by Saga Hillbom
Naught of all this can change that I am a daughter of York. I am a daughter of York, and this once, I look not to past glories and grievances, but to the future: my future, who is sleeping soundly by my side as morning wrestles London from night’s grip.
Epilogue
September 1506, East Standen, Isle of Wight
THE LEAVES OF the trees clustered around the East Standen Manor have already begun to shift to russet and vermillion. In every direction, the landscape stretches towards the sea, the steep white cliffs clashing with the waves below. Seagulls glide above, squealing, like stains of bright paint against the cornflower-blue sky. We rarely go to the shore, though, and I have taught my daughter to never, never let go of my hand when we are near the water.
There are dimples in her cheeks as she smiles and swings our hands back and forth while we stroll towards the great oak towering on the south side of the manor house. The wind whisks her dark hair—inherited from her father, whose own hair is increasingly tinted with silver at the roots—around her chubby face. She is no Eliza or Annie, but she does not need to be, because she is a treasure in her own right, and every treasure has its charms.
Thomas sticks up a hand in the air for greeting. He leans comfortably against the rough oak trunk, legs stretched out and crossed before him, resting the baby on his one arm with ease.
‘Mama?’
I release Margery’s hand. ‘Go on.’
She sprints ahead of me to tell her father all about the rabbit we saw a short while ago, a flighty animal that made her eyes wide like cups.
Out here, on the Isle of Wight, I am not ‘Lady Mother’ or even ‘Mother’, but simply ‘Mama’. I have not been Lady-anything for more than four years. Tudor did what was in his power, confiscating my lands and property, banishing me from court, likely with a look of glee in his cast eye. He must have rejoiced to see the back of me and thus having one troublesome in-law less to keep watch over. Fortunately, I found rescue in the most unexpected person: Margaret Beaufort. At last ridden with guilt over the way she treated me once upon a time, or simply afraid to face her maker without as clean a slate as possible, she persuaded her son to return what was mine by right. It is for my lifetime only, but I do not mind greatly.
I follow Margery to the oak and sink down next to my husband, resting my head against the trunk, studying the green lace-pattern-foliage above.
Margery runs off again, skipping through the high grass, careful to stay within my sight.
I turn to Thomas. ‘I received a letter from Kate earlier this afternoon.’
‘And how is the dear one?’ There is a note of genuine interest in his voice, for since we wed, he and my younger sisters have grown to be good friends.
‘Excellent, I should think. She says she misses her husband, but I’ve no doubt she finds ways to amuse herself while he is in the Tower. You know, Thomas, I never liked the man better than I do now.’
‘How so?’
I flash him a smug smile. ‘He grew in my affections first when he aided Edmund de la Pole. Foolish, of course, but it proved he was not the whole-hearted Lancastrian I thought. And now…now he’s rather agreeable merely by staying imprisoned.’
‘I suppose you wish the same of your other brother-in-law, too. I would, damn him.’
‘Yes, yes I do wish it. Anne still writes nothing of his rough ways, but how am I to know whether he has truly made amends? She is as smitten as she was ten years ago, and I cannot search her for bruises when she persists in secluding herself from me.’
The thought of Anne, as fragile as a butterfly and yet strong as granite, steals the mirth from me, and I know it shows on my face. My favourite sister is one of the few concerns I find myself stuck with. When Elizabeth died in childbed on her thirty-seventh birthday, less than a year after I abandoned her to wed my beloved esquire, it only served to increase my guilt over Anne and all the others whom I have failed to help, as well as ignited my own fear of dying. Mother Nature has a certain vicious tendency to deny old age to members of our family.
Thomas shakes his head. ‘I do believe the world has cast a shadow over your eyes, sweet Cecily. Leave the brooding to me, or better yet to our elders. The summer has not yet retreated—surely, we can still enjoy a day such as this without turning it irksome.’ He slides the baby over into my arms, places a kiss on my temple, and pushes himself to his feet. With a splash of sun on his face, he catches Margery and lifts her high until she shrieks with delight.
Their laughter rings in my ears, convincing me that Thomas is right: we can still enjoy a summer day such as this.
The infant is sleeping soundly, a trickle of drool in the corner of his mouth. I press my nose against his downy head and inhale the dearest scent I know, a mild autumn breeze tickling my cheek.
I named my only son Richard—after my valorous uncle, yes, but foremost after my angel brother, who is still a child himself, living forever in my memory, frozen in time, as are Eliza and Annie. That is the lovely aspect of memories: they never change unless one lets them.
