As I listened to Henry’s anguished railing, I tried to soothe him the only way I knew—with sweet words and song. “Do not distress yourself, Henry. The land is weary of war and will not rise up for the pretender. All anyone wants is to be left alone to enjoy the precious calm you have restored to them. My lord, there is a merry ditty that may banish care for a while. Shall I sing for you?”
Drooping in his chair, Henry gave me a nod. A soft look came into his eyes as he watched me. It had been there often of late. Perhaps he held his crown so tightly to him not merely for its power and kingship, but for the comfort it had brought him—for a home, a wife, a family. I could never love him, but the antipathy I’d felt for him in the early years of our marriage had dissolved. I’d come to realize how much he had suffered, how alone he had felt all those years in exile, fleeing from one place to another, chased and hunted like a prized animal. He’d lived as a captive at the whim of various monarchs, including my father, and known naught but uncertainty for most of his life. Now, beneath his royal robes trembled a wretched and desperate man.
I often thought that if I could meet my Aunt Margaret, all the strife between England and Burgundy would be put to rest. Her hatred of Henry was manifest and she would support any effort to dethrone him, but she was childless and had loved her brothers dearly. Now all were dead, and the House of York had been dethroned by a usurper. For usurper Henry was, no matter how many poets praised his ancestry. The Italian he had brought to court to rewrite history would give him the most illustrious lineage of all the kings of Europe, and Morton’s account would make a villain of Richard, but it could not change the truth. Aunt Margaret hated me for being so fruitful to the one she called “iniquitous tyrant and usurper” and blamed me for not fleeing Henry’s clutches after Bosworth.
Oh,Aunt Margaret, can you not understand? I wanted to flee Sheriff Hutton! But marrying Henry was the only way to stop the bloodshed, to bring peace to my people after thirty years of strife. I did it for their sake, and for Richard’s. He had commanded me to abide by God’s judgment, and God had spoken at Bosworth. Aye, I was the king’s daughter, and I held England for Henry because together we united the land; it was the way things had been ordained by Heaven. Richard had given Tudor his blessing by dashing unprepared into battle. He had accepted his fate. Now I must accept mine.
Why can you not understand, Aunt Margaret, and leave us in peace? As I brought my lament to an end, I saw that Henry’s eyes were moist. I put my hand out to him, and he rose and came to me.
“We shall get through this, Henry,” I said.
He bent down and kissed my hand tenderly.
YULE CAME, BRINGING ARTHUR, AND TWELFTH Night arrived, taking him away again to Wales. The year of 1493 died, and the year of 1494 was born. News of the pretender’s doings fueled Henry’s days. By October 1494 the pretender, now calling himself the Duke of York, was parading his blue and wine halberdiers at my aunt’s expense, handing out silver groats like a king, and answering Henry’s charges by issuing proclamations of his own. He did not fear papal anathemas, he stated, for the pure right of his title meant he was protected from God’s punishment. But low-born Henry Tudor, who illicitly occupied the throne of England, had offended God by his usurpation.
“My answer shall be to create our Harry the Duke of York. His badge will be of the red rose as well as the white, and his colors blue and tawny,” said Henry as we sat in the solar with his mother. “The celebrations for his investiture shall last all month, to the end of November. I leave the planning to you, my lady mother.”
“A month long? Then there is time to arrange for a tournament. Tournaments are not only colorful but also appropriate in this instance, since they are martial in quality—”
A knock at the door interrupted us. Henry grew irritable to hear it; all news was bad these days.
We were told that Sir Robert Clifford had returned from Burgundy, and had a report of the highest urgency.
What business does he have with Henry? I wondered. Clifford was a Lancastrian who had defected to the Yorkists the previous year and was cursed by Morton at St. Paul’s with bell, book, and candle as traitor to the king. He strode up now, his face somber, and knelt before Henry. My husband’s hand shook and his breathing had grown shallow, although he struck a casual pose as he lounged beside me on the settle. As my gaze moved from him to his mother, the reason for his discomfort grew clear. Clifford is one of Henry’s spies! Morton’s curse had added authenticity to his adopted identity. It was a detail so subtle and deceptive that it bore the mark of Margaret Beaufort’s hand.
