Every drop of blood seems to drain from my head, the room tips. I stagger, grope for the chair behind me and lower myself awkwardly into it.
“The king is safe, Your Grace,” the boy assures me. He is on his knees, terrified at his breach of trust, fearful of the king’s ire when he discovers it. I blink at him, try to force his swimming features into some semblance of order.
“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “Thank you for your honesty. The king will never know that I am aware of what has happened.”
The boy grovels at my feet, kissing the hem of my skirt, babbling gratitude while my maid of honour frantically dabs my forehead with a damp sponge.
“Go.” I push her hand away, wave the messenger from my presence, suddenly irritated. “I want to be alone.”
The girl doesn’t leave. She fusses around me, loosening my bodice, fanning my face as she frantically seeks to draw me from the brink of oblivion.
“The king will come home now,” I murmur, half to myself, but I am mistaken, he does not come home. Stubbornly he continues his progress, making light of the brush with disaster. He writes from time to time with news of pageants and shows of adulation from the people, but never once does he mention the attempt on his life. From Bristol he writes to me of the poverty there and his promise to build ships, to make the English fleet the best in Europe.
I do not let the Lady Margaret know that I have discovered the truth, and she does not confide in me again. I guess that Henry has instructed her not to. It is through other means that I hear of the warrant put out for Lovell’s arrest and his flight into hiding. I remember Francis Lovell; he was my uncle’s loyal friend. I know his wife, Anna, a gentle home-loving woman. She must be fretting for her husband but there is nothing I can do to save him. Not now he has made an enemy of the king.
My informants also say, although I find it difficult to believe, that Henry has ordered the Stafford brothers dragged from sanctuary at Culham Abbey. Their trial, I am sure, will involve an equal lack of mercy. My dreams are haunted by the screams of dying Yorkists.
The following weeks are fraught with discomfort. The child swells in my womb, my head aches, and I am constantly on my knees praying for the safety of my husband. I seek refuge in my mother’s chamber and lieacross her bed with my head in her lap. I am finding more and more lately that I want to retreat into childhood, when the sanctuary offered by her lap was secondary only to that afforded by my father. In the face of my fear, Mother remains serene as if she knew no harm would come of the rebellion.
“There is never any peace for those in power,” Mother says as she massages my temples. “Your father would have said it was nothing but a fart in the wind, Elizabeth. There is no need to fret.”
Her musical voice lulls me into a half sleep, the familiar scent of her bed, the light touch of her fingers making me believe the past few years have been nothing but a dream, and I’ll wake any moment, safe in my father’s court.
Winchester ― September 1486
Nobody told me it would be like this and there is a moment when, with his head stuck fast in my nethers, I think I will never bring the child forth alive. The poppy seed and tansy they feed me offers little relief and my prayers to St Margaret bring no reprieve. My world is a nightmare, a swirling, spinning animal existence of pain and punishment. My body is failing, my knees knock, my back breaks and the blankets are drenched with sweat and blood and tears. I cannot go on.
Someone pours moisture onto my lips; I grab at the cup, take great gulps of water so that it runs down my chin and soaks my nightgown. Then the pain returns with the grip of the devil. I whimper, gripped with a mightier pain than ever before.
Mother comes forward, takes both my hands and forces me to kneel upright as if in prayer. Behind me I hear the soft drone of my ladies asking St Margaret of Antioch to send me the strength to bring forth a healthy child.
“Push, Elizabeth,” she demands. “Push, push like a daughter of York. Push as if you are having a shit.” There is no time to be surprised at her crudity. Her teeth are clenched as she bears down with me, her gown as damp with sweat as mine, her flaxen hair fallen about her face that shows each exhausted line. I grip her tightly, I clench my teeth as she is doing and, screaming and bawling like a cow in the byre, I push harder than I have before. My child shifts in the birth canal, startling me, making me realise I have the power to do this. I am Queen of England and I will give them a son of York.
