The Tudor Rose (4 page)

“It will take much longer—a week or more perhaps—for the news to reach Uncle Richard of Gloucester in Scotland,” said Elizabeth, when they were alone. “But of course he will come as quickly as he can.”

The candle wick had run up foully and the Queen paused to snuff it before answering. She nipped it with wilful dexterity, as she dealt with most things she wished changed. “I would to God he would stay there!” she said, laying down the pewter snuffers with violence.

Elizabeth stared at her mother's sharp-featured face. The fair hair strained back beneath bands of white lawn gave her a spurious look of youth, and the high intellectual forehead was singularly unlined for one who had lived through so much strife and sorrow. It was difficult to believe that she had already been the widowed mother of two sons when first she met the King. “But Gloucester is my father's only living brother,” exclaimed Elizabeth in bewilderment.

“Yes. By blood he was nearest,” allowed the Queen.

“And dearest!” added Elizabeth, resenting the imputation simply because her father would have done so. “The most loyal to him of all.”

“To
him—
yes.”

“But, Madam, everyone knows Gloucester to be both courteous and capable.” Both women were talking in undertones and although Elizabeth had no particular affection for her uncle she felt constrained to defend him with fairmindedness. “My father used to say that, although he does not look over-strong, he was the best soldier in England. Up and down the country, wherever there was trouble, when has he ever spared himself in our Yorkist cause? He must have worshipped the King.”

The Queen opened her jewelled hands palm upwards as they lay on the table before her, seeming to intimate by the gesture how far she was opening her inmost mind. “But me he has always disliked,” she said.

Her daughter's blue eyes opened wide. Uncle Gloucester's manner towards his sister-in-law had always been so suavely respectful. He had ever been tactful when people complained of the high appointments heaped upon her Woodville relatives and had never seemed to resent the jumped-up sons of her first marriage to Sir John Grey. Indeed, he had always seemed too busy soldiering or playing the useful younger brother to have time to mind such things. But then, of course, Uncle Gloucester was so reserved and inscrutable that it was difficult to know what he really felt. And so many people
did
dislike the Queen. Her marriage had been unpopular from the first when she had cast herself, the proverbial fair and penniless widow, on the King's mercy and stirred his hot young passion. By bartering her virtue for nothing less than secret marriage she had robbed England of some strong matrimonial alliance which might have helped to settle the constantly recurring Yorkist and Lancastrian counter-claims; and ever since, although she could not hold her indulgent husband's constancy, she had turned his less reputable passions to the advantage of her family by demanding power as recompense. Each time the popular King erred, men said, a hated Woodville rose. “If Uncle Gloucester dislikes her,” thought her daughter, not undutifully, “it may well be because she has a mind as cooly calculating as his own.”

“Mercifully, I had Dorset made Constable of the Tower,” the Queen was saying, as if pursuing some similar train of thought. “So the defence of London lies in our hands.”

Even before the funeral procession started she had sent for him, and almost at that moment he came, that modish half-brother of Elizabeth's, hurrying to kiss his royal mother's hand. “What news of young Edward?” he asked.

“I have written to your Uncle Rivers to bring him south immediately—with all those stalwart archers young Dickon has just been talking about,” said their mother, holding out to him the letter she had been perusing. “If you will have a trusty messenger ride with this to Ludlow within the hour they should both be in London by May Day. Then you must send out a strong armed guard from the Tower to meet them, Tom.”

Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset, thrust the letter rather reluctantly into his wallet. “Would it not be better to wait for the consent of the Council?” he warned.

But the woman who had had him made a marquis only laughed. “Never fear but what I shall get my way with them! Have you ever known me to fail?” she reassured him. “But this will give Rivers time to have all in readiness, and every hour counts.”

“For my part I shall be glad to see Ned safely crowned,” muttered Dorset, biting upon his nails as he was prone to do in moments of anxiety. “But I doubt if even Uncle Rivers—brilliant as he is—can raise the militia privately without an order under the royal seal.”

