My heart flips. This is well and good if the boy in Malines is a pretender, but York is my little brother Richard’s title. In bestowing his title on my son, Henry announces, quite plainly, that my brother, Richard of York, is dead. Each time I come close to accepting his death, another question immediately rears out of the unknown: then how did he die?
Either scenario is torment for me. Either my brother is alive and threatening all that I hold dear, or he is dead, murdered by someone close to me. Mentally, I strike off the candidates, measuring the likelihood of their guilt.
It cannot have been Uncle Richard, who was so fond of us. I remember a day when he came upon my siblings and I in the royal nursery where I was telling stories. Instead of hurrying off to join the court revel, he sat down on the floor, took my youngest brother on his knee and urged me to go on. When the story reached its climax, he roared with excitement just as loudly as the children.
He was everything to me then, all I aspired to, and all I hoped for. I refuse to believe he would ever harm any of us but, who does that leave? If my brothers were murdered and not by my uncle, then who stood to gain the most?
I push the thought away, unwilling to confront it but, when I least expect it, the question comes creeping back.
*
For two weeks, the court celebrates. There is feasting and jousting at Westminster. A special stand is built, draped in blue cloth of velvet, embroidered all over with golden fleur de lis.
Baby Elizabeth, too prone to chills, is left at the nursery, but the other children relish the fuss and ceremony. The king sits beneath his canopy of state, garbed in Tudor green and white. To serve as a reminder to those of a mind to stray from our side, I wear mulberry and blue for my own house of York. The colours speak for both houses. Henry is the Tudor king, but I am the rightful heir of York and so are my sons.
Little Margaret, although not yet five, presents the prizes. My ladies, Anne, Elizabeth and Anne Percy, assist her. My daughter, dressed in white damask with red velvet sleeves, steps importantly forward and offers the prize to the three victorious knights.
I am proud to see how carefully she performs the task and how gravely she greets the victor. It is plain to see that, like her brothers, if we can protect her, Margaret will go far. She is made in the mould of my mother, like my grandmothers, Cecily of York and Jacquetta of Luxembourg. They were strong women who overcame the harsh obstacles fate threw in their paths. They survived war, exile, bereavement, widowhood, yet they were undaunted. Nothing overwhelmed them, and they did not fail. As I watch my infant daughter, so confident in the face of the world, I rediscover a little courage and tell myself that weakness is not an option.
Eltham Palace– January 1495
I have been trying to comfort Elizabeth, who is fractious with another cold. She is sleeping now. Although she is approaching three years old, she is still not robust and seems to stagger from one ailment to the next. With a supporting hand beneath her head I lower her into the cot and, signalling to the nurse to watch over her, I tiptoe away.
Henry and Margaret are playing. As I approach the nursery chamber, I can hear the sounds of little Harry trying to stand firm against his sister’s bossiness.
“You can’t do that, Meg, it is my go. You have to take turns.”
“I am taking turns but I want another go.”
“Oh, you always want it your way.”
I hesitate, a hand on the latch, and recognise the beginnings of a scuffle. When I throw open the door Harry has his hand to his eye, and the ball that has just struck him is bouncing away across the floor. Meg wipes the mischief from her face and puts her hands behind her back with guilt written large.
“She throwed the ball at me!” Henry exclaims. “Look at my eye!”
“She threw the ball,” I correct him as I kneel beside him to wipe a tear from his reddened cheek. I cast a reprimanding look in my daughter’s direction.
“Margaret. Your poor little brother. I hope you are going to say sorry.”
Harry is clasping the neck of my gown, his mouth downturned, but his eye is kindling glee at his sister’s disgrace. He gives a theatrical sob, his little chest heaving.
“I am sorry, Harry,” Meg mumbles unconvincingly, “but you should play nicely.”
“Indeed you should, Harry. If you want to be a gentleman you must learn to be kind to little girls. You wouldn’t find King Arthur being unfair to Guinevere, would you?”
He wrinkles his nose. “But Guinevere is a queen. Meg is just my sister.”
“And will one day, no doubt, be a queen also.”
I hold out my arm and she comes to me. I enfold my children in my arms, inhaling their sweet, puppy dog fragrance.
“What else have you been doing, besides fighting?”
“I did a picture, come and look.”
Harry takes my hand and drags me to my feet. Laughing, I follow him to the table near the window where he stabs the parchment with a grubby finger.
“I drew a king on a horse and a castle, and a dog.”
I bend appreciatively over the table to admire the representation of a large knight on what appears to be a large rabbit. They both have big smiling mouths and some way above their heads, suspended in midair, is a multi-turreted castle, complete with fluttering pennants.
“Oh, that is very good, and how neatly you have signed your name. You are clever.”
He stands up tall and beams at his own brilliance. He has misspelled his name, Herny; his hand is round and unformed, the letters unevenly spaced. But it is recognisable.
I have lately been teaching the children their letters. At six years old, Margaret is picking it up well and can now form simple sentences to describe her daily activities. She waves her own paper in front of my nose and I praise her for her neatness.
