A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (31 page)

A new century, a time for looking forward, but my heart is heavy and I can only look back. I feel old. I am growing stout; my face is showing signs of age, signs of sorrow. Henry, nine years my senior, is ageing too, his health deteriorating. He has trouble with his teeth, and his digestion. Toward the end of last year he spent a few months confined to his chambers. His physician says he came close to death, but Henry dismisses it and claims the doctor is seeking glory for having saved a monarch’s life.

Henry has never been more secure on his throne. He should be happy yet he complains constantly of the cold and hunches deep into his furs, huddles close to the fire. In comparison I am well; it is just my spirits that are lacking. I am filled with a sadness I cannot dispel. I try to cheer myself with the knowledge that Caterina will soon be on her way to us from Spain; there will be a royal wedding, celebrations throughout the kingdom. There are preparations to be made; new clothes to be ordered.

But the plague that has raged unchecked all through the winter suddenly comes too close and Henry, always nervous of sickness, orders the children to Hatfield where they will be safe from contagion.

“I think I’ll go with them,” I say, dreading to think of them so far from me.

“No, Elizabeth. A meeting is arranged with Duke Phillip in Calais, I need you there with me. We will be discussing the betrothal of Mary and Charles.”

My heart leaps. Mary is not yet four years old. Although I know that the day will come, it is too soon to even think of her leaving. Planning makes it somehow too real and too close for comfort, but I know better than to argue. I stand up.

“I will oversee the children’s packing.” I hurry from the chamber, toward the nursery where preparations for the journey are underway. I peek into the room first where Edmund is sleeping. He is sprawled on top of the blankets; his tunic rucked up displaying his round milk-filled belly. His mouth is slightly open, a trickle of drool on his chin. My heart fills with maternal pride but I do not wake him. Gently, I draw the blanket higher. He snuffles and shifts but does not wake. Kissing a tip of one finger I press it to his forehead and tiptoe away toward the main bedchamber.

The first thing I see is Harry, his sturdy legs sticking out from beneath the bed. He is unearthing various playthings and throwing them to Meg who is gathering them in her apron. She sees me first and tips the collection of toys onto the floor and hurries toward me, remembering, almost too late, to stop and curtsey.

She is eleven now and blossoming beautifully. She is quieter than Harry and Mary, and very aware of her status as elder sister. She does her best to mother them although, quite often, she is rudely rebuffed.

“Good afternoon, My Lady Mother,” she says breathlessly before coming forward for an informal kiss. Hearing her, Harry gives a shout, bangs his head on the bed, before wiggling from beneath, his hose covered in dust.

“Hello, Mother,” he says, grimacing as he rubs the back of his head. “We are going to Hatfield, did you know?”

“I did. I have come to wish you goodbye. I thought we could finish that story before you go.”

“Oh yes.” He runs to fetch the book as Mary skips in from the other room.

“Mam,” she says, using the name she allotted me in her infancy. She makes a clumsy curtsey as she has been taught, before I scoop her from her feet and into my arms.

In a few weeks I am to meet her future husband, arrange the details of the alliance. It is absurd to think of her married to anyone. She is yet so fat, still such a delicious baby. I balance my chin on her head and inhale her fragrance, close my eyes and wish life could always be this simple.

But my reverie does not last long. When Harry returns with the book, Mary wriggles from my lap. Much to Meg and Harry’s disgust she refuses to sit still and listen; she runs about the room, ignoring my pleas for her to join us. Mistress Denton has complained in the past that she is headstrong and difficult to handle. I am beginning to see what she means. I watch Mary for a few moments. She throws a soft ball in the air, fails to catch it, and chases it beneath the settle, hampered by her long skirts.

“Oh look, Harry; look, Meg,” I say, cupping my hands around an imagined treasure and beckoning them close. “I bet Mary would like to see this, wouldn’t she?”

The children, quickly understanding my ploy, join in wholeheartedly.

“Oh, it is lovely, Mother, where did you get it?” Meg gushes.

From the corner of my eye I see Mary sit up, forget her ball, and look in our direction, her curiosity piqued.

“Would you like to stroke it, Harry? Be very, very gentle.”

Harry winks at me and bends over my empty hands, making cooing noises, as if he is stroking the most endearing creature ever seen.

Mary takes a few steps toward us.

“What is it?” she demands.

“Come and see,” I say. “Before it flies away.”

She runs across the room, launches herself at me and I raise my arms, open my hands, fluttering my fingers.

“Oh, it has flown away! What a shame.”

I grab her and she yells, realising too late that she has been duped. She wriggles and squirms, Harry and Meg rolling with laughter while, holding her arms so she cannot move, I cover her furious face with kisses.

“I wanted you to sit with me,” I laugh. “You are going away tomorrow and I will miss you. Sit with us, Mary, and listen to the stories. You can play with your ball any time.”

She submits, becomes limp in my arms, pokes her thumb into her mouth and nestles against my bosom. Harry holds out the book and Meg settles once again close to my knee, and I begin to read.

“In May, when every lusty heart flourishes and burgeons, for the season is lusty to behold and comfortable. So man and woman rejoice and gladden of summer coming with fresh flowers, for winter with his rough winds and blasts causes a lusty man and woman to cower and sit fast by the fire….”

Meg’s eyes are bright, she absorbs every moment as if the pictures my words are forming are teeming through her mind. Henry sits bolt upright, his eyes alight with joy but, after a short while, too small for such worldly things, Mary’s head nods on my bosom, her thumb slips from her mouth and she begins to snore gently. I lower my voice, Harry and Meg shuffle closer.

These are the moments that make it all worthwhile. My children are the only people that really matter; even cousins, even kings are nothing compared to them.

