The White Princess

by Philippa Gregory

  “I think they are going to dip him in gold and serve him on a platter,” my mother says sarcastically with a hidden smile at me, as she lifts the baby from his cradle early in the morning of his grand christening day. The rockers stand obediently behind her, watching her every move with the suspicion of professionals. The wet nurse is unlacing her bodice, impatient to feed the baby. My mother holds her grandson to her face and kisses his warm little body. He is sleepy, making a little snuffling noise. I hold out my arms, yearning for him, and she gives him to me and hugs us both.

  As we watch, he opens his mouth in a little yawn, compresses his tiny face, flaps his arms like a fledgling, and then wails to be fed. “My lord prince,” my mother says lovingly. “Impatient as a king. Here, I’ll give him to Meg.”

  The wet nurse is ready for him, but he cries and fusses and cannot latch on.

  “Should I feed him?” I ask eagerly. “Would he feed from me?”

  The rockers, the wet nurse, even my mother, all shake their heads in absolute unison.

  “No,” my mother says regretfully. “That’s the price you pay for being a great lady, a queen. You can’t nurse your own child. You have won him a golden spoon and the best food in the world for all his life, but he cannot have his mother’s milk. You can’t mother him as you might wish. You’re not a poor woman. You’re not free. You have to be back in the king’s bed as soon as you are able and give us another baby boy.”

  Jealously, I watch as he nuzzles at another woman’s breast and finally starts to feed. The wet nurse gives me a reassuring smile. “He’ll do well on my milk,” she says quietly. “You need not fear for him.”

  “How many boys do you need?” I demand irritably of my mother. “Before I can stop bearing them? Before I can feed one?”

  My mother, who gave birth to three royal boys and has none of them today, shrugs her shoulders. “It’s a dangerous world,” is all she says.

  The door opens without a knock and My Lady comes in. “Is he ready?” she asks without preamble.

  “He’s feeding.” My mother rises to her feet. “He’ll be ready in a little while. Are you waiting for him?”

  Lady Margaret inhales the sweet, clean smell of the room as if she is greedy for him. “It’s all ready,” she says. “I have ordered it to the last detail. They are lining up in the Great Hall, waiting only for the Earl of Oxford.” She looks around for Anne and Cecily, and nods approval at their ornate gowns. “You are honored,” she says. “I have allowed you two the most important positions: carrying the chrism, carrying the prince himself.” She turns to my mother. “And you, named as godmother to a prince, a Tudor prince! Nobody can say that we have not united the families. Nobody can declare for York anymore. We are all one. I have planned today to prove it.” She looks at the wet nurse as if she would snatch the baby from her. “Will he be ready soon?”

  My mother hides a smile. It is very clear that My Lady may know everything about christening princes but nothing about babies. “He will be as long as he needs,” she rules. “Probably less than an hour.”

  “And what is he to wear?”

  My mother gestures to the beautiful gown that she has made for him from the finest French lace. It has a train that sweeps to the floor and a tiny pleated ruff. Only she and I know that she cut it too large, so that this baby who was a full nine months in the womb will look small, as if he had come a month before his time.

  “It will be the greatest ceremony in this reign,” My Lady the King’s Mother says. “Everyone is here. Everyone will see the future King of England, my grandson.”

  They wait and wait. It makes no difference to me, bidden to rest in bed whatever takes place. The tradition is that the mother shall not be present at the christening and My Lady is not likely to break such a custom in order to bring me forwards. Besides, I am exhausted, torn between a sort of wild joy and a desperate fatigue. The baby feeds, they change his clout, they put him into my arms, and we sleep together, my arms around his tiny form, my nose sniffing his soft head.

  The Earl of Oxford, hastily summoned, rides to Winchester as fast as he can, but My Lady the King’s Mother rules that they have waited long enough and will go on without him. They take the baby and off they all go. My mother is godmother, my sister Cecily carries the baby, my cousin Margaret leads the procession of women, Lord Neville goes before them carrying a lit taper. Thomas, Lord Stanley, and his son, and his brother Sir William—all heroes of Bosworth who stood on the hillside and watched Richard their king lead a charge without them, and then rode him down to his death—all walk together behind my son, as if he can count on their support, as if their word is worth anything, and present him to the altar.

