Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

‘And promised to Tudor, that most foul of rebels.’

  I hold my breath. How I agree with them! Only I still dare not fully say it outright. Mother is a spectacular woman, and none can deny that, but it is true her family was never as strong-willed or as beauteous, with the exception of my grandmother Jacquetta and my aunt Catherine. Their star rose high thanks to my father’s generosity; it was not a rise based on merit. Of course, merit is rarely the sole reason for any courtier’s success, and I have no grievances with this, but Mother’s kinsmen did much to alienate the rest of the peerage, too much. Whatever my opinions of the Woodvilles and the Tudors, though, I am not accustomed to voicing them so freely, and my skin prickles.

  ‘What is that scar on your hand?’ I say, swiftly switching the topic.

  ‘You were always curious about battle marks, dear niece, even as a small child. As it happens, this particular mark is no more heroic than the bite of a wolfhound cub. Isolde is breeding again.’

  Even Queen Anne smiles at that, and I thank Our Lady for the turn of the conversation. Hearing her name, Isolde trots up to Uncle Richard and nuzzles her wet nose against her master’s knee, before tramping on the spot and settling by the hearth, head resting on outstretched pawns.

  We pass the rest of the evening speaking of literature rather than death, music rather than the French or my mother’s family. I savour every moment, dreading the day I will have to return to Sheriff Hutton. I even manage to exchange a few genuine pleasantries with the other lords and ladies after Nan Lovell lures me to laugh at a comment about her terse relationship with her husband Francis, who drains his cup in response and calls for another flagon of wine.

  When the hour grows later than prudence advises, I withdraw to the chamber I share with Elizabeth. Slipping between the silky sheets, I believe her to be sound asleep, until she speaks in a detached voice.

  ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’

  ‘I did.’ I plump up my pillows, then let my head hit the feather-stuffed softness.

  ‘I do not understand you sometimes, Cecily.’

  ‘You have too much of Mother in you.’ The echo of Queen Anne’s words is deliberate. ‘You are hostile to the wrong people.’

  My sister says nothing more that night.

  In contrast to the glamour of court life, which I had so sorely missed, Sheriff Hutton feels like a cave in the wilderness. No glittering dances, no hunting parties, and very little gossip. The most exciting turn of events during the week after I return is when one of the kitchen maids tries to smuggle away a couple of lamb chops under her apron and is duly dismissed from the household. If I were her, I would have made sure not to get caught, since that is half the crime.

  Despite my grumblings, I quickly adapt to life in the countryside again. Spring is in full bloom, ripening into summer. The sky blazes blue, a thin veneer of clouds surrendering to rays of blinding sunlight beating down on our scalps, turning our hair to white gold. The trees sway in the faint breeze, their lace-pattern of leaves rustling, sending my spirits soaring. I always preferred this time of year to any other—except the Twelve Days of Christmas—and last time, I was unable to enjoy nature’s beauty as I huddled up in the heat-baked abbey. Every morrow and afternoon, I venture outside the brick walls of Sheriff Hutton to promenade or rather, when the two guards accompanying me turn their attention elsewhere, dash through the fields. My gowns are perpetually wet with dew and covered in grass stains, but that is the bright side of Sheriff Hutton’s reclusiveness: no one is watching, at least no one who matters. As much as I yearn to return to the knot of power and politics, I secretly treasure these moments of shelter from the public gaze.

  I try not to think about Elizabeth prancing at court. Summer will soon wane and die, and when it does, I will once more wish to swap places with her. However, I discover a new advantage to her absence, for someone must fill the gap she leaves in our mother’s love. Anne is too immersed in her new friendship with Meg and the texts they study together, Kate spends her days either doodling ugly fantasy creatures or trailing after Young Warwick, and Bridget—though she is a gem, promising to become the most beautiful of my sisters—remains quiet as a church mouse. I am only too happy to shoulder the role of Mother’s main focus, temporary though it might be. Who would have thought it possible two years ago, when Elizabeth, Ed, and Dickie took precedence in the queue, let alone when poor Mary was still alive? I would willingly chop off my right hand to bring either of my dead siblings back to us, but I have wondered for a long time how it feels to be a favourite child, not just another girl. Mother sometimes said she loved all of us equally. I think she meant it, believed it even, yet she had to say it to remind us as well as herself. That I should still be so eager for her affection puzzles me at first, considering my mild betrayal of her family, but I conclude it is only natural, when she is the sole parent of mine still living. My love for her as such is entirely separate from what I think of her politics. I do make an attempt at revealing the story of Buckingham to her, but she is hell-bent on not believing me, seeing as I have no evidence, and I refrain from quarrelling over it. I find it improbable that it would change her attitude towards Uncle Richard significantly, since, I have to admit, she has plenty cause to hate him regardless.

