Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  To my puzzlement, Mother is nodding to herself. ‘You were right. They shower us with favour, and disarm the rebel lords at the same time.’

  ‘Lady Mother?’

  ‘Is there any way Gloucester could demonstrate the Woodville girls’ integration into his regime more clearly? I think not. I daresay he hopes the exiles will return begging for pardon if they hear what grace awaits former enemies.’

  A familiar, nasty feeling brews in the pit of my stomach, a feeling I hoped had begun to subside while my oldest sister was away. ‘But why Elizabeth? I thought there was little affection left between them and her.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with affection. This is mere strategy.’

  Very well. Let Elizabeth be their tool of conciliating the rebels, let her parade as a part of their frontline rather than act as Tudor’s linchpin to the throne. It is only right the House of York stand united…as long as I am not neglected for the sake of it.

  I turn my gaze on my sister, and my jealousy swiftly fades to sympathy of sorts. Queen Anne’s health may be in grave decline, but she looks positively thriving next to Elizabeth, whose complexion is poorly suited for the olive-green costume she now wears. She omits no sound, but when I narrow my eyes, I spot her full lower lip quivering. Because she is so often on the main stage, I tend to forget she never asked to be, especially not on this stage.

  The Queen strides forth and reclaims her seat at her husband’s side. They speak in low voices, thus I inch closer as inconspicuously as I can.

  ‘Will you grant me a dance, ma belle?’

  ‘Not tonight, Rich. Dance with her.’ The Queen nods towards Elizabeth, who is still standing in the middle of the hall making eyes at our mother. ‘They will know she is one of us now.’

  Uncle Richard frowns. ‘One dance. You must try to eat some more, and give the herbal remedy the physician brought yesterday a chance.’

  ‘I will. Pray do not concern yourself for me.’ She manages a smile as he stands and kisses her hand before gesturing to the musicians to play.

  How odd to think that it was less than three years since he danced with me on my birthday. His natural skill has, unfortunately, not improved. His technique is faultless, yet he is stiff and inexpressive, doubtlessly agonized by his back.

  I am itching to join even in this basse dance, but the conversation between two minor nobles a few feet behind me captures my attention.

  ‘As if she sought to replace Her Grace!’ the lady closest to me hisses. ‘Is this His Grace’s doing?’

  The man blows his nose like a trumpet. ‘I bet the girl will have more than the Queen’s dress ere long! His Grace needs a new son, healthy this time, and those Woodvilles are naught if not fine breeding stock!’

  My insides turn as the full significance of the exchange of garments dawns upon me, for this is a double-edged sword, and a fickle one. If the King and Queen sought to set tongues wagging, they have certainly succeeded, just not in the intended manner. Not at all. It is one thing to display their newfound unity with the Woodville branch of the family—a splendid unity—but this? A rumour about wedding his niece could ruin my uncle quicker than Dorset could ruin a woman’s chastity. The general public would frown and the north would renounce his authority for love of Anne Neville and her late father, the Kingmaker. I dare not think what Henry Tudor would do—move on to his second pick, me? Oh Lord, let the fool have forgotten I exist.

  My head spins. If such rumours are already flourishing… Does Elizabeth have any notion about what she has partaken in? Do any of them understand the mistake they have made?

  The dance comes to an end. My sister turns left and right, feet paralyzed, before retreating out through the side door.

  I dart after her and find myself in the obscure passage where I used to hide from our governess. ‘Elizabeth!’ I grab her arm. ‘I have to tell you what I heard—’

  A strangled sob escapes her. She clasps a hand to her mouth, closing her eyes for a second, and is composed once more.

  ‘You think I have not heard, too?’

  ‘It’s not true, is it?’ I have to ask, if only to soothe myself.

  ‘How can you think that of me?’

  ‘I never said I did.’

  ‘I ought not to have agreed to put on a gown like hers. It is even too short—look.’ She spreads her skirts, nodding at her exposed ankles.

  I clear my parched throat. ‘And your hair is too…too blonde.’ It feels easier to dwell upon these trivialities than the underlying issue. ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘To show me off, almost like a trophy. I liked it not then, but this is so much worse.’

