Author's Note: This one shot is intended as a prequel to "The White Rose and the Red." Beginning with the death of Richard III, we see Henry VII recognised as King, and claiming his Kingdom, and of course, his Queen.
First and foremost, special thank you to the reviewers of "The White Rose, and The Red," for suggesting that I write this one shot. It was something that I wouldn't have done, otherwise, and have enjoyed it immensely. So, thank you! Usual disclaimers apply, I own nothing. I hope everyone enjoys this, and reviews are most welcome!
Under The Stars at Windsor.
The Battle had been raging for two hours, when the moment came. Everything stood still. The sound of the canons, the clash of blade on blade, halted as suddenly as it had begun. Henry could have sworn that arrows had stopped in mid flight, as the unknown Knight's blade pierced King Richard's armour, and sank up to it's hilt into his abdomen. Breathless, disbelieving, Henry froze with his sword ready to slash at some unseen foe as he watched the light in the tyrant's eyes go out. Richard, who'd lost his helmet and his horse in the fighting, doubled over the blade that had run him through, and a clotted, red, dribble dripped from his mouth as he choked, gurgling like a baby, on his own blood. He fell into the dust in a crumpled heap of armour with a dull thud, utterly lifeless.
Henry had stopped breathing. The breath had caught in his chest, as he timidly approached the corpse of his enemy. His head span like a child's top, and the earth pitched and lulled like a swaying ship beneath his feet. As his head swam, he felt the grip of strong, armoured arms reach out and steady him before he could swoon like a maid into a dead faint, as the realisation of his victory hit him. He looked up helplessly into the eyes of the man who was kindly weighting him to earth, and found his Uncle Jasper beaming proudly back at him. Tears of happiness glittered on his wizened old face. Jasper had waited for twenty seven long years for this moment to come.
"We've done it," Henry gasped as he composed himself enough to stand unaided. "We've bloody done it!"
All around him, the straggling fighters ceased their brawling as the news seeped through that King Richard was dead. They hardly believed it, for Richard's army was twice the size of Henry's, and twice as well equipped. Curiously, like frightened animals, they gathered around in a wide circle, surrounding Henry Tudor, the boy from nowhere, beside the fallen King, who'd never lost a battle in his life. Their disbelieving eyes widened in shock as they looked from the victor, to the vanquished and back again.
The silence that now swelled around them, was all the more ominous after the battle that had just ended. Slowly, as they all gathered their wits, one by one, they all knelt, still armoured but with their helmets off, in the dust.
"The King is dead!" They all cried out in unison. "Long live the King! Long Live The King! A Tudor! A Tudor!"
Henry stood in the centre of the circle. His mouth ran dry, and his heart beat painfully in his chest as he realised that they meant him. He was the King of England, now.
"This is God's will!" Henry cried out so that all could hear him. As he spoke the words, he could feel the first tingling drops of euphoria sinking into him. He was beginning to relish his victory. "This could only be the will of God, that we score this victory today. So, I command you all to rise, we march on the rest of England, and take the Capital. God speed!" Small, disjointed sentences were all he could manage by way of rousing victory speech.
And the world took off again. From that eerie feeling of suspended animation, the day was suddenly propelled into hyper-speed as the two armies merged, prisoners rounded up and taken away, and a vast guard formed protectively around King Henry. But, just as he is about to mount his horse, Henry remembered his step-father. He had seen Stanley entering the battle, and swinging the victory over to him, and had seen him as the men gathered around the corpse of King Richard. But he had not seen him since. Jasper was missing, too. Henry itched to share his moment of glory with his Uncle, and began calling out to them, wherever they may be.
"Harry!" Jasper's voice could be discerned among the hubbub.
"Where is Lord Stanley? I must speak with him!"
"Wait, Harry! Your step-father has something for you."
Henry stopped in his tracks and peered around Jasper, and spotted Thomas Stanley reaching deep into the tangles of a Hawthorn bush. Something glittered on the bare branches, something that Stanley delicately plucked from the thorny branches.
"Kneel," Jasper commanded Henry, his voice soft, and an expectant smile curling his lip.
