Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  ‘Here, Cecily, feel. Can you feel him kicking?’ Elizabeth guides my hand to her stomach where the silk stretches tight, clinging to her body. We are sitting on a sheet spread out on the grass near the palace, surrounded by silver platters reflecting blinding sunlight.

  I hesitate. Unborn children frighten me a little, though I would never admit it. It is so bizarre to imagine them in there, planted by God’s supposed grace, alive but invisible to us. At last, I place my hand on the belly and, indeed, there is a vague poke against my palm.

  Mother kisses Elizabeth’s hands. ‘You mustn’t tire yourself, apple of mine eye. Your son is strong—methinks he drains much of your energy.’

  ‘I will rest plenty in my confinement. Henry wishes me to go to Winchester.’

  Winchester, the place where the round table of King Arthur once stood. No doubt Tudor hopes to make a propaganda statement by linking his dynasty to the revered legends.

  ‘A Prince Arthur born at Camelot. How suitable,’ I say with a pout.

  Elizabeth gives me a long glance. ‘Oh, please let me have my happiness. I thought I wouldn’t have it in this marriage, but Henry loves me. He does.’

  ‘Forgive me, then. What will you name her if it’s a girl?’

  ‘Perhaps Margaret, if my lady the King’s Mother says so.’

  ‘Does she decide everything?’

  ‘Not everything… She merely leaves very little space for others.’ She bites her fingernail and turn her face to the sun.

  ‘I have noticed as much. You must resent her.’

  Elizabeth shakes her head. ‘I cannot ask my husband to choose between me and her. It would be most cruel.’

  I know, though, that they are three in the marriage. ‘You mean he would pick his mother.’

  A black-robed figure towers over us. My breath tangles in my throat and I dare not raise my eyes for fear of how much Margaret Beaufort might have heard of our conversation—too much, that is certain. Her son fades in comparison in regards to keeping every detail of the court and its inhabitants under close watch: she is the judge and the rest of us stand accused, oblivious as to what crime we have committed.

  ‘My lady the King’s Mother.’ Mother rises, curtseys, and gestures for me to follow her example. As dowager queen and princess, we are far from as lowly as the woman in front of us would like to believe, but Beaufort has competed with us for supremacy for almost a year, and we have been forced to swallow a fragment of our pride. Elizabeth alone may remain seated, for no matter what the private harangue in her marriage is, her formal title of queen is undisputed, and naturally, her pregnancy gives her further reason to rest.

  ‘Your lying in begins within the week, Your Grace,’ Margaret says to her daughter-in-law. ‘You shall henceforth say another two prayers at nightfall and daybreak until the prince is born. God does not smile upon those who do not repent.’

  Elizabeth keeps her gaze and hands firmly on her belly, her most valuable card to play. ‘God has smiled upon me already, Madam, just like he once smiled upon you. I hope to receive his blessing again.’

  It is impossible to tell whether my sister ever intend to cause damage with her subtle words. I believe she does not, but they often hit a delicate target in me, and it appears Margaret Beaufort is equally unfortunate.

  Her lips pucker as if she had bitten into a lemon. ‘I dedicated my life to our Lord Jesus Christ. That is why I had only one child, one child destined for divine greatness. I had need of no other.’

  Elizabeth does not move a single muscle. ‘I did not mean to imply any offence.’

  ‘I have given instructions that your wardrobe shall be left here.’

  ‘I would like to be suitably dressed even if it is a confinement.’

  ‘A plain shroud was good enough for the Virgin Mary.’

  I wait for my sister to comply, as she always does in the end regardless of how dismayed she is.

  ‘Then…then it is good enough for me also.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Beaufort turns on her heel but does not get far before Mother calls on her attention.

  ‘Madam, I presume you wish to have a hand in arranging the christening? The task might fall to me, but I daresay we can find a compromise.’

  A wry smile twists one corner of Beaufort’s mouth. ‘Ah, the christening. Fret not. My son, His Grace the most august King, has delegated all arrangements to me. Such a special ceremony requires a pious heart.’ On that humble note, she leaves us.

