White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (51 page)

Anne quickly defused the situation by taking Elizabeth’s hand as she curtsied to her and commenting on how beautiful she looked. It must have taken a great deal of courage for Anne to do that—the girl could not have drawn attention more compellingly to the sad contrast between her healthy young body, sparkling with youth and beauty, and my poor, sick queen, so wraith-like thin and pallid—except for the hectic flush on her high cheekbones, a feature of this disease, which gives a false impression of health at a distance. When Elizabeth at last realised what she had unwittingly done, she apologised profusely to Anne. But, of course, the damage could not be undone. This enforced gaiety will go on for twelve days, including the New Year revels. I can hardly bear to think of the strain it will impose on Anne. I will try to persuade her to rest all the time she is not constrained to be on show—as now. If she will listen to me, that is. She has a will of iron in her frail body. But I fear she will collapse if she does not do this. I will get Dr Hobbes, the chief court doctor, to point out to her that this might happen, that she must do as she is told at this stage in her illness. Otherwise, she will be confined to bed permanently, which I know she would hate.

And when the Christmas Season is over—what then? At that time of year, in the dark and miserable January and February days, I normally look forward with great anticipation to the coming of spring, like most people.

But spring now has a dreadful association in my mind, not with new life, as it should, but with death. I lost my dear brother Edward when the buds were breaking; the daffodils blooming in all their annual glory as the heralding trumpets of spring on April, the ninth—in the midst of nature’s most glorious reawakening. My little son died the following year on exactly the same date.

Am I to lose my dearest wife in spring too? Though, looking at her, I do not think it will be that long before she leaves me. Winter will take her, as it takes so many. Spring will again be a time of deep mourning, I am certain.

As I have asked myself before—many times—is this God’s retribution on me? Is my mental suffering a direct result of my decision to take the throne? But would he inflict worse suffering—and ultimate death—on two innocent souls because of my actions? If so, he is not a God of love and compassion, as we are led to believe from our first prayers at our mother’s knee. My mother has always been a most devout woman and she brought me up in her beliefs. Are we hoodwinked completely in the Christian faith? Is he really a God of unbounded anger, bent on punishment, as in the Old Testament?

For the first time in a life of unquestioning faith, I begin to doubt. I know God puts the faithful to the test. Witness the lives of the saints and their horrible deaths as martyrs, in many cases. I have been loyal and faithful to him, as to all those I have loved in my life or given my allegiance to. I pray I do not lose my faith in him, as I surely feel its foundations have already been shaken to the bedrock.

Elizabeth of York, Sherriff Hutton Castle, Yorkshire, April 1484

They called the day that poor Queen Anne died, the day of the black sun. And so it was—for at the very moment she was drawing her last agonised breaths, the earth grew dark; the sun was blotted out in an ominous gloom. It was a complete eclipse of the sun by the moon, of course, but, that it should happen just then seemed like a sign from God.

It certainly portended the end of all my slender hopes and dreams, as it brought to a finish all the happiness that my dear Uncle Richard had known in life. He had lost the three people he loved more than anyone else in the world in the space of only two years. First, his brother, King Edward, the year before last on 9 April. Then, on exactly the same date last year—strange mischance—his only son Edward, the little Prince of Wales. And now his much-loved wife, Anne. These terrible events seemed like God’s punishment to many because he took the throne from his nephew. I did not feel that way. I pitied him deeply. But I loved him deeply too. I shall always love him, whatever they do to me; whoever they force me to marry.

And I could have given him more happiness—and myself, if they had only let me. I know I could. I was never given the slightest chance to prove that. I had done nothing to be ashamed of, openly. I had my dreams of course, but they were cruelly dashed, within a few days of my poor mistress’s passing.

I had been at Westminster as one of her ladies-in-waiting with my sister Cecily for several months. I saw how the poor queen suffered, both in body and in mind. I pitied her too, truly; I loved her and would never have caused her deliberate hurt, however I felt about her husband, the king. I would never have admitted it to anyone, let alone him—while she lived. She was so brave. She even sat through the entire Christmas and New Year court celebrations stoically, though visibly hard-pressed at times to keep from fainting right away in her exhaustion and illness. She coughed incessantly and held herself upright by sheer will power, I am sure, so as not to let Richard down.

