by Saga Hillbom
Anne turns the page in her book, refusing to meet my eyes. ‘You ought not to call her that, Cecily. She is not rightfully queen.’
‘She has been crowned and anointed, and the Earl of Lincoln would be displeased to hear us deny it.’
‘Ye-es, yes I suppose so.’
‘I hope Uncle Richard knows he has an assemblage of children to love, and I hope he loves us the most. Having cousins can be so complicated.’
Divine retribution or not, the significance of Edward of Middleham’s death date does not bypass me. The ninth day of April was the one-year-anniversary of Father’s demise.
Elizabeth treats me like a glass figurine. I am ashamed over the way I behaved in front of her, however, she has planted a peculiar seed of respect in me regarding her sense of duty. I could never mask my own desires and fears like she does; I could never squeeze myself into the ready-made mould of the perfect eldest daughter. Is it her own instinct, or rather our mother’s unyielding affection and influence?
She knocks on the door to my bedchamber one evening, clearing her throat to announce herself. I reach for my sable plaid and sweep the fur around my shoulders to cover my thin chemise. Then, I hurry on my toes across the cool stone floor, careful not to wake the maid who sleeps on a pallet by the foot of the bed, and open the door enough to peer out at Elizabeth. She is still in her peachy gown and horned headdress, having stayed up uncharacteristically long.
‘Cecily,’ she says. ‘I wish you to come with me to Nottingham in two days’ time—or, rather, our uncle wishes it.’
I suppress a laugher of pure exaltation, the first laugher I have felt tickling me since Agnes died. ‘Truly? You are not merely mocking me?’ I squint at her.
Elizabeth presses her lips to a thin line. ‘I would not mock you, dear sister. Before I left, Gloucester asked me to bring you back with me, so that he might have a word with you. It will not be for long, only a week, I should think. Then, the court will be traveling again.’
My heart sinks the slightest, but I recover in a matter of seconds. ‘A week. Sublime.’
‘You have to be on you guard.’ She sighs and raises her glance from the floor to meet mine. ‘I know not what they wish to discuss with you, but please, be careful.’
‘I am always careful.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Oh, and Cecily? Bring that broach—the one he gave you.’
We travel with a small entourage of two carriages, one for us and one for our luggage of clothes as well as two maids, fifteen mounted soldiers riding alongside for our protection and safekeeping. The journey from Sheriff Hutton to Nottingham, where the King and Queen are residing at the moment, is less than half as lengthy as it would have been to London. I am yearning to see the bustling city by the Thames again, but I count myself lucky to only have to spend eight days confined with my sister, the carriage jolting whenever the wheels hit a protruding stone in the road. I doubt I could endure any longer without throwing open the door and escaping into the woods in a particularly unfortunate impulse.
When we arrive at Nottingham Castle, I thrill at the sight of this legendary stronghold: built by William the Conqueror, and the very place where my father proclaimed himself King. I have visited the castle before but only spent a fragment of time here compared to Westminster, Windsor, or Eltham, and the colossal grey towers dazzle me anew.
‘Anne would say it resembles a place from the legends of King Arthur,’ I tell Elizabeth as our carriage crosses the stone bridge leading up to the vaulted entrance. ‘I wish Agnes could have come.’
A weary look has settled on my sister’s face, making her appear older than her eighteen years. ‘I would gladly have switched places with her.’
I cannot tell whether she means it.
Chapter IX
THE CHAMBER IS steeped in gloom, a few tapers providing the only light except for the crackling hearth where several logs have already turned to ash and grime. I have to round a robust table covered in silver dishes—grapes, honeyed walnuts, bread, glazed sparrows, gleaming oysters, all untouched—to reach the man standing by the fire. He is clad in mourning garb, his head bereft of both hat and crown. Facing the flames, he waits while I curtsey, but appears to take no notice.
When he finally speaks, his voice bears the tell-tale strain which follows tears. ‘You will have heard of my boy. My heir.’
