Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  ‘I know it. Though surely, Anthony is an admirable man if one were to place him next to his nephew.’

  ‘You see more than I give you credit for. Yes, I wager Dorset will be the end of us, the way he encourages the King’s vices.’

  I gnaw on my lip, eager to blot out the images crowding in my mind. My half-brother Dorset and William Hastings may not be keen on one another, but they have both found common ground with Father in his debauchery, lining up harlots for sharing like pearls on an endless necklace. Queasy, I flit to an easier topic.

  ‘How is the north these days?’

  ‘With God’s good grace, I hope to capture the Scottish stronghold of Berwick shortly. Then, the invasion must proceed.’ Uncle Richard touches his cup to his lips but does not drink.

  ‘And what of my marriage?’ The hennin is slipping again. ‘Why all this warring when an advantageous alliance can be obtained through diplomacy?’

  He scoffs, a shadow crossing his eyes for a fragmented moment. ‘You know not what you speak of, dear niece.’ He regains his chivalric disposition. ‘I do what His Grace decrees, and I am certain you cannot doubt your own father’s methods for enhancing the weal of England.’

  ‘But you doubt his methods at times, do you not?’

  To my relief, Uncle Richard simply arches a crescent dark eyebrow and emits a soft laugh. ‘There have been moments, yes, though we are united in this Scottish endeavour. I do promise you this: if a Scottish king does not eventually wed you, I shall make them repay your dowry for certs.’

  I bask in his piercing gaze, absorbing the satisfaction of not being dismissed as a frivolous little girl grown too big for her boots. The dowry—twenty-thousand marks paid in instalments in advance—would be a dire loss indeed.

  ‘Richard! Brother! Won’t you lead our dearest daughter in a merry dance? It is her fourteenth birthday, after all,’ the King calls from his grand chair.

  Ha! I have never been his dearest daughter, and I am thirteen, but I say nothing of it. That voice alone could command a stormy sea to turn mellow.

  ‘As you wish, Sire.’ Uncle Richard bows his head, but the King is once more occupied with devouring the rich dishes lining the table.

  The Duke of Gloucester turns to me instead. ‘And what tune shall we have?’

  ‘Something fit for the saltarello.’

  ‘I see.’ He gestures to the minstrels, who are already tapping their drums impatiently.

  To my delight, the courtiers withdraw to the corners of the great hall, clearing a circular space for the performance. I cannot recall a time when I did not dance, truly, I cannot. Mother’s most frequent praise is regarding my so-called natural graces—graces she no doubt wish would appear on other occasions, too, but it is only music that can lure them forth. And to perform the saltarello gracefully is a distinguishing feat, for the skipping steps and lively turns are an art in themselves.

  I bend my knee in a curtsey, mirroring my uncle, and so the dance begins. I flash Father my brightest smile in an attempt to hold his attention, and succeed for a moment.

  Uncle Richard’s face, though, is a mask of solemn concentration. He can rule his domains with steadfast resolve, he can deal the blows of justice in the name of the King, he can read all the knightly manuscripts—but dancing is not one of his skills.

  I skip and jump and twist and turn to the joyous tune, the hem of my embroidered kirtle flashing beneath my murrey gown. If only I were older, or taller for my tender age, I might cut a fine figure. As the dance draws to a close, I curtsey once more to the high table.

  Mother smiles, the lines around her eyes deepening. People say she was the most stunning damsel in all of England once; now, the years and the hardships, not to speak of twelve child beds and countless infidelities, have carved a weariness on her face. But when she smiles...when she smiles, it is as if the sun has broken through a crust of clouds, the sharpness in her dragon-eyes glossed over. Men could die for that smile, and I doubt not some have done just that.

  The musicians pick another melody and the courtiers swarm the dance floor once more.

  Uncle Richard clears his throat. ‘I must be gone, Cecily. My wife is ardent for my return, and Scotland will not wait forever—it is as adversary as when I left.’

  ‘I thought you would stay longer.’ I push down my dismay. ‘God grant you victory, and do give my greetings to your Anne.’

  He smiles, as he does so often when I refer to his wife as ‘your Anne’, and is gone.

