The King's Daughter (Rose of York)

by Worth, Sandra

  At that moment, Arthur entered my chamber, and I felt as if a shutter had been thrown open to sunshine. My fatigue vanished. “Come, my little love—” I held out my arms. He ran to me. The sickness that always seemed to be with me relinquished its hold. I held him close for a long moment. “This is your sister,” I said as I released him. “What do you think of her?” He hovered over the cradle. I laughed at his shrug. “Here, come and sit beside me. Tell me all that has happened.”

  He talked excitedly of events, but I barely heard his words, for I was drinking in the sweetness of his face, the light in his eyes, the joy of his voice. “—the tumblers, and then the troubadour—” he was saying. His days might be filled with serious matters of state, but our evenings would be like this: quiet, precious, kept in my chamber, at least until Twelfth Night, when he went back to Wales.

  “Would you like Patch to do a jig for you?” I asked when he had finished telling me about the exciting things he had witnessed. “Or shall he read to you the adventures of the great King Arthur?”

  “No, my fair lady mother. I would like to play with the wolf-hound, Percival.”

  Patch did some hand somersaults and then sat down cross-legged and made a farce of weeping in the corner of the room. Arthur went over to him and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I am fond of you, Patch. But Percival can balance a stick on his nose.”

  Patch couldn’t suppress his smile. He looked up at Arthur and dried his pretend tears. I laughed, and Arthur ran back to my arms. I smoothed my child’s soft locks, filled with gratitude for Heaven’s bounty. No one had to remind me how precious and rare these moments were; how much I had to be grateful for in this child I had borne. My greatest fear was that he should catch some illness.

  “I hear there is an outbreak of measles in the city, my lord. I would like to leave London and complete my churching at Greenwich,” I told Henry that evening.

  “I am of the same mind. Several members of the court have come down with the disease. ’Tis not safe in the city.”

  We left for Greenwich by water. It was a quiet Yule. Due to the epidemic, we had no disguisings and few pageants, though an “Abbot of Misrule” made much sport. Too soon Christmastide was over.

  Arthur left for Wales the morning after Twelfth Night. From my chamber high above the water’s edge, I watched as my tiny son was lifted into the boat. As he turned, searching for me at my windows, my heart twisted in my breast. Could he possibly sense the longing I felt as I stood behind the glass pane? Did he feel the same? But he must not be allowed to become dependent; he was a child with the responsibilities of a man and had to learn to do his duty. I wiped the tears from my eyes. And I must learn to endure the farewells, and the absences. God grant me strength, I thought.

  With Arthur’s departure, I lived with loneliness. Solace came from my sisters’ company in the evenings, my music, and the occasional letter from Bridget, who had taken well to her religious studies at Dartford Priory. That I was kept from court for all but important occasions did not disturb me one whit, and I scarcely missed it. Its glitter and beauty hid dangers for those who did not take care where they trod, and my absence meant I would not forge affections for those who were here one day and taken away the next for some careless remark. I had become accustomed to my captivity, and I valued the quiet that was my companion. Aye, I could not deny that I was lonely, but so were many others who had their freedom. And I had Patch, and my sisters, and my memories. It was a sin to complain.

  In the meanwhile, Henry had grown morose and irritable, for the new year brought distressing news. A new pretender had emerged in Europe, claiming to be my brother Dickon, and Blind Fortune teetered on her globe once again. The news blazed and thundered through the land, breathing new life into the belief that King Richard had smuggled my brother abroad to safety with instructions that he return and claim his crown when he was grown. Terror gripped England, for men who received letters from Burgundy or Ireland were rounded up and taken to the Tower to be tortured for more information, as Johnnie of Gloucester had been before Stoke. I closed my eyes and willed the images gone. I could do nothing to help them, so I must banish their fate from my mind, or I would be crazed.

