by Saga Hillbom
I hitch up my skirts to my ankles to protect the hem from mud, just like Mother would have reminded me, and approach the door. A long while passes after I have knocked before a nun opens and grants me entrance. Her face is wrinkled like a raisin, her eyes small and buried between folds of skin, her apparel the black habit of Saint Augustine…or is it Saint Dominic? I cannot tell the difference.
After the necessary introductions, she gestures for me to follow her. ‘Come hither, Madam. Your sister is tending to the candles.’
We pass through a gloomy corridor and a series of dusty little rooms, encountering streaks of black, silhouettes shuffling along the walls, made identical at first glance. Then we emerge into a dining hall dominated by a single table.
The raisin-faced nun nods at a small, dark figure bent over the altar by the end of the room. ‘I will leave you in privacy.’
I walk down the side of the table, my gown brushing against the bench with a soft rustle. ‘Sister? Bridget?’
The figure turns, an unlit candle in her hand. ‘Cecily? I did not expect you.’ Her voice is deep and melodious, so unlike the child she is. I had almost forgotten it, having heard it so rarely, just as I had forgotten how beauteous her face is: heart-shaped with clearly defined jaw and cheekbones, her hooded eyes the only brown ones in the family except for Mother’s. She looks as if sculpted by a master of the arts—only her hideous garments dull the impression.
I kneel and take her in my arms. ‘Forgive me for leaving you so destitute.’
Bridget withdraws. ‘There is nothing to forgive. I cherish the peace here, and the knowledge I am surrounded with daily.’
I am tempted to laugh, baffled by the stream of perfectly composed words coming from her rose-petal lips, but manage to resist the temptation. If the nuns have somehow brought speech to her tongue, I will not be the one to frighten it away.
We sit down together on the bench, Bridget’s feet dangling above the floor.
‘Would you like to hear the latest gossip?’ I ask.
My sister gives a barely noticeable shake of her head. ‘Elizabeth writes to me sometimes. I believe I know of the events that matter.’
‘Well, of course you know of the battle at Stoke Field. I still cannot quite understand why they did not claim Simnel to be either of our brothers. Tudor could hardly have paraded them through London to prove it false.’ A tremble sneaks into my voice.
‘You still mourn. I can tell.’
‘Don’t you?’
She shakes her head. ‘Alas, I do not remember. I was but two years of age the last time I saw them.’
‘I forget that sometimes. You sound so…old.’
Bridget frowns. ‘I do?’
‘No, wise, rather. A bit too wise for your years, really, and I doubt the nuns encourage frivolous games and the like.’ I press forth a grin, tracing patterns in the wooden table with one finger.
‘I have no desire for frivolous games.’
‘Then…what do you do to pass the time?’
‘I study the Scripture. I sew, and sometimes I collect herbs.’ She smiles—I cannot recall ever seeing her smile this wide before.
‘Herbs?’ This time I fail to suppress a genuine giggle, though Bridget remains composed.
‘Yes. They are very useful.’ She cocks her head. ‘Something is troubling you. I can tell that too.’
I hesitate a moment. Perchance her young shoulders are too frail to share my burden. It appears, though, that she is anything but frail, and has few other burdens to bear. Therefore, I allow my secret and my conundrum both to drop from my lips in what feels like blunt, clumsy words. Once I finish, flushed, Bridget takes my hand in her small, cold one.
‘You should wed the viscount. It’s the sensible choice. You can grow to love him if you are willing to let go of your aversions,’ she says. ‘If you think you can do that.’
There is the familiar burn in my nose, warning me of my impending tears. ‘I do not think I can do that, no, but I suppose I will wed him. I have no other choice.’
‘You always have a choice.’
‘If so, I cannot see it.’
