Prologue
Prologue: September, 1476
The Lady Richmond held her hand lightly against her infant daughter’s cheek, feeling the petal soft skin brush against her fingertips as a steady breath mounted forward. This birth had been the hardest, and the doctors had warned that little Joan must be the last for her and Thomas, despite her want for even more. But three in a row had been hard on her body, maybe as hard as her Henry, across the Channel and too far away.
Tapestries of miracles and triumphs lined the walls of the nursery, replacing the more depressing stories her husband had initially demanded for his son’s rooms. It had been nothing short of an argument, but something had to be done when she saw the corpses and burning of Jeanne of Arc.
“Why fill his head with death from the cradle?” she’d demanded; then gone were fallen soldiers and in was hope.
Margaret’s path had not been as easy as it might have been, but in this nursery, with two babes asleep amongst the softest cushions money could afford, it might all be worth it. She hummed, a rare sound, while the nursemaid stood patiently for her to be done gazing.
But there was a rush, and soon a dozen servants followed a young footman, breathlessly rushing in.
“Ma’am, ma’am! The Queen-“
“What, boy?”
“The Queen! She’s here!”
She shushed the boy and stared for confirmation. The gaggle of men and women behind him nodded wildly, and she stood shocked as they awaited her response.
“Where is she?”
An older woman, seemingly less pulsed than the rest of the rabble, stepped forward,
“She’s on her way here as we speak, ma’am. She wanted to surprise you.”
Margaret looked to the nursemaid, wide eyed and confused.
“What should we do?”
Shaky, she stepped back, looked around, and sighed. A surprise visit meant chaos, but the Woodvilles had never been greatly interested in formality. Margaret guessed she was being gifted with the confirmed friendship of the Queen. Had this been at court, she’d be thrilled. Instead, in this fortress, where she’d relaxed a little, it was an intrusion. But it couldn’t be changed.
“You need to leave this room. Line up by the door to nod and greet her, and when she leaves, do the same. You,” she pointed to the youngest boy, “need to run to the cook and tell him to pull whatever fancy treats he might have for a light meal in my rooms, and start preparing for a large banquet dinner. Now go!”
They scurried away, and Margaret smoothed her dress out and waited for the Queen to walk in. Fully destroying the surprise for Elizabeth Woodville would be paramount to a slight, so she started around the room, busying herself to distraction. Soon, SHE arrived.
Blue silk wafting wide, with a simple hood and cloak, the Queen might have been mistaken for the gentry her family was, if not for her hands, heavy with rings. In one she led the Princess Elizabeth, herself bedecked in a gown resembling her mother’s. In the other, the Princess Cecily, more distinct in her yellow. Less flattering too.
Margaret turned to see the three beauties, blonde and smiling, in her doorway, and didn’t have to hide her shock. The twits hadn’t mentioned the Princesses, and what was a warning if half given? Regardless, she returned their smiles and dropped down before her. The Queen motioned her up.
“Lady Richmond, no need for formality.”
“I’m sorry, your Grace, for not preparing for your arrival.”
“No, no, do not be silly. We’re intruding on your peace here.”
Margaret held her curtsey a second long, mostly to hide a grimace, and returned to her full height, barely taller than the younger Elizabeth. In the full light of day, with the sun in their hair, she was struck by how alike the three of them were, and how dull she seemed by comparison. They were tall golden roses, and her lily amongst them. Even her dress, a dark green she’d thought suitable in the morning, seem a little less lavish against them. But she still had a job to do.
“And what do I owe the pleasure of such a visit, your Grace. And may I say your highnesses are looking especially lovely in your gowns.”
“Thank you!” Cecily beamed.
“Thank you, Lady Richmond. Cecily almost ruined hers getting out of the carriage.”
“Elizabeth”
The Queen quietly scolded her elder daughter, and Margaret watched as little Cecily, so happy a second earlier, deflated. She straightened her back, and decided to quietly disarm the brat.
