Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  We have reached the deanery, where Abbot John Esteney resides. Mother gives Kate’s hand to Dorset and shifts Bridget to her other hip, then pounds her fist against the door.

  A moment of agony passes. The abbot has already agreed to shelter us, but if he has had a change of heart and we are locked out, we can hardly make an elegant return to the Palace of Westminster. Just imagining what Uncle Richard and the rest of the high-ranking nobles would think makes me squirm.

  I have begun to despair when a brittle voice calls from within: ‘Who goes yonder?’

  ‘The Dowager Queen of England with her children, seeking your blessed aid, Father.’

  A set of locks and chains rattle and the door is pushed open. An elderly man with oddly childlike, large eyes and a beard like swan’s down greets us, surveying us. In his one hand he holds a cresset, shedding warm light on our strained faces.

  ‘Come, come, Your Grace.’ The abbot steps aside and we enter the college hall. The room is large and rectangular, hung with tapestries depicting biblical scenes. In the centre burns a fire in the circular hearth, the sheen from the flames penetrating corners otherwise hosting bottomless darkness. The room usually serves as the abbot’s dining hall, but he has had the long tables hastily shoved to the sides to make space for our furniture. The men we brought have to knock a hole in the wall of the abbey, for the entrance is too small for Mother’s clothing coffers, but they proceed to have the brilliant idea of turning the coffers over on the side to that they do not have to damage the walls of the college hall as well.

  The lootings litter the floor, the men in a frenzy to push everything into place and fit as many valuables as possible inside. Mother has even ordered them to bring the vermilion wall hangings of her bedchamber, though that is far from what takes the prize. As it turns out, we have more money with us than I have ever seen before.

  ‘You brought the royal treasury?’ I ask Dorset, who controls said treasury as Constable of the Tower.

  He shrugs. ‘I gave some to Mother’s brother Edward, and brought the rest for Mother and me.’

  ‘But…but you had no right to dispose of it as you please, surely?’

  ‘Too late.’

  As the soldiers carry the last chest inside, the lid cracks open and I catch a glimpse of the Great Seal. The Dowager Queen has as little right to control the seal as she does the treasury. God keep us all from what might befall us, not to speak of England, for Mother’s defiance of Father’s dying wish.

  Chapter III

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK is an eternity to me. Living on charitable merchants’ gifts of food and drink as well as the abbot’s kindness, we do our best to adjust to our new living quarters in the college hall. Admittedly, some try more than others, but I cannot for the life of me think of it as home. It is absurd: here we are, princesses, huddled up in a secluded corner of the abbey where we have attended lavish ceremonies all our lives. What bothers me most is not the lack of fine dining or the dullness of having no chattering courtiers to listen to, not even the humiliation, no, what bothers me most is that every sweet breath of fresh air has been snatched from my lungs. How am I to live when I cannot feel the May sunshine bathing my skin? How am I to endure this peculiar situation when I am not allowed to stride over dew-drenched lawns and across wide-stretching courtyards?

  Before, I would wander every castle we visited throughout the year—Westminster, Windsor, Eltham, Marguerite d’Anjou’s Palace of Placentia—basking in the rich views and colours, the dulcet fumes of honeyed cakes from the kitchens and the fragrance from the gardens. My legs are accustomed to carrying me wherever I wish to go, at least when court courtesy and my curriculum do not require my presence, and now I am confined to the abbot’s stale dining hall, restlessly pacing back and forth. The boredom is like a rash I cannot reach to scratch. I am not even allowed to dance the saltarello; it would be improper, Elizabeth says, an offence to the sombreness befitting God’s house.

  My one solace is Dickie, with whom I act out imagined tales of knights and damsels, dragons and beasts, often inspired by the manuscripts Anne insisted on bringing to the abbey. I have not played thus since I was younger than he is now. A girl of fourteen ought never behave so childishly, yet this is different than when at court, because here, no eyes are upon me save for those of my closest kin.

  However, our studies occupy much of the time, for the circumstances are apparently not outlandish enough to neglect practicing French and spelling. While Dorset sulks over the lack of ‘sultry women and merriments’, Mother acts tutor to Elizabeth, Anne, myself, and even Kate, who keeps bouncing in her seat and doodling in the margins.