To Elizabeth it seemed almost indecent that they should be thinking of such things before her father was halfway to his burial; but someone, she supposed, must think of them. Having been so set down by the Dauphin of France had sobered and shaken her so that she believed that she herself would never have the cunning so to spur forward fate, yet she admired and envied those who could. And towards evening when the candles had been brought and the younger children were gone to their beds she saw that her mother was right.

The Archbishop of York came in a great flurry of episcopal robes to hand over the Great Seal of England that it might be held in trust for young Edward.

Dorset returned secretively from his errand. One after another men of consequence, returned wearily from Windsor, began to fill the room; and a hurried Council was called.

“We must prepare everything against the coronation of our Sovereign Lord King Edward the Fifth,” began Lionel Woodville, Bishop of Salisbury, platitudinously.

“The first thing is to get his Grace quickly to London,” urged Dorset. “I will send an escort as far as Highbury to meet him.”

It seemed that all present were in agreement, except the rich Lord Stanley. It may have been because his own large band of retainers had not been offered the honour or because he had married the Lancastrian Duke of Richmond's widow, or merely because he considered too many Woodvilles had spoken. “Why so great a fever of haste?” he enquired, being a man of less impetuosity who liked to wait upon events and see which way they turned.

Everyone appeared to have forgotten Elizabeth standing in the shadows by the drawn window-curtains; and from where she watched, the men gathered round the candle-lit table looked like actors on a lighted stage, or like some Flemish painting in which the sitters' sombre garments throw into revealing relief the expressions on their faces. Just so the Queen's finely drawn features were illuminated as she sat at the head of the table, and the light emphasized the strength of Lord Hastings' profile as he stood at the foot. Elizabeth knew that her mother played in part a deceiver's role and that honest Hastings, come straight from a loved master's funeral, was too sore for subtlety; and with sensitivity rare in one so young she was aware of the antagonism between them. For years Hastings had practically ruled England. Scores of times Elizabeth had seen her father smile at him and say in that charming, careless way of his, “Do as seems best to you in the matter, my good Will, so long as you don't expect me to give up a whole day's hunting!” And she realized now how Hastings, who had never once betrayed that easy-going trust, must hate to see a managing woman sitting in Edward's seat and trying to ride him on a tighter rein.

“I suggest, milords, that word be sent to my brother Rivers to bring his young Grace immediately,” she was saying as smoothly as though she had been presiding over the Council all her life, as guilelessly as though she had not already forestalled them. “Also that he calls out the Cheshire militia in full strength. If the roads are in good condition they should arrive by May Day. Pending the coronation, as is customary, his Grace will lodge in the royal apartments in the Tower. And if our good Lord Mayor will spare no pains to have his preparations under way I see no reason why we should not fix on May the fourth?”

“With milord Bishop of Salisbury, no doubt, to round off a family affair and do the crowning,” muttered Stanley unpleasantly.

The royal widow's ears were as sharp as her still lovely features. “Why, no, my dear Lord Stanley. Who is more appropriate for that honour than our own Archbishop of York?” she reproved suavely. “But for the moment the main thing is to have someone to crown, and for that blessing I count the hours. For once within the capital my son will be safe.”

She was carrying the meeting well until William Hastings roused himself from his cloud of surly gloom. “Safe from whom, Madam?” he demanded.

Elizabeth marked the start of surprise swiftly hidden by a bland smile on her mother's face. “From any who are his foes, milord,” she was saying lightly. “He is so young…”

But Hastings was in no mood to be put off with vague evasions. His firm chin shot out aggressively. “And who does your Grace imagine
are
his foes?” he persisted, his deep voice thick with rising anger. “Valiant Gloucester, who has enough on his plate with holding down Scotland? Or our good friend Stanley here? Or myself, perhaps?”

Every man about the table grew tense with interest and the Queen's white hands were raised in pained surprise. “My dear Lord Hastings,” she protested, “could the Yorkist heir be safer in any man's hands than yours, who served my husband so devotedly?”

