by Saga Hillbom
A flock of wide-eyed servants await me outside the door. They should not be here, in the main bedchamber, without having been summoned, certainly not the wench I assume is one of the scullery maids, but I cannot be bothered to chide them for it. No doubt they have amassed out of curiosity to know what I have been doing for such a long time, or out of empathy. It is possible that they, too, are grieving, if they understand what has happened. I care not one bit. They can all go to Hell-everlasting as long as they leave me be.
‘Lady Welles?’ the steward asks. He is ancient at this point, his earlobes even more scarlet than when I first met him ten years ago. ‘Is there anything you’d have me do for you?’
‘No. Nothing.’ I push past him.
With numb tongue and feet moving mechanically, I walk downstairs and open the door to Annie’s provisory room in the north turret. At first, the sight of her lying still on the pallet makes my heart jump to my throat, but no, she is merely sleeping, her torso rising and falling with every deep breath. Thank God. Apart from Welles and my four living siblings, she is all I have left to care for. Everything else has lost its importance.
I sink onto the pallet next to Annie, stroking her silky hair. As I lie down and encompass her with my arms, burying my face in the soft curve between her neck and shoulder, cold claws of fear and grief tear me to shreds.
I will never let her go, never.
We travel to London, to court. Welles says it will do us good to escape the stale atmosphere of sickness and death now present in Tattershall’s every corner. He says speaking to my sisters will lift the bars of iron I feel weighing on my shoulders and chest. I insist on bringing Annie—I have no intention of breaking my vow—and he cannot refuse me, not in this.
My daughter has not yet turned seven, but she is a clever little lady, and she knows her sister’s fate. When we lowered Eliza into the ground in her alabaster coffin, Annie held my hand hard, as if she could squeeze out my sorrows and thereby dry my tears. If a face can rot from constant dampness, mine ought to be on the brink of ruin. I do, however, regain a sprinkle of mirth eventually, if only for Annie’s sake. I suppose this is what kept Mother on her feet after her losses: the need to live for the children one does have left, and the joy they still give.
Elizabeth and Tudor receive us in the presence chamber at the Palace of Westminster. Since my wedding, I have mainly visited for ceremonies and celebrations, and it is strange to think it will be my home for a few months if not more. Annie has never seen the palace, nor has she smelled the stink of London’s streets. She manages to dip down in a pretty curtsey before her regal aunt and half-cousin, one of the very few real curtseys she had performed in her life.
‘She is charming, Cecily,’ Elizabeth says, poised on her throne.
‘I know.’ I kiss Annie’s hand. ‘Perchance Prince Harry can provide some company.’
‘My Harry may be the same age, but I believe you will find him too strong-willed for a girl to play with. Princess Mary is more suitable…is she not, Your Grace?’
Tudor nods. ‘I shall see to it your daughter is properly lodged in the royal nursery.’
Welles bows his head. ‘Sire, you are most bountiful.’
Just as we are leaving, treading through the crush of nobles swarming in the chamber, Elizabeth speaks again. ‘Sister? We heard rumour of your loss. I am sorry God saw it fit.’
I swallow and nod, then pull Annie with me and depart. Elizabeth must know something of what I am feeling, having lost a daughter of her own a few years ago, but she has four children left, and without doubt another one under way soon. Two—Arthur and Margaret—are with their own households, being raised to their most probable futures as King of England and Queen of Scotland respectively, while the other two—Harry and Mary—are here at Westminster at the moment. None show signs of sickness. My sister cannot understand what it is to have a single gem which one has to guard with one’s life for fear of God deciding it fit to snatch it.
I accompany Elizabeth to the royal nursery the following day to visit Annie as well as greet my nieces and nephew. Princess Mary is two years old and a stunning little thing. I was present at her christening but have not seen her since, and she is rapidly growing into a dark-haired beauty.
‘His Grace hopes to wed her to the heir to the Duke of Burgundy, if he has a son,’ Elizabeth says as we stand watching Annie show Mary her finest doll, the one Anne gave her.
