Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  ‘I would have you shake hands...like brothers. This dispute…is one to be had by beggars and bawds. Unity. My son needs...needs unity in his government.’

  Hastings crinkles his nose ever so slightly.

  ‘Now! Shake hands, damn you.’

  This they do, over the rise and fall of their King’s chest, though there is a familiar twinkle of mendacity in Dorset’s almond eyes.

  ‘Richard? Where is Rich?’

  Mother stiffens visibly at the mention of the man I know she has so little affection for. ‘He is in the north and methinks you know it.’

  ‘My brother of Gloucester will be Lord Protector, to care for our son and the realm until the boy is of an age to rule. I know you would have favoured…favoured your own Anthony, Lis, but this will be best. For everyone.’

  ‘No, Edward, no. You cannot appoint Gloucester protector. My family—’

  ‘Lis, please… Do not…not cause a struggle in this.’

  Two days later, King Edward IV of England grows cold and stiff in death’s embrace.

  ‘Why is not Ed here, Lady Mother?’ I dare to ask a few days later, as my sisters and I sit gathered in the Dowager Queen’s chambers. She has often summoned us to sit with her on the pallets arranged by the fireplace, to read or converse or practice our needlework—I am impossible with embroidery, always pricking my fingertips bloody. This time, we have sat in silence so far, save for Kate’s occasional little exclamations about this and that.

  Mother appears captivated by the flames licking the logs, chinks of gold and russet red reflecting in her eyes. ‘It will take a little while to bring him to London from Ludlow. My poor boy… Your Uncle Anthony will take proper care of him till then, I daresay.’

  Anne brushes a stray garland of ash blonde hair from her forehead. ‘I read in a book once that King Richard II suffered a disastrous minority. What if that happens to Ed? And I read that—’

  ‘Oh, Anne! Can’t you see Mother is distressed? We must not bother her,’ Elizabeth cuts off in a low voice, clutching the older woman’s sinewy fingers.

  ‘Apple of mine eye,’ Mother says. It is the first time since Father died that I have seen a shadow of a smile on her lips. ‘Anne is right. This is not an excuse to fade away into obscurity. We are Woodvilles, remember that; you are of my blood. Woodvilles find a way to win, and if not win then survive. Always.’

  ‘Always!’ Kate mimics, extracting a trickle of laughter from Anne and myself. Still, the shroud of graveness settles over us once more.

  ‘But they don’t approve of Woodvilles,’ I say. ‘The nobles. They never did, did they, Lady Mother?’

  ‘It is true there is some resentment towards my own siblings and myself. It’s different with you girls, for as much as you are of my blood, you are of your father’s, too, and princesses.’ Her words come slowly as if she is reluctant to admit this truth.

  ‘Well, that was what I meant to say.’

  For nearly two decades, the cream of English society has been split between Mother’s myriad of hungry relatives and Father’s age-old nobility, who have watched offices and lands customarily granted to them pass instead to one Woodville or another. Furthermore, the Woodvilles have snatched up numerous eligible heirs and heiresses for husbands and wives. It is only natural and quite expected that a king should lavish good graces upon his kindred by marriage, but these particular kinsmen and kinswomen are so many and have received so much. I prefer not to think about my maternal grandfather’s humble origins, but it does doubtlessly play its part in the sore relationship between the two unofficial factions. Foremost among the old nobility is Uncle Richard, who is now to be Lord Protector—who else? He has firm beliefs as to how the government ought to operate, and is keener than any man to see his brother’s dying wish fulfilled, yet Mother is wretched over the fact.

  I pray I will not be forced to choose between my maternal and my paternal side of the family. There is nothing I should loathe more than to let Mother down, except to forsake the murrey and blue of York.

