The Rose at Twilight (17 page)

“The Tudor cannot think we love him,” Alys said grimly.

“No, you unnatural girl, but I have no wish to spend the rest of my maidenhood in these three paltry rooms. If agreeing to kneel on the wretched man’s dragon will get us out of here—even if it be only for one mass—I tell you, I will stitch both our cushions myself. When does the king come to the Tower, Ian?”

“In ten days’ time, mistress. He dines with the Archbishop of Canterbury at Lambeth Palace and rides from there in a grand procession. The next day will see the installation o’ the Knights o’ the Bath, and his crowning follows on the Sunday.”

The two young women noted an increase of activity on the green in the days that followed, and they were able to observe from their window the arrival of the royal procession. However, if they hoped to view any part of the ceremonies that followed, they were disappointed; and, when they accompanied their guards to the chapel for mass that Saturday morning, expecting to meet ladies and gentlemen of the court at worship, they were thwarted again, for they were taken to a private pew before any but a few Tower retainers had entered, and were not let out again until the others had departed. They could not even look around during the service, because magnificently carved privacy screens prevented them from seeing anyone but the priest in his pulpit.

Alys was more disappointed than she wanted to admit, for she had hoped to catch a glimpse of Sir Nicholas in his robes of the Bath. Thus, she was elated when one of their guards put his head inside the door, an hour after they had left the chapel, to inform them that if they wished to watch the royal procession leave for Westminster they had best make haste. Having expected to see, at most, a colorful gathering of people and horses on the green, they agreed with alacrity to accompany their guards to the castle ramparts, from which they could see the entire procession as it passed through the gates, into the streets beyond.

The day was a splendid one, clear and sunny, and the procession as grand as anyone might have wished. The two guards were unable to identify anyone except the king’s noble grace and two men preceding him, the new Lord Mayor of London and the Garter King of Arms. The king, bareheaded and clad in a gown of purple velvet edged with spotted ermine, and a richly embroidered baldric, was borne in a litter beneath a royal canopy supported by four knights on foot. Crowds lined the street, shouting and clapping, and long before they dispersed, Alys and Madeline were back in their sitting room. Not until the following day, after Henry Tudor had been anointed and crowned King of England, when the procession returned for the coronation banquet, were they able to discover what had transpired at Westminster.

Elva brought them the news then, for little else was being talked about in the castle. When she returned to them after an absence of nearly two hours, both young women fell upon her to hear whatever she might tell them. Swelling with a sense of her own importance, she accepted a seat on a back stool with every indication of being about to narrate a long and fascinating tale. “They do say that ’twas all most wondrous and the words spoken over him was the same as spoken over King Richard and his Anne.”

“But how could that be?” Alys demanded. “He has no queen.”

Elva waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “They did say that all the bits about the queen was left out, but the rest was all the same. And they do say old Archbishop Bouchier had all he could do to splash the holy oil on the king’s highness, and struggled to hold onto the crown till it rested on his head. He’s right ancient, is the archbishop, but there was others there to see to the rest of the ritual. Even”—she paused for effect—“the Bishop of Bath and Wells was there. He did lead the whole business. There be a word for that, mistress.” She looked inquiringly at Madeline, but it was Alys who responded first.

“He officiated.” Her expression was thoughtful.

Elva nodded, pleased to have been so quickly understood, but Madeline frowned, saying, “It was the Bishop of Bath and Wells who proved King Edward was never properly married to Elizabeth Woodville, was it not? Because of him, Elizabeth of York was declared illegitimate. Can it be that the Tudor means to remind everyone now that she is no fit queen for him?”

Elva had no answer for that, nor did they expect one from her. She went on, almost as though she had been present in the abbey herself, to describe how Jasper Tudor, the king’s uncle and newly created Duke of Bedford, had borne the royal crown, and how Thomas Stanley, his father-in-law and newly dubbed Earl of Derby, had carried the sword of state. She described the consecration and crowning, the taking of the oath, and the aftermath when Henry, king now by grace of God, accompanied and supported by his entourage, had emerged from the abbey and shown himself to the crowds still lining the streets back to the Tower.

