She is pretty, plump and pink and probably fragrant. She kneels at his feet, her skirts swelling around her and begins to untie his laces, glancing up at him from time to time as she works. Her head is covered by her cap but at the nape of her neck a few strands of red hair have escaped. He imagines it flowing, cinnamon red and fragrant, about her shoulders. She looks up again and, from his advantaged position, he can see the swell of her young breasts above her bodice, a pulse in the base of her throat. The shape of her chin, the youthful curve of her cheek reminds him of Marin and loneliness floods him.
“What is your name?” he asks gently and the girl blushes, her face turning as pink as the rapidly setting sun.
Chapter Fourteen
Elizabeth
Sheen Palace – August 1487
“Mother? What is happening?” I turn a circle in the centre of the chamber where my mother’s belongings are in disarray. Her clothing and books are piled into coffers as if she is preparing for a journey.
She turns to me, her face grey with sorrow.
“The king is sending me from court. It seems I am no longer welcome here.”
I move closer, my head whirling as if I am entering a nightmare.
“Not welcome? Why now? I don’t understand.”
I watch in disbelief as she picks up a shift, examines it for stains and discards it on the floor.
“Then you are a simpleton. Your husband has been slowly ousting my influence upon you. First, in February, he commandeered my holdings and gave me a pitiful pension of four hundred marks a year. Now he is sending me into seclusion at Bermondsey.” She sniffs and pulls off her hood, shakes out her hair. I see threads of silver that were never noticeable before.
“Bermondsey?”
The abbey lies across the river, opposite the Tower. There is not another abbey in England more suited to ensure she never forgets for a moment to think about the life she has lost and the suspected murder of her sons. Surely Henry and his mother have not picked it for that very reason? I try and fail to imagine my flamboyant mother cloistered in a nunnery, on her knees in prayer when she could be dancing. Why is Henry doing this? Why now?
“Has he given a reason?”
She shrugs, looks down at the heaped finery upon the bed. She gathers it up.
“I will give this to Cecily. I will have no need of it where I am going.”
I step closer, lay my hand on hers and wait until she raises her eyes to mine.
“Why now, Mother?”
“He seems to think I may have had something to do with this latest unrest … at Stoke.”
Unrest is putting it mildly; according to my informers the battle was wild and bloody. Although Henry pardoned any who surrendered to him, the conflict was fierce and the losses high. There is always too much blood in war.
“And did you?”
“Did I what?” Her eyes are indignant now, a hint of colour in her papery cheeks.
“Did you know of it? Did you intrigue against us?”
She pulls her arm away and marches to the outer chamber, ordering her women to hurry up with their allotted tasks. “And find my daughter Bridget and send her to me,” she demands. “I would have one daughter about me who has some faith in her mother.”
I follow her, halt halfway across the room. “I have to know, Mother. I have to know if I can trust you. I am your first born. How could you betray me, and my son? Are we not Plantagenets too?”
She refuses to answer. Even when I demand it in the name of queen. She gives me a derisive scowl and continues to sort her belongings, angrily throwing some upon the floor and stashing others in boxes. I watch for a while, as unwanted as her discarded linen. After a while I turn away, and hurry to my own apartments.
The fear that she may have plotted against me will not subside. I try to remember who visited her chamber regularly, the people she writes to, but I am not with her constantly enough to recall them all. As I gaze unseeing from the window, I realise I should share my fear with Henry but I know I won’t. As long as he is unsure of her involvement she is safe but, my mother or not, the moment he has proof of her duplicity, her life will be forfeit.
I miss her more than I thought. At first I try to persuade Henry of her innocence, but he is immoveable. Without her I am alone; it is not until she is gone that I realise how often I turned to her for support or advice. My sister Cecily has become too close to the king’s mother for me to prove a reliable confidante, and my cousin, Margaret, is married now and making ready to accompany her husband, Sir Richard Pole, to Ludlow where they will have the overseeing of Arthur’s care. I am wary that she may confide my secrets to her new husband. He is the king’s cousin and Margaret is already in despair at his refusal to intervene on her brother’s behalf. She says that he has no desire to embroil himself in politics, so poor little Edward of Warwick continues to live apart from all his kin in the grim keep of the Tower of London. I sometimes fear he will remain there for the rest of his life.
*
It is late when Henry pays an unexpected visit to my chamber and I am already half asleep. I have been head-achey and weepy all day and my heart sinks when he takes off his robe and slips naked beneath the sheet. I am not in the mood for his lovemaking but I know better than to demur.
I try to show willing while he grunts and sweats on top of me, but the glimmering attraction I once felt diminishes as my sadness increases. Since he deprived me of my mother I have known little else but sorrow, and even went so far as to ask for little Arthur to come to court. It seems this was wrong of me. Princes should be raised away from courtly intrigue, in a separate household to the king; it says so in the king’s mother’s precious book. When Henry has done, he rolls from my body to lie at my side. He is breathing heavily as we stare without seeing at the high canopy above us.
“Are you comfortable?”
I jerk my limbs irritably. Why does he always ask that? It is as if he feels his manhood is so vast that I am too weak to bear it. I hide my irritation and answer that I am well.
He pulls himself higher on the pillows and reaches for a cup on the nightstand.
“I thought we could begin preparation for your coronation soon.”
