Page 68 of The Raven and the Rose
One fashion that Roseanna did not care for was that of plucking a lady’s hair. When the Queen and her ladies bathed, she saw that the hair between their legs had been denuded. When it started to grow back, hours were spent plucking it out. They all laughed at Roseanna for her quaint, old-fashioned notions; Roseanna, having such black hair, had a triangle of glossy curls between her legs.
The weeks in sanctuary passed in an odd way for Roseanna. The days sped past, filled to overflowing by the large household of women, their needs, their talk, their gossip. Yet the nights were endless for her, long, lonely nights in which she clung to her memories of her husband. How she missed him! Not just his lovemaking, although her body ached for the release only he could give her. She also missed his strength, she missed his companionship, she missed their fights, and yes, most of all she missed his love. She knew now that she loved him in return. What a fool she had been to throw away the splendor that was theirs for scum like Sir Bryan! Would Roger ever forgive her? She was unsure and trembled at the thought of his terrible wrath.
It was almost a month before anyone from the outside was allowed into sanctuary, and then it was the Queen’s priest. Elizabeth looked at him coldly and said without demur, “I would have preferred a doctor over a damned priest!”
Roseanna suggested that the priest bring a nun who was skilled in midwifery on his next visit. He went off assuring them that he would try his best.
The next day’s events were unforgettable. The guards outside the door reported with gloating satisfaction that Warwick had taken the Queen’s father and her brother John in Coventry and beheaded them. He had done this because Rivers was the King’s chief military officer and held the title of Constable of England.
Elizabeth screamed until she shook, and suddenly she clutched her belly in agony. She went into a false labor and was bleeding. Her women got her to bed, but still she screamed and poured venomous curses upon Warwick’s head. The more she screamed, the more she bled.
Roseanna was very worried. She had never attended a woman’s birthing before, though she had helped many mares to foal. Firmly she took the Queen’s hands in hers and commanded, “Talk to me! Elizabeth, stop this screaming and talk to me!”
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat as she tried to stifle her screams; then she began to talk. “There were twelve of us. My mother is a silly Frenchwoman who let her heart rule her head. To everyone’s horror she married a lowly squire. We were impoverished. I had six sisters and five brothers. They married me to Sir John Grey of Lancaster while I was still a child. Before I knew it, I had two little sons. When my husband died, his family took everything and left me a poor widow with two children and no prospects whatsoever. The only thing the Woodvilles had were good looks and ambition.
“Oh, I know I have a reputation for being a scheming bitch, a whore of Babylon, but those years taught me a lesson. I became as hard as a mason’s block. I was beautiful, so my mother and sisters scraped together enough money to make me a fine gown, and I threw myself at the King. The country said I bewitched him, that I was different from his other mistresses. Well, they were right there. I had enough brains to know that if I became his mistress he’d never marry me. I was determined that if he wanted to get between my legs, he’d pay for the privilege.
“Warwick forbade the marriage, and though Edward was King of England, he was afraid of Warwick in those days. So afraid that he married me in secret because of that bastard, that creeping louse, that devil’s spawn!” She rocked back and forth. “My poor little brother John. Only twenty years old! So filled with ambition, he willingly married that eighty-year-old harridan, the Duchess of Norfolk. My God, My God, that he should die before her is unbearable!”
Roseanna sponged Elizabeth’s drawn face and suffered her contractions along with her. She had never known that giving birth could be so horrific. A knot of fear was growing inside her, for she knew that in a few months she would face the same ordeal. Elizabeth was in her midthirties, and in labor without her makeup and finery she looked every minute of it. Roseanna knew she had the reputation of the whore of Babylon, but here, now, in this place she was just a woman having a difficult birth. Her heart was wrung with compassion. The labor dragged into a second day and then a third, and then the slow bleeding suddenly burst into a hemorrhage. The linen was so bloodsoaked that the bed looked as if it were surrounded by bowls of liver. Then Elizabeth began to vomit into her beautiful silver-gilt hair.
Whether the vomiting propelled the child forth or whether the arrival of a midwife-nun brought the heir to the realm into the world was never quite clear. But Roseanna’s relief was so great that she almost lost consciousness when the holy woman took over and stanched the bleeding. Elizabeth Woodville might look delicate, but she was as strong as an ox. Roseanna felt a chill for Elizabeth’s enemies, for she was a survivor. If King Edward regained his throne, Elizabeth would smite down those who had harmed her and hers.
