The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Read online

  la Nergal-ya! La zi annga kampa—

  I wanted to run away, but I was too afraid to move. Gathering courage, I crept closer and peered around a barrel of wine into the shadows ahead. Though the walkway between the kegs was narrow, I could see straight through to the small torch-lit area between the stone arches and the stairs that led up to the chapter house. A black-draped altar stood against the wall, set with a metal offering bowl and a brazier. A few candles flickered on the floor around the figures, making it hard to see their faces as they moved in the uneven light, but I made out a chalk drawing of a gate on the stone floor at their feet. Four candles burned on the floor, one at each corner of the gate picture.

  I stared hard at the three black figures in hooded cloaks. The fat one could be Friar Bungey. The other two had no shape beneath their hooded cloaks, but they looked familiar. They stood against the light, in deepest shadow, their backs to me, their faces hidden.

  “In the name of the Covenant sworn between Thee and the Race of Man, I call to thee! Harken and Remember! From the Gates of Hell I call Thee!”

  I shivered at the hooded man’s harsh voice. He threw a handful of something into the brazier and flames gushed out, then a puff of smoke went up into the air. A moment later the air grew fragrant with incense.

  “Nergal, Lord of the Offering of Battle, Ravager of the Enemy’s towns, Devourer of the flesh of Man, remember!” He flattened himself on the floor. “For what comes on the wind can only be slain by he who knows the wind; and what comes on the seas can only be slain by he who knows water. Thus it is written in the ancient covenant.”

  He rose again, took the offering bowl, set it on the floor and removed something from behind the curtained altar. A white rabbit squealed as he held it by the scruff of its neck. The man knelt and raised the knife. The animal cried and struggled for freedom. The blade flashed in the torchlight. He plunged it down hard.

  “Nergal, God of Sacrifice, remember!” He lifted the offering bowl high in the air before setting it down again, and poured white flour around the circle twice. He turned back to the altar and raised his arms up over his head. I scooted forward to the cask in front of me and squinted into the shadows, my heart pounding hard, for I knew I wasn’t supposed to be here.

  “Know that evil spirits are seven, for the seven maskins that tear away the heart of a man and mock his gods.”

  I shrank back behind the cask and covered my mouth to smother my gasp. The man had donned the hide of a donkey! For a moment I was frightened they’d heard me. He placed the metal pot on the brazier, worked it for a while and took it off. He removed a waxen image from the bowl and held it up. I strained to see what it was through the smoke. A bear? He threw it into the pot.

  “Boil! Boil! Burn! Burn! I invoke you, Gods of the Night! The Bear is plagued with pain. He cannot stand upright or lie down, neither during the day, nor during the day. His mouth is stuffed with cords! His joy is sorrow, and his merriment is grief!” He took a knotted cord and threw it into the flames. “The word of his doom is spoken. His knot is broken. His work destroyed—”

  My teeth began to chatter. Who was the Bear? Why did they want to break his knot? What did that mean? I didn’t understand any of this, but I knew enough to will myself to be still. For if they discovered me, they might throw me into the boiling pot, too. I crunched myself into a tighter ball and hugged my knees so I could keep myself stiff and motionless.

  The three figures were moving in a circle now, chanting. Their heads were bowed, and they seemed to be looking at the picture they had drawn on the floor. Their song gathered speed and they danced faster and faster. They screamed their words:

  My images have thrown you to the ground of the dead

  My images have buried you in a coffin with the dead

  My images have given you over to destruction!

  The hoods fell off two cloaked figures. They were women: one, grey-haired; the other, fair. They followed the donkey-man, black cloaks whirling, arms thrashing in a wild frenzy. I was terrified now. I couldn’t breathe. These were witches, and everyone knew witches cut people’s hearts out and ate them.

  “God of the Night, issue a spell to cause consternation to the enemy and infuse his thoughts! A spell to cause ultimate destruction! Spirit of the Graves, remember! His is the dark times!” The donkey-man held a book in one hand and sprinkled water with the other. One of the fearful figures moved out of the shadows. The smoke cleared. Her face was painted white and she was grinning like a madwoman. She kept whirling, kept moving out of the shadows into the circle of light. All at once she stood framed by an arch. The torches flared on her face. I stared. My mouth opened for a scream that reached my throat and trembled there, but no sound came. The witch-woman with the white face—

  She was my mother.

