But my mother is here, and I am grateful to Henry for that. When we embrace she clings on when I would pull away, and I sense a change in our relationship. She has always been the strong one, the woman leading me on, holding my hand, but now the tables have turned and I am the one with the power.
Her time in Bermondsey has aged her. Her hair is less bright, her skin sallow from lack of air, and for the first time I notice the lines of age marring the outer edges of her eyes. “Come,” I say. “There will be no formality; come to my chamber and I will send for some wine.”
For a while we are mother and daughter again; we speak of confinements. She tells me of the travail of giving birth to Edward in sanctuary at Westminster. “We had no hope then for the future,” she says. “Your father was in exile; our lives upside down. I was in despair the day I went into labour, but as soon as he was born and I saw that I had borne a son, I found hope. Edward was sign from God that all would be well again. I had given the king an heir.”
I sit quietly, watching her face alter as the memories rush in again. Her face drops, her eyes fill with tears. “But it wasn’t all right really, was it?” A tear drops onto her hand, she rubs it away on her skirt. “My son was never destined to rule, was he?”
A memory stirs of my brothers snuggled either side of me while I read to them. Little Richard wielding his wooden sword, his fair hair glinting in the torchlight. “I will be a warrior like Lancelot one day and smite all your enemies, Edward!” It seems like only yesterday.
Mother is openly weeping now. I struggle to my feet and waddle across the room to wrap my arms around her.
“I am sorry, Mother, so sorry.” I rock her, as if she is the child and I the woman who bore her. “It wasn’t our fault.”
She sniffs and pulls away, fumbles for a kerchief.
“Who hurt him, Elizabeth? We know it wasn’t Richard. Was it Henry? Are you sleeping with the murderer of your brothers?”
I stand up, step away. “No. No, I am sure of that. He has asked me many times what became of them, where they are. He wouldn’t need to ask that if he had ordered them slain.”
She stares at the floor; an ageing woman, cloaked in the misery of not knowing.
“Of course, you’d protect your husband. It is your duty.”
I shake my head. “No, I wouldn’t. You are quite wrong. If I knew the slayer of my brothers I would seek vengeance, no matter who had dealt the killing blow.”
That night as I struggle for sleep, memories of my little brothers float through my mind. With so many sisters, they were spoiled and cossetted. Edward was quiet, serious and studious, but Richard was funny, chubby, and the image of our father. He was the noisy whirlwind that flew about the royal apartments with his toy sword, leading the castle dogs into mischief. Full of tales of chivalry and battle, he would have made a perfect supporter for his royal brother. And Edward would have made the perfect king. I have seen him ponder long and carefully before deciding between a honeyed wafer and a sweetened pear just as, had he been king, he would consider each problem from several angles before making a decision. He would have been a wiser ruler than my father and, with Richard at his side to fight his battles, his reign would have been a long one.
I should not mourn them. Their deaths have put me where I am today; had they lived, my son could never be king. In the morning Arthur is to be created a Knight of the Bath, and in a few days will enjoy his investiture as Prince of Wales. But while my child is benefitting from the gap left by my brothers, I am eaten up with guilt for feeling glad about it.
Westminster ―All Hallows Eve 1489
In the morning, worn out from little sleep, I make what will be my last appearance at court for many weeks. As my ladies and I make our way to the great hall, Henry’s Spanish fool appears in the doorway. With a yell, he takes a sudden leap into the air and, performing a series of backward somersaults along the corridor, lands at my feet. He makes a sweeping bow and offers me something. I reach out warily, knowing his habit of bestowing toads upon unsuspecting ladies for the pleasure of hearing them shriek. His offering is small and furry, and at first I fear it is a mouse and make to drop it, but then I realise it is a rabbit’s foot. I open my eyes wide in surprise and give him my best smile.
“For luck, dear Queen.” He sweeps another bow and, deeply affected by his humble gesture of devotion, I lean forward and leave a kiss on his brow.
