by Saga Hillbom
‘My mother was lucky enough to love a king.’
‘Oh.’ He cracks his knuckles in that most irritating manner. ‘I always had the impression you were a romantic deep down.’
‘I am. Romance can be glorious, only not for me. I believe Anne can shoulder the role of the dreaming damsel.’ I brace myself. ‘Thomas, will you be my friend in this place? I do not have very many.’
‘It would seem to me you have a small army. Anyone would be a princess’ friend.’
‘But I’m not asking anyone. You are far more…interesting than the others. With you, I never have to hold my tongue.’
He raises his eyebrows behind the unruly mass of coils. ‘That is the lousiest compliment I have ever received.’
‘Well, then I’ll leave!’ I turn on my heel, eyes burning, regretting that I ever asked.
Thomas latches onto my arm and grins. ‘I’m not serious, silly! I have been your friend before, so I think I can manage again, although there is one thing.’
‘Anything.’
‘I’m no more fool than to know you cannot be seen to lavish favour on a man of my standing, but whenever we are alone, I am your equal, no more and no less.’
‘My equal? I thought I had not offended you in a long time.’
Thomas is serious when he looks at me. ‘No, but I want you to know I am no worse than you, just because of your lineage.’
I ponder this for a brief moment. All my life, I have been taught to view myself as superior in nature to all those below me, because why else would God have graced me with royal blood and anointed my father? Still, I know my person as such is no more charming or more virtuous than most common wenches, less even, and though I cannot doubt my birth right, I wonder if that is perhaps only one layer. Outwardly, on the surface, I am a princess, untouchable; beneath, I am a human like anyone else. I have enough people to play hierarchical games with, and I miss having at least one to be simply Cecily with. Politics can be exhausting if one does not allow oneself a degree of leisure as well. When I look beyond Thomas the chamber servant, I do see an equal, for we have always spoken our minds freely, and I have rarely felt the stiffness looming between us which might be expected considering my inferiority as a woman and his inferiority as landed gentry.
‘Agreed,’ I say. ‘You mustn’t let me leave you again.’
‘Agreed.’
‘I do not think I want to go back inside. My feet are aching from dancing.’
‘Stay here, then, and I will fetch us some sweetmeats.’
I laugh, shaking my head. ‘Tudor sees everything—have you not noticed? You cannot very well steal from the royal table.’
Thomas tucks a coil behind his ear. ‘Now you do offend me. Just wait and see.’
To my delight, he returns shortly thereafter with a platter of honeyed sweetmeats and two cups of malmsey wine balanced between his fingers. I have always been a little weary of such wine in particular, given my uncle Clarence’s fate, but tonight I drink without a second thought. It is quite the treat to have a real friend.
By the time January turns to a February as grey and wet as a woollen dishrag, I deem the time ripe to approach the royal couple with the matter of my annulment. It is a simple task, for it is as much in Tudor’s interest as it is in mine to have me back in the clutch of eligible maidens. What does prove a challenge, though, is to have him accept the terms of my new situation. I had hoped to use Elizabeth as a bridge between us, especially now that her husband appears to grow fond of not only her supposed fertility but also of her demure character, but I am sorely disappointed. She says she will not meddle in this sort of affair, and I suspect this is another instance of her picking her battles.
Tudor surveys me with one eye as I curtsey before him in the presence chamber. ‘I have a few suitors in mind for you, Madame.’
‘I will make my own choice of husband, Sire. You have no legal authority over the matter.’ I do my best to ignore the magnates fluttering about in the chamber, and rise from my curtsey.
‘The King of France is not bound by the law.’
‘We are not in France.’
He remains utterly calm, but when he speaks, his voice could turn his breath to ice. ‘It is a shame you are so bold. You ought to take after my wife more.’
‘I have heard that before, Sire. You misunderstand me. I am in no way refusing your suggestions, merely saying that I intend to make the choice myself.’
‘It is you who are mistaken if you believe you may have the same privilège as when your uncle the tyrant wore my crown.’
