A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (32 page)

But I do, of course, smile again. It is my duty and I have other children to think of. Human nature is curious and, almost against my will, I find myself healing, acting and speaking normally. Sometimes I go for long intervals in which I forget to grieve, forget I have lost my youngest son. As October approaches and Caterina’s arrival is at last around the corner, preparations gather speed.

Arthur arrives from Ludlow and he and his father ride to meet the Infanta in Hampshire. Henry is almost as eager as Arthur to see her for himself. He will not accept an ugly or malformed bride for his heir; she is the future mother of Tudor kings and as such must be flawless. It seems she is so for Henry and Arthur arrive at Sheen in glowing spirits.

“What is she like?” I ask as soon as we are settled together in the king’s apartments.

“She is very fair!” Arthur speaks before Henry has a chance and the king quirks his brow in amusement. “Her face is very sweet and she seems to be of a willing disposition.”

“I am glad she found favour with you. When does she arrive?”

“She is travelling slowly to London so the people can get a good look at her and she doesn’t arrive in London too tired. Her voyage from Spain must have been exhausting. I understand Harry is to formally greet her and escort her from Kingston to the city.”

“Yes, he is very pleased to be doing so and has practiced his welcoming speech so well that he recites it in his sleep.”

“I was wondering, Father,” Arthur turns to the king. “If perhaps on the day of the ceremony, Harry could escort Caterina into church, if he manages his first task well, of course.”

Henry grunts, swills wine around his mouth and goes to speak but, worried that he will dismiss the idea and spoil the afternoon, I intervene:

“Have you seen the improvements your grandmother has made to Coldharbour House? It will be the perfect home to take your bride to after the wedding. Oh Arthur, I am so pleased for you. So excited for the future. After all the woes your father and I have recently suffered, the wedding brings some welcome cheer for us all.”

Arthur rises from his chair and moves to the window. “I am excited too,” he says. “It is a shame we have to go back to Ludlow so soon. You will scarcely have time to get to know her.”

“Oh, we can visit. In the summer I could bring the children. Harry would love that.”

Arthur turns from the window. His smile is like Henry’s but much freer. He has never known the insecurities his father suffered and is a mixture of the best of both of us, bearing his father’s looks and my optimism.

*

No expense is spared for the wedding of Henry’s heir; the future king and queen of England emerge from St Paul’s with the bells ringing in their ears. The whole of London celebrates while Henry and I watch the ceremony from behind a screen.

Harry, dressed in silver tissue embroidered all over with gold roses, leads the Infanta to the altar with so much pride he could be mistaken for the groom himself. Impulsively, I reach for Henry’s hand and draw him forward for a better view. My heart is filled with renewed affection for him. We have made mistakes, but God is smiling on us again this day. I don’t mind taking a back seat for this is Arthur’s triumph, and that of his bride. It fills my heart with joy to see them so well-received, and Henry is not afraid to show his pleasure either.

“They will do well together,” Henry murmurs in my ear. “Arthur will rule well.”

“Yes.” I watch our son take his bride’s hand and swear to love and honour her, and Caterina, blushing and buxom beside him, smiles up at him with adoration.

From her build and apparent health, she should prove very fertile. I have a sudden image of grandchildren; the royal nursery replete with babies once again. My days of childbearing may be ending but Caterina is still a girl; she has years of motherhood ahead of her.

Harry leads the procession back to the Bishop’s Palace for a grand feast, where we eat from gold plates and drink from jewelled cups. As the wine flows the company becomes wilder, and I watch with astonishment when Harry takes to the dance floor. I am amazed at his grace as he leaps and tumbles like an expert. His face is flushed and his hair is sticking to his head like a red cap.

Henry leans forward, frowning, as if to summon him from the floor, but I put out a hand to stop him.

“Leave him, Henry. The people are loving it, look.”

And I am right. To Harry’s delight, the court moves back to clear the floor, giving the boy centre stage. They clap their hands to the rhythm of the music and cheer each time he makes a giant leap into the air. My son is a natural, if he were not the Duke of York he would make a fine entertainer.

