A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (25 page)

He manoeuvres his horse forward, stands high in his stirrups and calls for silence, waits for the cheering to die down to a rumble.

“I am your rightful King,” he cries. He holds up a roll of parchment, tied with ribbon. “I have here a papal bull declaring before God that I am the son of Edward IV and the rightful king of England. Henry Tudor is a usurper and a brute and we will tolerate him no longer.”

His cheering supporters drown out his wavering voice; the sound of their adulation floods across the valley to where Henry waits … and grows uncomfortable.

Richard’s men are ready, their energies wound tight, ready to burst forth as soon as the order to charge is given. His commanders watch him, waiting for their leader’s word or the raising of his hand.

But it does not come.

Richard dismounts without warning from his side-stepping stallion and disappears into his tent. He pulls off his helmet, throws his gauntlets on the bed and snarls at his attendants to get out. Inside his armour his body is bathed in sweat, his hands are shaking and vomit churns and bubbles in his throat. He spews his breakfast, draws the back of his hand across his mouth and slumps to his knees.

I cannot do it.
He is weeping now, consumed by the fear he has been denying, and knows that his father, looking down from his place in Heaven, will be ashamed. Richard has failed. He is a coward. He may have inherited his father’s looks and pretty manners, his courtly charm, but he possesses not a drop of his military genius, his prowess in battle. His fair head falls forward, tears — stupid, womanish tears — drip onto his breastplate. He does not bother to hide them when the tent opens to admit Skelton.

“What is it, my lord? The men are waiting.”

For a long moment Richard makes no answer, then slowly he lifts his head, and does not attempt to hide his utter defeat. Skelton takes a step back, gesticulates feebly toward the entrance. “Tudor is just there, waiting. Now is our time, Richard. We can destroy him today; you can be on your throne by morning.”

Richard shakes his head. “The omens are wrong,” he lies, taking refuge in superstition. “It is not the time to do battle.”

“What …?” Skelton is robbed of speech. He has followed the boy all round Europe; for years they have dreamed of this day, lived on it. He placed what little he owned on the chance of Richard one day supplanting Tudor. He takes a step back, pauses. “Give yourself an hour, pray, search for strength; but I warn you, Richard, if you do not fight today, your cause will be lost.”

Richard does not move. He stays on his knees, sometimes praying, sometimes giving in to despair. As the day stretches toward dusk, his men begin to sneak away. In the morning just a stalwart few remain.

*

Across the valley the Tudor king sends out spies to ascertain the cause of the delay. He waits uncertainly, frowning and snapping at everyone until, leaving Jasper in charge, he returns to his lodging.
Tomorrow then,
he thinks.
Tomorrow I will have him.

But, when the damp, chill morning dawns, the opposite hill is empty and the eight thousand-strong army, finding itself without a leader, has dwindled away. Warbeck is nowhere to be found.

Henry throws down his plate. “Find him!” he yells with unaccustomed fury. “Find him and bring him to me alive!”

I am praying for my husband’s safe return, but before I rise I add a short plea for the fate of Warbeck, if he be my brother. The past weeks have been hard. Waiting is always difficult but this time my inconstant heart cannot wish unreservedly for the battle to go in Henry’s favour. There is always that question; that
‘but suppose it is Richard,’
that I cannot ignore.

I cannot concentrate, and even the joys of the nursery cannot distract me from constant worry. When Cecily and our cousin Margaret come to see me, I greet them thankfully. Although we cannot mention him, I know that deep down we are on the same side, but I do not speak of the Pretender.

Cecily is deeply attached to Henry’s mother and if I were to unburden myself to her, I do not trust her not to run straight to Lady Margaret with the tale. I greet them warmly, kiss their cheeks, and admire their gowns before we settle ourselves at the hearth. Cecily is a little pale and I remember her daughter Elizabeth has been ailing.

“How is little Eliza, Cecily? Did she like the books I sent her? I hope they help to relieve the boredom of the sick bed.”

