Princess of Thorns Read online

  Saga Hillbom

  Princess of Thorns

  Princess of

  Thorns

  ISBN: 978-91-519-3833-2

  Copyright © 2021 Saga Hillbom

  Cover Design © 2020 Germancreative, Fiverr

  Cover images: Shutterstock, Depositphotos

  First published in March 2021

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Some names, characters, places, events, and incidents are wholly or partly based on historical facts, while others are entirely a product of the author’s imagination. Real events and characters may be portrayed in a certain manner for the purpose of the story.

  I would like to thank Robin for her unfailing critique and support, Eleanor for mirroring my enthusiasm, and the Richard III Society for all their hard work

  ‘Tant le desiree’

  I have longed for it so much

  Written in Richard III’s hand along with his name on a page of the 12th century chivalric romance Ipomedon, the ‘best knight in the world’, most likely before 1470

  ‘For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground,

  And tell sad stories of the death of kings:

  How some have been deposed; some slain in war;

  Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;

  Some poison’d by their wives; some sleeping kill’d;

  All murder’d: for within the hollow crown

  That crowns the mortal temples of a king

  Keeps death his court’

  Shakespeare, William. King Richard the Second (Act 3, Scene 2)

  Table of contents

  Significant historical figures as of 1482

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Epilogue

  Author’s note

  Significant historical figures as of 1482

  Children who died in infancy are not included, nor are figures of lesser importance at the beginning of the story

  HOUSE OF YORK

  Richard Plantagenet, late Duke of York, Edward IV’s father (b. 1429, d. 1460)

  Edward IV, King of England and Lord of Ireland (b. 1442)

  His children by Elizabeth Woodville:

  Edward, Prince of Wales, frequently referred to as Ed (b. 1470)

  Richard, Duke of York, frequently referred to as Dickie (b. 1473)

  Elizabeth (b. 1466)

  Mary Plantagenet (b. 1467)

  Cecily (b. 1469)

  Anne (b. 1475)

  Katherine (b. 1479), frequently referred to as Kate

  Bridget (b. 1480)

  His brothers:

  Edmund, Earl of Rutland (b. 1443, d. 1460)

  George, Duke of Clarence (b. 1449, d. 1478)

  Richard, Duke of Gloucester, frequently referred to as Uncle Richard (b. 1452)

  HOUSE OF LANCASTER

  Henry VI, late King of England (b. 1421, d. 1471)

  Marguerite d’Anjou, his queen (b. 1445)

  Edward of Westminster, Duke of Cornwall, their son (b. 1453, d. 1471)

  HOUSE OF TUDOR

  Edmund Tudor, Earl of Pembroke (b. 1430, d. 1456)

  Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Pembroke, widow of Edmund (b. 1443)

  Henry Tudor, their son (b. 1457)

  Jasper, Edmund’s brother (b. 1431)

  NEVILLE

  Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, frequently referred to as the Kingmaker (b. 1428, d. 1471)

  Anne Beauchamp, his wife (b. 1426)

  Their children:

  Isabel Neville, Duchess of Clarence (b. 1451, d. 1476)

  Anne Neville, Duchess of Gloucester (b. 1456)

  Cecily Neville, Duchess of York, Edward IV’s mother, the Kingmaker’s aunt (b. 1415)

  WOODVILLE AND GREY

  Elizabeth Woodville, Queen of England, (b. 1437)

  Her children by her first marriage:

  Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset (b. 1457)

  Richard Grey (b. 1458)

  Her siblings:

  Anthony, Earl Rivers (b. 1442)

  Edward, Lord Scales, frequently referred to as Ned (b. 1454)

  Catherine Woodville, Duchess of Buckingham (b. 1458)

  OTHER PERSONAGES

  Thomas Kyme, an esquire (b. 1465)

  Elizabeth Shore, commonly known as Jane Shore, Edward IV’s long-term mistress (b. 1445)

  William Hastings, Edward IV’s close friend and advisor (b. 1431)

  Thomas Stanley, King of Mann, married to Margaret Beaufort (b. 1435)

  John Howard, Earl of Surrey (b. 1425)

  Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland (b. 1449)

  John de Vere, Earl of Oxford (b. 1442)

  Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham (b. 1455)

  Prologue

  4 June 1471, Baynard Castle, London

  RICHARD WIPED THE blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. Even now, a full month after the battle of Tewkesbury, it was still a raw source of irritation.

  The two-year-old girl wiggling on his lap turned her wide eyes to his face and gazed in astonishment through honey-coloured lashes and strands of fine-spun hair that had escaped her short braids. She stretched out a chubby hand to point at his lip.

  ‘Yes. Not nice,’ Richard conceded and made a small grimace at his oldest brother across the room.

