A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (9 page)

For the first time, the boy mixes with the elite. When the Duchess introduces him as her “dear boy” the foreign officials bow over his hand and do not enquire as to the details of the relationship. A fellow a few years older wearing a cap encrusted with seed pearls waves a wine cup and declares he is glad to know him. The boy, resplendent in a doublet of the Italian style, smiles and inclines his head this way and that. The evening passes in a blur of heady introductions, half-remembered names. He dances with half a dozen women who laugh and simper, although he has said nothing amusing. He wishes Brampton were here to guide him, put him at ease with his rough humour, but Brampton has little regard for high company. He will be swilling ale in a hostelry with a comely wench on his knee.

Richard, as he can now be called again, leads a young woman with a high plump bosom back to her mother. When he takes his leave she clings to his hand, prolonging his company, but as quickly as he can he disengages himself. The boy likes women, probably more than he should do, but he has only ever desired one at a time. He knows that Nelken will be keeping his vast soft bed warm until he returns, as she has done these last six months.

Nelken is not as innocent as she first seemed. He soon learnt that her blushes and timid ways masked a variety of bolder skills. She dispatched his virginity as deftly as she removed his clothes. Within minutes of her taking off his boots, he found himself without his shirt and swamped beneath fragrant petticoats. It was a welcome lesson and he was quick to learn it. Poor innocent Marin is forgotten as his head fills only with Nelken.

All the while he is leading the young ladies of the Duchess’s court about the floor, he is relishing the moment he can return to the uncultured but lovely charms of the chambermaid.

“Richard, Richard!” The Duchess’s voice breaks into his reverie and with a start he realises everyone is waiting for him to answer a question. A question he hasn’t heard. He excuses himself.

“I do apologise. I misheard you; the musicians are playing so loud.”

The girl with the large breasts laughs, hangs on to his sleeve. “I was saying …” She lifts herself onto her toes and speaks into his ear so as to be sure he catches every word. Her bosom presses against his arm. “… that you are the most accomplished dancer in the room.”

Richard steps back, sweeps a bow and gives her the benefit of his warmest smile. “My dance master will be gratified to hear it, Madam. Now, Aunt Margaret, if I may?”

He holds out his hand and, with a twitch of her lips, the Duchess takes his fingers and allows him to lead her away. The girl watches them go, disappointment marring her expression.

The Duchess’s veil floats across his face as they walk side by side to take their position on the floor.

“Really, Richard, what is wrong with you? Her father is the richest man in Brussels; we will need his backing when the time comes.”

“I am sorry, I wasn’t aware. Who did you say she was again?”

The Duchess’s laughter turns the heads of those nearby as they wonder what the boy has said to amuse her. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you’d a fancy for the fellows. I swear that girl is notorious; she has sampled every eligible man this side of Bruges.”

He smiles, bends his fair head close to his aunt’s ear so that none should hear.

“I prefer to be the sampler not the sampled, My Lady; the hunter not the quarry.”

There is a pause in the dance in which they are supposed to change partners. They stop for too long, causing a blockage in the promenade. “Sorry.” The boy apologises and takes his aunt’s arm, moving her to one side to allow the dance to flow again. She regards him for a long half-hostile moment before relaxing and whacking his sleeve with her fan.

“You are a tease like your father, Richard,” she laughs uncertainly. “It is almost like having him back.”

*

It is late when the last of the guests disperse and the boy is allowed to escape to his chamber. He closes the door quietly; the room is in shadow, the crouching furniture turned into dark assassins by the dim light, the bed in the centre looming like a vast unlit galley. He pulls off his doublet and drops it over a chair, unbuckles his belt and lets it fall. From beneath the bedcovers protrudes a small pink foot. The boy sinks to his knees as if to pray and begins to kiss each toe, one at a time.

She stretches and groans, her toes splaying out as his tongue wraps around them. Slowly, he progresses up the bed beneath the covers. She is naked and warm, slightly clammy with sleepy sweat. As he climbs higher up the bed her legs part to encompass him, her arms reach down, her fingers tangling in his hair.

This is what life is about, the boy thinks. This is why we are put on earth. With each kiss the quest fades further, with each new moist sensation the thought of England and the gilded throne that awaits him there becomes more remote. He doesn’t need England, not while he has Nelken. She is more precious than any crown. He should tell his aunt and Brampton that there are more important things.