My sister flashes a smile that dies as soon as it is born. She looks down at her hands and shrugs her shoulders.

“She rallies and then fails again. Sometimes I despair, sometimes I have hope. The physicians can determine no cause for her malady.”

I reach out to place a hand on Cecily’s shoulder, as if physical contact can ease her pain.

“She is in my prayers, constantly.”

“And mine,” Margaret adds. “And the king’s mother prays for her, too. I am told God holds her in very high regard.”

It is no time for levity but Margaret’s poor joke makes me smile. As yet, neither my sister nor my cousin know the pain of losing a child and, remembering my own experience, my heart twists with pity. Elizabeth has been ailing for months with no sign of real improvement. I fear she will die and, not for the first time, I wish that being queen provided real power; the power of life over death. All we can do is pray.

“I saw your brother, Edward, a few weeks ago. He is tall now and seems content.” A shadow crosses my face as I recognise the crassness of my words. How can anyone be content incarcerated in a living tomb, even if it is well furnished with cushions and picture books?

Margaret’s face opens, a half smile plays on her lips. “He is well? Did you give him my love? Oh, how I wish the king would let me see him. What harm could it possibly do?”

Her words send a squirm of guilt through me, guilt that my husband, the man I have come to love, can inflict such suffering on my family. A devil sits on my shoulder, pouring poison into my ear.
If he truly loved you, wouldn’t he honour your family instead of punishing them?
I bite my lip, jerk the imp from my shoulder and turn the talk to other things.

“I will speak to the king again, Margaret, but I will wait until he is in a happier frame of mind. He is much distraught over the Pretender and when he is with me I need to soothe his spirits not agitate them.”

“I understand,” Margaret answers, her eye on the window, but I know she doesn’t. She can never have any idea what it is like to be me, and what marriage to Henry entails.

“I will be glad when this fray is over. The Cornish are so troublesome. I fear Henry’s punishment will be severe this time and who can blame him? There has been one uprising after another and he does his best to be a just king …”

Two pairs of eyes are upon me. They are wondering when I changed and what changed me. Cecily shuffles in her seat.

“The king’s mother says there will be no clemency this time. Once he lays hands on Warbeck and his followers, he will hang them all.”

Our eyes meet, our gaze holds for a long moment, and we are both wondering if indeed Warbeck might be who he claims to be. If he is, how will we ever sit by and watch as Henry murders him? My reticence dissolves.

I lean forward and they meet me halfway, two blonde and one dark head together, like a trio of conspiring witches. “I will know when I see him. If it is Richard, I will beg Henry for leniency. I will not let him kill our brother.”

We sit up in unison and regard each other with wide, frightened eyes and I can see that neither of them has the least faith in my influence with the king.

An hour of desultory talk and then the door opens and the guard announces my mother-in-law. Cecily and Margaret rise to their feet, make the required obeisance, although they both ignore etiquette when in private consultation with me.

“Cecily; how lovely to see you.” The king’s mother kisses my sister on either cheek and greets Margaret rather more coolly. “Elizabeth,” she bows her head to me so discreetly she may as well have not bothered. “I have a letter from the king.”

I am on my feet. “What does he say? Is he safe? Has he caught up with the Pretender yet?”

She waves the sheet of parchment beneath my nose. Henry’s familiar scrawl is covering the sheet and I long to snatch it from her. Instead, I bite my tongue, quell my impatience and wait for her to relate the contents.

“The king caught up with the Pretender but there was no fight. It seems the churl took fright in the night and fled with his closest companions, leaving his army to face the wrath of the true king. Henry and Jasper have followed their trail and expect the pretender to be in their hands very soon.”

She beams about the room and we try to look happy that the boy is soon to be within Henry’s grasp. I feel sick and long for her to leave us, but she summons a chair and settles herself for a long stay. The rest of the afternoon is spent listening to her embroidering Henry’s many virtues. He is described in such glowing terms that I quite fail to recognise my husband who, although beloved, is often short tempered and very seldom glorious.

