A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (21 page)

“No, the children are well. It is news from Scotland.”

“What is it now?” I discard my embroidery and rise from my chair to join him.

“That fellow … Warbeck. I told you James has blessed the marriage to his cousin … well, I have the report of the ceremony. Apparently it was ostentatious in the extreme, distastefully so. It was clearly intended to persuade the world that it was not a match between some base-born adventurer and a distant relative of the king but of a king to a lesser royal. The wedding bore all the extravagance of a royal celebration and the people of Scotland now hail the pretender with great relish. Look here,” he waves a letter beneath my nose. “He was married in purple silk, no expense spared! And all this from the coffers of a king of Scots whose usual generosity makes me seem a spend thrift! The pretender’s bride, Catherine or Caroline, or whatever her name is, was dressed up like a queen, and the banquet … I tell you, James pulled out all the stops. He has gone too far this time. There will be no peace between us now — not until I have that boy in my hands.”

I don’t know what to say, what to suggest that may both appease and bolster him. I pat his shoulder ineffectually, but he shrugs off my hand. For a while I watch him pace the floor, judging the extent of his fury and how much of it is directed at me. I don’t understand why his displeasure is aimed at me for I have done nothing. Perhaps it would be as well to remain silent, but I can’t help myself.

“It is just bluster, Henry. Nobody really believes his story. It is all for show … for — for effect …to alarm us …”

Henry turns on me, his face screwed up in ridicule.

“You believe that? You honestly believe that no one gives him credit? What about your damned aunt? What about Maximillian? What about Ireland? The heads of Europe are biding their time, unwilling to pledge themselves to either me or the Pretender until a clear winner emerges. I curse the lot of them. I wish them all to the devil.”

“Spain is on your side. Ferdinand and Isabella favour a match between Arthur and their daughter, Caterina.”

“Spain,” he sneers. “Why do you think Ferdinand is spinning the process out, pretending to negotiate? He is worried, uneasy, and all because of this damned boy. The king of Spain won’t send his daughter to us while Warbeck is at large. That boy is a thorn in my flesh, Elizabeth. A thorn I will rip out no matter how much pain it causes.”

“Can you not negotiate with James? Perhaps you can make it worth his while to hand the boy over to you?”

I do not speak from the heart and I quail with fear that the Pretender is indeed my little brother. What will I do if it is? I will want him to live, I know I will, even if I dread him being the victor. I know that should Henry lay hands on him he will be shown no mercy, and the thought is killing me. I am torn cleanly in two like a piece of parchment.

That night, after the lights are extinguished, I lay quietly, thinking of the boy and his long years of exile in foreign lands. As always when I think of him, my mind betrays me and it is my little brother, Richard, that I see. His bright shiny face is still round with youth, his eyes still merry. The image is so real I can almost smell the puppy dog fragrance of his skin.

“Oh, Richard,” I whisper to the moon. “If you are indeed my brother can you not give it up and travel far away to where you will be safe?” A tear trickles onto the pillow, and more follow. Soon I cannot control them but let them roll like wax down a taper.

In the morning we journey on. When we are alone Henry is distant, his mind on his troubles, but he dons a jovial public face for the benefit of those who come to cheer us. The men who host us along the way are charmed by his courtesy, and the king does his best to be amiable. But I know it costs Henry a great deal to overcome his natural reticence.

I try to add my own easy charm to ensure we are seen as kind and humane monarchs. Without being asked I attempt to silently guide him. I squeeze his arm should his smile slip, or surreptitiously nudge him in the back should he make some small breach of etiquette. The king has not been bred to this life. Before Bosworth his existence was similar to that of Warbeck’s, and he too was lost and exiled and alone.

By summer’s peak I am growing weary and missing my children. I have regular missives to keep me abreast of their news and often a small note or a picture is folded within. When I am alone I take them out and gloat over the careful spelling and brightly hued drawings. They make me smile.

“Look, Henry.” I pass him the latest letters and he casts an eye over them.

“Their writing is improving,” he says. “I hope they work as hard at their other lessons.”

“Oh yes, the reports are very good. And Mary has grown a tooth.”

“That will surely not please her nurse.”

I cannot help but smile at the picture his words evoke.

“Ha, yes. I am sure you are right. Once they get teeth they begin to gnaw everything.”

“Like little rats.”

“Rats, Henry? Is this our daughter you speak of?”

We are still laughing when a boy comes to light the candles and draw the shutters closed.

Henry dismissed my women some time ago and night is almost upon us. We are alone; our bellies replete, our minds mellow with wine as we watch the light dwindle. Henry is close beside me, his hand slides about my neck, his fingers finding my skin. He strokes and instinctively I lay my cheek upon his hand as warmth floods my limbs.

