A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (17 page)

He speaks as if his words will make it so and only I hear his doubt. He stands up, and when Lady Margaret makes a knee to him and reaches out to anoint his hand, he draws her close for an embrace and places a kiss on her temple. She turns her head away, croaks something incoherent before scuttling from our presence, the most defeated I have ever seen her.

To my surprise, I feel a pang of pity.

Henry stares into the flames unspeaking, knocks the crook of his forefinger against his teeth. I put down my sewing and move closer to him and he looks up, surprised to find me there.

“That was difficult, Elizabeth,” he says. “My mother and I have never been at odds before.”

“She will come round. You will be friends again. Once … once the deed is done and cannot be altered.”

I place my hand on his shoulder and he raises his head, stares deeply into nothing, his eyes narrowed.

“Yes, you are right.” With a groan he eases from his chair and stretches his back, brings his hands together, interlaces his fingers and makes his knuckles crack. “I am very tired,” he says in an uncharacteristic confession of weakness. “Would you take me to bed, Wife?”

The sun is high in the sky, the port of Vlissengen bustling; a group of horsemen weave a path through flocks of sheep, hawkers, sailors, and whores. They pause at the dockside and the boy cranes his neck to look up at the ship that will carry him to his destiny. Pennants snap and dance in the breeze, the barefooted crew swarm over the decks, stowing weapons and victuals for the impending voyage. The boy is nervous, his belly grinding and churning, but he lets no emotion show. His face is open and bright, projecting hope.
This will be the day
, he thinks;
tomorrow I will be in England to reclaim my birthright.

He slides from the back of his horse, pausing for one last caress of her long soft nose. His companions follow; George Neville, sweating beneath his cloak, is closely followed by Richard Harliston and James Keating. Other men of lesser status filter through the crowd and follow Richard of England onto the deck.

The boy halts at the ship’s rail and looks down on the thronging dock. A sailor loosens a fat tarred rope, the captain cries an order, and a gap appears between the ship and the wharf. Debris, branches, rope and dead birds litter the stretch of dark green water. Soon it will be too broad to leap. The ship lurches and lifts, but he keeps his footing and looks up at the towering mast, remembering other voyages.

This will be the final one. Soon the sails will unfurl, fill with wind, and the salt-laden air will batter his cheeks.
This is it
, he thinks.
I am leaving, I am finally going home
.

It feels strange without Brampton. He has come to depend upon the Portuguean’s rough humour, his brusque encouragement, but he has returned to Lisbon where his wife is mortally sick.

Below deck all is chaos. His cabin is small and dark, not fit for a king, but the boy clings to the knowledge that he is not the first dispossessed king, nor the first Plantagenet, to return to England on a humble ship, uncertain of his reception.

Richard was just a small boy when his father told them the story of his own desperate battle to win back his crown. He remembers the glow of the fire, the elated squirm of his siblings as they crowded together to listen to their father.

“I never for one moment believed England was lost to me. Warwick and the Anjou woman had placed mad old Henry back on the throne, but I knew it would be mine again. The day we sailed into Ravenspur I had barely a shirt to my back, but God was on my side.

“We marched first on York, where I was sure of the people’s love. Outside the city walls I stood high in my stirrups and cried, “I come, not to regain my crown but to secure my rightful inheritance, THAT OF YORK!”

The people cheered, threw their caps in the air and opened the gates for me and after that, it was easy. We marched swiftly into the midlands, but Warwick refused to fight and beat a hasty retreat into Coventry. So we left him there, my brother George came creeping back into my favour, and we marched on London where they lined the streets to welcome me home. Those were great days, great days.”

The memory fades, his father’s smile slides away, and his focus blurs. Richard is pulled from the past by the arrival of a servant who has come to light a lanthorn. A few moments later, the cabin door opens to admit James Keating. The boy looks up, his face stretching into a smile.

“James, come in, sit down if you can find a space. I was just thinking about my father. It seems to me my fate is echoing his; we will be landing at Ravenspur just as he did, so pray God that history repeats itself.”

Keating picks up a pile of clothing from a chair, tosses it onto the bunk and takes a seat. Richard calls for wine and soon the cabin fills with friends, the table is crowded with victuals. The men gathered here are the remnants of the Yorkist cause, men driven from England by their loathing of the Tudor usurper.