I keep my eyes fixed on his back, studying the writhing patterns in the black velvet. ‘I did, Your Grace. It saddened me to hear about the Prince of Wales.’ All three of them: Dickie, my Edward, and his. One dead, the other two almost certainly so. None of them deserved it; such innocent souls, necessary linchpins of their parents’ dynastic hopes.
‘Where are my brothers?’ The words break out from behind my teeth before I realise their magnitude. All I can think of is Dickie’s golden locks smeared with blood, Ed’s eyes glassy…
The King raises his head but remains with his back to me. ‘In the Tower, as you well know.’
I will not succeed in pushing the matter any further, hence I turn to another, equally bold question. ‘Why?’
He knows what I mean; he must know. ‘Your father named me.’
‘He named you as Lord Protector, not king. Are we truly bastards?
‘”Woe to thee, Oh land, when thy king is a child”, says the scripture. A boy king is no recipe for stability, and whose council do you think he would have taken? The Woodvilles’ alone. You saw the vices and debauchery at your father’s court, and you saw how your mother’s kinsmen encouraged his indulgent decline. You know how he demanded benevolence from subjects who could not afford it, who trudged in the gutters so that he could waste even more money. Jesus, I loved my brother, but… I have tried to cleanse his court, and you have my word I shall try to cleanse England.’
I ponder this for a moment. It sounds a trifle dull to me, for as much as I disliked Father’s knot of mistresses, I enjoyed the merrymaking and excess in spite of my better judgement. However, I can imagine Uncle Richard with his staunch morality and idealism did not, and he certainly has displayed less waste of the royal coffers than Father ever did.
‘And are you king in the eyes of God? You must tell me, Uncle, because he does not speak to me the way he apparently speaks to so many others.’
‘Cecily. You know I did my utmost to govern the north with a hand of justice and precision.’
‘I do.’
‘You care not for disorder.’ Uncle Richard finally turns from the fire to face me. Despite the obscurity in the room, his face is still young, even remarkably handsome in an unconventional way, and, I confess, in not cruel in the least. Yet that is the same well-proportioned mouth that ordered the executions of Hastings and Rivers and Grey—though not without cause.
‘It frightens me, yes, but you have brought on the greatest disorder yourself.’
‘Only because my foes swarmed around my head. Hasn’t your mother confessed to the schemes to you? Once they align with my reign or are otherwise dealt with, England shall prosper, that I can promise you.’
I bite my lip, hard, a fat drop of blood melting on my tongue. ‘And me? My sisters? Are we foes?’
‘Not if you do not view yourself as such. Not if you follow your senses, dear niece. If you remain true to the House of York and your family—this family—all will be well. I have no desire to harm women or children, especially not those of my own blood.’
‘I knew you would say that, Sire. And you know I am no fool, at least not when I have time to consider.’
The King arches an eyebrow, plucking a plump grape from the platter on the table. ‘Mind you, you are not yet trusted. Not with that mother of yours whispering in your ear and your own ambition soaring. Once I can be sure of where your loyalties lie, you may be wed. My hopes are high that you will still be young and fresh as a budding white rose by the time I can offer your hand to a lord of significant rank.’
‘Thank you.’ I could dance to a cheery
tune in that moment. The princes in the Tower and my maternal uncle and half-brother upon the blood-soaked block are as if lost in the mists of memory. They will resurface soon, naturally, but as for now, I am jubilant at the chance he has granted me, the chance of rehabilitation and restoration.
‘Come, prithee. Let me give you a kiss on the cheek,’ he says. I comply, and he continues: ‘My dear wife wants to see you in her chambers anon. I believe she wants to have a Woodville girl on her side to protect her against the spells of the rest.’
I gape at him. ‘I know nothing of spells and neither do my sisters!’
‘And your mother?’
Of course, I know what commoners and lords alike whisper about Mother. That she is a witch, like my grandmother, that the two of them snared Father with spells and later used their dark magic to bring about the death of Clarence and his wife, the Queen’s sister. I have never believed it, for the accusation of witchcraft is too dangerous to give credence. No, Clarence only met the end he deserved, and his wife died in childbed fever, just as Mother reminded me not long ago. And still, I cannot be certain beyond the shadow of a doubt that the superstitions do not carry an inkling of truth.
