Henry whistles to his man and he comes over with a beautiful peregrine falcon, his breast like royal ermine, his back as dark as sable fur. Henry pulls on the gauntlet and takes the bird on his fist, looping the jesses around his fingers.
“They have raised up their boy,” he repeats. “Another one.”
I see the darkness in his face and I realize that this hawking trip, and the clatter of the court at play, and Henry’s new cape, and even the caress of his falcon are all part of a pretense. He is showing to the world that he is unconcerned. He is trying to look as if everything is all right. In reality, he is, as so often, embattled and afraid.
“This time, they are calling him ‘prince.’ ”
“Who is he?” I ask very quietly.
“This time I don’t know, though I have had my men up and down every corner of England and in and out of every schoolroom. I don’t think there is one missing child that I haven’t identified. But this boy . . .” He breaks off.
“How old is he?”
“Eighteen,” he says simply.
My brother Richard would be eighteen, if he were alive. I don’t remark on it. “And who is he?”
“Who does he say he is?” he corrects me, irritably. “Why, he says he is Richard, your missing brother Richard.”
“And what do people say he is?” I ask.
He sighs. “The traitorous lords, the Irish lords who would run after anything in silk . . . they say he is Prince Richard, Duke of York. And they are arming for him, and rising for him, and I shall have the whole battle of Stoke to fight all over again, with another boy at the head of another army, with French mercenaries behind him and Irish lords sworn to his service, as if ghosts never lie down but come again and again against me.”
The sun is still bright and warm but I am cold with horror.
“Not again? Not another invasion?”
Someone shouts from the far side of the yard and a little cheer goes up at some joke. Henry glances over, a bright smile at once on his face, and he laughs as if he knows what the joke was, like a child will laugh, trying to join in.
“Don’t!” I say suddenly. It hurts me to see him, even now, trying to play at being a carefree king before a court that he cannot trust.
“I have to smile,” he says. “There is a boy in Ireland very free with his smiles. They say he is all smiles, all charm.”
I think what this new threat will mean to us—to Maggie, newly married and hoping that her brother might be released to live with her and her husband, to my mother enclosed at Bermondsey Abbey. Neither my mother nor my cousin will ever be free if there is someone pretending to be our Prince Richard, mustering troops in Ireland. Henry will never trust any of us if someone from the House of York is leading a French army against him. “May I write and tell my mother of this false boy?” I ask him. “It’s distressing to have Richard’s name taken once again.”
His eyes grow cold at the mere mention of her name. His face slowly freezes, until he looks as if nothing will ever disturb him: a king of stone, a king of ice. “You can write and tell her whatever you wish,” he says. “But I think you’ll find your daughterly tenderness is misplaced.”
“What d’you mean?” I have a sense of dread. “Oh, Henry, don’t be like this! What d’you mean?”
“She knows all about this boy already.”
I can say nothing. His suspicion of my mother is one of the troubles that runs through our marriage like a poisoned stream bleaching a meadow which might otherwise grow green. “I am sure she does not.”
“Are you? For I am quite sure she does. I am sure that what funds I pay her, and what gifts you have given her, are invested in the silk jacket which is on his back, and in the velvet bonnet which is on his head,” he says harshly. “Pinned with a ruby pin, if you please. With three pendant pearls. On his golden curls.”
For a moment I can see my brother’s curls, twisted around my mother’s fingers as he sits with his head in her lap. I can see him so vividly, it is as if I have conjured him, as Henry says the foolish people of Ireland have conjured this prince from death, from the unknown.
“He is a handsome boy?” I whisper.
“Like all your family,” Henry says grimly. “Handsome and charming and with the trick of making people love him. I will have to find him and throw him down before he climbs up, don’t you think? This boy who calls himself Richard Duke of York?”
“I can’t help but wish he was alive,” I say weakly. I look over at my adorable brown-headed son, jumping up to the mounting block to his pony, bright with excitement, and I remember my golden-haired little brother who was as brave and as joyous as Arthur, raised in a court filled with confidence.
“Then you do yourself and your line a disservice. I can’t help but wish him dead.”
I excuse myself from the day’s hawking and instead I take the royal barge and go down the river to Bermondsey Abbey. Someone sees the barge coming in, and runs for my mother to tell her that her daughter the queen is on her way, so she is on the little pier as we land, and comes to meet me, walking through the rowers, who stand at attention, their oars raised in salute, as if she still commanded them, a little nod to one side and the other, a little smile, easy in her authority. She curtseys to me at the gangplank and I kneel for her blessing and bob up.
“I have to talk with you,” I say tersely.
“Of course,” she says. She leads the way into the abbey’s central garden, sheltered by the high warm walls, and gestures to a seat built into a corner, overhung with an old plum tree. Awkwardly I stand, but I nod that she should sit down. The autumn sun is warm; she has a light shawl around her shoulders as she sits before me, her hands clasped lightly in her lap, and listens.
“The king says that you will know all about it already; but there is a boy calling himself by the name of my brother, landed in Ireland,” I say in a rush.
“I don’t know all about it,” she says.
