A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (14 page)

In the months that follow I try very hard to regain Henry’s confidence but he resists me, pushes me away. When he does come to my chamber it is to perform a duty, the joy has gone from our marriage. Yet, by the autumn, I am pregnant again and once more embracing the depths of my chamber pot. This time the sickness doesn’t last as long, and by the time I am mid-term I am thriving and bonny. For the first time I enjoy the ‘bloom’ of pregnancy that I have previously dismissed as a myth.

Although he is pleased by the news, the edginess between the king and I continues, as does the uneasy truce between me and his mother. My cousin Margaret finds time in her schedule to visit from Ludlow. She has scarcely sat down when she begins urging me to speak to the king on behalf of her brother. Poor Warwick is still incarcerated in the Tower. He is sixteen years old now and I have not seen him since he was a small boy, although Margaret has regular word from his servants.

“How is he?” I ask and pretend I do not see the furious anger that passes swiftly across her face.

“He is well enough but he knows no different. He knows no other home than the Tower. He is content with his picture books and cats but it is no life for him, shut away from his family for no greater sin than being born too close to the throne.”

I lower my eyes. I feel so useless, so helpless. I fiddle with my cuff, tracing an intricate line of the embroidery with my fingernail.

“I have tried to get Henry to see reason, Margaret, I really have, but he says it is for the boy’s safety. He knows Warwick is not … not really capable of starting an uprising but that is not the point. There are those who would manipulate him and use him as a figurehead for insurrection. Henry has to be careful, so careful … especially now …”

She jerks her head in my direction and slides along the settle toward me so her words cannot be overheard.

“This … pretender, Elizabeth … who is he? Do you know?”

I straighten up, my eyes darting around the room to see who might be listening. I shake my head and mutter a reply.

“We don’t know but the king is very shaken by it. Henry’s spies are busy trying to discover his identity, but so far they have learned nothing.”

“Our Aunt Margaret is backing him.”

“But she hates Henry; she would back the devil himself if he offered her the chance to displace him.”

“But that doesn’t mean the boy isn’t your brother. I mean, we both know Uncle Richard would not have harmed his own blood. He looked after all of us so carefully. The boys were no threat to him; the king had more reason to …”

She stops midsentence, suddenly realising she is speaking treason to the Queen of England. Blood rushes into her cheeks, she puts a hand to her face and shakes her head. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. Elizabeth, honestly, I wasn’t suggesting …”

“I know.” I cover her hand with my own. “It is so hard to speak openly, to anyone. Henry didn’t harm them, I am sure of that. He has been frantic to discover the boys’ whereabouts since he won the throne. If he had ordered them killed, he wouldn’t be so worried now.”

“To think it has come to this.” She shakes her head sadly. “Our family fragmented, your brothers lost, my brother imprisoned and us, both of us, married to men our fathers would have scorned. Nothing is ever certain, is it? Not in this world.”

At that moment the child leaps in my womb, making me gasp. “This little fellow seems very certain of himself,” I laugh, in an attempt to break the sorry tension that has descended upon us.

Margaret smiles. “Do you think it is a boy?”

“If it isn’t, it will be a princess with very large feet and a kick like a donkey.”

Margaret moves even closer, drops her voice to a whisper. “Maybe she favours her paternal grandmother.”

We burst into laughter, drawing the attention of my ladies who are sitting a little way off. Cecily detaches herself from the group and approaches us, laughing although she is unaware of the cause of our mirth.

“What? What is it?” She sits beside us, her smiling eyes moving from my face to Margaret’s. We both sober.

“Nothing,” I reply. “Just a silly thing about … about kittens.”

Watching me closely, Cecily’s face falls a little and I feel a twinge of regret that I can no longer confide in her as I used to. Her relationship with the king’s mother is strong now and she is too quick to carry secrets to her. This is one joke that would entirely fail to amuse the Lady Margaret.

Coolly, Margaret proceeds to admire Cecily’s gown. She reaches out to feel the fabric and they fall to speaking of safer, domestic things. As their conversation washes over me, I run my hand across my bulging belly and count the kicks and nudges issuing from within. The child seems to be dancing a saltarello. By my reckoning the babe should be born sometime in June or July, and I have already begun issuing orders for my confinement, which will begin very soon.

The chamber is made up as it was before, with soothing tapestries and yards of sumptuous hangings adorned with red and white roses. I order my needlework, my lute and favourite books to be placed within easy reach, for I know from experience how long and tedious the waiting can be. This is the first time I shall be giving birth in the heat of the summer, and I hate the thought of shutting out the sun and stifling behind sealed windows. When I confide in Cecily how I dread it, she pulls a face.

“I dispensed with all that when I birthed Elizabeth. I realise my own confinements do not demand the degree of ceremony as yours do but, for heaven’s sake, Elizabeth, you are the queen. Demand that they open a window if it pleases you.”

