To the Tower Born - Robin Maxwell (22 page)

he girls had avoided the Tower of London’s West Gate, Tas it was the one most used by nobles and government officials, who might recognize Lady Bessie. Instead they entered at the Iron Gate at the Tower’s southeast corner, where Nell’s friend, Rob Fiske, stood sentry. It had taken Rob a moment to recognize Nell, and a brief whisper in his ear to allow them passage into the Tower yard.

“What did you say to him?” Bessie demanded to know.

“Head down,” Nell reminded Bessie as they hurried across the mostly deserted Green outside the royal residence. Now that court had moved back to Westminster, the Tower yard was a quiet, somber place. Nell leaned close to Bessie and answered, “I simply said, ‘Sod Buckingham.’ The Tower staff all hate him so,” Nell continued. “They loved the royal family. But Buckingham was always arrogant and unkind, especially to the lower servants. They do not easily forget such treatment.”

The disguises seemed to be working. A clerk, a steward, and several stonemasons took no particular notice of the girls. Even a pair of laundresses hurrying past were none the wiser. Nell and Bessie grew confident enough to lift their chins so their faces could be seen by all. Attired thusly, they found themselves

wholly unimportant, and therefore invisible to anyone of “importance.”

“Let’s go to their rooms first,” said Nell. “It sounds as though Buckingham lets them roam the Tower grounds very little these days.”

Bessie was gazing round them. “I’ve been here many times, but today I find the place menacing somehow.”

“ ’Tis just the darkness of the day, Bessie.” Nell was trying hard to keep her friend’s spirits high. “I promise you, ’twas a cheerful place when court was here. And you know how lovely the royal residence is.”

When they arrived at the residence, Nell, instructing Bessie to hang back, strode up to one of the door guards.

It took a moment for Matthew Kingston to make sense of the familiar face in such unfamiliar garb. “ ’Zat you, Nell?” he said, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“ ’Tis I, Matthew.”

“I won’t ask what you’re up to.”

“That’s a good friend.”

“You’re lookin’ pretty as ever.” He winked at her. “Say, were you not banished from the Tower precinct?”

“I was. By Harry Buckingham.”

“Sod Buckingham! What can I do for you?”

“Let me and my friend in to see the boys.”

“I would, but they’re not here.”

Nell stifled her alarm. “Where have they gone?”

“The Garden Tower. They were moved last week.” Nell was thinking fast. “Who guards them now?”

“Markham and Ladd.”

“Thank goodness.” She sighed, relieved. Had their sentries been strangers, this day’s adventure would have been in vain.

“Thank you, Matthew. Are your sons well?”

“Eatin’ us out of hearth and home, and outgrowin’ their breeches every week.”

“Send my regards to Mary.”

“I’ll do that.” He grinned at her and eyed Bessie. “Maybe on your way out you and your friend can bring me somethin’ from the kitchen.”

Nell returned to Bessie, trying to hide her concern. “They’ve been moved,” she told her friend.

“Moved from the royal residence?”

“Despite the cheerful name, you’ll find the Garden Tower much less grand, but nothing to be—”

“Damn Harry Buckingham’s eyes!” Bessie cried. “Edward may no longer be king, but my brothers are still his nephews.”

“By marriage only,” Nell reminded her. “And a hated marriage at that.”

Bessie sighed. “Has my uncle Richard any control over this man whatsoever? Is this shameful treatment
his
will or Buckingham’s?”

Nell could see Bessie’s lip begin to quiver. Her friend did not wish to think ill of Richard, even now.

“ ’Tis my guess,” said Nell, “that our new king is so busy with affairs of state and trying hard to win his people’s love that he leaves certain details to his right-hand man. That man, whether we approve or not, is Buckingham. And Lord Harry, as constable, has say over all that goes on here. But let us not waste another moment moaning about your brothers’ accommodations.

’Tis time we could be spending with them.” Nell glanced up to see a familiar face and called out, “Nan!” A plump young laundress in her gray dress with starched white collar and cuffs turned at the sound of her name. She squinted at Nell and Bessie and recognized Nell at once. She came hurrying over.

“Oy, Nell, what are ye doin’ dressed like me?”

“Trying to
be
you” was Nell’s reply.

“ ’Ooze yer friend from the kitchen, then?” Nell asked, eye-ing Bessie. “The queen?”

