I’ll do anything, he thinks. If you help me reclaim my throne, I will marry you to my grandmother. As James chatters on it becomes apparent the Scottish king enjoys life and all it holds.
“I was just talking to Campbell here about the possibility of a Scottish printing press. We are way behind England in that respect. You’ve seen Caxton’s machine, I suppose?”
Richard, about to drink, lowers his cup, his thirst unquenched.
“I’ve not seen the machine but I’ve seen the books. My father had a vast library. I remember my favourite was Le Morte d’Arthur; it coloured my early years … and my uncle, Anthony Woodville, was involved in the printing trade. I recall his excitement when he showed us the printed version of his book on philosophy.”
Richard’s voice trails off as he recalls his uncle is dead now, along with the rest of the people there that day, but James doesn’t notice. He looks at the boy speculatively, his smile slowly stretching into delight.
“You have a keen memory. I can see we have a lot in common, Richard. I am currently backing research into improving the range and aim of guns. You must come with me when I visit the foundry … I can lend you a horse. Ah!” He is diverted by a newcomer to the circle. “Do you know my brother, James? Gets confusing, the both of us blessed with the same name, so it’s easier to call me ‘James’ and my brother ‘Ross’. He is the Duke of Ross, you see.”
A young man with some resemblance to the king holds out his hand, and Richard clasps it but the lad has no time to speak. As James continues to dominate the conversation, Richard wonders if Ross is naturally quieter than the king or if he has given up trying to get a word in. As the three men stroll about the room, the king stops from time to time to make introductions.
“This is the Duke of York,” he says. “With our help he will overthrow Tudor and, once he is made king, relations between our countries will blossom.”
Richard smiles, his eye skimming nervously over the colourful crowd. It may be dark outside and rain may be lashing the casements, but inside it is bright and warm. More candles and torches than can be counted illuminate the crush of bodies, bouncing from the fabulous gowns and jewels, and reflecting in the mirrors.
A tall slender woman, older than the king, slides her arm through James’s and smiles boldly at Richard. He bows slightly, uncertain of her status until the king’s hand falls on hers and his smile widens further.
“This is Margaret; Margaret Drummond.”
The king does not elaborate but it is clear she is his mistress. Richard bows over her hand as she assesses him.
“We are blessed to have you here, my lord,” she smiles. “The young ladies will be fighting for the attention of such a gallant young fellow.”
He laughs half-heartedly, uncertain how to reply to such overt flirtation before the king, but is saved by the press of people. They press in, vying for an introduction, and he becomes detached from the royal party. Everyone is reaching out to grasp his hand in greeting and Richard is overwhelmed, warmed by their generosity. I should have come here sooner, he thinks. Why did I wait so long?
“Ah, Huntly.” The king speaks loudly over the din of the crowd, beckoning Richard back to his side. “Richard, you must meet the Earl of Huntly.” The boy turns and bows to yet another newcomer. “And his daughter. Where is Catherine? Ah yes, and his daughter, my … erm … cousin, isn’t it? Catherine Gordon.”
The clamouring crowd seems to fall away, their voices are silenced, and the tug of their hands on his doublet is unheeded. A woman is curtseying before him, her head bowed. He looks down upon a velvet hood trimmed with pearls and, as she rises, Richard notices a few strands of bright yellow hair peeking from beneath. She has a high clear brow, a pretty up-tilted nose, flanked by wide blue eyes. His heart lurches, his mouth goes dry and words fail him.
She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Her throat is long and white, her breast translucent. When he bends to kiss her fingers, they flutter in his palm. Slowly he straightens up again, looks into her eyes and fumbles for something to say.
“I — I am … delighted …”
She laughs, a tinkling sound. He remembers the stories Bess told him as a boy and knows he has found his Guinevere.
“They told me you were tall.” She tilts her face upward. “But you are almost a giant.”
“I think, my lady, that you are very tiny. It makes me appear bigger than I am.”
