The White Princess (16 page)

The archbishop, John Morton, comes and stands beside her as if ready to leap forwards with a benediction, but she sits, flinty-faced, saying nothing, not even when he leans down as if to catch the quietest whisper.

“Is everything well with His Grace the King?” my mother inquires, her voice light and pleasant.

My Lady looks as if she would rather keep her silence. “He
has been troubled by some disloyalty,” she says. “There are still traitors in the kingdom, I am sorry to say.”

My mother raises her eyebrows, and makes a little tutting noise as if she is sorry too, and says nothing.

“I hope His Grace is safe?” I try.

“That fool and traitor Francis Lovell has abused the sanctuary he was allowed and come out and raised an army against my son!” Lady Margaret declares in a sudden, hideous outburst of rage. She is shaking all over, her face flushed scarlet. Now that she has allowed herself to speak, she cannot keep from shouting, spittle flying from her mouth, the words tumbling out, her headdress trembling in her fury as she clutches the arms of her chair as if to hold herself seated. “How could he? How dare he? He hid himself in sanctuary to avoid the punishment of defeat and now he is out of his earth like a fox.”

“God forgive him!” the archbishop exclaims.

I gasp, I cannot help myself. Francis Lovell was Richard’s boyhood friend and dearest companion. He rode out to battle at his side, and when Richard went down he fled to sanctuary. He can only have come out for a good reason. He is no fool, he would never ride out for a lost cause. Lovell would never have come out of sanctuary and raised his standard without knowing that he had support. There must be a ring of men, known only to one another, who have been waiting for the moment—perhaps as soon as Henry left the safety of London. They must be prepared and ready to challenge him. And they will not be coming against him alone, they must have an alternative king in mind. They must have someone to put in his place.

The king’s mother glares at me as if I too might burst into the flames of rebellion, looking for signs of treason, as if she might see a mark of Cain on my forehead. “Like a dog,” she says spitefully. “Isn’t that what they called him? Lovell the dog? He has come out of his kennel like a cur and dares to challenge my son’s peace. Henry will be distraught! And I not with him! He will be so shocked!”

“God bless him,” the archbishop murmurs, touching the gold crucifix on the chain of pearls at his waist.

My mother is a portrait of concern. “Raised an army?” she repeats. “Francis Lovell?”

“He will regret it,” My Lady swears. “Him and Thomas Stafford with him. They will regret challenging the peace and majesty of my son. God Himself brought Henry to England. An insurrection against my son is a rebellion against the will of God. They are heretics as well as traitors.”

“Thomas Stafford too?” my mother coos. “A Stafford taking arms as well?”

“And his false-hearted brother! Two of them! Traitors! All of them!”

“Humphrey Stafford?” my mother exclaims softly. “Him too? And together the Staffords can call up so many men! Two sons of such a great name! And is His Grace the King marching against them? Is he mustering his troops?”

“No, no.” Lady Margaret waves the question away with a flutter of her hand, as if no one will doubt the king’s courage if she insists that he should hide in Lincoln and let someone else do the fighting. “Why should he go? There is no point in him going. I have written to him to bid him stay back. His uncle, Jasper Tudor, will lead his men. Henry has mustered thousands of men for Jasper’s army. And promised forgiveness to everyone who surrenders. He wrote to me that they are chasing the rebels north, towards Middleham.”

It was Richard’s favorite castle, his boyhood home. In all the northern counties the men hurrying to join Francis Lovell, his dearest friend and boyhood companion, will be those who knew Richard and Francis when they were living there as children. Francis knows the country all around Middleham; he will know where to make ambushes and where to hide.

“Heavens,” my mother says equably. “We must pray for the king.”

The king’s mother gasps with relief at the suggestion. “Of
course, of course. The court will go to chapel after dinner. That’s a very good suggestion of yours, Your Grace. I will order a special Mass.” She nods at the archbishop, who bows and leaves, as if to alert God.

Maggie, my cousin, stirs slightly in her seat at this. She knows that a special Mass ordered by My Lady for the safety of her son is going to go on for two hours at least. At once, my Lady the King’s Mother switches her hard gaze to my little cousin. “It seems that there are still some sinful fools who support the lost House of York,” she says. “Even though the House of York is finished and all its heirs are dead.”

Our cousin John de la Pole is a living heir, sworn to Henry’s service; Maggie’s brother Edward is an heir in direct line; but nobody is going to point this out to My Lady. Maggie’s brother is safe in the nursery for now, and Maggie’s gaze is pinned firmly on the floorboards beneath her slippered feet. She says nothing.

My mother rises and moves gracefully towards the door, pausing when she stands before Maggie, shielding her from the angry stare of My Lady. “I shall go and fetch my rosary and my prayer book,” she says. “Would you want me to fetch your missal from your altar?”

My Lady the King’s Mother is diverted at once. “Yes, yes, thank you. And summon the choir to the chapel as well. Everyone must fetch their rosaries,” she says. “We’ll go straight to chapel after dinner.”

