A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (15 page)

Two years pass, years of campaign, years of plummeting fear and soaring hopes. The Duchess works tirelessly. To Richard, now publically declared to be the rightful king of England, her hatred for the Tudor usurper seems sometimes irrational, sometimes he shares it. Barring Spain, they have the support of the heads of Europe and relations between Brussels and England have all but broken down.

Henry Tudor is furious that they are harbouring what he calls a ‘pretender’ to his throne. The English king may have power, but he is distrusted and scorned the world over. York’s star looks set to burn bright again over the skies of England.

Richard is euphoric but when news comes of his mother’s death, her life ending in a cheerless nunnery, exiled from the royal court, he is consumed with angry sorrow.

He recalls her gentle hands, her ringing laughter, her soft singing, and his chin wobbles like a child’s as he dashes away a tear. He had thought to go back one day, to draw her from her cloistered prison and greet her before the world. Just once more to call her ‘Mother’ and hear her name him as her son. Now she is gone, her vigour shrivelled, her silver bright hair and high clear brow is shrouded and sealed in a lowly tomb.

He should have been there with his sisters to see her laid to rest. Her life should have been celebrated throughout Christendom, but Henry Tudor, with customary parsimony, keeps her funeral small and mean.

“Why didn’t Elizabeth demand a proper funeral as befits a queen?” he asks.

Duchess Margaret turns from the window. “I understand your sister had nothing to do with it. She was in confinement awaiting the birth of her fourth child; a girl, they tell me. She is nothing if not diligent in that department.” She sniffs disdainfully, as if she wouldn’t welcome a child of her own, whatever the gender.

The boy puts down the letter and flops back in his chair. “I wonder what she thinks of all this, of me …”

The Duchess leans forward and selects an apple from a bowl on the table, sinks her big teeth into it.

“I doubt she thinks of you at all. Not as her brother at any rate; she will see you as nothing more than a usurper. You can be sure that having whelped four Tudor pups, she will no longer think like a daughter of York.”

He tries to reconcile this image with the Bess he once knew and loved. Her bright stories of courage and valour, her firm conviction that York would always be the victor cannot have altered. The knightly king she described in her stories and sang about in ballads was always tall and fair like their father … just like the man he, Richard, had now become. Surely, when the time comes, she will recognise him as a returning hero and welcome him home? Bess was always the champion of justice, cheering for the underdog, the rightful victor. Surely, a few misbegotten brats with a man she cannot love won’t change that?

The Duchess is speaking, gloating over the success of the plot she has hatched with John Kendal, a Yorkshire man in the confidence of Henry Tudor. She has persuaded him to use his position to work for their cause, undermining the English king’s position. She chews audibly, apple juice on her lips as she speaks with her mouth full.

“There was a meeting in Rome …” She pauses to prise a slither of apple skin from between her teeth, “…  where they pledged to seek ways and methods to bring about the death of Tudor, his mother, his children and close relations —”

“Not Elizabeth!” The boy is on his feet. “The children I can understand, although I heartily dislike it, but not Bess, not my sister — she and my other sisters are the only family I have left. They are not to be harmed.”

“Sit down, Richard. No one has been injured yet. Anyway, I have little hope anything will come of it. My informers tell me that they plan to employ astrology and black magic against them. Personally, if I wanted to kill someone I’d hire an assassin. I’ve no faith in the mysterious arts.”

She examines the flesh of her half-consumed apple, which is beginning to turn brown. Tossing it to her dog, she stands up, smoothes her skirts and turns toward the door. A bevvy of waiting women follow her. At the entrance, she stops and turns. “You need to form a tougher skin Richard, or you’ll never get anywhere. Kings, even if they bleed, must never let the pain show. Get yourself some invisible armour or you’ll be unhorsed by the first strike.”

He sits alone while the busy palace moves on without him. The chamber grows dim, it is almost dark when a servant comes to light the torches. Slowly the room is illuminated, and when she notices him in the shadows, she jumps, bobs a curtsey.