  On the sixteenth day of April, we attend mass at Westminster Abbey for the late King’s soul. Afterwards, the coffin—topped with a life-sized effigy that, to my disappointment, is a poor likeness—is hauled onto a carriage draped in black and brought towards Charing Cross, across the River Thames, to Saint George’s Chapel. The chapel was Father’s beloved building project, and there it stands, half-finished in all its Gothic glory. As we proceed inside, my clothes and hair are heavy with lukewarm rain, the kind that comes in invisibly small drops but nonetheless soaks one in a minute. At least my damp cheeks make it impossible to tell whether I shed tears, and I thank the Almighty, because my emotions have never been prone to follow my command. Just as I dive head-first into grief or anger or joy, just as easily do I lose myself in my inner fantasies and pay little heed to the world around me. Perhaps that is a less convenient trait that I have in common with Dickie.

  The ceremony is the epitome of grandeur. I did not really notice the beauty of the glazed windows before, nor the carved stalls. The walls and floor are covered in black cloth, creating the illusion of standing in a gigantic swathe of quiescent shadow, illuminated only by quivering candlelight.

  I raise my eyes to see Hastings and Dorset looking like a dog and a cat forced to behave together where they stand in the chapel. Next to them are a contingent of other great lords and nobles, such as the fickle Lord Stanley, and John Howard, whose comical moustache comes close to making me smile even now.

  The lengthy last rites continue well into morning the following day. Through all the pomp and ceremony, the trembling tension in the air is so thick I could cut it with a knife and serve it on a platter.

  We remain at the Palace of Westminster for almost another two weeks without word from Ed. The outward changes are few. People treasure stability; that is what they want and what they hope the new King, now styled Edward V, will bring them. Yet no one likes a regency, and plenty of irked whispers reach my ears. No one likes a regency, except the handful of relatives who hope to wield greater influence with a boy-king than with a more seasoned ruler.

  I miss Father’s roaring laughter and his strong arms. I miss his boasting about battles fought over a decade ago and the way he could suddenly have a fit of generosity and shower us girls with dresses made from the finest velvets and cloth of gold. I confess, however, that I no longer mourn him so much as I mourn the sense of security he imposed. True, he could change his mind easier than a weed bends in the wind, but one thing that never changed was his ambition to create a powerful dynasty. Who knows what my brother’s minority government will decide regarding my future and my marriage? I still struggle to grasp the changes: I hate change and always have. Uncle Richard once suggested it might be a remnant from the turbulent years before and just after my birth—the betrayals of Warwick and Clarence and Father’s struggle to retake the throne from Henry of Lancaster—just like Uncle Richard’s own fear of turbulence.

  Towards the end of April, I discover Mother standing with her oldest daughter in the gilded bedchamber of the queen’s apartments. She is clasping Elizabeth’s hands, looking as pale and pinched as when Father died. In that moment, they resemble two versions of the same woman: one young and blossoming, one aging though still a handsome figure, both exuding rigid elegance. The sole difference I can distinguish, apart from the years, is the resolute, ruthless glimmer in my mother’s eyes, something Elizabeth’s more demure character does not leave enough room for.

  ‘What is it, Lady Mother?’ I inquire, unable to hide the sparking curiosity in my voice.

  Mother does not let go of Elizabeth’s hands, nor does she turn her glance to me. When she speaks, the words come slowly, carefully, as if she is afraid of them. ‘Your Uncle Anthony has been arrested on his way to London, my sweet. My son Richard, too. Ed has been taken care of.’

  A thousand worms crawl under my skin; cold rat’s feet skitter up my spine. Impossible. The King gives
orders of arrest, and Ed would never give these orders. And if not Ed, then it must be a conspiracy of nobles, acting on pretend-authority, their hearts set on demolishing my mother’s family. Unless, of course, Anthony Earl Rivers and Richard Grey are indeed guilty of some foul crime.

  ‘On what charges?’

  ‘On the charge of ruining your late father’s health by encouraging his vices, and for plotting to kill the Duke of Gloucester, for plotting against the very government.’

  ‘Uncle Richard?’ My breath tangles in my throat. ‘Is he unscathed?’

  Finally, Mother averts her undivided attention from Elizabeth’s lily-white hands and looks at me. ‘He is the one who gave the orders of arrest. Buckingham is with him.’

