The Last White Rose, page 36
“That was not her plan. It was his, and she endorsed it when she saw that I was willing to make the sacrifice—and when we had abandoned all hope of you. It was not what we wanted, Henry, but it was the only way to ensure a future for us. How many times do I have to keep saying this?”
Again, he looked chastened. “I cannot help it, Bessy. I have learned to trust no one.”
“But you can trust me—and my mother.”
He gave her a wary smile.
“You can!” she cried. “And I am going to visit her tomorrow.”
The smile vanished. “No, Bessy.”
“Is it now so dangerous to visit an aging woman in a monastery?” she erupted.
“I wish I could answer that. And you will obey me.”
“Oh, I am ever the dutiful wife!” she returned. “But at some cost to myself.” She rose. “Have I your leave to retire?”
He stood up. “Don’t think the worst of me, Bessy. I have to consider the security of my kingdom and the views of my Council. Just be patient. Once we have dealt with this pretender, and all is well, you may see your mother.”
And with that, she had to be content.
* * *
—
Henry was riding north to deal with Simnel. An invasion was expected at any time.
As he and Elizabeth walked down the stairs to the courtyard where his retinue was waiting, he took her hand. “I will miss you, cariad.” She knew he was trying to say more, for matters had been tense between them since their quarrel three weeks earlier.
“I will pray for your safe return,” she said. She was dreading the separation, fearful that he might never come back—in which case, she could only hope that Lincoln would deal kindly with her and Arthur. And yet, what king would tolerate a rival? Look how Henry had treated Warwick. She shivered. “God send you a great victory,” she continued, with feeling—and then, knowing she dared not let him go into the unknown without making things right between them, she pulled him to her, there on the stairs, and held him so tightly that she could feel their two hearts beating together. “Stay safe!” she enjoined him. “Come back to me!”
Below, the lords and ladies were smiling up indulgently at them. Some looked as emotional as Elizabeth felt.
“You can count on it,” Henry said, gazing down at her tenderly. “Come, I must be on my way.” He took her hand and led her through the door. Outside, the sun was shining. “See how God smiles on our righteous cause?” he said, indicating the glorious weather.
He mounted his horse, then waited as she handed him the stirrup cup. “On Easter Day,” he told her, “you will receive your full dower at last. I know you have found it hard to live on the settlement I made on our marriage, but this should make a great difference.”
“I thank you, my lord,” she said, curtseying, as he dug in his spurs. “God speed you and bring you safely home.”
“Bless you, my lady,” Henry said, and then he was gone from her, riding away through the great gate, his lords following, all looking splendid in battle array.
* * *
—
It was as she had suspected. At Easter, when she received the grant of her dower, she read that the King’s officers of the Exchequer were to pay her all the dues from the estates and properties that had been seized from the Dowager Queen Elizabeth. So she was to profit from her mother’s misfortune. It did not seem right. But what could she do?
She contemplated disobeying Henry and visiting her mother at Bermondsey. She needed to explain that this was none of her doing. But she felt impossibly torn. It would be rash to defy her husband, and she did not want to compromise the new tenderness between them. Poor Mother would have to wait.
* * *
—
Elizabeth was staying with the Lady Margaret at Chertsey Abbey when, in May, her chamberlain came to inform her that the King had summoned them both to Kenilworth Castle.
“His Grace has received news of an imminent invasion and has commanded me to escort you both there to join him,” he told her.
“At last, Henry will be able to settle this matter once and for all,” Margaret said.
“I pray it will be settled soon,” Elizabeth replied, her heart thudding in fear. “I cannot bear to think of him in danger.”
Her first concern was for her child. Accompanied by Arthur’s host, Bishop Courtenay, she hastened to Farnham Castle to collect her son, while Margaret made her way north separately.
“If the traitors invade now, we can claim sanctuary at Romsey Abbey, which is convenient for the coast,” the Bishop informed her, as they set off from Chertsey. “From there, we can escape across the sea to safety.”
Elizabeth prayed that would prove unnecessary, but, at all costs, she must keep Arthur safe. She was struck by the change in him. He was eight months old now, and a solemn little fellow, but he had gained weight and was stronger. Still, she was dismayed when holding him in her arms in the litter carrying them northward, she felt again that disconcerting sense of detachment.
* * *
—
Kenilworth Castle loomed ahead, a strongly built fortress on a great lake. They would be safe behind its mighty walls. Henry welcomed her warmly, but he could not spend much time with her as he was busy setting up his headquarters and planning strategies. That night, he fell wearily into bed beside her, content just to hold her in his arms.
“It seems that there is much support in Ireland for Simnel,” he muttered. “Only Waterford has declared itself loyal. That scoundrel the Earl of Kildare and other rebel lords have had the lad crowned as Edward the Sixth in Dublin Cathedral. By God, they will crown apes next!”
“It cannot have any legal force,” she said sleepily, remembering how popular the House of York had always been in Ireland. “And they are fools if they believe Simnel to be Warwick.”
“Well, soon, God willing, we will teach them a lesson. If I wasn’t concerned about Lincoln invading, I’d have gone to Ireland myself and dealt with them.”