I stay the night at the priory, for the hour is too late to travel safely. I thought Mother was unfortunate in Bermondsey Abbey, but her residence is a palace compared to this place. The nuns are kind, doing their very best to find me the thickest mattress and the smoothest blankets, however, I do not sleep a wink where I lie in my little guest chamber. My skin prickles with sweat in the summer heat; my nose stings with the unfamiliar scent of herbs I do not know the name or qualities of; I twist and turn. Should I ask Bridget if she wishes to return to court with me? If I were her, I would want nothing more intensely in this world. Yet I am not my little sister, in fact we are more different than a cat and a dog. She has already blended into the black mass of solemn-faced nuns, become one of them. It should not surprise me, since her spirit is too idle for her to be tossed around in courtly intrigue. I can only imagine what her future husband would have thought, had she been intended for marriage. He might have been outraged at her cleverness, or thought her a witch, considering her herb-gathering and the rumours surrounding our maternal side of the family.
It is strange to think she does not remember the glory days when Father was king and all was well. I suppose she remembers Uncle Richard’s reign, but those glory days were brief and more mine than hers. Perhaps it is a blessing to be so young as to not remember much of our angel brothers, since she can hardly have had any nightmares or ghosts to exorcise.
I turn over on my side again and try to plump up the pillow for the fourth time. I am not certain what I expected or indeed wanted either Mother or Bridget to tell me—that I should remain unmarried while Margaret Beaufort drags my good name in the dirt and Thomas’ with it? That I could possibly find a duke or indeed any lord to marry after such slander, after charges of fornication? It is Welles or a fishmonger from a Southwark alehouse. My youngest sister said I always have a choice, but if that is what she meant, she has a very loose grasp of the term.
In the morning, after attending mass with the nuns and sharing their grey, sticky oatmeal to break the fast, I kiss Bridget farewell and hurriedly depart. My poor coachman has been incubated in the stables since no man can be allowed inside the priory except when it is absolutely necessary. He must be as eager as I to return to London, because we roll inside the city walls in two-thirds the time it took to travel to the priory.
I find Margaret Beaufort on her knees in Saint Stephen’s chapel. These days, she kneels before the Almighty alone.
I clear my throat, but to no avail. I know she can hear me, yet I have to wait half an hour, if not more, sitting in one of the stalls before she at last struggles to her feet, visibly stiff-jointed, and turns to face me.
I grant a tiny curtsey along with my sweetest smile. ‘It shall be as you wish, my lady the King’s Mother.’
‘Yes. Naturally.’ She wraps her rosary around her hand.
‘I only ask you let me enjoy my…friendship a little longer. My friend is very dear to me—I’d rather not lose him until I must.’
‘Did your wet nurse drop you on the head?’
I meet her stare. ‘You will not tell, because if you do, I am useless to you.’
‘No, I will not tell, but if you are discovered, you will be equally useless as if I had.’
‘I know that. Thank you, Madam.’ My voice is strained with contempt.
I turn to leave, but Beaufort speaks again before I have the chance to escape. ‘You will be pleased to know the Earl of Warwick’s sister will be your niece through marriage. She is to wed my own sister’s son Sir Richard Pole.’
I clench my jaw. Of course she is. The spider has trapped yet another fly in her web, allowing her own family to rise higher still. Meg Plantagenet, daughter and granddaughter of traitors, but nonetheless a Yorkist herself, and nonetheless my cousin. Perhaps she does not mind, having lost such a great portion o
f her willpower after seeing her brother fade away...she is hardly in a position to object, anyhow.
I depart without another word.
Tudor embarks on a hunt a fortnight later, unwieldy and time-consuming though it might be to shepherd a hundred men and a few women from Westminster to Waltham Forest. It is more apparent than ever that he did not spend his adolescence as a prince or even as an Englishman. He ought to know by now that the best hunt can be found in the Sherwood Forest at Nottingham.
I accompany the fluttering party of nobles and gentry on Margaret Beaufort’s command, since she considers it an apt opportunity for me to exchange a few words with Lord Welles. I avoid him like the plague, and he does not seek me out.
As it happens, I end up falling behind, as I am prone to do on hunts, hoping to avoid the sight of prey being slaughtered. Thomas, who has joined the escapade solely for the chance to ride one of Northumberland's best horses—a chestnut stallion with glossy black mane and a feisty temper—tarries with me.
‘No one will notice if we sit here awhile,’ he says. ‘The weather is too lovely not to, right?’