The pain relents just for a moment. I squat, still clinging to my mother’s hands, and I wriggle my hips as she has instructed. The child shifts again and, when the next pain assaults me, with a great scream I force my son out of my body and into my mother’s waiting hands.
I fall forward onto my face, fighting for breath while my women scrabble behind me. There are hands on my buttocks, my thighs, warm wet fluid flowing all around us, the sweet sharp smell of new life flooding the chamber.
While the midwife washes and binds him tight, my son squawks like a piglet. I am still panting and weak when they put him to my breast. I look down at his battered face, his bruised nose and blood-clotted hair, and with a shock, I realise he is the image of his father.
We name him Arthur, after the king of old. The name makes me think of my brothers who loved to listen to stories of Arthur and his knights. I push the painful thought of them away and lower my lips to my son’s head. I inhale the heady scent of infant and my senses swim with contentment.
I have all I need.
Arthur is sleeping now, his eyes shut tight, his rosebud lips making sucking motions as if he dreams of my breast. Soon they will take him from me and lay him in his vast gold-encrusted crib of state, but for now I snuggle him close and sink further beneath the covers.
I must make the most of him. The wet nurse is coming tomorrow. Since Arthur is heir to the throne, Henry’s mother insists everything must be done by The King’s Book. Left to my own devices I could probably persuade my husband to allow me a few more weeks with my son, but I know better than to ask it. It has long been the convention for the royal princes to be raised separately from their mothers. At least he will be nearby for a while but, in time, he will have his own household, away from court. Henry suggests Ludlow on the Welsh border is a suitable residence for the Prince of Wales, and even though my heart weeps at the thought, I do not demur. That day is in the future, for now Arthur is here with us, and I must make the most of it.
I watch Henry with our son, counting his long perfect fingers, feeling his strong kick and although he doesn’t say so, I know I have done well.
Chapter Eleven
Boy
Overijsse ― May 1487
A bead of sweat trickles from Brampton’s brow and into his eyes, giving the boy a chance to undercut his guard. A clash of steel and with a grunt of defeat Brampton stumbles backward to land on his backside in the bracken. “Ha!” The boy waves the tip of his sword before his instructor’s face. “I have you.”
“So it seems.” Brampton shakes his wet hair and with a wary finger guides the sword-point away from his nose. The boys steps back, reaches out a hand to help him to his feet. “You have made progress since my last visit.”
“I’ve been practicing daily. One of the lay brothers was a soldier in another lifetime. He is still agile enough with the sword to keep me on my toes.”
The boy flops onto his knees in the grass and fumbles beneath his discarded jerkin for the wineskin. He tilts back his head and, as he drinks, Brampton notices the strong sinews of his neck, the large Adam’s apple that speaks of encroaching manhood. The boy hands over the wine and Brampton drinks with him.
Here, where the pine trees form a dense circle about the clearing, the boy is relaxed; there is no sign of his former anxiety. Brampton notices a new confidence. The boy is growing up, maturing into a handsome young man with a striking resemblance to his father. Already, he is better educated than Brampton and his sword skills look set to soon match his.
Throughout his ye
ars here at the remote monastery, the Duchess has sent regular tutors both to entertain and to teach the boy courtly manners. He will be an all-rounder; the Duchess has ensured that he can dance, fight, sing and play. It seems that, like his father, he has a natural talent for making people love him. When the day comes for him to go to court and reveal his true identity, the women will fall at his feet.
“How long are you staying this time?” the boy asks. He is lying on his stomach, a blade of grass between his teeth, the sun glinting on his bright hair. Brampton, resting on one elbow, looks at the clear blue sky and has no wish to leave.
“I have no need to be in Lisbon until July. I may stay a few weeks.”
“Then we can practice every day.” The boy rolls on to his back, his long hair falling away from his face, the strong bones of his jaw prominent. “I dislike being in the classroom when the weather is fine.”