“Lady Cecily, I’ve often said yellow is one of the prettiest colours.”
“Really?” the young Princess looked up at her, as very few could.
The Queen looked at her too, confused. But Margaret had to get it out before the elder daughter could pipe in.
“Of course, it’s the colour of sunshine, and very becoming on young ladies,” she turned to the Queen, “of course, you all have the colouring to pull off anything, but I was always partial to yellow.”
The Queen evidently got what was going on and smiled at her younger daughter. The Princess Elizabeth, puzzled but unsure how she was being slighted, began to pout, and then pointed to the cradles behind their hostess.
“Are those the babies?”
The Queen’s eyes widened, annoyed, and she gave her daughter’s hands a squeeze. Margaret stepped to the side, indicating her babies but not really allowing any closer access for the young girl.
“Yes, Lady Elizabeth, these are my children. The Master Thomas, and the Mistress Joan Stanley.”
The Queen stepped forward with her daughters, and Margaret stepped back to the cradles, and they all looked in. The younger Elizabeth was obviously unimpressed, and little Cecily looked confused.
“Why are they different sizes?”
“Thomas is older, darling. Remember how we discussed the Lady Richmond having a baby last year?”
“Yes, but they’re still both smaller than Anne.”
The Queen looked at her apologetically, but Margaret had to laugh.
“Your highnesses, those in my family tend to run a fair bit smaller than the Woodvilles or the House of York. Beauforts and Stanleys are both compact peoples.”
“Is that good?” Elizabeth asked pompously.
“It lets us hide in the cracks of ruined walls and the leaves of shrubs like fairies.”
At Cecily’s giggle, Margaret beckoned over the nursemaid.
“Your Grace, if you would like, Mrs Birch is about to collect my elder daughter from her studies and take her out for exercise. Do you think the Princesses might enjoy a walk through the gardens?”
The young Elizabeth went to complain, but Margaret continued as if she hadn’t seen her wind up.
“And, of course, they’d get to go down to the roses and catch butterflies,” Cecily’s eyes lit up, “and take them to the library to get pressed for a locket or little keepsake.”
At this point the younger Princess was practically bouncing, and Elizabeth, despite her cooler demeanour, was obviously interested. The Queen gave her consent, and Elizabeth and Margaret watched the young girls follow the old nursemaid out the room. Margaret had barely seen them leave before she was turned around by an obviously embarrassed Queen Elizabeth.
“Lady Richmond, I’m so sorry, Elizabeth has been getting a little difficult recently. The King ordered everyone to refer to her as ‘Dauphine’ and suddenly she’s gotten more than a little pompous.”
Margaret shrugged, free of her put on playfulness for the sake of the children,
“Don’t worry, your Grace, I don’t mind. At her age I was a Duchess, and had twice the airs besides, and in half the body. But my, they’ve grown since I’ve been to court.”
“Haven’t they,” the Queen settled into a seat by the empty fireplace, and Margaret stood by the cradles, aware she couldn’t sit unless indicated otherwise, “I mean, Elizabeth is nearly your height, and if you’d seen the Prince of Wales, you’d think him nearly of age with her Mary. She’s been ill again, but likely to recover. Always with the aches and pains, that girl. My father reads to her and my mother feeds her boiled plums and pickled pig’s feet. Promises it’ll make her strong.”
“My mother used to feed me a potato burnt black every time I was sick.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I don’t know why, and it never worked, but I think it’s something her mother used to do. I think the char was supposed to draw out the illness. Regardless, I avoided illness as much as possible to avoid the potato.”
The Queen laughed, and pointed to a stool so that, finally, she could be seated.
“I might have to try that for Mary. She enjoys too much being babied amongst the nursery maids.”
She smoothed her skirts to hide it, but Margaret noticed her slight quiver. The Princess Mary wasn’t always a healthy girl.
“So what made you decide to visit me here, your Grace?”
Safer topic, less like for disaster.
“Well, you see, it’s a matter of your son.”
Oh no.
