A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (29 page)

Before I am confined to my birthing chamber
,
my cousin Margaret calls to see me. She sinks to the ground, her skirts pooling around her. “Get up, Margaret, get up. What are you thinking?”

She straightens up with a hint of her old smile but I notice she is pale. Is everyone around me ailing? I glance at her belly to determine if perhaps she is with child again. Her son Henry is no longer a baby, it is about time she produced another.

“How are you, Margaret? Keeping well, I hope?”

“Yes, I am well. I — I wondered if you’d seen Edward again? I write to him but he never replies … well, I don’t suppose he can but sometimes I wonder if he has forgotten me.”

“He remembered you the last time I spoke to him, I am sure of that. But no, I haven’t been. I am reluctant to go to the Tower now.”

“Because he is there; the Pretender? Why should that bother you?”

“It doesn’t. I didn’t mean that. I’ve never liked the Tower, it gives me the shudders and now I am with child it is important to stay away from such places. I try to think only happy thoughts.”

“That isn’t easy, is it?”

I look up sharply, try to read her expression, but her face is bland, her eyes shuttered. As I trace my hand across the bulge of my belly I wonder if she ever encountered my brother while he was at court. I wonder if she knows he really was Richard and I have allowed an innocent man to be imprisoned. She seems to deflate suddenly, looks toward the fireplace.

“Everything seems to be going wrong. Did you know that John Welles is ailing, likely to die?”

“No.” This is a shock. Cecily’s husband is not yet fifty; a strong athletic man who appears to be in his prime. “What is wrong with him?”

“He took a fever, apparently, and now one of the girls is sick too. Anne, I think.”

“Oh, my God. Poor Cecily must be frantic.” I wrack my brains for a solution but can think of nothing. I feel helpless, wanting to help at least one of my siblings overcome their trials.

“I will send the royal physician. He must have the best care. He is the king’s uncle, after all, or half uncle.” I summon a clerk who hurries to my presence to quickly dictate a letter for the doctor. “Send it straight away, there is no time to be lost, and when you have dispatched it, come back and I will send a letter to my sister.”

When the door closes on him Margaret brings a bowl of fruit from the table and we sit in companionable silence while she peels an orange. She hands me a segment.

“That Pretender; Warbeck. You know there was another one?”

“Another?” The child kicks ferociously. I put down the fruit. “What do you mean?” My mind is racing, my thoughts tumbling in confusion.

“Some fellow has been declaring himself to be the real Duke of Warwick.” She shakes her head sadly. “Sometimes I think it is as well Edward will never know the troubled times we live in. Apparently this new fellow claims his real identity was revealed to him in a dream. I am told he was quickly taken up by the guard and they say Henry interrogated him personally.”

“Henry has said
nothing
of this to me. What else do you know?”

She shrugs as if she doesn’t care, but her eyes are dark, glittering with fear.

“I know he was hung with great haste. Oh, Elizabeth, I fear for my brother. If the king should take it into his head that keeping him alive is too dangerous, what could we do? How could we prevent it?”

She is right to be afraid. My own blood is running cold through my veins. For too many years Henry has kept my family down for no other crime than their Plantagenet blood. Warwick, a child, an idiot boy, is kept in prison; my sisters are married off to the king’s most trusted; my brother put to the stocks and then locked away from the eyes of the world. Margaret must also fear for her son, her unborn children who will be too close to the throne for comfort. Sometimes, as much as I love him, it seems my husband is running scared and will destroy us all if we let him. I stroke the dome of my stomach, the nurturing womb that cradles the royal child. It must not be so, I murmur. I will do all I can to stop him.

It comes as a great relief when I can quit the confines of the birthing chamber and enter the world again. I have done my duty and the royal nursery is now home to another boy. After a difficult pregnancy, the birth was straightforward and my son born plump and healthy. We named him Edmund and Lady Margaret stands as his godmother — she is proud and honoured to have him named for her first husband. When she greets me she is almost warm as she gives me a prickly kiss and squeezes my arm.

“I hope you are well, Elizabeth. The boy looks healthy. Oh damn, look, he has spewed on my bodice.” I smother a laugh as she dabs at a white stain on her pristine gown. “I understand Cecily is returning to your household. It will do her good, she is peaked and wan after her double loss.”

“Yes, poor Cecily. It is hard enough to lose a husband but a daughter also …”

I have to stop mid-sentence as grief robs me of words. I have wondered if it is the right thing for Cecily or not. If it were me and I were widowed and lost a child I’d want to stay at home and hug my sole remaining daughter and never let her go. I asked Cecily to join my household more from formality, I hadn’t expected her to agree, but Cecily has always enjoyed the hum of court life. Hopefully it will do her good.