‘Humour her, Cecily. The death of her sister is still a splinter in her mind. And now our son.’ His voice cracks.
‘The coronet looks fine upon her head, Sire. Glimmering.’ The guilt stings me, but I mean every word. My mother was superior in beauty and charm when she sat on the throne, but Anne Neville possesses the greater ancestry by far, and I see more of myself in her.
Uncle Richard’s sad smile reflects in his pebble-grey eyes. ‘She always wanted to be queen, see. Ever since we were children. She is, after all, the Kingmaker’s daughter.’
I march directly to Queen Anne’s chambers as soon as her husband has dismissed me. A page announces my presence, to my surprise allowing me entrance into the bedchamber itself, and my hostess dismisses her ladies for the night. The room is bright in spite of the late hour, furnished with bleached birchwood, the canopied bed with covers of silvery blue. Three little bottles with beauty concoctions stand on the edge of the curtained marble bathtub, a tenth of the amount Mother brought with her into sanctuary.
Having exchanged the necessary pleasantries, the Queen sinks down on a pallet, gesturing for me to follow her example.
‘Four children, Cousin Cecily. God has taken four children from me: three before they drew their first breath, and now my Edward. How can I have angered the Lord thus?’ she says, her voice hollower and wearier than I remembered.
I wrap my arms around myself. ‘My mother said it was divine retribution for…for…’
‘For her own boys?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Your mother is to blame, then, for I cannot believe the Lord would take my son from me. She has used her witchcraft again, yes?’ Queen Anne crosses herself, the chain of her crucifix wound tight enough around her fingers to stop the blood flow.
‘I don’t think she has any such powers, Madam.’
‘I know she does. And do you?’
‘No, no. I swear I do not!’ Panic bubbles inside me. Come anything, I cannot afford to be more associated with sorcery than I already am through my maternal inheritance. Treason and murder notwithstanding, it is the most dangerous thing a woman can be accused of.
The Queen shakes her head, slowly. ‘Tell Dame Elizabeth she has misdirected her malicious punishment.’
‘My mother never thought you to be the culprit, Madam. At least she never told me so.’
‘No. Alas, she blames the King. I know she does.’
‘So it is not true, then?’ I hold my breath, but my inquiry is in vain. She would hardly reveal this innermost of secrets to me.
‘The King’s Grace will have spoken to you about your future, that you must earn your match with loyalty.’
‘Yes. You can trust me, that I swear!’
‘Trust is a grand word in times like these. If you abandon the Woodvilles, you could easily abandon us, too.’
My cheeks are damp, my nose runny. How I envy her now more than ever before, how I wish she would put her faith in me. Would she be right to do so? Could I truly forsake my mother and sisters in favour of those who have taken so much from us? I do not know, and it only adds to my tears. In the battle between my love for my closest kin and my desire to once more be a part of that glittering world of royalty, I am torn and beaten bloody. There is only one key to solving this conundrum: my loyalty to York must take precedence over both love and desire. Loyalty binds me—that is the motto Uncle Richard chose for himself many years ago, and it will suit me no worse.
‘Madam, I abandon no one. Sometimes I think people forget I am Woodville and Plantagenet both, and I can play both cards. If forced to choose one or the other, my affinity will lie with the latter. I love my lady Mother and my sisters more than I love you, as is natural, but they cannot give me much, and my mother has turned her back on the House of York, which I will never do.’ I decide to aim one last shot at what I think is my second cousin’s sorest spot: her memories. ‘You know what it is to be refused what is rightfully yours merely for being on the wrong side through the actions of others. Lancaster’s heir was never your choice, was he?’
‘No.’ Her eyes have hardened again, though she is not looking at me, but appears lost in the haze of the past. ‘It was my father’s. I rejoiced when Edward of Lancaster was slain at Tewkesbury, for I knew then that he would not give me any further nightmares. Alas, I was mistaken. The difference between you and me, Cousin, is that when Rich—I mean the King’s Grace—took me for his wife, I was alone in this world. I had very few scheming relatives who could pose a threat to your father.’