“Thomas? He’s doing well. He’s almost speaking, actually. Should we wake him?”
Margaret turned to the cradle, but Elizabeth coughed.
“No, your elder son. Let the babe rest.”
Goddamn it.
“Henry.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth looked uncomfortable, “the Earl of Richmond. The King received copies of letters you’d written him earlier this year. Concerning his return.”
Danger.
“Yes?”
“Well, you didn’t ask permission from the King to contact a traitor in exile.”
“I spoke to the King prior to my leave of absence for permission to contact my son. He agreed and indicated we might soon reunite. I just wanted to keep him abreast of the situation here in England. His home.”
Elizabeth look at her in sympathy,
“That was one letter, Lady Richmond. We’ve found three thus far.”
“Yes, I’ve had two children since the first letter.”
“This might be paramount to treason.”
Margaret stiffened. The hounds were circling.
“All that was in those letters was news of childbirth and wishes of health. He never even wrote back.”
“Was there a code amongst them?”
“No, your Grace, there wasn’t.”
“So, you don’t support his talk of armies against the King?”
“Of course, I don’t. I just want my son back.”
“Your son, the man attempting to build an invasion to take England from my family.”
“No, my son, barely a man grown, left ill and alone across the water and trying to return to his ancestral home because the King sees knives in the hands of shadows.”
Now was Elizabeth’s turn to stiffen.
“It’s hardly a shadow when he has a claim to the throne!”
“What claim? His father was the bastard son of a bastard Welshman and a French Princess!”
“Your claim!”
“I’m the daughter of a bastard line, illegitimate under law, with no claim to the throne.”
“Some may not see it that way!”
“Would you bury me with my children?”
Elizabeth gasped, and Margaret dropped her gaze. This was too far.
“Margaret,” Elizabeth almost whispered, “what would you do?”
She looked up.
“Pardon, your Grace.”
“Drop the formality. If we swapped positions, what would you do? Would you want Henry back if you were me?”
Not a chance. It was too dangerous. Margaret looked her in the eyes to answer.
“Yes, Elizabeth, I would. I’d bring him back and celebrate with you. If I were Queen, and your Richard was away, I’d do everything I could to bring him back to you.”
She held her gaze. Too many lies fell apart because of cowardice. This one had to hold.
“Thank you, Margaret. I needed to hear that. It’s hard,” she sniffled, “holding onto this power. I never wanted it. But you deserve to have your son with you. I hope I can help you do it. Who knows, maybe he could make a match with Mary or Cecily.”
Margaret stayed grim.
“I think, considering our conversation, that might do more harm than good.”
The Queen laughed, her usual bright self.
“Of course. But we might dream of a better future. Bound together by blood and friendship.”
Margaret bit her tongue. That had been a close call. Elizabeth leaned in.
“Lady Richmond, might I ask how your eldest daughter is?”
“Margaret? She’s well, your Grace. Her French tutor arrived last week so she’s just begun language lessons.”
“You know, after I leave here, while we’re on progress this summer, I plan on visiting the Lady Gloucester in the North,” her tone took on a conspiratorial bent, “and I happen to think that, maybe, we might mend some rifts by a suitable marriage. I also might consider your new baby Joan might make a wonderful Duchess of Clarence one day. That might be better than an Earl for one of my Princesses. ”
Margaret didn’t sense a trap, but this didn’t feel exactly safe either. While she couldn’t be upset at the idea of her daughters being Duchesses, royal connections were the last things she wanted. Royal blood bled too easily. But still, she smiled and nodded.
“You see great things in such little packages. I’m barely able to stand with the title of Baroness!”
“Ah, but you are a Queen, Lady Richmond. Do not forget the Isle of Mann!”
The thought of that old title, which her husband so proudly wore at home, brought real laughter, which woke the children. The two women took the natural turn of cooing over infants, and the Queen felt relaxed again. But Margaret could not escape the feeling of entrapment. She couldn’t trust these Yorks and she didn’t want them stopping her son from coming home.