“Actually . . .” Nell whispered the answer in Nan’s ear.

The girl’s eyes went wide and she stared at Bessie. Nell put out a hand to stay the laundress from dipping into an automatic curtsy.

“Here, take me bundle of linens so’s ye look the part,” she said to Nell, then turned to Bessie and spoke confidentially. “Ye know, I love yer brothers like my own. And I know they say you’re not the princess anymore, nor Edward the king, nor Dickon the Duke of York, but sod them. And sod Harry Buckingham!”

Nell, looking very official with her pile of clean lawn sheets, led Bessie across Tower Green. They passed the menagerie, where Dickon’s favorite beast, the young African lion, paced back and forth and back in his small cage. He seemed to have lost some of the proud bearing he’d had when he’d first arrived.

Nell could hardly look at him now. Suddenly the animal’s confinement seemed cruel.

When they reached the Garden Tower, a square, squat building on the riverside, overlooking the constable’s garden, it took only a few words and a smile to her friends at the door to gain her and Bessie’s entrance inside.

“Oh, Nelll. . .” Bessie’s tone was desperate from the moment she set foot on the Garden Tower steps, for this felt a desperate place. Unlike the royal-residence staircase, cheerful and welcoming with its fine tapestries, colorful family crests, and banners adorning its walls, this was cold bare stone. Only a few wall torches lit their way up the steep stairwell. The smell of mildew and urine was strong and unpleasant. Three stories above, the girls followed a dark hallway, empty but for a pair of door guards now squatting near a wall, engaged in a game of dice. They barely looked up as the laundress and kitchen maid entered the chamber of the boy who, till a few weeks past, had been King of England.

They saw Dickon sitting alone, close to the slit window, trying to read by the day’s gray light, the room’s torch having not been lit. It was a clean but otherwise sparsely furnished outer room with a door, Nell supposed, that led into a bedchamber.

When he heard the outer door creak open and shut, Dickon looked up quickly.
Ah,
thought Nell,
he is still hopeful. A sign of
good spirits.
And when he saw the faces of the two “serving girls,” there was not a moment of confusion or misrecognition.

The nine-year-old leapt to his feet and went to embrace his sister.

“Oh, Bessie, you’ve come!” He turned with moist eyes to Nell. “Was this your doing?” He knew instinctively to whisper.

Bessie answered. “We have the cleverest friend in the whole world.”

Dickon hugged Nell then, and she was gratified to feel strength and life in the boy’s embrace.

“Is Edward within?” Bessie asked, nodding toward the inner door.

Dickon’s face sagged. “He is, but he is not himself.” Nell saw Bessie fight against panic at the news, keeping her voice calm and even. “How is he not himself?” Dickon dropped his eyes. “He prays all the time. On his knees.”

Bessie bit her lip. “What does he pray for, Dickon?”

“An end to his suffering. His ear is very infected. His whole head aches terribly and his pillow is sodden with pus and blood every morning.” Now Dickon seemed on the edge of tears. “He prays fervently for his immortal soul. I think . . . I think he believes he may die soon.”

“Oh no, Dickon, no,” Nell said in her most reassuring voice.

“Your brother may be in terrible pain, but I promise you, he is not going to die.”

“Dr. Argentine comes to see us every few days,” he said.

“And yesterday he put an evil-smelling potion on Edward’s ear, saying ’twould draw out the infection. Perhaps it has not yet begun to work.”

“That’s right,” said Bessie. “Such things take longer than a day to take their effect.”

Nell had wandered to the slit window and found what Dickon had been poring over when they’d entered. It was the green leather volume of
Jason and the Argonauts
that William Caxton had dedicated to the Prince of Wales, the one presented to Edward at Ludlow by the Gloucester family.

Dickon said, “Edward has been reading it to me every day . . . when he is not praying . . . or weeping. The stories cheer us. There’s been little else for that . . . till now.” His face crinkled into a smile. “I quite like you as a cook, sister.” And with a chuckle he said to Nell, “And I see you’ve brought us clean linen. Very good.”

“I must see Edward.” Bessie had lost all semblance of levity.

With a fearful look to Nell she pushed open the inner door. They could see it was dark, and in the gloom a single candle flickered at a makeshift altar. Kneeling before it was Edward, his back to them. Even from where they stood looking in, they could see he was thin, his tunic hanging off two bony shoulders. His head was tilted at an odd angle, and this sight, above all, forced a small gasp of pity from Nell’s lips.

