Jean Plaidy (15 page)

“And did he agree?” asked the Queen, wondering for a moment whether she would have to take sides with the King against her mother-in-law and thinking how awkward that would be.

“Oh I brought him round to my point of view,” said the Countess complacently, implying that she could always do that—even with the King.

Elizabeth was relieved. She reached out a hand and took that of the Countess.

“My lady, I thank you. I am so grateful to have you here to take care of these matters.”

“My dear, dear daughter, you cannot be happier than I. You know what my son means to me … apart from the fact that he is the King and ruler of us all, and I will say this—that although you come from a house which has for so long been the enemy of my own, there is none I would rather see my son married to than you.”

Elizabeth was deeply moved.

It was so easy to remain in loving friendship with her mother-in-law. All she asked was agreement in everything she did and as she was a very wise woman, this worked out ideally for Elizabeth.

The days began to pass at Westminster. It was quite clear that the new baby was not going to make a premature appearance, but arrived on the night of the twenty-ninth of November of that year 1489, which was exactly the time it was due.

The child was rather disappointingly a girl. But a strong healthy girl—more lusty than Arthur had been.

The Queen requested that she should be called after the King’s mother to whom she owed so much, and the King was most graciously pleased to agree.

So in due course the Princes Margaret joined her brother Arthur in the royal nurseries.

It was pleasant to retire to Greenwich. There she would stay until the birth of the child, for Elizabeth was once again in what people who do not have to endure it call a happy condition.

The nursery now contained Arthur who was five years old and Margaret nearly two. Arthur was a gentle, serious child, already showing an interest in his books. Perhaps this was because he was a little delicate. The King watched him anxiously. He was afraid something might happen to Arthur who was more than a son to him; he was one of the chief reasons why the people wanted him to remain King.

Minors were a menace. That had been the lesson of the ages. What the people always wanted was a strong king who had a son or sons in his youth so that by the time he died there would be someone strong to take his place.

“How I do hope this one will be a boy,” prayed Elizabeth.

Margaret was already showing herself to be a somewhat forceful little creature. She wanted her own way all the time and invariably got it, for she had grown out of the childish way of screaming for it and employed more devious methods to cajole the guardians of the nursery. The only person of whom Margaret seemed to feel some awe was her grandmother the Countess of Richmond, for the child was shrewd enough to recognize that there was a lady to be obeyed, and although she avoided having to comply whenever she could, she did know when it would be expedient to do so.

Elizabeth prayed that Arthur’s health might be improved and Margaret’s temper controlled and contemplated what the new one would be like.

She enjoyed being at Greenwich—less important of course than Winchester, the birthplace of Arthur, or Westminster, that of Margaret. But this one after all was but a third child.

There was a peace here among the green fields with the river meandering through them. She was not surprised that the Romans had called it Grenovicum when they had seen it and later the Saxons had named it Grenawic—the Green Town. It had been a royal residence since the days of Edward Longshanks and it had become increasingly popular ever since. Henry had enlarged the Palace and because the river was encroaching had added a brick wall along the waterfront. The tower in the Park had been started years ago and not finished until Henry had it completed. He was now talking about building a monastery for the Grey Friars who lived in the district. It seemed strange that Henry should consider spending money on such things for he was usually so careful and hated to see it, as he always said, “wasted.” But this was different. This was adding to the wealth of the country. He said: “It is important that we preserve our buildings.”

She was glad. It was lovely to see the old Palace as it should be. The people at Greenwich were pleased too and they were delighted that she had come here for her accouchement.

It was hot that June; she found the room stifling but of course it had to be closed in. These were the orders of the Countess of Richmond who said they must always comply with Court etiquette.

“Leave everything to me,” said the Countess. “All you have to do, my dear, is produce a healthy boy.”

“Pray God I do,” she replied fervently.

In London the sweating sickness was plaguing the people and the King had been very anxious that she come quickly to the cooler, fresher air of Greenwich, so here in this Palace with the tall mullioned windows and the lovely shade of terracotta in the tiled floors, she felt comfortable and secure. All she had to do was stay in her apartments with her women around her and wait.

It was comforting to know that the Countess of Richmond was at hand.

Oh God, she continued to pray, let this one be a boy.

