He was unwilling at first but sleep was a master easily bested and soon he began to stiffen. She sat up, astride him, and with the early sun on her, she was like a goddess. Her red hair flowed like blood across her breasts as she leaned forward tantalisingly, the tips of her nipples inches from his mouth. Then she laughed, pushed herself upright again, lifting her hair behind her head and arching her back.
“You are a witch, mistress.” He spoke through his teeth, fighting for self-control as she raised herself up, coming gently down again to engulf him in her warmth. Tired as he was, he could not pull back.
It was once the loving had finished and they lay on top of the tumbled bedclothes that she really shattered him.
“I am carrying your child,” she said. “I am going to be in so much trouble with the Duchess.” Her cheeks glistened with tears, her lower lip trembled. “I am ruined,” she sobbed, and the boy did not contradict her for he knew that, were he not careful, the path of his life could be altered too.
Chapter Sixteen
Elizabeth
London – 23 November 1487
The river is alive with craft, and boats both small and large jostle to come close to the royal barge. Banners and streamers flutter in the breeze and the surface of the water is sparkling in the winter sun. I order the curtains to be drawn back further, lean forward in my seat and wave to the roaring crowd. All along the banks the people are calling my name, waving their arms. My face aches from smiling.
Close behind comes a splendid thing. A barge carrying a replica of the dragon Cadwaladr — it is huge, painted scarlet and gold, and as it moves slowly along the river it belches forth great spurts of fire. A terrifying thing.
Music fills the air, the finest musicians in the land — trumpets, clarions and drums. As we turn the bend in the river, the Tower comes into view, standing sentinel over London as it has since the Conqueror’s time. On the opposite bank I see Bermondsey Abbey, where my mother now resides. My heart falls a little and I wonder if she is watching. Just in case she can see me, I sit taller in my seat, raise my head and wave both hands. She will know my salute is for her, and her alone. It will fill her with joy to see me follow where she led. Her daughter crowned Queen of England after coming so close to ignominy.
Henry is not with me and it is probably just as well. He would not relish this outpouring of love from the public, the calls of “A York! A York!” that pepper the celebration.
He waits for me at Tower Wharf. As we draw close the tall dank walls shut out the sun and I shudder, draw my cloak close about me. When I alight from the barge, he takes my hand and kisses it and the crowd cheer again, their joy following us all the way to the LanthornTower where I am to be lodged. Henry is smiling and for once his good humour reaches his eyes.
That night a great reception is held in the hall and Henry, as is tradition, creates fourteen new Knights of the Bath. There is dancing, music and feasting. Beside me the king is in high good humour, he laughs and seems relaxed and happy, pleased with me. Once he even takes my hand beneath the table and squeezes it.
But later, when it is almost dawn and he comes to lay with me, I cannot respond as I would wish. I am so tired I lay like a wilting lily beneath him, and once he has done with me and rolls over into loud snores, I lieawake in the darkness.
The walls of the Tower seem to be breathing, they press down upon me. I imagine stifled cries, whispering voices, muffled footsteps. As I toss and turn, the remembered images of my brothers, whose crown I have stolen, sit in sulky vigil at the foot of my bed.
24 November 1487
In the morning, I am heavy-eyed and weary. I stifle yawns while my ladies, led by my sisters, dress me in white cloth of gold and a mantle furred with ermine. My hair is left loose, covered only by a coif of the new style, cross laced with a network of golden cord. Cecily, sombre for once, places a circlet of gold on my head to secure the coif. She clasps her hands and stands back to look at me.
“Oh Bessie,” she breathes. “I can scarce believe it is you.”
“It is me though, Cecy,” I whisper fervently, clasping her hand. I reach out for Margaret too, and my sisters, Anne and Catherine, and we all come together in a girlish huddle. “This isn’t just my day,” I tell them solemnly. “It is a day for all of us; for our mother, and for father, too. Think of them this day for they are here with us. This day is for York — our last day, for afterwards our house will be one with Tudor.”
