A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (23 page)

“Good night, my prince,” I say and leave a kiss on his brow. “Good night, my princess,” I murmur, but Meg is already half asleep and doesn’t acknowledge me. I kiss her anyway, and tuck the covers tight about them. “I will leave a candle burning, Harry,” I say before I leave, “and the chamber door open just a little so you can hear me. I will be just through there. Sleep well.”

I blow him a kiss and he pretends to catch it in his chubby palm and press it to his mouth.

*

I sit alone in the firelight, waiting. Waiting for what, I do not know. It could be defeat, it could be victory. The reports that have managed to reach me are of stalemate but, when I ask, I am relieved to know that there is no sign of Warbeck.

The present threat is not from the Pretender, although he is the cause of it. His misconceived alliance with King James and their attack on the north of England instigated this latest war with Scotland, and now the Cornishmen are protesting at the taxes to pay for it. Rumour has it that Kent, that nest of turmoil and treason as Henry calls it, is rising too. Will the man calling himself my brother take advantage of this and strike while the king is preoccupied? My father would have, and if Warbeck’s claims are true, his father would have also.

I sit there for so long that my maid’s head nods and she begins to snore quietly, her chin on her chest. The fire slumps, I draw my shawl about my shoulders and try not to notice the shadows that seem to be creeping from the corners. My disquiet soon mushrooms into terror and I cannot rest. I have never been more wide awake.

My eyes travel about the room, scanning the walls that seem to be closing in, breathing loudly, raucously, like a drunken old man. Although the Tower is full of men and servants, I have never felt so alone, so vulnerable.

My heart is beating fast, short and sharp, and my ears begin to ring. I feel something is close, something dark and menacing, threatening my children, threatening me, threatening England.

With a stifled cry I leap from my chair and rummage for the box that the guard left where I’d instructed. I pry open the lid, pull away the straw packing and peel back the wrapping. A sword, my father’s sword; the sword that won him England.

It is heavy and there are signs of rust on the blade, but I manage to heave it from the box. As quietly as I can, I open the door and sneak along the corridor to take up a position at the outer entrance to our apartment.

The White Tower is heavily guarded. There are soldiers at every gate, every window. There are armed men on the roof, a ring of barges on the river. And outside the Tower, the whole of London is armed and ready; the outer city wall manned and every gate defended. I am safe, as safe as I can be from earthly foe, but the memory of others who have died here in the Tower will not let me rest.

Old King Henry was murdered a few floors below, murdered by my father and uncle
s
for his crown; George of Clarence died here, killed on my father’s order. Warwick, my cousin, little Edward of Warwick, is here somewhere, guilty only of making Henry uneasy; a simple boy, no threat to anyone. I bite my lip, realising I have not visited Edward for months. Suddenly I wonder if he is even still here, or if he has been put to death, his ghost joined with my brothers and other men, both innocent and guilty, who have perished here in the darkness of the Tower.

I imagine their spirits emerging from the walls to flaunt their gory end in my face, holding me to blame, cursing me for loving a Tudor. I suddenly see myself through their dead staring eyes, a traitor to my family, to my blood.

My nostrils fill with the stench of my own fear, my mouth with vomit; my own breath is rasping in my throat. Suddenly weak, the tip of my father’s sword falls to the floor. I place a hand to my throat and fight for breath, battling to overcome blind panic.
There is nothing there
, I tell myself,
nothing that can hurt you.

But there is a figure in the doorway, a small boy, all in white, the light of the dying hearth shining through his shift. His feet and legs are bare, his fair hair is ruffled. My breath ceases. I open my eyes wide, my voice strangles in my throat. I lift the sword and hold it defensively before me, as if I have the power to smite even the dead.

“Richard?” My voice echoes in the dark, alien, full of fear, the terror unmasked and raw
.
He lifts a hand, knuckles his eye and begins to cry.

“It is me, Mother. What are you doing with that sword?”

A great crash of metal echoes up and down the corridor as I let the sword fall. I drop weeping to my knees and cover my face with my hands. Soon, his arms creep around my neck. He is warm and living; he is my son.

I hold him close, much too close, sobs wracking my frame, tears wetting both of us.

“Oh, Harry,” I sob, stroking his hair, touching his dear little face to ascertain he really is flesh and blood. “Harry, I — I thought you were somebody else.”

*

Two thousand men lay dead on Blackheath, two thousand
rebels
, I remind myself. They are men who marched against Henry; men who marched against our rule. Henry rides triumphantly back to London where the crowds line the streets to cheer him home.

For once, their outpouring of love is his alone. After giving thanks at St Pauls, he comes to me in the Tower and I am so glad to see him that I hurl convention to the winds and throw my arms about his neck before he has time to remove his gauntlets.

“I was so afraid, Henry.”

“Did you doubt me then, Elizabeth?”

I am chastened, I bite my lip.

“No, I don’t think I doubted
you
… but I have lost those I love in battle before and I’ve learned the hard way that …”

“I know.” He stems my explanation by kissing my forehead. I watch as he pulls off his gloves, unties his cloak and hands it to a waiting boy at his elbow. We move to the hearth where a flagon is waiting and he sits down, holds out his hands to the flames. I notice his boots are mired and beads of moisture still cling to the ends of his hair.

“I will order the servants to bring hot water, Henry. You will appreciate a bath.”

There is a long wait while the water is heated and his servants troop from the kitchens with jugs and ewers. I make myself comfortable at his side while he regales me with the trials of the campaign.

We can hear the children playing nearby. Yesterday, they crept about the chamber as if they were trespassing, but now the romp is loud, clearly illustrating that the safe arrival of the king has dispelled their fears. I sit on the floor with my head on Henry’s knee, his hand on my hair, and close my eyes, as close to bliss as I have been since girlhood.