I squint at the figures in the distance that are the other horses. They are some two hundred feet ahead of us; it is a risk, but one I cannot resist taking. ‘Only a little while, then.’
We trail off the main path and dismount by a thick-trunked oak whose branches stretch far and wide to create a canopy of green. I try not to blush as Thomas lifts me off my horse and my skirts get caught on a notch in the saddle, exposing my stocking-clad calves a little too long.
We tie the animals to another tree before making ourselves comfortable under the oak.
Thomas’ arms rest around me like the most natural thing in the world, his hands on his knee, creating a circle for me to sit in. His doublet against my back and his cheek brushing against my hair somehow feels more intimate than I imagine my wedding night will be.
My wedding night. My wedding. I thought I was doing us both a service, leaving Thomas ignorant of what the future holds for me, but I am not so certain anymore. What has been budding between us since the beginning of the year must be cut down before it blooms, or it will be all the more painful. I know little of life and less of love, yet I know this.
I fumble for the right words to tell him. I do not get the chance.
‘Marry me.’ Thomas’ voice is sheathed in forced calm.
I duck under his arms and turn to stare at him. This time, he has gone truly insane. ‘What?’
‘You heard. Marry me.’
‘If you’re attempting a jest, you should pick another theme.’ I stand, furiously brushing the grass stains from my gown, avoiding his eyes.
He scrambles to his feet as well. ‘Is it so unthinkable?’
‘Yes.’
‘We could live of my father’s land, or find a home of our own in the countryside. We could have as many dogs as you like, and my horses, and maybe a little one. You could be the prettiest girl in the village and—’
I cannot help but to laugh out of pure disbelief. ‘”The prettiest girl in the village”? Are you out of your mind? If I wed you, I lose everything.’
‘You wouldn’t lose me.’ The solemn note strikes a chord in me.
‘I know. And I do not want to lose you, not one bit. But there is something you must know. I have agreed to give my hand in marriage to Viscount Welles.’
Thomas runs a hand through his hair, lustrous as lacquer in the summer sun. ‘I see. Then he is of high enough standing to satisfy you?’
‘Well, no. It is as high as Margaret Beaufort will allow, though, for she intends to raise her own lot. She knows, Thomas. She has eyes and ears everywhere in this court, and if I do not adhere to her wishes, she will see us both ruined.’
‘And how, pray tell, does she intend to bring that about?’
‘You would be dismissed from your position, and I steeped in disgrace, both of us put to the hand of justice for trumped up charges of fornication,’ I whisper.
‘Don’t you understand, silly? You could still marry me! I may be no canon lawyer, but she could not have us punished for…that, if we were already husband and wife. It would be as easy as to claim we had been plight-trothed before it happened. I would gladly leave court if you would leave with me.’
I bury my face in my hands. Why, why did he have to ask? The thought had not crossed my mind for a second, and now my will is torn, brutally divided. I cannot allow emotion to take the upper hand rather than my ambitions, not this time, and I have to say it out loud.
‘Then it is either no one and disgrace, you and impoverishment, or Welles and—if nothing else—a decent living?’
‘You make it sound so… Where is your heart in all this?’
‘You know it is with you—but it is not as simple as that. All my life, I have prepared to become the wife of a great lord. Welles and his allegiance are abhorrent to me, and he is no duke or prince, but at least he is something. My heart can have no say in the matter.’
Thomas takes a step towards me. His face is blank but his eyes burn on me. Then, he puts forth the second worst question he has ever asked me: ‘Do you love me?’
I draw a shaky breath. ‘Do you love me?’
I count the heartbeats of silence. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. If only I could read his mind and watch the battle there—is it as merciless as my own battle? He will not say he loves me, I know he will not, for just like me he is too proud.
Twenty. I turn on my heel and scuttle through the cluster of trees surrounding us, for once eager for my horse.
‘I will ask once more and never again. Cecily, will you marry me?’ Thomas calls out after me.
I halt for a moment without turning to look at him, before resuming my flight.
