The King's Daughter (Rose of York)

by Worth, Sandra

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Perhaps you’ll sing again out here sometime?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Allow me to escort you back?”

  I looked up at him as I took his arm. He had a finely chiseled profile and a strong jaw that somehow reminded me of Papa. I tore my glance away. Memories are time’s gift to keep; they comfort still.

  But do they? They felt more like something I had lost than a gift to keep. I drew an audible breath and steeled myself to move forward in the darkness of the night.

  THE BLARE OF CLARIONS AND THE RINGING OF BELLS erupted amid a sudden roar of cheering. I climbed up on a stack of coffers by the window to see what was happening. The river view was partially obstructed by other buildings and rooftops, and though I was tall, I had to stand on tiptoe to get a look.

  “ ’Tis my uncle of Gloucester! Our cousin of Buckingham is with him and they have Edward with them!” I said.

  “I want to see!” Dickon cried. “Me, too!” four-year-old Kate demanded, as did eight-year-old Anne and even little Bridget.

  “But you’re all too small,” I said. “You can’t see even if I pull you up here on the coffers. But I’ll tell you everything—I won’t leave out a thing!” I turned my attention back to the street. The procession had moved, and I had to crane my neck awkwardly to see them in the distance.

  “The three of them are riding in front! Edward is in blue velvet, and Buckingham and Gloucester are in black—”

  Ear-shattering cheers nearly drowned my words. I stared at my uncle astride his white charger. How regal he looked! And though he was dark, I realized, with a twinge of my heart, that he reminded me of Papa. But then, why should he not? He was my father’s brother. I strained to see him until he was lost in the crowds of the procession.

  When my mother burst into tears I clambered down, drew myself to her side, and placed my arm around her shoulders. “Do not weep, dear mother. We know not what lies ahead, but my uncle of Gloucester is a good man. He loved Father, and must surely love us too. All will be well.”

  THOUGH WE WERE IN SANCTUARY, PEOPLE CAME AND went all day, delivering our purchases, caring for our needs, bringing us news. One of these was the butcher, John Gould. He had changed a great deal since the last time we’d seen him. I dimly remembered a man who was unkempt and frightening, for he had worn a bloody apron then. But the old man who stood before us bore no resemblance to my childhood memory. He was dressed most elegantly in a black velvet cap set with a jeweled brooch, an attire of rich green silk and camlet, and a black mantle edged with beaver trim over which was hung a massive gold chain.

  “Your Grace,” he said, flourishing a deep bow, “I am sore distressed to find you in sanctuary once more.”

  “John Gould,” my mother said, offering her hand, which he kissed. “You are kind to visit, and I am pleased to find you have prospered so well since last we saw you.”

  “ ’Tis thanks to your great kindness that I am a rich man now, Your Grace. You showed me much favor in appointing me the chief purveyor of meat to the royal castles.”

  “Had we prospered ourselves, no doubt I could have procured for you the office of mayor of London one day.”

  He gave my mother another deep bow. “God willing, you shall be back in the palace soon,Your Grace. In the meanwhile, I remain your faithful servant and shall provide your meats, whether or not you pay,Your Grace.”

  “Thank you, John Gould. Praise be to the Lord, we are not penniless this time and have no need of such charity as we did before Barnet. However, we would be grateful for your visits bearing us any news you deem we should have.”

  One piece of news we did receive came from a messenger to Bishop Morton, a Dominican friar.

  “Gloucester has sent a request north for men to come to his aid,” the man whispered. “He claims ’tis now clear that Your Grace was planning to murder him and his cousin, the Duke of Buckingham, and all the old royal blood of the realm—‘by subtle and damnable ways.’ His words,Your Grace,” the Dominican said. “He has requested the north send him an army to protect him against you with all haste.”

  I turned my eyes on my mother. How could Gloucester believe her capable of such a monstrous thing, to murder innocent people merely for the royal blood that ran in their veins? What had she done to merit such a reputation?

  An emissary newly arrived from the council urged Mother to leave sanctuary and return to court.

  “So Gloucester can murder me?” she demanded, along with her haughty refusal.

