The King's Daughter (Rose of York)

by Worth, Sandra

  “The future?”

  “Yours . . . and Richard’s.”

  I stared at her dumbfounded.

  “ ’Tis not Sir Thomas Stafford you love, child, ’tis Richard. I’ve seen the way you look at him . . . Daily I lose strength. It’ll not be long now, I know.” Her voice was a bare tremor. “Some days are . . . difficult. If I could be at ease about my lord king, I could let go. You are right, dear Elizabeth. He is so alone.” Her eyes returned to the tree and misted. “Alone with so much hate around him—” She broke off. “The heaviness I feel around Richard cannot be dispelled, except with love.” Lifting her violet eyes to my face, she touched my cheek. “He’ll not survive, Elizabeth . . . without love. You must stop denying your feelings for him . . . You must comfort him, help him. He’ll need you.”

  As I stared at her, something inside me shifted. I felt as if a shutter had been thrown open, pouring in brilliant light. The sleepless nights, the pounding of my heart each time King Richard drew near; my shyness in his presence; all of these took on clarity. I turned over this new knowledge in my mind, marveling that I had not understood till now.

  “But I’m his niece—”

  “Eleanor of Aquitaine was niece to Raymond of Antioch when they fell in love. It did not stop them.”

  “But they didn’t marry!”

  “Only because Eleanor and Raymond were already married to others. But you are free . . . and soon Richard will be too.”

  “We cannot wed one another, my lady queen!”

  The queen took me gently by the shoulders. “You must wed him. He must have comfort amid all the grief. We are so alike, Elizabeth. With you at his side, he can bear what he must.” She panted with the exertion of speech.

  “You are right. I care for him. I see that now,” I said softly. “But it makes no difference. He is my uncle. It can never be.”

  “Would you deny me a reason to live?” the queen cried, tears palpable in her voice.

  “My lady queen, what do you mean?” I exclaimed. “How can you say that? I would do anything to help you to live!”

  “Listen to me, child.” She took my hand. “Each time someone you love dies, he takes a piece of you with him. You have to find a way to live. You have to decide what you will stand for, fight for, die for . . . For me, you are my parting gift to my husband, the one who will save him from loneliness and destruction. Do not deny me a chance to save him, or you will take from me my last hope, all that gives my life meaning.”

  My mind was in tumult; I didn’t know to think or say, so I kept silent.

  When the queen spoke again, I heard her softly, as if across a far distance. “I give you my blessing, Elizabeth. . . . Now we have work to do. Richard has had much on his mind, but he wishes the Christmas festivities to be especially bright this year—” She hesitated, drew another deep breath. “We shall make him notice you. Aye, Elizabeth, you are what Richard needs. What England needs.”

  “But the pope will never grant a dispensation.”

  She heaved a deep breath. “He will . . . for a price. In truth, your blood bond matters not. I have come to believe that God sees no sin in love . . . except where that love brings pain to others.” She paused to catch her breath. “You shall bear him children and turn his crown of sorrows . . . into a wreath of roses.” The queen’s chest heaved with the effort of speech, but she lifted her hand to my cheek with a gentle touch. “You shall make a fine queen, Elizabeth.”

  She laid her head against my shoulder and I cradled her gently, tears blinding my vision. It was thus King Richard found us when he entered his queen’s chamber.

  CHAPTER 9

  Eclipse of the Sun, 1485

  IN MID-NOVEMBER MORE GRIEF CAME TO CROUCH at King Richard’s shoulder. His daughter, red-haired, green-eyed Cat, died suddenly from the sweating sickness on the eve of her marriage to the Earl of Huntingdon, and instead of the celebratory songs of her wedding, the palace was filled with sobbing and the dirges of her funeral.

  Moreover, with descent of winter, the queen’s health failed visibly. As if to spite the Fates that seemed allied against him, the king determined to make the Yule season the most festive the court had ever known.

  Though weak and bedridden, the queen insisted on presiding over the celebrations, and the royal apartments teemed with as many people and as much business as the king’s council chamber. While a favored hound slept beside her, I stood with the Master of the Wardrobe on either side of the queen’s bed, surrounded by servants who undraped fabric for her inspection. There were cloths of gold and tissue of silver, and silks and damasks of every hue—purples, crimsons, greens, blues, and apricots. She was nodding assent to a bolt of violet tissue when King Richard strode in. The Master of the Wardrobe gathered up his fabrics and his meinies and withdrew with a bow. I blushed, and my heart took up a fierce pounding in my breast. Avoiding his eyes, I curtsied and rushed past him.