I hadn’t thought of that. My whole life is spent conforming, trying to please the king and his mother, but during labour, when my life and that of the unborn child are at risk, is perhaps the time they will bow to my wishes.

In early June I ceremoniously bid farewell to the world and, with a blessing from the bishops, I retire to my chambers. By the time I emerge again, the summer will be well past its zenith. It will be a shame to miss the last days of summertime. But I am tired and glad for the rest. In the privacy of my chambers I can relax and wear loose-fitting clothing, and be as lazy as I please until the child decides to make his appearance. But I must have made a miscalculation because midsummer’s day has only just passed when I feel the first pangs of labour.

I put down my lute and place a hand on my tightening belly.

“What is it, Your Grace?” Anne Crowther puts aside her sewing and sinks to her knees at my feet. I reach out and squeeze her hand.

“I think the baby might be on his way.”

She stands up to run and summon the king’s mother and tell Henry that the child is imminent, but I grab her wrist, shake my head.

“Don’t go yet, Anne. It may be a false alarm. I don’t want to worry anyone until we are sure.”

But this time it is quick and there is no opportunity to send for anyone other than the midwives. At first I walk about the chamber, but after just half an hour of this my waters break, drenching my petticoats and, almost straight away, the pains begin in earnest. It seems this child is in a hurry to be born. I dig my fingers into Anne’s arm and bend over, gasping with pain.

The midwife aids me to the bed and without seeking my permission lifts my sodden clothes to determine the child’s position. Her hands are cool and dry. As she examines me I feel the pain returning, my womb tightening and squeezing. With a cry, I clench down on her arm and hold my breath, fighting against it.

“Don’t fight it. Breathe, Your Grace. Breathe and try to relax. There is no point in fighting it.”

Belatedly I recall my earlier training; it worked before, once I gave in to the inevitable and went with the pain. With difficulty I suck in air, blow it out again, my cheeks puffing like a hearth wench blowing on kindling. Very slowly, inexorably, the pain reaches its peak, begins to ebb. I breathe deep and calm, close my eyes and ride toward the break in the battle.

Anne calls for a drink and between contractions she moistens my lips, dabs my brow with a cooling cloth. “Not long now, Your Grace; I think this little fellow is in a hurry.” The midwife stands up, her face pink with sweat. “I can see the top of his head.”

“Already?” I try to laugh but another pain is beginning and I break off to breathe and puff like an elderly dragon. The window is open, the sounds of the river floating in on the summer breeze, a strain of music from the garden. I bring my knees up high, hook them over my elbows and, tucking my chin to my chest, I begin to bear down. While the midwife hollers instruction from between my legs, and my women hover in a flutter of concern about the bed, I lose myself in the battle to bring my child into the world.

Deep in my nether regions I can feel his head move like a cannonball along the shaft. I push and he fights with me, inching closer until my quaint bulges and I am fit to burst. I put down a hand, feel his wet pulsing head and, when the next pain comes, I push again. A burst of water and his head is born, filling the chamber with the sweet aroma of birth fluid. Almost screaming with every pant, I cease to strain until the midwife instructs me to continue with gentle pushes. Together, with great care, we ease my child into the world.

“It’s a boy!” someone yells. “A great fat boy!”

I scramble up, supporting myself on my hands, and look down at the baby on the bed.

He is very large and very angry, and not at all shy of letting the world know of his displeasure. Puce with screaming, his fists are clenched and his legs, already chubby at the thigh, kick the air in outrage. I lean forward to pick him up, cord still trailing, and hold him, just for a moment.

His toothless mouth is downturned, his chin juddering in grievous protest as I drop my first kiss on his brow and settle him to my breast. Like an expert he latches on straight away, greedy for life, and his tiny fingers clench about my own. Quieter now, his limbs cease to agitate as he feeds upon me. I draw a shawl across him and relax into the pillow.

I have done it. I have given Henry the peace of mind of two sons. We have a Prince of Wales and a Duke of York; what more can he now ask of me?

*

When the news is out the country erupts into celebration. It is hard for me when they take the baby, wrap him in a mantle of gold furred with ermine, and bear him off to church for his christening. He is to be named Henry after his father, but there the similarities end.

It is clear to me, even at this early stage, that little Henry, in build, looks and manner will resemble one man only; my father, Edward IV. I wonder how the king and his mother will like that. So far they are both besotted with him and the plans for his christening are extensive.

My son is escorted by two hundred torch-bearing men, and the church is hung with cloth of gold. The Bishop of Exeter, Richard Fox, is to officiate, and Henry has sent for the silver font from Canterbury Cathedral. Nothing is overlooked; this christening is to be as grand as any there has ever been. I just wish I was there to see it. By the time they return him to me my breasts ache from want of him, and the first thing I do when they place him back in my arms is loosen my bodice and let him feed.