  She strode back and forth in her impatient way along one of the velvet partitions. “If Gloucester crowns Edward, he will have no choice but to receive us at court. Then shall I get my revenge on him!”

  Several days hence, after nightfall, a rap came at the door. When I opened it, a cloaked woman stood before me, her face shrouded from view by a hood. She glanced over her shoulder in a way that denoted the urgency of her visit and slipped inside without waiting for an invitation.

  When the door was shut, she dropped her hood, and I saw a woman of utter and incredible beauty, perfect in the lineaments of both face and body with golden hair waving around her delicate features. I knew instinctively that this was my father’s well-known and exquisitely beautiful mistress, Jane Shore, now the mistress of my brother Dorset.

  “I came to tell you that the Marquess of Dorset has fled England, Your Grace,” she said with a curtsy to my mother. “You need not worry about him any longer. He is safe now.”

  “God be praised!” my mother cried.

  But Jane Shore didn’t return her smile. “That is the good news. I bring other tidings not so pleasant.”

  My mother’s elation vanished. A hush fell over the chamber as we waited.

  “These are dangerous days for a woman alone,” Jane Shore said.

  I realized she was embarrassed about something, and her next words made clear what that was.

  “In the absence of the Marquess of Dorset, Lord Hastings has offered me his protection, and I have accepted. I have no children of my own and have always loved King Edward’s sons dearly. Lord Hastings has confided to me”—her beautiful eyes filled with a troubled expression—“his fear that Richard of Gloucester plans to set his nephews aside and take the throne himself.”

  Our gasps of horror echoed through the chamber.

  “How does he know this?” my mother asked.

  Jane Shore threw a glance over her shoulder before she continued, “He knows they are plotting something, for there have been many secret meetings from which Lord Hastings has been excluded.”

  “But Gloucester is preparing to crown Edward as we speak. Why should I believe Hastings? He is no friend to us. He shared Gloucester’s exile in Burgundy, and fought with him at Barnet and Tewkesbury. He limited the guard I wished to place on my son, and thus enabled Gloucester to seize King Edward at Stony Stratford. Why should he care what happens to my Edward now?” demanded my mother suspiciously.

  “His love for your husband runs deep, and Gloucester knows that. He also knows that Lord Hastings took a vow to King Edward to protect his sons. In view of Gloucester’s threat to the royal princes, Hastings now regrets his support of Richard of Gloucester and wishes reconciliation with you. He has sent me here to seek your agreement to smuggle your son Richard of York out of England, where he will be safe. My Lord Hastings hopes with the help of several others, among them Lady Margaret Beaufort and her husband Lord Stanley, to find a way to also free young King Edward from his uncle of Gloucester’s grasp. Does he have it,Your Grace?”

  My mother seized her hand. “He has it, Jane Shore.”

  We waited for further word. But none came. Until at last, on the thirteenth day of June, a nun arrived at our door.

  “There is grievous news! The plot to free the sons of King Edward IV has been discovered,” she whispered. “Lord Hastings was beheaded immediately, forced to lay his head on a log. Lord Stanley is in the Tower. Archbishop Rotherham is under arrest
. Bishop Morton has been placed in Buckingham’s care and sent to his castle of Brecknock in Wales. Mistress Jane Shore is in the Tower.”

  I looked up at the window where I had last seen my uncle Richard of Gloucester. How could I have been so wrong about him?

  So horribly, horribly wrong?

  CHAPTER 5

  Niece of the King, 1483

  EACH DAY WE WAITED FOR NEWS BREATHLESSLY, knowing that the momentum of events, like the torrent of a powerful waterfall, would not slow its current but would rush ahead with gathering force until it plunged over the precipice. Where that precipice lay, how sheer would be its fall, we dared not guess. In the meanwhile, tidings gushed into our ears, carried by all sorts of persons: servants, friars and monks, nuns and tradesmen, and those friends who were able to disguise themselves successfully past the guards.

  “Beware,Your Grace!” came a whispered warning. “The Duke of Buckingham is a born orator who means to persuade the council to take Prince Richard of York from you in sanctuary!”

