Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  ‘Hush! I shan’t! Marriages are annulled all the time.’

  ‘And when Beth wears the crown, you will have a Lancastrian husband. I refuse to see my lovely daughter live in squalor in Upsall,’ Mother says.

  ‘If Elizabeth is ever queen, I will marry the man it takes to advance my station, Lady Mother, but at least I will do it knowing I played no part in this…treachery!’

  Elizabeth gives me a long glance. ‘You mustn’t say such things. Mother only wants what is best for us.’

  ‘I know—forgive me.’

  My wedding dress will be a waste: luxurious indigo, my favourite colour, embroidered with garlands of silver thread, the square neckline flashing a teal-coloured kirtle. This is the kind of dress I would have wanted the whole world to see.

  Sir Ralph Scrope, third son of the 5th Baron Scrope and brother to the 6th, arrive a fortnight later. He has a small entourage in tow, consisting of two servants, a chaplain to conduct the service, and his younger brother Geoffrey.

  I have not spent much time looking at muddied hay in my life, yet I dare wager Sir Ralph’s hair is a perfect resemblance. His face is practically shapeless, blending with his throat in a fold of stubby skin, and his hands are the size of dinner platters. The contrast to my friend Thomas’ nimble fingers, always sketching, is alarming to me. My fiancé has likely not held a pen more than a few times in all his life. His are hands fit for smashing men’s skulls, and he walks with the audacity of a warrior, though lacking the finesse required to wield a sword rather than a club or axe.

  We stand face to face in the great hall, me flanked by Mother and Elizabeth, he by young Geoffrey. I measure him up and down, trying to estimate his age, but it is difficult. Twenty? Thirty at most. I suppose I ought to be grateful he is not an old man with a cane.

  ‘Lady Cecily,’ he mumbles. ‘An honour.’

  I raise my chin half an inch. ‘You are pleased at our union?’

  Sir Ralph’s glance darts around the room and Geoffrey has to clear his throat to bring forth a reply. ‘Mm. Very.’

  I turn and arch my eyebrows at Mother. The chagrin in her eyes is clear as day. Although Ralph Scrope is close to my father’s height and equally broad-shouldered, my husband-to-be appears very far indeed from what hers was like.

  The chaplain conducts the ceremony in the chapel situated in the north range, with Mother, Elizabeth, and Geoffrey serving as witnesses to give this sham an illusion of credibility. When the chaplain asks whether anyone knows of any reason we ought not to be wed, the silence is thicker than duck’s fat. Of course, we will not remain silent hereafter, as soon as the lack of a papal dispensation becomes advantageous.

  The groom stands with his feet wide apart. ‘I, Ralph…take thee Cecily to my wedded wife and thereto plight my troth, endowing you all my…worldly goods.’

  ‘I, Cecily take thee Ralph to my wedded husband and thereto I plight my troth and obedience.’

  I feel sick when he puts the ring on, his thick fingers brushing against mine. All his ‘worldly goods’? Meaning, what, an average horse and lodgings in his brother’s modest manor house?

  The ceremony is followed by a feast, or rather a dinner with two additional guests. Ralph and Geoffrey sit side by side, with me on my new husband’s left and the rest of the miniature royal household—Mother, my sisters, and the Warwick siblings—spread out as usual around the long table. Lincoln is far too busy at court, helping our uncle prepare for the coming invasion, to visit us, which I am glad for, because I have a feeling it would cause a spat. Lincoln is the most possessive man I know, and the looks he grants me grow slyer the older I get.

  In this moment, though, I would happily entertain him hours on end if I could only escape the slobbering noises of Ralph’s gluttony. I used to think my appetite was hearty, but I lose it watching him gobble down three honey-roasted quails, half a pie, two bowls of leek stew, a small loaf of bread with cheese, and more cups of wine than I can count. When I think he has finally finished, he attacks the sweetmeats.

  Geoffrey is an amiable little mouse in comparison to his brother the rat. He accepts no more food than the handful of dishes my mother recommends him, washing his hands between each. His physique is as barrel-like as Ralph’s and, I suspect, that of their two other brothers, but his manners belong to a different world. Could I not have wed him instead? We soon learn, however, that he has already taken a wife.

