Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  And then there is Dickie. If he is dead, he ought to be avenged, the perpetrator slaughtered. Yet none of us can know whether Uncle Richard is the perpetrator—though I do not believe it—or if it is one of his nobles, or even one of Margaret Beaufort’s men seeking to clear the path to the crown for her son. There are so many ifs. I hate this uncertainty, this mound of doubts and off-chances. Unfortunately, my proneness for hatred is part of the family flair, both on Mother’s and Father’s side.

  Thomas quickly grows bored as I ramble about the matter. He tries to hide the yawn tugging at his face, and empties my cup as well as his own.

  ‘You’ll intoxicate yourself,’ I say.

  ‘Hardly. This is about as strong as milk.’

  I tilt my head. ‘It is? I did not think so.’

  ‘That is because you’re tiny.’ He grins, giving me a light shove. ‘I think Lady Anne is taller than you soon.’

  I laugh. ‘She is not. She is not yet eight years old.’

  ‘Oh. I’ve never been drilled in the biographies of the House of York.’

  ‘You have not told me your own age either. I cannot believe I have not asked before—’

  ‘My father told me I was born in the year of our Lord 1466 for quite some time, before my cousin had to correct him and say 1465. He doesn’t like to remember it too well.’

  ‘Because you are at odds?’ I can detect family feuds better than most.

  Thomas’ eyes have turned oddly pensive, languid, as if someone had smothered a spark with a wet blanket. ‘Not over anything I did—only it was a tough birth. My mother became weaker after that, and did not last long. She was your age at the time.’

  I shift my weight, plucking at a loose thread in my lavender damask gown until the pearl attached to it comes loose and rolls down on the floor. ‘I see.’

  To my relief and disappointment both, the conversation halts there, because Anne’s pointy face has appeared in the crack of the door. Her skin is translucent in the crisp light flowing from the east cloister’s windows, the crucifix on the chain around her throat catching chinks of sun.

  ‘Cecily?’ Her glance darts to Thomas, quizzical. ‘Lady Mother bids you to come.’

  When I return to the college hall, there lingers the stale aftertaste of a quarrel. Mother is pacing the room while Elizabeth is sitting on a stool, her shoulders sloping, eyelids puffed and the colour of bruises. I have rarely seen her in such a state.

  ‘I will have one of my children crowned in this abbey, just as I was,’ Mother says. ‘You deserve no less, apple of mine eye.’

  Elizabeth studies her palm, carving white patterns with one nail. ‘Thank you, Lady Mother. I will wed him if you demand it.’ She sounds…yes, defeated.

  ‘I have no wish to force this upon you.’ Mother sinks down on the stool next to Elizabeth. ‘You were raised to wed your father’s choice, and he entrusted me with that choice before he died. You can be happy, if you put your mind to it. You can influence your husband, should he gain the throne, and raise the Woodvilles to favour again.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Believe me, Beth, I find the situation as grim as you do. But we will do what we must, all of us, and be rewarded thousandfold.’ She bends forward and kisses her eldest daughter’s temple, then smiles, and her smile could melt the solid stone walls of our protective prison. I am reminded, once again, why Father gambled all he had to win her.

  Elizabeth can be queen. She should be gloating and basking in that knowledge. Perhaps it is the Lancastrian husband that has shattered her spirits—yes, that must be it. I pity her, and the pity makes me soar, as cruel as I know this sentiment is, because it has been the reverse for as long as I can recall. Still, part of me genuinely wants to provide a sliver of comfort, though I do not know how.

  ‘Poor you,’ I say, placing a hand on the patch of bare skin in soft the curve between my sister’s shoulder and neck in a half-hearted attempt to soothe. My hand is cold, I know. ‘I would have thought you gleeful. Think of the…the bright side.’

  ‘Oh, Cecily, you fool!’ she bursts, shaking off my hand. ‘I have never met the man!’

  I take a step back, grappling for words. ‘Just like you had never met the Dauphin, and yet you did not mind being betrothed to that frog!’