Keating stands up. “Let us drink,” he cries. “Let us drink to the rightful king, Richard IV of England … and an easy victory!”

The small chamber vibrates with cheers and the boy flushes, pushing the small nagging doubts away, and raises his cup.

But the crossing that begins so well deteriorates overnight. A swell builds up and their vessel is borne relentlessly with the tide. Soon the other ships are out of sight, the bulk of the fleet disappearing beyond the heaving sea. When morning comes, the boy learns they are farther south than they had planned to be. His ship is quite alone on the smooth calm sea but soon, on the horizon, one of his lost vessels appears, and the ragged fleet begins to re-muster. The captain, after consulting his maps and compass, declares they are somewhere off the coast of Kent.

“Kent?” Richard scratches his head, tries to quell the superstitious fear of failure. “How far are we from Ravenspur?”

“Half a day maybe, but if we travel north we will have lost the element of surprise, Sir.”

“Tudor, even if he is forewarned, won’t have time to act.”

The boy turns to his advisors and is met by a mixed response. These men have waited years for this day; it cannot be allowed to slip away. Some want to head north, some want to land in Deal; a few even suggest they retreat back to Flanders while they can.

“No! No, we have come this far. I cannot in honour return to my aunt’s court like a whipped dog. I must win this day …” Richard paces the deck. The morning sun is just beginning to burn through the blanketing mist. He looks up at the first patch of blue sky where a lone gull is circling. “Perhaps we could land a small force here, just to test the water, see how we are received. Support in Kent has always been for York, men do not change allegiance so quickly.”

A murmur of agreement and preparations are begun. The boy eats no breakfast; his stomach is a churning bowl of fear and hope. He is strapping on his sword when Harliston enters, followed by Keating. “My Lord,” Harliston bows. “The men are ready, are you coming to see them off?”

“See them off? I am going with them.”

Harliston bristles. “I don’t think that is wise, my lord. We don’t know how we will be received. You cannot leave the ship until the second landing, or maybe the third.”

Keating steps forward, adding his voice to Harliston’s.

“Indeed you cannot, sir. It would be foolish.”

To his shame, the boy feels relief trickle through his veins, diluting his fear, but he puts up a convincing protest.

“I have waited for this for years, Keating, you know that. How can I send men into the unknown to fight for my cause while I wait here like a scared girl?”

Keating smiles and hooks a thumb over his belt. “It is customary for the leader of an army to remain behind the lines. The men will be expecting it. There is no shame.”

Richard doesn’t remind them that his father and uncle never remained behind the lines but fought in the thick of battle when they were little more than boys. He relaxes a little, pulls off his cap and tosses Keating a sulky look.

“I suppose I must listen to you; there is little point in me having advisors if I don’t heed them. Very well, come along. Let us go and speak to the troops. If I cannot fight, the least I can do is give them a stirring speech to remind them of the justice of our cause.”

Three hundred men clamber into small boats and push off toward shore. Richard waits on board, Keating and the others at his side, watching anxiously as the invaders approach land. At first he hears the swish of the oars, the slap of the waves against the hull, but soon all is silent again. He watches the vessels bob on the surface of the sea, riding the waves until lurching onto the shingle. The men leap out, a hand to their swords, crouching low as they move like armoured crabs across the beach.

The hamlet is peaceful, a cluster of wooden shacks sleeping in the morning sun. From his position on board ship Richard sees the standard of York, the white rose, raised high in the sky. It flaps and then hangs limp, a colourful anti-climax to the glory of his moment.

The boy strains his eyes to see, hears the faint echo of a ragged cheer, as men at arms appear from nowhere, crying out in celebration at their coming. A mummery of joy ensues, and the men on board look on bemused until a man, one of Richard’s messengers, detaches himself from the throng and makes his way back toward the ship, bringing news.

Richard waits anxiously and, although it is no more than ten minutes, it seems an hour later that the fellow’s head appears above the ship’s rail. Men grab his arms and haul him on board. He flings himself onto the deck, pulls off his hat and drops on one knee.

“Your Grace.” He wipes his brow and looks up at Richard. “They are for York. It is safe to come ashore. They swear to live and die for you and wait to show you great honour. They have cracked open caskets of wine and even now are drinking your good health.”

The men on board relax; someone thumps Richard on the back in congratulation. Not a blow has been struck. If they are welcomed like this in every village they pass, London will be theirs in no time.

