A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (18 page)

“And you are that sort of woman, Your Grace, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Why should I mind? I get few compliments these days.”

“Really?” He looks at me incredulously, his eyes sweeping across my hair, taking in my flushing cheeks. It is my turn to be embarrassed and I dip my face to my own cup. There is something I want to say to him, something I
need
to hear an answer to. I clear my throat and let my upper body lean a little closer.

“Sir Thomas … today, up on the tower. I heard what the fool said. You were tempted, weren’t you, just for a moment?”

He sputters his wine, dabs at his damp doublet with trembling fingers.

“I don’t understand, Your Grace. What do you mean?”

“I heard him quite plainly, Sir Thomas, and, just for a second, a look passed across your face, a sort of desperate look. For a moment I thought you were going to act on it.”

“Never. Never!” His voice is hushed, urgent, his face thrust toward me. “I am loyal to the king, I swear it, and to you.”

“Yet he killed your brother.”

He takes a shuddering breath and looks deep into my eyes.

“The king executed a traitor, it was hardly murder.”

I lower my head; my fingers are fighting a desperate battle in my lap.

“There are some who believe he murdered my brothers, too.”

A silence; brief and pregnant.

“You think them dead?”

I look up, our eyes lock.

“Do you, Sir Thomas?”

His eyes narrow. I can see his thoughts chasing through his mind as he searches for the best answer; the safest answer. Slowly, I reach out for his hand.

“You can speak freely. It will go no further.”

There is a long silence before he speaks. He rubs his face with a big calloused hand.

“At one time I thought they were dead, but now? Now, I am not so sure. This … this boy that your aunt Margaret parades as York, he has persuaded many men to his banner.”

“But not you, Sir Thomas.”

“No, Your Grace, not me. Never me.”

“Suppose things were different and I were not married to the king, on which side would you be then?”

“That is supposition, and an unfair question, Your Grace.”

“But, nevertheless, it is one I’d like an answer to.”

He shrugs, deeply uncomfortable, and looks away to where Henry is now leading his mother onto the floor. Margaret is beaming on the assembly as if she is indeed the queen.

“I am wed to the king’s mother. I am loyal to my stepson.”

“Yet your brother was swayed.”

“My brother was a fool.”

“My brother was a child. I loved him. Should the man now claiming his name prove to be my brother indeed, I will not know what to think, how to act.”

He turns back to me, his eyes kind and full of sympathy.

“He must be a pretender, Your Grace. How can a ten-year-old boy have survived?”

“The Duchess claims my father’s friends took pity on him and helped him escape. There are many men who serve Henry only because of me. Because I am the child of Edward IV. Perhaps there are those who would prefer to serve his son.”

“I cannot know, Your Grace. What do you want me to do, or say? You know I could be taken up just for speaking to you in this manner.”

We both glance toward the king who has, for once, let his guard over me drop. I am rarely so unobserved; perhaps the sensation of not being watched goes to my head.

“I am sorry. I had thought you loyal.”

“I am loyal!” He rises to his feet, stands towering above me like an oak tree. I hold out a hand and he takes it, helps me rise and, as we walk toward the dance floor, I glance up at him.

“But to whom, Sir Thomas? Which child of York really holds your heart?”

*

I calculate the baby I am carrying will be born sometime next spring. Although I continue to feel sickly in the morning, by lunch time it passes and I am myself again. We are preparing to leave, continue our journey north, and are taking a last walk around the gardens.

Henry is just ahead with his mother, leaving Sir Thomas and I to bring up the rear.

“Your roses are lovely, Sir Thomas,” I say, bending down to enjoy their heady fragrance. He waits while I indulge myself, plunging my nose into this bloom and that. When I straighten up, he is smiling, amused at my simple joy.

“They were planted by my first wife, Eleanor. Margaret takes little interest in the gardens.”

He plucks a bloom and offers it to me with a bow.

“I believe Eleanor was some sort of relative of mine,” I say. “A cousin to my Grandmother, perhaps? I can’t quite remember.”

“Niece to your grandmother, I believe, but I am no expert, Your Grace.”

