Princess of Thorns

by Saga Hillbom

  I put the letter aside and my hands on the windowsill, leaning forward with my whole weight, the rough edges of bricks and mortar carving into my palms. The warm breeze caresses my skin, softer than silk. I breathe the fragrance of fresh grass. The tower’s five stories place me wonderfully high above the ground, allowing me to gaze out over the hills. I squeeze my eyes shut, for I do not want to see all this cursed beauty, not today. My fingers trace the tiny diamonds on my broach, which is pinned to my bodice as always, feeling the familiar curves and edges.

  England has only had two other kings named Richard, and both met premature, gruesome deaths. This time, it will be different. All will be well. It must be.

  At dawn three days later, a blood-spattered and battered Geoffrey arrives from Redemore Plain and pronounces the sentence.

  The King is dead. Long live the King.

  Chapter XIII

  GEOFFREY HAS TO empty three cups of our strongest wine before he can compose himself enough to give us an account of the battle. He has ridden for days on end, nearly spurring his horse to its death, and is as exhausted as he is splotched with red. Mother, Elizabeth, John of Gloucester, the Warwick siblings, and I swarm around him as he collapses on a stool in the solar. Mother shuts the door and turns the key before my younger sisters can slip inside, the story we are about to be told promising to be too horrid for their tender ears.

  I cannot bring myself to sit down, because my instincts scream at me to run, run far away from this misfortune. My eyes hurt from crying and my breath comes in shallow gasps. The world is breaking into a thousand sharp pieces, piercing my skin.

  Through a haze of tears, I glimpse the others’ faces. Meg, too, is weeping, while her brother sits wide-eyed and unusually quiet. John of Gloucester is paler than eggshells, almost transparent, and perchance just as fragile. In a matter of hours, he has transformed from Captain of Calais and the acknowledged son of a king, albeit baseborn, to the offspring of a so-called tyrant.

  Elizabeth sits square-shouldered and still as a statue, though I spot not only muted relief but flickers of genuine grief in her face. In Mother, the former sentiment is painfully obvious, dominant.

  Geoffrey wipes blood from his cuticles with a damp rag and fills his strained lungs with air. ‘Oxford…the man crushed Howard’s vanguard. Howard was struck down…panic spread among the men.’

  ‘What about Northumberland? He should have come to the rescue, surely?’ I clench my fists, pacing along the table.

  ‘Indeed. No one yet knows why he did not. Perhaps the terrain did not allow it. I’m sure there is a perfectly honourable explanation. Though some say…no, it is of little importance now.’

  ‘And…and then?’

  ‘I was mounted on my horse. King Richard caught sight of Tudor and his red dragon standard, and ordered a cavalry charge. I believe he rolled the dice, so to speak. We skirted the shattered vanguard and—’

  John shakes his head in disbelief, his hands trembling. ‘A cavalry charge? My father would have seen the danger he exposed himself to.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Still, the battle would have been won in an instant with Tudor dead, and I do believe his honour did not permit him to let another man do the hazardous task in his stead.’

  Mother calls for a servant to bring Geoffrey a platter with refreshments, always the masterful hostess. ‘Continue, Sir Geoffrey. Methinks we all want to hear the ending to this tale.’

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone fight so ferociously. He killed many an opponent before a man gutted his horse and he was forced to continue on foot. He was close—Tudor had taken shelter behind his body guard but I could see him clearly, and the King struck down his standard bearer.’

  ‘How did my uncle die?’ I force the words from behind my teeth. Die. It feels surreal to pronounce it.

  ‘They attacked en masse. They battered and sliced at his head, knocking his crown and helmet off. When he eventually sunk to his knees and folded over, a man swung his halberd at the back of his skull. The carnage was…’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘It was a morbid sight. When they were certain of his death, they stripped him of his armour and continued to beat him. I only caught a glimpse of his body before spurring my horse to retreat, but I could no longer recognise his face for all the blood gushing down from his scalp. We fled, the rest of us. Tudor’s men slaughtered many as we did so.’