  As I sat with my new babe in the solar, I sang a lament and watched Henry at the window, silent and morose, deep in his troubled thoughts. The young pretender had landed in Ireland in hopes of gaining support for his claim, but the Irish nobles heeded Henry’s threats of reprisals and he found little succor there. He accepted Charles VIII’s invitation to shelter in France. Charles had informed Scotland’s King James IV that my aunt, Margaret of York, had secretly preserved Richard of York for many years. Petitioning the pope to accord him apostolic recognition, she said the prince had been snatched away from those who would kill him and brought up under her protection, but was moved across Europe to keep him safe. I dwelled on the words of Molinet, chronicler of the court of Burgundy, who wrote that my aunt Margaret had lost her brothers, her husband, her nephews, and most had died by the sword—but of her nephews one was alive.

  It was said he was the exact age, and made in the image of my father, except for his height, for he was not exceptionally tall. I did not allow myself to ponder the truth of this, for whichever way I turned the matter, only pain greeted me. On the one hand, I wanted him to be Dickon, for that meant that Dickon lived; but if that were so, what would become of my Arthur? To be a king you have to kill a king. First uttered by my father about Henry VI, it was something that had tormented King Richard when he’d learned of the disappearance of my brother, Edward. He had never meant harm, yet harm had come because he took the throne.

  I swallowed my anguish and turned my eyes on Henry, delighting in our children’s laughter. For me, joy and sorrow had always walked hand in hand.

  Isabella and Ferdinand of Spain, and even my Aunt Margaret’s son-in-law, Maximilian, King of the Romans, who had recognized the pretender as England’s true king, urged Henry to attack their common enemy, France, for harboring the pretender. But Henry had no wish to start a war that would weaken his hold on the crown. Instead, he hired more spies—spies to spy on spies—and sent them fanning out all over Europe to learn whatever they could about the pretender. On the home front, he set himself to getting me with child again, and as the new year of 1491 blew in on a hailstorm, I learned that I was enceinte once more. The babe was born on the twenty-eighth of June, and it was a boy. Margaret Beaufort named him Henry.

  CHAPTER 19

  Fortune’s Wheel, 1492

  THE MORE I LEARNED ABOUT THE PRETENDER, THE deeper his mystery grew. His very name suggested he was not who Henry claimed—the son of a boatman in Tournai, on the border of France. For Perkin Warbeck was the anglicized version of Pierrequin Wesbecque, and those who knew French and Flemish could readily catch the play on words: the Flemish wezen,“to be” or “to be real,” and weze, the word for “orphan.”

  Aye, there was much to ponder in this pretender. Henry was tormented by the “feigned lad.” His triumph in begetting two sons to inherit his throne did not ease his insecurity, and his determination to establish a dynasty grew more urgent than ever. Losing no time, he had me with child again within two months of my churching. My wifely duties were anathema to me, and each night I braced myself for what was to come. As Henry fumbled and panted, I lay beneath him, helpless, penitent, praying for strength to endure my destiny, and forgiveness for ranting inwardly against my fate—praying all the while that the pretender was Dickon; and praying that he was not.

  Though childbirth was excruciatingly painful, I embraced the months of my pregnancy, for Henry let me alone during this time. Even so, God found reason to punish me, for in April of 1492, as I prepared for the delivery of my babe in July, I received word that my mother had been taken seriously ill.

  “I would like to see her,” I told Margaret Beaufort.

  “ ’Tis not advisable,” she said, standing with arms folded across her chest.

  “I beg you to let
me see my mother before she dies!” I pleaded.

  “Have you forgotten you are enceinte? The risk is too great. No one knows whether her illness is infectious. ’Tis best you stay away, for the sake of the child.”

  It was a legitimate reason, but the truth was that Henry and his mother trembled to consider that my brother Dickon lived, as rumor claimed he did. Somehow, they feared, my mother would manage to confide it to me, and I would find a way to send him aid. When news of my mother’s illness was quickly followed by the somber tidings of her death on the eighth of June, the Friday before Whitsunday, it was brought me by Margaret Beaufort, who could scarcely suppress her elation.

  “Did she die alone?” I asked, trembling to consider the thought. Everyone needed tenderness at the beginning of life, and at the end.

  “She was attended by King Edward’s illegitimate daughter, Grace, and by the Lady Cecily.”