  I am left with a hotly brewing blend of emotions in my chest. If my uncle is victorious in his endeavour, as he certainly will be, Father will have to find me another husband than the then-defeated Scottish Prince James. I would not mind that. It is not James—a boy I have never met—in particular whom I yearn for, but the wondrous thing that is a coronet. Yes, as long as I can still wed a prince or in the very least a duke, I do pray Scotland perishes to our English swords.

  That same eve, as Agnes—one of my women, low in birth but high in spirit and often my sole confidante—liberates my hair from the hennin and brushes out the wealth of burnished gold, I recount to her every single moment of the feast. These intimate nights are dear to us both. Agnes can gorge in gossip and I can prattle mindlessly on without fear of being scolded. With logs crackling in the fireplace, spewing sprinkles of ember and fire, and the lush tapestries in my bedchamber remedying the chill of stone walls, it is little wonder I feel as if my heart is enveloped in pure warmth.

  Agnes’ eyes dart from my head to our reflection in the silver mirror and back again. ‘And what did the White Boar of Gloucester say of your betrothal? Still not looking reliable, hmm?’

  My hair tangles in the comb as I twist around to look at her. ‘You speak too boldly.’

  ‘Pardon, then, love.’ An amused smirk. ‘You ne’er really minded before, now, did you? You suffer from the same tendency.’

  I roll my eyes. She is right. Almost every evening she speaks out of turn for a woman in her position, and always, always I overlook it and the cycle repeats itself. In truth, I wish for her to speak thus; she is nigh on twenty years old, far more worldly than I could ever hope to be, and her honesty makes her irresistible to me. Another mistress might have dismissed her long ago, yet I cannot think of anyone who would share the same understanding with me.

  ‘No, not particularly reliable. I...I almost think it won’t ever come to pass. They cannot seem to make proper peace, but then that is only what one ought to expect from those savage Scots.’

  ‘Won’t you be queen then, love?’

  I knit my brows. ‘I must be. My father the King’s Grace will find someone else. I know it. If not a queen, then perchance duchess. My uncle was a dear today, he truly was, though he is not as marvellous a dancer as he is a magnate.’

  ‘Pah! His brother of Clarence was the prettiest dancer I ever saw, except for you, love, and no merry-go-round could ‘ave saved that churl,’ Agnes grumbles, pulling the brush through my hair in long, energetic strokes.

  ‘Of course not. One does not defect to Lancaster and the ungodly without facing retribution. He was a fool, Agnes, a fool worse than the jugglers who entertained us last Michaelmas. And to think he loved malmsey! Well, loved it a little too much until it was a little too late.’

  I count to seventy-three before she begins to braid my hair with flick fingers, a crease of concentration on her forehead.

  I study my cuticles intently, desperate not to retire to my bed. ‘I wish I was more like you.’

  ‘What for? You’re as beauteous as the White Rose you so adore.’

  ‘Not that.’ I am beauteous enough. Accomplished enough. There is a difference between reaching the mark and truly shining. ‘I mean...I mean I wish I could always speak as freely as you and not cause a fair scandal.’

  ‘And I wish I had your fancy slippers and all the rest of the sparkly things. Want to trade?’

  A giggle escapes me. ‘No, no I sup
pose not.’

  ‘Thought so.’

  In May, my sister Mary is taken gravely ill at the Palace of Placentia, Greenwich. The fever holds her in a merciless grip, and the physician claims her pulse is faint as a fluttering moth. Her throat swells to twice its normal size, reminding me of the exotic snake that one of Father’s favoured merchants brought from the Far East. When it swallowed a dead rabbit in a single bite, its pasty yellow body bloated enough to make me nauseated for a full evening.

  When Mary opens her mouth, it is coated in a thick, grey mass, just like her nostrils. She cannot speak, cannot swallow. Her breaths are shallow and quick, constantly interrupted by fits of barking coughs, and her hair lies slicked with sweat against her temples.

  Mother is sunk down on the edge of the bed, stroking Mary’s cheek, helpless.

  I stand outside the locked door, peering through the keyhole, Anne and Kate cramming to share my view.

  ‘Move, Cece, move!’ Kate squeals. She has not yet turned three and would have to be hoisted up to be able to see anything.

  ‘Hush! Mother is with her.’ I put a firm hand on Kate’s tiny shoulder to keep her from bouncing with curiosity. ‘And you do not want to see it. It’s ghastly.’