Henry climbs onto a chair and begins to try to copy his sister’s name. He manages the M, A and a passable R but the G defeats him and he throws down his pen. Meg laughs.
“My name is easy, Harry; you can’t do it because you are such a little baby.”
Harry’s face turns puce, his eyes disappearing beneath a furious frown.
“That isn’t kind, Meg.” I lean over my son’s shoulder and take his pen. “Look, Harry, why not write it this way. You can just put ‘Meg’ so it is easier.”
I write the word and hand back his quill, watching as he frowns over the task, the tip of his tongue emerging from the side of his mouth in his efforts to master it.
“There.” He sits up with a look of triumph. “I’ve done it. Now show me how to write Bess.”
“That’s easy.” Meg slides between us and begins to show Harry the letters. I sit back and watch them together. Now their squabble is forgotten, they are the best of friends again.
I am enjoying five minutes contentment when I hear footsteps in the corridor and look up in time to see Henry sidle into the room. He has been king for more than ten years now but still hasn’t learned how to enter a room regally. I rise to my feet and greet him with a curtsey and a smile.
“Look, children, your father is here.”
They put down their quills and slide from their seats. Margaret performs a wobbly curtsey and Harry the most gallant of bows. Henry smiles at the children and flicks a finger to indicate they should return to what they were doing.
“I was looking for you,” he says, as the children move away. His gaze is fixed on something outside the window. “They said you were here.”
“I’ve been with Elizabeth all afternoon. She can’t seem to shake this cold; neither of the other children had it half as long.”
Henry shrugs. “Some people are like that, one cold after the other, yet they are perfectly strong.”
I don’t contradict him although I know in my heart he is wrong. This is more than a childhood sniffle; this is something that baffles even the royal physicians.
“She is sleeping now, thank goodness. I have been helping the children with their letters. They are so clever.
Why don’t you have a look and tell them so.”
He hesitates, his sudden smile disappearing as quickly as it was born.
“I don’t have the time to dally. I came to find you; I have some news.”
“What has happened?” As always when I fear the worst my heart begins to flutter, my palms sweat. He is regarding me, seeing the fear, and I know he is suspecting the worst of me.
“Not here. In my chamber.”
My skirts hamper my steps as I bestow hurried kisses on the children’s brows and fend off their complaints that I am leaving.
“I will be back soon. If not this evening, then tomorrow. Be good, both of you, and no fighting.”
“No, Mother.” As I follow Henry from the room, I hear Margaret begin to berate her brother for splashing ink upon the table.
*
Henry sets up a rapid pace to his apartments and, when the doors are thrown open at our approach, he steps aside to allow me to enter before him. The room is sumptuous, masculine, a fire roaring, the table spread with books and parchments, a bowl of exotic fruits. Before the hearth his dog raises his head and drops it to his paws again, too lazy to bother with a greeting. To my relief I note that Henry’s mother is not present; this interview is to be between husband and wife alone.
He doesn’t speak at first but moves to a side table and pours some wine, hands me a cup, although I am too strung up to drink.
“What is it Henry? What has happened?”
He takes a gulp of wine, looks at his feet and then up at me again.
“I – I … Can I trust you, Elizabeth?”
“Of course.” I put down my wine and move toward him, place a hand on his sleeve. “You can trust me absolutely.”
He takes another sip of wine, swills it round his mouth before placing his cup on the table. I notice his hand is trembling slightly.
“Where is your mother?” I ask, suddenly worried that some misfortune has befallen her. He shrugs.
“She has gone from court for a few days. I have summoned her back — something has arisen that concerns her deeply.” He hesitates, looks at the ceiling and blurts out his worries quickly. “Elizabeth, I fear her loyalty may be compromised …”
“Henry! That is absurd. It is simply not possible. Your mother may be many things but I would lay down my life that her loyalty is unshakeable.”
He closes his eyes, seems to sway slightly on his feet. “I know. I know. At least, I thought I did but now … this latest treason comes very close.”
“Just tell me what has happened; you are driving me to distraction.”
“Do you recall I told you Clifford was working as a spy into the enemy camp? Well, he is back from Burgundy with unsettling news. It seems William Stanley has espoused the Warbeck cause and sworn that if the pretender turns out indeed to be the son of your father, he’ll not raise a hand to stop him.” Henry pulls a face, halfway between a grimace and a smile, that cannot disguise his disappointment. “So much for loyalty.”
“Stanley? Well …” I half laugh but, realising this is not an occasion for levity, pull myself together in time. “The Stanleys are not renowned for their fidelity.”
Long before he was married to the king’s mother, it was Stanley who intervened at Bosworth and put an end to Richard’s valiant attempt on Henry’s life. He has been rewarded well, his coffers are stuffed with blood money, but Henry has never condescended to give him the title he craves. I can see it must be difficult to see his brother rise so high and wed to the king’s mother. He is not a likeable man and I push away the little twist of satisfaction that Stanley has been discovered in this new betrayal and will, I have no doubt, suffer the consequences.
