Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  ‘It is difficult to defect from a path once you have trapped yourself on it; to release Rivers and Grey and retreat from the stance he had taken against the Woodville threat would have been synonymous with political suicide, perhaps suicide in the most galling sense also, for the Woodvilles would have convinced young Ed to... There was no turning back.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Then there was Bishop Stillington and his confession about your father’s plight-troth to Lady Butler. The more we thought about it, the more obvious the solution appeared. Why not avoid the instability of a boy-king with competing councillors? Why not steer England to its former virtue and prosperity?’ She meets my gaze and holds it for several seconds, an eternity then and there, and I can spot the dwindling hope so clearly in her face it makes me ache.

  ‘You, too, believed the bishop? I do not know what to believe myself, only what I want to believe.’

  ‘I trusted him, yes. Truth is, we will never know with absolute certainty whether he is an honest man, but he was bound to come forth with his confession, and you know well enough the unrest a disputed ruler can cause.’

  ‘I fear we have a disputed ruler regardless.’ I sigh, the turmoil in my chest threatening to break my ribcage. ‘You still have not told me what happened to my poor brothers, Madam.’

  Queen Anne bends forward to stroke her horse’s neck, her doll-like hand gloved and perfumed with honeysuckle. ‘With their illegitimacy proclaimed, we thought they could be kept away from the public until the storm had settled, and then brought back to a quiet life away from court. You remember your late father’s children by his mistresses? We thought your brothers could take a similar position, dangerous to no one, since they were illegitimate, but it was not to be. We talked about it, late one June eve, one of those eves with birds still chirping long after dusk. My husband said—’ She breaks off and takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment before resuming. ‘—he said it would be easier if they had never been born, and, of course, he was right. I told him so. We were not as alone in that moment as we thought. The walls have ears.’

  ‘Who heard you? Pray tell,’ I hiss.

  ‘The Duke of Buckingham. I knew he was a troublesome man when I first laid eyes on him. His Grace did not see it until it was too late. The Duke thought to curry favour by ridding his King of rivals, not pausing to give it further thought. He was greedy, always drooling after more than he had already been given, and there would have come a time when he might have asked for the crown itself.’

  A cold wave washes over me, freezing the blood in my veins. Buckingham. I should have guessed. Mayhap I did. ‘He had them murdered? Did he?’

  ‘He ordered his brutes to perform the deed. When we returned to London after our progress and found out, His Grace was in a fury. I never saw him so outraged, except once, when his brother of Clarence tried to hide me from him to prevent our marriage.’ A stroke of nostalgia colours her voice before she clears her throat and continues. ‘I know not what befell their bodies.’

  I frown, numb. ‘Why did you not announce what had happened and rid yourself of Buckingham in the process?’

  ‘Who would have believed it? That the King’s most trusted man had acted without his knowledge, or even that they had both died of natural causes at the same time, and yet the bodies were already buried without proper ceremony? You know what the public was like, dear, already turned firmly against him. No matter what we said or did, they would have thought the same. So we said nothing, but prayed some would assume they had merely been tucked away in the north.’

  ‘And Buckingham?’

  ‘He was afraid after their quarrel. He thought he would be in higher graces with Henry Tudor on the throne.’

  ‘Well, he was right. Tudor would be nothing without the princes removed to put him forth as their avenger and heir of their claim.’ I have not spoken truer words in a long time.

  ‘You see then, that we are doomed unless the people learn to love their true King and Tudor’s opposition is rooted out. The princes must be forgotten altogether.’

  I shake my head in disbelief. ‘I wouldn’t want my brothers forgotten.’

  We are interrupted by Uncle Richard himself, as if summoned by our stealthy conversation. He has turned his horse around, allowing his arsenal of magnates to ride ahead, and now sides with the Queen and myself. There are smudged shadows under his eyes; his face does not bear witness of any joy in the hunt.

  ‘Are you tired, ma belle?’ he asks his wife.