I clench my fists between the rich folds of my gown, defeated. ‘I thought my lady Mother was lucky when she won Father’s heart, but mayhap you were luckier still.’
She takes my hand, her own being as cold as ice-melted water, and caresses it, the grief chiselled in her face. ‘The luckiest girl in the world, I used to tell myself. Security and status, even love. I thought I’d be happy.’
I shake my head, a tear smudging on my cheek. ‘And you are not?’
‘Youth fades. Security abandons you. Children die. Love wears on the soul. It grows tainted. Not weaker, but tainted.’
While my uncle filled me with hope, this woman renders me utterly hopeless.
Two days later, the King and his nobles embark on a hart hunt. The array of favoured nobles—Howard, Northumberland, Catesby, Ratcliffe, Lovell—ride at the front with Uncle Richard, all mounted on the finest horses in England. The creatures’ hair shine in the sun, their hooves clopping as we cross the bridge from Nottingham Castle. Irish wolfhounds swarm around the horses’ legs, tails wagging, noses already grazing the ground. Farther back ride lesser nobles and servants, as well as a small group of women headed by Queen Anne. It is not customary for the women of the court to accompany the hart hunt and I have not been before myself, but it does happen occasionally, and the Queen appears in dire need of fresh air and exercise. Her other ladies have whispered in my ear that she has grown more pallid and secluded each day since the news of her son’s death reached her.
The Sherwood Forest has an air of mystique. The oaks stretch their knobbly branches skywards, their thick trunks coarse after centuries of wind and weather, their leaves budding this time of year. I almost manage to forget the constant itch of fear in my throat that comes from riding even the idlest mare. The hunt in itself is a nasty business in my opinion, since I never saw the pleasure in slaughter, yet the forest allows me to be oblivious of such gruesome matters.
Elizabeth turns her head like an owl, absorbing the view of the trees surrounding us. ‘Have you heard the ballad of a man called Robin Hood, Cecily?’
I smile. ‘I recognise the name. Dickie liked that story a great deal.’
The thought of my brother wipes the smile from my face in an instant. It brings to
mind my secret mission, as I have begun referring to it in my head: to carry out my investigations.
When the opportunity arises, I fall behind the hunting party with Queen Anne.
I brace myself. ‘I must know, Madam, what became of my brothers.’
Queen Anne reins in her horse further and tilts her head. ‘Everyone believes His Grace did away with them, no? Isn’t that what they say?’
‘Yes—but that is not the same as knowing.’
‘Your affinity is precious to him, and to me. I need to know first what you think, Cousin, and what your mother thinks.’
I search every corner of my mind for an answer, because all the sleepless nights I have spent wondering have only resulted in only the vaguest theory. ‘I…I think there are too many who would benefit from the princes’ removal to be certain. But His Grace is no fool, and he must know they are more dangerous to him dead—or thought to be dead—than alive and safely locked up.’
‘Clever girl. You are right, naturally. Now, the rebels fight for Henry Tudor, who is both free and a man grown, and use my husband’s nephews for martyr logs to fuel the flames.’
‘That is what I thought, Madam. My mother…well, I believe she blames the King. It is easiest that way. She and my sister Elizabeth have a rather different perception of his character than I do.’
‘Because of Rivers and Grey?’ Their names sound stilted coming from her, as if she must force herself to speak them.
‘Yes, largely. Because they are Woodvilles above anything, and because they confuse him with Clarence at times.’
‘Rivers and Grey were a threat. They and Dorset would have pushed their own agenda too far with young Ed, used him as the pawn he already was, banishing us to the periphery, taking our lands and estates. His Grace arrested them for our protection, fearing their plot.’
I clutch my reins tighter, as always fearing my mare might throw me. ‘It is true there was much talk of raising troops. Still, could they not have been acquitted?’