  I swallow. ‘His…his body? Are they going to bury it?’

  ‘I know not, Sister. There was no time to tarry and find out.’

  I turn to Mother, and at this point there is no restraining my boiling tantrum. ‘Well, it seems you’ve made a deal not only with a usurper but with a coward who has no shame! Is that the way to treat a king, to treat the dead?’

  ‘You both need to cease calling him king. Richard was the usurper in all this.’

  ‘Who hasn’t been said to usurp the throne? Henry Bolingbroke, Father, Uncle Richard, and now Tudor!’

  She catches my arm, forcing me to be still. ‘My sweet, your uncle brought on the downfall of the House of York.’

  ‘No, Lady Mother. My brothers were lost on his watch and I shall never forget that, but the downfall of York was yours and Margaret Beaufort’s doing.’

  Elizabeth snaps awake from her trance. ‘Cecily!’

  ‘My father’s magnates?’ John asks poor Geoffrey, who is picking at a piece of cheese.

  ‘Slain or captured, my lord. Though I am afraid some never came to his aid.’

  I coax my arm from Mother’s grip, a nasty premonition nagging me. ‘Stanley?’

  ‘I…yes, him, foremost. He and his brother intervened on Tudor’s side towards the end of the battle.’

  My stomach twists at this revelation. Damnation upon that whoreson Stanley! May he perish in hellfire-everlasting, because that is where he and his brood belong. Northumberland might have ignored his king’s summons, but Stanley… Tudor himself is an angel next to Stanley, because at least Tudor has been honest in his aims if nothing else.

  Young Warwick bounces from his seat, returning to his old self. ‘The traitor Stanley made us lose! But I should be king now!’

  Meg pulls him down and wraps her arms around him. The new usurper will want to rid himself of every male Yorkist claimant, including Warwick, John, Lincoln and his brothers. All but Lincoln and John are yet too young to challenge Tudor on their own but that is no guarantee for their safety. Boys grow, and until they do, others will fight using them as figureheads. Lincoln… Might he have survived?

  Mother fills Geoffrey’s cup a fourth time. ‘Hush, both of you. I will say this once and for all: Henry Tudor is our new liege lord whether we wish it or not. What matters is that my Beth is as good as queen now, and our fortunes depend on this union. Remember, children, the new dynasty will be as much ours as it is Lancastrian.’

  I want to argue with her; I want to ask whether Elizabeth can have any real influence or if her betrothed will forget his promises now that he has achieved his goal. However, I am too exhausted to speak another word.

  I have not lost. I have not won either—merely survived. I swear I am going to win, because this is far from the end.

  My husband, Ralph, is alive and well, but fortunately I do not get the chance to meet with him before Henry Tudor’s soldiers arrive at Sheriff Hutton to escort us to London. Geoffrey and the servants wave us off. John rides on his favourite stallion while the rest of us cram into two carriages, and embark on the tedious journey.

  Several of the soldiers speak Welsh with one another, others French, and all wear the red dragon badge of their master. I catch a word here and a phrase there through the carriage windows, piecing together English and French like a puzzle. What I learn is gut-wrenching. The late King, God save his soul, was slung semi-naked over the back of a horse, his ebony hair tied under his chin. Once the drunken troops reached Leicester and had finished using his corpse as a plaything to stab at, they buried him without ceremony, in a too-s
mall grave, his hands still tied.

  I cover Bridget’s ears for she is still too young to hear these nasty details.

  ‘Why would they do such a thing?’ Anne asks, clutching Morte d'Arthur to her chest.

  I grit my teeth. ‘Because they hated him very much. And because Tudor is a dishonourable man—remember how he took shelter behind his bodyguards while our uncle fought heroically?’

  ‘I wish Beth could marry a handsome knight instead.’

  ‘Me too, or a handsome duke. No one should be treated like that in death, not even a Lancastrian rebel.’

