Chapter Text
The cold winds travelling along the River Wey seemed to intrude upon the manor, preying on every crevice and window to make its way inside. Life at the house was overloaded with preparations for the winter. To survive the upcoming colder months, the kitchen servants at Woking hastened to stock diverse varieties of food and spices, busy workers coming and going with dried fruits and salted meat, baskets full with oats, onions and cabbages, leeks and beetroot. Henry could see it all from his place by the arched window. A scent of freshly felled wood coming from the nearby copse carried in the wind blowing along the river, and he would have very much liked to be treading the manor's orchard again, were it not for the cold.
Henry knew that a great deal of the place’s bustling was due to his very presence. Although the manor had belonged to some of the most prestigious families in the history of the realm — the Kents, the Hollands and the Despensers at least since the time of Edward the second — frequent visits from a king were likely uncommon. Woking had once belonged to the most illustrious names of the land, yes, including his own mother Lady Margaret Beaufort, now Countess of Richmond and Derby. His mother had been in the possession of the manor for many years before it was taken from her, one of the many sordid acts commanded by Richard, late Duke of Gloucester — he who had called himself king, once his foe in battle.
He had made sure to reinstate his wronged mother as soon as he opened his first Parliament. He had gone further: Parliament had acquiesced in giving her the rights and privileges of a sole person, not wife nor covert of any husband, so that her personal control over her properties would never again be threatened by the contrivings of any spouse. She was thriving in her position as the lady of the manor once again, as she was prospering at court in her role as the King's Mother.
Henry turned away from the window, turned his back on the chill greyness of the sky to face the room’s encroaching dimness. The faint swishing sounds of fabric and the crackling of the fireplace was all that could be heard inside. His mother surely had a singular way of being efficient. With time, they would make sure to turn that manor into a palace, but many renovations had already been arranged to accommodate another illustrious guest for the time: Lady Elizabeth, Princess of York and rightful heiress of her house.
Another of his mother's subtle manoeuvring: having once made sure that the pair were set with the necessary amenities — sweet hippocras spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon, a bowl of Henry’s favourite amandes sucrées — she had departed with her lady to some unknown destination in the manor, claiming she had a role supervising the preparations for the winter but that she would be soon back to join in their company.
It was a polite excuse, one that after having been used before was needless to be employed again. The last few times he had met the Lady Elizabeth his mother had retreated to a different place to provide them with some privacy. It verged on indecorous, but Henry wasn't so keen on sticking to formalities when he was bound to do so every waking hour of his day from now on. If there was a downside to kingship, it could only be that: to be constantly watched by hundreds of curious eyes night and day.
The present occasion was different, though. Not many people knew of his location. The only sign announcing his presence in the house was the Yeomen of the Guard posted at the doors, watchful in their royal liveries of scarlet. Henry might have been an anointed king but he wasn't safe in his throne yet; treachery lurked on every corner.
The sound of rustling fabric stopped.
“Is there something the matter, Your Grace?”
Henry dragged his gaze to where the princess was sat, her embroidery hoop resting on her lap, thread and needle hovering in the air.
One hand on the window sill, he gave her a faint, courteous smile. “On the contrary.”
Elizabeth shot him a long look, eyes almost cautious, before she bent her head towards her work again. She wore a simple black hood that fell like a veil around her shoulders in the style of the late French fashions that had swarmed the court in the past few weeks. Parted golden hair could be seen peeking from under her hood.
It was peculiar that she would ask him such a question when he could almost ask her the very same. Their conversations had always been somewhat stilted, prompted more by necessity and awkward politeness than natural curiosity, yet she had been uncommonly quiet that day. The last time he had seen her was at his uncle’s wedding to her aunt Catherine a week before, though at the time he had barely had the chance to exchange words with her. It had been the first day of Parliament, an occasion carefully chosen to attract as many lords and magistrates to Westminster as possible.
The match had been advised by his mother but Henry had brought the matter to the princess, Catherine being her kinswoman and another potential bride to bring more Lancastrians and Yorkists together in wedlock. Catherine Woodville, as the window of the late Duke of Buckingham, was one of the richest women in the land. At the time the princess had seemed delighted that the matter was brought to her attention, and the two of them had discussed the advantages of such a union at length over a round of backgammon.
