I went back into the castle. In my room, I closed my eyes and sank down into a chair, my legs suddenly too weak to sustain me. A vision of Richard on his white courser leading the way from Leicester flashed into my mind, his men ranging around him, his crown on his head. Joyless, restless, waiting for battle.
No more news came until the twenty-third day of August, when shouts and cries drew my attention to the window. Wounded men were clattering into the courtyard. I dropped the book I was reading to Edward and we ran down the tower stairs together, nearly tripping. I drew up short at the sight of the soldiers. Stunned and disbelieving, clutching their bandaged limbs, leaning against one another for support, they were relating their tale of disaster. I emerged from the tower staircase. They all broke off and turned to look at me. But the last words I’d heard from them reverberated in my mind with the tumult of clarions.
“—Henry Tudor—king—”
I gave a cry; my legs buckled beneath me. I reached out for support and felt Johnnie take my arm.
Gently, a voice said,“My lady, permit me to take you inside.”
“No!” I cried. “No—tell me what happened! I need to know what happened—”
The man hesitated. Then he said quietly, “My lady, battle was joined yesterday at Bosworth Field on Monday, August twenty-second. King Richard is dead.”
I clenched my teeth hard, balled my fists, and willed myself not to fall, to keep erect. I threw Johnnie a glance. He had gone pale. Edward began to wail. A man took him by the hand. “Come my little lord, this is no place for you.” I watched his small figure recede into the tower.
The messenger resumed his report.
“After two hours of battle, King Richard attempted to single out his enemy by himself and rode down the hill accompanied by those knights willing to die with him, for a suicide charge it was, my lady. He went behind enemy lines to get at Tudor. It was as if he sought death.”
Someone else broke in. “William Stanley, who had been watching the battle from the sidelines on a neighboring hill, brought the full weight of his army to bear on the side of Henry Tudor.”
I tried to focus on the man’s face, but it was blurred. Another voice drifted to me softly, ever so softly that I thought for a moment I had dreamt it. “King Richard and his seventy knights fell fighting valiantly, outnumbered eighty to one.”
“Eighty to one—” I repeated in bewilderment, trying to understand. My head throbbed with pain. “Eighty to one? Eighty to one—” As the words exploded in my mind, I raised my hands to cover my ears. Dimly, I saw him exchange a look with another man, and then a woman touched my sleeve.
“Me lady, let me take ye inside. Ye ’ave ’ad a shock . . . We all ’ave, dearie . . .”
I learned the full story as I sat silent as a statue in my chamber. It was Johnnie who told me.
Richard had gone into battle wearing his crown. It had made him an easy mark for the enemy, as if his white horse weren’t enough to single him out. Even then, he didn’t die, and so he demanded death by riding behind enemy lines to slay Tudor. Sir William Stanley found Richard’s crown in a thistle bush and crowned Tudor to the cheers of his men, who cried, “King Henry! King Henry!”
So Richard was dead;Tudor was King.
What now?
As footsteps raced along the corridors—those of servants, pages, armed men undone by the news of defeat—the world swam before my eyes. Where would I go? And what did it matter? Richard was dead. Richard was dead—
Someone pulled me to my feet, drew me outside. A horse whinnied before me. “No!” I heard myself say faintly. “I must stay. To end the bloodshed. Don’t you see, ’tis the only way!”
A group of dark figures moved closer, on horseback. I saw shadows in the twilight. They clattered into the courtyard and dismounted. One of them, darker than the rest, came forward and bowed low. I blinked to clear my vision, but it did no good. I could not see the shadow’s face, for it was dusk.
“Sir Robert Willoughby, my lady,” he said.
By force of habit, I extended him my hand.
“You are welcome,” I said, and I did not know my voice, which came to me like a stranger’s.
“You are welcome . . . welcome . . . Eighty times welcome . . . eighty to one . . . welcome . . . welcome,” I said. “King Richard is dead.”
CHAPTER 11
The Victor, 1485
MY HEAD ACHED. I PRESSED A HAND TO MY BROW TO ease the throbbing hurt. Raising myself to an elbow, I looked around. It was dark, and I was rocking in a litter. Thrusting back the curtains, I looked out. Two strangers were riding beside me, a man and a woman.
