Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  In mid-morrow on Sunday, the fourteenth day of November, the wedding procession emerges from the bishop’s palace to cross the square and continue towards Saint Paul’s Cathedral. This break with the tradition of holding royal weddings in Westminster Abbey smells suspicious to me. Perhaps Tudor wishes to mark how he considers himself a monarch of a new age. If so, the insult at his predecessors appals me., because traditions such as these were made to be adhered to.

  Catalina is a splendid figure on her mule, a dot of white silk and satin in a sea of colourfully dressed nobles. Her dress is hooped and pleated in what I have learnt is the Spanish fashion, her dollish face veiled. By her side rides ten-year-old Prince Harry, already a treat for the crowds, waving and grinning. Judging by her expression, the bride is growing mildly irritated with her new brother-in-law, as one can easily be with a boy his age, but Harry takes no notice.

  With a few exceptions, everyone who is someone is part of the procession; even Thomas might have joined if he had asked nicely. English and Spanish courtiers alike amass under the crust of grey clouds on the November sky, as if on our way to a light-hearted picnic in springtime.

  If his father was a toad, the new Duke of Buckingham is a rooster. We have all donned our finest garments, but he? He has bought himself a coat allegedly worth fifteen hundred pounds, which is half the yearly income of a wealthy duke and more than all six pageants cost together. I grit my teeth as I watch him ride in front of me, the coat handsomely draped over his broad shoulders. How dare he outshine not only me but every member of the royal family, even the Infanta? He must be as vainglorious as his father was, and I confess I cannot muster any cousinly love for him. At least his mother, my aunt Catherine, is at long last happily married. Jasper Tudor passed away some time since and Catherine’s new husband is a scandalising fifteen years her junior.

  We arrive at Saint Paul’s in a whirl. As the groom’s senior aunt and a princess of the blood, I have been designated to carry Catalina’s train during the ceremony. Although carrying anyone’s train stings a little, I am fully aware of the prestige this role holds, and if Tudor had disregarded court custom by choosing another woman to perform the service, it would have been a bitter offense. Thus, as the Spanish princess dismounts her mule and approaches the gates of the cathedral, I bend down to pick up her white train, the fabric smooth and cool against my fingertips.

  The cathedral has been hung with enormous tapestries to create a more welcoming atmosphere, and the aisle is covered in red cloth. Stalls have been erected in the nave for the most notable guests, and a high wooden platform placed near the altar, which is where the bride and groom are to speak their vows. The nobles scramble to take their rightful places.

  Dressed in white just like his precious bride, my poor nephew is wringing his hands, forcing his eyes to stay pinned to the gold decorating the altar below the platform where he stands. The young couple has been exchanging courteous letters in Latin for years, yet rumour has it they were unable to speak to each other upon their first meeting, having learnt vastly different dialects of the language. Of course, they should both count themselves lucky to be wed to someone highly born and their own age, and without any obvious irredeemable flaws.

  The ceremony, too, passes without incident. Prince Arthur maintains the grace of his mother and the remoteness of his father, speaking his vows with rehearsed meticulosity. Said mother and father, together with Margaret Beaufort, watch in privacy behind the latticed windows of a discreet closet adjoining the stage.

  Catalina’s voice contains the confidence and passion of one who knows she has arrived at her destiny. She may have had all of Europe at her feet, princes begging her parents for her hand, but the way she talks, I am convinced her heart is set on being Queen of England. It is a desire I understand all too well, but she is closer now than I ever was.

  After the ceremony and the celebratory mass following it, Arthur retreats through a side entrance while Catalina and Harry—and I, carrying her train once more—retrace our steps down the aisle.

  As we emerge from the cathedral, we encounter another of Tudor’s spectacles: a green mountain covered in precious metals, the previous Earl of Richmond’s “Rich Mount”. At the top are three trees and three kings: the King of France, the King of Spain, and in the middle King Arthur, whose tree is adorned with red roses and a Welsh dragon. A spring of rippling wine erupts at the base of the mountain so that the commoners crowding forward can drink to their hearts’ delight.

