A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (13 page)

He is still tucking in his shirt, shrugging back into his jerkin. When Brampton turns suddenly, the boy draws back in alarm and falls on his arse. The man looms above him, spitting in anger.

“You are full of shit, boy! Didn’t you just indulge in the same sin?”

“I don’t have a wife and besides, I am not talking about sin, I am talking about love. Why, with a family and a wife like you have, would you sport with whores? You dishonour her; you do not deserve a good woman like her!”

Brampton’s lips tighten, his jaw clenches. With furious eyes he drags the boy to his feet and pushes him back against a wall, clenches the front of his shirt so there is but an inch between their faces.

“It is none of your business, boy, but since you persist; without risk to her life my wife can give me no more children. I almost lost her with the last one so, in ‘honouring’ her with my body, I’d be condemning her to death. Do you understand me now? Do you?”

He wrenches himself away and begins to walk backwards up the hill. As he does so he wags a furious finger. “Don’t ever think to judge me, boy. Ever, do you hear?”

Then he turns on his heel and runs uphill toward home.

“She is lusty.” Henry comes up behind me and places a hand on my shoulder. I cover it with my own. After a long episode of squawking, Margaret is now sleeping. I stand up carefully so as not to wake her and, signalling silently to the nurse, we tiptoe from the room.

It was Henry’s wish to name Margaret for his mother, but I content myself that it is after my cousin too, whom I miss more than I’d imagined. Baby Margaret is very demanding and much more difficult than her brother was, but she is delightful. She is fat and rosy, and smells of honey and camomile. When no one is around, I like to hold her close and inhale that sweet baby smell, feel her fat little legs kick strongly against my lap, her clammy hands on my face. She will be a girl to be reckoned with, I am sure of that.

“There is no need for you to spend so much time in the nursery, you know; we have servants for that,” Henry says as we pass along the corridor and down the narrow stair.

“I know, but I like to be there. I am glad she can stay with us. I have missed so much of Arthur’s infancy. It is hard for me to have him grow up so far from us. Having Margaret close compensates for that.”

The guards at the entrance to Henry’s privy apartments straighten up at our approach and the doors are thrown open. His hand is on my back as we pass into the antechamber, his fingers creep down my spine, sending a delightful shiver through my body as he ushers me into his private rooms. It is a long time since we’ve shared the intimacy of his chamber before bedtime. I anticipate a lingering supper, too much wine and hopefully, we will make ourselves a son tonight.

“Henry, there you are. I’ve been waiting to discuss the plans for the great Church of St Mary’s.”

My heart sinks. The king’s mother is seated by the window, the fading light falling on the building plans she has scattered across the table.

Henry squeezes my fingers in silent apology and moves to greet her.

“Oh, good evening, Elizabeth,” she says belatedly. I murmur a greeting but do not join them. Instead I stand before the hearth, hold out my hands to the flames.

Spring is late in coming this year; a chill lingers in the air and around the castle the fields gleam with standing puddles that have been there since February. The sun has forgotten us this season and the rain is incessant; the people murmur of bad omens and God’s displeasure. The outbreak of measles that attacked us all just after Margaret’s birth is slow to be extinguished and everyone suffers, regardless of status.

I had hoped for a quiet evening. I was slow to recover after giving birth this time, and lately the entertainments and constant envoys from Spain are wearisome. As the strength returns to my body in full measure, I find I am more inclined to welcome my husband’s advances — when he makes them. I am eager to give him another son. We have our heir. I have a fat, fractious princess to amuse me, but Henry needs a second son at his side; a little Duke of York. But, if I am never alone with him, the chances of getting one are slim.

Henry and his mother are bent over the plans, a flickering candle revealing the similarity of their long, bony faces, their identical hooded eyes.

They are engrossed in their conversation. I could send for my needlework or my lute to amuse myself while they are busy, or I could return to my apartments and let Henry seek me out there later if he is of a mind. I do not consider joining them. I learned long ago that, although his mother accepts me now as his wife, I will never be accepted as their intimate.

Apart from their hushed voices, the chamber is peaceful. The logs spit and settle in the hearth, the rain patters against the dark windows and, every so often, one of Henry’s hounds twitches in his sleep and growls deep in his throat, probably dreaming of chasing deer. I pick at a loose fingernail, sit down, stand up again and circumnavigate the room. Henry looks up and smiles a tight smile that does not quite meet his eyes. “I’ll be with you soon, Elizabeth,” he says.

“Oh, no, my lord. Do not trouble. I am quite content.”

