Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  I have not seen my young cousin for over a decade, and barely recognise him. I thought the change in his spirit and his appearance was concerning enough the day he was paraded through London to quench the rumours about Lambert Simnel’s legitimacy, but that was a trifle compared to this. He was a fool to listen to Warbeck’s escape plan, yet I cannot blame him when I see him. His hair is caked with filth turned to mud in the rain; he walks with padding little steps and has to be half-dragged, half-carried up to the scaffold; his eyes are dead already. One might expect a man of his rank to have been held in greater comfort, but I suspect his cell has only degraded over the years. One small mercy is that Meg Pole is not here to witness the spectacle. She knows, of course, but was sensible enough to stay in Wales with her husband and children.

  The executioner strikes a single clean blow with his axe and it is over. I squeeze my eyes shut when he bends down to retrieve my cousin’s head and hold it by the hair for all to see.

  John of Gloucester is dealt with within the walls of the Tower, just as my brothers were. I do not know if he has already perished by the time of the other executions, or if he is the last to meet his saviour, but there is no doubt Tudor keeps his word of doing away with him. People have begun to forget him, hence it suffices to deal the blow behind closed doors and thereby avoid an unnecessary show of cruelty, but to let him live would be too dangerous in the eyes of the paranoid Pretend-King. I hope Gloucester’s final resting place is more suitable than that of his father, but the chance is slight.

  With the death of Warwick, the Yorkist line of legitimate male descent is extinguished; with Gloucester’s, so is the illegitimate, save for Father’s bastard son Arthur, who has been prudent enough to keep away from court. Now, every claimant our house can put forth is either a woman—the most obvious being myself, my sisters, and Meg—or bases said claim on the inheritance of a woman, namely my paternal aunt the Duchess of Suffolk. The latter’s sons, the de la Poles, are, at least in Tudor’s eyes, a growing threat.

  Edmund de la Pole, Lincoln’s younger brother, has come of age, and appears to be itching for revenge. At the time of the Lambert Simnel uprising, he was slightly too young to be an active participant, but he has not reconciled with the defeat. In all fairness, it is as much Tudor who has not offered reconciliation: Edmund fought the Cornish rebels on his new liege lord’s behalf, yet the favour he was shown is scarce indeed. It reminds me of how Father pardoned Buckingham a long time ago but refused to treat him to the influence his status would have required, keeping him for decorative uses only. However, just as Buckingham turned first on my brothers and then on my uncle, Tudor has good reason to fear Edmund will turn on him. He has degraded Edmund from Duke to Earl of Suffolk, and made him pay the staggering sum of five thousand pounds to keep any title at all. Furthermore, a year ago, he charged him with murder and had him beg forgiveness. Although it would not surprise me if my cousin was guilty—he is even more hot-headed than Lincoln was—others were acquitted despite being involved in the same brawl, and the trial was most peculiar, the charge making no mention of Edmund having dealt the fatal blow. He fled abroad but was persuaded, or rather coerced, to return around a month ago. Lord only knows how long the truce between him and Tudor will last. Even if Edmund chooses not to act on his claim to the throne, he has two brothers still living: Will, twenty-one years 0f age, and Dick, nineteen. My aunt was far too good at producing sons to be convenient for Tudor.

  For what feels like the hundredth time, I am torn between love for my oldest sister and my nephew, Prince Arthur, and loyalty to York. If any of the de la Poles were to be king… But no, I am fantasizing once more. Tudor will guard his throne again and again if needs be. How many have died in order for his reign to prosper? My brothers and Edward of Middleham—although Buckingham acted on his own accord and Middleham was snatched by illness before Tudor could lay hands on him. Uncle Richard, Lincoln, Warbeck, Warwick, Gloucester. Another three de la Pole brothers will surely follow unless they guard their backs and curb their ambition.

  Her skin is chalked grey, glistening with beads of water. Her lips, like bruises, form delicate sounds, words I can barely discern. She reaches for me, the bones in her fingers protruding, but I cannot feel her touch.