"Wha-"
"Just kneel!"
Jasper flapped his hand at Henry, bidding him to do as he was told. As Henry lowered himself onto one knee, Stanley turned from the Hawthorn bush, holding out the gold coronet that had been worn by King Richard, over his helmet. The Coronet worn by all Kings of England.
"Behold!" Stanley's voice boomed out across the battlefield, drawing the attention of everyone to what was happening in their small clearing at the edge of the field. "The King of England!"
Henry bowed his head as Stanley "crowned" him there and then. Once again, he felt breathless and dizzy, as the circlet of gold was carefully set in place. A tear welled in his eye. He really was the King of England.
Elizabeth of York opened her eyes, and gazed up into the painted face of the Virgin Mary set high on the altar, before which she knelt in fervent prayer. The small Chapel was silent, but outside, she could hear the click-click of her mother's shoes as she paced and paced in the corridor outside. Slowly, she closed her eyes again, and drew her hands together in a manner of prayer. She could still taste the bitter communion wine on her tongue, and wafer stuck in her throat, as it closed over with worry about what was happening on a battlefield far, far away. She drowned out the noise of Elizabeth Woodville's pacing, and quietly mouthed the words of the prayers that she knew so well.
Outside the stained glass windows, the sun was sinking low in the skies. The day was almost over, and surely, the battle would be, too? It was the wait that was sending her insane. The endless waiting. Her future hung in the balance. If this Tudor boy won, she was delivered. If he lost, then she would flee back into Sanctuary, never to show her face in public again. Richard would kill them all, surely?
All the different scenarios ran through her mind at once, riding rough shod over her prayers. Giving her meditations up as a bad job, she slumped back on her heels and let her hands fall limp at her sides. Once again, she looked up into the face of the Virgin, and the babe in her arms. Impassive, and deaf to Elizabeth's pleas, blind to her suffering.
Outside of the Chapel, the pacing had ceased. Muffled voices exchanging unintelligible words, and one set of footsteps raced off down the corridor. All of Elizabeth's senses became hyper alert at the prospect of news. She stuffed her rosary beads hastily down the front of her bodices, and rose to her feet. She ignored the pain in her knees, pain from hours of kneeling on the hard, flagstones floor, and turned to face the doors that she knew her mother would soon burst through.
She waited with her heart hammering against her ribs, and her stomach churning horribly. Any second, she expected her mother to appear. But, nothing happened. There was silence. As she began to fear the worst, Elizabeth walked over to the doors, and pulled them apart. She looked around for her mother, and almost missed her. Elizabeth Woodville and lowered herself down on to the floor, and sat with her face buried in her hands.
"Mother," Elizabeth spoke softly as to avoid causing alarm. "Mother what is it? Has there been some news?"
She steeled herself for the worst. But, when the old Queen raised her tear stained face, Elizabeth saw that she was smiling a smile that shone with relief and joy. She tried to speak, but words would come. Instead, she gave a jerky nod of her head, and the smile widened.
"You mean, he's done it?" Elizabeth gasped. She brought her hand to her mouth as she stepped backwards. She had to lean against the wall to steady herself as her mother picked herself up from the floor so they could embrace one another.
"He won!" Woodville finally gasped. "Henry Tudor is King. Richard is dead. You will be Queen!"
Elizabeth's euphoric squeal reverberated down the stone passage ways and the two women flung their arms around each other.
"He is being acknowledged as King in every City in the Realm," Elizabeth explained to her daughter. "Lady Margaret has ridden out now to meet Henry's army as they ride into London. He will be here soon, and you shall be his Queen!" She had to repeat it, to believe it.
Elizabeth's joy was beyond words. She sobbed helplessly into her mother's shoulder, and squeezed her tight, for dear life. It was over. It was finally, after decades of bitter bloodshed, all over; and she would be playing the most important role in ensuring that it was over. Somehow, it did not seem to matter that she had not met Henry. She knew that he was ten years older than she was, but she hadn't a notion of what he physically looked like. But in the light of this victory, the light of this new dawn, none of that seemed to matter to Elizabeth. What mattered was the future, and what they made of it.