  ‘Girls. Please.’ Mother rubs her forehead. ‘Beth, we have discussed this before, many times. You told me then you would be pleased to do your duty, and the daughter I love so dearly would stand by her word.’ She turns to me. ‘Cecily, why don’t you go and dice with Agnes? Take Anne with you, too.’

  I swallow the bile of words rising in my throat and force a nod. Dicing. How pleasant.

  The Welsh physician, whose name I soon learn is Lewis Caerleon, continues to deliver Margaret Beaufort’s secret messages. Henry Tudor is planning to launch his invasion in late October or early November with Ned Woodville’s ten thousand pounds from the royal treasury to oil the wheels. When they land, they will be in dire need of support in the form of English soldiers as well as simultaneous revolts orchestrated within the land. My other maternal uncles are heavily involved in this aspect of the scheme, promising assistance.

  We wait, limbs heavy with boredom, skin itching with nervousness. I would gladly fling the door open and bolt past the guards, out into the filthy streets of London, if Mother would let me. Reading and praying and playing stupid card games does little to ameliorate the distress.

  During one of those card games, Agnes clasps a hand to her mouth, panic mounting in her eyes when she looks at me. She pushes back the chair with a screeching sound and turn from us, however, she does not get far, the doors being firmly shut. Vomit the colour of mustard spurts between her cramped fingers before she surrenders and empties her stomach in the bucket Thomas uses to fetch water.

  I drop my cards on the table, spoiling the perfect fan, and scramble to her side while stopping at a safe distance. I do not wish to be contaminated with whatever illness ails her.

  She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and brushes a thick lock of hair from her cheek. ‘It’s nothing, love, nothing.’

  Thomas, frozen with half-emptied dishes in a firm grip, stares at her. ‘If you’re sick, you will make all of us sick, too!’ He puts the dishes down and crosses himself, something I have never seen him do before.

  ‘I would be surprised if my condition transferred to you,’ Agnes mutters. ‘T’would be a first, that’s for sure.’

  I rub her back like I have seen Mother do on Bridget when she coughed up milk as a baby. ‘Perchance you ate something bad.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that must be it.’

  ‘But we have all eaten of the same cheese and bread—’ Thomas insists, his complexion drained of all colour.

  ‘God’s truth, you are driving me mad! Unless you’ve become a woman overnight, you’ve no business sticking your nose in this.’

  ‘Agnes?’ The implication dawns on me like a flood of ice water. ‘You said you had your secrets.’

  She crosses her arms. ‘Hmm. I thought so, too.’

  Mother has been watching in silence; now she strides forward, shoulders squared and mouth puckered like a drawstring purse. There is no fooling her. She has been with child twelve times herself, more if she has ever suffered a miscarriage.

  My sisters cluster behind her and even Bridget watches from behind Elizabeth’s skirts.

  ‘If you are not ill, methinks I know your condition,’ Mother says. ‘And you—’ She measures Thomas with her eyes. ‘You ought to know better than to argue with a woman when the blame for this misfortune is as much yours as it is hers.’

  It takes me a moment to grasp what she is insinuating. When I do, the ice water returns. ‘It is not his, Lady Mother! It’s not, is it?’

  Thomas shakes his head frantically, his face shifting from marble-white to scarlet in a matter of seconds. ‘I think the abbot asked me to attend on him once I was finished here.’ He manages to open the door
without putting the dishes down and scuttles past the guards like a stung hare.

  ‘You are not four months gone. It would show more. I presume then, that this child was begotten here in sanctuary.’ Mother lets out a heavy sigh. ‘My boy will ruin himself one day with all these dalliances and escapades. He will not shoulder the responsibility, if that was what you thought.’

  Agnes juts out her chin. ‘I know. I did not think there’d be any blasted responsibility to shoul’er that’s all.’

  ‘You cannot give birth here, not in sanctuary. Believe me, it is no pleasant experience.’

  ‘Pardon, Madam, but if you could, I can. I’m no frail wench.’

  ‘I said no. There is no knowing whether a midwife will be allowed to visit, and we are cramped enough as it is. My daughter values your company—thus you may stay until your confinement begins.’

