“But the rooms are so damp and her Grace suffers so with ague. And it will be winter again then,” Ditton reminded them.
“Yes, it will be winter again then, Ditton,” agreed Elizabeth. “But let us not think about it now.”
It was easy enough to say. But how could one not think? They hung about for a few minutes in unhappy silence. Of course the Tower was a royal residence like any other and children had been born there before, yet they all felt as if the morning's brave sunshine had passed behind a cloud. And presently they drifted away, leaving the two Plantagenet sisters together.
“Would it be any good asking Henry—” began Ann, as soon as they were alone.
But they both knew that it would not be. Elizabeth did not trouble to reply. She just sat there with her back to the window and the crumpled letter in her hand. When the Tudor ordered something one obeyed. “He must have some very particular purpose, Ann,” she said slowly after a time. “Henry never does anything without a purpose.”
“No, I daresay not,” agreed Ann anxiously. “But the damp and the depression will kill you!”
“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth, looking straight before her, “that is the reason.”
“Bess, you must be mad!”
They were quite alone in the quiet room. Only to one of her sisters could Elizabeth have said such a thing and hope to be understood. And this new thought that had come to her was so utterly terrible that—even though she might be wrong—she must voice it just once.
Ann, the quick-witted, was down on her knees in a moment with protective arms about her. “You mean—because of this Aragon girl?”
“Because of her dowry. And the alliance. Henry, God help him, has not enough heat in his blood to put his worst enemy away for the getting of a girl. But this love of money grows on him. And this obsession about Spain.”
They were close together and they spoke in frightened, jerky whispers. “And if you were to die—naturally, in childbirth—he would be free,” said Ann, reading the thoughts from her sister's eyes and repeating them as if she were learning some incredible lesson.
“And he could probably get a dispensation from the Pope, because Kate says the marriage with Arthur was never consummated. Then he could marry her himself. And keep the alliance—and all that money…”
“Twenty thousand scudos!” remembered Ann.
But suddenly Elizabeth pulled herself together, getting briskly to her feet. “But of course it is impossible!” she decided. “He could not be so wicked. It is I who am wicked ever to have harboured such a thought. It is just because I have been unwell and depressed.” She bent down and took her sister's anxious face between her own two cold hands. “Dear Ann,” she implored, “forget that I ever said it!”
At the sound of approaching voices Ann rose from the cushion upon which she had been kneeling and began hurriedly rearranging the pansies. “You are not the kind of person to have harboured it without some cause,” she said judiciously. “But you must try to put the suspicion from your mind, dear Bess. You know that I have always disliked Henry; but whatever his shortcomings as a husband, he is no murderer.”
“N-no,” agreed Elizabeth, with so much uncertainty that Ann gave her a swift, surprised glance. Elizabeth had been thinking of the undrawn bolts in the Tower; but because there were people about she said no more. Everything was stir and movement again. Curly-haired Mary had escaped from her nurse and was running to Elizabeth with an eager request to hear the pet parrot talk, and Margaret was wanting to tell her about the pet parrot talk, and Margaret was wanting to tell her about the finished splendour of her wedding-dress. Margaret would wait now until the Court was out of mourning and until her mother's baby was born, and then she would go to Scotland and really be married to handsome James.
There were so many things to see to and Elizabeth was naturally so cheerful that life began to interest her again. The wide, spacious life of the Tudors. She felt better and she began to laugh again. And to be ashamed of her feelings towards her husband. And one day the King came to her with an important-looking letter in his hand impressed with the great seal of Spain. He looked, she thought, immensely pleased. A great and confident King, whose policies were in all ways to be relied on. “Read this, Elizabeth. It concerns you,” he said almost genially. “It is from our good friends Ferdinand and Isabella. They are agreeable to their daughter staying on in England. Staying in our care and learning our language and our ways—until Harry shall be old enough for marriage. I sent for him last evening and talked to him about it and tried to instill a little of Arthur's seriousness into him.” Elizabeth held the letter in her hands but scarcely took in the sense of it. Her husband's words had been enough. Enormous relief uplifted her, swiftly followed by self-reproaching shame.
“And you really think that his Holiness—”
“Mercifully the marriage was never consummated. It is more a matter of the difference in their ages.”
“Then you have been trying to persuade her parents?”
“I had thought of it, but made sure they would object because Katherine is so much older than he. But now Queen Isabella herself makes this suggestion about Harry. It seems they have heard such fine reports of his growth and prowess.”
Henry was rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, and Elizabeth looked up at him searchingly, leaving the letter lying unread in her lap. She would much rather have read his mind. Quite obviously he was enormously relieved. But had their most Christian majesties raised the objections which he had expected would he not have found some other means of keeping Katherine? He, who never allowed anything less compelling than death to stand in the way of his plans? Her suspicion of his motives might have been but sickly imagination. Yet why had he arranged for her baby to be born in the Tower? She would never know. Never understand the enigma that was her husband.