“They say your father was a large man, too.”
“Oh, to me he was huge. I was just ten years old when he died. Now, when I recall him, I remember a big man, a laughing man, glinting with jewels with a cup of welcome forever in his hand.”
Richard hears his own voice with some surprise. It is as if someone else is working his mouth. He has no idea what he is saying. Catherine, he thinks, rolling the word around his mind. The name seems suddenly exotic and wonderful as if he has never heard it spoken before.
There is a flush beneath her cheeks, and her eyes are bright with pleasure. This is a lady, he tells himself. Not someone to be taken lightly; not a roll in the hay, or a fumble in a darkened corner. She is the cousin of the king, and expected to marry well. He must tread warily.
“The king says there is to be a tournament tomorrow in your honour. Will you be riding in it?”
His eyes are fastened on her mouth, moist pink lips, straight pearly teeth, and a glimpse of her tongue.
“Me? No; I shouldn’t think so.”
Richard feels uncomfortable at the thought. Of course, by now he should be a champion at the lists, but he’s never had the chance to train properly. He can wield a sword and understands the rudiments of battle, but he has never fought. He will never be a hero, although from the look in Catherine’s eyes, you’d never know it. He bows once more.
“Would you dance with me, my lady?” he asks. “I may not be a champion of the lists but I am king of the dance floor.”
She laughs gaily and takes his hand. The music begins again as they hurry to take their places on the floor. From his place on the dais King James watches, and raises his glass.
*
In the weeks that follow, Richard attends more jousts and pageants than he has in his life. He rides out with the king and his favourites, hawking and hunting. Wrapped warmly against the encroaching winter weather, they eat al fresco, warming their hands at braziers set beneath the rapidly thinning canopy of the wood.
Relaxed, happy and safe, Richard blossoms and for the first time in his life, resists the invitations of the prettier element of the court. It isn’t that the women aren’t appealing, for King James ensures his attendants are comely and willing. But each time he feels tempted, Catherine’s face and Catherine’s laughter and the memory of the thrill of her hand, prevents him.
I should stay away from her, he thinks, afraid he will go too far and offend his host. He can’t afford to lose his ally in the battle to regain his throne. He determines he will avoid her, pointedly seek the company of other women of the court, but she is always there and, like a fish to a worm, he cannot keep away.
They make a handsome couple, everyone says so. The top of her head is level with his throat, their colouring similar, and something in the way they move suggests they were made to dance together. The court begins to gossip, linking their names, and insinuating an illicit union. Richard is forced to take the matter to the king.
“I swear it is gossip, Your Grace. I have never laid a hand on her or set eyes on Catherine outside your royal hall.”
James smiles. “Relax cousin, I never listen to gossip. Although, in this case, I can see there is no smoke without fire. You and Catherine were made for each other, man. Why not take her to your bed and seal our alliance; call it a sort of treaty?”
Richard sputters, begins to speak, but is robbed of his words. He stutters and stumbles until he manages to blurt out, “To my bed? What on earth are you suggesting?”
“Oh, I don’t mean you should take her down. I mean, why not
marry her? She has good connections; she is my cousin. It would be no shame.”
“Of course it would be no shame. It would be an honour, a huge one but … my position … my future is uncertain, what can I offer her? Oh … she would never have me.”
“She’d have ye in the blink of an eye, man. She is smitten, it’s plain to see. And what could be better for a woman than the promise of the English throne … unless, of course, it’s the Scottish one?”
While James throws back his head and laughs at his own joke, Richard struggles to come to terms with what he is being offered.
“Y-your Grace …” He stumbles over the words. “You have given me so much; a house, servants, horses, clothes … I owe everything to you, everything. But this? Are you sure? Suppose I should fail? I can’t drag Catherine around the courts of Europe for the rest of her life.”
