Little Ned, future Prince of Wales, was clearly uncomfortable in such resplendent attire. He looked small and lost without his relations surrounding him. His cousins, aunts, and uncles were all either dead now, in exile, or in sanctuary.
To the plaintive sound of Gregorian chanting, Ned’s mother and father, humble and barefoot, were making their way down the cathedral’s long aisle, first Anne looking lovely in white tis-sue and cloth of gold, her dark hair flowing long about her shoulders. Anne’s train was carried with haughty formality by Margaret Beaufort. Her husband, Thomas, Lord Stanley, walked behind the queen, carrying the royal scepter.
Then, accompanied by his “kingmaker,” Harry Buckingham, and two archbishops, came her uncle in a gown of purple velvet—
Richard the Third, moving with grace and dignity toward the altar.
Bessie was instantly riveted to the sight of his face. She had never, she thought, seen a man more broodingly beautiful. His black eyes shone and his olive skin glowed. The sharp cut of his jaw—Bessie stopped herself.
I should loathe this man,
she thought.
He has stolen the crown from my brother. All ofmy family curses him, yet
I admire him.
The Archbishop of Canterbury began intoning a benediction, and incense wafted to Bessie’s nostrils. Richard and Anne, kneeling side by side, bared their breasts for the anointing with holy oil. The crown of Saint Edward was held high overhead, and Bessie could see Richard, chin lifted, following it with his eyes.
What must he be thinking?
she wondered.
He never wished for
this.
The crown was lowered slowly to a droning prayer. In the moment before it touched his head, he turned and, with quiet desperation, sought Anne’s eyes. She was waiting, with her face turned toward him. Richard’s shoulders sagged, a barely perceptible gesture. But Bessie had seen it—
his relief. Anne is by my
side. Anything is possible!
A sob escaped Bessie’s throat and hot tears crowded her eyes.
The glittering crown was set carefully onto Richard’s thick black hair and settled heavily on his head. The monks’ plainsong rose and filled the arched cathedral.
An honorable man is made
King of England,
thought Bessie.
God save the king!
The courier from the Burgundian Court arrived under the sign of the Red Pale with little pomp and less ceremony. “ ’Tis just like his mistress,” Nell heard her father say when the messenger presented him with a sealed letter and a fat purse from his old friend Duchess Margaret of Burgundy.
Rich and powerful as she was, and ruler of the most splendid land in Europe, Bessie and Edward’s “aunt Maggie” was modest and well considered in all things.
Indeed, Margaret had had the foresight to become William Caxton’s very first patron. It was
she
who had encouraged him to change professions, from “governor” of the Merchant Adventurers Company—the most wealthy and influential English businessman on the continent—to printer, at a time when printing was an almost unheard-of profession with no promise of remu-neration, save her patronage.
Nell enjoyed hearing her father tell the story of his years in Burgundy as a merchant adventurer, and his early ties to the royal York family.
“Margaret was a rare beauty back then,” he said. “The only one of the York children besides Richard who was small and dark-haired. She’d hated her marriage to Philip the Good, who despised her for her infertility.”
“Unfortunate for royalty, a barren womb,” Nell observed.
“She was very, very lonely and suffered badly from the lack of English company so far from home.”
“Till you became her friend,” Nell offered.
“Yes.” Caxton’s eyes grew clouded. “Your mother had recently died and Duchess Margaret learned that I was alone with a young daughter. She befriended me and I her.”
“I remember when her brother, King Edward, came to Bruges,” said Jan. “I was a small boy, but there was great excitement—the King of England exiled on our shores!”
“Margaret offered her brother and the few faithful who’d escaped Warwick’s rebellion refuge. That was when she introduced the king to me.”
“And that was how your fortunes came to be made,” Nell added. “When he needed a large sum of money to return to his kingdom to wrest the throne back from his usurpers,
you
raised it.” Now Caxton smiled, remembering. “When I returned home with you, Nell, and you, Jan, thinking of bringing the first printing press to England, the royal family awaited us with open arms.”
“A shop and a house within shouting distance of Westminster Palace,” Nell added. “Every grateful royal an enthusiastic patron.”