By the time she leaves us, Cecily and Margaret also have to leave. I walk with them to the door where Margaret clings to my hand. “Try and speak to the king on Edward’s behalf. Once the Pretender is captured and his own position more secure, he may think differently. I would take Edward away from court; the king need never lay eyes on him. He is my brother, Elizabeth.”

She clings desperately to my hand while I nod whitely and promise to do what I can. As she and Cecily take their leave, my thoughts turn to my own brother and reflect that his fate may very well now be as perilous as Warwick’s.

For the next few days I am jittering with nerves. I can’t settle, neither to sleep nor to prayer, and my meals go back to the kitchen untouched. In the end I take a few of my favourite women and ride to Eltham to spend some time with the children. When they hear me arrive they tumble from the palace to greet me; Harry reaches me first and throws chubby arms about my waist and buries his head in my skirts. Mary’s arms are round my knees hampering my progress, but Meg waits, hands clasped decorously before her, and I remember the King’s mother has been overseeing her deportment.

When the children give me the freedom to move, I ignore her outstretched hand and kiss her cheek, drawing her into an embrace. She relaxes against me gratefully, glad that I forego the formality insisted upon by her grandmother.

With Mary balanced on my hip and Harry’s hand clasped tightly within my own, Margaret and I follow Elizabeth Denton up the stairs to the hall.

I spend a happy hour or so playing and drawing, teaching them new words, telling them stories. Elizabeth Denton is always quite scandalised when I put off my queenly dignity and sit with my children on the floor before the fire. Perhaps I should heed her disapproval but part of me delights in shocking her.

Mary is in my lap, Harry and Meg close by as I tell one of the stories from Arthur. When I get to the part where Arthur casts Excalibur into the lake, Harry leaps to his feet, his face pink with heroic joy.

“When I am a man I shall find the lake and dive down to the bottom and find Excalibur and carry it into battle!”

“No, you won’t Harry, don’t be so silly. This all happened ages ago, the sword will be all rusty by now.”

Harry’s face falls, his bottom lip juts out.

“Then I will have one made. When our brother Arthur is king I will be his right hand man, like Lancelot, and guard him against his foes.”

“Just make sure you don’t steal his wife.”

I open my mouth to reprimand Meg for such a pert suggestion but Harry precludes me.

“Why would I do that? What do I want with a wife? Girls are silly.”

“Kings need sons, Harry. A king isn’t a proper king without lots of sons.”

I watch them, fascinated in the turn the squabble has taken. I should put a stop to it at once but it is revealing, their hot words telling me far more about them than a polite conversation ever would.

Harry’s face turns puce as he searches for a clever riposte. Margaret, two years older, is far wiser and more aware of the way the world works than her brother. I note the glee in her eye as she folds her arms across her chest as he grows crosser.

“Well, all right then. I will have a silly wife but I won’t visit her. I will let her live in a palace on her own and she can fill it with princes.”

Meg laughs, a tinkling sound like my own used to be. She raises her eyebrows to me in mockery of her brother’s lack of worldliness.

News of the conflict with the Pretender has not reached the royal nursery, and for a few hours I am able to forget it. Although, every now and then, Harry’s face, or Harry’s expression, or Harry’s comical conversation reminds me of Richard, the brother I once loved.

I decide not to cancel the long standing arrangements for my pilgrimage to Walsingham, but I leave court with a heavy heart. As I ride the roads of autumn, showered in leaves of gold and red, my mind wanders back down the years. I have come far. I have overcome many obstacles, thwarted many foes to arrive where I am today; queen of England, mother of the next king. It is time to give thanks rather than dither between resentment and joy.

It is late when we arrive at the abbey. I am tired out and more than a little grubby from the rigours of the road. I ask for a bath to be prepared. Anne Say helps me out of my gown, rolls down my stockings.