  ‘Mother guessed it. Though if I had been you, I’d have sung a merry little tune.’

  She eyes me up and down in silence for a moment. ‘And if you were me now?’

  I grapple for the right words, any words, but find none. Never before have I seen her look like a trembling baby deer lost in the dark woods, and it baffles me. No one is more surprised than I when I wrap my arms around her in a crush of mutual despair, awkwardly patting her back.

  ‘Oh, Cecily…’ she whispers.

  Indeed, how far would I be prepared to go to become queen? To wed a Lancastrian is on the verge, but I doubt I would. To wed an uncle and spoil something as rare as royal love… Well, that is definitely a step too far even in my universe.

  I send God a genuine prayer to spare Queen Anne the dirty rumours about her husband and my sister. Naturally, God does not heed me, but perhaps He has little chance against the gossip-crazed mash of courtiers and servants who take such raw delight in their obnoxiously loud tittering and tattering, a delight I would have shared had it not been for the fact that the titter-tatter concerns those closest to my heart.

  A week after New Year’s Day, my mistress summons me to her chambers. I walk with brisk steps, my knuckles white as I pinch the folds of my skirts in an attempt to remain calm and elegant. The last thing she needs at this point is a frenzied girl bolstering her own concern.

  Upon entering her bedchamber, I find her slumped against a stack of pillows on her bed. I neglect curtseying and drop down on the bedside, the heavy curtains brushing against my cheek. To my relief and, frankly, astonishment, she does not protest.

  ‘Are you well, Your Grace?’

  ‘Do I look well?’

  I have to bite my tongue. ‘No. No, you look exhausted.’

  ‘You should tell me I am beautiful. That is what flattering ladies do, no?’

  ‘Pardon, Madam. I thought you wanted my opinion.’

  The Queen lifts a hand, slowly, touching her lips. The cold, crisp light trickling through the window shines through her chemise, revealing the silhouette of her arm and the bone jutting out at her elbow, specks of dust dancing between us.

  ‘Your sister Elizabeth is beautiful. Everyone thinks so.’

  I swallow. ‘Yes, they do. She is.’

  ‘They offend me. They dare offend me, and the King! They spin horrible lies, just like they’ve always done, and they do not know their own good!’

  ‘No, Madam, Cousin Anne, they do not know their own good.’

  She sinks back into the pillows, fading against the sheets. The outburst has drained her further. ‘Richard would never. Never. I took his bastards into my care because I knew…because I knew I would always be foremost in his affections.’

  The sight of her brings tears to my eyes. It terrifies me what misery can do to a person. ‘It might not be a comfort, but my sister is as appalled as you and His Grace. This was not her scheme.’

  ‘Then it was your mother’s. The witch.’

  I shake my head. ‘I swear it was not, at least not to my knowledge. You mustn’t fret so. The north is loyal to you, and besides, my sisters and I are still…illegitimate, or at least thought to be so.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ A fit of coughs ride her frail frame and she buries her face in the crook of her elbow, muffling her voice.
‘They offend us with slander. They…’

  ‘Your Grace…Cousin Anne? Your chemise—’ My breath twists in my throat.

  She follows my stare. Her sleeve is spattered with blood, as are her lips.

  I remain at court during the first months of the year of our Lord 1485 according to Queen Anne’s wishes. I am like a fish in water here, a fully integrated part of high society once more, yet my joy is dimmed.

  Despite my prayers, my mistress does not recuperate. She has been shattered since her only son died, and the whispers about her replacement make the shards clearer for all to see. Uncle Richard banishes Elizabeth to Sheriff Hutton to stem the rumours. He sits by his wife’s bedside, reading to her for hours on end, watching her flit in and out of sleep, holding her close when the coughs rack her fragile body, his face etched with helplessness. It is not long, however, before both the Queen and the physicians forbid him to visit her at length or at a close distance. They have discovered she suffers from more than grief: a contagious illness, consumption. If the King catches it and dies without an heir… England is turbulent enough as it is.

