The Tudor Rose (8 page)

“My grandmother was always a managing woman, and he her favourite son,” admitted Elizabeth.

“Or, perhaps, when it came to training your brother for his kingly part, Gloucester was disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”

“Oh, I know Ned is comely. But the Protector cares supremely for the strength of York,” explained Stafford hastily. “And Ned is not very—adventurous, is he?”

“He is not quick to teach, like Dickon, if that is what you mean,” she agreed, mollified, and suddenly, in spite of all the tragic happenings, she gave a little spurt of delicious laughter. “How Dickon, in his place, would have loved playing the part! He would have made the most of every opportunity and risen to every dramatic occasion,” she said. “Do you remember when we used to have plays at Twelfth Night how he always acted better than any of us?”

“Because he has more imagination, I suppose,” agreed Stafford, with a reminiscent smile.

“Or because he inherits some histrionic sense from his mother.”

“It was a handicap, perhaps, that young Edward naturally takes his importance so much for granted. As we escorted him down from York I used to watch him riding bored and weary through the cheering crowds. And not trying to hide his weariness, poor lad.”

“Whereas Dickon would have found it all so exciting. Although he might have been dropping with fatigue, I suppose he would have smiled that devastating smile of his and charmed the hearts out of people. Perhaps it would have been harder then for Gloucester to steal all the fan fare for his own.”

“I doubt if it would have made much difference,” said Stafford, watching her tired face with concern.

“Nor I, really,” sighed Elizabeth. “What else goes on in the outside world, Tom? After all the fun we had in my father's lifetime it is so deadly being shut up here.”

Stafford searched his mind for news which might interest her. “You know, of course, that Gloucester has taken up residence in the Tower and sent for his wife to come down from Middleham?”

“We supposed that he would do that. Actually we heard through Piers Curteys, who makes our dresses, that he had been ordered to make Aunt Anne a purple velvet dress in two days. Imagine, a coronation dress in two days! And I used to have to stand about for hours being fitted when—when it was a question of my going to France.”

“It would seem that Gloucester marches his women as quickly as his men!” laughed Stafford.

Although they had the rare opportunity to talk intimately, they were not really alone in the cloister. A procession of monks passed them with downcast eyes and a slither of sandalled feet, and then Cicely, pursued by her sisters, escaped from the parlour blithely intent upon some childish game; but Elizabeth, pursuing a train of thought, seemed scarcely to be aware of any interruption. “You see my uncle daily, Tom. Do you really believe him to be such an ogre as all my Woodville relations think?” she asked, chin cupped in hand. “It is so puzzling, because only a few days ago we were all thinking of him as a fine soldier, a temperate sort of person, a dependable man of honour.”

“They say a sudden glimpse of power can change a man.”

“But even then, when he could have had anything he asked, he was never one to put himself forward for power. He loved my father as I do, and seemed content to serve him.”

“Does it not occur to you, Bess,” suggested Stafford, choosing his words carefully, “that in some odd, distorted sort of way he may be seeking to serve him—or his kingdom—now?”

“For Heaven's sake do not let my mother hear you speak like that!” warned Elizabeth, with an anxious glance over her shoulder. But she herself sat in silence with the thought, and when she spoke it was in a more hopeful tone. “Well, anyhow, I am glad that Anne Neville has come,” she said. “Both the boys like her, and she will be kind to them.”

Stafford put his hand on hers as it rested on the stone sill beside him. “I doubt if she will have much opportunity of seeing them,” he said gently.

“Tom! What are you trying to tell me?” cried Elizabeth, her frightened gaze searching his face.

“It was awkward for your uncle, I suppose. Particularly with his own son coming. So he has had your brothers moved to the lodgings over the gatehouse.”

He used the word lodgings euphemistically, momentarily forgetting how well she knew the labyrinthian lay-out of the Tower since her half-brother's governorship. “But those rooms are always used for—state prisoners,” she said, looking down almost unseeingly at their joined hands. And then, as Stafford made no reply, she asked piteously, “Does it mean that they will really not be allowed to—go out?”

“There is a walk on the leads of the battlements,” he reminded her. “From there they will at least be able to watch the ships go by.”

“Who, then, will look after them?” she managed to ask.

“A man called Slaughter—Will Slaughter.”

“God in Heaven, what a name!” ejaculated Elizabeth, crossing herself involuntarily.

“He was a trusted archer of Gloucester's troops. Black Slaughter, men call him.”

“Why do they call him so?”

“Because he is dark and hirsute, I suppose.”

“Let us pray it be for his hair and not his heart!” she murmured.

Seeing her blue eyes all awash with tears, Stafford put aside ceremony and lifted her little hands in his strong ones to cover them with kisses. “Do not worry so for them, dear Bess!” he entreated, his dark head bent close above her fair one.

For a blessed moment or two they stayed close in that sweet companionship. How good, she thought, to have a strong man hold one—a man who cared. So must girls feel, she supposed, who were answerable only to their husbands and not to the State. How easy, she thought, to care for some small country manor, living to please one man. How doubly sweet to bear and bring up children. Against the warmth of Tom Stafford's shoulder her generous mouth curved into a happy smile. For a moment she imagined herself playing with
his
children on some ordinary sunlit lawn. But even the escape of dreaming was short-lived. She was a Plantagenet and must obey her destiny, walking head high with tragedy if need be. “I will try not to worry, dear Tom,” she promised, gently withdrawing her hands. “But perhaps you could come again and give me news of them—after the coronation?”