  ‘She’s the fairest girl you can imagine. Her father is a miller.’

  ‘A miller’s daughter?’ Elizabeth says. ‘Lucky her.’

  ‘How so, my lady?’

  ‘She does not have to worry about anything except…except flour. And she chose you, too?’

  ‘She did.’ Geoffrey glows with pride. ‘Imagine that: the fairest girl in Upsall chose me!’ He dips his fingers in the water basin again.

  I exchange a glance with Mother. If the fairest girl is a miller’s daughter, she would have been a peculiar one if she had chosen anyone else; as it is, she has ensured a life well above her station. And I am now sister-in-law with a commoner… At times, I fear I am being unfair to those I have been taught are inferior to me, but this is the way my life is built, the way it has always been.

  Elizabeth grants Geoffrey her undivided attention. ‘Are you happy together?’

  ‘Indeed, indeed.’

  She says nothing more during the rest of the meal, picking at the fruit on her trencher. I wish she would give voice to her troubles—her own betrothal—but she says nothing of it.

  My wedding night is as far from what I expected when I was a little girl as it could be. I lie awake, clutching the sheets to my chest, listening to my own deafening heartbeat and the fire dying in the hearth. This is one of the first times I have slept without one or two other girls in the chamber to preserve warmth.

  Mother fulfilled her promise and a guard has been posted outside my door, which is locked as always, but the suspense is agonising nonetheless. I half-expect my husband to burst inside, blubbering incoherently, yet he never does. For all his rough appearance and manners, he has not said or done anything contrary to his instructions, nor shown a speck of cruelty. In fact, the one time during dinner when I remarked on the hem of my dress getting caught under the leg of his chair, he hung his head and mumbled an apology. Perhaps he is the compliant dog Uncle Richard promised me—I almost feel sorry for him. Regardless, he will not bother me for some time once he returns to Upsall, leaving me to live with my sisters as agreed.

  Two days later, my husband and his brother are prepared to return to their little hamlet. Elizabeth and I see them off in the great hall, since Mother has taken to her bed with a headache, and Ralph manages a few muddled words before stalking out of the room.

  Geoffrey clasps his hands behind his back with a grimace. ‘My apologies for my brother, and my condolences for your betrothal, Lady Elizabeth. If it displeases you, that is.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Fret not, for the pope surely won’t allow it to pass. The consanguinity is simply too great.’ He pats her hand.

  Elizabeth purses her lips, her cheeks flushing peach. ‘You are mistaken, Sir Geoffrey. If you are referring to my uncle, I must ask you to forget what you might have heard.’

  I hook my arm with Elizabeth’s in a rare fit of compassion for her. ‘I like you, Sir Geoffrey. Please do not spoil that with slander.’

  ‘But I—’

  I pin down his eyes with mine. ‘His Grace the King made a declaration to parliament a while ago to banish every trace of rumour, and moreover, Parliament has passed the act of Titulus Regius to confirm his right to rule. Surely you know that?’

  ‘I heard something of it, Sister.’

  ‘Then you know also that there is no truth in said rumours.’

  ‘Pardon me for assuming…people say all kinds of things these days.’ He wrings his hands.

  ‘Yes, I’ve noticed. But you would never think ill of my family, would you
? They are your family, too, now. Your allegiance is to the King.’

  Geoffrey flashes me a nervous smile. ‘Naturally. I’m a Yorkshire-man, if nothing else.’

  ‘It pleases me that you are. Prithee remember it next time.’

  ‘We ought to be on the road. My dear wife is awaiting my return.’

  I nod. ‘The groom will see to it that your horses are saddled and fed.’

  Geoffrey gives a quick bow and turns on his heel. At the door, he halts and faces us again, running a hand through his hair. ‘Never doubt my allegiance, Sister. We shan’t tarry in Upsall long, for your husband and I have been tasked to muster fifty men and join His Grace’s forces once he summons them.’

  ‘You’re a good man, Sir Geoffrey. Fight bravely—and return unscathed,’ I say, my moment of aversion forgotten. He will aid Uncle Richard against Tudor’s band of cutthroats, as will my husband, and this goes a long way in redeeming them both to me.

  ‘Thank you. Farewell for now to you and your beauteous sisters. Farewell, Lady Elizabeth.’

