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

by Arnopp, Judith

  *

  The king’s mother says very little but she is with me every day. She offers no criticism; she does not insist that I eat, she does not tell me not to weep. But she is there and, to my surprise, I find some comfort in her presence.

  The Lady Margaret was blessed with only one child; Henry. I remember my mother telling me that Margaret was just thirteen when he was born and her body not properly formed. In giving him life she deprived herself of the thing she craved most; more children. Had she been able to have more sons, perhaps her love for Henry might have been less stifling.

  As soon as I am able we ride to Eltham. It takes all my courage to enter the hall and make the climb to the nursery floor. Meg and Harry are playing quietly. In fact, the whole palace is unnaturally silent. Henry and I, followed by his mother, slip into the room where the children are at the table, their heads bent over books. Harry looks up first, our eyes meet. His are red and full of tragedy; my heart gives a little leap.

  “Mother!” He clambers from his seat and runs toward me, his short fat arms snaking around my neck. I sink my face into his hair and inhale the lingering scent of babyhood, slightly sweaty and sweet. I hold him away a little, push his hair out of his eyes.

  He looks peaky.

  “Have you been good?”

  He nods unconvincingly, so I turn to Meg for confirmation.

  “Quite good,” she says. “Apart from letting his dog chew a hole in our lady mistress’s skirt as she dozed before the fire. And he did eat too many sweetmeats and made himself sick all over his psalter.”

  Harry looks hangdog.

  “I am sorry, Mother.”

  I manage to laugh, almost choke as, half-formed, the humour turns to tears. Standing up, I try not to look at the door that leads to Elizabeth’s apartments.

  I smooth my skirts and attempt to rally my courage. It has to be done. As I prepare to move, a small hand slips into mine and my son looks up at me.

  “Elizabeth is in Heaven now, Mother.”

  I struggle for a smile, and squeeze his hand.

  “Yes, she is.” My voice is husky, my throat closing with grief.

  “You still have us, Mother. Don’t be so sad.” His little face is pink and earnest, his blue eyes glinting with tears. “She wouldn’t want us to be sad.”

  “No.” I cannot risk a longer sentence. To my relief, Lady Margaret steps forward.

  “No. She would want us to be glad. We must remember that we are fortunate to have enjoyed her for so long. God will send us other compensations.”

  She draws the children’s attention and provides the opportunity for Henry and I to slip unnoticed into the nursery.

  In the centre of the room the royal cot stands empty; the canopy already taken down for laundering. I stand beside it, as I have so many times, and my heart breaks afresh. Without my child I cannot properly draw my next breath.

  Henry’s hand slides gently across my shoulders and I sink my head onto his chest. For once we are united; sorrow has brought us close and his cheeks are as wet as mine.

  Perhaps I am unwise to stay so long; perhaps it would be better not to be here where I dwell upon my loss every day. Henry, seeking solace in practical things, is already organising a lavish ceremony and has ordered a tomb of Lydian marble with a black marble cover. Although I know I shall never bear to look upon it, there is to be a copper gilt effigy, and she is to lie at Westminster, as is fitting.

  Henry sits at the table scratching his head over the wording for the tomb. For the hundredth time he sighs and scores through the words he has written. I move to stand beside him, reading over his shoulder.

  Elizabeth, second daughter of Henry VII, the most illustrious King of England, France …

  If it were up to me I’d want to state that she was our beloved daughter, the joy of my heart, the light of my future; but I know such things must be left to Henry, who remains, first and foremost, even in his grief, the king.

  I turn away, listless, unable to settle, and move about the room picking things up and putting them down again. I even go so far as to poke the dog with my toe. He lifts his head, looks at me with miserable bloodshot eyes before dropping it back onto his paws, and soon he is snoring again. I am so bored, so lifeless, so beset with sorrow that I don’t know what to do with myself.

  I look up expectantly when the door opens and a servant slips in.

  “Your Grace.” The boy bows low. “Lady Pole is here; shall I send her away?”

