Kate turned her enormous fern-green eyes on me. “It takes a special kind of courage to bear what you have borne. Yet you’ve done it with grace and serenity. Did I ever tell you how much I admire you?”
Something stirred in my heart.
“I admire her, too,” said a voice behind me. “But I know I never told her.”
I turned. Cecily stood in the middle of the room, watching us with a smile on her lips. I put out my hand to her and she came to my side. “Are you leaving, Cecily?”
She nodded. “I’ve come to bid you farewell. I don’t know why, but it saddens me to leave you.”
“ ’Tis a long way, the Isle of Wight,” I murmured, seized with a sudden, inexplicable panic that I would never see her again. I swallowed hard on the rising fear. “Not yet—not yet. Stay a little longer, Cecily.”
“I shall miss you, too, Elizabeth. I have thought often of our childhood together. If only we had realized how precious and fleeting that time was.” She gave me a wistful look. “Do you remember the game we used to play on the Saracen carpet, you, me, and Mary?”
“Take me to the stars,” I murmured. “I’d step on first, and speak those words, and you and Mary would follow me, and repeat them. We were always so disappointed that nothing happened.”
Cecily grinned at me. “Then, when we realized we’d never get there this way, we had the brilliant idea of ordering the servants to bring the stars to us.”
“Papa must have had a good laugh at that,” I said.
“But the servants didn’t find it amusing. They avoided us like the plague afterward, remember?”
Aye, I remember.
“Whatever made us think that standing on that silly Saracen rug and raising our right arms would take us to the stars?” Her voice was tender with memory.
I shook my head. “I know not. I only remember how happy I was.” I looked down at Harry, sulking in the garden.
“He has a completely different childhood from ours, doesn’t he?” Cecily murmured, following my gaze.
“He shall be king,” I said sadly.
“They all say he’s our father. But he’s not, is he?”
I inhaled a deep breath. “On the outside, maybe.”
“Who do you think he’s really like?”
I shook my head, pretending I didn’t know, but I was assailed by an overwhelming melancholy. He’s a Tudor, I thought; and Arthur was a Plantagenet.
“I wonder what kind of king he’ll make,” Kate chimed in, and it seemed to me that her words were spoken on a sigh.
“A good one,” I replied, with more hope than conviction.
Cecily slipped an arm around my waist. “Whatever kind of king he makes, surely you know you did your best, Elizabeth?”
Kate followed Cecily’s example and slid a hand around my waist. I threaded mine around theirs and drew both my sisters close to me.
“You did your best.” Kate repeated Cecily’s words, and added, “For us. For everyone. For all England, Elizabeth.”
“Your best,” they echoed softly in unison.
I gave them each a kiss on the cheek, and we stood together before the great mullioned windows, arms linked around our waists, clad in our broad-sleeved black gowns of mourning, gazing down at Harry.
EPILOGUE
The Tower of London In the early hours of February 11, 1503
THE WIND HOWLED AND WHIPPED ABOUT THE TOWER, and as sea birds screeched, voices came to me against the dark of night. Softly they spoke, as if they wished not to awaken me, a gentle soothing murmur on the shadows. They talked of the christening, always a splendid affair with canopies and candles, processions and song. Aye, it was best to have it done soon; the child, Katherine, was frail, and one never knew. The man’s voice faded and a woman’s rose, lifting the melancholy. But God be praised, the other children were well. Prince Harry was strong and sturdy, and naught could happen to him for he no longer attempted to escape his confinement, and they need not fear he would break his neck in the hunt, since he was no longer permitted such sport. He would live long, God willing.
Length of life is length of woe, I said, but they didn’t hear me.
Silence came and went, broken by exchanged whispers. It was the servants, bless them.
“It shall be good to have the queen back again, won’t it? ’Tisn’t the same without her—the castle is glum, stern somehow. She always brings joy and has a pleasant word for everyone, a smile; a gift. So fair she is, even now, golden hair like an angel, that one.”
“Elizabeth the Good,” said another voice. “ ’Tis no wonder the king likes to while away the evenings in her chamber.”