I search my mind for a chart of European relations. Philip, Duke of Burgundy, is the son of my aunt Margaret’s stepdaughter, and his wife Juana is the older sister of Catalina de Aragón, Prince Arthur’s intended bride.
I frown. ‘Despite this eventual heir’s mother? Juana is insane, or so they say.’
‘People say so many things, Cecily.’
‘Well, what of Prince Harry?’ I turn my eyes to the big-boned, red-headed boy kicking a leather ball against the wall. In a few months, he will be taken from the care of women and brought up by male tutors.
Elizabeth shakes her head. ‘I know not. He shall have to put his attention to governing his dukedom first, I believe.’
Henry Tudor, Duke of York. Our grandfather held that title, as did our brother. It is the dukedom dearest to me and the one closest associated with my house of descent—and now Tudor doles it out at will. The prince is deserving, though. He is infinitely unlike both Tudor and Elizabeth; his temper is that of his grandfather, Edward IV, hot and fickle, and even at this young age he is eager to show off his athletic disposition, yearning for the day he can join the joust and the hunt. How different England’s future would be if Harry had been the heir and Arthur the spare! The country would not be as mildly ruled, but court would be far more entertaining.
Welles was right: London does help to distract me. One of these days I might go to Dartford Priory and speak to Bridget, whom I have missed sorely since I was last here. Her words of wisdom have only grown since she was a little girl, and the Lord knows she is a hundred times more sensible now than I was at seventeen.
The days of my youth feel like a dream. The crinkles around Thomas’ eyes when he laughed and the silly games that we used to play are indeed naught but that, a dream, for he is nowhere to be found at court. When his master Northumberland died, the household men were either sent home or took up service elsewhere; this is all I know.
If I could have anything, anyone, back in my arms in this instance apart from Eliza and Dickie, it would be my old friend.
Chapter XXIV
ONE CLOUDY SUMMER day, Kate bursts into my bedchamber and takes me by the arms. ‘Cecily! Cecily! Did you hear about the impostor?’ Her hair is in disarray, her eyes lit with excitement.
I shake loose. ‘Warbeck?’
‘Him!’ She raises herself up and down on her toes, a habit I had hoped she would grow out of with time.
‘Would you mind not bouncing while you’re talking?’ I ignore the sour face she makes.
‘Pardon me, then. Anyhow, he climbed out his window and sought sanctuary at the Charterhouse of Sheen. Can you believe it?’
I grapple for words. ‘No, not quite. Is he a complete blithering idiot? Does he not know how fortunate he was to be spared the first time?’
‘He’s in the Tower now—no windows this time.’
‘I’m glad. He deserves that and more.’
‘You are not always very nice.’
I give my sister a glare. ‘Should I have to be pleasant to a coward who has used our brother’s memory for his own gain?’
She shrugs. ‘I never believed he was genuine. I knew all along he pretended.’
‘I am sure you did.’
She sticks out her tongue at me, a flash of pink like a cat’s, and is gone. It is a wonder Tudor has not chucked her and her husband, William Courtenay, out of the palace already, considering how her bubbly manners contrast to the Pretend-King’s preferences. It must be Elizabeth who has spoken a few kind words in his ear.
&nbs
p; Anne melts into court more easily, since her behaviour is decorous and her views are more moderate than my own. As far as I know, her qualms regarding the regime changes of the past decade are minimal, and she has always kept her attentions to personal matters rather than politics. As long as she has her growing collection of literature from Caxton’s printing press and her husband, Howard, she is content, although I think she wishes for another child. Perhaps she hopes that would stabilise her marriage. Her only son is approaching his second birthday, a sickly boy, and I understand her concerns well enough. Anne is rarely at Westminster, though, as she retired to Howard’s estates after their wedding.