The princess was surprisingly skilful at that game, her demure expression masking the artfulness of her hands and lulling him to a fake sense of ease. Henry had found himself several points behind her, and when he offered to settle his debt the Lady Elizabeth had only issued a merry laugh, claiming that she would ask for her reward only when the right time came. Both of them had had a bit too much wine at the time, he figured, if her glowing cheeks had been any indication.
Presently, none of that glow could be seen. The princess looked rather muted — even shrewd — as she pierced and weaved through the fabric enclosed in her hoop. It made him wonder not for the first time what she was thinking, what singular feelings hid behind her pleasant features.
The first time they had met each other it had been at a rather officious occasion at Coldharbour, his mother’s new residence bordering the Thames. Flanked by his long entourage, he had had not much chance to assess her beyond her looks, which were lovely. Truthfully, there could never have been a woman who looked more spotless, more befitting the title of a queen: all rosy skin and slender features. It should put Henry at ease; it didn’t.
After their first meeting he had not visited the princess for a whole month, but by his second visit it seemed there could be hardly a week without him stepping into a barge to Woking — that is, until the last preparations for his coronation, the opening of parliament and his uncle’s wedding, took place.
Henry left his place by the window and took his chair again, the best one that his mother had chosen for him, covered in crimson velvet plush. He reached for his goblet of hippocras, still warm, and observed the Lady Elizabeth some steps across from him. Her slender fingers were working with ultimate precision, her brows — charmingly poised above her finely sculpted nose, a nose so fine and straight it could have been carved from marble — were knit slightly together as if deep in concentration.
Contrary to what he predicted, Elizabeth let her needle slip and it pricked her thumb, drawing a droplet of blood that rivalled the deep burgundy shade of her gown. She didn’t issue a sound. She brought the thumb to her lips and sucked on it pensively. Henry found himself holding his breath, strangely entranced.
“Is my lady hurt?”
Elizabeth raised her eyes to him slowly as if roused from a dream, then let go of her thumb. “Not at all, Your Grace.” She pressed the thumb to the inside of her opposite palm. “Such mishaps often happen to me. I've grown used to them.”
She answered him in such a resigned voice, he began to wonder whether she liked working on her embroideries at all.
“Does your craft bring you joy, my lady? Truly?”
Elizabeth looked at him for some seconds before blinking and drifting her gaze to the side. “There’s no much else to do with my time.” Her eyes returned to him and held his gaze in a straight look, voice softening in contrast. “It is quiet out here.”
He was surprised by her frank yet subtly veiled complaint. The daughter of a notoriously riotous king, one who had once been his most hated enemy, Henry knew Elizabeth was likely used to the court revels and banquets, the minstrels and idle talk. She had a large family, had never once been alone growing up, had never once been locked in house arrest.
Goblet in hand, Henry returned her straight look, his words paused and testing, if not icy.
“I gather my lady would have liked to be back at Westminster by now.”
Some of his lords had also asked him when he would take the princess to wife, though in a much less subtle fashion. They had urged him as if the preparations for such an event weren’t already dutifully set into motion.
The princess lowered her eyes to the embroidery resting on her lap. “I would like to be—” A fingertip traced after the lines of her design: flowers, pears and figs. “—where His Grace wishes me to be.”
A wise, political reply, though much less honest than what he would have liked it to be. She was careful; it seemed she never said a thing that she couldn’t take back one way or the other. War and conspiracies had done that to her, the realisation struck him at the time, war had done that to them both.
“I have made a gift for you, Your Grace, though I hope Your Grace won’t mind the simplicity of my gesture.”
Henry leaned forward, intrigued, and set aside his goblet. From somewhere in the plies of her skirt, Elizabeth pulled out a small square tissue which she handed over to him folded in two. He opened it to find the embroidered figure of a red dragon holding a rose. His eyes roamed the tissue; every stitch was craftily put in its place. It seemed she was skilful at that too. In another time, it might have been a favour a lady gave to her knight, a parting token of her devotion. The thought made him smile, and she surprised him by reciprocating the motion.
“I tried to do the Red Dragon of Cadwaladr—” She paused, colour rising to her cheeks. “Am I saying it right?” She flitted her eyes over to his own, but likely finding intense amusement in them, she lowered her gaze to her embroidered design again. “I… they said the dragon could be found everywhere at your coronation.”
