The King's Daughter (Rose of York)

by Worth, Sandra

  At Westminster, in November, while I was at my embroidery frame, Henry came to me. Though he understood he was no longer welcome in my bed since the executions, he still sought my company in the evenings. That was agreeable to me.

  He wore a smile on his face and was in bright spirits. “You know that de Puebla wrote Ferdinand and Isabella about Warwick and Warbeck?”

  I nodded. De Puebla had shown me the letter before he sent it, thinking it would please me. Never would I forget his words: After kissing the royal hands and feet of Your Highnesses, I cause you to know that not a drop of royal blood remains in this kingdom, except the true blood of the king and queen, and above all, that of the lord Prince Arthur.

  I laid down my needle and looked at Henry.

  “He has received a reply from Ferdinand and Isabella. They will send the princess Catherine of Aragon to England as soon as we are ready to receive her.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “How soon?”

  “As soon as the wedding preparations can be made.”

  “No!” I cried, rising to my feet. “Not before he is fifteen—you promised me, Henry!”

  “We need to secure this alliance as soon as possible.”

  “He is too young yet. Surely another year can’t make much difference?”

  “You’re asking me to wait on a matter of such urgency?”

  “I am only asking for you to keep your word. If honor still counts with you.” My voice had a bitter edge, for I remembered the shame of Tyrrell’s false safe conduct.

  Henry regarded me for a long moment. “I suppose we can wait a year. The new palace of Richmond will take that long to complete.”

  Suffused with relief, I sank back into my chair.

  “And you, madame, should try to curb your ill nature.” Turning on his heel, he left me.

  “And you, my cold arse of a lord, should try to find a heart,” I hissed under my breath, stabbing my needle through the silk.

  HENRY ORDERED WHOLESALE ARRESTS.

  “Suffolk’s friends and associates must be interrogated. All those who had accompanied him to the coast must be placed under arrest. Any suspicious person found near the coast must be imprisoned,” he told Bray.

  “ ’Tis time you resolved to rid yourself of all possible rivals, my son. Mercy is a weakness, and you have been far too lenient,” Margaret Beaufort said.

  I looked up with shock from St. Mathilde’s book that I was reading on the window seat. Lenient? Jesu, what perversion was this, to call Henry lenient? I trembled, for there was no doubt in my mind which rivals his mother meant. I came to my feet angrily.

  “I married you to stop the bloodshed, and you keep killing! When will it be enough—when?” I cried.

  Henry and his mother turned and looked at me. Clearly, they were unaware I was in the room. Once again, I was the forgotten queen. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Henry rose and took my hand.

  “My dear lady, remember Arthur,” he said. “Remember your son. ’Tis for his sake we do what we must.”

  We do what we must.

  There was no turning back.

  I inhaled a deep breath, too weary to argue. I left them and dragged myself to my chamber. As I approached Harry’s schoolroom, voices floated out to me. The door stood ajar. I halted in my steps to listen. I heard the name Suffolk.

  “You’ve read the Chronicles,” Skelton said. “This is an age-old problem that has an age-old solution. Can you tell me what it is?”

  Harry nodded his head. “Better that one man die than many perish.”

  I covered my mouth with my fist and fled past.

  I had requested from Skelton that he instill in Harry the ideals of noble and legendary heroes like Alexander and King Arthur. To his credit, even though he knew me to be without influence, he had attempted to do so. He preached to Harry—whose uncontrollable rages were known to all—that his head should rule his heart. But what good did it do when Harry witnessed Skelton rushing at his own enemies with uncontrolled vengeful hate, flinging himself into poetic attacks of utmost brutality and coarseness? Though he was a priest himself, it was said Skelton kept a wife, and, according to Patch, he avidly pursued the youngest, most helpless of the female servants. If they spurned him, he scoured them savagely with invective thinly disguised in pretty lyrics of Latin prose. The man seemed obsessed with fornication. To Skelton, women were either whores or goddesses. That I knew, for he idealized me in many flattering verses.

  Such a man is not a suitable tutor for Harry, but what can I do about it?

  Nothing.

  The answer was always the same. Nothing.