  What my uncle said about her being pleased at Clarence’s death… I remember it well myself, though I was barely nine years old at the time. Her smile could have melted men and marble alike the day the death sentence was carried out. Some might call it macabre, but the memory does not repulse me, for I shared her relief if not her glee, even at my young age. Yes, we do have quite a bit in common, she and I, not to be discounted simply because of our equally vast differences.

  This summer, Mother spends hours teaching me to play the lute more skilfully than I have done thus far, since my fingers tend to tangle with the strings.

  ‘There,’ she says one mild August evening. ‘You improve every passing day. Methinks you can play for all the princes in Christendom soon.’

  I clutch the instrument to my chest. ‘Thank you, Lady Mother. And dance with them, too?’

  ‘That also, if the scoundrel Gloucester finds the time to arrange it.’

  I put the lute down on the table, loud enough to provoke a glare, and at once regret it. ‘I thought he was planning to invade Scotland. Perhaps it could succeed this time, without Father holding him back.’

  ‘It seems not. Other threats demand his military power.’

  ‘Henry Tudor?’

  She does not need to reply; her pinched mouth is enough to confirm my fears. Yes, fears. Tudor has already failed once and put us in considerable danger. Uncle Richard forgave my mother her involvement in the rebellion last autumn, at least publicly, but if Tudor made a second attempt to launch an invasion? We remain inextricably linked to him and his cause through Elizabeth’s betrothal whether my oldest sister likes it or not, for the Lancastrian took an oath last Christmas to wed her when he becomes king. When, not if. Such folly! Of course, his aim is no longer to restore my dead brother the throne and merely reclaim the lands associated with the title Earl of Richmond for himself. His Yorkist supporters, largely Woodvilles and Father’s old household knights, are no longer loyal to Edward V—they are loyal to his memory. They believe Tudor to be their only alternative, aligning with the Lancastrian rebel camp.

  I often listen as the servants whisper among themselves, speculating just as we do about what the outcome might be, and through them I access information before the official letters reach the household.

  The Duke of Brittany’s backing is floundering. I hear he is old and grey, and with only a young daughter to inherit him, he is desperate to secure his duchy’s independence from France’s looming pawns. Uncle Richard vows to send six thousand English archers to aid Brittany if they hand over Henry Tudor, and the duke agrees. The French have not been particularly keen to face English archers since the battle of Agincourt almost seventy years ago, and little wonder at that.

&n
bsp; The tension building on my shoulders eases when I am told of this deal struck between England and Brittany If my uncle can haul in Tudor before he tries to invade again, those of my relatives who might aid him, indeed my closest family, can be viewed in a much more lenient light, and both sides of the conflict can avoid a bloody confrontation.

  I have just returned from a walk, my cloak soaked in autumn rain, when Meg unwillingly smashes my hopes to the muddy ground. Tudor and his closest men have bolted over the border to France, escaping by the skin of their teeth. The French regency council and its boy-king Charles VIII will likely hold onto him like a toddler with a new toy, latching at the opportunity to stir up yet more trouble in our country. The raw November winds sweep in from the coast, and while they chill me to the bone, the ominous political quagmire does the same with my blood.

  Lincoln keeps us in fresh supply of news. ‘That knave the Earl of Oxford has escaped his cell in Calais, defecting to Tudor’s band,’ he informs us during one of his visits to Sheriff Hutton, visits occurring more frequently now since he has been named head of the Council of the North which oftentimes holds its meetings here. We are crossing the inner courtyard, and I have taken his arm, allowing him to hold me a little too close and a little too hard, so that I can coax the details out of him.