At first I think I have misheard. Like so many things, my coronation has long been a bone of contention between us. I had begun to believe he meant to dishonour his promise.
“That will please the people; it is long overdue.”
He slurps wine from his cup.
“A king cannot organise his queen’s crowning in the midst of a rebellion. The delay is their fault, not mine.”
I know that is not the complete truth. Henry has been reluctant to crown me until he himself felt secure. Now he has wiped out most of the lingering Yorkist party, he feels safe to go ahead.
“When is it likely to be?”
“I thought November. That should give us time to arrange everything.”
“Mother will be pleased. Do I have your permission to visit her and ask her to attend?”
A long silence, broken only by the crackling of the flames in the hearth and the slight wheeze of his breathing.
“You may visit but do not invite her. She must remain where she is, out of the public eye.”
I sit up, shocked from my usual controlled calm.
“Henry, she is my mother. How would you like it if your mother was not there?”
I cannot keep the resentment from my voice, and the words ‘your mother’ are replete with bitterness.
Henry remains unmoved. He turns cool hooded eyes upon me. “I would not like it at all, my dear,” he says. “But my mother’s loyalty is unshakeable. She would die for me.”
I slide from the bed, my hands shaking as I struggle into my robe.
“And that is what you want, is it, Henry? Complete subjection? Women who will die for you? Well, you won’t get it from me.”
The corridor, lit only by sconces, is dim; too dim for the guards to see my tears as I dash past them. I burst into
the chamber that Margaret shares with my other ladies and locating her with some difficulty, I drag her from her bed.
“What is it, Bess?” She stumbles after me, still stupid with sleep. The other women peer curiously from their pillows and I know that, come morning, my midnight breakdown will be on everyone’s lips.
We hurry to a small antechamber and I fall sobbing into a chair. I am shaking from head to toe. I have crossed the king, for the first time I have spoken out against him. He could cast me off; shut me up in a nunnery like he has my mother.
At last Margaret strikes a light, and the candle illuminates her like an angel of mercy. She opens her arms and I fall into them. Her grip is solid and warm as she tries to make sense of my garbled, frightened words.
*
Henry does not come near again. For weeks I hear nothing more of the coronation. I visit my mother and tell her my fears, but there is little she can do to reassure me.
“You should have kept calm. There is nothing inflames a man like indifference. Now he knows your weakness he will use it against you. Warwick, me, the future of your sisters, are all tools he will use to control you. You must learn to turn the other cheek.”
I sniff and wipe my eyes on the corner of my veil. Impatiently, she hands me a kerchief. She is right; Henry and his mother use our family as if we are counters in a game. Although my little sister Bridget has made it clear she wishes to become a nun, the king’s mother wants to marry her to James, the king of the Scots. In the past she has gone so far as to persuade Henry to offer my mother to the Scottish king,too. Scotland is too close for comfort and, should they ever become a real foe, their court would provide a perfect nest for our enemies. Henry is desperate to get King James on our side.
I look about my mother’s humble chamber. It is comfortable enough. There is glass in the windows and hangings on the wall, but compared with the majesty she is accustomed to, it is a bleak outlook; almost as bleak as my future.
I let out a gusty sigh and she takes my hands.
“Listen to me,” she says as she strokes my brow. “No matter what sorrows come, there are always methods for making our lives sweeter. Henry has not treated me so badly. I am warm and dry. I am alive. And things could have gone much worse for you. Outwardly, I am nothing more than his prisoner, yet in here,” she taps her temple, “I am as free as a bird. No man can tell us what to think.”
I blink up at her, the soft tone caressing and sweet, reminding me of the times as a child when I took a tumble in the garden and she picked me up to rub my knees. As the meaning behind her words becomes clear, I begin to feel a little better. She continues to speak and as she does so, something unleashes in my mind and I realise what I must do, how I must behave.
“He married you, didn’t he, when he could have kept you under lock and key? And now, you say he plans a coronation. You will be queen, you will have everything. Riches, fine clothes, jewels… Be grateful. It could be a lot worse. Don’t be a bull like your father was, be subtle and spin your womanly web like a spider about him, until he is yours.”
I find I am nodding, but then I remember the flaw in her plan.
“But he has not been near me in private for months, not since I crossed him.”
She laughs merrily at my simple mind.
“He will, my dear. He hungers for another son. No king is safe with just one; look at your father, he wasn’t secure with two. You are beautiful, royal blood flows in your veins, and Henry Tudor has always coveted both. He will come to you, once he finds he can no longer stay away.”
I lay my head on her shoulder, inhale her familiar scent. “I am glad we are friends again, Mother.”
I feel her body shake with mirth beneath me. “You are my daughter. I will always be your friend, come what may …”
I sit up. Our eyes meet, full of love, full of gladness, but as I gaze at her, I realise hers are shadowed. Her smile conceals deeper sorrows than I will ever know.
“Mother, do you know what became of Edward and Richard? Do they live still? I wish you’d tell me.” My voice is all but a whisper.
She pulls down a shutter between us and turns sadly away.
“If I knew they still lived, Elizabeth, I’d not tell you for you’d carry it straight to the king. Your son and mine place a barrier between us, but it is only a silken screen. It will not destroy the love I bear you. Be content with that.”
Chapter Fifteen
Boy
Malines, Brussels 1487
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 prome
nade. “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.
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 9
