A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (19 page)

“My goodness, how you’ve both grown,” Margaret exclaims. “They are not babies anymore.”

“No.” I realise, a little sadly, that she is right. They are growing up fast.

“Henry is so much like your father, Elizabeth. The look in his eye; the set of his head. It could be him reborn.”

I consider my son in a new light, through fresh eyes.

“Do you think so? When he was born I wondered if he was going to be fair, like my mother and I. But the older he gets the redder his hair shines.”

“It is the only thing he’s inherited from the Tudors, I’d say. And Margaret, what a beauty you are going to be!”

Meg blushes and squirms at the attention, pleased to be so regarded. As she continues to chatter, Margaret draws Harry onto her knee and wraps her arms around him. “You’re not too big for a cuddle, are you, Harry?” She gives him a smacking kiss and he wipes it away with his sleeve, making us laugh.

It is a happy family picture, one I crave more of. I seldom see my own family. My sisters have been suitably married and spend most of their time in the country. Cecily comes to court occasionally but she is too close to the king’s mother for intimacy, and is kept busy attempting to supply her husband with sons.

“It is good to see you, Margaret.” Spontaneously I reach for her hand again. “You must bring your son to visit the next time you come to court. He can lodge here with the children.”

“Yes, that would be nice. It would be good for our children to remember they are cousins. My Henry will serve Arthur one day, when he is king. We should always look to the future and plan for it, even if it is an uncertain thing.”

I know she is thinking of her brother. Despite my attempts to intervene on his behalf, poor little Warwick is still in the Tower.

“I have tried to get Henry to free Warwick, I really have but … the king thinks it too risky …”

“He is little more than a boy, and not himself. He has had no education, has no ambition of any kind. What risk can there be?”

I look down at my hands, my fingers slightly pudgy and over-warm.

“It isn’t Warwick himself that poses the danger. Henry knows he hasn’t the … hasn’t the, erm, nature to rebel but there are those that would back him. You only have to consider the man Warbeck to realise that.”

Her breath is released in a rush and we exchange glances, aware that we’ve been on the verge of quarrelling. She throws up her hands and lets them drop again.

“Oh, Elizabeth. It is all so ridiculous. We are all walking on eggshells. This pretender, this boy from Tournai — what do you make of it? He has won himself a goodly following and I’ve heard him referred to often as ‘King Edward’s son’.”

Henry’s spies have confirmed that the boy causing all the trouble is the son of a weaver from Tournai, a boy with no learning or nobility but with enough impudence to impersonate a royal duke. Henry seems convinced, but I am not so sure. I cannot imagine how a base-born boy from the low countries could fool a group of disgruntled refugees from my father’s court; men who knew my father and his sons very well indeed. Margaret observes me keenly as she waits for my reply.

“I don’t know. If I could just see him, or if someone close to me were to see him … sometimes I am desperate to know. I loved Richard so much but the danger he poses, or this pretender poses, threatens my sons. I am torn between wanting him to be my brother and dreading it being him. I don’t know what to think or what to do.”

“It must be hard.”

“Sometimes it is impossible.” I lean forward and drop my voice to a whisper. “The king is suspicious of everyone. It is not healthy. My father saw more than his share of betrayal but he didn’t let it eat him up. He didn’t suspect everyone. Henry is so watchful that the whole court is on edge all the time. Sometimes I think I will just be glad when it is all over and the pretender is dealt with.”

Margaret sighs and allows Harry to slide from her lap. We watch him wander across to Meg and try to steal a handful of nuts from her apron.

“Even if the pretender was caught, I dare say the king would find someone new to be suspicious of.”

I fear she is right.

A noisy flurry of gulls follows the ship as it glides into dock, the grey green water fleeing from beneath the bow. On deck the boy clings to the rail, standing a little apart from his companions. He looks across the water to a harbour heaving with men, whores, dogs and mules. The stench of the dock replaces the clean, clear air of the sea; reeking fish, stale sweating bodies, clothing that has been soaked by rain and dried by the salty air. A drunken man spews in a gutter, a trio of urchins play tag through the crowd.

Richard looks on, encouraged by the promise of solid ground, of a warm bed, a good dinner taken on a table spread with linen. For the past weeks he has rarely been on deck or breathed fresh air. Most of his days and all of his nights have been spent in the plunging darkness of a ship’s cabin, his only light a swinging lantern, his only relief the bottle, and the oblivion of sleep.

After the failure of the Kent landing depression bit deep; half-heartedly he turned his small fleet toward the coast of Ireland, hoping to find enough support there to resurrect his cause. He lingered for a while with the Earl of Desmond, but Tudor’s punishment for Ireland’s support of Richard in ʼ’91 had been harsh. The people were loath to risk Henry’s displeasure again and stayed away, turning their backs on Richard. For a while it seemed he’d met with defeat, but Desmond urged him to make one last attempt.

Looking back, Richard realises the siege of Waterford stood little chance of success and the ignominy of the pursuit to Cork, the destruction of his fleet, nags at him day and night. Now, his quest having so far failed, he turns to King James and begs for sanctuary at the Scottish court. His heart is heavy and he has little faith that he will find comfort there.

