visit her friends who lived there.
Dickon surprised Bessie, wishing to visit with them as well.
She knew her brother could hardly wait to bestow the baked gifts he’d bought for his family, and he had never before shown an interest in the twelve old men. Yet he insisted on following her through the gate of the pretty, gardened courtyard surrounded by a dozen cottages. The Church supported these pensioners, retired from their trades, each who lived in his own simple but comfortable home till his death. The prince and princess were greeted with the greatest warmth by the men, who, by their own admission, were the most grateful individuals at Westminster. They were grateful, they said, for they were poor men spared the humiliation of beggary in old age by the charity of Westminster’s abbot.
Bessie watched Dickon handing out their offerings of meat and eggs, bread and cheese, for their larders, and was warmed by his sincere interest in them, and their delight that the little Duke of York was showing concern for them.
Dickon even accepted an invitation by their father’s retired dog keeper, Tom Wilson, to come in and see his humble hearth and home, and “the oldest dog in England,” his favorite hound, who never left the fireside.
Bessie was proud of her little brother, who was displaying, even at his tender age, true princely behavior.
When she saw one of the day’s escorts hurrying toward the almshouse garden, Bessie sighed. The guard had a look on his face that said he’d been savaged by the queen, perhaps for failing
to bring the young royals all the way back to their mother’s presence.
“Princess,” the guard began, most agitated. “You must come quickly. Where is your brother?”
“I’ll get him,” she said, and made for Master Wilson’s cottage to fetch Dickon. “Tell Mother we’ll be there presently.”
“Yes, Princess.” The guard hurried away.
Nell was right about one thing, thought Bessie. There were benefits to marrying a foreign prince, the first being that she would never again have to take an order from Elizabeth Woodville.
M y life, thought Nell as she gazed at the pretty, golden-haired boy sitting across the desk from her, has become a long, sweet dream.
Her posting at Ludlow through the spring of 1483—a slow, warm season in a verdant pastoral, embraced by the royal family and housed in luxury, had merely been the setting for the true jewel of her existence. Nell had fallen in love twice over.
First with her student, the thirteen-year-old Prince of Wales, whom she now thought of as the brother she’d never had. He was so dear and precocious a child that tutoring, a wholly new profession for her, had proven a natural and joyful endeavor.
This was a strange and wonderful phenomenon— work become play . Edward openly reciprocated her affection, and every day Nell was the recipient of some small but dear token of his love and respect. A bouquet of wildflowers he had picked himself. A pair of doeskin gloves he’d had made for her from the pelt of his latest hunt. The sharing of daily letters he’d received from his family at court.
Of course there were cheerful ones from Bessie, but there were also letters from his mother, replete with domestic gossip—
the childish exploits of Edward’s brother and sisters—as well as missives from his father, these of a more serious nature. The T O T H E T O W E R B O R N
king had recently, to Edward’s delight and pride, begun keeping his son apprised of state business. Treaties forged and broken.
Matters pertaining to the treasury, Royal Navy, trade, and taxation. All of this, Nell ingested, then digested, as great feasts of knowledge. She realized to her surprise that, as to the affairs of England, she had become very well informed.
Her other love—and she hardly dared to call it such—was that which she shared with Antony Woodville, Lord Rivers. To this point, theirs was a passionate affair of hearts and minds only. As she had
Dickon surprised Bessie, wishing to visit with them as well.
She knew her brother could hardly wait to bestow the baked gifts he’d bought for his family, and he had never before shown an interest in the twelve old men. Yet he insisted on following her through the gate of the pretty, gardened courtyard surrounded by a dozen cottages. The Church supported these pensioners, retired from their trades, each who lived in his own simple but comfortable home till his death. The prince and princess were greeted with the greatest warmth by the men, who, by their own admission, were the most grateful individuals at Westminster. They were grateful, they said, for they were poor men spared the humiliation of beggary in old age by the charity of Westminster’s abbot.
Bessie watched Dickon handing out their offerings of meat and eggs, bread and cheese, for their larders, and was warmed by his sincere interest in them, and their delight that the little Duke of York was showing concern for them.
Dickon even accepted an invitation by their father’s retired dog keeper, Tom Wilson, to come in and see his humble hearth and home, and “the oldest dog in England,” his favorite hound, who never left the fireside.
Bessie was proud of her little brother, who was displaying, even at his tender age, true princely behavior.
When she saw one of the day’s escorts hurrying toward the almshouse garden, Bessie sighed. The guard had a look on his face that said he’d been savaged by the queen, perhaps for failing
to bring the young royals all the way back to their mother’s presence.
“Princess,” the guard began, most agitated. “You must come quickly. Where is your brother?”
“I’ll get him,” she said, and made for Master Wilson’s cottage to fetch Dickon. “Tell Mother we’ll be there presently.”
“Yes, Princess.” The guard hurried away.
Nell was right about one thing, thought Bessie. There were benefits to marrying a foreign prince, the first being that she would never again have to take an order from Elizabeth Woodville.
M y life, thought Nell as she gazed at the pretty, golden-haired boy sitting across the desk from her, has become a long, sweet dream.
Her posting at Ludlow through the spring of 1483—a slow, warm season in a verdant pastoral, embraced by the royal family and housed in luxury, had merely been the setting for the true jewel of her existence. Nell had fallen in love twice over.
First with her student, the thirteen-year-old Prince of Wales, whom she now thought of as the brother she’d never had. He was so dear and precocious a child that tutoring, a wholly new profession for her, had proven a natural and joyful endeavor.
This was a strange and wonderful phenomenon— work become play . Edward openly reciprocated her affection, and every day Nell was the recipient of some small but dear token of his love and respect. A bouquet of wildflowers he had picked himself. A pair of doeskin gloves he’d had made for her from the pelt of his latest hunt. The sharing of daily letters he’d received from his family at court.
Of course there were cheerful ones from Bessie, but there were also letters from his mother, replete with domestic gossip—
the childish exploits of Edward’s brother and sisters—as well as missives from his father, these of a more serious nature. The T O T H E T O W E R B O R N
king had recently, to Edward’s delight and pride, begun keeping his son apprised of state business. Treaties forged and broken.
Matters pertaining to the treasury, Royal Navy, trade, and taxation. All of this, Nell ingested, then digested, as great feasts of knowledge. She realized to her surprise that, as to the affairs of England, she had become very well informed.
Her other love—and she hardly dared to call it such—was that which she shared with Antony Woodville, Lord Rivers. To this point, theirs was a passionate affair of hearts and minds only. As she had
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