No concerns, either, about Maggie, I thought. She was already tall at eight, and in addition to the love of gambling she had inherited from her father, her favorite delight was flirting with boys.
As we feasted on dishes of trout, roasted pheasant, mutton richly garnished in sauce, and eel in gelatin, I stole a glance at Henry’s new pet monkey with the white-whiskered face, which he led around by a leather collar and chain. It was full of amusing tricks and had become Henry’s constant companion, especially when he played at cards and dice, for Henry felt it brought him good fortune. For this banquet, the monkey he called Prince had appeared in a crimson velvet doublet. Everyone knew the intent was to mock the pretended “prince,” Perkin. I thought it was a particularly cruel jest, and my heart went out to the young man, and to Catherine Gordon, who seemed near tears all through dinner.
That same night, as we sat in the royal apartments at Sheen, around Compline, suddenly servants yelled, “Fire in the king’s chambers! Fire—fire!”
We dropped our games and books, gathered our pet dogs, and raced to the hallway. I turned toward Henry’s chambers and gasped. Flames were sweeping the rushes on the floor and crackling up the costly wall hangings. Already smoke choked the room as carpets and tapestries caught alight.
“The children!” I screamed, running to the nursery with Kate at my side. We reached the threshold breathlessly. Men-at-arms roused Harry and Maggie from their beds, and Kate grabbed her children, Edward and Henry, and we all fled into the garden. Standing in the darkness, we watched the flames soar as men climbed to the roofs with buckets of water.
“Is someone trying to kill us?” Harry asked sleepily.
I smoothed his tousled hair. “No, Harry, of course not,” I said. But I couldn’t help wondering.
The fire raged for three hours, and plumes of black smoke billowed forth from the windows. Much of Sheen was destroyed. Standing beside me, Henry watched it burn.
“I shall rebuild an even more splendid palace,” he vowed, “and name it Richmond.”
CHAPTER 24
The White Rose, 1498
WE CELEBRATED HENRY’S FORTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY IN January, and in February, my thirty-second. On Shrove Tuesday, the day before Lent, we feasted on puddings, pastries, and exotic delicacies served with flourishes of the clarion between courses. In the royal park and the village green, as they had done for centuries, boys spent the day in cockfights, and also “throwing at cocks,” a game in which they hurled sticks at their target from a distance until they killed it. Seven-year-old Harry, whose arms and chest were unusually strong for his age because of his consuming passion for sports, slew more birds than any other child and was proclaimed the winner, to his great pride.
Maundy Thursday followed Ash Wednesday, and as was my custom, I distributed to poor women the shoes I had collected for them all year. A week later, tender spring broke into splendor across the land. Birds twittered in the branches and the earth shrugged off its dismal gray for the lime palette of glorious rebirth. To celebrate the advent of May, we decorated the palace with hawthorn branches and watched maidens dance around the gilded Maypole. In the evenings we played dice and card games of Triumph, Torment, and Who Wins Loses. It was the season of tournaments, and as June neared, the blare of trumpets and clash of steel could be heard around Windsor.
All the while Perkin was with us: free, yet captive, for invisible silken chains bound him as securely as iron fetters. He strolled around Westminster Palace at apparent liberty, his two guards that passed for servants at his side, but he could not escape the mockery and disdain that followed him wherever he went.
At Greenwich, after breakfast in the Great Hall, as I gave my orders for the day to my steward, my glance kept stealing to Perkin standing with Catherine Gordon in a far corner of the Great Hall by one of the tall mullioned windows that lay open to the breeze from the cool river. The splashing of a fountain and melodic notes of a lute could be heard in the garden below, but Perkin and Catherine Gordon seemed oblivious to everything except one another. Then Perkin lifted his hand and gently tucked a stray lock of hair away behind Catherine’s ear. She smiled up at him.
They are like a pair of turtledoves in a gilded cage, I thought. Perkin had to be in torment. He could set his eyes on the woman he loved and hold her hand, but he couldn’t provide for her as a husband should, or make her his again in the way ordained by nature. He did not know what had become of their little son, and he was a jest at court, as much as Dick the fool, or Patch, or Henry’s monkey. Children laughed and threw rotten fruit in his direction before running away, and servants scowled and spat after him as he passed. Yet he endured his humiliation with dignity.