I have observed my sister and her husband ever since Howard returned to court, taking a brief pause from his Scottish campaign. He treats her with the greatest courtesy in public, presenting her with gifts as costly as he can afford. However, each time Anne appears with a new set of sparkling emeralds around her slim throat, I swear there is the hint of a new shadow in her face. If I could see through the velvets and brocades of her gowns, I am certain I would also see the bruises those jewels serve as apology for. I may be suspicious, but I would rather be that than naive and enamoured like Anne herself. Twice or thrice I have approached the issue and been brushed off. With my sister refusing to cooperate, there is very little I can do, and even if she appealed to Elizabeth to have Tudor reproach Howard, no monarch has legal authority over the private affairs between a husband and wife. In all likelihood, Howard would merely be enraged at her supposed betrayal, and punish her for it as he pleased.
During the autumn and winter, I ensconce myself more and more in the companionship of my sisters, even Elizabeth, when she is not on Tudor’s arm, because they provide the sole close family bonds I have left from my childhood. Uncles and aunts and cousins still swarm England’s counties along with a sprinkle of Father’s other bastard offspring, but I have grown estranged from them during my lengthy absence. Of course, there is Dorset, but he is no more likeable than he was when I was a child. Elizabeth keeps him at arm’s length according to Tudor’s instruction, since his lack of backbone showed clearly during his time in exile.
Although I would never dream of going a single day without spending a few hours with Annie in the nursery, Welles grows more and more remote in my life. During the first months after Eliza left us—the thought smashes me to pieces all over again—our relationship warmed, a bond being forged in our grief. Now, my husband is away on his nephew Tudor’s errands increasingly often, and the distance makes it difficult to keep the warmth from cooling, at least on my behalf.
Speaking of distance, it is high time I visited Bridget. The New Year’s celebrations keep me from traveling, but on the last day of January, I kiss Annie goodbye and set out on the journey to Dartford Priory.
The priory is far from as horribly impoverished as I remembered it being the first time I came here. Perhaps it never was—I cannot tell. I have visited four times in total, and each time it grows in my esteem. As long as Bridget is content, it does not matter whether she lives as a pauper.
To my astonishment, I recognise the ancient woman who opens the door and shuffles me inside. I would have presumed her dead from old age, yet here she is, five years after I saw her on my last visit.
My sister, a full-fledged nun now, receives me in the humble bedchamber she shares with two other members of the order, a room bright with daylight. On a small table stands a ceramic vase with a clutch of herbs and flowers, exuding a vague fragrance, and above the wall hangs a wooden crucifix where the gold paint has begun to flake off.
I sink down on the squeaking bed opposite the one where Bridget is sitting. ‘Who is it you share this room with?’
She smiles—she is the only one I know who has really inherited Mother’s smile. ‘Sister Martha and Sister Alice.’
‘And they are good to you?’
‘Sister Martha is of a very respectable age and very prudent, too. Sister Alice is…’ Her cheeks flush pink. ‘Graced by God in every manner. One would think it was her divine task to make one mirthful.’
The description brings my Thomas to mind, except he is not mine, and I should not think about him. I have rarely, if ever, seen my little sister blush; I assumed she did not have the capacity for it, being too serious, too old in her spirit. Now, though, she looks just like any fanciful young girl, and chiselled to perfection. How strange—surely, I must have missed something.
‘This Alice sounds lovely,’ I say. ‘Is she pretty, also?’
Bridget knits her brows. ‘Not particularly, although I’m oblivious as to why it is relevant. Beauty flees so quickly.’
‘I suppose so.’ I am glad my sister has found a new friend. My own greatest friendship ended badly to say the least, but Bridget will not be at risk, since Alice is, after all, a woman.
‘Will you stay awhile?’
I nod. ‘If the nuns have no objection. You can show me all those…herbs you speak of so frequently, and I can tell you everything new from London.’
‘Is the activity so fervent yonder?’ Her gaze is cryptic as a coded message written in invisible ink despite the plain question.
‘You know me. I can talk for days if you let me.’
