Today I am delighted to hand the blog over to Elizabeth St John, whose new historical novel, The Godmother's Secret, is published today. Over to you Elizabeth:
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In a complete moment of serendipity, I discovered that a 15th century ancestress, Elysabeth St.John, was the godmother to Edward V, the eldest brother of the missing Princes in the Tower. When I was looking for inspiration for my new book, The Godmother’s Secret, I literally entered my own name into our digitised family tree to see who else was recorded. Several “Elizabeths” popped up – Victorian, Georgian, Tudor women; and then I was so excited to find an Elysabeth St.John who lived during the late 1400s – and over the moon when I discovered she was the godmother to Edward V. Surely Elysabeth, above anyone else, would know what happened to those poor boys?
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| Elysabeth Scrope's Appointment to Attend Elizabeth Woodville |
According to a manuscript in the National Archives, Henry VI paid ten pounds to ‘our wellbeloved Ladie Elizabeth Scroop for attendance by our commandment on Elizabeth, late calling her[self] Queen’ during her confinement; upon the birth of Edward V, Elizabeth was appointed his godmother. In medieval times, a godmother was considered a blood relative, and was responsible for the spiritual wellbeing and security of their godchild. Where the history gets interesting is Elysabeth St.John was also the half-sister to Margaret Beaufort, mother of Henry VII. Elysabeth’s husband, Lord John Scrope, was a close ally and relative of Richard III. Margaret was married to Thomas Stanley, a powerful northern lord and ally of Edward IV and Richard III. So not only was Elysabeth (a Lancastrian) godmother to the York heir, and married to a fervent York supporter, she was also aunt to the Tudor claimant. For anyone familiar with the Wars of the Roses, and the ultimate battle at Bosworth Field, you’ll know how that worked out. Talk about family feuds!
My novel’s plot revolves around Elysabeth’s vow as godmother and her desperate efforts to protect her 12-year-old godson, Edward V, from the intrigue and betrayal that surrounds him after she delivers him to the Tower of London for his coronation. He was automatically king upon the death of his Edward IV (“the king never dies”). Throughout The Godmother’s Secret, Elysabeth is navigating her own conflict, upholding her loyalty to both her husband and her sister as competing factions battle for the throne. More than anything, Elysabeth defies the bounds of blood and loyalty to make her own decisions for her godson’s survival in a hostile medieval world where women had little authority.
This excerpt is the opening chapter of The Godmother’s Secret, as Elysabeth arrives to join Elizabeth Woodville in sanctuary at Westminster Abbey.
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| Bolton Castle, Elysabeth's Home |
Chapter One
November 1470 | Westminster Abbey
A secret has been conceived . . .
“Entry, in the name of God and King Henry!” My guard clouts the iron-clad door of Cheyneygates, challenging the sanctuary of Westminster Abbey. “The Lady Elysabeth Scrope demands entry!”
A murther of crows startles from the gables, cawing and whirling around my head and circling up into the clouded heavens. I join three fingers in the holy trinity and cross myself; head, chest, sinister and dexter. These ancient purveyors of death do not disturb me, for I have not survived this war to be hindered by a superstition. If there were a crow for every dead soldier, England would be a huge raucous rookery. But it never hurts to invoke God’s protection. The crows swoop and squabble and alight singly among the gargoyles on the parapets of the soot-stained Abbey. Like the granite tors of my Yorkshire home, these walls are impenetrable and inaccessible. And just as hostile. God offers protection to all who claim sanctuary. And men erect walls to keep them safe.
No stirring from within. I sigh. Not unexpected. “Knock again,” I command the guard. “Let them know their visitors will not leave.”
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| Abbot's House, Westminster |
Fallen mulberry leaves clog the stone steps rising before me, rotting unswept in the hollows. Someone isn’t taking care of the abbot’s house. It is clear that no one has left nor entered for a while. The guard’s hammering is unanswered, and yet to the right of the door a candle flame glimmers through a browed window and a shadow flits elusively.
