I stole a glance at the Beaufort woman. She sat as still and silent as alabaster, waving when I did. Not one person called her name. She knows that the people only accept her son as king for my sake, I thought. I would have to pray for forgiveness later, but for now I couldn’t help taking satisfaction in her discomfort—not for my ego, not for my moment of fleeting glory, but simply because she was a mean and petty woman who reveled in her power over others.
I was touched to see how hard the Londoners had worked to make my coronation perfect. The city glittered. The streets along my route had been washed and hung with tapestries and banners of velvet and silk that streamed and fluttered in the wind. Rotting traitors’ heads had been taken down from the bridge, and the guilds of the city lined the way to Westminster Abbey, every man dressed in the livery of his craft. People had climbed rooftops and walls and stood on balconies to gain a better view, wrapped in blankets against the cold. Their eager faces smiled down at me. Each time my procession rested, the sweet voices of children sang for me, some dressed as angels, others as saints and virgins.
At Westminster, I was entertained with many pageants and marvelous spectacle. Later that night, I took my place at the table in the Painted Chamber for the banquet on the eve of my coronation. The hall was fragrant with the scent of ambergris and rose petals. But the feast drained me. I missed Arthur, and my mother.
The Archbishop of York arrived for my coronation on the following day. It was the first time I’d seen Rotherham since Richard’s court, for he’d left London when Henry had deprived him of the chancellorship. And my memories of him were not fond. I gave him a civil nod and was relieved when he was lost to my view by a throng of spiritual lords and monks who appeared between us. With stately pomp, to the music of minstrels, I proceeded to Westminster Abbey on the path laid out by the carpet of gold, Suffolk bearing the scepter before me, Cecily holding my train, and Jasper Tudor following with the crown. Duchesses in scarlet velvet studded with pearls streamed behind.
Suddenly, a terrible noise filled the air. The men-at-arms had given way and the excited crowd had broken through the barricade. Eager to have a share of the valuable coronation carpet that was the traditional gift to commoners, they rushed forward. Fighting one another for a piece, they tore it into shreds and turned their hands to the hems of my ladies. The duchesses screamed, and everyone fled for safety. Swords flashed, and those who had snatched bits of gold cloth were cut down.
I shut my eyes on an anguished breath, averting my gaze from the bodies being thrown into a cart like trash. The procession reorganized itself and I moved on with a heavy heart, murmuring prayers for the souls of those who had died on my coronation day.
Passing through the west door, I led the way past the choir, toward the pulpit and the royal seat where Morton awaited to celebrate the mass. I had dreaded what lay ahead, but it no longer seemed so terrible in light of what had just happened. I approached the high altar and prostrated myself before him. After he had prayed over me, I rose and opened my gown ever so carefully so that his fish eyes would not see too much as he anointed me first on the breast, then the head. The touch of his fleshy fingers, fat as veal sausages, was clammy, and I had to force myself not to recoil. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, prosit haec tibi unctio—” he intoned, spreading a bejeweled hand.
As the ceremony progressed, my gaze went up to a latticed stage between the pulpit and altar in a far corner high above. There, like two bats in a cave, hidden from all eyes, Henry and his mother watched my coronation. No one understood why they had chosen to do so this way. Only I knew Margaret Beaufort preferred to be absent if she couldn’t share the glory. Yet, in keeping with her character, secretive and sly, she wished to see, and to know, without being seen, or known. It was the new Tudor way. Henry and his mother spied on me now, as they spied on all my people. Is this not the man who came to London after Bosworth peering at his subjects from between the curtains of his litter, shielded from them by a thicket of armed guards?
There had been death this day. Tragedy had marked the triumph of my coronation, as it had marked my life, and once again I’d been powerless to interfere. The sight of the valuable gold cloth had proved too much for the poor. Fearful of the precious item eluding their grasp, they had fought and died for it. I found a cruel similarity between these unfortunate folk and the nobles who had killed one another over power and lands. They, too, had grasped, and snatched, and seized, with no thought to what was right, and it had cost them everything.
