A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (20 page)

“Would you dance with me, my lady?” he asks. “I may not be a champion of the lists but I am king of the dance floor.”

She laughs gaily and takes his hand. The music begins again as they hurry to take their places on the floor. From his place on the dais King James watches, and raises his glass.

*

In the weeks that follow, Richard attends more jousts and pageants than he has in his life. He rides out with the king and his favourites, hawking and hunting. Wrapped warmly against the encroaching winter weather, they eat
al fresco
, warming their hands at braziers set beneath the rapidly thinning canopy of the wood.

Relaxed, happy and safe, Richard blossoms and for the first time in his life, resists the invitations of the prettier element of the court. It isn’t that the women aren’t appealing, for King James ensures his attendants are comely and willing. But each time he feels tempted, Catherine’s face and Catherine’s laughter and the memory of the thrill of her hand, prevents him.

I should stay away from her
, he thinks, afraid he will go too far and offend his host. He can’t afford to lose his ally in the battle to regain his throne. He determines he will avoid her, pointedly seek the company of other women of the court, but she is always there and, like a fish to a worm, he cannot keep away.

They make a handsome couple, everyone says so. The top of her head is level with his throat, their colouring similar, and something in the way they move suggests they were made to dance together. The court begins to gossip, linking their names, and insinuating an illicit union. Richard is forced to take the matter to the king.

“I swear it is gossip, Your Grace. I have never laid a hand on her or set eyes on Catherine outside your royal hall.”

James smiles. “Relax cousin, I never listen to gossip. Although, in this case, I can see there is no smoke without fire. You and Catherine were made for each other, man. Why not take her to your bed and seal our alliance; call it a sort of treaty?”

Richard sputters, begins to speak, but is robbed of his words. He stutters and stumbles until he manages to blurt out, “To my bed? What on earth are you suggesting?”

“Oh, I don’t mean you should take her down. I mean, why not marry her? She has good connections; she is my cousin. It would be no shame.”

“Of course it would be no shame. It would be an honour, a huge one but … my position … my future is uncertain, what can I offer her? Oh … she would never have me.”

“She’d have ye in the blink of an eye, man. She is smitten, it’s plain to see. And what could be better for a woman than the promise of the English throne … unless, of course, it’s the Scottish one?”

While James throws back his head and laughs at his own joke, Richard struggles to come to terms with what he is being offered.

“Y-your Grace …” He stumbles over the words. “You have given me so much; a house, servants, horses, clothes … I owe everything to you, everything. But this? Are you sure? Suppose I should fail? I can’t drag Catherine around the courts of Europe for the rest of her life.”

“Acht, we won’t fail, Richard. God will see to that. Marry her and be happy, man, while you are still young enough to enjoy it.”

This timeit is easier. Perhaps it has something to do with the alignment of the stars
,
or it may be because I am not attended by my mother-in-law. Either way I am calmer, and since I know what to expect, I feel less fear than last time. The pain and the bloody fluid does not concern me greatly. I follow the instructions of the midwife carefully, work hard, focusing on the task instead of fighting it. When at last my child slips into the world I am pleased when they tell me it is another girl; a princess to balance the nursery and offer companionship to Margaret.

She lies in my arms, the womb grease still thick upon her. As I examine my daughter’s face she grips my finger as if her life depends on it, which I suppose it does. Her face is wrinkled, her nose and forehead showing signs of bruising, and she looks rather cross, disgruntled with the harsh world although we have done all we can to give her a gentle entry.

I loosen my shift and let her suckle, the tenuous tug of her mouth growing stronger and more confident as the minutes pass. After a few moments the sucking stops, and she slips into a doze.

“Let me take her now, Madam. I will make her tidy.”

I offer her up reluctantly, sitting up on my pillow, watching as they wash away the megrim of birth from my child. They anoint her with milk and myrrh, dust her naval with aloe and frankincense. All the while she sets up a loud protest, which grows in volume as her limbs are wrapped tight and she is handed back to me, her face redder and crosser than before.

It is not long before the king is announced, and he enters the chamber sheepishly. He kisses my brow and casts a non-committal eye over his daughter.

“How are you, wife?”

“I am quite well, my lord. The birth was straightforward this time, praise God.”

He nods, takes a stool at the bedside, clasps his hands between his knees, his eyes darting about the room.

“Have you thought of a name, Henry?”

He looks up, surprised. “No, no. I have no preference. I will let you choose.”

I look down at the child again. She has fallen asleep. I expect being born is as exhausting as giving birth. Her bruised nose is decidedly bluer. Her tiny mouth moves as if she is suckling an invisible teat. Quite suddenly a memory is born of my young sister, Mary, who died a year or so before my father. She, alone of all my sisters, never indulged in petty squabbles; she hated disputes of any kind and Father had given her the pet name of Mary the Peacemaker.