I push back my hood, and a spatter of rain needles my face. Here, gatekeeper. Here's reassurance I bear your fugitive no threat. I am of middling age, graceful, fair of face, my countenance pleasing, I’ve heard say. Hardly a threat.
The rain unfurls in sheets. I raise my voice. “I am not asking the queen to break sanctuary.” God knows the wretched woman would make it easier on all of us if she did. I motion the guard aside and edge up the slippery steps to the door. “I am here to join her.” My voice competes with a dripping gutter and gets lost under the pitter-patter.
At the foot of the steps, my stepdaughter, Meg Zouche, hums with a redhead’s restless energy; her curly hair springs wildly from her hood, laced with jeweled droplets of Thames mist. “The queen thinks to defy fate with a barred door.” Meg scowls at the blank and blackened oak.
“She will admit us. Eventually. Even one such as she cannot birth her child alone,” I reply. “I may not be her choice for an attendant, but a captive has no say in their guard.” Temper’s blood warms my cheeks. I stand resolute at the door, ignoring the invisible eyes taking my measure. If this time in sanctuary is to be the battle of wills I anticipate, then I must win the first foray. I plant my feet in the composting leaves, ignore the damp seeping from the stone into the soles of my boots, and wait.
Bolts grate top and bottom, and the door creaks open. I swallow a last breath of rain-washed air, hoarding the fresh scent for the stifling weeks to come, for the queen’s confinement shapes my own prison sentence. Reaching for Meg’s warm hand, I cross the threshold into the abbot’s house. The splashing steps of our guard fades, his duty done, mine just beginning. And if I fail and the child dies, I will be shown no mercy from Henry, the king that rules, nor Edward, the king in exile.
We are herded like moorland sheep into the cramped entry corridor, and the steward squints down his drip-tipped nose and sniffs. Meg glares back at him until he drops his gaze. She may be only nineteen, but she has been mine since she was two years of age, and I have trained her to run a great household. She will brook no truck with an insolent servant. Let Meg practice her learnings on the poor man; he is, after all, the enemy.
“Escort my mother to the queen,” Meg commands, “and then show me our lodgings.”
He grudgingly dips his head. “Wait here, Dame Zouche.”
So the household expects our arrival. They just don’t choose to welcome us. Of course, there is little that will escape the queen, for certainly she has her spies and informers even as she invokes sanctuary to protect her unborn child.
“This way, Lady Scrope.”
I kiss Meg's warm cheek. “Make friends with him, Meg,” I whisper. “We’re going to need all the help we can muster. I'll return shortly.”
She grins and winks. “Bon chance, Belle-maman.”
The steward sets off at a brisk trot through a passage that runs alongside the entry courtyard. He does not look back to see if I keep up nor to extend me the courtesy of a deferential bow nor even a head tilt that my rank demands. So. This is how we will engage.
He leaves me at the open door to a dim chamber, and I pause to let my eyes adjust to the shadows and to reclaim my dignity. I am aware that whoever is in the room sees me before I see them.
The lofty wood panelling is underlit by half-burned candles struggling in the damp air. At the end of the chamber is a diamond-paned window, beyond which the Abbey lurks, blocking the waning light. Resting in a high-backed chair before the hearth, her pure profile dark against the blue flames of a meagre fire, is Queen Elizabeth—I still think of her as Elizabeth Woodville—her belly swollen under a beaver-fur mantle. Three little girls huddle on red velvet prayer cushions at her feet, the youngest child perhaps eighteen months.
So this is the commoner queen and her brace of healthy children. Yet still no male heir to claim the throne. What are the odds this next child is a boy? High, I reckon. Especially given the wellspring of prayers God must be receiving daily from the queen and her followers.
Thank you so much for having me today, Annie! It's so exciting to share The Godmother's Secret!
ReplyDeleteYou're so welcome - thanks for the wonderful post and good luck with the book; it's a fantastic read!
DeleteWonderful article - thank you ladies!
ReplyDelete