The Lady Richmond held her hand lightly against her infant daughter’s cheek, feeling the petal soft skin brush against her fingertips as a steady breath mounted forward. This birth had been the hardest, and the doctors had warned that little Joan must be the last for her and Thomas, despite her want for even more. But three in a row had been hard on her body, maybe as hard as her Henry, across the Channel and too far away.
Tapestries of miracles and triumphs lined the walls of the nursery, replacing the more depressing stories her husband had initially demanded for his son’s rooms. It had been nothing short of an argument, but something had to be done when she saw the corpses and burning of Jeanne of Arc.
“Why fill his head with death from the cradle?” she’d demanded; then gone were fallen soldiers and in was hope.
Margaret’s path had not been as easy as it might have been, but in this nursery, with two babes asleep amongst the softest cushions money could afford, it might all be worth it. She hummed, a rare sound, while the nursemaid stood patiently for her to be done gazing.
But there was a rush, and soon a dozen servants followed a young footman, breathlessly rushing in.
“Ma’am, ma’am! The Queen-“
“What, boy?”
“The Queen! She’s here!”
She shushed the boy and stared for confirmation. The gaggle of men and women behind him nodded wildly, and she stood shocked as they awaited her response.
“Where is she?”
An older woman, seemingly less pulsed than the rest of the rabble, stepped forward,
“She’s on her way here as we speak, ma’am. She wanted to surprise you.”
Margaret looked to the nursemaid, wide eyed and confused.
“What should we do?”
Shaky, she stepped back, looked around, and sighed. A surprise visit meant chaos, but the Woodvilles had never been greatly interested in formality. Margaret guessed she was being gifted with the confirmed friendship of the Queen. Had this been at court, she’d be thrilled. Instead, in this fortress, where she’d relaxed a little, it was an intrusion. But it couldn’t be changed.
“You need to leave this room. Line up by the door to nod and greet her, and when she leaves, do the same. You,” she pointed to the youngest boy, “need to run to the cook and tell him to pull whatever fancy treats he might have for a light meal in my rooms, and start preparing for a large banquet dinner. Now go!”
They scurried away, and Margaret smoothed her dress out and waited for the Queen to walk in. Fully destroying the surprise for Elizabeth Woodville would be paramount to a slight, so she started around the room, busying herself to distraction. Soon, SHE arrived.
Blue silk wafting wide, with a simple hood and cloak, the Queen might have been mistaken for the gentry her family was, if not for her hands, heavy with rings. In one she led the Princess Elizabeth, herself bedecked in a gown resembling her mother’s. In the other, the Princess Cecily, more distinct in her yellow. Less flattering too.
Margaret turned to see the three beauties, blonde and smiling, in her doorway, and didn’t have to hide her shock. The twits hadn’t mentioned the Princesses, and what was a warning if half given? Regardless, she returned their smiles and dropped down before her. The Queen motioned her up.
“Lady Richmond, no need for formality.”
“I’m sorry, your Grace, for not preparing for your arrival.”
“No, no, do not be silly. We’re intruding on your peace here.”
Margaret held her curtsey a second long, mostly to hide a grimace, and returned to her full height, barely taller than the younger Elizabeth. In the full light of day, with the sun in their hair, she was struck by how alike the three of them were, and how dull she seemed by comparison. They were tall golden roses, and her lily amongst them. Even her dress, a dark green she’d thought suitable in the morning, seem a little less lavish against them. But she still had a job to do.
“And what do I owe the pleasure of such a visit, your Grace. And may I say your highnesses are looking especially lovely in your gowns.”
“Thank you!” Cecily beamed.
“Thank you, Lady Richmond. Cecily almost ruined hers getting out of the carriage.”
“Elizabeth”
The Queen quietly scolded her elder daughter, and Margaret watched as little Cecily, so happy a second earlier, deflated. She straightened her back, and decided to quietly disarm the brat.
“Lady Cecily, I’ve often said yellow is one of the prettiest colours.”