  ‘Can he defect when he was already a Lancastrian?’ He does not answer. ‘How did he escape?’

  Lincoln scratches his fox-coloured beard. ‘He ran off with his jailor. Should be a clue.’

  ‘Oh. Cousin, I would have thought a man in his position should be more reliable.’

  ‘Yes. Cannot trust anyone these days.’

  Mother rejoices, because Oxford is a seasoned military strategic, and his allegiance increases Tudor’s chances markedly.

  ‘Did you know all this before we did?’ I ask after my stroll with Lincoln.

  She puts down her embroidery, a composition of daisies and cornflowers. ‘I did not…Margaret Beaufort no longer corresponds with me. The risk is too great.’

  ‘But you still hope her son will succeed?’

  ‘I still hope to see my Beth on the throne.’

  ‘And ruin my chances of prospering?’ I cross my arms.

  ‘You would prosper more under her rule.’

  ‘But she would not rule, Lady Mother! Her husband would! And even if she did, I can prosper without her.’

  Our sweet months of harmony have gone by quickly.

  Mother sighs and picks up her needle and thread, making immaculate stitches. ‘There is something else which I daresay will be more to your liking. Gloucester has sent an invite to join court for the Christmas celebrations. We leave for their nest towards the end of Advent.’

  ‘Westminster?’ I cannot disguise the elation instantly bubbling to the surface. Finally.

  ‘Yes, Westminster. My sweet.’

  Chapter XI

  ISN’T IT WONDERFUL?’ I exclaim as we step inside the great hall at the Palace of Westminster. ‘Every bit as wonderful as it used to be!’

  ‘Your father would have enjoyed the decorations and the eatables,’ Mother says, holding Kate by the hand to prevent her from scuttling ahead. ‘If only he were here.’

  The hall is swarming with clusters of nobles in their finery, trimmed in precious metals to their teeth. Holly and ivy line the walls and the rows of tables, their glossy leaves reflecting light from a thousand blazing candles, intertwined with garlands of silver and gold. The air is thick with the blend of courtiers’ chit-chat and minstrels plucking on instruments, the smell of sweat and perfume and boots made of Italian or Spanish leather creeping up my nostrils.

  I press my palm against my stomach to curb a growl. Advent fast is my least favourite time of year—so dreary, so dull. Why should we suffer thus? I hold firm in my belief that Jesus would rather we enjoyed the food and entertainment at our disposal, even if he could not do so himself.

  ‘Their Graces, the King and Queen!’ a man in livery declares.

  Uncle Richard enters the great hall, nodding and smiling at his magnates, his wife on his arm. The Queen has donned a gown of olive-green silk, intricately embroidered with golden thread, its sleeves lined with ermine. Her hair is gathered in a two-parted caul underneath the coronet. At the base of her throat rests an obsidian-coloured jewel the size of a strawberry—I cannot tell what kind—and on her finger she flaunts a single ornament: the plain gold of her wedding band. From afar, she enchants, but when they pass us, her taunt cheeks and the shadows dappling her hollowed eyes are screamingly obvious, her delicate neck threatening to snap like a chicken bone under the weight of the coronet.

  I force myself to give a small bow of my head and bend my knee—it still feels like such an absurd practice—and every guest lowers themselves likewise.

  Once the King and Queen are seated on the dais by the high table, I claim my own seat next to Mother. We have been designated places at the end of the same table, with Elizabeth’s empty chair closest to our hosts, as custom requires.

  ‘A gay occasion. Methinks the vipers will attract the displeasure of clerics and monks,’ Mother says, as if she herself was not once infamous for the luxury she rightfully gorged in before Father died.

  Anne looks up from her empty trencher. ‘Perhaps it would look worse if he didn’t have a proper celebration, as if he were not king.’

  ‘My wise little girl.’ Mother strokes her cheek. ‘I hope you prefer this to last year.’