“What is your news, Clifford?” Henry demanded.
“The conspiracy is growing, Your Grace. King James of Scotland and Maximilian of Austria are offering men and arms to Warbeck to launch an invasion.” He hesitated, then lowered his voice. “There are some among your royal circle who promise aid.”
A collective indrawn breath resounded in the chamber.
“My lord, would it not be best to let the queen retire to her chamber?” Margaret Beaufort said to Henry.
“She is one of us now,” he replied. “Do you think she would betray her own sons for an impostor?”
And what if he is not an impostor, what then? asked a small voice at the back of my mind. I drew a deep breath and forced the thought away. ’Tis not possible. It has been a long time. Dickon is dead.
“They have said that if Perkin Warbeck can be shown to be Richard of York, they shall not raise a hand against him, sire.”
The tapping of the rain against the windows seemed to fill the room.
“Can such a thing be proven?” Henry uttered, his lips pale.
“ ’Tis said the pretender carries papers signed under the signet of Richard III. In addition, he has the same strange left eye that marked the countenance of several Plantagenet kings—and Richard of York. Without exception, the crowned heads of Europe have accepted him as Richard of England. Even Spain.”
Silence thundered in the room. Even Spain, our greatest ally. I had half-risen from my chair in shock.
Henry turned to me. “Elizabeth, papers can be forged, you understand? And the eye means nothing. Your father sired many bastards.” But there was a tremor in his voice.
I sank back down into my chair, unsure of what to believe. I knew Richard hadn’t killed my brothers. I knew Edward had perished, probably at Buckingham’s hands. But I didn’t know what had become of Dickon after Bosworth. Had my aunt stationed a faithful retainer at Bruges to learn the outcome of Lovell’s invasion? Had Lovell taken my brother away with him as soon as that hope disappeared?
Henry’s voice broke into my thoughts. “These traitors in our midst, who are they?”
Clifford cleared his throat nervously before he replied. “Chief among these men is one impossible to believe. Your uncle, Sir William Stanley.”
My eyes flew to Margaret Beaufort. Her face took on a glazed look. And Henry’s own was awash with horror as he stared at his mother.
“My step-father-in-law’s brother? My chamberlain?” he murmured through ashen lips.
Though he had become accustomed to bad news, he wasn’t prepared for the astounding proportion of these ill tidings. As lord chamberlain, Stanley appointed Henry’s most intimate servants: his surgeons, barbers, physicians, Knights and Squires of the Body—those who had the closest access to his person and could slay him with the sudden thrust of a dagger.
Henry rose from the settle, shaken, pale as a phantom. “But he saved my life at Bosworth Field and has been richly rewarded for it—he crowned me with his own hands—it cannot be! He has too much to lose to back a false claimant.”
The words he uttered struck a chord of familiarity that mocked me eerily. For Richard had said the same of William’s brother, Thomas Stanley. I put a hand to my head to still the clamoring past.
Aye, the accusation was impossible to understand, but one thing was certain. Henry stood in grave danger. His mother, highly placed and honored by Richard I
II, had led Henry to Richard’s crown, and Stanley, highly placed and honored by Henry, could lead the pretender to Henry’s scepter. Until now, the conspiracies had no focus; they were small and occurred spontaneously in different corners of England, fanned by discontent with Henry’s harsh policies and taxation. For the most part they’d involved old Yorkists united by a longing for the past, disgruntled at Henry’s treatment of me and wishing to see the White Rose bloom bright once again. But these were little fires, easily quelled by picking up a local knight. The pretender had to rely on letters, which could be intercepted, and he had no one to speak for him or help organize the plot against Henry, as Margaret Beaufort and the Stanleys had done against Richard. Now all this was changed. The pretender had snared a Stanley—powerful, well respected, and close to the throne.
“Take him to the Tower,” Henry said through clenched teeth.
I realized I had followed Henry’s own thoughts.