  The Queen cannot be abandoned entirely, though, hence I take it upon myself to assist the group of fretting maids who see to her daily needs, from washing and gently scrubbing to entertaining with soft music and ensuring she takes her prescribed medicaments. Her face is taunt, her cheekbones too prominent to be natural, her eyes feverish when open and like the veined petals of a rose when closed. She is a bird with broken wings and broken lungs, not to mention broken heart, and I wish more than anything that I could make her fly again.

  During that eerie stretch of time, an inevitable bond forms between us through the intimacy of our daily routine, in spite of her dislike for lack of privacy. I find little time to think about my own health, but I have been persistent against disease since I was an infant, and the consumption does not touch me.

  Four days before my sixteenth birthday, in the middle of March, a shadow passes over the sun. Londoners close their shutters and doors; I watch from a window as they make the sign of the cross to ward off this evil omen. On the same day, Queen Anne dies, left alone in her bedchamber on the physicians’ command for fear of the disease in her lungs. I cannot think of any reason that the sun would go black other than to mark her passing.

  I knew the end was near, we all did, but I fail to suppress my tears nonetheless. I am plunged back to the day I received word of Agnes’ passing. Are all my friends doomed to die? I do believe the Queen was my friend, or at least I would like to believe it. However much she feared and loathed my mother, I thought I had found a companion.

  She is embalmed in preparation for the sumptuous burial, laid out on a solid marble slab in one of the rooms in the palace, silver cressets lining the walls to envelop her in light. I cannot resist the temptation to visit her one final time.

  Stiff and pale like a snuffed-out candle, her hands together in prayer, the change since the last time I saw her alive is marginal. Her gown is of thick, black velvet, her chest sprinkled with pearls and sapphires sewn into the fabric, the skirt long enough to cover her tiny feet poking up. She always had such lovely feet and hands. Her hair is gathered in intricate braids pinned to her head, the black gauze veil fastened on her coronet cascading down on her shoulders in delicate layers.

  When I take a step closer, the chain with her finest crucifix wound around her fingers catches the light, the golden cross dangling against her wrist. Her wedding band and coronation ring compete in splendour on the other hand. What truly strikes me, though, is the Queen’s face. Her granite-grey lips are slightly parted, as if trying to pronounce a final wish, the fringe of eyelashes prominent against her cheek. I count on my fingers. Twenty-eight, if I know my family’s history. In death, she looks my age, the grief over her son and the tribulation of rumours erased from her face.

  Without a thought, I reach out to let my fingers brush against her coronet, to touch this most glorious of symbols.

  ‘Do not. You’ll wreck her halo.’ The King’s voice cuts through the incense-saturated air.

  I withdraw my hand and take a step back, heart thudding. ‘You frightened me, Your Grace.’

  ‘I frighten you?’ He rounds the marble slab, facing me. The years erased from his wife’s features have been added to his, and there is a certain hollowness to his voice, on the verge of bitterness, a sentiment rarely found there before.

  I shake my head. ‘I just did not hear you come in. I know I ought not be here—’

  ‘No matter, dear niece. And do the rumours frighten you?’

  ‘Which ones?’ I know which ones, of course, but cannot bring myself to admit it.

  ‘The story goes,’ he says, running a trembling finger along the marble, ‘that I poisoned my Anne in order to wed your sister and beget more sons.’

  I want to vomit. ‘Do people never tire of impish gossip? Have they no shame?’

  ‘They will say anything to defile my honour. They will say I am a monster.’

  What does one reply to such a statement? I know it to be true, yes, people can be wicked, cruel.

  Uncle Richard at last turns his glance on me. ‘The invasion is coming this summer, my councillors tell me. Let Tudor have my crown and my life—it matters not, not now. Not without…’ He fills his lungs with air, pausing as if to regain composure. ‘You are to be married, to Baron Scrope of Masham’s brother.’

  ‘What?’ Panic bubbles in my chest. No, no! ‘I don’t even recognise his name, Sire! Does he have a title? You promised—’

  ‘I know what I promised! You are missing the point. I will not risk you falling into the hands of a Lancastrian nobleman, not now nor if Tudor defeats me in battle.’ He clenches his jaw.

