The Tudor rose

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  “He never intended to have young Edward crowned. It was all lies, lies!” The Queen's black skirts swished angrily against the low box borders, stirring a bitter sweetness from their sun-drenched greenery. “The moment those credulous clerics had wheedled Richard from me, what did the fiend do but have my brother and my first husband's son executed at Pontefract? My poor brother Rivers was so handsome, so brilliant…Gloucester was always jealous of him.”

  “My father would never have believed this of Gloucester,” mourned Elizabeth. “It is bewildering to recall how he trusted him.”

  “And now the unnatural creature dares to justify himself by calling your trusting father's children bastards! You, Cicely, Edward—all of you. Trying to strengthen his case by reminding the world that the King and I were married secretly.”

  “It is only the legitimacy of Edward and Richard that really matters to him.” Elizabeth of York sank down upon a stone bench and drew her mother down beside her so as to put an end to the distraught pacing. In the noonday heat the combined scent of box and full-blown roses almost made both women swoon; but neither of them could bear to be cooped up with prying attendants within four walls. They had to voice the thoughts which were tormenting them. “Who was this Butler woman whom they now pretend my father married first?” asked Elizabeth, who had never dared to speak of so intimate a thing before.

  “One of the King's earlier loves,” shrugged his widow, inured to his infidelities.

  “Was she—long before you?”

  “Only a few months. She was just Joan Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury's daughter, when I first knew her. She was very pretty and Edward very ardent, no doubt. If he could not get his way he may have promised to marry her.”

  “But at the time of your coronation surely the Council satisfied themselves that you were his wife?”

  “They saw my marriage lines,” stated the woman who had been enterprising enough to insist upon more than promises.

  “And you had witnesses?”

  “Only my mother and two waiting-women. But the testimony of my mother—Jaquetta, Duchess of Bedford—cannot be lightly set aside. That is why, for all their talk of secrecy, the only hope of my enemies is to prove that the late King married Joan Butler first.”

  “But surely after we have lived among them for so many years the people will never tolerate such lying injustice!” protested Elizabeth. “For whatever my father's faults, he was brave and open-handed and unbelievably popular.”

  “Whatever he was, it is only his sons who matter now,” said the Queen wearily; and suddenly she covered her face with both hands and began to sob uncontrollably.

  “My poor sweet, you have scarcely slept through all this terrible time!” comforted her daughter, kneeling on the grass to put strong young arms about her. “Let me ask the good Abbot's physician to prepare a soothing draught for you.”

  “What can that old dodderer do for me? It is Life which has already done so much!” wept the Queen. But Elizabeth produced a handkerchief with which to dry her mother's cheeks, and held still her pathetic, fluttering hands. “There is that clever Doctor Lewis who attends the Countess of Richmond,” she suggested. “You remember how highly she speaks of him, and since he is a priest as well there will be no difficulty about his visiting you here.”

  “The Richmonds are Lancastrians,” objected the exhausted Yorkist Queen.

  “But now that the Countess has married Lord Stanley she is always received at Court.”

  “Yet her son is still an exiled traitor to our house.”

  “I am not asking you to see Henry of Lancaster, whom men might call our arch-enemy,” smiled Elizabeth, “but this man Lewis who is reported to be so clever.”

  “Then perhaps to please you I will,” conceded the Queen, bending to stroke her daughter's bright hair. “You are very good to me, Bess. You always did take other people's sorrows to your heart— even the younger children's small disasters. But I do assure you I am not sick. It is only that I am crazed with anxiety about the boys. God knows I should never have let them take Richard from me!”

  It was the same useless lament with which Elizabeth Woodville had wearied herself and others for days. “Well, at least let us go in out of the sun so that you may rest,” coaxed the younger and more practical Elizabeth. And when they came into the house they found the Queen's eldest son, Dorset, booted and spurred as for a journey and talking earnestly with Thomas Stafford, Buckingham's son, who had been brought up with them in the late King's household since he was a page.