  ‘Kate, darling, please!’ Mother exclaims.

  ‘But Mama—’

  ‘Just think, if you marry a French duke someday, then you would want to converse with him, would you not?’ I say in an effort to help. Actually, Kate was intended for the son of Isabel de Castilla and Ferdinand de Aragón, although none of that matters to my little sister, who dips her feather pen in ink once more and starts to draw a cat with whiskers stretching across the paper.

  We abandon our studies for the time being. I consider asking Dickie to play a clapping game with me, but he is preoccupied with watching Dorset polish a favourite gilded dagger. Dorset emits a sullen reply every time his royal half-brother inquirers about how to best use the weapon, still, Dickie is content, resting his chin in his cupped hands. I return to my mother, sitting by the table. Her mouth is contorted in a strange expression, a smile too taunt to leave any trace in her eyes or glow like only her smiles can. All of sudden, the lines in her face are deeper than before, mercilessly carved with a dagger rusty rather than gilded.

  ‘Lady Mother?’

  Her hand shoots up to her cheek, brushing the first tear that I can remember seeing her cry all my life.

  I swallow, trying to remove the feeling of caked mud in my throat. ‘Are you...is it Father?’

  ‘Never take anything or anyone for granted, my sweet. I daresay I shan’t make that mistake again.’

  ‘But surely we should take some things for granted? The things that are rightfully ours by blood?’

  ‘Not even that, which is all the more reason to fight for them.’

  ‘I wanted to speak to you about another matter, Lady Mother.’ I gaze at her through a shield of eyelashes before lowering my eyes like I have learned to do whenever there is something I want. ‘I pray you send for my woman, Agnes, so that I may have a companion in these dire times.’

  Mother squeezes my hand. ‘You know it cannot be.’

  ‘It can if you will it.’ I hold my breath. Have I crossed the line again?

  Fortunately, though, she licks her delicately sculpted lips, a sign of relenting. ‘Very well. Agnes and one or two maids to tend to the rest of us. But she will conduct herself according to my wishes, is that understood? I’ll have no talk of her wanton aunt.’

  ‘Of course not, Lady Mother.’ I turn on my heel before she can change her mind, my face cracking a grin she cannot see.

  Mother need not worry. Agnes rarely so much as mentions Jane Shore, my late father’s infamous mistress, who is rumoured to have shared a bed with both Dorset and Hastings as well. ‘That woman’ has been a forbidden topic to all of us for years, and still is. One small comfort is that Father did not have any children by her, as he did with other wenches. He never confessed to having sired all of the suspected offspring, but several girls and boys were brought up at court. Mother was diligent in keeping them separate from me and my siblings, ensuring that we did not play or converse together. There is no word of what has befallen that scatter of half-brothers and half-sisters, and, frankly, I am too concerned with our own situation to give it any considerable thought.

  The wounds inflicted by Father’s death are still fresh on all of us. While Kate and Bridget are too small to fully understand that he is gone forever, and while Dickie and I manage to distract ourselves from the grief with games and
fairy tales, there are three members of our family who are not as fortunate. Mother, Elizabeth, and Anne are not prone to open lamenting, though they cannot be said to be of the same disposition. Nevertheless, there is no mistaking the irreversible impact that our loss has had on them. It shows in the smallest details, like the way Mother mends Father’s shirts one evening, or the way my sisters sleep more than when they were infants. It is a pity we did not think to bring enough mourning garb to sustain us very long—presumably, the royal treasury was first priority.

  The day after Agnes and the two maids arrive in the sanctuary, the fourth morning of May, there is upheaval on the streets outside. The noise trickles through slits and keyholes in the firmly shut doors, and the shouts are unmistakable: ‘Give way for His Grace King Edward!’

  ‘Papa?’ Bridget asks where she sits on one of the maids’ lap, a spark of recognition lighting in her grave, abysmal eyes.

  ‘Not he. The new King Edward, your most revered brother,’ the maid says.

  The clamour escalates, and now the heralds extend their proclamations: ‘The King has been preserved from the malicious plot hatched by the Earl Rivers and those his kinsmen who relate by blood to the former Queen, Elizabeth Woodville! The culprits have been disarmed and dealt with in the most deserving manner through the grace of His Lordship the Duke of Gloucester! God save King Edward!’