  My thoughts are spinning fervently to catch up with everything she tells me. ‘But then...then it must be well, surely? The charges must have been a misunderstanding. Uncle Richard has ever been loyal to us, and a champion of justice.’

  ‘He was ever loyal to his brother.’

  ‘You cannot rely on one wolf to protect you from a pack,’ Elizabeth says, her voice like a crystalline mountain brook.

  Once upon a time, when we were younger, there was affection in that same voice when she spoke of that same man. Then, as the years wore on, Mother’s influence begun to infiltrate every fibre of her beloved eldest daughter, and these days, I fear their views lack distinction more often than not.

  The violent turmoil in my chest and the familiar heat in my eyes and nose erupt even before I open my mouth. ‘Don’t say things like that! Maybe you just say it because he likes me best, and you cannot bear the thought of anyone being my ally!’

  Elizabeth gives me one of her long glances and smooths the non-existent creases on her pearl-stitched gown. ‘Oh, Cecily, you’re being ridiculous.’

  Mother comes to her aid. ‘Control your temper! Your sister is right. And, prithee, be careful when you speak of allies. We can trust the Woodvilles alone.’

  ‘Well, why? Surely, we are as much royal as we are Woodvilles, no less so than Ed?’

  ‘You do not understand. Mayhap you are too young yet,’ Elizabeth says. ‘Father’s side of the family are greedy nobles…Nevilles, Gloucester, Hastings, all the rest. There will be factions in Ed’s government just as there have been at court, and we can only belong to one: the Woodvilles.’

  ‘The families you speak of are ancient, and deserving of more respect. You think you know everything—’

  Mother’s nails dig into my arm. ‘Quiet, my sweet. You know what Clarence did to my father and my brother John. I will not risk putting my family in harm’s way because of a son of York—not again.’

  I swallow hard. I have crossed the line, the line that I so rarely spot until it is too late. ‘Forgive me, Lady Mother…you will know what is best.’ There is naught to gain by pointing out that if opposites exist in people, Uncle Richard is Clarence’s.

  ‘I do. And you will be safe with me, all of you, whatever the future holds.’ She lets go of my arm and I resist the temptation to rub it. Cupping my face in her strong hands, she places a kiss on the tip of my nose. ‘Be a good girl and leave us now. I need to speak with Beth.’

  This time, I obey. Not until I have departed do I realise I forgot to ask whether there was indeed a plot and one she knew of.

  Rivers and Grey are under lock and key in the north, in Uncle Richard’s domain. Neither I nor my sisters are permitted at the meetings of the royal council, hence I know only what Mother tells us and what I interpret from the courtiers’ chit chat.

  While Anne sits in the window seat, immersed in her romantic manuscripts, and Kate plays rather roughly with her new doll in the nursery, I spend the afternoon flitting around in the palace between fur-clad ladies and their boisterous husbands. At first, I approach them directly, trying to steer the conversation towards politics. There is a tinge of reluctance in their faces, though, their words too delicately chosen to reveal much. I quickly grow impatient and lose my tact, which hardly improves my chances, and retreat to listen from my place in the corner of the presence chamber, occasionally taking a sip of the wine in my jewel-studded cup.

  John Howard is speaking to Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland. They are standing close together, both in robes of dark velvet, eyes shifting from one side of the room to the other in an attempt to keep their peers under surveillance.

  Howard scratches his curved moustache. ‘I reckon my lord of Gloucester will be named protector when Parliament convenes. It must be so.’

  ‘Ye-es. But protector in what sense? As a formal office only, or with all the authority due to a regent?’ Northumberland says, licking a wine drop from his chapped lips. ‘There are degrees as to how much one may exercise control over a boy-king.’

  ‘Indeed. Let’s hope Parliament understands that Gloucester is the only reasonable choice regardless. His late brother’s choice.’

  Margaret Beaufort—an overbearing, older woman with enviable cheekbones and equally enviable grit—has surrounded herself with a small cluster of heavily veiled ladies.

  ‘Will you petition King Edward?’ one of them asks in hushed tones.