As for Catherine Gordon, she remained true to her husband through all Henry’s efforts to woo her. Again, Henry had offered to obtain a divorce for her, but she declined, saying Perkin would always have her heart. Henry had a riding cloak made for himself in tawny velvet edged with black satin, and sent her a matching gown with a kirtle of black worsted, and ribbons for her girdle. He even gave her a set of hose lined with soft white gauze, a gift of the most intimate nature. She had returned all his presents with fair words, explaining that she expected to remain in mourning forever. The implication was clear. She would have none other than the captive who was her husband, though a king sought her heart.
Another round of painful memories assailed me, and I recalled the days of my youth; that time of hope, dreams, and darkness when I felt my blood warm, when I ached with longing for what I knew was impossible to have and had better never mention.
I realized with a start that my steward had asked me a question. “What did you say?” I asked him, for the servants made much noise as they cleared the room, and one had dropped the trestle table he was removing.
“You will receive petitioners after luncheon until Nones, my queen? Is three hours not tiring for you?”
“I thank you for your concern, but I can manage it today.” I gave him a smile and added, “Pray, request Doctor de Puebla to come to me.”
He withdrew with a bow. I moved to the window. As I waited for de Puebla, I stole sidelong glances at Perkin and Catherine Gordon, far down along the wall, turning over in my mind my conversation with Kate the previous morning.
“Henry’s besotted with her,” Kate had said. “Anyone can see that. He follows her around with lovesick eyes.”
“He had Bernard Andre write an account of his meeting with her,” I had replied. “In Andre’s version, he is the powerful and compassionate king rescuing a grateful royal maiden from the clutches of the lying wastrel who abducted her. He’s over forty now, and ’tis clearly the pathetic fantasy of an old man. He carries the scene around with him hidden in a plain brown leather book, and reads it as I play the harp for him in my chamber, thinking I do not know what it is.”
Kate regarded me with pained eyes. “How do you feel about that, Elizabeth?”
And how did I feel about it? “Grieved, naturally.” And angry. Angrier than I cared to admit.
“But you don’t love him. You never have. Doesn’t that make a difference?”
I gave a sigh. Kate was right; not loving Henry should make it easier to bear, but it didn’t. “Aye, but we have shared much together, and now I am forced to watch him make a fool of himself—and of me—over this poor girl.”
Kate had placed her hand gently on mine. “I don’t know how you bear it all.”
I endure it as I have endured all that has come my way, I thought; I seek comfort in prayer, and somehow find strength to abide what God has chosen to send me.
I tore my eyes from the young couple down the hall and forced myself to focus on de Puebla, who approached. He bowed before me, and I gave him my hand to kiss.
“Doctor de Puebla, the matter I wish to discuss is this,” I said. “I have spoken to my lord King Henry about your money troubles, dear ambassador, and we believe we have found a way for you to dispose of them permanently.” I gave him a smile. “Doctor de Pueb
la, King Henry wishes to offer you a bishopric. A rich diocese would provide you the means of living as well as any lord.”
As I awaited de Puebla’s answer, from the corner of my eye I saw Harry’s new tutor, John Skelton, appear in the arched entry at the opposite end of the room. He was Margaret Beaufort’s appointee, a poet whose credentials from Oxford and Cambridge had brought him to her attention. He had been a fixture around court since 1495, writing and reciting his rhymes along with Andre. In his black gown and round cap, with his darting eyes and sharp little movements, he reminded me of a bat. Catching sight of Perkin and Catherine Gordon, he swooped around and dived on them, a dark look on his face.
De Puebla gave me a low bow. “Your Grace, your offer is beyond generous. I know not what to say—”
I took his hand in my own. “Accept, Doctor de Puebla.”
“How I wish I could, beloved and gracious queen! But first I must seek the permission of my masters, the King and Queen of Spain. I cannot offend them.”