“Acht, we won’t fail, Richard. God will see to that. Marry her and be happy, man, while you are still young enough to enjoy it.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Elizabeth
Sheen ― 18 March 1496
This timeit is easier. Perhaps it has something to do with the alignment of the stars, or it may be because I am not attended by my mother-in-law. Either way I am calmer, and since I know what to expect, I feel less fear than last time. The pain and the bloody fluid does not concern me greatly. I follow the instructions of the midwife carefully, work hard, focusing on the task instead of fighting it. When at last my child slips into the world I am pleased when they tell me it is another girl; a princess to balance the nursery and offer companionship to Margaret.
She lies in my arms, the womb grease still thick upon her. As I examine my daughter’s face she grips my finger as if her life depends on it, which I suppose it does. Her face is wrinkled, her nose and forehead showing signs of bruising, and she looks rather cross, disgruntled with the harsh world although we have done all we can to give her a gentle entry.
I loosen my shift and let her suckle, the tenuous tug of her mouth growing stronger and more confident as the minutes pass. After a few moments the sucking stops, and she slips into a doze.
“Let me take her now, Madam. I will make her tidy.”
I offer her up reluctantly, sitting up on my pillow, watching as they wash away the megrim of birth from my child. They anoint her with milk and myrrh, dust her naval with aloe and frankincense. All the while she sets up a loud protest, which grows in volume as her limbs are wrapped tight and she is handed back to me, her face redder and crosser than before.
It is not long before the king is announced, and he enters the chamber sheepishly. He kisses my brow and casts a non-committal eye over his daughter.
“How are you, wife?”
“I am quite well, my lord. The birth was straightforward this time, praise God.”
He nods, takes a stool at the bedside, clasps his hands between his knees, his eyes darting about the room.
“Have you thought of a name, Henry?”
He looks up, surprised. “No, no. I have no preference. I will let you choose.”
I look down at the child again. She has fallen asleep. I expect being born is as exhausting as giving birth. Her bruised nose is decidedly bluer. Her tiny mouth moves as if she is suckling an invisible teat. Quite suddenly a memory is born of my young sister, Mary, who died a year or so before my father. She, alone of all my sisters, never indulged in petty squabbles; she hated disputes of any kind and Father had given her the pet name of Mary the Peacemaker.
“What about Mary?”
“Mary,” Henry repeats, as if trying out the name. “After the Virgin. Yes, it seems very fitting.”
I realise he has no knowledge of the sister I lost so tragically, but I don’t enlighten him. He stands up and kisses my brow again. “I will leave you now. You must need sleep.”
I let my head fall back on the pillow and send him a sleepy smile.
“I will soon be up and about again, and things will return to normal. Tomorrow perhaps you can bring the children to meet Mary.”
“I will see that they come. Sleep well, my dear.”
He leaves me alone. The nurse, Alice, fusses with linen in the corner and my women melt into the shadows leaving Mary and I at peace.
*
My chamber is a haven from politics and intrigue, for a few weeks I am oblivious to affairs of state and if Henry has any concerns about the Pretender, or his dealings with Spain regarding Arthur’s marriage, then he conceals them from me. A happy time, safe in our nest, Mary and I become acquainted and day by day she grows in strength and character.
Henry doesn’t accompany the children when they come to visit their sister for the first time. Elizabeth Denton, the lady mistress of the royal nursery, brings them. I can tell from their shiny bright faces that they have been thoroughly washed and scrubbed for the occasion.
When the door opens they sidle in and hesitate at the foot of the bed until I beckon them further. Harry needs no further encouragement but comes rushing forward, pushing Meg aside to reach me. His arms clamp around my neck, his lips are wet on my cheek. Meg is more withdrawn, polite and slightly awed. She looks around the room curiously, as if realising this will one day be her lot. It is a woman’s lot, especially royal princesses, to bear children, perpetuate the bloodline and give life to future princes. There is no escaping it. My daughter and I exchange secret female smiles before she kisses me, as warmly as Harry although her kiss is not quite so moist.