  She ignores the question, holding the reins in one hand while placing the other on his arm. ‘She knows.’

  ‘Anne?’ Guarded, sharp.

  ‘Yes. She needed to hear the truth.’

  Uncle Richard turns to me, speaking with a clamped jaw. ‘You must swear not to breathe a single word of what you have learnt. It cannot be known that they are dead for certs—they are still within the walls of the Tower, understand?’

  ‘Yes, Sire. Though I do not think many will believe it.’

  ‘It is too late to go back, Cecily. Much too late.’

  ‘My mother deserves to know.’

  ‘I very much doubt you can convince her, dear niece, when her heart is already carved with hatred. I bear her no tender affection, but she has the right to lay the blame fully on me, should it ease her pain in any manner.’

  My vision blurs with tears. ‘Yes, she does. They were in your care, Uncle. You may not have ordered their deaths, but you isolated them to begin with. And why my youngest brother? Why him?’ I know the answer already, but I need to hear it from him.

  He rides in silence a moment before speaking, his voice strained. ‘I am aware of the part I played. Do not make the mistake to think I have not lain sleepless over what happened to those innocent souls. As for the younger boy, I believe you know why he had to be placed with his brother. Your mother would have tried to smuggle him out of the abbey otherwise, to be used as a figurehead for a rebellion.’

  ‘We would not have talked about it had we known the Duke would be so rash in action,’ Queen Anne adds, as if trying to build a defensive wall with her words.

  Her husband continues, ‘If you find this knowledge too difficult to reconcile with, you may return to Sheriff Hutton at noon. I won’t force you to associate with me—’

  ‘No!’ I blink the tears away, shaking my head. ‘I will stay the week, as was your invitation. I shan’t abandon my York blood.’

  ‘Good. My queen was right in trusting you with this innermost secret. Remember what you have sworn.’

  ‘I will. And do you swear that what you have told me is indeed the truth?’

  ‘I swear it on the sacraments.’

  The three of us part ways as the royal couple spur their horses to the front of the hunting party and I remain back, lacking the confidence to let my horse gallop. The forest does not feel so enchanting anymore.

  Am I a wicked soul? Would God—or worse, Mother—frown upon my decision to take the party of a man who played a significant part in the death of my brothers, whether he intended it or not? I cannot tell. The portion of his and his wife’s blame is so much smaller than a tiny piece of me once feared, thus my relief is as pronounced as my wrath. I have to believe what they have told me, because I have very little else to believe that feels plausible. We all make mistakes, some of them fatal, and as I lament what happened, one thing becomes clear. Uncle Richard could not have put the princes anywhere but the Tower, not solely because it was expected that Ed should reside there till his coronation, but because their isolation was crucial. My uncle did what he had to do to protect his lands and realise his ambitions for England. Mother would indeed have turned Dickie into a figurehead, and more violence would have ensued.

  And Buckingham…Buckingham is the true perpetrator. If he was still alive and stood before me now, I would not hesitate to trample him with my horse. His henchmen’s hands squeezing my brothers’ throats…or was th
e deed done with daggers? A dull blow to the head? Blood rushes in my ears; the trees swoon around me; my head spins. I have to lie flat against my mare’s muscular neck to prevent myself from either falling off or vomiting.

  The incident calls to mind the case of Thomas Becket. Some three hundred years ago, King Henry II, in conflict with his archbishop Becket, spoke a few thoughtless words in affect, which his knights interpreted as their cue to murder the archbishop and thereby increase their own favour. Naturally, the King was infuriated, for if it was thought he had ordered the murder, he risked being excommunicated by His Holiness the Pope. Rash sycophants for subjects can be a perilous thing.

  I have at least learnt the truth, or so I believe. Even I know that breaking an oath taken upon the sacraments, or lying under said oath, is an offence one burns in hell for—that is why I myself have been careful never to swear such an oath.

