The King's Daughter (Rose of York)

by Worth, Sandra

  “Now I am being flattered,Your Grace.”

  “What may I do for you, my dear Doctor de Puebla?”

  “I have received a letter from my sovereigns, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain. ’Tis addressed to you.”

  “To me?” No one ever wrote to me. They wrote to Henry, to Margaret Beaufort, to Morton, even to Reginald Bray, that ardent and ruthless Lancastrian. But never to me. I was the invisible queen and could do nothing for them.

  “ ’Tis expressly for you, on a matter of great importance to the Christian world, and I come to request a state audience to read you the missive they have sent you.”

  I was baffled and flattered at the same moment. Isabella and Ferdinand considered me so important that they addressed their letter to me! The reading of such a document from one monarch to another was a state occasion, and all the court would witness the honor they did me. I raised my eyes to de Puebla, and sudden realization dawned. ’Tis at his request that his sovereigns write me! The dear man was attempting to rectify Margaret Beaufort’s rude treatment of me by offering the court—and Henry—a discreet reminder that I was the true queen. He was doing what he could to elevate my standing with Henry and his nobles.

  The warmth I always felt in his presence washed over me in a flood. We had a bond, he and I, for we were both outsiders: I, for my Plantagenet blood, and he, for his Jewish blood, if not his deformity. For I had long suspected that de Puebla was of Jewish extraction, perhaps even a converso.

  My eyes grew moist. “My honorable Doctor,” I replied,“I pray you to advise King Henry that I await with great pleasure the royal letter to me from your noble sovereigns, King Ferdinand. ’Tis my hope that we may receive it tomorrow evening in the State Chamber before dinner.” Rumor had it that the ambassador was always pressed for funds, for his royal masters often forgot to pay his salary, obliging him to take a room at an inn of ill repute and his meals in a tavern, for that was all he could afford. “Pray, stay to dinner this evening, Doctor de Puebla?”

  He gave me a low bow of acceptance. And I wondered why it was that in this world of ours, good men were made to suffer, while the wicked flourished. Then I chastised myself, for only God had the answer, and it was not for us to ask.

  IN THE CROWDED STATE CHAMBER, SEATED ON OUR thrones and surrounded by our nobles and archbishops, as Henry’s mother stood at my right-hand side, looking dour, I received Doctor de Puebla. The flare of torches reflected off the colorful glazed tiled floor as the good doctor unfurled the letter from his monarch. After addressing me as the most serene and potent princess, in formal language with many flourishes to denote respect and affection, de Puebla came to the thrust of the missive his king had sent.

  “The very high and powerful prince, King Ferdinand of Spain, our lord and master, has made great progress in the war against the Moors and has conquered the town of Baca, in the kingdom of Granada. As his victory must interest all Christian monarchs, he considers it his duty to inform Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth of England.”

  There was a great murmuring, and then loud applause. De Puebla gave a deep bow of acknowledgment. After thanking him formally with the same elaborate language he had used for me, I lifted my eyes to his in a special thanks all my own, from one heart to another. The old ambassador, his empty sleeve tucked into his belt, gave me a smile of understanding.

  “If I may be permitted your indulgence for one moment longer, Your Highnesses,” de Puebla said in his most ambassadorial tone,“I have here someone who has come from the court of Spain amid much travail but with the blessing of his majesties, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, to seek your favor for a great enterprise, one that holds promise of fabulous riches in reward.” He turned to Henry, and waited.

  Henry gave a nod, and amid a blare of clarions the herald’s voice called out “Bartholemew Columbus!” A stout, broad-shouldered man strode into the hall, clad in modest dress of brown wool, scantily furred, with a belt and dagger of simple silver and high leather boots, much worn with use.

  “Your Majesties,” he said, kneeling before us. “I am glad of heart to be here before you, for I have braved shipwreck, storms at sea, and a bout with pirates that made me doubt I would ever see the shores of England.”

  He presented his credentials to Henry and told of his brother, Christopher, on whose behalf he came to seek Henry’s financial backing for a great voyage of discovery to what he called “the New World.”