*

“You look as if you’ve had no sleep, boy!” Brampton, just back from an early hunt, slaps him on the back, sending a jolt of pain through Richard’s skull.

“I’ve had enough,” he mumbles. But the fingers that are separating the orange peel from the fruit are trembling slightly. In truth, he has barely enjoyed a wink of sleep. Nelken saw to that. Once he had loved her and rolled over and tucked his head beneath the pillow to shut out the light of dawn, she had given him no rest. First she prodded, and then she kissed and licked until, against his inclination, he rolled over onto his back, providing her with better access to his body.

He was unwilling at first but sleep was a master easily bested and soon he began to stiffen. She sat up, astride him, and with the early sun on her, she was like a goddess. Her red hair flowed like blood across her breasts as she leaned forward tantalisingly, the tips of her nipples inches from his mouth. Then she laughed, pushed herself upright again, lifting her hair behind her head and arching her back.

“You are a witch, mistress.” He spoke through his teeth, fighting for self-control as she raised herself up, coming gently down again to engulf him in her warmth. Tired as he was, he could not pull back.

It was once the loving had finished and they lay on top of the tumbled bedclothes that she really shattered him.

“I am carrying your child,” she said. “I am going to be in so much trouble with the Duchess.” Her cheeks glistened with tears, her lower lip trembled. “I am ruined,” she sobbed, and the boy did not contradict her for he knew that, were he not careful, the path of his life could be altered too.

The river is alive with craft, and boats both small and large jostle to come close to the royal barge. Banners and streamers flutter in the breeze and the surface of the water is sparkling in the winter sun. I order the curtains to be drawn back further, lean forward in my seat and wave to the roaring crowd. All along the banks the people are calling my name, waving their arms
.
My face aches from smiling.

Close behind comes a splendid thing. A barge carrying a replica of the dragon Cadwaladr — it is huge, painted scarlet and gold, and as it moves slowly along the river it belches forth great spurts of fire. A terrifying thing.

Music fills the air, the finest musicians in the land — trumpets, clarions and drums. As we turn the bend in the river, the Tower comes into view, standing sentinel over London as it has since the Conqueror’s time. On the opposite bank I see Bermondsey Abbey, where my mother now resides. My heart falls a little and I wonder if she is watching. Just in case she can see me, I sit taller in my seat, raise my head and wave both hands. She will know my salute is for her, and her alone. It will fill her with joy to see me follow where she led. Her daughter crowned Queen of England after coming so close to ignominy.

Henry is not with me and it is probably just as well. He would not relish this outpouring of love from the public, the calls of “A York! A York!” that pepper the celebration.

He waits for me at Tower Wharf. As we draw close the tall dank walls shut out the sun and I shudder, draw my cloak close about me. When I alight from the barge, he takes my hand and kisses it and the crowd cheer again, their joy following us all the way to the LanthornTower where I am to be lodged
.
Henry is smiling and for once his good humour reaches his eyes.

That night a great reception is held in the hall and Henry, as is tradition, creates fourteen new Knights of the Bath. There is dancing, music and feasting. Beside me the king is in high good humour, he laughs and seems relaxed and happy, pleased with me. Once he even takes my hand beneath the table and squeezes it.

But later, when it is almost dawn and he comes to lay with me, I cannot respond as I would wish. I am so tired I lay like a wilting lily beneath him, and once he has done with me and rolls over into loud snores, I lieawake in the darkness
.

The walls of the Tower seem to be breathing, they press down upon me. I imagine stifled cries, whispering voices, muffled footsteps. As I toss and turn, the remembered images of my brothers, whose crown I have stolen, sit in sulky vigil at the foot of my bed.

24 November 1487

In the morning, I am heavy-eyed and weary. I stifle yawns while my ladies, led by my sisters, dress me in white cloth of gold and a mantle furred with ermine. My hair is left loose, covered only by a coif of the new style, cross laced with a network of golden cord. Cecily, sombre for once, places a circlet of gold on my head to secure the coif. She clasps her hands and stands back to look at me.

“Oh Bessie,” she breathes. “I can scarce believe it is you.”

“It is me though, Cecy,” I whisper fervently, clasping her hand. I reach out for Margaret too, and my sisters, Anne and Catherine, and we all come together in a girlish huddle. “This isn’t just my day,” I tell them solemnly. “It is a day for all of us; for our mother, and for father, too. Think of them this day for they are here with us. This day is for York — our last day, for afterwards our house will be one with Tudor.”