But amid the celebration Richard pauses, licks his lips and narrows his eyes. He places a hand on the messenger’s shoulder and propels him back to the ship’s rail.

“Go back, my friend, give them our royal greeting and tell them we will be there anon.”

Richard rubs a hand over his unshaven chin and watches the fellow take up his oars and begin to row for the shore. He turns to his companions, his troubled face quelling their optimism.

“I fear a trap, my friends. I don’t know why but I will not be disembarking here, not yet. Not until I am certain. We will wait and see …”

The fellow is little more than a dot on the dunes by the time Richard’s attention is drawn back to shore. Undiscernible figures move across the sand in joyous cavalcade but then a sudden shot rings out; a single blast, loud in the still of the morning. At the sniper’s signal chaos is born in Deal.

Soldiers appear from nowhere, the Tudor banner unfurls as men stream from the cover of the dunes. Arrows are falling, raining down on Richard’s advance army. He cries out fruitlessly as he witnesses them fall, sees their spent blood, and hears their dying screams.

He turns away, seeking his friends; his tears are wet on his cheeks as he screams through gritted teeth.

“Get us out of here! Get us out of here!”

With white knuckles he clings to the rail, watching the destruction of his dreams. Some of the men try to flee. They run leaping through the waves, floundering through the surf in a futile attempt to re-join the ship. But, hard on their heels, Tudor’s men follow and the Kentish sea turns red with the blood of York.

I cannot believe she has gone. I look down at the letter and the psalter Grandmother Cecily bequeathed to me, and guilt bites deep. I neglected her for too long. She was so upright, so spry, that I failed to realise her years were short. I thought there would be time to visit when my life became peaceful. It is a hard lesson and for the first time I acknowledge that my life will never be one of ease. I may be queen of England but my time is not my own, I will never enjoy the leisure of normality. I dab away a tear and summon my seamstress to make up mourning clothes.

Sometimes there seems to be so much sorrow cast in my path. The loss of Grandmother hangs heavy, mingling with the loss of my mother and the continuing fear for Elizabeth’s health.

Henry remains watchful, his temper strung so tightly I can almost hear it. He trusts nobody, not even me, and sometimes his watchfulness is unbearable. When he announces we are to take a progress north, I welcome the news with relief.

Although he does not confide in me I have learned, by nefarious means, that he expects an invasion at any time. His spies run hither and thither, bringing news, gossip and speculation and the threat eats away at him. It will be better away from court, I tell myself. There will be fewer whom he mistrusts, and he may find it easier to relax and breathe freely. I begin to make preparations for the journey, spending more and more time with the children whom I will miss so much while we are away.

It is July before we leave. Harry clings to my knees while Margaret, standing a little apart, sulks at what she sees as my negligence. Little Elizabeth, in her nurse’s arms, knuckles her eye and whimpers. She has rallied of late and her growing strength nurtures hope for the future. I have forgotten my desire to get away from court and wish for the power to refuse to leave. In the end I have to tear myself away
.

As we journey toward Chipping Norton, my eyes are sore from bidding them farewell. Beside me, Henry looks neither left nor right. He sits straight and proud on his mount, the feather in his cap the only part of him to betray any sign of softness.

We are riding into the north, where the people resent the execution of William Stanley, and their love of King Richard still lingers. As we progress further into the northern territory, I realise why I have been asked to accompany Henry. I am here, not because he desires my company, but because he knows the northerners love me for my father’s sake. My presence is a balm to help a little of their love to reflect on him.

I glance at him sideways. His hair is neat and trim, his clothes, although richly made, are sombre; his face is pale, firm and unyielding, the creases on either side of his mouth set in stone. Even I, who know him well, feel his intractability, his steely strength. This is not a lovable king and generosity has little place in the method of his rule, but he is a good king. The royal coffers have never been so well filled.

The roads of England stretch ahead. First we travel to Combermere Abbey in Shropshire, then to Holt and Chester, and then on to Lathom, where the king’s mother lives with her husband, Thomas Stanley. I wonder how, as the murderer of Stanley’s brother, the king will be received.

