Rebellion

by Livi Michael

A murmur passed through the assembled lords and Jasper stepped forward hastily. ‘No, sire – it is your nephew, Edmund’s son,’ he said. ‘I have brought our nephew to meet you as you desired.’

  And the expression in the king’s eyes changed to one of uncertain recognition. ‘Edmund,’ he said.

  ‘This is his son, Henry Tudor,’ Jasper said. ‘Earl of Richmond.’

  At last the king extended his hand, and Henry made a move to kiss it, but at the last moment the king rested it on his head, as if in blessing.

  ‘He is a very fine prince,’ he said to everyone in general, and a kind of exhalation passed around the room.

  Margaret sank into her deepest curtsy, murmuring the formalities. Then she raised her head and looked at the king. ‘We hope with all our hearts that your majesty will soon be restored to health,’ she said, and a ripple of doubt or unease passed through the lords. It was not proper to acknowledge the king’s illness unless he had first acknowledged it himself. No one in this new regime had as yet acknowledged that the king might not be fit to rule. She could feel Jasper frowning at her. But the king himself smiled as though surprised and pleased.

  ‘Thank you, dearest sister,’ he said.

  Only on the way home did she reflect that she had spoken to reassure the king that neither she nor her husband had at any point thought about the prince who would rule after him.

  Light fell in shimmering sheets across the river, altered by the shadows of great boats. The water was now bright as a shield when it catches the sun, now impenetrably dull. She pointed out all the buildings to her son as they passed and he leaned towards her to catch what she said. There was still that slight formality between them, that politeness. But she stood very close to him as if protecting him from what the king had said. He is a very fine prince.

  It was a mistake only, it did not signify. It had been a long time since he’d seen his own son.

  Still, it was true that only the king and his son stood between her son and the throne. And the king was not well – anyone could see that. She glanced up a little anxiously at her son and touched his arm so that he looked down at her and smiled.

  That evening Sir Richard Tunstall was coming back with Jasper to dine with them. This man, who had endured years of siege at Harlech and then been saved from execution by William Herbert, was now King Henry’s chamberlain, responsible for all access to the king. It was a good indication that the king intended to forgive her husband. Of course, there might be another reason why Jasper was bringing him, and this was causing her unease. But it did not do to anticipate trouble, she told herself, as the boat pulled into its mooring.

  Sir Richard sat back, closing his eyes like a cat. ‘Your table does you credit, Countess,’ he said, then, ‘His majesty is most impressed with your son.’

  Margaret smiled. ‘It was very good of him to see us at all,’ she said.

  ‘He’s a fine young man,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Lord Herbert trained him well.’

  ‘He fulfilled his duty,’ she said, then, glancing at her son, was dismayed to see a shadow pass across his face. He misses them, she thought.

  ‘Lord Herbert was good to me,’ he said, ‘and Lady Herbert –’ He stopped, as if preventing himself from saying, she was like a mother to me.

  ‘We would have trained him too,’ Margaret said.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Sir Richard said. Then, leaning closer to Henry, he continued, ‘I hear he gave you your first taste of battle, eh? How did you like that?’

  Henry’s first taste of battle had been at Harlech, against Sir Richard. He glanced at Jasper, not at Margaret or her husband, before replying. ‘It was –’ He looked around, then down. ‘I don’t remember much about it.’

  ‘That’s how it often is, the first time,’ said Sir Richard. ‘And you were on the wrong side, of course – a pity about that. But still – an excellent experience. Now, however, you can serve your rightful king,’ he went on. ‘How would you like that?’

  Margaret did not like the way this was going, but Henry said there was nothing he would like better.

  ‘Nothing too alarming,’ Sir Richard said. ‘How would you like to return to Wales with your uncle?’

  ‘He’s only just returned here,’ Margaret said, but Sir Richard spoke across her to Henry.

  ‘Your uncle has been given a commission from the king,’ he said, ‘to settle his affairs in south Wales and the Severn Valley. He could use an able young knight as his helper.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ she asked sharply.

