The Last White Rose, page 12
Despite the uncertain situation, he ordered that Christmas be kept lavishly at Westminster.
“We’ll have a grand display of magnificence, Bessy, and show everyone that England is not to be trifled with!” he declared, as they stood in the beautiful White Hall on Christmas Eve and watched the servants decorating it with holly, ivy, and bay. Elizabeth’s younger siblings were capering around excitedly, even two-year-old Bridget, who danced over with a sprig of berries and would have popped them in her mouth had Elizabeth not swooped on them. “No, sweeting, they will make you ill.” A tragic look appeared on Bridget’s rosy face, but Father swept her up in his arms and showed her the massive kissing bough that hung from the ceiling. A seasonal scent of spices filled the air, calling to mind past Yuletides when Mary had been there with them. Elizabeth’s smile froze. They would miss her dreadfully this year—and at all the festive seasons to come.
The King put Bridget down and she toddled off to help Cecily make a holly wreath. Elizabeth did not want him to see her weeping; she would not add to his own pain.
“I must go and look out my gown for tomorrow,” she said. As she left the hall, she wondered if this would be the last Christmas she ever spent in England. She was nearly seventeen now, and ripe for marriage, yet somehow she could not imagine a future in France. Maybe that was just wishful thinking.
* * *
—
It was the most lavish Christmas ever. Father presided over a magnificent court packed with lords and ladies, and appeared in ever more splendid attire at Mass, at table, and when processing through the palace. His giant figure overshadowed everyone else as he sat enthroned before the noble company. The grandeur of his court proclaimed the mightiness of his kingdom; it was filled with riches and men from almost every nation, and Elizabeth was in a turmoil of pride, joy, grief—and fear that she would soon no longer be a part of it.
“What surpasses all else are those beautiful and most delightful children,” she heard Lady Stanley say to Mother as they stood together helping themselves to sweetmeats at a banquet hosted by the King on the evening before Twelfth Night. Mother, looking radiant in green taffeta shot with cloth of gold, smiled at her.
“They really are the most lovely princesses,” Lady Stanley continued, making Elizabeth wonder if she was still hoping for a bride for her son. “And the Prince—how he has grown!”
Elizabeth looked at her brother, now twelve and wearing a dazzling outfit of white cloth of gold. He was wolfing up comfits and chatting condescendingly with young York, whose gold plate was piled precariously high with goodies.
“We are very proud of him,” Mother said. “And he is doing so well at his studies.”
“You must miss him when he is away at Ludlow,” Lady Stanley said. “I know I miss my Henry. I wish he would heed the King and return to England. Then he can take his proper place in the world.” Elizabeth wondered what that might be.
She wandered over to her father, who was laughing heartily with Lord Hastings, Uncle Rivers, and Lord Stanley.
“Close your ears, Bessy, that was not a jest for a young lady,” Father grinned.
Suddenly, there was Humphrey Brereton at his sleeve. “Your Grace, your envoy from France is here, wishing to speak to you. He says it is urgent.”
Father sighed. “Well, gentlemen, duty calls. Bessy, I’ll be back.”
He disappeared through the throng of guests, who bowed and curtseyed as he passed.
“I hope it’s not bad news,” Elizabeth said.
“It may be good news,” replied Hastings.
“Don’t worry, Bessy,” Uncle Rivers soothed. “Louis and Maximilian are probably at fisticuffs again. Come, let me tempt you to a goblet of that fine Bordeaux.”
* * *
—
Father did not reappear that evening, and when Hastings, Dorset, Stanley, and other lords were summoned to his closet, Mother began to look anxious.
Elizabeth went over to her. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” the Queen said, “but it’s not like your father to neglect his guests. He loves a gathering. I would go and find him, but I can’t really leave.”
“I can play hostess, Mother—or I could seek out Father.”
“Go and look for him, Bessy. But if you find him closeted with his lords, best leave them be.”
Elizabeth picked up her silver skirts and hastened along the gallery that led to the King’s lodgings. At the door, the guards raised their halberds to let her through. The presence chamber was deserted, so she sped through to the privy chamber beyond it. She could hear shouting from behind the door of the King’s closet. It was Father, sounding angrier than she had ever heard him.
“I mean it—this is war!” she heard him roar. “I’ll not tolerate such an insult!”
There was a murmur of men’s voices in response.
She knocked at the door. She had to know what this was about. The shouting stopped as a nervous-looking page opened it.
“Bessy!” Father exclaimed. He was flushed and breathing heavily, his face thunderous.
She swallowed, feeling that she should not be here. “My lady mother was wondering where you were,” she faltered. Stanley, Rivers, Hastings, and Dorset were regarding her with pained expressions.
“Bessy,” the King said heavily, “this concerns you more than anyone. Louis has abandoned us. You will not be marrying the Dauphin. That villainous spider has made an alliance with the Flemings and betrothed the Dauphin to Maximilian’s daughter Margaret. Under this treaty, he gets to keep all of Burgundy except Flanders, which has been ceded to Maximilian. And he has stopped the pension he recently restored to me.” The words came through gritted teeth. As Elizabeth tried to take it all in, the King began pacing the floor, still seething. “This treaty has left my careful foreign policy in shreds, but what really moves me is that you, my precious Princess, must suffer the humiliation of being publicly jilted.”