  I reach for Agnes’ hand. ‘I do not think we will even be here at that point. So much can change before…April, is it?’ I count the months on my fingers.

  ‘Yes. Think so, love, or March. And what’ll I do with the brat?’

  Mother frowns. She is too attached to her own children to apprehend the term. ‘We can concern ourselves with that once the time comes. Cecily is right: much may yet change. God willing, the court will once more be a friendly place, and if so, I shall see to it that my son gives you a small pension. You can live comfortably, if not virtuously.’

  ‘Just because not everyone can catch a king with their garters—’

  ‘Silence. I will have silence.’ Her voice cuts like a razor, clean and cool. She closes her eyes for what feels like forever, and when she speaks again, the edge is gone. ‘My husband may have lusted at first, but he loved me in truth. He did.’

  A week later, we receive another message from Margaret Beaufort. Mother and Elizabeth are both asleep when the physician arrives early one morning, and he places the intricately folded piece of paper in my outstretched palm.

  ‘They let you pass as usual?’ I say.

  He scratches the wart on his sturdy chin. ‘Else I wouldn’t be here. Will the Dowager Queen write a reply?’

  I throw a glance at the women lying like two spoons on one of the beds, seemingly comatose, and shake my head. ‘I can write it.’

  The excitement of intrigue ignited in me, I ignore the physician’s raised eyebrows and sit down by the table, unfolding Beaufort’s note.

  Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, has aligned with our intentions. He and the usurper Gloucester no longer share common interests, nor are they in personal accord. The Duke of Buckingham swears fealty to our cause.

  M

  I stare at the ink until the letters blur. Is this some cruel jest? No, it cannot be that. A full signature is indeed missing, but naturally, she would not want to spell out her name and title in the event that the note was intercepted. My thoughts rush to Buckingham. All I know of that toad is that Father never trusted him with significant tasks or offices, that his lineage consists of past Lancastrians, and that he scorned his wife—my mother’s youngest sister, Catherine—on more than one occasion. He is the man who has benefited most from the new rule except Uncle Richard himself: he has been brought into the golden light at last, granted a massive portfolio of lands and honours. Would he truly betray his master?

  Well, he might. The Duke of Clarence was equally lavished upon by my father, and still he rebelled openly not once but twice before meeting his fate in the barrel of malmsey wine after further indiscretions and galling behaviour.

  I am uncertain as to whether we ought to embrace Buckingham’s aid or reject it—and I have no time to consider it, for Mother rises from her bed quicker than a weasel and snatches the paper from me.

  ‘Cecily!’

  ‘I merely read it, Lady Mother—’

  ‘That may be so, but the less you know, the safer you will be if this does not succeed.’

  I glare at her. ‘You involve Elizabeth in your plans.’

  ‘Because I have to, because she plays a central part in all this.’ Mother cups my chin in her hand and kisses my nose. ‘You do not, and you should be grateful for it, my sweet.’

  I compel the rumbling frustration to settle inside me before it breaks loose like a storm. Perhaps she is right; I am grateful it is not I who has been betrothed to a Lancastrian exile.

  Mother does not show me the reply she scribbles, but she tells us in the evening that we cannot afford to be hostile towards Buckingham. Toad or not, he sits on a wealth of resources, and Tudor’s army of exiles and mercenaries is not yet sufficient for dethroning an anointed monarch.

  With each passing autumn day, the flourishing rumour of the princes’ demise acquires another grain of credibility, if not necessarily truth. No one has seen so much as a tendril of their hair or the tip of their shoes for months, and rumour also has it that their servants were dismissed in the summer. My despair deepens, because while the pain should dull with time, it increases as it feels more legitimate. They are not perhaps-dead-but-perhaps-just-kept-away-from-public-sight; they are now plain likely dead. Hence, the scheme which Mother has thrown in our lot with turns more into a pursuit to place Henry Tudor and Elizabeth on the throne, and less a restoration of my brother Ed. I ache for Dickie far more than his older brother, for although I loved Ed as I was bound to do by nature and duty both, I only saw him on the rare occasions when he was brought to court from Ludlow. Now, it appears I will not see either of them ever again.