  After a moment of praising the Rich Mount, we proceed to Lambeth Palace for the wedding feast and the rituals following it.

  One advantage of my marriage to Welles was that I avoided the ceremonial bedding, which Catalina and Arthur have to endure that same night. Raised to duty since they learned to walk, the process still requires ways of coping. While Catalina pulls the covers up to her chin and refuses to look at the bishops and other spectators, her young husband does not have to think a great deal, since his well-meaning friends have coaxed enough wine down his throat him to render him dazed. They both appear almost tragicomic where they lie side by side, the canopied bed surrounded by ecclesiasts and courtiers alike.

  After the customary blessings and toasts, the onlookers trot out in a single file. I am the last to exit, closing the door behind me, leaving the young couple to their marital duties. I hope Catalina’s wedding night proves a more positive experience than mine was.

  On Tuesday afternoon, almost the entire court, along with a throng of London dignitaries, continue upstream to Westminster on no less than forty gorgeously adorned barges. The skies are at last clearing after a day and a night of rain whipping roofs and beating against windows, and now the thick ash-grey clouds slowly creep away towards the horizon. The air is still damp against my skin, and it does not require a genius to understand why Tudor initially wanted the wedding to take place in summertime.

  Nevertheless, the week of festivities that await us could not be dulled even by a snowstorm. We go through a shameless, seemingly endless chain of banquets and pageants, balls and games. Few things I have ever experienced can rival this display of finery—and, of course, that is the whole point, to outshine the past for everyone to see. What one does not have in terms of lineage, one compensates for in terms of propaganda.

  The most outstanding event is by far the jousting tournament. I nigh on hurt my neck trying to see every detail of the competitors’ costumes at the entry from my spot on the bleachers. This must be the most imaginative, not to mention expensive, apparel worn on English soil for decades.

  Young Buckingham, who is the chief challenger, enters with his horse inside a wheeled pavilion of white and green cloth covered in red roses. After him comes Young Dorset—my nephew, who has inherited the title after his father died in early September—also in a pavilion, this one golden and a striking contrast to his ink-black armour. If my late half-brother could see his son now, he would be over the moon with smugness at how handsomely it paid off to join Tudor in exile all those years ago, regardless of the limited position he himself endured afterwards.

  Kate jumps to her feet, eyes shining with merriment, as Courtenay enters clad in red, his horse styled to look like a red dragon. The colour and the mythical creature are clear references both to Lancaster and, more specifically, to the Welsh Tudor dragon, the same emblem that sullied Redemore Plain. Kate does not appear to make the connection, or perhaps she does not care, because she claps her hands and fastens a token handkerchief on her husband’s lance. Their relationship is peculiar to me. Both are young and bursting with energy, both have a lurking capacity for recklessness but lack sharp intelligence, both are handsome beyond reason, and thus they are remarkably well suited. Still, I fail to spot any genuine romance. Rather, it is as if they were children thrilled to play a game with one another.

  The magnificent entrances and parades resume before the jousting itself commences. The combatants crash together in a mash of splintered lances and buckled
plate armour time and time again. I cannot help but instinctively shut my eyes at the moment of collision. I am uncertain as to whom I ought to cheer for since none are men whom I have any great love or trust for—there are very few of that kind in general nowadays. In the end, I decide on my kinsman Lord Rivers, simply because I like his costume the best: he arrives in a pretend ship with a firing canon.

  I turn to Kate, who has sat down again. ‘How do you think the newlyweds are finding married life?’

  ‘I’m sure Arthur is pleased. Guess what he said the morning after?’

  ‘What?’

  Kate smirks and clears her throat to produce an awful imitation of a young man’s voice. ‘“Willoughby, bring me a cup of ale, for I have been tonight in the midst of Spain!” Or some such nonsense.’

  I swallow a laugh. ‘That sounds too crude to be sweet little Arthur.’

