A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (34 page)

The annual calendar of the court does not allow for royal grief, and our duties continue. I present a brave face to the public but, in private, I throw off the deception and my sorrow becomes almost a comfort. Henry spends more time with me. We seem to absorb each other’s grief, salve one another’s pain, and he makes love to me with a desperation born of fear and regret.

Soon I am able to ease his sorrow further with the news that another child will be born to us in February. Although nothing can bring Arthur back, the knowledge of a new baby lifts our despair — just a little.

For the first time in months I begin to see the good in the world and, although I am not filled with joy, I can at least find a little pleasure in the gardens, and the sunshine. But then I hear the news that Tyrell has been convicted of treason and executed. I know without doubt that Henry has condemned and executed an innocent man. My emerging happiness is crushed and my newfound faith and love for my husband plummets again.

How can I trust him? How can I ever have faith in him when his duplicity is so transparent?
I have the overwhelming urge to run away, but queens do not run away and, besides, there is nowhere for me to run.

*

From the start, my pregnancy is fraught with trouble. I suffer sickness as severely as when I carried Arthur. The king’s mother assures me this is because I am carrying another boy, and I pin my hopes on that. A boy is crucial for Henry’s stability, Henry’s dreams for the future.

The king tries to forget his trials by burying himself in state business. He persists in his attempt to secure sainthood for the old king Henry VI, and have his remains moved to Westminster. I indulge myself by continuing with the plans for a remodelling of Greenwich Palace.

I intend to have a private riverside residence for myself with a garden and orchard. I crave somewhere to escape to when I wish it; a place where I can be quiet, away from court, away from the public eye, somewhere to be myself. A place where I can think.

My privy purse is quite empty so I order my old gowns to be turned and made larger to accommodate the growing child. For a while I contemplate cancelling a planned progress into Wales, but my need to be away from court is too great. I
want
to go. I rebuff the king’s mother’s advice that I am overtired and not as well as I should be. The strange impulse to quit the court will not be denied.

Spain is trying to persuade Henry to send the Infanta home. At first he says she is still too unwell, too grieved to travel, but he summons her from Ludlow and insists she stay at court.

Poor Caterina; her status is altered. She is no longer the Princess of Wales, the future queen. She is an impoverished widow, a dowager princess, and the court no longer falls over themselves to oblige her. Where once she was showered in gifts and affection, now she is largely forgotten.

I wish Henry would agree to send her back to Spain; she has her whole life before her, but he refuses. He is reluctant to part with her dowry or to lose the bargaining tool she represents. My concerns are raised further when the Spanish ambassador proposes a match between Caterina and little Harry.

Enough time has passed now to be sure that she does not carry Arthur’s child. Although I am shocked to hear it, Spain is declaring that she is still a virgin and her wedding to Arthur unconsummated. Only Caterina can know that for sure but I remember the post marital joy of my eldest son, and the reports that came to me the next day of him having enjoyed his night ‘in Spain.’

Poor Harry, to be saddled with his brother’s widow. I hope it comes to nothing. I have more care for Caterina and Harry’s future happiness than I have for state politics. As fair as she may be, she is almost six years Harry’s senior and I rather suspect that, like my own father, my son would prefer to have the choosing of his own bride.

My head is whirling with too many problems. Every day I receive news, worse than the day before, and on a sunny morning in May my husband comes storming to my chambers, rousing me from sleep.

“Did you know of this?” he bellows as I drag myself upright in my bed.

“Know of what?” I squint at him, holding up a hand to block the sun that is streaming in through the open shutters. “What has happened now?”

He thrusts a piece of parchment at me and I frown at it. The hasty scrawl seems to be by the hand of one of Henry’s informants, one of his spies. I have to read the content twice before I can make sense of it.

“Oh no …” My heart sets up a heavy thud. I put my hand to my chest and stare up blankly at Henry.

“You didn’t know.”

It is not a question. He can see from my reaction that Cecily has not taken me into her confidence. If only she had done. I would have tried to help her. Now, I know without being told that she will need all the help she can get.

“Who is this man?”

“This man is nobody. Just a self-seeking social climber looking to bed a princess.”

“You make it sound worse than it is. They are at least legally wed. At least that is better than her becoming his mistress.”

“How can it be worse? She is your sister. She is a royal princess and a Viscountess, and she is acting like a trull, sullying herself with a man of the lowest degree.”

