The Last White Rose, page 1
The Last White Rose is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical persons appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 by Alison Weir
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Ballantine and the House colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Published in the United Kingdom by Headline Review, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group, as Elizabeth of York, The Last White Rose.
Hardback ISBN 9780593355039
Ebook ISBN 9780593355046
randomhousebooks.com
Cover design: Victoria Allen
Cover photograph: Jeff Cottenden
ep_prh_6.0_139899382_c0_r1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Genealogy
Part One: Princess
Chapter 1: 1470
Chapter 2: 1470–1471
Chapter 3: 1472–1475
Chapter 4: 1476–1478
Chapter 5: 1479–1483
Chapter 6: 1483
Chapter 7: 1483
Part Two: Bastard
Chapter 8: 1483
Chapter 9: 1483–1484
Chapter 10: 1484–1485
Chapter 11: 1485
Chapter 12: 1485–1486
Part Three: Queen
Chapter 13: 1486
Chapter 14: 1486–1487
Chapter 15: 1487–1490
Chapter 16: 1491–1492
Chapter 17: 1493–1495
Chapter 18: 1496–1497
Chapter 19: 1498–1499
Chapter 20: 1500–1501
Part Four: Matriarch
Chapter 21: 1501
Chapter 22: 1501–1502
Chapter 23: 1502
Chapter 24: 1502–1503
Chapter 25: 1503
Author’s Note
Dedication
By Alison Weir
About the Author
O royal maid,
Put on your regal robes in loveliness.
A thousand fair attendants round you wait,
Of various ranks, with different offices,
To deck your beauteous form. Lo, this delights
To smooth with ivory comb your golden hair,
And that to curl or braid each shining tress
And wreath the sparkling jewels round your head,
Twining your locks with gems; this one shall clasp
The radiant necklace framed in fretted gold
About your snowy neck; while that unfolds
The robes that glow with gold and purple dye,
And fits the ornaments with patient skill
To your unrivalled limbs; and here shall shine
The costly treasures from the Orient sands:
The sapphire, azure gem that emulates
Heaven’s lofty arch, shall gleam, and softly there
The verdant emerald shed its greenest light,
And fiery carbuncle flash forth rosy rays
From the pure gold.
—“Epithalamium,” Giovanni de’ Gigli
Chapter 1
1470
“Wake up, Bessy! Wake up!”
Elizabeth stirred, roused by the unfamiliar whisper. What was her mother the Queen doing here, shaking her? It was usually Lady Berners who came to wake her with a smile and a “Good morning, my lady Princess.” But Mother was not smiling, and Lady Berners, holding a candle aloft, was standing in the doorway with Mistress Jakes, the wet nurse, who had baby Cecily in her arms. With them was Grandmother Rivers, holding a sleepy little Mary by the hand. They were all dressed for outdoors. But it was still dark and, beyond the narrow window, there was no sign of dawn breaking.
“What’s wrong?” Elizabeth asked, instantly awake.
“Shh!” the Queen hissed, putting a finger to her lips. “We must all be very quiet. Get up and I’ll put you into some warm clothes.”
Mother was dressing her? Her lady mother, whose queenly hands never deigned to do everyday tasks? Something must be badly amiss.
Mother gave a faint smile. “I and my sisters had to shift for ourselves before I became queen.” She lifted Elizabeth’s night-rail over her head, put on her smock and her green woolen winter gown and wrapped her cloak around her, pulling the hood down over her face. Then she took her own cloak from Grandmother Rivers and wrapped herself in it, concealing her swollen belly. She turned to the other women. “Let us go.” There was an urgency in her lowered voice.
“My lady, what’s happening?” Elizabeth asked, completely bewildered.
“Hush! I will tell you later. Now, not a word. We all have to be very quiet.”
The four women hurried the children through the Lanthorn Tower, holding their breath as they passed the open door of the room where the sentries, who were supposed to be on watch, were—luckily—snoring soundly. And then they were out on the wall walk and hurrying down the stairs and along Water Lane, to the postern gate of the Tower of London, which had been left ajar.
“Thank God for a loyal guard,” Mother breathed. Tightly holding Elizabeth’s hand, she led her down the Queen’s Stairs to the wharf, where several small craft were tied up. Lady Berners hailed a boatman.
“Westminster Stairs!” she said.
“Right-ho,” he answered, taking the baby from her as she boarded. The Queen and Elizabeth followed, with Grandmother Rivers, the wet nurse, and Mary climbing on deck last. The boatman adjusted his oars and pulled out into the Thames.
The water was black and sinister. Elizabeth shivered with fear and the chill of the early-October night. Around them, London slept. From the darkness came the distant voice of the watch: “Three o’clock, and all’s well.”
