords. When the song was ended, he patted the chair beside him. I sat down and smoothed my skirts apprehensively.

&n
bsp; “You seem curiously disinterested in power, Elizabeth,” he said.

  I turned his question over in my mind. Aye, I thought, I know well the dangers of power. Power had driven Marguerite d’Anjou into exile, where she’d died in poverty, homeless and childless. It had destroyed my mother and sent her into Bermondsey a pauper, deprived of the comfort of her children and friends, with nothing to sustain her but God; she, who had worshipped wealth and ceremony and paid God little heed for most of her life. All I wished was to be safe, to raise my son so I could give England a worthy king.

  “I do not seek power, my lord. It destroys the queens that wield it. In the end, they are always hated. When I stand before God, I hope to say I left the world a better place than I found it.” I lifted my eyes to his face. “What do you hope power will achieve for you?”

  Henry sighed and slapped his knee. He rose from his seat and went to the window. “I wish to give England peace through settled rule,” he said. “I wish to make England great. But more important than all else, I wish to make my son safe on his throne, and that means I must be safe. To that end, I will sacrifice all.”

  I felt a shiver run along my spine. Henry had lived the life of a hunted animal, known hunger and cold, danger and desperation, and thrice escaped the clutches of death. Would he ever feel safe? I closed my eyes and the image of little Edward rose before me, surrounded by a thicket of armed men as he disappeared into the Tower. Motherless, fatherless, a descendant of the male Plantagenet line that had ruled England for nigh on four hundred years, the child stood in Henry’s way. I had thought I could keep him safe once I was queen; now I knew I could not. What will become of him? I wondered.

  Henry spoke again. “About your coronation.”

  I blinked. I realized that I hadn’t expected to ever be crowned. If Henry had waited long enough, I might have died and he’d have been spared the expense. I searched his face, but it was as impassive as always: the thin lips pressed tightly together; the hooded gray eyes hard as marbles. Was this offer now an olive branch to his persecutors, the Yorkists, or merely a ploy to appease the people and quell future revolt? Was he no longer jealous of my superior claim to the crown, or had he satisfied himself about my ambitions? I would never know; Henry didn’t open up his heart to anyone except, perhaps, his mother.

  And what about my mother, who had so desired my coronation?

  “Will my lady mother have the honor of carrying my train?”

  “I shall decide the details later, but frankly, I doubt it. She has been feeling unwell lately. As you know, she wishes no visitors, or even to venture out from Bermondsey.”

  “Or even to write to me?”

  He didn’t flinch at my sarcasm. “Apparently so. And now, lady, with your permission—” He threw me a nod and withdrew. I rose and bobbed him a curtsy.

  CHAPTER 16

  Queen of England, 1487

  HENRY SPENT LAVISHLY ON MY CORONATION. HE SAID he wished to oversee the planning of the entire occasion personally, but it was difficult even for him to go against his mother, and her hand was evident in every detail.

  On Friday, the twenty-third of November, 1487, two days before my coronation on St. Catherine’s Day, in the cold sunshine of a wintry day, I left Greenwich for the Tower of London by river. For this occasion, I abandoned the black wide-sleeved gowns I had come to favor for attire of white satin and a velvet cloak trimmed with ermine. Escorted by minstrels and the blare of trumpets, with banners streaming behind us, my flotilla of colorful barges sailed along the shining waters bearing my noble lords and ladies, the mayor and aldermen of London, and other city fathers. One, called The Bachelor’s Barge, was fashioned in the image of Henry’s emblem of a great red dragon and outshone all the rest as it belched flames into the Thames.

  Margaret Beaufort stood at my side, coordinating her wave with mine as I greeted the cheering crowds assembled along the shore, but I scarcely noticed her, for my thoughts were with my mother. She had been excluded from my coronation, as I had feared. I strained my eyes in the direction of far-off Bermondsey, along the curve of the river, and wondered how much, if anything, she could see from her window. Then I turned my attention to my sisters, Cecily, Anne, Kate, and Bridget, standing behind me.

  Cecily held herself very still and regarded me impassively. I gave her a cold glare. Soon after I returned from my progress, in a light moment, I had confided to her about the man who had called Margaret Beaufort “that strong whore.” Then I learned from Patch that a charge of treason had been levied against the man from Nottingham for speaking ill of the king’s mother, and he had been assessed a ruinous fine. I knew then that Cecily had betrayed my confidence. Never would I trust her again. I glanced away.