  My mother clutched Dickon to her. “They will not get you!” she told him, smoothing his fair hair and kissing his tender cheeks. “I shall slay them with my bare hands, if need be!”

  But late one evening, a royal delegation arrived, headed by Thomas Bourchier, the old Archbishop of Canterbury. While the lords waited in the Star Chamber in Westminster Palace, the archbishop and Lord Howard came to my mother.

  “As you are well aware,Your Grace, we have made numerous efforts in good faith to induce you to come forth from sanctuary, and you will not,” Archbishop Bourchier said, his face dour. Behind him, Lord John Howard stood at the door, his hair shining beneath his black velvet cap like the silver lion of his insignia. Howard had been one of Papa’s most trusted lords, a Yorkist from the first, and remained true even after my mother took from him the dukedom of Norfolk that was rightly his, and gave it to Dickon. I could not tell where his sympathies lay, but I doubted we could claim them. “Therefore we have come here to take your son, Richard of York, from you, by force if necessary,” Archbishop Bourchier said.

  I gasped, and Cecily gave a sharp cry. Dickon ran to Mother and threw his arms around her skirts.

  “You, an archbishop, dare make such a threat against your queen, and your God?” Stark fear glittered in her eyes. She tightened her hold on Dickon, who now clasped her skirts with all his strength.

  “We go against you, not God. For valid reason.”

  “Give me one!”

  “Your Grace, the council is afraid that if they allow Prince Richard to reside with you, you will send him out of the county under pretense of danger.”

  “ ’Tis no pretense. He is in danger from Gloucester!”

  “Madame, the truth is this. You hide your children under the wings of the church for no good purpose except to shame the rightful government of this land. ’Tis your own desire for power that drives you now, as it always has. King Edward—God assoil his soul—for the good of the realm, set you aside from governance, for knowing you, he feared you,Your Grace.”

  My mother was at a loss for words. She burst into tears.

  “Your Grace, King Edward needs his royal brother’s company,” Archbishop Bourchier said more gently. “King Edward’s brother must be present at his crowning. Allow us to take Prince Richard to join him at the bishop’s palace. We have no desire to use force, but we are empowered to do so if you refuse.”

  My mother wiped her eyes and looked at him. She was trembling visibly, and her color had sickened to gray. But she was not yet ready to hand Dickon over. Since tears and defiance had failed to work, she attempted argument. The archbishop finally cut her off.

  “Madame, I will not dispute the matter with you any longer. ’Tis the same to me whether you render him to me, or we take him, for the end result does not change. We shall have custody of Richard, Duke of York. There is one difference, however. If you give him up willingly, I pledge on my life and honor that no harm will come to him. If you do not, I shall depart immediately, freed of my trust, and determined never to concern myself with the matter again.”

  My mother had lost; she had to surrender Dickon. There was no way out. Her expression was one of utter wretchedness.

  “You can take this gentleman,” she said, her voice shaking. “But before you do, may I be permitted a moment alone with my son?”

  Archbishop Bourchier inclined his head in assent.

  Mother led Dickon to a far corner of the chapter house. All eyes were upon her as she knelt before him and took both his hands into her own. She spoke to him in hushed tones, every so often pausing to wipe away tears with the back of her hand. To her words, Dickon nodded his head obediently. I overheard her whisper, “Do you remember the password?” to which he nodded again, but what the password was that she gave him, I didn’t know. As I watched their brutal farewell, my misery was so acute that it was almost a physical pain. Biting my lip, I looked away.

  With a swish of her silk gown, Mother rose. “Farewell, my own sweet son! Almighty God be thy protector, Dickon. Let me kiss thee once more before we part, for God knows when we shall kiss again!”

  Composing herself with effort, she took him to the archbishop.

  “Into your hands I place my son, and my trust,” she said, her voice hoarse with emotion.

  As we gathered at the door, Archbishop Bourchier conducted Dickon to a deputy of nobles waiting far down the cloisters. We watched his small retreating figure. He looked back one last time before he disappeared, and even from the distance, I caught the sparkle of tears.

  MOTHER WAS DISTRAUGHT. SHE WEPT COPIOUSLY, AND I could do nothing, say nothing, to console her. Eventually she slept, though even in her sleep she cried out.