“Who are you? Where are John of Gloucester and the Earl of Warwick?” I demanded. “Where are we?”
They exchanged glances with one another. The woman said, “We’re nearing London. Just passed through Barnet a half hour ago, I’d say.”
Nothing seemed familiar. My eye went to the red dragon blazing on the man’s tunic. What emblem was that? I’d never seen it before. I peered ahead. All the men-at-arms sported the same insignia.
“Where are we going?” I asked them. Odd memories twitched in my mind through the ache in my head, and the confusion. And the fear. For now I remembered dreaming that Richard had lost the battle. I blinked.
“Where are we going?” I repeated, fear rising in my throat.
After a hesitation, the woman gave me a reply. “To the Tower.” Her voice was chilling in its softness.
I regarded her blankly. “But the king prefers Westminster.”
“Not this king,” came the woman’s retort on a chuckle. Again, she exchanged a look with the man cantering at her side. He gave her a knowing smile.
“Where are my cousins?” I demanded, trying to quell my panic.
Silence. Then the man said, “Best you rest now, my lady. It’s been a hard journey for ye. Ye’ve been ill, and ye’ll need your strength, I dare say.” He had an accent both strange and familiar at the same time. It reminded me of someone—but who? Like a bolt of lightning on a clear day, it came to me. Dr. Lewis! The Welshman from sanctuary. Margaret Beaufort’s physician.
With a trembling hand, I let the curtain drop. Inside, alone in the dark, I shut my eyes on a breath and bowed my head. Always in the past months when I had prayed, my thoughts were of Richard. Now, for a moment, I saw his face, but it was very far away, and his gray eyes held a sorrowful expression. A sword rose above him, glittering like a crucifix. Then it bore down. My head throbbed again. I moaned and closed my eyes.
When I dared look, it was nearly sundown. Church bells were clanging, and the white towers of the Tower of London glowed with a rosy light in the fading rays of day. Behind the castle, the Thames sparkled with a deepening sapphire hue. My cart drew to a clattering halt in the cobbled court. I thrust back the curtains and moved to disembark.
“You are not staying here,” the woman said.
“Then why are we stopping?”
“ ’Tis for the Earl of Warwick and John of Gloucester that we stop.”
I hesitated. Why for them, and not for me? Nothing made sense. I strained my eyes into the distance ahead, where a group of armed men were dismounting, and spied Edward’s golden hair and diminutive figure. “Edward—Edward!” I called. He turned to look at me. One of the men at his side said something to him, and he seemed crestfallen. He nodded, went inside. Oh, dear God, I thought of a sudden, Edward is a Plantagenet in the direct royal male line! I made the sign of the cross.
At least Johnnie was safe. He was a bastard and no threat to anyone. I looked around for him, but I didn’t see him. Maybe if I went inside—
“I need the privy,” I said, climbing out of the litter without assistance.
“I’ll go with you,” the woman said hastily.
“You may wait here for me. I know the way.” I took a step forward, but she blocked my path squarely with her body. “Nay, lady, ’tis not permitted.”
“What do you mean?”
“Orders, me lady.”
“Whose orders?”
“The king’s.”
“The king?”
“King Henry. He has bid us bring you to Westminster.”
King Henry.
O, Blessed Mother . . .
The pounding in my head rose to a shattering pitch. I shut my eyes and dug my nails into the palms of my hands. Silently, I cried out for help to the Blessed Virgin, and as if Heaven heard my plea, a thought blossomed in my heart. But Tudor has vowed to wed me. I shall be queen. Edward shall be safe when I am queen. They shall all be safe, for I will unite the white rose with the red and end the bloodshed, as Richard had wished.
Recovering my composure, I gave the woman a nod. She turned and followed me to the privy.
ON THE WAY TO WESTMINSTER, WE PAUSED FOR REFRESHMENT at Baynard’s Castle.
Where Richard accepted the crown, I thought. I refused wine and remained in my litter. As I sat there, alone with my memories, a horse’s whinny pierced my thoughts and the curtain was drawn back. It was Sir Robert Willoughby.
“My lady, I trust the journey has not been unduly harsh?”