  Sir Richard looked at her in surprise. ‘Well, to restore law and order – administer justice and so on. He would be stepping into his father’s role.’

  ‘The role that killed him,’ she said.

  ‘It would not come to that,’ said Sir Richard, and Jasper said, ‘There should be no question of battle. It will be a largely administrative role.’

  Sir Richard was leaning towards Henry again. ‘Wales was your father’s country,’ he said. ‘One day you might be overlord of it as he should have been. What do you think, eh? It would be good for you to see how Welsh affairs are managed.’

  ‘Can they not be managed without my son?’ she said. Sir Richard barely glanced at her.

  ‘The Welsh do not like having an English king,’ he said. ‘But your son was born there. And they loved his father. And his grandfather too.’

  She was about to speak but he carried on. ‘The king has little enough family, Countess. He must make use of what he has.’

  He spoke gently, but with a warning edge, and Jasper said, ‘It’s right for him to take on Edmund’s role.’

  They had cooked this up between them, she thought. It had not come from the king – he would do what they suggested. She thought briefly, wildly, of appealing to the king herself, but she was hardly in a position to do that. Not when her husband had fought on the opposing side.

  And her husband wasn’t looking at her. He sat slightly hunched with a concentrated frown on his forehead.

  ‘But we’re talking as if the lad wasn’t here,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Let him speak for himself.’

  Margaret couldn’t look at her son. She willed him, with all her heart, to say that he would stay with her.

  ‘I think I would like to go back to Wales,’ he said.

  ‘Then that is settled,’ Sir Richard said. He sat back beaming and she bowed her head in defeat.

  When Sir Richard left she spoke to Jasper alone. ‘So you will take him away from me again,’ she said.

  ‘It’s time for him to enter the king’s service,’ Jasper said inexpressively. ‘It goes without saying that you can visit him whenever you like – and he you. I realize there has been some difficulty about this in the past –’

  ‘I’ve hardly seen him at all.’

  ‘But that’s over now. There will be no obstacles to seeing him. He will be with his own family – and I’ll take as good care of him as if he were my son.’

  ‘He is not your son,’ she said, and a look of exasperation crossed Jasper’s face, but he said, ‘He is Edmund’s son. It’s what Edmund would have wanted.’

  That silenced her, because it was true. Edmund would have wanted him to take on his role. Even if Edmund had survived, she would still not have seen much of her son.

  Into her silence Jasper said, ‘I realize that you would have wanted things to turn out differently – we could all say that.’

  Yes, she thought. She would have wanted Edmund to live. And to have loved her.

  ‘But at least the situation is different now – at least now his uncle is king.’

  ‘King in name,’ she said, and he looked at her sharply. ‘I imagine he will have others speaking for him – sending my son to Wales.’

  ‘What do you want for him?’ Jasper said.

  He knew what she wanted, of course. To keep Henry with her, until he married, eventually, and had children. And he would still live near her, so that she would have family she could belong to. That w
as what she wanted – and for there to be no war.

  At the same time she knew that it could never be given back to her – all the years of his infancy, his childhood, the experience of being a mother.

  She could feel her throat tightening. But she had vowed to herself that she would never cry in front of this man ever again. When she did not answer, he said, ‘He can stay with you, of course, for the time being.’

  Her throat worked. ‘How long?’ she said. Jasper shifted restlessly then pulled his nose. ‘I must be in Wales by the end of the month,’ he said. ‘And we should see the king before we leave. So – two weeks, perhaps?’

  Two weeks.

  After all these years of waiting. She could feel her hopes shedding, like leaves from a tree.

  She managed to speak with only minimal bitterness. ‘That is good of you,’ she said.

  41

  The Sanctuary Child

  The queen that was, and the Duchess of Bedford [remain] in sanctuary at Westminster.

