The Tudor Rose (11 page)

Their two intelligent, sensitive faces were close together and young Richard looked back at him, trustingly. And it was the trustfulness, more than the older boy's antagonism, which hurt. “I am afraid I am not quite sure what ingenuity means, Sir,” he confessed. “But when Ned let his pet monkey loose at a banquet it was Bess who covered it quickly with her skirt so that it shouldn't pick walnuts off the French Ambassador's plate.”

“I can easily suppose that too,” said the King, realizing that, after all, he had not managed to get all the danger that was to be reckoned with safely imprisoned in this one small room.

Edward hated him the more for his sarcasm, but was learning the advantages which might accrue from courtesy. “It was kind of you to come to see us, Sir,” he said.

The King seemed to pull himself back from the long vista of his thoughts. “I came to see you, Edward, because I am going away. To make sure that Will Slaughter is looking after you as befits the son of Lady Elizabeth Grey.”

The sternness of his voice seemed to escape Richard. “Where are you going, please, Sir?” he asked, with the liberty which his own father had allowed his extreme youth.

Mellowed by the thought of being in the saddle again, the King settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “Up through the Midlands to Oxford—a few days in Gloucester, of course—and then to our own town of York.” In speaking to this eager little kinsman he found himself talking of it quite involuntarily as “our” town.

“You will like that much better than stuffy council-chambers!” grinned young Richard, with quick intuition. “And will Aunt Anne—the Queen, I mean—go with you?”

“She will go direct to York. A gesture to our northern subjects which every wise Sovereign should make after his crowning in the south.”

“And Cousin Edward?”

“We are both hoping so. But he is rather young for so long a journey considering that he has been sick these last few days.”

If the King's anxiety was patent, so was his nephew's envy. “I am a little older and not at all sick,” he stated, not daring to ask outright. And then, as the King did not answer, he fetched a prodigious sigh and added, “I do so
ache
to be out in the sunshine. The Duke of Buckingham gave me a new pony and I have scarcely ridden him.”

The King laughed, rumpled his red-gold hair and got up, conscious of a queer reluctance. “Clearly, my dear Dickon, your duty is to stay here and cheer your brother until we come back,” he told him, glancing disapprovingly at his elder nephew's slovenly, untied points. “It would be a good thing perhaps if you could teach him—to dance.”

Disappointed, Richard watched him go. “Could you perhaps, of your kindness, give our love to Bess?” he ventured, seizing his final chance. “I think she may be anxious about us.”

“Why should she be anxious?” enquired the King, in that thin kind of voice which made people feel foolish and uncertain.

“I—do not know,” faltered Richard, made conscious of a lapse of manners which he scarcely understood.

“I would willingly be your messenger,” said the King. “But short of pushing past the crozier of every bishop in the country I cannot.”

They could hear him for a while talking with Will Slaughter just outside the open door. Telling him which horse he intended to ride on the morrow, discussing the state of the roads, and even laughing ever some campaigning incident of the past.

“He is certainly more at home in camps than council-chambers!” muttered Edward the Fourth's elder son contemptuously, though well aware that it was the same forthright manner with the common people which had made his father so beloved.

But presently Richard, who was nearer the door, began to prance noiselessly in pantomimic exultation. “Move them into the room in the Garden Tower,” he could hear the King saying. “They will be able to get out into the sunshine sometimes.”

The door was closed almost immediately, but Richard did not mind. It would not be for long, he thought.

Only Will Slaughter heard the end of the crisply spoken order. Heard it, and wondered. His hand was still on the bolt and the man he had always served already a few paces along the passage. “And by the way, Slaughter,” he said, halting in his tracks.

“Sir?” From bending over the bolt Slaughter straightened himself smartly to attention.

“That younger one has courage and gaiety,” said the King, without turning his head. “Whatever happens while I am away I would not have him unnecessarily—hurt.”

B
ESS HAS A CROSS bear on her back,” complained little Katherine, whose nurse often used the old household expression during her own childish tantrums. And Elizabeth realized with compunction that it was true. All day she had left the children to their own devices and then, trying to lose herself in the sweet imagery of her new book of verses, had been furious with the noise they made. Even the fine singing of the monks at vespers had failed to restore her usual serenity. Half her mind was still seething over the coupling of her name with Henry of Lancaster's, and the other half kept straying to her brothers in the Tower. She longed to go out and see for herself what was happening in the outside world, and the monotony of austere monastic walls was beginning to suffocate her. The summer evening was so warm and lovely that she ached to be on the river or riding beneath the great beeches at Windsor. “But it must be worse for the children,” she thought compassionately; and after a cheerless supper she went to see what they were doing.

She need not have felt so much compunction.

Guided by shrieks of merriment, she found them gathered in a room shared by Cicely and Ann, and the whole place in the wildest confusion. They had opened two old oak chests which had been brought from the Palace and which had stood in some dark corner ever since. Garments of all kinds were strewn across bed and stools and window-seat, and all four of them were playing at the age-old game of “dressing up.” Even baby Bridget, half asleep in her nurse's arms, had her fair curls rakishly crowned with a garland of roses which one of her ancestresses must have worn as Queen of Beauty at some bygone tournament.

“I hope, Madam, it does not matter their ladyships creasing up all those lovely velvets,” apologized her old nurse Mattie anxiously. “But it is so difficult to find occupation for them these long evenings.”