  “Margaret?” I almost push the boy over in my haste to reach my cousin. I drag her into the room, hugging and kissing her, my tears falling afresh at the sight of her. Henry looks up from his work, gathers his papers, nods his head at Margaret and makes himself scarce.

  “I hope he doesn’t think I’ve come to beg my brother’s cause at a time like this.” She eases off her gloves and lays them on the table. “Elizabeth, I am so sorry. So very, very sorry.”

  I cannot help it. I am in tears again before she has finished offering condolence. I plump onto a settle, fumble for a kerchief and dab at my eyes while she takes her place beside me.

  “My poor Elizabeth, I can’t begin to imagine … if it were my little Henry …”

  She stops and stares into space, her throat working with emotion. Margaret has borne her husband one son so far and has hopes for further children. “But, soon, my love, you will have another child. Pray God it is a daughter you carry this time to soothe your loss. There is plenty of time to give Henry another son.”

  I sniff and roll my kerchief into a ball.

  “This babe kicks so hard, I am sure it must be a boy.”

  “Oh.” Margaret pats my hand and winks conspiratorially. “There are those of us among the female sex whose kick is as good as any boy’s.”

  For the first time I find myself smiling. Friendship and kinship is healing. From the moment she entered the room I felt better.

  “Come to the nursery, Margaret, and see the children. You’ve not seen your namesake for months.”

  “I thought you’d named her for the king’s mother,” she retorts as we leave the room and begin to hurry along the corridor.

  I smile for the second time. “Between you and me, so does she.”

  Harry and Meg are being fitted for new outfits; they are tolerating the tailor who fusses with pins and lengths of wool. A visit from their mother and cousin proves a welcome distraction. Harry wriggles from the nurse’s grasp and runs to greet me, remembering just in time to drop his cousin a courtly bow. Meg follows more decorously and performs a perfect curtsey.

  “My goodness, how you’ve both grown,” Margaret exclaims. “They are not babies anymore.”

  “No.” I realise, a little sadly, that she is right. They are growing up fast.

  “Henry is so much like your father, Elizabeth. The look in his eye; the set of his head. It could be him reborn.”

  I consider my son in a new light, through fresh eyes.

  “Do you think so? When he was born I wondered if he was going to be fair, like my mother and I. But the older he gets the redder his hair shines.”

  “It is the only thing he’s inherited from the Tudors, I’d say. And Margaret, what a beauty you are going to be!”

  Meg blushes and squirms at the attention, pleased to be so regarded. As she continues to chatter, Margaret draws Harry onto her knee and wraps her arms around him. “You’re not too big for a cuddle, are you, Harry?” She gives him a smacking kiss and he wipes it away with his sleeve, making us laugh.

  It is a happy family picture, one I crave more of. I seldom see my own family. My sisters have been suitably married and spend most of their time in the country. Cecily comes to court occasionally but she is too close to the king’s mother for intimacy, and is kept busy attempting to supply her husband with sons.

  “It is good to see you, Margaret.” Spontaneously I reach for her hand again. “You must bring your son to visit the next time you come to court. He can lodge here with the children.”


  “Yes, that would be nice. It would be good for our children to remember they are cousins. My Henry will serve Arthur one day, when he is king. We should always look to the future and plan for it, even if it is an uncertain thing.”

  I know she is thinking of her brother. Despite my attempts to intervene on his behalf, poor little Warwick is still in the Tower.

  “I have tried to get Henry to free Warwick, I really have but … the king thinks it too risky …”

  “He is little more than a boy, and not himself. He has had no education, has no ambition of any kind. What risk can there be?”

  I look down at my hands, my fingers slightly pudgy and over-warm.

  “It isn’t Warwick himself that poses the danger. Henry knows he hasn’t the … hasn’t the, erm, nature to rebel but there are those that would back him. You only have to consider the man Warbeck to realise that.”

  Her breath is released in a rush and we exchange glances, aware that we’ve been on the verge of quarrelling. She throws up her hands and lets them drop again.