“There shall be a christening . . . another celebration.”
There came the sound of a log being thrown on the fire. I heard the flames licking and devouring the wood, and I thought of Sheen, and Dickon . . . Or was it Perkin?
“You shall be well soon, Elizabeth.” My sister’s voice.
Poor Kate, whatever got into Henry? Always so suspicious, so frightened. I had tried to allay his demons, but without success. Now William was in the Tower. But then, Sir Humphrey Stafford laughed and pointed to a hound, and I forgot about Kate and laughed with him. A friar appeared at Humphrey’s shoulder. Thomas, you’ve been gone a long time! I missed you so. I lifted my lips, and he kissed me, then he gave me a breviary, but a child tugged at my skirts, and I had to let him go. It was Arthur, three years old, in his plumes. Arthur, I cried. But Arthur disappeared, and in his place stood Edward of Warwick, holding out a handful of soil to me. I wrapped my arms around him and smoothed his golden curls. It’s all right, Edward. Today is my birthday. We shall have marchpane—see, King Richard comes to join us. There he is—there in the mist, on his white horse, strumming his lute,
For the time was May-time, and blossoms draped the earth.
Wine, wine—and I will love thee to the death
And out beyond into the dream to come.
All at once his song ceased, and he was gone. It was quiet around me, and my body felt as heavy as marble. I could no longer move any part of it: not my hands, feet, or even my lids. There was no pain, but breathing was slow and difficult. Though I heard voices, I no longer recognized them; everything seemed faint, faraway, echoing as if in a dream. A flurry of sounds dimly penetrated my consciousness: footsteps, a medley of hushed voices, the rustle of fabric permeated by a stale odor. I held my breath. Someone leaned over and I heard them murmur,“My lady, ’tis the king.”
A wild joy erupted in my breast, filling my cold body with the heat of sunshine and an ineffable, inexplicable lightness. My eyes opened, my head lifted, and a wide smile came to my lips; it seemed to me that I could even raise my arms for an embrace.
“Richard!” I cried.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Devastated by Elizabeth’s death, Henry VII shut himself away to grieve for his queen and threw her a lavish funeral at which Elizabeth’s sister, Katherine, was chief mourner. Historians agree that Elizabeth exercised much influence over Henry VII for good, since, after she died, his character began to degenerate and his acts grew more violent, debased, and vile.1 Katherine’s husband, William Courtenay, remained imprisoned in the Tower until Henry VII’s death and was freed by Henry VIII, but he was in poor health by then, and lived only nine months after his release. Katherine was much impoverished during her lifetime. Her son, Henry, was later executed by Henry VIII.
In order to keep from returning Catherine of Aragon’s dowry, Henry VII offered to marry the young widow himself. Isabella of Spain was repulsed. She was anxious to have her daughter back, even if a betrothal with the second son could be arranged, for it was no longer honorable, she said, for her daughter to remain in England under such protection.2 In retaliation, Henry reduced Catherine’s allowance and left it unpaid often enough that the young princess was forced to beg for her sustenance and lived as a virtual pauper for some years.3
Henry VII died on April 21, 1509, most likely from consumption, after ma
ny failed attempts to secure for himself a rich royal bride, preferably one who was young and beautiful and had “sweet breath.” To recover his health, he took to drinking the blood of sanguine young men.4 Like his mother, who lived only three months longer than her son, he met death in an abject emotional state, weeping and praying, and in horror of a horned devil diving into his throat to seize his soul. In his will he implored the Virgin that “the ghostly enemy nor none other evil or damnable esprit, have no power to invade me,” a reference that Perkin Warbeck’s biographer sees as carrying a final echo of his struggle with the pretender.5 By the time of his death Henry VII was a reviled despot known for his “murders and tyrannies” and rapacious extortions.6
Virtually nothing has survived of Elizabeth, no letters or private thoughts; little that she said or did was recorded, though her vegetarianism was noted for posterity.7 This is curious, since so much is extant about this period in all other respects. Francis Bacon says that Elizabeth Woodville thought her daughter “not advanced but depressed,” meaning she considered Elizabeth not a true queen, but a puppet.8 Despite this, the fact that Elizabeth was a gentle force for good and beloved by her people for her acts of charity and compassion cannot be disputed. In the words of her biographer, she “brought hope to those in despair, comfort to those in pain, and restraint to those in power.”9 That she managed to develop an affectionate relationship with one of the most unlovable of English kings is remarkable in itself.