  ‘He’s a fifteen-year-old boy. Did you expect him to tell his friends he stayed up playing chess and dicing the whole night?’ She is right, of course, and she should know. Sometimes I forget the age gap between her and Arthur is closer to that of siblings than that of aunt and nephew.

  ‘I suppose not. I do like the Infanta—the Princess of Wales, I mean. Don’t you? She respects the English throne and wants it,’ I say.

  ‘Then you must be jealous.’

  ‘Only a little. I am heartily tired of being envious.’

  ‘She’s too…too clever for me! She tried to speak Latin to me when we were preparing her for the bedding. It was so very odd.’

  ‘Her English is improving. Methinks she is quite the learner.’ A notable absence in the tiltyard catches my attention. ‘Edmund de la Pole ought to be here.’

  Kate crinkles her nose. ‘Billie likes him. I don’t. His brother was always touching you when we were little, at Sheriff Hutton.’

  I close my eyes at the bleak memories bubbling up to the surface of my mind, feeling queasy as if I had eaten something rotten. ‘I did not think you noticed…you really were little. Suffolk is not Lincoln, though they are sprung from the same bed. Did you say your husband is a friend of his?’

  ‘I cannot tell, except I heard them talking once, over supper.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Stop nagging me!’

  I abandon my attempts to extract any juicy information from my little sister. Perhaps there was nothing to it, despite the oddity of the man riding in on a Welsh red dragon and the latest Yorkist claimant being on good terms, and frankly, I have little by little lost my appetite for courtly intrigue. Some people, like Margaret Beaufort and Mother, become both more enthralled with scheming and more skilled at it as they age, but I fear the opposite is true for me. The more I think about it, the more I am overcome by a desire for peace, away from court, like those golden days with Annie in the early summer of 1499. Ever since Tudor took the crown, or at least ever since I married and moved away to Tattershall, I have started to become detached from the world I grew up in.

  Once the tournament ends for the day, I manage to sneak away to meet with Thomas in the stables, where I know I will find him tending to the destriers on his own accord. We are fortunate, for the actual grooms have long since completed their drab duties and retired to an evening of revelry admittedly humbler than the celebrations that their masters enjoy at this hour.

  I stride through the rushes and dust on the floor to rest my hand on the glossy, warm hair of the mare Thomas is mumbling pretty words to.

  ‘Whose is this?’ I ask.

  He smiles. ‘The Earl of Essex’. Her name is Heloise.’

  I stoke Heloise’s mane. ‘This wedding has made me too nostalgic for my own good. Did you know none of my husbands proposed to me?’

  ‘Surely you did not expect them to.’

  ‘You did.’ I bite my lip. We have been on the verge of this conversation so many times but never delved into it.

  Thomas shakes his head. ‘It was foolhardy of me to ask you to wed me. I know that now.’

  ‘Ask me again. Please.’

  ‘No. I meant what I said that day—I asked twice and I shan’t do it again. I think…I think I wasted my youth on you. All the years I spent wishing you were with me, all those years are time I won’t get back.’ His voice trembles, not with bitterness but with tears.

  ‘But I am here now,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, yes you are, and I’m glad, but you will leave sometime soon, like you did before. And I’m sorry, but I refuse to suffer for it once more.’

  ‘You do not understand, Thomas. I am not leaving.’ I round the horse and lace my fingers with his, my jewelled rings unwieldy. I take a deep breath, blood rushing in my ears. ‘Well, if you still cannot bring yourself to ask me, I shall ask you instead. Will you marry me?’

  To my despair, Thomas scoffs. ‘How foully you mock me.’

  ‘No. Don’t be the blithering idiot I was. If you truly want me to stay, all you have to do is say the word. I did not treat you right, I understand that now, but I had hoped you would forgive me, if not for my sake then for your own.’

  ‘What of your ambitions? We would not be wealthier than my father was. The King would banish you from court, perhaps even confiscate all your lands. How could you be satisfied with the life of a common gentry woman?’