  My sister raises a hand, her fingers curling in a wave. ‘Farewell.’

  Once Geoffrey has left, I turn to her. ‘Are you sweet on him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You almost seemed to envy that miller’s daughter.’

  Elizabeth sighs and draws me closer by the arm. ‘Only because she cannot fail. Think about it, Cecily. If I become Henry Tudor’s wife, and queen, I have to be perfect. What if I speak out of turn? What if I cannot have healthy sons? I would rather be the carefree wife of a lesser man than constantly fearing failure.’

  ‘Well, you will not become queen, and even if you do, I know you will not fail. You never speak out of turn, and you have the Woodville hips for sons.’

  I can count on one hand the times we have been this intimate, but the glimpses of helplessness endear her to me in brief moments. I fear the same failure myself, and am a hundred times likelier than her to commit it, though I would not switch places with the miller’s daughter for all the joviality and ease in the world.

  We watch from the window as the Scrope brothers depart, ambivalence stirring in my mind. I meant what I told Geoffrey: I do like him and his courteous manners. Still, I look forward to forgetting all about my wedding and returning to our comfortable existence without upheaval for a while.

  Spring blossoms into summer, the sky stark blue and clearer than crystal, yet the weather is the last thing on my mind.

  We welcome a new arrival in the household: the King’s sixteen-year-old bastard son. His sister Katheryn would have come also, but she was recently married and now resides with her husband the Earl of Huntington.

  Uncle Richard has scraped together quite the assemblage at Sheriff Hutton. We are now eight cousins with potential claims to the throne gathered under one roof, Lincoln notwithstanding. If one wonders how England was plunged into the past thirty years of disputes, one only has to look at our bickering. However, it is a logical arrangement, since our uncle can keep us both safe and harmless here, putting his mind and energy to repelling the invasion.

  John of Gloucester is a grave but, as I discover, sweet boy, who likes to keep to himself—much like his father when he was younger, I believe. Like Edward of Middleham, I have met John and his sister once before that I can remember, but John made himself scarce behind Anne Neville’s skirts that day. I secretly add him to my tally of possible future husbands, because sons have been legitimised before, just as my own supposed bastardy can be reversed through Parliament. Anything can happen.

  Mother has been writing to Dorset since Christmas, pleading for him to return home from exile and reconcile with Uncle Richard. That last bit would be a farce, of course, but she wants her last living son safely in England, since she cannot know with certainty that Tudor will succeed this time. Dorset made a half-hearted attempt to heed her, but was intercepted at Compiègne, and let himself be convinced to remain with the rebels. I pity his wife, Hasting’s step-daughter, at this time more than ever before, alone in England with the numerous children she has borne him. If I were her, I would be out of my wits.

  Mother does resume her correspondence with Margaret Beaufort, who writes that her son is massing his army in France, having obtained a significant loan from the French King and his regency council. With this money added to the Earl of Oxford’s military prowess, his uncle Jasper Tudor’s advice, the exiles’ support, and Margaret Beaufort’s contacts in England, Henry Tudor’s prospects grow more daunting by the hour. Uncle Richard may have the advantage in numbers and experience in battle—he was often the hero along Father in the stories I soaked up during my childhood—but his funds are tight after Father’s unbridled spending. So-called benevolences present no solution since he has made these ruthlessly coerced monetary gifts illegal. Having left Westminster for Nottingham Castle, he is assembling his lords and their men, preparing to continue from there. Rumour reaches us that Howard and Northumberland among others have answered his call to arms most diligently; Stanley, meanwhile, refuses to declare himself on either side.

  I would bleed for the House of York, my mother would do the same for the Woodvilles, and Stanley would sell his liver for the Stanleys. In that regard, we are alike. The difference is that the rest of us pick a side and stick to it as long as we have a choice, while he and his fickle brother flit from faction to faction like fleas on rats. Thus, they tip the scales like no other. What is mayhap most frustrating is that they always get away with it, and this is the thought that keeps prickling me as I sit bent over my needlework in the solar at Sheriff Hutton

  In early August, the news reaches us that Tudor has landed in Milford Haven, Wales, with roughly four thousand men-at-arms consisting mainly of French mercenaries and exiles. With him is the stalwart Lancastrians Oxford and Jasper Tudor, as is Edward Woodville. Dorset, however, has been left at the French court as a guarantee for the loan, no doubt relieved he will not have to get dirt under his fingernails in battle, and sparing Mother the burden of more fretting.