“Really?” the young Princess looked up at her, as very few could.
The Queen looked at her too, confused. But Margaret had to get it out before the elder daughter could pipe in.
“Of course, it’s the colour of sunshine, and very becoming on young ladies,” she turned to the Queen, “of course, you all have the colouring to pull off anything, but I was always partial to yellow.”
The Queen evidently got what was going on and smiled at her younger daughter. The Princess Elizabeth, puzzled but unsure how she was being slighted, began to pout, and then pointed to the cradles behind their hostess.
“Are those the babies?”
The Queen’s eyes widened, annoyed, and she gave her daughter’s hands a squeeze. Margaret stepped to the side, indicating her babies but not really allowing any closer access for the young girl.
“Yes, Lady Elizabeth, these are my children. The Master Thomas, and the Mistress Joan Stanley.”
The Queen stepped forward with her daughters, and Margaret stepped back to the cradles, and they all looked in. The younger Elizabeth was obviously unimpressed, and little Cecily looked confused.
“Why are they different sizes?”
“Thomas is older, darling. Remember how we discussed the Lady Richmond having a baby last year?”
“Yes, but they’re still both smaller than Anne.”
The Queen looked at her apologetically, but Margaret had to laugh.
“Your highnesses, those in my family tend to run a fair bit smaller than the Woodvilles or the House of York. Beauforts and Stanleys are both compact peoples.”
“Is that good?” Elizabeth asked pompously.
“It lets us hide in the cracks of ruined walls and the leaves of shrubs like fairies.”
At Cecily’s giggle, Margaret beckoned over the nursemaid.
“Your Grace, if you would like, Mrs Birch is about to collect my elder daughter from her studies and take her out for exercise. Do you think the Princesses might enjoy a walk through the gardens?”
The young Elizabeth went to complain, but Margaret continued as if she hadn’t seen her wind up.
“And, of course, they’d get to go down to the roses and catch butterflies,” Cecily’s eyes lit up, “and take them to the library to get pressed for a locket or little keepsake.”
At this point the younger Princess was practically bouncing, and Elizabeth, despite her cooler demeanour, was obviously interested. The Queen gave her consent, and Elizabeth and Margaret watched the young girls follow the old nursemaid out the room. Margaret had barely seen them leave before she was turned around by an obviously embarrassed Queen Elizabeth.
“Lady Richmond, I’m so sorry, Elizabeth has been getting a little difficult recently. The King ordered everyone to refer to her as ‘Dauphine’ and suddenly she’s gotten more than a little pompous.”
Margaret shrugged, free of her put on playfulness for the sake of the children,
“Don’t worry, your Grace, I don’t mind. At her age I was a Duchess, and had twice the airs besides, and in half the body. But my, they’ve grown since I’ve been to court.”
“Haven’t they,” the Queen settled into a seat by the empty fireplace, and Margaret stood by the cradles, aware she couldn’t sit unless indicated otherwise, “I mean, Elizabeth is nearly your height, and if you’d seen the Prince of Wales, you’d think him nearly of age with her Mary. She’s been ill again, but likely to recover. Always with the aches and pains, that girl. My father reads to her and my mother feeds her boiled plums and pickled pig’s feet. Promises it’ll make her strong.”
“My mother used to feed me a potato burnt black every time I was sick.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I don’t know why, and it never worked, but I think it’s something her mother used to do. I think the char was supposed to draw out the illness. Regardless, I avoided illness as much as possible to avoid the potato.”
The Queen laughed, and pointed to a stool so that, finally, she could be seated.
“I might have to try that for Mary. She enjoys too much being babied amongst the nursery maids.”
She smoothed her skirts to hide it, but Margaret noticed her slight quiver. The Princess Mary wasn’t always a healthy girl.
“So what made you decide to visit me here, your Grace?”
Safer topic, less like for disaster.
“Well, you see, it’s a matter of your son.”
Oh no.
“Thomas? He’s doing well. He’s almost speaking, actually. Should we wake him?”