“I feel so tired.” I smile at her as she lays my clothes on the bed. Then I sit on a cushion while she loosens my hair and begins to brush it. The rhythmic strokes of the brush are soothing. I close my eyes and listen to Catherine Hussey strumming the lute.

What will be, will be,
I tell myself. There is no point worrying about it. Perhaps when Henry brings the Pretender back he will be a stranger, a vile usurper who ill-wishes my husband and my children. Then I shall be glad of his death. I clench my fingers on the arms of the chair as my whole body begins to stiffen.

“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Ann has stopped brushing and has placed a hand on my shoulder. “You are suddenly very tense.”

I smile at her. “I am fine. I am just worried about the king. I will be glad when we can be reunited. I hate fighting and sometimes I feel there has been nothing else for my entire lifetime.”

“It will cease now the king has the pretender in his hands. We can all relax.”

She begins to brush again and Catherine starts to sing, her soft voice lulling me into a sense of easement. By the time the water has been brought from the kitchens and the tub is filled, I am reluctant to stir. I force myself from the chair.

Fresh clothes are laid out in readiness. I cross the chamber, let Ann help me from my shift and step naked into the warm water. It engulfs my tired limbs, laps against my aching breasts, soothes my chaffed thighs. The water is scented with lavender and chamomile to help me relax and, as I lay there, some of the worries and the fears seep away to be discarded with the dirty water. By the time the water has cooled I will emerge clean and strong again.

As I am made ready for bed, a letter arrives from the king; the messenger has ridden hard from Devon. I order him to be given refreshment and a bed for the night. My eyes scan quickly over the customary greeting to the real news.

As you will have been informed, we have the Pretender in our possession and are riding to London, where he will be placed in the Tower and hopefully forgotten. We need worry no more, Elizabeth; our son’s inheritance is safe. I have one more prisoner, however, who is more difficult to throw into a dungeon. I have Warbeck’s wife, Catherine Gordon, a close relative of the Scottish king. I have no desire to undermine our recent treaty with James and so will house her gently, as befits her station. I request that you take her into your household and treat her with the respect she deserves.

It is no little relief to have dealt with this matter at last. The marriage negotiations with Spain can now move on and, God willing, the Infanta can be welcomed to England soon.

I will send this letter ahead and arrive soon after it, where I will be glad to be in your company again. I hope, wife, that this letter finds you well.

Henry Rex

So, I am no sooner arrived at the shrine than I must ride back again. I spend a day giving thanks for my children, asking that God send little Elizabeth good rest. I thank Him for the happy outcome of the conflict and also just before I leave, I ask for the joy of another child. A son; another son, just like my Harry.

*

For once, when Henry greets me, he makes no concealment of his regard. As soon as it is fit to do so he gives his excuses to his mother, sends my women away and we retreat, almost directly, into the dark sanctity of our marriage bed.

Even at his most passionate I have found him a reserved lover, the peak of our loving passing quickly to polite companionship. But there is something different about him now; a new urgency, a sweet, hot, welcome thirst that is new to me. I open myself to him, glad that our souls can now touch, relieved that the removed threat of the Pretender has allowed this new side of Henry to emerge.

After he has taken me, he lingers in my bed, curling my hair about his fingers; tracing the line of my breast and laughing when my nipples rise to greet their king. He is almost gay, and in return I am relaxed and happy to discover this new husband, this new lover. I cannot help but let him see how much I welcome and revel in our loving.

When we finally rise from our bed, we are both rosy from our romp. He helps me into a loose gown, and even goes so far as to brush the worst of the snarls from my hair so that my ladies do not remark on it. As I meet his eyes in the glass, he looks different, his reflection somehow altered. I blush beneath the heat of his gaze.
What has happened to Henry?
Surely quelling the uprising and ridding himself of Warbeck’s threat cannot have unleashed such an uprising of lust?
Has his insecurity been obscuring his true nature for all these years?