God sends the rain on the narrow seas so they are dark and menacing and Henry Tudor cannot set sail. I know what it is to look out from port and see dark moving water and white caps on the waves and I laugh, in the warmth and dryness of landlocked Middleham Castle, to think of Henry Tudor, standing on the quayside and praying for fine weather while it rains down unstoppably on his young auburn head, and not even the woman he hopes will be his mother-in-law, the witch Elizabeth, can hold back the storm.
There is a break in the weather and he sets sail bravely enough, crossing the rough seas, but his hopes have been chilled by the long wait and he does not even land. He takes a look at the coast that he plans to call his own and he cannot even find within himself the courage to set foot on the wet sand. He reefs his sodden sails and turns his boat for home and runs before a cold wind back to Brittany, where he should stay forever, if he would take my advice, and die like all pretenders, in exile. Richard writes to me from London.
It is over. It is over but for naming of the traitors and ordering their punishment. It is a joy to me that Wales was true to me, that the south coast offered no safe haven to Henry Tudor, not a single town opened its gates to a rebel force, not one baron or earl defied me. My kingdom is loyal to me and I shall punish lightly or not at all those who were drawn to this reckless last gasp of the Rivers and their new-found, ill-chosen ally, Henry Tudor. The boy’s mother, Margaret Beaufort, cannot be expected to deny the cause of her son but she will live the rest of her days under house arrest – in the charge of her husband, Thomas, Lord Stanley. I have put her fortune in his keeping, which for a grasping ambitious woman will – I think – be punishment enough. He will keep her close, she has been stripped of her servants and her friends, not even her confessor can attend her. I have broken her affinity as I have broken the alliances around the Rivers.
I am victorious without raising my sword. This is my vindication as well as an easy victory. The country does not seek to restore the Rivers, they certainly don’t want the stranger, Henry Tudor. Margaret Beaufort and Elizabeth Woodville are seen as foolish mothers conspiring together for their children, nothing more than that. The Duke of Buckingham is despised as a traitor and a false friend. I shall take care whom I befriend in future, but you can see this as an easy victory and – though a hard few weeks – part of our ascension to our throne. Please God we shall look back on this and be glad that we came to our royal estate so easily.
Come to London, we shall keep Christmas as royally as Edward and Elizabeth ever did, with true friends and loyal servants.
WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON, NOVEMBER 1483
‘Can you leave this?’ Richard asks, looking doubtfully at the mountains of priceless cloth.
‘Oh yes,’ I say, lifting my gown and picking my way over the cuttings on the floor. ‘My lady wardrobe mistress knows far better than I what is to be done.’
He takes me by the arm and draws me to the little area off the main wardrobe room, where the wardrobe mistress usually sits to make her audit of the furs, gowns, robes and shoes in her keeping. There is a warm fire burning in the grate and Richard takes the seat by the table and I perch on the window seat and wait.
‘I have taken a decision,’ he says heavily. ‘I did not take it lightly, and still I want to talk it over with you.’
I wait. It will be about the Woodville woman, I know it. I can tell by the way he is holding his right arm, between the elbow and the shoulder. This is a constant pain for him now, and no physician can tell him what is wrong. I know, though I have no proof, that the pain is of her doing. I imagine her knotting a rag around her own arm, feeling it prickle and go numb, and then wishing the pain on him.
‘It’s about Henry Tudor,’ he says.
I stiffen in my seat. I did not expect this.
‘He is going to hold a betrothal ceremony in Rennes cathedral. He is going to declare himself King of England and betrothed to Elizabeth.’
For a moment I forget the daughter in thinking of the ill-will of the mother. ‘Elizabeth Woodville?’
‘Her daughter, Elizabeth Princess of York.’
The familiar name of Edward’s favourite daughter falls into the cosy little room, and I think of the girl with skin like a warm pearl, and the smiling charm of her father. ‘He said she was his most precious child,’ Richard says quietly. ‘When we had to fight our way home from Flanders he said that he would do it for her, even if everyone else was dead. And that it would be worth any risk to see her smile again.’
‘She was always terribly spoiled,’ I say. ‘They took her everywhere, and she always put herself forwards.’
‘And now she is up to my shoulder and a beauty. I wish Edward could see her, I think she is even more beautiful than her mother was at that age. She is a woman grown – you would not know her.’
With a slow uncoiling of anger I realise that he is speaking of her as she is now. He has been to see her, he has been to see the Woodville woman and he has seen Elizabeth. While I have been here, preparing for the Christmas court that is to celebrate our coming to power, he has slipped away to the dark hovel that is her choice. ‘You have seen her?’
He shrugs as if it does not much matter. ‘I had to go and see the queen,’ he says.
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