“Absolutely, my dear doctor. We shall await your decision.” I intended to leave, but my eye fell on Skelton. Unaware of my presence at the far end of the hall, he was shouting at Perkin. A fragment of what he said reached my ear. “How dare you—naught but a fart!”
I blushed at his words. De Puebla turned to look down the room at him. Nearby, my ladies-in-waiting ceased their chatter. I called to Lucy. She left the group and came to my side.
“Pray inform Lady Gordon that we much enjoyed our game of cards last evening and wish her to sup with us tonight in our private chamber,” I said.
A knowing look came into Lucy’s eyes, for it was a way not only to alert Skelton to my presence, but also to remind him of my favor toward Perkin’s wife. She gave me a curtsy and departed on her errand.
“Your Grace,” de Puebla said softly, “I have never met a more tenderhearted and kinder queen.” Hastily, he added,“Excepting my own Queen Isabella, of course. I am certain it shall greatly comfort the princess Catherine of Aragon to know what blessing she shall find in you when she is far from Spain.”
“I look forward to welcoming her as my own daughter.” I smiled.
My gaze went back to Lucy. She had approached Lady Gordon, and now the entire group turned to me. Skelton colored and threw me a low bow before quitting the room. Lady Gordon fell into a graceful curtsy. Perkin’s face I could not read, but I thought I saw anguish in his gaze, reflecting my own feelings when I looked at him. De Puebla waited with me while Lucy spoke to Perkin and Catherine.
“What was the problem?” I asked when she returned.
“It appears that Perkin was teaching little Henry Courtenay the skill of harping the other day, and Master Skelton did not take kindly to that. He regards music as his purview and feels that Perkin overstepped his abilities and the bounds of propriety by so doing.”
“I thank you, Lucy,” I said. “By your leave, Doctor de Puebla, I must prepare for my duties this day.” I inclined my head to him.
Troubled by Skelton, I made a detour to my chambers past Harry’s schoolroom. Coarse and petty, filled with his own self-importance, Skelton was kind and complimentary to those he liked, but spiteful and vindictive to those who displeased him. In a quarrel with a fellow poet, he’d dedicated a verse to him that said, in part:
Hidden in my hose,
I have a rose
that is perfect for your Scottish nose.
As I approached, I heard Harry asking a question to which Skelton replied. But I did not know what they discussed until I drew near.
“There shall always be plots and rebellions as long as your cousin, the Earl of Warwick, lives. Indeed, as long as Warbeck lives! Repeat what I have told you.”
“ ’Tis better that one man die,” Harry responded dutifully, “so more do not perish.”
“Exactly.”
I gave a gasp and halted my steps. Skelton condones murder. He is teaching Harry how to kill with a clean conscience, and never feel the blood on his hands! I was reminded of his scathing poem to another of his many enemies in which he said he would exult to see him butchered at Tyburn. I willed myself forward. As I came into view, Skelton, Harry, and Henry Courtenay all scrambled to their feet. They bowed, and I set my gaze at a point past Skelton’s head, so that I would not have to look at him.
“Your Grace,” Skelton said, “Prince Harry is a brilliant pupil, superior to any I taught at Oxford or Cambridge. He is a delightful small new rose. One who is half god, born of kingly stock.”
Harry beamed, but Skelton’s effusive flattery offended me. Brilliant Harry certainly was, but he already had an exalted opinion of himself and such words only fanned his resentment of his secondary place in the order of things. Skelton presented Henry to him as the divine instrument to end a century of conflict, and Harry was growing up to believe his father’s propaganda that the Tudor children had a unique relationship with God and were the offspring of a miracle. He was jealous of Arthur and extremely competitive with everyone else, and these were worrisome traits in a prince who would wield the kind of power Harry would inherit.
“You speak of ideals and you have instilled a delight of literature in Prince Harry, but much of what children learn is by example,” I said pointedly.
He bowed again.
