Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  ‘Thank you, Madam.’

  I follow these instructions more than willingly. When I tell Annie, she smiles for the first time since Welles’ death. Court is infinitely exciting for a child her age, yet exhausting, and she is worn from having so many eyes on her. After taking farewell of Anne and Kate, as well as Princess Mary and Prince Harry and a cluster of courtiers I would rather forget at the moment, we embark on the journey north.

  ‘Look, Lady Mother! A baby sheep!’ Annie exclaims more than once, sticking her head out the carriage window.

  Each time, I follow her pointing finger and nod. ‘I think you mean a lamb, darling.’

  ‘Yes. A lamb.’

  Not until we arrive at Tattershall do I realise how much I have missed the red bricks and turrets, the double moats and the rose garden waiting to bloom yet another summer. London did me good, but I find it impossible to truly think of Westminster or Greenwich or Eltham as my permanent home these days. It is strange to confess it, but domestic life has transformed me, just as Beaufort and Welles said it would. But no…I can still cause mayhem if I want to; I can still dance the saltarello with twenty magnates on a masquerade ball, and I can still engage in secret schemes. I refuse to grow too sane and too plain—this is merely for the time being. Once Annie is of marriageable age, I will dive head-first into court intrigues again, all to lay out an advantageous future for her.

  We can be happy here, she and I, alone as we are. The idyll of a complete family has faded long since, but as long as we have each other, I can keep every ghost at bay.

  Sunshine gathers in golden pools on my skin and warms the nape of my neck. July is a fine time of year, the grey skies clearing at last. I have discarded my heavier gowns and bought a set of light silks and linen for both Annie and myself, exchanged the cumbersome gable headdress for a caul with only the thinnest of veils billowing around my head as I walk through the garden. Pale pink blossoms create a soft atmosphere, and next year, there shall be stark white roses as well, whether Margaret Beaufort likes it or not.

  Annie tugs at my hand. ‘Lady Mother? Can I go and look at the fishes?’

  ‘Tell them I said hello. And Annie? Don’t go too close to the horrid geese.’

  She nods, then speeds away towards the moat where she so often stands gazing at the bright orange fishes flickering beneath the surface. I should commission someone to dig her a pond of her own where she might keep the slippery creatures as pets.

  I continue my stroll, tilting my head back to bask in the pleasant light. Widowhood is more demanding than I could have imagined. I have to spend hours every day managing my late husband’s estates in addition to my previous tasks of overseeing the household finances and my daughter’s education. Despite this, I enjoy my new life more than what is proper considering my losses. I ought to marry again, for it is true my clock is ticking, and I do long for the opportunity to climb another step on the hierarchical ladder, add another fancy title to my name. Still, if I do, I will have to give up this temporary haven sooner rather than later.

  I have written to Thomas but not dispatched any messenger with the letter. How could I, when I have no clue regarding his whereabouts? For all I know, he is either a household esquire to a peer living far away from court, or perhaps more likely, long since settled on his father’s lands near Friskney or on the Isle of Wight with a wife and children of his own. I can be naught but a bleak memory to him at this point.

  A scream slashes through my thoughts. When I dart across the grass and round a corner of the wall surrounding the inner moat, I catch sight of Annie’s bonnet floating in the water like a chip of bone against the olive-green surface. Farther from the strand, her head sticks up, hair floating around her face, hands splashing in the attempt to keep herself from sinking. She must have wanted to have a closer look at the fish and not understood the risk.

  My feet beat against the grass, sharp little stones hurting through the thin soles of my slippers as I hitch my skirts to my knees. My heart thuds against my lungs, bruising my chest from the inside. I gasp after air, throat burning dry, vision blurring.

  ‘Lady Mother! Mother!’ Her screams turn to clucking noises as water fills her mouth. They cut through the distance between us, that cursed distance, urging me to accelerate, but it is impossible. I have never run faster my whole life.