  ‘I would have you, just as you told me that day in the woods, and that would be enough. Mayhap we could even have a family, for my mother had children when she was older than I am now. And I am a widow with my own means—I could wed you if I chose to.’ The words spill from my lips in a stream I cannot control, and there is more yearning to emerge. If my daughters, God rest their blessed souls, taught me one thing, it is that there are many ways to be happy. A massive land grant and a fancy title is one kind of happiness. The purer kind, however, is based solely on affection, as I learnt when I held Eliza for the first time and as I suspected each time that I lost a loved one.

  ‘You wouldn’t regret your choice?’

  ‘Never. I am so weary of all this, the infighting and intrigue, the death. Living in a place where I used to belong but has not for years. All I want is a quiet life, filled with love. Real love, not the way I loved Welles, and not the sisterly love I feel, but the way I love—’ I have to pause not to stutter. ‘The way I love you.’

  Thomas stares at me. ‘I thought you would never say it.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘I should have fourteen years ago. I love you shamelessly, ardently, for certs too much to rise in the mornings without you.’

  After he takes me in his arms to sweep me off my feet, he makes a quick turn and we both tumble down in the haystack by the stable backdoor. My stomach soon aches from laughing, although we compose ourselves enough to share first one kiss and then another until I lose count. It is the first time I have ever fully indulged in my romantic instincts, and I am glad I do, because they have haunted me.

  Chapter XXVIII

  THE FIRST PERSON I dare share the secret of my liaison with is Bridget, who has come to court for the wedding celebrations. She has been here two or three times since she was spirited away to the priory all those years ago and even a week after the wedding, she appears like a plain blackbird among prancing peacocks. I trust Elizabeth has provided her with the means to purchase fitting attire, but Bridget dons her nun’s habit and veil every day without a glance at the luxurious fabrics the tailors try to tempt her with. I admire her for it but I do not understand it. If I were her, I would never want to return to my old priory again; I would cling to all the dashing clothes I could lay my hands on and discard my habit at once. Saying naught of these thoughts, I instead spill my secret to her in eager little trickles of truth, truth I know she will guard well.

  We have ventured outside, away from the festivities for once, to walk along the Thames. A thin crust of ice glints in the sunlight, stretching from one river bank to the other like a sheath of silver. The men and women hurrying down the streets and alleys are as
unlike the cheerful crowd I witnessed upon Catalina’s arrival as can be: grim, bleak-faced, dressed in mundane woollen cloaks, their day of glory and show already a distant memory.

  ‘Do you love this man, Cecily?’ Bridget says at last. I need not caution her to speak low enough to ward off prying guards, for her voice is soft as swan’s down.

  I cannot keep myself from smiling. ‘I do, I truly do. If Lady Mother could hear me now, or Elizabeth, or myself only a few years ago—’

  ‘Then you must not let it go to waste.’

  ‘I have no intention to, that I can promise you. I shall wed him, be it at the expense of my lands and my honour.’

  Bridget is silent for a long while before saying: ‘I feared for you. I feared you might never experience the delight of having a beloved.’

  ‘What do you mean? Have I been so lacking in affection before?’ I take a deep breath to calm my temper, feeling as if the air is turning to ice crystals in my lungs.

  Bridget gives a gentle shrug with one shoulder. ‘Oh, no. Not at all. But you would not have risked all.’

  ‘Well, no, I suppose I would not have. Would you?’

  ‘You forget the vows I have taken.’

  I cannot resist the urge to tease with a sprinkle of blasphemy. ‘Can’t a nun fall in love? Or does Christ refuse to share your heart with any other?’

  ‘Do you recall Alice?’

  I knit my brow, leafing through the images of faces in my memory without success. ‘Alice?’

  ‘The woman I mentioned when you last came to visit at Dartford.’

  ‘What of her?’

  ‘You asked whom I could give my heart to. It is true I’ll never marry, but pray do not think me without emotions of my own,’ Bridget says, as if these were the most natural words in the world to utter.