by Saga Hillbom
Bridget and Elizabeth alone remain attentive, for we have indeed heard the tale countless times, although the abbot takes no notice. Even Mother, whose faith is as much a well-rehearsed farce as it is genuine, takes to examining her impeccably rounded nails.
I nudge Thomas with my elbow before I remember my manners. ‘Pardon.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Is he like this often?’ I throw a glance at the abbot, who has clasped his hands as if praying, and speaks with the zeal of a preacher.
‘Always,’ Thomas whispers back. ‘I’ve heard enough sermons for a lifetime during these past six months. This dinner is grand enough to bear any sermon, though.’
‘Well, it is an eminent change, but it is still a pauper’s meal compared to last Christmas. We had glazed boars’ heads then—four of them.’
Thomas cracks his knuckles; he knows I cannot stand the sound of it. ‘Stop whining, will you?’
‘You have no right to talk to me like that.’
‘You say that most days.’
I glare at the plump chestnuts on my trencher, the pool of cream sauce spreading. I want to be furious with him, I really do, but it is impossible. I have too few friends to afford it.
‘Are you vexed now?’
‘Terribly,’ I whisper. The abbot is still immersed in his beloved nativity tale, his baby-eyes even rounder, his hands wildly gesticulating. ‘But I’ll forgive you.’
‘Sorry—again. You know you can be a whiner, though, do you not? Anyhow, I have a gift for you, if you come and pray with me in the chapel after dinner.’
I practically fizz with delight. ‘But it is not yet New Year’s Day!’
‘I know, silly, otherwise it would spoil the surprise.’ He blushes, dropping a slice of veal on the table just as he is about to transfer it to his trencher, and I have to stifle a giggle.
The guards have been reinforced ever since the failed rebellion. Six men stand tramping on the spot outside the door to the college hall, and I do not doubt there are some twenty or more of them by the main entrance to the building. Normally, only Thomas and the abbot are permitted to come and go as they please within the abbey, and they too face slight restrictions if they wish to venture outside. If I were my uncle, I would not want to risk another damned conspiracy.
However, the White-Boar-badged men are lenient this Christmas Day and none denies us to visit the Chapel of the Pyx. After a hesitant nod from Mother, Thomas and I embark through the cloisters, guided by the flitting flame of a candle. With combined force, we open the door and close it after us.
Thomas puts down the taper on the altar, where several other candles are already burning down to the wick, then rubs his arms in a futile attempt to keep warm. The lack of a fireplace is painfully obvious, the biting chill creeping under my clothes and into my marrow.
‘So, where is my present?’
Thomas digs in his pocket and extracts a small package of folded linen. I remove the cloth with eager fingers. It has been so long since I had any gift at all, so many months without much new to call my own.
The caul I unpack is exquisite. The hairnet is made from delicate silver wire, like trickles of liquid moonlight, with pearls the size of cranberries fastened at each knot. The headband is of silver also, engraved with roses and with four miniscule hooks where one might fasten a veil.
I trace the rose pattern with my fingers and feel the smooth pearls against my skin. ‘Thank you. So much—truly.’ At Father’s court I would have asked first whether the pearls were authentic, for anything else would have been unacceptable, but now I mean each word of gratitude. The headdress is gorgeous, it must have cost him every penny the abbot pays him, and deep down I know he is right to call me whiny.
‘You’re welcome.’ Thomas’ skin has turned to bronze in the blend of gloom and candlelight dappling his features. ‘I thought your Lady Mother might disapprove.’
‘She will. I shall wear it regardless.’
‘I am glad.’
‘But I have nothing for you yet—you have to wait until New Year’s Day just like the others. Do not worry, for I shan’t tell you what it is. I know how to keep a secret.’
I discard my hennin and undo the intricate braids that Agnes spent almost an hour pinning to my scalp, re-gathering my curls in my new caul and fastening the headband. Not until it is too late do I realise that I ought never, never, to let a man see my hair loose and unveiled unless he is my husband or a close blood relative. But no, it does not matter. Thomas is different…he must be, although the long glance he now gives me contradicts my conviction.
