by Saga Hillbom
Elizabeth stands, as do the rest of us. ‘I will speak with them presently, and my ladies may come also. Stay and watch the dogs, Cecily, please.’ She shuffles Anne ahead of her. ‘Let’s see if we can find you a French fiancé, as long as the King agrees. Would you like that?’
Kate is the last to exit, jumpy with excitement, and I am left alone with the dogs.
I pluck a honeyed walnut, Munchie’s favourite treat, from the bowl on one of the small tables and let him jump after it, huffing and squealing, tail wagging. Once he has gobbled it down, I pick up another treat, and this time I play the silly game with him, jumping my highest.
When I land with the heel of my slipper on one of the floorboards, it emits a slight but unmistakably hollow sound. I falter in my steps and give it a proper stomp. Yes, it is different than the other boards, which all sound solid.
I throw a glance over my shoulder. The guards are posted outside the door, protecting me from intruders although they do not know it. Elizabeth and her throng of ladies have only been gone perhaps ten minutes, and there should be plenty of time before any of them sees fit to abandon the ambassador and his handsome fellows.
Squatting, I knock along the edges of the board in search for where the space underneath begins and ends. The plugs are loose, and having coaxed them out of their holes, I use the tip of my fingernails to lift the board slightly before I can remove it. The gaping black hole is cold as I lower my hand into it, squinting. I have no clue what there usually is under the bottom floor of a palace or how deep the construction is. I am forced to lie flat with my entire arm sunk in the hole before my fingers find something cool and damp.
Gripping the object and pulling it back into the light, I raise myself to a kneeling position. A small silver casket with a lid of painted glass rests in my hands. The lock is feeble and rusty, and I swiftly crack it open, my pulse quickening, my breath stuck in my throat. Might it be hidden jewels, or… No. The object of my stare is a thin stack of folded papers tied together with a frayed blue ribbon. At first, I am disappointed, but as I pick up the paper bundle, a distinct whiff of honeysuckle hits me, and I untie the ribbon in a frenzy. I remember that perfume.
I know that handwriting also: tiny, neat letters, the lines leaning towards the bottom right corner. Queen Anne would not want me reading her letters, but there must be a reason she stored them in such an intriguing hideaway, and better I unveil whatever secrets they might contain than someone with hostile intent.
The first three are love letters. One is dated 20 October 1471; the other two are from the month after that. I blush as I read, for she is more passionate in her written word than I ever heard her. I believe she never sent these letters to Uncle Richard, because at the time she was virtually Clarence’s prisoner, and he would not have allowed any correspondence between the two of them.
The latter two are from the late king. If I recall correctly, Anne Neville and Uncle Richard had finally been married in the late spring of 1472. It is easier to read my uncle’s words as he is more subtle in his expressions, always careful not to stray from principles of chivalry. ‘It would delight my heart, were the Lord to lead you once more into my embrace,’ is about as risqué as it gets.
Then follows a series of personal correspondence mainly from the late queen’s sister Isabel, which I skim through.
The last letter, however, is something quite different. It is, again, from Uncle Richard, but this time addressed to the toad Buckingham. Perhaps Cousin Anne was tasked with its safekeeping. She would not have wanted to burn it, in the event circumstances turned on their head.
Ricardius Rex, by grace of God King of England and Lord of Ireland, calls on his most lowly subject Henry Stafford
I have faith you know my displeasure already. You have acted in foolery like a common knave, and brought immense danger upon the crown. If you treasure your life, I prithee keep your tongue from wagging. Your crime against the boys is too beneficial for the rebel Tudor to be known publicly.
The short, brutal note has neither date nor farewell, but bears two seals: Uncle Richard’s and Buckingham’s, both broken. I sit with my legs crossed, mesmerized, grappling to comprehend the full significance of this scrap of paper.
