THE LADY OF THE RAVENS
Joanna Hickson

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Joanna Hickson 2020

Jacket design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Joanna Hickson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008305611

Ebook Edition © February 2021 ISBN: 9780008305598

Version: 2020-11-09

Dedication

‘For my ever-supportive husband Ian, who calms me down when I’m up, lifts me up when I’m down and always has a bottle of champagne in the fridge on publication day!’

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Family Tree

Map

Dramatis Personae

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part Two

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Part Three

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Part Four

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Glossary

Author’s Notes

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Family Tree

Map

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Royal Family:

Henry Tudor – King Henry VII

Lady Margaret Beaufort – ‘My Lady the King’s Mother’

Elizabeth of York – Queen Elizabeth

Princess Cecily of York – the queen’s sister & 1st Chief Lady-in-Waiting

Princess Anne of York – the queen’s sister & 2nd Chief Lady-in-Waiting

Dowager Queen Elizabeth (Woodville) – the queen’s mother

Arthur, Prince of Wales – born 20th September 1486, the Tudor heir

Margaret Plantagenet/Pole – the queen’s disinherited York cousin

Edward, Earl of Warwick – Margaret Plantagenet’s younger brother

John, Earl of Lincoln – son & heir of the queen’s paternal aunt Elizabeth, Duchess of Suffolk

Margaret, Dowager Duchess of Burgundy – the queen’s other paternal aunt & a focus of Yorkist conspiracy

Jasper Tudor, Duke of Bedford – King Henry’s paternal uncle

John, Viscount Welles – the king’s maternal half-uncle

Princess Margaret Tudor – born 28th November 1489, eldest daughter of the king

Prince Henry, Duke of York (Harry) – born 28th June 1491, the king’s 2nd son

Princess Elizabeth Tudor – born 2nd July 1492, 2nd daughter of the king

Princess Mary Tudor – born 18th March 1496, 3rd daughter of the king

Prince Edmund, Duke of Somerset – born 21st February 1499, 3rd son of the king

Lady Meg Poyntz – queen’s illegitimate cousin by Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers (see English citizens & Deceased characters)

Royal Households:

King Henry:

PC=Privy Councillor

KG=Knight of the Garter

Sir Richard Guildford – Master of Ordnance & Armaments & PC Later KG

Nicholas Gainsford – Usher of the King’s Chamber

Lord Thomas Stanley – Earl of Derby, High Constable of England & PC Husband of the king’s mother

Sir William Stanley – Earl of Derby’s brother, 2nd Lord Chamberlain, PC & KG

John Morton – Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Chancellor & later Cardinal

John de Vere, Earl of Oxford – 1st Lord Chamberlain, PC, KG & Arthur’s Godfather

Sir Henry Wyatt – Master of the King’s Jewels & Comptroller of the Mint

Giles, Lord Daubeney – succeeded Sir William Stanley as Lord Chamberlain, PC & KG

Queen Elizabeth:

Joan Vaux – former ward of Lady Margaret, later Lady Guildford

Katherine Pennyson/Lady Vaux – Joan’s mother, known as Mother Vaux

Lady Mary Rivers – widow of the queen’s uncle Anthony, Earl Rivers & former ward of Lady Margaret Beaufort

Eleanor Verney – Lady-in-Waiting, married to Sir Ralph Verney, sister of Richard Pole

Elizabeth Jerningham – Keeper of the Queen’s Robes

Thomas Butler, Earl of Ormond – Queen’s Lord Chamberlain

Lady Elizabeth Stafford – 3rd Chief Lady-in-Waiting & daughter of the Duke of Buckingham

Guildford Family:

Sir Richard Guildford of Halden, Kent – Master of Ordnance & Armaments

Sir John Guildford – Richard’s father & Comptroller of Royal Household

Richard’s children in age order:

by Anne Pympe:

Edward (Ned)

Maria

George

Philippa (Pippa)

Friedswide (Winnie) – Friedswide a popular saint in this period, also known as Winifred

Elizabeth (Lizzie)

by Joan:

Henry (Hal)

Elizabeth (Bess) Mortimer – Richard’s ward

English citizens:

Rosie – a London silkwoman

Nicholas Vaux – Joan’s brother, a landed esquire, later knighted

Beth Fitzhugh/Vaux – his Yorkist bride

Lambert Simnel – name given to the pretend Edward of Warwick

Richard Pole – Esquire (later Knight) of the King’s Body, brother of Lady Eleanor Verney & husband of Margaret Plantagenet

Martin Steward – a senior Guildford servant

Hugh – a scullion training as a server

Luce – a Guildford maidservant

Jake – the Guildford cook

Wynkyn de Worde – printer at Caxton’s Westminster press

Mistress Wood – governess to the Guildford children

Sir John Digby – Lieutenant Constable of the Tower of London

Lettie Stock – a London midwife

Mistress Strood – a Kent farmer’s wife & breast nurse to baby Hal

Hetty Smith – a maidservant from the Kent village of Rolvenden

Sir Robert Poyntz – a landed knight, husband of Meg Woodville

Anthony Poyntz – their eldest son

Jane Howell – governess to Prince Henry & former nurse to King Henry

Mistress Brook – 2nd governess to the Guildford children

Deceased characters:

Queen Marguerite – Marguerite of Anjou, wife of King Henry VI the last Lancastrian King of England

Edward (Édouard), Prince of Wales – their son

Sir William Vaux – Joan’s father

Edward IV – Yorkist king who deposed Henry VI

Prince Edward of York & Prince Richard of York – The Princes in the Tower, deaths unknown

Richard of Gloucester – Richard III (the usurper), Edward IV’s brother

Anne Pympe – Sir Richard Guildford’s 1st wife

Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers – executed on Richard III’s orders (father of Meg Poyntz)

1

THE CART RUMBLED PAST so close that it almost killed me. I was forced to flatten myself against the gatehouse wall or I would surely have been crushed before I had even entered the Tower of London. Limewash and mortar flaked off the masonry, smearing my gown with white dust. Then suddenly, above the diminishing sound of rolling wheels and clattering hooves, I heard the rasping ‘kwaark’ of a raven and a childhood memory rushed in to swamp my senses. I became my nine-year-old self, trembling under the gaze of a large black bird with a bill like the hook of a soldier’s halberd and an eye that could pierce the soul. Then that fearsome beak had opened to emit a hoarse cry, bringing tears to my eyes, and I heard the gravelly voice of my escort, an elderly knight from the Tower’s garrison.

‘Think yourself honoured, young mistress. The ravens avoid us men because the archers use them for target practice. But there is a legend, which says that as long as they haunt the Tower, it and the kingdom will stand. Just lately they’ve been coming and going, so perhaps there’s something in it.’ At the time I didn’t understand what he meant but so vividly had the raven’s image imprinted itself in my mind, that the incident and his words had remained with me ever since.

Now thirteen years later another cart, heaped high and shedding fragments of its cargo as it juddered over the cobbles, made me press even harder against the wall and my heart thudded as a real raven was suddenly there at my feet, rushing in with a triumphant flap of feathers to peck up a speck of shiny discarded metal that glimmered in the gatehouse gloom. My daydream dissolved into reality. The carts were carrying gold and silver scrap to the Royal Mint and the raven scampered away with its booty, rising on beating wings as it cleared the archway. Hastening into the daylight, I watched it carry off its treasure, to secrete it somewhere high on the battlements.

I stood transfixed, admiring its fluid, swooping flight until an angry shout from behind alerted me. ‘Hey! Clear the way! D’you want to get killed?’ I jumped to the side again as another laden cart trundled past, the driver red-faced and yelling. ‘God’s blood, woman! There’s no room for stupid skirts in here.’

Fearing more vehicles, I made a run for the gate at the other end of the moat bridge and took refuge through a door in an adjacent building, which I knew should contain the office of the man in charge. I felt in the purse on my belt and removed the letter within.

‘Tell me, what business can a female possibly have in a military fortress?’ The young Lieutenant Constable was hook-nosed and handsome, with all the hubris of noble privilege and not a hint of charm. He had given my letter barely a glance.

‘I am on royal business, sir, as the letter says.’ I held out my hand. ‘May I have it back? I know where I am going.’

His eyes scanned the page and rested on the signature at the bottom. ‘Who is MR?’ he asked, refolding the note and handing it to me.

I could have remarked that he should know but I desisted. ‘Margaret, Countess of Richmond, is the king’s mother – MR is her cypher.’ Knowing the lady well, as I did, I reflected that it could equally be a monogram for ‘Margaret Regina’ but resisted the temptation to point this out.

He did not respond verbally but his curled lip and disapproving sniff were revealing. It was only weeks since Lady Margaret’s son, Henry Tudor, had taken the throne ‘by right and conquest’, to become King Henry the Seventh of England and there were still plenty of dissenting Yorkists among minor royal officials. I didn’t give this one many more days in his present post.

As I hurried along the narrow street between the twin curtain walls that defended the fortress from a river attack, I couldn’t resist searching for more signs of ravens on the battlements of the main keep, which reared above me to my left. These enigmatic birds had haunted my dreams ever since I had made that first fearful childhood trip to the Tower to visit my mother. Whatever the men had said about it being no place for women, I could have begged to differ. My mother, Katherine Vaux, had lived within its intimidating walls for two years and the captive lady she had served there had once been Queen of England.

My grandfather, a doctor from Piedmont, had been physician to the Duke of Anjou’s family and in her childhood my mother had been invited to join their schoolroom. When the duke’s daughter Marguerite married King Henry the Sixth of England, she had travelled with her to his court and later married one of his household knights, Sir William Vaux, becoming an English citizen. When civil war erupted and Edward of York snatched the throne, forcing King Henry and Queen Marguerite to flee their kingdom, my loyal Lancastrian parents escaped with my young brother Nicholas to my mother’s birthplace in Piedmont. A few months later, I was born and baptised Giovanna, after my Italian grandmother.

My baptismal name may be Giovanna, but English is not a lyrical language like Italian is. Here in my mother’s adopted country I have become plain Joan; and plain is what the English think me, as I am not pink-cheeked and golden-haired like the beauties they admire. I have olive skin and dark features – black brows over ebony eyes and hair the colour of a raven’s wing. With my full lips and straight nose, many consider me odd, or probably, to put it bluntly, ugly. ‘Jolie-laide’ is what the French used to call me, more kindly. Perhaps that is one reason why I habitually wear dark colours and am so drawn to the big black birds that haunt the cliff-like walls of the Tower and why, as I hastened to my meeting on that late September day, I was enraged at seeing one of the sentry archers on the battlements take aim at a raven as it flew close to his position on the roof of the Royal Palace. Luckily the arrow missed its target but I was still seething while I negotiated my way past another set of guards and into the fortress’s intimidating limewashed keep, known as the White Tower.

‘May I ask what a young lady like you is doing here?’

At least this time the inquiry was couched politely and came from a trimly bearded man of obvious status, wearing a furred gown, with a gold chain about his shoulders and a black hat pinned with a jewelled brooch. I had almost run into him in the gloom of the main troop-gathering hall, which was empty and echoing and lit only by the daylight filtering through a few high barred windows. Swallowing my first indignant riposte, I made him a brief curtsy.

‘I’ve been sent by My Lady the King’s Mother, sir.’ Once again I offered my letter of charge.

‘Have you indeed? Let me see.’ In order to scan the script he had to squint and hold it up to what little light there was, then he made me a courteous bow. ‘Welcome to the Tower of London, Mistress Vaux. I am Sir Richard Guildford, the king’s Master of Ordnance, in charge of the guns and weapons that are held here. But I cannot believe they are relevant to your purpose. I see you are bidden to the Chapel of St John. For what reason, I wonder?’

I shook my head. ‘We would both like to know the answer to that, Sir Richard, but it is a royal command, which one does not query.’

He inclined his head. ‘Indeed.’

‘I have a question for you though, sir.’ I took a steadying breath before plunging on. ‘If you are in charge of weapons, why are the archers wasting arrows, firing them at the ravens? What harm have they done?’

Even in the dim light I could see his cheeks flush and his next words were delivered with savage emphasis. ‘Those ravens are the devil’s demons – filthy scavengers and harbingers of death! All soldiers hate them and the archers are encouraged to use them for target practice. An arrow is retrievable, preferably with a dead bird attached.’