  I lose count of the days we travel. I wish I could ride like John, but it would be unseemly for me to do so in the midst of the bawdy soldiers, and I would end up skittish that the horse might throw me, hence I remain in the carriage. When we at last reach London, I am as stiff as a broom, though the city revives me. The stench of the Thames and the filth on the streets are dearer to me than most of my jewels; the noise of merchants shouting and children running after hens fill my ears like sweet music.

  The escort halts at the Palace of Westminster, the golden yolk of London and the place I have longed for most. There, an esquire duly leads us through the galleries and chambers to our new lodgings. The procedure reminds me of when we first emerged from sanctuary—what is it with new kings thinking we cannot see our own way through our own palace? Perhaps Tudor fears my mother will change her mind and run off with his treasury at the head of another rebellion.

  John of Gloucester and the Warwick siblings are separated from us and taken to rooms of their own. I have no doubt we shall meet again once Tudor musters the grace to summon us.

  Kate bolts between the corners of our shared bedchamber. ‘Is this where we’re going to live, Mama? I want to go home to Sheriff Hutton!’

  ‘This is home, Kate darling. You know that.’

  ‘But I like Sheriff Hutton—’

  I catch her in my arms, holding her still. ‘We’ll tell Tudor to give us better rooms. He has to, does he not?’

  To my dismay, no one confirms my hopes. It seems we are to live crammed in a set of two bedchambers and one small antechamber, all six of us, until Henry Tudor is in the mood to grant us something more suitable.

  We do not have to wait long for his call. That same evening, after supping on pork and vegetable stew, the esquire reappears.

  ‘His Grace will receive you now.’

  Elizabeth straightens her posture further, if such a thing is possible. ‘He does not wish to see me in private?’

  ‘No, Lady Elizabeth. The King is a diligent man and does not like to waste his time.’

  The man is not exaggerating. When we enter the presence chamber, we find John and the Warwick siblings waiting for us so that Tudor can tick all of us off his list in one sharp stroke of his quill.

  By the throne stands Margaret Beaufort, draped in a shapeless, high-necked black gown, heavier veiled and more regal than ever. She has one hand on the armrest, clinging to her hard-won triumph. Two men flank her. One is the scoundrel Stanley, the man who betrayed his king in a single fatal heartbeat; the other I do not recognise, but my guess is Jasper Tudor, judging by his weathered face and the knowing looks passing between him and Margaret Beaufort. Jasper is one of the luckiest men I know of, despite his lifetime in exile first with Marguerite d’Anjou and then with his cursed nephew. Somehow, he managed to elude my father’s sword, and the stories of his fantastical escapes have mounted to a pretty collection over the years.

  Henry Tudor is a tall, wiry man, with brittle auburn hair. His left eye is cast, giving him the eerie appearance of looking both ways, ensuring no detail escapes him. Indeed, I have heard it said he already tends to the finances of his new kingdom as if he trusts no other to manage the work.

  My uncle may have been short in stature compared to my giant of a father, and the extravagance of his court may have been forced on his behalf, but at least he looked and behaved as a monarch. Henry Tudor…well, I would have taken him for an accountant or a cleric were it not for the throne he presides on. Our throne.

  First, he gestures for Young Warwick and John to come forward. John keeps a firm grip on his cousin’s shoulder, ensuring he behaves as Meg is left behind for the moment.

  ‘You will both swear an oath of fealty to me as your king and master,’ Tudor says. His voice is like wind in January and his accent bears the mark of fourteen years at French-speaking courts. ‘The Earl of Lincoln has taken such an oath already. You will do best to renounce your parenté to the tyrant Richard, unrightfully late King of England.’

  My wretched cousins kneel once more and accede. What choice do they have? Still, Tudor ought to not be so confident of Lincoln’s loyalty since he is, thank God, every bit the Yorkist I am.

  Once the boys have been dealt with, it is our turn. A year and a half ago, we curtsied on this very same spot before Richard Plantagenet and Anne Neville. If I was reluctant to bow my head and bend my knee then, it was nothing compared to what I feel in this bedevilled moment when I perform the same gesture for Henry Tudor.

