To the Tower Born - Robin Maxwell Page A

where much government took place, and therefore much traffic passed through. Rich traffic at that. When Parliament was in session everyone prospered, from the greengrocers to the silkwomen to the cutpurses. Gold- and silversmiths grew positively rich.
    Bessie had not been out for a day of shopping since the family’s
    return from Ludlow, but this morning she had begged her mother’s permission for the outing. Dickon had insisted on joining her. It was his first foray out onto Totehill Street, and the queen had demanded that four burly guards come to protect them.
    “From what?” Bessie had demanded with irritation. “I’ve encountered nothing but love and respect from everyone I meet outside the walls.”
    “There are whores and cutpurses and rapscallions in the streets,” her mother had insisted.
    “Well, I’d say the two of us are amply protected with a quartet of armed soldiers.”
    “Keep your eyes on your brother. Make sure he doesn’t speak with any ruffians,” the queen instructed her daughter.
    “I shall personally introduce him to a very nice murderer I know.”
    Now Bessie smiled, remembering the look of fury on her mother’s face. She knew she was defying God’s commandment, the one that admonished children to honor their parents, but surely God had never counted on Elizabeth Woodville.
    They’d made a stop at the brewery, as Nell had asked Bessie in her last letter to pass a message along to Maggie Brown the brewer. She was a manly sort of woman, stout, with large square hands and a square, wide-mouthed face. Whilst Bessie was well known at the brewery from her visits with Nell, Maggie had never before laid eyes on the little prince.
    “Your Grace,” she said, and dipped into a low curtsy that was comical in light of her masculine demeanor. “How honored I am for your visit.”
    Dickon glowed. Although the obeisance was customary, he’d never received a greeting so sincere and enthusiastic outside the court. He struggled briefly for a fitting reply, then said,
    “Your husband’s brewery is very fine.”
    “I haven’t got a husband, Your Grace.”
    “Then your father . . . ?”
    “Sadly deceased,” said Maggie.
    “ You are the brewer?” he said, perplexed.
    “ Femme sole, that’s what I am.”
    “A woman has rights to do business without a man, Dickon,” Bessie explained to her brother. “There are many such women in London.”
    “How does a lady become such a thing?” the boy asked Maggie.
    “Well, first, m’lord, I am no lady. But in my case my husband died. I’d always helped him at the shop, and when he passed away I chose to run the business.”
    “I see,” he said, with so adult a tone that Bessie was forced to bite her lip to keep from smiling.
    They continued through the market, filling Bessie’s basket with vegetables, a round of cheese from the white meats store, and an array of sweet confections Dickon had carefully chosen from a long case at the bakery. A dozen goose eggs were had from the poultry stall managed by a brawny young man, handsome but for his toothless visage. Dickon found it difficult to tear his eyes away from the gummy pink smile and finally asked, “How did you lose your teeth, sir?”
    “Football,” he replied with a great grin. “Every Sunday after church. We love the game, my mates and me. They’ve tried to outlaw it, the clergy has, but nobody listens. I got kicked in the face a time too many. I still have my back teeth, see?” He pulled away his gums to reveal a number of intact choppers. “I can chew just fine.”
    Dickon’s face was aglow. “I should like very much to learn football.” He turned to his sister. “Do you think Mother would allow me?”
    “You would grow horns and a tail first,” she replied.
    When their baskets were full, the royal children and their guard proceeded back along Totehill Street market and in through Westminster’s walls. Bessie dismissed the soldiers at the almshouse, where she had stopped to