So the birds have been chirping at her, have they?
“They were right.” Henry still held his subtle smile. “My lady was correctly informed, whoever was it that told you.”
The banners carried before him in his procession to the Abbey were the very same he had laid at the altar at St Paul’s for the Te Deum: the flag of St George, the saintly knight of the English, and the Red Dragon of Caldwaladr, the last king of the Britons, adopted at Bosworth to represent his Welsh ancestry. The pageantry didn’t stop there: Henry's new red rose of Lancaster was seen everywhere, as was the Beaufort portcullis — from that time on, crowned.
Elizabeth glanced over to him again. “I heard it was… quite the festive occasion.”
Henry leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his lap, tilting his capped head. He was equal parts amused and confrontational that time.
“You would have liked to go, wouldn’t you?”
His eyes squinted at her, the curl of a smile played on his lips. You would have liked to be crowned by my side, he meant. It was possible that she harboured the same resentment shared by some Yorkist factions at court when they saw Henry crossing the nave on his own, the train of his long crimson mantle carried by the Earl of Oxford, crown carried ahead by his uncle.
A joint coronation would have been impossible: as his consort, she would have to be wed to him first. His coronation couldn’t wait for all the legal procedures their marriage had yet to undergo; it was a matter of urgency. He had won his crown by right of conquest and the avowal of the peerage — not by claiming as his the rights of the daughter of a house that, as prestigious as it was, should not have sat on the throne in the first place. Henry would marry the Lady Elizabeth for the benefit of England and the healing of a nation that had been too long divided by petty squabbles and warfare, not for anything else.
“My royal father was crowned long before I was born, Your Grace,” Elizabeth replied to his bait-like question with a calm voice and a limpid, too-honest gaze. “I have never been to a coronation. I would have liked to see it.”
I haven’t either. I would have liked to see it, too.
Attending a coronation and taking part in one were two completely different things, as Henry had come to understand himself. No one had warned him how oppressive the whole process could be, how heavy and tiresome. The long procession from the Tower, stalling every minute in stiff, brand-new clothes, too many heads lining the way and too many voices shouting at once; the constant changing of robes, the undressing — standing almost naked in front of all lords temporal and spiritual as they anointed him, the Lord’s Chosen — the touch of the holy oil surprisingly cold on his bare chest, hands, shoulders, forehead.
No one had warned him how unprepared his arms were for the ordeal, how heavy the ceremonial crown would feel on his head, how burdensome the globe and sceptre would weigh in his hand. No one had told him how oppressively still he would have to be as his shoulders strained under layer after layer of fabric as his lords redressed him — his arms held out wide open at the altar like an offering or Christ on the cross Himself. Every king should learn the taste of sacrifice.
Even the vigil at the Abbey on the eve of his coronation had been of little comfort. Having to knight a dozen men after his long walk from the Tower was an ordeal in itself as well: the whole process of the oath, the osculum and the washing of feet tiring in the dead hours of the night. And then finally, guarded from afar, the solemn silence of the daunting cathedral as the only company to his thoughts. No time to sleep. His knees had dug into the pew, rosary beads in hand, repentant lips in prayer. Gloria in Excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis. Lord, here you have placed me as has ordered your will. May your blessings shine upon my path. Domine Deus, Rex caelestis, Deus Pater omnipotens.
He had prepared himself to turn into a glorious transcendental being at the moment of his crowning, a dweller existing between two worlds. He would no longer be Henry of Richmond, the exiled earl, but Henry, by the grace of God, King of England and France, Prince of Wales and Lord of Ireland. To that day, he was surprised to find himself still quite the same person.
Elizabeth was blinking at him. “Your Grace?”
Henry focused on her face again, shook himself out of his thoughts. “I have also brought my lady a present.”
She parted her lips slightly in expectation, her mouth forming an 'o' that didn’t quite finish round at the end. She likes to be surprised, he made a mental note to himself, and he didn’t rush to present his gift any faster as the expectant look on her face bordered on delightful in his eyes.
