The White Princess (35 page)

“Did they speak of a boy returned from the dead?” I challenge him. “Did they speak of a boy who was hidden from unknown killers, smuggled abroad, and waiting for his time?”

He does not flinch. “They did. But I reminded them that the King of England has no interest in miracles.”

There is a little silence. “At least the king trusts you,” I say as I hand Arthur back to his wet nurse and watch him settle on her broad lap. “At least he is sure of you. Perhaps you can speak to him of my Lady Mother and she can come back to court. If there is no boy, then he has nothing to fear.”

“He’s not naturally a very trusting man,” my uncle observes with a smile. “I was followed all the way to Lisbon and my hooded companion noted everyone that I met. Another man followed me home again too, to make sure that I did not call on your aunt in Flanders on my way.”

“Henry spied on you? His own messenger? His spy? He spied on his spy?”

He nods. “And there will be a woman in your household who tells him what you say in your most private moments. Your own private confessor is bound to report to his Father in God, the Archbishop of Canterbury, John Morton. John Morton is the greatest friend of My Lady the King’s Mother. They plotted together against King Richard, together they destroyed the Duke of Buckingham. They meet every day and he tells her everything.
Don’t ever dream that the king trusts any of us. Don’t ever think that you’re not watched. You are watched all the time. We all are.”

“But we’re doing nothing!” I exclaim. I lower my voice. “Aren’t we, Uncle? We are doing nothing?”

He pats my hand. “We’re doing nothing,” he assures me.

WINDSOR CASTLE, SUMMER 1488

But my aunt Margaret is not doing nothing. Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Flanders, sister to my father, is certainly not idle. Constantly, she writes to James III of Scotland, even sending him an envoy of York loyalists. “She is trying to persuade him to make war on us,” Henry says wearily. I have stepped into his privy chamber in the great castle, and found him with two clerks at either end of a great table and a salt-stained paper before him. I recognize my aunt’s great red wax seals and the trailing ribbons; she uses the sun in splendor, the great York crest created by my father. “But she won’t succeed. We have an alliance, we will have betrothals. James is sworn to be loyal to me. He’ll hold fast for Tudor England. He won’t turn backwards to York.”

But though Henry may be right and James is loyal in his heart, he can’t persuade his countrymen to support England. His country, his lords, even his heir are all against Tudor England, whatever the opinions of the king, and it is the country that wins. They turn against him rather than stomach an alliance with the Tudor arriviste, and James has to defend his friendship with England and even his throne. I receive a hastily scribbled note from my mother, but I don’t understand what she means:

So you see, I am not riding up the Great North Road.

I know that Henry will have seen this, almost as soon as it was written, so I take it at once to him to demonstrate my loyalty; but as I enter the royal privy chamber I stop, for there is a man with him that I think I know, though I cannot put a name to his darkly tanned face. Then as he turns towards me I think I had better forget everything I have ever known about him. This is Sir Edward Brampton, my father’s godson, the man that my uncle saw at the court in Portugal with the forward page boy. He turns and bows low to me, his smile quietly confident.

“You know each other?” my husband says flatly, watching my face.

I shake my head. “I am so sorry . . . you are?”

“I am Sir Edward Brampton,” he says pleasantly. “And I saw you once when you were a little princess, too young to remember an unimportant old courtier like me.”

I nod and turn my entire attention to Henry, as if I have no interest in Sir Edward at all. “I wanted to tell you that I have a note from Bermondsey Abbey.”

He takes it from my hand and reads it in silence. “Ah. She must know that James is dead.”

“Is that what she means? She writes only that she won’t be riding up the Great North Road. How did the king die? How could such a thing happen?”

“In battle,” Henry says shortly. “His country supported his son against him. It seems that some of us cannot even trust blood kin. You cannot be sure of your own heir, never mind another.”

Carefully I do not look towards Sir Edward. “I am sorry if this causes us trouble,” I say evenly.

Henry nods. “At any rate, we have a new friend in Sir Edward.”

I smile slightly, Sir Edward bows.

“Sir Edward is to come home to England next year,” Henry says. “He was a loyal servant of your father’s and now he is going to serve me.”

Sir Edward looks cheerful at this prospect and bows again.

“So when you reply to your mother, you can tell her that you have seen her old friend,” Henry suggests.

I nod and go towards the door. “And tell her that Sir Edward had a forward page boy, who made much of himself, but that he has now left his service and gone to work for a silk merchant. Nobody knows where he is now. He may have gone trading to Afric, perhaps to China, no one knows.”

“I’ll tell her that, if you wish,” I say.

“She’ll know who I mean,” Henry smiles. “Tell her that the page boy was an insolent little lad who liked to dress in borrowed silks but now he has a new master—a silk merchant as it happens, so he will be well suited in his work, and the boy has gone with him, and is quite disappeared.”