  “Stay, Elizabeth—” Queen Anne called out. I was already halfway to the door and pretended not to hear. “She’s so shy . . . Not at all like her mother,” the queen said. A coughing fit racked her chest and she gasped for air. Servants rushed to attend her. I stole a backward glance at the door. They were holding a silver basin to her mouth. She threw up bile and laid her head back on the silk pillows. A lady-in-waiting gently wiped blood-tinged mucus from her lips. The king sat down on the velvet coverlet and took her hand. “You’re not to tax yourself, my little bird. I can appoint others to the task and—”

  I closed the door.

  By Yuletide, it was evident to all that the queen was dying. Crushed in spirit, always fragile in health, she would soon be ready to let herself depart this world. The doctors advised King Richard not to share her bed any longer, but he did not comply.

  On Epiphany, wearing their crowns, the king and queen sat on their thrones, presiding over the Christmas revelry in the Great Hall of Rufus, which had been decorated with candles and branches of evergreens. The air was fragrant with the scent of pine and bayberry, and the hall glittered with color from the tapestries, silk carpets, and the dazzling gowns and jewels of the nobles. Laughter, conversation, and singing resounded through the chamber. King Richard had donned his sumptuous robes of crimson, purple, and ermine studded with diamonds, and Queen Anne a gown of violet and silver. But she was thin and pale, and so weak she had to be propped up in her throne with pillows. The king could no longer fool himself with hope; his queen was doomed.

  Jack, Earl of Lincoln, asked me for a dance, and I took his hand. He led me to the dance floor and we took up our positions. He was King Richard’s heir to the crown now, but I knew it wasn’t the honor of dancing with the heir to the throne that drew all eyes to me. It was the dress I wore.

  The queen had replicated her violet and silver gown, and made me wear the copy. Knowing what a stir that would cause, I had tried to protest. But the queen had insisted.

  “But why should we wear the same royal gown?” I had asked.

  “So King Richard will notice our resemblance.”

  “But what will people think?”

  “They will think the worst, dear child,” the queen had said heavily. “People usually do.”

  On the dais where they sat, a fire crackled in the hearth, but Queen Anne could be seen shivering. The king kissed her fingers and rubbed her delicate hand between his own. As the dance ended, Jack gave me a bow and I curtsied to him. Humphrey Stafford approached and made me a courtly bow.

  “My lady, you look very beautiful this evening,” he said, offering me his arm and leading me to the dance floor. “Your hair has the glow of sunlight, and your sapphire brooch matches your eyes. ’Tis peculiar, but my mother had one just like it.”

  I felt myself redden like a poppy. “Thank you, Sir Humphrey.” I fingered my brooch, almost covering it from view. “The star is a well-liked design.”

  “Indeed.”

  He’d said nothing about my gown, I noted. We took our positions in the middle of the room and the min
strels launched into a lilting melody, but all I could think about was Thomas. He had been my first love. Had we wed, then Humphrey with whom I danced would have been my brother-by-marriage. I glanced at Richard on the dais speaking to one of his knights. Thomas would forever claim a corner of my heart, but all was now changed.

  The melody drew to an end.

  “Ah—” Humphrey Stafford said. A shadow crossed his face. A messenger was pushing through the throng and heading to the dais. “I see there is news. Shall we?”

  I took his arm and we approached within earshot of the dais.

  The man knelt before the king. “Sire! I bring an urgent message from France. Our agents beyond the seas report that, notwithstanding the potency and splendor of your royal state, Henry Tudor will, without question, invade the kingdom this summer.”

  After a pause, King Richard replied, “Nothing more desirable can befall me than to meet Tudor in the field at last.”

  He bent his head toward Anne, and the queen’s expression grew anxious as they spoke. She drew her fur mantle closer to her.