My wedding takes place five months later, on the twelfth day of December. The preparations have been thorough: I have had my measurements taken for a dress of peach-coloured silk generously lined with ermine, I have been scrubbed in rose water, I have received Mother’s blessing. She is not overjoyed—she knows I am in agony, though not the whole reason why—but has vowed to make an appearance at the wedding feast.
Cousin Meg has faced her own trial already and been packed off to Ludlow, where her new husband, Richard Pole, serves in Prince Arthur’s household. I do not envy her having to live in Wales; I will be taken from court as well, but at least Welles resides in Lincolnshire, and I have missed the Midlands since leaving Sheriff Hutton.
I ride on a barge adorned with white and—to my dismay—red roses to Westminster Abbey, where my betrothed is waiting for me at the western entrance. Westminster Abbey, that pinnacle of grandeur, of dread as well as triumph. The days of sanctuary are like something from a past life, yet I am always weary when attending ceremonies there. The nave may be glorious with its gothic vaults, but my thoughts often drift to the time I cowered in the college hall in fear that the soldiers would disobey orders and break inside. The time Mother refused me to go with Dickie, and I never saw him again, the bouncing cloud of gold around his head as he left us… The time we listened to the coronation held on the other side of the walls, all the times I yearned to escape into the open and fill my lungs with freedom. There is only one set of memories I can no longer allow myself to revisit: the crease of concentration on Thomas’ forehead as he tried to sketch my portrait in the Chapel of the Pyx.
Welles’ crimson hose and cap embroidered with gold distinguishes him from the rest, as if his considerable height was not enough. ‘Princess Cecily,’ he greets me.
I keep my gaze pinned to the doorway. ‘Lord Welles.’
It is the second time we speak; the first was when we formally agreed to the betrothal. His voice reminds me of opening an old wooden coffer in need of oiling, and it betrays no emotion. Neither do his posture or his manners, and from what I have observed, he never abandons courtesy.
I let him take my hand, his thumb resting lightly against my fingers as we proceed i
nside the abbey. Dear God, do not let him be a palm-sweater.
I study the flat of his back and his neck as I walk slightly behind, for I do not wish to see the brackets around his eyes or the lines searing his face. He is older than Uncle Richard would have been today, as old as several of my other uncles, and like his nephew Tudor, the years have taken their toll. What I told Thomas is true, I do not fear old age, but that does not mean I find it appealing, especially in one who is to share my bed.
The ceremony feels eternal, and not in the way an enchanting evening can feel eternal, no, but rather like an agonizing lecture. We have five witnesses apart from Archbishop Morton: Beaufort, Northumberland, two of Welles’ brothers, and Elizabeth, who has finally been crowned. Tudor himself is preoccupied with matters of state, as is so often the case, which I am grateful for. Why make a wedding any worse than it has to be?
My vows come mechanically. Welles has more wit than to stumble on the words like Ralph Scrope did, but that is the last thing on my mind.
The wedding feast is truly a feast, and even Tudor attends, conversing with my husband about hawking while I sit clutching Mother’s hand under the table. For the first time, I am afraid, afraid to leave London and my sisters. Even Elizabeth would be a comforting presence to bring with me, although she appears oblivious of my unhappiness. I have wed a Lancastrian nobleman just like she did, and she is content, hence she sees no reason for me to complain.
Anne—dear, sweet-faced Anne—is not with us. She has taken to her bed with a headache, which might have been an empty excuse coming from anyone else but which I know is genuine. The physicians say it is nothing to be concerned with; like poor Mary, Anne’s health has always been a bit frail, but not in the extreme. She sends her regrets instead of her congratulations, and for that I love her all the more.
A chamber has been prepared for us, the newlyweds. Welles’ estates are too far away to travel there at once, thus this is where we are to spend our first night as husband and wife. The room is swathed in candlelight and ember sparks in the fireplace, spewing specks of red over the smouldering cinder. Despite this, I am shivering where I stand by the bedpost of beautifully carved pine, dressed only in my chemise and stockings. I have a sneaking feeling the light is illuminating the contours of my body through the thin fabric of my garments, making it an impossible task to retain my modesty.