As we watch, they finally get the yule log dragged into the fireplace and rolled over into the hot embers, and then the fire boys shovel the red-hot coals around it. The ivy that is binding the trunk crisps, smokes, and flares, and then the whole thing settles into the ashes and starts to glow. A little flicker of flame licks around the bark. The yule log is alight, the Christmas celebrations can begin.
The musicians start to play and I nod to my ladies that they can dance. I take pleasure in a court of beautiful, well-behaved ladies-in-waiting, just as my mother did when she was queen. I am watching them as they go through their paces, when I see my uncle Edward Woodville, my mother’s brother, stroll into the room from a side door, and come over to my mother with a little smile. They exchange a kiss on each cheek, and then they turn together, as if they would speak privately. It’s nothing, no one but me would notice it, but I watch as he speaks briefly but intently to her, as she nods as if in agreement. He bows over her hand, and comes across to me.
“I must bid you farewell, my niece, and wish you a happy Christmas and good health for you and the prince.”
“Surely you are staying at court for Christmas?”
He shakes his head. “I am going on a journey. I’m going on a great crusade as I have long promised I would.”
“Leaving court? But where are you going, my lord uncle?”
“To Lisbon. I’m taking a ship out of Greenwich tonight, and from there to Granada. I will serve under the most Christian kings and help them drive the Moors from Granada.”
“Lisbon! And then Granada?”
At once I glance towards My Lady the King’s Mother.
“She knows,” he reassures me. “The king knows. Indeed, I am going at his bidding. She is delighted at the thought of an Englishman on crusade against the heretic, and he has a few little tasks for me on the way.”
“What tasks?” I cannot stop myself lowering my voice to a whisper. My uncle Edward is one of the few members of our family trusted by the king and his mother. He was in exile with Henry, a sworn friend when Henry had few sworn friends. He escaped from my uncle Richard with two ships of his fleet, and was among the first to join Henry in Brittany. My uncle’s constant, reliable presence at the exiled little court assured Henry that we, the fallen royal family scuffling in sanctuary, were his allies. As Richard took the throne and made himself king, Henry, the pretender, was encouraged to trust us by the steady presence of my uncle Edward, fiercely loyal to his sister, the former queen.
He was not the only York loyalist who made his way to Henry’s court of turncoats and exiles. My half brother Thomas Grey was there too, keeping our claim before Henry, reminding him of his promises to marry me. I can only imagine Henry’s horror when he woke one morning and his scant servants at his tiny court told him that Thomas Grey’s horse was gone from the stables and his bed was untouched and he realized that we had changed sides and were for Richard. Henry and Jasper sent riders after Thomas Grey and they captured him. They held him as a prisoner for my mother’s goodwill—fearing that nothing could guarantee her goodwill—and they still hold him in France, a guest of honor with a promise to return but still without a horse to ride home.
My uncle Edward played a longer game, a deeper game. He stayed with Henry and invaded with him at Bosworth, and served beside him at the battle. He serves him still. Henry never forgets his friends, nor does he forget those who changed their minds during his time of exile. I think he will never again trust my brother Thomas, but he loves my uncle Edward and calls him his friend.
“He is sending me on a diplomatic mission,” my uncle says.
“To the King of Portugal? Surely Lisbon is not on the way to Granada?”
He spreads his hand and smiles at me, as if I might share a joke, or a secret. “Not directly to the King of Portugal. He wants me to see something that has arisen, appeared at the Portuguese court.”
“What sort of thing?”
He drops on his knee and kisses my hand. “A secret thing, a precious thing,” he says gleefully, then he rises up and goes. I look around for my mother and see her smiling at him as he works his way through the laughing, dancing, celebrating court. She watches his swift bow to Henry and the king’s discreet acknowledgment, and then my uncle slips through the great doors of the hall, as quiet as any spy.
That night Henry comes to my bed. He will come every single night only excepting the week of my course, or the nights of holy fasts or saints’ days. We have to conceive another child, we have to have another son. One is not enough to ensure the safety of the line. One is not enough to keep a new king steady on his throne. One son does not demonstrate powerfully enough the blessing of God on the new family.