  I slump down on the picnic sheet again, marvelling. ‘She is unbelievable.’

  Mother follows the departing streak of black with her eyes. ‘That woman wants to push me out from court. I do believe there are one too many queens here, though she never was one in truth.’

  ‘Won’t you tell her so, Lady Mother?’ I say.

  ‘And infuriate the King? I’m afraid a confrontation would only lead to my banishment.’

  Elizabeth sighs. ‘What did I say to make her chide me thus? I try to comply with her wishes, but she is so harsh at times.’

  I reach for another filled pastry and gather my veil behind my shoulders to keep it from being dipped in custard. ‘Well, have you not heard? I would have thought your husband had told you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your condition is a thorn in her side, even though her Lancastrian dynasty stands to gain from the birth of a prince.’ I purposefully drag out my little revelation, enjoying the rare sensation of knowing more than my sister. ‘Everyone fawns over you and lavishes comforts on you, and when you give birth you will be surrounded by midwives and ladies tending to your every whim.’

  ‘Try not to slobber with that pastry, Cecily, please. And do get to the point.’

  ‘Of course she’s jealous! How could she not be, when she was thirteen and a widow, trapped in Wales.’

  ‘Thirteen?’

  ‘And small for her age. The birth nearly killed her and her son—Tudor, that is. I for one think her dedication to Christ is not the sole reason she never had another child.’

  Mother grips my arm, though not unkindly. ‘That is enough, my sweet. You have been listening to gossip again.’

  ‘Just because it is gossip does not mean it is not true.’

  Mother, Beaufort, and I accompany Elizabeth to her confinement in Winchester, as do numerous members of the court. We are to live in Saint Swithun’s Priory, an age-old monastery attached to Winchester Cathedral, until the babe is born and the churching afterwards is complete. The diocese of Winchester is enormously wealthy, yet the priory itself with its plain grey walls strikes a note of humbleness in my eyes. It turns out I ought not to have judged our lodgings by the outside alone, though, because every care has been taken to assure that the birthing chamber is of suitable grandeur for a royal child to be born there.

  The room is swathed in rich blue cloth decorated with fleur-de-lis suspended from the ceiling and the floor is covered in carpets. A luxurious bed dominates the space, its curtains and coverlets made from the same fabric as the wall hangings. Elizabeth’s lack of sumptuous gowns and smocks seems trivial in comparison. This is the innermost sacred quarters of the woman’s world, which we will guard from all men save Tudor himself, should he fancy a visit to his wife. The last time I entered such a place was almost six years ago, when Bridget was born and I sat and read to Mother, though I was not allowed to be present during the bloody labour, which I was infinitely grateful for.

  In spite of all the finery, I can barely stand being trapped in the bedchamber for days on end. September, the lulling interlude between summer and autumn, is not as warm as I feared it might be, yet the atmosphere is stifling. The windows are covered and the candles are lit sparingly so that the room imitates the darkness inside a womb, and it is equally monotonous. In theory, I could emerge from the confinement without breaking protocol since I am not the one to give birth, but Mother is relentless, insisting I remain by my sister’s side.

  The company is
not lacking in merry souls, though, presenting such old acquaintances as the Countess of Surrey, Bessie Tilney, who carried Mother’s train at her coronation some twenty years past, and my aunt Catherine, Jasper Tudor’s poor wife. Twenty-eight years old, she looks a lesser version of the dragon-eyed beauty my mother was when she wed Father, but her character is the more entertaining. Her thinly tweezed brows come together when she laughs, which is often, and her sense of humour is as wonderfully intricate as an embroidery. She never mentions her first husband, Buckingham, whom Tudor’s men have nearly turned into a martyr. Perhaps it is because she would rather say nothing of him than be forced to speak his praise—I recall how he scorned her when I was little.

  We pass the time with card games and chess, read to one another, and play music. To my delight, I excel with the lute, before I am obliged to turn to my needlework once more and prick my fingers too sore to play.

