Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  ‘She rides through the streets like a queen, does she not?’ Mother asks Agnes. ‘She must think herself so noble, so… She should not be allowed to breathe the air in the Palace of Westminster!’

  Agnes shrugs. ‘In earnest, I didn’t see her, Madam. Just her retinue—very fancy.’

  ‘And she brings the bastards with her, does she? Gloucester’s offspring. And only one of her own! What kind of woman begets a single son and then turns her attentions to caring for two mistakes from her husband’s youth?’

  To my own horror, I let the words pour out, failing once more to suppress my initial reaction. ‘Not everyone has the Woodville hips for childbearing, Lady Mother. Perhaps it was brave to care for babes whom others might have feared to be rivals.’

  ‘My sweet, you do not know what you speak of.’ She strokes my cheek, her composure cooling. ‘If you could remember her and her sister’s betrayals of your father, you would understand.’

  ‘Warwick’s betrayal. He forced his daughters to obey and marry the men that fitted his interests, surely?’

  Mother only sighs. To her, when one errs, all are to blame.

  Elizabeth looks at me as if I was a stray dog lying coated in filth and scab by the roadside. With pity. ‘I only wish you would cease making excuses for our enemies.’ Her voice is barely audible.

  Her—and my own—rescue appears blissfully unaware of the tension as he sticks his head into the room. Sir Thomas balances a refilled flagon of bitter wine and a dish of cheese, bread, and gleaming black olives. He is humming a tune I have never heard before, probably some indecent song that commoners sing when visiting a tavern, his unruly hair shielding his eyes.

  ‘Here we are—’ He trips over Kate’s doll on the floor and regains his balance just in time to keep the flagon from falling. ‘Dear me!’

  The fire burning in my stomach is instantaneously extinguished, a smile tickling my lips instead. What a clumsy youth! Worse than me, which is a nice change from how things usually are.

  Sir Thomas takes the last steps with utmost care, his jaw visibly clenched, then slides the dish and the flagon onto the safety of the table. He looks at us a little too long and a little to boldly, from the pigeon-chested Dorset and the ever-sombre Bridget to Anne with a vividly illustrated manuscript under her arm—and, at last, at me. He pushes back the hair from his face, and for the first time I notice his eyes: like moss and earth shovelled together.

  Thomas clears his throat. ‘Olives? Cheese?’

  ‘Grammercy. We can see to it ourselves,’ Mother says, her hands clasped. There is a note of forced patience in her voice, a note I am well acquainted with.

  ‘Right. I’ll leave you, Your Grace.’

  ‘Prithee, do that.’

  I daresay we would have a merrier supper if he were to stay, but naturally, such a thing is out of the question. I can afford to feel less alone in my flaws; I can even afford to grant him a capricious smile. I cannot afford to speak to a boy who I deem to be the son of an esquire or a merchant, if the ‘Sir’ is a mere courtesy, much less entertain the incredulous thought of being friendly. Princesses are not friendly to subjects, and I am still a princess of York in every respect, regardless of the fears Mother harbours regarding our future.

  Chapter IV

  JANE SHORE IS a woman of unmatched, incandescent wit and a renowned lack of scruples. She fades next to Mother in terms of appearance, despite the years being to her advantage, but something in her kindled Father’s desire and kept it burning longer any other mistress could. I resent her, and I resent myself for forgetting it as soon as I do not see her for more than a day or two. When she demands to see us in sanctuary, I plead with Mother to comply.

  ‘I have a message for you. From Lord Hastings,’ she says and sticks out a hand, waving the neatly folded piece of paper under her former rival’s nose.

  Mother eyes her and slowly takes the letter, cracking the crimson seal. We all—including the old abbot and Sir Thomas, who were discussing practicalities with us when Mistress Shore knocked on the door—watch as the dowager queen scans the lines of ink.

  Dickie tries to peer over her shoulder. ‘What does it say, Lady Mother?’