Elizabeth smiled reassuringly. “They are only old things, Mattie, and it is good to know that my sisters are young enough to be happy in spite of everything.”

“Come and dress up too,” begged Cicely, who was struggling into a pair of hose considerably too tight for her.

“Take them off before you split them,” advised Ann, with sisterly candour.

“But here is the doublet to match,” said Cicely, diving afresh into one of the coffers. “It's the one with the green ruffles which Dickon fancied himself in so last Christmas. Do you remember?”

“Put it back,” said Elizabeth sharply, remembering only too well.

“Well, come and dress up in something yourself,” urged Cicely goodnaturedly. “Here is a lovely flowered gown which would suit you to perfection.”

How dear of them to be so eager for her to join in their play, thought Elizabeth, and to bear her no grudge for her day-long churlishness! “I would willingly try it on but that it appears to have been made for a giantess,” she laughed, perching herself companionably on a corner of the nearest chest.

“Then wait while I find you something smaller,” offered Ann obligingly, turning over a mounting pile of garments.

“Look! There's brother Ned's suit with the roses,” pointed out small Katherine, as well as she could for the flowing veil in which she imagined herself to be a bride.

“Bess doesn't want to dress up as a boy,
petite imbecile
!' said Ann, throwing the favourite old suit aside. But Elizabeth picked it up and examined it attentively. It was made of plain black velvet with white roses of York stitched all over it. “Edward is so tall for his age I believe I could get into it,” she said, beckoning to one of the women to unhook her dress.

The children were delighted. Willing hands helped to fasten the doublet and to tie the points of the long black hose. “Why, you look wonderful, Bess!” exclaimed Ann, whose dress sense already bade fair to be excellent. “Here,
chérie
, let me tuck some of your hair under this black-velvet cap. And put your feet into these square-toed shoes. They are distressingly clumsy, but I cannot find Ned's.” Dainty Ann knelt back on her heels and stared in astonishment at the transformation she had wrought. “You know, Bess darling, you make a wonderful boy. No one would ever guess, would they, Cicely?”

“You look like another person—the way you did in that grand French wedding gown,” said Cicely, gaping with astonishment. “Only now, I am glad to say, you don't look grand at all. Except for the silk roses, of course.”

“Bring me the mirror,” said Elizabeth, and, suddenly finding herself in urgent need of more mature confirmation, raised questioning eyes to kind old Mattie.

“Truly, Madam, you might be his young Grace the King,” Mattie told her.

“Or one of the pages, with those shoes!” giggled a gawky young nursery girl who had come to carry Bridget to her cradle.

“If only Dickon were here he would make up some play for us to act now that we are all dressed up,” sighed Ann, exquisite in somebody's flame-coloured pageant dress.

“I will try to invent one in his stead,” said Elizabeth, looking down with particular satisfaction at the incongruous shoes.

They clapped their hands with delight, and when it was acted and the hour-glass had run down to bedtime the girls declared that never since their father's death had they enjoyed so good an evening's entertainment; and the waiting-women were no less pleased because a considerate Princess insisted upon her sisters helping to tidy the room. She even began folding things up herself; but while they were all busy she slipped away, and none of them noticed that she had taken her own impromptu costume with her.

Far into the night, almost to the last gutter of her candles, Elizabeth, the King's daughter, sat diligently unpicking white silk roses; and in the morning as soon as the kitchen fires were being raked she dressed herself carefully in the plain black velvet, trying to hide the gleaming length of her hair as Ann had done. She drew close the curtains of her bed so that the servants might think she slept late, then donned the square-toed shoes and, with pounding heart, crept softly down the backstairs, uncomfortably conscious of the unaccustomed draught about her slender, tightly hosed legs.

As a child she had often seen inside the Palace kitchens, and by comparison the Abbot's looked intimately small. She had counted upon there being more people about so that she might slip out unseen. But on the other hand there were no complicated passages to negotiate. Near the backstairs entry, in which she stood, some of the servants were sitting on a bench still finishing their breakfast ale, while beyond them a couple of scullions hung freshly filled pots on the chains above the great open fire. A lay brother appeared to be superintending the cooking, and in the middle of the stone-flagged room a tall monk sat at an old refectory table with an account book, chequerboard and several little piles of coins in front of him. He was bargaining for country produce as the carters brought in their wares, and the going and coming through the outer door at the far end of the room was considerable. Through the blunt Norman arch of it Elizabeth could see the open courtyard and groups of peasants unloading fresh vegetables. Some of them, their produce sold, were already throwing back their empty sacks and departing. It should be easy enough, she thought, to pick up a sack and walk past the unsuspecting guard beside them; and once outside the Abbey precincts she knew the way to the Palace water-stairs. Ferrymen were always hanging about at the moorings. She had only to call “Hey, there, a boat for below bridge!” and step casually aboard as she had seen young 'prentices do a hundred times when going about their master's business. And then, once out in the early-morning sunshine, she would be borne swiftly away from the stifling walls of sanctuary upon the sparkling tide. There would be the breath-taking thrill when the boat shot expertly through a narrow arch of the bridge, and beyond it, solid and white and strong, would be the Tower with the water swirling through the portcullis of the gate into the sullen moat, and the grim, battlemented towers above.

Perhaps in a few minutes from now she would see her brothers again. If she were fortunate, one of them might wave—though, to be sure, they would not recognize her in doublet and hose. And if they were not yet up she would tell the boatman to row back slowly at slack tide, hoping to see them on her return journey.