Instantly, he falls over backwards, his hand to the place where my lips touched. “Oh my!” he exclaims. “The lady kissed me!”
Everyone bursts into laughter, the solemnity of the day broken. Our hilarity brings the king, who has been waiting for us within, to discover the cause. His velvet cap appears around the door first and when he sees us all gathered about his stricken fool, he relaxes and begins to smile also.
He offers me his arm and conducts me to St. Stephen’s chapel where the Reverend Father in God, the Bishop of Exeter, is waiting to conduct Mass. It is a solemn occasion. I put away levity and prepare to receive the host. Voices begin to sing the Agnus Dei, and while the song continues I am led by the earls of Derby and Oxford back to my antechamber. There, beneath the cloth of estate, in the sight of God, the court falls to their knees to pray that I am given a happy hour.
I close my eyes and pray with them; trying to erase from my memory the host of good women I have loved who have died during the travail of childbirth.
And then we partake of a ceremonial meal where further blessings are said. At the end Henry comes forward, puts a hand to my hair and brings my face close for a farewell kiss. Although neither of us acknowledges it, we both know that, should things go badly, this could be our last meeting. I suffered greatly bringing Arthur into this world. I cling to Henry’s fingers, hoping he recognises my silent request for his most urgent prayers.
The people depart, leaving me alone with my attendants. The shutters are closed, extinguishing the winter sun, and the fires are stoked. Soon the rooms are stifling, but I know better than to ask for a window to be opened. It will not do for me to be chilled. I must remain here for at least a month, maybe more, until my son has safely arrived and I am churched and made ready to face the world again.
*
“Arthur’s ceremony is today,” I comment wistfully. I am staring at the tapestry above my bed as I have done every day for almost a month. It is a fine piece of work, come all the way from Flanders. It shows a flowering meadow of daisies and buttercups, a style thought suitable for a woman in childbirth. I am allowed no scenes of action; no figures or faces that might instil fear or bad thoughts. It really is a very pretty tapestry but I am so tired of staring at it. I have been in bed for a week for my feet are so swollen I am forbidden to rise.
Every so often they help me to the close stool or allow me to sit in a chair while my feet are soaked in warm water. As my belly expands, so my need to piss grows more frequent. I sigh and turn over, feeling the sharp dig of the child against my bladder. Heaving myself upright, I call for my mother. “Can you help me, Mother? I need to go again.”
The task is far beneath her but she doesn’t flinch from it. Gladly, she puts down her sewing and helps me to stand, with my hand in the crook of her elbow she leads me to the screen in the corner where the close stool is situated.
As we cross the room I feel a sudden pop, and my legs are flooded with warm, fragrant liquid. Instinctively, I place my hand on my quaint, like a child who has damped herself. “The water!” I exclaim. “It has broken.”
Immediately, the chamber erupts into life. A few moments ago we were all sleepy with ennui but now the air rings with energy. Someone calls for a midwife, another for a messenger to run and tell the king his son is on the way.
“It is Arthur’s ceremony,” I call after them. “Do not disturb the king.”
I don’t know if they hear me. As Mother helps me onto the bed, the first fingers of pain begin to squeeze at my nethers. “Oh dear,” I whimper, clinging to her hand. “I hope I can do this.”
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“Of course you can; aren’t you my daughter and doesn’t the strong blood of Plantagenet run through your veins?”
The midwife orders a brazier lit close to the bed, and when it is blazing she throws on handfuls of herbs. Soon the room fills with a heavy fragrance. “It will ease you,” she says and, stifling a cough, I take her word for it.
Someone hands me a drink; a foul-tasting brew which Alice insists will aid me. I empty the cup and hand it back with a wry face.
“It is best you walk around as much as you can, Your Grace,” Alice says, pushing my mother aside to place a hand beneath my arm to help me rise again. I do my best; I slide from the mattress and shuffle beside her, up and down, round and round the chamber, stopping only when the pain becomes too intense. I am almost dead with fatigue and feel the pain has been nagging at me for hours. I’ve lost all track of time.