  If only I could declare what happened to all of England, all the world, not just to my mother, who I know will never accept the truth... Perhaps if she did, she would then be more lenient towards Uncle Richard and less so towards Margaret Beaufort, who must have known they were dead long before we realised if not accepted it. After all, she was in close communication with Buckingham before and during the rebellion last autumn; it was through her we received the wealth of information. How long did she know the fight to restore Ed to the throne was already lost, and that her own son had won his conditional claim? Was she perhaps even involved in the deaths?

  But no, the King and Queen are right. No one except their closest confidants would believe Buckingham did it on his own behest, especially not now, when they have already darkened the crime for many months. The only outcome would be the public concluding once and for all that my brothers died by my uncle’s hand, which would further strengthen Tudor’s own claim. And the commotion over the lack of bodies or proper burial… I shudder, my horse’s fur warm and thoroughly brushed against my cheek. If there is one thing that repulses me, it is maltreatment of corpses, the ultimate humiliation and dishonour of the dead.

  None of us are exempt from loss. My cousin Edward of Middleham was no older than my brothers when he succumbed to disease. Indeed, boys are more precious than jewels, yet they die like flies.

  Chapter X

  THEIR SCREAMS HAUNT me that night. Elizabeth lies snoring next to me in our shared chamber—the night is the one time she lacks grace—while I curl up with my knees touching my chin and shut my eyes until I see bright spots dancing. I wish my sister would snore louder so as to drown my brothers’ chilling cries for help. I imagine them smothered with pillows, kicking the mattress furiously. I imagine golden locks marinating in blood long after their throats have been slit, never to be washed clean again. There is nothing new to me about these visions, except they are clearer and more intense now that I know who was responsible but still not the details of the deed or what happened afterwards. Until I do know the full story, I fear I shall never be entirely free from their ghosts.

  Nonetheless, my investigation will have to rest awhile. I have extracted more knowledge than I dared hope, and what else can I do at this moment? I can hardly embark on a search for Buckingham’s men and kindly inquire if anyone is feeling inclined to shoulder the title of boy-butcher. All Soul’s Day was the day when Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, went to the block. How queer, to think it would also have been Ed’s thirteenth birthday, had he lived.

  I turn on my other side to look at Elizabeth. In the dark, her lips are the colour of slate, the oval of her face even softer than in harsh daylight. Had it been Anne sharing the bed with me, I might have woken her for comfort, but Elizabeth… I am not so certain she would refrain from chiding me for my meddling in these dangerous affairs, or for my trust in the King’s oath. No, let her sleep and snore as long as she likes.

  After supper the following evening, the King and Queen summon me to sit with them in the grand solar. I flush with pleasure, for it is a more intimate gathering than I anticipated: only four other lords and two ladies, presumably wives, are present, chatting idly by the end of the long table. I recognise three of the men as Francis Lovell, Richard Ratcliffe, and William Catesby, all sunburnt and smiling. The fourth I do not know, but I recall that his name is Sir James Tyrell.

  The vaulted ceiling casts shadows across the room, streaking the warm glow from the crackling fireplace and the candles burning low. The walls are covered with Flemish tapestries depicting the Arthurian legends, serving not merely as decoration but as a shield against the chill that tends to lodge in stone castles in the Midlands. My slippers click against the floor, then sink into the thick carpet as I approach the pallets by the fireplace, where the King and Queen are sitting ensconced in a cloud of her honeysuckle perfume.

  I catch a stray word or two on my way, enough for me to know what they are speaking of. The dead prince who was their sole hope and joy, the single fruit of twelve years of marriage. The little lives snuffed out in the womb or in childbed. The wretched unfairness of Mother Nature.

  I shudder. I have no desire to hear about dead children, much less speak about them, not when my own loss is still so fresh to me. Nonetheless, as I sink down on one of the pallets, the topic is heavy in the air.

  ‘When you spoke of my brothers, Your Grace, you said you had never seen the King’s Grace so furious since the Duke of Clarence tried to keep you from marrying.’ I edge forward on the pallet, hoping they might indulge me and distract me from the ghosts raging in my head, howling for my attention.