Much as he longed to come, Stafford hesitated. “I am no longer of the Queen's household—”

Elizabeth laid her fingers persuasively on his sleeve. “I know how she insults you, and the risks you run. But if it be possible come to me here. I will walk alone in the cloister before vespers. I have lost so much happiness that it would be hard to think I shall not see you again.”

Daring and ardent was Stafford's kiss on the palm of her hand, but brief as ardent. A memory for a girl to live on. Not enough to hold her his, perhaps, but a stirring of the senses strong enough to teach her hunger for some other man's love.

It was days later before Elizabeth saw him again, and then it seemed impossible to recapture the enchantment of their former mood. All the fanfares and shouting of the coronation were over and only the deep-toned vesper bell vied with the renewed clamour of carpenters now taking down the stands.

“It seems incredible how orderly the streets look again after so much preparation,” Stafford said, standing in the shadow of the cloister wall and having to shout unromantically against the cacophony.

“So much careful preparation,” Elizabeth repeated dully, thinking of all the plotting which must have gone on within the lovely walls of Baynard Castle, and of how persuasive her domineering old grandmother could be.

“Anne Neville's purple dress looked gorgeous,” he said at random, trying to break the constraint which lay between them.

“Did you see my brothers?”

“No.”

“Then, after all, Richard did not hold her train?”

Stafford shook his head. “No, Bess. The Countess of Richmond held it.”

“And she a Lancastrian's widow!”

“She is Lord Stanley's wife now. And Stanley has so many retainers it pays to keep in with him. In his quieter and more calculating way he almost becomes a kingmaker, like the new Queen's father, mighty Warwick, was.”

“I know. I suppose that is why Gloucester freed him almost as soon as he had got rid of poor Will Hastings. At least there is one thing nobody has accused my uncle of yet, and that is of being a fool!” Stafford noticed that her voice had borrowed some of her mother's bitterness so that she seemed far removed from the girl whose tears he had comforted.

There was a lull in the half-hearted hammering, so that only the Abbey bell broke the afternoon peace. “It was unbelieveably good of you to come; but I must go now or they will miss me,” she said; yet still stood a while, the book of prayers her father had given her clasped whitely against the sombre velvet of her skirt.

Tom Stafford waited for what he knew she would ask. He realised that, although he had risked much to come, her ultimate thought was not with him. “And you are sure my brother Richard was not there?” she insisted. “Not anywhere?”

“No,” he answered grimly. “The only one of that name was King Richard the Third, with pale Anne Neville, his Queen.”

D
EAR TOM, WHAT HAVE you brought us?” chorused the younger Princesses, running to greet Stafford when at last he contrived to visit Westminster again. After weeks of dull seclusion they would have welcomed any visitor from the outside world, but he had always been such a favourite with them that they danced around him in delight.

“I give you three guesses,” he teased, trying to keep their marauding hands from the basket of gifts which his servant had just deposited upon the Abbot's table.

“A new dress!” cried dainty Ann.

“Some new toys to play with,” lisped Katherine, most of whose childish treasures had been left in the Palace.

“And you, my lady?” asked Stafford, smiling across their bobbing heads at their grown-up sister.

“A new dress would scarcely come amiss,” laughed Elizabeth, ruefully holding out the worn folds of her one-and-only black velvet. “But just to see you again is the best surprise of all.” Inevitably their visitor went red with pleasure, and, embarrassed by her own spontaneous candour, she turned hurriedly to her fifteen-year-old sister. “And what about you, Cicely? What do you hope Tom has brought us in that intriguing basket?”

“Food,” said Cicely, with equal if less romantic candour.

Elizabeth made a shocked little gesture of reproof and Thomas Stafford was all concern at once. Having shared in the culturally rich life which their parents had hitherto provided for them, the idea that they might need the bare necessities of life had never occurred to him. It shocked him so much that he left his open basket to be rifled by Ann and Katherine and came to look more carefully at Elizabeth. She had always been attractively slender, but now it struck him that she had become altogether too fine drawn for a girl of eighteen. By the light of a long window by which she stood he could discern small hollows beneath the lovely moulding of her cheekbones so that it seemed for the first time that she bore some resemblance to the sharper beauty of her mother. “Does that mean that you are actually hungry?” he demanded, with rising indignation.

“No, no, of course not!” she denied cheerfully. “It is just that Cicely, as you know, is a horrible little gourmand. All the same,” she admitted, compelled by his searching gaze, “it seems a long time since poor little Katherine had any sweetmeats, and I do wish the good lay brothers would sometimes devise some dainty morsels to tempt the Queen's appetite. Though I suppose it is ungrateful of me to say so when we must all be such a sore burden to them.”

“But surely you can send your servants out to buy whatever her Grace fancies, or your friends can bring in a capon or some fruit?”

“It used to be so until a few days ago, Tom, but now it is not so easy. I am sure we are quite safe in sanctuary, for my uncle is not the man to violate the protection of Holy Church. But, as my astute brother foretold, he can set a guard outside to prevent anyone from getting either in or out.”

“Set a guard?” exclaimed Stafford. “I had not heard of it.”

“It has happened only within the last day or so.”

“Come and see, Tom,” invited Cicely, catching at his hand and drawing him closer to the window. “Look, there is John Nesfield, that horse-faced squire of his, barking orders at the men-at-arms. Bullying them for allowing you to pass, no doubt.”