“What days those were, when sanity reigned,” said Caxton with a rueful smile. “Welll. . .” His eyes softened. “Lovely Margaret. She still counts me as her friend.” Jan held up the bulging purse her courier had delivered. An avid reader, and proud of her role as instigator of the English-language press, Margaret always purchased a dozen copies of every book Caxton printed. This was the reason for today’s bulging purse.
“May we hear the letter, Father?”
As he always did, Caxton read Duchess Margaret’s letters aloud to Nell, and recently to Jan de Worde, who was shaping up, in her father’s estimation, to be something more than a mere apprentice. Jan was as clever and industrious a young man as Caxton himself had been, and her father confided to Nell that one day, when the time had come to give up the press to retire-ment, Jan de Worde would likely take it over.
“ ‘Dearest William,’ ” he began reading as Nell and Jan put-tered about the bookstore, dusting and rearranging the volumes on their shelves. “ ‘I would begin with the usual greetings, and the wish that all is well with you and Nell, but I am too heartsick for such pleasantries. Here I sit, helpless on the continent, whilst in England my family is being torn asunder.’ ” Caxton’s face grew dark with the words he was speaking, for the letter was a reminder that the turmoil all round them stretched far across land and sea.
“ ‘I had not yet recovered from my favorite, though wayward, brother Clarence’s execution when Edward died suddenly,” Caxton read on. “It seems impossible that only a few months have passed since then, and it seems every day a messenger arrives at my court with new and horrible tidings from London.
I cannot say with whom I am most angry. With my brother Edward for dying, with my brother Richard for usurping young Edward’s throne, or with my sister-in-law Elizabeth for setting in motion such evil circumstances with her greed and perpetual scheming. Now my nieces and nephews will pay the price for their elders’ follies. Of course, I worry most about the boys locked in the Tower of London, with Harry Buckingham holding the key. And poor Bessie. She is a sweet and beautiful girl, but who will want to marry her now? I will attempt to make a match for her in Burgundy. Since it cannot be for dynasty, then perhaps a love match. There are worse things, after all.
“ ‘Enough of my complaints. I would be most grateful if you would provide me’ ”— Caxton broke off as his eyes scanned the rest of her letter with the names of requested books. “And it goes on.” He looked up at Nell. “There she is, ruler of a great and powerful country, and as helpless as we are to change the Fates.”
Sobered and silenced by the thought, they were startled when the shop doorbell clanked and Bessie entered.
She regarded them all with alarm. “Has someone else died?” The question struck the Caxton trio as somehow comical, and they burst into simultaneous laughter.
“No one has died,” William Caxton answered. “ ’Tis a letter from your aunt Maggie. And whilst reminding us of our losses, it thankfully reports no new ones.”
Bessie relaxed and smiled.
“There’s something about
you
in it,” said Nell.
“Tell me!”
“Your aunt is trying to find you a love match in Burgundy.” Bessie rolled her eyes. “I dread her idea of a love match.”
“I hear the men are quite large and virile in Burgundy,” Jan piped in unexpectedly. With his Low Countries accent, it became “larch and vurl,” and this sparked another round of hilarity.
When the laughter finally ceased, Nell grabbed Bessie’s arm and announced, “We’re off. My last day of freedom, and I’m going to spend it carousing on Totehill Street with my best friend.”
“Enjoy yourselves,” said Nell’s father.
“We shall be sure to keep an eye out for large and virile men,” Bessie added as they went, laughing, out the door.
Once the girls were on the street and out Westminster Gate, their merriment was short-lived. It was a gray, overcast day, and the truth was, Nell and Bessie were out for neither a day’s shopping nor for pleasure. Their errand was far more serious. A dozen shopkeepers, vendors, and streetwalkers called out their greetings to the pair, but the girls never stopped to chat with a one of them, instead waving back with friendly smiles.
“I argued with Mother again about the family coming out of sanctuary,” said Bessie. “She will not budge.”
“And her reason?” Nell asked.
“She insists we are all in danger. From whom I cannot say.
Uncle Richard, every week, requests my sisters’ and my presence at court. Every week my mother says no. I’m convinced she
prefers
sanctuary. She is more private that way. Able to do her business without prying eyes behind fifteen feet of stone wall.”
“Did she forbid you to come out today?”
“As always. She says I’m a dreadful girl to disobey her so blatantly, but how can she keep me locked away? We’re no longer royal.” Bessie was starting to fume. “She just wishes to control me.”