It has been quite a while since he came to my bed, and I relish his unspoken request. I am made differently to my husband, my needs are greater than his, and the long weeks without his company at night can be very trying. But I have learned to hide it and try to match my desire to his.

“Come along,” he says, taking me by the hand and leading me to the bed. As he unlaces me, his fingers are as deft as any lady’s maid’s. My petticoats slide to the floor with a hush of silk, and he holds my hand as I step out of them. There is no embarrassment, no hurry, and little hunger as we prepare each other for bed.

I have long given up hope of a heady passion, an all-consuming desire for each other, but this is comfortable, and I feel secure in his arms now. I want for nothing else, no one else. I know pleasure will come for both of us but it will come later in the full dark when his blood warms and his mouth and fingers grow more urgent. His methods of love are such that I learn only by stealth how much he needs me.

*

Gradually we grow nearer to home, passing through Bristol, Malmesbury, and Woodstock. Our various hosts do all they can for our comfort, some of them must have bankrupted themselves to provide such luxury. They might as well have not bothered for although I try to hide it, I am unimpressed. My desperation to see my children is overriding everything else and is difficult to conceal. I count the days until we can return to London.

Henry remains attentive. We walk in the gardens, and enjoy intimate suppers when we can. When we are forced to bear company he stays close to me, bringing me into the conversation. I am grateful and, for a while, he treats me as his equal. Perhaps it is because his mother has stayed at Eltham to oversee the children and is not here to take him from me. Perhaps our more frequent intimacy at night is spilling over into the daytime. Whatever the reason I find I like it, and welcome this often hidden side to the king.

As my moon-time nears, half in dread, I begin to look for signs of pregnancy. It is too soon after Mary and although more children will be welcome, I am greatly relieved when the bleeding starts and I know I have a little longer before motherhood claims me again. I am enjoying the lack of constraint, the absence of the king’s mother’s disapproval, and hope the new relationship that has developed between us will long continue.

It is September before we spy the towers of Windsor above the treetops. As the royal cavalcade jogs on through the trees, the late sunshine turns the leaves to gold above my head. “Let us hurry, Husband,” I call, and spur my mount forward, outstripping the rest of the party. I am happy to be coming home. I am loved and confident and my husband seems content, too. I can hear his horse’s hooves thundering close behind me and I turn my head to smile.

“It is good to be home, Henry,” I call gaily and he grins back at me, his face warm with affection, the thrill of the ride casting a pink glow upon his usually sallow cheeks.

Please let this last,
I pray silently;
this new warmth between us. Let it last for the rest of our lives.

Richard rolls over and sits on the edge of the bed, head in hands, trying to dispel his lingering dreams. Morning has come too soon and he is loath to leave the comfort of his blankets. Today of all days he should be ready, his mind should be honed as sharply as a blade but instead he feels lethargic, reluctant to move.

He rubs a hand over his face and squints as daylight pierces the shutters. He has planned and plotted for this day for more than half his life. Today, with the support of King James, he will invade England and, God willing, take back that which is rightfully his. He had imagined that when the time came he would be brave, invincible, but now the moment is here, his overriding emotion is one of fear.

“Richard? Surely it is not yet day. Come and lie with me a little longer.”

He turns smiling eyes on his touselled wife as she blinks sleepily, clutching the sheet across her breasts. Her usually smooth blonde hair is snarled and knotted from sleep, and there is a mark on her neck where he kissed her too roughly. He reaches out and grasps the sheet, tugging it sharply from her grasp. She squeaks and giggles until his eyes fasten on the dark hue of her nipples, the bulge of his child in her womb. She quiets, her breath stilled, waiting.

Although the late stage of her pregnancy means he cannot love her as fully as he’d like to, his loins stir again and he falls onto the pillows beside her. He pulls her close, tastes the sweetness of her mouth, feels the tremble of her wanting as his fingers rediscover her willing flesh.

“Be gentle, my love,” she reminds him and she is right to do so for when the blood is up it is easy to forget that he cannot take her as he’d like to. Her hands are skilled and willing and in the joy of her touch he forgets the pain of leaving, the fear of defeat, and the uncertainty of the unknown. He rolls onto his back while she delights him, feeling the tension flow away as they drift together on a cloud of pleasure.

Afterwards, when he has untangled himself from her arms and stands half-dressed by the bed, she pulls herself upright on her pillow.

“Don’t get up, Catherine. Don’t watch me ride away; I am afraid I will lose courage if you should cry. It wouldn’t do for me to scuttle like a frightened mouse back to our chamber.”