She gave me a lovely pre-Christmas present of turquoise cloth of gold, streaked with silver, which I had made into a special court dress for Christmas Day. I realised, when I caught all eyes upon me, that it was exactly the same material as Anne’s dress! She had given me the material out of the goodness of her heart, because she had purchased too much. But people, seeing us together that day, could not help but contrast my health and strength with her pallor and wasted body, I realise, in retrospect. I am sure it was interpreted as deliberate on my part. I had no such intention. How naive I was! How I blundered unintentionally! No wonder the wagging tongues never stopped! It was the filthy suspicions and even filthier insinuations which brought about my expulsion from court and had Richard send me post-haste here with my sister Cecily, to have me safely out of the way—out of his way.

He did not even guess, before they told him in that horrible manner, about the rumours which had been flying about the court and the capital—how I felt about him; how I loved him. I never crossed the line with him. I was simply the affectionate niece-in public and in private. I kept my real feelings to myself. It was the others who saw in my every glance and action near him some signs of intimacy between us that did not exist! Did my eyes betray, like words, what I was feeling when I looked upon him? I did not intend them to. I am innocent of all deliberate seduction. I never even flirted with him—I would not dare!

People convinced themselves that we were lovers! They felt that an illicit relationship had been going on for months between us—ever since Anne became so ill that the doctors forbade him her bed for fear he would be infected with her deadly disease! Most men would probably seek comfort with another woman at a time like this—indeed at any time—given the opportunity. But Richard is not like most men. He is honest and upright and has led a most moral life. That is why my admiration for him as a king—and as a man—turned to love.

I suppose I could have tried to tempt him, if I had wanted to. I know I am very attractive in appearance and in personality. People are always telling me so. But I respected him too much, and I knew he would have given me short shrift, as he loved his wife so dearly and had never been unfaithful to her. All who knew him well were sure of that.

I waited, hoping that I might perhaps dare to voice my feelings tentatively when a decent period of mourning had passed and he had recovered from her inevitable and harrowing death. I knew that he would be pressed to remarry very quickly. A king must have an heir, and his son was dead. Anne could never give him more children. She had not the strength, even before her illness. She was delicate all her life, like her sister Isabel, who died of the same disease, like her little son, who carried the seeds of the disease in him too from birth, no doubt. That the great Earl of Warwick—the mighty Kingmaker—should have produced such sickly offspring!

But I am strong and healthy. My mother bore many children with no trouble. I am physically like her. I could have done the same—for Richard. I would have put the idea into his mind so gently. I would never have pushed myself forward until I felt the time was right—when he could bear to envisage being married again and bedding another. But political considerations have ruined all that; have trampled on my tenderest feelings! I am a bastard named and too close in blood to Richard.

Apart from the horrid insinuations and downright certainty in some quarters that something was going on between us though where they think they got any proof from that Richard and I were having an affair, I do not know—it was pointed out to me by Richard’s chief ministers and by Richard himself that, even if had wanted to marry me, he could not. It would have been regarded as incest! The consanguinity is too close! I did not realise that. I had no knowledge of the laws of both Church and state which would apparently forbid such a marriage. As I said, I am an innocent; an innocent who simply loves the wrong man, who is well out of my reach.

He does not love me. He has not the slightest interest in me that way. The very idea seemed to horrify him—I know that now. But given time and the chance, I might have succeeded in making him do so. I am beautiful—everyone remarks on that. I am strong. I would have made him a good wife. But there are too many obstacles in the way, apparently. I could have married the Dauphin, who I neither knew nor cared about, it seems. I have been told that Henry Tudor wishes to marry me. And that will be acceptable too. But the man I love I can never have. It is an unjust world!