“You know something about it?”
“I know that much.”
“Is he my brother?” I ask her. “Please, Lady Mother, don’t put me off with one of your lies. Please tell me. Is it my brother Richard in Ireland? Alive? Coming for his throne? For my throne?”
For a moment she looks as if she is going to prevaricate, turn the question aside with a clever word, as she always does. But she looks up at my white, strained face, and she puts out her hand to draw me down to sit beside her. “Is your husband afraid again?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Worse than before. Because he thought it was over after the battle at Stoke. He thought he had won then. Now he thinks he will never win. He is afraid, and he is afraid of being afraid. He thinks he will always be afraid.”
She nods. “You know, words, once spoken, cannot be recalled. If I answer your question you will know things that you should tell your husband and his mother at once. And they will ask you these things explicitly. And once they know that you know them, they will think of you as an enemy. As they think me. Perhaps they would imprison you, as they have imprisoned me. Perhaps they would not allow you to see your children. Perhaps they are so hard-hearted that they would send you far away.”
I sink to my knees before her, and I put my face in her lap, as if I were still her little girl and we were still in sanctuary and certain to fail. “Am I not to ask?” I whisper. “He is my little brother. I love him too. I miss him too. Shall I not even ask if he is alive?”
“Don’t ask,” she advises me.
I look up at her face, still beautiful in this afternoon golden light, and I see that she is smiling. She is a happy woman. She does not look at all like a woman who has lost two beloved sons to an enemy, and knows that she will never see either of them again.
“But you hope to see him?” I whisper.
The smile she turns to me is filled with joy. “I know I will see him,” she says with absolute serene conviction.
“In Westminster?” I whisper.
“Or in heaven.”
Henry comes to my rooms after dinner. He does not sit with his mother this evening, but comes directly to me and listens to the musicians play and watches the women dance, takes a hand at cards and rolls some dice. Only when the evening ends and the people make their bows and their curtseys and withdraw does he pull up his chair before the great fire in my presence chamber, snap his fingers for another chair to be placed beside him, and gesture that I shall sit with him, and that everyone but a servant, standing at the servery, shall leave us.
“I know that you went to see her,” he says without preamble.
The man pours a tankard of mulled ale and puts a small glass of red wine on a table beside me, and then makes himself scarce.
“I took the royal barge,” I say. “It was no secret.”
“And you told her of the boy?”
“I did.”
“And did she know already?”
I hesitate. “I think so. But she could have learned it from gossip. People are starting to talk, even in London, about the boy in Ireland. I heard about it in my own rooms tonight; everyone is talking, again.”
“And does she believe that this is her son, returned from the dead?”
Again I pause. “I think that she may do. But she is never clear with me.”
“She is unclear because she is engaged in treason against us? And does not dare to confess?”
“She is unclear because she has a habit of discretion.”
He laughs abruptly. “A lifetime of discretion. She killed the sainted King Henry in his sleep, she killed Warwick on the battlefield shrouded in a witch’s mist, she killed George in the Tower of London drowned in a barrel of sweet wine, she killed Isabel his wife and Anne, the wife of Richard, with poison. She has never been accused of any of these crimes, they are still secret. She is indeed discreet, as you say. She’s murderous and discreet.”
“None of that is true,” I say steadily, disregarding the things that I think may be true.
“Well, at any rate . . .” He stretches his boots towards the fire. “She did not tell you anything that would help us? Where the boy comes from? What are his plans?”
I shake my head.
“Elizabeth . . .” His voice is almost plaintive. “What am I to do? I can’t keep fighting for England. The men who came out for me at Bosworth didn’t all turn out for me at the battle of Stoke. The men who risked their lives at Stoke won’t come out for me again. I can’t go on fighting for my life, for our lives, year after year. There is only one of me, and there are legions of them.”
“Legions of who?” I ask.
“Princes,” he says, as if my mother had given birth to a monstrous dark army. “There are always more princes.”
WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON, DECEMBER 1491
As the court sets about the task of the twelve days of merrymaking for Christmas, Henry sends out a force to Ireland, in ships that sail for him from the loyal port of Bristol. They land the soldiers and bring back his spies, who ride to London and tell him that the boy is beloved of everyone who meets him. The moment that he set foot on the quayside the people caught him up and carried him round the town at shoulder height, greeting him like a hero. He has the charm of a young god, he is irresistible.
He is spending the Christmas celebrations as the guest of the Irish lords in one of their faraway castles. There will be feasting and dancing, they will toast to their victory. He will feel invincible as they drink to his health and swear that they cannot fail.
I think of a golden-haired boy with a ready smile and I pray for him, that he does not come against us, that he enjoys his fame and glory, that he decides on a quieter life and returns to wherever he came from. And as Henry escorts me back from the chapel, I take a moment while we are walking alone together to tell him that I think I am with child again.
I see the shadow lift from his face. He is glad for me, at once ordering that I must rest, that I must not think of riding out with the court, that when we move to Sheen or Greenwich I must go by barge and by litter, but I can see he is partly distracted. “What are you thinking?” I ask, hoping that he will tell me he is planning a new bedroom for me in Westminster, better rooms now, since I will be spending more time indoors.