I see Grandmother’s face quite plainly in my mind and open my mouth to express the grief of losing her so suddenly. But my words are stalled by the arrival of a galloping horse. We turn toward it. Henry looks up and, recognising the messenger, leaves his mother and hurries back toward the house.

Exchanging worried looks, Sir Thomas and I follow. As we near the gate Henry signals for us to stay back, and goes forward to meet the messenger alone.

From the garden we see the road-weary man fall to his knee; he is dusty and mired from the ride. I signal to a hovering servant to bring him refreshment. We cannot hear his words but he speaks earnestly, gesticulating with his arms. Henry tears off his hat and throws it to the ground where the thick black velvet is quickly coated in dust, the jewels winking in the sunshine. I lose my patience and, with fear for my children uppermost in my mind, I ignore his order to stay back. I move forward to join him.

“What is it Henry? What has happened?”

He turns slowly and regards me with an expression close to hatred. His face is white, his lips tight, and his eyes bloodshot.

“The boy, the lying brat, has landed a small force in the south. Our army routed them easily and they got no farther than the beach but the boy, God curse him, got away. He is now harrying the coast of Ireland. By Christ, will I never be free of this irritant?”

As Henry stalks indignantly away, Sir Thomas and I exchange glances, his eyes crinkle slightly at the edges and I realise I am relieved. The boy lives. There is still a chance I may look upon my brother again one day.

I am so happy to be home. The summer has been a long one, travelling from place to place, staying in different beds, different rooms, sampling strange cuisine. I look about my apartments at Sheen, run a finger along the back of my favourite chair that is placed close to the window, enjoying the view across the park. I plan at least a week of doing absolutely nothing but reacquainting myself with the palace that feels most like home.

I am noticeably pregnant now. I run a hand across my rounded belly and feel the child squirm in response. A girl or a boy, I wonder? I hope it is another boy. Henry needs the comfort that only many sons can bring him. For myself, I don’t mind either way.

As much as I love my sons, the bond between mother and daughter is different. I share an empathy with them that comes of knowing the difficulties a princess may face. Henry is already negotiating with Spain for a union between Arthur and their daughter, Caterina; and at the same time with France for the marriage of our little Elizabeth and their
dauphin
, Francis.

The
dauphin
is only just a year old, but it seems it is never too soon to make such arrangements. I do not remind Henry that nothing may come of these negotiations. It wouldn’t do to upset or offend him, but I know from experience such things are fraught with problems.

When I was a girl my father wished for a union with France and organised my betrothal to Charles when he was
dauphin.
I remember my father’s rage when King Louis reneged on his promise. His fury knew no bounds and on the day the news came, I learnt curse words then that I’d never heard before.

Now I am glad it never came to pass. I realise I am fortunate to have remained here in the country of my birth, surrounded mostly by those who know and love me. I should hate to be a foreigner in a strange country. There can be nothing worse, yet it is the normal lot for a princess.

I am watching the sun set slowly in the west when Henry enters. He hesitates near the door and I have to urge him to approach. His habitual manner of lurking like a draper is irritating, but I manage not to let it show. I sit up straight in my chair and stretch my arms above my head.

“I was almost asleep.”

He takes a seat opposite, balancing on the edge.

“Why are you alone?”

“I like to be alone sometimes, Henry. Don’t you ever grow tired of the constant attendance? It is pleasant to be solitary, so I can slump in my chair if I choose, or scratch an itch if I have one without someone assuming I am developing a pox.”

He smiles slowly, and not without warmth.

“I thought we could ride out to Eltham in a day or two.”

I sit upright in my chair, instantly alive with joy.

“Oh, I am so glad. I was going to ask if it was possible. It seems so long since we’ve seen the children. They will be delighted with the gifts we have brought them.”

“They will be glad enough just to have their mother back I would think.”

“I may stay for a week.”

I beam at him, the love we share for our offspring bringing us close. Impulsively, I reach out a hand and he takes it, squeezes my fingers.

We seldom make physical contact outside of the marriage bed, and I feel my body respond, wanting him to move closer. Pregnancy never diminishes but seems to heighten my natural ardour. Affectionately, I return the pressure.

“I wish we could skip supper,” I say rashly. “I am so tired of formal dinners, I’d much rather eat here with you … intimately.”