  She strokes his arm. ‘Lord Hastings wishes to reconcile. He has realised that he was wrong to rally to Gloucester’s side, and says that he will help us bring about your brother’s coronation. There are others who are also willing to aid us in removing Gloucester in return for the Woodvilles’ favour. Bishop Morton, for one, and old chancellor Rotherham, and Thomas Stanley.’

  Her tone rather than her words tell me that she means ‘removing Gloucester from the face of the earth’. The Woodvilles would not feel secure in their positions unless their main opponent had resigned his soul to God.

  I cannot help myself, but at least I manage to sound composed. ‘Why would we need Hastings, or any of those men? Uncle Richard will have him crowned soon enough, won’t he? Must you dispute him so, Lady Mother?’

  ‘Indeed, why do we need Hastings?’ Dorset folds his arms over his chest, his glance flickering back and forth between Mistress Shore and Agnes like a skittish moth. ‘That scoundrel has never been a friend of ours before. Not to me, at least. God’s truth, we need neither Hastings nor Gloucester. We are important enough to make and enforce these decisions without their help.’

  Jane Shore clears her throat with an impish look in her eye. ‘As it happens, I know Will’s mind. He believes Gloucester will try to postpone the coronation ceremony.’

  ‘I know that much,’ Mother says. ‘He will wield power as protector for as long as he can, to keep my kindred from the government.’

  ‘Then perchance you ought to ally with my lord Hastings. You hardly have any other alternatives, do you?’

  ‘Unlike you. You have so many alternatives, don’t you, Jane? Every bed you stumble across presents another one.’

  ‘I did not risk coming here just so you can slander me.’

  ‘No.’ Mother wipes her face blank of emotion. ‘I’ll write a reply for your lord. You may deliver it with my gratitude.’

  My eyes widen in awe as she scribbles a note, folds it over, and presses her seal to the steaming dollop of wax, her own seal, because chancellor Rotherham was made to fetch back the Great Seal from us.

  Mistress Shore slips the letter in her bodice, gives Agnes and Dorset both a quick nod of recognition, and disappears as swiftly as she appeared.

  Kate tilts her head. ‘What did you write, Mama? What did you write?’

  ‘That I intend to raise troops with his aid, and that I require him to swear by the sacrament not to betray us. The same stands true for Morton, Rotherham, and Stanley.’

  Sir Thomas continues to assist us in our daily life. The maids are dismissed from sanctuary, as it is too crowded and we have little need of them, hence he and Agnes become the entirety of our personnel.

  One afternoon, in the midst of the simmering June heat, there is banging on the door, and Thomas bursts into the college hall when Dorset at last opens. His cheeks are flushed and he pants too heavily to say anything comprehensible. The alarm rings louder in my ears with every passing moment.

  ‘Lord Hastings—’ he begins.

  Dorset scoffs. ‘What of that rascal?’

  ‘Dead!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dead. Executed. No longer among the living. Passed over to our Lord Jesus Christ—’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s enough!’

  ‘Why?’ I manage. Cold sweat is breaking out under my chemise.

  Sir Thomas stares at me as if he does not recognise me. ‘On the charge of plotting to harm the Protector of the Realm, Richard of Gloucester. They say there was a council meeting, usual procedure, and the protector’s men stormed the chamber and seized Hastings along with a few others. No trial, nothing except a priest to hear his last confession. Just straight to Tower Green and the axe.’

  My tongue swells in my mouth, making it impos
sible to speak or breathe; my entrails turn over in my belly; my head is burning. Another plot? What about Uncle Richard? And then I understand: the letters.

  ‘No…no trial?’ Anne whispers.

  ‘Only the protector’s word, and the words of other councillors, I was told.’

  Mother reaches for Elizabeth’s hand. ‘And what does London say to it?’

  Thomas purses his lips, shaking his head. ‘Some say aye, others nay. Some are outraged, but many believe the charges to have been genuine. Hearsay is he confessed. I can’t tell for certs. Gloucester has given orders to bury the man in Windsor next to the late King Edward, and his family won’t be attainted, won’t suffer for his crimes.’