I draw a deep breath, grasping for the thread that is my last resort. These might well be the most dangerous words I have ever spoken, hence I lower my voice. ‘How awful it would be if I found myself wed to a man solely of your choice and he fared badly. You have heard of my mother’s…gift?’
‘I could have you prosecuted for witchcraft for those words alone.’
‘That would not be kindly perceived in the eyes of your Yorkist supporters, Sire, nor would it agree with Her Grace.’
At last, the battle behind his eyes is won in my favour. ‘Choose sensibly. For all our sake.’
I nod, suppressing a smile, and am about to depart when Tudor raises a hand. ‘Everyone out. You stay,’ he says to me. When each magnate and even Margaret Beaufort has trotted out of the presence chamber with a chorus of sullen muttering, Tudor rises from his throne and strides towards me. ‘Your brothers, the princes. Do you know their fate?’
‘I do. And so do you, I should think. That is why you have not made any clear declaration of where the guilt lies: because the truth is that their deaths were very convenient for you.’
‘They did not perish by my hand.’
I swallow, staring back at him. ‘No, Sire. Nor was it by my uncle’s hand, and yet look what the rumours did to him. What is more, I think you knew the boys were dead long before we did, by word of your mother, because for all I know she was private to Buckingham’s musings that fateful summer.’
Tudor’s initial silence suffices to confirm my half-accusation, before he continues his own inquiring: ‘What of the bodies?’
‘I do not know, honestly. Buckingham knew, I wager, but he took that secret with him into the grave.’
‘I have had the Tower searched, and found nothing. I have to show le peuple the bodies, to quench any rumour of them still living.’
‘I cannot help you, Sire. Every king has to face pretenders and rivals, especially one like yourself.’
He turns from me, throwing himself down on his throne again, and his knuckles whiten as he grips the armrests. ‘I need no reminder of the precariousness of my position. You may go.’
I obey with the sweet feeling of victory, emerging from the chamber and sweeping past the waiting nobles and Tudor’s new red-clad bodyguard called yeomen. Fancy what a feigned hint of witchcraft can do.
Chapter XV
SEVENTEEN—CAN YOU believe it?’ I throw another grape at Thomas and he misses for the third time.
‘Archaic! Soon, you’ll be an old crone haunting these halls, spiteful of every young girl.’
‘I’m not afraid of growing old, Thomas. I would have been if my beauty was extraordinary, like my mother’s, but I have less to lose.’
He picks up the grape from the table we are sitting on and pops it in his mouth. ‘I never heard you so humble.’
‘Well, I try. Sometimes.’
We are alone in one of the smaller and more secluded chambers of the palace, a room used to store dusty charts and maps long outdated. I have stolen away from Elizabeth’s privy chambers, where her new ladies occupy themselves with needlework, for a moment of ease. Accidentally, the moment has turned into half an hour, and I must have eaten a hundred green grapes from the bowl Thomas supplied.
I cast a glance over my shoulder. ‘If you promise not to speak a word of it, I shall tell you a secret.’
‘I am rather good at k
eeping secrets.’
‘Marvellous, for so am I. Anyhow, you promise?’
‘Right.’
I bend forward and cup my hands around his ear, whispering: ‘My sister is with child.’
Thomas pulls back and gives a low whistle. ‘Which one of your sisters?’
‘Which one do you think? She means to tell Tudor this very eve, which is why she told me not to ruin the surprise. I only found out because—’ My cheeks heat as I try to steer away from the subject of Elizabeth’s monthly flux. ‘—because of a womanly matter.’
‘I have a feeling the King is not one prone to appreciate a surprise.’
I aim a kick at his foot. ‘He is not king, and no, I do not think so either, though he is certain to be overjoyed regardless. This must be better than he dreamt of when in Brittany and France.’
‘Boy or girl?’
‘How would I know?’
‘You with your womanly matters can tell those things, can’t you?’