  ‘Mother is coming, Annie!’ I press forth over my own panting as I start to wade into the moat. The water is cold despite the warmth in the air. I know no more of swimming than she does; I have only seen men do it in lakes when I was younger and accompanied Father’s household on summer progress. The moat is deeper than I thought, perhaps twice as deep as I am tall, and my feet kick without finding anywhere to stand. I paddle and tramp, draining my energy rapidly, yet I get nowhere. Filthy water fills my mouth and nose, pushing down into my lungs, making me cough and gasp for air.

  ‘Mother!’ Annie is drifting away from me, though she is flailing to get closer. A spasm of pain twists her face in a grimace and she stops splashing. I have heard of this horrid phenomenon before: people being swallowed by lakes and rivers when their muscles stiffen from effort.

  I flap my arms and trample the water furiously—it is futile. ‘Help! Help me! Help her! For the love of God!’

  Annie’s head bobs up and down until I can only see her bonnet on the surface. My throat hurts from shouting and I swallow even more water. At last there is commotion at the bridge leading from the garden via the postern to the inner ward. Through the haze of water in my eyes, I discern a small group of guards headed by the old steward and two grooms scurrying across the lawn, some holding down caps on their heads or clutching swords out of reflex. By the time the first four reach the moat and dive in, my legs are aching from kicking water.

  Annie’s cap floats towards me—but no Annie.

  The men manage to pull me ashore and leave me, sitting with my arms wrapped around my knees, dripping, to search for my daughter. I am paralyzed, until the moment the steward kneels before me with bowed head and lowers her into my lap. The world blurs around me. I sense the soaked men standing a few feet away, exchanging glances in silence. The clear blue sky and green grass dotted with pink are at once offensive to me. How can the roses be allowed to live?

  Her little body is limp and cold. I rub her arms and cheeks furiously in an attempt to bring back the warmth. It refuses to return. Her lips, the colour of lavender, remain slightly parted and her eyes stare glassy into mine as if through a mist. Auburn hair slicked to her scalp, pearls of water encircling her head like a coronet. Fingers that once clutched a single one of mine when she was a babe.

  I cup my daughter’s face in my hands and turn it left and right in the hard sunlight. It cannot be. It simply cannot; I forbid it. She is all I need in this world, all I want. She possesses my deepest love. I cannot lose another child, not my youngest.

  My only.

  Chapter XXV

  I BURY HER in Saint Botolph’s Church, Boston, next to Eliza. The coffin is fresh from the carpenter, still smelling of paint. I wanted it white, not for the sake of my family name but because it made her look just a little less pale herself. I place her favourite doll beside her, the one her aunt gave her, and clasp one of my sapphire necklaces around her neck. I intended to let her have it on her wedding day.

  I understand now, perhaps for the first time, what crushed Queen Anne. The disease in her lungs may have driven her towards her death, and the vicious rumours about Elizabeth may have quickened the process, but if her only son and hope had not already died, she could have resisted the rest. I am older now than she was then, but I may yet meet a similar fate.

  There are so many people waiting for me in the afterlife: Father, Mother, my sister Mary, Rivers and Grey, my brothers, Agnes, Uncle Richard, Queen Anne, Welles, Eliza…Annie. There are more than the people I love who are still living. If I were to join the dead lot, I could perhaps be reunited with them. The only issue is that they will not all
be in the same place, since some were bound for Heaven while others are likely struggling to escape the chains of Purgatory. That is where I would go, too, I am confident of it. I have not always been as humble and obedient to God and my elders as I ought to. I have sinned more times than I have taken confession—yet I cannot think myself foul enough to be plunged down to Hell. There is naught to be done than to hope for death to seek me out, though, because if I hurried it along Hell would at once be the only possible destination, and then I would be no less lonely than I am now.

  I cannot stand to look at Tattershall. It is no longer my shining haven. Annie’s presence managed to gloss over Eliza’s absence for a time, but now that she is also gone, the castle and the garden are covered in death’s heavy cloak, infested with crawling milk-white worms.

