I remembered what Henry had put out about Richard murdering my brothers, and now here he was, sleepless with fear that my brother Dickon still lived. One of my brothers had eluded Margaret Beaufort’s grasp. Had she and Morton succeeded in murdering both, Henry would not be so anxious at the whisper of a pretender, so tormented by doubts.
A shudder ran through me. The pretender could be Dickon.
“You are cold, my dear,” Henry said. He rose, removed my furred mantle from its peg in the corner of the room, and set it on my shoulders. “ ’Tis a chilly night.”
I took his arm, and we made our way to the solar.
MY CHILDREN’S VOICES FLOATED TOME FROM A SMALL alcove off the royal library as I passed along the hall. I drew near to listen. Arthur had stayed longer this year in order to attend his aunt’s wedding, which had brought me great comfort. He sat at a table with a book open before him, while Maggie lounged on a window seat and Harry sat on the floor, cross-legged, strumming the lute his father had given him for Yule. In a corner out of my line of sight, Lizbeth was cooing to her puppy.
“Treason is when you try to kill the king,” Arthur was saying.
“Why did Uncle William try to kill father?” asked Harry.
“He had his own ideas about who should rule,” Arthur replied, throwing an uncomfortable glance at the varlet sweeping ash from the fireplace.
“What’s going to happen to him?” Harry asked.
“He’ll be executed,” Maggie said from the window seat. “Isn’t that right, Arthur?”
“We don’t know yet. It depends on what Father decides.”
“Why wouldn’t Father want to kill him, when he wanted to kill Father?” demanded Harry.
“ ’Tis not always so simple, Harry,” Arthur said. “A king must consider mercy whenever he can, especially with family.”
A screech of delight erupted from Lizbeth as she chased her puppy across the room. “Mama!” Lizbeth cried, catching sight of me. She ran to me, grabbed me tightly around the skirts. “I love, love you, love you! I love Father, too.”
Her wide blue eyes, blue as periwinkles, gazed up at me. I knelt down and hugged my sweet two-year-old daughter to my heart.
We learned Henry’s decision soon enough. Execution.
LORD THOMAS STANLEY’S PLEAS FOR HIS BROTHER’S life fell on deaf ears. Henry was not Richard, and he was too well aware of the Stanley policy of survival through the Wars of the Roses: divide and conquer. Place one brother on one side, the other on the opposite side, and the winner would extract the loser from his troubles. It was a strategy that had paid handsome dividends. The Stanleys not only had survived nearly forty years of bloodshed, but had thrived and grown rich where better men had perished.
Yet Sir William Stanley evoked my sympathy. Turncoat and traitor might aptly describe his brother, Thomas, but not him. He had remained true to his Yorkist roots through good times and ill, ever since the first troubles with Lancaster. He withdrew his support of Richard when my brothers disappeared, for he came to believe that Richard had murdered them. Only then did he transfer his loyalties—but not to Lancaster and Henry. To me. With my brothers supposedly murdered, he saw me as the true claimant of the House of York.
One evening after Kate’s wedding, as Henry sat by the fire in my bedchamber with his head in his hands, I touched him lightly on the sleeve. “Is there anything I can do for you, Henry?”
He looked up with anguished eyes. “I honored him, and he betrayed me. Now I understand how Richard felt.”
I was taken aback. This was the first time Henry had called Richard by his name instead of an epithet. “Pardon William, Henry,” I pleaded. “ ’Tis sin to take a life, and how will it go for your lady mother if you execute him?”
“I am inclined to follow your counsel, my dear, were it not for one thing.” He gave me a wry smile. “My lady mother urges me to execute William.”
I stared at him. William was family to her; many dinners had they taken together, many a cup of wine had they shared! But why should I be surprised at such callousness in Margaret Beaufort? Had she not given me cause to know her well?
“She tells me mercy is a weakness a king cannot afford, and I must execute Stanley. If I do not, I place myself in danger, like Richard whose pardons encouraged treason and toppled him from the throne.” Softly, he added,“After all, had he executed my mother after her first treason, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
I lowered my lashes. “Henry, you owe William for Bosworth. Grant him pardon. A life for a life.”