“I could ask him now whether, after all, I need go there now,” she thought, “and if he says I need not I can be certain of his original reason.” But perhaps, since she must live with him amicably, it would be easier to bear the courtesy of half-truth. “And heaven knows,” she thought, “I should be accustomed to the nagging cruelty of half-truths by now!” And in any case he would be sure to say in his precise way, “Why change now when our plans are already made?” And she would be none the wiser. For Henry Tudor was not the man to spoil his policy for want of an alternative scheme or to alter arrangements of state to suit a woman's whim.
So all that Elizabeth said was, “I have always wanted Katherine of Aragon for our Harry. She will make him a good wife.”
“I was sure you would be pleased,” said Henry pleasantly, taking back his letter. And Elizabeth did him the justice to be sure that he was too. He would keep the alliance and the money without having to exchange an intelligent and fruitful wife who was used to his ways for an imperious young chit who might expect him to be romantic. It would all suit him so much better. “And to the end,” thought Elizabeth, “he will have the sanctimonious satisfaction of showing himself to the world—and to history—as the pattern of a faithful husband.”
She would make the best of her confinement and keep about as long as possible doing all the pleasant and interesting things which, thanks to her marriage, made up her life. Whatever Henry had cheated her of, he had more than kept his promise of material security. This lovely summer morning the sun was shining, and the Tower was a long way off. She could hear young people's carefree voices out in the garden and Patch was coming to persuade her to join them.
“The new heir of England has just stopped a tennis ball on his nose,” the fool reported jubilantly.
“Oh, Patch!” she exclaimed, jumping up immediately. “Does it hurt him?”
“If it does he will not stop his sport to have it attended to, Madam. Not satisfied with an hour's bashing on the tennis court, he is now determined to get his revenge for the beating young Charles Brandon gave him yesterday at the butts.”
It was Patch's way of getting
her out into the sunshine. “Then let us go down and watch,” she agreed. And followed by a few of her ladies and preceded by the capering fool she went down the Queen's staircase into the sundrenched garden. It was high noon and midsummer, with the sparkling Thames at full tide. And as she made her way towards the archery butts her velvet skirt, swaying over the close-clipped lawn, was no greener than the grass. Surely nowhere in the world could there be such refreshing loveliness as these riverside lawns, nowhere such profusion of roses! To live in the present was all one asked for on a June morning.
She found her son with his boon companion young Brandon, whose father had been Henry Tudor's standard-bearer at Bosworth, standing among a group of young friends, sports enthusiasts and pages. Even some of the servants, taking time off from their duties, must needs stop to watch the contest. As usual he had thrown off his coat, and even at a distance it was easy to pick him out as the tall red-head in shirt and doublet. Harry might speak fluent French with his tutor or love music with the passion of a Welshman, but out here at sport he was sturdily English. Coming quietly closer, Elizabeth considered him objectively, less as her son than as a future King. He lacked the fine-drawn features of some of his ancestors and much of their Norman culture, but he had an air of command, and there was a directness about him, a forthright manner of speech, which made easy contact with those about him. Even with the watching servants and the unimportant pages who raced to retrieve his arrows he had the right jest, the common touch. That thing which his father, for all his wisdom, lacked. Yet standing there with legs braced and a man's-size bow drawn between his hands he seemed to dominate them all. And suddenly Elizabeth felt very proud.
“Humble and Reverent” she had taken as her motto, and, although born of a fiery race, she had striven to live up to it. She, a Yorkist, had submitted herself to a Lancastrian. In years to come people might not remember much about her. But here was the gift she had made to her country. The fusion of the red and white roses into one strong Tudor rose. And looking at Harry she felt assured that all she had been through of uncertainty and suffering was worth the outcome; for surely it was no small thing to mother a dynasty which was close to the heart of England?
She watched her son play out the contest. Red-headed Harry— strong, gifted, handsome—the future Henry the Eighth of England, with all his father's hoarded wealth to spend and all the security of his mother's unquestioned blood, a splendid marriage and all his shining path of youth stretching before him. “What will he make of it?” she wondered, wishing with all her heart that she could see into the future.
He had seen her now and aimed his best. Whether it were tennis, wrestling or archery, he always liked to have her there, watching his sport. That he played up to an admiring audience there was no denying, but his backers knew that whether he won or lost he would accept the issue just as cheerfully. “Right on the inside rim of the red! That brings the score even, Charles. Heaven send I get a gold!” he shouted, applauding his opponent's marksmanship. “Never mind all this solemn talk of marriage, this is what I call a fine morning's sport!”
“And what will you call your fine Spanish son?” jibed Patch, from the pathway. But Harry Tudor's mind was on the score, his eye upon the target. At fourteen the thought of marriage does not mean much. “I have no idea,” he said, turning his head smartly towards the mark and drawing the mighty bow.
There was a moment's tense silence. All eyes were upon him. The string was drawn back almost to the golden down upon his cheek. He sighted the tip. And then the arrow flew, whistling through the air to strike the golden centre of the target hard and true. The glad laughing shout of sportsmen went up for joy of it, and young Harry's laugh rang out loudest of all as he thumped Charles Brandon on the back. But no sooner had the watching crowd relaxed than he ceased to be a sportsman, and became just a spontaneous boy. He pushed his bow into a page's hand and without waiting to shed either leather bracer or tab, ran to his mother, throwing his arms about her with such thoughtless vehemence that Jane and Ditton, careful of her condition, cried out to restrain him. But even though he hurt her Elizabeth did not mind. She looked radiantly happy.