Firstly, there is the greeting. ‘Most lowly subject Henry Stafford.’ No title, no duke. The King must have decided to confiscate Buckingham’s peerage and thereby his lands and appanage, which my Father had once restored to him, as punishment for his careless actions. Perhaps he intended to disarm Buckingham by removing him from court, or perhaps it was an empty threat to frighten his former ally into submission. All I know is the degradation was never officially proclaimed. Whatever the reason, the plan backfired profoundly, pushing the toad over the verge of rebellion.
Secondly, there is the reminder of what Henry Tudor stood to gain through the murders. With the benefit of hindsight, it was glaringly unwise to mention it, though I suppose Uncle Richard simply did not know Buckingham as well as he thought he did.
Thirdly, the toad’s seal means he received the letter and sent it back without reply in defiance, presumably around the same time he sank himself nose-deep in Margaret Beaufort’s and Mother’s schemes.
The letter I now hold in my hand is a confirmation of the truth in what the late King and Queen told me at Nottingham. They might have left out details, but what matters is that Buckingham did order the foul deed. I always believed it, but these lines erase the last, miniscule trace of doubt.
‘What do you think you are doing, girl?’
I turn, the marrow in my bones chilled. Margaret Beaufort resembles the ghost of a nun where the stands in the doorway, striking dread despite her short stature.
‘I… That is “Your Royal Highness”, to you, Madam,’ I manage, forcing the tremble out of my voice.
Beaufort strides towards me. ‘I am the King’s Mother. I bow my head to no one. Now you will tell me what, in God’s heaven, that is.’
‘Letters. Just trifles—’
She snatches the paper from my hand with incredible speed. Reading, the lines around her mouth harden, her face whitening further. ‘So the wench kept this. What else?’
‘Do not call her that, Madam. The rest is of no interest to you, regardless. See for yourself.’ I rise and reluctantly give her two of the previous letters, which she reads in quick succession.
‘Nonsense, thanks be to God. My son the King’s Grace told me you knew about your brothers’ true fate.’
‘I did, and this confirms it.’
‘It shall never see the light of day.’
I try to snatch back the letter but Beaufort holds it out of my reach.
‘I could clear my uncle’s good name,’ I say.
‘You could not. This serves as evidence to you, because you have already been told the story first-hand. You believed your uncle—but who would believe you? Buckingham never wrote back, or if he did, the letter is not here, thus this is solely the tyrant’s words, and they carry no credence with others.’
‘I’ll show it anyways.’
Beaufort grabs my jaw between her strong fingers. ‘You shan’t, girl, is that clear?’
I break free from her and start pacing the room. ‘I thought you said no one would believe it. No one would believe you allied yourself with the man who butchered my brothers to pave the way for your own son. If that is so, what is the harm?’
‘Your mother was part of the alliance, too, mind you.’
I lose the last of my composure at the insinuation. ‘She had no idea, unlike you! She still has not!’
‘Can you prove it? So, you see, no one would benefit from this cursed letter reaching the eyes of the nobles.’
‘Do you know where the bodies are?’
Beaufort scoffs. ‘If I knew, we would long since have dug them up and arranged a lavish state funeral.’
‘Because it would make the people view your son favourably?’
‘Because it would prov
e their deaths.’
‘So would the letter.’
She purses her lips like a drawstring purse. ‘Perhaps you are not as clever as I thought. Now, everything indicates the tyrant is to blame; this letter would indicate Buckingham, God rest his wretched soul. Only the boys’ bodies could prove they are dead at all, no matter whom we blame. I won’t deny, though, that I knew they were dead, and I promised Buckingham my favour if he would aid us in the rebellion, for the circumstances held far too much opportunity to ignore.’
I want to ask if she also whispered in Buckingham’s ear to encourage the murders in the first place, but I am frightened of the answer, hence I stick to the more practical matter of the bodies. ‘We both want to find them, surely? I want to see my angel brothers receive the burial due to them.’ Tears well in my eyes. ‘They…they were the most innocent of children.’
