“God bless him,” the archbishop murmurs, touching the gold crucifix on the chain of pearls at his waist.
My mother is a portrait of concern. “Raised an army?” she repeats. “Francis Lovell?”
“He will regret it,” My Lady swears. “Him and Thomas Stafford with him. They will regret challenging the peace and majesty of my son. God Himself brought Henry to England. An insurrection against my son is a rebellion against the will of God. They are heretics as well as traitors.”
“Thomas Stafford too?” my mother coos. “A Stafford taking arms as well?”
“And his false-hearted brother! Two of them! Traitors! All of them!”
“Humphrey Stafford?” my mother exclaims softly. “Him too? And together the Staffords can call up so many men! Two sons of such a great name! And is His Grace the King marching against them? Is he mustering his troops?”
“No, no.” Lady Margaret waves the question away with a flutter of her hand, as if no one will doubt the king’s courage if she insists that he should hide in Lincoln and let someone else do the fighting. “Why should he go? There is no point in him going. I have written to him to bid him stay back. His uncle, Jasper Tudor, will lead his men. Henry has mustered thousands of men for Jasper’s army. And promised forgiveness to everyone who surrenders. He wrote to me that they are chasing the rebels north, towards Middleham.”
It was Richard’s favorite castle, his boyhood home. In all the northern counties the men hurrying to join Francis Lovell, his dearest friend and boyhood companion, will be those who knew Richard and Francis when they were living there as children. Francis knows the country all around Middleham; he will know where to make ambushes and where to hide.
“Heavens,” my mother says equably. “We must pray for the king.”
The king’s mother gasps with relief at the suggestion. “Of course, of course. The court will go to chapel after dinner. That’s a very good suggestion of yours, Your Grace. I will order a special Mass.” She nods at the archbishop, who bows and leaves, as if to alert God.
Maggie, my cousin, stirs slightly in her seat at this. She knows that a special Mass ordered by My Lady for the safety of her son is going to go on for two hours at least. At once, my Lady the King’s Mother switches her hard gaze to my little cousin. “It seems that there are still some sinful fools who support the lost House of York,” she says. “Even though the House of York is finished and all its heirs are dead.”
Our cousin John de la Pole is a living heir, sworn to Henry’s service; Maggie’s brother Edward is an heir in direct line; but nobody is going to point this out to My Lady. Maggie’s brother is safe in the nursery for now, and Maggie’s gaze is pinned firmly on the floorboards beneath her slippered feet. She says nothing.
My mother rises and moves gracefully towards the door, pausing when she stands before Maggie, shielding her from the angry stare of My Lady. “I shall go and fetch my rosary and my prayer book,” she says. “Would you want me to fetch your missal from your altar?”
My Lady the King’s Mother is diverted at once. “Yes, yes, thank you. And summon the choir to the chapel as well. Everyone must fetch their rosaries,” she says. “We’ll go straight to chapel after dinner.”
As we pray, I try to imagine what is happening, as if I had my mother’s gift of sight and could see all the way up the Great North Road to Middleham Castle in Yorkshire. If Lovell can get behind those solid walls he can hold out for months, perhaps years. If the North rises up for him, then they will outnumber any Tudor army under the command of Jasper. The North has always been passionately for the House of York, Middleham loved Richard as their good lord, the altar in the Middleham chapel carries white roses, perhaps forever. I glance sideways at my mother, who is the picture of devotion, on her knees, her eyes closed, her face turned upwards, a shaft of light illuminating her serene loveliness, as beautiful as a timeless angel, meditating on the sins of the world.
“Did you know of this?” I whisper, bending my head over my working fingers as if I am telling my rosary beads.
She does not open her eyes or turn her head, while her lips move as if she is saying a prayer. “Some of it. Sir Francis sent me a message.”
“Are they fighting for us?”
“Of course.”
“D’you think they will win?”
A fleeting smile crosses her rapt face. “Perhaps. But I know one thing.”
“What?”
“They have frightened the Tudors half to death. Did you see her face? Did you see her archbishop as he ran from the room?”
WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON, MAY 1486
The first I know of trouble in the streets is the great creak as the huge outer doors of Westminster Palace are hauled shut by dozens of men, and then the thunderous bang as they slam into place. Then I hear the heavy thud as the counterweighted beam is pulled into the struts to hold the gates shut. We are barricading ourselves inside the royal palace; the royal family of England is so afraid of Londoners that we are locking London out.
With my hand on my big belly, I go to my mother’s rooms. She is at her window, looking over the walls to the streets beyond, my cousin Maggie on one side and my sister Anne on the other. She barely turns as I run in, but Maggie says over her shoulder, “They’re doubling the guards on the palace walls. You can see them, dashing out of the guardhouse into place.”
“What’s happening?” I ask. “What’s happening down there?”
“The people are rising against Henry Tudor,” my mother says calmly.
“What?”
“They’re gathering outside the palace, mustering, in their hundreds.”
I feel the baby move uneasily in my belly. I sit down, take a gasping breath. “What should we do?”
“Stay here,” my mother says steadily. “Until we can see our way.”
“What way?” I ask impatiently. “Where will we be safe?”