“I will be black and blue.” Brampton ruefully rubs his buttocks and the boy laughs.
“At least you can’t scold me for not being committed.” He plucks another blade of grass and examines the emerald green beetle that clings to it. As the creature trundles to the end, the boy turns the blade and forces it to travel back the other way. The insect follows his directive for long moments, running back and forth on the same path until, either bored or frustrated, it flies suddenly away. The boy watches it go before turning his attention back to the conversation. “What news is there from home?”
Brampton begins to speak, hesitates, and clears his throat before opening his mouth again. The boy is immediately alert. He sits up, leans closer. “What is it? What has happened? Is my mother well? My sisters?”
“They are fine, as far as I know. No, there is another matter. A curious thing has happened.”
The boy is kneeling now, leaning forward, his loose white shirt stained with grass. The lacings gape at the collar, revealing his chest, which is not yet quite that of a man. A trickle of perspiration hurries down his throat and settles in the hollow of his neck.
“A fellow has turned up in Dublin, claiming to be young Warwick. He has challenged Tudor’s throne, declared himself King of England.”
“What?” The boy sits up, his eyes crinkled incredulously. “Warwick? You said he is in the Tower.”
“So he is, as far as I know. Maybe Henry has some innocent locked up in his place, I don’t know.”
The boy frowns, his eyes darting about Brampton’s face as he digests the information.
“Where did you hear this?”
“I got it from a contact. You don’t need to know the details.” Brampton brings his knees up and loops his arms around them. “They are now claiming he is Edward of Warwick, but I am told in the beginning they declared him to be you.”
“Me? Who the devil is he?”
Brampton shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine but Lovell and Lincoln are backing him. He has mustered an army.”
The boy jumps up, his face red with indignation. “That is tantamount to treason!”
Brampton looks up at him silhouetted against the blue sky. In his rage he looks every inch the fellow his father was in his youth; tall and strong and a match for any man. Even though he is just a boy, Brampton would think twice before fighting him in earnest.
“Tudor is certainly seeing it as such.”
The boy emits a humourless laugh. “I didn’t mean it was treason against Tudor. I meant treason against myself. Lovell and Lincoln should follow no one but me!”
“But they think you are dead, boy.”
The boy’s eyes narrow, his chin juts forward. “But I am not dead, am I? And if I am ever to reclaim what is rightfully mine I need the men of York to fight for me, not waste their blood over some pretender. What is to happen now? Is he marching on London? Will there be a fight?”
Brampton shrugs.
“I await news. I cannot tell the future. We will watch and wait and the outcome will help us decide what our next move should be. A messenger is due from your aunt, who has spies everywhere. You know, she wants you to join her at court very soon.”
“Leave here? For her court? Soon?” The boy’s eyes are shadowed, suddenly shifty as if he does not relish the thought. Brampton sits up straighter.
“I thought that would please you.”
“Oh, yes. It does, it does. I just … no matter.”
“Come, we should get back. I will need to take a bath before Mass. I stink like a mule.”
The boy looks into the wood, his mind distracted, his brow troubled.
“I will follow after,” he says. “I want to check if there are rabbits in my traps.”
Brampton picks up his doublet and tosses it over his shoulder. He had no idea the boy had taken to rabbiting.
“I will see you at dinner,” he says as his charge meanders into the wood.
The boy raises a casual hand but Brampton doesn’t leave at once. He watches as the boy passes into the shadow, sees him shrug into his jerkin and pick up his pace, heading for the track that leads into the wood. And then, as Brampton makes to turn away, his eye is taken by a movement in the trees. He squints into the sun and sees a figure emerge. They meet in a shaft of sunlight and the boy slips an arm around her shoulder before they disappear into the covert.
*
“Must you go, Peterkin?”
The boy extricates himself from her arms and dries his lips that are wet from her kisses.
“I must. I have duties, and so do you.” He pushes her playfully and she laughs up at him from the meadow grass. There are seeds and twigs in her hair, the mark of his mouth on her white throat. His heart twists at the thought that soon he will be forced to leave her for good and reside at his aunt’s court. Marin will stay behind, become the wife of someone else, grow fat with another man’s children, roughened and embittered by her peasant lifestyle. He wishes he could take her with him but his world is not for her.
For weeks now they’ve met daily, at first just talking and walking until he plucked up the courage to hold her hand. Hand holding soon emboldened him to sink with her into the long grass, the sweetness of her body encouraging him to touch and kiss. But he’d been careful not to harm her. She was young and a virgin still, although for how much longer he could not promise.
Each time they embraced she allowed him further liberties, and sometimes it seemed he would drown in her softness. It was harder and harder to withdraw.
He turns reluctantly away from her, pulls on his jerkin while she arranges her petticoats and tugs up her bodice. When she is safely covered he pulls her to her feet, kisses the tip of her nose and sends her on her way.
She runs along the dwindling path and, as soon as he can no longer glimpse the whiteness of her cap through the trees, he turns on his heel and heads for the monastery.
Chapter Twelve
Elizabeth
Westminster – March 1487
Cousin Margaret pulls me casually to one side to whisper in my ear. Her tight grip on my forearm is the only sign of her agitation. At first I can make no sense of her words, her breath buzzes in my ear, making me shiver involuntarily.
“Lincoln has fled court.”
Our mutual cousin, John of Lincoln, has seemed content to serve Henry since the king pardoned him. As Richard’s heir, he could have been punished with the rest of them. I had thought he was grateful for his life. Just last week I danced with him and found no sorrow or discontent in his manner. He seemed to be forgetting and beginning to move forward, but it seems I was mistaken. I squeeze Margaret’s hand and draw her with me to my mother’s side. Mother looks up from her Bible, surprise wrinkling her high clear brow. “Is anything wrong?”
“Margaret tells me John has fled England.”
She closes her eyes slowly and smiles at me condescendingly as if I am still a child.
“And that surprises you? You thought he was content to play second fiddle? He is for York, as always.”
She lowers her eyes back to her book and I realise she is no
t surprised. More to the point, she knew it was going to happen. How can she be so disloyal? I snatch away her book and hiss through my teeth so as not to arouse the suspicion of my women.
“Did you know of this? Are you involved in it?”
Mother’s lips tighten and she reaches out to reclaim her book.
“I am not involved, no. Let us say, I guessed something like this would happen. York will never lie quiet under Lancastrian rule.”
A fine line of perspiration coats her upper lip and she isn’t looking at me. I fear she is lying. I sink to my knees and grip her hands, wrenching her attention from her book.
“Mother, if you are in any way culpable, I will not be able to save you. You must not get involved. Henry does not listen to me.”
“No.” She cannot hide her disdain. She looks up from the page, closing the book but keeping a finger between the leaves. We regard each other for a long moment.
“Have you betrayed me, Mother, and my son? Does the blood of York not flow strong enough in us?”
A slight movement of her head suggests the negative but I don’t know if she is denying the betrayal or the potency of my son’s Plantagenet blood.
I open my mouth to probe further but there is a disturbance at the door. The king’s mother and Cecily come sailing into the room. They make the necessary greeting and then, throwing courtesy to the winds, Cecily comes forward and grabs for my hand.
“Bessie, did you hear about Cousin John? They are saying he has fled to Burgundy, to Aunt Margaret who is launching a challenge on Henry’s throne. She has found a boy to head her army and she says he is Warwick.”
“My brother?” Margaret interjects. “But that is absurd, everyone knows the king has him prisoner.” She flashes a look at Lady Margaret, half rebellious, half fearful.
The king’s mother’s smile does not falter. “Not a prisoner, my dear. My son merely keeps your brother safe from the grasp of unscrupulous people like your aunt, who would undermine our rule.”
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 7
