The Tudor rose by Margaret Campbell Barnes

Author:Margaret Campbell Barnes
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Women
ISBN: 9780356017488
Publisher: Macdonald and Jane's
Published: 1976-05-15T14:06:10+00:00

ELIZABETH'S WEDDING HAD BEEN every whit as splendid as her mother-in-law had promised. There had been the beautiful ceremony in the Abbey and feasting in the Palace, and a procession through London with all the church bells ringing. And when, in their relief at the cessation of years of civil warfare, the people had lit bonfires and danced around them in the snow, Elizabeth knew that their singing had been a spontaneous expression of their love for her. All her sisters had begged to help dress her in her bridal finery, and Cicely and Ann, looking almost like stately grown women, had held her train. Remembering her mortification over her first wedding gown, Elizabeth had thanked God that this one betokened no lifelong exile in a foreign land. Instead of being covered with fleur de lys it had been lovingly embroidered with red and white roses; and when her kinsman, Cardinal Bourchier, placed her hand in Henry's, people had wept for joy because at that moment it had seemed that the familiar war-worn emblems had turned into a single bloom. A great Tudor rose, with red encircling white. And to her delight Henry had taken this as their mutual badge, and already it was woven on her bed-hangings and his chair of state and on the royal servants' liveries.

In the midst of her own triumph it had been good to see her mother's mended pride, and the happiness that shone in Margaret Beaufort's lovely, ageing face; but in her secret heart Elizabeth had been most grateful of all for Pope Innocent's considerate kindness when, in his dispensation, he had purposely alluded to her as “the undoubted heir of her illustrious father,” thus killing for all time the ugly slur upon her name.

But even the magnificence of her wedding could not make her forget its tardiness. The battle of Bosworth had been fought and won in August, yet it was not until after Christmas that Henry had married her—and then only because Parliament, prodded by the angry mutterings of the people, had specially petitioned him to do so. And because Parliament had been astute enough to make the petition synchronize with their proposal to grant him poundage and tonnage for life, Elizabeth was never sure whether it was the remembrance of his promise or the considerable addition to his income which had persuaded him.

For her part, she had gone to her marriage with gladness. With all the natural sweetness of her nature she had striven against resentment, preserving her gaiety and trying to please him. Again and again she reminded herself that, except for hearsay, she and her husband were practically strangers, believing in her optimism that she would soon come to understand him.

“Have you seen what our loyal poet John de Gigli says about us?” she asked one morning, sitting up in their great state bed and laughing delightedly over an illuminated presentation scroll. “He calls me 'the fairest of King Edward's daughters.' Surely I am not more beautiful than

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