That night Richard came to me again in my dreams, swirling in mist. I shall make you proud of me, Richard, I murmured. But he seemed so distant now, and whether he heard or not, I did not know.
As I learned over the next few days from the hushed whispers of the men-at-arms, the tiring maids, my ladies-in-waiting and the scriveners, clerks, varlets and other servants, Henry’s money proved well spent, for my coronation helped him secure his hold on the throne.
“The heir is already born,” they murmured.
“The line of descent clear—”
“The land is gladdened to see King Edward’s daughter honored—”
“Maybe now God will see fit to lift our penance, His scourge of war inflicted for the deposition of kings.”
“Amen to that!” someone whispered.
And a chorus went up, Amen, Amen.
CHAPTER 17
Henry Tudor’s Court, 1488
WE KEPT THE YULETIDE THAT FOLLOWED MY CORONATION at Sheen, Henry’s favorite palace. To the Lancastrian emblems of swans, antelopes, and daisies that abounded on the ceilings and cornices, Henry added his own personal touch. He carved his motto, Dieu et Mon Droit, God and My Right, into the stone of the cloisters, and decorated the entire palace with the entwined roses of York and Lancaster. The “Tudor Rose” was visible on the tiled floors and stonework, the bosses of the wood ceilings, the gilded harnesses of the royal horses, and the green and white tunics of his guards. It even embellished the pages of manuscripts in the royal library. The theme was picked up quickly by courtiers who, anxious to show their loyalty, stamped it into the designs of their gold collars.
Amid feasting, revelry, and music we celebrated New Year’s Day of 1488 with a pageant and a disguising, to which Henry came as Sir Lancelot. Though he had won both Bosworth and Stoke, he had never personally fought in, or guided, a battle, and he lacked the chivalrous demeanor and warrior quality needed to give his role credibility. But fear made people pretend to forget the truth, and elicited gushing praise of his disguise.
A hush fell over the court as Henry’s favorite poet, blind Bernard Andre, took his place in the center of the hall and prepared to recount yet another poem about King Arthur, who had ruled over Britain. Torches were snuffed out to dim the room; candles flickered, smoke drifted in the air, misting my sight. My lids began to close, for the day had been tiring, and I knew what to expect. Aye, there was the first of the prophecies of Merlin that the true heir of Celtic kings would come from Wales, as Henry had done to rescue England from the “tyrant.” I laughed inwardly at the farce of black painted white; and white, black. Has everyone forgotten that when St. George slew the dragon, he was slaying the Devil? Now they pay homage to the dragon . . .
I must have dozed off, for the finale jolted me awake. Welsh harpers and rhymers, well paid and well rehearsed, had joined Andre’s side, and a medley of voices rose to proclaim Henry’s greatness as torches were relit around the chamber and guests applauded.
On Twelfth Night Henry and I wore our crowns. Margaret Beaufort, who had grown more obnoxious now that the danger to her son had lessened with my coronation, showed herself again in a mantle and surcoat that was a copy of mine. Since my crown couldn’t be duplicated, however, she wore a coronet instead.
One afternoon as I embroidered a silk gown for Arthur, Henry’s voice sounded in the passageway. “Come, Lancelot,” he said, appearing in the threshold of my chamber and waiting for his hound to come to him.
“I thought his name was Piers.”
“It was,” replied Henry. “I changed it.”
“Why?” I asked, pretending I didn’t know. Since Lincoln’s rebellion, everything Henry did was designed to make people forget his bastardy and to link him with King Arthur. But all he said was, “Lancelot suits him better.”
That evening at dinner, after the tables had been cleared and the dancing began, I noticed Margaret Beaufort and Morton in deep conversation with a little man in black. “Who is that?” I asked Henry.
“Polydore Vergil is his name.”
“And this Polydore Vergil, where is he from?”
“He is in the employ of the Duke of Urbino.”
“An Italian scholar, then? What does he in England?”
“Nothing yet.” Henry’s voice had a sharp edge to it.
“Why your reluctance to discuss him with me, my lord?”
“Why ask so many questions?” he retorted.
