Joanna Hickson - The Lady of the Ravens

‘Well, if they were alive after Richard was crowned, don’t you think he would have shown them to the people of London? After all, parliament had declared them illegitimate so they were no threat to his reign.’

‘That depends if you really believe they were bastards.’ It was one of the older women who spoke, her voice sharp with sarcasm. While King Edward had been almost universally admired in London, the same was not true of his brother Richard, whose main support had been in the north of the kingdom. ‘Henry Tudor’s yeomen might have been sent to make sure the boys definitely are dead now, if they were not before.’

‘That’s possible,’ Rosie agreed. ‘What does their sister think, Joan?’

‘I have no idea,’ I replied truthfully. ‘But I’m certain she would not marry Henry Tudor if she thought he was in any way involved in her brothers’ deaths. She mourns them deeply.’

I didn’t stay long with the silkwomen but even so dusk was beginning to fall as I made my way back down towards the river. To my alarm, as I descended Soper Street I ran into a rowdy gang of men who had apparently been quenching their thirst after a long day’s work in the Tanners’ Seld, a fetid centre of their odorous trade. My heart lurched with dread as they halted in front of me, barring my path, and I looked urgently around for help but found none.

‘Here’s a posh skirt out late, boys!’ gloated one, leaning into me with alarming menace. I gave an involuntary gasp at the stench of urine rising from his stained clothing and backed away, but another of the gang had circled behind me, blocking my path. ‘Are you trading, mistress?’ The first man’s laugh was harsh and ugly with lust. ‘There’s a dark alley just here and we can all take turns. This could be your lucky night. Come on, men, get her in there!’

My limbs turned to jelly out of sheer terror. I was only too aware how easy it would be for such a threat to be fulfilled in the lawless streets of a city where rape and murder went daily unpunished. I felt hands pushing under my cloak and my mind told me to scream but when I opened my mouth no sound came out. My feet were almost pulled from under me as two of the gang began shoving me towards the alley. I tried to struggle against them but their strength and the smell of their clothing were overpowering and the sound of their crude comments and evil laughter were blood-chilling. Terrified and outnumbered, I thought my worst fears were about to be realised but still my voice failed to let me scream.

Then rescue came from an unexpected source. Out of the very alley into which the gang were forcing me strolled, all unsuspecting, a young man in a leather apron.

A voice from the midst of the tanners’ pack yelled, ‘There’s that little shoe-shit Seb! Come on, let’s get him!’ and all at once their attention shifted from me to him.

The lad in the leather apron did an abrupt about-turn and disappeared back up the alley. Realising all at once that the groping hands had been withdrawn, I took my chance and made a dash for it, running as fast as I could downhill towards the river, panting with panic. Luckily even though my brain was scrambled with fear, the route to Coldharbour remained familiar and I just kept running until I saw the entrance. Never had the flaming torches, flickering and spitting in their gatehouse sconces, been so welcome. Unaware of my situation, the duty guard recognised me, raised his eyebrows at my obvious haste and admitted me with a jocular inquiry: ‘Where’s the fire, Mistress Vaux?’

Once safely inside I flopped back against the courtyard wall to catch my breath. My chest was heaving and I felt as if my lungs would burst. Still trembling with shock, I closed my eyes and relived the whole horrific incident in flashes of terror. However as my breathing eased, sanity returned and I sent up a heartfelt prayer of thanks to God for my escape. I worried whether the boy in the leather apron got away and if it would really ever be possible for the new king to clear the city streets of danger and provide the peace and prosperity he had promised his new subjects.

And also amidst all this I worried whether King Henry was having second thoughts about marrying Elizabeth of York. Tucked away across the river in his secluded Palace of Kennington, was he aware of the mood in the city? Did he realise there was every chance it would erupt in rebellion if he reneged on his marriage vow? The thought of thugs such as those I had recently encountered running amok in the streets made my stomach churn all over again. I decided not to tell Elizabeth of my brush with danger and felt in my skirt pocket for the small leather bottles of vervain tincture I had set out to fetch. They were all there, unaffected, as if nothing untoward had happened.

WHEN A BARGE WAS sighted on the river flying Lady Margaret Beaufort’s portcullis emblem, the Coldharbour household went into high alert. With his coronation only a few days off, she had been staying with the king at Kennington Palace to assist in the arrangements and her return to her own home so close to that date was a surprise.

I watched with Elizabeth from a window in the great hall as the noble lady disembarked, along with a procession of porters bearing gifts, doubtless gleaned from among those presented to King Henry to celebrate his crowning: baskets of oranges probably from Spain, crocks of honey and casks of wine from France. As usual she was elegantly garbed in a deep red velvet gown trimmed with gold fringes and a close-fitting black chaperon hat against the sharp river breeze. Although she had accepted the somewhat ageing title of ‘My Lady the King’s Mother’, at not much more than forty she was still fit and energetic and strode briskly up the garden path that led from the quay to the mansion, taking the slope without slowing her pace.

She did not come to the great hall however, but went to her solar and sent a page to summon me, rather than first paying her respects to Elizabeth, who was more than somewhat peeved. ‘She will not acknowledge the servant before the mistress when I am married to her son,’ she muttered, sinking back onto the cushions of the window seat and taking refuge in her embroidery, while I blushed furiously, murmured an unnecessary apology as if it were my fault, and fled from the hall to obey Lady Margaret’s call. Not for the first time I felt the strain of being Elizabeth’s attendant as well as, at present, her only friend.

The kind lady who had been my foster mother was now the first lady in the land; at least until King Henry took a wife as queen. I had been with her almost throughout the time of her son’s exile, grown up under her strict but compassionate care and stayed with her as a companion and foster daughter until the usurper had discovered her part in a rebellious attempt on his throne and sentenced her to house arrest under the supervision of servants loyal to him. Her own household had been forced to leave and I had not returned until after her son Henry had fought for the throne and won it.

‘How are things between you and Elizabeth, Joan?’ she asked as soon as we had exchanged kisses of greeting.

‘They are fine, my lady,’ I replied, ‘or they were until you summoned me ahead of greeting her.’

‘Oh dear, have I offended her?’

‘Just a little I think.’ I smiled at the slight note of insincerity in her voice.

‘Well, she is not queen yet and until she is I remain first lady in the land. It will do her no harm to accept this for the time being.’

‘I’m sure she will do so graciously – for the time being.’ I laid a certain stress on the last words and received my patron’s smile in return. She was a tiny woman with a big heart and a sharp intellect; I admired her enormously.