Or possibly a dead passer-by, I thought. I bit back any comment but he must have noticed my look of angry astonishment. I wondered how a man who lived and worked in the Tower could be ignorant of the widespread belief among Londoners that the presence of ravens was essential to the fortress’s security and that of the city and the kingdom they inhabited. This folk legend and its subjects had stayed with me ever since I had heard it as a child from the old garrison knight and over the ensuing years I had made it my business to read whatever I could find on both the birds and the belief.

During the resulting silence he recovered his composure and gave me a brief smile. ‘Now, Mistress Vaux, may I call someone to show you to the Chapel of St John?’

Although I could not bring myself to return the smile, I made an acknowledging bob. ‘Thank you, Sir Richard, but I know the way.’

I sensed his puzzled gaze following me to the foot of the long stair. Like all castle chapels, it was situated above the other chambers, giving prayers a clear path to heaven, and on other visits to my mother and the captive queen I had made the climb to the top of the White Tower to find them at Mass. On this occasion two Ushers of the King’s Chamber were there still wearing the blue and murrey household livery issued under the Yorkist kings, along with an assortment of other men in civilian dress. I was acquainted with one of the ushers, a landed squire called Nicholas Gainsford, and as soon as I arrived he began lecturing us on how anything we saw or heard that morning was to be considered a state secret and revealed to no one; everything had to be committed to memory and nothing written down. Having calmed my alarm on behalf of the ravens, I felt my heart flutter anew at Usher Gainsford’s stern admonishments.

Bizarrely, the frame of a large bedstead had been erected in the chapel nave and it was to this that he proceeded to direct our attention, impatiently beckoning us to gather around it. I received curious glances from the strange men as we jostled for position, aware that the presence of a woman was perplexing to them. Not for the first time I wondered what I was doing there myself.

‘You are all here to learn precisely how to make the king’s bed,’ the usher continued, as if reading my mind. ‘At present his grace is living at his manor of Kennington, a small palace over the river, which is easily secured and presently inhabited only by people well known to him and sworn to his affinity. But after his coronation he will be living in many larger royal palaces including the one located here, within the Tower of London. Such buildings are a warren of chambers, passages and staircases, containing many entrances and large numbers of people – not easy to keep secure. So when King Henry inhabits these palaces, or visits the homes of his favoured subjects, he will always have his own secure royal quarters, an area known as the Privy Chamber. Only trusted subjects who have sworn an oath of allegiance will be admitted into this reserved area, which will contain all the rooms necessary for his ease and comfort, where he can consult with his advisers and councillors in certain knowledge that what is said and done within its walls will go no further. And of course the most important of these rooms is that in which the king takes his rest – his bedchamber.’

He let his gaze roam over the gathering. ‘You men have been appointed Yeomen of the Guard of the Body of our Lord the King and, apart from protecting the king wherever he goes, an important part of your duties will be to make the monarch’s bed daily. To ensure that it is clean and comfortable and, most importantly, free of any hazard from hidden blades, poisonous plants, or biting insects that might cause him ill, injury or irritation. And naturally, when his grace marries he will want his queen’s rest to be as free from danger and discomfort as his own; therefore we have a lady here with us.’ My eyes flicked nervously about as everyone turned in my direction. ‘Mistress Vaux is charged with relaying all that she sees and hears to the sworn women of the bedchamber of his eventual bride. Before you leave today, all of you will be required to take an oath of loyalty before the Lord Chamberlain of the King’s Household.’

Having long lived under Lady Margaret Beaufort’s roof, I was probably already as familiar as any there with the best way to prepare a bedstead for the nobility but Usher Gainsford was taking no chances with royal security. He literally started from scratch, feeling with the tips of his fingers and scraping with his nails all the way around the wooden bedframe and headboard, looking for any crack or crevice where something sharp or noxious might be hidden. Then he ordered one of the men to strip to his chemise and hose and, to the obvious amusement of his fellow yeomen, roll around on the thick rush mat spread over the ropes, to test it for needles, thorns or twigs.

‘A sharpened twig soaked in the juice of deadly nightshade berries can work its way through to the sleeper, who falls into a stupor from which he does not wake,’ he warned, then lifted the straw mattress and dramatically sliced open the end with a sharp knife. ‘You need to distinguish between the different plants used to stuff this layer. Ladies’ bedstraw is best and this one,’ he picked out a dried stem with leaves larger than the rest, ‘is called woodruff and has a scent like freshly mown hay.’ He picked up a handful of the stuffing and peered closely at it. ‘This mattress should be opened and refilled and all feather beds shaken and checked regularly. Some of you yeomen will be appointed Keepers of the Wardrobe of the Beds, in charge of storing the royal bedclothes in locked and insect-proof chests every day and responsible for ensuring that a record is taken of when checks are made.’

One of the men spoke up. ‘In view of these precautions, sir, how would anyone manage to corrupt the royal bed? If everything is so carefully locked away and checked and the Privy Chambers are restricted to sworn servants, it does not seem very likely.’

Usher Gainsford cleared his throat and a flush stained his cheeks. ‘One of a yeoman’s duties is to report any hint of a colleague failing in his loyalty. You have all been chosen because you are known to be staunch Lancastrians but King Henry is anxious to unite the country, bringing York and Lancaster together under his rule and the Tudor name, ending the recent years of strife. So it is to him and the family he intends to have that his household will swear allegiance and obedience. This will be a Tudor reign and in due course, God willing, a Tudor dynasty but to begin with this may not content everyone. Dissidents may contrive to be appointed to the royal household. Treachery can emerge anywhere. You, as individuals, will be responsible for reporting anyone criticising the Tudor reign, or showing the slightest preference for another house, to the Lord Chamberlain or his deputy.’

I had no great sympathy with dissidents, having lost my father to a Yorkist army fourteen years ago, but I found this last order bittersweet as I took my oath of loyalty and I hoped I would not be expected to observe and report on the new queen’s commitment to the Tudor dynasty that she would be expected to provide. Officially, six weeks into his reign, we still did not know the identity of King Henry’s eventual queen, although the fact that his mother had selected me to attend this meeting strongly suggested that it would be the young lady currently living under her roof at her palace of Coldharbour on the banks of the River Thames.