  I can practically taste the tense atmosphere as we wait…and wait. We become a divided household, praying for vastly different outcomes.

  I have ventured outside to the courtyard for a pause from the bustle inside the castle one August morning, when I discover the courier.

  The horse is gleaming with sweat, nostrils flaring, scraping the courtyard with its hooves. A corpulent man dressed in a murrey doublet and brown hose dismounts and strides forward when he catches sight of me. His face is ruddy where the blood vessels have bursts, his lips fleshy.

  I wait on the spot, stomach fluttering.

  ‘A letter for you, my lady,’ the man says. He hands me the folded paper and mounts his horse again, kicking his heels until the animal turns around and carries him away.

  I cast a glance at the red wax: Uncle Richard’s royal seal depicting a knight on a destrier. My mouth is dry as I press the letter to my hip so that my gown hides the seal; it feels like a secret. I march across the courtyard, gravel crackling under my slippers, and continue through the east range. Speeding up the steps of the tower, my lungs and legs hurting, I break the seal and fumble to unfold the paper. The moment I reach the empty, square room at the top of the tower, I devour the words.

  Ricardius Rex, by Grace of God King of England and Lord of Ireland, greets the virtuous Lady Cecily Plantagenet

  I recommend myself unto you and pray you are well, and that your husband has not crossed the boundaries of your temporary union or in any way caused you discomfort. I am aware yours is a most unusual situation, though I found no alternative which could have served us both better.

  If I merely gambled my life, I would be high in spirit facing this woeful battle, for it is a necessary confrontation, and I am eager to meet my Anne and our son in the Afterlife. Yet, as I am confident you will comprehend, it is the matter of my legacy which haunts me. If I slay the rebel Tudor and my reign is thereby given the chance to thrive, I hope to
be remembered for my diligent enforcement of justice, God willing. Kingship is a lonesome burden, yet one I willingly shouldered, just as I willingly shouldered the burdensome titles and offices your most revered father bestowed upon me when I was little older than you are now. You know I have long strived to further England’s weal, and would seek to mend the rift in our family were it in my power.

  If I am defeated, the chroniclers will not write in my favour, for they shall be under the thumb of the victors. I dread the culprit they might well make of me.

  The Duke of Norfolk will command my vanguard. My trust is utterly with him in this nest of traitors, and you may rely on his fealty should I die.

  Prithee, give my affection to your sisters and your cousins of Warwick, and see to your own health always. I have written to my John also, but my nobles are in constant pursuit of my attentions regarding the invasion, and I have not as much time as would please me.

  I beseech you to remember me in your prayers and to be faithful to the house of your descent. Loyalty binds us.

  God be with ye

  Written in my hand on the twentieth day of August in the second year of my reign, in the town of Leicester

  I clench the letter in my hand. It was written two days ago; for all I know, the battle could be raging this very moment. It had not occurred to me that his legacy depends so greatly on who is hacked down into limbs and dirt. Until now, my concerns have been personal, but of course, this is as much a question of England’s future as it is a question of individual futures. My uncle is right: with Tudor on the throne, learned men would write his predecessor into history as the man who murdered two innocent boys and poisoned his wife to wed his niece. The chroniclers would have little choice but to flatter their Lancastrian king, whether he proved an able ruler or not. I shudder at the thought. Another Lancastrian king? My grandfather and father would turn in their graves. Regardless of what they might think of Uncle Richard’s actions, they fought too hard and bled too profusely for this to be the end of the rightful branch of the Plantagenet dynasty’s reign. Saint Albans, Towton, Barnet, Tewkesbury… I can hardly remember all the gory battles. I had another uncle, too, named Edmund, Earl of Rutland. Edmund was seventeen years of age, wounded, and unarmed when a favoured Lancastrian lord gave the order to sever his head from his body and thrust it down on a pike at York’s Mickelgatebar beside that of my grandfather, some eight years before I was born. Will now the last York brother follow Edmund, George, and Edward into the grave?