  Paston Letters

  In right great trouble, sorrow and heaviness …

  The Arrivall

  In the greatest jeopardy that ever they stood.

  Jean de Waurin

  In the last days of her pregnancy the former queen increasingly insisted on being alone. Especially after the arrival of Lady Scrope. For King Henry had sent the wife of one of his greatest supporters to act as midwife to her, of his great kindness.

  She was a sharp-featured, soft-voiced woman; unfailingly resourceful. She helped to entertain the children when they grew fretful from being cooped in, read to them in the evenings, ran errands to the Sanctuary shops and brought back news from the streets.

  ‘They say that Queen Margaret will sail any time now with her son the prince. And the Earl of Warwick will go to meet them.’

  ‘They say that the prince is a very handsome young man. And quite the warrior.’

  She would finish these statements with a little naughty look, as if suddenly aware that she had spoken out of turn, or said the wrong thing in the present company. But soon she would start again.

  ‘King Henry rode through the city today – you should have seen the crowds. They are like children whose father has come home.’

  At this comment Elizabeth rose suddenly and left the room.

  Her mother hurried after her. ‘Elizabeth,’ she said.

  ‘What is she doing here?’ she asked, barely lowering her voice.

  ‘The king wishes to be kind,’ her mother whispered.

  ‘He is not the king,’ said Elizabeth. ‘And I do not need this kindness.’

  ‘We can’t afford to offend him,’ said her mother.

  This was true. The king had tried to help them. He had arranged for a butcher to supply them with meat. Her old physician, Dr Serigo, was allowed to visit and the Sanctuary midwife, Margery Cobbe, had been paid to nurse her child once he or she was born. It was more mercy than her husband would have shown in similar circumstances, but Elizabeth felt ensnared. She did not suspect the king of anything other than his usual aggravating piety, but any decision he took would have to be ratified by the council. Meaning Warwick.

  She pulled a chair to the window and sat in it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ her mother said. ‘You can’t stay here.’

  ‘I will stay here as long as she is there,’ Elizabeth said. Then as her mother started to protest, she said, ‘Why have they sent her? To report back to them on everything we say or do. They are hoping, perhaps, that my husband will send a message.’

  ‘The king said that she was to help you in your confinement,’ her mother said.

  ‘I don’t need her help,’ said Elizabeth. This was her sixth confinement. She was not anticipating any difficulty. Her mother had joined them as soon as she could when the riots were over. And Old Mother Cobbe, as she was known, had famously nursed more children than anyone in England.

  ‘They will want to know immediately if I have a son,’ she said. ‘And maybe they will want her to take him to them – or dispose of him in some other way.’

  Her mother sank down on the edge of the bed. ‘The king would not do such a wicked thing,’ she said.

  ‘Not the king, as you call him,’ her daughter said. ‘But why would Warwick allow my son to live?’

  Her mother pressed her lips together. Since the murder of her husband and son, her mind, like her daughter’s, had opened on to darker possibilities. She had aged in that time. She was no longer as fiercely in control of her daughter – indeed, it seemed as though her daughter was more formidable now.

  Elizabeth turned towards her in her chair. ‘Promise me,’ she said, ‘promise me that you will not let her take my son. She must not be alone with him at any time – promise me that.’

  Her mother went to her and clasped her hands and said that she must not distress herself – she would guard this grandchild with her life. No one else would take him. But Elizabeth should come back with her into the other room and sit with them.

  ‘I’m staying here,’ her daughter said, turning back to the window. ‘You may make what excuses you like.’

  So the duchess, familiar with her daughter’s implacable temper, left her by the window and returned to the inquisitive eyes of Lady Scrope, saying that her daughter was tired, that was all. It was only to be expected, this late in her pregnancy. She needed to rest, and to be left alone.

