Her posting at Ludlow through the spring of 1483—a slow, warm season in a verdant pastoral, embraced by the royal family and housed in luxury, had merely been the setting for the true jewel of her existence. Nell had fallen in love twice over.
First with her student, the thirteen-year-old Prince of Wales, whom she now thought of as the brother she’d never had. He was so dear and precocious a child that tutoring, a wholly new profession for her, had proven a natural and joyful endeavor.
This was a strange and wonderful phenomenon—
work become
play
. Edward openly reciprocated her affection, and every day Nell was the recipient of some small but dear token of his love and respect. A bouquet of wildflowers he had picked himself. A pair of doeskin gloves he’d had made for her from the pelt of his latest hunt. The sharing of daily letters he’d received from his family at court.
Of course there were cheerful ones from Bessie, but there were also letters from his mother, replete with domestic gossip—
the childish exploits of Edward’s brother and sisters—as well as missives from his father, these of a more serious nature. The T O T H E T O W E R B O R N
king had recently, to Edward’s delight and pride, begun keeping his son apprised of state business. Treaties forged and broken.
Matters pertaining to the treasury, Royal Navy, trade, and taxation. All of this, Nell ingested, then digested, as great feasts of knowledge. She realized to her surprise that, as to the affairs of England, she had become very well informed.
Her other love—and she hardly dared to call it such—was that which she shared with Antony Woodville, Lord Rivers. To this point, theirs was a passionate affair of hearts and minds only. As she had come to know him better, Nell had learned that Antony’s reputation as England’s most learned, cultured, and pious man was entirely deserved. His erudition on a wide variety of subjects was nothing short of breathtaking. He had traveled extensively and studied deeply. He loved the classics and was particularly fond of Socratic and Platonic dialogues—a favorite of Nell’s as well. These they studied and discussed endlessly, discovering nuances and even humor in the ancient texts.
Antony was openly charmed by Nell and particularly valued her intellect, which, on alternate days he claimed was second only to her beauty. On the other days he swore the reverse was true—that she was the loveliest creature in all England. He marveled at her fascination with political affairs and was intrigued by her unique concept of the invisible “intelligence web” existing in London. Never was there a hint of disapproval for her
“manly interests.”
But to this date their romance had not proceeded beyond an intense incarnation of chivalric love. Courtly love. They might sit side by side for hours, poring over a Latin translation. When they spoke together, debated, laughed, punned, their eyes were locked together, as if searching for a way into the other’s soul.
She knew his eyes so well. The gray-green sparkle of them, the small golden flecks in the irises. How often he blinked. The pattern of the crinkles at the corners—the right different from the left. She knew the contours of his face as well, that beautiful face. The aquiline nose, the full, sensual lips. The perfect teeth, the chiseled jaw. And the laugh. Nell supposed that was what she loved best about Antony—the deep, throaty laugh that she was so frequently capable of eliciting from him.
Yet, she thought, they had never so much as held hands. If they chanced to touch, skin brushing skin accidentally, thighs touching under the desk through the fabric of her gown, his tunic and hose, it was like a sharp jolt, one of equal measures pain and pleasure. She would feel it at the point of contact, but the shock would travel through her body from limb to torso. The heart would pound. Stomach churn. Cunny tingle. There was always a moment of mutual embarrassment when such a thing occurred, and Nell was certain Antony was feeling the same thrill as well.
Her dreams of him had been torrid and seething things, and for days after one of them she could barely look at him without turning bright primrose pink.
But they had, without speaking of it, refrained—heroically refrained—from any physical indulgences that spring—for one simple reason. It was not Lord Rivers’s marriage that impeded them, for that was nothing but a sham. It was not Nell’s virgin-ity, for she had long wished to lose it like other girls of her station, and to delight in the carnal pleasures Master Chaucer had written of in his
Canterbury Tales.
The reason for Nell and Antony’s restraint was simple—the king’s “commandments” that prevailed at Ludlow to protect the Prince of Wales. The overseer of those rules was Lord Rivers himself. It was incumbent upon him to assure that Edward’s en-vironment was pure and sin-free. That no one at his court disobeyed those rules. If Lord Rivers himself were to flaunt the commandments, the very gates of hell would fly open, and heads would surely roll.