Usually Cecily arrives in a flurry of excitement and giggles, but this time she is in my presence almost before I am aware of her. She seems somehow smaller, lost beneath her clothes, and her dead-white face is pinched beneath an unbecoming hood.

“Cecily …” I rise from my chair and hurry to greet her, holding her for much longer than the etiquette of a simple greeting demands. When she pulls away I link my arm through hers, lead her to the fire and fuss about, offering her food and drink. She waves it all away.

“No. No, thank you. I am quite comfortable.”

She doesn’t look it.

“Cecily, I am so sorry …”

“Please.” She turns her tragic face toward me, her eyes blind with tears. “Don’t speak of it. Don’t be nice to me, Elizabeth. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Very well.” I fiddle with my rosary, searching my mind for something to say. I am reluctant to speak of Edmund or ask after Cecily’s other daughter for fear of reminding her of her loss and making her weep again. Usually when my sisters or my cousin Margaret visit I drag them off to the nursery to admire the children, but that will not do today.

I remember my grief when Elizabeth died; how it would suddenly swamp me like a flooding tide and leave me wretched. She must be feeling the same. I don’t know how to help her.

“The king’s mother should be joining us soon. She is happy to have you back at court; she is very fond of you.”

“And I her.” Cecily answers in monosyllables and I can’t think of a thing to say. I take up my sewing and then put it down again, remembering it is a tiny bonnet for Edmund.

“Shall we walk in the garden?” I ask, suddenly inspired. “The spring flowers are so pretty …”

“Elizabeth, please. Treat me normally. Don’t fuss and bother with me. I need normality. It would be more comfort were you to scold me for not sitting straight or for having allowed too much hair to show beneath my cap.”

We stare at one another for a long moment. Her eyes are wide and glistening, ringed with dark shadows. I moisten my lips with my tongue and let my hands fall into my lap.

“Am I usually such a scold?”

“Yes!” She smiles for the first time. “A dreadful scold — worse than Mother.”

My chin wobbles. At first I am unsure if it is with suppressed grief or laughter but then the amusement bubbles in my belly, my lips clamp over my teeth as I try to keep it in. Cecily snorts. I look at her, still holding my breath, but then she smiles and, for the first time, I glimpse the old Cecily.

My returning smile is watery as she reaches out to grip my hand tight. “I am still Cecily. I will recover. Just treat me as you always have. Normality is what I need more than anything.”

*

The marriage between Arthur and Caterina is to take place by proxy in May at the palace of Bewdley in Worcestershire. For months now the betrothed pair have been corresponding, and I’ve seen Caterina’s competent round handwriting and her hesitant hopes for the match. At least they are of an age; I am not sure how I could have countenanced it if they were mismatched in any way.

I dread the day when I have to send one of my own daughters away to be wed to a stranger, but that is usually the way with princesses. I was lucky. I resolve to be a second mother to poor exiled Caterina and try to coach her on the requirements of being an English princess. That is if she is ever allowed to come.

Ferdinand and Isabella continue to baulk at actually sending her to us. I can understand it is a difficult decision. If it were me I’d not send Meg or Mary until I was certain their future was secure. The latest pretender was dealt with at once; my brother is under lock and key, unlikely to ever see the light of day again. Our throne could not be more secure and Henry is furious with the Spanish for the delay.

“What more can I do?” he rails at me. “I cannot please everyone. I try to be lenient, try to prove myself a merciful king. You know what they require, don’t you?”

I shake my head but I do know, I just can’t put it into words. They want the realm cleared of all possible claimants to the crown. He looks at me, his eyes clouded, his mouth tense.

“I think you do,” he says before leaving me without another word.

The boy sits hunched against the wall and stares at the square of sky high above his head. He craves to walk in the sunshine, feel the breeze on his skin, and inhale the fragrant air. Although it is just a matter of weeks, he feels he has been incarcerated here forever. Careful of his bruises, he lays his face on his raised knees and sighs, tries to picture Catherine’s face, remember the soft timbre of her voice. “Dear Catherine,” he whispers but his voice, so hollow in the darkness, increases his sense of isolation, his loneliness.

Somewhere in the world he has a son; he imagines him plump and blond, playing in the fresh air with a puppy at his heels.
Does he know of me?
Will he grow up not knowing he is born of a royal prince? Perhaps that will be just as well. No man deserves to be the son of a felon.

The idleness is killing him. He has no books, no instrument, nothing to do but ponder on his sorry life, his useless, futile existence. The only brightness has been Catherine and now she is denied him.

He will never be released from here and can only look forward to a long and slow death.
How will I endure it?
What will Catherine do?
She will be shunned as the wife of a pretender, a liar and a braggart. A tear escapes his eye, trickles onto his knee.

The Tower is a noisy place. Booming guns; clanking chains, grinding locks, tramping feet, the occasional cry of a prisoner and, every so often, a lion roars in the menagerie.