  Mother looks as if someone smeared grey ash on her face. She still has not told us how much truth there is in the accusation.

  Elizabeth, as rosy-cheeked as ever, takes her hand. ‘Don’t listen to them. They are fools if they believe such slander.’

  ‘Agnes!’ I grab my companion’s thick wrist. ‘Go to the nave, see if you can peer through a window or the hole in the wall! She can, Lady Mother, can’t she? No one would recognise her.’

  ‘Do it.’

  A short while later, Agnes knocks on the door to the college hall again and slips inside as soon as Dorset creaks it open for her. Is she blushing from how his hand brushes against hers with indiscreet intent, or merely from running?

  Mother stands up, the ash washed away. ‘Did you see my son? Tell me, woman, did you see him?’

  ‘You should ‘ave seen the monks, Madam, when I passed through the North cloister! Eyes round as cups!’

  ‘Did you see my son?’

  Agnes crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her bosom up. ‘I did, Madam. Lookin’ fine and dandy to me. They passed right by, the three of ‘em, all dressed up, the soldiers in murrey and with the boar badge. Buckingham, Gloucester, and His Grace on a horse between them.’

  Relieved glances flash back and forth between the lot of us, including the old abbot, who has joined us in our commotion.

  ‘Anything else?’ Mother says.

  ‘Hmm, yes, four cartloads of Woodville weapons. Confiscated from the plotters, I’ll wager.’

  I fear Mother will lash out at her for daring to presume the allegations true, but mayhap she knows as well as I do that Agnes’ brazen tongue and inclination towards juicy gossip has nothing to do with any ill intent, because Elizabeth Woodville remains calm as a glacier. Calm enough to tempt me into asking what I have been yearning to find out since we left Westminster.

  ‘Is it true, then? Was there a plot?’

  ‘There was not!’ she snaps at last. ‘Anthony and I agreed he should collect any weapons required to muster more men if the need arose to...protect our influence. That was all.

  ‘Some would say that was quite a bit, Lady Mother.’

  Anne plays with the silver crucifix resting at the base of her throat. ‘Does this mean we can leave sanctuary? It’s so dark here sometimes.’

  ‘Once Ed is crowned King, we may. You shall have to manage the dark a little longer, dear. As long as Gloucester and Buckingham and their power-hungry sycophants have possession of my boy, our position is no less precarious than before,’ Mother says.

  Dorset scoffs, tearing his eyes from Agnes’ ample cleavage. ‘Hastings, too, the villain.’

  Dickie pokes my stomach, where I am the most ticklish. ‘Cece, you promised he could play with me! Why can’t I see him?’

  ‘Because...because Mother says so.’

  My reply far from satisfies him, yet I am rather pleased with being able to tell the truth without offending the woman who has gone to such great lengths to protect me and my siblings, while at the same time slipping in a subtle note of blame where I believe it belongs.

  A week later, we receive word through a messenger boy that the royal council has discussed the issue of the ing’s minority government. Like I suspected they would when Father was on his deathbed, all the nobles hankered after the role of Lord Protector—although few have a realistic chance of attaining the title. Uncle Richard officially claimed it as the council convened. I knew he would, we all did, because virtually no one is equal to him in wealth, vast landholdings, or experience in ruling those lands, not even men twice his age. Father’s endorsement of him only elevated his claim, and the council agreed despite the envy brewing hot in several of its members.

  Agnes still brushes out and braids my hair in the evenings; she performs the service for Anne and Elizabeth too, while the maids take care of the little ones and Mother insists on managing her own beauty routine, keeping her secrets to herself. Despite our baggage from Westminster, we only brought one mirror, a gift from a benefactor like so many of the trifles here, and I always wait until the others have gone to bed so that I might use it for as long as I please.

  ‘I think I’m a pain in your Mother’s bottom,’ Agnes mutters one night.

  I steady my head against the thorough brushstrokes pulling at my hair. ‘She just does not want to think about, well, about that woman.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m nothing like her, though, love.’

  ‘I wish I could ease her mind. I wish I could make her see that she has nothing to fear now. My brother is safe and as befits his status—you said so yourself.’

  ‘Like a stuffed duckling on a golden platter.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just an ol’ saying, love. Give me a pin, will you?’