It is an act without desire for me, from which I get no pleasure, part of my work as wife to the king. I face it with a sort of resigned weariness. He takes care not to hurt me, he keeps his weight off me, he does not kiss or caress me, which I would hate; he is as quick and as gentle as he can be. He takes care not to disgust me, washing before he comes to me, wearing clean linen. I don’t ask for any more.
But I find that I enjoy his company, the quiet peaceful time alone with him at the end of a day that is always crowded with people. He and I sit before the fire and we talk about the baby, how he is feeding today, how he is starting to smile when he sees me. I am certain that he knows me from all others, and knows Henry too, and that this proves his remarkable intelligence and promise. I can speak of our baby like this to no one else. Who but his father would linger over the exact width of his gummy little smile or the blueness of his eyes, or the sweetness of his little lick of tawny hair on his forehead? Who but his father would speculate with me as to whether he will be a scholar prince, or a warrior prince, or a prince like my father, who loved learning and was a commander of men above all others?
The servants leave us with mulled wine, bread and cheese, nuts and candied fruits, and we have a supper, cozy in our night robes, side by side in our chairs, my feet tucked under me for warmth, his bare feet proffered to the glowing fire. We look like a happy couple in easy companionship. Sometimes I forget myself, and think this is what we are.
“You said good-bye to your uncle?”
“Yes, I did,” I say cautiously. “He said he was going on crusade, and to serve you.”
“Did your mother tell you what he is doing for me?”
I shake my head.
“You’re a discreet family.” Henry smiles. “Anyone would think you had been raised to be spies.”
I shake my head at once. “You know we were not. We were raised as royals.”
“I know. But now that I am a king it sometimes seems to me that it’s the same thing. There’s a rumor reached me that there is some page boy in Portugal pretending to be a bastard son of your father, saying that he should be recognized as a royal duke of England.”
I am watching the flames and I keep facing the fire and only slowly turn to my husband. I meet an intense brown glare. He is watching me closely, and I have a sense of an unexpected interrogation, something keen and unfriendly in the warmth of the evening room. I am aware of my expression, of keeping my face absolutely impassive. I am suddenly aware of everything. “Oh, really? Who is he?”
“Of course your father had more bastards than anyone could count,” he says carelessly. “I suppose we should expect to find one or two every year.”
“Yes he did,” I say. “And I hope that God forgives him, for my mother never did.”
He laughs at that, but it only diverts him for a moment. “Did she not? How did he dare to defy her?”
I smile. “He would laugh at her and kiss her and buy her earrings. And besides, she was almost always with child, and he was king. Who could say no to him?”
“It’s inconvenient. It leaves a scattering of bastard half brothers and sisters,” Henry points out. “More Yorks than any man needs.”
“Especially if he’s not York himself,” I observe. “But we know most of them. Grace, in my
mother’s service, is one of my father’s bastard daughters. She could not love Mother more if she were her own daughter, and we treat her as a half sister. She is absolutely loyal to you.”
“Well, this lad is claiming royal blood like her, but I don’t expect to bring him to court. I thought your uncle might go and take a look at him. Speak to his master, say that we don’t want the embarrassment of a bastard twig making much of himself, another little shoot on the Plantagenet vine. Tell him that we don’t need a new royal duke, that we have Yorks enough. Quietly remind him who is king now in England. Point out that connections to the earlier king are no advantage, not to the page boy nor to his master.”
“Who’s his master? A Portuguese?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says vaguely, but his gaze on my face never wavers. “I can’t remember. Is it Edward Brampton? D’you know of him? Ever heard of him?”
I frown as if I am trying to recall, though his name strikes a chord in my mind so loud that I think Henry must hear it like a tolling bell. Slowly, I shake my head. I swallow, but my throat is dry and I take a sip of wine. “Edward Brampton?” I query. “I recognize the name. I think he served my father? I’m not sure. Is he an Englishman?”