  “Such a voyage is expensive,” said Henry.

  “To secure great riches, a king must sometimes incur expense,” replied Columbus. “Were it not for Marco Polo, we would not have the Silk Road and the wealth it has poured into royal coffers, sire.”

  “Indeed, you make a good point,” Henry replied. “I shall consider your brother’s venture with my council.” Clarions sounded again and a name was called that stirred vague memories.

  “Father John Rouse, chantry priest of the Earls of Warwick!”

  I glanced at Henry, and saw that his face had darkened. This was the priest whose praise of Richard during his lifetime as England’s noble monarch had so angered him. The man must have good reason to show his face at Henry’s court. Curiosity moved me forward on my throne.

  “Sire . . . my queen,” the monk said, bowing before us. “I come to present to you a new history I have written titled The History of the Kings of England. I have seen the errors of my ways and have corrected much of what I wrote during King Richard’s reign. Those earlier volumes have been destroyed, and this new account replaces them with the truth.”

  “Indeed? What truth did you find that might gain my favor?”

  “I have amended my description of Richard III to clarify him as a monster born. Sire, if I may read—”

  Henry gave a nod.

  Rouse flourished open a large manuscript: “King Richard III was born after two years in the womb with a set of gnashing teeth, hair down to his shoulders, a tail, talons, and a hump.” He looked up at Henry nervously.

  “You outdo yourself, Rouse, with the charms of your new book,” Henry said, a sly grin on his face.

  Rouse broke into a broad smile. As he bowed obsequiously, I was reminded of the little Italian whom Henry was planning to engage for a new “history” of England.

  “You may place your new version in Archbishop Morton’s hands. I am certain he will find a use for it in the new history of England’s kings that we shall undertake shortly.”

  My heart sank in my breast. Richard had gone to his death believing he had nothing left to lose but the crown he had never wished to wear. Now he was losing his good name and the honor for which he’d sacrificed all his life. For Morton’s account of Richard’s reign was sure to be malicious and thick with lies.

  At the feast later that evening, a troubadour related tales of love and sang a song he called “October”—

  ’Tis October, when falling leaves remind me of you . . .

  ’Tis October, when I wait, cold and alone

  For love to find me.

  But love shall never come again,

  For you are gone forever

  And forever ’tis October for me.

  Overcome with emotion, I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I saw de Puebla regarding me with an expression of infinite compassion. Aye, my dear ambassador, you know too much of the griefs of this world—

  I gave him a smile, and then I shut my eyes again, plagued by a depth of weariness. It had been another long day.

  “YOUR AUNT HAS OFFICIALLY RECOGNIZED THE PRETENDER as your brother,” Henry grumbled to me in my chamber.

  “For hatred of you, she recognized a scullery knave as my cousin,” I replied, referring to the impostor who had impersonated Edward, Earl of Warwick, in Lincoln’s rebellion. “Do not fault me, my lord. There is naught I can do about it. She hates me and returns my letters unread.” The letters your mother dictates to me, I added to myself.

  “I don’t wish to fight. ’Tis expensive, and avails us naught, for the
re is little chance of victory.”

  No, you would not wish to arm your subjects with weapons that might be turned against you, I thought.

  “Perhaps you should do as my father did. Make a pretense of war, invade France, get Charles of France to sue for peace and offer you riches to return to England.” I made my comment absently, half in jest, more intent on my embroidery than on the words I spoke, for I had almost completed the Order of the Garter sash that was to be Henry’s Yuletide gift. I examined the motto I had stitched: Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense. Evil to him who thinks evil. The golden letters were clearly visible against the blue silk. I smoothed the fabric, wondering if Henry wished to remind everyone that the evils of the Tower awaited those who thought evil of him.

  Henry rose from the window seat and gazed down at me with eyes alight. I realized I had used the magical word riches.

  “What a splendid idea! A pretense, aye. It need not cost much. A few skirmishes, a siege or two. That might be all it takes. I could even demand that Charles pay the cost of my invasion and eject the boy pretender from his court.” He pressed my shoulder with a gentle touch.