  I gripped St. Mathilde’s book to my breast. Once it had sustained those dearest to me. Bear what you must, I told myself, paraphrasing Mathilde’s words; forgive, and be comforted.

  WHEN YULETIDE FINALLY ARRIVED, I WAS JOYOUS and all the palace celebrated with me, for Arthur was coming, and he was beloved in the land for his many works of charity and his kind, thoughtful nature, even in his tender years. The only one who didn’t seem delighted was Harry. I couldn’t help noticing the cold, hard-eyed look on his face when he regarded his brother. He was beginning to remind me a great deal of my mother: possessed of beauty and charm, but also of a temperamental and envious nature. Or was it his other grandmother, Margaret Beaufort, that he resembled; she who had to come first before all others, who would let naught stand in her way; not even conscience? I banished my black thought.

  Once again, Arthur and I came into the presence chamber to find Harry on the throne, his friends flattened before him on all fours. I felt the blood drain from my face. Beside me Arthur paled.

  “What do you here, brother?” he demanded.

  Harry’s frightened friends rose and backed away.

  “ ’Tis a game of pretense, Arthur, nothing more,” replied Harry, making no effort to vacate the throne.

  Skelton had done this. His flattery of Harry’s accomplishments were sowing resentment in the boy and distorting his sense of place, raising the real possibility of future strife between the two brothers with its terrible consequences for the land. Feeling myself helpless and wishing to avoid confrontation, I had remained silent for four years and let Margaret Beaufort carry on as she wished. Now I realized I was the only one who could alter the course of future events. If I could find a way to reach Henry, he would put a stop to it. He would not want to hatch another Clarence. I decided to raise the matter with him as soon as Arthur left.

  I found myself dwelling on my eldest son with even softer eyes than usual during the pageants and festivities that marked Yuletide. In this new year of 1501, he would turn fifteen and marry. His wedding was set for November.

  Before Arthur left for Wales, Henry took us to the new palace where Sheen had stood. I dreaded going, for it was tied up in my mind with Perkin, and fire, and death. It had become evident that Perkin, desperate to kill either himself or Henry, had set the blaze that burnt down Sheen four years ago. My heart went out to Catherine Gordon, sitting on her black palfry, dressed in her widow’s weeds, and I thought of fireweed, the strange, lovely flower that grew only on the scars of ruin and flame.

  I tore my gaze from her and forced my eyes to the sight spread out before me. From the charred ashes of Sheen had risen the palace of Richmond that Henry had named for the earldom he had lost as a child.

  “ ’Tis like a second paradise,” Kate said.

  Indeed it was. Crowned by pinnacles and weathervanes of gilt and azure bearing the royal arms, the many-storied, multitowered palace of pink brick and stone glittered in the sunlight. The wide garden paths, though bare of flowers, were bordered with bushes and herbs laid in elaborate patterns. At the lower end of the garden stood butts for archery, courts for tennis, and houses for pleasure where we could play dice and chess on warm summer nights. Henry’s chamber had running water, and my new chapel was furnished with golden crucifixes, the floors carpeted with heavy Oriental rugs. All the ceilings were emblazoned with Tudor roses an
d Beaufort portcullis in gold. In the Great Hall, I stood at the bay window that opened out onto what would, in summer, be fair and fragrant gardens with exotic fruit trees and rambling vines.

  “My lord, this is the most beautiful palace I have ever seen,” I marveled. “It must have cost a royal ransom.”

  Henry smiled. “It did. But Spain has the Alhambra, built of red clay, which is said to be one of the wonders of the world. We must not seem poor to the Spanish princess.”

  At the mention of Spain, my smile faltered.

  HENRY SAT AT THE TABLE GOING OVER HIS ACCOUNTS with his treasurer, his monkey beside him on a chair, perusing Henry’s new memorandum book. They made a comic scene, but my spirits were too heavy for a smile.

  “Two shillings for a man who scared away crows around Sheen, is that not excessive?” Henry demanded. The monkey snickered.

  His treasurer mumbled something, and Henry moved to another item.