  The water is rising around us, yet Annie does not try to run from it. The current carries me upwards. I float while she sinks, and her outstretched hand fades.

  In that moment, her words are clear at last, echoing louder and louder: Why did you let me die, Mother? Did you not love me? Why did you let me die, Mother?

  I press my palms to my ears and curl up by the stack of pillows. I am as cold as if the water had indeed flooded me, and my heart beats like that of a frightened little bird. She is right. I let her die. How could I ever have pitied myself, when I was the architect of my own misery? What if I had kept her by my side that day in the garden, or run faster, or learnt how to swim? Our lives might have been very, very different. For months, I have managed to quiet these thoughts, trying to stem the guilt by ignoring them, and thought about my youngest daughter every waking hour of every day to keep her out of my nightmares. It does not work any longer—perhaps because I have been momentarily caught up in the intrigue around me, and now Annie claims my nights instead. She is right to do so, for I let her precious life slip away after vowing to never let her go. Her dripping wet ghost will haunt me until the day I myself die, and although it terrifies me, I cannot wish for the ghost to leave me. It is all I have left of her.

  It is not solely Annie but, to a degree, her sister as well. Sickness does not strike and kill unless it is God’s will, and I was not pious enough to avoid his wrath. Perchance he sought to teach me a lesson, though I am not much better now than I was before. It appears to me that loss strengthens faith in some people, while others merely grow resentful, and I belong to the latter group. Nonetheless, had I not been so blasphemous to begin with, the Almighty might have spared my eldest, and had I not committed a thousand tiny mistakes on that July day at Tattershall, my youngest would be with me also. This must be how Mother felt having let Dickie go to the Tower, but her guilt was not justified, since she had no other choice and the soldiers would have taken her son by force if she had persisted in her refusal. No, this is different.

  I consider waking my maid if only to have someone to confide in, but decide against it. The weight on my chest will suffocate me unless I rise and breathe fresh air, though. I slide my legs over the edge of the bed and let my toes touch the icy floorboards. Once I have crossed the strip of bare wood, my feet sink into the lush carpet while I wrap a robe around me and tie the sash tight around my waist. I open the casket on my desk, Queen Anne’s casket, searching blindly with fumbling fingers until I feel the smooth clusters of diamonds against my fingers. With the broach clutched in one hand and a taper in the other, I trip out of my room. The diamond broach is more to me than a mere symbol of my Yorkist affinity, for it has been with me more than half my life, and represents a simpler time. If not simpler, then at least happier, because I was yet nearly unscathed by heartbreak. If I had known at fifteen where I would be now—childless, motherless, the widow of a Lancastrian, the subject of a ruler I resent—I would have wept.

  I resume my nightly sojourn. When I reach the great hall, I freeze on the spot. A dark silhouette is sitting on one of the high chairs, legs crossed and feet on table. I force my own legs to move forward, and in the light from my taper I can now discern a face I hoped to have forgotten long since.

  The man in the chair twitches and snaps around as I step on a creaking floorboard.

  I wrap my robe tighter around me, my voice a barely audible whisper. ‘Hello Thomas.’

  Chapter XXVI

  WE TALK THROUH the night. If it is possible to know a person after twelve years apart, I daresay I know him. I recognise his speech and manners like I would recognise my own reflection in a mirror, and I must have thought about him more often than I realised or cared to admit. The
lines around his eyes when he smiles—he does smile—are real crinkles now, and to my astonishment, I spot a strand of silver in his hair in the candlelight. Still, he is younger than Welles was when I married him, a boyish twinkle ever-present in his eyes.

  At first, our conversation is slow, trickling forth in awkward phrases and muddied words. I do not know where to begin. I scan my old friend’s face and voice for traces of resentment or anger, and indeed there is a guarded note, but it fades as we continue. We shall have to untangle the knot that is our past someday, however, it is night, and one can easily leave necessary topics alone in the dark.