It is a passionate speech that affects us all. Anne wipes away a tear and busies herself arranging my train, while Cecily turns to admire herself in the looking glass, tweaking the ends of her veil and biting her lips to redden them.

“Are you ready, Bessie?” Catherine offers me a kerchief and I tuck it into the pocket that is hidden among my sumptuous skirts.

“I am ready,” I say, taking a deep breath to dispel my emotion and calm my raging nerves. I stand upright, take a deep breath and remember how well Mother always bore herself on these occasions. I wish she could see me now. It breaks my heart that she is not here. I must relish every moment so that I may relate it all in detail when I see her next.

In great state we emerge from the Tower and make our way to the open litter that awaits us. It is hung with white cloth of gold to match my clothing, so when I am seated my conveyance appears to be an extension of my skirts. I am glad to find it is well cushioned and comfortable. A knight helps me aboard and I take my place amid the splendour. I am still arranging my skirts when the eight white horses lurch forward. I give a little cry and clutch the sides of the litter while the tassels on the great canopy, borne by four of the newly appointed Knights of the Bath, sway gently above me, as if they are dancing in joy.

My ladies, with Aunt Elizabeth to keep them in order, follow on behind in their own litter. Over the din of the crowd I occasionally hear Cecily’s high laughter and, although I dare not look round, I can imagine her waving and delighting in the moment, probably more than I am myself.

Catherine and Anne, who are by nature more sombre, will be more restrained. As we pass into the streets of Cheapside the cries from the populace, already great, grow louder. London is bedecked in ribbons, great tapestries have been hung and velvet and cloth of gold stream from every window.

There is so much to see. I turn my head this way and that, eager to miss nothing, reluctant to disappoint even one of the many who have come here to entertain me. We pass a company of angels; a group of little girls, chosen no doubt for their golden hair and angelic faces. One of them, however, overcome by the tumultuous celebration, has resorted to tears; her mouth is open, her eyes spouting water like a gargoyle on a church roof. Another girl, a little older, distracts her by pointing to me and the weeping child ceases sobbing, cuffs her nose, and waves.

I wave back but my attention is quickly taken by a fresh burst of music. I turn away from the children to a colourful band of musicians; beneath the shelter of a multi-coloured canopy, they let forth a symphony of joy. With my heart surging with love for the people of England, I lean back on my cushions, exhausted but happy. I am unsure how much longer I can wave and smile, and tomorrow will be another day just like this, only better. Tomorrow is my crowning day, the day I will at last feel the weight of England’s crown on my brow, as is my birthright.

25 November 1487 ― Westminster

“I wish you were coming with me.” Margaret is fixing the coif back into my hair. Her hands are gentle and should be calming but my stomach is knotted with nerves.

“I will be there watching with the king and his Lady mother. It is your day, Elizabeth; you are the woman upon whom everyone will be focussed. Besides, Cecily will be right behind you.”

At that moment my sister emerges from the closet dressed in a gown similar to my own but of a simpler cut and a different colour. The purple velvet I am wearing is only for princes. She pauses, one hand fiddling with the lacing of her cuff. “You look wonderful, Bessie. Very regal and not like my sister at all.”

She comes forward and kisses me. “You look lovely too,” I say, putting my hand to my brow while Margaret teases a stubborn knot from my hair.

“I am glad it is bright again,” calls Anne from the window. “You need sunshine for a proper pageant. It would have been horrid to be crowned in the rain. Imagine if the poor people had to wait outside in the cold and damp, I am sure they’d never cheer so loudly and the hangings would be dripping wet.”

I too am thankful the weather is fine. It is cold, but the sky is clear and the air crisp. The sort of day that makes you glad just to be alive.

When the door opens and the king’s mother appears, my aunt Elizabeth, Duchess of Suffolk, claps her hands to gain our attention. The Lady Margaret runs a critical eye over us to make sure we are properly presented, and at her signal my women come forward to tie the purple velvet mantle around my shoulders. It is time to descend to the hall and take my position beneath the purple canopy and wait while the procession forms behind me. My throat is dry. Cecily is fussing with my hem.

“Remember, Bess, I will be right behind you.”

I smile my gratitude, lift my chin as high as I can and, just as I have practiced daily for the last few months, try to glide down the stairs as if I am on wheels.

