A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck

by Arnopp, Judith

  “We are almost there now, Your Grace,” Sir Thomas replies as he throws open a low door, flooding us with daylight. “Just a few more steps.” One by one we stoop beneath the lintel and onto the roof, where Sir Thomas holds out a steadying hand and waits while I regain my breath.

  “Well,” I laugh, looking out across the vista. “The view was certainly worth the climb.”

  With one hand to my heaving chest and one resting on the low wall, I look out across the landscape. A river slides like a green serpent through trees and meadows where small farmsteads are dotted like toys. My stomach turns rebel at the unaccustomed height so I keep my chin high to avoid looking at the ground. “Henry, isn’t it lovely?”

  Beside me Henry grunts, a brisk wind blows up and I move a little closer to shelter from it, and his hand rests on my waist.

  “That is a new bridge, Your Grace, built to mark your visit and make the passage easier from the road.”

  I turn my head to reply and notice the fool sidle up to his master’s side. Sir Thomas stoops to harken to his whispered words. I have no liking for this little man; his jokes are unfunny and often cruel. With a curled lip he speaks slyly into his master’s ear, his hoarse voice not meant for my sharp ears.

  “Tom,” the fool whispers as he nudges his master and nods toward the king. “Remember Will?”

  Sir Thomas’s face blanches and, in the long moment of silence that follows, I hold my breath, unable to move or speak.

  I am still staring when Sir Thomas straightens up, his face drained of colour, and snaps a few curt words, lunging at the fool. The horrid little man ducks away from his master’s swipe and takes himself off, his footsteps skittering down the spiral stairs.

  Henry is close to the parapet. It would take but one moment for our host to exact revenge for his brother and send the king plunging to his death. It is plain Henry didn’t hear the fool’s words. I should warn him but I can’t find my voice, or tear my eyes from Sir Thomas. I feel as if I have been turned to stone.

  Sir Thomas steps forward. I hold my breath, my heart beating loudly, my stomach churning.

  “If you look this way, Your Grace, you can see the house where …”

  I release a gusty sigh, my whole body suddenly weak with relief. The balustrade is rough beneath my fingers, my chest tightens and there are tears in my eyes. I mustn’t cry. I must not draw attention to my husband’s near danger. I attempt to follow the line of Sir Thomas’s finger, but my vision is blurred and I can see nothing of the scenery now.

  “Are you well, Your Grace?” Sir Thomas notices my lack of ease and is at my side, followed belatedly by my husband. I cling gratefully to the king’s arm. Suddenly pleased to feel the solidity of his muscle beneath.

  “I think I have a touch of vertigo,” I lie. “Please, can we go down now?”

  “You should never have come,” Henry snaps irritably as he ushers me through the door where Sir Thomas is waiting to take my hand.

  The decent is steep and my knees are shaking as if I have an ague. Every so often I am forced to stop. I draw in deep breaths, and try to calm my raging heart. Behind me, Henry places a chilly hand on my shoulder to encourage me not to faint. He believes me to be suffering from vertigo and I do not disillusion him. I give him a watery smile, wishing we were on firmer ground so I could cling to him and share the astonishing truth. Henry may be a troubling, uncomfortable man to live with but I don’t want to lose him.

  He is all I have.

  *

  After supper I excuse myself from the dance and sit near the open window, drinking in the fresh evening aromas from the garden. Unusually, the king is on the floor partnered with one of my ladies. His mother is watching with a doting expression, every so often clapping her hands in time with the melody. The hall is filled with laughter, song, and the lingering smells of a well-cooked dinner. Sir Thomas approaches with a glass of wine and I bid him sit beside me.

  “You have a lovely home, Sir Thomas. I am glad to have visited you. Thank you.”

  “It is my honour, Your Grace; a greater privilege than you can guess.”

  I smile at him and he looks away in confusion.

  “What is it?” I ask, my smile beginning to fade. He looks deep into his wine cup.

