nothing in my life will ever be the same again. I smile from side to side,
acknowledging the blessings and the murmurs of praise, but I find that I am tightening
my grip on Warwick’s hand, and he smiles down at me, as if he is pleased to sense
my fear, and he says, “It is natural for you to be overwhelmed, Your Grace.” It is,
indeed, natural for a commoner but would never have occurred to a princess, and I
smile back at him and cannot defend myself, and cannot speak.
That night in bed, after we have made love, I say to Edward, “I don’t like the Earl of Warwick.”
“He made me what I am today,” he says simply. “You must love him for my sake.”
“And your brother George? And William Hastings?”
He rolls onto his side and grins at me. “These are my companions and my brothers-in-arms,”
he says. “You are marrying into an army at war. We cannot choose our allies; we cannot
choose our friends. We are just glad of them. Love them for me, beloved.”
I nod as if obedient. But I think I know my enemies.
MAY 1465
The king decides that I shall have the most glorious coronation that England has ever seen. This is
not solely as a compliment to me. “We make you queen, undoubted queen, and every lord
in the kingdom will bow his knee to you. My mother—” He breaks off and grimaces. “My
mother will have to show you homage as part of the celebrations. Nobody will be able
to deny that you are queen and my wife. It will silence those who say our marriage
is not valid.”
“Who says?” I demand. “Who dares say?”
He grins at me. He is a boy still. “D’you think I would tell you and have you turn
them into frogs? Never mind who speaks against us. They don’t matter as long as all
they do is whisper in corners. But a great coronation for you also declares my position
as king. Everyone can see that I am king and that poor thing Henry is a beggar somewhere
in Cumbria and his wife a pensioner of her father in Anjou.”
“Hugely grand?” I say, not wholly welcoming the thought.
“You will stagger under the weight of your jewels,” he promises me.
In the event, it is even richer than he predicted,richer than I could have imagined. My entrance to London is by London Bridge, but
the dirty old highway is transformed with wagon on wagon load of sparkling sand into
a road more like a jousting arena. I am greeted by players dressed as angels, their
costumes made from peacock feathers, their dazzling wings like a thousand eyes of
blue and turquoise and indigo. Actors make a tableau of the Virgin Mary and the saints;
I am exhorted to be virtuous and fertile. The people see me indicated as the choice
of God for Queen of England. Choirs sing as I enter the city, rose petals are showered
down on me. I am myself, my own tableau: the Englishwoman from the House of Lancaster
come to be the Queen of York. I am an object of peace and unity.
I spend the night before my coronation at the grand royal apartments in the Tower,
newly decorated for my stay. I don’t like the Tower: it gives me a shudder as I am
carried shoulder high in a litter under the portcullis, and Anthony at my side glances
up at me.
“What’s the matter?”
“I hate the Tower; it smells damp.”
“You have grown choosy,” Anthony says. “You are spoiled already, now that the king
has given you great places of your own, the manor of Greenwich, and Sheen as well.”
“It’s not that,” I say, trying to name my unease. “It is as if there are ghosts here.
Are my boys staying here tonight?”
“Yes, the whole family is here in the royal rooms.”
I make a little grimace of unease. “I don’t like my boys being here,” I say. “This
is an unlucky place.”
Anthony crosses himself and jumps from his horse to lift me down. “Smile,” he commands
me under his breath.
The lieutenant of the Tower is waiting to welcome me and give me the keys: this is
no time
acknowledging the blessings and the murmurs of praise, but I find that I am tightening
my grip on Warwick’s hand, and he smiles down at me, as if he is pleased to sense
my fear, and he says, “It is natural for you to be overwhelmed, Your Grace.” It is,
indeed, natural for a commoner but would never have occurred to a princess, and I
smile back at him and cannot defend myself, and cannot speak.
That night in bed, after we have made love, I say to Edward, “I don’t like the Earl of Warwick.”
“He made me what I am today,” he says simply. “You must love him for my sake.”
“And your brother George? And William Hastings?”
He rolls onto his side and grins at me. “These are my companions and my brothers-in-arms,”
he says. “You are marrying into an army at war. We cannot choose our allies; we cannot
choose our friends. We are just glad of them. Love them for me, beloved.”
I nod as if obedient. But I think I know my enemies.
MAY 1465
The king decides that I shall have the most glorious coronation that England has ever seen. This is
not solely as a compliment to me. “We make you queen, undoubted queen, and every lord
in the kingdom will bow his knee to you. My mother—” He breaks off and grimaces. “My
mother will have to show you homage as part of the celebrations. Nobody will be able
to deny that you are queen and my wife. It will silence those who say our marriage
is not valid.”
“Who says?” I demand. “Who dares say?”
He grins at me. He is a boy still. “D’you think I would tell you and have you turn
them into frogs? Never mind who speaks against us. They don’t matter as long as all
they do is whisper in corners. But a great coronation for you also declares my position
as king. Everyone can see that I am king and that poor thing Henry is a beggar somewhere
in Cumbria and his wife a pensioner of her father in Anjou.”
“Hugely grand?” I say, not wholly welcoming the thought.
“You will stagger under the weight of your jewels,” he promises me.
In the event, it is even richer than he predicted,richer than I could have imagined. My entrance to London is by London Bridge, but
the dirty old highway is transformed with wagon on wagon load of sparkling sand into
a road more like a jousting arena. I am greeted by players dressed as angels, their
costumes made from peacock feathers, their dazzling wings like a thousand eyes of
blue and turquoise and indigo. Actors make a tableau of the Virgin Mary and the saints;
I am exhorted to be virtuous and fertile. The people see me indicated as the choice
of God for Queen of England. Choirs sing as I enter the city, rose petals are showered
down on me. I am myself, my own tableau: the Englishwoman from the House of Lancaster
come to be the Queen of York. I am an object of peace and unity.
I spend the night before my coronation at the grand royal apartments in the Tower,
newly decorated for my stay. I don’t like the Tower: it gives me a shudder as I am
carried shoulder high in a litter under the portcullis, and Anthony at my side glances
up at me.
“What’s the matter?”
“I hate the Tower; it smells damp.”
“You have grown choosy,” Anthony says. “You are spoiled already, now that the king
has given you great places of your own, the manor of Greenwich, and Sheen as well.”
“It’s not that,” I say, trying to name my unease. “It is as if there are ghosts here.
Are my boys staying here tonight?”
“Yes, the whole family is here in the royal rooms.”
I make a little grimace of unease. “I don’t like my boys being here,” I say. “This
is an unlucky place.”
Anthony crosses himself and jumps from his horse to lift me down. “Smile,” he commands
me under his breath.
The lieutenant of the Tower is waiting to welcome me and give me the keys: this is
no time
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