‘I know you do,’ he says. ‘Though maybe you can give me something now, too?’
‘What would that be?’
He draws a deep breath. ‘Teach me that dance—the one you danced the first time I came here. It looked so jolly.’
‘You are mad! Or far too clumsy, at least.’
‘You’re not exactly poise incarnate yourself, yet you performed it with more grace than I ever saw.’
‘Because dancing is the one thing I can do without faltering.’
He arches an eyebrow. ‘Please. It will be a merry-go-round, that I do promise.’
And it is. He proves every bit as gawky as I predicted, and the saltarello quickly turns into an incongruous craze of improvised movements. Had there been minstrels to play for us, we could have continued forever.
When I return to the college hall, breathless and flushed, Mother takes me aside to a corner.
‘My sweet, you must not let the festive spirit overwhelm you so utterly. Where is your hennin and veil? You cannot fool me. You would not look thus if you had been praying all this time.’
My cheeks burn. ‘Mayhap. But it was nothing indecent, nothing like that, at least.’
‘It matters not.’ She sighs, stroking my hair. ‘What matters is that the guards see you in this state, not to speak of your impressionable little sisters, and the last thing we need is a rumour of misconduct to spread in London.’
She does not allow me to visit the chapel after that evening, even at the rare times when the guards would have permitted it. She only has my best interests at that scorching heart of hers, yet to add another restriction to the ones I already live under is like pouring salt in an open wound.
With the new year comes a glint of hope, the hope of being released from our invisible chains after all this time. Despite our plotting, the King must be inclined towards reconciliation, because he starts to negotiate with Mother anew. He has begged her to come out from the abbey before, but her terms have been beyond reason. Now, Uncle Richard presents yet another offer.
He swears an oath on the gospels, with London’s mayor and aldermen among the witnesses. He guarantees that, were we to emerge from sanctuary, we would be in surety of our lives, we girls soon wed to gentlemen, and furthermore, he claims he will provide for our livelihood, giving Mother a quarterly pension.
I soar at the news. Finally, finally I will be released from this cursed dungeon. I will be able to tread barefoot through swathes of lush grass and run up staircases and dance freely, at least when no one is scrutinizing my behaviour. I will dine on food of my own choosing instead of what the Londoners grants us. I will sleep in a proper bed, commission new clothes to replace the garments I have grown out of, and I will converse with people other than the little circle of personages who reside here with me. And if I am allowed to visit court, I can fight to rise above my current station, fight to ensure my future husband is more than a gentleman.
‘The snake makes no mention of my boys. He only spoke of you girls,’ Mother says, interrupting my enraptured musings. ‘If that is not a confession of the vile deed—’
I shake my head. ‘It is not, Lady Mother, not necessarily. If they are…gone to God, of course he cannot speak of their safety, but it is not the same as taking the blame upon himself. The formulation could be because Dorset is a rebel on the run, or even because of
Richard Grey. And that is in the past if we let it be.’
The last words are words I am ashamed to speak, but I am desperate. We have to accept this offer, because another one is not going to come, and it is no paltry offer either. Besides, I believe I am right. The oath does not include Richard Grey or Dorset, since one was executed in the summer of 1483 and the other fled abroad after the failed rebellion, denounced as a traitor. The princes might be part of it also, but how can we ever find out if we tarry in here?
To my astonishment, Elizabeth is my ally in this, as is Kate—Agnes would be, I am sure, but she has recently left sanctuary for her confinement at one of Dorset’s houses in the outskirts of London—and together we manage to sway our mother’s iron will.
‘Very well,’ she says. ‘We will be in a position more advantageous to craft a new plan once we join the rest of the world.’
It is not exactly what I meant myself, but I hold my tongue this time. Let her use her freedom to try and change the rules of the game, and I shall use mine to master the present rules. We will all have our comfort returned to us whichever way we chose.