She looks back at my white face and smiles. “Be calm, my dear. I mean, we stay here till we know who’s won.”
“Do we even know who’s fighting?”
She nods. “It is the English people who still love the House of York, against the new king,” she says. “We’re safe either way. If Lovell wins in Yorkshire, if the Stafford brothers win their battles in Worcestershire, if these London citizens take the Tower and then set siege here—then we come out.”
“And do what?” I whisper. I am torn between a growing excitement and an absolute dread.
“Retake the throne,” my mother says easily. “Henry Tudor is in a desperate fight to hold his kingdom, only nine months after winning it.”
“Retake the throne!” My voice is a squeak of terror.
My mother shrugs. “It’s not lost to us until England is at peace and united behind Henry Tudor. This could be just another battle in the Cousins’ War. Henry could be just an episode.”
“The cousins are all gone!” I exclaim. “The brothers who were of the houses of Lancaster and York are all gone!”
She smiles. “Henry Tudor is a cousin of the House of Beaufort,” she reminds me. “You are of the House of York. You have a cousin in John de la Pole, your aunt Elizabeth’s son. You have a cousin in Edward Earl of Warwick, your uncle George’s son. There is another generation of cousins—the question is only whether they want to go to war against the one who is now on the throne.”
“He’s ordained king! And my husband!” I raise my voice, but nothing perturbs her.
She shrugs. “So you win either way.”
“D’you see what they’re carrying?” Maggie squeaks with excitement. “Do you see the flag?”
I rise from my chair and look over her head. “I can’t see it from here.”
“It’s my flag,” she says, her voice trembling with joy. “It’s the ragged staff of Warwick. And they’re calling my name. They’re calling À Warwick! À Warwick! They’re calling for Teddy.”
I look over her bobbing head to my mother. “They’re calling for Edward, the hei
r of York,” I say quietly. “They’re calling for a York boy.”
“Yes,” she says equably. “Of course they are.”
We wait for news. It is hard for me to bear the wait, knowing that my friends and my family and my house are up in arms against my own husband. But it is harder on My Lady the King’s Mother, who seems to have given up sleeping altogether but is every night on her knees before the little altar in her privy chamber, and all day in the chapel. She grows thin and gray with worry; the thought of her only son far away in this faithless country, with no protection but his uncle’s army, makes her ill with fear. She accuses his friends of failing him, his supporters of fading away from him. She lists their names in her prayers to God, one after another, the men who flocked to the victor but will abandon a failure. She goes without food, fasting to draw down the blessing of God; but we can all see that she is sick with the growing fear that despite it all, her son is not blessed by God, that for some unknown reason, God has turned against the Tudors. He has given them the throne of England but not the power to hold it.
There are skirmishes between the London bands and the Tudor forces in the little villages in the countryside outside Westminster, as if every crossroads is calling out À Warwick! At Highbury there is a pitched battle with the rebels armed with stones, rakes, and scythes against the heavily armed royal guard. There are stories of Henry’s soldiers throwing down the Tudor standard and running to join the rebels. There are whispers that the great merchants of London and even the City Fathers are supporting the mobs that roam the streets shouting for the return of the House of York.
Lady Margaret orders the shutters closed over all the windows that face the streets, so that we cannot see the running battles that are being fought below the very walls of the palace. Then she orders the shutters bolted on the other windows too so that we can’t hear the mob shouting support for York, demanding that Edward of Warwick, my little cousin Teddy, come out and wave to them.
We keep him from the windows of the schoolroom, we forbid the servants to gossip, but still he knows that the people of England are calling for him to be king.
“Henry is the king,” he volunteers to me as I listen to him read a story in the schoolroom.
“Henry is the king,” I confirm.
Maggie glances over at the two of us, frowning with worry.
“So they shouldn’t shout for me,” he says. He seems quite resigned.
“No, they should not,” I say. “They will soon stop shouting.”
“But they don’t want a Tudor king.”
“Now, Teddy,” Margaret interrupts. “You know you must say nothing.”
I put my hand over his. “It doesn’t matter what they want,” I tell him. “Henry won the battle and was crowned Henry VII. He is King of England, whatever anyone says. And we would all be very, very wrong if we forgot that he is King of England.”
He looks at me with his bright honest face. “I won’t do that,” he promises me. “I don’t forget things. I know he’s king. You’d better tell the boys in the streets.”
I don’t tell the boys in the streets. Lady Margaret does not allow anyone out of the great gates until slowly the excitement dies down. The walls of Westminster Palace are not breached, the thick gates cannot be forced. The ragged mobs are kept off, they are driven away, they flee the city or they go back into sullen hiding. The streets of London become quiet again, and we open the shutters at the windows and the heavy gates of the palace as if we were confident rulers and can welcome our people. But I notice that the mood in the capital is surly and every visit to market provokes a quarrel between the court servants and the traders. We keep double sentries on the walls and we still have no news from the North. We simply have no idea whether Henry has met the rebels in a battle, nor who has won.
