Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  Each time, Elizabeth shakes her head. ‘He wants me to play the role of any other obedient wife. I can do that, but how am I to fulfil my family’s expectations also? How am I to help you if he won’t let me?’

  ‘The most submissive of wives can have the greatest influence.’

  I find myself chiming in. ‘Look at Queen Anne, God rest her soul. She was a model wife and queen in the eyes of the people, yet pulled as many strings as King Richard behind closed doors.’

  ‘Cecily, you mustn’t call them that.’ She bites her thumbnail. ‘And Anne Neville had something it seems I shall never have: her husband’s love. Henry loves only his mother.’

  She is right. Margaret Beaufort is queen in practice, and I suspect she will fight for that position with teeth and claws even when her son has an actual queen on his arm. The woman fascinates me. I never gave her much notice at Father’s court, and since then I have only heard of her through my mother’s correspondence, but now I secretly study her. If there are opposites on this earth, she and I must be just that. Beaufort is the most devout person I know, spending hours on her knees in the chapel, calling God as her witness to this and that.

  She is Lancastrian to the bone and relentless in smearing Uncle Richard’s name, having insisted on the epithet ‘tyrant’ since the day of the battle.

  I would hate her every bit as much as I hate the Stanleys were it not for the fact that, though she be loyal to the enemy camp, she is at the very least one of the most loyal people I have ever encountered. I cannot stand too look at either brother, but least of all Thomas Stanley, who was the man to be persuaded by his wife and his own self-interest. Even the notorious old Lancastrian Oxford, who led Tudor’s army for him, is higher in my favour—but, naturally, my favour counts for naught these days.

  In November, Parliament convenes, bringing blessings and curses both. The parliamentary act of Titulus Regius is revoked, thus my siblings and I are once more considered legitimate, and I flush with joy over being referred to as Princess Cecily rather than Lady Cecily Plantagenet. I may have my lurking doubts about my own legitimacy, but if I am allowed to style myself as born on the right side of the bed, I most assuredly will. I almost forget my aversions towards the new regime. Then Parliament passes an act of attainder against the late King, denouncing him, and dating Tudor’s reign to the day before the battle so that he can label all those who fought for their lawful sovereign as traitors.

  By Christmas, the Pretend-King finally confirms that he will indeed marry Elizabeth, and court life settles into routine. Dorset has returned from France and been confirmed in his titles. I tell him about Agnes and their stillborn baby, and am met with a guilty grimace.

  Howard’s son, the Earl of Surrey, has been attainted from inheriting his father’s title Duke of Norfolk, and summarily locked up in the Tower. I am sorry for him and his father, because this is where their precious affinity to my uncle landed them.

  Northumberland has also been imprisoned, though there is talk of his impending release and the restoration of his lands and titles. I am no marshal genius, but to me, this is a sign Tudor knows Northumberland’s passivity at Redemore Plain was intentional. Just like Stanley, he turned his coat in the moment of truth.

  Some of my kinsmen are treated poorly for supporting Uncle Richard while some are handsomely rewarded for aligning with Tudor. In my heart, I belong to the former group, while publicly, I belong to the latter.

  I suspect Lincoln shares in this conundrum with me. I glimpsed him at court shortly after we first arrived, but since, rumour has it he has returned to Sandal Castle, avoiding the limelight for once. I must write to him. I know his slimy self well enough. He cannot sit idly with the new order for long, no matter how many pardons Henry Tudor bestows upon him.

  Chapter XIV

  SOMEONE HAS STOLEN my diamond broach. Some vicious noble recalled who gave it to me and now they have taken it to erase every trace of my old loyalties, or to hit me where it hurts… I rummage through our chambers with increasing desperation. That broach is not just any old trinket. It is a keepsake from days that I am beginning to glorify more and more in my head, a reminder of a time when Tudor’s bony backside had never touched the throne.