  Anne nods. I agree wholeheartedly, for although last year’s Christmas Day seemed a true blessing under the circumstances, this is how it should be. One thing alone is amiss: Thomas. I reach up to touch the plump pearls sprinkled on my caul, recalling his embarrassed face when he presented me with the gift. No, I must not lend it a thought.

  Servant boys enter the hall, balancing gigantic silver platters heaped with exquisitely decorated dishes. The glazed boar heads and the swan with its ivory-white feathers put back after the roasting immediately become the centre of attention and praise, though I confess I find their dead eyes as repulsive as Dickie once did.

  We have been given personal knives, yet another sign of favour. I carve my roasted duckling, grease coating my fingers, desperate to satisfy my hunger.

  ‘Remember your manners, my sweet,’ Mother says. ‘You do not want stains on your new gown.’

  I force myself to slow down, sit back and square my shoulders. In particular, I do not wish to display any indecorous behaviour at this hour, when our moments of public glory are few.

  The spices—cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, saffron—intoxicate me. I sprinkle the stews and meats on my trencher with a hefty dash of salt, relishing in the knowledge that these luxuries belong to me for life. I cannot count the different dishes, but there must be thirty in the least. The banquet will last for hours, naturally followed by dancing.

  I wash my hands in the silver basin I share with Anne before I stand and slip out between the chairs. Smoothing my gown, I round the table and curtsey before the King and Queen.

  Uncle Richard gestures for me to rise, elevating his gold-embossed cup in a small toast as I do so.

  Forgetting my new station for the briefest moment, I speak before spoken to. ‘Merry Christmas, Your Grace.’

  ‘And to you, dear niece. You enjoy the feast? I find it too extravagant myself.’

  The nobles laugh as if at a bad joke, but I believe he is in earnest.

  ‘I enjoy it immensely.’ I turn to my second cousin. ‘Madam, I do find your necklace most rapturing.’

  ‘It pleases me to see you,’ she says. ‘Prithee, stay awhile.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace. My lady Mother says we may remain at court until after Epiphany, mayhap longer.’

  The lines around Queen Anne’s mouth harden at the mention of Elizabeth Woodville. ‘You may remain for as long as I say so—you enjoy staying at court, yes?’ The hopeful note in her voice is subtle but genuine. ‘I would like a companion. You won’t ab
andon me, Cecily?’

  I can almost taste warm drops of pleasure on my tongue, for it is the first time she uses my Christian name in front of all the court. ‘Never, Your Grace! I shall stay as long as you let me.’

  ‘You are a sweet girl.’ She smiles sadly before she transfers her attention to John Howard, who is sitting at her right fiddling with the table cloth with hands calloused from wielding a sword for the better part of his nigh on sixty years.

  I recognise my cue to withdraw and return to my spot further down the table.

  Mother eyes me. ‘You are quick to discard my council.’

  ‘I cannot argue with the Queen, Lady Mother.’

  ‘Nor did you want to.’ She sighs, patting Kate’s hair.

  ‘No, I did not want to,’ I say. ‘Well, why should I?’

  ‘I know you do not like bowing your head to them any more than we do. You never will.’

  I shrug. ‘Of course not, but they are showering us with grace at last. Before, it was just a trickle.’

  ‘We shall have to wait and see.’

  The meal passes, my belly hurting by the time I have tried every delicacy. Mother often advises me to eat some bread and cheese before dining in public, so as to avoid gorging in front of others, but I was too excited to remember this in time.

  As the eve wears on the courtiers flit around like sprightly butterflies, a few of them dancing already.

  I knit my brows. ‘Where is Elizabeth? It is frightfully unlike her to be so late.’

  I receive no reply, but I need none, for my sister emerges into the great hall from a side door, at the heels of Queen Anne, who must have gone to fetch her. At first, I think my eyes are playing me a cruel trick. Then, murmurs spread through the thicket of courtiers along with a wave of raised eyebrows and long glances.

  Elizabeth is clad in an exact replica of the Queen’s lovely attire, and has even clasped the other woman’s obsidian necklace around her swan-like throat. It is in truth an odd occurrence, because no other person save the King himself should ever be perceived as equal to the supposedly untouchable spouse of a sovereign.