  While they are christening my boy, I wash and they dress me in a fine new gown of crimson lace and cloth of gold, they put the best sheets on my great bed, and help me back onto the pillows, so that I can be arranged, like a triumphant Madonna, for congratulations. I hear the trumpets outside my room, and the tramp of many feet. They throw open the double doors to my chamber and Cecily comes in, beaming, and puts my baby Arthur into my arms. My mother gives me a beautiful cup of gold for him, the Earl of Oxford has sent a pair of gilt basins, the Earl of Derby a saltcellar of gold. Everyone comes piling into my bedchamber with gifts, kneeling to me as the mother of the next king, kneeling to him to show their loyalty. I hold him and I smile and thank people for their kindness, as I look at men who loved Richard and promised loyalty to him, and who are now smiling at me and kissing my hand and agreeing, without words, that we shall never mention those long seasons ever again. That time shall be as if it never was. We will never speak of it, though they were the happiest days of my life, and maybe the happiest days of theirs, too.

  The men swear their loyalty, and pay compliments, and then my mother says quietly: “Her Grace the Queen should rest now,” and My Lady the King’s Mother says at once, so that it shall not be my mother who gives an order: “Prince Arthur must be taken to his nursery. I have everything prepared for him.”

  This day marks his entry into royal life, as a Tudor prince. In a few weeks’ time he will have his own nursery palace; we will not even sleep under the same roof. I shall reenter the court as soon as I am churched and Henry will come back to my bed to make another prince for the Tudors. I look at my little son, the tiny baby that he is, in his nursemaid’s arms, and know that they are taking him from me, and that he is prince and I am queen and we are mother and child alone together no more.

  Even before I am churched and out of confinement, Henry rewards us Yorks with the marriage of my sister. The timing of the announcement is a compliment to me, a reward for giving him a son; but I understand by their waiting so long that if I had died in childbed, he would have had to marry another princess of York to secure the throne. He and his mother kept Cecily unmarried in case of my death. I went into the danger of childbed with my sister marked out for my widower. Truly, My Lady plans for everything.

  Cecily comes to me breathless with excitement, her face flushed as if she is in love. I am tired, my breasts hurt, my privates hurt, everything hurts as my sister dances into my rooms and declares: “He has favored me! The king has favored me! My Lady has spoken for me, and the wedding is to happen at last! I am her goddaughter, but now I am to be even closer!”

  “They have set your wedding day?”

  “My betrothed came to tell me himself. Sir John. I shall be Lady Welles. And he is so handsome! And so rich!”

  I look at her, a hundred harsh words on the tip of my tongue. This is a man who was raised to hate our family, whose father died under our arrows at the battle of Towton when his own artillery could not fire in the snow, whose half brother Sir Richard Welles and his son Robert were executed by our father on the battlefield for treachery. Cecily’s betrothed is Lady Margaret’s half brother, a Lancastrian by birth, by inclination, and by lifelong enmity to us. He is thirty-six years old to my sister’s seventeen, he has been our enemy all his life. He must hate her. “An
d this makes you happy?” I ask.

  She does not even hear the skepticism in my tone. “Lady Margaret herself made this wedding,” she says. “She told him that though I am a princess of York I am charming. She said that: charming. She said that I am utterly suited to be the wife of a nobleman of the Tudor court. She said I am most likely to be fertile, she even praised you for having a boy. She said I am not puffed up with false pride.”

  “Did she say legitimate?” I ask dryly. “For I can never remember whether we are princesses or not at the moment.”

  Finally she hears the bitterness in my voice and she pauses in her jig, takes hold of my bedpost, and swings around to look at me. “Are you jealous of me for making a marriage for love, to a nobleman, and that I come to him untouched? With the favor of My Lady?” she taunts me. “That my reputation is as good as any maid’s in the world? With no secrets behind me? No scandals that might be unearthed? Nobody can say one word against me?”

