The White Princess Page 24

  “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

  It is a joyous Christmas with my mother at court, and then a long, cold winter in London. We command a special Mass to be sung for my uncle Edward, who died last year in his expedition against the French.

  “He didn’t have to go,” I say, lighting a candle for him on the altar of the chapel.

  My mother smiles, though I know that she misses him. “Oh, he did,” she says. “He was never a man who could stay quietly at home.”

  “You will have to go quietly to your home,” I point out. “The feast of Christmas is over and Henry says you have to go back to the abbey.”

  She turns towards the door and pulls the hood forwards over her silvery hair. “I don’t mind, as long as you and the girls are well, and I see that you are happy and at peace in yourself.”

  I walk beside her and she takes my hand. “And you? Are you coming to love him, as I hoped you would do?” she says.

  “It’s odd,” I confess. “I don’t find him heroic, I don’t think he is the most marvelous man in the world. I know he’s not very brave, he’s often bad-tempered. I don’t love him as I did Richard . . .”

  “There are many sorts of love,” she counsels me. “And when you love a man who is less than you dreamed, you have to make allowances for the difference between a real man and a dream. Sometimes you have to forgive him. Perhaps you even have to forgive him often. But forgiveness often comes with love.”

  In April, when the birds are singing in the fields south of the river, I tell Henry that I will not ride out hawking with him. He is mounting up in the stable yard and my horse, that has been kept inside for days, is curvetting and dancing on the spot, held tightly with his reins by a groom.

  “He’s just fresh,” Henry says, looking from the eager gelding to me. “You can manage him, surely? It’s not like you to miss a day’s hawking. As soon as you’re on him he’ll be all right.”

  I shake my head.

  “Have another horse,” Henry suggests. I smile at his determination that I should ride with him. “Uncle Jasper will let you have his. He’s steady as a rock.”

  “Not today,” I persist.

  “Are you not well?” He throws his reins to his groom and jumps down to come to my side. “You look a little pale. Are you well, my love?”

  At that endearment, I lean towards him and his arm comes around my waist. I turn my head so my lips are at his ear. “I have just been sick,” I whisper.

  “But you’re not hot?” He flinches a little. The terror of the sweating sickness that came with his army is still a strong one. “Tell me you’re not hot!”

  “It’s not the sweat,” I assure him. “And it’s not a fever. It’s not something I ate, nor unripe fruit.” I smile at him, but still he does not understand. “I was sick this morning, and yesterday morning, and I expect to be sick tomorrow too.”

  He looks at me with dawning hope. “Elizabeth?”

  I nod. “I’m with child.”

  His arm tightens around my waist. “Oh, my darling. Oh, my sweetheart. Oh, this is the best news!”

  In front of the
whole court he kisses me warmly on the mouth and when he looks up, everyone must surely know what I have told him, for his face is radiant.

  “The queen is not riding with us!” he shouts, as if it is the best news in the world.

  I pinch his arm. “It’s too soon to tell anyone yet,” I caution him.

  “Oh, of course, of course,” he says. He kisses my mouth and my hand. Everyone is looking with puzzled smiles at his joy. One or two nudge each other, guessing at once. “The queen is going to rest today!” he bellows. “There’s no need for concern. She is well. But she is going to rest. She is not going to ride. I don’t want her to ride. She is a little unwell.”

  This confirms it; even the slowest young man whispers with his neighbor. Everyone guesses at once why Henry has me held tightly to his side and why he is beaming.

  “You go and rest.” He turns to me, oblivious to the knowing smiles of his court. “I want you to make sure that you rest.”

  “Yes,” I say, near to laughter myself. “I understand that. I think everyone understands that.”

  He grins, sheepish as a shy boy. “I can’t hide how happy I am. Look, I’ll catch you the sweetest pheasant for your dinner.” He swings himself into the saddle. “The queen is unwell,” he tells the groom holding my mount. “You had better exercise her horse yourself. Today, and every day. I don’t know when she’ll be well enough to ride again.”

  The groom bows to his knees. “I will, Your Grace,” he says. He turns to me: “I’ll keep him quiet for you so you can just walk out on him when you have a mind to it.”

  “The queen is unwell,” Henry says to his companions, who are mounting up and beaming at him. “I shan’t say more.” He is grinning from ear to ear, like a boy. “I don’t say more. There’s no more to say.” He stands in his stirrups and raises his cap from his head and waves it in the air. “God save the queen!”

  “God save the queen!” everyone shouts back at him and smiles at me, and I laugh up at Henry. “Very discreet,” I say to him. “Very courtly, very reticent, most discreet.”

  GREENWICH PALACE, LONDON, AUTUMN 1489

  This time it is my decision when I go into confinement, and though My Lady the King’s Mother chooses the tapestries for my rooms and orders the day bed and the cradle, I have the room set out as I wish, and I tell her that I will go into confinement at the end of October.

  “And I shall send for my mother to be with me,” I say.

  At once her gaze sharpens. “Have you asked Henry?”

  “Yes,” I lie to her face.

  “And he has agreed?”

  Clearly, she does not believe me for a moment.

  “Yes,” I say. “Why would he not? My mother has chosen to live in retirement, a life of prayer and contemplation. She has always been a thoughtful and devout woman.” I look at the fixed expression on My Lady’s face—she has always prized herself as being formidably holy. “Everyone knows my mother has longed for the religious life,” I claim, feeling the lie grow more and more ambitious, and feeling myself tremble with the desire to giggle. “But I am sure she will consent to return to the world to stay with me when I am in confinement.”

  Then, it is just a question of getting to Henry before his mother does so. I go to his rooms and though the door is shut to his presence chamber, I nod to the guard to let me in.

  Henry is seated at a table in the center of the room with his most trusted advisors around him. He looks up as I come in and I see that he is scowling with worry.