Had anyone else asked, I would not have hesitated to declare that Elizabeth was carrying a prince in her womb, for any other reply would have been perceived as disloyal. Pregnant queens and those around them always proclaim their hopes to be truth, saying it is a boy before the bulge has even started to show. Mayhap I should do the same and voice my own hopes.
‘Girl, then. My sister will have a plethora of girls and love them a great deal, but Tudor will be left without the heir he desires.’
‘And then what? You’ll spin a web of marriages for all of them to Yorkist lords and reconquer the throne?’
‘A lovely idea, truly.’
‘You,’ Thomas says, reclining on the table and entwining his fingers behind his head, ‘are mad. That’s what my cousin would say. He’s convinced he is the only sane person on this earth.’
‘Then he must be mad.’
‘I told him as much once when we were younger, and he broke my nose.’
So this is the reason for the slight curve in his nasal bone. I have grown so accustomed to seeing it that I have never thought to ask.
‘He does not sound agreeable at all,’ I conclude as I reach up to correct my headdress.
‘He and my father are all the family I have, mind you. We have great fun, too.’
‘I suppose madness can be fun if you indulge in it.’
He grins. ‘Quite so. Maybe that is why you almost seem to be enjoying your plotting.’
‘I do not enjoy it, you daft man. I am trying my very best to assist my house of descent, and what’s the matter with that?’
‘Sorry, then. Nothing’s the matter, except I find myself grateful not to have a house of descent, or at least not one whose name is known beyond my pastoral.’
‘Kyme, is it not?’ His last name feels strange in my mouth, because to me, he has always been just Thomas, at least since he became my friend in sanctuary. Sir Thomas Kyme.
‘Yes. Sounds peculiar, does it not?’
‘Perhaps a little.’
He reaches for a grape and flings it at my head. Before one can say ‘Titulus Regius’, a full-blown war has broken out, fruit scattered all over the otherwise sombre chamber.
Young Warwick and John of Gloucester remain in the Tower. I have not seen them since they were taken from us since they are allowed few visitors, but others have, which prevents rumours from rising. It appears the Pretend-King is careful not to make his predecessor’s mistake. By ensuring it is publicly known that they are alive and in good health, he wards off pretenders. However, pretenders are bound to show up regardless of his efforts, claiming the identity of my poor brothers; it is merely a matter of time. What should I do then? True, I wish to see the regime toppled, the political clock turned back, but I do not know if I could support a boy who is nothing but an impersonator. A stranger telling the world he is Edward V, or Richard IV… The boy might be able to pretend, but I would not. No, my hope must rest with those actually of my own blood, my kinsmen. Preferably kinsmen with both maturity and freedom, and the choice is an obvious one.
I sit a good while clutching my goose pen before I take a deep breath and scribble the necessary lines on a sheet of paper. The letter is shorter than customary and my handwriting has not improved, but I dare not use a scribe. The words are dangerous, more dangerous even than my insinuation about witchcraft, and I can only imagine what would happen if the seal was broken by any other than the letter’s recipient. Women are rarely put on trial for treason, especially not young princesses, yet women rarely write what I have just written.
Princess Cecily of York greets John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln
I inquire earnestly for your health and weal, dear cousin, since I have noted your absence from London. I will be so bold as to presume you approve of Henry Tudor no more than I myself do, and are thus disaffected. If you have any intelligence regarding persons who might share our sentiment, pray write to me. In joint enterprise, we can still see a Yorkist of royal blood upon the throne of England.
With my wholehearted trust in your discretion and secrecy
Written in my hand on the fifth day of April in the year of our Lord 1486 at the Palace of Westminster, London
I must find a trusted courier, a man of steadfast loyalty, to bring the letter to Lincoln. Time is not on our side. I should have contacted him six months ago, before the new ruler and his confidants had had a chance to settle. I know there are indeed high-ranking nobles with opinions similar to my own, but they are bound to grow quieter with each passing day. Some of them will already have reconciled with Tudor, thinking that they at least have a Yorkist queen, because they have not seen the union up close, and are blissfully unaware of how little influence Elizabeth exercises both publicly and intimately.