  It is unlike Elizabeth to do such a thing, but I can never be entirely certain. I fling the covers from her bed and crumple her sheets in my search—and, true enough, under her pillow I find a small item. However, a garter can hardly be compared to a broach. I pick up the black ribbon between two fingers and hold it to the light filtering through the thick glass windows. It is too wide for my sister’s leg, and the buckle too unfeminine for anything she might wear. I turn it over and, to my horror, a tiny red rose is sown to the fabric on the other side.

  Ever since the great battle, Lancastrians have sported a red-rose emblem identical to this one. I cannot tell why they have not simply stuck to Henry VI’s golden rose, though it was seldom used, but perhaps they felt red would make a better contrast to our Yorkist white. This must be a cruel jest.

  ‘Cecily? What have you done to my bed?’

  I snap around, the garter still in my hand. ‘I was looking for something—and I found this.’ I dangle my discovery before her eyes. ‘Someone placed it there, didn’t they, to try to slander you?’

  Elizabeth’s supple lips part. She can put on elaborate shows of pretence and poise, yet never lie when asked a direct question, and now her fair complexion gives way to a coral blush.

  I stare at her. ‘Elizabeth? Tell me.’

  She snatches the garter from me and hides it in between the folds of her gown, refusing to meet my eyes. ‘I needn’t. I will not have you revel in my shame.’

  ‘I promise I will not, no matter how tempting it is. Please tell me, and if you do, I also promise not to show Mother. If you do not, I might.’

  ‘We are wed in the eyes of God. Henry said it was alright, since the real wedding is within a fortnight.’

  ‘Henry Tudor?’ That is a notch better than the Lancastrian noble I expected. Still, dread fills me. ‘Did he ravish you? If he took you by force—’

  Elizabeth shakes her head, still keeping her glance on the floor. ‘No, no. Oh, but I am wicked, aren’t I?’

  ‘What motive could you possibly have? If I were you, I’d want to keep him at bay as long as I could.’ I smooth the sheets and pull her down to sit on the edge of the mattress with me.

  ‘He is so eager for an heir, a son to seal the merging of Lancaster and York, to secure his crown.’

  ‘I’m…sorry.’

  She claps her hands in her lap before I can take them in mine. ‘There is no need for your condolences. Henry is not…not so bad. He is calm and still, and very clever. He can be generous when he wants to, but always cautious.’

  ‘I cannot imagine him in bed.’ I stifle something between a giggle and a gag.

  ‘Nor should you! Anyhow, perhaps one day I can grow to love him if I try. As long as I do not fail him, he will be a good husband, and then I shan’t mind being queen.’

  Not mind being queen. If her objections were to Tudor’s person, I would understand better, although it appears that she has made her peace with him. During the few months since we arrived at court, the two of them have gradually increased the time they spend together. Now that I think about it, I should have seen the signs. In September it was a weekly, stiff conversation in front of the nobles; now it is daily strolls in the galleries and card games or chess in the evenings.

  I coax the garter from her clasped hands. ‘Such a hideous red rose. Are you going to wear them, too, once you are the Pretend-King’s wife?’

  ‘I pick my battles, Cecily, and this is not one of them.’

  ‘I think you pick too few.’

  ‘And you too many.’ She sighs. ‘He says he has commissioned a new emblem for us, a new Tudor rose. That is what I’ll wear, and you too, if you know your own good.’

  ‘Well,’ I whisper, defeated for the moment
. ‘Tell your Henry I’ll take a few Tudor roses.’

  Elizabeth rises from the bed and brushes imagined dust from her gown, mouth curving in a small smile, the indignant blush long gone. ‘I have chosen a motto to use once we are married: “Humble and Reverent.” As my lady in waiting, I hope you will abide to it also.’

  Humble and Reverent. I try to put the words in my mouth but the taste is sour. ‘Your lady in waiting?’

  ‘You waited upon Anne Neville for a short while, though it was less official. You know how to help a queen dress.’ Her voice betrays no malice nor mockery, but stings nonetheless.

  I stand, wishing desperately that my head reached higher than her shoulder. ‘You want me to dress you?’

  A tiny frown settles on her forehead. ‘Who else would? Mother says you girls will join my household, except Bridget, of course. She’ll go to the priory soon.’