  I gape at him. I have barely begun to consider how I would act with an age-old enemy line on the throne, let alone at my table and in my bed. ‘You think I’d do such a thing?’ You think I would give myself to one of their lot?

  ‘I think your mother would do it for you. Scrope’s son is lowly enough not to attract Tudor’s attention. If I married you to one of my magnates at this hour and you were widowed during the battle, the risk is greater he would maltreat you to demonstrate authority.’

  ‘But…but you will win. You have to.’

  ‘I might. I have the upper hand. If I do, your marriage will be annulled immediately. There will be no papal dispensation, nor consummation, and you can have a prince if you so like. If I lose, you can decide for yourself whether you wish to annul the union and seek your fortune elsewhere or not. You shan’t be your mother’s pawn.’ He pins me down with his gaze, demanding to be obeyed.

  Mayhap his words carry reason, but my instincts prompt me to protest. ‘But I will be my husband’s pawn.’

  ‘The man is utterly witless. I have spoken to him myself—more compliant than a dog, the poor wretch.’

  ‘A dog without a title.’

  ‘Cecily. Your prospects will be no worse. If I win, a princess or duchess. If I lose, a woman with a choice rather than a scrap of meat thrown to Lancastrian wolves.’

  I draw a shaky breath. Should I surrender? There is no credible alternative. I must trust in my uncle’s judgement. ‘Will you give me your blessing?’ I kneel on the floor, the cold stone pressing hard through my silk gown and kirtle.

  Uncle Richard’s hand is warm on my head. ‘Now go. Please. I wish to be alone with my wife.’

  I rise, my knees sore, my tongue a lump of clay in my mouth. In the doorway, I turn only to see the King kneel himself and place a kiss on the Queen’s pasty lips. I avert my eyes as I depart at last. When Richard II’s wife, Anne of Bohemia, died, her husband tore the palace where it happened down to the ground. It is good fortune that Westminster is too precious to suffer a similar fate.

  Dear God, let Anne Neville be remembered, and not just remembered as a victim of an unkind life, for she was so much more than that.

  Chapter XII

  AFTER QUEEN
ANNE’S burial, I return to Sheriff Hutton to prepare for my impending wedding. Anne and Kate fawn over me, while Elizabeth and Mother sit tight-lipped. I am not certain what to feel myself: relief that Uncle Richard has a fairly sensible plan for me, or despair that it might not work? What if my husband decides to claim his rights and consummate the marriage in defiance of his instructions? I have not so much as seen him yet, and have only my uncle’s word on his character.

  ‘You mustn’t let him,’ Mother says during the fitting of my wedding gown.

  I hold up my arms to survey the pinned-on sleeves in the mirror one of the maids presents us with. ‘That is not exactly my choice, though, is it?’

  ‘I warded off your father with a knife once, before he chose me for his wife.’

  ‘You did?’ I stare at her.

  Elizabeth puts a hand to her lips to hide a sudden smile. Presumably, she already knows the story.

  ‘It is far simpler than it might have been if you had gone to live with him at Upsall,’ Mother resumes. ‘I think I shall post a guard by your door.’

  Anne stands on her toes and gather my hair behind my shoulders. ‘Perchance it will be romantic. It can be romantic even if he does not have a title of his own, especially then.’

  ‘You are too young to understand, but anyhow, I will not remain with him.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. This is just for now. When Uncle Richard returns in victorious glory, I shall have someone of higher standing.’ I repeat this in my head like a mantra.

  Mother strokes Bridget’s hair, her youngest daughter sitting on her lap. ‘It was devious of him to arrange this.’

  I look at her in the mirror as the maids remove the pins in my sleeves. ‘He thought you would betroth me to one of Tudor’s henchmen to strengthen their claim as the invasion draws nearer. Would you have?’

  She does not get the chance to reply, because Kate tugs at my hand, a grin on her cherub face. ‘Cece! You’ll be stuck with a commoner!’