Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  ‘With all due respect, Sire, you are as unchaperoned as I, and if there is an assassin lurking, he would be daft to attack me rather than you.’

  ‘I was not thinking so much of assassins as of your reputation, Madame.’

  ‘Naturally.’ I fail to hide my sarcasm. ‘If you permit it, I will leave you to your inspections.’

  ‘I do permit it.’

  With my slippers clicking against the stone as I descend the staircase and my headdress peculiarly heavy on my head, I feel more split than ever. My fundamental, personal allegiance to my sister and nephew battles with my allegiance to York, and I cannot even tell where my rationality is. Damn Mother for arranging Elizabeth’s marriage and damn Elizabeth for delivering a son! Perhaps most of all, damn Lincoln for marrying—that is the last grain of sand that tips the scales for me. If he plans to be regent and rule England through the simple-minded Young Warwick, and if he had promised to make me his wife, queen in all but name, I could have endured his character and perhaps even my own scruples regarding Elizabeth’s fate. But no, the fool has dispensed with my support. As much as it stings in my eyes, it appears I have become the new regime’s spy without them knowing it.

  I recount the meeting to Thomas later that evening, having snuck away from Elizabeth’s company once more to our room of old charts and maps. To my chagrin, he is livid.

  ‘You let him kiss you?’

  ‘There was not a great deal I could do about it, Thomas. Besides which, I have to stay in his good graces if I am to find out anything more about this insurgency.’

  Thomas cracks his knuckles. ‘But he’s not going to wed you.’

  ‘I know that. Which is why I will not assist him in his plotting—only on the surface. And please stop that habit.’

  ‘What if he wants more from you? What if he wants to make you his mistress?’

  I do not know whether to laugh or cry at the thought. ‘Do not be ridiculous! I am not fool enough to agree to such a thing.’

  ‘Right. I just don’t think that man is considerate enough to care whether you agree or not.’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  He opens and closes his mouth twice before at last muttering, ‘Because I don’t think well of it!’

  ‘Will I have to beg for your approval when I do marry, too? I asked you to be my friend, not my guardian.’ I straighten my back and square my shoulders like I have seen Mother do when caught in a quarrel. Of course, Mother would rarely have to fear losing an argument, unlike me.

  Thomas clamps his jaw. ‘You have made that perfectly clear. Though you are being unfair—maybe it’s my horribly low birth that does it.’

  ‘Now you are unfair. I have never treated you as an inferior, at least not since I grew to know you.’ My words are genuine: I have tried my very best to be his equal, and have been successful despite my initial misgivings.

  Thomas rounds the table standing between us and halts a few feet away from me. ‘Do you know what I’m tired of? Your meddling…just like your mother. Why can you not simply watch the events unfold from afar, be they to your liking or not, and remain safe?’

  I frown. ‘Because…because they affect my life too much.’

  ‘Though that is not all, is it? You have lived in splendour under every king since you were born except for that little interlude in the abbey. This is about you trying to control the order of the world.’

  ‘Well, I want to see York restored to the throne, that is all. I cannot leave something like that to chance! You know I hate uncertainty...’

  ‘Life is uncertain! And that crown is nothing but a stupid piece of gold anyhow. It was never worth dying for.’ He kicks the table leg; the blow appears to be worse on his foot than on the wood.

  ‘You dare to suggest my uncles, and my grandfather, and everyone else, died in vain? You are saying my father risked all since for a stupid piece of gold?’ I draw a trembling breath, balling my fists. I cannot recall the last time I was his enraged, this scandalised. He has crossed the line. ‘No. No, you are not allowed to say that. You have not known the pain in my kindred’s eyes when they spoke of heads on pikes at Wakefield Bridge, nor have you known the hardships my mother has suffered, the fear that has dimmed her spirit forever. Have you any idea how many thousands of people’s blood that has watered England’s meadows?’

  ‘That is precisely my point! And my words are not yours to command as you please.’

  ‘Like you try to command me?’