Margaret turned to the cradle, but Elizabeth coughed.
“No, your elder son. Let the babe rest.”
Goddamn it.
“Henry.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth looked uncomfortable, “the Earl of Richmond. The King received copies of letters you’d written him earlier this year. Concerning his return.”
Danger.
“Yes?”
“Well, you didn’t ask permission from the King to contact a traitor in exile.”
“I spoke to the King prior to my leave of absence for permission to contact my son. He agreed and indicated we might soon reunite. I just wanted to keep him abreast of the situation here in England. His home.”
Elizabeth look at her in sympathy,
“That was one letter, Lady Richmond. We’ve found three thus far.”
“Yes, I’ve had two children since the first letter.”
“This might be paramount to treason.”
Margaret stiffened. The hounds were circling.
“All that was in those letters was news of childbirth and wishes of health. He never even wrote back.”
“Was there a code amongst them?”
“No, your Grace, there wasn’t.”
“So, you don’t support his talk of armies against the King?”
“Of course, I don’t. I just want my son back.”
“Your son, the man attempting to build an invasion to take England from my family.”
“No, my son, barely a man grown, left ill and alone across the water and trying to return to his ancestral home because the King sees knives in the hands of shadows.”
Now was Elizabeth’s turn to stiffen.
“It’s hardly a shadow when he has a claim to the throne!”
“What claim? His father was the bastard son of a bastard Welshman and a French Princess!”
“Your claim!”
“I’m the daughter of a bastard line, illegitimate under law, with no claim to the throne.”
“Some may not see it that way!”
“Would you bury me with my children?”
Elizabeth gasped, and Margaret dropped her gaze. This was too far.
“Margaret,” Elizabeth almost whispered, “what would you do?”
She looked up.
“Pardon, your Grace.”
“Drop the formality. If we swapped positions, what would you do? Would you want Henry back if you were me?”
Not a chance. It was too dangerous. Margaret looked her in the eyes to answer.
“Yes, Elizabeth, I would. I’d bring him back and celebrate with you. If I were Queen, and your Richard was away, I’d do everything I could to bring him back to you.”
She held her gaze. Too many lies fell apart because of cowardice. This one had to hold.
“Thank you, Margaret. I needed to hear that. It’s hard,” she sniffled, “holding onto this power. I never wanted it. But you deserve to have your son with you. I hope I can help you do it. Who knows, maybe he could make a match with Mary or Cecily.”
Margaret stayed grim.
“I think, considering our conversation, that might do more harm than good.”
The Queen laughed, her usual bright self.
“Of course. But we might dream of a better future. Bound together by blood and friendship.”
Margaret bit her tongue. That had been a close call. Elizabeth leaned in.
“Lady Richmond, might I ask how your eldest daughter is?”
“Margaret? She’s well, your Grace. Her French tutor arrived last week so she’s just begun language lessons.”
“You know, after I leave here, while we’re on progress this summer, I plan on visiting the Lady Gloucester in the North,” her tone took on a conspiratorial bent, “and I happen to think that, maybe, we might mend some rifts by a suitable marriage. I also might consider your new baby Joan might make a wonderful Duchess of Clarence one day. That might be better than an Earl for one of my Princesses. ”
Margaret didn’t sense a trap, but this didn’t feel exactly safe either. While she couldn’t be upset at the idea of her daughters being Duchesses, royal connections were the last things she wanted. Royal blood bled too easily. But still, she smiled and nodded.
“You see great things in such little packages. I’m barely able to stand with the title of Baroness!”
“Ah, but you are a Queen, Lady Richmond. Do not forget the Isle of Mann!”
The thought of that old title, which her husband so proudly wore at home, brought real laughter, which woke the children. The two women took the natural turn of cooing over infants, and the Queen felt relaxed again. But Margaret could not escape the feeling of entrapment. She couldn’t trust these Yorks and she didn’t want them stopping her son from coming home.
Last edited:
