The Tudor Rose by Margaret Campbell Barnes

which she stood, some of the servants were sitting on a bench still finishing their breakfast ale, while beyond them a couple of scullions hung freshly filled pots on the chains above the great open fire. A lay brother appeared to be superintending the cooking, and in the middle of the stone-flagged room a tall monk sat at an old refectory table with an account book, chequerboard and several little piles of coins in front of him. He was bargaining for country produce as the carters brought in their wares, and the going and coming through the outer door at the far end of the room was considerable. Through the blunt Norman arch of it Elizabeth could see the open courtyard and groups of peasants unloading fresh vegetables. Some of them, their produce sold, were already throwing back their empty sacks and departing. It should be easy enough, she thought, to pick up a sack and walk past the unsuspecting guard beside them; and once outside the Abbey precincts she knew the way to the Palace water-stairs. Ferrymen were always hanging about at the moorings. She had only to call “Hey, there, a boat for below bridge!” and step casually aboard as she had seen young 'prentices do a hundred times when going about their master's business. And then, once out in the early-morning sunshine, she would be borne swiftly away from the stifling walls of sanctuary upon the sparkling tide. There would be the breath-taking thrill when the boat shot expertly through a narrow arch of the bridge, and beyond it, solid and white and strong, would be the Tower with the water swirling through the portcullis of the gate into the sullen moat, and the grim, battlemented towers above.

    Perhaps in a few minutes from now she would see her brothers again. If she were fortunate, one of them might wave—though, to be sure, they would not recognize her in doublet and hose. And if they were not yet up she would tell the boatman to row back slowly at slack tide, hoping to see them on her return journey.

    Elizabeth had never in her life stepped into a swaying boat without the help of obsequious hands, nor had she the least idea how much the hire of a public one might be; but she had been careful to put some gold pieces and a groat or two into the little wallet attached to Edward's leather belt. As she felt with moist, anxious fingers to make sure they were still there someone hurrying in from the backstairs passage jogged her roughly, elbowing her out of the way. “Have you no errands to do, blockhead, that you must cumber the doorways?” demanded a consequential young soldier whom she recognized as a corporal in John Nesfield's guard.

    It was a new experience for a Princess of England, but Elizabeth had the sense to keep her mouth shut. She moved obediently into the kitchen and looked about her, accepting a mug of breakfast ale with the rest.

    The corporal called loudly for a glass of the best Malvoisie. With reluctant but unruffled courtesy the tall Benedictine sent a servant for it and went on with his accountancy, setting to shame the young lout's self-importance. For, as everyone knew, no one in the new King's guard had any right to penetrate even as far as the kitchen.

    “Thinks he owns the Abbey just because the Captain sends him to report to the Tower ev'ry mornin'!” grumbled the old man who grommed the Abbot's mule, sore because the soldier had upset his ale.

    “What is there to report about in this celibate backwater?” enquired a discontented scullion.

    “Everything the Woodville widow and her clutch of daughters do, I suppose,” laughed a coarse-looking individual sitting on the bench close by Elizabeth's side.

    “But what's the good of sending reports about anything to London when the new King's gone up north?” asked someone.

    “He's left trusty people here to act for him, never fear!” vouchsafed the corporal, overhearing him. “Gloucester never did leave anything to chance. He's the best soldier we ever had.”

    As he set down