  He scoffs. ‘Sorry. You know I am right, though. You would be so much happier if you left court all together and settled down in the countryside with someone who could love you.’

  ‘Am I so difficult to love?’ I barely dare to hear what he has to say.

  ‘That is not what I meant.’

  ‘What did you mean?’

  He grapples for words. ‘Only…only that your dear cousin Lincoln does not love you.’

  ‘I was never under the illusion. Have we not already established that he is married and I’m not inclined to be anyone’s mistress to cast off when I’m no longer pleasing?’ I march past him towards the door, and turn to look at him as I reach the threshold, my vision foggy with tears. ‘You are an insolent, thick-headed rascal, Thomas Kyme.’

  He stares back at me through a shield of dishevelled black hair. ‘And you an arrogant, senseless brat.’

  I sprint from the room, tripping on the embroidered hem of my gown during the flight, bruising my knees. A few wide-eyed servants watch me, but fortunately, the courtiers who matter are nowhere to be seen.

  I shall never speak to him again, never. How did I think he could be my companion when he opposes the very fundamentals of my being?

  November passes in a clammy haze of grey. Thomas and I avoid each other with equal determination, which turns out to be easier than it was to find opportunity to meet. I chase him out of my thoughts as well, with varying success, but every nasty word exchanged between us sticks to my memory like a splinter in my finger, always hurting just a little. It feels different from all the times I have quarrelled with Mother or my sisters. Kate is the only one who argue back as boldly as I do, and furthermore, with them I usually forget the squabble within a day or two.

  I spend more hours with Margaret Beaufort than any living soul should have to suffer. She keeps me close, constantly prattling in my ear about her God and her son and the shortcomings of the York girls. She does approve of Bridget, but as far as I know, they have never exchanged a single direct word, and Beaufort takes a kind view on anyone living in a priory, destined to take holy vows.

  I make an effort and finally discover two things we share: our fondness of dogs and our fear of childbirth. Beaufort’s fear springs from experience, my own from expectation, and it is an unfortunate combination since the stories she tells me only increases my fright. She says a few tight-lipped words about how her midwife tried to force out a child heavy as a tenth of her own weight—and unlike my own kinswomen, she was thin as a stick except for the belly itself.

  The dogs are a far happier topic for us. I will try to find the right moment to ask Elizabeth to give me Munchie for my New Year’s Day present, for the dear little creature already trots at my heels, sniffing at Margaret’s own two spaniels as we walk down the galleries.

  ‘Your sister should appreciate her husband’s gifts more. It is a good thing she has not yet been crowned,’ Beaufort says during one of these walks.

  I force myself to slow my steps as I have an unseemly habit of walking too fast. ‘Her Grace is sometimes unaware of the things others do for her.’ I occasionally find myself chiming in with Beaufort’s snide comments about Elizabeth, although they are often a little strong even in my taste. She, who never truly aspired to it, is queen, while we, who both have wanted it more than anything, are not. The situation has become a third link between myself and the King’s Mother, although I try to remind myself it is Tudor and Beaufort who are and always must be my main
adversaries.

  ‘How is your husband Lord Stanley?’ I say.

  ‘Lord Bedford,’ she corrects me. ‘His new title was well-earnt.’

  I cannot stop myself; the resentment bubbling up inside me is scorching, fired on by my lingering anger towards Thomas. ‘Yes, treason can do such marvellous things for one’s carrier, or so I hear.’

  ‘Watch your tongue, girl. Do not think yourself immune because of your sister’s position. I—I mean my blessed son—saved your lot from the gutter!’ Her voice rises to a familiar pitch.

  ‘You would be nothing without us!’

  We keep walking and this time I make no show of restraining my steps, but rather surge ahead of her in a way she never allows anyone equal to or beneath her station to do.

  She catches my arm and locks her fingers there, hauling me in like a naughty toddler. ‘Let us not make a scene before the nobles. Speak with me about something suitable.’