  ‘Why? Why? Is she going to die?’

  ‘I...no.’ I bend down and scoop up Kate in my arms, turning from the door. Anne trots diligently at my heels as the three of us flee from the odours of disease, slippers clicking against the polished stone floor.

  Mary is buried in Saint George’s chapel at Windsor. I weep with my sisters, but my own tears contain only a sliver of the sorrow in our mother’s dry eyes. I always thought Mary too little—too shy, too boring, too sickly—yet that is what made her the greatest object of our mother’s care and concern. Yes, Mother has doted on Mary like a fragile pet as long as I can remember.

  Father does not attend the funeral, just as tradition would have it, and regardless, he is caught up in the preparations for the invasion of Scotland. The situation has turned on its axis, because King James’ disaffected brother, the Duke of Albany, has landed in England and travelled to Fotheringhay to sign a treaty with Father. Albany is to be our puppet king upon the throne of Scotland, and in exchange for English military aid to depose James, he vows to wed me if he manages to annul his current marriage.

  Uncle Richard joins the two other men at Fotheringhay, and together, he and Albany depart for Scotland with an army of twenty-thousand men-at-arms and an assemblage of English lords. Among said lords are not only Uncle Richard’s northern counterpart the Earl of Northumberland, but Dorset and one of my maternal uncles, Edward Woodville. I can only imagine the chafing against raw nerves. Father, though, is not part of the chain of command, not this time. He may have been the most awe-inspiring warrior in this land during his youth, taller than most and with the strength and unhesitating courage of a lion, but that is a fading image at best. The wine and food that used to fuel his rampages now accumulate at his midsection; his indulgences have made the years come quicker and more cruelly to him than nature might have deemed fit. It has been thus for a decade now, his decline creeping on ever since he settled to rule a peaceful kingdom after reclaiming his crown from Lancaster in 1471. At last, he tasks his younger brother to do what he himself is no longer capable of: heading an invasion. I believe it is wise, and I tell him as much.

  In August, the entire enterprise collapses. James III is huddled up in Edinburgh Castle, held prisoner by his own lords but safe nonetheless, and Albany is at odds with the Scottish nobility. The possession of a king, or at least a man likely to become king, is as vital to a coup as blood is to the human body. Moreover, my uncle lacks the resources to besiege Edinburgh—or rather, the royal coffers do not contain enough resources, Father having spent lavish sums on luxuries not even I fancy myself. At least, that is what I discern from the hushed voices I hear behind closed doors and how I see the courtiers arch their eyebrows.

  Uncle Richard does capture Berwick, the pivotal stronghold that the Lancastrians surrendered to Scotland once upon a time. Father sings his praise for days on end, and I am dangerously tempted to tell him God’s honest truth: his brother could have done so much more if given reasonable circumstances.

  I have now been twice betrothed to a Scottish claimant, and I am heartily weary of it. Albany has abandoned his vow to marry me, swapping sides once more to reconcile with his brother. I cannot help but to think of him as the Scottish Clarence.

  ‘Father told me Uncle Richard extracted an agreement from Edinburgh to repay my dowry,’ I say as Mother and I stroll through the garden at Greenwich.

  The lawns stretch out before us like lush green carpets, soaked in dew and morning sun. The air is heavy with the scent of roses velvety to the touch.

  Mother’s face twists. ‘Yes, Gloucester can be so frightfully handy, my sweet.’

  My sweet. That is what she called Mary, always. It appears the nickname has passed on to me, although it would have suited Anne better.

  ‘Did you hear the news, Lady Mother? Did you hear about the French Woman?’

  Marguerite d’Anjou, the ill-fated Lancastrian Queen, has finally wasted away in her native land after her cause died with her son and heir on the battlefield of Tewkesbury.

  Mother licks her peachy lips, calling to mind a sated cat. ‘Yes, I heard. God has called her to him at last. Methinks it was the first and only time he touched that wretched strumpet’s soul. Don’t drag your skirts in the dew, Cecily, please.’

  I grab the folds of my gown and hitch up the hem above the grass we are treading over, perhaps a little too high, struggling to glide forward like Mother.

