The Lady of the Ravens

3

WHEN A BARGE WAS sighted on the river flying Lady Margaret Beaufort’s portcullis emblem, the Coldharbour household went into high alert. With his coronation only a few days off, she had been staying with the king at Kennington Palace to assist in the arrangements and her return to her own home so close to that date was a surprise.

I watched with Elizabeth from a window in the great hall as the noble lady disembarked, along with a procession of porters bearing gifts, doubtless gleaned from among those presented to King Henry to celebrate his crowning: baskets of oranges probably from Spain, crocks of honey and casks of wine from France. As usual she was elegantly garbed in a deep red velvet gown trimmed with gold fringes and a close-fitting black chaperon hat against the sharp river breeze. Although she had accepted the somewhat ageing title of ‘My Lady the King’s Mother’, at not much more than forty she was still fit and energetic and strode briskly up the garden path that led from the quay to the mansion, taking the slope without slowing her pace.

She did not come to the great hall however, but went to her solar and sent a page to summon me, rather than first paying her respects to Elizabeth, who was more than somewhat peeved. ‘She will not acknowledge the servant before the mistress when I am married to her son,’ she muttered, sinking back onto the cushions of the window seat and taking refuge in her embroidery, while I blushed furiously, murmured an unnecessary apology as if it were my fault, and fled from the hall to obey Lady Margaret’s call. Not for the first time I felt the strain of being Elizabeth’s attendant as well as, at present, her only friend.

The kind lady who had been my foster mother was now the first lady in the land; at least until King Henry took a wife as queen. I had been with her almost throughout the time of her son’s exile, grown up under her strict but compassionate care and stayed with her as a companion and foster daughter until the usurper had discovered her part in a rebellious attempt on his throne and sentenced her to house arrest under the supervision of servants loyal to him. Her own household had been forced to leave and I had not returned until after her son Henry had fought for the throne and won it.

‘How are things between you and Elizabeth, Joan?’ she asked as soon as we had exchanged kisses of greeting.

‘They are fine, my lady,’ I replied, ‘or they were until you summoned me ahead of greeting her.’

‘Oh dear, have I offended her?’

‘Just a little I think.’ I smiled at the slight note of insincerity in her voice.

‘Well, she is not queen yet and until she is I remain first lady in the land. It will do her no harm to accept this for the time being.’

‘I’m sure she will do so graciously – for the time being.’ I laid a certain stress on the last words and received my patron’s smile in return. She was a tiny woman with a big heart and a sharp intellect; I admired her enormously.

Except when on her knees at prayer she was rarely still and at this moment she tucked her hand in the crook of my arm and walked me towards the window of her solar, which overlooked the Thames. ‘It pleases me greatly that you have obviously become a good friend to the Lady Elizabeth, Joan, but you must realise that you do not have sufficient rank to hold a senior position among her ladies when she becomes queen. The king has asked me to supervise the appointment of her female household and I think it would look good if her sister Cecily were to be chief among them. But I am not sure how well the two get on. Do you happen to know whether such a partnership would work?’

I hesitated before answering. Having only observed the two princesses together as young girls, on the odd occasion they had been there when I had attended Lady Margaret at their parents’ court, I had not gleaned any real idea of how they got on. ‘I couldn’t say, my lady,’ I admitted. ‘She talks about her sisters often and worries how they are, but I don’t get the impression that she and Cecily were particularly close. I think Princess Mary was her favourite and closest to her in age but of course she died.’

I felt Lady Margaret give my arm a gentle squeeze. ‘Yes, how sad that was. Do you think you could sound Elizabeth out about Cecily for me, Joan? I don’t want to suggest she appoint her as chief lady-in-waiting, only to have her immediately veto the idea. It might jeopardise our future relationship.’

I took a deep breath. Negotiating royal relationships was not something I had ever imagined doing. ‘I can try, of course, but would this not be something their mother might advise you about?’

Lady Margaret glanced around, as if there might be a spy lurking in her solar. ‘Their mother is presently living at Sheen Palace and has yet to demonstrate reliable support for the Tudor crown. My son does not believe her to have entirely abandoned the Yorkist cause but by bringing Cecily into her household, Elizabeth would be indicating that her whole family supports King Henry’s reign. And after suffering the humiliating marriage foisted on her by the usurper, as the queen’s chief lady-in-waiting Cecily would acquire high status once more and a good income, which should inspire her gratitude, if nothing else. By the way, I will be telling Elizabeth that her sister’s regrettable misalliance is to be officially annulled by the consistory court in York in December.’