* * *
—
Early in June, an army headed by Lincoln landed in Lancashire.
“We march to defend my kingdom,” Henry announced, and everyone moved quickly. Elizabeth felt a tightness in her throat as, with Arthur in her arms, she stood with Margaret before the gatehouse at Kenilworth, watching her husband and his great company march off toward Coventry.
Then began the long, tense wait for news. Over the next three weeks, messengers informed them that the armies had moved south, then swung east, in some grim game of chase. Then, just as she and Margaret thought they might go mad with anxiety, another emissary, caked in mud, was brought to the Queen and threw himself at her feet.
“Your Grace, the King has won a great victory at Stoke, near Newark. The Earl of Lincoln is slain and the pretender Simnel taken prisoner.”
Elizabeth turned to Margaret and hugged her. “He is safe! Henry is safe! And God has granted him another great victory!”
Margaret’s eyes glistened with tears of exultation. “He has triumphed again. This battle, truly, has put an end to the wars of Lancaster and York. The dynasty is safe.”
They dined that night, at Elizabeth’s insistence, in the oriel window of the magnificent great hall, where a table was set up and they could celebrate in royal style, toasting the King and his marvelous victory.
Chapter 15
1487–1490
Elizabeth settled herself with her embroidery on a window seat high in the keep. It had become her favorite perch, affording her a view of the gatehouse and the long approach to the castle. She had sat there every day, watching for any sign of someone arriving. And today her barely suppressed impatience was rewarded, for she could see a column of horsemen in the distance, their banners flying. And there, at the front, was the royal standard!
She flew down the spiral stair, nearly tripping in her eagerness, calling out to anyone who was listening that the King was coming. She sped across the courtyard to the royal apartments where Margaret and Arthur lodged, and rallied them, sweeping Arthur up in her arms. By the time Henry came clattering through the gatehouse, she was waiting with them in the bailey. At the sight of her, he swung himself out of the saddle and embraced and kissed her heartily in front of his men and the household, who had come running at his approach. Elizabeth feasted her eyes on him, drinking him in, as he greeted his wide-eyed son.
“Welcome, my hero!” she cried, as cheers erupted around them. Then it was Margaret’s turn, and she hugged Henry, weeping with joy.
“Well done! Well done!” she kept saying.
Elizabeth had supper served again in the great hall, with the trumpets sounding and the King’s captains seated as guests of honor.
“Thanks be to God, I have triumphed over my enemies,” Henry declared, “and, with our fair son thriving, my throne is more secure than it ever was.”
“And Lincoln has paid the price for his treachery,” Margaret said, daintily cutting up her meat.
“We are well rid of that perfidious dark Earl,” Henry replied. “My only regret is that he cheated the hangman and deprived me of the chance to make a public example of him.”
“His infamy is surely notorious by now,” the Earl of Oxford observed. He had been Henry’s commander-in-chief at Stoke Field.
“What of Simnel?” Elizabeth asked. “What will you do with him?”
“He is but twelve years old,” Henry said, draining his goblet. “I do not make war on children. Besides, he was the tool of others. I shall set him to menial work in my kitchens. That should disabuse him of any notions of his importance.”
“That is a meet reward for him. And he may make good in your service.”
“He is young enough to be molded,” Henry said. “If he gives satisfaction, I will look favorably on him.” He laid down his knife. “And now, cariad, we can think of happier things. I will free your brother Dorset; I know now that he is no threat to me. And we must start planning your coronation. And next month, I think, we can make a progress into East Anglia. Sir Edmund Bedingfield has long been pressing me to stay with him at Oxburgh Hall. The shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham is not far from there, if you wish to make a pilgrimage.”
It crossed her mind that he wanted her to. Our Lady of Walsingham was known to aid those who wished for a child, and Elizabeth had not conceived again since Arthur’s birth. She would go to the shrine; it would do her good in many ways.
“Can I see my mother now?” she asked, helping herself to some strawberries.
“You may,” Henry smiled. “If she wishes, she may visit you at court, too. I will make sure she has enough money for her personal expenses, and order the Royal Wardrobe to send furnishings to make her lodging more luxurious.”
“Must she stay at Bermondsey?”
“I think it best. I cannot maintain two queens in my kingdom. And I imagine that she has acclimatized to it now.”
It was useless to argue. Henry had made his position plain. He had not really suspected her mother of treason. This was all about money.
* * *
—
After the court returned south, Elizabeth hastened to Bermondsey. Henry had been true to his word, for she found the Queen Dowager much better housed. Tapestries graced the stone walls, cushions were plumped on the chairs, and there was a carpet on the floor and silver candlesticks on the table.
Mother was overjoyed to see her, and the talk was all of Stoke and Arthur and the progress in Norfolk. Then, after a much better dinner than Elizabeth had been served before, Mother showed her Bridget’s school books, while the child played unheeding with her dolls.
“She is going to Dartford Priory, where the standard of education is high,” she said, looking concerned. “I have been tutoring her myself. Do you think she has made progress?”