“We should give thanks to God,” I murmur. “A gift to the church, and a pilgrimage … to Walsingham, perhaps.”

“It isn’t over yet, my dear. I still need to get my hands on the Pretender and put an end to his games once and for all. I can make no progress with Spain until he is silenced.”

I try to suppress a shudder as a cloud dims my optimism. I know he is right. He thinks as a soldier, a king, and has no room for womanly sentiment. I close my eyes against the picture of my little brother that rises in my mind and replace it with the face of a desperate rogue; a murderer of innocents; a threat to my children.

The door opens and Henry’s mother enters unannounced, her face lined with concern. She ignores me and makes straight for her son, both hands outstretched.

“Henry, my prayers are answered and you are back safe. I am so proud …” They exchange kisses, her eyes closed, her mouth pursed. As Henry offers her his seat, he sends me a fleeting smile and offers his hand to help me to my feet.

“Why are you on the floor, Elizabeth?” his mother says, not bothering to hide her impatience. “Are there not enough chairs?”

She has no concept that she has interrupted an intimate moment between husband and wife. What can she know of that? She has only ever married for advancement, for political gain; she knows nothing of intimacy, or affection. Some people say that after the birth of Henry, she shunned intimacy with any man, even her husbands. I can only think they were glad of it. Bedding Margaret would be like sleeping with a block of stone.

Henry nods to a servant to bring her wine, and I pass her a bowl of fruit and nuts. She chews diligently while Henry describes the campaign and the effective manner in which the rebels were disbanded. Neither of them can see the tragedy of a king turning his weapons on his own subjects. My own father did his share of it in his day, but he was always sorry and wished for a more peaceful way. We should not make war upon our own. Suddenly, I remember Warwick.

“Henry.” I turn to him, almost interrupting my mother-in-law’s complaint. “I would like to visit my cousin Edward, is that possible, while we are lodged here in the Tower?”

I have spoken impulsively without thinking the matter through, and while Henry considers his answer my heart begins to hammer beneath my ribs. He exchanges glances with his mother, who shifts in her seat, selects an orange and begins to unpeel it.

He isn’t here,
I think. They have had him killed. I will never see him again. My mind runs amok, imagining a scenario where I have to inform Cousin Margaret that her brother is dead … at the hands of my husband.

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t visit him, Elizabeth, but do not stay too long. He is unused to company and may not behave quite as you expect.”

Relief floods through me. My hands fall to my lap and I find I am smiling to widely. I drop my gaze and try to school my mouth into obedience.

“Thank you, husband. I will not stay long. I just want to say hello and send him Margaret’s blessing.”

“They tell me the boy is little more than an idiot, so do not expect too much. He may not even know you.”

Edward has always been gentle … simple, some might say, but I’d not label him ‘idiot.’ But I do not argue with Henry, I just swallow his words and ensure the smile remains in my eyes.

*

The next day, while the servants are preparing for our journey back to Eltham, I sneak off to spend an hour with my cousin. I have not seen him in an age, and I half expect to find the small boy who was placed here on that uncertain day so long ago, but I find someone very different.

When I enter, the guard waits by the door. Edward is sitting by the window, a tall gangly fellow, his bony wrists exposed by the too short sleeves of his jerkin. I move toward him quietly but he doesn’t look up, not even when I speak his name.

“Edward,” I repeat. “Do you not know me? I am your cousin, Elizabeth.”

He glances up through his fringe, his expression uncertain, and looks quickly away again. I step closer.

“I haven’t visited you for so long, Ned, but I did want to. Margaret sends her love. She speaks of you every day and misses you …”

My voice breaks as I remember the children we were on the eve of Bosworth, squabbling with Cecily while we waited for news.

Edward keeps his chin on his chest but his head turns slightly toward the fire where a cat stretches and shows us his pink tongue. I squat down, so my head is lower than Edward’s, and run a finger through soft fur. “Is this your cat? What is his name?”

Edward always loved kittens. He had one poor creature with him on our journey from Yorkshire. I recall his misery when he discovered it was dead on arrival. He moves from the window and picks up the cat, drapes it over his arm and strokes it fondly with the other hand.

“Tibbles,” he says. “He catches rats.”

“Does he? That is good. I don’t like rats.”

“No.”

Edward shakes his head and leans over his pet, his fair hair hanging down, shielding his face from view. He has no idea how to behave, no courtly manners, no manliness at all. He is childlike. He has stayed as he was on the day he was imprisoned, a passive, uneducated boy.

I make a mental calculation of his age; he must be about twenty-two by now. In ordinary circumstances he would be taking his place in the world, looking for a sweetheart, planning a future. Instead he is here with only a cat for company and a box of crayons as his only source of entertainment. The euphoria of yesterday dissolves in pity for this loveless boy. He is of my own flesh and blood, and kept here in darkness as a salve to Henry’s insecurity.

It is not fair.

I look about the room. There are tapestries on the wall, the hangings on the bed are thick and clean, and the fire in the hearth is large enough to heat the room. But the window is high, too high for him to see out properly, and the room is shadowed and gloomy. His only attendant is a drab fellow with a permanent drip at the end of his nose.

Poor, poor Edward. A royal duke, robbed of his wits, robbed of his place in the world, robbed of freedom. I think my heart will break with guilt and regret.

I stand up, fumble in my pocket and hand some coins to his keeper.

“Make sure he wants for nothing. Should he lack any comfort, then send for me. Send for the queen.”

I kiss the top of Edward’s head but he is busy picking fleas from the cat’s coat and does not look up again. “Goodbye, Edward. I will try to come again soon; perhaps I can bring Margaret …”