  I reach for the silver hairpins scattered on the small table where the mirror leans against a ceramic vase. The candle has burnt down to the wick, the flame a single firefly in the gloom, the last drops of scorching wax landing on the back of my hand. I bite my lip to prevent a cry that might wake the others.

  ‘Anyhow. He lodges in the Tower, a date has been agreed upon for his coronation, and Uncle Richard made everyone swear allegiance to him, or so the messenger boy said. Everything is precisely as it should be.’

  ‘Maybe it’s her nerves, then. Lord knows they’re made of steel but this place could make anyone witless.’

  ‘Agnes!’

  ‘Pardon.’ She grins.

  I shrug. ‘Mayhap you are right. I am certain being here reminds her of the last time, and then there really was something to fear.’

  ‘You remember anything?’

  ‘No. No, I was so little then, barely Bridget’s age. But my mother survived that and she will survive this and see I was right all along.’

  Agnes smacks a kiss on my temple and gives the thick braid a demonstrative tug. ‘There. Goodnight.’ She takes the taper in one hand and her skirts in the other to avoid tripping on the hem.

  I frown. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘I said goodnight, love.’

  She slips out through the door, leaving me to curl up on my bed. The mattress is too hard; the blanket too coarse against my skin, my chemise providing only a flimsy sheath of comfort. The beds are gifts from the abbot, since our own were too unwieldy to bring.

  Perchance Agnes has made one of the monks in the cloister complex her lover. I press my hand to my mouth, stifling a giggle.

  My thoughts stray again to Mother. It cannot be easy to be of good cheer in a pl
ace one associates with rebellion, usurpation, and death. Elizabeth likely does remember the last time we were here, yet I would never dream of asking her. Much like Mistress Jane Shore, the events of 1470 and 1471 are subjects best kept behind firmly locked lips.

  ‘Sir Thomas will see to it that your daily needs are met,’ the abbot says, his babyish eyes twinkling. ‘I fear I have grown too old and stiff to go hither and thither, and the lad has served me well.’

  Mother nods. ‘We thank you, Father, for all that you have done for us.’

  Our new servant is a peculiar sight. The back of his nose is slightly curved, as if broken and never healed properly, and he stands wiggling up and down on his heels and toes. A little older than Elizabeth, I would say.

  ‘Your Grace. Your Royal Highnesses,’ he mumbles, tucking a coil the colour of ink behind his ear. The greeting is all we can expect, but he stands erect, and the abbot has to nudge him to provoke an awkward bow. Even I, with my fits of emotion, know better manners than that.

  ‘We shall leave you, ladies, and pray send for the young man if there is anything you desire.’ The abbot makes a clicking sound with his tongue, then departs with the servant at his heels like one of Father’s greyhounds.

  On his way out, Sir Thomas casts a glance over his shoulder. I look at Elizabeth, expecting to see her refuse meeting said glance, before realising it is not for her, not at all. It is for me. My cheeks heat. I could discern nothing amorous in it, indeed I hope there was not, yet I am conscious of my pulse quickening. He is lowly born and somewhat odd—but he chose to look at me.

  We must have been in sanctuary for more than a month—I am beginning to lose track of the days—when Uncle Richard’s wife, Anne Neville, arrives in London. The Kingmaker’s daughter, Dowager Princess of Wales, Duchess of Gloucester. Such grand titles; were I not a princess myself, I would envy her.

  Truthfully, I do. I always have, although it has very little to do with her history of titles. I recall a quaint, fragile beauty lodged in her heart-shaped face despite the prominent nose, a quiet intensity in her eyes that only her husband can compete with. A reserved spirit, stubborn, yet loving in nature. If I could pluck one of Anne Neville’s qualities and make it my own, it would be her courage. At the Battle of Tewkesbury, where Father defeated the Lancastrian rebels once and for all, she chose to stay at the battlefield and face Father’s enraged men rather than join her mother in sanctuary. While I cower in the college hall with my family like a caged rabbit, Anne Neville has lived a far more eventful life and never fled danger. The Duchess of Gloucester has endured not only a forced marriage to the venomous Lancastrian prince, a marriage that placed her at Tewkesbury to begin with, but also Clarence’s wrath, and emerged from these perils victorious. The more I think of it, the more I extend my envy to admiration.