“Dreadful news,” her mother amended. “Dreadful.”
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“Your father’s treaty with France has fallen to pieces.” Bessie was immediately alarmed. The king’s treaty with Louis the Eleventh had kept England from going to war with France and, for the past eight years, brought her father’s treasury fifty thousand crowns a year—a not insubstantial sum. Many at court, however, including her mother, had believed the English king weak for accepting money instead of a sure military victory over their ancient enemy.
“Will the payment—?” Bessie began.
“We have received our last payment,” the queen said, and glared at her husband.
“There’s more, I’m afraid,” he said. He was slurring his words. ’Twas not two in the afternoon, but the drink had taken its toll. “You shall not be marrying the French dauphin.” Bessie suppressed an urgent desire to whoop with joy, but instead retained a sober expression. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said.
“You’re thrilled,” said the queen, skewering Bessie with a vin-dictive stare.
“Why is the marriage canceled?” Bessie asked her father, ignoring her mother entirely.
“Louis has determined that an alliance with Spain is of greater value than an alliance with myself. Maximilian has a daughter. She’s the dauphin’s new bride. They have already married.” With great effort the king pushed himself to sitting, reached over, and patted his daughter’s arm. “Not to worry, sweetheart. We’ll find you a good husband.”
“Who?” the queen shot back. “What prince is there on the continent that is of any value to us? This is a disaster!”
“Now, Elizabeth . . .” he said, but lay back down in the pillows, finishing his sentence with nothing but incoherent muttering. Then fell silent.
In the dim candlelight the queen bristled so violently that Bessie was forced to bite the inside of her lip to keep from laughing aloud.
“I pray that all will be well, Father,” she said finally, “and I trust that you and Mother will find me a suitable husband.”
“She’s mocking us, Edward.” Elizabeth’s voice was pure venom.
“Come, Elizabeth,” he chided. “She’s neither said nor done anything untoward.” He looked at Bessie from under hooded eyelids. “Have you, sweetheart?”
“Nothing, Father.” Bessie glared back at her mother. “I wish for nothing but what you wish for me.”
“Liar,” her mother said.
Bessie’s face flushed hot with fury, both at her mother’s insult and at the truth of her accusation. “May I have leave to go?” she said.
“Of course,” the king replied. He pulled a braided silk cord that hung from the ceiling and a moment later the caravan door opened.
Bessie rose and, again curtsying to them both, walked out into the daylight.
he welcome to Ludlow had been splendid. As the castle Tcame into sight, Bessie and Nell, their heads poking out their carriage windows, watched the king’s harbinger riding ahead and shouting loudly that His Majesty and the court approached and that all should make ready for them.
The first blasts of trumpets could be heard from Ludlow as the gates were thrown wide open and the vanguard of soldiers, first in line, clattered across the moat bridge into the large courtyard. One by one the conveyances followed. This day the windows of her parents’ caravan were thrown open to show the royal couple displayed like two precious jewels in an ornate setting.
As Bessie and Nell’s carriage crossed the bridge, they beheld a most joyful scene. There were drums and pipes and singing.
Every cook, laundress, and scullion, every house soldier, clerk, and steward, stood in the yard cheering and strewing thousands of rose petals—all white, signifying the York family flower—
over their heads and onto the carpets upon which the royals would soon be treading.
Prince Edward’s master tutor, Bishop Alcott, with terrible pomp and ceremony, marched forward to meet the caravan, holding before him on a high pole King Edward’s crest with its symbolic “Sun in Splendor,” cast in solid gold.
“Who are they?” Nell asked, pointing to a row of well-dressed male courtiers, trying to maintain their dignity whilst clearly wishing to rush from their formation and greet their visitors.
“They’re my brother Edward’s council, most of them my mother’s Woodville relatives.” Bessie thought for a moment.
“All of them my mother’s Woodville relatives.”
“They look as though they’re ready to spring at us,” Nell observed.
“My parents allow no women in Ludlow Court, in order to keep the men pure around my brother, and they’re bored beyond belief out here in the middle of nowhere. Every one of them wishes to be in London. The Progress coming to them is the next best thing.” Bessie leaned even farther out her
window. “There’s my brother! How handsome and grown up he looks!”