It is a passionate speech that affects us all. Anne wipes away a tear and busies herself arranging my train, while Cecily turns to admire herself in the looking glass, tweaking the ends of her veil and biting her lips to redden them.
“Are you ready, Bessie?” Catherine offers me a kerchief and I tuck it into the pocket that is hidden among my sumptuous skirts.
“I am ready,” I say, taking a deep breath to dispel my emotion and calm my raging nerves. I stand upright, take a deep breath and remember how well Mother always bore herself on these occasions. I wish she could see me now. It breaks my heart that she is not here. I must relish every moment so that I may relate it all in detail when I see her next.
In great state we emerge from the Tower and make our way to the open litter that awaits us. It is hung with white cloth of gold to match my clothing, so when I am seated my conveyance appears to be an extension of my skirts. I am glad to find it is well cushioned and comfortable. A knight helps me aboard and I take my place amid the splendour. I am still arranging my skirts when the eight white horses lurch forward. I give a little cry and clutch the sides of the litter while the tassels on the great canopy, borne by four of the newly appointed Knights of the Bath, sway gently above me, as if they are dancing in joy.
My ladies, with Aunt Elizabeth to keep them in order, follow on behind in their own litter. Over the din of the crowd I occasionally hear Cecily’s high laughter and, although I dare not look round, I can imagine her waving and delighting in the moment, probably more than I am myself.
Catherine and Anne, who are by nature more sombre, will be more restrained. As we pass into the streets of Cheapside the cries from the populace, already great, grow louder. London is bedecked in ribbons, great tapestries have been hung and velvet and cloth of gold stream from every window.
There is so much to see. I turn my head this way and that, eager to miss nothing, reluctant to disappoint even one of the many who have come here to entertain me. We pass a company of angels; a group of little girls, chosen no doubt for their golden hair and angelic faces. One of them, however, overcome by the tumultuous celebration, has resorted to tears; her mouth is open, her eyes spouting water like a gargoyle on a church roof. Another girl, a little older, distracts her by pointing to me and the weeping child ceases sobbing, cuffs her nose, and waves.
I wave back but my attention is quickly taken by a fresh burst of music. I turn away from the children to a colourful band of musicians; beneath the shelter of a multi-coloured canopy, they let forth a symphony of joy. With my heart surging with love for the people of England, I lean back on my cushions, exhausted but happy. I am unsure how much longer I can wave and smile, and tomorrow will be another day just like this, only better. Tomorrow is my crowning day, the day I will at last feel the weight of England’s crown on my brow, as is my birthright.
25 November 1487 ― Westminster
“I wish you were coming with me.” Margaret is fixing the coif back into my hair. Her hands are gentle and should be calming but my stomach is knotted with nerves.
“I will be there watching with the king and his Lady mother. It is your day, Elizabeth; you are the woman upon whom everyone will be focussed. Besides, Cecily will be right behind you.”
At that moment my sister emerges from the closet dressed in a gown similar to my own but of a simpler cut and a different colour. The purple velvet I am wearing is only for princes. She pauses, one hand fiddling with the lacing of her cuff. “You look wonderful, Bessie. Very regal and not like my sister at all.”
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She comes forward and kisses me. “You look lovely too,” I say, putting my hand to my brow while Margaret teases a stubborn knot from my hair.
“I am glad it is bright again,” calls Anne from the window. “You need sunshine for a proper pageant. It would have been horrid to be crowned in the rain. Imagine if the poor people had to wait outside in the cold and damp, I am sure they’d never cheer so loudly and the hangings would be dripping wet.”
I too am thankful the weather is fine. It is cold, but the sky is clear and the air crisp. The sort of day that makes you glad just to be alive.