“I was merely making conversation.”
“Then make conversation with Patch.”
I smothered my frustration. My husband was a rude, impossible man. Infinitely suspicious, he considered every question a trap. Something was going on here, and I was determined to find out what it was. Taking Henry at his word, I asked Patch.
“Do you know anything about a man named Polydore Vergil?”
“The Italian with the spindly legs, who always wears black and has an obsequious smile? King Henry is considering having him rewrite English history, my queen.”
“But why an Italian?”
“An Italian can be made to change English history with less difficulty than an Englishman.” He grinned and stood on his head, looking at me quizzically.
I laughed, but not as merrily as I would have wished. Patch was my only friend, and I worried about his loose tongue, for so many others dear to me had been taken from me in one way or another.
On a cold January afternoon, after receiving petitioners, I sought Arthur in the nursery. I was playing Catch Me If You Can with him, and he was running merrily away when Henry surprised me. I caught Arthur and swept him up in my arms, suddenly anxious. “Pray, my lord, I hope ’tis good tidings that bring you here at this early hour?”
“Indeed. I wished you to know that I have decided to arrange a marriage alliance for Arthur.”
“Marriage?” I echoed in bewilderment. I clasped my babe tightly to me and smoothed his hair. “But he’s not even two years old!”
“Do not fret, Elizabeth. Nothing will change. They need not marry until Arthur is grown, nor does the chosen princess need to come to England till then. But a betrothal will secure us an alliance with a foreign power that can only benefit England.”
“Have you given thought to which princess it shall be?” I asked more calmly.
“Who can say what union shall be best for England years from now? But I have gone over the prospects with Morton and my advisors—”
Your mother, I thought bitterly.
Henry made himself comfortable in a chair by the hearth. Clearly, he wished to arrange his thoughts aloud, and for once I was the beneficiary of learning what they were. “A minor sits on the throne of France, and his throne seems none too secure at the present time. Italy is in total confusion. Spain seems the nation most secure. It is growing more powerful, and its royal family has many daughters.”
I gazed at my little one sucking his thumb, his head against my shoulder. I offered him my finger, and his fist closed tightly over it. I kissed his sweet face and looked up at Henry. “I make only one request. Let it not be too soon.”
Henry rose, placed a hand on my shoulder, a tender expression in his hooded eyes as he looked at me.
We kept Easter at Windsor. Once more, Margaret Beaufort replicated my dress while I pretended not to notice. Not long afterward, the Spanish ambassador, Doctor Rodrigo de Puebla, requested a formal audience. He was a one-armed man with a kindly face who wore his empty sleeve tucked into a leather belt. Naturally, Margaret Beaufort was there when Henry and I received him in the State Chamber at Westminster. De Puebla strode in and made us a deep bow. “Sire ... Your Grace ... My lady,” he said, rolling his tongue on the r in the Spanish manner and flourishing his plumed cap to each of us in turn. “I am delighted to inform you that I am the bearer of splendid news destined to make our nations most powerful across all Europe.”
Henry leaned forward in his throne.
The ambassador resumed, “Their excellencies King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain have accepted your marriage proposal for the hand of their second eldest daughter, Katarina of Aragon.”
Unable to control his joy, Henry leapt from his throne. Doffing his hat, he embraced the Spanish ambassador. “Te Deum Laudamus!” he cried. God be praised! By this acceptance he had won recognition as a legitimate monarch by one of the most esteemed houses of Europe.
I STEPPED INTO THE NURSERY. EIGHTEEN-MONTH-OLD Arthur dropped his toy soldier and toddled to me, shrieking, “Mama! Mama!” I swept him up in my arms. Pressing him to my heart, I twirled around the room with him, both of us laughing. “Oh, my precious, how I miss you when I don’t see you! Oh, how good it feels to have your little arms tight around my neck!” I covered him with loud, smacking kisses. The nurses and young rockers in the room smiled, and the men-at-arms at the door turned to watch us with soft eyes. Into my mind flashed the memory of the nobles at the council table when my father had chased me around just before Warwick’s rebellion. I gazed at the dear child I held in my arms.