  “An entire pound for a woman who brought me cakes? ’Tis impossible I ate that many. She must either pay back the difference or bake us more cakes.” He signed the page, and his monkey smacked his lips. “Aye, you shall have some of those she brings, Prince.”

  On this day, for some strange reason, the sound of the name felt to me like an old wound ripped open. I inhaled a sharp breath.

  He looked up. “Dear lady, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “My lord, there is a matter of some urgency I wish to discuss with you.”

  Henry’s treasurer packed his books and withdrew, along with Henry’s attendants. I approached and stood before him. “I fear for Arthur,” I said.

  Henry lifted his brow and looked at me uncertainly.

  “Harry’s behavior is beginning to remind me of my Uncle Clarence,” I said.

  “How can that be?”

  “Jealousy drove Clarence to treason. He died trying to pluck the crown from my father’s head.”

  “Harry is a mere child,” Henry said dismissively. “How can you compare a ten-year-old with your Uncle Clarence?”

  “My uncle was once ten years old.”

  I had his attention, and I lost no time going over Harry’s behavior in detail.

  “I see,” Henry murmured thoughtfully when I was done.

  A few weeks later, he raised the subject with me in the privacy of my chamber.

  “I have given much thought to the matter we discussed,” he said, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed at me,“and have decided ’tis best Harry go to live in Derbyshire, far from the seat of government. I have purchased for him the castle of Codnore. ’Tis surrounded by extensive lands, manors, and the customary deer park. There, Harry shall enjoy a resplendent, but limited future. I am also considering entering him into the church once Arthur has a son and heir. He can be Archbishop of Canterbury. ’Tis a good life, and will curtail his political aspirations.”

  “What about Skelton? Shall he be dismissed?”

  “My mother assures me there is no cause for alarm. He has done nothing to warrant such disgrace.”

  My face must have fallen, for Henry added, “All is well, Elizabeth. Do not fret.”

  But worry, I did, and soon I was given vindication—and also more to worry about. On the twenty-eighth of August, Skelton unfurled a short treatise he’d written on how a king should rule, and presented it not to Arthur, but to Harry. Handwritten, in black, crimson, and gold, it seemed strangely menacing.

  “You dismissed my concerns, my lord, preferring to take your lady mother’s advice. Here now is proof of all I have tried to warn you about. Harry can become king only in the event of Arthur’s death—God forfend!” I crossed myself as sheer black fright swept through me. “Or by rebellion, as Clarence sought to do.”

  Henry’s face turned dark. “Not only will Skelton be dismissed, but he shall be taken to the Tower. A stint there should clear his wits.”

  Though Skelton was replaced by a new tutor, I was tormented by the damage he might already have done. Arthur was in robust health. If he’d been ailing, Ferdinand and Isabella would never have given their blessing to the marriage. But Skelton believed Harry would inherit the throne. How could that be?

  How?

  Much as I loved Harry, I also feared him. Self-centered and demanding, he had shown streaks of cruelty, and unlike Arthur, he lacked empathy and had no feeling for the suffering of others. I woke up in the night, drenched in sweat. Had pupil and tutor set some evil into motion? Did Skelton know something? Had someone set something afoot to get rid of Arthur and place Harry on the throne? Was a ten-year-old child capable of such scheming? Or were these fears merely the product of my own imagination and a life’s experience of the worst of humankind?

  I didn’t know. I forced my dreadful ramblings from my mind. To speak them aloud would be to give them life. But I cursed Skelton. He had filled Harry’s head with ideas that should never have been thought; spoken words that should never have been said.

  “HARRY, WILL YOU TAKE A SEAT BESIDE ME HERE ON the settle?”

  He came and flung himself down. I felt his rage seething within him.

  “Do I surmise correctly that you are upset over the dismissal of your tutor, Skelton?”

  He sat in stony silence, arms crossed, and did not look at me.

  “Harry, you must understand something very clearly. For your own welfare, and for the well-being of this great land of ours, Arthur will be king. You shall not rule.”

  “Master Skelton said I will,” he hissed.

  “Harry, that could only be through some terrible event—” Again that black chill; I crossed myself. “How can you wish ill on your brother?”