She told me she would act the ideal wife, but I am beginning to think she has forgotten the act entirely and become one in truth. I want to shake her about and ask her why on earth she is so withdrawn from the political scene, but I dare not, not least because she appears happy. Yes, happy, with her paranoid husband and growing belly.
I have no desire to cause her misery, not for the sake of it, though I believe she would survive the coronet being knocked off her head. This is one reason I pray for the baby to be a girl. If Tudor was removed and Elizabeth was the mother of the Tudor heir, her position would always be fraught with danger, her life infested with scheming nobles trying to use her and her son as pawns. If, on the other hand, she had a hapless girl, she could perchance marry again, this time to a man of the right blood and fealty, and not necessarily be bound by this previous union. Lancaster would have no credible claimant to fight for with Henry Tudor gone—that is why he became figurehead to begin with, because he was the last possible alternative alive.
But I am rushing ahead of myself. Lincoln has not even received my letter yet.
Lincoln’s reply arrives a fortnight later, by the end of the dreary period of lent, and it is clear as crystal. He writes he is most pleased to hear we have an understanding, yet that is all for now: an understanding, a mutual aversion. We have to bide our time until the tides turn; we cannot act upon said aversion until he has gathered more information and tied more knots with other noblemen. Of course, he has contacts, but there is much dispute in Yorkist circles as to what ought to be done. Those who are willing to risk all in rebellion know not whom to place on the throne in Tudor’s stead. While the House of Lancaster faced the issue of too few claimants living, York has too many to choose from. The choice stands, as I suspected, between a grown leader and a child pretender. Perhaps a combination of both would be most efficient. Furthermore, there is the support of the Irish lords—who hark back to their relative independence under Yorkist rule—and my aunt Margaret, Dowager Duchess of Burgundy, who was always fervent to involve herself in English politics.
Mere days after I receive Lincoln’s letter, word spreads at court of a rebellion instigated by Francis Lovell, Uncle Richard’s dearest friend who once chatted with
me at Nottingham Castle, and the Stafford brothers, two other loyal servants. Having fled to sanctuary in Colchester Abbey after the fatal battle last summer, they have now emerged and sparked an uprising. Henry Tudor has travelled north on progress, and I wait tense as a bow string for further news of his eventual encounter with the blessed rebels. Did Lincoln know? Was he privy to the conspiracy without having told me so?
It is not to be. Towards the end of April, Lovell’s attempt to seize Tudor in York fails miserably, his forces being scant in comparison to the Lancastrians’. He escapes to Burgundy, thank God Almighty, presumably to seek support from Aunt Margaret.
The following month, I hear the Staffords’ part of the insurgency in the Midlands is equally unsuccessful. They are dragged out of a church, and Tudor forces the older brother, Humphrey, to kiss his feet before being taken to be hung, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn. I quake with fury at their treatment. Having spent significant time in sanctuary myself, my brother-in-law’s actions feel like a personal offence. Rules must be respected, and he has tempted God’s wrath.
Meanwhile, spring is already budding into summer. For months, the sky has been sheathed in dense grey clouds, like a lid trapping the cold fog, but now rays of sun cut through. Thomas says he could smell a change of weather coming, but he says so many ridiculous things.
Elizabeth’s pregnancy grows more apparent, until she has to walk with her hands supporting the bulge. Mother rarely lets her out of sight, for they are closer than ever now that my sister experiences what our mother has the greatest knowledge in. The three—or, I should say, four—of us spend many lazy days at the Palace of Placentia, Greenwich, the queen’s favourite royal residence. There, we indulge in endless picnics and strolls in the flourishing gardens, accompanied by four servants to carry the canopy protecting our skin from sunburn. Anne, Kate, and Meg, who is warming to us for certs now that she can no longer give her affections to her brother, spend their time supervised by various matronly women and are kept out of Tudor’s path. Bridget has been sent to Dartford Priory of to finally begin the religious schooling Father and Mother always intended for her. We bring no other ladies, either, Mother being weary of their chatter.