Henry Tudor's army swelled in the aftermath of the battle. Like a great, sprawling mass, they took the country storm. City and after city threw open their gates, and welcomed them home. The nobility were swift to pay him their fealty, and hand over the keys to the gates. A symbolic act of deference that confirmed his position as lord and master over them all.
Henry had not been prepared for this. He had been born to a thirteen year old mother with a complex claim to the throne. No one, not even in their wildest flights of fancy, had ever expected him to do this. It was, after all, only the slaying of King Henry VI and his only son, Edward of Lancaster, that had allowed Henry his place as head of the Lancastrians. Then the Yorkists had destroyed themselves in a manner no man could have predicted.
Just one month ago, Henry Tudor was a penniless exile with a price on his head. He was stripped of his Earldom, and facing a future in an intolerable limbo. A half-life, spent running from one foreign court to another to beg for sanctuary. But, with one more roll of the die, everything had changed. It seemed to Henry, as he rode through the endless Cities, that a million and one chances had all collided, and placed him where he currently was, as King of England.
"I remember when your mother first showed up at Pembroke Castle," Jasper Tudor sniffed mawkishly into his tankard of mead in the Tavern they'd come to rest over night in. "Just eleven summers on her, and married to a big brute like my brother. Big with child, you that is, at twelve. I thought that she'd be dead, for sure. Never seen a girl so small birth such a child. God's death, did she scream you out into this world!"
Henry hid his blushes and averted his gaze into his own tankard. All the same he listened to the soothing Welsh lilt of his Uncle's voice as they kept a low profile in a shadowy corner of the Tavern. All around them, people danced and celebrated. But, after months of frenetic activity, Henry just wanted to be alone with his Uncle Jasper. Even if he was talking about Henry's own soiled binding cloths.
"Then you were born, a few months after your father died," Jasper continued, his voice was distant now, as he recalled disjointed episodes of his long and eventful life. "You were early, too. Your mother, God bless her, was in a terrible state. She pulled through, by the grace of God alone. You were strong, though."
Jasper's train of speech trailed off into a companionable silence as Henry's retinue continued to drink the night away. From the room next door, the sound of a hundred or more voices, all singing a lewd ballad could clearly be heard.
"Have you ever met Elizabeth of York?" Henry asked, out of the blue.
"What? Oh! No, I haven't. If I showed my face in Edward's Court, I wouldn't be sitting here now."
"No, of course not. Sorry."
"They say she is very beautiful, and kind. So, don't be worrying about that."
"I'm not! I'm worrying about what she'll make of me!" Henry retorted and downed his mead, as if Elizabeth would appear through the door at any second, and he needed the Dutch courage. "She is a born and reared Princess, and what am I? A penniless Earl-"
"You're the King of England!" Jasper cut him off, and let out a bark of laughter so loud it seemed to silence the bawdy balladeers in the room next door. Henry, still unaccustomed to his new job, laughed as the nerves finally dissipated. He didn't think he would ever get used to it. Inside, he still felt the same. But no one called him plain old "Harry", any more. Except Jasper.
"A penniless King, though, if what Morton says is true," Jasper added, ruefully. "I really do dread to think what state the nation's finances have been left in by … your predecessor..." The name of Richard III had been banned in Henry's hearing range.
Henry lost the thread of Jasper's talk as Elizabeth of York, a girl he'd never met, filled his mind. He couldn't begin to imagine what she looked like, or what kind of personality she had, but her presence had loomed large in his life for almost two years, now. Absent mindedly, he scratched at the tankard in his hands, and wondered what kind of Queen she would make? What kind of a wife? What would she do if she found him old, and repellent? She, after all, was still only seventeen, an he was twenty seven. His stomach flipped every time he imagined their first meeting, and his imaginary Elizabeth looked back at him for the first time with horror on her face. It made him want to be sick with nerves.
"Are you drinking that, or you just going to contemplate it for the rest of the night?" Jasper nodded towards the tankard that Henry was still gazing at.
"What?" Henry snapped out of the reverie he'd sunk into with a start. "Oh … Yes … Sorry uncle."
