The pretender came into view, and I gasped. Richmond Herald had said that he had worn his robes of cloth of gold when removed from sanctuary, but now he was attired humbly. Even so, shabby clothes could not hide the pretender’s resemblance to my father, or the elegance and dignity of the way he sat his saddle and held his head. Unbound and unfettered, golden haired and blue eyed, even in drab dress he had a royal demeanor about his person that was bred into a prince from babyhood. The crowds jeered, mocked, and hissed. “Low-born foreigner!” they cried, “How dare you?” “King are you—king of the rubbish heap!” They threw rotted garbage at him. He didn’t flinch, but rode past as if he didn’t see or hear them.
My heart went out to him in pity, and a tear rolled down my cheek.
“Why do you cry, Mother?” Harry said. “Be not afraid, he can’t hurt you anymore.”
Kate placed her arm around my shoulders.
“I cannot watch,” I said, raising a hand to my head, which now throbbed with unendurable pain. Kate led me away.
At Westminster that evening, Henry poured me wine in my privy chamber. I declined, but he pressed the goblet into my hands. “Drink, it will do you good.”
He stood at the fireplace, deep in thought, a hand on the mantelpiece. I forced myself to take a sip of the wine he had offered.
“What of his wife, Lady Gordon?” I managed, unable to get the image of the pretender—Dickon?—out of my mind.
Henry took an audible breath and let his hand drop. “She came out of sanctuary and gave herself up to Daubeny.”
He lied. I had heard him dictating a letter as far back as the sixteenth of September, making it clear he intended to extract her from sanctuary.
“Why is she not here with her husband?”
“She gave birth to a child at Buryan. The child is dead. She has remained behind in Exeter and is shuttered in a house for the requisite seven days of mourning.”
I shut my eyes on a breath. Woe, such woe! When I could speak again, I said,“What of her other son, the babe that is a year old?”
“I have sent him away to be raised by a trusty couple.”
She has lost her entire world—the man she loves is captive in his enemy’s hands; her child is taken from her; her babe is dead. She bears far worse than ever was my portion, and God knows how I suffered, how I grieved after Bosworth.
“What will you do with her?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Probably keep her here for a while. She makes a worthy bargaining chip against her husband. As long as I have his wife and child, I can make him say—” Henry broke off, bit his lip. “The feigned boy is not your brother, Elizabeth. Make no mistake about that.”
I heard a threat in his words; but whether that was so, or merely my imagination, I could not be sure. “By your leave, my lord, I should like to have Catherine Gordon as my lady-in-waiting for as long as you have her stay in England.”
He regarded me thoughtfully, and I saw his mind turning over the implications of such a move. How much would she dare tell me? Would she confirm Dickon’s birthmark, the red mole high inside his right inner thigh? When Henry had brought the “feigned boy” to his council and asked him to identify those he knew from his youth, the pretender had not even looked up before replying that he didn’t recognize anyone present. He knew he had to be Perkin Warbeck now, if he valued the life of his child. And those who should have known him—if he was Dickon—knew what they had to say. One of these was my brother Dorset. He had already served one long tour at the Tower; he would have no wish to return, and would choose his words carefully.
Another was John Rodon, the servant who had turned down Dickon’s sheets as a child, who had brought him his wine and laid out his clothes. He, too, knew what to say, for he had no desire to lose his pension and the position of royal sergeant at arms that Henry had conferred on him. Everyone involved understood what was expected. Especially Catherine Gordon, who trembled for her babe, and her husband.
As for me, I would never know the truth because my mother had not seen fit to trust me with the password.
Henry smiled. “Indeed, that is a fine idea. To have you take his poor wife under your protection not only displays great compassion, but it shows all the world that he is a fraud.”
We received Lady Catherine Gordon in the state chamber, seated on our thrones, with our nobles gathered around on either side of the room and Henry’s favorite greyhound, Lancelot, beside him on the dais.