“A Jew,” Henry says contemptuously. “A Jew that was in England, converted to serve your father, indeed your father stood as his sponsor into the Church. So you must have heard of him, though you’ve forgotten him. He must have come to court. He’s not been in England since I came to the throne, and now he lives everywhere and nowhere, so he’s probably still a heretic Jew, reverted to his heresy. He has this lad in his keeping, making claims, causing trouble for no reason. Your uncle will speak to him, I don’t doubt. Your uncle will prevail upon him to silence the lad. Your uncle Edward is very eager to serve me.”
“He is,” I agree. “We all want you to know that we are loyal to you.”
He smiles. “Well, here’s a little claimant whose loyalty I don’t want. Your uncle will no doubt silence him one way or another.”
I nod as if I am not much interested.
“You don’t want to see the lad?” he asks idly, as if offering me a treat. “This imposter? What if he is a bastard child of your father’s? Your half brother? Don’t you want to see him? Shall I tell Edward to bring the lad to court? You could take him into your household? Or shall I say he must be silenced where he is, overseas, far away?”
I shake my head. I imagine that the boy’s life depends upon what I say. I gamble that Henry is keenly watching me, expecting me to ask for the boy to be brought home. I think his little life may depend upon my appearance of indifference. “He’s of no interest to me,” I say, shrugging. “And it would irritate my mother. But you do what you think best.”
There is a little silence, in which I sip my wine. I offer to pour him another cup. The chink of silver jug against silver cup makes a noise like the counting of coins, of thirty pieces of silver.
The boy may be of no interest to me; but it seems he is of interest to others. In London there are the wildest rumors that both my brothers Edward and Richard escaped from imprisonment in the Tower years ago, almost as soon as our uncle Richard was crowned, and are making their way home from their hiding place, to claim the throne. The sons of York will walk in the garden of England again, this bitterly cold winter will turn to spring with their coming, the white roses will bloom, and everyone will be happy.
Someone pins a ballad on my saddle when I am about to ride. I scan the lines; it is predicting the sun of York shining on England again and everyone being happy. At once I rip it from the pommel and take it to the king, leaving my horse waiting in the stable yard.
“I thought you should see this. What does it mean?” I ask Henry.
“It means that there are people who are prepared to print treason as well as tell lies,” he says grimly. He twitches it out of my hand. “It means there are people wasting their time setting treason to music.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Find the man that printed it and slit his ears,” he says bleakly. “Cut out his tongue. What are you going to do?”
I shrug as if I am quite indifferent to the poet who sang of the House of York, or the printer who published his poem. “Shall I go riding?” I ask him.
“You don’t care about this—” he gestures to the ballad in his hand “—this dross?”
I shake my head, my eyes wide. “No. Why should I? Does it matter at all?”
He smiles. “Not to you, it seems.”
I turn away. “People will always talk nonsense,” I say indifferently.
He catches my hand and kisses it. “You were right to bring it to me,” he says. “Always tell me whatever nonsense you hear, however unimportant it seems to you.”
“Of course,” I say.
He walks with me to the stable yard. “At least it reassures me about you.”
Then my own maid whispers to me that there was a great stir in the meat market of Smithfield when someone said that Edward, my little cousin Teddy, was escaped from the Tower and was planting his standard in Warwick Castle, and the House of York was rallying to his cause.
“Half the butcher apprentices said they should take their meat cleavers and march to serve him,” she says. “The others said they should march on the Tower and free him.”
I dare not even ask Henry about this, his face is so grim. We are all trapped inside the palace by the icy winds and sleet and snow that fall every day. Henry rides out on frozen roads in a quiet fury, while his mother spends all her time on her knees on the cold stone floors of the chapel. Every day brings more and more stories of stars that have been seen to dance in the cold skies, prophesying a white rose. Someone sees a white rose made from the frost on the grass at Bosworth at dawn. There are poems nailed to the door of Westminster Abbey. A gang of wherry boys sings carols under the windows of the Tower, and Edward of Warwick swings open his window and waves to them, and calls out “Merry Christmas!” The king and his mother walk stiffly as if they are frozen with horror.
