by MARY HOCKING
‘I hope our mother is not sad,’ her younger sister said unsteadily.
Elizabeth glanced briefly towards the buildings of West Minster Abbey; her joy at being freed from sanctuary was so great that she could not squeeze out a drop of sadness at the thought that perhaps her mother was even now standing at one of the windows in the Abbot’s parlour. She did, however, say ‘poor mother’ and then, deplorably, found herself laughing for no reason at all. It was unfortunate that at this moment King Richard should cross the courtyard and look up at her window. He said, ‘A delightful morning.’
Cecily hissed, ‘Ask HIM what the scent is, why don’t you?’
‘It would be more delightful were our mother with us,’ Elizabeth said haughtily.
He put his head on one side, studying her face and assuming a judicious air. ‘No, I don’t think the picture would be improved by your mother’s presence.’
Behind her, Elizabeth could hear her sisters making kittenish spitting noises. She knew that she should withdraw but was afraid to offend him and ashamed of herself for being afraid.
Richard said, ‘If you are unhappy about your mother, perhaps you can persuade her to join you? She knows that I should be willing to extend my hospitality to her.’
Elizabeth said, ‘I will speak to her.’
‘I am indebted to you.’ He made her a fine bow and walked away laughing.
The other girls crept to the window to get a look at him and were faintly disappointed to see a man, handsomely dressed, but in all other respects much as other men, having the one body with the usual attachments. Their mother’s attitude to this man had varied so much that the girls had no idea how they should regard him. Her last words when they left the sanctuary of the Abbey had been that he would do them no harm, but that they should not trust him. They stared unhappily into the now empty courtyard while Elizabeth paced up and down the room. Only a few moments ago, she had felt light-hearted and free as a bird; but her Uncle Richard’s appearance had reminded her that she had but crossed from one building to another and as she walked round the room which seemed very dark after the bright light at the window, the dreadful thought occurred to her that life might be like this, a succession of dim rooms one opening into another.
‘You’re frightened of him,’ the youngest sister accused tremulously.
‘Mother would never have agreed to put us in his care if there was any need for fear,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Why doesn’t she come here, too?’ Cecily asked.
‘Because she thinks she is better off where she is. And that we are better off here. Don’t question her decision. She knows what is best for us.’
They stood looking down dejectedly; something more than words was needed and Elizabeth went to them and put her arms around them. ‘As long as we’re together, nothing can happen to us.’ The warm physical embrace gave the comfort they needed. Elizabeth felt like a mother bird spreading her wings about her chicks.
‘You will never leave us, will you?’ Cecily asked.
Elizabeth replied, ‘Never!’ and they all chanted, ‘Together for ever and ever!’ It was a vow which none of them believed would be fulfilled but which at this moment each needed to make.
The two younger girls went back to their needlework. The sharp- scented breeze stirred in the room, but when Elizabeth went to the window she saw the enclosing buildings more clearly than the trees and the distant river. The sun was bright in the courtyard; then a shadow came from nowhere and glided between an archway and over the cobbled courtyard. Elizabeth glanced up, but the bird, if bird it was, had disappeared: it seemed to have taken with it the innocence of the day.
‘I will ask my Uncle what has happened to my brothers,’ she thought. ‘I will know from his reply whether he is to be feared or not.’
The sun climbed higher into the sky and the light no longer slanted in at the south-facing windows of the Palace of West Minster; but one dust-speckled beam fell across the table in the Abbot’s parlour at which Elizabeth Woodville sat writing to her son, the Marquis of Dorset.
‘I have entrusted Elizabeth and her sisters to King Richard’s care,’ she wrote. ‘It seemed wiser to do so, since if I refused I should but have kept Elizabeth for the Tudor to marry.’ She wanted her son at home, it irked her that he should be serving Margaret Beaufort’s son. ‘I am convinced that Richard would reward you well were you to return. He has need of men of ability and the sense to realize it.’ She paused, contemplating the sunbeam and wondering whether to say that she, too, had need of him. It was a fatal pause; she had placed her hand on the table and the sunbeam caught the ruby ring on her little finger. Light fractured into tiny splinters which pierced her flesh. ‘Edward!’ She had not been able to recall his face since he died but now, for a second, she saw him as he had been when he called on her at Grafton Regis, laughing, ‘They believe me to be out hunting—and what a hunt it will be!’ She bent forward groaning, glad that she had sent her maid away; the girl would have thought she had been taken by a fit, for how else could one explain such behaviour in an ageing woman with a wrinkled disfigured body?
The letter did not get written that day and when it was eventually sent it did little good. The Marquis of Dorset deserted Henry of Richmond, but was caught before he set sail for England. Henry had the trouble of persuading him to reconsider his decision; he could ill-afford to be seen to lose so notable a supporter at this time. The task was not to his taste, but as fortune had never pandered to his taste he undertook the unsavoury business efficiently and without fuss.
Although Henry usually appeared calm, he had a temper which he was not always able to control. When he was told that Elizabeth Woodville had consigned her daughters to Richard’s keeping, he shouted, ‘Was ever woman so unwomanly! I shall not forget how this mother has dealt with her daughter.’