It is decided that we will leave on the first day of March.
We dress in our finest clothes—that is, in the clothes we have worn the least and which fit the best, although Mother now finds use for the extensive wardrobe she brought, and Elizabeth is tall enough to borrow one of Mother’s gowns—and I help my sisters arrange their hair like I have seen Agnes do. I study my reflection in the mirror. My gown is the colour of a dove, too pale for my taste, with a deep, square neckline revealing my white kirtle. The billowing sleeves are lined with ermine fur, covering half my hands. I fasten the silver buckle on my braided belt and reach up to smooth the veil over my hair, which I have gathered at the nape of my neck in the pearl-caul Thomas gave me at Christmas.
He stands wiggling on his feet, waiting for me to finish. I wish we could say our goodbyes in private, but there is nothing to be done about it; we have not enjoyed a moment alone together for months.
I cast a glance over my shoulder to ensure the others are preoccupied with their own preparations to take notice of us. ‘How do I look?’
Thomas’ grin does not touch his eyes. ‘Splendid. Older.’
‘Grammercy. Not too old?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Good.’ I gnaw on my lip, fervently rummaging through my mind for the right words. Our eyes are locked, and perchance they speak more than either of us has the oratory capacity to.
The silence is absolute for what must be well over a minute before I press forth. ‘I’ll miss you a whole great deal.’
Thomas reaches for my hand. ‘No, you won’t. You will make other friends, if they can stand you.’
‘Only suitable ones—not the same thing.’
‘Goodbye, silly. Do not let them flatten you out.’
‘You think they could?’
‘Never.’
I fling my arms around his neck and after the initial surprise he lifts me off my feet for a wonderful moment.
‘Cecily!’ Mother’s voice slices through the sound of blood rushing in my ears and I break loose from the embrace. I will not cry. I refuse to cry. It turns out I am no better at mastering my emotions than I ever was, though, and as I follow the small train of women and girls out of the college hall, my cheeks are cold and clammy with tears.
Four guards escort us the stone’s throw to Westminster Palace, not bothering to use a barge. They then lead us through a series of passages and rooms as if they have forgotten we know this building better than anyone. One can never be too careful, I suppose.
It is outlandish to be back in the place where I spent much of my childhood, a time which in itself feels as distant now as a previous life. Hardly anything has changed here. The clock has stopped, smashed at my father’s last breath, leaving the palace the same while the world has changed around it. The grandeur is a sight for sore eyes after our year in sanctuary, or rather, in self-inflicted prison.
The presence chamber lies open to us. My heart hammers against my lungs, bruising.
I spot Howard, who I hear has recently been re-invested as Duke of Norfolk and thus will not waver from his benevolent liege lord’s side, standing next to the wrought wooden thrones, scratching his moustache. At his right, Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, lounges in his jewel-encrusted doublet, flashing the blue ribbon marking him as a Knight of the Garter. I have one of those myself, forgotten somewhere in my old chamber, though naturally, I am not ‘knight’ but ‘lady’.
There are others, almost all of whom I recognise from Father’s court, such as the slippery Stanley, who is the husband of Margaret Beaufort and charged with keeping her under house arrest, having recovered from his own fall from grace last summer thanks to his great value as an ally. There are the new men, also, like Uncle Richard’s three closest confidants: Lovell, Ratcliffe, and Catesby, all prospering under the new rule.
And there, at the far back of the hall, they sit. Regal in their dress, dignified in their expressions, yet I spot a shadow of insecurity crossing their faces as Mother strides towards them with my sisters and I in tow. We stop at the proper distance, just like I have seen hundreds if not thousands of people do before my parents in the past. When Mother curtsies, it is the slightest of movements, and her chin remains stubbornly raised. I believe it is the first time she performs the act since before her marriage nigh on twenty years since. Even Kate’s bubbly manners are humble in comparison.