I begin to suspect he is secretly enjoying the disgrace of yet another member of my family.

“Not the lowest degree surely, Henry. You are overwrought, and not thinking it through properly. It is true it is an unwise marriage, but he is a respectable knight. I can’t imagine Cecily forming an attachment for a common man.”

He scowls at me, his lips tight.

“She must be punished. She cannot just marry whom she pleases. I will not have my subjects disobeying me. She has deliberately gone behind my back to consort with this … this …”

Words fail him. I throw back the covers and begin to slide from bed.

“I will discover the truth of the matter, Henry. Then we can decide what is to be done.”

“I have made my decision. I am done with people overriding my authority. I am the king. She will be banished from court and her late husband’s lands and wealth confiscated. I will not have it, I tell you.”

I watch him quietly. There is no point interfering. He will not listen. He will go his own way and, if that entails the destruction of my entire family, it will not deter him.

There are so many problems, so many worries that my head sometimes reels with the weight of them all. I need time to come to terms with everything that has happened. I long to get away; I want to escape court, escape politics and most of all, at this moment, I want to escape Henry.

People are grumbling that it is a mad idea for a woman in my condition to travel so far, but I am queen. Only the king can forbid me, but he seems content that I should go. Perhaps he is as glad to be rid of me as I am to leave.

I give orders for my lying-in chamber to be made ready at Richmond. By the time I return from Wales, my confinement will almost be upon me. Perhaps things will be better after my son is born; perhaps we can rebuild our marriage then.

At the last moment I decide to take my sister Catherine with me. She is still smarting after the arrest of her husband but, since Henry has not yet ordered his execution, we both harbour hopes that William Courtney’s life will be spared. To ensure that he is offered as much comfort as is possible in the chilly damp confines of the Tower, I order winter clothing and warm bedcovers to be sent for him.

Catherine is grateful and as we set off toward Buckinghamshire we are both in reasonably good spirits. I feel sickly and bloated but it is pleasant to be away from court, to feel the fresh air on my face again. The countryside has a healing quality and even Catherine looks a little less peaked by the time we reach Notley Abbey.

The Abbot’s lodging is comfortable and, as always, the victuals are tasty indeed. I eat more than I’ve been accustomed to of late, and then Catherine and a few of my ladies settle down for a comfortable evening in the chamber.

Anne takes out her lute and begins to play, and after a while Dorothy begins to sing in accompaniment. I am as close to contentment as I’ve been since we received the news of Arthur’s death. I lay my head back and close my eyes.

When a servant enters with a letter, nobody pays him much attention. He hands it to Catherine with a bow and hastily quits the chamber. My sister moves toward the fire where the light is greater and tears it open.

There is no one close enough to catch her when she falls. I leap from my chair, my head spinning at the sudden movement. Catherine is lying like a broken flower on the hearth. My ladies gather around her, their frightened cries like a flock of startled birds.

He has done it,
I think.
Henry has waited until our backs were turned and taken the first opportunity to have Will Courtney killed
.
Poor, poor Catherine
. I pick up the letter that has fallen from her hand and begin to read it. My hand is on my chest, it creeps up to my neck, and my throat fills with grief. The words stand out harshly against the page; the news is even worse than I had imagined.

Little Edward Courtney was just five years old and too young to die. Lately, everyone’s attention has been on his father; no one noticed that the child was ailing. The news of her son’s death compounds Catherine’s existing grief and brings her down heavily. She begs leave to return to Havering for the arrangements for his burial and, of course, I grant her request. I give her my warmest cloak to wear and promise to pay for the funeral, no expense spared.

As she rides away I stand at the window and watch her grow smaller; a tiny black figure on a large white horse.
When will it stop?
I wonder.
When will my family cease to suffer?

*

We have not travelled very much farther when I fall sick. I am just too weak to carry on. My ladies create a great fuss, declaring I should have listened to the king’s mother and stayed in London. Ladies in a gravid condition have no business gallivanting around the countryside, having fun. I am too sickly to argue or order them to be quiet, so I just lie back.

I am breathless and tired, the least exertion too much to even think about. A physician arrives from court and plies me with a foul concoction. I do not dare ask him to enlighten me as to the ingredients but swallow the physic obediently and stay in bed as he advises.