“My son, let us not be too hasty here,” Margaret Beaufort interjected. “If only because it shall spoil Harry’s ceremony, and we don’t wish to give the feigned boy that satisfaction. Let us, instead, make a pretense of knowing nothing, and of celebrating merrily. We can hold Yule at the Tower. Then we’ll have all the traitors under one roof. On Twelfth Night, they can be rounded up. We may catch every last one if we lull them into a false sense of security and strike when they least expect it.”
Henry, who had gone against his cautious nature by issuing such a hasty command, gave in readily. “Aye, you are right, my lady mother,” he said. “As always.”
ON THE AFTERNOON OF THE TWENTY-EIGHTH DAY OF October, 1494, our little Harry rode to London from Eltham Palace. According to my mother-in-law’s report, he was cheered mightily by the merchants, craftsmen, farmers, carters, students, and apprentices who lined the roads as he trotted briskly past, making his way to Westminster. We met him at the gates. He looked like a tiny cherub with his rosy cheeks, sitting on his richly caparisoned courser, his little figure dwarfed by his escort of noblemen, a massive gold chain around his shoulders and his velvet cap pulled low over his red-gold locks.
Like Arthur, Harry was first invested as a Knight of the Bath. Then he was created Duke of York. A tournament followed the ducal ceremony, and the contending knights wore on their helmets emblems of my livery, the wine and blue colors of York. The November day was unseasonably warm as I sat with Henry on our thrones, surrounded by our children beneath our canopy of estate. Arthur was now eight; Margaret, five; Henry, three; and Elizabeth, two. My eyes dwelled softly on my eldest. He held himself like the king he would be one day. I drew my gaze from him and turned to the others. They were all handsome, bright, attentive children, excited by the noise and confusion, and they reminded me of a faraway time when I’d been their age and sat watching my uncle Anthony Woodville joust. The world had been good then, and my family whole. They had all been present: my golden father, my brothers, my sisters, Edward, Dickon, Mary—
Everyone had admired us. My father, young and strong, seated on the stage, threw us happy looks as he watched the tournament with no suspicion of what lay in store for us, or his dynasty. Did the same danger lurk behind this pageantry and display of arms? As these heralds blew their clarions, were death and tragedy awaiting their turn to make entry upon the stage? I looked around at the cheering crowds. Amid the rejoicing ran undercurrents of unease. Fear had resurfaced that the Wars of the Roses were not yet ended and bloodshed would be renewed. For Henry there was the pretender, just as for Richard there had been Henry.
And for me?
I almost dared not give thought to my unease lest it take on a life of its own. A Tudor heir in England under aYorkist king would be in danger. The only solution for the one who wore the crown was the arrest and execution of his rival.
It was then that the sound of sobbing came to me. Margaret Beaufort was putting on her display. Can she not keep her anxiety to herself as I do? She poisoned every happy occasion with her tiresome tears.
My tortured mind returned to the pretender. From the court of Burgundy, where he remained under my aunt’s protection, he’d issued another proclamation. Once he was restored to his rightful crown, he promised to “reestablish the laws of our noble progenitors, the Plantagenet Kings of England,” and banish the Byzantine laws instituted by the usurper and tyrant, Henry Tudor. Now the pretender prepared for invasion. Was this young man who had shed the title of the Duke of York and assumed that of King Richard IV of England, truly my brother Dickon?
If he was, and he won England, what would become of Arthur?
I gripped the side arms of my chair, and closed my eyes.
THOUGH WE MADE A PRETENSE OF MERRIMENT, WE celebrated the Yule of 1494 under a cloud of gloom at the Tower of London. I trembled to cross the moat and pass through its gates, for I knew the reason Henry had chosen the place. Yet the choice didn’t seem ominous to anyone else. The children loved the Tower’s menagerie of wild animals, and the old fortress had been a favored royal residence since ancient times. Now, however, its prison cells and instruments of torture would serve the king’s purpose.
Various nobles and officials who had plotted against Henry were summoned to the Christmas festivities and to my sister Anne’s wedding two days after Candlemas, on the fourth of February. Despite my heaviness of spirit, the sight of my sister Bridget cheered me enormously. She was fourteen now, and had decided to take vows. I had mixed feelings. A cloistered life meant she would never know great joy, but neither would she taste the bitter cup of loss and sorrow.