“What about Mary?”

“Mary,” Henry repeats, as if trying out the name. “After the Virgin. Yes, it seems very fitting.”

I realise he has no knowledge of the sister I lost so tragically, but I don’t enlighten him. He stands up and kisses my brow again. “I will leave you now. You must need sleep.”

I let my head fall back on the pillow and send him a sleepy smile.

“I will soon be up and about again, and things will return to normal. Tomorrow perhaps you can bring the children to meet Mary.”

“I will see that they come. Sleep well, my dear.”

He leaves me alone. The nurse, Alice, fusses with linen in the corner and my women melt into the shadows leaving Mary and I at peace.

*

My chamber is a haven from politics and intrigue, for a few weeks I am oblivious to affairs of state and if Henry has any concerns about the Pretender, or his dealings with Spain regarding Arthur’s marriage, then he conceals them from me. A happy time, safe in our nest, Mary and I become acquainted and day by day she grows in strength and character.

Henry doesn’t accompany the children when they come to visit their sister for the first time. Elizabeth Denton, the lady mistress of the royal nursery, brings them. I can tell from their shiny bright faces that they have been thoroughly washed and scrubbed for the occasion.

When the door opens they sidle in and hesitate at the foot of the bed until I beckon them further. Harry needs no further encouragement but comes rushing forward, pushing Meg aside to reach me. His arms clamp around my neck, his lips are wet on my cheek. Meg is more withdrawn, polite and slightly awed. She looks around the room curiously, as if realising this will one day be her lot. It is a woman’s lot, especially royal princesses, to bear children, perpetuate the bloodline and give life to future princes. There is no escaping it. My daughter and I exchange secret female smiles before she kisses me, as warmly as Harry although her kiss is not quite so moist.

Mary is placed in my arms and Alice stands back to allow the children closer as I draw the blankets aside to reveal her face. They regard her solemnly. The last time I introduced them to a baby sister they were younger, less aware of the impact a new sibling would have on their lives. Now, of course, still not fully recovered from the loss of Elizabeth, they greet the newcomer tentatively. Meg smiles softly. “She is lovely, Mother.”

Harry leans over, examining the baby closely. “She is all squashed,” he says. “Why is she squashed? She looks like an old woman.”

I laugh and let my free arm slide around his shoulder.

“That is because she is so new; her face has not yet unfolded properly. In a few weeks her skin will be white and smooth. Her eyes will open and she will learn to laugh and speak.”

“Speak?”

“Well, not right away but she will make noises. She can yell very loudly already.”

“Can she? As loud as this?” He opens his mouth and gives a great shout that makes Mary wake with a start and begin to bawl. Harry is dismayed.

All the servants come running and Margaret puts her fingers in her ears while I fall about laughing. I jig the babe on my shoulder and pat her back, hushing her as the tears subside. Harry knuckles his eye. “I’m sorry,” he says, shamefaced. “I didn’t mean to frighten her.”

“I know, Harry. It is all right. She will grow used to your noise. She will have to if she is to live with you and Meg at Eltham. You will be the best of friends. Would you like to hold her?”

He sits on the bed with his legs straight out, the soles of his shoes threatening the covers, and holds out his arms. Alice looks on disapprovingly as I place the child on his lap. He clutches her, and when she pulls a face and tries to squirm, he jiggles his knees. “Don’t cry, Mary,” he says. “Don’t cry and I will tell you a story. Look, Meg, her hair is the same as yours.”

Meg inches forward and settles beside him, her eyes wide with interest.

“Can I hold her now, Mother? You must take turns, Harry. Tell him, Mother. I want a turn.”

While they nurse their sister, I probe gently about their progress under John Skelton who was engaged last year to oversee their education. Harry shows much talent in music and dancing, and his handwriting is advanced for his age. Meg is attentive too but seems to lack her brother’s natural ability. She is capable and efficient, but displays none of the brilliance of her brother. She hides any sense of inferiority behind a barrier of teasing and bullying but, despite that, the children are very close.

They stay with me all the afternoon until their father arrives and Elizabeth Denton hurries them away. I pass Mary back to Alice and give my husband my full attention. He talks about the coming summer and a proposed progress to the south west of the country. It is too early for me to think with any comfort of leaving Mary, but I do not argue. All queens must learn to put duty before pleasure and Henry is eager to get the people of England to love him.

With a nursery full of little princes and princesses, it should be easy to please them. There is nothing discernible about his person that makes him unloved; as far as the poor are concerned one king is much the same as another. I suspect it is the taxes he levies that makes them resent him. The poor do not understand the expense of maintaining peace and, even if they did, it is doubtful that they’d see it as their duty to fund the king’s defences.