  I know what the others must be thinking. If Hastings, who was one of Uncle Richard’s closest friends and allies just as he was Father’s, is not safe in his own council chamber, then who can truly feel secure? Certainly not magnates and royals. Not so long ago, people used to be put to death for treason against the King. Now, the arrests and executions are based on treason against the Lord Protector, and what the actual King thinks is steeped in mist.

  There can be but two explanations to this reckless violence. Either Thomas is mistaken and there really was a proper trial and conviction based on the letters—or my uncle acted out of searing desperation. The only two things that he values above justice and the principles of the law is this: his own ambition and the stability in the country. If Hastings threatened that ambition, whatever it might consist of, or appeared to threaten the stability in England by forging an alliance with my mother… This is the result. We have all seen before what a trusted advisor and friend turned traitor can do if not dealt with at once, because Father pardoned Warwick one too many times. At least there was considerable mercy after the blow towards Hastings had indeed been dealt.

  ‘Was that all? Hastings alone was accused of this?’ Dorset scratches his nose. ‘The rest of us—’

  Thomas cuts him short. ‘No. They say Hastings conspired with Mistress Jane Shore…and the Woodvilles. Sorry, my lord. The protector accuses your mother of trying to murder and utterly destroy him. As I said, other men were arrested, too, and put in prison. Bishop Morton, the old chancellor, Thomas Stanley.’

  ‘This is madness! Madness! How could we have conspired any-damn-thing from here? Not with Anthony and my brother still under lock and key! It was just a silly letter, just a plan in its cradle. And Jane Shore! Her thighs are too big to make room for any malignant conspiracy—’

  ‘Thomas.’ Mother speaks the word through gritted teeth. Her oldest son seems to shrink several inches, his pigeon-chest flattened.

  Kate’s forehead is set in a deep frown, her rose-petal lips in a troubled pout. ‘Why, Mama, why? Not nice!’ She turns her back to us and buries her face in Mother’s skirts.

  ‘I do not know. Perhaps because Buckingham whispers in Gloucester’s ear. And because they both fear my family would have ousted Gloucester from power together with Hastings.’

  ‘Would you?’ I ask. ‘You said you wrote to Hastings about raising troops. Is that not treason? Don’t you know there is naught Uncle Richard fears more than to see England plunged back into the chaos of civil war?’

  I receive no answer.

  The following Sunday, Jane Shore does penance at Saint Paul’s Cross. I am told she walks through the streets barefoot, clad in a flimsy kirtle, convulsively clutching a taper in one hand. The punishment is one for adultery, not treason. Uncle Richard has been lenient; he did not put her on trial regarding her involvement in the Woodville plot but instead reached for the offense everyone already knows Jane to be guilty of, one with a far milder repercussion than high treason. I find it difficult to despise her now—she bore the punishment with great dignity, Thomas says—but no one utters a word of pity here in sanctuary. For once, Mother is well pleased with the Lord Protector’s actions, though she might not have minded seeing Father’s mistress face a grimmer end. Jane Shore could deliver a thousand messages, and Elizabeth Woodville would not look kindly upon her.

  Our windows are heavily shuttered, as always, yet the shouts creep inside the room regardless. I cannot discern any words, but it sounds like a small army. There is the clatter of weapons and the trample of hundreds of pairs of boots, then the unmistakable creak of the great western door opening, robbing us of our most symbolic protection. No boots beat against the floor of the nave or the aisles, though.

  I sit frozen on the bed I now share with Anne, clenching a handful of the covers until my knuckles shine white through my skin. Dickie is sitting on the other end of the bed—I was telling him the tale of Robin Hood—and for the first time since we settled in the abbey, I swear there is a shadow of panic lurking behind the mask of excited cheer.

  ‘Don’t worry. No one dares violate sanctuary. It would make God very vexed.’ I am not so certain of it myself.