  The two from whom Margaret Beaufort feared naught, I thought bitterly. Grace had no rank, and Cecily she could trust implicitly. In addition, both Grace and Cecily could not be ignorant that their every move was watched by spies reporting back to Henry and his mother. No doubt even they were never left alone with her.

  “Your mother dictated this will on her deathbed,” Margaret Beaufort said, handing me a parchment. I bent my head, and read:

  In the name of God, I Elizabeth, by the grace of God Queen of England, being of sound mind and seeing the world so transitory, and no creature certain when they shall depart from here, bequeath my soul to Almighty God and beseech him to bless our lady Queen with comfort. I bequeath my body to be buried in Windsor beside my lord, without pomp or costly ceremony. Since I have no worldly goods to leave my children, I beseech Almighty God to bless Her Grace and all her noble issue, and with all my heart I give her my blessing . . .

  Memories flooded me. I forced my mind back to the testament in my hands, and remembered my mother’s final request. I will that such small stuff and goods that I have be used to pay my debts, and if there is anything left that my children wish to keep, I ask that they be granted these in preferment and permitted to have them after the payment of my debts.

  She had appointed her doctors as her executors, and asked me to see her wishes carried out. She, whose sole aim in life had been to gather riches and power, had died with nothing to leave anyone, powerless, and nearly alone. Fortune must have laughed as she spun her wheel to lift my mother high, and spun again to plunge her down.

  Clutching the will in my hand, I lowered myself into a chair, and wept openly as Margaret Beaufort left the room.

  That night I lay awake, turning over many dark thoughts in my mind.

  Did Mother give Cecily the password? I wondered.

  She would not have dared, for Tudor spies were everywhere. Besides, Cecily had said naught about it.

  I found the timing of her death sinister. Margaret Beaufort would not hesitate to use poison, and she had hated my mother. How convenient that she died just as the pretender perched in Europe, awaiting his chance to invade. Now no one would ever know if he was truly my brother Dickon.

  On Monday evening, Patch gave me the details of my mother’s internment; they’d been reported to him by someone who’d learned of them in a tavern near Windsor Castle.

  “The witness was a merchant. He saw the entire affair with his own eyes,” Patch whispered. “On Whitsunday, the tenth of June, the queen was conveyed in the darkness of night by riverboat to Windsor without the ringing of any bells. Only the prior of the charter house of Sheen was with her, and one of the executors of her estate, Edmund Haute. From there, her body was drawn by cart, such as the common people are brought in, with a pall of black cloth of gold over it, and a few gilt candlesticks, each bearing a cheap taper. She was received into the castle by King Edward’s bastard daughter, Mistress Grace, a few gentlewomen, a clerk, and a priest. She was buried privately at about eleven o’clock at night, without any solemn mass done for her obit. In the morning the Bishop of Rochester gave a service. Some royal servants of the household attended, but nothing else was done for her.”

  Rage filled me as I listened. Margaret Beaufort never left anything to chance, and this disgraceful treatment of my mother bore her hand.

  “Patch, I need you to get word to King Henry that if he cares for my well-being, and that of his unborn child, he must come to me immediately on a matter of great urgency! He must tell no one, not Morton, and not his lady mother.”

  I paced in my chamber as I waited, wringing my hands. When next I looked up, Henry stood at the threshold of my chamber door.

  “What is so important that I must be drawn out of a council meeting?” he snapped.

  “Pray, shut the door,” I called out to the man-at-arms. But before he could do so, Margaret Beaufort appeared in the doorway.

  “What’s this I hear?” she fumed. “You summoned the king? On what matter?”

  “My lord, this is between you and me. Send your mother away, I pray you.”

  “What do you mean—send me away? How dare you?” Margaret Beaufort exclaimed, rustling forward.

  I clutched Henry’s sleeve. “If you wish to save me and your unborn child, send your mother away!”

  Henry took a moment, then turned to her. “My dear lady, whatever it is, we shall not know until we are alone with our queen.”

  “Well, indeed, am I to be excluded now that I have plucked you a crown? After all my suffering and sacrifice, is this how I am to be treated?” She looked angrily from Henry to me.