Queen Anne’s eyes are bright and hard like steel when she looks at her sister-in-law, hair brushed glossy and tucked safely under the coronet. Here is the woman she has grown up envying, tried to replace, feared, flattened herself under, and finally defeated. Except my mother is never truly defeated, and the new queen ought to know that. Anne says nothing, though, but simply spreads the rich folds of her ivy-green brocade gown so that it falls more evenly over her slippers. I wonder what it is like to have such a precarious position, before I recall that none of us has been secure in our fortunes for almost a year, except the common servants, who have very little to begin with.
The King sits silent for a good while, then gestures for us to rise, and speaks. ‘Dame Elizabeth Grey. It pleases me to see you have come to your senses and chosen the path of conciliation.’
‘Yes. Misunderstandings within the family can be so unfortunate.’
‘Indeed—we are in accord, then. You are to live at Sheriff Hutton. Your eldest daughter is welcome at court, and your other children may be called upon on certain occasions.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’ The words come slow and pained, as if pulled from her throat with a barbed thread, yet she retains her perfect posture.
Elizabeth… Of course she is welcome. However, it must be obvious to everyone present that ‘welcome’ is a code word for ‘kept under close surveillance’, now that she is presumably Tudor’s linchpin to the throne. My thoughts are cut short as Uncle Richard turns his attention to me.
‘Cecily.’ His voice is soft and low as always but betrays no emotion. ‘Come hither.’
I hold my breath as I dip into another curtsey, deeper this time, my eyes glued to the floor at his feet. My mouth is dry as a cracker. Never before have I shown myself to be beneath him and his statuesque queen or indeed anyone other than Father and Mother; I never will be, but the court demands this spectacle. Both he and I know it.
‘How old are you now?’
I straighten up and meet his gaze. To my triumph, I can compete with it. ‘Fifteen in little more than a fortnight, Your Grace.’
‘Then I have an early gift for you.’ A gesture with his slender fingers calls forth a servant boy holding a velvet-clad pillow. Upon it rests an exquisite broach composed of a multitude of miniscule diamonds set on an octagonal base of mother-of-pearl.
Uncle Richard props his elbow on the armrest and his chin on his fist. ‘You care little for rubies, if I recall correctly. And a broach
is so much better than a casket.’
I fill my lungs with the scent of the courtiers’ perfumes of orange blossoms, hiding a tremble. ‘I do. It is. Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you.’
Perhaps it is shallow of me that the gift goes such a long way in easing my twinge of hostility—but it is not just diamonds. It is not even just diamonds like the ones Elizabeth received when she turned fifteen years of age. It is a symbol of what might come, a gesture, this I am certain of.
The servant boy transfers the broach to my eager hands and is dismissed.
My uncle and aunt exchange a lengthy glance before granting Elizabeth a few words, and we are seen out of the chamber by the guards.
Mother, Anne, Kate, Bridget, and I are due to leave court for the countryside and Sheriff Hutton the following morning. Our belongings from the abbey are being loaded on carriages, and our new household has already been set up with a sufficient staff.
Until our departure, we are kept under close watch, but we are by no means explicitly prisoners, and may roam the palace as we please. I find myself drawn to Saint Stephen’s chapel, for it was not only the place were Father lay in state awaiting his burial, but also the place where Dickie was wed to little Anne Mowbray six years ago, the child bride who died not long after. If we had known on that day what heaven had in store for those poor children… I dismiss the aching memory as I take a step into the gothic chapel, striding through a mist of incense.
Two figures are already standing not far from the entrance. I instinctively come to a halt and slip behind one of the pillars.
Queen Anne has removed her coronet and allowed her hair to drape her shoulders in light chestnut waves. Uncle Richard casts a long glance at her, absorbing the view. At once, I come to think of the times they visited Father’s court during my childhood—it happened less frequently as the years went by, but I remember it well. There was one occasion in particular, a jousting tournament that Father hosted, where his youngest brother competed against William Hastings like a model of chivalry. The look that I see passing between the King and Queen now is the very same as in that moment, when she tied her ruffled token handkerchief to his lance a decade ago.