  Within two weeks Henry was ready to leave for Calais. He had me garnish his helmet and place it on his head in full view of the public, for such doings delighted the people. After a few skirmishes and sieges of Boulogne, he sued for peace. Charles VIII, more anxious to invade Italy than fight the English, readily agreed to all Henry’s terms, including ousting the pretender from his court. The treaty was signed on the third day of November, and the war was over before it was fought. The French and the Bretons paid his expenses of seven hundred twenty-five gold crowns in fifteen yearly installments, and renewed the annuity they had paid to my father. The armies were upset that they had no chance for plunder, but Henry had won a victory and much wealth.

  “Like my father,” I smiled when I greeted Henry on his return just before Yule of 1492. “You have saved lives and made money.”

  “Indeed, I have. And you have a good head on those elegant shoulders of yours, my dear Elizabeth,” said Henry.

  It was a grand compliment, one he’d never given me before, and his tone held a note of flirtation. Oh if I could claim just a piece of his heart, how much good I could do! My cousin Edward might be freed from the Tower. A tombstone might be secured for Richard’s grave. So much could be done for my people! Hope flared in my breast.

  CHAPTER 20

  False for True, 1493

  “ARTHUR! O MY ARTHUR,” I CRIED, BARELY ABLE TO contain my joy. My son had come to pass Yule of 1492 with us at Sheen. He looked such a little man in his velvets and plumes. “See how you’ve grown! You’re so tall now.”

  “I am six, Mama,” he said proudly, drawing himself up to his full height.

  Suffused with happiness, in the privacy of my chamber, I kissed his dear face and marveled at his beauty. I gave him my news about King Ferdinand’s letter to me, and the Spanish ambassador’s many kindnesses, his poverty, and how I wished I could help him, and I told him of the petitioners I had recently seen.

  “There was one who sheltered the poor. His house burned down and he begged my help to build another. I found funds to give him, but that meant I had to turn away many others.” I thought sadly about those who came begging for work, and the two gaunt nuns in dire poverty whose request for funds I’d had to deny. “I have so little money, and though I mend my own gowns and cut corners every way I can, there is never enough to do all that I wish.”

  Arthur’s gaze went to the tin buckles on my shoes. “When I am king,”Arthur said,“you shall not want, Mama. You’ll have silver buckles for your shoes and we’ll help all who need our aid.”

  “My sweet son,” I murmured, kissing his dark curls. “Now, tell me: have you studied hard?”

  He nodded his head vigorously. “I have learned much, Mama—I finished Livy’s History of Rome, and I know all about the siege of Troy and the feats of arms of Alexander. I have read Caesar’s invasion of Gaul for tactics, strategy, order of battle—” He broke off, trying to remember. “The laying of sieges . . . the management of men. From the secreta, I have learned how to behave on the battlefield.”

  “What is the secreta?” I asked, wishing to hear him speak more. His sweet voice betrayed all the tenderness of his years.

  “Alexander the Great’s own rule book, Mama. It has taught me not to risk my own person and not to follow the enemy when it flees. I am to camp near water, and before giving battle I must check that Leo is in the ascendant, and Mercury in midheaven.”

  “Very wise indeed,” I said in my most admiring tone.

  ON TWELFTH NIGHT, I FOUND MYSELF STANDING FORLORNLY at my window, watching my sweet boy depart for Wales. As always, it took me weeks to recover from the loss of his dear presence. In his stead, I was visited by my husband. Henry, in turmoil over the pretender, sought my company often in order to soothe his mind from the ill tidings that streamed to him.

  “This is all your aunt’s doing,” Henry told me one cold evening as eighteen-month-old Harry played at my feet with his toy knights.

  He took a seat by the fire. “Charles sent the pretender from France, as he promised to do by the terms of our treaty, but now the feigned boy has disappeared yet again. It shall take months to learn his whereabouts.”

  Harry, who had been watching us, frowned, almost as if he understood the reason for his father’s dismay. Then, with a single forceful blow, he knocked down his little army of enemy knights and yelled, “Bad!” Looking up at us, he flashed us a triumphant grin. Henry and I shook with laughter.