It is as close as I can get to ask him to take me to bed. Henry stiffens. He tries to draw away but I cling on. “I am lonely, Henry. Is it so wrong to desire your presence?”

He stands up, tugs the edge of his tunic down and looks away.

“You must be tired … you should rest.”

What is wrong with him?
I know he has the passions of a healthy man. Why must he keep relations between us so formal? If I were not already pregnant he’d bed me soon enough. Because I am big with his child he sees no need. He is a cold fish but still I try to tempt him into my net, and when he resists I lose my patience.

“I don’t feel tired at all. I am well and healthy and if I am tired of anything it is this … this wall you constantly erect between us. I am your wife … why not take pleasure in that, Henry?”

“I have business to attend to. You are excused from the banquet tonight if you wish it but … I have to be there. You get some rest.”

I bite my lip and watch him go. I shouldn’t have spoken; should never have let him glimpse the lusty side of my nature, so similar to my father’s. It discomforts him.

*

We are making ready for our trip to Eltham. I am sorting through small gifts for the children when a messenger arrives. People are coming and going all the time with missives and letters so I pay this one little heed. I am only half aware of the conversation that follows between the king and the dusty courier until a hand falls gently on my arm.

I look up.

The hall is silent, our attendants holding their breath, one or two of my women are snivelling.

“What is it?”

I put down an engraved silver ball and take two steps toward my husband. It is only then that I notice the messenger’s livery and realise he has ridden from Eltham. My world begins to crumble.

“What is it?” I repeat, rushing forward, my voice harsh with panic.

“Elizabeth; come, come with me.” Henry’s voice is gentle, his hand is on my right arm. His mother suddenly appears at my left side, her touch firm on my elbow. Between them they urge me to go with them.

“Come with us, Elizabeth.” As they lead me away Lady Margaret nods a command to my women, who fly from the hall, toward my apartment.

“Tell me, Henry,” I scream. “What did he say? What has happened?”

But I know the truth before they tell me. I can feel it in my heart. Great tearing teeth are slashing at my happiness, ripping my former optimism to shreds.

They push me into a chair. I fight them, scrabbling with my arms, kicking out. I am already sobbing, although the words are not yet spoken. Someone puts a cup into my hand but I thrust it away untasted. I grasp Henry’s tunic, wrench him toward me so our faces are level, our breath mingling. He has been eating herring. There are tears on his cheeks, his face is papery white, making him old. “Tell me,” I mouth, but no sound emerges.

“Elizabeth,” he says and his mother’s fingers tighten on my wrist, my head falls onto her narrow breast.

“No.” I close my eyes, roll my head against her chest as I try to fight back the agony that tightens like a vice around my heart. “No, please … not my baby …”

*

The king’s mother says very little but she is with me every day. She offers no criticism; she does not insist that I eat, she does not tell me not to weep. But she is there and, to my surprise, I find some comfort in her presence.

The Lady Margaret was blessed with only one child; Henry. I remember my mother telling me that Margaret was just thirteen when he was born and her body not properly formed. In giving him life she deprived herself of the thing she craved most; more children. Had she been able to have more sons, perhaps her love for Henry might have been less stifling.

As soon as I am able we ride to Eltham. It takes all my courage to enter the hall and make the climb to the nursery floor. Meg and Harry are playing quietly. In fact, the whole palace is unnaturally silent. Henry and I, followed by his mother, slip into the room where the children are at the table, their heads bent over books. Harry looks up first, our eyes meet. His are red and full of tragedy; my heart gives a little leap.

“Mother!” He clambers from his seat and runs toward me, his short fat arms snaking around my neck. I sink my face into his hair and inhale the lingering scent of babyhood, slightly sweaty and sweet. I hold him away a little, push his hair out of his eyes.

He looks peaky.

“Have you been good?”

He nods unconvincingly, so I turn to Meg for confirmation.

“Quite good,” she says. “Apart from letting his dog chew a hole in our lady mistress’s skirt as she dozed before the fire. And he did eat too many sweetmeats and made himself sick all over his psalter.”

Harry looks hangdog.

“I am sorry, Mother.”

I manage to laugh, almost choke as, half-formed, the humour turns to tears. Standing up, I try not to look at the door that leads to Elizabeth’s apartments.