Elizabeth of York, to whom I had almost inadvertently become servant, companion and friend, was the eldest child of King Edward the Fourth and the princess Henry Tudor had vowed to marry in order to boost support for his ultimately successful expedition to establish his own claim to the throne of England. But this had only happened after Edward died unexpectedly and his two young sons were brought to the Tower’s Royal Palace to await the elder boy’s coronation as King Edward the Fifth. This was because their uncle Richard, Duke of Gloucester, apparently unprepared to act as mere Protector to a boy king, contrived to get parliament to declare them illegitimate and to have himself crowned instead. Within weeks the York boys had disappeared from public view and two years later the usurping king, who as their Protector must surely have known what happened to them, had died fighting Henry Tudor’s invading army without revealing their fate.

From my staunch Lancastrian viewpoint, I considered the York history a chequered one; however it also greatly concerned me that Elizabeth and her mother and sisters might never discover when or how the two young princes died – if die indeed they both had. As I left the White Tower I paused to gaze up at the windows of the adjacent Royal Palace where the princes had been accommodated and in which soldiers and other Tower residents had reported catching occasional glimpses of their small, pale faces – until all sightings mysteriously ceased.

Although his victory in battle against the usurper Richard had brought King Henry to the throne, I was aware that it must also have left him with an urgent need to feel secure on it and a strong sense that he was not. Several leading Yorkist knights and nobles, captured after the battle, were now incarcerated in towers around the fortress and might expect to lose their heads as traitors to the new crown. However, peering through the open gate in the wall, which led onto the green beside the castle’s Church of St Nicholas, I could see that no scaffold had yet been erected there. Instead, bowmen had set up butts and were using them to hone their archery skills.

Remembering Sir Richard Guildford’s vehement comment that all soldiers detested ravens, I became anxious when one of them landed on the gateway arch. Within moments I heard the threatening zing of an arrow and intuitively ducked, as it seemed almost to skim my headdress. My heart skipped several beats but relief flooded my veins when I saw the raven fly off and the arrow drop harmlessly over the outer curtain wall, presumably into the moat.

‘Devilish bird!’ I heard an archer shout. ‘I’ll get you next time.’

2

THE PALACE OF COLDHARBOUR had acquired its royal status after King Henry repossessed it and granted it to his mother, knowing her fondness for the old mansion where she had lived during the happy days of her marriage to Sir Henry Stafford. After his death she had been obliged by King Edward to marry his Steward of the Household, Lord Thomas Stanley, and move to his London home at St Paul’s Wharf, a house that held no fond memories for her.

Coldharbour was a stately but rambling residence, set high above the Thames with views of London Bridge and across the river to Southwark. Its long garden sloped down to a private dock, making travel between it and the other Thameside royal palaces swift and easy. On my return there from the Tower I found Elizabeth of York seated under the light of a casement window reading a letter, which she waved at me fretfully.

‘The king’s messenger has been, Joan. Henry has not visited me for a week and now he apologises that he cannot invite me to witness his coronation. What am I to think?’ She was an undeniably beautiful girl, blue-eyed and alabaster-skinned, just coming into full bloom as she approached the end of her teenage years. But at that moment her face was flushed and her brow creased in frustration.

I made a brief curtsy and took the letter from her, perusing it quickly. In order to usurp the throne, Richard of Gloucester had managed to persuade members of parliament that his dead brother’s marriage was invalid, rendering its offspring illegitimate and the eldest boy therefore ineligible to inherit the crown. The letter explained, quite apologetically I thought, that as long as this heinous Act of Royal Title remained on the statute book, according to law Elizabeth was still illegitimate. Therefore all the noble ladies due to witness the king’s coronation at the end of October would outrank her, so King Henry felt it was not advisable for her to attend. Once he had been crowned and a new parliament assembled, the Act would immediately be repealed and she would be restored to her rightful position as premier princess of the realm.

‘Henry will be crowned king but the letter makes no mention of me becoming queen,’ Elizabeth complained. ‘I begin seriously to wonder if he intends to marry me at all and if not, what does he plan to do with me? I feel insulted and abandoned – no longer even sure that I wish to marry him, but whatever would I do otherwise?’

The intensity of her resentment alarmed me. She was usually so calm and serene and I searched for words to soothe her anguish. ‘He signs the letter as “your loving friend”,’ I pointed out. ‘And has he not sent you bolts of velvet and damask cloth and scores of ermine skins for trimmings? These are hardly the presents of a man who does not intend marriage. They will make a gown fit only for a queen.’

Elizabeth’s frown deepened. ‘I suppose you’re right, Joan,’ she said with evident reluctance. ‘On the surface he appears all kindness and generosity but he is miserly with his time. Not only do I have no date for my wedding but I hardly know the man who has supposedly vowed to marry me. I feel like a prize heifer in the sale ring, on offer to the highest bidder.’ Her fingers strayed to her temples and she rubbed them distractedly. ‘Where have you been anyway? I have another headache and I was looking for you to go to the apothecary and fetch more of that vervain potion.’

I folded the letter, written in King Henry’s own looping hand; surely another sign of his wish to please his intended bride. ‘I will go now if you like,’ I suggested, handing it back. Conscious of Usher Gainsford’s warnings, I refrained from making any mention of my morning activities.

‘Yes, thank you, Joan. But I think I will lie down meanwhile. Will you draw the curtains around the bed and help me remove my gown before you go? Wake me when you return if I’m asleep, won’t you?’

Elizabeth was encouraged not to venture out into London’s streets, even in a concealing hood. Most Londoners had always heartily supported her charismatic father, King Edward, and probably would welcome a glimpse of his daughter but King Henry cited the violent street clashes of persistently opposing factions as a reason for her to keep out of sight. Clearly it was considered that a lowly commoner like me could run the risk. Before I left I set a maid outside her door, who might hear her if she called.

Coldharbour was situated not very far from the Tower but it was quite a walk to Blackfriars at the western end of the city wall, where Elizabeth’s favoured apothecary had his shop. However, despite the gutter stink of emptied piss-pots, I enjoyed negotiating the bustle of Thames Street and, in daylight at least, the greatest danger was only from the flyblown offal and dead vermin that littered the thoroughfare.

To my delight, in one of the alleyways leading down to the river, I spotted a busy flock of ravens squabbling around the carcass of a stray dog. London was full of such carrion, which attracted these large birds in considerable numbers. Goodwives might chase them away but they were surely of help to the unfortunate gongfermers, overwhelmed by the task of waste disposal in the city. Over the years I had learned that most of the citizens did not share the Tower garrison’s intense dislike of ravens. Stopping briefly to watch, I admired the birds’ glossy black feathers, which seemed to throw off blue and green reflections under the stray rays of sun that pierced the gloom under the overhanging timber-framed houses flanking the alley.

When I reached the apothecary’s shop in the black monks’ walled enclave, I took it upon myself to ask whether any harm could come of taking too much of the vervain potion but was reassured that its soothing qualities were potent but harmless, so I gave an order for several bottles. While this was being fulfilled, I stole an hour to pay a visit to my mother, who rented rooms in the Blackfriars’ extensive demesne. Katherine, Lady Vaux, to give her official title, although her friends called her Kate, was a popular resident of the tenements there, which had been built to house the widows and families of knights killed on the battlefield. Whenever I called in, I usually found some other lady with her, seeking comfort or advice from one who was known to be wise and well acquainted with grief. On this occasion however, I found my mother in the process of teaching her maidservant, Jess, how to write but the instant I arrived she put aside the waxed tablet they had been using and shooed the girl away into the scullery.

‘What a treat to see you, Gigi!’ she exclaimed, embracing me warmly and delighting me, as she always did, with the use of my childhood nickname and the slight foreign lilt in her voice. I had always thought her a handsome woman, whose dark features I had inherited, although sadly not, in my view, her marvellous warmth and generosity. ‘I expect you have been very occupied with your bride-in-waiting. And I gather Lady Margaret is now ruling the kingdom, while her son is closeted away learning the laws and liberties of England. How is my old friend? In her element I warrant.’

Her friendship with the king’s mother went back more than thirty years, to when she had been a maid of the chamber to Queen Marguerite. They were much of an age and Lady Margaret had been a maid of honour at court before her brief but fruitful marriage to Edmund Tudor, King Henry VI’s half-brother.

‘Indeed. She is officially presiding over the Privy Council,’ I said, taking a seat on the carved settle beside the well-stoked fire. ‘I don’t sit in the council obviously, but I can imagine her style of leadership rather resembles the red dragon on King Henry’s battle banner, breathing flames of fire.’

My mother shrugged and gave a rueful smile. ‘She may be fierce in public but she was always the kindest of friends. I would never have married your father if she had not promoted our match with the king. Even after Edward of York took the throne and forced us to flee back to Piedmont she always wrote to me. And what would I have done with you and Nicholas when poor Queen Marguerite begged me to stay with her as she was taken prisoner to the Tower? Margaret took you in and refused any payment.’

Her memories of that time always made her a little sad. England had been in turmoil. Edward of York had been victorious at yet another bloody battle in which my father was killed, fighting alongside Queen Marguerite’s treasured only son, who also died. In mourning and despair, the two bereaved friends were taken captive to the Tower of London and that is how my brother and I had gone to live with the present king’s mother. Although neither royal nor noble, the life of the Vaux family had not been without incident.

I nodded in acknowledgement. ‘It’s true that she’s always been generous and now she is also working hard on behalf of her son. While he is closeted away making plans for England, my lady leaves Coldharbour after Prime and rarely returns before Compline. But we talk together at supper and she tells me that she misses you greatly. However I can assure you that she doesn’t miss a Mass, even though these days her chaplain has to follow her around like a lap dog.’

This picture made my mother laugh. She had poured two cups of ale from a jug and carried them over to sit down beside me. ‘Margaret’s always been punctilious in her piety; but I hope you’re not implying that I was once her lap dog,’ she added, passing me a cup.

My walk had made me thirsty and I sipped eagerly before responding, ‘Far from it, Mamma. You will always be Lady Margaret’s greatest friend. If you were ever anyone’s lap dog it was Queen Marguerite’s. There is no denying that you were a martyr to her.’

For the second time that day I found myself recalling my first childhood visit to the Tower when, after the encounter with the raven, I had found my mother still trying hopelessly to console the bereaved and captive former queen. Out of her mind with grief, Queen Marguerite had taken one look at me and dissolved into tears, wailing, ‘I lost my one child, my beautiful Prince Édouard, slain in battle; only seventeen and dying unshriven!’

I had then endured a sobbing hug that lasted for what seemed like an age. Subsequently, during the scant hour’s visit I had been permitted, it had been impossible for us to share our own grief over my father’s battlefield death alongside the prince, without his mother’s continuous keening as an accompaniment. Then, after the French king at last paid her ransom, Marguerite had somehow persuaded her faithful companion to go back with her to Anjou and leave my brother and me with Lady Margaret. During the next six years I saw my mother only once, when she managed to escape to England for a brief visit. As a result I always wondered whether such selfless loyalty should have taken precedence over motherly love.

Now my mother regarded me solemnly. ‘You are right, I was. I admit it. But look what a superb education you received as Lady Margaret’s ward. Few girls are granted such a chance and you have made the most of it.’

I nodded again and took another gulp of ale. After a pause I added, ‘I see you are teaching Jess her letters.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, I’m trying, but she makes a better scullion than a scholar.’

It was my turn to laugh. Now in her early forties, my mother had never known the luxury of having her own household or even bringing up her own children and yet she displayed a sense of humour and a zest for life that never ceased to surprise me. Where I wore dark clothes out of choice, she preferred to dress in light colours, sewing her own kirtles in blues and pinks and somehow acquiring gowns in colours like mustard yellow and dove grey, trimmed with rabbit fur, and displaying her widowhood only in the rather old-fashioned white veils she chose to wear. Or perhaps she could not afford to replace them with the new headdress fashions, as a result of having served an impoverished ex-queen and being short of funds all through the York years.

I changed the subject. ‘What news of Nicholas? Has he taken possession of the Vaux honours yet?’

After King Edward seized the throne, his first parliament had confiscated the properties of all those Lancastrian landholders who had fought against him. Thus on reaching his majority, my brother had been denied his inheritance. Now that King Henry had taken the throne he expected to reclaim it.

My question kindled the light of battle in my mother’s eyes. ‘No, and he is very keen to do so. King Henry has called a parliament for November and promises it will revoke the attainders; then it will be a matter of reclaiming the manors, but I imagine in some cases that may not be easy.’

‘I thought King Edward granted you your dower lands when you returned from France after Queen Marguerite died.’

‘Yes, he did, but I have been subsidising Nicholas and the income barely covers our basic needs. I am hoping my well-connected daughter will acquire me some employment in the household of the new queen, when we have one.’ She gave me an inquiring look. ‘When is that likely to be, do you know?’

‘No – and neither does Elizabeth. She fears King Henry may even call the marriage off.’

‘Surely not! His mother would never let him do that. Margaret has promoted that marriage for years and there is no doubt it would do much to placate persistent Yorkists. Why should he back out now that he has the throne?’

‘Perhaps because he wants to establish a Tudor dynasty.’ I laid stress on the Tudor name, recalling the words of Usher Gainsford. ‘A queen without ties to any English house might suit him better than one who has a claim to the throne that some consider stronger than his.’ I dropped my voice as I said this, conscious that Jess might have Yorkist leanings and her ear to the door.

‘You mean marry a foreign princess?’ My mother gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘I don’t think so. None of Europe’s present rulers would risk giving a daughter to a king who’d won his throne by a twist of fate. They’d want to see him keep it for a few years first and Henry Tudor needs to get his dynasty started as soon as possible. I’d say he’s just waiting to be anointed with the holy chrism and then Elizabeth will be whisked to the altar!’

My mother made a good point, although an opposing view was aired at my next port of call. Having collected the apothecary’s order, I took a roundabout route back to Coldharbour so that I could also drop in on my friend Rosie in Crown Seld, a square off the busy Cheapside market, where her mother ran a business devoted to the arcane craft of passementerie: the production of decorative trimmings in silk.

The workshop was a riot of gossip and colour. Spools of silks in a score of hues were stacked on shelves along the walls and on the tables at which the weavers were working, cones of costly gold and silver thread were in constant use by rows of females of all ages. Young apprentices worked under the eagle eyes of older workers, whose gnarled and calloused fingers revealed their experience in fashioning the delicate braids and laces used to embellish and fasten the gowns and robes of the wealthy and noble.

This form of employment was the exclusive domain of women, men lacking the dexterity needed to handle the delicate threads involved. The practitioners were called silkwomen and inevitably, when a group of females were gathered together employing busy fingers while their minds roamed free, there was always plenty of chatter. In days gone by, Lady Margaret had often sent me there to collect her passementerie purchases and during these errands I had discovered the stimulation of city scandal and become particularly friendly with Rosie, a bright, forthright woman a few years my senior, quick-witted, married to a mercer and a fount of information from the streets and guilds.

Knowing that she hated stopping in mid-weave, I pulled up a spare stool beside her and, like my mother, she immediately sought inside knowledge about the new royal regime. ‘What a welcome guest you are, Joan! I hope you’re going to tell us why we’ve heard nothing more about our new king’s much-vaunted marriage to Elizabeth of York.’ Blonde and buxom in a blue kirtle and brimmed linen cap, Rosie winked at me at the same time as she expertly tied off the end of a gold lace, clearly part of a batch destined to attach sleeves to a gown or doublet belonging to some exalted personage. ‘Since her triumphant return to London she seems to have disappeared entirely. I could say much like her brothers. Where’s she hiding and why?’

It was true that Elizabeth’s arrival in the capital five weeks before had been greeted with great joy and celebration by its citizens, who had lined the streets waving banners, throwing flowers and shouting her name as she rode past – in marked contrast to the somewhat muted reception afforded the new, self-declared king, Henry Tudor, some days earlier. However, not wishing to feed the city rumour mill, I dodged the question. ‘You’re obviously working on an order for some rich customer, Rosie,’ I remarked, fingering the lace she had just completed. ‘This looks fit for a queen.’

My evasive reply drew a frown from my friend. ‘Well, there’s no secret about this,’ she said, taking back the lace and adding it to the pile beside her. ‘Tomorrow we’ve got to send two hundred gold cord-laces to the pointmakers, who’ll fit the aiglets, and then they’re going to George Lovekyn up in Threadneedle Street.’ Wasting no time, she hitched a fresh length of gold thread to her thumb and finger and began another line of loops, her fingers flying up and down and to and fro like shuttles, so fast that I couldn’t begin to follow the pattern they made, only witness the ever-growing length of the braided lace they produced.

‘Wasn’t Master Lovekyn recently appointed Royal Tailor of the Great Wardrobe?’ I asked. ‘You must have heard that news, if I have.’

Her expression cleared. ‘Ah, so you think these laces are meant for the Lady Elizabeth? For her wedding garb perhaps?’

‘I’m saying no more, except that some fabulous fabrics and furs were delivered to a certain lady recently.’

‘Then why wouldn’t we send the laces to where the lady is staying?’

I affected wide-eyed innocence. ‘Because I haven’t mentioned who the lady is, or where she is living.’

Rosie cast an exasperated look at the other women working nearby, whose ears had all been tuned to our chat, and they exchanged dissatisfied shrugs. I knew that my hints would be embroidered and spread almost as fast as their fingers wove each lace but I considered that a few rumours refuting the prevailing gossip that the Lancaster–York wedding was in doubt could only be beneficial to both the ladies I served.

Her fingers still flying, Rosie took another tack. ‘They say King Henry won’t marry King Edward’s daughter until he has proof that his sons are dead. But some of those new yeomen guards searched the Tower for days and found no sign of them.’

‘Well, if they were alive after Richard was crowned, don’t you think he would have shown them to the people of London? After all, parliament had declared them illegitimate so they were no threat to his reign.’

‘That depends if you really believe they were bastards.’ It was one of the older women who spoke, her voice sharp with sarcasm. While King Edward had been almost universally admired in London, the same was not true of his brother Richard, whose main support had been in the north of the kingdom. ‘Henry Tudor’s yeomen might have been sent to make sure the boys definitely are dead now, if they were not before.’

‘That’s possible,’ Rosie agreed. ‘What does their sister think, Joan?’