  SPRING TWITTERED AND BLEATED WITH NEW LIFE all around us, and bright fields replaced the muted shades of winter. One day in April, Henry let out an oath as he read a missive.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Remember that fellow de Puebla introduced to us? His brother returned to Spain from his voyage west, laden with treasure!”

  “How is that possible? In October, he still didn’t have funding.”

  “When Bartholemew Columbus came to ask our aid, he didn’t know his brother Christopher had already sailed, with help from Spain.”

  But news about explorers and the riches then had amassed paled in comparison to tidings about the pretender. Although Henry and I had grown close amid the insecurities that preyed on his mind, I could not get him to consider easing the imprisonment of Edward of Warwick. Even so, I was able to obtain a precious concession, dear to my heart, on a matter I had never previously dared to raise: a headstone for Richard’s unmarked grave.

  “He was a king, after all,” I said. “As you are, Henry.”

  Summer announced itself with the advent of May. In fields near Westminster and in the palace garden, young men put up Maypoles, attaching the gilded wheel with its colored streamers to a stout oak post. That afternoon, a picnic was held on the banks of the river and people made merry, with revels in the warm sun. But I was weary and strangely despondent. I went to my room to rest, and there, in solitude, I watched my sister Kate and the other maidens twine the ribbons as they danced below my window.

  How happy everyone is.

  I remembered my first May Day after sanctuary, a dark time, drenched in mourning, when love was an ember billowing into flame, and my blood soared with unbidden memories—

  As the dance ended, my gaze went to Kate’s shining head. She had approached a fair-haired, well-made young man clad in tawny velvet cloth. I recognized William Courtenay, son of Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. Even from my high chamber I could tell she blushed as she laughed at something he said and accepted a flower from him. So that is how it is, sweet Kate; you’ve fallen in love. In spite of my low spirits, I smiled.

  That evening, when Henry appeared in my chamber, I took his arm and led him to my settle. We were alone except for a minstrel. Patch was in the antechamber entertaining my ladies-in-waiting, Kate had gone for a stroll in the garden with William Courtenay, and I’d sent the children to the nursery.

  “I can tel
l,” he said, his mouth twitching at the corner,“that you want something from me, my fair lady.”

  “I do, indeed, Henry. ’Tis something joyful, to banish care and this dismal talk of the pretender.”

  “I stand before you all ears, like a donkey, my lady.”

  “You sound like Patch,” I said with a smile.

  “As long as I don’t look like him,” Henry replied.

  I laughed. “Indeed, you need have no fear of that.”

  When I informed Kate that Henry had granted her permission to wed Courtenay, she burst into a flood of tears and hugged me tightly.

  “How did you know I love him?” she asked when she could speak again.

  “Love is not hard to read, dear heart. But I hold you to one condition. That you not wed until you’re at least eighteen.”

  Kate’s face fell, as she burst into tears again.

  “That’s years from now!” she sobbed. “Who knows if I’m still alive?”

  “My sister, time passes too swiftly. Why rush into marriage? Enjoy your maidenhood.”

  But her sobs grew louder. I could not bear to see her weep, and drew her close in an embrace.

  “What if the pretender wins?” she asked. “Then all will change again. I am so afraid, dear Elizabeth!”

  What if—

  No, I could not bear for her to lose her heart’s desire.

  “The truth is it would break my heart to see you gone from court, Kate.”

  She looked up brightly. “Ah, but that is easily remedied! We shall stay here, with you.”

  Three months later, as Kate turned fourteen, church bells rang in celebration all over England. For there was a royal wedding at Greenwich that summer.

  FROM FRANCE, THE PRETENDER RETURNED TO MY aunt’s court in Flanders. Aunt Margaret gave him a personal guard dressed in the blue and wine colors of the House of York, and from there, he watched and waited for his opportunity to invade England. Henry was distraught and grumbled ceaselessly; it was not long ago that he himself had done the same in Brittany, and now he sat the throne.