Edward Prince of Wales was, Bessie thought, a larger version of Dickon—the same long legs and yellow locks, sky-blue eyes and sweet disposition. He was standing with proud dignity in a gorgeous purple tunic, edged and fitted with silver trimmings. But as the royal caravan came to a stop, try as he might to restrain his joy, he broke from his dignified pose and raced to the caravan door, waiting breathlessly for it to be opened. He flew into his mother’s arms and she, momentarily unfrozen, laughed delightedly and opened them again so that Edward’s father might embrace him too. As the king, queen, and their firstborn son emerged a golden triumvirate into Ludlow Court, a cheer went up from the well-wishers.
A strange couple were next to emerge from their covered chariot—a potbellied, florid-faced man, Lord Stanley, and his diminutive, tight-faced wife, Lady Stanley, known by most as Margaret Beaufort. They hurried from their coach so that they would be waiting when the doors opened for the Gloucesters, whose fine carriage followed. Bessie’s uncle Richard was helped down by Lord Stanley, his steward. Lady Margaret was there to respectfully greet Richard’s wife, Anne. Little Ned followed his mother out.
After the four youngest princesses emerged from their carriages, Dickon, frantically relieved to be released from his coach prison, began running wide circles round the group, whooping with unbounded joy.
“Dickon, calm yourself,” cried Queen Elizabeth. But it was in vain. There would be no stopping him for several minutes more.
A tall, well-made man looking to be just past forty went to meet the queen, and they embraced with true affection.
“Who is that?” Nell asked of the man. “He looks familiar.”
“ ’Tis my uncle Antony Woodville, Lord Rivers. My mother’s favorite brother. He’s my brother Edward’s governor—indeed, Governor of Wales.”
“I know Antony Woodville. Have known him since childhood.
He’s my father’s dear friend.”
“Of course,” Bessie said. “Was he not the translator of the first book your father printed in English?”
“Indeed. I’ve not seen him since I was a little girl. Certainly not since Father and I returned from Bruges. Father and he have been working via courier.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Uncle Rivers has been here with Edward for years. And when he’s not, he’s off on one pilgrimage or another.”
The door of their carriage was opened, and as Bessie and Nell were helped down by the footman, young Edward spied his favorite sister and came to greet her with many kisses and enthusiastic hugs. Finally they separated.
“I do not think you know my friend Nell Caxton,” said Bessie.
Nell curtsied to the boy. “Your Grace.”
“Of course. You’re Master Caxton’s daughter. I’ve heard of you from my sister. She says terrible things about you.” Bessie pinched Edward’s ear and he yelped.
“Welcome to my court at Ludlow,” he said, and bowed smartly to Nell. “And you too, sister.” He eyed Bessie closely.
“Funny, I remember you as prettier.”
“Edward!” She grabbed his slender waist and began tickling him. He shrieked with laughter.
Nell, wide-eyed, surveyed the roiling throng of nobles. She had been to Westminster Court many times with her father, but
they had been staid and decorous occasions, filled with rigid protocol and ceremony.
This was promising to be the event of her lifetime.
t was a sweet afternoon in Ludlow’s east meadow. Work-Imen sawed and hammered, constructing the risers that, later that week, would seat an audience of a thousand. Bessie and Nell were dressed for the country in pretty day frocks, their hair loose about their shoulders, secured round their foreheads with circlets of flowers. They stood side by side watching as Lord Rivers instructed the Prince of Wales in the ways of chivalry.
The muscles in Edward’s right arm trembled violently as he attempted to lower the long wooden lance with slow control toward the fluttering handkerchief held in Bessie’s outstretched hand.
“Steady, steady, Edward.” Lord Rivers had a soothing voice that seemed to give the boy on horseback the last draft of courage he needed for the final few inches of descent. “Good.” Bessie draped the kerchief over the tip of the lance.
“Now lift,” said Rivers. “ ’Tis not so difficult as lowering.”