  “No,” I say wearily. I could weep for the aches and pains, the seep of blood, the matching seep of tears. I am missing my baby, and I am mourning for Richard. “I am glad for you, really. I am just tired.”

  “Shall I send for your mother?” Our cousin Maggie steps forwards, frowning at Cecily. “Her Grace is still recovering!” she says quietly. “She shouldn’t be disturbed.”

  “I only came to tell you I am to be married, I thought you would be happy for me,” Cecily says, aggrieved. “It is you who is being so unpleasant . . .”

  “I know.” I force myself to change my tone. “And I should have said that I am glad for you, and that he is a lucky man to have such a princess.”

  “Father had greater plans for me than this,” she points out. “I was raised for better than this. If you don’t congratulate me, you should pity me.”

  “Yes,” I reply. “But all my pity is used up on myself. It doesn’t matter, Cecily, you can’t understand how I feel. You should be happy, I am glad for you. He’s a lucky man and, as you say, handsome and wealthy, and any one of My Lady the King’s Mother’s family is always going to be a favorite.”

  “We’ll marry before Christmas,” she says. “When you are churched and back at court, we’ll marry and you can give me the royal wedding gift.”

  “I shall so look forward to that,” I say, and little Maggie hears the sarcasm in my voice and shoots me a hidden smile.

  “Good,” Cecily says. “I think I’ll wear scarlet like you did.”

  “You can have my gown,” I promise her. “You can remake it to your size.”

  “I can?” She flies to my chest of gowns and flings open the top. “And the wedding linen too?”

  “Not the linen,” I stipulate. “But you can have the gown and the headdress.”

  She gathers it up in her arms. “Everyone will compare us,” she warns me, her face bright with excitement. “How shall you like it if they say I look better than you in scarlet and black? How shall you like it if they say I am a prettier bride?”

  I lie back on the pillows. “D’you know? I shan’t mind at all.”

  WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON, CHRISTMAS 1486

  Churched, dressed, wearing a little crown, I come out of my confinement to attend my sister’s wedding, and Henry greets me at the door with a kiss on my cheek and conducts me to the royal seats in the chapel at Westminster. It is to be a family affair. Lady Margaret is there, beaming at her half brother. My mother is in attendance on my sister. Anne is behind her, my cousin Maggie stands with me. Henry and I are side by side, and I can see him glance over at me, as if wanting to begin a conversation, but not knowing quite where to start.

  Of course there is an unbearable awkwardness between us. When he last saw me, I was imploring him to let Teddy stay with us; he last saw me held by his mother and pushed into confinement. He did not do as I begged, and Teddy is still imprisoned in the Tower. He is afraid that I am angry with him. I see him glance sideways at me throughout the long prayers of the Wedding Mass, trying to guess at my mood.

  “Will you come with me to the nursery when this is over?” he finally says, as the couple say their vows and the bishop raises their hands wrapped in his stole and tells us all that those whom God has joined together, no man can put asunder.

  I turn a warm face to him. “Yes,” I say. “Of course. I go every day. Isn’t he perfect?”

  “Such a handsome boy! And so strong!” he whispers eagerly. “And how do you feel? Are you . . .” He breaks off, embarrassed. “I hope you are fully recovered? I hope it was not too . . . painful?”

  I try to look queenly and dignified, but his genuine expression of anxiety and concern prompt me to honesty: “I had no idea it would go on for so long! But my mother was a great comfort to me.”

  “I hope you will forgive him for causing you pain?”

  “I love him,” I say simply. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful baby. I have them bring him to me all day, every day, till they tell me I will spoil him.”

  “I have been going to his nursery in the nighttime, before I go to bed,” he confesses. “I just sit by his crib and watch him sleeping. I can hardly believe that we have him. I keep fearing that he is not breathing and I tell his nurse to lift him and she swears he is all right, and then I see him give a little sigh and know that he is well. She must think I am a complete fool.”