“If only it was,” Grandmother whispered.
Elizabeth was desperate to know what was wrong, but she obeyed her mother and kept silent, wondering why they were going to Westminster at this time of night.
“It’s late for you good ladies to be out,” the boatman observed as they passed Baynard’s Castle, where Elizabeth’s Grandmother York, who was far sterner than Grandmother Rivers, lived. Did she know about this adventure they were having? Maybe she was asleep, like everyone else.
“We are going to my daughter, who is travailing with child as we speak,” Lady Berners said. “I’ve had word that things are critical.”
Elizabeth was surprised, for Lady Berners’s married daughter Anne had only just had a baby, while the other daughter was as yet unwed—and Lady Berners had always impressed on her that it was wrong to tell lies.
“We’ll get you there quickly, then,” the boatman said kindly, and began rowing harder. Elizabeth saw the women exchange glances.
Soon, she could make out the sprawling bulk of the palace of Westminster looming ahead. The boatman pulled in at the jetty and then they were hurrying up the stairs, huddling together as they hastened alongside the wall that enclosed the palace yard. Elizabeth was disappointed when they did not enter the gate, but instead moved away from the palace; she had been entertaining fond notions that they were going to her father the King, who would make whatever was wrong right again. It was a long time since she had seen him. She and her two little sisters had been staying with Mother in the Tower palace for what seemed like ages.
They were passing Westminster Abbey now and walking through St. Margaret’s churchyard. Soon it became appallingly clear that Mother was heading for the great sanctuary building that stood opposite. It was grim and stark, like a church in form, but exuding menace, not holiness. Young as she was, Elizabeth knew that bad people lived there, murderers and thieves. Once, after she had had a nightmare about being trapped in there, Lady Berners had explained that anyone could claim sanctuary, which meant that no one could arrest them or bring them to justice because they were on holy ground, under the protection of St. Peter.
Holy ground it might be, but it was an evil place and Elizabeth was terrified of going there. Tears came as she shrank, whimpering, from the prospect.
“Hush,” Mother said, her grip tightening.
Elizabeth was too frightened to heed her. “But why are we going here, my lady? We haven’t done anything wrong. We’re not thieves.”
“Bessy, be quiet. I will explain everything soon.”
A hand descended on Elizabeth’s shoulder. She looked up to see her grandmother smiling down at her. “God is surely watching over us, child,” she said. “He will provide for the best.”
They had reached the stout oak door now an
After what seemed like an age, a monk opened the door. “God be with you, my sisters. Whom do you seek?”
“Alas, Brother,” Mother said, “we are not here as visitors. We have come to claim sanctuary.”
There was a pause while the monk stared at them all. “Are you debtors? I cannot credit that such fine ladies can be guilty of any crime. And there are children with you—we don’t admit—”
“I am your Queen,” Mother said, putting on that icy look that quelled most people, “and I and my children are in danger. The King has fled the realm and my lord of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence are marching on London. I beg of you, grant us sanctuary.”
Elizabeth listened in confusion. Father had fled his kingdom? And why did they have to run away from her godfather Warwick and her uncle Clarence? She had been vaguely aware that there had been quarrels in the family, and she knew that her mother hated both men, but she had no idea why.
“Her Grace is near her time,” Grandmother said.
“Pray come in and sit down while I fetch Father Abbot,” the monk invited, looking nervous.
As they entered the building, Elizabeth peered about her, frightened lest she see desperate men materializing out of the dimness, but, to her relief, the vast chapel-like space was almost deserted. There were just two sleeping forms, wrapped in their cloaks, lying on the straw at the far end.
Mother sank down on the bench just inside the door. Her froideur had vanished and there were tears on her cheeks. “I cannot believe this is happening,” she whispered.
“Don’t cry, my lady,” Elizabeth pleaded, as her grandmother gathered the stricken Queen to her bosom and three-year-old Mary started wailing. Lady Berners bent to comfort her, a whimpering Cecily still in the crook of her arm.
“You must leave, Lady Berners,” the Queen said, recovering herself and reaching for the baby. “They will not be interested in you.”
“But the children, Madam,” the governess protested as both Elizabeth and Mary clung to her skirts, crying.
“Don’t leave us!” they begged.
“It is an order,” the Queen said. “I would not have you shut in with us when you don’t need to be. It is different for Mistress Jakes.” She looked at the wet nurse. “I cannot let her go. As soon as the situation improves, I will send for you. Quiet, children! You will have me and Grandmother Rivers to look after you, and you will see Lady Berners soon.”
“As your Grace wishes,” Lady Berners said, but Elizabeth could see that she was not happy about leaving. “I dare say I will find an inn tonight, and tomorrow I’ll go to Windsor, trusting that my husband is still constable of the castle.”
