Queen of England. My little boys are lost to me forever. It might be true that Richard had murdered them in the Tower as one rumor had had it, yet why he should since they had been proclaimed illegitimate, she could never understand.
There was too much mystery; there had been too much misery; now they were moving forward into brighter times. She must forget the past.
If this child were a boy, contentment would settle on the country. The new dynasty of the Tudors would be accepted and the child would be the vital link which bound the Houses of York and Lancaster together and settled their differences forever.
What was most important now was to care for the young Queen and to bring this all-important child into the world. There was a whole month to wait and waiting was so irksome.
Cecilia had rushed into the room. She was about to reprove her daughter, reminding her that she must remember that she was not only the sister of the reigning Queen but also the daughter of great King Edward who was still mourned with such affection by his subjects. . . .
But this was no time for a lecture on deportment. Cecilia was breathless.
“My lady . . . come quickly . . . it is my sister. . . . She is in pain.”
The Queen Mother felt fear grip her.
“No . . . It cannot be. . . .”
She was out of the room running as fast as she could to her daughter’s apartment.
One look at Elizabeth was enough. “Send for the midwife!” she cried.
Then with the help of her women she took the Queen to the lying-in apartments, which by good fortune had already been prepared for her.
When Margaret Countess of Richmond heard that the Queen’s confinement had begun she went at once to the lying-in apartments. She had prepared them herself, so she knew that everything was in readiness and exactly as it should be.
Let there be no misunderstanding. This was the most important occasion the country had known since the crowning of the new King.
On the orders of the King’s mother, the lying-in chamber, which she had graciously allowed the young mother- to-be to choose herself, was hung with rich arras that was draped even over the ceiling. It hung at the windows, shutting out the light. This was fitting for a royal birth, said the Countess, and as the King accepted her word in all such matters, so must it be. Only women should be with the Queen at the time of the birth and the Countess had appointed members of her own sex even to such posts as butler and pages, positions usually occupied by men.
She knew that Elizabeth Woodville would have liked to countermand her orders; but she dared not. The King had no great liking for his mother-in-law, and the woman knew that she remained at Court on sufferance, because he could not ignore his wife’s mother; even so she would have to understand that she must fall in completely with his wishes if she were to retain her place at Court, and that meant those of his mother also.
The Countess of Richmond was a very determined woman. She had been a beauty in her youth—not such a dazzling one as Elizabeth Woodville, but nevertheless a woman of striking good looks. Her features were regular, serene and so stern that they could be called frigid. She was a woman who kept her own counsel, but there was one thing which was certain—and that was her complete devotion to her son.
She had been not quite fourteen years old when Henry had been born, already a widow for her husband Edmund Tudor had died in the November before his son was born the following January. The bewildered mother had been glad to retire to Pembroke Castle where her brother-in-law Jasper offered her a home. It was Jasper who became the guardian of the young baby and who had brought him through many dangers to his present position.
The Tudors were staunch Lancastrians and Margaret had watched the progress of the Wars of the Roses with alternate fear and hope. The deaths of Henry the Sixth and his son had made the way clear for Henry. How she had hoped and prayed for his success and naturally she had not been above a little scheming too; and at last her seemingly hopeless dream had become a reality. Her Henry—whose claim to the throne even she had to admit was a trifle flimsy—had landed at Milford Haven and from there marched to Bosworth Field where he had had the good fortune to put an end to the reign of the Plantagenets and begin that of the Tudors.
It was dramatic; it was the fortunes of war; and Margaret had played her part in it. Henry did not forget that and he deferred to her. She was glad of that. He was a serious young man, her Henry; she was convinced that he would make a good king. Of course he would. He would always be ready to listen to his mother.
Critically she looked now at that other mother. She had never approved of Elizabeth Woodville and had always thought King Edward must have been wanting in judgment when he married her. Of course everyone knew that he had been a lecher. All the more reason to wonder at his actions in marrying the woman. Still, it was all long ago and Edward and his Queen had given the country the present Queen, a charming girl who would do her duty and would not prove too difficult to handle, Margaret was sure. Moreover the girl, with Henry, had united the Houses of Lancaster and York thereby silencing those fierce Yorkists who might want to drive Lancastrian Henry from the throne. It had all worked out as well as could be hoped, thought Margaret.
But Elizabeth Woodville would have to realize that the King’s mother was in charge of the King’s household, and as the most important part of it at this time was the lying-in chamber, Margaret would be in absolute control.
“It is well,” she said, “that we came to Winchester early as it is the King’s wish that the child should be born here.”
“I should have preferred Windsor,” commented Elizabeth Woodville.
“It is of course the King’s wish that must prevail in these matters. Great King Arthur built this castle.”
“Is
“King Arthur is an ancestor of the King.”
“Oh my dear Countess, there are so many who claim they have descended from Arthur.”