When the night draws to an end, the time comes for the traditional ceremony of putting the newly-weds to bed. Caterina cannot conceal her worry; she has obviously heard some hair-raising stories about our English rituals but, thanks to my intervention, Henry has warned the men not to go too far.

The Infanta is led away by her women to be made ready and Arthur is dragged to his own chamber, red-faced and sweating, by the men of his household.

Poor Caterina, we must seem so strange to her. When Henry rises to hurry off to witness the bedding of his son, I bid him good night. The hall is quieter now. The decorations hang limp, dogs are sniffing beneath the tables for scraps, and servants are collecting cups, and mopping up spilled wine. I yawn and suppress the need to stretch my limbs. “Come along, Anne,” I say. “Take me to my bed.”

After a week of celebrations, the royal couple leave for Ludlow just before Christmas. After the rigours of the wedding, I am not sure how I will cope with the jollity of Christmas. I see the newlyweds off, hard pressed to conceal my sorrow at their leaving.

“Goodbye, Arthur; goodbye, Caterina, my dear. If there is anything you need, just write to me and I will see to it.”

Henry kisses her on both cheeks and we stand together as they mount their horses and prepare to ride away. I raise a hand in farewell and Caterina waves back.

Arthur takes her reins and kicks his horse forward, the Infanta jerks in the saddle but laughingly, quickly regains control. I watch until they disappear from view. She is laughing and chattering to him, her face alight with pleasure and Arthur is smiling back, the feeling in his heart echoed on his face.

It seems I must prepare to say farewell to all my children. No sooner have we married Arthur to Caterina than it is time to put the seal on the treaty with Scotland.

Margaret is now thirteen and almost ripe to be a bride. Henry has coveted an alliance with Scotland almost as much as he wished for one with Spain. Now it seems all his wishes will be realised.

James is not yet thirty, but I am troubled by reports of his dissolute life and many mistresses. I do not think he will prove a good husband to our daughter, but Henry will not listen to my concerns. But, much to my surprise, the king’s mother seems to be on my side.

“The marriage must go ahead,” she insists. “But it should not be consummated until Margaret is older. You must insist upon this, Henry.”

She fixes him with her authoritative stare. She doesn’t need to remind him of her own experience as a child bride in the hands of an insensitive husband.

“Very well, Mother. I shall see a clause is added.” That at least comes as some relief, although Catherine assures me her cousin, the Scottish king, is a kind man.

“He is fond of women, Your Grace. He will cherish and spoil Margaret, I am sure, and will want what is best for her.”

Somewhat mollified, I begin to school my daughter into the ways of men; it is a difficult lesson and one I do not relish teaching. I see unspoken questions in her eyes and pray she does not demand answers that I cannot give.

Margaret is wise, self-assured and obedient. When the time comes for the formal betrothal, we assemble beneath the canopy of state. Henry and I are seated, Harry and Mary on stools at our feet. Margaret, my little Meg, stands tall and straight before us and when the Archbishop asks if there is any impediment to the union, she replies clearly that there is none.

I am so proud. She is so grown up, so elegant and composed.

“Are you then content and without compulsion and of your own free will?”

“If it please my lord and father the king, and My Lady Mother, the queen.”

Meg will not leave for Scotland until September next year, but already that seems too soon. I resolve to spend as much time with her as my other duties allow. My children are slipping away; some go to God, others to husbands and new lives. I worry that she is too little to travel so far abroad, for although our countries are physically attached, the journey there is perilous and long.

Meg takes a great deal of pleasure from the new address that everyone must make to her. From now on she is known as “Queen of Scots,” and she is my equal in status. Whenever she is in public her head must be covered and her behaviour impeccable; no more squabbling with her little brother.

There are feasts and dancing and gifts exchanged and, when the ceremonies are all over, I am left feeling empty and sad; but Margaret seems content. She is endowed with more than a little Tudor ambition and seems to relish her new role. She enters into the preparations with alacrity, deciding on her trousseau and overseeing the ordering of it. She makes a list; a crimson velvet gown with cuffs of fur, white and orange sarcanet sleeves, and she asks for a portrait to be made of herself, with the king and I, to present to her husband on her arrival in Scotland.

My little girl is suddenly adult and serious, and I am a little overawed to realise that I have done a good job in raising her.

My father would be proud.

Troubles seldom come singly. I am consumed with worry for Arthur’s health, for news has come to us that he is ailing again. He has been sickly for some time; nothing specific, just a general weakness of the limbs and his pallor is wan. Coming so soon after his wedding, gossip begins to circulate that he is indulging too much in the marriage bed. This is, of course, ridiculous, but I have learned that royal families are never free of speculation and rumour. If Arthur was to neglect his marital duty to Caterina they would say he wasn’t fully a man; now he is obviously taking pleasure in his new role of husband, they criticise him for doing so.

I pray for his quick recovery and send two priests on pilgrimage to make offerings on my behalf. When I lost Edmund, I saw it as God’s judgement on us for our treatment of Richard; I am not prepared to let anything happen to Arthur. He is our prince, our heir, and represents his father’s hope for the future. His megrim fills me with terror that it may be something more.

I want to discuss it with Henry, express just how culpable I feel, how afraid I am that we are to be punished. But the king is busy with state matters, his henchmen busy making arrests and imprisoning suspected traitors in the Tower. At first I take little notice, I am too concerned for Arthur who is so far away. But then Cecily brings the matter to my attention.

I notice she is restless and cross about something. It is not like Cecily not to make loud complaint should something be troubling her, but all I have heard from her for the last half hour are gusty sighs and a lot of fidgeting.

“For goodness’ sake, Cecily. What is the matter?”

She opens her eyes wide. “You mean you don’t know? Doesn’t the king tell you anything?”

It is my turn to sigh. I tighten the rein on my conscience.

“I haven’t spoken to Henry for a few days, so why don’t you tell me? It is clearly troubling you.”

“He has excommunicated our cousin.”

“Suffolk?”

“Yes.”

I am so tired of this fighting. The wars should be over. Why can they not see it? My cousin is close to the throne, his elder brother John was made my Uncle Richard’s heir, killed at Stoke battle soon after Henry came to the throne. Although he has kept an eye on him, Henry has allowed Suffolk to be an active participant at our court. He was with us in Calais last year and more recently at Arthur’s wedding. He is a popular, good-natured fellow and I had thought him Henry’s friend, but it seems he has been harbouring resentment all along. He fled in high dudgeon to the court of Maximillian in Austria, who has let it be known he’d aid anyone with a drop of York blood should they wish to contest Henry’s crown.

I sigh deeply and put a hand to my forehead. I have been suffering from headaches lately and whenever I hear bad news or something upsets me, it begins to bang in earnest.

“Henry should have made him Duke, as was his birthright. If he had really trusted him, Suffolk would have been loyal, if only for my sake. I am sure of it. Nobody desires war.”

“Well, that isn’t all, Bess. Other men have been taken to the Tower, our sister’s husband among them.”

I raise my head, stare blankly at Cecily.

“Who? You mean Will? Oh for heaven’s sake, what had he to do with it?”

Cecily shrugs. “I think they have taken up his friends, whether they are involved or not.”

“And our sister, Catherine, have you seen her? How is she?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you’d know better than I.”

“I will summon a carriage we must go and see how she is.”

“Shouldn’t she come here? Henry might not like you venturing into enemy territory.”

“I hope Henry will not hear of it, and besides, he isn’t that unreasonable. Once I explain, I am sure he will relent and free Will. He can hardly execute my brother-in-law.”

“He killed your brother …”

I pretend not to hear as I busy myself preparing for a short journey to Warwick Lane, where my sister lives with her family.

I find her in a state of disarray. She is in the hall, pulling on her gloves. She almost falls when she sees me.

“Elizabeth, I was just coming to see you. You must help us.”

I take her proffered hand and we move into the front chamber. Her servants are tidying up, a child is screaming on the upper floor. The house resonates with fear. “Please, Sister, speak to the king. Will has done nothing against him.”

“I will, I promise. I will do what I can but, you must know my influence is not great. Perhaps if I speak to his mother first …”

“How can he lock a man away for having the wrong friends? We did not know what Suffolk was planning. You must make him understand, Elizabeth.”

“I will try. Is there anything else you need? Do you have money?”

“No. Not enough, not now.”

I hold out a hand to Cecily and she places a purse in my palm. I pass it to Catherine. “It is all I have just now. I will try to arrange an allowance for you until Will is released, but I do not have a vast amount.”

“And Bess already gives so much to charity.” Cecily takes a seat beside Catherine on the settle, but I remain on my feet. A feeble shaft of sunlight finds its way through the window, showing up the dust that lays like despair in the corners. My sister needs looking after; better servants, a decent nursemaid. The child is still crying upstairs, the former distress turning to anger.

“What is wrong with your child?” I demand. “Why doesn’t his nurse see to him?”

Catherine shrugs. “She left, as soon as she found out about Will. She was unwilling to stay in a house of traitors….”

She dissolves into tears. Cecily pats her hand and I turn on my heel, hurry up the stairs in search of the nursery.

A child is on the floor, unattended, her face wet with tears, her nose streaming with snot. She stops bawling when she sees me and sinks her chin to her chest, tries to hide her face. Her cheeks are red with what looks like a teething rash.

“Hello,” I say, misremembering her name. “What’s the matter with you?”

I hoist her into my arms, my back protesting at her weight, and balance her on my hip while I wipe her nose with my best kerchief. She snivels, her chest juddering, and looks at me from large wet eyes. She reeks of piss and her skirts are damp. “Where is your brother?” I ask, although she can make no reply. After opening various doors in search of her sibling, I carry her downstairs. Catherine barely looks up.

“We must arrange care for the children, Catherine. You can’t go on like this. Come back to court with me; you can have lodging close to mine and I will find someone to care for them. Where is your son?”

“In the kitchen probably.” She wipes her eyes and stares up at me tragically. “He goes there a lot.”

“Fetch him, Cecily.” I send a servant to find outdoor clothes for the children and bear them all home with me.

On our arrival back at court, I am beset with a further worry. Cecily tugs at my sleeve and begs a private audience which I grant readily, surprised at the formality of her request. She is barely seated when she leans forward and begins to speak rapidly.

“Elizabeth. Did you know that some of Will’s friends have been taken up as well?”

“Yes, of course I do, why?”

She sits up, checks that there are no servants close enough to overhear.

“One of them, Tyrell, Sir James Tyrell, has confessed to the murder of our brothers in the Tower, in 1483.”

At first I do not comprehend the meaning of her words. She must be mistaken. I know my brothers’ fate. I know that Edward died an accidental death at the Tower during Buckingham’s uprising, and that Richard escaped. He died a felon’s death, just last year. What can this mean?

“I don’t understand …”

“Oh, Elizabeth, stop pretending! You know as well as I do that Richard survived. Warbeck’s identity was as plain as the nose on my face. He was no pretender. I saw him myself.”

“You did? You never said.”

“No, I never said. I have learned that in this court, it is best to keep one’s own council.”

She sits back and waits for me to speak, the only sign of agitation her fidgeting fingers in her lap.

“I don’t know what this means. Have you spoken to the king’s mother?”

“No.”

“Then please don’t. Keep this knowledge between ourselves.”

“I don’t understand why a man would confess to a crime he did not commit. He must know the penalty will be death.”

“Unless he has been tortured, or promised otherwise …”

I cannot bear to think that Henry would go this far to prove that the man he hung last year was a pretender. It is a clever ploy. He wants to be rid of Tyrell, just as he wanted to be rid of Richard, and by concocting this story he can justify the judicial murder of both. But I am sure that such actions will not be condoned, not by God and certainly not by me.