  Cecily had begun to emerge as his favourite niece with her curiosity and sometimes brazenness even for her slight age, but Richard had never been particularly comfortable with children in general. They understood so little, yet often more than one expected, and could be horridly unpredictable. At least now, after the flight to Flanders and the return to England as well as the battles of Barnet and Tewkesbury, he felt no need to distance himself from youngsters. At eighteen, Richard knew his brother Edward finally saw him as an adult and an equal after the daunting time they had spent together in exile. Duke of Gloucester, Constable of England, Chief Justice of North Wales, Chamberlain of Wales, Great Chamberlain and Lord High Admiral of England—these were burdensome offices for a boy his age, but he cherished them, for they proved just how great his brother’s trust in him had grown.

  The solar at Baynard Castle was emblazoned with dull gold from the tapers and cressets lining the wall, the mild air of a summer evening saturated with the scent of wax and leather. Though a room large enough for echoes, it held a certain intimacy at this hour, the three sons of York and the princess sitting secluded with the exception of a few servants.

  ‘It is a good thing she has not seen the wound on your arm, little brother,’ King Edward said now, and grinned. ‘Nearly slashed the limb off your shoulder!’

  ‘I doubt not she could take the gore of war better than most grown men
.’

  As if challenged by his words, Cecily twisted around, tugging at the sleeve of Richard’s velvet doublet in a futile attempt to see said gore.

  George, Duke of Clarence, gave an audible sigh and extended a slender hand to accept the cup of Venetian glass that one of the servants offered him.

  ‘What, George?’ said the King. ‘Would you have us speak of your so-called bruises instead?’

  Clarence’s cornflower-blue eyes at once flashed cold. ‘It was your decision, not mine, to give Rich command of the vanguard—again. Your Grace.’ He added the last words through his teeth.

  ‘I had every reason. Unlike some, his loyalty has never failed me.’

  ‘Pox on you, Edward. If you intend to admonish me, I’d rather you had not pardoned me to begin with.’

  Richard watched the exchange between his brothers in tense silence. He knew Clarence did not mean what he said, but had spoken merely out of pride, out of caprice. And the King…the King’s patience was not without limits, yet it endured impressively where his blood kin was concerned. Family. Family above everything; the House of York above everything. That was what their father had imprinted in their minds since they were no older than Cecily was now.

  In a low, guarded voice, Richard said, ‘Let’s not quarrel now. Lancaster is defeated, never to rise again, thank God all-merciful. We ought to celebrate.’

  This truth broke laughter from King Edward’s lips. ‘How right you are! A feast is called for, tomorrow, and now we shall have an abundance of fine wine and fine wenches on that!’

  Richard immediately regretted his suggestion, for a celebration in the King’s eyes invariably meant food, drink, and women, all in greater quantities than could be considered sane by any standard. Perhaps this was not the ideal moment to mention he would rather spend the evening reading The Canterbury Tales and writing a letter to the girl he had long hoped to wed.

  George seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Why, you look thwarted. If it’s Anne Neville, you’d do best to forget her. Whore to the Lancaster prince—’

  In a twitch of blind fury, Richard knocked over his own cup, and Cecily gasped as the crimson liquor spilled down on her chemise. After a heartbeat of terror, her clucking giggles filled the room.

  To Richard’s relief—but not surprise—King Edward was enraged with Clarence rather than with his younger, favourite brother. The issue of Anne Neville was a sensitive one, since the man who married her would obtain half of the inheritance otherwise controlled by her sister’s husband, George, Duke of Clarence. Still, this was neither the time nor the place to sort out the rivalry.

  Richard lifted Cecily off his lap and put her down on the floor. After kissing her father goodnight and granting her other uncle a doubtful glance, she sped to the door, where her nursemaid was waiting to lead her by the hand back to her two sisters and little brother in the nursery.

  Once she was out of sight, the King did indeed order for more wine and his three latest fancies. While his liege lord popped a succulent grape between the equally succulent lips of a fair-skinned woman, and George stared grudgingly into his beloved malmsey wine, Richard exchanged his chair for the window seat. From there, he watched the two men through a candlelit haze. Edward, who loved everything in life with charming indulgence, from his eerily beautiful wife and children to the heat of battle and the sins of the flesh. George, who appeared to love very little save himself, who had betrayed them to Lancaster before turning his coat again.

  One question foremost hovered in Richard’s mind. How, in God’s sacred name, could one prevent the thorns of the Yorkist White Rose from turning inwards on its own house, infecting and shredding?

  Chapter I

  20 March 1482, Palace of Westminster, London

  I FANCY RUBIES but I prefer diamonds. Father must have let it slip his mind, though I did remind him not once but thrice.

  The clamour in the great hall is deafening. Minstrels plucking at lute strings and virginals mingle with the constant choir of chatter from the courtiers and the scraping of knives against wooden trenchers. Fragrant perfume of lavender and the aroma of roasted meat press up my nostrils, intoxicating, clinging silks and flashes of sun-chinked hair blending in a palette of colours before my eyes. How many feasts such as this have I attended in my life? Hundreds, no doubt, yet the atmosphere never fails to imbue me with mirth, a mirth only slightly dampened with disappointment this time.