  “I can never decide if you look more like your father or your mother.” He drinks deeply, embarrassed by the sudden intimacy.

  “My grandmother always said I resembled both, depending on my mood. She had little love for my mother but gave her due credit for filling the royal nursery.”

  He laughs quietly and then a sudden silence falls between us.

  “I loved your father; you know that, don’t you?”

  “I think everyone loved him. He was that sort of man.”

  “And you are that sort of woman, Your Grace, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “Why should I mind? I get few compliments these days.”

  “Really?” He looks at me incredulously, his eyes sweeping across my hair, taking in my flushing cheeks. It is my turn to be embarrassed and I dip my face to my own cup. There is something I want to say to him, something I need to hear an answer to. I clear my throat and let my upper body lean a little closer.

  “Sir Thomas … today, up on the tower. I heard what the fool said. You were tempted, weren’t you, just for a moment?”

  He sputters his wine, dabs at his damp doublet with trembling fingers.

  “I don’t understand, Your Grace. What do you mean?”

  “I heard him quite plainly, Sir Thomas, and, just for a second, a look passed across your face, a sort of desperate look. For a moment I thought you were going to act on it.”

  “Never. Never!” His voice is hushed, urgent, his face thrust toward me. “I am loyal to the king, I swear it, and to you.”

  “Yet he killed your brother.”

  He takes a shuddering breath and looks deep into my eyes.

  “The king executed a traitor, it was hardly murder.”

  I lower my head; my fingers are fighting a desperate battle in my lap.

  “There are some who believe he murdered my brothers, too.”

  A silence; brief and pregnant.

  “You think them dead?”

  I look up, our eyes lock.

  “Do you, Sir Thomas?”

  His eyes narrow. I can see his thoughts chasing through his mind as he searches for the best answer; the safest answer. Slowly, I reach out for his hand.

  “You can speak freely. It will go no further.”

  There is a long silence before he speaks. He rubs his face with a big calloused hand.

  “At one time I thought they were dead, but now? Now, I am not so sure. This … this boy that your aunt Margaret parades as York, he has persuaded many men to his banner.”

  “But not you, Sir Thomas.”

  “No, Your Grace, not me. Never me.”

  “Suppose things were different and I were not married to the king, on which side would you be then?”

  “That is supposition, and an unfair question, Your Grace.”

  “But, nevertheless, it is one I’d like an answer to.”

  He shrugs, deeply uncomfortable, and looks away to where Henry is now leading his mother onto the floor. Margaret is beaming on the assembly as if she is indeed the queen.

  “I am wed to the king’s mother. I am loyal to my stepson.”

  “Yet your brother was swayed.”

  “My brother was a fool.”

  “My brother was a child. I loved him. Should the man now claiming his name prove to be my brother indeed, I will not know what to think, how to act.”

  He turns back to me, his eyes kind and full of sympathy.

  “He must be a pretender, Your Grace. How can a ten-year-old boy have survived?”

  “The Duchess claims my father’s friends took pity on him and helped him escape. There are many men who serve Henry only because of me. Because I am the child of Edward IV. Perhaps there are those who would prefer to serve his s
on.”

  “I cannot know, Your Grace. What do you want me to do, or say? You know I could be taken up just for speaking to you in this manner.”

  We both glance toward the king who has, for once, let his guard over me drop. I am rarely so unobserved; perhaps the sensation of not being watched goes to my head.

  “I am sorry. I had thought you loyal.”

  “I am loyal!” He rises to his feet, stands towering above me like an oak tree. I hold out a hand and he takes it, helps me rise and, as we walk toward the dance floor, I glance up at him.

  “But to whom, Sir Thomas? Which child of York really holds your heart?”

  *

  I calculate the baby I am carrying will be born sometime next spring. Although I continue to feel sickly in the morning, by lunch time it passes and I am myself again. We are preparing to leave, continue our journey north, and are taking a last walk around the gardens.