‘“Death to the Christian is the funeral of all his sorrows and evils, and the resurrection of all his joys.”’
‘The Bible rarely helped before.’
A red flare colours the otherwise pale skin stretching over her high cheekbones. ‘That is heresy!’
We stand measuring one another for what feels like an eternity. She is not the typical English-rose-beauty; on the contrary, she appears ten years older than the forty-five I estimate her to be. There is a hefty dose of knowledge in her dark eyes, the result of a lifetime spent manoeuvring as a woman through a political landscape torn to shreds by men. Despite her fanatical piety and her Lancastrian devotion, she impresses me and has done so since I first saw her standing by her son’s throne, if not longer.
Eventually, I surrender and lower my eyes. ‘Let me keep the rest, please.’
‘Keep the wench’s and the tyrant’s letters?’
‘I do not have many relics from the family I have lost,’ I tell her in all honesty. I have nothing from my sister Mary, nothing from Father save the possessions he paid for once upon a time, nothing from my brothers, a mere handkerchief from Agnes. From my uncle and his wife, I have only the diamond broach and the few letters they wrote to me, which Mother has tried to make me burn several times. I have a fondness for memorabilia, and in times of despair, there is nothing so comforting as the past.
Beaufort studies the letters once more, then returns them to me. ‘They are yours to keep, but be aware, it is an act of treachery towards His Grace.’
‘Does the law truly say that?’
‘I am confident we could interpret it in that manner.’
I tie the ribbon around the stack, return them to the casket, and slam the lid shut. ‘Well, I think the picture of York and Lancaster standing united under Lancastrian rule is more within your interests, Madam. It might be difficult to uphold if you start spewing out accusations.’
‘Imagine if your sister had caught the plague, or a fever. You would have been my daughter-in-law in her stead.’ The rare trepidation in her voice is plain as day.
‘I know. I suppose you are grateful for her now, in contrast to what might have been.’
‘There is nothing more unattractive than to think oneself inferior, girl.’
I cross my arms, clutching the casket in one hand. ‘I do not—I simply think you would have had a fair amount of issues with me.’
‘I will keep you close, make no mistake. A treacherous heretic like you has to be turned to the path of light,’ she hisses and closes the distance between us, enveloping me in a cloud of fumes: lavender and marjoram, too strong to be pleasant.
‘And you intend to undertake that task?’
‘Henceforth, you may accompany me on my morning walks, mass, and, naturally, morning prayers. You will rejoice to find your unwieldy character turned compliant.’
I remain nailed to the spot a long while after she leaves me. Having pushed the floorboard back in its place, I scurry back to my own bedchamber with indignation burning hot in my chest. If there is one single way in which I do not want to spend my early mornings, it is being subjected to Margaret Beaufort’s schooling, regardless of how much she impresses me.
Chapter XVII
LINCOLN AGREES TO meet with me in a sparsely furnished, small solar near the great hall. He greets me with a slight bow, as custom demands now that my legitimacy as a princess has been restored, and I grant him a tense smile.
‘You want news?’ he says in a hushed voice. One never knows who might be on the other side of a door.
I brace myself. ‘If you have made any progress in solving the issue of Henry Tudor, then yes, I want news.’
‘Got the perfect candidate.’
‘A candidate for the throne? Prithee tell, Cousin.’
‘The Earl of Warwick.’
I gape at him. ‘What? But he’s…’ So simple-minded, so young, so imprisoned. ‘Why not yourself?’
‘Think. He descends through the male line. I stand a better chance to rule through him than on my own.’
‘Does the male line trump the fact that his father was a traitor both to York and Lancaster?’
Lincoln gives an impatient shrug. ‘Irish lords think so. Not everyone’s as bitter about Clarence as you.’
‘Yet you seem to have forgotten one pivotal thing: Warwick is as safely locked up as he has been for the past year.’ I clutch my elbows, jutting my chin forward.