  Still, Margaret Beaufort circles around us like the hawk she is, ensuring our speech and manners are within her narrow range of approval. She casts stern glances on me several times a day, causing me to dislike her more for making me yawn than for her tireless toil for Lancaster.

  Thus, we wait in our ostentatious prison for the blessing of an heir. Of course, it would not be a blessing for everyone.

  Chapter XVI

  IT IS THE evening of the nineteenth day of September when Elizabeth’s water breaks. The grand bed where she reclines is soaked, and she struggles to move to a dry spot. Aunt Catherine and Bessie Tilney support her to the birthing chair in one of the corners of the room. Once she is seated and her legs are spread for the midwife’s experienced eyes, they remove her wet smock and hitch up her chemise to her thighs. Catherine kneels and unplugs the bottle of rose water we have kept by the birthing chair since the lying in began. With frantic fingers, she rubs Elizabeth’s ankles with the scented water to alleviate the pain but it appears to have little effect since my sister emits an uncharacteristic, throaty groan.

  I stand paralyzed. I have never before seen her this flustered nor this uncovered. She can hardly object when Margaret Beaufort opens the door to the outer rooms of the priory to give entrance to a stream of lesser ladies. They have been waiting eagerly since we arrived, loitering around outside the innermost birthing chamber, and now, they cram around their queen to witness the birth of an heir so they might testify that the child is not swapped for a changeling.

  Mother turns to me. ‘Fetch Our Lady’s girdle, my sweet.’

  I snap out of my frozen state and collect the holy girdle from the provisory altar, fastening it around Elizabeth’s gigantic belly, my head spinning.

  Her screams tear through the night for several hours while I flatten myself against the wall, nauseated, desperate to escape. It sounds as if she is dying. Dear God, do not let her die. As much as I hate it, and as little influence as she carries, my own and my family’s fortunes depend on her. What is more, she is my sister, and despite all the times I have wished for her to go away when she has made me feel smaller than a cockroach, I could never genuinely hope for her demise. Dear, dear God, do not let her die. Is this what my Agnes suffered? It must have been even worse. I shut my eyes and press my hands to my ears to banish every sound, but to no avail.

  Finally—it must be past midnight—the high-pitched cry of a baby cuts Elizabeth’s own cries short. Then follows a few seconds of tense silence before a choir of cheerful murmur breaks out among the women present.

  A son. We have our Prince Arthur. After eight months of marriage, Elizabeth has succeeded in what many unfortunate queens fail to do for years and years. With all probability, the boy was conceived before the wedding, for he possesses naught of the gravely premature child’s slightness, but the public does not know that, and a month too early is not early enough to cross the boundaries of reason.

  I cannot curb my curiosity. Before I know it, I have scrambled to the chief midwife’s side to assist her. The baby’s eyes are large and pale blue-green, the typical Woodville eyes. His skin is warm and tender as I help the midwife to rub him clean from blood and bodily fluids. The chubby arms and legs are comically short in proportion to his body; his head enormous. Despite having seen several of my siblings almost this fresh from the womb, I am always struck anew by how peculiar a newly born looks.

  The midwife folds the prepared piece of linen around my nephew and transfers him to my shaky arms before Margaret Beaufort can step forth. I can sense his heartbeats: rapid, like a patter of rain, but strong. As I put him at his mother’s bosom, my mouth is dry as withered leaves.

  I hate him because he is the embodiment of York’s forced union with Lancaster, because he is Tudor’s greatest security, yet I love him because he is a beautiful little creature of my blood, innocent of his father’s foulness. I hope I can be just towards him and extinguish my hatred.

  Four days later, Prince Arthur is christened in Winchester Cathedral. Mother and I take turns holding him during the ceremony and he rests quiet, sleepy in my arms. Now that he is properly swaddled and dressed in his magnificent christening gown, he does not look alien in the least to me. I have carried many of my siblings like this, and although babies have never been my strong suit like they seem to be Elizabeth’s, I am familiar enough with the little ones to know how to care for them properly.