Henry looks well, I thought. Clad in his favorite crimson cloth of gold, he wore a rich collar with four rows of large pearls and rare, costly jewels around his neck that blazed in the light of the torches. His freshly washed, graying hair no longer hung limp beneath his crown, for he had bathed and spent the day preparing for this moment. The subject of Catherine Gordon’s beauty had been a matter for long discussion with his Scottish spy, James Ramsey, Lord Bothwell. No doubt he wished to make a good impression on her.
A herald called out her name, and she was hustled in to us, tied like a bondswoman. I looked at Henry in shock, for this could only have been on his orders. Tall and slender as a willow, Lady Catherine had the neck of a swan, thick glossy black hair, and perfectly arched brows set over huge blue eyes that sparked like sapphires in her oval face. She is, I thought, a vision of female loveliness more exquisite than any I have ever seen. Henry was staring at her in disbelief.
“Untie her!” he demanded, scowling as if he had never given the order to have her fettered. He loved drama, and I knew this scene was meant to be a spectacle for the people to mull and marvel over in the taverns.
“My dear lady,” said Henry, “from now on, we shall personally make certain that you are accorded the dignity of your rank. You shall have money, clothes, and servants. You shall lack nothing. We shall provide all that your husband, who wed you in falsehood and deceit, cannot provide you.” Pressing both hands to his breast, he added Lancelot’s favorite oath, “I swear this to you by the faith of my heart.”
My gaze went to him. Abruptly, I realized that he viewed this girl as a damsel in distress and wished her to see him as her rescuer. Henry could hardly play Sir Lancelot to her Guinevere, but he could, if he wished, burn her at the stake, and she knew it, for fear glittered in her beautiful eyes.
With the look of a man besotted, he gave the young beauty a gap-toothed smile that revealed his blackened teeth.
ON THE EIGHTEENTH OF NOVEMBER, WE SET OUT FOR Sheen in a colorful procession, accompanied by the entire court. Musicians played as we rode with our entourage of lords and ladies, councilors in velvets and plumes, and knights in breast armor. Hounds barked and children laughed in their open litters, trailed by household officers, squires, grooms and pages, and the yeomen of the chamber and the guard. In carts at the back sat the men of the pantry and scullery, their pans and kettles clattering. Behind them rumbled many wagons of furnishings, clothes, state papers, and reliquaries. Some of the army accompanied us, rolling their guns. I was reminded of Richard’s progress north to York in 1483. He had no armed men with him. His voice echoed in my ear: “I rest my rule on loyalty, not force,” he’d said.
Amid the neighing of horses and shouts of men, the procession drew to a sudden halt. A pretty maiden selling roses had caught Henry’s eye. She drew up to him and gave him a rose. There was a burst of excited tittering.
“What happened?” I inquired, and the answer came back down along the line. “The king gave her a pound for her rose!”
A pound for a rose. The generosity of a stingy man was always cause for marvel.
We moved again. A thunderous cheering went up at the sight of me. “God bless King Edward’s daughter!” they cried with one voice. “God bless our queen, Elizabeth the Beloved!” The inevitable tear rose to my eye. I raised a hand to thank them. Ahead, Henry turned in his saddle to cast me an unsmiling look. My appearance had trumped his once again. In a way, I pitied him almost as much as the pretender. He had brought a measure of calm to English life, yet the land d
id not care for him, and fifty armed guards had to protect him everywhere he went.
All the guard I ever needed was his mother, I thought.
I watched his thin figure bobbing as he rode. He was not such a hard master at times. He loved music, could be affable, gave compliments to pretty women, and could occasionally be moved to charity, as with this maiden, but nothing he did endeared him to the people. Not like Richard, who had been beloved by those who knew him. But then, Henry and Richard stood at nearly opposite ends of the human spectrum.
It had been more than ten years since Bosworth, and I couldn’t help comparing the two kings. At the gates of the cities he’d visited, Richard had refused the proffered gifts. “I would rather have your hearts than your money,” he’d told his people. That could not be said for Henry. He wants their hearts, aye, I thought; but he also wants their money.