He did, though, eventually slid his hand into the pocket of his doublet to produce a small roll of parchment. Her brows furrowed in confusion when she took it in hand — she was expecting it to be a jewel or a garment, perhaps — and started unfurling its contents. She could not help but widen her eyes when her gaze fell upon the title: Titulus Regius.
“I had Parliament repeal Gloucester's statute. So were my wishes that it should be erased from the book and all other copies destroyed.” Henry searched her face, her eyes still intensely fixed on the parchment. “This is the very last copy. I bring it to you so my lady can do with it as she pleases.”
The bastardisation decree revoked, there was one less obstacle in the path towards their wedding. Henry would not have any stain of illegitimacy hovering over his future wife and queen-to-be. He might have been terribly short of money — his debt to the crown of France was still not paid, he could not afford any wars across the kingdom and even less an invasion should it come to that — but the stain over his queen at least, that he could remove with his freshly anointed hands.
His gift had a purpose: Henry had planned to personally tell her the news. He wanted to watch what would be her reaction to them, and most importantly, what would be her reaction to that last copy presented to her. That decree had caused her a great deal of pain in the past, he wagered. Would she tear it to pieces, throw it into the fire? Or, on the contrary, would she erupt in tears at the sight of it?
He turned an intent eye on her, but the only emotion Elizabeth betrayed was the slight heaving of her bosom. She rolled the parchment back again and tucked it away among the plies of her skirt. Whatever emotion she was likely to express at it, she meant to do it away from his presence. It frustrated him that she should choose to keep that side of her private. He wanted to know her, and that he didn’t already was mildly inconvenient.
“I thank His Grace most heartily.” She said, much more formal than what Henry would like her to be at that moment. “I must confess, though,” She started slowly after a pause, an unexpected timid smile etching itself on her face. “I must confess that my gift now pales terribly in comparison to yours.”
“No,” Henry huffed a short laugh in surprise. “Your gift is lovely, my lady. I can assure you.”
Elizabeth scooted to the edge of her seat so she was closer to the embroidery on his knees, half-bent and pointing at the stitched details of her design. “I wish I had done it with finer threads.” Her neck, framed by her dress, was craned in one long lovely curve. “The dragon’s underside would look lovely in gold, I reckon.”
He made another mental note to order sewing supplies to be delivered according to her wishes as soon as possible. He could make her happy — he wanted to make her happy. It was an unfamiliar sensation, especially since he had been in no condition to make anyone happy for so long. The realisation was dangerously overwhelming, to say the least.
As her fingertips hovered close to the embroidery, chatting about her decisions for doing so and so, Henry noticed a detail he hadn’t quite caught in his first assessment of her gift. The small rose the dragon was holding in his right hand wasn’t a red rose: it was a white one, as if it was the representation of the princess herself. Pensez à moi, the small detail seemed to say. Think of me.
The Welsh Dragon and the English Rose. It had a ring to it. His subjects would appreciate it, he supposed, the image of the red and the white roses combined. The stitched rose was poised inside the dragon’s hand with utmost care. The creature didn’t crush it, in his claws, on the contrary, he seemed to cherish it.
Henry looked from the embroidery to her face, her lowered lashes casting long shadows across her cheeks. He was taken by the absurd crave to seize her in his arms and take her in a long kiss. They could have lovely children together, heirs which would have the best claim to the English crown in all of Europe. It wouldn't be a chore. Henry found himself looking forward to the time he would plant his seeds inside England’s very soil, sprouts of red and white that would grow together like intertwined limbs in the bedsheets. His face grew hot.
She looked up at him and he was paralysed for a second, her eyes a mixture of brown and green and gold. As those eyes looked expectantly at him, he realised she had asked him a question.
“Your gift is exquisite, my lady.” Henry said for lack of anything else to say yet surprisingly meaning it. He tucked the embroidery inside his doublet before turning to her again. “As exquisite as your very person.”
Her cheeks coloured a bit. “His Grace only says so because he is too kind.”
Henry shot her a pointed look, wry and conspirative, as if letting her in a secret. He leaned forward.
“Am I?”
Many had thought him lenient, none had called him kind.
“Yes.” She returned the look in full. “At least I should like to think so.”