Why do I do that? Why am I not more honest? My mother would have left my father in no doubt that she required his immediate attention. I’ve seen him dismiss a party of foreign statesmen for the pleasure of my mother’s bed. I sigh again, remembering that my husband is a very different man to my lusty father. But at least Henry is faithful.

I sink onto a low stool by the fire and, resting my cheek on my hand, begin to look for pictures in the flames as we used to when we were children.

Cecily and I always saw castles and gardens, fairies and flowers, but my brothers saw dragons and battles. Our visions would give rise to marvellous stories of bravery, my brothers’ faces bright with anticipation as I reached the inevitable chivalric climax.If I hadn’t been born a princess I should have liked to have been a storyteller, a minstrel or
a
songster, travelling the countryside to entertain the king.

Sometimes I still miss my younger days with a desperation that is almost a physical pain, but I endeavour to hide it behind a smile. The outside world only sees my serenity, for my inner feelings are not for sharing. But how I crave a confidant; someone I can trust and who will trust me in return. I sigh again, and to my relief realise that Lady Margaret has begun to roll up her parchments.

“I will see that it is done,” she says as she stands up and shakes out her skirts. “I am meeting with the chaplain in the morning.” She bids us good night. Henry walks with her to the door where her page is waiting to conduct her to her adjoining rooms.

While she is at court she is forever under our feet. I long for the day she will take herself off to her own properties again. She holds a vast amount of land and is the wealthiest woman in England, far more affluent than I. Even though I am queen, I am forced to be very thrifty to make my allowance last; and that is not helped by the necessity of funding my numerous sisters. Catherine is always in need of something, and Bridget is always spending her allowance on the poor.

I look up from my musing as Henry returns, looking sheepish.

“Now, where were we?”

I expect him to join me but instead, he moves to the table and pours two cups of wine. I am not thirsty and when he hands me my cup, I put it down. In the firelight, he is better looking; his eyes that tend to dart about a room seem somehow darker and warmer. As if my body is being operated by some external force, I walk boldly toward him and take away his wine.

“What are you doing?” He is half laughing, half hostile as I place my forefinger across his lips.

“Hush,” I say, as if he is not the king and, reaching up on tiptoe, I place my mouth on his. At first he does not respond, but when my arms slide up around his neck and my tongue licks across his lips, I feel him relax a little. His hands slide reassuringly down from my waist to cup my buttocks. I press myself against him, the jewels on his collar digging into my flesh, his codpiece hard against my thigh. With a groan in the back of my throat I kiss him harder, closing my eyes. In the gloom of the chamber he could be anyone … he could be … I sever the thought, open my eyes and focus on my husband.

“Come,” he says, pulling away but maintaining his hold on my hand. “Come to my chamber.”

But I resist him. “Let us do it here, Henry,” I say, “before the fire where it is warm.” I snuggle up against him again and, putting aside his reservations, we sink together to the floor.

He pulls off my hood and my hair falls around us as I struggle to free him from his coat, pull his jerkin from his back. Suddenly, a picture imprints on my inner eye of how we would appear should anyone enter; the king and queen coupling on the floor like peasants. I begin to giggle and our teeth clash. He makes to pull away but I bring his face back against mine and squirm beneath him. He cannot resist me.

He tugs at my bodice and I relish the pain of the hard bones biting into my flesh. His brow is beaded with sweat. He balances himself, his body forming a bridge above me, allowing me to reach down between his legs. I scrabble at the lacings of his codpiece as he burrows beneath my skirts and wrenches them high.

It has never been like this between us; even our best lovemaking has hitherto been polite and businesslike. The man who now takes me like a hearth wench is a Henry I’ve never encountered before. When he enters me I cry out and wrap my legs about his waist, cling on as he pounds into me.

At first I am not sure what is happening to my body, but after a while I no longer care. It is as if my mind is possessed by wanton demons, but it is a feeling I relish. I strain upward to meet him, my pleasure building with each thrust. When I open my eyes I see the veins standing out on his forehead, his eyes bulging, his teeth bared, sweat dripping from his brow onto my face. I grab his drenched hair and force his mouth against mine. And then … an explosion, a roaring fire that rips through my body, consuming me, consuming both of us so that we cry out in unison, his voice hoarse, like a lion’s roar, mine high pitched, like a bird’s.

We fall together in a heap of sweaty velvet and silk, and as my breath returns and I remember who and where I am, I wonder if our cries of pleasure penetrated the walls to his mother’s apartments.