  Thomas recounts his life since I was no longer in it. He has been away from court for nigh on a decade, living off the modest income from his father’s lands. To my creeping relief, he says nothing of any wife or betrothed, but a confession I could not have imagined in my wildest dreams emerges.

  ‘Northumberland was always a good master to me, say what you will of his actions at Redemore Plain,’ he says, running a finger around the edge of his empty wine cup, his feet still on the table. ‘He comforted me greatly.’

  I frown. ‘You told him about me? He could have ruined both of us.’

  ‘I didn’t tell him that much. I never mentioned names.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You must swear not to utter a word of what I tell you.’

  I thrill with anticipation. ‘You know I will not.’

  ‘I was…caught up in a vice. I believe it became part of me.’ Thomas stares stubbornly at his cup, then raises his gaze. The corner of his mouth curves in a smile, but his eyes remind me of a terrified animal.

  ‘What?’ I shake my head in frustration as he remains quiet. Finally, I understand what vice he is implying. ‘But Northumberland was married.’

  Thomas scoffs. ‘Right. Tell me one magnate who has not strayed from his wedded wife.’

  ‘But they do not go after their household esquires.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Well, I—’ I break off. I have never thought of it that way before. Something else strikes me with a tinge of offense. ‘If you practice sodomy, why did you pretend to fancy me, or any woman?’

  ‘It was not a pretence—one fancy does not exclude another, does it? If I told you about every little dalliance I’ve had since you last saw me, you would be scandalised indeed.’

  Little dalliances? I can only presume they included more than women alone, but I am not in the mood to be scandalised. Still, what I find the most disconcerting is not Thomas’ confession, but that he had to involve himself with Northumberland of all people. It was bad enough to have been that knave’s servant. I am certain now that it was treason at Redemore, because Northumberland was slain by a furious Yorkshire mob four years later, and the people in Yorkshire were always my uncle’s most loving subjects. The passionate violence reported cannot have been the result of taxes only.

  ‘You amaze me, truly. You realise you could be taken to the Tyburn for this?’ I say at last.

  He winks at me. ‘But you won’t tell.’

  ‘Of course not.’ I shake my head in disbelief.

  ‘As long as you keep quiet, I have no cause to fret. I heard your husband passed away. My condolences.’

  ‘Thank you. He left me ample lands and estates.’

  ‘How fortunate for you. And are you safeguarding them for any children??’

  ‘No.’ I clench my hands to keep them from trembling. ‘Dead, both of them. Gone, forever.’

  ‘I—I am sorry. Truly.’

  The look in his eyes tell me more than any words ever could. Ought I to pour my heart out and pray that he comforts me? No, that would not be fair, not when we have not spoken for such a long time, and he most assuredly has his own losses. My soliloquy will have to wait just a little, so I swiftly move on to another topic.

  ‘And now? Whom is it you serve?’

  ‘Northumberland’s son, the new earl, that is. He is quite the spender, and has got it into his thick head that I am the man best suited to manage his account book.’ He grimaces.

  In this manner, we pass the hours until dawn bleeds through the clouds outside.

  As the summer heat creeps on, it brings not only blossoms and sunshine, but disease. When the first known death from plague is reported to Tudor through a discreet message, Elizabeth tells me, he turns as pale as if he were a ghost himself. The last thing he needs now is a country or even a city ridden with fear, a people who bar their doors and whisper about their King having stirred God’s wrath. Moreover, the Catholic Monarchs will hardly be inclined to send their precious daughter overseas when she might be contaminated the moment she steps on English soil. The plague is never merciful, it is never solely a ripple. Sometimes fewer men and women perish, other times every third or second soul, but one cannot know which it will be this time, and thus dread’s icy claws continue to tear apart the fabric of society.

  Since I am not prone to illness, I find it as difficult to start walking with a scented handkerchief pressed against my lips as I did when I was a child. Thomas, however, is of another disposition.