At the banquet yet to come, she told them, the king’s uncle would appear on horseback trapped with ermined cloth of gold, and the hereditary king’s champion would ride his horse into the banquet hall to challenge all comers just as he had done for King Richard two years before. Here she paused again, as aware as her mistress and Alys were of the extreme irony of such a challenge.

“It don’t hardly seem right,” she added with a sigh.

“None of it seems right,” Alys agreed.

When the coronation festivities were over, the king and the court returned to Greenwich, and what little news the two young women had of the world outside the Tower walls came from Elva, who had made a number of friends among the retainers there, and from Ian, who not only continued to visit, but who informed them that he had taken lodgings close by the Tower gate.

“But what of Sir Nicholas?” Alys demanded anxiously.

“He ha’ gone into Derbyshire, mistress, tae look into reports of trouble there fer the king’s highness.”

“Without you?”

“Aye.” He gave no further explanation, and Alys was reluctant to demand one, fearing that he was somehow at outs with his master. It occurred to her that perhaps, being Scottish, Ian felt less loyalty toward the Welshman than his own followers would feel. In any case, she was grateful to him for his loyalty to her. Just knowing that there was someone nearby who cared about her made Sir Nicholas’s absence and the lack of news regarding herself and Mistress Fenlord both easier to take.

They heard much about the doings of the king in the weeks that followed, but very little of what they heard interested them, for it was all political and had nothing to do with either Madeline’s family or the setting aside of Alys’s betrothal; therefore, there was nothing to suggest a possible end to their confinement. Even Ian, with Sir Nicholas no longer at court, had few means by which to pursue answers to these entirely personal questions, although he informed them cheerfully that since he had made a number of feminine conquests among the palace maids, he could expect to hear some news or other before long.

When they received a large parcel at the end of November, containing bolts of splendid fabrics and accompanied by a message from the Lady Margaret informing them that seamstresses were soon to assist them in making new gowns for themselves, Alys commanded the messenger to wait while she composed a careful note of thanks and an even more carefully worded request for enlightenment as to their future. A reply came with unexpected swiftness, advising them both to place their faith in God and the king’s sovereign highness, and to remember that curiosity was an unbecoming fault.

Despite the fact that so far Ian had succeeded in bringing them only information that was widely available, Alys pressed him to do better, with the result that he returned three days later, not with news of their own fate but with word that Lady Margaret was as set as ever on seeing her son wedded to Elizabeth of York.

“Why do you say so?” Alys demanded. Since she and Madeline had spent the entire morning after mass being measured by two tight-lipped women sent by Lady Margaret, who spoke of nothing but fit and style, frustration lent sharpness to her tone.

Ian grinned. “One o’ Lady Margaret’s own women ha’ a bonny wee lass servin’ her, and the women do talk amongst themselves, ye ken. The lass ha’ told me the king can hear the Lady Margaret when he shuts his ears tae the rest, and the princess, she says, hasna much tae say at all. They do say, too, that ’tis passing strange but the king be pardoning most o’ them as fought agin him from the north.” He wrinkled his brow, trying to remember what he had heard. “Only Norfolk, Surrey, Lovell, and some few other northern knights ha’ actually been attainted, as yet.”

“The dead ones, then,” Alys said sadly.

“Nay, mistress, not all are dead. Lovell lives and ha’ taken sanctuary, they say. Others, too.”

“Francis Lovell lives?” Her brother had been with Lovell. “Roger Wolveston,” she said quickly, “have you heard aught of him? He would be Lord Wolveston now.”

“Nay,” Ian said. “I dinna recall hearin’ the name, so I doot the lassie or anyone said it. I’d ha’ recalled Wolveston.”

She sighed. For a brief moment she had felt a surge of hope that if her brother truly did live, he might have submitted to the king, and she might no longer be kept in ward.

Ian said slowly, “They do say, mistress, that there be dunamany attainders against them that did fight but ha’ not yet submitted, and too, that Harry’s patience is no wi’oot limit.”

“If they submit soon, he will pardon them. Is that it?”