Jasper rolled his eyes, and muttered something about "young people today" under his breath. It made Henry laugh as he watched the old man. He called Jasper "uncle", but "father" would be more fitting. For that was what Jasper had always been to him. Now that he was to marry a girl he did not know, and who would probably be horrified at the sight of him, Henry was never more glad to have Jasper at his side.
"What if I am too young for him?" Elizabeth asked as she sat perfectly still so her hair could be braided, and fought the nerves that convulsed her body. "He may want somebody who is his age. He may think me too inexperienced to be Queen-" She broke off suddenly, her sapphire eyes widened as some new nightmare scenario dawned upon her. "What if he cannot stand the sight of me?"
The Queen mother, Elizabeth Woodville, dropped the ribbons in her hand and doubled up with laughter. Elizabeth jerked around in her seat and looked up at her mother, hopeless desperation etched in her face.
"This is not funny, mother!" She scolded, hurt that her own mother could be so flippant about her very real fears. "This could happen. He could look at me, and think me nothing more than a silly girl, better off in the schoolroom, than at the head of the State. Even worse, an ugly, silly girl. He is bound to have a beautiful French mistress who'd come running to his side at the click of his fingers."
"Oh! Child!" The Queen Mother wheezed as she regained her composure. "First of all, you're the most beautiful girl in Christendom, and second, the pre-contract is signed. All you have to do is exchange vows, and it is done."
Elizabeth turned back to face the mirror mutinously. It was one thing to have your own mother tell you you're beautiful, but a stranger, who'd never laid eyes on her before wouldn't be quite so indulgent. The Queen mother resumed hair duty. She brushed her daughter's lustrous blonde hair, wove in the ribbons, and strung in the interlaced little jewels that winked in the summer sunshine. It was this, as well as Elizabeth's flawless, porcelain skin, that was her real crowning glory.
"There!" The Queen Mother exclaimed as she tucked in the final strands, and fastened the final jewels in the hair. She took a step back to admire her eldest daughter with tears welling in her eyes. Elizabeth Woodville was looking at herself as she was over thirty years ago. Young, beautiful, and with the world at her silk-slippered feet. "If only your father, the King, could see you now, looking so beautiful," She sighed.
"Mother, don't," Elizabeth stood up and embraced her mother. "Don't upset yourself, not today. Today, we will all be happy, and celebrate." If the King can indeed bring himself to look at me, Elizabeth thought to herself; but she couldn't bring herself to raise her own fears again, with her mother becoming so emotional.
"You're a good girl, Bess. Even if you weren't a beauty, which you are, Henry Tudor would still be the luckiest man alive to have you as his bride."
"Oh mother, stop it!" Elizabeth flushed crimson as her mother veered from sad, to sentimental in the blink of an eye.
The servants reappeared in the Chambers, ready to brush down Elizabeth's best gown, and to put the finishing touches to her clothes and hair, before she was led out to greet the new King as he entered London for the first time. As they brushed her down, the two Elizabeth's, mother and daughter, looked at each each other as two old, and dear, friends, as much as they did parent and child. Together, they had braved as many battles as their menfolk. From spells in sanctuary, to the murder of the Princes, the two Elizabeth's had borne their grief, and carried each other through some of the darkest days England had ever known. They had done it together, and as the old Queen passed the mantel of State from mother to daughter, her heart seared with pride, and pain.
The gates of London swung open to the sound of rapturous cheers from the assembled crowds. From every window, the standard of the Red Rose of Lancaster was hung. The people waved, cheered and threw their caps in the air as Henry's procession passed through the narrow, cobbled streets.
From the roof of the Tower, cannons boomed out and a twenty one gun salute was fired from the river Thames. The noise was deafening, but Henry soaked up every second of it. Beside him, his mother, Margaret Beaufort, rode side-saddle on a white palfrey. On his left, as always, was his uncle Jasper. The three of them, one family, finally reunited after their fourteen year spell in exile on the Continent.