Elizabeth’s powers of recuperation were almost miraculous. In two weeks she was up out of bed having fittings for all her gowns to be altered to show off her new slimness. The midwife-nun had brought the longed-for news that Warwick had flown too high and would have to restore King Edward. He had summoned a Parliament to meet at York to put the King’s brother George upon the throne, but the people would have none of him. They rioted all over the country and on the London Streets to show that the imprisonment of the King would not be tolerated.
Warwick was wise enough to realize that there would be another outbreak of savage war unless he restored Edward. He postponed the Parliament, then sent the nobles a writ of supersedeas canceling it on the excuse that England was being threatened by invasion from France and Scotland.
The King’s brother Richard, along with Hastings and Ravenspur, had rescued Edward from Middleham and taken him in triumph to York. Edward immediately stripped Warwick of his high military office and gave it to his loyal brother Richard; he also made him the new constable of England—a heavy responsibility for a boy who had just had his eighteenth birthday.
The King and his loyal nobles were coming to Westminster to free the Queen from sanctuary and to see the newborn heir to the throne.
Elizabeth was frantic. Her hair had been without the special paste that changed its color from gray to silver-gilt. Roseanna knew how important it was to Elizabeth that she retain her youthful appearance in the King’s eyes. She had been through so much, and though the fine lines left by her suffering could not be erased, there was something that could be done about her gray hair.
Roseanna persuaded the nun to loan her the nun’s habit and slipped quietly from the imprisoning rooms of their sanctuary to the bustling London streets, where throngs were gathering to welcome the King. She found an apothecary shop, bought the necessary ingredients for the Queen’s hair dye, and hurried back to Westminster.
When she returned she found that the guards at the doors had been replaced by loyal King’s men and that there had been no real need for the disguise. She rushed her purchases into the skilled hands of Lady Margery, who had already washed the Queen’s hair to ready it for the paste. Before Roseanna had time to change her garb, the King strode into the apartments and boomed in his large voice to bid them bring forth his son. His little daughters recognized him immediately and shrieked their delight to see their soft-hearted father again. Edward raised his eyebrows at what Roseanna was wearing, but he made no comment. Instead he grasped her hands. “What a pleasure to see all my children together! Rosebud, how can I ever repay you for saving Elizabeth?”
“I did it because it was my duty, but in doing so I saw the woman beneath the surface. All my preconceived ideas flew out the window, and I know what it is that made you choose her for your wife.”
His laughter boomed out. “God’s feet, then you’re the only woman in England who does!”
Roseanna’s mouth turned up at the corners. “She’s having her hair washed. She won’t have you see her looking anything less than perfect.”
The King turned around and bellowed, “Ravenspur! Where the devil is the plaguey fellow? Come and claim your bride!”
Roseanna began to panic. Her husband was here! As his tall, dark figure came into view, her heart skipped its regular beat, and she found herself breathless. Her last act had been one of deceit and defiance of him. The shadow of the young knight she had risked all to free stood between them like an impassable barrier.
Roger moved closer, the expression on his face inscrutable. “Explain yourself,” he demanded.
She raised her eyes to his, and her lip trembled slightly. Then she remembered the intimate moment when she had felt the calluses on his backside, and she gave him a wicked grin. “The explanation depends on whether you intend to punish me or kiss me!”
In one swift movement he swept her into his arms and his mouth came down possessively on hers. It was like a hot brand, telling her and the world that she belonged to him now and forever. Roseanna could not help but respond. She felt the kiss all the way down to her knees. Then the melting sensation was replaced by fierce desire for this man, and she returned the kiss passionately, moving her body against his in a way that was most pleasurable. He held her at arm’s length to fill his eyes with the sight of her and grinned. “I’ve never made love to a nun before.”
The King, overhearing the remark, made the bawdy rejoinder, “Oh? I thought a nun’s habit was a specialty of Cassandra’s.”
Roseanna’s eyes kindled. “I happen to know who Cassandra is! You’re a pair of damned lechers, sharing your whores as casually as you do a bottle of wine.”
The King said, “For a well-bred young woman, you have a very salty vocabulary.”