  NO ONE KNEW WHAT I HAD SEEN, FOR TOM AND DICK had told my mother I was in the privy when she’d asked about me. Soon afterwards, on the second of November, my mother grabbed her pregnant belly, gave a cry of pain, and almost fell down. My grandmother rushed to her side.

  “Come, Bess—” my grandmother said. She led my mother behind the white silk curtain that divided the room.

  “O woe is me!” my mother sobbed behind the curtain. “Woe, woe! A pallet on the straw instead of my beautiful room at the Tower for the birth of my child—how can this be? How, Mother?”

  “Hush, daughter. If Edward wins the battle, you will soon be back at the Tower.”

  “ ’Tis the fault . . . of the . . . Nevilles,” my mother panted. “I shan’t forget it.”

  “No, we won’t forget.”

  “If Warwick’s brother . . . hadn’t gone back . . . to his side, none of this would have happened . . . Edward would still . . . be king.”

  “I know, daughter. I know.”

  “A curse on that beast . . . that bear, Warwick . . . Kingmaker he calls . . . himself! When I am back in the Tower . . . and queen again,Warwick will . . . wish he were dead!”

  “Sssh!” said my grandmother. “It will be so. Did not the friar assure us? Now concentrate on giving birth to this child. And make it a son.”

  “A son!” my mother cried. “O God, give me a son!” Her voice went very loud and was filled with a terrible pleading that frightened me. Then she fell silent, except for her whimpers of pain.

  There was a knock at the door of the chapter house. I rushed to open it. An old woman with big yellow teeth curtsied to me. “Marjory Cobb, midwife, m’little lady,” she said.

  I threw the door wide open. With quick curtsies to me and my sisters, she hurried to my mother and grandmother behind the curtain.

  “Me Graces,” she said. “I come at Dr. Sergio’s call. His horse went lame and had to be reshod. He’s a-comin’ soon as he can get another, m’ladies.”

  I heard whispering and knew my grandmother was telling the midwife about my mother. “Good, good,” the midwife kept murmuring. After a short silence, broken only by my mother’s moans, she said,“All’s well enough. Should be soon now.”

  I sat on the straw in the corner of the room, near the door, hugging my knees and rocking to and fro as my mother wailed behind the curtained partition. Within the hour, there was another knock at the door. I jumped up and sprang the latch. Dr. Sergio rushed in. His cloak was wet, for it was raining outside. He didn’t greet me but went directly behind the curtain. The grown-ups murmured together while my mother screamed and sobbed.

  “Push!” the midwife called. “Push, now, hard!”

  “Hard!” said Dr. Sergio. “One more time!”

  My mother screamed again, much louder this time. I hated that she was hurting so badly. My sisters did, too. They hollered and cried, and there was no consoling them, so I gave up and covered my ears, but it didn’t help. My sister Cecily pulled my sister Mary’s hair, and then screamed for my mother, and tried to run to her behind the curtain, but I stopped her. She struggled in my arms and cried louder. If my grandmother hadn’t forbidden me to leave the chapter house,
I would have fled to the cloisters to be with my brothers, Tom and Dick. Their joyful shouts as they played ball came to me through the window that was cranked open for air. I envied them. I gave Cecily a comb to play with and set her down. Bowing my head in my lap, I tried to remember the song my father used to sing me at bedtime.

  “God be thanked!” cried the midwife. “ ’Tis a boy!”

  “A son,” my grandmother said with wonder in her voice. “An heir!”

  “A son and heir!” my mother cried. Her voice was strong again, and there was such pride in it. “A king!”

  The next few weeks were filled with much ado about the babe. My mother fed him at her own breast, since we had no wet nurse and little food except the meat brought us by John Gould, the butcher. He gave it to us of his own charity, for we had no money or gold. Dr. Sergio came often to check the babe’s health, and pronounced it good. He also brought us news of Papa.