  He turned and looked at me then. “I don’t know him. He’s nothing to me. Master Skelton says I am more brilliant, and more suited to rule than he.”

  A cold shiver touched my spine. It was what Morton had told Buckingham, and Buckingham had revolted against Richard—after possibly murdering my brothers. This evil in Harry had to be nipped in the bud, or Blessed Mary, where would it end?

  “But God did not find you worthy to rule, Harry. He sent you to us after Arthur. Clearly, God designed Arthur for the throne, not you.”

  Harry leapt to his feet. “Arthur, Arthur!” he mocked. “Grandmother says I must take off my cap in Arthur’s presence, and keep it off until he deigns to tell me to put it back on! All I ever hear from you or my royal father is how perfect Arthur is! He’s your favorite—yours and Father’s. I count for nothing!”

  I stared at him in astonishment. “Harry, we love you very much. But you must accept that Arthur will be king, and you will not. ’Tis not God’s plan.”

  “Arthur shall have a throne in England, Margaret in Scotland, and Mary in France. What about me? I alone am without one! ’Tis not right. ’Tis not God’s will. Skelton said so!”

  The breath had gone out of me. My blood drained to my feet and I trembled like a leaf in an autumn storm. I quitted the room, forcing from my mind the image of my child as he raged, with his eyes protruding from his skull, his teeth tightly clenched, his small mouth stretched wide. Fury and hatred had made of him a fanged demon.

  CHAPTER 28

  Bright Star of Spain, 1501

  CECILY KNELT BEFORE ME. “I AM HERE TO BEG FORGIVENESS, my sister.”

  “I don’t understand, Cecily.”

  “I have wronged you all my life. I was jealous.”

  “Jealous of what?”

  “You had larger breasts than me.”

  We both laughed then, a hearty laugh filled with the angst of years, of memories shared, laden with joy and with sorrow. Abruptly, we fell silent and looked at one another. I put out my arms and she rose and fell into them. I heard a smothered sound and knew she wept. I smoothed her fair hair and kissed her brow.

  “Hush, dear Cecily, no need for tears. You are married to your squire and happy now, aren’t you?”

  She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, sniffling as she smiled. “I’m so happy, Elizabeth. In san
ctuary, all those years ago, I never thought to see the day come when Thomas and I would wed. ’Tis a dream.”

  “Thomas? Sanctuary?” I scarce believed what I heard.

  “I met Thomas Kyme there. He was one of our guards.”

  “I . . . never knew.”

  “No one did; we were very careful. Those were dangerous days. Then King Richard wed me to Ralph Scrope, and hope seemed forever lost.”

  “But I thought Viscount Welles was your choice? You had your marriage to Scrope dissolved so you could marry him.”

  “O sister, you are so innocent! Does anyone have their choice of anything when ‘that strong whore’ is around?”

  She said it lightly, expecting me to laugh, but I couldn’t. I was swept with guilt. “Cecily, that is still on my conscience. If I hadn’t mentioned it to you, you couldn’t have told Margaret Beaufort about him, and the poor man wouldn’t have been charged with treason and so heavily fined that he lost all his worldly goods.”

  She stared at me in bafflement. “But I didn’t tell her!”

  “How did she find out?”

  “A neighbor turned him in. On his return, they asked him whether he’d seen you, and he said, aye, and would have talked more with you but that strong whore chased him off. Elizabeth, I swear, ’tis how it happened!”

  Such a simple explanation had never occurred to me. I was suffused with shame for condemning Cecily without giving her the chance to explain. All my life I had avoided confrontation so much that I rarely voiced thoughts when they were unpleasant. This time my fault had cost us much. I embraced my sister. “O Cecily. I am glad you came, and glad we spoke of this, and I know the truth at long last. Can you forgive me?”

  She gave me another hug in response. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I thought you liked Henry’s mother?”

  “No,” Cecily whispered back. “She liked me because I hated Richard for marrying me to Scrope, and I didn’t see why he didn’t make you wed Scrope instead. Welles lusted for me, and she arranged the whole thing with him.”