“I am sorry, my lord, I didn’t see you there.”

“Carry on.”

He nods at the hearth and she begins to build the fire while he watches her. She works quickly, every so often glancing up at him as if his presence discomforts her. His thoughts go to Nelken; poor, poor Nelken who did not survive the birth of their child.

Somewhere he has a son, he knows that much, but where the child is now Richard cannot discover. The Duchess refuses to speak of it, will answer no questions. On impulse, he moves forward to crouch beside the girl at the hearth.

“You knew Nelken?” he whispers.

The girl is immediately on the alert, her eyes darting to the corners of the room, checking the door. “I did, my lord, yes. She was a good friend.”

“Then you must know what became of her son. Where was he taken?”

She stands up and begins to back away. “I don’t know, my lord. Why would they confide in me? I am just a servant.”

“Just a servant. Yes, I am sorry, but … he is my son … all I have left. If … if you should learn of his whereabouts, would you tell me? I will reward you well and the Duchess will never hear of it … I promise.”

For a long moment she looks at him, taking in his fine figure, his fair hair, his troubled expression. One of his eyes has a slight cast, which gives him the appearance of being troubled, vulnerable. She smiles suddenly, her prettiness breaking through the grime of her workload.

“Very well, my lord. If I should hear anything, I will find you and let you know.”

She bobs a curtsey and, gathering up her bucket, hurries away, leaving him alone.

Westminster Hall – December 1493

Christmas is lavish this year, but I sit beneath the royal canopy and watch the entertainments with fear in my heart. I miss my mother and I badly need her advice. My new born daughter, Elizabeth, is not thriving; she feeds sluggishly and rarely smiles. I bore her in July, just after my mother died. I was not allowed to leave confinement to share Mother’s last hours, the king’s mother forbade it. She said it went against the guidelines in her blessed book. I wanted to scream at her that they were guidelines only, but I could tell from her frigid looks that my argument was futile. Instead, I fell to my knees and prayed that Mother be taken quickly and painlessly to Heaven.

My mother was a woman of many secrets. Her life was one of political intrigue, and many stories that are told of her are uncomfortable to hear. But I loved her; she was my mother. I just wish that I could have seen her one last time. Perhaps, with God’s angels looking over her shoulder, she might have revealed to me the fate of my brothers. I would lay down my life on the fact that she knew of it.

With a heavy heart I watch the tumblers, I applaud the minstrels, and clap my hands with what I hope is convincing glee. William Cornish comes galloping into the hall dressed as St George, followed by a ferocious dragon that spits fire from its mouth. I glance at Henry who is leaning forward in his chair, watching appreciatively as a lavishly garbed ‘princess’ screams at the monster’s approach.

Inwardly I sigh, and long for the night to be over so I can retire to the peace of my chamber. I cannot keep my mind from little Elizabeth. I must find a way for her to thrive. All my children are healthy except for her. Young Henry is growing apace. At eighteen months old he is as loud and demanding as an untrained puppy. He is my consolation. There is nothing I like more than when he climbs onto my lap, puts his thumb in his mouth and nestles up close. Henry and Meg make up for missing Arthur so much, but I am not sure if even they could make up for Elizabeth … should I lose her.

*

The king is simmering inwardly but does not share his worries with me. I discover by nefarious means that his lack of ease is due to the men flocking from his court. The court gossips whisper that they are heading for Europe, to the standard of the man calling himself Richard of England.

I don’t know what to think. Even one of my own household, my chamberlain, has gone, preferring a pretender to me.

But is he a pretender?
The fearful question is persistent. It returns in the dead of night, in the midst of the day when I should be at peace; in our marriage bed when my mind should be on other things.
Suppose it is Richard?
Suppose my brother and I are ranged against each other? Suppose my husband is forced to kill my brother, or my brother to kill my husband?

Neither scenario bears thinking of. I hold little Henry tight, lay my face against his fine red baby hair, close my eyes and pray for him.

I pray for all of us.