  My glance went to the king. Pale, haggard, more careworn than ever before, he looked in no condition to defend his kingdom. If he met Tudor now, there might well be disaster. And Tudor, shrewd, ruthless, and cunning as he was said to be, no doubt knew it. Margaret Beaufort’s son would be able to smell his quarry’s blood even from across the seas. My eyes sought Tudor’s mother among the throng of guests. I found her standing with her husband, Lord Thomas Stanley, and her henchman, Reginald Bray, beside a traceried window, observing the dancers and whispering together. Margaret Beaufort’s go-between in her treason with Buckingham, Reginald Bray, had also received the king’s pardon after the rebellion. King Richard’s clemency troubled me now. Such people didn’t quit brewing their mischief.

  “Would you care to stroll about?” Sir Humphrey asked. “There is still some marchpane left on the table of sweets, I believe.”

  I nodded and we moved down the hall. As we approached the Stanleys, my gaze moved to Thomas Stanley’s brother, Sir William, emerging from the crowd on the far side of the hall and striding across to join them. William and his brother bore little resemblance to each other. Thomas was tall and thin; William, short and stocky. Stanley’s bushy hair was a flaming red; William’s wispy hair barely ginger. Stanley and his wife also made an odd couple. Margaret Beaufort was a tiny woman with a disproportionately long face that made her look top-heavy, almost dwarfish. He was jovial, and she was austere in manner and dress.

  I inclined my head as we drew near, and Sir Humphrey threw Margaret Beaufort a small bow. She made a striking figure in her usual black velvet gown trimmed with ermine, but there was something sinister about her. Her long, narrow face, sharply pointed at nose and chin, and pale, glittering eyes gave her the look of a hungry wolf. I thought of what Queen Anne had said, that she strove to look a martyr with her wimple and pious ways, carrying her Psalter around with her, but she was too showy for true piety, and her treasons spoke of a heart far too worldly. My eye went to the book the Beaufort woman held in her hands. There was the Psalter.

  The Stanleys and the henchman, Bray, fell silent as we passed and watched us with an expression that made me uncomfortable. Their eyes bored into my back. Humphrey Stafford leaned close. “Unpleasant people,” he muttered in my ear. Grabbing two goblets from a passing servant with a silver tray, he gave me one. We both drank deeply.

  “Better, eh?” he smiled.

  I nodded. Despite the gaiety of the court, I felt a dark undercurrent of unease swirling around us. Drawing courage from the wine, I tried to deny my sense of foreboding and turned to him. “How is your brother?” I finally dared to ask.

  “God be praised,Thomas is well, my lady. He’s recovering from the arrow he took to his chest on the Scots border.”

  I couldn’t believe it! So this was the reason he hadn’t written to me. My eyes flew to King Richard on the dais. And now—

  “Indeed? I didn’t know of his injury,” I said softly. “I am glad to hear of his recovery, for he was kind to me in sanctuary. I will always be indebted to him. Did he speak to you about those days?”

  “He would have, I’m sure. But I haven’t seen him, or even been in correspondence. Though I remember now that there was something he wished to tell me when next we saw one another. I have been away in Calais and France on the king’s business since St. George’s Day.”

  St. George’s Day. The day the news came of Ned’s death. My gaze returned to the poor doomed queen propped up in her throne. She was leaning close to her husband, and she held his hand, with a worried look on her face as they spoke. Even as I gazed, they turned their eyes on me. My breath caught in my breast. They are discussing me. Dimly, I noted that the minstrels had broken into a merry tune.

  “Look!” said Sir Humphrey Stafford with a grin. “Someone has had his fill of marchpane—”

  I turned in the direction of his gaze to find a hound sleeping by the table of sweets, all four paws up in the air, his jowls relaxed in a smile on his upside-down face. I laughed aloud at the sight, and as I did so, I became aware that the hubbub of conversation was dying away. I turned around.

  The crowd had parted to make way for King Richard, who was coming directly toward me, on his face the expression of a man unaware, in a trance. As he walked past his guests, they stared after him. He drew up to me and inclined his head. I blushed, sank into a deep curtsy, and took the hand he proffered. As he led me to the dance floor, the minstrels broke into a lilting pavane.