I am so engrossed in my dislike of him that it takes me some time to realise the real nature of Henry’s fears. I look up and read in his face that he fears his stepfather, Stanley’s brother, knew of his planned defection. It is more than probable they were covering themselves for each eventuality, as they have done in the past. With a brother on each side of the breach, the family would flourish and their assets be preserved whatever the outcome.
William’s brother, Thomas, now enjoys all the associated rewards of being the king’s stepfather but should Henry fall to the Pretender’s claim, the Stanley family, with a boot in either camp, would survive and thrive. With sudden empathy I understand Henry’s injured pride and, to some extent, his fear.
“What does your mother say?”
“We haven’t spoken of it yet but I have little doubt as to her husband’s reaction when I execute his brother. There is no other option and I am afraid her loyalties to her husband may outweigh her devotion to me.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. She has no romantic attachment to Thomas Stanley and even less love for his brother. Had she the slightest inkling of this she would have told you straight away. She has spent her whole adult life fighting for your cause and she isn’t going to stop now for the sake of a diplomatic marriage.”
I stop abruptly, realising as I speak that Henry and I are the product of just such diplomacy. Thankfully, he decides to overlook my near insult. His hand covers mine, a cool salve to my clammy skin.
“I hope you are right.” He sighs and perches on the edge of a stool, looks at the flames crackling in the hearth. “The next few weeks will be harsh, Elizabeth. I want you to come with me, bring the children and your unmarried sisters. We are all going to lodge at the Tower for a time where I can keep an eye on everyone.”
*
Henry is right. The next few weeks are bitter. The king keeps me close, his eyes never tarrying for long in one place, or on any one person. He is constantly alert and his anger simmers dangerously.
As soon as she hears of William Stanley’s arrest, Henry’s mother hurries to London. She stalks into the chamber, barely acknowledging my presence, and launches into a catalogue of reasons why Stanley must be pardoned.
“This man,” her voice rasps with disappointment, “plotted and intrigued with me against Gloucester on your behalf and, on the battlefield … at Bosworth, wasn’t it he who plucked up Richard’s fallen crown and placed it on your own head? Is this how you would repay him?”
“It is how I repay treason from wherever it comes.” Henry’s face is passive but I know that underneath he is seething with disappointed fury. I watch them keenly, my eyes flicking from my husband to his mother. This is the first time I have ever seen them at odds. Warbeck’s treason is doing its job, sending distrust seeping into the most tightly forged of alliances.
“He is close kin to me. His disgrace will reflect upon my husband and upon myself. Please, Henry, can you not just … just lock him up, torture him a little and make him suffer that way?”
“No. He has to die and those who aided and abetted alongside him will be punished also.”
She sits back tight-lipped and red-eyed and looks dejectedly about the hall. When she sees me in the corner, I lower my head, concentrate on my needlework and hope she doesn’t intend to draw me into the debate.
I should have known she wouldn’t. I am nothing to her. I am powerless, little more than a broodmare for the next generation of Tudors, and she knows my influence with the king is non-existent. Her gaze floats over me and I glance up just in time to notice tears of frustration and self-pity balanced at the edge of her lashless eyes.
“There is nothing to be done,” the king continues. “I put my trust in Stanley and he betrayed me. I can never have faith in him again and, if I show him leniency, others whose allegiance is tested may think me weak. Stanley has to die. He has to be made an example.”
Margaret stands up, makes her curtsey with her head held high. “You are the king, Henry, and of course, it must be as you wish. Do I have your permission to leave court or am I to be held here under suspicion too?”
“Don’t be absurd, Mother. You are free to go where you will. I know I have your loyalty and your devotion.”
He speaks as if his words will make it so and only I hear his d
oubt. He stands up, and when Lady Margaret makes a knee to him and reaches out to anoint his hand, he draws her close for an embrace and places a kiss on her temple. She turns her head away, croaks something incoherent before scuttling from our presence, the most defeated I have ever seen her.
To my surprise, I feel a pang of pity.
Henry stares into the flames unspeaking, knocks the crook of his forefinger against his teeth. I put down my sewing and move closer to him and he looks up, surprised to find me there.
“That was difficult, Elizabeth,” he says. “My mother and I have never been at odds before.”
“She will come round. You will be friends again. Once … once the deed is done and cannot be altered.”
I place my hand on his shoulder and he raises his head, stares deeply into nothing, his eyes narrowed.
“Yes, you are right.” With a groan he eases from his chair and stretches his back, brings his hands together, interlaces his fingers and makes his knuckles crack. “I am very tired,” he says in an uncharacteristic confession of weakness. “Would you take me to bed, Wife?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Boy
Vlissengen ― 2 June 1495
The sun is high in the sky, the port of Vlissengen bustling; a group of horsemen weave a path through flocks of sheep, hawkers, sailors, and whores. They pause at the dockside and the boy cranes his neck to look up at the ship that will carry him to his destiny. Pennants snap and dance in the breeze, the barefooted crew swarm over the decks, stowing weapons and victuals for the impending voyage. The boy is nervous, his belly grinding and churning, but he lets no emotion show. His face is open and bright, projecting hope. This will be the day, he thinks; tomorrow I will be in England to reclaim my birthright.
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 16