Historians describe Elizabeth as an enigma, holding a separate, virtually unvisitable, and invisible court, emerging from the shadows only occasionally, and always with Margaret Beaufort at her side, usually dressed in a replica of her gown.10 The Spanish ambassador, de Puebla, wrote to his sovereigns that the queen was kept in subjugation by her mother-in-law. Indeed, Margaret Beaufort emerges as one of the principal figures of this reign, and in contrast to Elizabeth, much is known about her, including her persecution of the widows of loyal servants, her ordinances, and her revered patronage as the benefactress of universities.11 The contrast between these two women is striking, hence my conclusion that Elizabeth of York, a prize to the Lancastrian victor of Bosworth, was held in virtual captivity by Henry Tudor and his obsessive, domineering mother for most of her married life.
A great deal has been made of Margaret Beaufort’s piety, but some historians have cast doubt on its sincerity.12 They see her as a manipulative political creature, a woman who married her fourth husband with unseemly haste, before her third husband was even buried, in order to elevate her influence in the Yorkist court.13 The splendid furnishings with which she surrounded herself denote someone more worldly than spiritual, unlike Elizabeth, who wore tin buckles on her shoes and gave most of her money away to those in need.14 In 1503, Margaret Beaufort fought Henry for her manor of Woking, which he decided he wanted, and she finally recovered it a few weeks after his death,just before her own. According to many historians, she was a calculating, unprincipled plotter.15 Sir William Cornwallis considered Richard III’s clemency in allowing her to live a “weakness” in his rule that led to his fall.16 Both Sir George Buck and Cornwallis see her as dangerous and a woman of pitiless ambition for her son. But Richard III, the last of the medieval kings and a protector of women, could not have done otherwise, given his character. With him at Bosworth Field died the Age of Chivalry, and it was left to the Tudors to impoverish, terrorize, and butcher women.
Bishop John Morton, friend, advisor, and fellow schemer of Margaret Beaufort and Henry VII, who received a cardinal’s hat at the behest of his benefactors, was so hated during his lifetime that Henry VII felt obliged to pass a special act making it treason for anyone to contemplate his death. Morton has been called a plague; it was said that when he died, England was delivered of a pestilence.17 His great claim to fame nearly six hundred years later, after service to three kings, is the argument he devised that extorts money from rich and poor alike, known as “Morton’s Fork.”
Such then are the forces that molded the future Henry VIII. According to the biographer of his childhood, at seventeen he was no blank page. An angelic youth, “a divine prince,” his ascension was hailed as the dawn of a new and glorious age. On his death thirty-seven years later, he left behind a horrific record of egotistical greed and brutality unrivaled by any other English monarch. Some point to syphilis as the cause of this incredible transformation, or to the blow to the head that caused him to lie unconscious for two hours. The most recent medical view is that the head injury did no lasting damage and that syphilis can be ruled out. During his life, Henry VIII showed no other sign of the disease, and had he been treated for syphilis, his ambassadors would have known, because this was a lengthy, drastic, and unpleasant process.18 The medical consensus is that his condition was either a varicose ulcer or osteomyelitis.
On this basis, his childhood biographer concludes that there was no radical change in personality and that characteristics prominent in middle age were latent in his golden youth. Henry VIII was the product of heredity, which includes his Woodville and Beaufort grandmothers, and his father, who gave him his first lesson in political murder at age eight. The gentling influence of his mother was removed from his life when he was eleven years old. Environment, which might have lightened the burden of his genes, instead reinforced his sordid tendencies by the example of Cardinal Morton and the teachings of Henry VIII’s vengeful tutor, the misogynist John Skelton. This is the basis for his characterization portrayed in this book.