  I scold myself for not understanding as much without her having to tell me. Of course I am going to be one of my sister’s ladies, likely chief lady in waiting, at least until I marry someone other than Ralph Scrope and have a castle of my own. What else did I expect? I can hardly live at court and not be part of her household. England’s most highborn women will attend to her every whim and need, just as we attended on Queen Anne, and unless I want to cower in Upsall with my half-wit of a half-husband, I have no choice.

  I suppose the difference is I that liked Queen Anne. I never grew up in her shadow, and she made me feel special.

  ‘You will make a pretty bride,’ I finally manage. ‘But if I were you, I’d spill a few drops of pig’s blood or something of the sort on the sheets after your wedding night, to preserve your reputation.’

  The wedding takes place in January, a few days after I found my broach between the folds of a gown I had discarded on the floor. The new Tudor rose is scant comfort: a dominant red rose with a smaller, white one in the middle. I squint at the banners. Let Tudor think us small, for we are still, evidently, the centre.

  My younger sisters and I have donned identical apparel with full sleeves of white silk and ermine. For the first time in three years, I truly look like the princess I was brought up to be.

  Anne nudges me. ‘Is she not beautiful?’

  ‘Very.’

  After the ceremony, Mother’s face is painted with broad brushstrokes of relief. There is no turning back now. I add ‘sister-in-law’ to my little list of relationships to kings; ‘aunt’ will likely come next, once Elizabeth has a son.

  Several days of festivities tie onto the wedding, and I have to admit that Tudor knows the components of a successful party despite his miserly tendencies.

  Crushing pain pulls me back to reality as my dancing partner steps on my toes.

  ‘Sorry!’ he whispers.

  I shoot him a glare, but the look in his eyes is earnest. There is something else about those eyes—I cannot put my finger on it. The plain black mask he wears conceals his features, as is the point of a masquerade.

  The dance proceeds with its rounds of curtseys and bows and walking in circles. The melody is a little slow-paced for my taste, but perhaps it is a blessing, since my partner would doubtlessly trample my feet black and blue if we danced a jollier, more complicated dance. His palm is smooth against mine, and I thank my good fortune that he does not seem prone to hand sweats. I would rather have a clump-footed man than a clammy-handed one.

  Said fortune is short-lived, though, for the dance ends and we are required to change partners.

  The Pretend-King whispers something to his uncle, Jasper Tudor, and the aging Welshman pushes back his chair with a screech. Not until he curls his fingers around my hand and places a firm thumb on my knuckles do I realise what is happening. No, no, no! I cannot dance with him…he is a staunch Lancastrian if ever there was one, he looks like a withering scarecrow, and, I discover, his hands are damper than autumn rain.

  I flash Mother an alarmed glance. She shakes her head almost indiscernibly: you may not refuse the King’s uncle.

  I try to keep my eyes averted from Jasper as he leads me in the dance, a saltarello this time. Two of my maids tittered a few months ago about how he is hunting for a Woodville girl to make his young wife. Being the King’s most loyal and trusted advisor as well as foster-father and relative, he will have his pick of the cream of royalty. Of course, he would be a strategic match himself, considering his great influence, but that does not change the fact that he is the feckless Henry VI’s nephew and my complete opposite in opinions. No, I think I will hold on to the possibility of marrying my own kindred or a European lord as soon as my union with Ralph has been dissolved.

  ‘You look disaffected, Your Royal Highness,’ Jasper says with a prominent lisp.

  I force a smile. ‘Not at all, Lord Bedford. Only warm.’

  ‘It seems to me that Woodvilles get warm so frequently. My dear wife is reluctant to light a fire even at this time of year!’

  ‘Your wife?’ I meet his eyes at last. How can this possibly have escaped me?

  Jasper frowns. ‘Your aunt.’

  ‘I have so many.’

  ‘Catherine—the Duke of Buckingham’s widow, God rest his soul.’

  I make an effort not to gape like a fish. I have been too preoccupied to take notice of every twist and turn on the marriage market, but I should have known my youngest aunt has been traded off again. Poor woman…first the treacherous toad Buckingham and then this Lancaster scarecrow. At least my own dread was uncalled for.