Feed time is the only period that he is truly peaceful. He likes to be held and when I cradle him in my arms to look at his tiny fingers and toes, the pale sandy lashes that curl on his cheek, the red button nose and pursed, sucking lips, he watches me through slitted eyes.

I am determined not to relinquish this child too soon. I would like all my children to grow up close to me. I want to witness their first teeth, their first steps, their first words. I want to teach them their letters and tell them stories of old. It goes without saying that this boy will delight in King Arthur and his knights. He is made in my father’s image and every time I look at him, I remember the past and my little brothers of whom we were all so proud. Their memory burns suddenly bright again and with it comes the pain of losing them. This child might go some way toward making up for their loss. I hug little Henry suddenly close, making him squeak, and determine that nothing shall harm this child. No matter what it takes, or what it costs, I shall guard him to my last breath.

Brampton’s wife is sick and he reluctantly allows the boy to return to Flanders on his own. He finds him a berth on a ship and goes with him to watch him embark. “Stay out of trouble,” he says. “Keep your head down.”

The boy agrees, suddenly tongue-tied, conscious of a thousand things he should say, a thousand thanks he owes this rough and ready fellow. As Brampton turns and begins to clamber overboard, the boy suddenly grabs his arms and pulls him round to engulf him in an embrace. Brampton thumps him on the shoulder and returns the hug. “Take care, boy,” he says throatily. “We will not be parted for long.”

It will be a long voyage, the ship calling at other ports and countries to deliver cargo. For the first time, the boy is alone. As the ship slowly moves from the dock Richard finds his throat is tight with regret, his eyes stinging with tears.
Man up
, he tells himself as he forces himself to face the open sea.
Man up and remember you are a king.

It is a rough few days. For the first time he is seasick, hanging miserably over a bucket, spitting bile. But, as the ship draws closer to land, the swell lessens and he is able to hold up his head again.

He emerges on deck, stumbling a little and hanging on tight to the ship’s rail. They pass a remote rock, too small to be called an island, where a colony of gulls set up a ruckus at their passing.

“Where are we?” he asks a passing crew member.

“Just nearing Ireland, my lord, where we will put up for a few nights.”

“Ireland!” Richard peers into the distance where a ruffle of cloud cushions the horizon. “Ireland is almost home.”

He scrambles back to his cabin and sorts through his clothes, donning his best striped sleeves and topping it all with his favourite cap. He is still strapping on his sword as he arrives back on deck. One of the crew whistles admiringly, but when he turns he cannot determine who it was.

The ship is close to the shore now. He can see green fields, clusters of houses, a church steeple, people swarming at the dock.

The captain stops hollering orders to the crew when he notices Richard’s attire
.
“Are you going ashore, Sir?”

“Yes, yes. I need to stretch my legs.”

“Well, you cannot go alone. Brampton would have my head. I will get up a party for your protection.”

Twenty minutes later, the boy feels firm ground beneath his feet and inhales the sweet moist air of Ireland. It is almost home, closer than he has been for many years. With a cheerful smile he sets off through the town, walking the muddy streets just for the hell of it. At first he doesn’t notice the stir he is making. He doesn’t hear the muttered questions. “Who is he? Why is he here?”

He turns a corner into a market square full of livestock, the stench of the farmyard almost making him recoil. A sharp breeze comes from nowhere and takes off his cap, and one of the ship’s crew set to guard him runs after it, chasing it like a cat after a mouse. Richard throws back his head and laughs, his bright hair glinting in the sunshine. A peasant steps forward from the crowd and directs a dirty finger in the boy’s direction.

“It is the king,” he cries. Richard’s head jerks up, his blue eyes assessing the mood of the crowd. The crew move in closer, hands to their daggers.

“The king? Don’t be daft, man; what would the king be doing here? Hasn’t he enough trouble of his own?”

People begin to laugh. A pretty peasant girl runs forward and offers Richard a rose; it is off-white but close enough. He bows politely and tucks it in the lacing of his doublet.

“I don’t mean the Tudor King; I mean the real one, King Edward or Richard … or if it isn’t, he looks as damn near like it to suffice.”

The crowd falls silent, then a woman steps closer. “I think you might be right, Pádraig. I saw King Edward once and if this boy isn’t made in his image then you can call me a donkey.”

“You’re a donkey,” someone shouts from behind, and the town square fills with laughter. The people surge forward, dancing and calling ‘A York!’ The ship’s crew edge closer to their charge, waving their daggers to little avail.

As the Irish surge in, Richard feels grubby hands upon him, smells their unwashed bodies. He flounders, begins to lose his footing and grabs at someone’s jerkin to save himself. But before he can fall, he feels strong hands grasp him and the claustrophobic crowd breaks so he can breathe again. His head bursts into the air as he is lifted aloft onto their shoulders, and he looks down on a sea of heads as they begin to march him triumphantly through the town.