Henry inhaled a long, audible breath and let it out slowly. He rose, went to the fireplace, and stood with a hand on the mantel, staring at the flames. “In executing William I chop off the head of the beast. The pretender has no one to speak for him now, and his venture is doomed.”
“All the more reason to grant William his life. He can’t harm you in prison.”
“Ah, you have a short memory, my dear. The Earl of Oxford was imprisoned for ten years in the Fortress of Hammes before he escaped to win me the battle of Bosworth. ’Tis but another example of Richard’s reluctance to take a life that in the end cost him his own.”
“I—”
Henry held up his hand. “No one will dare partake of rebellion when the king executes a member of his royal family. Morton put it most aptly—in terror lies my security. Besides,William Stanley is a rich man, and there is his fortune to consider.”
I looked away so Henry would not see my aversion to this last thought. An image of my darling Arthur rose before me; he, who held such great promise of goodness, generosity, chivalry, kindness. I could not save England from my husband, but I would save it with my son.
On the sixteenth day of February, 1495, at six in the morning, Sir William Stanley was publicly beheaded on Tower Hill to the shock and amazement of the crowds, who felt certain there would be a last-minute reprieve. Harry had begged to be allowed to watch, and he did so with excitement. I had argued against it, for Harry seemed to revel too much in the heads of traitors dripping fresh blood, and always pointed out with glee the ones he had known. But Henry said it would make him a man.
As I passed the nursery later that day, I heard Harry’s nurse, Anne Oxenbridge, whispering to a companion,“Why in Heaven’s name would Stanley risk all to encourage an impostor? It makes no sense!”
I drew to a halt and tried to crush the thought that came to me. Unless he is not an impostor. My mother’s espousal of the rebellion had cost her everything she had valued on earth. Now William Stanley had given all he owned to my brother’s cause. They had both been convinced that he lived. I felt faint and giddy, but forced myself to inhale deeply. Summoning all my courage, I steeled myself against the doubts and resumed my steps forward.
CHAPTER 21
A Divine Prince, 1495
“WHICH GOWN WILL YOU WEAR TODAY?” LUCY NEVILLE asked.
“My black velvet,” I sighed. Almost without exception since my marriage, it was one of the black ones; I had no heart for anything else. Henry had gone on a relentless killing spree. He executed my father’s bow-maker, a clerk of my father’s jewel house, a nephew of one of my long-serving childhood nurses, and Richard Harliston, an old servant of my father’s for spreading word that Richard of York was alive. The poor old man had been hung and disemboweled at Tyburn. In Suffolk and in the Cumbrian Fells, several Knights of the Body to my father were also rounded up and executed, men I knew well.
Some of the conspirators had sent money to Flanders. They had secret signs and code words to recognize one another: bent ducats, silver lances, pairs of gloves. Several of the attainders issued were for receiving letters from the pretender, and some for writing back. A vision of Johnnie of Gloucester rose up before my eyes, struggling in the grip of Henry’s men, his young face contorted in terror as they took him to the Tower, never to be seen again. What had he done indeed? Naught, yet enough. A letter from Ireland had been delivered to his door.
Others consigned to hang came f
rom my grandmother Cecily’s household. One of them had connections to the royal nursery maids—women who, as my Aunt Margaret had told the pope, would know Richard, Duke of York, without a second thought. My grandmother had turned eighty in May, and many who served her were as old as she.
I yearned to hear from my grandmother’s own lips how she had borne the travails of her life, for prayer did not always dispel my heavy spirits these days. Her ancient years proved only one thing to me: length of life is length of woe. After burying eleven of the thirteen children born to her, including all of her sons and the husband she had adored, she had embraced the Benedictine order and remained in seclusion at her castle of Berkhamsted. I wished to visit her, but knew it was as useless to go to Berkhamsted as it had been to Bermondsey. We would not be able to talk in private, nor would she wish to see me, after what Henry had done.