For almost a year the king is on edge, snapping at innocent questions, suspicious of my every move. He still suspects me of some duplicity, of knowing the truth, or secretly supporting the pretender’s claim. His fear eats away at him like a maggot on a piece of rotting meat, tainting everything. It is difficult to get close to him. Time and time again I have tried to explain that my husband and my children come before everything and anyone else. Even if this pretender is my brother, which I hope he is not, I would never choose him above my sons. But I cannot convince Henry.

He sends forth spies to determine the pretender’s identity, to disprove his claim to be of the house of York. Between them, Henry and his uncle Jasper decide the Pretender is a Fleming who goes by, or used to go by, the name of Perkin Warbeck. It sounds an unlikely name to me and how would a common foreigner persuade half of Europe that he is a royal prince? I keep quiet and, with admirable cunning, Henry manages to undermine the friendship France has displayed toward the Pretender. Now France’s support has been severed, Warbeck will find things harder, but Henry doesn’t leave it there.

“There are more ways to win a war than in battle,” he says with grim pleasure. I try not to reflect that I never heard such words from my father and applaud when I learn of his plan.

“It was my mother who thought of it,” he boasts, and I try not to let my envy bite too deeply. “You will recall that I have already made young Henry Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports and Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and Warden of the Scottish Marches?”

I nod, keeping my eyes wide and fixed upon him, terrified that whatever he has to tell me might somehow betray me into disloyalty. “Well, now I play the trump card. I plan to make Henry the Duke of York; there can only be one, can’t there? It should state quite clearly our disbelief in the Pretender’s claims and put him firmly in his place.”

My heart flips. This is well and good if the boy in Malines is a pretender, but York is my little brother Richard’s title. In bestowing his title on my son, Henry announces, quite plainly, that my brother, Richard of York, is dead. Each time I come close to accepting his death, another question immediately rears out of the unknown:
then how did he die?

Either scenario is torment for me. Either my brother is alive and threatening all that I hold dear, or he is dead, murdered by someone close to me. Mentally, I strike off the candidates, measuring the likelihood of their guilt.

It cannot have been Uncle Richard, who was so fond of us. I remember a day when he came upon my siblings and I in the royal nursery where I was telling stories. Instead of hurrying off to join the court revel, he sat down on the floor, took my youngest brother on his knee and urged me to go on. When the story reached its climax, he roared with excitement just as loudly as the children.

He was everything to me then, all I aspired to, and all I hoped for. I refuse to believe he would ever harm any of us but, who does that leave? If my brothers were murdered and not by my uncle, then who stood to gain the most?

I push the thought away, unwilling to confront it but, when I least expect it, the question comes creeping back.

*

For two weeks, the court celebrates. There is feasting and jousting at Westminster. A special stand is built, draped in blue cloth of velvet, embroidered all over with golden
fleur de lis
.

Baby Elizabeth, too prone to chills, is left at the nursery, but the other children relish the fuss and ceremony. The king sits beneath his canopy of state, garbed in Tudor green and white. To serve as a reminder to those of a mind to stray from our side, I wear mulberry and blue for my own house of York. The colours speak for both houses. Henry is the Tudor king, but I am the rightful heir of York and so are my sons.

Little Margaret, although not yet five, presents the prizes. My ladies, Anne, Elizabeth and Anne Percy, assist her. My daughter, dressed in white damask with red velvet sleeves, steps importantly forward and offers the prize to the three victorious knights.

I am proud to see how carefully she performs the task and how gravely she greets the victor. It is plain to see that, like her brothers, if we can protect her, Margaret will go far. She is made in the mould of my mother, like my grandmothers, Cecily of York and Jacquetta of Luxembourg. They were strong women who overcame the harsh obstacles fate threw in their paths. They survived war, exile, bereavement, widowhood, yet they were undaunted. Nothing overwhelmed them, and they did not fail. As I watch my infant daughter, so confident in the face of the world, I rediscover a little courage and tell myself that weakness is not an option.