She did not mind her betrothal being broken, but her relief at not having to go to France was suddenly tempered by burning shame. Everyone would know that she had been cast aside. Those who were ignorant of the circumstances might think it was because of some defect in herself. How could she face appearing in public? People would be looking on her with pity—or worse.
She could not speak. She stood there, frozen, no longer the future queen of France, and feeling horribly exposed.
Father fixed a furious gaze on his advisers. “I will take any means of obtaining revenge! Let Parliament be summoned so that this whole rigmarole of gross deceits can be made public. I will make war on France!”
* * *
—
When the lords had gone, he put an arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders. She was shaking, trying not to cry.
“I’ll deal with Louis and then I will find another husband for you, Bessy—a greater match.”
She nodded, although what greater match could there be? It did not matter, though. She was staying in England—it was what she had wanted all along.
“Go now and find some pleasant pastime to take your mind off things,” Father bade her. “And Bessy—hold your head high. It is not any lack in you that has caused this, only that spider’s perfidiousness. Now I must send for your lady mother and break the news to her.”
When Elizabeth was commanded to the Queen’s chamber later, she found her white with anger. Lady Stanley and Aunt Rivers were doing their best to calm her down, assisted by a tiny, sweet-faced lady whom Elizabeth recognized as her aunt’s cousin, Alice FitzLewis. Lord Rivers and Lord Stanley were standing in the window, shaking their heads in sympathy.
“It is cruel!” Mother seethed. “To bring the child up all these years to be queen of France, and then to have her jilted like this. It’s abominable! She was to be a queen…”
“And she may be yet, Madam,” Lady Stanley said, gripping her hands. “There are other kingdoms. France is not the greatest monarchy in Christendom.”
“We both know it is,” Mother snapped.
Lady Stanley regarded her evenly. “There is Spain. The heir to the sovereigns is not yet spoken for.”
“He is still a babe in arms,” Mother said dismissively. She looked up. “Bessy!” She held open her arms and Elizabeth went into them. Now the tears did come. It felt strange to have Mother soothing her like a baby; the Queen was not given to demonstrations of affection. Elizabeth felt awkward, for she was not a child anymore, but she endured having her cheek pressed to Mother’s velvet-clad bosom and wriggled away when she had suffered enough maternal consolation. She saw Alice FitzLewis regarding her with understanding.
Lady Stanley watched her dry her tears. “This will all pass, Lady Bessy,” she said kindly. “God must have something better in store for you.”
“At least you have been spared having that universal spider for a father-in-law and a stunted idiot for a husband,” Mother said viciously.
Elizabeth stared at her. Only a week ago, Mother had been extolling the virtues of the Dauphin. So it had been true. He was ugly and backward. Had Father been deceived? He must have known, or should have made it his business to know. But a fat pension and a French crown for his daughter had probably outweighed the drawbacks, in his view. She tried not to feel bitter.
Lady Stanley smiled at her. “It is not the end of the world, child. Marriage alliances are broken all the time. You are fortunate in still being with your parents at seventeen. I was wed at twelve to my first husband, Edmund Tudor. He died of plague the following year, leaving me with child. I bore my beloved son when I was thirteen, at great cost to myself. So you see, Lady Bessy, there are worse things in life than a broken betrothal.”
“Yes, I see that there are,” Elizabeth said. She must keep a sense of proportion.
Uncle Rivers and Lord Stanley joined them at the fireside.
“We’ll give those dishonorable French a drubbing,” Rivers declared. “They won’t get away with treating our Bessy like that.” He patted her shoulder.
Lord Stanley rested his avuncular gaze on her. “If there is ever anything I can do for you, Lady Bessy, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Mother looked irritated. Elizabeth put it down to her being vexed with King Louis, but later, lying in her bed, she wondered. Could the Stanleys be angling for a betrothal between herself and Richmond? Were they trying to ingratiate themselves with her?
Mother would not approve. She wanted Father to have no truck with Richmond. She had said he was not worthy of any of their daughters and believed he might regard marriage to one of them as a means to obtaining the crown. He was ambitious, and his mother was ambitious for him. According to Mother, Lady Stanley was not quite rational when it came to her son.
“I know what it is to love your children,” she had said, “but she is obsessed. She holds that he is the true heir of Lancaster. He, who is descended from the double adultery of John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford! Such notions are dangerous, Bessy. They threaten our house. The last thing we want is to see the wars between Lancaster and York break out again. We must be wary of such ambitions.”
Elizabeth had long thought that a marriage between Richmond and one of her sisters would do much to bind York and Lancaster together. But she kept such thoughts to herself.
* * *
—
In February, Father summoned her to his closet. He kissed her and bade her be seated.
“You are looking a lot happier these days, Bessy,” he observed.
“I am feeling better,” she said. “It helps to know that the whole kingdom is on my side.”