In these days, I often wondered, too, about the Countess of Warwick. Old, poor, and alone, deprived of all whom she had ever loved, she had resorted to the laws courts to get back Middleham, that stone repository of her happy memories. When she won, Henry made her sign the property over to him. That was the last I knew of her. I drew a long sigh. Henry always left a trail of tears in his wake for those whose lives touched his.
To secure his mind, Henry relied on spies and torture and sought comfort in Morton’s assurances that the people had a short memory, and those that dared snort at his ancestry would be silenced forever in the dreaded Tower. Morton was cardinal now, and a man reviled in England for his evil deeds. Each time I saw him together with Henry, I had the strange sensation I was gazing on the devil and the soul he was luring into his lair.
I understood that behind Henry’s ruthlessness stood a terror of losing what Fortune had dropped there, and behind his avarice a fear of being in want. But I hated his ruthlessness, and despised his avarice.
Queen Anne’s words came back to me across the years. You have to decide what you will stand for, fight for, die for . . .
And Henry had decided.
“You are ready, my queen,” Lucy said, stepping back. She had pinned my sapphire brooch to my bodice and had arranged my hair with a gold headband and a veil.
With a nod, I led the way to the hall where my petitioners awaited me.
AS THE CONSPIRACIES GREW, HENRY WATCHED THEM, cautiously and keenly. He had perfected the network of spies that had helped him win the throne, and these infiltrated every corner of England. They were monks, friars, trumpeters, pursuivants, even noblemen. Irish, Scots, English, even French, they swarmed over England and over foreign soil, invisible and nameless.
But each time the pretender’s name came up, Henry could not restrain an emotional outburst. Ten years after Bosworth, he still could not be sure he would not end as Richard had, his corpse treated foully, thrown on the back of a horse, dumped into a horse trough and buried in a nameless grave. Henry had said he would sacrifice all to keep the crown, and he had. He had sacrificed his soul.
“Majesty,” de Puebla said one day, bowing low, “my sovereigns instruct me to tell you that bearing in mind what happens every day to kings of England, ’tis surprising they should even consider giving you their daughter.”
“Our throne is secure,” cried Henry. He pressed both hands to his heart as Lancelot was said to have done. “By the faith of our heart, the pretender is no prince, but merely a boy from Tournai. My spies have confirmed it.”
But I knew this was bluster. I exhaled an audible sigh as I made my way along the passageway to the royal chapel, aware of the emptiness at my elbow, the space normally occupied by my jailer, Margaret Beaufort. She had instructed her servants to pack her household, for she needed to return to her husband, Thomas, at Latham Hall before Lent. Torn by emotion, she had buried herself in prayer since the revelation of William’s treason.
I turned into the chapel, walked quietly up toward the altar, and knelt beside her. When she threw me a look of surprise, I gave her a kindly smile. I should have been celebrating her departure, but I could never withhold compassion from those who suffered. She gazed at me a long moment; then she nodded, her eyes misting.
I know she thought I sought God’s blessing on those I’d loved and lost. She didn’t realize that it was for her son’s immortal soul I came to pray.
FROM MY WINDOW HIGH AT GREENWICH, I WATCHED my son, four-year-old Henry, romp in the sunshine with his nurse. Heavyset, with reddish-gold hair and a happy demeanor, my “divine prince” as he was often called, bore little resemblance to the father for whom he was named. Yet he troubled me. Often, when he turned his gaze on Arthur, I caught an unpleasant expression in his eyes that reminded me of my Uncle Clarence.
“Everyone says Harry resembles our father. Is that true?” Kate asked, moving to my side at the window. I drew my skirts back to make room for her, and regarded her tenderly. She’d been but a babe when Papa had died, and never tired of hearing about him. I said softly,“Time will tell.”
Kate turned to watch him as he ran after a ball across the green, and I moved to my embroidery frame. I had not made many stitches before she gave a cry and leapt from the window seat.
“You’d better come and see this!” she exclaimed.
I rushed to her side. Harry stood before a gardener, laughing uproariously. The man’s clothes and shovel lay at his feet, for he had taken off his shoes and stripped down to his undershirt. Harry said something to him then and he, with evident reluctance, removed his undershirt so that he stood naked to the waist.