Henry wished to be seen as merciful; instead, he was regarded as ruthless, for he had put to death William Stanley, the man to whom he owed his crown. Richard had failed to see threat in anyone until it was too late; Henry suspected everyone before they committed a crime. Richard had won the goodwill of the north by dispensing justice, but there was only terror in Henry’s courts, especially the Star Chamber, where verdicts were predetermined and punishments decided; whether guilty or innocent of the charge made no difference.
For when a bastard sits the throne of England, everyone is a threat and no one is safe, not even another bastard, as Johnnie of Gloucester has proved. The boy had disappeared into the Tower and likely died under torture, for he was never seen again. Many had shared his fate over the years, and more than anything else, it was fear that kept people from joining the pretender’s side. Henry’s reign had become one of terror.
I threw a glance behind me, at the carts. Somewhere back there, hidden away and surrounded by Henry’s men and weapons, rode the captive Perkin Warbeck, Henry’s rival in love and war. No doubt Perkin welcomed the brief respite. Every day in London he’d been led out through the streets to be cursed by the people. Kate told me he bore his misfortune with courage.
Sheen opened its gates to us. Set on a broad bend of the Thames, seven miles from London, the palace beckoned. Here on its lawns and amid its orchards, I had passed many pleasant summer afternoons with my brothers Edward and Dickon in the long grass alleys as they ratcheted the bucking crossbow or batted leather balls with the flat of their hands.
Is Dickon the one who now rides as prisoner?
I bit down hard against the sudden, searing anguish.
We settled into the palace and took up our games once again, but it became evident that Henry was still troubled.
“I know not what to do with Perkin,” he confided in my privy chamber. “Maximilian has written begging me to spare him and send him back to Burgundy. In return he offers to give me any assurances I wish, any pledges I demand, to establish that he and Margaret and Perkin renounce in perpetuity all their rights to the English throne for themselves and all their heirs.”
I was stunned. He and my Aunt Margaret were truly convinced that the young man was Dickon! Though their interests were no longer even remotely served by this pretender, he meant so much to them that they were willing to abandon all their claims to the throne merely to have him back. It was incredible, past belief, for it was not the way of royalty. But it afforded a miraculous resolution—one that would relieve great grief and sorrow.
“Oh, my lord, if you do this, all the world will hail you as the most merciful of kings!”
Henry threw me a sardonic smile. “Or the most foolish. There is Spain to consider, and Arthur’s marriage.” He fell silent for a long moment. The logs in the fireplace hissed. “I will do nothing to jeopardize it.”
“Perhaps de Puebla can find out Spain’s advice on the matter,” I suggested, desperately clinging to hope.
We returned to Westminster Palace three days later for the Scottish ambassador to present his credentials.
“I wish Lady Gordon to attend my reception for the ambassador after the banquet,” Henry said as we rode. “Pray see to it that she is brought to us.”
I couldn’t help wondering at the purpose of his strange request.
From gossip I learned what had transpired. After the feast, the Milanese and Venetian ambassadors accompanied Henry to a smaller chamber for more intimate conversation, and there they encountered Perkin and his wife standing in a corner, his arm around her waist. “He is twenty-three years old,” one ambassador told the other, “a most noble man, and his wife a most beautiful woman. The king treats them well, but does not wish him to sleep with his wife.”
Perkin and Catherine did not speak to the envoys but merely nodded to them as the ambassadors departed the reception.
The next morning, as I breakfasted in my privy chamber surrounded by Kate, Lucy, and my many other ladies, I gazed over at Catherine eating quietly at the end of the table. Her lustrous black hair was tied in a headdress of black ribbons, and she looked singularly beautiful in the black satin gown Henry had given her. She sat lost in thought amid the chatter, engulfed in a cloud of profound sorrow. Pity twisted my heart once again. She was the highest in rank in the land after Henry’s mother and my two little princesses, and royal blood coursed in her veins. Everything was still possible for her. But she had refused to divorce Perkin. No matter what he confessed publicly, she believed he was who he claimed. For she loved him.
Love . . .
I shut my eyes on the memory.