  In the first week of October, the physician informs us that a brushfire of revolt is sweeping across Kent, instigated by the Duke of Buckingham, soon joined by further insurgencies in other areas. I still cannot for the life of me understand why he has abandoned his fierce allegiance to my uncle and instead decided to support Henry Tudor. Either there is something deeply personal to it, or he is simply a greedy rascal. Perhaps it is both. If Margaret Beaufort knows, she does not see fit to tell us.

  The heart of the rebellion is a close-knit net of my father’s old household knights and others who have been faithful servants for years, several Woodville-relatives among them. Dorset, who never arrived in Brittany, resurfaces and links his forces to the uprising. It is dawning on me how extensive the coup is: Mother, Beaufort, and Buckingham must have mustered every effort and exploited every source of acrimony towards the regime.

  A month later, a panting, red-faced messenger boy is allowed to enter. I can sense we all hold our breaths, awaiting the conclusion.

  The messenger speaks in a frail voice. ‘The Duke of Buckingham was captured and, on All Souls’ Day, beheaded. The other ringleaders have scattered. Some have fled southwest. Others are racing to join forces with Henry Tudor’s five thousand troops.’

  The fool Tudor is late in coming. He sailed from Brittany at the head of an invasion force, but his fleet has been torn apart by the stormy sea, and although he did arrive in Plymouth, he turned and sailed back again with his tail between his legs once he learned the rebellion was being stamped out like a trembling flame. We should never have entrusted him with our fate.

  ‘Lady Beaufort assures me he will attempt it anew when the time is ripe. She is under house arrest, but writes her son’s faction is already growing stronger with the disaffected rebel lords fleeing into exile to escape the block and gallows,’ Mother tells Elizabeth and me one night in late November, before tossing the letter from our ally into the hearth to be consumed by the fire. Powdery ash is poor proof of a plot, should the guards search our living quarter.

  Only the three of us are awake. Elizabeth sits shoulder to shoulder with Mother, her back erect, the warm light and shadows playing on her wistful face.

  ‘Shall I still become his wife?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes. You or, if the worst happens, Cecily. We cannot abandon the possibility of Tudor’s victory quite so swiftly.’

  I bury my face in my hands. We are crushed rebels. Uncle Richard knows it, regardless of how many suspect notes Mother b
urns, and she still wants to push ahead! She is pushing in the wrong direction! As I rub my sore eyes and quench the panic within me, I thank the Holy Virgin that the King is a pious man, and one who loves his nieces, for else he might already have violated sanctuary and dragged the dowager queen out to face his justice.

  Chapter VII

  CHRISTMAS THAT YEAR is, despite the odds, a gay occasion. The college hall is still decked with valuables from Westminster, but mother is hesitant to sell any of it, and Dorset smuggled out the rest of the royal treasury when he fled. Misery has saturated us, nearly paralyzed us, and so we grasp for an excuse to indulge in life’s pleasantries, putting our plethora of concerns aside.

  We break the fast with an improvised feast, marking the beginning of the Twelve Days. The Londoners have been particularly generous, providing us with roast veal, chestnuts stewed in thick cream, spiced wine, and flaky pastries. Thomas and the abbot join us at the table, since the social boundaries are blurred by the festive atmosphere and Mother says it is only right that they should dine with us. Even so, there is a gaping hole where Dickie ought to sit. I push away the memories of how he would bicker with Kate, how he never wanted to admit that the roasted swan Father ordered for Christmas dinners frightened him with its magnificent feathers and dead eyes like black beads. I have to visit those memories another time, not now, not when I have a blessed chance to make merry.

  ‘Father, will you tell us of the nativity?’ Mother says, granting the abbot a precious smile. ‘My daughters know it, naturally, but it never hurt to be reminded.’ My ‘daughters’. Not ‘my children’.

  The abbot nods, wiping his stubby fingers on his trencher. ‘With pleasure, Madam. The angel Gabriel was sent from God unto a city of Galilee, named Nazareth, to a virgin espoused to a man whose name was Joseph—’