White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (50 page)

Richard has been so busy all summer dealing with many pressing problems that I have hardly seen him.

He stayed with me in Nottingham as long as he could, but grief was a luxury he could not afford to indulge in for very long. He has been away for weeks now—and there will be a great shock awaiting him when he does return.

More Scottish wars; trouble with Burgundy and Brittany, on land and at sea, have occupied his time greatly. Also, he has spent much time setting up his Council of the North, which will prove a very good thing for all people there, I am sure. I know he would prefer to be with me, but he has no choice as king but to deal with these endless problems and important affairs.

I have done my best to pull myself out of my lethargy of mind and spirit which assailed me after my little son died, but it has been almost impossible, as my body has already given way under the terrible strain of my grief, and this life of endlessly being on show and of having to attend all kinds of functions; of meeting dozens of people in whom one has not the slightest interest, but which it is necessary to do to keep good diplomatic relations with. It utterly wears me out. I hate my life as queen. I knew that I would—even if I had not become ill. I have not complained to Richard, but he must know.

Richard seems to thrive on it—the more work there is to do, the more he likes it. Perhaps it is because it keeps his mind off darker things, being busily occupied. He is lucky that he can be distracted in such ways.

My mind goes round and round on the same subject—my inability to give him another heir. All women like to give their husbands a boy. Being queen, it is a necessity to ensure the succession. But I clearly cannot do it. I have come to the conclusion that I am now utterly barren. I dread the childbirth ordeal—I nearly died giving Edward life—but I would be completely willing to subject myself to it again for Richard’s sake. We make love frequently—when he is with me. But nothing happens. I despair more and more and have grown to hate my weak, sickly, and infertile body.

I have not told Richard yet, though he must surely guess by my constant cough, which was bad enough when I last saw him—and which is well-nigh uncontrollable now—that I am surely in the grip of a mortal sickness, such as killed my poor sister Isabel. My doctors have confirmed this and tell me that Richard must be informed at once when he comes back—as his health will be at stake living with me. I am reluctant to do this, as I know what it will mean for our marriage. With Isabel, this illness followed on quickly from her child-bed ordeal and the fever after, and she was dead in less than three months. George stayed by her and was inconsolable when she died. The doctors could not keep him away, but he was not the king.

Is it to be the same for me? Perhaps I caught the infection when I was last with poor little Edward, who also had an incessant cough? My doctors tell me that this disease is called the consumption, because it consumes the sufferer, destroying the lungs and taking bodily flesh away so rapidly that it kills very quickly. Some call it the wasting sickness. It is very common. Whole families die of it—one by one. There is little to be done to alleviate it, let alone cure it. And I do not have the strength to fight it. There is no more hope for my recovery—I accept that.

I have resigned myself to the fact that I am not long for this life The doctors give me months—no more. With some, it can even kill in weeks, they reluctantly informed me. I needed to know—to prepare myself, to prepare Richard for being alone when I am gone—I am but twenty-eight years old. I have always attempted to live a good, Christian life. I have not hurt anybody if I could help it; I have tried to be kind and think of other’s needs, but God has decided, in his wisdom, to afflict me with this sickness anyway. There is no justice in the world. I would rather be a poor cottar’s wife and be well and strong for my husband than Queen of England, with every privilege and endless riches, but weighed down with this dreadful illness and my inability to bear more children. But we do not have a choice about what trials God sends us in life. He gives with one hand and takes with the other.

For myself, I care not. It is Richard I worry about. How will he cope without me? He has recently lost his only beloved son. He has been bereft—we both have.

He is very strong, but he depends on me for his emotional health. I know that.

Very soon, I must let the doctors tell him the truth about my condition. I fear that it will break his heart when they inform him that he must no longer share my bed for fear of becoming infected himself. I am already beyond tears at the thought of what this final, irrevocable separation will mean to both of us. I need his arms about me; I need his kisses and caresses to comfort me. He needs me just as much in his own way.