Henry glanced over at his mother, and smiled as the tears cascaded down her cheeks, and her hands trembled as she gripped the reins of her horse. Wryly, Henry thought that like everyone else, even his own mother had expected to be picking his head off a pike at Market Bosworth, and not escorting him through the streets of London as King.
"Oh, ye of little faith," He laughed over at her as they passed along the processional route.
"Henry, don't!" She cried back. "I could have lost you completely! You could have died!"
The talking seemed to be distracting Margaret from her retrospective grief, so Henry kept up the small talk until Westminster Abbey finally came into view. It was even taller, and even grander than he remembered it to be. The roar of the crowds seemed to recede to a distant buzz in his brain as his fixed his gaze upon it's spires. In there, she was waiting for him. Henry lapsed into a nervous silence as the procession reached the Abbey gates.
He dismounted his horse at the foot of steps that led up into the Abbey, and called his new grooms over to help him get tidied up. Meanwhile, Margaret disappeared through the grand doors, ready to present her son, the King, to Elizabeth of York, the new Queen in waiting.
Henry was painfully conscious of the fact that he was still wearing the armour that he had fought the Battle of Bosworth in. Since he had won his victory, the emphasis had been on claiming the rest of the Country, and not making him presentable to members of the fairer sex, not even if they were his future bride. All he had on his head, was King Richard's old coronet that Thomas Stanley had rescued from the Hawthorn bush. But, the ever resourceful Jasper, had procured a royal standard to fix over his breastplate. He was armoured, and now, he was armoured like a true King of England.
"Henry, she's ready. Follow me," His mother had reappeared, only to speak and about turn to run back through the doors of the Cathedral.
"This is it," Henry remarked nervously to Jasper as he fussed over the Royal Standard over his nephew's breastplate. "Wish me luck!"
Elizabeth bristled with tension as she watched Margaret Beaufort disappear back into the crowds that milled about the Abbey. She stood on her tip toes, fearfully curling a lock of hair about her index finger, as she tried to spot a man who fit Henry Tudor's description among them. All of the faces seemed to blend into one another, and she could scarcely tell one from the other. She gave an exasperated sigh and threw herself back down in an empty pew.
"Calm down, daughter!" Elizabeth Woodville implored her as she took a seat beside her. The Abbey itself was mercifully empty, just so the Royal couple could make each other's acquaintance before the celebratory, thanks giving, mass could begin. "Remember to curtsey, and smile as he raises you. All will be well."
"Oh, where is he!" Elizabeth whined. She ignored her mother, and jumped back to her feet, with her eyes fixed on the doors that had now swung shut, blotting her view of the crowds altogether.
Finally, after the most agonised wait of her life, the doors swung open again and Elizabeth sank into a deep curtsey. She hadn't even had time to look at him properly, and now her nerves hammered at her so relentlessly, that she could not bring herself to look. Her ragged breath froze in her chest as a pair of hands appeared before her face, and rose her back to her full height. She finally exhaled as her sapphire blue eyes, met his rich hazel gaze. His broad, open face was framed by a mop of unruly curls that almost obscured those beautiful, expressive eyes. His expression was soft, inviting, as he smiled sweetly. Elizabeth's heart skipped euphorically.
"Your Grace," She stammered, but her voice was barely above a whisper and once again, she found herself becoming breathless. She searched deep in his expression for signs of mutual affection.
"Lady Elizabeth," He finally replied as he found his tongue.
Henry couldn't take the girl in all at once. He looked her up and down. She was a vision, in her gown of cream and peach satin and damask. The jewels that had been strewn through her hair glittered, and gave the impression of a halo of divine light as they caught the rays of the sun that spilled through the Abbey's enormous windows.
"Uhm..." Henry blustered, and he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. "Ah... How do you do? Well, I hope?"
Elizabeth's face broke out in a beam as she gave a vigorous nod of her head. "So very much better for having met you, at last, Your Grace."
"For the final time, my lady, that is not what we agreed!" Elizabeth Woodville's voice pierced the air and broke the lover's spell. Both Henry and Elizabeth spun around to find their parents locked in a war of words.
"Now just you wait a minute!" Margaret Beaufort snapped angrily. "The wedding was to occur straight away, and they would have their Coronation at the same time. Holding two Coronations, with the nation's finances so tight, would be impossible!"