Nell and Antony both counted their blessings for such elevated positions in the scheme of things, and also respected King Edward too deeply to break his commandments and betray the trust he’d bestowed upon them. Truly, Nell and Lord Rivers were the keepers of the king’s most precious treasure. Denying physical pleasure was the sacrifice they had painfully accepted.
It was doubly ironic that Prince Edward not only knew of their romance, but approved of it. One evening before bedtime when Nell and Rivers were together reading aloud with the boy from Malory’s
Morte D’Arthur,
he told them how alike he believed Camelot and Ludlow were to each other.
“How do they compare?” Rivers had asked.
“First, they are both set in the west, in Wales,” Edward answered, happy to have his theory given an airing. “The courts of both are very grand and wonderful, though there is danger all round about. I am Ludlow’s Arthur”—Edward chuckled at that—“or at least one day I will be, and I am surrounded by the bravest knights, though we’ve no Round Table. We might have one made. Could we, Uncle?”
Rivers had strived to remain serious in order not to dampen his nephew’s fantasy. “That might be arranged,” he’d said, straight-faced.
“Yes, well, of all the knights, the greatest is Lancelot, or in Ludlow’s case, Lord Rivers.” Edward beamed at his uncle, who could not help but be charmed and flattered by such a comparison.
“Of course I’m not married,” Edward had added, suddenly shy,
“but beautiful Queen Guinevere of Ludlow is Mistress Caxton.” Nell, enchanted by Edward’s storytelling, had been caught short by the last comparison.
“In Camelot,” Edward had continued, warming to his story,
“Lancelot and Guinevere become lovers and betray the king, but I do not think—”
“Edward, ’tis far past your bedtime,” Rivers said, interrupting the boy. “We shall continue reading
Morte D’Arthur
tomorrow evening.” He’d had a hard time controlling his smile, and Nell blushed furiously.
Even now, as she watched Edward dutifully working on his double translation of Tacitus, her face reddened, remembering.
When the door opened, Nell and her pupil both looked up and called out happy greetings as Lord Rivers entered. Not only Antony’s form, thought Nell, but his bodily grace as he moved through the world thrilled her, and today she did not bother to hide her joy at seeing him. His even more frequent presence during the prince’s lessons convinced her that the Governor of Wales shared her deepest feelings.
“Good morning, good morning!” he called out to them, closing the door behind him.
“Has the London courier arrived?” Edward asked.
“Not yet,” said Rivers.
“He’s very late,” the prince observed.
“Are you eager for a particular piece of mail, Edward?” Nell inquired.
“Dickon promised to write me about an African lion they’ve recently delivered to the Tower menagerie. The old one died. He was withered and toothless and slept all day and night. This one, I hear, is young and very fierce. Have you seen the menagerie, Mistress Caxton?”
“No,” she said. “In fact, I’ve never had the occasion to visit the Tower of London at all, except of course to peer into the yard through the gates.”
“Oh, ’tis my favorite place in all of London,” the prince said.
There was a sudden pounding on the schoolroom door.
“Enter!” Rivers called out.
The door swung open and they saw this day’s London courier standing still as a statue, his face ashen, at the doorsill.
“What is it, man? Speak,” Rivers commanded.
Edward rose from his bench and in that moment the courier’s eyes found the boy. The man strode across the room and without warning fell to his knees before him.
“The king is dead!” he cried, and gazed up at Edward. “Long live the king!” As if finally remembering, he thrust a sealed parchment at Lord Rivers, who stood, stunned at the announcement. Gathering his wits, he took the parchment and, thanking the messenger, dismissed him. Slowly he pulled open the letter.
“This is from your mother, Edward. Written to me. ‘This day, nine April, 1483, Edward the Fourth died most suddenly and unexpectedly. My son, Edward Prince of Wales, is proclaimed rightful King of England. You, brother, are herewith ordered to bring him in all haste to London for his crowning.