We will never embrace closely again or be as one in the body. He is the heart of my heart and I know he feels the same way about me. Our love is deep and enduring.

I will see that he does not ignore the doctors’ orders, though it will break my heart too. I would not have him ill. He has great work to do. He is a good king and will be a great one. I know that, given the chance. I see now that it was God’s will that he should take the throne, though at the time I was very unhappy about it.

I shall still have my dear husband’s companionship, I suppose, but even that the doctors may prohibit. It is dangerous for his health to be too near me.

I have lost that which was the centre of my life, which can never be replaced—my darling child. Now I am to lose the physical love—even the presence—of my beloved husband. How will I stand it? I pray to God daily to give me the strength to bear not only my illness, but the loss of Richard’s nearness.

I am nothing but a useless burden to Richard now. In the end, he will be better off without me. So I hope my dying is not too protracted. I will not be able to cope with the terrible despair in his eyes when he looks at my poor, wasted body. I have seen it already, only too well, after our little son died.

I hope that he will find happiness with another, after I am gone, though I know he has sworn to me that I am the real love of his life and that there will never be anyone else for him. But who knows? He deserves to be loved, and if I am not here to love him, then I hope he may accept another woman’s love—in time.

I have seen that certain look in the eyes of Princess Elizabeth. I know Richard has always been her favourite uncle, even before the death of George and her father, King Edward. I believe she loves him. She has not shown him overtly, at least in public. That I know. She is fond of me and would not deliberately hurt me. She knows that Richard is my life. And he would hardly have realised how she feels anyway, would not be even slightly aware of it, would not care. While I live, his thoughts and devotion are for me alone.

But I know what is in her heart. It takes another woman to see it.

Perhaps when I am gone, she will come to his attention. He will need to remarry. He will need an heir urgently. His ministers will urge him to do it—and quickly. She is young, beautiful, and strong. She will bear many healthy children, I am sure.

I feel no envy that I am leaving my Richard to the certainty of another woman’s embraces. It is inevitable. Whether he desires to remarry or not is not the issue. He will have to. As king, he will not be given the choice.

And maybe the Princess Elizabeth will be the one? Who knows? She would certainly have him, there is no doubt about that, I am sure. But the question is—would he be willing to marry her—his own niece? That is all in the future, when I am long gone and not for me to worry about, after all. For now, I must bear my lot as best I can from day to day—for Richard’s sake.

Richard, Westminster Palace, Christmas Day, 1484

I decided we should have a really grand and spectacular Christmas this year, with no expense spared—the kind that Edward, my brother, was wont to have every Yuletide. He never counted the cost as long as everyone enjoyed themselves—he certainly always did! The royal treasurer would be wincing for weeks after as the numerous bills came in.

A king needs to make a show, I have discovered—it is what people expect, extravagance in clothes and in living. For myself, I would not care, as I have always tended towards simple pleasures, and I am not a hearty eater or drinker as Edward was. Neither do I over-spend regularly on rich materials and the latest fashions, as he did. When the occasion dictates it—such as for my coronation and little Edward’s investiture, I will forget the cost. Edward, as king, indulged so much in rich food and wine. I am sure it weakened his body and hastened his end.

But Christmas is special after all, and Anne and I badly need cheering up after our sad loss in the spring. And Anne’s illness has progressed so fast. I do not think she has long to live—the doctors do not think she will survive to the spring even. It is unbearable. She is far more philosophical about her fast-approaching end than I am. She has accepted that it is the will of God. She is not afraid, only sad to leave me alone. I try to accept his will, also, but it is almost impossible. What has she done to deserve this? And I am hardly allowed to keep her company for fear of infection, let alone share her bed. Safeguarding the king’s body has to come first, I am told. I belong to the people, not just to my wife. If I can help to make what is certain to be her last Christmas a really enjoyable one, perhaps it will serve to take her out of herself for at least a short while? I do not think she can forget how ill she is for a moment, but I pray it might help to lift her spirits a little perhaps, and mine. Always we must smile and put on a show. Never can we reveal the true state of our feelings in public. That is the lot of royalty. Only those closest to me know my great despair, my indifference to what is going on around me. My mind dwells only on the loved one I have already lost and the most beloved one I am cruelly soon to lose. God gives us terrible burdens to bear. Being king does not exempt one.