  Seeing a visitor from the outside world, the Queen stopped in the doorway. “It is true, is it not, that Gloucester will have himself crowned?” she demanded dramatically.

  “Yes, Madam,” confirmed Stafford, bowing low. “At first he made some show of refusing it, but the Council have pressed it upon him.” Being ill-pleased with the answer, she ignored him. “And the boys?” she asked, sweeping past him towards her eldest son.

  “Stafford says it is thought that Richard will be allowed to attend the ceremony—to provide some show of avuncular regard, no doubt,” hazarded Dorset, in order to comfort her.

  “And not our Edward!”

  “Even Gloucester would scarcely dare risk that, I fancy,” smiled Dorset, settling the folds of a riding-cloak his servant had put about his shoulders. “Why, even those people who see in a proven man more security for the Yorkist line and more prospect of peace might be moved to cheer for him.”

  “Those same self-seeking people who so short a while ago wept for his appealing youth!” sighed the Queen, seating herself wearily in the midst of them.

  “Richard always wants to see everything, but he will hate going without him,” said Elizabeth.

  In spite of the Queen's displeasure, handsome young Stafford fetched Elizabeth a stool and waited beside her. “He will scarcely have time to look about him, for if he goes he is to hold the new Queen's train,” he told her.

  “My son—a Plantagenet—to carry a Neville's train!” exclaimed King Edward's widow. And then, as if noticing for the first time that her eldest son was dressed for travelling, she cried aghast, “What! Are you leaving us and the protection of Holy Church?”

  “I may be of more use to you raising help abroad, Madam, than skulking here,” he explained. “Besides, Tom Stafford here says it is no longer safe…”

  “'Tom Stafford says'!” she mocked contemptuously.

  “Your pardon, Madam,” began that sturdy young man in self-defence, “but such is the Protector's enmity towards all Woodvilles—”

  “That you think it politic to forsake our household for his,” snapped the most ambitious Woodville of them all, liking him none the better because of the indignant gesture of remonstrance which Elizabeth dared to make.

  “Had Tom not been with Gloucester he could not have served us by coming here to warn me,” pointed out Dorset, in his friend's defence.

  But the Queen's fingers still drummed sharply on the arms of her chair. “Then perhaps since he is so useful an emissary he can tell us whether any of the other turncoats there had the courage to protest when my children were proclaimed bastards?” she enquired bitterly. “And whether it is likely that, when all my kin are dead or fled, Hastings, who was our Chamberlain, will find it expedient to be of the Protector's household too?”

  There was silence in the Abbot's disordered parlour while the two men exchanged glances. “Why, Mother, have you not heard?” asked Dorset at last, coming to her side.

  “Heard what?” she asked, turning the rings on her fingers. “What fresh horror has been kept from me?”

  Dorset seemed as if he could not bring himself to tell her, and finally it was Stafford who spoke, keeping his eyes lowered from sight of the shame that must be brought her by her shrewish tongue. “Milord Hastings will grace no man's household again,” he said, telling the thing as briefly as possible. “Days ago, when the Duke of Gloucester first sounded the Council on the expediency of bringing into doubt the validit
y of your Grace's marriage, William Hastings refused point-blank to have anything to do with it. All his life he had served the late King, he said, and no one should have his allegiance save King Edward's true-born sons. He was absolutely immovable; and for the first time in my life I saw cool Gloucester lose his temper. He stretched out his arm with the old battle scar that shrunk it, and shook with rage. All his life he had fought for his country, and for years the Woodvilles had been the curse of it, he said; and even now, because of a pampered Woodville child sitting on the throne, they tied his arm so that he could do nothing to consolidate the Yorkish cause and so strengthen England.”

  “Go on!” ordered the Queen, when Stafford dared say no more; and with eyes still lowered the unfortunate young man took up his tale. “Jane Shore and women like her had dissipated his brother's life, the Duke said, and you—the so-called Queen—his substance. And now it had been proved that owing to a precontract with Lady Butler 'the Woodville woman' never had been the late King's legal wife. Those, Madam, were his terrible words.”