“Well, they are frozen with horror,” my mother confirms cheerfully. “Their great fear is that the battle of Bosworth turns out not to be the end of the war but just another battle, just one of the many, many battles that have been. So many battles that people are forgetting their names. Their great fear is that the Cousins’ War goes on, only now with the House of Beaufort against York instead of Lancaster against York.”
“But who would fight for York?”
“Thousands,” my mother says shortly. “Tens of thousands. Nobody knows how many. Your husband has not made himself very beloved in the country, though God knows that he has tried. Those people who served him and had their rewards are looking for more than he can bring himself to give. Those that he has pardoned find they have to pay fees to him for their good behavior, and then more fines as surety. This king’s pardon is more like a punishment for life than a true forgiveness. People resent it. Those who opposed him have seen no reason to change their minds. He’s not a York king like your father. He’s not beloved. He does not have a way with people.”
“He has to establish his rule,” I protest. He spends half his time looking behind him to see if his allies are still with him.”
She gives me a funny sideways smile. “You defend him?” she asks incredulously. “To me?”
“I don’t blame him for being anxious,” I say. “I don’t blame him for not being the sweet herb of March. I don’t blame him for not having a white rose made of snow or three suns in the sky shining on him. He can’t help that.”
At once her face softens. “Truly, a king like Edward comes perhaps once in a century,” she says. “Everyone loved him.”
I grit my teeth. “Charm is not a measure of a king,” I say irritably. “He can’t be king based on whether he’s charming or not.”
“No,” she says. “And Master Tudor is certainly not that.”
“What did you call him?”
She claps h
er hand over her mouth and her gray eyes dance. “Little Master Tudor, and his mother, Madonna Margaret of the Unending Self-Congratulation.”
I cannot help but laugh but then I wave my hand to still her. “No, hush. He can’t help how he is,” I say. “He was raised in hiding, he was brought up to be a pretender to the throne. People can only be charming when they’re confident. He can’t be confident.”
“Exactly,” she says. “So no one has any confidence in him.”
“But who would lead the rebels?” I ask. “There’s no one of age, there are no York commanders. We don’t have an heir.” At her silence I press her. “We don’t have an heir. Do we?”
Her eyes slide away from my question. “Edward of Warwick is the heir, of course, and if you’re looking for another heir to the House of York, there is your cousin John de la Pole. There’s his younger brother Edmund. They are both Edward’s nephews just as much as Edward of Warwick.”
“Descended from my aunt Elizabeth,” I point out. “The female line. Not the son of a royal duke, but the son of a duchess. And John has sworn loyalty and he serves in the privy council. Edmund too. And Edward, poor Teddy, has sworn loyalty and is in the Tower. We have all promised that he would not turn against Henry and we have all taught him to be loyal. In truth, there are no sons of York who would lead a rebellion against Henry Tudor—are there?”
She shrugs. “I’m sure I don’t know. All the people speak of a hero like a ghost or a sleeping saint, or a pretender. It would almost make you believe that there is an heir of York hidden out in the hills, a king waiting for the call to battle, sleeping like the true Arthur of England, ready to rise. People love to dream, so how should anyone contradict them?”
I take her hands. “Mother, please, let’s have the truth between us for once. I don’t forget that night, long ago, when we sent a page boy into the Tower instead of my brother Richard.”
She looks at me as if I am dreaming, like the people who hope for King Arthur to rise again; but I have a very clear memory of the poor boy from the streets of the City, whose parents sold him to us, assured that we needed him for nothing more than a little playacting, that we would send him back safely to them. I put the cap on his little head myself, and I drew up the scarf around his face, and warned him to say nothing. We told the men who came for my brother Richard that the little boy was the prince himself, we said he was ill with a sore throat and had lost his voice. Nobody could imagine that we would dare to create such an imposter. Of course, they wanted to believe us, and the old archbishop himself, Thomas Bourchier, took him away and told everyone that Prince Richard was in the Tower with his brother.
The White Princess Page 15