“Well,” said Nell, “
I
shall soon be under the wing of an even
more
controlling woman, if that can be imagined.”
“Do you think Margaret Beaufort is more of a fiend than my mother?”
Nell thought for a moment. “ ’Tis hard to say who is the greatest powermonger, but they are certainly cut from the same cloth.” She was struck suddenly by an uncharacteristic jolt of uncertainty. “Was it horribly disloyal to have taken the post?
Should I have said no?”
“Certainly not!” Bessie cried. She stopped in her tracks and forced Nell to look at her. “In the past months you’ve learnt how it feels to be at the very center of things. You’ve such a good mind for it, Nell. And sad as it is, there’s nothing that can be done to put my brother back on the throne.” She grasped Nell’s hands. “What an extraordinary opportunity—secretary to Margaret Beaufort. It would be for anyone. But for a
woman
. . .”
“With you and your mother still confined,” Nell added, “ ’tis important to have a friendly ear at court.”
“Don’t think Mother hasn’t thought of that already. But honestly, Nell, you needn’t make excuses. I’ll wager that if you stayed home, you’d miss the excitement of it all.”
“Admitted.” Nell was thoughtful. “I just somehow feel I shall have an unparalleled education under Lady Margaret’s tutelage.”
“You no doubt will. And then,” Bessie said with a grin, “you can pass it along to me.”
They continued walking and kept up a brisk pace for half a mile till they reached a row of goldsmiths’ shops. Here, the coach Nell had arranged for them was waiting. They hopped in and the two girls were off.
It took the carriage more than an hour, passing Fleet Street and Temple Bar, and finally down Thames Street, to traverse the five miles to the Tower of London. Bessie paid the driver and they alighted near the West Gate.
Nell, looking round quickly, pushed Bessie into Gresham’s Mercantile, a three-story building that sat in the Tower’s shadow. This dry-goods and sewing establishment was the main producer of uniforms for the Tower staff.
As they entered, Nell inhaled the rich fragrance of the cloth and textiles as one would perfume—the smells from her earliest childhood and her father’s own mercantile shop. They were greeted by the store’s owner, George Gresham. Tall, lean, and the picture of a prosperous London businessman, he was an old friend of William Caxton’s, one whom Nell knew could be trusted.
With hardly a word spoken between them, Gresham led her and Bessie to a locked door of his shop’s back room, and there began the prearranged disguising. There were two outfits laid out, each of appropriate size to the girls. Off came their rich and refined gowns, and on went the simple, coarse garments of serving women. Nell was transformed into a laundress, Bessie into a kitchen maid.
Bessie stood staring at herself in a long looking glass. “This reminds me,” she said as Nell laced up the back of her bodice,
“of my aunt Anne and uncle Richard.”
“
Everything
reminds you of your uncle Richard,” Nell teased her gently.
“No, no, have you not heard the story of how, when Uncle Clarence tried to keep Anne from marrying Richard, Clarence hid her from him by disguising her as a kitchen maid and putting her to work in a country house?”
“This is a true story?”
“On my honor true, and highly romantic. Richard, you see, was determined to have his childhood sweetheart despite his brother’s greedy attempts to keep them apart. He cleverly fer-reted out Anne’s whereabouts, snatched her away from her po-tato peelings, and married her in secret before Clarence could steal her again.”
“You do have an interesting family history, my friend.”
“Too interesting,” said Bessie, and sighed. “Well, how do I look?”
“All you need is a pot and ladle. And I?” Bessie appraised Nell’s appearance. “I’m afraid the ruby ear-bobs will give you away.”
Nell pulled them off, then said, “Let me see your curtsy.” Grabbing her skirt on either side, Bessie bent a knee.
“A bit deeper,” instructed Nell, “and lower your eyes. In fact, ’twould be a good idea if we were to keep our heads down as much as possible. It wouldn’t do for either of us to be recognized.”
“I’m afraid, Nell.”
“So am I. But I have it on good intelligence that Harry Buckingham is never at the Tower on Mondays. He’s hardly there at all. He spends all of his time with the king at Westminster Court.”
“We should go,” Bessie said.
Nell patted down Bessie’s gray fustian skirt. “Your brothers await.”