  “Oh, Elizabeth. It is all so ridiculous. We are all walking on eggshells. This pretender, this boy from Tournai — what do you make of it? He has won himself a goodly following and I’ve heard him referred to often as ‘King Edward’s son’.”

  Henry’s spies have confirmed that the boy causing all the trouble is the son of a weaver from Tournai, a boy with no learning or nobility but with enough impudence to impersonate a royal duke. Henry seems convinced, but I am not so sure. I cannot imagine how a base-born boy from the low countries could fool a group of disgruntled refugees from my father’s court; men who knew my father and his sons very well indeed. Margaret observes me keenly as she waits for my reply.

  “I don’t know. If I could just see him, or if someone close to me were to see him … sometimes I am desperate to know. I loved Richard so much but the danger he poses, or this pretender poses, threatens my sons. I am torn between wanting him to be my brother and dreading it being him. I don’t know what to think or what to do.”

  “It must be hard.”

  “Sometimes it is impossible.” I lean forward and drop my voice to a whisper. “The king is suspicious of everyone. It is not healthy. My father saw more than his share of betrayal but he didn’t let it eat him up. He didn’t suspect everyone. Henry is so watchful that the whole court is on edge all the time. Sometimes I think I will just be glad when it is all over and the pretender is dealt with.”

  Margaret sighs and allows Harry to slide from her lap. We watch him wander across to Meg and try to steal a handful of nuts from her apron.

  “Even if the pretender was caught, I dare say the king would find someone new to be suspicious of.”

  I fear she is right.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Boy

  Scotland ― 20 November 1495

  A noisy flurry of gulls follows the ship as it glides into dock, the grey green water fleeing from beneath the bow. On deck the boy clings to the rail, standing a little apart from his companions. He looks across the water to a harbour heaving with men, whores, dogs and mules. The stench of the dock replaces the clean, clear air of the sea; reeking fish, stale sweating bodies, clothing that has been soaked by rain and dried by the salty air. A drunken man spews in a gutter, a trio of urchins play tag through the crowd.

  Richard looks on, encouraged by the promise of solid ground, of a warm bed, a good dinner taken on a table spread with linen. For the past weeks he has rarely been on deck or breathed fresh air. Most of his days and all of his nights have been spent in the plunging darkness of a ship’s cabin, his only light a swinging lantern, his only relief the bottle, and the oblivion of sleep.

  After the failure of the Kent landing depression bit deep; half-heartedly he turned his small fleet toward the coast of Ireland, hoping to find enough support there to resurrect his cause. He lingered for a while with the Earl of Desmond, but Tudor’s punishment for Ireland’s support of Richard in ʼ’91 had been harsh. The people were loath to risk Henry’s displeasure again and stayed away, turning their backs on Richard. For a while it seemed he’d met with defeat, but Desmond urged him to make one last attempt.

  Looking back, Richard realises the siege of Waterford stood little chance of success and the ignominy of the pursuit to Cork, the destruction of his fleet, nags at him day and night. Now, his quest having so far failed, he turns to King James and begs for sanctuary at the Scottish court. His heart is heavy and he has little faith that he will find comfort there.

  His fortunes seem to have plummeted since he and Brampton parted; he misses the buoyant support of his long-time friend. Brampton always knew what to do, where to go, whom to trust. Without him and without the support of Margaret, the boy is dithering. Now that the new Duke of Burgundy is seeking a treaty with England, there is little aid his aunt Margaret can offer other than her good will. He feels alone, vulnerable, and inexperienced.

  High above his head the sails are furled, and the narrow gap between ship and shore closes. A figure moves to stand beside him and he turns to find Keating pulling a cap over his sleek dark hair.

  “It will be a relief to disembark, Your Grace. If I never see the sea again it will be too soon.”

  Richard smiles slowly, his shoulders relaxing a little.

  “I am eager for a bath. I am sure the lice are carrying lice too; and oh, for a properly cooked meal, a finger bowl instead of a bucket.”

  “And a woman, Your Grace. It’s been a long time.”