  “I’m sorry.” I hesitate in the doorway. “I didn’t realize . . .”

  They all rise and bow and Henry comes quickly to my side and takes my hand. “It can wait,” he says. “Of course it can wait. Are you well? Nothing wrong?”

  “Nothing wrong. I wanted to ask you a favor.”

  “You know I can refuse you nothing,” he says. “What would you like? To bathe in pearls?”

  “Just if my mother could be with me when I go into confinement.” As I say the words I see the shadow cross his face. “She was such a comfort to me last time, Henry, and she is so experienced, she has had so many children, and I need her.”

  He hesitates. “She’s my mother,” I insist, my voice catching a little. “And it’s her grandchild.”

  He thinks for a moment. “Do you have any idea what we are talking about here? Right now?”

  I look past his shoulder at the grave-faced men, his uncle Jasper looking gloomily at a map. I shake my head.

  “We keep getting reports from all over the country of little incidents of trouble. People planning to overthrow us, people plotting my death. In Northumberland a mob attacked the Earl of Northumberland, as he was collecting taxes for me. Not just a bit of rough play—d’you know, they pulled him off his horse and killed him?”

  I gasp. “Henry Percy?”

  He nods. “In Abingdon there’s a highly regarded abbot plotting against us.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  His face darkens. “It doesn’t matter who. In the northeast, Sir Robert Chamberlain and his sons were captured trying to set sail for your aunt in Flanders from the port of Hartlepool. Half a dozen little incidents, none of them connected, as far as we can see, but all of them signs.”

  “Signs?”

  “Of a discontented people.”

  “Henry Percy?” I repeat. “How was his death a sign? I thought people were objecting to paying tax?”

  The king’s face is grim. “The people of the North never forgave him for failing Richard at Bosworth,” he says, watching me. “So I daresay you too think it serves him right.”

  I don’t reply to this, it is still too raw for me. Henry Percy told Richard that his troops were too tired to fight, having marched from the North—as if a commander brings troops to a battle who are too tired to fight! He put himself at the rear of Richard’s army and never moved forwards. When Richard charged off the hill to his death, Percy watched him go without stirring himself. I won’t grieve for him in his dirty little death. He’s no loss to me. “But none of this has anything to do with my mother,” I hazard.

  Uncle Jasper gives me a long, cool look from his blue eyes as if he disagrees.

  “Not directly,” Henry concedes. “She shot her last bolt with the kitchen boy’s rebellion. I’ve got nothing that identifies her with these scattered troubles.”

  “So she could come into confinement with me.”

  “Very well,” he decides. “She’s as safe inside with you as she is inside the abbey. And it shows that she is a member of our family, to anyone who still dreams that she represents York.”

  “May I write to her today?”

  He nods, takes my hand, and kisses it. “I can refuse you nothing,” he says. “Not when you are about to give me another son.”

  “What if it’s a girl?” I ask, smiling at him. “Will you send me a bill for all these favors if I have a girl?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s a boy. I am certain of it.”

  WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON, NOVEMBER 1489

  My mother promises to come from Bermondsey but there is so much illness in London that she will not come into confinement with me straightaway but waits in her rooms for a few days to make sure that she is not carrying the pox, which comes with a painfully hot fever and terrible red spots all over the body.

  “I wouldn’t bring it in on you,” she says when she finally comes in through the door, padded for silence, which opens so rarely on the outside world.

  In a moment I am in her arms and she is hugging me and then stepping back to look at my face, and my big belly, and my swollen hands.

  “You’ve taken all your rings off,” she remarks.

  “They were too tight,” I say. “And my ankles are as fat as my calves.”

  She laughs at that. “That will all be better when the baby comes,” she says, and presses me down to the day bed, sits at the end of it, takes my feet into her lap, and rubs them firmly with her strong hands. She strokes the soles, pulling gently
at the toes until I almost purr with pleasure and she laughs at me again.

  “You will be hoping for a boy,” she says.

  “Not really.” I open my eyes and meet her gray gaze. “I am hoping that the baby is well and strong. And I would love a little girl. Of course we need a boy . . .”

  “Perhaps a girl now, and a boy next,” she suggests. “King Henry is still kind to you? At Christmas he looked like a man in love.”

  I nod. “He’s been most tender.”

  “And My Lady?”

  I make a face. “Most attentive.”

  “Ah well, I’m here now,” my mother says, acknowledging that no one can outmatch My Lady the King’s Mother but herself. “Does she come in here for her meals?”

  I shake my head. “She dines with her son. When I am in confinement she takes my place at the high table in the court.”

  “Let her have her moment of glory,” my mother counsels. “And we’ll eat better in here without her. Who do you have as your ladies-in-waiting?”

  “Cecily, Anne, and my cousin Margaret,” I say. “Though Cecily will do nothing for anyone as she is with child herself. And of course I have the king’s kinswomen, and those his mother insists that I keep about me.” I lower my voice. “I am sure that they report to her everything I do and say.”

  “Bound to. And how is Maggie? And her poor little brother?”

  “She’s allowed to visit him,” I say. “And she says that he is well enough. He has tutors now and a musician. But it’s no life for a boy.”

  “Perhaps if Henry gets a second heir he’ll let poor Teddy out,” my mother says. “I pray for that poor boy, every night of his life.”

  “Henry can’t let him out while he fears that the people might rise up for a duke of York,” I say. “And even now there are constant uprisings in the country.”

  She does not ask me who is rising, or what they are saying. She does not ask me which counties. She goes to the window and draws back a corner of the thick tapestry and looks out as if she has no interest, and from this, I know that Henry is wrong and that my mother has not shot her last bolt of rebellion. On the contrary, she is in the thick of it again. She knows more than I do, she probably knows more than Henry does.