When the door opens and the king’s mother appears, my aunt Elizabeth, Duchess of Suffolk, claps her hands to gain our attention. The Lady Margaret runs a critical eye over us to make sure we are properly presented, and at her signal my women come forward to tie the purple velvet mantle around my shoulders. It is time to descend to the hall and take my position beneath the purple canopy and wait while the procession forms behind me. My throat is dry. Cecily is fussing with my hem.
“Remember, Bess, I will be right behind you.”
I smile my gratitude, lift my chin as high as I can and, just as I have practiced daily for the last few months, try to glide down the stairs as if I am on wheels.
They throw open the huge double doors and immediately the din of the crowd drenches me like a huge wave. The streets are lined with people, the air thick with good wishes. My heart surges and a lump builds in my throat.
I recall my father’s love for the people, the easy manner he adopted with them, and I wish I could do the same. I see a fleeting image of my mother-in-law’s outrage if I were to abandon decorum and go among the people to shake their hands and let them kiss my fingers. Those relaxed days of my father’s reign have gone now. The king demands a stricter etiquette and likes us to remain aloof. I must content myself with a wide happy smile and it seems to serve, for the volume of their cheers increases as I draw nearer.
It is but a short walk to the abbey. Following the regal steps of John de la Pole, I am flanked by the bishops of Ely and Winchester. We pass close by the flag-waving people, their faces a blur of grinning teeth and rosy cheeks. The men toss their caps high into the air, the women and children throw greenery in my path.
We follow the new baize cloth which has been laid to mark my way to the altar and as I move along it, the people surge in behind me to cut it into strips to take home as a keepsake. It is a tradition that’s been followed for an age. Behind me I hear their uproarious laughter, screams of hilarity. My smile stretches, my face aching, my eyes moist with happiness.
Then comes a deeper, tortured cry, followed by another of outrage. I half turn but the Bishop of Ely grips my fingers tighter and forces me to keep moving forward.
“Don’t look back,” he mutters from the side of his mouth. “Just keep walking.”
The joy behind me is turning to terror. I hear screams of pain, cries of anger, and the clash of steel. The calls of celebration turn to anguish, “Shame, shame!”
I snatch my hand away from the bishop and manage to turn my head enough to glimpse what is going on over my shoulder. From the corner of my eye I notice Cecily has turned too. We see women fall to the floor, their children crying in fear while their fathers wrestle with the yeoman guard. The crowd surges forward, pushing those before them closer to the procession. I open my mouth to command the guard to show mercy, but the Bishop of Winchester adds his strength to that of Ely and together they all but lift me from my feet and bear me onward to the church.
We pause inside the west door. My heart is banging like a drum, blood surging in my ears. I can hear Cecily whimpering behind me. But the Bishop of Ely’s hand is cool. “Be calm, Madam,” he says, fixing me with his sagacious eye. “All will be well, you are quite safe.”
“It is the people I am worried about. There was no need for violence; that man was bleeding …”
The doors close behind us, obliterating the sounds of discord. The trumpets sound, blasting out my imminent entrance, and Cecily, still sniffling, rearranges my train. I know I must put aside my distress and continue with the ceremony. There will be time to discover later what became of the injured. In the meantime I can only pray for a peaceful outcome.
We begin to move slowly, step by step, along the nave. My hands are trembling but I rekindle my smile, this time for the sake of the nobility who are seated within. Before me, Henry’s uncle Jasper, now Duke of Bedford, bears my crown. I follow him on quaking limbs.
All heads are turned toward me. The voices of the choir soar to the rafters. I raise my chin and glance up at the fluttering pennants, the high gilded ribs of the roof. In the moments before my life is changed forever, I remember all those who have been here before me and, suddenly, I feel very small.
The king remains hidden but I know he is watching, his mother beside him, her sharp eye marking my every move. If I make a wrong step or say a misplaced word she will never let me forget it. I can almost feel sorry for her. It must be hard for her, conceding this much to the house of York; she would prefer all the honour, all the glory went to her son, the Tudor. My presence at his side can only ever serve as a reminder that without me, her son may never have kept his crown.