AT YULETIDE MY BELOVED SON, ARTHUR, AGAIN RETURNED from Wales. He had grown taller since we last met, and he had the maturity that belonged to someone far older than his mere eleven years. I took his arm in the cobbled court at Sheen, and we walked together along the wide riverbank.
“What of this pretender—Perkin?” asked Arthur. “Father still seems rather unsettled by the whole business.”
“He is,” I murmured softly.
“But Perkin is a pretender, is he not?”
I heaved an audible breath. “Your father is unsure. There are—there are indications that he might be your Uncle Dickon. You know of Maximilian’s offer?”
He nodded.
I regarded my dark-haired boy strolling languidly at my side. How much he reminds me of Richard! I blinked to banish the flash of wild grief that swept me. “What would you do, if you were in your father’s place?”
“ ’Tis not an easy place to be, and I cannot say for sure, you understand? But I would probably demand the most favorable trade terms for England that I could obtain from the Low Countries. To further assure Maximilian‘s good faith, I would seek a large annuity. This, in addition to the letters patent of assurances and oaths he has already promised renouncing all claims to the English throne, should prove sufficient. Then I’d send the pretender and his wife back to Burgundy.”
“Oh, Arthur, my sweet son,” I whispered. “What a fine king you shall make one day.”
Yuletide festivities drew me to court more often now that Arthur was here, for I had no wish to miss a moment in his company. I clapped and laughed for the mummers, tumblers, and troubadours in a way I had not done for a long time. Yet my eye kept stealing to Henry’s golden, strangely elegant captive strolling about the halls with his guards at his side. Unarmed, they resembled servants, which was Henry’s intention. Crushed and beaten, the pretender was being exhibited at court as a token of Henry’s utter confidence that no one would take him for anything but a fraud. He had given Perkin a trumpeter, and every so often, the man would sound his notes as if the king were coming. Then Perkin would appear, and all the court would laugh.
Many times I caught Harry and his friends tormenting the young man. I always put a stop to their cruelty, but I never spoke directly to Perkin. I knew Henry did not wish it, and besides, something held me back. For the same reason, though Catherine Gordon tended me and was at my side daily, we remained formal with one another and avoided mention of her husband. He was a dangerous subject for her, and I had no
wish to stir more uncertainty for myself than I already felt. Sometimes at night I’d resolve to ask her about Perkin’s birthmark. But in the morning, sanity always returned.
What if she lies to protect him?
What if she tells me the truth?
What if it has faded with adulthood so that she never knew of it?
Or Henry has burned it off, or cut it out, so it can no longer be proven?
No, ’tis best to leave the subject untouched.
If Mother had trusted me enough to give me the password, I could have known the truth.
It is as it is, I sighed in my misery.
THERE WAS MUCH TO CELEBRATE IN THIS MONTH of December 1497, and the palace halls rang with merriment as we drank to Perkin’s capture, to Arthur’s proxy marriage to the princess of Spain, and to Henry’s truce with James IV. Though Margaret Beaufort took my right at banquets, and Arthur sat on Henry’s left, I could hear my son’s voice, and the occasional glance he threw me from around his father filled me with delight.
Arthur was a grave and serious boy, much given to books. I thought again of Richard, who had driven himself mercilessly, always striving to do his best for his people, depriving himself of much joy of life in order to tend his duties. I didn’t want that to happen to Arthur.
“Idleness is not a sin, Arthur,” I told him, as we sat in the solar with the family and friends. “We must enjoy life, my sweet son, for time has a habit of flying from us. ’Tis good to sit in reflection and contemplate God’s creation. If you bury yourself in work all day, you have no time for what is necessary to your soul.”
I looked at six-year-old Harry spinning a four-sided disk like a top as he played a game of All or Nothing with Maggie on the colorful tiled floor. No such worries about him, I thought. ’Tis all about pleasure for Harry. He loved his lute, loved to dance, to ride his horse and best his brother at jousting. He wrestled the servants to the floor to the delight of his sisters, but he didn’t know they didn’t wish to win, for that would incur one of his famous fits of temper.
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 33