  My younger sisters threw me bright smiles, and I thought how lovely they were: Anne, twelve, with her golden hair and azure eyes; sweet eight-year-old Kate, with gilt hair and large fern-green eyes; and seven-year-old Bridget, who stood solemnly, clearly awed by the significance of the occasion.

  My eye rested on Richard’s sister at the side of the barge. Liza, Duchess of Suffolk, sitting on a tapestry-covered bench, in conversation with her daughter, Eleanor de la Pole, one of my ladies-in-waiting. Liza had already lost one son for Richard’s cause. Does she know her other sons are giving Henry restless nights? Though her boys were descended from the second son of Edward III in a maternal line, the blood in their veins, in contrast to Henry’s bastard lineage, ran indisputably royal. Her husband, the Duke of Suffolk, had failed Richard at Bosworth, and I wondered if Jack’s death and Henry’s taxation had caused Suffolk to regret his betrayal of Richard. If not, he surely would in the future. I had seen the names of his other three sons in Henry’s memorandum book where, among other reminders, he noted those to be watched.

  I banished the dismal thought and turned back to the crowds. I was one of them now. A Tudor queen. The first of a long line to come, if Henry had his way. I could not change what God had ordained, but I also knew that what Henry did for his throne would secure it for my own beloved Arthur. I had not sought queenship, nor did I relish it, but I was a pawn of Fate, and queenship was mine by destiny. Though I was an accessory to Henry’s sins by virtue of my marriage, I had been a most unwilling participant with no power to alter the flow of events. All I could offer England was my best efforts in raising her future king and in teaching him the ideals in which I believed.

  We drew up to the Tower wharf. Henry’s glittering figure in crimson velvet and jewels awaited me, surrounded by his attendants and fifty armed yeomen. As I alighted, he gave me his royal welcome and an embrace. A most joyous cheer went up. Henry has calculated this for effect, I thought. But if reminding the land of the union of York and Lancaster brought my people comfort and allayed their fears, where lay the harm? They had known three decades of suffering and death, and it was time for peace.

  Side by side, Henry and I entered the apartments of the Tower, where we were greeted by the newly created Knights of the Bath. All day and night, as bells rang throughout the city of London, banqueting, disguisings, and dancing marked our hours. On Saturday morning, I was left alone to meditate in privacy and seclusion. Kneeling at my prie-dieu, I lifted my eyes to the celestial sky, the residence of God. After offering my thanks to Him and beseeching His blessing, I turned my thoughts to one who lived in my heart.

  Richard, I make thee this vow: I shall be the queen you wished me to be, not for Henry’s sake, but for yours, and for Arthur’s, and for the sake of our people for whom you died, so that war might end.

  After I broke my fast, my ladies dressed me in a rich gown of white cloth of gold. A mantle of the same fabric furred with ermine was fastened over my bosom with intricately woven gold lace and silk tasseled with knots of gold, and my yellow hair was arranged to flow loose below my knees, sparingly covered by a circlet richly garnished with gems and a net woven of golden threads.

  “How do I look, Lucy?” I asked, for I knew her to be the most truthful of all my ladies.

/>   “My lady queen, you are luminescent. You seem to walk in a golden pool of light, and to gaze on you is to look on a bright summer’s day.”

  I remembered thinking the same of Queen Anne when I stood by her as Lucy stood by me now. I had sought to emulate her in every way. Perhaps I am succeeding, I thought. Resting my hand on Lucy’s sleeve, I smiled my thanks.

  I took the Tower steps down to the courtyard, accompanied by a great number of people and much ceremony. The procession of lords, ladies, city fathers, and Knights of the Bath had already formed and was waiting patiently. Clad in furs, velvets, gold chains, and jewels, and mounted on steeds caparisoned in cloth embroidered with their emblems of roses, dragons, and lions, the lords dazzled in the sun. I threw my sisters a smile as I climbed into my litter cushioned with gold damask pillows. They were seated directly behind me, in chairs decorated with my father’s blazon of the White Rose and Sun in Splendor, beside the duchesses. The baronesses, in matching gowns of crimson velvet, trailed them on their gilded horses.

  Then Margaret Beaufort appeared. Wearing a replica of my gown and a glittering coronet, she took a seat beside me. At her nod, we proceeded through the gates of the Tower. A joyous thunder erupted as we emerged. From a sea of white roses, the ecstatic crowd called “Elizabeth, Elizabeth! God bless you, Elizabeth! God bless the king’s daughter!” Their excitement was contagious and my heart soared in response, for everywhere I looked, the White Rose was in evidence among the throng, reminding me how madly they had cheered for my father wherever we had gone.