As he details his plans for the summer
,
I listen without argument. His words float in and out of my consciousness while I wonder if the rash Mary has developed beneath her chin is really caused by excess dribble, or if it indicates something more sinister. I make a note to speak to the physician in the morning and turn my face back to the king. Slowly, a few of his words begin to penetrate; names like Warbeck, James, and Scots spark in the darkness of my mind. I sit up straighter.

“I am sorry, Henry. What did you say?”

His face stiffens, his lips clench firmly before he repeats it.

“I was telling you that the boy, the pretender, is growing very thick with King James, and the Scottish people are applauding him as king of the English. How can James support such treason? My spies tell me that Warbeck spends all his days hunting and his nights dancing and all the court have fallen in love with him. And it also seems that the Scottish king is encouraging his amorous advances toward his own cousin.”

“Oh.”

I don’t know what else to say. I don’t understand how the common people can fall in love with a penniless boy with a specious claim to the throne. And then I recall my father and my mind betrays me as I begin to toy with the idea that Warbeck may be my sibling after all.

He may not be
Richard
, as he claims, but everyone knows my late father’s weakness for women. Perhaps the boy is some bastard-born child who has inherited my father’s talent for winning love. Father married my mother secretly, or ‘privately’ as they preferred to call it, without the consent of his council. Their union sparked another round of fighting in the long war between Lancaster and York. Their passion was so strong, things could not have been otherwise; their need for each other was stronger than duty, stronger than dynastic requirement. And now the Scottish king is supporting a marriage between this man who claims to be my brother, and his own cousin. Surely the boy is a pretender,
surely
a pretender, who has somehow been blessed with my father’s face and his way with women.

“What are you thinking?”

Henry speaks sharply, startling me so that I jump and give an unconvincing laugh.

“Nothing really. I was just wondering how much longer this can go on. I am not convinced James really believes Warbeck’s claim and surely the boy cannot roam indefinitely about Europe with this treasonous claim. You will stop him in the end.”

I add the last few words by way of comfort. Henry sits back in his chair, links his fingers, stretches his arms and makes his knuckles crack. It is a habit I detest, every sinew of my body rebels against it, but I do not say so.

“Oh yes,” Henry says quietly. “I will stop him, and when I have him, his ending will not be pretty, whoever he may be …”

Those words echo long after he has departed.
Whoever he may be.
My former contentment has fled, draining from my body. I can almost sense my optimism scurrying across the floor and plunging from the open window into the dark night beyond. Henry is informing me, quite plainly, that this person who dares to call himself the Duke of York will die, whether his claim is false or not.

*

I re-enter my life as queen, glad to be free of the confines of my chamber but sad to see Mary packed off so young to Eltham, where she will take up residence with Harry and Meg. Her household is vast for one so young, but she is a princess and as such must be well attended. I select women I trust, women of experience, and my directions to them are heartfelt and lengthy. Eltham is not far and I will visit very often, but as the cavalcade draws away, leaving me behind, my heart cries out as eloquently as my body, which yearns to nurse her again.

The king and I leave Sheen in June and begin our journey west. The summer promises much as we pass at a leisurely pace through some of England’s finest countryside. As we go, we hand out gifts to the peasants, coins and new bread, a basket of cherries. It warms my heart when they cry out to us in thanks.

We linger at Beaulieu, enjoying the gardens and the soft summer sunshine that is encouraging the roses to put on their best display. When the time comes to move on I am reluctant to leave, but once on board a ship across the Solent to the Isle of Wight, the fragrance of the sea refuels me with vigour. It is as if the flowers of Beaulieu had cast a spell of somnolence upon me for now, in contrast, I feel energised and alive.

Henry and I stand at the ship’s rail together. As always he is self-contained, never betraying joy but, although I try, I cannot hide the thrill of the swelling sea as my blood is invigorated by the stiff Solent breeze. The Wight Isle waits, snug and green in the choppy grey sea. As our ship takes us close, on impulse I clutch Henry’s sleeve and place my cheek on his shoulder, and he doesn’t pull away.

At first the atmosphere is one of a holiday, and Henry seems relaxed and happy, responding to the raucous crowd with grace. But once we are settled in our chambers I sense a change in him. He is tense and scowling again, making it difficult for me to maintain my holiday mood.

A messenger bows his way out of the room and Henry sighs, throws his pen onto the table.

“What is it, Henry? Not bad news from Eltham?”

He lifts his head, his face showing weariness, his eyes are shadowed, the lines about his mouth cut deep.