His fortunes seem to have plummeted since he and Brampton parted; he misses the buoyant support of his long-time friend. Brampton always knew what to do, where to go, whom to trust. Without him and without the support of Margaret, the boy is dithering. Now that the new Duke of Burgundy is seeking a treaty with England, there is little aid his aunt Margaret can offer other than her good will. He feels alone, vulnerable, and inexperienced.

High above his head the sails are furled, and the narrow gap between ship and shore closes. A figure moves to stand beside him and he turns to find Keating pulling a cap over his sleek dark hair.

“It will be a relief to disembark, Your Grace. If I never see the sea again it will be too soon.”

Richard smiles slowly, his shoulders relaxing a little.

“I am eager for a bath. I am sure the lice are carrying lice too; and oh, for a properly cooked meal, a finger bowl instead of a bucket.”

“And a woman, Your Grace. It’s been a long time.”

Richard’s face falls. “It has,” he replies, his mind slipping reluctantly back to Nelken. He regrets not finding his son; the boy will be growing now, crawling or walking perhaps, smiling at strangers.

Richard shakes himself and, pulling his gauntlets from his belt, begins to draw them on, flexing his fingers. They are worn, the embellished trim torn; he could do with a new pair. He grimaces with distaste before taking one more look at the open sky, the stretching grey-green sea. He draws in a deep breath.

“Right, summon the others, Keating. Let us go in search of this Scottish king.”

*

High on its crag Stirling Castle waits proudly, dwarfing the ragged party as it rides beneath the ancient gate. Richard, trying to appear confident, cranes his neck at the wet windows and the dark towers where the limp flap of a pennant welcomes him in from the fog.

The courtyard is alive with people; servants, grooms, milling horses, barking dogs. A group of women stand with hands on hips, watching his party dismount. His army is made up of Portuguese, Germans, Burgundians and a few disaffected English, but to the Scots they are all foreigners.

Richard stretches his stiff back and waits for his companions to flank him before they move into the castle itself. His knees are weary from the long ride, his hands frozen inside his threadbare gauntlets. As his horse is led away he pulls off his hat, tries to revive the limp feather that dangles over the brim like a dead fowl.

One day,
he thinks, as they progress across slick wet cobbles,
I will make a goodly entrance. One day, when I enter a palace, the people will fall to their knees and count their blessings when I deign to notice them.

As they reach the outer door a steward steps forward; he bows his head courteously and ushers them inside. They follow him up the twisting stair and, as they go, Richard notes the sumptuous hangings, the blazing candles, the Scottish royal arms emblazoned on every wall.

“We have put you in here, my lord.” The steward throws open a door. “I think you will find everything you need. The king will be pleased to receive you on his return to the castle. If you should find anything lacking, you have only to call.”

The man bows and hurries away. Richard looks about the room. It is warm. A huge fire burns in the grate and torches have been lit to fend off the dark that comes so early to Scotland in November.

He sees a table laden with victuals, and comfortable chairs pulled close to the fire. Through an open door he notices a bed with fine thick hangings and a deep mattress. It promises much after the trials of a ship’s cabin. A girl is folding back the sheets, another stokes the fire. They are young and comely, no doubt selected for their feminine appeal. He feels the tension drain from his shoulders, throws down his hat, and casts off his damp cloak.

*

Richard tugs at the bottom of the doublet supplied by his host. It is a trifle short and will have to be altered, but it will do for now. The garments may be slightly small but, for the first time in months, he feels clean, respectable and, from what he can tell in the hand-held glass, his royal breeding is now visible.

He follows the steward back along the corridor, down the twisting stair, through the castle to the great hall where the king is waiting. At the end of the room a group of courtiers are lounging in the corners, another group is ranged about the throne.

When the steward inserts himself at the king’s elbow, James looks up and spies Richard waiting to be introduced. “Ah, there you are, York.”

King James disentangles himself from the conversation and hurries toward Richard. They meet in the centre of the floor. There should, of course, have been ceremony, a fanfare announcing his entrance. Richard should stoop to pay the king homage but James has little patience with formality and, when Richard bends over his hand, he pulls away before the boy is done. The boy hesitates and, when he straightens up, realises he is taller than the Scottish king. They regard each other for a long moment before James speaks.

“It is good to finally meet at last, Richard.” He slaps the boy on the back and leads him away from the crowd. “Had fate decreed otherwise, we should have been brothers.”

“Your Grace?” Richard’s brow wrinkles in confusion and James laughs, gestures to a servant to pour them some wine.

“I was betrothed once to your sister, Cecily, but … well, it didn’t happen. A shame. Perhaps once you have ousted the Tudor, we can negotiate a fresh union between our countries.”

“I believe Cecily is already taken, Your Grace, but I have other sisters. I am sure there must be one still unwed who will suit you.”

I’ll do anything,
he thinks.
If you help me reclaim my throne, I will marry you to my grandmother.
As James chatters on it becomes apparent the Scottish king enjoys life and all it holds.