I cast my eyes down. “I have no memory of it,” I said softly.
“The king is already here at the bishop’s palace, but he will not meet us.”After a pause,Willoughby added,“Your entry is not to be marked. He wishes no ceremony at this time. You are to proceed to Westminster to be placed into the care of your mother. Later, the king will send for you.”
He had said nothing about the wedding, I noted. Thanks be to the Virgin. A little more time—I have a little more time.
At Westminster,I was escorted to my mother by a cluster of armed guards. My reunion with my family was bittersweet. “Mother!” I cried, embracing her. She had changed; always robust, she now had a frail quality about her. But then, she had suffered much. Pity and love swept me and I embraced her again. “O Mother.”
Then I spied my sister. “Cecily!” I cried. I released my mother and hugged her too, my heart gladdened by the sight of her. “ ’Tis so good to see you. I didn’t know I could miss you so much,” I said, laughing through tears.
Cecily laughed back, “Nor I, sister,” she replied, holding me close.
I turned to the others, all standing with faces upturned to me. “Anne, how you’ve grown! And Kate, my sweet Kate, my beautiful Kate—” I swept her into my arms and covered her cheeks with kisses. “And Bridget—” My youngest sister stared at me with round cornflower eyes, her expression one of uncertainty, for five months is a long span in the life of a four-year-old. “ ’Tis so good to see you again!”
My mother took my arm. “You look terrible, Elizabeth. You’ve lost weight. We must fatten you up for King Henry, my dear.” She sent for hippocras and food, and over a repast of olives and the sugared fried bread slices I loved so well, she whispered the details of what had transpired on the twenty-second of August, and it plunged me into a desolation and sorrow of mind I had not known before.
After the battle, Henry Tudor, wearing Richard’s battered crown, rode to Leicester. Richard’s body, naked, bloody, wearing a felon’s halter around the neck, was thrown over a horse. It moved across the bridge at Leicester, and as the wise woman had prophesied, Richard’s head struck the stone wall of the bridge where his spur had scraped on the way to battle. His body was handed over to the monks of Grey Friars Church, but no money was granted for the burial and he lay in a pauper’s tomb, with no headstone. Tudor had entered London two days earlier than I, on the third of September—a Saturday, for he was superstitious and considered Saturday his luckiest day of the week. Borne in a cart, hidden by dark blue velvet curtains, he peered out at the people from behind the slit.
“He is an odd fellow,” breathed my mother, “for he wishes to see without being seen. What is the point of that, I ask you?”
I smiled inwardly. By nature my mother preferred to flaunt, not hide, for she had always loved to be admired and envied. But, indeed, it was strange. The kings I had known enjoyed greeting their subjects. “Were there any crowds to receive him?” I inquired.
“None to cheer him. But none to challenge him either.”
’Tis why he wished me to enter London unnoticed, I thought. How humiliating, if a multitude had welcomed me and not him.
“How many died at Bosworth?”
“Three thousand, almost all on Richard’s side, including Lord Howard, Duke of Norfolk.”
I wanted to ask about Sir Thomas Stafford, but I knew my mother didn’t have that knowledge. No one did, not yet. Thomas was not important enough. “What about the others—Lovell, Ratcliffe, Catesby—and Sir Humphrey Stafford?” I asked.
“Ratcliffe and most of Richard’s knights went with him into that suicidal charge he made against Tudor—against King Henry,” she corrected herself, lowering her voice and throwing a glance at the servants moving about the chamber. “Lovell escaped, but Catesby was hung right after the battle.”
“Without trial?”
“It seems there is no need for trial in this new world of ours,” she went on. Her voice was so low, it was barely audible. “They say Tudor has dated his reign from the day before Bosworth so he could attaint and hang for treason all those who fought for Richard at Bosworth.”
I stared at my mother. Surely this could not be? Attaint and hang men because they fought for their king? With a sweep of the arm, Tudor would send crashing to the ground the rules of chivalry and the code of conduct that had governed men’s actions for centuries. Holy Mother of God, if he was capable of this, what was next?
My mother reached out and with a gentle motion, she pushed against my chin, for my mouth had dropped open in shock.