The sun is beginning to set when we slide from our mounts to be welcomed into the Stanley stronghold. The king greets his mother warmly, extends a royal hand to Sir Thomas and waits to be shown inside. As we pass beneath the lintel the courtyard becomes a hive of activity. Our attendants and the supply wagons begin to arrive and a dog appears from nowhere. He leaps up at me, barking, his tail wagging and tongue lolling. I grab his ears in pleasure, laughing at his open, drooling mouth that seems to be smiling. It is a warmer greeting than we received from his master.

“Down, Trent!” Sir Thomas yells and the dog reluctantly drops to the floor, sniffs around before cocking his leg up a pile of boxes near the door. “I am so sorry, Your Grace.” Sir Thomas bends over my hand, his apology sincere.

This is the man
, I remind myself,
who delayed his army long enough at Bosworth to spell failure for York. Action on his part could have saved Richard’s life, saved his crown. He was instrumental in securing Henry’s claim.
But the thought passes, the man before me now is smiling congenially. I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“It is perfectly fine, Sir Thomas. I like dogs. He isn’t very old, is he?”

Our host hesitates, as if surprised at my lack of formality. His smile widens.

“No, Your Grace. He is barely a year old and already a monster.”

At his behest we move laughing into the house. It does not escape my notice when the king’s mother pointedly takes precedence over me.
This is my house, I am the king’s mother
, she is telling me, and I can’t be bothered to quibble. I follow her flicking skirts into the hall and look about me, pleased to find a warm fire and plenty of cushions. There are books left open on tables and a goodly supply of fruit and nuts near the settle. It is a warm inviting room and I find I feel quite at home.

We stay for four days and Sir Thomas goes out of his way to make us welcome. He holds a banquet, inviting all and sundry to join us, and after supper a trio of women sing to us, sweet soaring voices that pluck your heart strings and bring unwarranted tears to sting my eyes.

The last song is The Cuckoo; it evokes happier days when I sang to my father for sixpence. My father’s court was similar to this, grander and more opulent but just as relaxed and warm. He too revelled in the entertainment of ordinary folk, singers and musicians plucked from the countryside, and not imported from overseas. He enjoyed English songs, sung by English people, for English kings. I wish Henry’s court was so relaxed. I lean back in my chair and cradle my wine cup, more at home than I have felt for many years.

The next morning I wake queasily from sleep, my stomach rebelling against the day. At first I think perhaps I ate something bad at supper, but then begin to consider if I might be with child again. I missed my courses last month and the one before that was slight. If I am right it will be welcome news for Henry, who still craves more sons. “Two are not enough,” he has told me more than once. “A king cannot have too many sons.”

With some satisfaction I look into a glass and notice my eyes are shadowed, my skin pale and transparent. It must be so. If I am right, no one can accuse me of not doing my duty; there are already four children in the nursery and soon, although my belly is yet as flat as a board, it seems there will be five.

After prayer, when I have broken my fast, I begin to feel a little better. Today, the king’s mother and her husband are giving us a thorough tour of the house. Sir Thomas is proud of his improvements and the more recent embellishments have been made in honour of our visit.

Lady Margaret is uncharacteristically quiet. She listens without interrupting, showing little interest as her husband enthuses over the lavish windows and the new wide fireplaces. It is as if she feels enthusiasm is beneath her, as if she is slightly disdainful of her husband’s pride.

Sir Thomas has my sympathy. Marriage to proud Margaret can be little easier than my life is with her son. I keep close to Sir Thomas’s side, demonstrating a keen interest in all he has to show us, and as the day progresses I feel myself warming to him. I have never spent much time with him before, and am pleased to discover not just a soldier but a man of intellect and learning.

“You should see the view from the Eagle Tower, Your Grace,” he says, turning to the king. We crane our necks to look up at it, the moving clouds making it seem as if the tower will tumble down upon us.

“Well, lead the way,” Henry says. “I shall be pleased to see it.”

“So shall I.” I am eager not to be left behind with the women and a party of us begins the long climb to the top. Lady Margaret remains below, so there are just the three of us and a few members of the Stanley household to brave the perilous stairs. Sir Thomas’s fool maintains a steady flow of ribald jokes as we clamber upward.

I am not even halfway to the top before my breath becomes audible, and behind me I can hear Henry panting like an elderly hound. I keep close behind Sir Thomas, whose sword rattles on the wall at every step. I clutch my skirts in my hand, holding them high to keep from tripping, and my headdress keeps bumping on the low ceiling. I am beginning to wish I’d stayed safely at ground level. Behind me the fool makes jokes about slim ankles and I suppress the desire to send him tumbling to the bottom. When my heart threatens to burst from my chest, I pause with a hand to my side. “How much further?” I gasp.