  “Madame, pray, I beg you, let me have a word with the queen in private.”

  Margaret Beaufort glared at him a long moment. Then she swished her train and swept from the room.

  “Thank you, Henry,” I said when she was gone.

  “What is this about?”

  I braced myself and lifted my chin. “I have been a dutiful wife to you, my lord. I have been fruitful. Rarely have I asked you for anything. I mend my own gowns and never complain or beg you for money, if I can avoid it. But my mother is dead, and her body has been borne to her resting place in the darkness of night, on a cart, like a common felon. I beg you to remember that whatever she was, whatever she did, however much your mother hated her, she is still my mother. Your lady mother believes you owe your throne to her and that you must abide by her wishes in all things, but it is you and I who shall be blamed for my mother’s shameful treatment. I demand that you, as king, and as my lord husband, rectify this dishonor. If not, I fear God may see fit to punish us for it.”

  Henry stared at me in disbelief. This was the first time in my marriage that I’d spoken out forcefully.

  “What do you wish me to do? She is already buried.”

  “I would like you to give her a funeral mass and allow my sisters and me to attend.”

  Henry mulled this for a moment in his cautious manner. Then he nodded his head. I sank into my chair and laid a hand to my brow with relief as he left me.

  In the presence of Cecily, Kate, and Grace, a mass was conducted at Windsor on Wednesday for the repose of my mother’s soul, and her body was laid to rest in St. George’s Chapel, beside my father. In the end, I had not been allowed to attend. I was enceinte, after all, and the health of a royal heir was at stake. In this, Margaret Beaufort had her way.

  On the second day of July, 1492, I was delivered of a girl that Henry named Elizabeth, after me. She was a small babe compared to Arthur, Margaret, and Henry, and her cry was more a whimper than a full-fledged wail. But she seemed healthy, and for that we offered many thanks to the Blessed Virgin.

  In September, after my churching, Henry gave me permission to visit my mother’s tomb. I knelt at the foot of her marble vault, bowed my head, and spoke to her silently in my heart. You were a fatal queen, Mother, and many came to mourn your elevation—your father, brothers, sons, and your husband. Even I, Mother—I, who live, yet am not alive. If you could speak, what would you say now? Have you learned wisdom? Would you say that early death is happin
ess? That favored are they who are not left to learn that length of life is length of woe? Is that what you would say, Mother?

  I pressed the ground with a light touch. Here lies a broken heart at rest, I thought, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. I rose to my feet and returned to Margaret Beaufort, who stood in the arched entrance, watching, waiting.

  THE OCTOBER MORNING WAS DISMAL, LADEN WITH memories of brighter times, and in my depressed spirits, I turned to music to bring back the past that lived in my heart.

  “The Spanish ambassador requests an audience, Your Grace,” Lucy Neville said softly, when I had ended my song.

  “With me?” I set aside my lute in puzzlement. No one ever wished an audience with me, for they knew that I was helpless and real power lay with Henry’s mother. And de Puebla was an important and busy man: the ambassador not only from Spain, but also from the pope, the Catholic kings, and the emperor of the Romans as well. Recovering my composure, I said, “Pray, have him enter.”

  I rose, moved to the fireplace, smoothed my black velvet skirt, and fluffed up the fur of my collar to hide a worn edge.

  “Your Grace,” Doctor de Puebla said, flourishing his plumed cap. “Forgive me, my queen, but I must say that to visit your chambers is to enter Heaven, for angelic beauty is everywhere to be seen”—he looked around at my antechamber, crowded with the thirty-two attendants Margaret Beaufort had set to watch me— “and the most exquisite voice greets one’s ear on his approach.” His gaze rested on my lute, and then again on me. “Your beauty is such that a man may be forgiven if he forgets the urgent matter that brings him into such a royal and heavenly presence.”

  “Doctor de Puebla,” I laughed, “is this how you won over my lord husband, King Henry, who is not given to easy friendship? He meets with you in his private quarters when no one else is present, and you assist in the deliberations of his council. I know of no other man in whom he places such trust.”