  Without flinching the Queen lifted her ravaged face. “Did no one protest?” she asked.

  “Some of the bishops and Lord Stanley, and were arrested for their pains,” he told her tersely. “And before that stormy meeting was concluded poor Lord Hastings was dragged from the council-chamber and executed outside in Tower yard.”

  “You mean—then and there? Without either trial or shriving?” asked Elizabeth in horror.

  “Some priest from the Tower chapel was hastily called, I believe,” said her half-brother, finding his voice at last. “And it is a byword how instantly Gloucester's men obey him. They did not even wait to fetch a block, but laid poor Will across some timber lying ready for the coronation stands.”

  “God forgive me!” whispered the Queen. She rose from her chair and swayed against his shoulder, where she stood a while with covered face. Then, freeing herself from the precious comfort of his arm, she began to fasten the collar of his cloak. “You do right to go; and I beseech you go quickly!” her children and household heard her saying, as they drew away pitifully to leave her some privacy for so sad a leave-taking. “You must get ship for France. Not Brittany. Henry of Lancaster will be there. Try rather my sister-in-law, the Duchess of Burgundy. For the great love she bore her brother Edward she will surely do what she can for you—”

  Moving to the seclusion of the Abbot's cloister, Elizabeth of York turned instinctively to Stafford. He had been the comrade of her youth, although of late her mother seldom suffered her to speak alone with him. “I am proud that my father had so fine a friend,” she said, her voice soft with awe and grief. “Why, why would my mother never trust him?”

  “She does not trust me either,” said Thomas Stafford, worrying sulkily at a loose flagstone with the point of his shoe.

  Elizabeth stopped by an archway and stood pulling at a trail of ivy while she looked across the sunlit grass outside. “Perhaps people who intrigue and plan find it difficult to believe that others are just ordinary and straight-spoken like ourselves—and poor Lord Hastings,” she said. “But, oh, Tom, I wish she would not insult you so!”

  Her sympathy wiped all the dark resentment from his face and he looked down at her adoringly. “I have only myself to thank,” he grinned. “Having spoken with Dorset, I need not have waited. Indeed, if it should reach Gloucester's ears, it is not very healthy for me to be here at all.”

  “Then why did you not slip away?” she cried, all anxious contrition at once.

  “Because Cicely said you were in the garden and I hoped to see you. To be able to comfort you a little perhaps.”

  Elizabeth smiled back at him, and the dark threatening shadows in which she had been living seemed to lighten, letting in the warmth of trusting friendship.

  “Oh, Bess, you do see, do you not, that I am no turncoat, though I could never be a Hastings?” he implored boyishly, drawing her down gently to the long stone seat beneath the cloister arches. “We all followed Gloucester—thinking we were following young Edward the Fifth. It was this swift snake-like turn—these surprise tactics—which have landed us all in a completely false and unforeseen position. Even Gloucester himself, perhaps.”

  “You mean that at first he may have meant Edward to be King?”

  “I don't imagine anything else occurred to him. Not during the shock of those first few days. He was white with grief for his brother. I was there, Bess, when he had young Edward proclaimed in York, and I would stake my soul that everything he did was sincere.”

  “He had my Uncle Rivers and my younger half-brother put to death,” she reminded him.

  “He was furious because they had tried to forestall him in fetching the new King to London. He looked upon it as a plot. And perhaps as he rode southward he began to think about his own little son, whom he had just seen and had to leave behind in Middleham Castle. Or it may well be that once he had reached London and was in Baynard's Castle the old Duchess of York persuaded him.”

  “My grandmother was always a managing woman, and he her favourite son,” admitted Elizabeth.

  “Or, perhaps, when it came to training your brother for his kingly part, Gloucester was disappointed.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Oh, I know Ned is comely. But the Protector cares supremely for the strength of York,” explained Stafford hastily. “And Ned is not very—adventurous, is he?”