She places a hand on her belly and his eyes follow her fingers as she strokes their growing child. “He may be with us before you return, my lord.” Her eyes are huge and filled with tears. “Keep yourself safe for we have need of you.” Her voice breaks but he doesn’t comfort her. Instead, he turns away to hide his own grief.

“And may God keep you safe too, my Catherine. Look after our son. If he comes in my absence, tell him that I have ridden away to regain his birthright.”

His armour clanks and his sword clatters on the wall as he hurries down the stairs and into the sunlight where men at arms and mounted soldiers are gathered, waiting for him.

Richard’s eye is immediately taken by a fluttering pennant. The banner of York, the undulating white rose, embroidered by Catherine’s hand, declares his identity and his right to contest Henry Tudor’s claim. His unease is soothed a little by the sight. He remembers the emblem of York when it blazed over his father’s throne, a throne that would have been his had his future not been stolen.

A few days ago James rode forth amid a clarion of trumpets and celebration, clad in a new cloak of crimson velvet and satin. Richard looks down at his newly-forged armour, pulls on his gauntlets and tries to appear as brave, as much in command as James had been. He raises a hand in salute as if his heart wasn’t failing.

“Good morrow, friends. It is a fine day for an invasion.”

A cheer goes up and Keating brings his prancing horse under control, removes his plumed helmet and bows his head to his monarch.

“The people of England will flock to your standard, Your Grace. Never doubt it. They have no more love for Tudor than we do.”

They mount up and begin to ride out amid a chaos of cheers. An impressive array of horse and foot soldiers, padded and armed against the fray. A long line of supply wagons comes next, followed by barking dogs, screeching children who see it all as a lark, a frolic. As he passes beneath the gate, a group of women throw petals from an upper window. He cranes his neck for a last glimpse of Catherine but she is not there; she has obeyed him and stayed away. He wishes she hadn’t.

I know nothing of England,
he thinks, as the cavalcade passes from town to country, and moves single file along the leaf-strewn road.
I know nothing of the people, their needs and desires. I don’t even know how to be a king.

James and his force are a few days ahead, waiting for them to join him. The cavalcade passes through hamlets and villages where the Scot’s people emerge to see them pass. Richard’s horse puts down his head and his back end heaves at the din, but Richard reins him in with one hand. With the other he waves to the peasants, blows kisses to the fairest girls in the crowd.

Young as he is, he looks every inch a king, but his appearance hides inner insecurity. Richard bites his lip and hopes he can live up to James’s image. It is easy for James; he was born to it, has lived each day of his life as a prince and a king. He has not known uncertainty; even at his lowest ebb he never lost his position, witnessed the death of his brother, or suffered his sister being married off to the usurper of his very throne.

James has never known hunger or cold, or been so saddle weary that death promised the only relief. Compared to Richard, James has led a life of ease. To him war is a game, a relief from the tedium of security.

They pass the bare Lammermuir Hills and follow the course of the river Tweed toward the border. With only a watercourse between him and his birthright, Richard’s courage shrinks. He looks at the mercenaries who make up his army; rough men from many countries, with hardly an Englishman among them. Their banter is coarse, often threatening to overspill into civil violence. It does nothing to alleviate his foreboding, his sense that the stars may not be aligned in his favour after all.

The Tweed lies before them, a wide serpent of deathly cold water between him and his goal. The men straggle across in dribs and drabs; groaning at the aching temperature of the churning water. The horses throw up their heads, reluctant to tread an unseen path, but the men curse and kick them forward. One of the baggage carts founders, the draft horses plunging, throwing up great shafts of water, drenching those nearby. The carter raises his whip, brings it down hard.

Richard’s face becomes a mask of unconcern, a bland mindless smile as he fights not to let his followers see his lack of courage. As his mount scrambles up the far bank, his legs are mired, his freezing toes screaming with pain. Murky water streams from his horse’s flanks, and Richard’s boots are brimming over. His once spotless banner hangs limp over his weary army, spattered by mud and marred by rain.

I am in England
, he thinks.
Northumberland
. He looks around at the empty landscape where straggly sheep graze unconcerned at the elite company. There is not a homestead or a building in sight; just a vast, rain-lashed landscape that bears no resemblance to the England that Richard remembers. The lush green of Kent does not reach this far north.

“We will make camp here,” the boy announces. “Our supporters will reach us in the morning, no doubt. I am assured they are just delayed.”

The servants set to erecting the campaign tents; his muddy banner is hoisted above the royal marquee and a brazier lit beside his bed. He settles in a chair with a cushion at his back, glad to be free of the saddle. He feasts upon bread and cheese; the burgundy in his cup dwindling as fast as it bolsters his courage. He thinks of Catherine, safe at Stirling, full of his unborn child, waiting for the news of his victory, of his son’s secured future.