They throw open the huge double doors and immediately the din of the crowd drenches me like a huge wave. The streets are lined with people, the air thick with good wishes. My heart surges and a lump builds in my throat.

I recall my father’s love for the people, the easy manner he adopted with them, and I wish I could do the same. I see a fleeting image of my mother-in-law’s outrage if I were to abandon decorum and go among the people to shake their hands and let them kiss my fingers. Those relaxed days of my father’s reign have gone now. The king demands a stricter etiquette and likes us to remain aloof. I must content myself with a wide happy smile and it seems to serve, for the volume of their cheers increases as I draw nearer.

It is but a short walk to the abbey. Following the regal steps of John de la Pole, I am flanked by the bishops of Ely and Winchester. We pass close by the flag-waving people, their faces a blur of grinning teeth and rosy cheeks. The men toss their caps high into the air, the women and children throw greenery in my path.

We follow the new baize cloth which has been laid to mark my way to the altar and as I move along it, the people surge in behind me to cut it into strips to take home as a keepsake. It is a tradition that’s been followed for an age. Behind me I hear their uproarious laughter, screams of hilarity. My smile stretches, my face aching, my eyes moist with happiness.

Then comes a deeper, tortured cry, followed by another of outrage. I half turn but the Bishop of Ely grips my fingers tighter and forces me to keep moving forward.

“Don’t look back,” he mutters from the side of his mouth. “Just keep walking.”

The joy behind me is turning to terror. I hear screams of pain, cries of anger, and the clash of steel. The calls of celebration turn to anguish, “Shame, shame!”

I snatch my hand away from the bishop and manage to turn my head enough to glimpse what is going on over my shoulder. From the corner of my eye I notice Cecily has turned too. We see women fall to the floor, their children crying in fear while their fathers wrestle with the yeoman guard. The crowd surges forward, pushing those before them closer to the procession. I open my mouth to command the guard to show mercy, but the Bishop of Winchester adds his strength to that of Ely and together they all but lift me from my feet and bear me onward to the church.

We pause inside the west door. My heart is banging like a drum, blood surging in my ears. I can hear Cecily whimpering behind me. But the Bishop of Ely’s hand is cool. “Be calm, Madam,” he says, fixing me with his sagacious eye. “All will be well, you are quite safe.”

“It is the people I am worried about. There was no need for violence; that man was bleeding …”

The doors close behind us, obliterating the sounds of discord. The trumpets sound, blasting out my imminent entrance, and Cecily, still sniffling, rearranges my train. I know I must put aside my distress and continue with the ceremony. There will be time to discover later what became of the injured. In the meantime I can only pray for a peaceful outcome.

We begin to move slowly, step by step, along the nave. My hands are trembling but I rekindle my smile, this time for the sake of the nobility who are seated within. Before me, Henry’s uncle Jasper, now Duke of Bedford, bears my crown. I follow him on quaking limbs.

All heads are turned toward me. The voices of the choir soar to the rafters. I raise my chin and glance up at the fluttering pennants, the high gilded ribs of the roof. In the moments before my life is changed forever, I remember all those who have been here before me and, suddenly, I feel very small.

The king remains hidden but I know he is watching, his mother beside him, her sharp eye marking my every move. If I make a wrong step or say a misplaced word she will never let me forget it. I can almost feel sorry for her. It must be hard for her, conceding this much to the house of York; she would prefer all the honour, all the glory went to her son, the Tudor. My presence at his side can only ever serve as a reminder that without me, her son may never have kept his crown.

I am a good wife, a good mother; I have provided an heir and mean to present England with many more. Sons like my father, and daughters like me and my mother. If I have my way we will swamp Tudor’s blood with the good stuff of York.

In high ceremony we reach the altar, and the bishop relinquishes my hand. My half-brother, Dorset, recently released from the confines of the Tower, winks at me and raises one eyebrow, forcing me to stifle a laugh. It is so like my irreverent brother to mock at solemnity. I just hope Henry or his mother did not see it. I turn away from him and focus my attention on the solemnity of the moment; my moment.

With Cecily’s aid I prostrate myself before the high altar where the Archbishop of Canterbury begins his prayers. When he instructs me, I rise up and Cecily unlaces my bodice. My upper body is bared and, with an intoned prayer, he anoints my forehead and between my breasts. He blesses my coronation ring, and as I am presented with the orb and sceptre, the choir begins to sing again.