I have arranged for some incredible entertainments to divert us, as well as the great feast. We have brought in tumblers and jesters from Italy, dancers from France, even a troupe of performing monkeys and dogs with their trainers. Anne loves dogs and so do I. Maybe we might have a laugh or two from watching their clever tricks and antics.

There is a wonderful minstrel coming to court tomorrow for the Boxing Day revels, whose fame has been spread through all the courts of Europe. His fee is exorbitant, but apparently his singing and playing on the harp and several other instruments are extraordinary, so he is worth it. He composes all his own songs also.

Normally, he brings his trained performing bear with him too, but I did not want this form of entertainment, as I believe it to be cruel. A wild creature should not be poked and prodded into performing unnatural acts. Even more do I detest bear-baiting and have tried to ban it in my kingdom where I can—though it is almost impossible to do this, it is so popular, unfortunately. I love music—it has always been the art closest to my heart—and it can act like balm on the troubled mind. I play for Anne often, to try and calm her spirit. Music has a healing influence. I can do nothing to heal her body, but there are ways to lift the spirit certainly and music is one of them.

Already, on Christmas Eve, that most holy day, the boys of the Royal Household Chapel sang to us in the morning, in their most heavenly voices, directed by Master Gilbert Banister, that clever musician who manages to get the boys to sing so superlatively. At Midnight Mass, which Anne insisted on coming to, though she was in no fit state—and the chapel is very cold—they sang again of course, frequently. Their singing moved both Anne and I to tears. The beauty of the music brought forth the wellsprings of our hearts’ sadness.

Today, while we were feasting earlier, the Westminster Waits entertained us with their cheerful songs and instruments. For a town band, they play very well on their fifes, tabors, and trumpets. Afterwards, my court minstrels, chiefly William Davy and Thomas Freeman, helped by several others brought in for the occasion by Master John Crowland, my Marshal of the King’s Minstrels, and directed by him, played for everyone to dance.

With gaiety and happy smiles all round us, it was very difficult for both of us to enter into the spirit of it all. People understood why Anne could not dance, though she enjoyed the caroles before her illness, but I was not allowed to sit out, like her. All the court ladies wished to dance with me, it seemed. There was one lady who kept pressing me to dance with her, smiling up into my face enticingly. If she hoped to attract me in that way, she had no success. I have never been a one for indulging in women’s charms, as Edward was—especially now. Anne, my wife, has always been the one—the only one since I married her—whom I will take to my bed. But this girl was my niece, and I know I am her favourite uncle, so maybe I misinterpreted her intimate looks? I really do not know, and I care less. After a while, I made the excuse to all the ladies that I must keep Anne company now, and that I had had enough dancing, anyway.

Earlier, this lovely lady, the Princess Elizabeth, eldest daughter of my brother Edward, and now in the full bloom of her beauty at eighteen, caused everyone a big shock when she appeared dressed exactly the same way as the queen. She had on a gorgeous new dress made of turquoise cloth of gold brocade, streaked with silver, and when she came to curtsy to us, the whole court drew in its breath and stared, silent at her indiscretion. The girl merely looked around, puzzled and uncomprehending at their reaction, and then I realised that her sin was not deliberately provocative, especially when Anne whispered in my ear that she had actually given some spare material to Elizabeth about a month before, as she had ordered too much for her new Christmas Day gown. But, of course, she had no idea the girl would break the laws of etiquette so stupidly in this way. On reflection, it is rather odd that Elizabeth, who had spent all her life up to her father’s death at his Court, did not know about such things. I can hardly believe it was deliberate. She has such an open, sunny nature. It never occurred to me she could be devious. Why should she be so now?