“Edward. Turn round and look at me,” said Bessie. “ ’Tis your sister.”

“Bessie?” he cried without turning, then struggled to his feet.

She went to him and caught him as he teetered off balance, but then their embrace was fierce and, for both, openly tearful.

Nell was forced to look away, so painful was the sight, but when she saw Dickon’s red eyes and wet cheeks she went to him, and held the little boy to her for comfort.

Thus the four of them remained for a time, till all tears had fallen and dried. Then Nell lit several wall torches and they gathered on the bed the boys shared, and talked quietly. It was difficult looking at Edward, for his skin, now unnaturally pale, was stretched over the bones of his face, and his blue eyes were dark-ringed and shone with obvious pain. Still, he was very cheered to see his sister and Nell. He pretended bravely that he was well, never mentioning his ear or headaches, or his frequent morbid praying. He refrained entirely from speaking of the dead.

“How is our mother?” he asked Bessie eagerly.

“Mother is . . .
Mother,
” she answered with a wry smile.

“She drives me wild, Edward. I should like to throttle her with my bare hands.”

Edward laughed at that, and Nell could again see the boy she’d taught Latin at Ludlow, the child brimming with life and good cheer. The king who had promised that she and Antony could be wed. Now it was Nell who fought back tears.

“Mistress Caxton,” Edward said, teasing with his formality.

“I understand this was
your
little adventure.”

“Not so little,” Dickon piped in. “Worthy of Jason himself, I would say.”

“Indeed,” Edward agreed, then looked suddenly concerned.

“Should you be caught—?”

“We shall not be caught,” said Bessie. “We have it on good assurances that the Lord Constable of the Tower never appears here on Mondays.”

Now Edward’s face creased with genuine worry. “That is generally true. But I had word that he would be coming today with papers for me to sign.”

“Dear God,” Nell muttered. Her heart began to thump in her chest. “Perhaps we should cut short the visit and come again another—”

A commotion outside the outer door silenced Nell. The four of them froze, straining to hear what the fracas was. But Harry Buckingham’s angry voice was all too clear. “Lazy imbeciles!” he was shouting. “I’ll kick you till you’re bloody if I catch you off guard again! Now stand up and do your job!” Nell gestured for Bessie to pick up Edward’s dinner tray and whispered urgently to the boy, “Dirty linen?” He gestured to his pillow and she quickly ripped the case off it and grabbed a box filled with pus- and blood-caked bandages near his bed. “Head down!” she whispered to Bessie as the outer door opened and Harry Buckingham stormed in.

A laundress and a kitchen maid were both meant to curtsy to such a high lord as Buckingham, and it was the deep level of respect that they were expected to show that saved them. Heads bowed so low that their inconsequential faces could not be seen, they executed the obeisance quickly, silently, and, keeping their backs to the man as they gathered the tray and dirty linen, hurried from the room and past the chastised and upright guards.

They did not speak, or even look at each other, till they were taking great strides across Tower Green.

“I didn’t get to say a proper good-bye,” Bessie said, her face racked with misery.

“ ’Tis all right. We shall come again.” Nell cursed silently, for her words were so utterly unconvincing.

“Edward looked so ill. Oh, Nell—”

“Steady, friend. We need to leave this place unobserved.” When they reached the Iron Gate they quickly stowed the box and the food tray before making their escape, receiving a high sign from Robert Fiske.

Once outside the massive walls, Bessie collapsed into sobs.

Nell just held her, silent, for she could think of nothing of comfort to say. Bessie’s brothers were in dire straits, that much was clear. Releasing them from their circumstances seemed insur-mountable. And tomorrow Nell was to begin her position a whole day’s ride from London. There she would stay, living at Woking Manor all week, returning home on Saturday evenings, going back to work on Mondays. Again, she and Bessie would be separated, with only letters to sustain them, between Sundays.

A light rain began to fall, furthering their dismal day. They hurried back to Gresham’s Mercantile and redressed in their finery.

Bessie hailed a passing farmer hauling his wagonful of onions into tomorrow’s Totehill Street market and paid him from her purse for the trip back to Westminster. They sat crushed next to the man, who chatted amiably the whole way, but the girls were cloaked in a deep, unhappy silence.