But he will have to marry someone—and soon, probably some pock-marked foreign princess who cannot speak English and cares nothing for him, but who is suitable in ways which I am not. As long as she can bear him an heir and bring a large dowry, that is all that matters, it seems. And who is not related by blood, as I am. But that is my misfortune.

All those miserable months as a prisoner in the sanctuary with my awful mother—then a few months of happiness at court, with some hope, if only slim, for my future. And now this. Back in virtual imprisonment again in a cold northern castle, away from my friends, my relatives—except Cecily—and away from the one I love best in the world, but will probably never be allowed near again—Richard.

Life is so unfair. And I am only eighteen. Too young to be in despair, I know that. But I am. All I have to look forward to now is the possible marriage with Henry Tudor. The pictures of him I have seen do not look very appetising. They say he has bad teeth and bad breath. What a lovely prospect! All princesses and princes are simply pawns. Our wishes are the last to be considered in the political game. I feel I shall never be happy again.

Lady Margaret Beaufort, Northumberland, Early May 1485

My Dear Son,

You have no doubt heard already of the sad demise of the king’s sick wife—the Lady Anne of Warwick, my poor niece?

What you may not have become aware of yet are the rumours that abound that Richard actually hastened her death by the privy use of poison, though she was already dying of the dreaded lung-rot, consumption, and would not have lived much longer anyway. But he could not wait, apparently, such is his lust for another!

Poor Anne had probably become too much of a burden to a king unsure of his position and anxious to put it on a firmer footing by producing a son and heir as quickly as possible. And he can only do that by marrying another! And the chosen lady is, for certes, the Lady Elizabeth of York. She has been looking on him—and he her—with much suppressed lust—even in public, so the story goes around the court. People have noted her frequent smiles and coquettish glances in his direction, and he has been observed following her around the room with eyes betraying his obvious interest!

It is not surprising, I suppose. She is a beautiful, young, and healthy girl—the very opposite of his sick wife. He is a man barred from his wife’s bed for months for fear of infection, and men have their needs! If they cannot satisfy them in ways sanctioned by Holy Church, then they will find relief elsewhere. And she has been an open invitation to him, it is said. If their behaviour is so overt in public, one can imagine what they get up to in the privacy of the bedchamber!

On Christmas Day, he danced with her several times openly, though there were many ladies who did not even get one chance to do so. What does that say about his preferences? And this in front of his desperately sick wife, who could hardly keep herself upright on the throne from sheer exhaustion! How dreadful she must have felt, poor slighted Queen, not only in body but in spirit, seeing that brazen girl flaunt herself in public and make up to her husband. It does not take much imagination to realise that! I pity her greatly.

Elizabeth was noted by many as she gazed adoringly into the king’s face whilst they danced. She made her feelings very plain. There was definitely a secret intimacy between them—it was plain for all to see. She made no efforts to hide her lust for him!

Richard has denied it all most vociferously, of course—but then, he would! He even went to the trouble of making a humiliating public statement to an enormous crowd in the Great Hall of the Knights of St John at Clerkenwell, in which he stated categorically that he had no intentions whatsoever of marrying his niece, that he had loved his wife most deeply, and mourned her passing greatly, and that he had certainly had nothing to do with hastening her death by poison, which came all too quickly from her mortal illness. My husband, Thomas Stanley, who was there, stated that Richard was most convincing. He is obviously a great dissembler—God rot him!

If he does marry her, it is the end of your chances as her marriage partner. But perhaps that is part of his plan—to outmanoeuvre you?! And she does not know you and cares for her uncle. So he is certainly a good few steps ahead of you in this matter!

But what a completely unacceptable marriage this would be—if he dared to make it a reality. It would be incest in the first degree! The Church—and the people—would certainly never accept it without great protest. But then, kings are most adept at getting their own way and bypassing any obstacles and problems which stand in the path of achieving their ends!! Richard is no exception—everyone knows he can be completely ruthless. He acts very quickly and with determination when confronted with difficulties. I would not be surprised if he had systematically poisoned his wife, nor would I be surprised if a royal wedding were not announced immediately the official mourning period is up—if not before.