  The King gives one of his intense, small smiles. ‘Do call me Uncle tonight, Cecily. We so rarely used titles in previous years, did we? Yes, Anne spoke truth. But you know this story already, surely?’

  ‘It was long since I heard it—I forget too easily for my own good, sometimes. Did Clarence really hide you away as a kitchen maid...Cousin Anne?’ I decide that if this evening is private enough to dispense of one person’s title, it is private enough to do without them altogether.

  A shadow crosses Anne’s face. ‘Alas, he did, though he lacked the wits to remove me from his household at the Herber. The wits and the courage, yes?’

  ‘Yes, ma belle. Brother George always did lack that.’ Uncle Richard turns to me. ‘First, he refused to let me see my intended bride, claiming a fever tormented her, then a cold, then an upset stomach. As the months passed, he ran out of excuses, hence dressing her in a kitchen maid’s rags, thinking I would not recognise her.’

  The lords and ladies at the other end of the solar are still talking in low voices among themselves, and to my relief, I find myself at ease with them. As I watch the pools of golden light from the hearth illuminating Queen Anne’s translucent skin, and as I sip on my cloyingly sweet wine, the soft atmosphere of a springtime evening starts to chase away my anxiety. At least for now.

  ‘Was he so eager for land and money?’

  ‘Indeed. Your father had already granted him plenty, considering his defections from his house of descent. But George became obsessed with the Beauchamp lands, thought he could lay claim to them as long as he was married to one heiress and controlled the other with an iron first.’ The resentment is clear as a in Uncle Richard’s voice.

  ‘But you proved him wrong, didn’t you, Uncle—you got Middleham Castle? I remember how he looked whenever someone mentioned Middleham, as if he was choking on his own tooth!’ A smirk jumps to my lips at the thought, though I am unable to lure either of my companions to smile. It is not unkindness on their part, but simply the aftermath of death.

  ‘And still your father gave him nearly everything else in exchange for his begrudging consent to our marriage. Not that I disputed him further. I had what mattered most.’

  ‘My father did not mind, did he? I never heard him say so.’

  I realise my blunder too late; Queen Anne is at once defensive. ‘How could he mind, when Elizabeth Woodville was no less the Lancastrian widow than I was? At least, I had the noblest of blood in my v
eins.’

  ‘I hope you know, Cousin, that I think of my late father’s blood as what flows strongest in my own veins,’ I assure her with more fervour than I first intended, then turn to the King with what I reckon to be the most daring question I have asked him in my life. ‘Were you pleased when Clarence met his end?’

  ‘Pleased? No. There was a time when I could have killed him with my own hands for the things he did, but no, I was not pleased, unlike your mother. It was so odd, see. He crossed every boundary during a decade, yet the punishment did not come until…until it did. I always wondered if there was something more, something your father preferred to keep even from me. Edward was dearer to me than my own life, God rest his soul, but no man is without fault. You recall the French campaign?’

  ‘I was so very young, Uncle, but I do recall Elizabeth becoming the Dauphine overnight. She was certain to remind me of it personally every day for a fortnight, if not more.’

  ‘Ah, yes. A generous pension from the French King and his eldest daughter betrothed to the Dauphin, in exchange for turning back home without waging proper war. I believe he forgot honour on that day when he signed the Treaty of Picquigny, along with the taxes he had collected from the commoners with a promise to use the funds to reclaim French soil.’

  The other men in the solar have grown silent. Even at this distance, I can trace the bitterness suddenly engraved in their faces. No doubt they, too, remember the failure of the French campaign.

  I do my best to hide the blush that must be flaring on my cheeks on behalf of my father. ‘I wish he had not turned back so easily. A glorious England and France under a single crown… And then Elizabeth would not be queen of either.’

  ‘She cannot be now. She has too much of Dame Elizabeth Grey in her.’ Anne presses a palm against her bodice as if to calm herself.

  ‘Perhaps. At the very least, that is where her heart lies.’