  Three echoing bangs sound on the door. I flash Agnes a glance, but she is, to my agitation, looking at Dorset.

  Mother lifts Bridget off her knee and stands up, stroking her gown with her palms to make it fall in even folds around her legs, then tips her chin skywards and takes four long strides to the door.

  ‘Who are you, and what reason do you give for intruding in the house of God?’ Her words are mere show; she possesses no real authority here.

  A man’s voice pierces the door. ‘Thomas Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury, comes to speak with Lady Elizabeth Woodville, wife of the late King Edward IV.’

  ‘You may present your query.’

  ‘You will open the door, Madam, or I shall have it breached.’

  Elizabeth has placed herself by our mother’s side. ‘Open. We want no brutality.’

  Thus, we are faced with six men: four soldiers impeccably dressed in murrey and blue, with the badge of the White Boar staring back at us from their chests, headed by two men draped in clerical robes. One of the churchmen I do not recognise, but the other is the Archbishop. His skin is the colour of cream gone stale, his scalp bereft of a single hair. We watch him like mice watch a cat.

  ‘The Lord Protector of the Realm, in unanimity with the royal council, hereby demands that you place Prince Richard, Duke of York, in his care. The young prince is to join his brother the King’s Grace in the Tower for his own protection.’

  Mother’s cheeks flush yet her voice does not tremble the slightest. ‘No. I will not. My children stay with me. I have not been blind to the actions taken by the protector these past two months.’

  ‘The King wishes the company of his brother and heir. It’s fitting that the young prince should play a central role in the coronation ceremony, after which he will be returned to your loving arms.’ The Archbishop attempts a stiff smile.

  ‘I said I will not.’

  ‘Then, Madam, I have no choice but to allow the men who have surrounded the abbey to take the prince by force. Believe me when I say I have no desire to violate sanctuary, but such are the terms.’

  A silent battle issues as the former queen and the churchman look one another in the eye long and hard.

  At last, Mother buckles. ‘Very well. No harm shall come to my daughters because of your soldiers’ reckless conduct. And you will return my son to me the very minute the coronation has come to pass.’

  ‘Indeed I will. I knew you would see reason, Madam.’

  The cat has selected a mouse. Unbeknownst to the Archbishop, it is me rather than Dickie, because while he glows at the prospect of being reunited with the brother he adores, I can feel claws tearing my heart apart. If my angel is taken from me… Yet I must not let despair overwhelm me. If I am right, the coronation is a week away at most. In a week’s time, then, Dickie will be returned to my loving arms, or all of us will have re-entered London to take our rightful place at the glorious court of Edward V. A coronation… What a splendid thing! I have never attended one before, and I will not now either, unless—

  ‘Can I come?’ I leap to my feet.
‘Can I join my brothers?’

  The Archbishop arcs his sprawling, white eyebrows. ‘Why, ye-es, I presume you may. The Duke of Gloucester will undoubtedly accommodate the princess in great comfort.’

  For a fracture of a moment, I dare hope. I can be with Dickie and confirm that Edward is well and I can attend the coronation! And I will finally escape from this drab hideaway.

  ‘You stay here, my sweet. Gloucester has not commanded your presence, and I’ll be damned if I give up more than I must under his threats.’

  ‘But I want to go—’

  It is futile. I should have known. I wrap my arms around Dickie as tight as I can without hurting him. He raises himself on his toes to place a smacking kiss on my cheek—it seems he grows taller every day—and then takes a hasty farewell of the others, even embracing Agnes.

  The Archbishop puts a firm hand to the prince’s back like a shepherd guiding a sheep, and the small entourage leaves us. Just before the door slams shut, Dickie turns and calls out to me.

  ‘See you soon, Cece!’

  For once, I manage to force my hot tears to sink back into my eyes instead of spilling over. He is right; I can have a thousand of those kisses and a million of those buoyant smiles if I just wait a while. After all, we have our whole lives ahead of us.