  I half-expected Beaufort to carry her grandson but she remains seated by her son’s side throughout the christening. This must be a moment of triumph for her, second only to Tudor’s victory at Redemore. In this child, she has the future of the dynasty whose foundation she has worked so tirelessly for, the continuation of her line. I search her face for a smile and actually find one.

  Naturally, Elizabeth is not present for the ceremony. She must remain confined to her bed for another month and undergo churching to remove the sin of conception as well as the pollution associated with the birth itself. I pity her—I do not know how I will bear it when my time comes to be imprisoned thus—but she appears to enjoy this reclusiveness from the public eye. When we return the prince to her after the baptism, she cradles him in her arms, a veil of serenity drawn over her face.

  ‘I could stay here always,’ she says.

  Mother plants kiss on her temple. ‘The wet nurse asks for him.’

  ‘Lady Mother? How can I allow them to take him to Ludlow when even giving him to the nurse pains me?’

  ‘I know it does, apple of mine eye, just as it pained me to surrender my own eldest son. You must remember your duty.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mother sinks down on the bed and puts her arms around her eldest daughter, gazing down on the dozing prince. ‘And next time, I daresay it will be a girl. Her you can dote on for as long as you like.’

  ‘Henry wants another son.’

  ‘It matters little. Neither a girl nor another boy will be the heir. After this, you have suffered what is required.’

  There is a knock on the door, and I open. The wet nurse—a pudgy woman in her late twenties, with almost no chin and thick rims of eyelashes—marches forward to the bed. She has been carefully selected from a nearby village for her good lineage and virtuous character, as well as for her own multitude of healthy offspring.

  ‘His Royal Highness needs to be fed, Your Grace, else he’ll make a fuss, mark my words,’ she says in a distinctly southern accent.

  Elizabeth nods after a moment of reluctance and puts the prince in the other woman’s steady arms. ‘You may take him.’

  We remain at Winchester until the purifying churching has been carried out. Afterwards, the court travels back to London, while little Arthur is sent to Ludlow to be brought up in accordance with his role as future king, as is customary. I hope this Prince of Wales lives to a more seasoned age than the previous two, my brother and cousin, the unfortunate Edwards. Perhaps he is unusually idle, but nonetheless healthy, though one never knows what God’s plan might be, or rather what men’s plans are. If a true Yorkist is restored to our rightful t
hrone, Prince Arthur will have to be dealt with one way or another. He may be part York himself, but the other part is Lancaster, and his label is without doubt Tudor. I do my best not to think of the evils that could befall my nephew if my wishes regarding the crown were to be fulfilled.

  Lincoln is waiting for us in London. He manages to blend in faultlessly in Tudor’s court, yet there is a sly glimmer in his eyes when he meets my glance from across the presence chamber. How I yearn to see the machinations in his mind! Soon, soon I will arrange a meeting so that we might whisper freely.

  One of the first days of November, I am sitting in Elizabeth’s rooms with Anne, Kate, and a cluster of ladies busy with remaining unobtrusive under my sister’s watch. Four spaniels shuffle around our feet, all gifts from Tudor to his wife after the birth of their heir. I adore them, especially the black puppy, Munchie, but I think Elizabeth would rather have had a new set of virginals.

  Anne turns a page in The Canterbury Tales with a rustle. ‘Beth?’

  Elizabeth does not avert her eyes from her needlework. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will you find me a kind husband? One who loves me dearly?’

  ‘Anyone would love you dearly, though you must wait.’

  ‘I’m not that young.’

  I curse under my breath as I pierce my finger with my needle for the third time this afternoon. ‘Eleven is not very old either, Anne. Your knight in shining armour will like you much better in three years or so.’

  ‘Promise?’ Her voice is unusually anxious.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Aunt Catherine sticks her head through the door. ‘The French ambassador requests an audience, Your Grace. He suggests a walk in the gardens, and he brings two new kinsmen. Frightfully handsome.’ She laughs, her eyebrows meeting. ‘They brought your favourite apples for gifts, too.’