The daughter now spent much time in company with Richard and his queen. To Anne, who was ill, it seemed that Elizabeth shone like the brightest star in the sky. ‘What pain life has in store for you,’ she would think. Then, recognizing that envy directed such thoughts, she would say to herself, ‘Whatever happens to this child, she will survive; she would be radiant on a dunghill.’
Elizabeth was fascinated by Anne. At first, seeing that face and body were now pared to the bone, Elizabeth had felt protective towards her aunt, and it had come as a surprise to realize that such a frail vessel could contain so tough a spirit. The mind, too, was sharp as a pair of shears and even Richard was not safe from its snips. Once, when he talked passionately about a king needing the love of the people because he could only rule with their consent, she interrupted him to ask, ‘Is it marriage you are contemplating, or a love affair?’ He was reduced to silence.
Only a saint, Elizabeth thought, could wield such power over such a man. And if Anne was a saint, then surely Richard could not be wholly evil?
‘How can a woman be sure a man is worthy of her love?’ she asked Anne.
‘If you are going to keep that kind of account, the matter will never be put to the test,’ Anne said crisply.
‘But I long to meet a man I can respect in all things.’
‘You’ll go to your grave a virgin, then.’
‘But how can I love someone who is not worthy of my love?’ Elizabeth’s lips trembled because she knew how pompous she sounded, and yet it mattered so much.
Anne’s mood softened and she took Elizabeth’s hand. ‘Whoever you marry, you must love him,’ she said urgently. ‘If he is not quite what you would have him be, you must not mind, you must love what he is. You are made to love and it would greatly injure you not to do so.’
‘But I can’t love without cause!’
‘Oh, my dear, the seed is within you and it is you who must nourish it. The man will be too busy with all the important things men do.’
‘Has this been so for you?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘I was very fortunate.’
Elizabeth was dismayed that she had spoken in the past, and
she knelt beside her and said warmly, ‘I love you more than I will ever love any man.’
Anne shook her head. ‘That, were it true, would be a great waste.’ She looked down at Elizabeth’s young, flushed face and said fretfully, ‘What can one say to you?’ She ran a finger thoughtfully over her pale, dry lips. ‘Whoever you marry, there will be some good in him. Think only of the good. Others will make his faults their business.’
‘I may go into a nunnery,’ Elizabeth said, dejected. ‘I think I should find it easier to love God than a man.’
She did not, however, have much time to dwell on such thoughts. It did not need the flag straining from the standard to mark the King’s presence at the Palace of West Minster, the very air was charged with it, and Elizabeth in common with every servant, clerk and courtier felt that the universal pulse had quickened. He who snatches a crown must lose no time in showing himself worthy of his trophy and to this end Richard worked tirelessly. His energy was formidable. He was zealous in all things, whether making plans for his council of the north, discoursing earnestly with his bishops, or talking into the early hours of the morning with foreign travellers and wearying them with questions ranging from the affairs of princes to the quality of a local wine. He was lavish with his gifts, generous to friend and adversary alike, passionate in his protestations of love for the common people, most earnest in prayer. To Elizabeth, his brilliance seemed dazzling, the world his sunflower. If one thing is certain, she thought, it is that Henry Tudor will never come to claim me now.
Others thought differently. There were rumours that Henry Tudor would soon land in England. Richard decided that Nottingham was better placed than London to be his headquarters. A great hush seemed to fall on the Palace of West Minster after he and Anne rode north in the middle of March.
Richard was well-received wherever he stopped on the journey and this pleased him. He never tired of hearing his praises sung and at night he would repeat flattery which at one time he would have dismissed with contempt. After a while, Anne would turn her head away and say, ‘I must sleep if I am to accompany you tomorrow. I have not your strength.’
When the morning came she would still be exhausted. The exhaustion discoloured life. There was nothing to which she could look forward with pleasure; she could think of no change in her condition or that of the world which would give her joy. Once, when she was alone in her chamber, a blackbird came and perched on a tree outside the window and chided her for her weakness, repeating his message over and over again. When at last he flew away, he seemed to have chanted some ease into her and she managed to greet her husband with her old gaiety of spirit.
A few days later they came to Nottingham. Richard looked up at the castle, dour and majestic on its great rock, as though measuring his own strength against it. Anne, riding from the bright sunlight into the shadow of its walls, felt the chill of death. Within three weeks of their arrival, the news was brought to them that their son had died.
It was for the mother that their friends most feared thinking that the frail body must break under the strain of her grief. Richard, however, was seized by a madness which seemed beyond grief. At first he appeared incapable of understanding what had happened, and then, when realization could not longer be delayed, he shouted wildly, ‘God! You have deceived me!’ The onlookers were horrified by this blasphemy.
Anne put grief aside to combat the strange disorder which troubled her husband. After his terrible outburst he was quiet during the day, but at night he was afraid to sleep and when he found himself drifting away he would start up, crying out that God had purged him of evil so why was he still punished? Then he would be frightened by his own words and tell her that they must pray together.
‘What should we pray?’ she asked.