“I was just talking to Campbell here about the possibility of a Scottish printing press. We are way behind England in that respect. You’ve seen Caxton’s machine, I suppose?”

Richard, about to drink, lowers his cup, his thirst unquenched.

“I’ve not seen the machine but I’ve seen the books. My father had a vast library. I remember my favourite was
Le Morte d’Arthur
; it coloured my early years … and my uncle, Anthony Woodville, was involved in the printing trade. I recall his excitement when he showed us the printed version of his book on philosophy.”

Richard’s voice trails off as he recalls his uncle is dead now, along with the rest of the people there that day, but James doesn’t notice. He looks at the boy speculatively, his smile slowly stretching into delight.

“You have a keen memory. I can see we have a lot in common, Richard. I am currently backing research into improving the range and aim of guns. You must come with me when I visit the foundry … I can lend you a horse. Ah!” He is diverted by a newcomer to the circle. “Do you know my brother, James? Gets confusing, the both of us blessed with the same name, so it’s easier to call me ‘James’ and my brother ‘Ross’. He is the Duke of Ross, you see.”

A young man with some resemblance to the king holds out his hand, and Richard clasps it but the lad has no time to speak. As James continues to dominate the conversation, Richard wonders if Ross is naturally quieter than the king or if he has given up trying to get a word in. As the three men stroll about the room, the king stops from time to time to make introductions.

“This is the Duke of York,” he says. “With our help he will overthrow Tudor and, once he is made king, relations between our countries will blossom.”

Richard smiles, his eye skimming nervously over the colourful crowd. It may be dark outside and rain may be lashing the casements, but inside it is bright and warm. More candles and torches than can be counted illuminate the crush of bodies, bouncing from the fabulous gowns and jewels, and reflecting in the mirrors.

A tall slender woman, older than the king, slides her arm through James’s and smiles boldly at Richard. He bows slightly, uncertain of her status until the king’s hand falls on hers and his smile widens further.

“This is Margaret; Margaret Drummond.”

The king does not elaborate but it is clear she is his mistress. Richard bows over her hand as she assesses him.

“We are blessed to have you here, my lord,” she smiles. “The young ladies will be fighting for the attention of such a gallant young fellow.”

He laughs half-heartedly, uncertain how to reply to such overt flirtation before the king, but is saved by the press of people. They press in, vying for an introduction, and he becomes detached from the royal party. Everyone is reaching out to grasp his hand in greeting and Richard is overwhelmed, warmed by their generosity.
I should have come here sooner
, he thinks.
Why did I wait so long?

“Ah, Huntly.” The king speaks loudly over the din of the crowd, beckoning Richard back to his side. “Richard, you must meet the Earl of Huntly.” The boy turns and bows to yet another newcomer. “And his daughter. Where is Catherine? Ah yes, and his daughter, my … erm … cousin, isn’t it? Catherine Gordon.”

The clamouring crowd seems to fall away, their voices are silenced, and the tug of their hands on his doublet is unheeded. A woman is curtseying before him, her head bowed. He looks down upon a velvet hood trimmed with pearls and, as she rises, Richard notices a few strands of bright yellow hair peeking from beneath. She has a high clear brow, a pretty up-tilted nose, flanked by wide blue eyes. His heart lurches, his mouth goes dry and words fail him.

She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Her throat is long and white, her breast translucent. When he bends to kiss her fingers, they flutter in his palm. Slowly he straightens up again, looks into her eyes and fumbles for something to say.

“I — I am … delighted …”

She laughs, a tinkling sound. He remembers the stories Bess told him as a boy and knows he has found his Guinevere.

“They told me you were tall.” She tilts her face upward. “But you are almost a giant.”

“I think, my lady, that you are very tiny. It makes me appear bigger than I am.”

“They say your father was a large man, too.”

“Oh, to me he was huge. I was just ten years old when he died. Now, when I recall him, I remember a big man, a laughing man, glinting with jewels with a cup of welcome forever in his hand.”

Richard hears his own voice with some surprise. It is as if someone else is working his mouth. He has no idea what he is saying.
Catherine
, he thinks, rolling the word around his mind. The name seems suddenly exotic and wonderful as if he has never heard it spoken before.

There is a flush beneath her cheeks, and her eyes are bright with pleasure.
This is a lady,
he tells himself. Not someone to be taken lightly; not a roll in the hay, or a fumble in a darkened corner. She is the cousin of the king, and expected to marry well. He must tread warily.

“The king says there is to be a tournament tomorrow in your honour. Will you be riding in it?”

His eyes are fastened on her mouth, moist pink lips, straight pearly teeth, and a glimpse of her tongue.

“Me? No; I shouldn’t think so.”

Richard feels uncomfortable at the thought. Of course, by now he should be a champion at the lists, but he’s never had the chance to train properly. He can wield a sword and understands the rudiments of battle, but he has never fought. He will never be a hero, although from the look in Catherine’s eyes, you’d never know it. He bows once more.