Philippa Gregory - The Kingmaker's Daughter

‘I don’t understand,’ I say flatly. ‘What are we showing?’

‘Is the girl not supposed to be betrothed?’

‘Yes, to Henry Tudor, you know as well as I do that he publicly declared himself last Christmas.’

‘And so who is the fool, when she is known to the world as my mistress?’

Slowly I understand. ‘Why, he is.’

‘And so all the people who would support this unknown Welshman, Margaret Beaufort’s Welsh-born boy, because he is betrothed to marry the Princess Elizabeth – the beloved daughter of England’s greatest king – think again. They say, if we rally for Tudor we are not putting the Princess of York on the throne. For the Princess of York is at her uncle’s court, admiring him, supporting him, an ornament to his reign as she was an ornament to her father’s reign.’

‘But some people will say she is little better than a whore. She will be shamed.’

He shrugs. ‘They said the same of her mother. We passed a law that said just that of her mother. And anyway, I would not have thought that would trouble you.’

He is right. Nothing troubles me. Certainly not the humiliation of the Rivers girl.

WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON, WINTER 1484

The threat from Henry Tudor in Brittany absorbs the whole court. He is only a young man, and any king less jealous than a York one might have disregarded his distant claim to the throne of England through his mother’s line. But it is a York king on the throne and Richard knows that Tudor is planning an invasion, seeking support in Brittany from the duke who has protected him for so long, approaching France, the old inveterate enemy of England, for help.

Margaret Beaufort, his mother, my one-time friend, sulks in her country house, gaoled by her husband at Richard’s instruction, and his bride-to-be Elizabeth of York is now all but the first lady of court, dancing every night in the palace which was her childhood home, her wrists bright with bracelets, her hair sparkling under a gold net. She seems to have gifts that arrive every morning as we sit in the chambers that overlook the grey wintry river. Every morning there is a knock at the door and a pageboy bringing something for the girl whom everyone now calls Princess Elizabeth, as if Richard had not passed a law to declare her a bastard and to give her the name of her mother’s first husband. She giggles when she opens it, and she gives a quick guilty glance at me. Always, the gifts come without a note but we all know who is sending her priceless fairings. I remember last year when Richard gave me a present every day for the twelve days of Christmas. But I remember with indifference. I don’t care for jewels now.

The Christmas feast is the pinnacle of her joy. Last year she was a disgraced object of our charity, named as a bastard and claimed as a bride by a traitor, but this year she has bobbed unstoppably upwards, like a cheap light cork in stormy water. We now go for dress fittings together as if we were mother and daughter, as if we were sisters. We stand in the great room of the wardrobe while they pin silks and cloth of gold and furs on us, and I look at the great silvered mirror and see my tired face and fading hair in the same bright colours as the smiling beauty beside me. She is ten years younger than me and it is never more obvious than when we are standing side by side and dressed alike.

Richard openly gives her jewels to match mine, she wears a headdress like a little gold coronet, she wears diamonds in her little ears and sapphires at her throat. The court is gorgeous for Christmas, everyone dressed in their best, and entertainments, sports and games every day. Elizabeth dances through it all, the queen of the revels, the champion of the games, the mistress of the feast. I sit on my great chair, the cloth of estate above me, the crown heavy on my forehead, and fix an indulgent smile on my face as my husband gets up to dance with the most beautiful girl in the palace, takes her hand and leads her away to talk, and then brings her back into the room flushed and tumbled. She glances towards me as if she would apologise – as if she hopes I don’t mind that everyone in the court, and increasingly everyone in England, thinks that they are lovers and I have been set aside. She has the grace to be shame-faced, but I can see she is driven too hard by desire to step back. She cannot say no to him, she cannot deny herself. Perhaps she is in love.

I dance too. When it is a slow and stately dance I let Richard lead me out and the dancers follow us round the floor in the smooth paces. Richard keeps my steps in time; I can hardly be troubled with the beat of the music. It was only last Christmas when the court was in its pomp – a new king come to the throne, new wealth to disperse, new treasures to buy, new gowns to show – and then my son took a little fever and died of nothing more than a little fever, and I was not by his bed. I was not in the castle. I was celebrating our success, hunting in the forests of Nottingham. I cannot think now what there was to celebrate.

Christmas Day we keep as a holy day, attending church several times. Elizabeth is prettily devout, a scarf of green gauze over her fair hair, her eyes downcast. Richard walks back from chapel with me, my hand in his.

‘You are tired,’ he says.

I am tired of life itself. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I am looking forward to the rest of the days of Christmas.’

‘There are some unpleasant rumours. I don’t want you to listen to them, there is nothing in them.’

I pause and the court halts behind us. ‘Leave us,’ I say over my shoulder to them all. They melt away, Elizabeth glancing at me as if she thinks she might disobey. Richard shakes his head at her and she drops a little curtsey in my direction, and goes.

‘What rumours?’

‘I said, I don’t want you to listen to them.’

‘Then I had better hear them from you so I don’t listen to anyone else.’

He shrugs. ‘There are those who say that I am planning to put you aside and marry Princess Elizabeth.’

‘Your courtship charade has succeeded then,’ I remark. ‘Was it a courtship? Or was it a charade?’

‘Both,’ he says grimly. ‘I had to discredit the betrothal between her and Tudor. He is certain to invade this spring. I had to cut away the York affinity from him.’

‘You take care you don’t cut away the Neville affinity,’ I observe shrewdly. ‘I am the kingmaker’s daughter. There are many in the North who follow you only for love of me. Even now my name counts for more than anything there. They won’t be loyal to you if they think you slight me.’

He kisses my hand. ‘I don’t forget it. I won’t forget it. And I would never slight you. You are my heart. Even if you are a broken heart.’

‘Is that the worst of it?’

He hesitates. ‘There is talk of poison.’

At the mention of Elizabeth Woodville’s weapon I freeze where I stand. ‘Who is speaking of poison?’

‘Some gossip from the kitchen. A dog died after a dish was spilled and he lapped it up. You know how much is made from little at court.’

‘Whose was the dish?’

‘Yours.’

I say nothing. I feel nothing. Not even surprise. For years Elizabeth Woodville has been my enemy and even now, with her released and living at peace in Wiltshire, I can feel her grey gaze on the nape of my neck. She will see me still as the daughter of the man who killed her beloved father and brother. Now she sees me also as the woman who stands in the way of her daughter. If I were dead then Richard would get a dispensation from the Pope and marry his niece Elizabeth. The House of York would be reunited, the Woodville woman would be dowager queen once more and grandmother to the next King of England.