I have my lovely memories and my lovely present woven to a single gilded fabric. I have two new, thriving lives to care for, and a husband with whom I can laugh at misery and smile at blessings. At last, I have peace.
I have longed for it so much. Tant le desiree.
Author’s note
The War of the Roses and the dawn of the Tudor reign is too intricate, too complex, to treat in a single novel without omitting certain events and details. I have aspired to remain true to source material and not stray from facts unless it was vital for the purpose of the story, because I believe accuracy is key when writing historical fiction.
However, there are parts of history where the records fail us and guesswork is necessary. For example, all we know with certainty about the fate of Cecily of York and John Welles’ daughters, is that they died young and never married. It is possible that these children died in infancy, but it is generally accepted that Elizabeth Welles died in 1498 and Anne Welles in 1499.
As for the liberties I have taken in this novel, there is no evidence of Thomas Kyme being at Westminster Abbey or at court at certain times; I have also left out his first marriage to an unknown woman and the son said marriage produced. Furthermore, I have omitted Edward of Middleham’s burial at Sheriff Hutton.
The matter of fact versus fiction is, of course, relevant when talking or writing about any aspect of history, but perhaps more so than usual regarding the War of the Roses and in particular Richard III. Sources from the Tudor era are often heavily biased and eager to reproduce the slanderous rumours that benefitted the rulers of the time. The contemporary author and debatably historian John Rous dedicated his Historia Regum Angliae to Henry VII, in which he claims, among other things, that Richard III emerged deformed from his mother’s womb after two whole years.
When most people today hear about Richard III, they at once think of Shakespeare’s play with the same name. The image of Richard as a devious, deformed usurper and child-murderer has, sadly, come to be seen as more or less true. What we have to remember is that William Shakespeare wrote this play during the reign of Elizabeth I, a Tudor monarch who wished to separate herself from a less glorious past when her grandfather’s rival ruled England, as well as the fact that Shakespeare worked in the entertainment business, not with historiography.
In fact, Richard was frequently noted for his unfailing loyalty to his brother Edward, his strong morals, and his courage. Moreover, he was a patron of literature, education, and the church. During his brief reign, significant reforms were passed. He outlawed forced loans (so-called benevolences) and established the practice of allowing poorer subjects to petition the King directly in order to access justice otherwise too expensive for them. Moreover, he translated the laws of the land from Latin and French to English in order for commoners to understand them. These are only a handful of many examples.
The myth about Richard’s physique is jus
t that: a myth, or rather propaganda developed shortly after Henry VII won the crown at Bosworth field, a place that contemporaries called Redemore. The “hunchback and withered arm” described in Shakespeare’s play are pure fiction; in the middle ages and early modern period, outward deformity was perceived as both a punishment for and a sign of inner evil. After the discovery of Richard’s skeleton under a Leicester car park in 2013, we now know that he did suffer from scoliosis, i.e. a curvature of the spine. However, the only visible effect of this would have been that his right shoulder was slightly higher than the left, and this barely showed at all when clothed. The condition likely caused pain, but obviously it did not limit his daily life or prevent him from participating in rigorous exercise and battles.
Other characters are also largely portrayed such as I have concluded from recorded behaviour and contemporary descriptions, yet it was necessary to invent or enhance certain traits for the purpose of the narrative. While I approached my research with an objective perspective, the main character’s family ties and personality resulted in an intensely Yorkist novel. I sympathise with many but not all of the protagonist’s views.
Few historical murder mysteries are as timeless and as passionately debated as that of the princes in the tower. Countless people believe they know the answer, yet it is unlikely that anyone ever will, and perhaps that is for the best, considering the asset a mystery provides for fiction writers. We lack the evidence needed to convict a suspect in a modern law court; we can only speculate in if they were killed at all, or spirited away.
To me, what marks Richard III as partly or wholly innocent of the crime is the question of motive. It does not take more than a second glance at the situation to realise that Richard stood the most to lose by the deaths of his nephews, as can be seen from how his reputation suffered, and the fact that their disappearance meant that Henry Tudor could claim the throne for himself. Richard’s single reason for wanting them dead would have been to remove them as rallying points of rebellions, but if this was the case, why did he not make their deaths known to the public? He was no fool, and would have understood that the princes were more dangerous to him dead than alive.