  “King Edward is still in Bruges, Your Grace, and his brother-in-law, Charles of Burgundy, refuses to see him. But in time King Edward will prevail. He always does.”

  As Dr. Sergio was leaving, he passed me in my corner by the door and took my hand in his. “Child, why are you so cold? Why do you sit at the door as if to flee your family? Here, draw near to the brazier so you can get warm.”

  I shook my head and recoiled. The brazier reminded me of the wine cellar.

  “She has been acting strangely of late,” my grandmother said. “We can do nothing with her. She refuses even to eat the meat that the butcher brings us, and keeps her distance from us all.”

  Dr. Sergio returned to her side and bent his head. He murmured something and I caught the word jealous.

  Let them think what they wanted.

  ONE SNOWY DAY, JUST BEFORE YULETIDE, I OPENED the door to a heavy knock. “Abbot Milling!” my mother called out before I could exchange greetings with him.

  I stepped aside and he rushed past me. Abbot Thomas Milling was a familiar face, and my mother always asked him the same question the moment she saw him.

  “What news?” she demanded breathlessly.

  I knew she was more anxious for the tidings he carried than for the food he said he brought for our souls, and on this occasion Abbot Milling was bursting to tell her.

  “God be praised, Charles the Rash—I mean, the Bold—has seen fit to look with favor on King Edward’s cause. He’s outfitting a fleet for him as we speak.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and glanced over his shoulder. “Come, my daughters, let us gather round and pray for the success of King Edward against Warwick . . .”

  I screwed my eyes shut. No one would pray harder for my father’s victory against Warwick than I. To have my father near me again, to run with him around the castle halls again! All this seemed a dream to me, as if it had never happened, for it was so long ago . . .

  Abbot Milling took confession from my mother and grandmother, and left.

  On my fifth birthday, the eleventh of February, 1471, three days before the Feast of St. Valentine,Abbot Milling brought me a small slice of cake. I divided it into eight slivers: two for my sisters, two for my brothers, two for my mother and grandmother, one for the abbot, and one for me. That meant no one got much more than a few crumbs, but oh, how sweet they tasted! He poured us wine and then he gave us the news.

  “King Edward has left Burgundy for England. He is expected to return soon to give battle. But HenryVI’s fiery French queen, Marguerite d’Anjou, has not departed France yet. ’Tis said she doesn’t trust Warwick, though he has kept his word and restored her mad husband to the throne. ’Tis said she would rather dally in France than fight at his side for her husband.”

  This news cheered my mother and grandmother. They clinked their battered iron cups and laughed merrily as they drank, ignoring the babe’s cries for the first time since he was born.

  “Now let us gather round and pray. Prayer is food for the soul, and food for the soul is as important as food for the body, is that not so?” Abbot Milling said, as was his wont.

  Dr. Sergio and Abbot Milling came many more times, bringing us small gifts and whispering their news. Then on a blustery day in March, Friar Bungey came. I opened the door at his knock and shrank back when I saw who it was. Leaving the door to slam in the wind, I fled to the back of the room and hid my head in my arms.

  “Elizabeth! How rude of you,” my grandmother said angrily while my mother opened the door to him again. Grandmother came and stared down at me. “Whatever is the matter with you, child? Come and apologize immediately!”

  I didn’t move. I didn’t even lift my head to look at her. Then I felt my mother’s shadow fall over me. Slowly, I peeked up from between my arms.

  She pulled my head back by the roots of my hair and slapped me hard across the cheek. “Come this instant, Elizabeth,” my mother hissed through the ringing in my ear, “or you shall receive a beating you will never forget.” She took my hand and pulled me to my knees. I was so afraid that I wet myself. Ashamed and miserable, I made a curtsy to Friar Bungey, hoping no one noticed. Friar Bungey nodded and made the sign of the cross over my head, but he didn’t appear to see me. His eyes held a strange glitter, and he turned his attention to my mother right away.

  “The battle will be fought very soon,Your Grace. Warwick has refused to lay down his arms for a royal pardon if he submits. But not all the tidings are ill. The king’s brother, George, Duke of Clarence, has abandoned Warwick’s side and joined King Edward’s—where he belonged from the first, God be praised!”