The very fact that she could call a Plantagenet husband was a running sore to most of the proud nobility gathered about her. A sore which no longer need be kept decently covered. “Yet he must be brought to London by Lord Rivers, your brother—met by Dorset, your son—with a whole army of the best troops in England to lend lustre to the progress!” burst out Hastings.

“A fine fanfare for the power of the Woodvilles,” scoffed Stanley, with a peculiarly unpleasant smile.

The sudden brutal words shook young Elizabeth. Although they were not aimed towards herself, they showed her where she stood. Never in her life had she heard anyone dare to speak even impudently to the Queen, and she could see her mother's face flush to red and knew just how hard an effort she must be making to rein in her fierce temper for young Edward's sake.

“I put it to the Council that the King be brought to London with all speed,” she began again, ignoring Hastings.

“Madam, upon this we are all agreed,” they chorused.

“Save for the archers,” insisted Stanley.

“Are they not in my royal brother's pay,” demanded Dorset insolently.

“And is not England a civilized country?” soothed the Archbishop of York, laying a churchman's appeasing hand upon the Queen's shoulder.

“I would have you consider, Madam, how little honour you do the late King in so belittling the love and loyalty his subjects bore him,” pointed out Hastings, more gently.

Elizabeth Woodville, twice widowed, was hearing men's true untempered opinions for the first time. “During the time I have been Queen I have seen much disloyalty in unlooked-for places,” she faltered.

“That is true, Madam,” agreed Hastings, remembering how she and her young children had had to take sanctuary during the brief resurgent power of the Lancastrians after the battle of Edgecot. “But do you not suppose that seeing the new King escorted by a powerful army will set men's minds back to those very times? Can you not see that it is timorous folly to act as if there were any
question
of his being King?”

The Queen sat silent and rebuked. But this time it was not the Lancastrians she feared. Yet how to voice the instinctive mistrust she felt? Or how to make these well-meaning men see that had the suggestion of the archers come from any save a Woodville they probably would not have opposed it.

It was at that moment that the Lord Mayor of London suddenly saw fit to speak up, backing in Hastings a man who had done much for London's trade. “Let milord Rivers bring the King and I will answer for the welcome our citizens will give the sweet lad,” he said bluntly. “But I do assure your Grace the sight of an army of hungry northerners and Welshmen bearing down on us will but drive my people to bar the city gates. They remember too well how their victuals have been eaten and their houses fired during their betters' arguments in the years of civil war.”

“Then we are all agreed?” concluded the Archbishop of York; and the growled assent of twenty weary men went round the table, so that a mere woman's will could only batter itself against the barriers of their long pent-up jealousy.

“They are all so sensible. But, dear God, let them see that this time she is right!” prayed the slender Princess standing unseen in the shadows.

When she uncovered her eyes she saw that her mother had risen to her feet. Because she was no longer play-acting there was an appealing dignity about her. “Milords, if I have meddled in the past, or presumed to advance my family unfairly, I pray you forget it now,” she begged. “I grant there is wisdom in what you say, but sometimes women have a kind of insight which outpaces wisdom. I…” For a moment complete candour trembled on her tongue, but the name of the man she mistrusted was too high above suspicion to be spoken, so she substituted other words. “I have here the Great Seal,” she said, lifting the symbolic thing from the table before her, “and seeing that my son is but a minor, can make any order valid in his name. I entreat you once more, milords, to call out his loyal archers!”

For a moment or two it looked as if the Council, impressed by her earnestness, would be bewitched into believing in her fears. But Stanley broke the pregnant moment by flinging aside from them with a barely smothered oath, and Hastings strode forward to thrust a briefer order beneath the upraised seal. “You allow your womanish whimsies to ride you, Madam,” he said roughly. “You cannot really believe that I—or any of us—would break our freshly made oath to him whom we loved and served, or leave anything undone which we deemed necessary for the protection of his son?”