Finally at the end of May—when the court should be planning the sports of the summer, walking by the river, practicing jousting, rehearsing plays, making music, and courting—a letter comes from Henry for My Lady, with a note for me, and an open letter to the Parliament, carried by my uncle Edward Woodville with a smartly turned out party of yeomen of the guard, as if to show that the Tudor servants can wear their livery in safety all the way down the Great North Road from York to London.
“What does the king say?” my mother asks me.
“The rebellion is over,” I say, reading rapidly. “He says that Jasper Tudor pursued the rebels far into the North and then came back. Francis Lovell has escaped, but the Stafford brothers have fled back into sanctuary. He’s pulled them out of sanctuary.” I pause and look at my mother over the top of the paper. “He’s broken sanctuary,” I remark. “He’s broken the law of the Church. He says he’ll execute them.”
I hand her the letter, surprised at my own sense of relief. Of course I want the restoration of my house and the defeat of Richard’s enemy—sometimes I feel a thrill of violent desire at the sudden vivid image of Henry falling from his horse and fighting for his life on the ground in the middle of a cavalry charge as the hooves thunder by his head—and yet, this letter brings me the good news that my husband has survived. I am carrying a Tudor in my belly. Despite myself, I can’t wish Henry Tudor dead, thrown naked and bleeding across the back of his limping horse. I married him, I gave him my word, he is the father of my unborn child. I might have buried my heart in an unmarked grave, but I have promised my loyalty to the king. I was a York princess, but I am a Tudor wife. My future must be with Henry. “It’s over,” I repeat. “Thank God it’s over.”
“It’s not over at all,” my mother quietly disagrees. “It’s just beginning.”
PALACE OF SHEEN, RICHMOND, SUMMER 1486
Henry does not return to us for months, but continues his progress, enjoying the fruits of victory as the defeat of Lovell and the Staffords brings all the halfhearted supporters back to the Tudor side—some of them attracted by power, some of them afraid of defeat, all of them conscious that they failed to be prominent among the royal supporters when danger threatened. Humphrey Stafford is tried and executed for treason, but his younger brother Thomas is spared. Henry offers pardons as freely as he dares, terrified of driving supporters away by being too suspicious of them. He tells everyone that he will be a good king, a merciful king to all who accept his rule, and if they beg for forgiveness they will find him generous.
My Lady the King’s Mother makes representation to the Holy Father through her cat’s-paw John Morton, and the helpful word comes from Rome that the laws on sanctuary are to be changed to suit the Tudors. Traitors may not go into hiding behind the walls of the Church anymore. God is to be on the side of the king and to enforce the king’s justice. My Lady wants her son to rule England inside sanctuary, right up to the altar, perhaps all the way to heaven, and the Pope is persuaded to her view. Nowhere on earth can be safe from Henry’s yeomen of the guard. No door, not even one on holy ground, can be closed in their hard faces.
The might of English law is to favor the Tudors too. The judges obey the new king’s commands, trying men who followed the Staffords or Francis Lovell, pardoning some, punishing others, according to their instructions from Henry. In my father’s England the judges were supposed to make up their own minds, and a jury was supposed to be free of any influence but the truth. But now the judges wait to hear the preferences of the king before reaching their sentences. The statements of the accused men, even their pleas of guilt, are of less importance than what the king says they have done. Juries are not even consulted, not even sworn in. Henry, who stayed away from the fighting, rules at long distance through his spineless judges, and commands life and death.
Not until August does the king come home and at once he moves the court away from the city that threatened him, out of town to the beautiful newly restored Palace of Sheen by the river. My uncle Edward comes with him, and my cousin John de la Pole, riding easily in the royal train, smiling at comrades who do not wholly trust them, greeting my mother as a kinswoman in public and never, never talking wit
h her in private, as if they have to demonstrate every day that there are no whispered secrets among the Yorks, that we are all reliably loyal to the House of Tudor.
There are many who are quick to say that the king does not dare to live in London, that he is afraid of the twisting streets and the dark ways of the city, of the sinuous secrets of the river and those who silently travel on it. There are many who say he is not sure of the loyalty of his own capital city and that he does not trust his safety within its walls. The trained bands of the city keep their own weapons to hand, and the apprentices are always ready to spring up and riot. If a king is well loved in London, then he has a wall of protection around him, a loyal army always at his doors guarding him. But a king with uncertain popularity is under threat every moment of the day, anything—hot weather, a play that goes wrong, an accident at a joust, the arrest of a popular youth—can trigger a riot which might unseat him.
Henry insists that we must move to Sheen as he loves the countryside in summer and exclaims at the beauty of the palace and the richness of the park. He congratulates me on the size of my belly and insists that I sit down all the time. When we walk together into dinner he demands that I lean heavily on his arm, as if my feet are likely to fail underneath me. He is tender and kind to me, and I am surprised to find that it is a relief to have him home. His mother’s anguished vigilance is soothed by the sight of him, the constant uneasiness of being a new court in an uncertain country is eased, and the court feels more normal with Henry riding out to hunt every morning and coming home boasting of fresh venison and game every night. His looks have improved during his long summertime journey around England, his skin warmed by the sunshine, and his face more relaxed and smiling. He was afraid of the North of England before he went there, but once the worst of his fears did indeed happen, and he survived it, he felt victorious once again.
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