He doesn’t speak but stands up, avoiding my eye, and begins to fumble with his lacings. I sit up, my heart still heaving, and begin to gather up my skirts to cover my legs. The peach-coloured silk is smeared with ash, the lace of the sleeve torn, and the petticoats closest to my skin are damp with royal semen.

As soon as he is decent, he hesitates, gives me a half smile before offering me his hand and helping me rise. As our faces come level I notice his eyes are fixed on my breasts which still bounce free of their lacings. There are marks left by his mouth, marks that, when I see them, send a dart of delight deep into the pit of my stomach. He reaches out and wrenches my bodice up to cover them, clears his throat.

“I am sorry,” he croaks and makes to turn away, but with a hand on his sleeve I restrain him.

“Sorry, Henry? Don’t be sorry, my lord. We should be glad.”

My ladies and I, along with a few gentleman courtiers, are enjoying the late summer sunshine when Henry and his mother join us in the garden at Greenwich palace. I pass Margaret, or Meg as we have begun to call her, to her nurse and rise to greet them. I shuffle along the bench and offer the king’s mother a seat and she sits down and looks about the garden. Her quick eyes do not miss one of my younger ladies sitting a little too close to Henry Stafford. Stafford shows the ladies much attention, but has never yet come close to matrimony. I’ve been watching them for a while, reluctant to spoil their fun. Summer was so long in coming and soon it will be over, and the romances that bloom in the warmer weather will fade as the temperature drops. Lady Margaret is watching them with a twitch of displeasure that quite mars the afternoon and reluctantly, remembering my duty, I sit up straighter. The minstrel instantly ceases his tune.

“Emily,” I call across the mead. “Can you fetch my shawl, I feel a chill.”

The girl, with a reluctant smile at her admirer, rises to her feet, drops me a brief curtsey and hurries toward the hall. Lady Margaret, satisfied that their pleasure is spoiled, settles herself on the turfed seat and begins a conversation with Cecily.

It is some time since I’ve seen Cecily. She is wed now and the mother of two, as I am. Her children are often ailing and she spends her time torn between her duties at court and those of motherhood. I watch her now, plucking at her kerchief as she responds to the king’s mother’s questions. The Lady Margaret has taken a great fancy to Cecily; sometimes I think she’d have preferred her as a wife to her beloved Henry, but I know he wouldn’t agree.

In a very unkinglike manner, Henry has managed to sidle around the company until he is at my side. He sits beside me, kisses my fingers surreptitiously. “Are you well?”

“I am quite well, my lord.” I cannot help but flush, for this question has become code for when he wishes to enquire if he is welcome in my chamber. Invariably my answer is yes.

Our relationship has developed into something closer to that which I’ve always hoped for. I am slowly unravelling the cocoon of distrust that Henry wraps around himself. I may be born of York but I am Tudor now, and his loyal wife.
Nothing
can alter that.

As we relax and listen to the minstrels, the call of the birds and the chatter of the women
,
it is good to feel the press of his arm against mine. Meg, as usual, is not far away. She is crawling now, trailing her gown through the dirt and trying to eat the garden soil or sample the flowers. She seems to think that every new thing she encounters belongs in her mouth. Henry and I watch her, and laugh at her antics, confident that the nurse who hovers behind will prevent her from eating anything too unpalatable. We linger in the garden until the sun begins to sink and the air grows chilly, when we move indoors. It is time to freshen our bodies, change our clothes in readiness for the evening entertainments.

As we reach the door, a messenger appears and asks to speak to the king. With a smile of regret, he leaves me to continue to my apartments alone. I do not see him again that evening. I dine in my chamber and the court is forced to enjoy the entertainments in the absence of both king and queen.

It is much later, when I am almost ready to slip into bed, that he comes to my chamber. I can see straight away that something is wrong. Immediately, I think of Mother, a sudden twist of fear that she may be ill.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

His face is pale and I sense he is concealing, or trying to control his anger. My fears increase. He’d not be angry if my mother was ill; it must be something worse, or some political insult he has received. He moistens his lips to speak, glances at me, looks away, and tightens his lips.

“My spies inform me that there is a fellow … some crazed pretender … at your aunt’s court in Burgundy, who is claiming to be your brother.”

“Edward!” My heart turns somersault. “Is it him?”

Henry, his face like thunder, brings his fist down hard on the table.

“No.” His voice is harsh, almost a shout. “He claims to be the other one. Richard. But it is not him, is it? How can it be? They are dead, aren’t they? You told me they are dead!”