The arrival of Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, also helped lift my spirits, and I took his arm in personal welcome. No matter what he thought of Richard now, we had both shared devotion to him and remembered the old days of chivalry. That we were loyal to Henry, each in our way, did not lessen our unspoken bond.
Margaret Beaufort arrived with her husband, Thomas Stanley, and never left his brother William’s side all during Yuletide, just as she had never left mine in the early years. During the feastings and banquets of Yule, my gaze went often to the Stanley brothers. Do they suspect what is about to unfold? I wondered.
As soon as Twelfth Night was over, Henry ordered the arrest of William Stanley and other nobles with whom he’d celebrated Yule. One of those entrusted with the duty was Anne’s prospective father-in-law, the Earl of Surrey. I scrutinized Surrey’s face as he marched the shocked lords across the cobbled court into the frightening prison of Beauchamp Tower, but if he felt any Yorkist sympathy or dismay at what he had been charged to do, he knew better than to let it show.
On Candlemas, the second day of February, as frost covered the windows of the Tower, we celebrated the Virgin’s purification. But everyone present was aware that one familiar face was missing from the intimate circle. William Stanley lay under sentence of execution in the Beauchamp Tower, in a room not far from young Edward, Earl of Warwick. Henry made a display of enjoying the entertainment. He also made an extraordinary payment of thirty pounds to a young damoiselle who had delighted him by dancing in the Saracen fashion, with bared midriff and gauzy veils. Henry had an eye for pretty women. I know I should not care, but I did. It made me feel as if I wasn’t there, and I resented his disrespect, and hated being reminded how little I mattered.
After the feasting, Henry and I retired to my privy chamber for a brief rest before joining our guests for dicing and games of cards in the solar. My ladies-in-waiting leapt to their feet at our approach and dipped into their curtsies. My sister Kate and Lucy Neville were already waiting for us, and they moved to follow, but I gave them a shake of the head. We retreated into the quiet of my private bedchamber, for Henry was troubled and needed a few moments to recover his composure. At the banquet a wise woman had been brought forward to tell fortunes, and she’d warned Henry that his life would remain in great jeopardy throughout the year of 1495.
I was surprised how much the prophecy unsettled me. This man I had wed was not my choice, and many times during my marr
iage I’d had cause to grieve my fate. But in the shadow of threat from the pretender, I realized that I’d come to care for Henry. He was ruthless as a king, avaricious as a man, yet his suffering had drawn my sympathy and touched my heart. He was a dutiful son to his mother, a caring father to his children, and in recent years he had shown me kindness. And we both wanted the same thing for England. Peace. And Perkin Warbeck would bring war.
The night was chill, and tapestries fluttered in the wind that seeped through the stone cracks around the windows, but a welcome fire burned in the hearth. Henry went to warm his hands at the fireplace while I removed my cloak and hung it up on a peg. Before we could say a word to one another about the prophecy, a knock came at the door. I exchanged an anxious look with Henry before calling for our visitor to enter.
“A missive for you, sire,” a messenger declared, as he fell to a knee. “From Ireland.”
Henry almost snatched the letter from the man’s hands, but he waited until the door was shut before he broke open the seal. The blood drained from his face as he read.
“The pretender?” I asked when he finally looked up.
He nodded curtly. “Funded by your aunt—” Again came that accusing tone I heard whenever he spoke of my Aunt Margaret. “He attempted to land in England, but his forces were small and he was obliged to retreat almost immediately.”
“Why does that displease you?”
He threw himself into a chair. “ ’Tis not all. He went to Ireland, received support from the Earl of Desmond, and laid siege to Waterford. Meeting resistance, he fled.” After a pause, he added bitterly, “Now he’s disappeared again. No doubt he’s on his way to Scotland. James IV would spring at a chance to harass me.”
“What do your spies say?”
“They know nothing. Last week, in desperation, I paid the exorbitant sum of five pounds for a letter about a mere rumor—” He raised a hand to his brow.
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 28