  As we approach the palace, I cannot contain myself any longer. ‘You must be pleased. Marguerite lost and you won, did you not?’

  ‘Edward won the crown—I won in my marriage. Never forget that. Women win through whose wedding band they put on their finger, not through whom they slay on the battlefield. If you cannot alter the rules of the game, you must learn to master them.’

  ‘I will, Lady Mother.’

  Elizabeth Woodville has indeed won, for never before did England see an impoverished widow catch the all-consuming eye of a king, not to mention a king five years younger than she, and the enemy of her late husband. As long as Father lives, England is at the Woodvilles’ feet. Perhaps that is why England has not grown to love her.

  Chapter II

  THE FISHING TRIP my father takes in late March the following year turns out not to be as inconsequential as we assumed; mayhap it put his humours in imbalance. The physicians cannot pronounce a definitive diagnosis, and as the King takes to his bed on Easter Sunday, the court is like a choir of chattering monkeys. Some speak of poison, others of a fever or chill. Still others blame his escalated debauchery and indulgence in food and drink and women, indulgences encouraged by certain close advisors and in-laws. I do not know which rumour to credit. I only know one thing: Father was expected to live for many more years, having always had a reputation for being virile and strong, and his heir is not mature enough to rule on his own. England has had boy-kings before, rarely successful.

  The last one, Henry VI, was an infant when the crown passed to him, and look where that got us, with our territories in France lost. Of course, nothing much improved after Henry of Lancaster came of age, because never was there a man more unlike his lion for a father, never was there a man less interested in ruling England or less capable of doing so. Indeed, he always preferred the chapel to the presence chamber, would rather sit idly under a tree than visit his wife’s bed or confer with his despairing councillors, and then came the bouts of catatonic stupor.

  Ed, on the other hand, is a clever boy, a promise of greatness with duty in his eyes and confidence in his step, but it was no more than a year since he played with Dickie in the great hall.

  Unlike when Mary was ill, we are allowed to visit Father’s bedside, for the physicians have not noted anyone else catching his ailm
ents during the ten days since Easter Sunday. Mother is as pale as if it was she who had been subject to bloodletting in search for a cure, her lips pressed tight, gaze pinned to her husband’s massive hands. Those hands are dear to all of us, but she must know them better than anyone else.

  ‘Don’t fret, Lis,’ he mutters. ‘You will be the mother of the King. Our son will not deny you any comfort…’

  ‘I know. I know.’ She nods. ‘Don’t leave me, Edward, not after all this. Not after everything I have lost for your sake—’

  I frown. Did she not once speak to me about winning? Perhaps she means something else, perhaps she means the hardships, her own father and brother perishing. There was a price to pay for glory, I suppose.

  Father beckons for Elizabeth to come closer. She is an oasis of serene, cool grace, yet I know she is feeling as wretched as the rest of us, if not more. It burns my eyes more than the tears I myself cannot hold back.

  The King clasps her slim hand. ‘I’m sorry...about France. That bastard Louis…’

  ‘No matter, Papa. I shall rejoice to wed whomever Lady Mother sees fit. And I’ll pray for you, Papa…’ Her voice trails off before it can begin to tremble.

  ‘Good girl.’

  Even through my curtain of tears, I feel the tiniest inkling of glee, and shame over that inkling. Elizabeth is no longer styled Dauphine, but like me, she is presently unspoken for on the marriage market.

  Father calls each of us forth, placing a faint kiss on our cheeks. ‘Anne…’ he says when I dip down to receive his blessing.

  ‘No, Papa. Cecily.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  I know he loves me. I also know Elizabeth and his sons are the only children who bear a truly distinct mark in his love.

  Dickie, always the wide-eyed angel and soon to be heir presumptive to his brother Ed, receives his due farewell.

  Finally, Father says, ‘Dorset…Hastings…Come

  hither.’

  Mother’s eldest son from her first marriage, the Marquess of Dorset, and my father’s chief advisor, William Hastings, obey after a moment’s hesitation. Both are imposing figures in their robes of heavy black brocade and gold chains; however, Dorset is more than a score of years younger and markedly more handsome. The acrimonious glances passing between them are clear for all to see, but at least they maintain greater sobriety and discretion here than in their usual habitat of wine-sodden carousing.