Woodville's face was contorted with fury, now, and the two women circled each other like lionesses around their cubs.
"Tell me, Richmond, why I should entrust the hand of my daughter to an untried, and untested King. Should he not prove himself first? This reign will be challenged!"
"Because that is what we agreed!" Beaufort screamed back. "Challengers, or no! Harry and Elizabeth are betrothed! Now stop making objections, where there are none, and prepare for the wedding!"
"Mother!" Henry and Elizabeth called out in unison, trying to stop the two women scrapping like drunks over the last pint of ale. But the two women had their horns too deeply locked into each other to notice. Now, they were bellowing over one another, each others' words intermingled and rendered them insensible.
Henry tilted Elizabeth's chin, so she was looking directly at him, and not the squabbling mothers.
"Meet me tonight, after the feast at Windsor, and we can talk privately. My Uncle Jasper will come for you." With that, Henry planted a kiss on her cheek, and entered the fray to solve the first bump in his reign.
The last night of August, and the air was warm and balmy, as Henry, eight days the King of England, lay on lawns of Windsor Palace, and looked up at the heavens. The star strewn sky glittered like diamanté high above him as he lay there, peaceful and relaxed, waiting for Elizabeth to come to him. When, finally, he heard her footsteps approaching over the finely manicured lawns, he heaved himself upright and gestured to her. Jasper, holding a lit torch out before him, aimed the flames directly at him.
"Oh, there he is!" He exclaimed happily to Elizabeth, before making a retreat.
"Don't worry about Jasper, Bess. He won't tell anyone we have met in secret," Henry explained as he gestured to Elizabeth to sit on the ground beside him. Gingerly, Elizabeth complied.
"My mother will kill me if she sees me lying in the grass," She groaned as they both settled back to look up at the skies.
"I'll have her arrested, then," Henry replied, matter of factly.
"You'll have to catch her, first," Elizabeth laughed. "She could be out of this Palace, and in that Sanctuary in the blink of an eye, leaving nought but a dust cloud."
Henry twisted his head around so that he could see his beautiful new bride in profile. The stars were reflected in her eyes, and rays of the moon lit her hair in silver threads. The jewels still glittered. They shone like the heavens. Like something celestial.
"I never thought that this moment would come," He said to her, his voice thoughtful as he tried to organise, and articulate the things that had been locked in his head for the last fourteen years. "Here, with you, under these stars at Windsor Palace."
"How so, my Lord?" She asked, turning to look up at him. He was propped up on one elbow, gazing down at her. Once again, she struck by just how handsome he really was. "Did you think that you would always be an exile? Even as an old man?"
"No," He replied, brushing a loose silver strand of hair from her face. "I never really thought about the future, at all. I never believed in it. Not for me."
Second guessing where Henry was going confused Elizabeth. But, her instincts told her to let him speak, and empty his heart of the, now obsolete, fears that still so clearly haunted him.
"For all of those fourteen years that I was in Brittany, England could have made her peace with the French. If that had happened, then part of the peace deal would have been to hand me, and my uncle, over to the English. I would have been deported, and executed as a rival claimant to the throne. It could have happened, at any time, on any day. Jasper and I, we lived in fear of it, day after day. I also knew that the only hope I had was to one day return to England, and claim back what was mine, and yours, by right. And bring these bitter feuds to an end. I had the choice to fight, or flee for the rest of my days. So, no, I never believed in my future. Only other people's."
As Elizabeth listened to him, her heart began to melt with tenderness. She didn't know what love felt like, but at that moment, she knew that it was only a matter of time before she did. Henry eased himself back down into the grass, and watched the diamanté sky. The stars continued to glitter like jewels.
"Some say the future is written up there," Elizabeth said with a nod to the skies. "Whether you believe in yours or not, the stars can point the way to the future. If you like, I can take you there?"
Henry paused before answering. "I'd love that more than anything."
Beneath the stars at Windsor, as they let the warm breeze pluck at their skins, they kissed. A long, lingering kiss as they melted into each others' arms.