  So that is what we do, revisiting the topic of spaniels as if there was no rift between us, like so many times before. At first, I grit my teeth, but I soon give in to the conversation. This is what is so devious about Beaufort: she is the most agonizing, irritating, strange woman I know, and yet I always succumb to her command.

  Advent and the Twelve Days of Christmas come and go. Tudor puts on a surprisingly lavish display considering his miserly nature. The garlands of holly are entwined with tiny gold bells, the food is aromatic with expensive spices, and the velvet wall-hangings depicting the Tudor rose have been made for this occasion alone. I see now that he knows how and when to spend, except the times he does so are too few and far between for my liking.

  I join Elizabeth and Anne—and the Pretend-King, naturally—on one of their visits to Ludlow to fawn over Prince Arthur. He has grown since I last saw him, and gained quite a bit of weight, as babies ought to. Still, he is the calmest child I have ever seen, apart from Bridget, on the verge of feeble. I have been taught boys are supposed to scream and show signs of strength early, but when I mention this to Elizabeth, she brushes off my concerns, saying the prince is merely being kind to us all. His pudgy wet nurse exchanges a glance with the two rockers but says nothing. Afterwards, the court moves on to Greenwich to spend a few months at the Palace of Placentia.

  I manage to curb my disappointment when I do not receive Munchie on New Year’s Day as I had hoped. My gifts are sumptuous enough, true, yet I wished for nothing more. Perhaps my sister forgot I asked—I shall have to try again.

  I have found that the only way to escape Margaret Beaufort’s clutch during the morning hours is to venture outside while she says her private prayers before dragging me with her to mass, early in the morning. One of those mornings, I extend my previously brief outing to a proper walk. The garden is coated in frost, the tiny crystals reflecting glints of white sunlight. The silver birches stand naked, bereft of their magnificent greenery, their thin branches poking the churned grey sky. Gone are the roses so vibrant in summertime, gone is the russet glow of autumn. A blackbird picks at the hardened ground with its beak but the search for food is futile.

  I pull my fur-lined sleeves down over my hands and wrap my arms around my torso to stem the shivers running through my limbs. If one were to see through my layers of clothes, the goose bumps I feel would make me look like a plucked bird ready for cooking.

  I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the blinding light. A figure is leaning over the edge of the fountain further down the gravel path, throwing something in the water. As I close the distance between us, there is no mistaking the plain doublet and hose, not to speak of the broken nose and sharply contoured jaw. Two ducks are swimming in the ice-cool water of the fountain—I am close enough now to see their orange feet paddling below the gleaming surface—and Thomas feeds them from the loaf of wheat bread he cradles in one hand. His priorities do puzzle me, for while he wastes his best bread on ducks, he still refuses to buy himself a finer set of clothes.

  What puzzles me more, though, is the way I feel when seeing him. Mayhap the weather has cooled my anger as well, or the passing of time has done its work, because my sole sentiment is nervousness, jittery nervousness. Is he still sullen? He has not yet noticed me, though it should be easy enough since the garden is void of people other than us—or is he purposefully ignoring me?

  Before I can think any further, Thomas leans too far out and loses his footing, dropping the loaf of bread with a splash. I lunge forward and grab his sleeve just in time to prevent him from tumbling face-first into the fountain and presumably upsetting the ducks. He is heavier than me and nearly drags me with him in the fall, but after a critical heartbeat we both stand on firm ground again.

  Thomas shakes his head. ‘By Saint Edward! You frightened me.’

  ‘I saved you.’

  ‘What, from the fountain’s evil grasp?’

  I pout. ‘If you want to bathe in water that filthy and cold, I shan’t stand in your way.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No matter.’

  ‘I mean I’m sorry for what I said, about you and…everything.’ He reaches for my hand and I accede more swiftly than I perhaps should.

  ‘Likewise,’ I say. The relief is immediate, the weight of dispute lifted from my shoulders, and I cannot help but notice how his face is at once free from shadows.

  Thomas squeezes my hand. ‘Friends?’

  ‘Yes. Friends.’