GREENWICH PALACE, LONDON, CHRISTMAS 1488

The anxious Tudor scrutiny of the unreliable world around them ceases for the Christmas feast, as if it is finally possible that days can go by and small events happen, notes be written and received, without Henry having to see everything and know everything. With the disappearance of the invisible boy into the unknown it seems that there is nothing left to watch for, and the spies at the ports and the guardians on the roads can rest. Even My Lady the King’s Mother loses her frown and regards the arrival of the yule log, the jesters, the players, the mummers, and the choir with a small smile. Margaret is allowed to visit her brother in the Tower and comes back to Greenwich happier than she has been for some time.

“The king is allowing him a schoolmaster and some books,” she says. “And he has a lute. He’s playing music and composing songs, he sang one to me.”

Henry comes to my room every night after dinner and sits by the fire and talks about the day; sometimes he lies with me, sometimes he sleeps with me till morning. We are comfortable together, even affectionate. When the servants come and turn down the bed and take off my robe, he puts them to one side with his hand. “Leave us,” he says, and when they go out and close the door, he slips my robe from my shoulders himself. He puts a
kiss on my naked shoulder and helps me into the high bed. Still dressed, he lies on the bed beside me and strokes my hair away from my face. “You’re very beautiful,” he says. “And this is our third Christmas together. I feel like a man well married, long married and to a beautiful wife.”

I lie still and let him pull the ribbon from the end of my plait and run his fingers through the sleek golden hanks of hair. “And you always smell so delicious,” he says quietly.

He gets up from the bed and unties the belt on his robe, takes it off, and lays it carefully on a chair. He is the sort of man who always keeps his things tidy. Then he lifts the bedding and slides in beside me. He is desirous and I am glad of it, for I want another child. Of course, we need another son to make the succession secure; but on my own account, I want that wonderful feeling of a baby in my belly and the sense of growing life within. So I smile at him and lift the hem of my robe and help him to move on me. I reach for him and feel the warm strength of his flesh. He is quick and gentle, shuddering with his own easy pleasure; but I feel nothing more than warmth and willingness. I don’t expect more, I am glad to at least feel willing, and grateful to him that he is gentle. He lies on me for a little while, his face buried in my hair, his lips at my neck, then he lifts himself away from me and says, surprisingly: “But it’s not like love, is it?”

“What?” I am shocked that he should say such a bald truth.

“It’s not like love,” he says. “There was a girl when I was a young man, in exile in Brittany, and she would creep out from her father’s house, risking everything to be with me. I’d be hiding in the barn, I used to burn up to see her. And when I touched her she would shiver, and when I kissed her she would melt, and once she held me and wrapped her arms and legs around me and cried out in her pleasure. She could not stop and I felt her sobs shake her whole body with joy.”

“Where is she now?” I ask. Despite my indifference to him I find I am curious about her, and irritated at the thought of her.

“Still there,” he says. “She had a child by me. Her family got
her married off to a farmer. She’ll probably be a fat little farmer’s wife by now with three children.” He laughs. “One of them a redhead. What d’you think? Henri?”

“But no one calls you a whore,” I observe.

His head turns at that and he laughs out loud, as if I have said something extraordinary and funny. “Ah, dear heart, no. Nobody calls me a whore for I am King of England and a man. Whatever else you might like to change in the world, a York king on the throne, the battle reversed, Richard arising from the grave, you cannot hope to change the way that the world sees women. Any woman who feels desire and acts on it will always be called a whore. That will never change. Your reputation was ruined by your folly with Richard, for all that you thought it was love, your first love. You have only regained your reputation by a loveless marriage. You have gained a name but lost pleasure.”

At his casual naming of the man I love, I pull the covers up to my chin and gather my hair and plait it again. He does not stop me, but watches me in silence. Irritated, I realize that he is going to stay the night.

“Would you like your mother to come to court for Christmas?” he asks casually, turning to blow out the candle beside the bed. The room is lit only by the dying fire, his shoulder bronzed by the light of the embers. If we were lovers this would be my favorite time of the day.

“May I?” I almost stammer, I am so surprised.

“I don’t see why not,” he says casually. “If you would like her here.”

“I would like it above anything else,” I say. “I would like it very much. I would be so happy to have her with me again, and for Christmas, and my sisters, especially my little sisters . . . they’ll be so happy.” Impulsively I lean over and kiss his shoulder.

At once, he turns and catches my face and takes the kiss on his mouth. Gently, he kisses me again, and then again, and my distress at his mentioning Richard, and my jealousy of the girl he
once loved, somehow prompt me to take his mouth against mine, and put my arms around his neck, then I feel his weight come on me and his body press against the length of me, as my lips open and I taste him and my eyes close as he holds me, and feel him gently, sweetly enter me again, and for the first time ever between the two of us, it does feel a little like love.

WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON, SPRING 1489