  Uncle Richard bends down to kiss me on both cheeks, a flicker of discomfort cracking through his composure and the felicity in his pebble-grey eyes. I have never heard him complain about the pain in his back, except to my father; he is too proud. Of course, none holds as dear a place in his heart as Father does, none save his own wife and children. The King was always the brightest shining star, the man who won the intimate trust of men and women alike through smiles and banter. At least it was thus when he arrived in London twenty years hence to claim his crown—I dare not say when the people’s love begun to waver. Perhaps it was when the years took their toll and he grew licentious, or perhaps it was when he drowned his and Uncle Richard’s treacherous brother Clarence in a barrel of malmsey wine.

  ‘What say you of your gift? The King’s Grace thought it might suit you.’ My uncle nods at the jewel-encrusted casket firmly clasped in my hands. The mahogany has turned russet gold in the light from the chandelier, the rubies glistening on the lid like countless beads of blood.

  ‘Well, it is very pretty, Uncle.’

  ‘But?’

  I should have known he would detect the note of hesitation in my voice. He is too attentive to be fooled by my smile.

  ‘But...but Elizabeth received one with diamonds when she turned thirteen.’ I swallow. ‘And I told Father I wanted one like that, too. I told him three times.’

  A subtle smile pulls at the corner of Uncle Richard’s mouth. ‘Yes, I remember. I am afraid that’s the lot of those later born.’

  The glance we exchange contains more than would be prudent to speak: the eternal tinge of envy in us both regarding our older siblings, who appear to have been granted the whole world and more on a golden platter. The difference is that he has long since accepted his place in the shadow of the sun, and been handsomely rewarded for it, while I find it impossible to dull my resentment towards my sister Elizabeth. Her strawberry-blonde locks, her poise and effortless grace, her ability to wipe her face blank of emotion when need be… She is perfection incarnate, sublime, three years my senior, and I suspect God made us with a cruel twinkle in his eye. It is bordering on heresy to think such a thing, but there can be no other explanation.

  Mary is also older, yet she was never a headache to me, having been pallid and sickly all her life. Kind, it is true, but not much more than that. The younger girls—Anne, Kate, and darling baby Bridget—are all half my age or less and a sweet throng of wide-eyed children. It is difficult to imagine them ever growing into adulthood, difficult to think of them as future queen consorts, though that is what we all are: links in the dynastic chain of York that Father hopes to snare Europe with. Scotland shall be mine, so they tell me, if the fighting ever ceases. If, not when. France will be Elizabeth’s, hence she has been styled Madame la Dauphine for many years.

  My gaze wanders to the high table where the King and Queen are seated. Father has his arm on the wrought oak armrest of his chair, his wife’s fingers laced with his like ivy around iron bars, his thumb stroking her knuckles out of habit. Their trenchers are still heaped with venison and honeyed plums—his markedly more so than hers. Few can compete with Father in wining and dining, and perchance one ought not to attempt it, for the sake of one’s own health.

  Not even lovely Elizabeth can hold a candle to Ed and Dickie. They are, after all, boys. Now, they tumble around the great hall, swinging their wooden swords, re-enacting some glorious battle, their doublets of gold-stitched black damask crumpled. Eleven and eight years of age respectively, they should have left childish games behi
nd, but where is the harm? At times, I cannot help but giggle at the thought of the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York forsaking their grand titles along with their manners for an hour or two. They have been brought up in separate households for the sake of Ed’s education, but are quick to revive the familiarity whenever they meet. Dickie’s eyes sparkle when he catches sight of me, and he speeds towards me, stumbling over his own feet in a flurry to escape the perils of Ed’s wooden sword.

  ‘Cece!’ He latches onto me, clutching my skirts. A mere moment later, though, both he and his brother have resumed their game, before the poor esquire tasked with keeping them under close guard hauls them in.

  I struggle to stifle the smile tickling me. I wish I could press Dickie close to me to protect him from the feigned battle; I wish I could join them and disregard all restrictions. I wish… However, if they can barely escape chiding for this kind of rowdy behaviour, I could never. I am of marriageable age, as incongruous as it feels, and the Holy Virgin would weep to see me abandon modesty, as Elizabeth reminded me this very morning

  ‘They are growing up fast, Cecily.’ Uncle Richard brushes away a wisp of ebony hair from his high cheekbone. ‘Not fast enough, I fear. Every day the Prince of Wales spends at Ludlow with Anthony Woodville is a day lost to abhorrent influence.’

  I reach up to adjust my hennin ever so slightly; I can never keep it from tipping, the gauze veil fluttering around my face. The jagged relationship between the nobles, foremost among them Richard, Duke of Gloucester and Lord of the North, and the Woodville clan headed by Mother’s beloved brother Anthony, is a truth widely accepted at court. I rarely dare utter my own qualms regarding the Woodvilles, not when Mother is listening, but at this moment I am safe from reproach.