“It won’t be long now,” Alice assures me. “Your child will be here before you know it.” But she is wrong. For hour after hour, the pain increases along with my fear. The top of my thighs, my loins, throb with a grinding pain that grows stronger with each passing moment. How much can a woman take, I wonder?
I fight for calm, try to breathe, deep and long as I am instructed, but when I find myself suddenly clamped in a markedly strong grip of agony, I groan aloud. My back is breaking.
I lean over the bed, my head resting on clenched fists, and mutter a rapid prayer. “Help me, Lord. Give me the strength I need for this.”
As suddenly as it arrived the pain ebbs again, and I am released. Alice ceases rubbing my back and bids me roll over so she can feel my tummy. I can barely move. I am as clumsy as an ox but, with a great cry, I fall obediently onto my back. I do not care when she raises my gown and begins to examine me. I have lost all sense of pride. Her hands are dry and cold on my belly, which is as tight as a drum. I look down to see her busy between my spread knees; my bulging gut and huge breasts make me feel like a cow, but I am unmoved by the indignity of it all.
I just want it to be over.
I greet the next assault with a groan. I can feel it spreading from my loins across my back. My belly is tight, and as it grows even tighter, I fart loudly and a spurt of liquid shoots onto the mattress.
“She will be dry soon,” I hear Alice inform my mother. “Dry births are always the worst.” With a jerk of her head she urges Mother forward, and I feel her cool familiar fingers slide into mine.
“You are doing well, Bessie,” she says, but I can hear the worry in her voice and know that all is not well.
The pain grows stronger, I clench down upon her hand, feel her fingers crunch in my grip as I writhe against the beast that is dragging me down again. My legs thrash, my heels digging into the mattress. With all my might I push and strain, but the child does not budge. I think it will never budge.
I am going to die here.
I am too young to die!
The pain recedes just long enough for someone to hold a soothing flannel to my mouth to wet my lips. I cast an eye about the room, pass a fractious hand across my forehead, and push aside sweat-drenched hair. The king’s mother is standing by the hearth, for a moment our eyes meet. Hers are hooded, just like Henry’s. I see the scorn in them. I am failing and her white, lined face informs me that I must not fail her beloved son.
They say she suffered badly giving life to Henry; at just thirteen years old she was too small and unfinished to bear a child. Mother told me that Henry’s coming ruined her body and left her unable to carry further children, so he became her only son. She steps forward suddenly and I think she means to castigate me. I am not sure I can bear it. My loins begin to tighten again. “No,” I whimper, “I can’t. Mother, I can’t.”
Tears drop onto my cheeks. I shake my head from side to side, exhausted and lacking the courage to fight. Lady Margaret takes my other hand.
“Oh yes, you can. You are strong, Elizabeth. You’ve done it before and can do so again. Now, you push hard when we tell you and let’s get this boy out of there. Push with all your strength. Do it for Tudor.”
I raise my knees, tuck my chin to my chest and strain for all I am worth. Slowly, the thing lodged in my birth canal begins to move; I grab a few quick breaths and push again, gritting my teeth. At the foot of the bed, Alice Massey peers between my open knees.
“I can see the head,” she yells and, putting all my energy into my belly, I strain again.
“Go on!” Mother screams. I lose grip of her hand, flounder for it and grab on again tight. The king’s mother’s rings are biting deep into my other hand but compared with the trauma that is assaulting my body, the pain is nothing. I rest briefly, pant for breath before trying one more time.
“Wait.” Alice leans forward, touches my throbbing, bulging quaint with gentle fingers. “Keep panting, Your Grace. Don’t push until I say.”
A heartbeat away from real panic, I pant, high and quick in my chest, and feel Motherbrush my hair from my eyes. The room is quiet; the other women standing tense around the bed. I notice the strong aroma of ambergris and civet that Alice has been throwing onto the flames. My head begins to swim, my eyes roll backwards.