Henry has his armoury here. There are constant comings and goings, deliveries of produce, ammunition, fresh prisoners arriving. The Tower is heavily manned, impenetrably guarded. Richard remembers it well from his time here as a small boy. He recalls the excitement of his first few days, his infantile joy in the flea-bitten lions, the roaring leopards, the sounding guns. Later, as he and his brother realised they were prisoners, he remembers fear, a longing for his mother, but then, at least he had Edward.

Together, the princes had hope. Today he is alone, and has none. There will be no stealthy midnight rescue; no big brave Brampton to pluck him from certain death. Not this time. This time he is friendless.

He raises his head and cocks his ear to listen to the approaching footstep. The key rattles in the lock, gruff voices and the door opens, the dark cell lightens to gloom. “I brought your dinner.” The gaoler is rough but not unkind, and Richard suspects someone has ordered he be treated gently.

The tray bears bread that is edible, baked yesterday or this morning, a hunk of cheese, and a flagon of wine, which if not the best, is at least palatable. In the weeks he has been here the diet has not varied, but Richard is grateful to be given wholesome food. He has eaten worse.

He begins to tear the bread apart and poke it into his mouth. The gaoler lingers, ostentatiously turning the keys on their ring. “You must be lonely.” He sniffs and wipes his sleeve across his nose. “The other fella, Warwick, he is in a cell just below, you might have heard him singing. He gets lonely, too. He is not all there.” The gaoler taps his temple and winks one eye. Richard lowers the flagon and wipes his lips.

“Warwick, my cousin.”

“Ahh,” the gaoler wags a finger. “Not your cousin, is he, my lord? We knows you ain’t who you said you was, don’t we?”

Richard makes no answer. He could argue that if he isn’t the Duke of York, why does the man address him as ‘my lord?’ He takes a bite of cheese, chews slowly, savouring the strong flavour, wishing there was more. The gaoler sniffs again. “Sometimes, in the clement weather, we lets young Warwick out for a breath of air. Maybe you’d enjoy a turn about the green too, ay?”

Refusing to let himself hope, Richard makes a non-committal comment and turns his full attention to the rest of his meal. When the gaoler shuffles away, the silence falls heavy on him once again and the food loses its flavour.

The patch of sky is dimmer now, the clouds building as night falls. Richard pokes his teeth with the tip of his tongue, trying to dislodge pieces of cheese. Soon, while the royal court prepares for a night of revelry, the boy will settle for the night, stretch on his comfortless pallet and dream of better days.

Having no idea how long he has been imprisoned, one day is much like the next. The same patch of sky, sometimes blue, sometimes grey, and sometimes white. The same boredom. The same fear runs like a thief through his head, robbing him of sleep, robbing him of hope. But this afternoon is different.

When the gaoler comes to remove the tray, a companion is with him. He picks up the empty plate while the other man jerks his head. “Fancy some fresh air?” Richard jerks to his feet, at once wary, suspecting a trap. “We lets all our prisoners out once in a while.”

The gaoler ushers Richard along the corridor, down the twisting stair to an outer door. The boy has never heard of prisoners being given any privileges. It must be a trap. He fears an unscheduled execution; an illicit, hole-in-the-wall hanging. Henry would pretend outrage but he’d secretly be pleased.

What will Elizabeth say?
The boy does not let that thought take hold; he has long forbidden himself to hope for help from that quarter. She is helpless. She has her own security to look to. He expects no action from her and feels no resentment for her lack of influence on the king. She has her own battles to fight.

The outer door swings open. The boy lifts his arm, shielding his eyes from the sun as he steps outside. He recalls playing on this green; shooting the butts with his brother, Edward, and sulking when he could not best him. They ran races too, before the course of their life was altered. He can still smell the aroma of the grass, see the daisies that starred the lawn, see the beads of sweat on his brother’s brow. Those times are past. Edward is long dead, and his own life has been consumed by the need to redress his death.

He has no family now.

“Hello. Have you seen my cat?”

A man, tall and thin, is on his hands and knees at the perimeter of the garden. He is clad only in hose and tunic, his shirt untucked, a grass stain on his rump. “Puss,” he calls gently. “Puss.” He makes kissing noises with his lips.

Richard recognises him at once. It is his cousin, Warwick, taller, thinner but no more mature than their last meeting. Richard narrows his eyes and tries to calculate what year that was.

“It is a tabby cat, about so-big.” Edward kneels up, his head cocked to one side. To all intents and purposes he is perfectly normal. He shows no sign of being an idiot. His eyes are bright and intelligent, his face bearing the traces of his father who was a good-looking fellow. It is as if Edward’s mind ceased to function on the day he was taken from his nursery and his life tipped out of control.
We are two of a kind,
Richard thinks.
Only I kept my wits and fought for my rights, while Edward forgot he ever had any.