As we pray, I try to imagine what is happening, as if I had my mother’s gift of sight and could see all the way up the Great North Road to Middleham Castle in Yorkshire. If Lovell can get behind those solid walls he can hold out for months, perhaps years. If the North rises up for him, then they will outnumber any Tudor army under the command of Jasper. The North has always been passionately for the House of York, Middleham
loved Richard as their good lord, the altar in the Middleham chapel carries white roses, perhaps forever. I glance sideways at my mother, who is the picture of devotion, on her knees, her eyes closed, her face turned upwards, a shaft of light illuminating her serene loveliness, as beautiful as a timeless angel, meditating on the sins of the world.

“Did you know of this?” I whisper, bending my head over my working fingers as if I am telling my rosary beads.

She does not open her eyes or turn her head, while her lips move as if she is saying a prayer. “Some of it. Sir Francis sent me a message.”

“Are they fighting for us?”

“Of course.”

“D’you think they will win?”

A fleeting smile crosses her rapt face. “Perhaps. But I know one thing.”

“What?”

“They have frightened the Tudors half to death. Did you see her face? Did you see her archbishop as he ran from the room?”

WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON, MAY 1486

The first I know of trouble in the streets is the great creak as the huge outer doors of Westminster Palace are hauled shut by dozens of men, and then the thunderous bang as they slam into place. Then I hear the heavy thud as the counterweighted beam is pulled into the struts to hold the gates shut. We are barricading ourselves inside the royal palace; the royal family of England is so afraid of Londoners that we are locking London out.

With my hand on my big belly, I go to my mother’s rooms. She is at her window, looking over the walls to the streets beyond, my cousin Maggie on one side and my sister Anne on the other. She barely turns as I run in, but Maggie says over her shoulder, “They’re doubling the guards on the palace walls. You can see them, dashing out of the guardhouse into place.”

“What’s happening?” I ask. “What’s happening down there?”

“The people are rising against Henry Tudor,” my mother says calmly.

“What?”

“They’re gathering outside the palace, mustering, in their hundreds.”

I feel the baby move uneasily in my belly. I sit down, take a gasping breath. “What should we do?”

“Stay here,” my mother says steadily. “Until we can see our way.”

“What way?” I ask impatiently. “Where will we be safe?”

She looks back at my white face and smiles. “Be calm, my dear. I mean, we stay here till we know who’s won.”

“Do we even know who’s fighting?”

She nods. “It is the English people who still love the House of York, against the new king,” she says. “We’re safe either way. If Lovell wins in Yorkshire, if the Stafford brothers win their battles in Worcestershire, if these London citizens take the Tower and then set siege here—then we come out.”

“And do what?” I whisper. I am torn between a growing excitement and an absolute dread.

“Retake the throne,” my mother says easily. “Henry Tudor is in a desperate fight to hold his kingdom, only nine months after winning it.”

“Retake the throne!” My voice is a squeak of terror.

My mother shrugs. “It’s not lost to us until England is at peace and united behind Henry Tudor. This could be just another battle in the Cousins’ War. Henry could be just an episode.”

“The cousins are all gone!” I exclaim. “The brothers who were of the houses of Lancaster and York are all gone!”

She smiles. “Henry Tudor is a cousin of the House of Beaufort,” she reminds me. “You are of the House of York. You have a cousin in John de la Pole, your aunt Elizabeth’s son. You have a cousin in Edward Earl of Warwick, your uncle George’s son. There is another generation of cousins—the question is only whether they want to go to war against the one who is now on the throne.”

“He’s ordained king! And my husband!” I raise my voice, but nothing perturbs her.

She shrugs. “So you win either way.”

“D’you see what they’re carrying?” Maggie squeaks with excitement. “Do you see the flag?”

I rise from my chair and look over her head. “I can’t see it from here.”

“It’s my flag,” she says, her voice trembling with joy. “It’s the ragged staff of Warwick. And they’re calling my name. They’re calling
À
Warwick!
À
Warwick! They’re calling for Teddy.”

I look over her bobbing head to my mother. “They’re calling for Edward, the heir of York,” I say quietly. “They’re calling for a York boy.”

“Yes,” she says equably. “Of course they are.”

We wait for news. It is hard for me to bear the wait, knowing that my friends and my family and my house are up in arms against my own husband. But it is harder on My Lady the King’s Mother, who seems to have given up sleeping altogether but is every night on her knees before the little altar in her privy chamber, and all day in the chapel. She grows thin and gray with worry; the thought of her only son far away in this faithless country, with no protection but his uncle’s army, makes her ill with fear. She accuses his friends of failing him, his supporters of fading away from him. She lists their names in her prayers to God, one after another, the men who flocked to the victor but will abandon a failure. She goes without food, fasting to draw down the blessing of God; but we can all see that she is sick with the growing fear that despite it all, her son is not blessed by God, that for some unknown reason, God has turned against the Tudors. He has given them the throne of England but not the power to hold it.