The White Rose

Judgement Pronounced

It was a long ride (over eighteen miles) from the Stafford apartments at Barnet to Westminster. It would take over nine hours on horseback, even if one was swift, for the roads in this époque were terribly muddy. Robert Stafford led the way. Every time the road was flat and muddy, he'd slow down. Every time the road became dry and full of mounds and holes, he'd speed up. The carriage of his aunt followed him; he loved the sound of her fat body being jostled about in the small litter and her occasionally swearing at Father Moray, who'd accompanied them. It gave Robert a certain amount of satisfaction. 

Soon enough, the Stafford party reached the gates of Westminster Palace. The guards, recognizing the Stafford badge, allowed both Robert and Matilda's household entrance to the courtyard. Matilda swiftly removed herself from the carriage and went to the nearest squire.

"Where is the King?"

"He's dispensing justice in the Great Hall"

Matilda grabbed Robert's hand and the two walked off as fast as she could manage to the throne room, where court was held. Matilda had already decided to pin the blame on Margaret Howard. Her brother was an enemy of hers and, besides, Margaret was not her daughter. 

The Great Hall that day was an unusual spectacle; between the grey pillars, beneath the huge cold vault, there were no nuns at prayer; the whole Court of England was standing motionless and silent before their King.

As Countess Matilda entered, a few heads turned, and a low murmuring was heard. A voice which was Knox's stopped reading, and the King exchanged a glance with his austere counsellor.

Matilda found no difficulty in making her way through the crowd; it opened before her. She saw the King, seated upon his throne, his crown upon his head, his scepter in his hand, his face even colder than usual, his eyes more staring.

He did not appear to be of this world. Was he not, in fulfilling his terrible function, brought up as he had been upon the precepts of his ancestor, Sainte Louis, the representative of divine justice?

Before the platform three young monks, their shaven heads bent low, were kneeling upon the flagstones. Lord Francis Lovell, the man charged with every execution, was standing somewhat in the background, at the sovereign's feet. 'God be praised,' thought Matilda, 'I have arrived in time. Some matter of sorcery or sodomy is being tried.'

And she hurried forward to reach the platform, where in the nature of things she should take her place, since she was a Peer of the Realm. Suddenly she felt her legs give way beneath her; one of the kneeling penitents had raised his head; she saw that it was her daughter Catherine. The three young 'monks' were the three Princesses who had been shaven and clothed in rough fustian. With a low cry Matilda staggered under the shock, as if she had been hit in the stomach.

The King made a sign to the Keeper of the Seals who continued his reading.

A succession of degrading scenes passed through the shaven heads of the Princesses of England at the sound of Knox's hard voice. Matilda was also affected by their shame, as were the three Princes, the deceived husbands, who, sitting beside their father, lowered their heads as if they themselves were culprits.

'... in consequence of which and by right of the above evidence and confessions of the above-mentioned Walter and Philip Bryan having been proved adultresses, the said Ladies Margaret Howard and Catherine Stafford shall be imprisoned in the fortress of Carnarvon, and this for the whole of those days which it may please God shall remain to them.'

'For life,' murmured Matilda; 'they are condemned to prison for life.'

'Lady Anne, Heiress to Northumberland and Duchess of York,' continued Knox, 'in respect of the fact that she has not been convicted of having offended the state of matrimony and that this crime cannot in justice be imputed to her, but as it is established that she has been guilty of complicity and culpable complacence, she shall be imprisoned in Sheriff Hutton Castle in Yorkshire for as long as shall be necessary to effect her repentance and during the King's pleasure. Masters Walter and Philip Bryan, having committed a crime against honor and betrayed their feudal ties upon persons of the Royal Highness shall be hanged, drawn, quartered and beheaded, this upon the morning of the day following today, at Tyburn. This is the judgment of our wise, most powerful, most dread, and most beloved King.'

The Princesses' shoulders were seen to quiver at the terrible words announcing the tortures which awaited their lovers. Knox rolled up his parchment, and the King rose. The Hall began to empty amid a continuous murmuring within walls more accustomed to echo prayers. People shunned Matilda, and took care not to catch her eye. She felt all about her the cowardice of human nature. She wished to go to her daughters, but Lord Lovell barred the way. 'No, Madam,' he said. 'The King will only permit his sons, should they so desire, to receive the farewells and repentance of their wives.'

She then tried to turn to the King, but he had already left, with Edward of Luxembourg behind him, choking with rage and humiliation. Edmund of York was in the same condition, not even bothering to look at his wife as he left the room. 

'Mother!' cried Catherine, seeing Matilda moving away supported by her Chancellor and Joan. Alone of the three deceived husbands, Richard had remained behind. He went up to Catherine, but could do no more than murmur, 'How could you do this, how could you?'

Catherine trembled all over and shook her shaven head upon which the razor had left red patches. She looked like a bird in molt.

'I didn't know ... I didn't want to ... Richard,' she said, bursting into tears.

At that moment Elizabeth said in a hard voice, 'No weakness, Richard. Remember you are a Prince of the Blood.'

Upright beneath her narrow crown, she too had remained, like a guard, a line of contempt about her lips.

At this moment the long-contained fury of Margaret Howard, the onetime Princess of Wales, was released.

'No weakness, Richard! No pity!' she cried. 'Copy your sister, Elizabeth, who runs no risk of understanding the weaknesses of love. She has nothing but hatred and gall in her heart. But for her, you would never have known. But she hates me, she hates you, she hates us all.'

Elizabeth crossed her hands upon her breast and gazed at Margaret with cold anger.

'May God forgive you your crime,' she said.

'He will forgive me my crime more readily than He will make you a happy woman.'

'I am an Empress. I hold a greater title than you were ever destined to. ,' replied Elizabeth . 'Even if I lack happiness, I have at least a realm that still respects me..'

'And I, even if I have not had happiness, at least I have known pleasure, which is worth all the crowns of the world, and I regret nothing.'

Face to face with the Holy Roman Empress, this woman with her shaven head, her face furrowed with fatigue and tears, had still the strength to insult, wound, and plead for her bodily rights.

'It was springtime,' she said in a hurried, breathless voice, 'there was the love of a man, the warmth and strength of a man, the joy of taking and of being taken, everything of which you know nothing, which you would give your life to know and which you never will. Ah! you can't be very good in bed since the Emperor prefers those with blood in their veins, not red haired witches!' 

Ghastly pale, but incapable of reply, Elizabeth made a sign to Lord Lovell.

'No,' cried Margaret, 'you can have nothing to say to Master Francis! He has been at my orders in the past, and perhaps one day will be at my orders again. He will not refuse to obey my orders, even if this is my last day of issuing them.'

She turned her back upon the Empress and Richard, and made a sign that she was ready. The three prisoners went out, crossed the corridors and the courtyard under escort, and returned to the room which served as their prison.

When Lord Lovell's retainers had closed the door upon them, Margaret ran to the bed and threw herself upon it, biting the sheets to prevent herself from screaming in rage. 

'My hair, my beautiful hair,' sobbed Catherine.