  Inside there is the smell of disease reeking from Eliza’s old bedchamber where she drew her last shallow breaths, and when I venture outside for relief, there is the treacherous water glaring back at me. How can I ever cleanse this place? It is impossible. With only the servants around me, there is no one whom I can talk to in order to fill the void of silence. If I had a friend here, I might stay, but all my living acquaintances are either scattered across the country at their various estates or, more commonly, pinned down at court. Court… The hub of companionship, as well as the dirtier side that is intrigue and schemes, may not always be the kindest of places, or one where I am afforded the freedom and independence I enjoy tucked away here in the Midlands, but one can never be lonely there. The dances, the banquets, the jousts—all these things used to spark joy in me as I was surrounded by chattering ladies and lords in bright apparel, and if I try, I might be able to draw some small pleasure or at least distraction from that life once more. It will take time, no doubt, and come gradually, but I will never return to the world of light hearts if I do not attempt it.

  After having taken a dear farewell of the old steward and watched the carts with my coffers of belongings roll ahead, I step into my own carriage and sink back in the velvet seat. Resting my cheek against the smooth window pane, I cast one last glance at the place I considered home for such a long time. Home, however, is where the people one loves are, and there is nothing for me here anymore. The sound of hooves against the road is oddly comforting as I travel south, the days passing in a haze. I grow stiff as a stick, and it is an immense relief when we pass through Aldersgate and continue through the flurry of activity that is London.

  The Palace of Westminster towers before me, its spires poking holes in the sky, the stone tinted dull gold in the splashes of late August sunshine. I have beheld it like this more times than I can count, yet its beauty never diminishes. The inside of the palace is filtered with the same golden light, owing to the high windows. I wish it were not thus, for I am not ready to step into this shimmering world when I have spent the last month in utter darkness. However, I have come this far, and Elizabeth will be expecting me.

  My sister receives me in private this time. She is alone, for once, standing making peculiar wiggling movements, her back toward me. When she turns to face me, it is as if someone tightened the screws on an iron cage around my chest. The baby in her arms, whom she is apparently trying to rock to sleep without great success, is a cherubic little thing with downy hair and cheeks round as apples. I had almost forgotten my nephew Edmund, Elizabeth’s third son. He should be around six months old now, though a little small for his age.

  Elizabeth smiles. ‘Welcome, Cecily. It will be wonderful to have all my sisters under one roof again. Anne is come from Howard’s estates for a few months. You do not mind your old lodgings, do you?’

  ‘No,’ I press forth. ‘No, I do not mind. How…how is the baby?’

  ‘Oh, rather difficult—he simply refuses to sleep. I ought to return him to the nursery.’

  ‘You have been blessed.’

  ‘God is kind.’

  I nod while Elizabeth sweeps past me on her way to the nursery, leaving me with the sour bile of envy burning my throat. Two accomplished girls and three seemingly healthy boys, the oldest of which is already fourteen and an inch away from sealing a triumphant marriage match. Yes, God has indeed been kind towards my sister. If I were her, I would not let anyone else care for baby Edmund in my place; I would not let him out of my sight. She is merely doing what is considered natural and proper for mothers of our status—she is even more involved in her children than ideal—but I cannot wrap my head around it. And not once did she mention my Annie.

  Life goes on. Each evening there is a dinner or a dance or an entertainment for foreign ambassadors, and it does me good to be kept busy and under the public gaze, because it prevents me from dwelling more in my bedchamber than is socially acceptable. Tudor has certainly learnt what ruling a kingdom requires in terms of display, and although he still holds onto every penny he can, he knows when he has to spend. This is in no way the sparkling court of my father or uncle, but it is a hundred times more than what Tattershall had to offer. Underneath, though, my youngest daughter is a constant, prickling presence in my mind.

  Just as Elizabeth said, it is wonderful to have her, Anne, Kate, and myself under one roof. Of course, she forgot Bridget, but my youngest sister is close enough for me to call on any time. By remaining near this knot of women, I grasp a sliver of life as it used to be two decades ago when we were giggling little girls making merry in these same halls, despite or perhaps because of Elizabeth’s innocently masked supremacy and Kate’s annoying bursts of energy.