She had inched closer to him than she had ever been and Henry was trying hard to keep his eyes on hers instead of allowing them to roam free. He felt petrified in his seat and ready to pounce at any moment in equal measure, a rush that froze but set his heart speeding, all the more frustrating because he didn’t want to act on it. His gaze rose to the parted hair strands above her forehead. Her mother’s golden looks were said to have been legendary once, enough to turn the head of a king. Henry was coming to taste that truth himself.
“Elizabeth.” He started in a hollow voice.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
She raised her eyebrows at him, perhaps surprised he had addressed her by her Christian name.
Henry felt emboldened enough. “Can I see your hair?”
She blinked at the edge of her seat and he swallowed. She was far too chaste for his impure thoughts, it seemed, as chaste as Diana herself.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your hair.” His voice was tight. There was no turning back now. “Let me see it.”
He was the Lord’s anointed sovereign and he should command, not ask, but he knew there was a fine line of gracefulness between the two to be walked.
Elizabeth blinked for two seconds, then pulled herself to her feet with her embroidery hoop and sewing objects in hand. I have offended her, the thought seized him as he watched her take her first few steps away. He shouldn't let her reaction disturb him: no matter the outcome, Henry would remain seated. Kingship was a role to perform at all times.
He had reckoned she was about to leave the room, such was the blank look on her face, but her legs stopped by the small table where they had played backgammon the time before. She dropped her sewing tools and bent her head to her hands, poking around her hood.
“Would you—” She was pulling out pins from under the veil-like hood. “—would you lend me a hand?” Her voice went lower. “It’s difficult to do it on my own.”
Henry sighed with just a tinge of bittersweetness. Of course the princess would not have refused him. No one could refuse the king, no matter what their true feelings happened to be. Or better yet, whatever her true feelings happened to be. He would be her king first, her husband second. There was no space for sentimentality between the two.
His legs took him stiffly to her side, a mixture of excitement and guilt colouring his steps. She gripped the edge of the table with one hand and was drawing out pins with the other. Henry came and stood carefully behind her, reached out a hand to hold the lapel of her hood as she went on with her ministrations, her knuckles brushing against his own so softly it was almost like a caress. The fabric loosened, then it slid along the hair strands on the top of her head. Elizabeth pulled the hood away and Henry undid the net holding the length of her hair in a bun.
It was in a state of enthrallment that Henry ran his hands through her hair. It was truly the most beautiful colour he had ever seen, rivalling the Virgin Mary's own. It was so silky and soft, her strands almost tickled his palms in their feather-like quality. He found himself holding his breath, the scent of lavender and rosewater ascending to his nose. He splayed her hair about her shoulders, her long locks falling down to her waist, then swept it all to one side of her neck.
He might have been holding his breath, but the Lady Elizabeth was breathing deeply, her chest rising and falling in heaves. Henry encircled the wrist of the hand tightly gripping the table and her motions subsided.
“It is beautiful,” Henry spoke close to the shell of her ear, the small curly hairs at her temple swaying as his words touched her skin. “Like yourself.”
Looking from his height, he could only see the ascending roundness of her left cheek. His other hand landed on her opposite shoulder with a tentative carefulness, leading to his next movement: Henry brought his lips to those first bumps of spine visible in her curved neck. They enclosed around her skin in a slow motion; she shivered. He parted his lips from her neck, eyes clouding, feeling half-intoxicated as if he had just tasted the sturdiest wine.
“Do I frighten you?”
He had been her enemy once, as she had been his. He didn’t wish to have her under strict coercion. He could always tell Parliament the lady did not desire to be wed and his lords would have to find a way to make peace with her decision. They had already recognised the heirs of his body as entitled to the English line of succession, after all.
Her voice roused him from his state of scorned paralysis.
“No.” She turned around, bringing her body painfully close to his. Her garment brushed against his own in her turn. “You do not.”
She tilted her head up, her lips hovering an infinitesimal distance below his own. It was an invitation, he could feel her breath sweetened with spices mingling with his own. Henry hesitated, wary of what one action could set in motion, yet Elizabeth placed a hand on his forearm and sighed into his mouth, causing him to lose whatever restraint had been holding him back.