‘I shall ask the prioress to have a bed made for you.’
I am a widow. Welles’ health was never the same after his bout of consumption, and his body could not resist the disease this time.
I wish I could recount the moment he passed. As it is, the day a year ago when he almost died carries greater significance with me simply because I was there. Thinking of my husband’s last words and breaths, I tend to imagine it was just like that almost-death; I fill in the gaps with the memories I have which might fit.
My ten-day trip to the priory was thoughtless. I should have returned sooner, I should have realised, I should have been more attentive to Welles’ state… Would he have wanted me to be with him when he died? I think he would. He was not alone, thank God, since Margaret Beaufort sat by his side, although whether it is best to die alone or in her presence is debatable.
At the burial in Westminster Abbey, where such a great number of my ancestors and relatives already rest, I try hard to weep, yet no tears heed my command. I hope I have not become like Mother once was: too drained by past sorrows to muster anything but a tight-lipped paleness.
Death continues to hunt and slay when another young man claiming to be Warwick emerges and is brought to London. His fate is quicker and more brutal than that of Lambert Simnel or the real Warwick, because Tudor orders his execution at once. The incident might have upset me in the past, but I am too preoccupied with the changes in my own life to spend much thought on it.
I shall miss my overly polite Lancastrian, this I am certain of, but what tugs the most mercilessly at my heartstrings is Annie’s silence. Throughout February and March, she barely speaks, and when she does, her voice is bereft of merriment. I cannot blame her, because I know the ache of losing both father and siblings within a short time. Whenever I try to make her laugh, it fails miserably. One day, a possible solution strikes me.
‘Would you like to go home, Annie?’
She hesitates, then nods. ‘I miss home. Here is…too much.’
I find Margaret Beaufort alone in her lavish chambers, seated by her solid oak desk with a pen in her hand. When the page announces my entrance, she instead picks up her pope-given Bible and keeps her eyes on the beautifully illustrated text as if to mark its precedence over me.
I take a few steps into the room and grant her a small curtsey to oil the wheels. The air is thick with incense being slowly absorbed by the crimson tapestries draping the walls.
‘My daughter and I wish to return home, to Tattershall Castle, Madam,’ I say.
Beaufort closes her Bible with a smack and turns to look at me. ‘Tattershall was a conditional gift for the duration of your marriage. It is not your home.’
‘Then what is?’
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�Here, at court, until you wed again.’
I scoff. ‘You cannot force me this time. My…friend is long gone from here, and no one would give any credit to accusations of twelve-year-old adultery without witnesses or proof, not even if you laid out the charges yourself. You lost your chance to ruin me.’
‘I chose not to ruin you, girl.’ Her voice reaches a pitch, then settles down. ‘I have no need to force you this time. You know as well as I do that the clock is ticking for you. No one will wish to take you for his wife once you are beyond childbearing years.’
‘Mayhap you forget I have other attractions: my name and title.’
‘Who is it you have set your hopes on?’
‘I do not know yet. My husband has been dead less than two months.’ It is Eliza’s death rather than Welles’ that has kept me from devoting my thoughts to the marriage market, but hopefully the mention of her brother will strike a chord with Beaufort.
‘You need not inform me.’
I draw a deep breath ‘Let me return to Tattershall, Madam. Please. Are you incapable of guilt, of pity? God must be wretched over the way you treated me. Your actions were not those of a merciful adherent to Christ’s preaching.’ If nothing else, this ought to do the trick.
She licks her lips, frowning. ‘You would speak to me of the Lord?’
‘Yes. Your eternal soul would benefit if you showed me a grain of indulgence. What is more, it was your brother’s dying wish. I assume you read his letter.’
A moment of tense silence passes. If I could see through her skull, I would no doubt behold the cogs in an intricate machinery trying to work out whether I am right regarding her eternal soul.
‘Go to your castle and take your daughter with you. And pray write to me when you have pondered whom you might seek to wed—we will discuss it in a civilised manner.’