He knew I was without influence, and though he caught my meaning, he would likely not change his behavior. I left them, more troubled than before. This man of low virtue did not make a suitable tutor for a prince. I debated whether to complain to Henry. There would be a confrontation with Margaret Beaufort naturally, and unpleasantness would surely follow. No it was best to remain silent and have peace. Besides, what good would it do? My opinion is ignored when it conflicts with hers. He had given her the responsibility of educating our children, for it kept her too busy to meddle in his affairs of state.
My helplessness weighed on me all day, and in a state of despondency, I took to my bed immediately after dinner. Even so, the next day,Trinity Sunday, the ninth of June, broke too soon. Before I was ready, as if in a dream, I heard sounds of confusion: voices calling, the patter of running feet, mumbling, and weeping.
Someone shook me. “Wake up, wake up!” they cried.
I opened my eyes. Kate was gazing down at me urgently. I raised myself to an elbow. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Perkin! It’s Perkin! He’s escaped!”
Henry seemed strangely unconcerned when he came to visit me in my chamber later that evening.
“How could Perkin escape when he sleeps with two guards in your wardrobe on a high floor?” I inquired, trying not to seem suspicious as I embroidered at my loom.
“Someone was careless,” Henry replied. “They left the window open.”
“Why would he even try to escape? Where can he go? He has no money, no friends. He knows it’s hopeless.”
“He always runs away. From Tournai, from Ireland, from Scotland. ’Tis what he does.”
It was a particularly unsatisfactory reply, and Henry knew it.
“To run away in his circumstances is stupid, and Perkin is no fool,” I persisted. “He speaks Latin and four other languages; he writes and reads, and plays three musical instruments. He rides well and knows how to handle knightly weapons. That would make him a genius for a boatman’s son.”
“He knows these arts because your aunt trained him!” Henry exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “I will thank you to keep out of my business, madame.” He swung on his heel and left my chamber.
I gazed after him. There was something sinister about Perkin’s escape. Henry was in love with Perkin’s wife, and he had the power to rid himself of his rival. Why would he not use it? Especially as Isabella and Ferdinand had finally sent back their reply.
Their advice to Henry was that as long as Perkin Warbeck and Edward, Earl of Warwick, lived, they could not send their daughter to wed Arthur.
PERKIN WAS RECAPTURED FOUR DAYS LATER AND taken to the Tower to be lodged in the cell directly beneath E
dward, Earl of Warwick. After a private audience with Henry, Catherine Gordon was deprived of all her servants save one. The general consensus held that she’d had something to do with helping her husband escape. I knew that was not so. Henry was punishing her because she rejected his advances even now, when her husband was lost to her forever.
I was swept with sorrow for the young beauty.
In July, a delegation arrived from my Aunt Margaret, headed by the high-ranking Bishop of Cambrai. In a corner of my chamber, with the door and windows closed to eavesdroppers, de Puebla confided to me what he had witnessed.
“On Monday morning, July thirtieth, King Henry himself conducted me and the bishop to the Tower. The bishop asked for Perkin to be brought out, so he could see him and talk to him. It seems your aunt, the Duchess of Burgundy, wished to find out how he was. ’Tis said she is so restlessly unhappy about Perkin’s plight that she is willing to do anything, make any promises, to persuade King Henry to return Perkin to her. Her only hope is that Cambrai can still save her White Rose.”
“Was he brought out?”
De Puebla nodded, but fell silent.
“Did you see him?”
De Puebla nodded once again.
“How is he?” I pressed, swept with a terrible sense of unease.
De Puebla heaved an audible sigh and let it out slowly. “He is much changed, my queen. I almost didn’t recognize him. He is . . . He is desfigurado. They have broken his face.”
My eyes widened with horror.
“He cannot live much longer,” De Puebla added softly.
I made my way to a chair, and collapsed.
De Puebla averted his gaze from me. “He was brought in wearing foot shackles and the kind of neck and hand manacles wild animals have when performing.” He hesitated a moment before he went on. “In the Chapel of Our Lady he was made to kneel in his chains and solemnly swear before the Bishop of Cambrai that Duchess Margaret knew—as he himself knew—that he was not who he said he was—” He broke off.
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