He takes a step closer, his breath humid against my face. ‘Do you think me witless? We will conjure a new Warwick. I have a man in Oxford who has found a boy of the right age and with the right looks about him.’
‘An…an imposter?’
‘That’s generally what they call it.’
‘And what of the original? If you help this…this pretender seize power, what happens to our cousin?’
Lincoln rubs his thumb against my wrist, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Then he will be king, obviously, with me as his regent and chief councillor. Once the original is set free, we can do away with the pretender easily enough. A boy without means like him.’
I stare at him. Is he completely out of his mind? Did his horse throw him and trample him on his head? He thinks we can fool the public with an imposter boy until we get our hands on Warwick himself, then murder the innocent boy to keep him from telling, and presumably rid ourselves of Prince Arthur as well. It is madness, it can never work. However, what makes me weary is not the sheer likelihood of failure, but the fact I have been pushing from my thoughts for a while now: it is impossible to destroy Tudor without more or less destroying my sister and nephew also. Before the prince was born, or if the child had been a girl, it might have been possible to detangle the knots our family has tied with theirs, but when the alliance has been sealed through an heir… There is nothing I want more than to see Elizabeth humbled and the clock turned back; there is nothing I want more than to see Tudor as dead as Uncle Richard and all those loyal Yorkist men—but this would be the cost. Elizabeth would be more than humbled. Her son, whom she loves more than anything else in this world, would likely be smothered or dropped by accident. I fancy myself a better person than to willingly let children lose their lives over what they cannot influence.
Lincoln must not know my reluctance. Unless he trusts me, I will have no power either to aid or to prevent his plans.
‘You may keep me informed, Cousin. I will do what I can to assist you in this most…glorious quest,’ I say.
Lincoln scratches his trimmed beard. ‘Good. Yes, you know your own good, don’t you?’
Before I can reply, he has grabbed my chin and pressed his lips against mine for a vile moment. I freeze in his grip. This is not how I imagined my first kiss. It tastes of wine, not just any wine but the distinctive, expensive Italian sort which I recall to have been his favourite when visiting Sheriff Hutton.
‘Never received your congratulations on my wedding,’ he says after releasing me.
‘Your wedding?’
‘To Margaret FitzAlan.’
I remain frozen. Perhaps I ought to be glad he has ma
rried, because I like him less with every passing second. ‘You do have my congratulations. As I said, keep me informed.’
A smile crosses his lips, though his voice is tinted with irony. ‘Your wish is my command. Hope we can resume these pleasantries soon.’ On that note, he leaves me. In the doorway, he has to stoop low and fall on one knee for the pretend-king, who appears to have left his yeomen behind for a little tour of the palace. Knowing Tudor, I have no doubt he seeks to inspect every corner of every room for the hundredth time, searching for a way to cut down costs of maintenance. I try not to heed rumours, but I am inclined to believe the one reporting that a servant found him elbow-deep in the royal coffers, biting the pennies to assure himself of their validity.
Tudor keeps one eye on Lincoln and the other on me. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
Lincoln smiles again, having risen. ‘Meaning of what, Your Grace? I wished to bid a proper farewell to my dear cousin.’
‘You are leaving court again?’
‘Indeed.’ Perfectly polite.
‘C’est dommage. I trust you will keep us informed of your whereabouts.’
‘Sire.’ With a bow he is gone.
Tudor turns to watch him go, and I seize the opportunity to wipe my mouth on my sleeve, fearing Lincoln’s lips might have left a trace like slugs do, and at the same time relishing in the fact that the Pretend-King did not notice my lack of curtsey.
‘And you? Do you grieve to see the back of the Earl?’ he asks.
I force a shrug. ‘It makes no difference to me.’
‘I will not have any sinister scheming in my court.’
‘No, Sire. Though I cannot imagine why you would tell me that.’
We stare at one another in silence a moment before Tudor breaks the spell by reaching up to adjust the black velvet hat on his thinning hair. ‘You should spend more time tending to my queen and less time wandering around unchaperoned.’