  “Amen!” my mother and grandmother cried together.

  “Both sides are marching to join battle. You must pray.”

  It was very silent in sanctuary after he left. My mother and grandmother didn’t say a word and went about their tasks without talking to one another. My sisters and the babe cried, but I tended them as best as I could. I, too, dwelled on my thoughts, which were of my father, and I didn’t speak unless spoken to. When the abbey monks began to chant their hymns for Vespers, we all knelt and prayed. Even my little sisters placed their palms together and murmured along with us.

  The days passed, but no news arrived until after Easter. One night as we were dining, seated on straw in our bare room, there was a commotion of men outside. The door burst open, and soldiers stumbled in. We leapt to our feet and stared at them. We all knew they brought news of battle.

  “York has lost!” cried one of the men, collapsing against the wall. “York has lost . . .”

  I looked at my mother and grandmother. Both had gone as white as the sheets we used to sleep on. Slowly, my grandmother let herself down on the floor and sat there, not saying a word. My mother stood in the middle of the room. She looked bewildered, as if she had not understood. Her mouth moved to speak, but no words came.

  Then she fell wailing to the floor.

  I LAY AWAKE IN MY CORNER ON THE STRAW ALL NIGHT, curled up with my sisters. My mother cried, and my grandmother comforted her, and the church bells struck the hour, and the monks chanted their hymns.

  “We are undone!” my mother kept sobbing. “Warwick will slay us.”

  “Hush, daughter. Warwick would never do such a thing. He is a knight, and takes his knightly oath most seriously.”

  “He can’t let us go!”

  “He may keep us confined, but he wouldn’t kill us. We are no threat to him—” She broke off. A silence hung in the air.

  “We are not,” my mother said, “but the babe is.” She burst into a fresh fit of sobbing.

  “Daughter, we know not for sure what happened at Barnet. First reports of battle are often wrong. Edward may still live. Edward may have even won. I remember at Agincourt—”

  My mother sobbed louder.

  All through the night it went like this: my mother thinking dire thoughts, and my grandmother telling about her life. She had been a princess of Luxembourg, and had seen much in her time. She had wed the Duke of Bedford, and since King Henry had no queen then, she’d been first lady of the
land before she’d ever wed my grandfather, Sir Richard Woodville.

  As dawn broke, our chamber filled with light. My sisters awakened and the babe stirred and cried for his food. My mother gave him the breast. When a group of monks came to our door with a few eggs, some cheese, and some bread, we said our prayers and gathered round to break fast. We had just finished the eggs and taken a sip of wine when a great noise came from the abbey courtyard. Horses snorted and men shouted, and there was the clank of armor.

  “Can we go see what’s happening?” Tom asked.

  “Can we go see what’s happening?” Dick asked. He always repeated what his brother said, for he was only ten and wanted to appear as grown as his older brother.

  “Go,” my mother whispered,“but be very careful, and keep away from them. They might be Lancastrians and take you captive.”

  The boys ran to the door.

  “Don’t forget to come back and tell us what you learn,” Grandmother said.

  My mother and grandmother took one another’s hand as they waited and bowed their heads in prayer: Ave maria gracia plena do-minus tecum . . .

  As the voices of men and clanging of armor grew louder, and the footsteps drew nearer, I looked at my mother. She had gone very pale, and her voice was a low murmur. Suddenly the chamber door burst open and my magnificent father stood there, laughing. He shone like a king from an illuminated manuscript, his plumed helmet with the golden emblem of sun and roses under his arm, his fair hair falling around his face. He was beaming from ear to ear, and he lit up our drab chamber like a torch.

  “Papa, Papa!” I cried, tears blinding me. I ran to him and he swept me up into his arms. Oh, how wonderful it felt to be in his arms again! I hugged him tight. He was the sun, and the moon, and the stars in the sky! He was the rainbow, and laughter and light. I didn’t dare blink in case he disappeared. I heard my mother’s cry of joy and my sisters’ giggles as they threw themselves against his legs.