How much has changed since then! And how much is eternal.
As often as I could between my queenly duties, I sought Arthur’s hugs and listened to his sweet babble that I found so soothing. I was glad I’d stood my ground with Henry’s mother when he was newly born. Settling down in a chair by the window, I fussed over my child, kissing his soft dark hair, his bright gray eyes, his chubby red cheeks. He pointed to the window and told me something impossible to understand, and I told him how much I loved him. “You, my sweet babe, are everything to me, did you know that?” He chuckled at me in a way that delighted my heart.
Not as monarch did I reign, not for ambition either, but to stand as an example to my babe. To teach him the ideals I believed in. To raise a king of strength, honor, and courage; one that would govern our people well.
I kissed the top of his silken head and gave him over to his nurse. It was time to receive petitioners.
“UNCLE EDWARD!” I CRIED, RISING FROM MY SETTLE in pleasant surprise. The last time I’d seen my maternal uncle, Sir Edward Woodville, was at my coronation, and we’d been given no chance to speak privately. I suspected my Uncle Edward was deliberately kept from my presence, like everyone else of my blood except my younger sisters, who posed no threat to Henry. This, despite the fact that he enjoyed Henry’s special favor, for unlike Dorset, he’d never tried to reconcile with Richard and had fought for Henry at Bosworth. But Henry, ever wary of losing his throne, ever suspicious of everyone, still kept us apart.
“ ’Tis so good to see you.” I took his elbow and we moved to a window seat. I smoothed my black silk skirt beside him. “How are you?” I examined his face, lined by time and experience of war and exile. “Why have you not come to see me before? I’ve missed you.”
He avoided the last part of my question, and I knew that I was correct. He had been prevented from visiting me. Now I tensed, wondering what urgent matter had secured him permission to see me.
“I am here to bid you farewell, dear niece,” he said.
A surge of panic swept through me. “Where are you going?” “ ’Tis a little hard to explain, and a secret, so you must not tell anyone.”
“Uncle, whom can I tell? I see no one but servants hired by Henry’s mother, and petitioners whose gifts to me are examined.”
He took my hand. “I know, Elizabeth. These are difficult times. Maybe one day it will be different for you.”
I gave him a nod.
“Elizabeth,
I’m going to war.”
I gaped at him is disbelief. “War? We’re at peace!”
“Officially. But the king is indebted to Brittany for offering him safe refuge during the hard years of his exile, and also to France for funding his invasion of England. Now hostilities have broken out between them, and both seek his aid. He has given them excuses why he can’t take sides, but he feels honor bound to help Brittany. So I go secretly with four hundred men to discharge his debt. The king knows, of course, but when it comes out, he will pretend he didn’t.”
“Oh, Uncle—” I didn’t know what to say. Not coming to visit was one thing, but it was quite another to face death in battle. I might never see him again. Sometimes life itself felt like one long war. Nothing but losses, one after the other.
His voice came again, soft and low. “I saw your mother.”
My lashes flew up. “How is she?”
“Holding up. It’s not easy for her, surrounded by nuns.”
“I know. I pray for her.” The irony of my words was not lost on either one of us, and we smiled at one another.
“She has no visitors, you know.”
“None? Not even some old servants?”
“ ’Tis considered dangerous to see her. No one wishes to take the risk.”
“What of my brother Dorset?” I asked. “Any news when he might be released?”
“It has been almost a year now, but God be thanked, his release is imminent. Be not too hopeful,” he added. “He is not welcome at court and needs to keep his head down for the foreseeable future.”
I bit my lip. We sat in silence for a while, and then we both rose together.
“May God be with you, dear uncle,” I said, with a heavy heart.
“And with you, dear niece.”
As I watched him stride to the water gate and board his barge, I was assailed by an acute sense of loss. I must have had a foreboding, for a few months later I received word that the battle had been lost. The army of Brittany was destroyed, almost to a man. My uncle, Sir Edward Woodville, perished along with everyone he had taken with him.
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 24