And on a hot June day her prayers were answered.

Her child was born; strong, lusty, informing the castle of his arrival within a few minutes of his birth by his piercing cry.

The King came to Greenwich. This was a happy day. The new baby was of the desired sex and he seemed as healthy as his sister Margaret was proving to be. Another addition to the nursery and a boy! It was something to thank God for.

His birth was, of course, not of the same importance as Arthur’s, but he was the son of the King, and although while Arthur lived he would be of secondary importance it was always wise to have some boys in reserve.

The King was therefore pleased and although the festivities in honor of the child would not compare with those which had announced the birth of the heir to the throne they should be commensurate with his rank of second son to the King.

It was decided that the boy should be baptized only a few days after his birth, which was always a wise procedure, for so many healthy-seeming children died suddenly for no apparent reason. Bishop Fox came to Greenwich expressly to perform the ceremony and the Church of the Observants there had been specially decorated. The King had ordered that the font be brought from Canterbury for the occasion and there were carpets on the floor—a very special luxury and a wonder to those who beheld them and who were accustomed to seeing rushes there.

The little boy was discreetly divested of his garments and carried to the font into which he would be dipped, and all present marveled at the size of the baby and remarked that he was perfect in every way.

Bishop Fox proclaimed to all those present that he named the boy Henry.

Henry. It was a good name—his father’s name.

Only the child was indifferent and in spite of his extreme youth he appeared to look on at the scene with calm aloofness.

After being wrapped in a white garment he was taken from the church back to the Palace, with the musicians marching before him playing their trumpets and drums, to the Queen’s presence chamber where Henry and Elizabeth—who had not attended the ceremony in the church—were waiting to receive the procession.

The child was carried to the Queen, who took him into her arms and murmured a blessing. Then the King took the child and did the same.

All those present looked on smiling.

“Long live Prince Henry,” murmured the Countess of Richmond and the cry was taken up throughout the chamber.

Life had not gone smoothly for the Queen Dowager since she had lost the King of Scotland. She had suddenly realized that her days of power were over. It was scarcely likely that the King would find another husband for her now. She could not reconcile herself to spending the rest of her life in a convent. Yet it seemed that that was the intention of the King and his overbearing mother; and if it was their wish it would be very difficult for her to evade it.

She spent most of the days in dreaming of the past. It is a sorry state of affairs when a woman who once enslaved a king has come to this, she thought.

She was not so very old. It was true that she would not see fifty again, but she was still beautiful and she had always been mindful of her outstanding beauty and had sought to preserve it. If she were fifty-five years of age she certainly did not look it. And yet of late she had begun to feel it. She experienced unaccountable little aches and pains, an inability to breathe easily, the odd little pain here and there.

Age! How tiresome it was. If only she were young as she had been when she had gone into Whittlebury Forest. But she must stop brooding on the past. But could she when the past had been so thrilling, so exciting, so adventuresome … and now … what was she? A queen still, mother of a queen … but a queen who had become the tool of a cold stern man who was quite immune to the charms and wisdom of his mother-in-law.

Of course it is that woman, she thought. Surely the mother of the Queen carries as much weight as the mother of the King … or should do when the Queen had far more right to the throne than the King had, who in fact had acquired it largely through his marriage with the daughter of Elizabeth Woodville.

It was old ground and perhaps she shouldn’t go over it perpetcually. And yet how could she help it? What was there to do in her nunnery except relive the glories of the past?

One morning when she awoke she began to cough and during the day found great difficulty in breathing. Her attendants propped her up with cushions and that eased her a little but by nightfall she felt very weak.

She thought: Is this the end then? Is this how death comes?

She thought of Edward the King who had been so strong and well one day and then had had that fit of apoplexy, which she was sure had been brought on by the shock of hearing that the King of France had broken his treaty with him, and their daughter was not to be Madame La Dauphine after all. But he had recovered from that and seemed well … but soon afterward quite suddenly he had died after catching a cold when he was out fishing.

It was better if death came swiftly. Who wanted to outlive one’s power? Certainly no one who had enjoyed so much as Elizabeth Woodville. But the thought of death was sobering when one brooded on all the sins one had committed, all the things one should have done and those which had been left undone.