‘I have no idea,’ I replied truthfully. ‘But I’m certain she would not marry Henry Tudor if she thought he was in any way involved in her brothers’ deaths. She mourns them deeply.’

I didn’t stay long with the silkwomen but even so dusk was beginning to fall as I made my way back down towards the river. To my alarm, as I descended Soper Street I ran into a rowdy gang of men who had apparently been quenching their thirst after a long day’s work in the Tanners’ Seld, a fetid centre of their odorous trade. My heart lurched with dread as they halted in front of me, barring my path, and I looked urgently around for help but found none.

‘Here’s a posh skirt out late, boys!’ gloated one, leaning into me with alarming menace. I gave an involuntary gasp at the stench of urine rising from his stained clothing and backed away, but another of the gang had circled behind me, blocking my path. ‘Are you trading, mistress?’ The first man’s laugh was harsh and ugly with lust. ‘There’s a dark alley just here and we can all take turns. This could be your lucky night. Come on, men, get her in there!’

My limbs turned to jelly out of sheer terror. I was only too aware how easy it would be for such a threat to be fulfilled in the lawless streets of a city where rape and murder went daily unpunished. I felt hands pushing under my cloak and my mind told me to scream but when I opened my mouth no sound came out. My feet were almost pulled from under me as two of the gang began shoving me towards the alley. I tried to struggle against them but their strength and the smell of their clothing were overpowering and the sound of their crude comments and evil laughter were blood-chilling. Terrified and outnumbered, I thought my worst fears were about to be realised but still my voice failed to let me scream.

Then rescue came from an unexpected source. Out of the very alley into which the gang were forcing me strolled, all unsuspecting, a young man in a leather apron.

A voice from the midst of the tanners’ pack yelled, ‘There’s that little shoe-shit Seb! Come on, let’s get him!’ and all at once their attention shifted from me to him.

The lad in the leather apron did an abrupt about-turn and disappeared back up the alley. Realising all at once that the groping hands had been withdrawn, I took my chance and made a dash for it, running as fast as I could downhill towards the river, panting with panic. Luckily even though my brain was scrambled with fear, the route to Coldharbour remained familiar and I just kept running until I saw the entrance. Never had the flaming torches, flickering and spitting in their gatehouse sconces, been so welcome. Unaware of my situation, the duty guard recognised me, raised his eyebrows at my obvious haste and admitted me with a jocular inquiry: ‘Where’s the fire, Mistress Vaux?’

Once safely inside I flopped back against the courtyard wall to catch my breath. My chest was heaving and I felt as if my lungs would burst. Still trembling with shock, I closed my eyes and relived the whole horrific incident in flashes of terror. However as my breathing eased, sanity returned and I sent up a heartfelt prayer of thanks to God for my escape. I worried whether the boy in the leather apron got away and if it would really ever be possible for the new king to clear the city streets of danger and provide the peace and prosperity he had promised his new subjects.

And also amidst all this I worried whether King Henry was having second thoughts about marrying Elizabeth of York. Tucked away across the river in his secluded Palace of Kennington, was he aware of the mood in the city? Did he realise there was every chance it would erupt in rebellion if he reneged on his marriage vow? The thought of thugs such as those I had recently encountered running amok in the streets made my stomach churn all over again. I decided not to tell Elizabeth of my brush with danger and felt in my skirt pocket for the small leather bottles of vervain tincture I had set out to fetch. They were all there, unaffected, as if nothing untoward had happened.

3

WHEN A BARGE WAS sighted on the river flying Lady Margaret Beaufort’s portcullis emblem, the Coldharbour household went into high alert. With his coronation only a few days off, she had been staying with the king at Kennington Palace to assist in the arrangements and her return to her own home so close to that date was a surprise.

I watched with Elizabeth from a window in the great hall as the noble lady disembarked, along with a procession of porters bearing gifts, doubtless gleaned from among those presented to King Henry to celebrate his crowning: baskets of oranges probably from Spain, crocks of honey and casks of wine from France. As usual she was elegantly garbed in a deep red velvet gown trimmed with gold fringes and a close-fitting black chaperon hat against the sharp river breeze. Although she had accepted the somewhat ageing title of ‘My Lady the King’s Mother’, at not much more than forty she was still fit and energetic and strode briskly up the garden path that led from the quay to the mansion, taking the slope without slowing her pace.

She did not come to the great hall however, but went to her solar and sent a page to summon me, rather than first paying her respects to Elizabeth, who was more than somewhat peeved. ‘She will not acknowledge the servant before the mistress when I am married to her son,’ she muttered, sinking back onto the cushions of the window seat and taking refuge in her embroidery, while I blushed furiously, murmured an unnecessary apology as if it were my fault, and fled from the hall to obey Lady Margaret’s call. Not for the first time I felt the strain of being Elizabeth’s attendant as well as, at present, her only friend.

The kind lady who had been my foster mother was now the first lady in the land; at least until King Henry took a wife as queen. I had been with her almost throughout the time of her son’s exile, grown up under her strict but compassionate care and stayed with her as a companion and foster daughter until the usurper had discovered her part in a rebellious attempt on his throne and sentenced her to house arrest under the supervision of servants loyal to him. Her own household had been forced to leave and I had not returned until after her son Henry had fought for the throne and won it.

‘How are things between you and Elizabeth, Joan?’ she asked as soon as we had exchanged kisses of greeting.

‘They are fine, my lady,’ I replied, ‘or they were until you summoned me ahead of greeting her.’

‘Oh dear, have I offended her?’

‘Just a little I think.’ I smiled at the slight note of insincerity in her voice.

‘Well, she is not queen yet and until she is I remain first lady in the land. It will do her no harm to accept this for the time being.’

‘I’m sure she will do so graciously – for the time being.’ I laid a certain stress on the last words and received my patron’s smile in return. She was a tiny woman with a big heart and a sharp intellect; I admired her enormously.

Except when on her knees at prayer she was rarely still and at this moment she tucked her hand in the crook of my arm and walked me towards the window of her solar, which overlooked the Thames. ‘It pleases me greatly that you have obviously become a good friend to the Lady Elizabeth, Joan, but you must realise that you do not have sufficient rank to hold a senior position among her ladies when she becomes queen. The king has asked me to supervise the appointment of her female household and I think it would look good if her sister Cecily were to be chief among them. But I am not sure how well the two get on. Do you happen to know whether such a partnership would work?’