  “He is not quick to teach, like Dickon, if that is what you mean,” she agreed, mollified, and suddenly, in spite of all the tragic happenings, she gave a little spurt of delicious laughter. “How Dickon, in his place, would have loved playing the part! He would have made the most of every opportunity and risen to every dramatic occasion,” she said. “Do you remember when we used to have plays at Twelfth Night how he always acted better than any of us?”

  “Because he has more imagination, I suppose,” agreed Stafford, with a reminiscent smile.

  “Or because he inherits some histrionic sense from his mother.”

  “It was a handicap, perhaps, that young Edward naturally takes his importance so much for granted. As we escorted him down from York I used to watch him riding bored and weary through the cheering crowds. And not trying to hide his weariness, poor lad.”

  “Whereas Dickon would have found it all so exciting. Although he might have been dropping with fatigue, I suppose he would have smiled that devastating smile of his and charmed the hearts out of people. Perhaps it would have been harder then for Gloucester to steal all the fan fare for his own.”

  “I doubt if it would have made much difference,” said Stafford, watching her tired face with concern.

  “Nor I, really,” sighed Elizabeth. “What else goes on in the outside world, Tom? After all the fun we had in my father's lifetime it is so deadly being shut up here.”

  Stafford searched his mind for news which might interest her. “You know, of course, that Gloucester has taken up residence in the Tower and sent for his wife to come down from Middleham?”

  “We supposed that he would do that. Actually we heard through Piers Curteys, who makes our dresses, that he had been ordered to make Aunt Anne a purple velvet dress in two days. Imagine, a coronation dress in two days! And I used to have to stand about for hours being fitted when—when it was a question of my going to France.”

  “It would seem that Gloucester marches his women as quickly as his men!” laughed Stafford.

  Although they had the rare opportunity to talk intimately, they were not really alone in the cloister. A procession of monks passed them with downcast eyes and a slither of sandalled feet, and then Cicely, pursued by her sisters, escaped from the parlour blithely intent upon some childish game; but Elizabeth, pursuing a train of thought, seemed scarcely to be aware of any interruption. “You see my uncle daily, Tom. Do you really believe him to be such an ogre as all my Woodville relations think?” she asked, chin cupped in hand. “It is so puzzling, because only a few days ago we were all thinking of him as
a fine soldier, a temperate sort of person, a dependable man of honour.”

  “They say a sudden glimpse of power can change a man.”

  “But even then, when he could have had anything he asked, he was never one to put himself forward for power. He loved my father as I do, and seemed content to serve him.”

  “Does it not occur to you, Bess,” suggested Stafford, choosing his words carefully, “that in some odd, distorted sort of way he may be seeking to serve him—or his kingdom—now?”

  “For Heaven's sake do not let my mother hear you speak like that!” warned Elizabeth, with an anxious glance over her shoulder. But she herself sat in silence with the thought, and when she spoke it was in a more hopeful tone. “Well, anyhow, I am glad that Anne Neville has come,” she said. “Both the boys like her, and she will be kind to them.”

  Stafford put his hand on hers as it rested on the stone sill beside him. “I doubt if she will have much opportunity of seeing them,” he said gently.

  “Tom! What are you trying to tell me?” cried Elizabeth, her frightened gaze searching his face.

  “It was awkward for your uncle, I suppose. Particularly with his own son coming. So he has had your brothers moved to the lodgings over the gatehouse.”

  He used the word lodgings euphemistically, momentarily forgetting how well she knew the labyrinthian lay-out of the Tower since her half-brother's governorship. “But those rooms are always used for—state prisoners,” she said, looking down almost unseeingly at their joined hands. And then, as Stafford made no reply, she asked piteously, “Does it mean that they will really not be allowed to—go out?”

  “There is a walk on the leads of the battlements,” he reminded her. “From there they will at least be able to watch the ships go by.”

  “Who, then, will look after them?” she managed to ask.

  “A man called Slaughter—Will Slaughter.”

  “God in Heaven, what a name!” ejaculated Elizabeth, crossing herself involuntarily.

  “He was a trusted archer of Gloucester's troops. Black Slaughter, men call him.”