  One chilly afternoon, Tudor summons me to his privy chambers. Begrudgingly, I leave Munchie by the fireplace in my bedchamber and march through the halls and galleries, trampling the hem of my dark blue gown more than once—the seamstresses must have confused the measurements.

  Tudor is waiting for me in his favourite armchair. ‘I have information for you, Madame, that I would rather not deliver in public.’

  I arch my eyebrows. ‘Why not, Sire?’

  ‘Your reactions are not always fit to be seen by the court.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Warwick and Warbeck are to be put to the justice of the law.’

  I gape at him. ‘What? Why now, after all this time?’

  ‘They thought they could escape. It shows they have not yet given up their foolish claims and accepted their fate.’

  ‘One is a repeatedly failed pretender, the other a simple-minded youth who cannot tell a goose from a capon after fourteen years of imprisonment. They present no danger to you, Sire.’ My line of defence is only half-true, since nothing can guarantee that the men would not at least be used as figureheads for a rebellion, but it is without doubt the path most likely to succeed.

  Tudor studies his rings. ‘I thought it would please you to see Warbeck dead.’

  ‘I will not mourn him. Warwick is my cousin, though, of my blood.’

  ‘His blood is his death sentence. The same applies to John of Gloucester.’ He says it with such casualness that I almost miss the new fatal blow he has dealt.

  My words grow thick and clunky on my tongue. I remember John clearly: his intense glances and sweet smiles. I remember how ghostly pale, on the verge of transparent, he turned when we received the news of his father’s defeat. Shall I lose not one but two cousins? I decide to grasp a straw. ‘He was never legitimised.’

  ‘Bastards have risen to power before.’

  ‘If you seek to wipe out the Yorkist line, you’ll have to wipe out your own children. Who shall be next—Prince Arthur?’

  The Pretend-King grips the hilt of his very real, very sharp, gold-studded dagger, yet his voice is as calm as ever. ‘Watch your tongue, Madame, unless you wish to have your head on a spike on London Bridge. They must perish for the safety of Arthur’s reign.’

  ‘They are no more threat to him than to you as long as they are under lock and key.’

  ‘The Catholic monarchs think otherwise. They will not send their daughter to be queen of England unless her future as such is secur
ed.’

  He has decided. I might as well abandon my cautious lies and tell the truth as it is. ‘Well, then they know how flimsy, how weak the Tudor claim is. They would not fear for Catalina’s future if they thought you and Arthur undisputed. Perhaps they are right!’ I turn on my heel and stalk towards the door.

  ‘You will not turn your back on your king!’ Tudor calls. ‘And you have not been dismissed!’

  ‘I turn my back on the grandson of a chamber servant!’

  The guards let me pass, pure astonishment on their faces. I stomp out of the privy chambers and presence chamber, continuing through the palace without aim. The retort about Tudor’s grandfather was true in every respect, and I have longed to fling it at him since before he even won the decisive battle of 1485. That my own maternal grandfather was of relatively humble origin is a fact I swept aside at a young age; I am still the daughter of a rightful king, and I am still descended from Edward III’s second and fourth sons rather than from the illegitimate offspring of the third, as is Tudor.

  Still, as the fire in me starts to cool a little, I regret my outburst. Were it not for my sister, I would be ruined for certs. Only Elizabeth’s good graces can save me now… My head would look ghastly on a pike.

  The trials are, of course, naught but a farce. Tudor wants the young men dead, and so they shall die.

  On the twenty-third day of November, Warbeck is hanged at the Tyburn before what I assume is an ecstatic crowd. I am told he confessed with the noose around his neck, finally, to being a boatman’s son from Tournai in Flanders, and not my angel brother. As if we did not know already!

  Warwick’s execution is a private affair on the Tower Green, as befits a nobleman, and this one I attend myself, along with the upper crust of courtiers and ambassadors. It is a stormy Thursday, the wind howling, rain cascading down into the Thames until I fear it will cause a flood.