They tell me the crossing to Calais is smooth but I have never been across the sea before and to me the swelling ocean seems like a tempest. I keep to my cabin, unable to eat or drink, and pray we will reach Calais in safety. I have fifty ladies with me, all adorned in their best, and half the court comes with us; lords, ladies, knights and yeoman all set to make a good impression on Archduke Phillip.

He is married to Caterina’s sister, Juana of Castile. Although undoubtedly very handsome, he is rather too grand, too aware of his own importance. They tell me he leads a dissolute life, and from the easy manner he adopts with my ladies it is easy to believe. If my cousin Margaret were with us we would probably mock him in private and laugh at his rather long nose. But since she isn’t here I keep my observations to myself and tolerate his conceit with a smile, and the fervent hope that his son is not made in his father’s mould. I would never wish that on poor Mary.

Much to Henry’s chagrin, the Archduke is more than a little taken with Catherine Gordon. She seems to be in fine fettle; you’d not know she was the wife of a convicted traitor. In public she glows; her gowns, her jewels, her manners are as glittering as a queen’s.

When Phillip leads her onto the dance floor, Henry scowls and mumbles something derogatory. I do not ask him to repeat it. Whenever Catherine is in my company Henry never seems to be far away, and people mutter about their friendship. I hide my jealousy beneath a proud smile. This is how my mother must have felt when Father paraded his whores before her. Yet Catherine is no whore and swears she does not share the king’s bed, but his desire for her is obvious and hurtful.

Once the dancing is over and we retire to my private apartments, Catherine allows her shield to drop. She seems to wilt and re-immerse herself in a coverlet of sorrow. It is apparent she is not recovering as well as she’d like the world to think. My heart softens. It is not her fault if she has taken the king’s fancy; she did not set out to catch him. It is my fault for growing older, for telling him he is no longer welcome in my bed.

The next weeks pass in a whirl of entertainments until I am quite weary of pageants and feasts. By the end of forty days I am tired, and longing for home. I have had news of the children, of course. Arthur has been unwell but his letters say he is rallying now and looking forward to meeting his bride in a few months. The other children write to me too and send me their drawings, and Meg has sewn me a lovely purse that I tuck their letters into as a precious keepsake.

Reports from England say that the plague is under control now, the number of victims dwindling. Henry, when he deems it safe, says we can return to London. He plans a summer progress, but I am not eager for that. I want to be near the children, who are growing so fast I am reluctant to miss a second.

I don’t mind the crossing home so much. Perhaps my mind is on the welcome we will receive, the joy of being reunited with our family. Henry and I may have our differences but we share a deep love and joy in our children. We travel straight to Greenwich and plan to move on to Hatfield in the morning.

“Are you not too tired?” Henry asks, and I laugh aloud.

“No, my lord. Never too tired to see our children. I have missed them so much I can barely recall their faces.”

“Every time we see them they seem to have altered; Harry is growing like a weed and Meg is less like a little girl and more like a woman every time.”

“I know. I wish they would slow down. I wish I could fold them away and keep them as babies forever.”

Henry looks up from the letter he is reading.

“Forever? That might be too long. There is much satisfaction in seeing them grow. It makes me feel as if I have at least done one job right. No one can argue that we have not kept the royal nursery full.”

I go to bed happy and rise early, eager to make preparation to journey to Hatfield. I have just eaten breakfast and am in the process of getting out of bed when the door opens and Henry enters.

I drag on my robe. “What is it? Henry, what is the matter?”

He is so grey I think him ill. He clutches at the yoke of his nightgown, bunches it in his fist, his face distorted.
It is his heart
.

“Catherine, call the king’s physician quickly!”

She runs from the room, the door banging in her wake. Henry slumps onto the side of my bed. “Henry, Henry. What is wrong? Where does it hurt?”

He bangs his chest with a feeble fist and looks at me with despairing eyes.

Don’t die
, I think.
Don’t die, I love you.

“I am not sick, Elizabeth.” His voice is coarse, grating. “It is Edmund.”

“Edmund!” I stand up, begin to back away, not wanting to hear it. No, no, not Edmund. Not again, I can’t bear it. I fall backwards onto the settle. My women flap about me, fanning me, trying to take my hand.

“Get off!” I cry in rage. “Leave me alone. Fetch my clothes and help me dress. I must go to him. I must ride to Hatfield right away. Hurry.”

It is not the joyous journey I had imagined. I am not glad to be in England. The countryside that I ride through is glorious and green, the birds singing joyfully. I want to scream at them to shut up. I want to shout at the sky, summon the clouds, beg for a day of dreary rain to match my mood.

Cold, constant, unrelenting rain.

*

His coffin is so small. His funeral so vast. Henry salves his pain by organising a lavish state affair. Our son’s coffin, complete with marble effigy, is brought from Hatfield on a black-draped chariot, drawn by a team of six horses. The common people come to watch him pass, they weep at the roadside, and in London the people, led by the Lord Mayor and the guildsmen of the town, line the sorry streets.

My Edmund never had a chance to grow into a proper boy. He was still a baby, had not yet mastered many words or learned to ride his pony. I will never see him grow. I can’t bear the pain. Henry and I wait at Westminster Abbey, I try to school my face into acceptance, present a composed face to the world. The funeral dirge rings in my ears, a dirge that will haunt me until the day I die.

They carry him to the altar and some prayers are said, then they take my child, my baby, the second I have lost in five years, and lay him in Edward the Confessor’s chapel.

They seal my Edmund in a dark, cold tomb; shut him forever away from the world when he should be playing in a sunlit garden.

Afterwards, when he is closed away, they lead me back to the palace and sit me in my favourite chair beside a cheerless fire. The flames struggle in the grate, as I struggle to breathe.

I will never smile again.