  Elizabeth stayed in her room, though it was hardly reasonable in the circumstances that she should demand one of the three rooms available to them for her sole use, since it meant that the rest of her household – her mother, her three daughters and Lady Scrope –were crammed into the other two. But she reasoned that so late in her pregnancy she might be expected to dictate the terms of her own confinement. Besides, she was tired of all of them, and of female company in general: her squabbling daughters, the endless conversations about needlework, the weather and the price of fish. She preferred to sit alone and brood about her situation: her husband who had left her and had not even told her where he was (though she’d heard by now that he was in Holland), and Warwick, who was the source of this evil.

  Warwick the Kingmaker. Destroyer of queens.

  This thought reminded her of that other queen, Margaret of Anjou, who, according to Lady Scrope, was poised and waiting to invade.

  They were enemies now, inevitably, because of the situation. It had not always been so. Elizabeth had entered Queen Margaret’s service when she was very young, as one of her attending ladies. She had not disliked the queen then. She’d admired her, in fact, her dignity and sense of style. And the queen had been kind. When Elizabeth was fifteen she’d had to leave the court to marry her first husband, Sir John Grey. The other ladies had gathered round her, teasing her with alarming tales of marriage, but the queen, seeing the look on her face, had sent them all away.

  ‘You are worried, I think,’ she said, when they were alone. Elizabeth did not reply and she said, ‘I don’t blame you – it is worrying.’

  Elizabeth knew she was remembering her own turbulent voyage away from everything she had ever known, to a husband she’d never met.

  ‘But remember this,’ she said, coming closer. ‘Whatever else happens, you must act with pride.’

  She had looked for a moment as if there was much more that she could say, but all she said was, ‘That is all that matters.’ And she turned away.

  Elizabeth saw that she was working something free from the coronet of marguerites that lay on her table. She tucked one of them into Elizabeth’s hair. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Now you are perfectly beautiful. He is lucky to have you.’

  Now Elizabeth felt a certain instability inside, because of everything that had happened since that time.

  But there was no point in crying about it – any of it. It was past and gone. She folded it away in her memory along with the memories of her first husband, who’d been part of her life for nearly nine years, but whom she hardly thought of either. It seemed to her
that sanity depended on the ability to select one’s thoughts.

  It was pregnancy that was disturbing these memories which were usually submerged so that they stirred and squirmed like the infant in its enclosed and constricted world.

  But in the last days of her pregnancy most of these disturbances disappeared, along with the habitual feelings of anxiety and dread. As the November light turned sombre she was overtaken by a kind of numbness, in which she felt that nothing was quite real. Everything seemed muffled or at a distance, as if the dullness of immobility had anaesthetized her soul.

  In certain moments a kind of forgetfulness overtook her; a forgetfulness of who she was – wife, mother, queen. She felt cocooned, like her child, waiting to emerge into some different world.

  Even when she felt the first dragging pain in her abdomen she did not move immediately, reluctant to disturb the torpor into which she had sunk. She sat through successive pains, wondering briefly whether she and her baby might not manage this business alone, without summoning the gaggle of women who were so anxious to attend.

  Finally she knew this was not an option. With a wrenching effort, like breaking the surface of a dream, she got to her feet to notify those in the next room that her time had come.

  ‘Praise be to God,’ her mother said. ‘You have a son!’

  Lady Scrope withdrew a little, smiling. Elizabeth struggled to sit up. She could feel her heart pounding all over her body.

  Mother Cobbe deftly detached the cord and rubbed the baby’s back quite hard until he gave a tiny cry. Then she passed him to Elizabeth, who sank back on her pillow. ‘He come lovely,’ she said. ‘He weren’t no trouble at all.’

  The tiny body crumpled as she held it. There were smears of blood on his head. He turned his face a little and squeaked again.

  She saw that her mother was crying, fingers pressed to her mouth. But Elizabeth did not cry. She lay back and held her son.

  His eyes opened a little, unfocused. It was hard to see the exact colour in the candlelight, but she thought they were the colour of midnight. They rolled upwards and his eyelids drooped, little crescent moons of white shining eerily between them. On the lids themselves were tiny thread-like veins.