This would be welcome news to Elizabeth, who had fretted much over the fact that in order to provide for the nieces he had rendered illegitimate, the usurper Richard had arranged a marriage for Cecily with one Ralph Scrope, the younger brother of a Yorkshire baron, and I assumed that at only fourteen, it was not a union she had entered willingly.

‘How well do you get on with your sister Cecily, Lady Elizabeth?’ I tried to slip this question in casually as I helped her to dress on the day of King Henry’s coronation, hoping that her mind would be occupied and she might not question the query.

But she did. ‘Why do you ask, Joan?’

‘It’s been suggested that you might appoint her as your chief lady-in-waiting – after your marriage, of course.’

‘When I am queen you mean.’ Her chin lifted. ‘Who made the suggestion? Was it the king’s mother?’

Blood rose to my cheeks. ‘Well, yes, it was Lady Margaret. Does that matter?’

Elizabeth gave a considered sniff. ‘No, not really, but now I know why she snubbed me and commanded your presence the other day without greeting me first. That will not happen when I am queen. I will be first lady and she will walk behind me, whether the king likes it or not. I was reared to be a queen, Joan. She was not.’ She turned to gaze out of the window, which faced west, the direction in which lay Westminster. ‘I do not need anyone to tell me how to perform my duties, or what respect I should be owed.’

I bit my lip before responding. ‘I do not believe there was any disrespect behind the suggestion that you might appoint your sister as your chief attendant. Lady Margaret thought you might feel more comfortable with a member of your family at your side.’

‘I will have the king at my side. He will be my family and when we have children, so will they.’

I dared to pursue the point. ‘Does that mean you would prefer not to appoint Lady Cecily?’

The expression of offended nobility left her face and was replaced by one of mischievous intent. ‘No. It means I will do my own appointing and when I require her help I will ask for it. You can tell Lady Margaret that if you like, Joan.’

Two days after the coronation the king’s mother came to Coldharbour again, this time to give Elizabeth a description of the event and the celebrations that had followed. I could tell from her expression that Elizabeth was in two minds as to whether she wanted to hear this, probably preferring to have had King Henry’s impressions from his own lips. However, having already been waiting impatiently for longer than she liked, she was not about to refuse Lady Margaret’s account.

It was a highly charged one. ‘It was an extremely moving occasion, dear Elizabeth!’ she began. ‘A ceremony of such immense significance! I do not know how the king remained dry-eyed. Of course I should not have succumbed to tears but when the archbishop placed the crown on my son’s head I admit I was overwhelmed. Nor was I alone in this. Even his uncle, the great Jasper Tudor, had tears sliding down his cheeks as he knelt to be the first to make his oath of allegiance.

‘God’s presence and approval was divinely evident throughout the ceremony. Henry’s anointing was truly awe-inspiring, even though it was performed under a canopy and hidden from view; as the holy chrisom was applied the choir’s anthem rose in a glorious crescendo and I felt as if my heart would burst. Everywhere was brilliant spectacle; the new green and white uniforms of the yeoman guards, the red robes and jewelled coronets of the barons and the splendidly embroidered copes of the clergy, led by the bishops with their gilded mitres and gem-studded croziers. It was enough to bring pride and joy to every heart and a prayer to every lip.’

She reached out to take Elizabeth’s hand and held it between her own, her face charged with sympathy. ‘I am so sorry you were not there. Had it not been for the question of rank, of course you would have been and I’m sure you’d have been more thrilled and proud than anyone. The king has asked me to assure you that when parliament meets next week, after the Act of Royal Title has been repealed and every copy consigned to the bonfire, there will be parliamentary endorsement of his long-avowed intention to marry you and to unite the warring factions of Lancaster and York under a new Tudor dynasty.’

Gently and politely Elizabeth removed her hand, clasping both of hers tightly together in her lap once more. ‘I will look forward to hearing that from the king’s own lips, my lady,’ she said. Her back grew straighter and her head seemed to rise above Lady Margaret’s.

My glance swung from one to the other and I noticed a marked similarity in their expressions. Both women were direct descendants of King Edward the Third and pride was etched into each face; steely resolve glinted in the blue eyes and the grey. For a time I had fretted that Elizabeth might have met her match in My Lady the King’s Mother but at that moment I recalled her recent forceful declaration that she would be first lady and walk beside the king. ‘I was reared to be a queen, Joan. She was not.’

I felt a surge of relief. The wedding was on and Elizabeth was exerting her authority. The fear of rebellion receded and with it the prospect of violence in the streets of London and a resurgence of civil war. I wished I could be at the Tower, to see if ravens were flocking in on a new sense of national security.

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