Mary is placed in my arms and Alice stands back to allow the children closer as I draw the blankets aside to reveal her face. They regard her solemnly. The last time I introduced them to a baby sister they were younger, less aware of the impact a new sibling would have on their lives. Now, of course, still not fully recovered from the loss of Elizabeth, they greet the newcomer tentatively. Meg smiles softly. “She is lovely, Mother.”
Harry leans over, examining the baby closely. “She is all squashed,” he says. “Why is she squashed? She looks like an old woman.”
I laugh and let my free arm slide around his shoulder.
“That is because she is so new; her face has not yet unfolded properly. In a few weeks her skin will be white and smooth. Her eyes will open and she will learn to laugh and speak.”
“Speak?”
“Well, not right away but she will make noises. She can yell very loudly already.”
“Can she? As loud as this?” He opens his mouth and gives a great shout that makes Mary wake with a start and begin to bawl. Harry is dismayed.
All the servants come running and Margaret puts her fingers in her ears while I fall about laughing. I jig the babe on my shoulder and pat her back, hushing her as the tears subside. Harry knuckles his eye. “I’m sorry,” he says, shamefaced. “I didn’t mean to frighten her.”
“I know, Harry. It is all right. She will grow used to your noise. She will have to if she is to live with you and Meg at Eltham. You will be the best of friends. Would you like to hold her?”
He sits on the bed with his legs straight out, the soles of his shoes threatening the covers, and holds out his arms. Alice looks on disapprovingly as I place the child on his lap. He clutches her, and when she pulls a face and tries to squirm, he jiggles his knees. “Don’t cry, Mary,” he says. “Don’t cry and I will tell you a story. Look, Meg, her hair is the same as yours.”
Meg inches forward and settles beside him, her eyes wide with interest.
“Can I hold her now, Mother? You must take turns, Harry. Tell him, Mother. I want a turn.”
While they nurse their sister, I probe gently about their progress under John Skelton who was engaged last year to oversee their education. Harry shows much talent in music and dancing, and his handwriting is advanced for his age. Meg is attentive too but seems to lack her brother’s natural ability. She is capable and efficient, but displays none of the brilliance of her brother. She hides any sense of inferiority behind a barrier of teasing and bullying but, despite that, the children ar
e very close.
They stay with me all the afternoon until their father arrives and Elizabeth Denton hurries them away. I pass Mary back to Alice and give my husband my full attention. He talks about the coming summer and a proposed progress to the south west of the country. It is too early for me to think with any comfort of leaving Mary, but I do not argue. All queens must learn to put duty before pleasure and Henry is eager to get the people of England to love him.
With a nursery full of little princes and princesses, it should be easy to please them. There is nothing discernible about his person that makes him unloved; as far as the poor are concerned one king is much the same as another. I suspect it is the taxes he levies that makes them resent him. The poor do not understand the expense of maintaining peace and, even if they did, it is doubtful that they’d see it as their duty to fund the king’s defences.
As he details his plans for the summer, I listen without argument. His words float in and out of my consciousness while I wonder if the rash Mary has developed beneath her chin is really caused by excess dribble, or if it indicates something more sinister. I make a note to speak to the physician in the morning and turn my face back to the king. Slowly, a few of his words begin to penetrate; names like Warbeck, James, and Scots spark in the darkness of my mind. I sit up straighter.
“I am sorry, Henry. What did you say?”
His face stiffens, his lips clench firmly before he repeats it.
“I was telling you that the boy, the pretender, is growing very thick with King James, and the Scottish people are applauding him as king of the English. How can James support such treason? My spies tell me that Warbeck spends all his days hunting and his nights dancing and all the court have fallen in love with him. And it also seems that the Scottish king is encouraging his amorous advances toward his own cousin.”
“Oh.”
I don’t know what else to say. I don’t understand how the common people can fall in love with a penniless boy with a specious claim to the throne. And then I recall my father and my mind betrays me as I begin to toy with the idea that Warbeck may be my sibling after all.
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 20