Richard perches on the edge of a low wall and after a while his cousin joins him. “He will come back, I expect, when he gets hungry.”

Edward smiles brightly and nods his head vigorously. “What is your name? I’ve not seen you before.”

“Richard.”

The boy doesn’t try to enlighten him as to their relationship. He will not understand. Instead they talk of other things. Cats and kittens; and Edward shows him a drawing, dragging it from inside his tunic, crumpled and grubby from much examination.

For a full half hour the cousins enjoy the sunshine, pick flowers, and stare up past the towering buildings to the wide indigo sky above. Only Richard knows the real width of the sky, the joy of the horizon, the edge to edge blueness of an ocean voyage. Edward, enclosed in his tiny world, knows nothing.

“Goodbye Richard.” Edward waves vigorously when they are parted. He returns happily to his cell, chatting to the gaoler of his new friend. Richard watches him go, bites his lip, unrest churning in his bosom.
Why have they been allowed to meet? To what purpose? What is Henry Tudor plotting now?

*

Two days later, the gaoler lingers while Richard eats his meal. He seems to watch him intently, noting his manners, his bearing, his features. At length the gaoler clears his throat, jerks his head. “My mate and I think you shouldn’t be in here, my lord. We don’t fink it’s fair.”

Richard looks up, instantly wary, runs his tongue along his teeth to clear away a few clumps of pappy bread.

“Is that so?”

The gaoler moves closer, squats at Richard’s knee. “Indeed, my lord. We was rooting for you before you was taken. I fondly remember your good father, sir.”

“Indeed.” Richard is reluctant to commit himself and fearful of a trap. The gaoler shuffles closer, lowers his voice.

“We was talking the other night, trying to think of a way to get you out of here and back to Flanders where you can take another shot at the king.”

A long pause, pregnant with danger, while Richard considers his answer.

“I doubt the support would still be there. My aunt is all but powerless now and most of Europe now believes I am a fraud. Even the Scottish king has signed a treaty with Henry. No, it is over. Might as well face it.”

“Never say die, sir.” The gaoler stands up. “I will speak to Tom; see what we can come up with. Maybe you can get your cousin out of here too. Poor fellow, mad as they come but harmless. I’ll see what I can do, sir.”

The gaoler backs away, relocks the door, and Richard hears him whistling as he tramps along the corridor.

He tries not to think of it; tries not to put his hopes into thoughts of escape. It is dangerous. Stupid. Probably a trap set by the wily king. He closes his eyes, tries to sleep, but images of freedom peck at his mind like a thousand sparrows on a tray of crumbs.

Three sleepless nights, followed by mind-numbing days, and then it happens. The gaoler sidles into his room, hands him a large iron key. It lays in Richard’s palm, as tempting as cake to a starving man. Against his better judgement his fingers close around it.

“The way is clear. That key will unlock anything. Tom is releasing Warwick but he may have trouble getting him to leave if his cat has run off again.”

Richard watches unseeing as the gaoler disappears through the door, leaving it swinging open. For a full five minutes he stands in a pool of moonlight, thinking; considering the options. If he can only get across the sea, he can send for Catherine; they can send for their son and live an ordinary life. Together. He can stay and rot, or he can run and maybe die; but maybe he would live!

He snatches up his coat, struggles into it as he slides into the night. Following in his gaoler’s footsteps he heads through the door, along the corridor, down the stairs. The outer gate is open. He slips silently through it and keeping to the perimeter makes his way to freedom.

The tower precinct is quiet; unusually so but the boy doesn’t think it strange. There is only one thing on his mind now — freedom. Bent low, he feels his way along the outer wall.

In the Lanthorn Tower Tom the gaoler tries to persuade Warwick to leave. “Your friend Richard is waiting for you. He will take you to his house. I am told he has lots of cats.”

Warwick sits down and folds his arms.

“I am not going anywhere,” he pouts like a child. “Not until Puss comes back. She is my favourite. I cannot go anywhere without her.”

Richard sweats. It runs into his eyes, down his back, dampening his shirt. He begins to scale the wall that seems suddenly much higher than before. He skins his knee, his fingernails break as he claws a way to freedom. A shout behind him and an alarm bell rings. Footsteps; running footsteps, yelling voices, and burning torches fill the formerly silent precinct with surging life and noise.

“Oi, you! Halt in the name of the king!”

Richard clings to the wall for a moment, wanting to go on but knowing he is lost. He was wrong to have trusted them. He should have known Henry would never allow unreliable men to guard the Tower prisoners.

With grief and self-disgust in his belly, he releases his grip, drops to the floor and rolls to a halt at the feet of the Yeoman guard.