“The world has changed, my child,” she said under her breath, “and we must change with it. Now get some rest. I’m expecting the king’s mother shortly, and I don’t want her to see you until you look better.”
Lady Margaret Beaufort proved a frequent visitor to our quarters. I had no wish to see her, and so I disappeared before each visit, but she spent much time discussing matters with my mother, who, after her initial tender welcome had reverted to her true, critical nature. I was not gay enough for the king, she feared, nor fat enough; my cheeks were not rosy enough. Her chatter and promises to Margaret Beaufort formed a dim rumble in the background of my days as I spent time at my prie-dieu, praying for Richard and all those dear to me, now lost.
As the days progressed, I learned from the palace whispers that people in the streets were wondering where I was, since they didn’t see me, and that they spoke lovingly of me, for they treasured me for my father’s sake and also for the memory of happier days. Some claimed I was already in London, others said I was preparing for my wedding, and still more were skeptical that the marriage would ever take place.
I listened quietly as my sisters gossiped about King Henry.
“They say he’s secretive and reveals nothing,” said Cecily, turning to me.
I gave her a shrug from the window seat, where I sat poring over Richard’s book, Boethius’s De Consolatione. Boethius had been thrown into prison in the year 800, and, wishing to help others in their time of great travail, he’d written the book to explain God’s purpose in allowing evil things to happen to good people. Knowing how much the volume had meant to Richard, I studied its pages, especially the labors of Hercules, and made notes in the margins. One day, moved by my memories, I copied Richard’s motto on the flyleaf at the back of the book, in an unobtrusive place where it wouldn’t be noticed. Loyaulte me Lie, Loyalty Binds Me. I signed it “Elizabeth.” He had never sent me Tristan, or the portrait I had requested of him, but I had the book that had helped him bear his fate. Now it would help me bear mine, whatever that proved to be.
“How do you feel about marrying Tudor?” Cecily asked.
“I’ve no feelings about it,” I said wearily, “and best that I have none. We are all pawns to family ambitions.”
“Not me. I was a pawn to no one’s ambition but Ralph Scrope’s,” Ceci
ly retorted, with a bitter edge to her tone. After a pause, she added,“Do you think you can grow to love him?”
“As much as you have grown to love Scrope,” I replied.
“What’s ‘love’?” demanded Kate.
“I’m not sure,” replied nine-year-old Anne.
Anne turned to the young nurse brushing her hair. “What’s love?” she asked.
The girl paused in her strokes, a faraway look in her eyes. “They say love can make you believe cinders are flour and old iron is glass. That a felt hat is a jeweled beret, and leeks give honey.”
I looked down at the gloomy scene below. Love lights a fire that turns dismal gray into sparkling silver, I added silently.
“What tripe!” Cecily exclaimed. “If that’s what love is, then it’s merely a form of madness and I’ve no need of it.”
“But they say that when you are in love, you are content with life, no matter how little you have.”
“Psht!” Cecily retorted. “Only a madman is content to be mad, and in want.”
Mother overheard Cecily’s remark as she entered the room. “Your Uncle Anthony had a favorite line he often repeated, heaven knows why. ‘But Venus, who runs the tavern of love, offers hippocras tainted with gall. Half-drunk on love, we are lured to our destruction.’ He always was a romantic fool.”
A tide of desolation washed over me. Uncle Anthony was right, I thought; the apple I picked from Love’s shining tree has turned to ashes in my hands.
Gently, I fingered Thomas’s sapphire brooch that I always wore, and turned the page of Richard’s book, my remnant of love.
WHEN OCTOBER ARRIVED, IT BROUGHT TO MIND A thousand thoughts of Richard when last the leaves had shone gold and fallen from the trees, for the second day of October was his birthday. There had been feasting, and the poor queen had come to the table though she could barely sit for agony. Dear Anne, sweet Anne, she had wanted me to wed Richard. Only love can save him, Elizabeth, she had whispered.
I laid my head against the window pane and closed my eyes, seeing again the wax candles flickering that night, the torches flaring against the crimson and olive of the wall tapestries; remembering the emotion that had lifted my heart above the grief as I looked at Richard’s dark head across the hall.
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 16