  Richard’s face falls. “It has,” he replies, his mind slipping reluctantly back to Nelken. He regrets not finding his son; the boy will be growing now, crawling or walking perhaps, smiling at strangers.

  Richard shakes himself and, pulling his gauntlets from his belt, begins to draw them on, flexing his fingers. They are worn, the embellished trim torn; he could do with a new pair. He grimaces with distaste before taking one more look at the open sky, the stretching grey-green sea. He draws in a deep breath.

  “Right, summon the others, Keating. Let us go in search of this Scottish king.”

  *

  High on its crag Stirling Castle waits proudly, dwarfing the ragged party as it rides beneath the ancient gate. Richard, trying to appear confident, cranes his neck at the wet windows and the dark towers where the limp flap of a pennant welcomes him in from the fog.

  The courtyard is alive with people; servants, grooms, milling horses, barking dogs. A group of women stand with hands on hips, watching his party dismount. His army is made up of Portuguese, Germans, Burgundians and a few disaffected English, but to the Scots they are all foreigners.

  Richard stretches his stiff back and waits for his companions to flank him before they move into the castle itself. His knees are weary from the long ride, his hands frozen inside his threadbare gauntlets. As his horse is led away he pulls off his hat, tries to revive the limp feather that dangles over the brim like a dead fowl.

  One day, he thinks, as they progress across slick wet cobbles, I will make a goodly entrance. One day, when I enter a palace, the people will fall to their knees and count their blessings when I deign to notice them.

  As they reach the outer door a steward steps forward; he bows his head courteously and ushers them inside. They follow him up the twisting stair and, as they go, Richard notes the sumptuous hangings, the blazing candles, the Scottish royal arms emblazoned on every wall.

  “We have put you in here, my lord.” The steward throws open a door. “I think you will find everything you need. The king will be pleased to receive you on his return to the castle. If you should find anything lacking, you have only to call.”

  The man bows and hurries away. Richard looks about the room. It is warm. A huge fire burns in the grate and torches have been lit to fend off the dark that comes so early to Scotland in November.

  He sees a table laden with victuals, and comfortable chairs pulled close to the fire. Through an open door he notices a bed with fine thick hangin
gs and a deep mattress. It promises much after the trials of a ship’s cabin. A girl is folding back the sheets, another stokes the fire. They are young and comely, no doubt selected for their feminine appeal. He feels the tension drain from his shoulders, throws down his hat, and casts off his damp cloak.

  *

  Richard tugs at the bottom of the doublet supplied by his host. It is a trifle short and will have to be altered, but it will do for now. The garments may be slightly small but, for the first time in months, he feels clean, respectable and, from what he can tell in the hand-held glass, his royal breeding is now visible.

  He follows the steward back along the corridor, down the twisting stair, through the castle to the great hall where the king is waiting. At the end of the room a group of courtiers are lounging in the corners, another group is ranged about the throne.

  When the steward inserts himself at the king’s elbow, James looks up and spies Richard waiting to be introduced. “Ah, there you are, York.”

  King James disentangles himself from the conversation and hurries toward Richard. They meet in the centre of the floor. There should, of course, have been ceremony, a fanfare announcing his entrance. Richard should stoop to pay the king homage but James has little patience with formality and, when Richard bends over his hand, he pulls away before the boy is done. The boy hesitates and, when he straightens up, realises he is taller than the Scottish king. They regard each other for a long moment before James speaks.

  “It is good to finally meet at last, Richard.” He slaps the boy on the back and leads him away from the crowd. “Had fate decreed otherwise, we should have been brothers.”

  “Your Grace?” Richard’s brow wrinkles in confusion and James laughs, gestures to a servant to pour them some wine.

  “I was betrothed once to your sister, Cecily, but … well, it didn’t happen. A shame. Perhaps once you have ousted the Tudor, we can negotiate a fresh union between our countries.”

  “I believe Cecily is already taken, Your Grace, but I have other sisters. I am sure there must be one still unwed who will suit you.”