to his London home at St Paul’s Wharf, a house that held no fond memories for her.
Coldharbour was a stately but rambling residence, set high above the Thames with views of London Bridge and across the river to Southwark. Its long garden sloped down to a private dock, making travel between it and the other Thameside royal palaces swift and easy. On my return there from the Tower I found Elizabeth of York seated under the light of a casement window reading a letter, which she waved at me fretfully.
‘The king’s messenger has been, Joan. Henry has not visited me for a week and now he apologises that he cannot invite me to witness his coronation. What am I to think?’ She was an undeniably beautiful girl, blue-eyed and alabaster-skinned, just coming into full bloom as she approached the end of her teenage years. But at that moment her face was flushed and her brow creased in frustration.
I made a brief curtsy and took the letter from her, perusing it quickly. In order to usurp the throne, Richard of Gloucester had managed to persuade members of parliament that his dead brother’s marriage was invalid, rendering its offspring illegitimate and the eldest boy therefore ineligible to inherit the crown. The letter explained, quite apologetically I thought, that as long as this heinous Act of Royal Title remained on the statute book, according to law Elizabeth was still illegitimate. Therefore all the noble ladies due to witness the king’s coronation at the end of October would outrank her, so King Henry felt it was not advisable for her to attend. Once he had been crowned and a new parliament assembled, the Act would immediately be repealed and she would be restored to her rightful position as premier princess of the realm.
‘Henry will be crowned king but the letter makes no mention of me becoming queen,’ Elizabeth complained. ‘I begin seriously to wonder if he intends to marry me at all and if not, what does he plan to do with me? I feel insulted and abandoned – no longer even sure that I wish to marry him, but whatever would I do otherwise?’
The intensity of her resentment alarmed me. She was usually so calm and serene and I searched for words to soothe her anguish. ‘He signs the letter as “your loving friend”,’ I pointed out. ‘And has he not sent you bolts of velvet and damask cloth and scores of ermine skins for trimmings? These are hardly the presents of a man who does not intend marriage. They will make a gown fit only for a queen.’
Elizabeth’s frown deepened. ‘I suppose you’re right, Joan,’ she said with evident reluctance. ‘On the surface he appears all kindness and generosity but he is miserly with his time. Not only do I have no date for my wedding but I hardly know the man who has supposedly vowed to marry me. I feel like a prize heifer in the sale ring, on offer to the highest bidder.’ Her fingers strayed to her temples and she rubbed them distractedly. ‘Where have you been anyway? I have another headache and I was looking for you to go to the apothecary and fetch more of that vervain potion.’
I folded the letter, written in King Henry’s own looping hand; surely another sign of his wish to please his intended bride. ‘I will go now if you like,’ I suggested, handing it back. Conscious of Usher Gainsford’s warnings, I refrained from making any mention of my morning activities.
‘Yes, thank you, Joan. But I think I will lie down meanwhile. Will you draw the curtains around the bed and help me remove my gown before you go? Wake me when you return if I’m asleep, won’t you?’
Elizabeth was encouraged not to venture out into London’s streets, even in a concealing hood. Most Londoners had always heartily supported her charismatic father, King Edward, and probably would welcome a glimpse of his daughter but King Henry cited the violent street clashes of persistently opposing factions as a reason for her to keep out of sight. Clearly it was considered that a lowly commoner like me could run the risk. Before I left I set a maid outside her door, who might hear her if she called.
Coldharbour was situated not very far from the Tower but it was quite a walk to Blackfriars at the western end of the city wall, where Elizabeth’s favoured apothecary had his shop. However, despite the gutter stink of emptied piss-pots, I enjoyed negotiating the bustle of Thames Street and, in daylight at least, the greatest danger was only from the flyblown offal and dead vermin that littered the thoroughfare.
To my delight, in one of the alleyways leading down to the river, I spotted a busy flock of ravens squabbling around the carcass of a stray dog. London was full of such carrion, which attracted these large birds in considerable numbers. Goodwives might chase them away but they were surely of help to the unfortunate gongfermers, overwhelmed by the task of waste disposal in the city. Over the years I had learned that most of the citizens did not share the Tower garrison’s intense dislike of ravens. Stopping briefly to watch, I admired the birds’ glossy black feathers, which seemed to throw off blue and green reflections under the stray rays of sun that pierced the gloom under the overhanging timber-framed houses flanking the alley.
When I reached the apothecary’s shop in the black monks’ walled enclave, I took it upon myself to ask whether any harm could come of taking too much of the vervain potion but was reassured that its soothing qualities were potent but harmless, so I gave an order for several bottles. While this was being fulfilled, I stole an hour to pay a visit to my mother, who rented rooms in the Blackfriars’ extensive demesne. Katherine, Lady Vaux, to give her official title, although her friends called her Kate, was a popular resident of the tenements there, which had been built to house the widows and families of knights killed on the battlefield. Whenever I called in, I usually found some other lady with her, seeking comfort or advice from one who was known to be wise and well acquainted with grief. On this occasion however, I found my mother in the process of teaching her maidservant, Jess, how to write but the instant I arrived she put aside the waxed tablet they had been using and shooed the girl away into the scullery.
‘What a treat to see you, Gigi!’ she exclaimed, embracing me warmly and delighting me, as she always did, with the use of my childhood nickname and the slight foreign lilt in her voice. I had always thought her a handsome woman, whose dark features I had inherited, although sadly not, in my view, her marvellous warmth and generosity. ‘I expect you have been very occupied with your bride-in-waiting. And I gather Lady Margaret is now ruling the kingdom, while her son is closeted away learning the laws and liberties of England. How is my old friend? In her element I warrant.’
Her friendship with the king’s mother went back more than thirty years, to when she had been a maid of the chamber to Queen Marguerite. They were much of an age and Lady Margaret had been a maid of honour at court before her brief but fruitful marriage to Edmund Tudor, King Henry VI’s half-brother.
‘Indeed. She is officially presiding over the Privy Council,’ I said, taking a seat on the carved settle beside the well-stoked fire. ‘I don’t sit in the council obviously, but I can imagine her style of leadership rather resembles the red dragon on King Henry’s battle banner, breathing flames of fire.’
My mother shrugged and gave a rueful smile. ‘She may be fierce in public but she was always the kindest of friends. I would never have married your father if she had not promoted our match with the king. Even after Edward of York took the throne and forced us to flee back to Piedmont she always wrote to me. And what would I have done with you and Nicholas when poor Queen Marguerite begged me to stay with her as she was taken prisoner to the Tower? Margaret took you in and refused any payment.’
Her memories of that time always made her a little sad. England had been in turmoil. Edward of York had been victorious at yet another bloody battle in which my father was killed, fighting alongside Queen Marguerite’s treasured only son, who also died. In mourning and despair, the two bereaved friends were taken captive to the Tower of London and that is how my brother and I had gone to live with the present king’s mother. Although neither royal nor noble, the life of the Vaux family had not been without incident.
I nodded in acknowledgement. ‘It’s true that she’s always