  Tudor surveys his bride, his cast eye remaining on the rest of us. ‘Lady Elizabeth.’

  ‘Your Grace.’

  ‘You are even more chamant than I was told. I trust my God-given triumph pleases you.’

  ‘Of course, Sire.’ She never falters. It is easy to see how a man might be enamoured with her. ‘May I ask when we shall be wed?’

  Tudor sits in silence a good while before granting an answer. ‘I will decide a suitable date once the matter of my coronation has been seen to. The latter ceremony must take precedence.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘You will live comfortably until then. When you give me a son, I promise to reward you.’

  ‘Thank you, Sire.’

  I am beginning to understand why my sister might envy a miller’s daughter. As much as I yearn for her position as queen-to-be, a husband like this would drive me to the brink of insanity. And to think it could have been me, had anything happened to Elizabeth! I want to laugh and cry both.

  Tudor exchanges a handful of words with Mother and then Meg, whom he appears to like a little better than the rest of us since she presents the smallest threat, before sweeping his glance over my younger sisters. When he reaches me, he pauses, because I have risen without his cue and have to push myself down in a curtsey again.

  ‘Lady Cecily, is it?’ he says. ‘I heard of you also.’

  I cannot restrain myself any longer. ‘What will happen to the lords you hold captive?’

  ‘Every traitre will be dealt with.’

  ‘Pardon, Sire? They were fighting for their lawful king.’ I pronounce the word ‘king’ slowly, delicately, hoping to sway his confidence.

  The sinewy man in front of me hardens further to a mask of stone. ‘My reign dates to the twenty-first day of August. By the time of Redemore Plain, all who raised their weapons against me were committing treason.’

  ‘But…’ He thinks himself so clever, so shrewd! It is cheating.

  ‘I’ll hear no more of this. Women ought not to poke their noses in politics.’

  He cannot be dumber than to note the ambivalence in his own statement. Were it not for women such as his mother and, to certain extent, mine, he would still be kicking his heels in France. Were it not for a woman—Elizabeth—he would not have the vital support of my father’s old household knights and would likely not have a throne either.

  Mere weeks have passed in our humble existence when Warwick and John are both transferred to the Tower of London for their safekeeping, as the story goes. It rings a bell: my angel brothers were to be kept safe in the same cursed place, yet they never saw the light of the day after the summer of 1483. My uncle never intended their deaths, but a misinterpreted word was all it took for the culprits to send them to their graves, because the Tower is reclusive enough, secret enough. If Buckingham and his henchmen could so easily extinguish two innoc
ent lives, my cousins are in perilous danger. Tudor no doubt has men similar to Buckingham in his inner circle, or he might even give the order himself.

  Uncle Richard could not afford to kill my brothers even if he had wanted to—indeed, the consequence of the rumours cost him dearly—but Tudor? He would not be murdering his own nephews, causing public outrage, but simply ridding himself of rivals from another bloodline. Well, let him try to root us out. He will never succeed, not when I have a myriad of cousins, not when his own children will be the grandchildren of a Yorkist king. No, he will have to accept us as part of his powerbase no matter what his mother might have whispered in his ear about his God-given right to rule alone.

  Tudor—or the Pretend-King, as I have begun referring to him as—is crowned in splendour on the thirtieth day of October. Regardless of my personal opinion of him, I had hoped to attend the ceremony, but neither Elizabeth nor I or any of my sisters are invited. This is the third coronation I am denied to attend in less than three years, and we are left listening to the peals of Westminster Abbey from afar. The message in not inviting my oldest sister is an unmistakable slight. Henry VII has no intention of allowing his bride anywhere near true power, let alone make her co-ruler; he has not even made a public announcement reaffirming their betrothal.

  ‘He has to marry you,’ Mother says several times. ‘You are the linchpin of his claim, the sole reason not only Lancastrians support him. You are the heiress to their beloved King Edward.’