I hesitated before answering. Having only observed the two princesses together as young girls, on the odd occasion they had been there when I had attended Lady Margaret at their parents’ court, I had not gleaned any real idea of how they got on. ‘I couldn’t say, my lady,’ I admitted. ‘She talks about her sisters often and worries how they are, but I don’t get the impression that she and Cecily were particularly close. I think Princess Mary was her favourite and closest to her in age but of course she died.’

I felt Lady Margaret give my arm a gentle squeeze. ‘Yes, how sad that was. Do you think you could sound Elizabeth out about Cecily for me, Joan? I don’t want to suggest she appoint her as chief lady-in-waiting, only to have her immediately veto the idea. It might jeopardise our future relationship.’

I took a deep breath. Negotiating royal relationships was not something I had ever imagined doing. ‘I can try, of course, but would this not be something their mother might advise you about?’

Lady Margaret glanced around, as if there might be a spy lurking in her solar. ‘Their mother is presently living at Sheen Palace and has yet to demonstrate reliable support for the Tudor crown. My son does not believe her to have entirely abandoned the Yorkist cause but by bringing Cecily into her household, Elizabeth would be indicating that her whole family supports King Henry’s reign. And after suffering the humiliating marriage foisted on her by the usurper, as the queen’s chief lady-in-waiting Cecily would acquire high status once more and a good income, which should inspire her gratitude, if nothing else. By the way, I will be telling Elizabeth that her sister’s regrettable misalliance is to be officially annulled by the consistory court in York in December.’

This would be welcome news to Elizabeth, who had fretted much over the fact that in order to provide for the nieces he had rendered illegitimate, the usurper Richard had arranged a marriage for Cecily with one Ralph Scrope, the younger brother of a Yorkshire baron, and I assumed that at only fourteen, it was not a union she had entered willingly.

‘How well do you get on with your sister Cecily, Lady Elizabeth?’ I tried to slip this question in casually as I helped her to dress on the day of King Henry’s coronation, hoping that her mind would be occupied and she might not question the query.

But she did. ‘Why do you ask, Joan?’

‘It’s been suggested that you might appoint her as your chief lady-in-waiting – after your marriage, of course.’

‘When I am queen you mean.’ Her chin lifted. ‘Who made the suggestion? Was it the king’s mother?’

Blood rose to my cheeks. ‘Well, yes, it was Lady Margaret. Does that matter?’

Elizabeth gave a considered sniff. ‘No, not really, but now I know why she snubbed me and commanded your presence the other day without greeting me first. That will not happen when I am queen. I will be first lady and she will walk behind me, whether the king likes it or not. I was reared to be a queen, Joan. She was not.’ She turned to gaze out of the window, which faced west, the direction in which lay Westminster. ‘I do not need anyone to tell me how to perform my duties, or what respect I should be owed.’

I bit my lip before responding. ‘I do not believe there was any disrespect behind the suggestion that you might appoint your sister as your chief attendant. Lady Margaret thought you might feel more comfortable with a member of your family at your side.’

‘I will have the king at my side. He will be my family and when we have children, so will they.’

I dared to pursue the point. ‘Does that mean you would prefer not to appoint Lady Cecily?’

The expression of offended nobility left her face and was replaced by one of mischievous intent. ‘No. It means I will do my own appointing and when I require her help I will ask for it. You can tell Lady Margaret that if you like, Joan.’

Two days after the coronation the king’s mother came to Coldharbour again, this time to give Elizabeth a description of the event and the celebrations that had followed. I could tell from her expression that Elizabeth was in two minds as to whether she wanted to hear this, probably preferring to have had King Henry’s impressions from his own lips. However, having already been waiting impatiently for longer than she liked, she was not about to refuse Lady Margaret’s account.

It was a highly charged one. ‘It was an extremely moving occasion, dear Elizabeth!’ she began. ‘A ceremony of such immense significance! I do not know how the king remained dry-eyed. Of course I should not have succumbed to tears but when the archbishop placed the crown on my son’s head I admit I was overwhelmed. Nor was I alone in this. Even his uncle, the great Jasper Tudor, had tears sliding down his cheeks as he knelt to be the first to make his oath of allegiance.

‘God’s presence and approval was divinely evident throughout the ceremony. Henry’s anointing was truly awe-inspiring, even though it was performed under a canopy and hidden from view; as the holy chrisom was applied the choir’s anthem rose in a glorious crescendo and I felt as if my heart would burst. Everywhere was brilliant spectacle; the new green and white uniforms of the yeoman guards, the red robes and jewelled coronets of the barons and the splendidly embroidered copes of the clergy, led by the bishops with their gilded mitres and gem-studded croziers. It was enough to bring pride and joy to every heart and a prayer to every lip.’

She reached out to take Elizabeth’s hand and held it between her own, her face charged with sympathy. ‘I am so sorry you were not there. Had it not been for the question of rank, of course you would have been and I’m sure you’d have been more thrilled and proud than anyone. The king has asked me to assure you that when parliament meets next week, after the Act of Royal Title has been repealed and every copy consigned to the bonfire, there will be parliamentary endorsement of his long-avowed intention to marry you and to unite the warring factions of Lancaster and York under a new Tudor dynasty.’

Gently and politely Elizabeth removed her hand, clasping both of hers tightly together in her lap once more. ‘I will look forward to hearing that from the king’s own lips, my lady,’ she said. Her back grew straighter and her head seemed to rise above Lady Margaret’s.

My glance swung from one to the other and I noticed a marked similarity in their expressions. Both women were direct descendants of King Edward the Third and pride was etched into each face; steely resolve glinted in the blue eyes and the grey. For a time I had fretted that Elizabeth might have met her match in My Lady the King’s Mother but at that moment I recalled her recent forceful declaration that she would be first lady and walk beside the king. ‘I was reared to be a queen, Joan. She was not.’

I felt a surge of relief. The wedding was on and Elizabeth was exerting her authority. The fear of rebellion receded and with it the prospect of violence in the streets of London and a resurgence of civil war. I wished I could be at the Tower, to see if ravens were flocking in on a new sense of national security.

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