“God’s teeth!” I cried.
Running out of the chamber, I fled down the tower stairs and raced across the green, past the flower beds to where Harry stood with the gardener and his nurse. The fellow was as red as the root of a beet.
“My l-lord,” he was stammering,“I beg you—”
“What is happening here?” I demanded breathlessly.
The man dropped to a knee. “Your Grace, Prince Harry requires that I—I—”
“Take off his hose!” laughed Henry.
It was my turn to blush. I swung on Harry’s nurse for an explanation.
“Your Grace, I tried to stop Lord Harry from issuing such commands, but he would have his way!”
I looked at my child. “This shameful behavior must end, Harry. This time you shall indeed be punished. Bring him to my chamber and send for the whipping boy. Dress yourself, Master Gardener.”
The whipping boy arrived in my chambers a few minutes later. He was a fair-haired, frightened child of four chosen for his resemblance to Harry. I gave a nod and he was made to bend over. The man-at-arms laid bare his rear and took up a thick bundle of rushes tied at one end. He struck the child’s tender white buttocks. The boy screamed; I winced. Once, twice, three times—
The little fellow wept and pleaded for the punishment to stop, and Harry watched intently. I found the boy’s tears hard to bear, but steeled myself to sit through the punishment. When it was finally over and he was back on his feet again, I turned to Harry for his reaction.
“What have you to say?” I demanded.
“More!” Harry cried, pointing to the boy and laughing. “More, more!”
I rose to my feet in shock and dismay, unable to comprehend his lack of empathy. “Leave him with me,” I told his nurse. “And give the whipping boy marchpane.”
I knelt down, took Harry by the shoulders. “This is not entertainment, Harry. You are a prince, but the behavior you have exhibited is not noble. ’Tis important that a prince show concern and respect for others. Do you understand?”
“I want to play!” Harry cried. “I want marchpane, too!”
“You may not play for the rest of the day, and you shall not have marchpane. You shall sit here with me and read with Master Giles.” At a nod from me, the man-at-arms went to fetch his tutor.
“No, no!” Harry screamed, hurling himself at me and punching my legs with his small fists.
“Stop it, Harry!” I cried, struggling to grab his arms. Harry squirmed, screamin
g, and kicked at me with his boots. I loosened my grip as pain flashed in my knee. He wrenched free and threw himself on the floor, flailing and hurling his legs in the air, his face livid with anger, crying and screaming, “I want to shoot arrows! I want marchpane.”
I watched him with dismay. How different was this child from my beloved Arthur. I saw him in my mind’s eye, standing in the gloom of my doorway at three years of age when I was awaiting the birth of Margaret. He’d worn a plume in his little hat that day, a pure little prince from head to shiny toe. I had to admit to myself that I did not love Harry as I did Arthur. Everyone took him to be made in the image of my father, but my father must have been an affectionate, good-natured child. Harry, though beautiful, with a winning smile, was willful and had a fearful temper.
“I hate you!” he screamed at me, a look of pure venom on his little face.
Not long afterward, I caught him kicking his pup down the steps of the keep at Sheen. “Harry!” I cried, picking up the yelping dog that was trying to limp away from him as fast as it could. “Why did you strike this little pup?”
“I commanded him to sit, and he wouldn’t,” he said with a sulky expression.
I gave the pup over to a maid, who cuddled him against her bosom and carried him away. I took Harry’s hand in mine and led him to a bench in the garden where Lizbeth examined wildflowers in the grass while her nurse stood watch behind her.
“The pup is too young to know what you are saying, dear son. He must be taught gently,” I told Harry.
“He’d best make haste and learn if he knows what’s good for him,” Harry replied.
Lizbeth smiled at me from the lawn. Then she toddled over, her fists tightly pressed over something hidden. She collapsed against my skirts, laughing, and opened her hands to drop her cargo on my lap. It was a posy of purple flowers. “Mama!” she said, her sweet little face shining with pride.
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 29
