I had no great sympathy with dissidents, having lost my father to a Yorkist army fourteen years ago, but I found this last order bittersweet as I took my oath of loyalty and I hoped I would not be expected to observe and report on the new queen’s commitment to the Tudor dynasty that she would be expected to provide. Officially, six weeks into his reign, we still did not know the identity of King Henry’s eventual queen, although the fact that his mother had selected me to attend this meeting strongly suggested that it would be the young lady currently living under her roof at her palace of Coldharbour on the banks of the River Thames.
Elizabeth of York, to whom I had almost inadvertently become servant, companion and friend, was the eldest child of King Edward the Fourth and the princess Henry Tudor had vowed to marry in order to boost support for his ultimately successful expedition to establish his own claim to the throne of England. But this had only happened after Edward died unexpectedly and his two young sons were brought to the Tower’s Royal Palace to await the elder boy’s coronation as King Edward the Fifth. This was because their uncle Richard, Duke of Gloucester, apparently unprepared to act as mere Protector to a boy king, contrived to get parliament to declare them illegitimate and to have himself crowned instead. Within weeks the York boys had disappeared from public view and two years later the usurping king, who as their Protector must surely have known what happened to them, had died fighting Henry Tudor’s invading army without revealing their fate.
From my staunch Lancastrian viewpoint, I considered the York history a chequered one; however it also greatly concerned me that Elizabeth and her mother and sisters might never discover when or how the two young princes died – if die indeed they both had. As I left the White Tower I paused to gaze up at the windows of the adjacent Royal Palace where the princes had been accommodated and in which soldiers and other Tower residents had reported catching occasional glimpses of their small, pale faces – until all sightings mysteriously ceased.
Although his victory in battle against the usurper Richard had brought King Henry to the throne, I was aware that it must also have left him with an urgent need to feel secure on it and a strong sense that he was not. Several leading Yorkist knights and nobles, captured after the battle, were now incarcerated in towers around the fortress and might expect to lose their heads as traitors to the new crown. However, peering through the open gate in the wall, which led onto the green beside the castle’s Church of St Nicholas, I could see that no scaffold had yet been erected there. Instead, bowmen had set up butts and were using them to hone their archery skills.
Remembering Sir Richard Guildford’s vehement comment that all soldiers detested ravens, I became anxious when one of them landed on the gateway arch. Within moments I heard the threatening zing of an arrow and intuitively ducked, as it seemed almost to skim my headdress. My heart skipped several beats but relief flooded my veins when I saw the raven fly off and the arrow drop harmlessly over the outer curtain wall, presumably into the moat.
‘Devilish bird!’ I heard an archer shout. ‘I’ll get you next time.’
THE PALACE OF COLDHARBOUR had acquired its royal status after King Henry repossessed it and granted it to his mother, knowing her fondness for the old mansion where she had lived during the happy days of her marriage to Sir Henry Stafford. After his death she had been obliged by King Edward to marry his Steward of the Household, Lord Thomas Stanley, and move to his London home at St Paul’s Wharf, a house that held no fond memories for her.
Coldharbour was a stately but rambling residence, set high above the Thames with views of London Bridge and across the river to Southwark. Its long garden sloped down to a private dock, making travel between it and the other Thameside royal palaces swift and easy. On my return there from the Tower I found Elizabeth of York seated under the light of a casement window reading a letter, which she waved at me fretfully.
‘The king’s messenger has been, Joan. Henry has not visited me for a week and now he apologises that he cannot invite me to witness his coronation. What am I to think?’ She was an undeniably beautiful girl, blue-eyed and alabaster-skinned, just coming into full bloom as she approached the end of her teenage years. But at that moment her face was flushed and her brow creased in frustration.
I made a brief curtsy and took the letter from her, perusing it quickly. In order to usurp the throne, Richard of Gloucester had managed to persuade members of parliament that his dead brother’s marriage was invalid, rendering its offspring illegitimate and the eldest boy therefore ineligible to inherit the crown. The letter explained, quite apologetically I thought, that as long as this heinous Act of Royal Title remained on the statute book, according to law Elizabeth was still illegitimate. Therefore all the noble ladies due to witness the king’s coronation at the end of October would outrank her, so King Henry felt it was not advisable for her to attend. Once he had been crowned and a new parliament assembled, the Act would immediately be repealed and she would be restored to her rightful position as premier princess of the realm.
‘Henry will be crowned king but the letter makes no mention of me becoming queen,’ Elizabeth complained. ‘I begin seriously to wonder if he intends to marry me at all and if not, what does he plan to do with me? I feel insulted and abandoned – no longer even sure that I wish to marry him, but whatever would I do otherwise?’
The intensity of her resentment alarmed me. She was usually so calm and serene and I searched for words to soothe her anguish. ‘He signs the letter as “your loving friend”,’ I pointed out. ‘And has he not sent you bolts of velvet and damask cloth and scores of ermine skins for trimmings? These are hardly the presents of a man who does not intend marriage. They will make a gown fit only for a queen.’
Elizabeth’s frown deepened. ‘I suppose you’re right, Joan,’ she said with evident reluctance. ‘On the surface he appears all kindness and generosity but he is miserly with his time. Not only do I have no date for my wedding but I hardly know the man who has supposedly vowed to marry me. I feel like a prize heifer in the sale ring, on offer to the highest bidder.’ Her fingers strayed to her temples and she rubbed them distractedly. ‘Where have you been anyway? I have another headache and I was looking for you to go to the apothecary and fetch more of that vervain potion.’
I folded the letter, written in King Henry’s own looping hand; surely another sign of his wish to please his intended bride. ‘I will go now if you like,’ I suggested, handing it back. Conscious of Usher Gainsford’s warnings, I refrained from making any mention of my morning activities.
‘Yes, thank you, Joan. But I think I will lie down meanwhile. Will you draw the curtains around the bed and help me remove my gown before you go? Wake me when you return if I’m asleep, won’t you?’
Elizabeth was encouraged not to venture out into London’s streets, even in a concealing hood. Most Londoners had always heartily supported her charismatic father, King Edward, and probably would welcome a glimpse of his daughter but King Henry cited the violent street clashes of persistently opposing factions as a reason for her to keep out of sight. Clearly it was considered that a lowly commoner like me could run the risk. Before I left I set a maid outside her door, who might hear her if she called.
Coldharbour was situated not very far from the Tower but it was quite a walk to Blackfriars at the western end of the city wall, where Elizabeth’s favoured apothecary had his shop. However, despite the gutter stink of emptied piss-pots, I enjoyed negotiating the bustle of Thames Street and, in daylight at least, the greatest danger was only from the flyblown offal and dead vermin that littered the thoroughfare.
To my delight, in one