He dived into her mouth with an eagerness that might have scared her — it might have, had he given her any time to think. She brought her hands to his chest as his arms encircled around her, drawing her closer to him still. He would give her a real lover’s kiss and his mouth brushed hers with lips and tongue. Her bottom lip felt utterly soft; it made his own lips tingle with such pillowy lightness. Henry sucked on it, her hands gripping the front of his doublet tight.
As she gasped searching for air one of his hands travelled to cradle her head, tilting it in just the right angle for his tongue to slip inside her warm mouth. The tip of his tongue brushed hers just slightly, yet she shuddered and pulled back her tongue all the same, turned her mouth from his in the wake of what he could feel was an immediate reflex.
He had been too bold, yet he could hardly help himself. Never leaving his lips from her skin, he placed a wet kiss to the side of her mouth, to the underneath of her jaw, to the column of her neck. She whimpered — he didn’t know whether from discomfort or pleasure — and the sound of her exhale was heady in his ears. Elizabeth pressed herself even tighter against him, his left hand splayed on her cheek, the other one gripping her waist before she took two steps back.
Her body slipped from his hands, leaving them abruptly cold. It was for the best: all sense had fled from his head, his manhood had started to turn painfully stiff. Henry would have to seek confession before he could take communion again. How great a great sin was it to desire one's betrothed? He stood frozen, catching his breath, her eyes probably as large as his own pinning him in place. He reached for her wrist again but she turned towards the table. There was not much time to think before she turned back with a small pair of scissors. He looked at those scissors, breath stalling for two seconds, before raising his eyes to her face.
There was a wilderness to her eyes, but an astounding precision in them too. His jaw set in cold resolution. Then so it shall be. The endless spilling of blood. There was a dagger placed somewhere in his own person, but he had never thought he would need to use it inside his mother’s house. It was inevitable, the work of fate itself: one of them would have to bleed in the end, be it on the cold floor or on the marriage bed.
Entirely unaware of those ominous thoughts, Elizabeth pulled a lock of hair from behind her neck, ran her fingers through it, then cut it at the tip. A few seconds were all that had passed, his heart arrested in time and turned upside-down like hourglass. It had all just been a false alarm.
He felt her prying open his hand, then pressing the lock into his palm.
“I would like His Grace to keep it.” Elizabeth closed his hand with a gentle squeeze, eyes locked on his own. “So that the memory of me will never stray too far from his mind.”
Pensez à moi.
His fingertips tingled to touch her again, but he only covered her hand, enclosing it between both of his own. She took on a breath as about to say something else — lips parting, chest rising — when the bell of the manor’s chapel chimed. Nine times did it strike, a booming sound filling the silence. Elizabeth slowly slipped her hand away; it was time for Terce.
"I will keep it." Henry replied at last, vowing in the same voice he had used at Rennes for the occasion of their betrothal two Christmas past.
He opened his palm to look at the lock of hair she had gifted him: gold, like the money he was so sorely in need. It could be a charm if he put enough faith in it. When he looked up again she had already covered her hair, her fingers pushing pins under her hood and setting it into its former order. Half-astonished, he realised a singular fact: she had not needed his help that time around. How easily she had made him leave his seat.
"I'm afraid I must take my leave of His Grace." She smoothed her hands along her gown, palms pressed against her stomach. Then, with a swish of her skirt, she stepped dangerously close to him once more. Henry straightened up his spine. "Will I see you again soon?"
Her eyes, too soft and too warm for what they wanted to express, demanded a vow. Henry acquiesced with a single nod, much despite himself and what caution dictated.
"You will. I shan't be gone long this time."
The smile she gave him was luminous, a heart-shattering sight. “I will keep His Grace in my prayers—” She lowered her eyes briefly, cheeks reddening, before raising them again. “—and in my thoughts.”
She didn’t see how her words set his own face ablaze. Elizabeth sank in a low curtsy before leaving the room, the crackling of the fireplace the only sound left inside after her footsteps receded in the gloom.
Henry let out a long-held breath, an uncomfortable sensation poking at his ribs like a blade stuck in between his bones. For entirely unexpected reasons, the princess was far more dangerous than what he had first thought her to be — the way she disarmed him so easily, how she divested him of any shield. Henry would have to be more careful from that time on. As it were, she was unlikely to leave his thoughts any time soon. He placed the lock inside her embroidery and tucked it inside his doublet again. It rested there, close to his heart.