Except for the princes, Richard had another seventeen nephews or nieces upon his accession to the throne, not including Edward IV’s children by his mistresses, and none of these suffered any harm during Richard’s reign. While their claim to the throne was not as strong as that of the princes, especially in the case of girls descended from the female line, it was by no means trivial despite various circumstances, as is shown by Elizabeth of York’s significance to Henry Tudor and the threat her cousins later posed to him. Why do away with two nephews and let another seventeen claimants live?
The second main suspect(s) is often regarded to be Henry Tudor and/or Margaret Beaufort, since they both had a clear motive. I believe they had a far less opportunity and means than other suspects, although they may have been involved in planning the deaths. If either Tudor or Beaufort knew what happened to the princes’ bodies, it stands to reason that they would eventually have produced the bodies to lay the blame on Richard in more precise terms than they did, as well as to ward off pretenders such as Perkin Warbeck. The identity of Warbeck cannot be established with a hundred percent certainty, but it is widely thought today that he was not the younger of the princes
Finally, there is the third suspect. I am convinced that the Duke of Buckingham did have both motive, means, and opportunity, but I do not have a conclusive view on every detail surrounding the mystery—such as whether they died before or after Buckingham’s rebellion, which is related to why he made the decision and to what extent other nobles were involved. He had his own claim to the throne through his descent from Thomas of Woodstock, he was Lord High Constable of England which gave him authority over the Tower, he spent time in London during the summer of 1483 after the King left on progress, and, unlike Richard, he appears to have had the character required.
The only substance for the rumours about Elizabeth considering a marriage with her uncle comes from a letter written by historian George Buck, in which he summarises a note allegedly from Elizabeth to John Howard. Neither Buck’s letter nor Elizabeth’s note survives, and even if both of them did exist, which is improbable, the content could be interpreted in several different ways. In addition, Richard may have been considering marrying Elizabeth off to a Portuguese prince. In my opinion, a match between Elizabeth and Richard would not only have been political suicide for the King, but wildly uncharacteristic for both of them.
Cecily of York died of unknown causes on 24 August 1507. Tudor historian Edward Hall writes in his Chronicle that she is buried in Quarr Abbey, Isle of Wight, but any records confirming this were destroyed along with the abbey in the dissolution of the monasteries.
Thomas Kyme was in all probability dead before 1530 and certainly by 1535.
Cecily’s and Thomas’ children, Richard and Margery (or Margaret), can be assumed to have reached adulthood and married, since they are mentioned in a 1602 copy of the heraldic Visitation of Hampshire (1576). However, they were never shown any royal favours such as land grants or titles, which demonstrates how detached from court Cecily became after her unconventional last marriage.
Henry Tudor died in 1509, possibly from tuberculosis, and was buried in Westminster Abbey next to his queen, Elizabeth. His son succeeded him as Henry VIII, and married Catherine of Aragon (here referred to with her Spanish name, Catalina de Aragón) that same year. In this novel, I have left out the early rumours about Henry VII considering a match between himself and Catherine after Elizabeth’s death.
Cecily’s sister Anne died in 1511, leaving no surviving children, and her husband Thomas Howard married the much younger and reluctant Elizabeth Stafford, daughter of the 3rd Duke of Buckingham (here referred to as Young Buckingham). There is little to no evidence regarding Howard’s relationship with Anne, but his second wife testified to both physical and emotional abuse, and he later flaunted his mistress Bess Holland for all to see. Howard became an enormous influence at the court of Henry VIII, both in his own right and as the uncle of Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard.
The 3rd Duke of Buckingham was not so lucky, but was executed for treason in 1521.
Bridget died in Dartford Priory, 1517, and was perhaps the most obscure of the York sisters.
Katherine (here referred to as Kate) remained in royal favour and was the godmother of Princess Mary (later Mary I), before dying in 1527, having outlived all her sisters.
Margaret Pole (here referred to as Meg) was made Countess of Salisbury in her own right, but was executed in 1541 after she and her son Reginald Pole fell out of favour with Henry VIII; Kate’s eldest son was also executed for association with Reginald Pole. Margaret is considered to have been the last Plantagenet princess, although neither the Plantagenet bloodline nor the House of York was entirely wiped from existence. It is sometimes tempting to forget that Henry VIII himself was as much his mother’s son as he was a Tudor, and he is said to have self-identified with his more glamorous Yorkist ancestors and their military prowess.