“Now; not much longer. You can push with the next pain.”
The agony builds, slow and strong, rising gradually across my torso until in a great rush my entire body is consumed. Desperate now, I look from Mother to Lady Margaret, lick my dry cracked lips.
“I can feel the pain coming.”
Their grip tightens, my knees rise again as if of their own accord. I duck my chin, grit my teeth and with a rictus smile, I bear down with all my might. I am stretching, tearing; my mouth opens in a scream of furious agony such as I have never made before. Then, with a sudden jolt and a spurt of liquid, something shifts.
“The head is born.” Alice fiddles between my legs while I gasp and pant like a lunatic. “Push again, Madam, more gently, if you can.”
I feel the child turn, a sharp tearing pain as his shoulders are freed and then, with a great slither of limbs and liquid, he slides from my body.
I flop back on the mattress. Mother sits up, wipes a forearm across her brow, leaving a smear of blood. She smiles at me.
“Well done, Bess,” she says.
I strain to see, looking down across my ravaged body to where the midwife is waiting for the afterbirth. She frowns and clucks as she prods my belly with calm, capable hands. Lady Margaret is stooped over the bed where a blood-daubed infant is screeching, its limbs punching and kicking the air. The King’s mother looks up; her face is puce, her eyes as bright as diamonds.
“It’s a girl,” she announces and my heart plummets. I feel suddenly sick. I try to sit up, but Mother pushes me down again.
“Oh God,” I whimper into the sweat-stained pillow. “I am so sorry. I promised the king a son.” I turn my head away so she cannot see my tears, but the bed dips as she comes to sit on the mattress beside me. I look at the red, wrinkled child she is cradling in her arms. My heart lifts, just a little. Lady Margaret looks at me quizzically.
“Why be sorry? There is time for you to give Henry more sons. Besides, every country needs princesses. Look at us. Where would this realm be without women like us?”
Chapter Nineteen
Boy
Somewhere at sea – February 1490
The deck heaves with the swell of the sea, the sun gilding the tips of the surging waves, spume sputtering like an old man’s vomit across the deck. The boy clings to the handrail and looks out across the ocean and cannot help but be invigorated by the freshness of the air, and the freedom of the great canopy of sky.
Until this moment, he had not realised the suffocating confinement of his aunt’s court; the clinging embraces of Nelken. He is free now; for a few short months his future set aside. Today he is a sailor, just another member of Brampton’s household. He can forget Nelken, forget war, and forget England.
With a gusty sigh, he runs his fingers through his blond hair and feels it thick with sa
lt. His chin is unshaven, for the first time a proper man’s beard is blurring his Plantagenet features. He scratches it, relishing the newfound sense of masculinity. For now at least, he is done with foppish court ways.
Turning from the rail, he struts steady-footed across the deck to the cabin where Brampton is studying a map. Brampton looks up when the boy enters, stabs the parchment with a grimy finger. “By my reckoning we should be here.”
The boy leans over his shoulder and follows the line of his finger.
“What is it like in Lisbon?” He pulls out a stool and, stealing Brampton’s cup, takes a swig of his wine.
“You’ll like it. It’s a trading port, a gateway to the world where the whores are dark and dangerous.”
The boy flushes, not ready yet for thoughts of women. It was not easy leaving Nelken behind. His aunt, having learned of his indiscretion, promised to look after her, but he knows her care will stretch only as far as ensuring she does not starve. Sick or not, she will have to work until the birth is imminent and her child, if it lives, will be farmed out, to be raised by strangers.
He’s spared the child little thought, but now, in the gloom of Brampton’s cabin, he glimpses a brief bright image of a small boy, wearing the face of his father. He passes a hand across his eyes, erasing the vision, and turns his attention back to the map.
“What do they trade?”
“Everything; spices, wool, slaves. Men gather there from the farthest reaches of the world. They tell some strange tales; things you won’t believe.”
“Maybe they aren’t true? Have you thought of that?”
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 12