The next week or so is spent resting and praying. There are so many souls, both living and dead, to pray for. I send offerings by proxy to many shrines and churches, and pay five priests to say five masses for Arthur’s soul and for the safety of my unborn child. I need all the heavenly help I can muster.

It is August before I am well enough to continue, and we make leisurely progress toward Monmouth, resting at the Forest of Dean. At Monmouth I present the prior with a red chasuble, embroidered with the finest work, and a cope embroidered with the Assumption of the Virgin. I cannot shake the belief that if I can only appease God, perhaps bad fortune will stop afflicting both my life and that of my kin.

Apart from the infirmities of pregnancy, the longer I am away from court the more pleasant life becomes. I begin to forget the conflict of loyalty, my overbearing mother-in-law, my difficult and demanding husband. I play cards with my companions, winning far more than usual and revelling in the unexpected boost to my coffers. I am always short of money; there are so many demands on my income. I have a large family to support and, if I can, I never turn down a request for financial help.

But my primary role is that of queen and my duties cannot be entirely forgotten. I hear regularly from court. Henry is still delaying the return of Caterina to Spain, and I am pleased to learn she is now recovering from a recent megrim. Once my child is born I plan to befriend her, perhaps take her into my own household. She must be so lonely, so disappointed that all her plans have come to nothing.

As I pass through various counties, I am sent gifts of oranges and pomegranates for which I have developed a passion. In Henry’s absence I am at liberty to encourage the devotion of the people. It is good to hear the odd cry of ‘A York!’ as I pass through the busy streets.

By the time I return to London my condition is visible, even in the looser gowns I am now forced to wear. To my physicians’ concern my ankles and hands are swollen and my face is puffy, but I feel better in myself. It is as if the fresher air has gone some way toward repairing my injured spirits.

One of the first things I do when I return to Richmond is to visit the lying-in chamber to check that all is in readiness. If I have to be confined in a dark room for weeks on end I am determined it shall be as pleasant a room as possible.

A new richly-hung bed is in place, the hangings embroidered with red and white roses, edged with satin. I begin to look out for suitable nursery staff, cross-examining the applicants myself and asking for their previous experience.

But it is the children I am dying to see. Since I am too tired from the trip to ride straight away to Eltham, I ask for them to be brought to me.

They arrive in a flurry of suppressed excitement. Mary, at six years old, is as pretty and as confident as a pussycat. Her nurse tells me that of all the royal children, she is the most difficult to handle, the most determined to have her way. She forgets that a princess should keep her eyes downcast and her expression meek, and she confronts me with a bold happy smile. I can’t help but love her for it.

In readiness for her departure to Scotland, Margaret now has her own household. She approaches me in a regal fashion to demonstrate that she has been attentive to her lessons. She is tall and already showing the promise of future beauty. She curtseys demurely and takes a seat close by while Harry bows, already displaying poise and elegance. He is eleven now and I am confident that he will make a good king, if God will only allow it.

“How are you, Lady Mother? My sisters and I have missed you.”

I reach out and draw him close, denying him the opportunity to display his formal training. I knock off his cap and pull his face down for a kiss. He stands up again, puzzled and a little flustered.

“My teachers tell me I must be polite and formal at all times, Mother.”

“Not with me, Harry. I am different. Why, when I was a child my father would romp about the floor with me on his back. He made a most noble steed.”

Harry half laughs, almost disbelievingly. It is probably outside the bounds of his imagination to think of his own father behaving in such a way.

“Everyone addresses me as Henry now; or My Lord Prince — even Meg is supposed to.”

I move my head conspiringly close to his. “Not in private, surely they didn’t mean that.”

“I think they did.” He looks troubled; he is less buoyant, less hearty, and my heart twists suddenly with anxiety. I place my hand across his forehead.

“Do you feel quite well? You are pale. Have you been eating properly and enjoying the sunshine?”

“As much as I am allowed. Father wants me to attend more to my lessons than hunting, now I am to be king.”

“Hmm, we will see.”

I am cross with Henry. Angry that he should try to stem our son’s exuberance, and try to fashion him to his own mould. Harry is one of the brightest, most intelligent children I know, or am ever likely to meet. I determine that when I next see Henry, I will let my feelings be known. Our son deserves a better balance of work and play. It is imperative that we lose no more children and I have never seen my Harry look so wan.