“Indeed, it is!” he replied. “Parliament has denounced King Louis. We will be arming for war soon. Do you know, I think that old spider is encouraging the Scots to break Cecily’s betrothal too?”
“That’s awful of him.”
“Well, he will soon be taught a lesson. But I did not ask you here to talk about Louis. I want to talk to you about your marriage.”
Her marriage? Had there already been a new proposal?
Father was regarding her speculatively from across his desk. “I am seriously considering a marriage between you and Richmond. It would be an effective means of removing him from under the nose of King Louis and securing his loyalty.”
It made sense, of course. But, having spent the past eight years expecting to be a queen, her first reaction was that this match was not worthy of her.
“I have been talking to Lord and Lady Stanley, and to my bishops, and told them that I wish to bring this marriage to fruition. Your lady mother, I should warn you, is not keen on the idea. But what do you think, Bessy?”
She hesitated. Her mother’s response was predictable, and she might yet put pressure on Father to abandon the idea. Elizabeth could well imagine how overjoyed Lady Stanley must be at the prospect of securing her hand for her son. She tried to remember all she had heard of Richmond and wished she had listened more when he was spoken of. All she really knew was that he was twenty-six, lived in exile in Brittany, and was a paragon of all the virtues—at least, his mother said he was.
“Well?” the King said, interrupting her thoughts.
“I was considering, Father. It would be advantageous for England.” She had a mental picture of a crown rolling away from her. “But I am your humble daughter. I will do your pleasure in this, as in all things.”
Father beamed at her. “I knew I could rely on you to take a sensible view, Bessy.”
* * *
—
Nothing had been settled when they moved to Windsor for Easter, which fell on 1 April 1483. It was a chilly spring and Elizabeth was startled when, one evening at supper, Father announced that he was going out fishing on the Thames with Lord Hastings.
“Are you mad, my lord?” Mother said tartly. “It’s damp and cold out there.”
“I’m a soldier, Beth. I don’t concern myself with trivialities such as weather.”
Elizabeth realized, with a jolt, that he did not look like a soldier. He was fat and his narrow eyes were sunk in rolls of flesh. He had not fought a battle for years.
He ignored Mother’s protests. He went out on the river regardless, with Lord Hastings in tow. Elizabeth wondered if this was a cover for an assignation with Mistress Shore, who was still regularly to be seen at court.
When they returned to Westminster after Easter, Father took to his bed with a chill, and Mother said, “I warned you!” When Elizabeth paid him a visit, she found him sitting up and reading state papers. But, the next day, Mother said he had taken a turn for the worse.
“He is shaking with ague,” she told her children. “I have summoned his physicians.”
They waited anxiously in her chamber for news. Presently, the doctors arrived.
“It is as you feared, Madam,” they said. “His Grace let the damp cold chill his guts and it has led to this sickness. We have prescribed some physick, but the malady will take its course. We do not think there is great cause for concern. It does not help that he is still angry with the King of France. We have advised him not to dwell on it.”
Elizabeth guessed that his illness afforded Father long hours in which to brood. She had not realized he had taken the breaking of her betrothal so much to heart. Still, the doctors did not seem worried. He would be well soon. He had to get well, for it would soon be St. George’s Day and the Garter feast. She was looking forward to that.
* * *
—
Elizabeth knelt by the King’s bed, her siblings on their knees beside her, even two-year-old Bridget. Only Ned was absent, for there had not been time to summon him from Ludlow. Mother was on the opposite side, holding Father’s hand. His confessor was anointing him with holy oil, intoning prayers, giving him Extreme Unction. She knew what it meant. Around her stood the great nobles of the realm, their faces solemn.
She could not stop trembling. She had been shocked at the sight of her father when she had hastened to his bedchamber this morning after receiving Mother’s urgent summons. The apoplexy he had suffered had left his face all twisted. When he tried to speak, the words sounded horribly garbled. He was doomed. There was no escaping the fact.
This could not be happening. She knelt there, willing him to rally. God could perform miracles, and she was praying as hard as she could for one.
The priest finished his office and retreated to the foot of the bed to continue his prayers.
Suddenly, Father spoke. “I am dying,” he croaked. “Lord Hastings.”
Hastings moved in two strides to the bed. “Sire?”
“Take care…my son, my wife and ch-children, my goods and all that ever I had. Gl…Gl…I have…changed my will. Glo…is to be protector.” He closed his eyes, exhausted with the effort of speaking.
“I will look after the Prince and see that your Grace’s wishes are carried out,” Hastings said, with tears in his eyes. “You can depend on me.”
“I…thank you,” the King murmured. “Stanley…”
Lord Stanley approached the bed and knelt. “Your Grace?” Like Hastings, he seemed genuinely moved to see his sovereign laid so low.
“Look to Bessy’s w-welfare,” Father gasped. “Be a f-father to her.” He muttered something else Elizabeth could not hear. Stanley bowed his head and vowed to do the King’s bidding, then rose and stood by her, as if to show that his paternal care began here. She felt bolstered by his bluff, hearty presence, but she did not want him to be a father to her; she wanted her own father, who was slipping away before her tear-filled eyes.