‘That God, who knows all things, will cleanse men’s hearts so that they cease to impute evil to me. I am innocent, God knows I am innocent! Pray that I be honoured and respected.’
When they had prayed she would hold him close and try to soothe him. She ordered the servants away from their chamber, fearing that if any heard him they would suspect that he was mad. At last, he became calmer and slept at night. But now, when she turned to her own grief, she found that it had dried up. Everything in her seemed dry as a river bed in a drought. She lay in bed, looking at her husband, and wondering how long she would have the strength to love and protect him.
The news of the death of Richard’s son eventually reached Henry Tudor’s camp. These had been dispiriting days for Henry and his followers and the news that Richard had no heir put them in good heart. The news reached Robin Prithie in the stables. The man who saw himself as King’s favourite had been treated harshly on his return; Henry had other personal servants now and Robin was one of the grooms. His fall was noted by others for the servants were as aware of the importance of position as were their masters. Had this been England and not a foreign country, Robin swore he would not have stayed to endure such humiliation. When he heard of the death of Richard’s son, he did not rejoice for Henry but thought sourly, ‘Now King Richard cannot afford to ignore my master; and once he turns his attention to him, he will soon make an end of him.’ Robin had a high opinion of King Richard’s efficiency in such matters.
Spring turned to summer and in June Robin had proof that he had been right about Richard’s intentions. Henry was staying in Vannes and many people came to see him there for the Tudor was now of some importance. One visitor was a merchant on his way to London. What business he had with Henry, Robin did not know, but one day this man approached Robin to make enquiries about his horse which would have been better directed to the saddler. A few moments’ conversation and it became apparent that the man’s business was neither with Henry Tudor nor the saddler; he had instructions for Robin Prithie.
‘King Richard is negotiating an alliance with the Bretons and he will insist that any agreement is dependent on Henry Tudor being put in safe custody. It is important the Tudor does not escape before the terms of such “custody” are agreed. You are to report on his movements. Instructions will be sent to you but in an emergency you must yourself ensure that he does not leave the country.’
‘But how can I do that?’ Robin glanced about uneasily; he could see two of the other grooms at the far end of the yard but they appeared to be absorbed in conversation. ‘I am not close to him as once I was and he is well protected.’
‘Should he try to leave the country he is unlikely to signal his departure by travelling with a large party. He will, therefore, have little protection.’
‘You are asking me to kill him?’
‘He must not leave the country. Those are your instructions.’ He had been speaking quietly but now raised his voice angrily. ‘Well, if it is the business of the saddler why didn’t you say so in the first place instead of wasting my time?’ He turned to one of the other grooms who had drawn near. ‘Have you nothing to do but idle about? I would have no grooms of mine so ill-employed. Take me to the saddler.’
Robin watched the two men walk away. He felt old and unsure of himself and he cursed the day that he met Henry Tudor. What would life have offered him had he not encountered that goblin child whom he had sought to enchant while all the time the web was wound around Robin Prithie? He had been a rogue when he met Henry, but he had been his own man. Now, he had served so many people to each of whom he had been a different Robin, that he scarcely knew who he was.
In the days that followed this meeting with the merchant, he kept as close a watch as was possible on Henry. Sometimes, when he looked at his destroyer’s calm face, madness welled up in him and he wanted to rush at Henry and demand to be given back his life. In this mood, he had little compunction at the thought of killing Henry. Whatever harm he had done this man, it had been repaid a thousand times.
It did not occur to him, he was now so full of hatred, that he might try to regain Henry’s confidence by warning him of his danger. The warning came, however, but from another source. John Morton, w
ho was now in Flanders, was kept well-informed of King Richard’s activities and as soon as he heard of the threat to Henry he despatched a messenger to warn him.
Henry held council. All eyes observed him carefully. There were those among the men now gathered together who had misgivings about this young man who had never fought a battle.
Jasper Tudor said, ‘Unless we act quickly. King Richard may succeed where King Edward failed. We cannot hope for a second change of heart on Duke Francis’ part.’
‘What do you suggest?’ Henry asked. ‘Whatever we do, we can be sure that already we are watched.’
‘Then those who watch must not see signs of preparation. You must go to France, but with only a few men.’
‘And those I leave behind?’
‘We must hope that King Louis will agree to admit them subsequently and that Duke Francis will not in the meantime take his revenge on them.’
Henry considered this calmly and then said, ‘I have over three hundred loyal men here in Vannes; if I abandon them and things go ill for them, I shall lose not only their support but my good name.’
Jasper nodded. ‘If you escape you will abandon those you leave behind; if you stay and are taken prisoner, you will have abandoned your cause.’
Henry studied his thumb nail. If he was to take the throne he must one day engage in a battle in which he would risk his life and many of his supporters would lose theirs. ‘What is your plan?’ he asked. ‘I assume that none of you are intending to remain behind?’
‘We shall leave before you. Fortunately, Duke Francis is at this moment staying near the French border, so it will be possible to disguise our intention. It is well known that King Richard and Duke Francis are negotiating. So what more natural than that you should send those whom you trust the most to represent your case to the Duke? The fact that you yourself are not of the party will lull suspicion since we would be unlikely to make our escape while you remain behind.’