  For a terrifying minute, we stood alone. Then Lord Howard and his son, Thomas, fell in behind us with their ladies. Others followed: all King Richard’s loyal friends: Rob Percy and Lord Francis Lovell, who had known and loved him since childhood; his nephew and heir to the throne, Jack, Earl of Lincoln; the Lords Scrope of Bolton and of Masham, who went all the way back to his father, and Greystoke, another devoted Yorkist lord. His trusted advisors, Sir Richard Ratcliffe, Sir William Conyers, Sir William Catesby, Sir Robert Brackenbury, and the two Harrington brothers who were Knights of the Body. All faithful, all closing ranks behind him.

  Music floated to me from the minstrel’s gallery, but it seemed very far away in the dreamy haze that engulfed me. The line moved up and down in rhythm to the melody; we turned, twirled, changed partners, and returned again. Straight ahead, Queen Anne smiled encouragement to me, and for the first time I saw our resemblance to each other: violet and silver dress; golden hair and violet eyes; pointed chins and rosebud lips. I turned and smiled at King Richard.

  Silver-haired Lord Howard slapped his thigh and gave a roar of merriment behind me, and I grew aware of the people watching us. Some stared; some whispered with their heads close together; others stole hostile glances. Margaret Beaufort stood with her husband, Lord Stanley; Lord Stanley’s son, George; and their henchman, Reginald Bray, watching carefully from the side of the room. The Beaufort woman had an eyebrow raised. On the dais I saw the countess approach her daughter. She bent her head to the queen and murmured something. They both looked at me. Then Queen Anne smiled, a smile meant not just for me, but for the entire court. The countess took her daughter’s hand, but there was no smile on her trembling face, only the sparkle of tears.

  BEFORE TWELFTH NIGHT WAS OVER, KING RICHARD received still more bad news. The Lancastrian lord John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, had escaped Hammes Castle in Calais and taken men to join Tudor in France. But even worse, as January progressed, Queen Anne deteriorated further.

  “I have not much longer,” she whispered to me. “I’ve been unable to persuade the king to wed you, Elizabeth. You must write Lord Howard and enlist his support. Richard admires Lord Howard above all others.” She paused for breath. “He is a beloved friend, almost a father to Richard. With Howard’s help, surely he will . . . no longer regard this marriage as impossible . . . I will write him also.”

  Queen Anne could say no more. She burst into a fit of coughing, struggling to spit up the bloody flu
x from her lungs, and then lay back, exhausted. It broke my heart to see her this way. Why did the good Lord not see fit to put an end to her suffering? Why did she have to linger like this, wracked by pain, watching the emotional toll her death took on her beloved husband?

  Why, why, why?

  I wrote to Lord Howard.

  February arrived with gusty winds, and leaden skies oppressed the land as ill tidings flooded King Richard. I did what I could for the poor queen. We had both heard back from Lord Howard. His pledge of support helped to ease the queen’s spirits, though she still suffered much physical pain. Nevertheless, there were a few good moments. That afternoon, she was able to join me in a game of chess.

  The bed hangings of silver brocade were pulled back and tied with gilded ropes, and the sun, which had broken through the clouds, slanted into the room through windows that stood cracked open for air. The queen lay propped up on white silk pillows, her arms stretched out woodenly at her sides, dressed in a dark chemise and covered by a gray velvet coverlet embroidered with tiny silver roses. I sat with her, playing chess on the bed.

  “Green becomes you, Elizabeth . . . You light up the room . . . with your gold hair and beauty . . . like a tapestry on a grey stone wall.”

  “Hush, now, my queen. ’Tis your move.”

  “The knight,” Queen Anne whispered.

  I moved the knight. “Very clever, my lady. Now let me see how I can salvage myself—” Thoughtfully, I cupped my chin in my hand and considered the board.

  Behind me there were footsteps, and suddenly the queen’s expression changed to one of joy. “My dearest lord!” she cried. She tried to rise but fell back, choked by a fit of coughing. Then she gagged.

  I leapt to my feet, grabbed a basin, and held it to her mouth as she retched, and then I smoothed the queen’s damp hair and helped her lie back against the pillows. King Richard rushed to his queen’s side and snatched a damp towel from an approaching maidservant. “I’ll do it,” he barked. He dabbed the gilt-edged cloth to the queen’s mouth and winced as he wiped away blood. He accepted a clay cup from a monk. The foul-smelling liquid, thick as oil, seemed to offend his nostrils. “What is it?”