  Unable to find rest, I stole out to the herb garden. Sir Thomas Stafford, the knight who had befriended me in the garden, saw me leave the chamber, as I hoped he might, and followed me across the green to the edge of the pond, behind the cloistered buildings. It was a cold night, and I had a blanket around me for warmth. We took a seat on the bench.

  “How is Dickon, do you know,Thomas?” I asked.

  “He is fine, princess. The deputy of nobles conducted him to Westminster Hall, and the Duke of Buckingham met him there. Then Buckingham took him by the hand to Richard of Gloucester, who waited at the door of the Star Chamber. Gloucester embraced your brother affectionately and conducted him to the bishop’s palace. I’m sure he’s fast asleep now, not like his sister.” He gave me an arresting smile.

  But I couldn’t return his smile. I was desperate to ask him a question that I knew I shouldn’t dare to ask. “Thomas, should we be afraid?”

  Even in the moonlight I could see the astonishment on his handsome face. He took my hand into his own. “Elizabeth, my dear princess,” he said. “Do you really think I could serve a cruel and wicked man—someone who is capable of hurting an innocent child?” There was tenderness in his tone and a probing query in his brown eyes as he gazed at me.

  For a long moment, I looked back at him, at his open, handsome face that spoke of honor and integrity.

  “No,” I replied at length. “But sometimes, we make mistakes. We think ourselves a good judge of character when we are not.” In my mind’s eye, I saw myself in the sanctuary window watching Richard of Gloucester ride past, thinking what an air of nobility he possessed, how much he reminded me of my father, and then I heard Jane Shore’s warning in my ear: Richard of Gloucester plans to set his nephews aside and take the throne himself.

  “I hope I never disappoint you, my princess,” Thomas said.

  I turned my gaze on him. I took in the strength in his face, the compelling eyes, the carved features.

  “You will never disappoint me, Thomas,” I said softly. On impulse, I removed Mary’s silver crucifix from around my neck and pressed it into his palm. “Take this,Thomas. To protect you from harm.”

  He lifted my hand to his lips, and my heart seemed to rush to the spot he kissed.

  I DIDN’T SEE HIM AG
AIN FOR A WEEK. BY THEN, EVERYTHING had changed.

  We learned from our laundress that my brother Edward’s coronation, scheduled for Sunday, the twenty-second of June, had been postponed. On the very day it was to take place, a preacher named Dr. Ralph Shaw gave a sermon at St. Paul’s Cross, implying that we were illegitimate and the crown belonged to Richard of Gloucester. It was an ugly sermon, and we were heartened to learn that no one cheered except a few men at the back of the crowd whom Buckingham had paid.

  So it is true, I thought. I hadn’t wanted to believe that my uncle of Gloucester, who had loved us and played with us when we were young, had been so utterly corrupted by the lure of a golden crown that he’d proved false to my father. Until this moment, I realized I hadn’t truly believed that my mother had anything to fear from him. She’d always had a tendency to turn a sand hill into a tower. “O Bess, let it be,” my father used to say. “You make a spectacle out of every small matter. People are not as wicked as you think. Let it be. Let it be.”

  But this time she was right. My uncle of Gloucester was indeed planning to set aside my two brothers and take the throne himself. Such was the man whom my father had loved above all others, in whom he had placed his full trust with his dying breath.

  With the aid of friends like the butcher John Gould, my mother lost no time getting to work hatching a plot to rescue my brothers from the bishop’s palace. Dr. Sergio, who had treated us since the first sanctuary days, proved a solid ally again. Many others streamed in and out with news, messages and hope. Then came shocking tidings.

  Dr. Sergio regarded us with anguished eyes. “Your Grace, my dear ladies, I regret to be the bearer of vile and distressing news, too abominable to be believed, yet to its truth I attest. On Wednesday, the twenty-fifth day of June, your brother Anthony Woodville, Lord Rivers, was executed at Pontefract, along with your son Sir Richard Grey.”

  My mother fell to the floor, wailing and screaming, and beating her breasts,“Woe, woe! O dear God, no—”