  Beaufort nods. ‘I shall. Though he be a Yorkist, such an impressionable young mind ought to listen. My son’s lands will be restored to him, finally.’

  I shut my ears at that. All these people in whose presence I have come of age, all these people talking about who will and who will not influence their new monarch… Do they know the boy they are discussing? Because I do. My brother may be a couple of years short of his majority, but he has a mind of his own, and a sensible one at that. Must he be someone’s puppet on the throne? If he must be, I still think the Duke of Gloucester—in partnership, of course, with Mother—will be the preferable choice. Woodvilles, Nevilles, other nobles… How are we to navigate?

  Mother acts that same night. We are, she declares, to seek refuge in Westminster Abbey.

  ‘Mama! Mama! Why?’ Kate insists, pulling at the Dowager Queen’s skirts with her plump hands.

  ‘Because no one dares violate sanctuary. We will be safe there.’

  I bite my tongue. I want to ask what exactly we will be safe from. The infighting must be worse than I first thought, wounds inflicted during more than two decades festering. Mother has her heart set on steering the government further to accommodate the Woodvilles, just as Uncle Richard and other nobles are striving to turn back the clock to England as it was before her family made their entrance. If only we stayed, and if Mother calmed the silent panic sprung from her ambitions being threatened, the panic that must be boiling underneath her cool surface… But no, she has already decided that this must be an open feud. Has she learnt nothing from the years of civil war? Yet she is my Lady Mother and it is her I must trust above all others, despite my doubts, since she will do what she deems best for us, her children.

  Eight people leave the palace under darkness’ cloak that night: Mother, Elizabeth, Dickie, Anne, Kate, Bridget, my half-brother Dorset, and myself. It feels rather silly that a grown man like Dorset should flee into sanctuary when no one has tried to so much as slap his fingers, but then I suppose it wrecks his nerves that his old adversary Hastings has allied himself with Uncle Richard, who has possession of the King’s person. Lord knows that if anyone of us have anything to fear from Hastings, it is Dorset.

  A humble barge carries us to where we may more easily walk the stone’s throw to Westminster Abbey; our most prized belongings and furniture follow on carts accompanied by a handful of loyal guards. The Thames ripples as the boat cuts through the blank surface of the river, the reflection of the lanterns’ warm light creating a patchwork of amber and yellow. I watch the colours and the shadows mingle, mesmerized, resisting the temptation to stretch out a hand and dip my fingers in them.

  ‘I wish it wasn’t so dark,’ Anne says, shifting her weight next to me. ‘I hate the dark.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I hope it shan’t be
like this in the abbey.’

  ‘Well, you know what the abbey looks like. You don’t have to be scared. Picture it in daytime.’

  She bites her lip. ‘I have tried that before but it never worked.’

  Once we have dismounted the barge and arrived by the gates of our new home, Mother instructs the men in charge of our belongings to await her call while the rest of us continue inside.

  There is the sound of seven pairs of shoes against the stone floor—Mother is carrying Bridget, having wrapped her in a cloak like a bundle of silk—as we scuttle past the colonnade of the south aisle, turn right, and continue down the vaulted north cloister. The windows are shuttered against the night chill but I am shivering nonetheless. I clutch Dickie’s hand in mine so hard that I have to remind myself not to squash it. An expectant smile is playing on his lips and his glance flits from me to the ceiling to the ornaments on the wall.

  ‘Exciting, is it not?’ I press forth, stroking the back of his hand as we near the far end of the cloister.

  Dickie bobs his head up and down, his locks a bouncing halo in the gloom of the abbey. ‘Yes! Like an adventure.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Will Ed come and play, too, Cece?’

  I quicken the pace and pull him with me so as to not fall behind the others. ‘I do not think so, but it’s not for long. We can see him again soon, I promise.’

  ‘Even when he’s crowned? He won’t be too busy?’ The sudden, keen anxiety in his voice makes my heart shrink.

  ‘Not at all! No one could be too busy for you, Dickie.’