  A glance flashes between us and I at once sense how close we are standing, too close. His lips brush against mine, a warm summer breeze in the midst of winter, even softer than his hands. Neither of us move. This is not how I imagined my second kiss, but I want to stay forever.

  Thomas pulls away and emits a quivering sigh. ‘It’s an imprudent idea, is it not?’

  I force my head to a mechanical nod. ‘It is the very quintessence of imprudence.’

  We break apart, slowly, like detangling a knot, our eyes turning simultaneously to the ducks and our blurred reflections in the fountain.

  I shift my weight now that the summer breeze has left me. ‘Did you…did you bring any more bread?’

  He clears his throat. ‘I am afraid not.’

  We stand in silence a long while before I muster the courage to take his hand again and lace our fingers together. A dalliance would risk my reputation and prospects of a good marriage, and put him in grave danger, to mention only the most obvious impediments, yet as foolhardy as it sounds, I hope we can indeed still be friends.

  Chapter XVIII

  BY THE END of February, Mother empties a figurative bucket of cold water over all our heads, or at least my head. She has decided to retire from court life to live out the years she has left in Bermondsey Abbey, an old monastery in the southeast of London.

  I simply cannot fathom it: my own mother, the Dowager Queen and once upon a time the most praised beauty in England, living in squalor! Of course, not everyone would define it as such, and dowagers do have a habit of retiring to abbeys, but still… She has fought so hard for her place in the sun these past two decades, especially after Father died, and now she hands every ray of sunlight to Margaret Beaufort. Indeed, the King’s Mother will surely rejoice in the new arrangements, for she will be the undisputed first lady of the court and country except for Elizabeth, whom she steps on easily enough.

  ‘Is this Beaufort’s scheme, Lady Mother?’ I ask her as we stand watching the servants pack her coffers. Many of her rich garments and beauty concoctions belong to a time gone by, before she was a widow. I doubt she will ever use them again once she settles in the drab abbey, and these days I can barely spot any of the vainglorious flair she used to represent to me when I was a little girl.

  Mother puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘No, you must not blame her. It is His Grace’s wish.’

  ‘But he only wishes what his mother tells him.’

  ‘That is not entirely true, my sweet.’

  ‘I still think she whispered in his e
ar. Though it does not matter. They are villains, both of them, for sending you away from us. Kate is not yet eight years old!’

  ‘She is a brave girl, and too giddy to miss me for more than a fortnight. I dare say she will manage.’

  I take a step back to avoid colliding with one of the maids hurrying forth with a stack of folded cloth. ‘I was more concerned about how we will manage her. She never truly listens to me, not even to Elizabeth.’

  ‘She will learn to listen.’

  ‘If I were you, I would refuse to leave.’

  Mother strokes the back of my hand, a hint of her characteristic smile playing on her vermillion lips. ‘One cannot refuse a king, as you know very well. And you mustn’t worry, for I have been promised a pension befitting a woman of my status.’

  ‘How much, Lady Mother?’

  ‘A yearly sum of four hundred pounds.’

  I frown at the number, which is not exactly beggar’s scraps but neither is it what I hoped for. ‘Less than the yearly income of a minor Earl, is it not?’

  ‘Methinks you forget I am not the Queen any longer, and have not been for a while now. It is time I accept it.’

  She baffles me like never before. This show of docility is so utterly unlike her, so outlandish, when I have long been accustomed to her ambition. I can only presume it has been brought on by the turning of the years and the realisation that she has little left to fight for now, having achieved her goal of seeing Elizabeth on the throne.

  ‘You should be queen. You or Anne Neville, not meek—’ I stop myself before her name crosses my lips, however, it is too late.

  ‘Take care not to speak ill of your sister. This is not her fault.’

  ‘Tudor loves her, or so she says. If it is true, he ought to listen to her if she asked for you to remain.’

  Mother sighs. ‘She has asked, and he has told her no. His love for her is…it is the kind of love which will only last when he is the lord and master.’