  ‘I found a new recipe for rosemary perfume. It is supposed to be very effective keeping the plague odours at bay. And there is this tincture I heard His Grace himself is using—’ he says as we ride across the rollicking meadows outside the Palace of Hatfield, whereto the notables have retreated to avoid the worst crush of people and filth in London. Outings such as this ride offer a privacy not otherwise found at court, and I may use the excuse that I need Thomas to help with my horse and serve as my guard, whether anyone believes it or not. It is at least half true, for he is beginning to cure my fear of horses.

  I turn my face to the evening sky shifting in rosy pink and flaming orange. ‘If it comes, it comes, that is all. I am not so certain your scents and tinctures and charms can fend it off any better than fortune.’

  ‘How can you be so calm?’ His voice is muffled through the handkerchief.

  ‘Everyone around me keeps dying and I am alive so far, am I not?’

  ‘You think yourself invincible?’

  I shrug and rein in my horse. ‘Not at all, I just mean…I just mean that I don’t really care if I am struck down by the plague. Not any longer.’

  ‘By Saint Edward’s toes, you ought not to say things like that! It’s tempting fate.’ He flashes me a look of pure horror.

  ‘You are often a voice of reason, Thomas, but in times like these you are much too superstitious. Remember in the abbey, when you thought you would catch Agnes’ ailments yourself?’

  He cracks his knuckles, his face dappled in the last rays of soft red sunshine. ‘How was I to know she was pregnant and not terminally ill?’

  ‘She did die from that pregnancy.’

  ‘Yes, you told me. If her child had lived, I would have pitied it.’

  I frown. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I know what it is like to be the nail in your own mother’s coffin. It is no pleasant feeling…it never leaves. Like a persistent itch you can’t reach to scratch.’

  I cannot stand the way the humorous glint in his eye, which was present even when we spoke of the plague, is extinguished as if someone had thrown snow on a burning log. I have listened to him lament over the matter before, and tried my utmost to comfort, but my words seemed as trivial then as they do now.

  ‘Please, do not torture yourself. It was not your fault.’

  Thomas shakes his head. ‘But it was. My father never failed to remind me, not even on his own deathbed. Do you recall that eve in the gallery, when you asked me what happened upon my return to the Isle of Wight after the sanctuary? I don’t think I ever told you, but he died then, and there was little love lost.’

  ‘Then he was a scoundrel.’ I purse my lips. I ought to have realised that his father had passed if only I had reflected upon Thomas being an esquire and not the son of one, the title being hereditary.

  ‘Are yo
u trying to convince me you don’t blame yourself for the death of your daughters? It is how the human mind operates, I’m afraid.’

  The sky has lost its beauty; the colours hurt my eyes. The lump in my throat nearly suffocates me. He is right. If only, if only… ‘I could have saved her. Annie. She just…she just wanted to see the fishes. I could have said no.’

  Thomas holds his reins in one hand and places the other on my arm, gently. ‘But how were you to know? See, in all rationality, I understand it was not my fault my mother died, and I understand I won’t catch every disease there is, but rationality rarely wins, does it?’

  ‘I promise to blame myself less if you do the same. We would both be so much happier.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  We turn our horses back to the palace, for if we are already straining the boundaries of decency by going riding unchaperoned, tarrying outside after sundown would be to thoroughly cross those boundaries. I do not know if I will be able to keep my promise, but I have high hopes of it. We both have scars from life—no doubt Thomas has some he has not yet shown me—and I appreciate companionship in the healing process.

  A fortnight later, Tudor gathers his magnates and favourite courtiers and leaves England for a brief visit to Calais across the channel. There, the party wine and dine with Philip, Archduke of Burgundy and widower of my aunt Margaret’s stepdaughter Mary of Burgundy, to negotiate English-Burgundian trade. While the Pretend-King is away, tragedy nestles into the innermost circle of his household: Prince Edmund suffers from the plague for five days before passing away on the nineteenth day of June. Sixteen months old, the poor boy is chanceless. We return from Hatfield to London for his stately burial in Westminster Abbey, and Elizabeth sends her husband a letter beseeching him to return from Calais as soon as the negotiations are dealt with.