  Henry is just ahead with his mother, leaving Sir Thomas and I to bring up the rear.

  “Your roses are lovely, Sir Thomas,” I say, bending down to enjoy their heady fragrance. He waits while I indulge myself, plunging my nose into this bloom and that. When I straighten up, he is smiling, amused at my simple joy.

  “They were planted by my first wife, Eleanor. Margaret takes little interest in the gardens.”

  He plucks a bloom and offers it to me with a bow.

  “I believe Eleanor was some sort of relative of mine,” I say. “A cousin to my Grandmother, perhaps? I can’t quite remember.”

  “Niece to your grandmother, I believe, but I am no expert, Your Grace.”

  I see Grandmother’s face quite plainly in my mind and open my mouth to express the grief of losing her so suddenly. But my words are stalled by the arrival of a galloping horse. We turn toward it. Henry looks up and, recognising the messenger, leaves his mother and hurries back toward the house.

  Exchanging worried looks, Sir Thomas and I follow. As we near the gate Henry signals for us to stay back, and goes forward to meet the messenger alone.

  From the garden we see the road-weary man fall to his knee; he is dusty and mired from the ride. I signal to a hovering servant to bring him refreshment. We cannot hear his words but he speaks earnestly, gesticulating with his arms. Henry tears off his hat and throws it to the ground where the thick black velvet is quickly coated in dust, the jewels winking in the sunshine. I lose my patience and, with fear for my children uppermost in my mind, I ignore his order to stay back. I move forward to join him.

  “What is it Henry? What has happened?”

  He turns slowly and regards me with an expression close to hatred. His face is white, his lips tight, and his eyes bloodshot.

  “The boy, the lying brat, has landed a small force in the south. Our army routed them easily and they got no farther than the beach but the boy, God curse him, got away. He is now harrying the coast of Ireland. By Christ, will I never be free of this irritant?”

  As Henry stalks indignantly away, Sir Thomas and I exchange glances, his eyes crinkle slightly at the edges and I realise I am relieved. The boy lives. There is still a chance I may look upon my brother again one day.

  Sheen Palace – October 1495

  I am so happy to be home. The summer has been a long one, travelling from place to place, staying in different beds, different rooms, sampling strange cuisine. I look about my apartments at Sheen, run a finger along the back of my favourite chair that is placed close to the window, enjoying the view across the park. I plan at least a week of doing absolutely nothing but reacquainting myself with the palace that feels most like home.

  I am noticeably pregnant now. I run a hand across my rounded belly and feel the child squirm in response. A girl or a boy, I wonder? I hope it is another boy. Henry needs the comfort that only many sons can bring him. For myself, I don’t mind either way.

  As much as I love my sons, the bond between mother and daughter is different. I share an empathy with them that comes of knowing the difficulties a princess may face. Henry is already negotiating with Spain for a union between Arthur and their daughter, Caterina; and at the same time with France for the marriage of our little Elizabeth and their dauphin, Francis.

  The dauphin is only just a year old, but it seems it is never too soon to make such arrangements. I do not remind Henry that nothing may come of these negotiations. It wouldn’t do to upset or offend him, but I know from experience such things are fraught with problems.

  When I was a girl my father wished for a union with France and organised my betrothal to Charles when he was dauphin. I remember my father’s rage when King Louis reneged on his promise. His fury knew no bounds and on the day the news came, I learnt curse words then that I’d never heard before.

  Now I am glad it never came to pass. I realise I am fortunate to have remained here in the country of my birth, surrounded mostly by those who know and love me. I should hate to be a foreigner in a strange country. There can be nothing worse, yet it is the normal lot for a princess.

  I am watching the sun set slowly in the west when Henry enters. He hesitates near the door and I have to urge him to approach. His habitual manner of lurking like a draper is irritating, but I manage not to let it show. I sit up straight in my chair and stretch my arms above my head.

  “I was almost asleep.”