I smooth my skirts and attempt to rally my courage. It has to be done. As I prepare to move, a small hand slips into mine and my son looks up at me.

“Elizabeth is in Heaven now, Mother.”

I struggle for a smile, and squeeze his hand.

“Yes, she is.” My voice is husky, my throat closing with grief.

“You still have us, Mother. Don’t be so sad.” His little face is pink and earnest, his blue eyes glinting with tears. “She wouldn’t want us to be sad.”

“No.” I cannot risk a longer sentence. To my relief, Lady Margaret steps forward.

“No. She would want us to be glad. We must remember that we are fortunate to have enjoyed her for so long. God will send us other compensations.”

She draws the children’s attention and provides the opportunity for Henry and I to slip unnoticed into the nursery.

In the centre of the room the royal cot stands empty; the canopy already taken down for laundering. I stand beside it, as I have so many times, and my heart breaks afresh. Without my child I cannot properly draw my next breath.

Henry’s hand slides gently across my shoulders and I sink my head onto his chest. For once we are united; sorrow has brought us close and his cheeks are as wet as mine.

Perhaps I am unwise to stay so long; perhaps it would be better not to be here where I dwell upon my loss every day. Henry, seeking solace in practical things, is already organising a lavish ceremony and has ordered a tomb of Lydian marble with a black marble cover. Although I know I shall never bear to look upon it, there is to be a copper gilt effigy, and she is to lie at Westminster, as is fitting.

Henry sits at the table scratching his head over the wording for the tomb. For the hundredth time he sighs and scores through the words he has written. I move to stand beside him, reading over his shoulder.

Elizabeth, second daughter of Henry VII, the most illustrious King of England, France …

If it were up to me I’d want to state that she was our beloved daughter, the joy of my heart, the light of my future; but I know such things must be left to Henry, who remains, first and foremost, even in his grief
,
the king.

I turn away, listless, unable to settle, and move about the room picking things up and putting them down again. I even go so far as to poke the dog with my toe. He lifts his head, looks at me with miserable bloodshot eyes before dropping it back onto his paws, and soon he is snoring again. I am so bored, so lifeless, so beset with sorrow that I don’t know what to do with myself.

I look up expectantly when the door opens and a servant slips in.

“Your Grace.” The boy bows low. “Lady Pole is here; shall I send her away?”

“Margaret?” I almost push the boy over in my haste to reach my cousin. I drag her into the room, hugging and kissing her, my tears falling afresh at the sight of her. Henry looks up from his work, gathers his papers, nods his head at Margaret and makes himself scarce.

“I hope he doesn’t think I’ve come to beg my brother’s cause at a time like this.” She eases off her gloves and lays them on the table. “Elizabeth, I am so sorry. So very, very sorry.”

I cannot help it. I am in tears again before she has finished offering condolence. I plump onto a settle, fumble for a kerchief and dab at my eyes while she takes her place beside me.

“My poor Elizabeth, I can’t begin to imagine … if it were my little Henry …”

She stops and stares into space, her throat working with emotion. Margaret has borne her husband one son so far and has hopes for further children. “But, soon, my love, you will have another child. Pray God it is a daughter you carry this time to soothe your loss. There is plenty of time to give Henry another son.”

I sniff and roll my kerchief into a ball.

“This babe kicks so hard, I am sure it must be a boy.”

“Oh.” Margaret pats my hand and winks conspiratorially. “There are those of us among the female sex whose kick is as good as any boy’s.”

For the first time I find myself smiling. Friendship and kinship is healing. From the moment she entered the room I felt better.

“Come to the nursery, Margaret, and see the children. You’ve not seen your namesake for months.”

“I thought you’d named her for the king’s mother,” she retorts as we leave the room and begin to hurry along the corridor.

I smile for the second time. “Between you and me, so does she.”

Harry and Meg are being fitted for new outfits; they are tolerating the tailor who fusses with pins and lengths of wool. A visit from their mother and cousin proves a welcome distraction. Harry wriggles from the nurse’s grasp and runs to greet me, remembering just in time to drop his cousin a courtly bow. Meg follows more decorously and performs a perfect curtsey.