“God go with you,” the Queen said. “Pray for us!”
Elizabeth watched, stricken, as her beloved governess walked away. Then she saw the monk returning with the familiar figure of Abbot Milling, a rotund gentleman in a plain black habit with a kindly moon of a face beneath his tonsure. She had met him several times when visiting Westminster Abbey.
“Your Grace, it grieves me to see you here,” he greeted Mother, holding out his hands and squeezing hers. “Things have come to a pretty pass when the blameless Queen of England is driven to seek sanctuary with common criminals.”
“Father Abbot, you will have heard the news,” said the Queen, bending her head for his blessing. “In this world, we reap what we sow. I would not see what was staring me in the face. And now I, and these innocent little ones, must pay the price.”
“It is a sad thing when might must prevail over right,” the Abbot observed. “You did not make Warwick and Clarence commit treason.”
“No, but I unwittingly helped to give them grounds.” Elizabeth wondered what Mother meant, but the Queen was still speaking. “Father Abbot, will you let me register myself as a sanctuary woman? If it had not been to keep my children safe, I would not have come here.”
“Madam,” he replied, “you may of course claim sanctuary, and Brother Thomas here will register your names. But I would not hear of you lodging in this place with murderers and thieves. I insist that you all stay as my guests at Cheyneygates, my own house.”
“I can never thank you enough, Father.” Elizabeth saw tears of relief in her mother’s eyes. Meekly, she took Mary’s hand as they all followed the Abbot back to the abbey. He led them through a gateway by the west door, then turned toward the cloisters. Under an archway, he opened another door and led them up a steep flight of stairs into a beautiful house that smelt of incense and beeswax.
“Your Grace shall have my three best rooms,” he told Mother. “The beds are made up and I will send my servants with towels and other necessities for your comfort. If you need anything more, do tell them.”
When Elizabeth saw the chambers they were to occupy, she felt much better. The Abbot was a great prince of the Church and lived accordingly. She and her sisters were to lodge with the Queen in a sumptuous bedchamber furnished with a great tester bed and two small pallet beds, all made up with bleached white linen and velvet counterpanes. Abbot Milling told them that the large room he called the Jerusalem Chamber, which was hung with rich tapestries and was almost as magnificent as the state apartments at Westminster, would serve as Mother’s great chamber. Grandmother was to have the Abbot’s hall, which had a minstrels’ gallery and was no less splendid than the rest of the apartment.
Gratefully, Elizabeth lay down on her pallet, while her mother tucked the bedclothes in. A few feet away, Mary was already asleep, her fair curls tousled on the pillow. Elizabeth watched as the Queen ordered the wet nurse to help with her buttons, stripped to her smock and climbed into the big bed. The nurse pulled out a truckle bed and lay on that, cradling Cecily in her arms.
“Mother, what is happening?” Elizabeth asked, keeping her voice low.
“Bessy, go to sleep. I will tell you in the morning. I’m too tired now.”
Soon, the room was filled with the sound of even breathing and the occasional snuffle from the baby. But Elizabeth lay awake thinking, trying not to fret about tonight’s strange adventure and what it meant.
* * *
—
She had known she was important for as long as she could remember. She was nearly five years old and the eldest daughter of a golden king and a beautiful queen, and she lived in wondrous glittering palaces, just like a princess in a fable. She had been called Elizabeth after her mother, who often wore the jeweled brooch that Father had given her to mark her birth. In normal circumstances, Mother was a remote figure to her daughters, an elegant, graceful goddess who sat on a throne and sometimes descended on the nursery in a cloud of floral perfume, swishing her fabulous damask skirts, her neck like a swan’s under the shaven hairline and the gauze-covered hennin.
Mother was remote and regal, but Father was fun, a towering, boisterous figure with a twinkling eye and a merry laugh that belied his narrow, watchful eyes. He was the handsomest man in the world, and everyone adored him, especially his children. His court was famed far and wide for its grandeur; it bustled with great lords and ladies and visitors from all four corners of the earth. Elizabeth had often felt fit to burst with pride, having such a strong and splendid father. Now she wondered if he would ever come back to sit on his throne. Would she even see him again? Where was he?
Elizabeth’s everyday world was not her father’s magnificent court, but the nursery at Sheen Palace, where kindly, plump Lady Berners held sway, ruling the children and their nurses, rockers and household servants with effortless authority. As the daughter of the King, whose person was sacred and who had been appointed by God to rule England, Elizabeth had been drilled regularly in good manners and warned of the dangers of disobeying Heaven’s commands and falling into sin. She always tried very hard to be good and win Lady Berners’s smiles of approval.