  He takes a seat opposite, balancing on the edge.

  “Why are you alone?”

  “I like to be alone sometimes, Henry. Don’t you ever grow tired of the constant attendance? It is pleasant to be solitary, so I can slump in my chair if I choose, or scratch an itch if I have one without someone assuming I am developing a pox.”

  He smiles slowly, and not without warmth.

  “I thought we could ride out to Eltham in a day or two.”

  I sit upright in my chair, instantly alive with joy.

  “Oh, I am so glad. I was going to ask if it was possible. It seems so long since we’ve seen the children. They will be delighted with the gifts we have brought them.”

  “They will be glad enough just to have their mother back I would think.”

  “I may stay for a week.”

  I beam at him, the love we share for our offspring bringing us close. Impulsively, I reach out a hand and he takes it, squeezes my fingers.

  We seldom make physical contact outside of the marriage bed, and I feel my body respond, wanting him to move closer. Pregnancy never diminishes but seems to heighten my natural ardour. Affectionately, I return the pressure.

  “I wish we could skip supper,” I say rashly. “I am so tired of formal dinners, I’d much rather eat here with you … intimately.”

  It is as close as I can get to ask him to take me to bed. Henry stiffens. He tries to draw away but I cling on. “I am lonely, Henry. Is it so wrong to desire your presence?”

  He stands up, tugs the edge of his tunic down and looks away.

  “You must be tired … you should rest.”

  What is wrong with him? I know he has the passions of a healthy man. Why must he keep relations between us so formal? If I were not already pregnant he’d bed me soon enough. Because I am big with his child he sees no need. He is a cold fish but still I try to tempt him into my net, and when he resists I lose my patience.

  “I don’t feel tired at all. I am well and healthy and if I am tired of anything it is this … this wall you constantly erect between us. I am your wife … why not take pleasure in that, Henry?”

  “I have business to attend to. You are excused from the banquet tonight if you wish it but … I have to be there. You get some rest.”

  I bite my lip and watch him go. I shouldn’t have spoken; should never have let him glimpse the lusty side of my nature, so similar to my father’s. It discomforts him.

  *

  We are making ready for our trip to Eltham. I am sorting through small gifts for the children when a messenger arrives. People are coming and going all the time with missives and letters so I pay this one little heed. I am o
nly half aware of the conversation that follows between the king and the dusty courier until a hand falls gently on my arm.

  I look up.

  The hall is silent, our attendants holding their breath, one or two of my women are snivelling.

  “What is it?”

  I put down an engraved silver ball and take two steps toward my husband. It is only then that I notice the messenger’s livery and realise he has ridden from Eltham. My world begins to crumble.

  “What is it?” I repeat, rushing forward, my voice harsh with panic.

  “Elizabeth; come, come with me.” Henry’s voice is gentle, his hand is on my right arm. His mother suddenly appears at my left side, her touch firm on my elbow. Between them they urge me to go with them.

  “Come with us, Elizabeth.” As they lead me away Lady Margaret nods a command to my women, who fly from the hall, toward my apartment.

  “Tell me, Henry,” I scream. “What did he say? What has happened?”

  But I know the truth before they tell me. I can feel it in my heart. Great tearing teeth are slashing at my happiness, ripping my former optimism to shreds.

  They push me into a chair. I fight them, scrabbling with my arms, kicking out. I am already sobbing, although the words are not yet spoken. Someone puts a cup into my hand but I thrust it away untasted. I grasp Henry’s tunic, wrench him toward me so our faces are level, our breath mingling. He has been eating herring. There are tears on his cheeks, his face is papery white, making him old. “Tell me,” I mouth, but no sound emerges.

  “Elizabeth,” he says and his mother’s fingers tighten on my wrist, my head falls onto her narrow breast.

  “No.” I close my eyes, roll my head against her chest as I try to fight back the agony that tightens like a vice around my heart. “No, please … not my baby …”