“Aye, so they say. But mayhap the pardons willna gi’e them back their lands, ye ken, only their lives and freedom. They say Harry ha’ but three wishes—tae rule England, tae gather wealth for his coffers, and tae bring peace and prosperity t’ the land.”

He reported more as the days passed, and Alys and Madeline feasted on the rumors, hearing one day that the king would not wed Elizabeth, the next that he would. No one mentioned the princes of the House of York. Few people, Ian said, seemed to care about them. Most were opposed to more fighting and seemed inclined to support a union of Lancaster and York.

Matters came to a head at last in December, when Parliament demanded that the king honor his vow to wed Elizabeth of York. A tentative reminder that permission had not yet been received from the pope was dismissed as inconsequential. Parliament, speaking on behalf of the people, insisted on the wedding, and relief was expressed everywhere when Henry Tudor agreed, announcing at last that it would take place in little more than a month.

Two days afterward, Alys and Madeline received word from the Lady Margaret that the king had appointed them maids of honor to his bride. They would remain lodged in the Tower until after the wedding, when it became appropriate for them to take up their new duties, but they would be released in time to take part in the festivities at the palace of Westminster.

Madeline received the news with her customary optimism and good cheer, giving it as her opinion that the Tudor must have seen for himself by now that the men in her family—so long as it was in their best interests, and hers—were entirely to be trusted. Alys’s feelings were mixed. Release from the Tower meant she would be likely to see Sir Nicholas again, which would be pleasant, and at court she would more easily discover her brother’s fate. But glad though she was to know that their confinement would end soon, she could not look forward to serving Elizabeth of York. The very thought set her teeth on edge.

T
HE LONG-AWAITED CEREMONY
was over, and the bride and groom, having walked the short distance from Westminster Abbey, entered Westminster Hall to a blare of trumpets and a thunder of cheering and applause from the multitude gathered to greet them. The palace of Westminster, built by Edward the Confessor and thus even older than the Tower of London, had been used by William the Conqueror as a place where he might be seen in his glory with all the trappings of state about him, to remind potential troublemakers of the king’s power; and the grandeur of Henry Tudor’s wedding procession made it clear that he intended to make similar use of it. The high gold crown he wore, his rich clothes, and the colorful, enthusiastic crowd of supporters surrounding him and his bride were intended, unquestionably, to create a sense of awe in the minds of all beholders.

The hall was the largest in England, perhaps in all Europe. Its soaring hammerbeam ceiling, adorned with carved and gilded angels and boasting open arches seventy feet across, was a marvel of engineering, and provided a magnificent canopy for the grand assemblage below. Around the perimeter, trestle tables had been set up for the feasting, and the royal table, draped with white linen and bowed beneath the weight of the gleaming silver plates and vessels, stood on a dais at the far north end. Not until the king and his bride stepped onto the dais could Alys or Madeline, standing on tiptoe together near the center of the crowd, see either of them clearly.

The king wore a long purple gown over a doublet of vermilion silk shot with gold thread. He continued to bear the heavy state crown of Edward the Confessor on his head. No one looked long at him, however, for at his side, Elizabeth of York stood proud, serene, and beautiful in a close-fitting kirtle of pale blue damask that matched her eyes. It was worn beneath an open white cloth-of-gold gown, trimmed with ermine and nipped in above her hips with a loose belt of gold plates set with sapphires, rubies, and diamonds. Her flaxen hair, beneath a jeweled golden caul and coronet, flowed straight and shining down her back to her knees. Though it hung loose as befitted a virgin bride, she had followed the newest fashion by having it combed tightly back from her forehead but with a little left showing at the front edge of her caul. Neither her forehead nor her eyebrows had been plucked bare, as had been the custom for so many years.

Alys, sighing, said, “She is lovely.”

Madeline chuckled and said in an undertone that just reached Alys’s ears, “All brides are lovely, but I do not think that fact alone a sufficient reason to emulate them. No husband can be counted upon to treat me as kindly as Father does.”

“You wait,” Alys retorted. “You will have no more choice than anyone else. All women marry unless they take an oath of chastity or become nuns, and I have known you long enough now to be certain you will do neither. Therefore, you will marry.”