My treatment of Elizabeth’s feelings for her uncle is based on several clues. Queen Anne and Elizabeth of York did appear in the same gown on that last Christmas of Richard’s life, giving rise to rumors of an illicit love affair that Richard was obliged to deny at the hospital of the Knights of St. John in Clerkenwell. Elizabeth could not have replicated the queen’s gown without her permission; therefore, the copy must have been coordinated between them. According to Sir George Buck, Elizabeth wrote to John Howard, Duke of Norfolk, declaring her love for King Richard and her hope of becoming his wife. In Buck’s words, the letter asks Norfolk “to be a mediator for her to the King, in behalf of the marriage propounded between them,” who, as she wrote, was her “only joy and maker in this world,” and that she was his in heart and thought, and in Buck’s words, “withall insinuating that the better part of February was past, and that she feared the Queen would never die.” The letter has been lost, but I trust my portrayal of Elizabeth’s motivation and the circumstances that surround its formulation are legitimate and based on probability.
More clues to Elizabeth’s feelings for her uncle can be found in the books of King Richard’s library. Among them is Tristan, which Elizabeth of York clearly read and treasured as a young woman at a time of crisis in her life when she was neither princess nor queen. An emotional involvement is suggested by her mysterious motto, Sans Removyr,“without changing” (never used by her again) inserted below Richard’s ex libris.19 A copy of De consolatione philosophiae by Boethius also carries her notations in the margins and is inscribed on the flyleaf with a fascinating combination of Richard’s motto, Loyaulte me Lie, “Loyalty Binds Me,” and Elizabeth of York’s first name, both in her handwriting.
There can be no doubt that Henry VII was a cold husband.20 The Spanish ambassador, de Puebla, wrote to his sovereigns that Elizabeth was “in need of a little love.” Given her loneliness, it would be reasonable to assume that she remembered the shining impression of King Richard and looked back with yearning on a time when life had held out hope and a measure of happiness.
A final question remains: were the princes murdered, or did they survive?
Henry Tudor was as plagued by rumors that the boys were alive as Richard was by rumors that they were dead. In order to rewrite history and change Richard’s reputation from hero to villain, the victor of Bosworth pursued the destruction of any documents unfavorable to his own version of events, including the Titulus Regius, the record of King Richard’s Parliament that gave Richard’s
reasons for taking the throne and enacted legislation to protect the innocent. It is indeed fortunate for posterity that one obscure copy was missed. Documents that could exonerate Richard, such as Perkin Warbeck’s letter of identity, or those proving Edward IV’s bigamy, may have existed, but failed to survive. This is not surprising. The parties involved, including Perkin Warbeck, were imprisoned, and Warbeck was subjected to such torture in the summer of 1498 that the Spanish ambassador expected him not to live much longer.
As noted by one of King Richard’s biographers, had he won Bosworth, his “usurpation,” like that of Henry IV, would have been disregarded in the brilliancy that marked his kingly career. Furthermore, had it not been for King Edward IV’s own shortcomings, Richard of Gloucester would never have found himself obliged to accept the throne and would have been commemorated by posterity as a prince of vigorous mind, sound judgment, and enlarged views, and as an able general, a dutiful subject, and a just and upright man.21
But history is written by the victors, and Henry VII perfected the art of propaganda with his use of misinformation.22 Though the Tudors were anxious for history to believe that the princes were murdered and that Richard III committed the deed, there are some compelling pieces of evidence in favor of Richard’s innocence. A fact often overlooked is that Richard had three little nephews who were legally barred from the throne. The Tudors would have us believe he murdered two of them, but not the third—Clarence’s orphaned son, Edward, Earl of Warwick. Richard brought this child to live with him in his household, and as soon as Richard was slain, Henry Tudor imprisoned the boy, then eleven, in the Tower of London. Thirteen years later, he beheaded young Warwick on a pretext of treason, so that his son, Prince Arthur, could inherit a throne unchallenged by a rightful heir and marry Catherine of Aragon. Later, Queen Catherine would say that her marriage had been made in blood.
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 41