Bring with you as great an army of loyal men as you can gather in the next days, but hie to Westminster with no delay. Your loving sister, Elizabeth.’ ”
Nell, reeling with the news, yet unable to grasp all of its ramifications, found herself rising to her feet and moving toward her charge.
My life is a dream,
she thought once again as she executed a low and reverent curtsy that brought her to one knee before the thirteen-year-old boy—a child whom she loved and who loved her in return.
“Your Majesty,” she intoned. “Long may you live and reign.” Nell was aware of Rivers coming to her side and himself falling to his knees in front of his nephew. She chanced a side-wise look at him. There were tears brimming in his eyes as he took Edward’s hands in his and kissed them. “My king,” he said.
“Deepest condolences on the sad death of your father. I am, as I
have always been and will always be, at your service and pleasure. God will surely grant you a long and glorious reign.” Nell felt a small hand on her shoulder. She looked up to see that Edward had placed his other hand on his uncle’s head.
“My friends,” he said, his voice tremulous. “What has happened is both terrible and great. I am at a loss what to do. What to say. May I depend on you both to help and guide me?”
“Yes, Majesty,” Nell answered quickly. “I am your most happy servant.”
“I live and I die for you, Edward,” Rivers pledged with terrible gravitas.
Thus began the reign of King Edward the Fifth of England.
It was the greatest army—two thousand strong—that had ever traveled the road ’tween Ludlow and London. Besides the troops were carts of goods, and peopled carriages and coaches of the household Progress. Nell and Rivers rode on horseback, flanking young King Edward on his high horse, just behind the long procession’s vanguard. She marveled at the speed and ease with which Rivers had mustered the army and the Royal Progress within days of his sister’s letter. All these armed Welshmen came quickly, eager to serve under their new king. Along the road, passing through villages and farms, every man, woman, and child within fifty miles had come out to wave and cheer, call out their good wishes and “God save the king!” Nell’s heart was close to bursting to see the warmth and joy with which they welcomed the boy. On the day of their last lesson at Ludlow, Edward had announced to her with a strange mixture of pride and modesty and disbelief, “I am the King of England. My father is dead, and I am Edward Quintus. Blood of royal blood. God’s own general on earth.”
Of course he had planned for this day, Nell knew, but in that vision Edward had been a grown man altogether ready to assume the mantle of kingship. He had assiduously studied a thousand years of the English monarchy and knew full well the fate of boy kings. Chaos and civil strife accompanied all such succes-sions, and he repeated to her the old saw “Woe to the land whose ruler is a child.”
His uncle Rivers had tried to reassure him. He would stay by Edward’s side, he promised, to guide him through the coming days and months and years. Though his father was gone, Rivers would provide all the manly example and paternal love that a boy and king could ever need.
“Soon you’ll be crowned, Edward,” Rivers had said, “and the people will love you. There are not so many years between the present and your majority, and no earthly reason that with a wise council to steer you, the long peace your father negotiated should not continue unabated.”
Much had been said between the three of them, and now they rode in companionable silence.
Nell saw a cloud of dust on the road ahead, and a moment later a man she recognized as Rivers’s courier came riding hell-bent. He reined in his horse before them and, dipping his head to the king, stopped before his master. He thrust the parchment he carried at Rivers, who ripped it open and began to read.
“What is it, Uncle?”
Rivers waved the messenger off, then looked at Edward and Nell. “Richard of Gloucester shall be meeting us at Northampton, just before we reach London.”
“Uncle Richard,” Edward murmured to himself. It was almost as though the thought of Gloucester had not shadowed his mind till this moment. But now Nell could swear she saw the king’s face darken at mention of his hated uncle. She wondered
if there would ever be a time when Edward would soften toward the man.
“Is . . . is anything wrong, my lord?” Nell said to Rivers.
“No, nothing is wrong.” He looked at Edward. “But your mother and Gloucester may be slightly at odds with regards to certain of your . . . arrangements.”
Edward became alarmed. “What ‘arrangements’?”
“The date of your coronation, for example. The queen wishes for the soonest date. In his letter Gloucester has written his concern that he mayn’t arrive in London in time for the crowning.”
“Then he should have left more time for traveling,” said the boy, clearly relieved.