“But needing more strength,” Edward croaked. He was perspiring and red-faced, a vein throbbing in his neck. The seven-foot lance rose in a less-than-graceful arc, but finally it rose straight above the prince’s head, and held steady like a soldier’s pike.
“Now release the kerchief,” insisted Rivers. “A slight jiggle should do.”
“What if, on Sunday, the wind takes it?”
“Your uncle Rivers shall make sure there is no wind that day, Edward,” said Bessie.
Rivers smiled the smile that charmed the whole world. Despite her contempt for the queen, Bessie adored her mother’s brother. A moment later the white linen square fluttered down, Edward plucking it easily from the air.
“Good. Now touch it to your heart,” Rivers said.
With his eyes fixed on his uncle, Edward did as he was told.
“And now to your lips. Tuck the kerchief into your sleeve.
On Sunday ’twill be a gauntlet.”
“Brilliant, Your Grace,” said Nell to Edward. “You are the perfect picture of chivalry. Whatever lady you choose to champion will surely swoon at your efforts.”
“You tease me, Mistress Caxton. As badly as my sister does.” Edward dropped his lance into Rivers’s hands; then, with a cherishing hug round his horse’s neck, he flung himself out of the saddle.
Bessie put her arm around him. “Edward, Nell was not teasing. You must learn how to graciously accept a compliment.
Sometimes ’tis harder than accepting criticism.” Edward turned to Nell and executed a handsome bow. “I thank you, Mistress Caxton, for your kind compliment.” She bent over and whispered in his ear, “You may call me Nell.” As Edward’s groom came to take his horse, the quartet left the tilt yard, heading for Ludlow Castle.
“We’ve spent far more time today on your martial arts than is prescribed,” said Rivers to his nephew.
“For good reason,” Edward rejoined. “I think my father would approve of us breaking his rules that I might make a good show of myself on Sunday.”
“Our father never approves of breaking his rules,” said Bessie with a grin. She referred to the strict commandments King Edward had established that regulated every moment, waking and sleeping, of the Prince of Wales’s existence. It was said that it
was only the king’s great love for his elder son that had caused him to write these ordinances, requiring all in his household to memorize them and always obey them—from waking and bedtime rituals, to religious attendance, education, and recreation.
His uncle Rivers was charged with the task of keeping from the boy’s presence all swearers, brawlers, backbiters, common hazarders, or adulterers, all to the purpose that nothing should steal “God’s precious gift, the king’s most desired treasure” from him.
“Perhaps I should skip my dancing lesson to catch me up,” Edward suggested, with as much seriousness as he could muster.
“Perhaps, if you mean to catch up your day,” Bessie teased,
“you should skip dinner instead.”
“Aaugh!” shouted Edward, playfully pummeling her arm.
Bessie and Edward walked ahead, leaving Uncle Antony and Nell to follow.
So tell me,” he said to her. “How does my dearest friend?”
“Father is very well,” Nell answered with a shy smile, delighted to be alone in Rivers’s company. “How could he not be? He lives an idyllic life, he tells me often. He lives an arm’s length from the seat of power. He may be old, but he is strong and healthy of heart and mind. He’s wealthy, works in a respected trade, and enjoys the love of the whole royal family, with Lord Rivers his best and most loyal friend in all the world.”
“And a beautiful daughter who dotes on him,” Rivers added.
Nell found herself blushing furiously at Rivers’s compliment, and said quickly, “And who slaves in his bookstore.” Rivers laughed, a rich, mellifluous sound. When the man smiled, Nell thought, he was the handsomest gentleman in the world. A Greek god.
“So business is good?” he asked.
“Excellent. My father insists that the location inside Westminster you helped him secure is the key to his success. Virtually everyone of importance at the palace or abbey is forced to pass beneath the sign of the Red Pale on the way anywhere.”
“He’s too modest,” Rivers insisted. “William Caxton’s success lies in his foresight—to have known that the English would
one day wish to read books in the English language. And his industriousness, of course.”
“Your books are selling very well,” Nell told him.
Now it was Rivers’s turn to flush with pride.