“She’s hoity-toity, but has a kind heart,” remarked Maybel to her mistress. “Imagine my baby being friends with a princess!”
Poor Katherine with her olive skin looked more sallow even than usual in her black mourning, Rosamund thought, as their barge glided on the waters of the river. She leaned over and murmured softly to Katherine, “I think I look like a crow in all this black, though I mean no disrespect to your late husband.”
The princess of Aragon nodded ever so slightly, saying low in her stilted and accented English, “Black is not a color for youth.” Meg, however, looked wonderful in her black velvet gown with its gold embroidery and beading. She didn’t look unattractive at all, for her milky complexion, like Rosamund’s, had rosy cheeks. She waved gaily to the onlookers and was cheered for it. They knew she would soon wed formally with the King of the Scots, which they hoped would mean peace between England and Scotland. The barges began to make for the bank.
Rosamund could scarcely contain herself. “I thought Richmond was big,” she murmured, but Meg heard her and laughed.
“Westminster isn’t so bad,” she said. “We stay in the south wing. Most of the rest of Westminster is the abbey itself and the parliament buildings. Mama prefers Baynard’s Castle when we come to London. It is nicer. Being in the city, of course, makes everything seem a bit close. Wait until you see Windsor.”
“Who are all those people gathering by the landing quay?” Rosamund asked nervously.
“Oh, probably the lord mayor of the city, his aldermen, and various members of the court,” Meg said offhandedly. “You will meet my grandmother today. There is no one like her, Rosamund, but do not let her frighten you. She expects good manners and respect, but do not grovel. Grandmama hates groveling. She has no patience with it. Everyone defers to her, even the king himself,” the princess said admiringly. “I hope I can be like her one day.”
They debarked their barge. The king, the queen, the Venerable Margaret, and Prince Henry were ahead of them. Rosamund dutifully followed her companions, almost lost among their attendants. In a smaller family hall the king was embracing his mother, a queenly lady with an elegant carriage and sharp dark eyes. She was dressed all in black, her hair covered by an architectural headdress with a white veil.
“You look pale, Elizabeth,” she greeted her daughter-in-law, kissing her on both cheeks. “Are your women seeing you take that tonic I prescribed for you? Young Henry is robust now, but one never knows. We could certainly use another healthy prince.”
“I am doing my best, madame,” the queen replied with a smile. “Why is it that the responsibility for a child’s sex is always placed upon the mother? You are learned, madame. Can you tell me why?”
The king’s mother chuckled. “When, my dear Elizabeth, have you ever known a man to accept the responsibility for anything so important? If pressed I should say it is God’s will. Still, you must continue to pray for a fair prince, my dear.”
“Am I not prince enough, madame?”
All eyes turned to the young boy, standing feet apart, his hands upon his hips. He had red-gold hair and bright blue eyes.
“If you fell off your horse and cracked your pate, Henry, what would we do?” his grandmother demanded. “There must always be at least two princes, in case of an accident.”
“I will have no accidents, madame,” young Henry Tudor said,“and I will be king one day.”
“What think you, my son, of this bantam cock you have sired?” his mother chuckled. “He is, I suspect, very much like me though he looks like York.”
“He is nothing like you,” the king replied, “but I will agree with you that he looks like York, does he not, Bess?”
“He reminds me of my father, aye, but I see you in him also, my lord,” the queen answered quietly.
The Venerable Margaret cast a quick look at her daughter-in-law. Bess knew well how to dissembleandhow to manage her husband. But she was devoted to Henry Tudor. For that her mother-in-law was grateful. “Where is my namesake?” she demanded.
“Here, madame,” said young Margaret Tudor, stepping forward and curtsying to her grandmother.
“You look well,” Margaret Beaufort noted. “I am glad to see it. And Kate, our Spanish Kate, come and let me see you as well. Ahhh, you all look like wee black crows in your mourning. The young should not have to wear black. Well, there is nothing to be done about it, I fear.” Her sharp eyes swept the group of young women with Margaret and Katherine. “And who,” she said, pointing a slender finger at Rosamund, “is that pretty child? I do not recognize her.”
“She is papa’s new ward,” Margaret answered her grandmother.
“What is your name, child?” the Countess of Richmond inquired, peering sharply at the subject of her query.
“I am Rosamund Bolton of Friarsgate, madame,” Rosamund answered, curtsying nicely. What a regal figure the old lady made, she thought. She was more royal than the queen!
“You are from the north judging by your accent,” was the reply.
“Oh, dear,” Rosamund said, and then she blushed. She was truly trying to speak properly.
“We have several from the north, child,” the Venerable Margaret replied. “There is no shame in it. Do you know the Nevilles?”
“Nay, madame. Until I was brought to court I had never been more than a few miles from my home,” Rosamund answered politely.
“Ah,” came the understanding murmur. “And who put you in my son’s care, Rosamund Bolton? Was it your parents?”
“Nay, madame, ’twas my late husband. My parents died when I was but three. My husband was Sir Hugh Cabot, may God assoil his good soul,” Rosamund responded as she crossed herself.