He is washed by his manservant, his emerging beard is trimmed, his hair brushed to a sheen, and he slips between his silken sheets like a new man; a man sustained with good food and given hope with rich wine. As he closes his eyes he suffers a brief longing for his wife and the comfort she offers, but he is exhausted from the ride and sleep claims him, closing the door on all his worries.

Morning blows in to dampen his spirits with cold drizzle. His companions shake raindrops from their cloaks as they enter his pavilio
n
t
o
join him for breakfast. He wraps a fur about his shoulders and accepts a cup of wine, passes the jug to Richard Harliston.

“I could wish God had sent us better weather,” says Keating as he holds out his hands to warm them at the brazier. “It is colder than a witch’s tit out there.”

“Where are our English supporters? I thought there’d be word by now, or at least a messenger sent on ahead.”

Harliston grunts noncommittally and empties his cup. “They will come, Your Grace.”

Richard moves closer to his friends.

“It is these mercenaries. I am uneasy about them and they are growing restive. They have no love of England or its people … or me, come to that. I am afraid that if they see no action soon and no promise of spoils, they will create some activity of their own.”

He orders a proclamation to be read promising benevolence, promising peace, but after two days when his supporters have still failed to turn up, Richard’s fears are realised. The mercenaries, fed up with inaction, begin to defy orders.

On the brow of a hill a stronghold, or bastle as they are locally known, waits immovably, the people from within working in a nearby field. When the cavalcade rides past, the people pause in their toil to stand silent in the rain.

“This is your king. Good King Richard of York has come to free you from Tudor oppression.”

Richard raises his hand, smiles his most winning smile, but the grim expressions remain unchanged. He rides on, his smile fixed, his hands frozen to the reins, relieved to be past so swiftly.

As he moves into open countryside, he hears a scream behind him and the clash of steel on stone. Fearing the worst, he wrenches his horse round and gallops back the way he came.

His men, his so called ‘soldiers,’ their cloaks blackened by relentless rain, have fired the thatch of an outbuilding. As a grim trail of smoke belches forth the people try to fight the flames, coughing and choking, their eyes streaming. Richard’s head turns right and left, taking in the scene, identifying the perpetrators. A group of soldiers have drawn their swords, laid hostage to a group of elders who huddle around a bleeding corpse sprawled in the mud. Men are fighting all around, a woman screams and Richard’s head rips round to see a mercenary soldier and hear the sound of ripping cloth. A few ill-clad men rush forward in feeble defence of their daughter; a dagger flies across the clearing, bringing a man to his knees. It is probably her husband. Richard stands up in his stirrups.

“Stop this!” he hollers. “Stop this!”

But they do not heed him. From the corner of his eye he senses movement and instinctively draws his sword. A big bearded fellow has the woman by the hair and is hauling up her skirts, revealing her skinny red knees, her bare-arsed poverty.

“Stop this now!” He is shaking with fury but the fellow pays no heed. Kicking his mount forward, Richard rides fast, his arm raised to strike his first battle blow …against one of his own.

The soldier falls swiftly but Richard feels no joy. There are tears on his face. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. With the back of his hand he dashes the tears away and cries out again as his rabble army runs amok.

“These people are not the enemy; they are weak, defenceless. I come here in peace …”

He looks down at the blood puddling around the slaughtered man; the grizzling woman has blood on her thigh. She is pulling down her skirts, crawling away toward the blazing shed. As she struggles past she casts a look of contempt at Richard and he notices a great, scarlet gash upon her cheek, her face open to the bone.

Chaos ensues. The Scots, used to border raids, and accustomed to murdering the English, now join the mercenaries to massacre in Richard’s name.

Men are fighting; women roll in the mud, wrestling with their abusers while their naked children flee from the belching ruin of their innocence. He sees an infant cut down, an old man, his breast sliced open, slides to the ground beside the well, his eyes staring in horror at the scudding clouds. Richard lets his sword drop; his head sinks to his chest.

It was never supposed to be like this. Where is the glory? Where is the great welcome I was promised?

He does not wait for an end. Like a coward he pulls on the reins and gallops in search of James. Perhaps he can control the men or order his household troop to open fire on them. The carnage has to stop. He does not slacken his pace but rides his horse right up to the Scottish king’s tent. He leaps from the saddle and barging past the guard, enters unannounced.

James has taken off his hat and boots and is enjoying a cup of wine, his stockinged feet stretched toward the flames.

“James, you have to help me stop this. It is mindless slaughter and will gain us no advantage.”

“Oh, I doubt they can be stopped. We have held them back too long. A few peasants will not be missed; once the men have assuaged their blood lust they will become biddable again.”