  When the tune comes to an end once more, I wipe my palms on my indigo bodice and slip away from the dancefloor, having done my duty for now. Escaping to the nearby gallery, I lean against the wall between the rows of my ancestors’ portraits and remove my mask. Closing my eyes, I rest my hands flat against the polished stone. Here, it is cool and crisp, without the bustle of hundreds of guests.

  ‘You’ve surrendered already? I am sure there is a score of rich men who want a dance with you yonder in the hall.’

  My eyes snap open. The young man who stepped on my toes takes a few steps towards me.

  I push myself up from my reclining position. ‘More than a score, and I have not surrendered. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I merely wanted to see how your foot fares.’

  ‘Not ideally, thank you.’

  The man leans against the wall beside me with his hands behind his back, nearly knocking down one of the massive gilded frames. ‘I thought my steps had improved since last time.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You do not know me?’

  ‘You’re wearing a mask. Pray take it off.’

  ‘Right.’ He reaches up and unties the ribbons. ‘I knew you at first sight, although you do look older.’

  I freeze on the spot. I knew the world was a small place, but not this small. ‘What are you doing here? At court, I mean. You did not join Tudor’s invasion, did you? Please tell me you did not.’

  Thomas scoffs. ‘By Saint Edward’s toes, I wouldn’t risk my life just so one king can replace another. I can hardly tell the difference between this bloke and the last.’

  ‘Of course there’s a difference!’ I had almost forgotten the incongruous things my old friend can spew out.

  ‘Maybe to you, but not to me, not unless they suddenly give a fig about the Isle of Wight and my own home.’

  ‘You did not answer my question, Thomas.’

  ‘What? Oh, that. Life in the abbey grew dull without you and your sisters, especially the little bouncy one. I never wanted to be a cleric myself, either, so I went first to Lincolnshire and then back home to my father.’

  ‘And then?’

  He opens his mouth and closes it again, avoiding my gaze. ‘I’ll tell you someday. It is of no importance now. Anyhow, he thought I might be welcome at court since my mother served here when she was a very young girl. And I must say this past week has been quite marvellous, even if I have to be an esquire to the Earl of Northumberl
and. I hope to become a proper household knight soon.’

  I hold my breath. ‘Then you are close to him.’

  ‘Only physically.’

  ‘But do you have any notion whether…whether it was betrayal or not? At Redemore?’

  ‘Not the faintest.’ Thomas shrugs, then backs a few steps, studying the portraits. ‘I’m sure you could name all of these people for me, but please don’t. Just look at that fabric instead!’

  I join him in his survey of the portrait. ‘I know. Lovely colour.’

  ‘No, I mean look at the brushstrokes. If I had paint and brushes, I, too, could learn to make it look that real.’

  ‘If you ever do abandon your service to Northumberland for a painter’s trade, I shall commission a new portrait from you,’ I tease.

  ‘Will you sit still this time?’

  ‘I would not depend on it if I were you.’

  Rapidly, I recount to him all I have lived through since we last saw one another little less than two years ago in the gloomy college hall. There are so many details I want to share with him, from my wondrous week at Nottingham Castle to the exact kind of flower I saw on a particularly fine summer day at Sheriff Hutton. I fear I rush through it all, out of breath, but time is sparse. Mother must be searching the great hall for me already.

  When I arrive at the laughable sham that is my marriage, Thomas interrupts me. ‘It sounds like a complicated plan to me.’

  ‘I suppose so, but I intend to ask my sister the Queen’s Grace to petition her husband to annul it. I could manage it myself, but His Holiness would likely reply quicker to Tudor than to me.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I will do my best to find a far better match.’

  ‘Better? You mean someone who fancies you more?’

  I smile. ‘That too—kindness never hurt—but you know girls like me never marry for love.’

  ‘Your mother did, or so goes the old tale.’ He returns my smile, but it lacks the sparkle it so frequently contains, a sparkle I have come to take for granted.