“We are almost there now, Your Grace,” Sir Thomas replies as he throws open a low door, flooding us with daylight. “Just a few more steps.” One by one we stoop beneath the lintel and onto the roof, where Sir Thomas holds out a steadying hand and waits while I regain my breath.

“Well,” I laugh, looking out across the vista. “The view was certainly worth the climb.”

With one hand to my heaving chest and one resting on the low wall, I look out across the landscape. A river slides like a green serpent through trees and meadows where small farmsteads are dotted like toys. My stomach turns rebel at the unaccustomed height so I keep my chin high to avoid looking at the ground. “Henry, isn’t it lovely?”

Beside me Henry grunts, a brisk wind blows up and I move a little closer to shelter from it, and his hand rests on my waist.

“That is a new bridge, Your Grace, built to mark your visit and make the passage easier from the road.”

I turn my head to reply and notice the fool sidle up to his master’s side. Sir Thomas stoops to harken to his whispered words. I have no liking for this little man; his jokes are unfunny and often cruel. With a curled lip he speaks slyly into his master’s ear, his hoarse voice not meant for my sharp ears.

“Tom,” the fool whispers as he nudges his master and nods toward the king. “Remember Will?”

Sir Thomas’s face blanches and, in the long moment of silence that follows, I hold my breath, unable to move or speak.

I am still staring when Sir Thomas straightens up, his face drained of colour, and snaps a few curt words, lunging at the fool. The horrid little man ducks away from his master’s swipe and takes himself off, his footsteps skittering down the spiral stairs.

Henry is close to the parapet. It would take but one moment for our host to exact revenge for his brother and send the king plunging to his death. It is plain Henry didn’t hear the fool’s words. I should warn him but I can’t find my voice, or tear my eyes from Sir Thomas. I feel as if I have been turned to stone.

Sir Thomas steps forward. I hold my breath, my heart beating loudly, my stomach churning.

“If you look this way, Your Grace, you can see the house where …”

I release a gusty sigh, my whole body suddenly weak with relief. The balustrade is rough beneath my fingers, my chest tightens and there are tears in my eyes. I mustn’t cry. I must not draw attention to my husband’s near danger. I attempt to follow the line of Sir Thomas’s finger, but my vision is blurred and I can see nothing of the scenery now.

“Are you well, Your Grace?” Sir Thomas notices my lack of ease and is at my side, followed belatedly by my husband. I cling gratefully to the king’s arm. Suddenly pleased to feel the solidity of his muscle beneath.

“I think I have a touch of vertigo,” I lie. “Please, can we go down now?”

“You should never have come,” Henry snaps irritably as he ushers me through the door where Sir Thomas is waiting to take my hand.

The decent is steep and my knees are shaking as if I have an ague. Every so often I am forced to stop. I draw in deep breaths, and try to calm my raging heart. Behind me, Henry places a chilly hand on my shoulder to encourage me not to faint. He believes me to be suffering from vertigo and I do not disillusion him. I give him a watery smile, wishing we were on firmer ground so I could cling to him and share the astonishing truth. Henry may be a troubling, uncomfortable man to live with but I don’t want to lose him.

He is all I have.

*

After supper I excuse myself from the dance and sit near the open window, drinking in the fresh evening aromas from the garden. Unusually, the king is on the floor partnered with one of my ladies. His mother is watching with a doting expression, every so often clapping her hands in time with the melody. The hall is filled with laughter, song, and the lingering smells of a well-cooked dinner. Sir Thomas approaches with a glass of wine and I bid him sit beside me.

“You have a lovely home, Sir Thomas. I am glad to have visited you. Thank you.”

“It is my honour, Your Grace; a greater privilege than you can guess.”

I smile at him and he looks away in confusion.

“What is it?” I ask, my smile beginning to fade. He looks deep into his wine cup.

“I can never decide if you look more like your father or your mother.” He drinks deeply, embarrassed by the sudden intimacy.

“My grandmother always said I resembled both, depending on my mood. She had little love for my mother but gave her due credit for filling the royal nursery.”

He laughs quietly and then a sudden silence falls between us.

“I loved your father; you know that, don’t you?”

“I think everyone loved him. He was that sort of man.”