“I am thinking that I have to make us safe on the throne,” he says quietly. “I want this baby, I want all our children, to have a secure inheritance.”
As my cousin Maggie dances with her new husband, denying her name and gladly answering to “Lady Pole,” my husband the king slips away from the court and goes down to the stable yard for an earnest conversation with a man who rides in from Greenwich, with news from France. The French king, who was already arming Ireland against Henry, is now known to be taking an interest in the boy who wears silks in that country. The French king has said that though Henry came to the throne with an army paid by France, anyone now can see that there was a York prince who should have had the throne all along. Most ominously, the French king is said to be gathering ships for an invasion force to bring the boy in the silk coat to his home: England.
My husband comes back from his secret meeting in the shadowy stable yard and his face is grim. I see his mother glance at him, and her quiet word to Jasper Tudor. Then they both look across the dancing court at me. Unsmiling, they both look at me.
PALACE OF SHEEN, RICHMOND, FEBRUARY 1492
We move to Sheen to see in the spring, but the season is a long time coming and the wind seems to howl up the Thames valley, bringing wintry rain and sometimes hard chips of hail. The snowdrops are out in the garden but they get beaten down into the frozen earth, their little white faces mud-splashed. I order big fires to be built in my rooms and I wear my new Christmas gown of red velvet. My Lady the King’s Mother comes in to sit with me and looks at the fire, piled high with logs, and says, “I wonder you can afford such wood in your rooms,” as if it is not she who sets the allowance that the king pays me, as if she does not know that I am paid far less than my mother was given when she was Queen of England, as if everyone does not know that I cannot afford great fires in my rooms but will have to scrimp and save for this luxury when the summer weather comes.
I’m too proud to complain. I say, “You are welcome to come and warm yourself in here whenever you like, My Lady,” and I smile inwardly at turning her complaint of my extravagance into my generosity. And I don’t stoop to say anything about her years in the coldness of Wales, when she was far from my father’s extravagant court, far from our lovely rooms, and never warmed by a good fire.
She looks at the blaze and then at my robe. “I am surprised Henry does not order that you ride out,” she says. “It cannot be healthy cooped up indoors. Henry rides out every day and I always walk, whatever the weather.”
I turn to where the rain is running in gray drops down the thick panes of the window. “On the contrary, he wants me to rest,” I say.
At once her look sharpens, and her gaze goes to my belly. “Are you with child?” she whispers.
I smile and nod.
“He didn’t tell me.”
“I asked him not to, until I was sure,” I say.
Clearly, she expects him to tell her everything, whether I want to share the news or not.
“Well, you shall have all the firewood you need,” she says with a sudden burst of generosity. “And I shall send you logs from my own woods. You shall have applewood from my orchards, the scent is so pleasant.” She smiles. “Nothing is too good for the mother of my next grandson.”
Or granddaughter, I think, but I don’t say the words out loud.
My cousin Maggie is with child too, and we compare our widening bellies and claim to have extraordinary fancies for foods, tormenting the cooks by saying that we want coal with marchpane, and mutton and jam.
And then we have news that makes the king happy too. The ship that carried the boy to Cork is captured, returning empty, by one of Henry’s fleet that has been cruising constantly off Ireland. The master of the ship, the silk merchant, is questi
oned, and though he swears that he has no idea where the boy is now, they make him confess to everything else.
Henry comes to my room carrying a mug of mulled ale and a spiced tisane for me. “My Lady Mother said you should have this,” he says, smelling at it. “I don’t know if you will like it.”
“I can assure you that I will not,” I say lazily from the bed. “She gave it to me yesterday evening and it tasted so vile that I poured it out of the window. Not even Margaret would drink it and she is as humble as your mother’s serf.”
Cheerfully, he opens the latch on the window. “Gardez l’eau!” he shouts cheerfully, and tips the tisane out into the wet night.
“You seem happy,” I say. I slide off the bed and come to sit with him at the fireside.
He grins. “I have a plan, which I want to share with you. I want to send Arthur to Wales, to have his own court at Ludlow Castle.”
At once I hesitate. “Oh, Henry! He’s so young.”
“No, he’s not. He’s six this year. He is Prince of Wales. He must rule his principality.”
I hesitate. My brother Edward went to Wales to serve as its prince, and was captured on the road as he came home for his father’s funeral. I can’t help but dread the thought of Arthur going there too, of the road running east from Wales through Stony Stratford, the village where they took our uncle Anthony and we never saw him again.
“He’ll be safe,” my husband promises. “He’ll be safe in Wales. He’ll have his own court and his own guard. And—even better than this—he’ll be safe from any pretender. I have made a little progress in this difficult matter with the capture of the silk merchant. But a little progress is better than none at all.”
“You have made progress with the silk merchant?”
“The silk merchant is proving most helpful. My advisor has seen him, and spoken with him. He has reasoned with him, and the man has changed his mind, his side, and his loyalty.”