Elizabeth looked at the primers in dismay. Bridget was rising seven, but her script was untidy and clumsily formed. She was reminded of Warwick’s backwardness. Could it be that Bridget was similarly afflicted? She had always been slow, and her speech and deportment left something to be desired.
“I think so,” she said tactfully. “But it’s a long time since I’ve seen her work.”
“She finds learning challenging,” Mother said unhappily. “I don’t think she is making any progress. Marriage is not an option, for your father and I vowed her to God, and I so want her to go to Dartford. It’s one of the richest convents in the land and has a wonderful reputation for prayer and learning. But will they take her?”
“My lady,” Elizabeth said, grasping her hand, “Dartford enjoys royal patronage. She will be welcome for her royal birth alone.”
“If I had my freedom, I would go and visit the Prioress and explain my concerns.”
“The King has said that you may visit the court when you wish. I am sure he would let you go to Dartford, especially for this purpose.”
“Would you ask him for me? You see, Bridget can enter the priory as a boarder before entering the novitiate, and be tutored in the school there. It would be of great advantage to her—Dartford offers the best education a girl could have.”
“I will speak to him. But—I must ask this—is Bridget fitted for the religious life? Will she be happy at Dartford? I fear it might be too demanding for her.”
“We can at least try her there. I am sure they will let me know if she is not suited to the life. But there is one huge favor I must ask, Bessy. Could you fund her dowry?”
“Of course,” Elizabeth agreed, thinking that at least some of the money wrested from her mother would be put to a use that benefited her. But she still felt guilty for having profited from Mother’s misfortune.
* * *
—
Elizabeth was aware of public anger about her coronation being delayed. Her women gossiped, and even at Bermondsey her mother heard talk, especially among the other boarders.
“I’ll wager the root of it is Henry’s determination to suppress the House of York,” Mother said tartly when Elizabeth next visited her. “Yet the people love you. If he is not careful, he will lose the hearts of his subjects, who are already angry that he has not treated you as England’s rightful Queen.”
Henry seemed to be aware of public feeling, for he was now planning a coronation that would exceed even his own in splendor.
“Mark me, it is an act against his stomach and put upon him by necessity and reasons of state,” Mother seethed, yet Elizabeth felt that was unfair.
“He has risen magnificently to the occasion,” she countered. “There are to be jousts and feasts. The guest list is endless. It all sounds wonderful. Henry means to use my coronation to proclaim the legitimacy of the Tudor dynasty to the world, but I also believe it will be an expression of his love for me. He has just written to the Pope, saying he feels he has come to a safe haven after all his troubles. He said to me that I am that haven.”
As soon as she had spoken, she felt guilty. Mother had no safe haven in life, no husband to cherish her, and likely never would, for she was fifty now. And she would not be a part of the coronation. None of this was her fault, but Elizabeth’s conscience troubled her because, while she herself was enjoying a full life lived in luxury and great state, her mother was mostly confined to these rooms, her freedom limited, her triumphs past. She was always painfully aware of that.
But Henry gave permission for Mother to visit Dartford and speak to the Prioress. All went satisfactorily, and it was decided that Bridget would enter Dartford Priory as a boarder after Christmas. Again, Elizabeth felt a pang for her sister. How sad to be confined to a cloister at seven. Surely, if Bridget wasn’t fitted for the life, the Prioress would say so. But what if she looked more to the prestige of her house than to a little girl’s happiness? Would she—knowing that the girl had been vowed to God—let Bridget go?
* * *
—
Royally gowned, Elizabeth and the Lady Margaret sat in a window of the hospital of St. Mary Spital in Bishopsgate, with lords and ladies crowding around, to watch the King, the victor of Stoke, making his triumphal entry into a capital city packed with cheering crowds. All resentments set aside, they roared their approval as, cutting a splendid figure on his horse, his armor gleaming, he was escorted in procession by the Lord Mayor to St. Paul’s Cathedral, where the Te Deum was to be sung in honor of his victory.
And then it was Elizabeth’s turn.
On a chilly Friday in November, decked out in robes of velvet and ermine, she left Greenwich with Margaret to make her state entry into London, attended by a great train of lords and ladies. At the landing stage, she boarded the richly decorated royal barge that was to convey her to the Tower. The citizens had planned a spectacular water pageant, and the banks of the Thames were crowded with spectators, come to see their Queen and the marvels that were to be performed. When her barge glided out on the river, they roared their acclaim, bringing tears to her eyes.
“Truly, they do love you, my dear,” Margaret smiled, as Elizabeth waved through the window of the gilded state-house. As the oarsmen gathered speed, they were joined by a flotilla of craft, come to escort the Queen to the Tower. There was the Mayor in his barge, with the sheriffs and aldermen, and numerous boats filled with the guildsmen of London. Every vessel was festooned with banners, silk streamers, coats of arms, and badges.
The barge of the bachelors of Lincoln’s Inn sailed alongside Elizabeth’s, making her start, because it contained a huge model of the red dragon of Cadwaladr, which, by a clever device, spouted flames of fire into the Thames. Manning it were the handsomest legal graduates she had ever seen, who hailed her as they kept pace with her barge and played sweet music. The crowds loved them, yelling and whistling their acclaim.