I am a good wife, a good mother; I have provided an heir and mean to present England with many more. Sons like my father, and daughters like me and my mother. If I have my way we will swamp Tudor’s blood with the good stuff of York.
In high ceremony we reach the altar, and the bishop relinquishes my hand. My half-brother, Dorset, recently released from the confines of the Tower, winks at me and raises one eyebrow, forcing me to stifle a laugh. It is so like my irreverent brother to mock at solemnity. I just hope Henry or his mother did not see it. I turn away from him and focus my attention on the solemnity of the moment; my moment.
With Cecily’s aid I prostrate myself before the high altar where the Archbishop of Canterbury begins his prayers. When he instructs me, I rise up and Cecily unlaces my bodice. My upper body is bared and, with an intoned prayer, he anoints my forehead and between my breasts. He blesses my coronation ring, and as I am presented with the orb and sceptre, the choir begins to sing again.
Dressed in royal purple velvet, I sit in splendour on the ancient throne. With the elite of England looking on, the crown is lowered onto my head. It is heavy and I am forced to balance it most carefully. As Mass is said I fear I am in danger of losing my crown, so I keep my chin high and look across the nave of bared heads, lowered in prayer.
One day my son will sit here to be crowned king. The blood of York and Tudor run richly through his veins and will flow in his children’s too. This is but the first step.
The whole world is watching. I am aware of the king’s eyes upon me as well as those of his mother; my enemies as well as my friends are all looking on. I am just a small woman; a few years ago I was a bastard with no future at all. Now, a million eyes are boring into me; the ghosts of my father and uncles, my grandfather of York, together with those who have fought and died for us down the ages. As I achieve their dream to be risen before God to a higher state, all of them are witness to it.
Chapter Seventeen
Boy
Malines – Brussels Christmas 1487
The boy closes his eyes, remembering previous Christmases; his sisters squealing with excitement, his father in blustering good humour. One Yule, he hides behind the drapes of his mother’s chamber, watching her woman brush out her beautiful long hair. It crackles beneath the brush and glints in the candlelight. She has forgotten he is there and has put aside her indulgent maternal face and is completely herself. He notices something different about her. She is proud and beautiful as she always is but there is a new expression, something he hasn’t yet learnt the word for.
When the door opens the maids bob a curtsey to the queen and scurry out, giggling as they hurry past the king, who takes a playful swipe at the bottom of the last out of the door. Forgetting them immediately, he tosse
s his doublet on the floor and turns to his wife, his expression altered. The jovial king has gone, replaced by someone new, someone softer and yet more predatory. He holds out his hand and clicks his fingers; the queen rises and moves sinuously like a cat across the floor toward him.
“Elizabeth.” His father’s voice is husky. With both hands he lifts the mantle of hair from her shoulders, lets it run between his fingers to fall like a sheet of golden rain. He is so tall the top of her head does not even meet his chin. With her back arched and her face tilted to his, she takes a step closer and their bodies touch. The king’s hands skim across her, run lightly down her spine and linger at her buttocks. The boy watches entranced as his mother’s arms slide about his father’s neck. He realises he is seeing a side to his parents he’s never known before; a glimpse of a hidden adult world that is forbidden him.
She throws back her head to allow the king to feast upon her long white neck; at the touch of his mouth she gasps, closes her eyes, clutching at his sleeves while his big jewelled fingers dig into her buttocks. Effortlessly the king hoists her into his arms and her legs wrap about his waist. The boy holds his breath as his father carries his mother toward the bed and throws back the curtain.
“What the devil?”
The boy draws back in alarm, thinking he is due for a spanking. His mother squeals as the king tosses her gently onto the mattress before lunging at his son. With a yelp, Richard pulls away and leaps out the other side, crawling beneath the table, waking the dogs and setting them yapping. “You rascal,” his father yells. “Wait till I lay hands on you!” But the boy recognises the amusement in his voice and the tinkle of his mother’s laughter.
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 10