Still hugging her tight, the future King grimaced over his shoulder at the grinning fool. “But, I tell you what, Patch,” he said, finding himself at leisure to continue their half-finished conversation. “If ever I have a daughter I know what I shall call her!”
“What will you call her?” asked Elizabeth, knowing as well as he.
“Why, that is easy!” he laughed, releasing her. “How else, Madam, but after you—the loveliest mother a man ever had? She shall be Elizabeth.”
1. The book opens with Elizabeth's rejection by the French prince. Right away, Elizabeth becomes “a woman aware of the ambitious cruelties of men.” How is this moment the trajectory for all that follows in the story? What other men have cruel ambitions that affect her?
2. The dowager queen is certain from the outset that Richard is intent on obtaining the throne for himself. Yet Thomas Stafford tells Elizabeth, in chapter four, that Richard's initial intentions had been to see Edward crowned, but that the council persuaded him to take it for himself. If Tom's words are to be believed, how might the suspicions and actions of the dowager queen also have played a part in Richard's change of heart?
3. What characteristics does Elizabeth exhibit while she and her family are in sanctuary that prepare her for her future role as queen? How does she later utilize these skills and innate characteristics to be a “humble and reverent” queen?
4. In chapter nine, Buckingham thinks the following of King Richard: “There were men, [Buckingham] knew, who seemed to have two personalities.” What other characters show two sides? Elizabeth Woodville? Henry Tudor? Others?
5. Ms. Barnes does an excellent job of painting Richard III as a duplicitous character, a man of immeasurable charm and yet one who is not to be trusted. She makes it difficult for the reader to reach a definite judgment of him. Buckingham says of him, “Every line of him…was a baffling contradiction. How could one assess him, or be sure?” What were some moments when you were unsure how to judge him as good or bad? What was your final assessment of him?
6. In chapter four, Elizabeth calls Henry Tudor her “archenemy.” Then in chapter 14 she thinks of him as her “personal deliverer.” Which of these does he turn out to be? In what ways is he both?
7. Elizabeth often reflects on Henry's inability “to neither love nor hate.” Instead, there is a certain level sensibility about him. She, however, comes from a long line of fiery, passionate kings. But which has history shown to make for a better king, or political ruler in general?
8. Elizabeth often laments that Henry neither wants nor needs her love. Do you agree with this? What are some ways in which Henry does need Elizabeth? Are there any moments when he shows that he does in fact need and love her?
9. “We Tudors begin to bestride the world,” Elizabeth claims in chapter 24. Historically, how is this true?
10. What is the motivation behind Elizabeth's “sudden crazy decision” to leave the garden gate unlocked in chapter 25? What is she really trying to prove with this test? Who is she testing? Perkin? Or Henry?
11. Early on, Henry promises Elizabeth that he is no murderer, and yet she suspects it of him more than once, even suspecting him of wanting her to die in childbirth. What is your verdict of Henry—is he a man capable of murder? Is he indeed a murderer?
12. Margaret Campbell Barnes's writing career first took off in the years following World War II. She published ten books of historical fiction between 1944 and 1962. She was a volunteer in the ambulance service during the war and lost her eldest son in the battles in Normandy, “a bitter loss which she must live with all her life.” All of this—the climate of the times, her own personal loss—came to bear very strongly on her writing. Where is this influence apparent in The Tudor Rose?
Reading Group Guide written by Elizabeth R. Blaufox, great-granddaughter of Margaret Campbell Barnes
MARGARET CAMPBELL BARNES LIVED from 1891 to 1962. She was the youngest of ten children born into a happy, loving family in Victorian England. She grew up in the Sussex countryside and was educated at small private schools in London and Paris.
Margaret was already a published writer when she married Peter, a furniture salesman, in 1917. Over the next twenty years, a steady stream of short stories and verse appeared under her name (and several noms de plume) in leading English periodicals of the time, including Windsor, London, Quiver, and others. Later, Margaret's agents, Curtis Brown Ltd., encouraged her to try her hand at historical novels. Between 1944 and 1962, Margaret wrote ten historical novels. Many of these were bestsellers, book club selections, and translated into foreign editions.
Between World Wars I and II, Margaret and Peter brought up two sons, Michael and John. In August 1944, Michael, a lieutenant in the Royal Armoured Corps, was killed in his tank in the Allied advance from Caen to Falaise in Normandy. Margaret and Peter grieved terribly the rest of their lives. Glimpses of Michael shine through in each of Margaret's later novels.
In 1945 Margaret bought a small thatched cottage on the Isle of Wight, off England's south coast. It had at one time been a smuggler's cottage, but to Margaret it was a special place in which to recover the spirit and carry on writing. And write she did. All together, over two million copies of Margaret Campbell Barnes's historical novels have been sold worldwide.
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Margaret Campbell Barnes
Brief Gaudy Hour
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