  Cecily and Sir John turn towards us all and start to walk, hand in hand, down the short aisle. Cecily is radiant in my red and black gown, her fair hair spread on her shoulders like a golden veil. She is shorter than me and they have taken up the hem. A maid, as I was not on my wedding day, she can lace it tightly, and they have tailored the sleeves so that her husband can see an enticing glimpse of wrist and arm. Beside her, Sir John looks weary, his face lined, grooves under his eyes like an old hound. But he pats her hand on his arm and inclines his head to listen to her.

  Henry and I smile on the newly wedded couple. “I have provided a good husband for your sister,” he says to remind me that I am beholden to him, that I should be grateful. They pause when they reach us and Cecily sweeps a triumphant curtsey. I go forwards and kiss her on both cheeks, and I give my hand to her husband. “Sir John and Lady Welles,” I say, speaking the name that was once a byword for treachery. “I hope you will both be very happy.”

  We give them the honor of the day and let them go first, before us all, and we follow them out of the chapel. As Henry takes my hand I say: “About Teddy . . .”

  The face he turns to me is stern. “Don’t ask,” he says. “I am doing all that I dare for you by allowing your mother to stay at court. I should not even be doing that.”

  “My mother? What is my mother to do with this?”

  “God alone knows,” he says angrily. “Teddy’s part in the rebellion is nothing to what I hear about her. The rumors I hear and the news that my spies bring me are very bad. I can’t tell you how bad. It makes me sick to my belly to hear what they say. I have done all that I can for you and yours, Elizabeth. Don’t ask me to do more. Not just now.”

  “What do they say against her?” I persist.

  His face is bleak. “She is at the center of every whisper of disloyalty, she is almost certainly faithless to me, plotting against me, betraying us both, destroying the inheritance of her grandson. If she has spoken to even half the people who have been seen talking to her servants, then she is false, Elizabeth, false in her heart and false in her doings. She gives every sign of putting together rings of people who would rise against us. If I had any sense I would put her on trial for treason and know the truth. It is only for you and for your sake that I tell all the men who come to me with reports that they are all, every one of them, mistaken, all liars, all fools, and that she is true to me and to you.”

  I can feel my knees start to buckle, as I look over to where my mother is laughing with her nephew John de la Pole. “My mother is innocent of everything!”

  Henry shakes his head. “That’s too great a claim; for I know that she is not. All
it shows me is that you are lying too. You have just shown me that you will lie for her, and to me.”

  They are bringing in the yule log to burn in the great hearth of the hall of Westminster Palace. It is the trunk of a great tree, a gray-barked ash, many times broader than my arms’ span. It will burn without being extinguished for all the days of Christmas. The jester is dressed all in green, riding astride on it as they drag it in, standing up and trying to balance, falling from it, bounding up again like a deer, pretending to lie before it and rolling away before someone drags it over him. Both the servants and the court are singing carols that have words of the birth of Christ set to a tune and the rhythmic beat of a drum that is older by far. This is not just the Christmas story but a celebration of the return of the sun to the earth, and that is a story as ancient as the earth itself.

  My Lady smilingly watches the scene, ready as ever to frown at bawdiness or point a finger at someone who uses the revels as an excuse for bad behavior. I am surprised she has allowed this pagan bringing-in of the green, but she is always anxious to adopt the habits of the former kings of England as if to show that her rule is not that much different from those others—the real kings who went before. She hopes to pass herself and her son off as royal by mimicking our ways.

  My newly married sister, Cecily, my cousin Maggie, and my younger sister Anne are among my ladies watching with me, applauding as they wrestle the great tree trunk into the wide hearth. My mother is nearby with Catherine and Bridget at her side. Bridget is clapping her hands and laughing so loudly she can hardly stand. The servants are straining at the ropes that they have tied around the massive trunk, and now the jester has torn off a piece of ivy and is pretending to beat them. Bridget’s knees give way beneath her in her delight and she is nearly crying with laughter. My Lady looks over with a slight frown. The jester’s inventions are supposed to be amusing but not excessively so. My mother exchanges a rueful look with me, but she does not restrain Bridget’s exuberant joy.