As the silence stretches I search for a subject on which we will not clash, but as I open my mouth to speak, we hear a disturbance in the outer ward. She stands up, holds up a finger to silence me while she strains her ears.
“It is the king,” she says. “Something is wrong.”
The door is thrown open and Henry enters, casts off his cloak and tosses it over the back of a chair.
“Henry.” I sink into a brief curtsey, more for his mother’s satisfaction than the king’s. “What is the matter? What has happened?”
“Mother.” He kisses Lady Margaret’s hand before addressing me. “Elizabeth.”
He picks up his mother’s cup and drains it. “The rebels grow close to London. I must ride forth to deal with it. Elizabeth, you are to take the children to safety in the Tower. I have organised a stout escort. You will be safe there. The Tower has never been breached.”
I try not to think of the day my brother Richard left sanctuary to join our brother Edward there. I never saw them again, and now Henry wants me to place my own children there in safety.
But I do not argue. I never argue.
“When shall we go, Henry? Now? Today?”
“Yes today. The rebel army has assembled at Guildford. Lord Daubeney is there with our forces and I must join them. I must show my face and bolster their courage.”
“A rebel army, Henry? Surely they are just a rabble?”
He takes my hand, spares a second for a warm look such as I am only accustomed to seeing in our bed.
“They may be a rabble but they are fifteen thousand strong.”
“Fifteen thousand? But they won’t beat us, will they? You won’t let them?”
I think of my father who never lost a battle, my uncle Richard who perished despite his many campaigns, and I think of Henry, my husband. He is a politician not a soldier, but nonetheless he is riding into danger and leaving us behind. I button down my fears and take control.
“I will make ready at once. Lady Margaret, you will accompany us. Your safety is paramount.” She nods and for once doesn’t contest my authority. “I will send a messenger ahead to ensure our rooms are prepared. If we hurry we can be there before dark.”
I whirl around, clapping my hands to summon my women, but Henry grabs my wrist, spins me toward him. His face is dead white, his eyes glowing dark, the lines that flank his mouth deep, grim folds of concern.
His hand slides beneath my hood, his fingers moving in my hair as he absorbs every plane and shadow of my face. For the first time I see love in his eyes. Not lust, or lingering resentment, but love and respect, and concern. My heart leaps like a hind in the forest and I grasp his wrist, close my eyes, waiting for his kiss.
When it comes it is long and full of tenderness. He rests his forehead on mine. “Take care, my wife. Take care of yourself, and our children.”
I nod, unable to speak, for there are tears on my face and an immovable lump lodged deep in my throat. He pulls away with a brief sorry smile.
His mother quickly turns away but she witnessed the moment; she knows now that he has a care for me and I fear her resentment will increase.
Henry is at the door, he lifts his hand before passing through it, and I watch him go with a strange mix of euphoria and dread. He may never return. His actions this day may plunge my children and I into a life of exile and fear, but I know one thing. I have been loved. I just never saw it before.
*
The children are bundled into warm clothing to ward off the night air. It is cold for June, the sky lying heavy over London, and the smoke so thick in the air we can taste it, our lungs filling with dank moist filth.
Meg rides behind her grandmother, her white face peering from deep within her voluminous hood, her eyes wide with unspoken fear. Mary is clasped close to her nurse’s bosom; she sleeps on, oblivious to the drama, and the terrified prattle of her nurse.
“Be quiet,” I snap as I hug Harry tighter and kick my mount to move forward.
We are flanked by armed guards, stern-faced soldiers in full armour. They form a barricade around us as we ride through the empty, rain-washed streets. The slick cobbled road glistens blackly, the sound of our horses’ hooves echoing loudly in the dark, setting the town dogs barking.
Harry’s hand sneaks up my chest, to grip the neck of my gown. I can feel his little heart pattering; the sound of his breath is quick and fast. With a squeeze of my arm I send him a fleeting smile of encouragement and he returns it, his eyes trusting but afraid.
“It isn’t far now, my son,” I say. “Look, you can see the river.”
The Thames flows thick and black, slapping against the wharf as the grey walls of the Tower loom ahead, silhouetted darkly against the moonless sky. My horse’s hooves slither on the wet pavement and I snatch at the reins to steady him.
Beneath my cloak, Harry clutches tighter. I press my heels to my mount’s flanks, turning my head quickly to ensure that the king’s mother and the maid follow with my daughters.
A sharp cry as we reach the outer wall; a challenge from the Tower guard that is answered by our leader. The first of many gates slides open and we draw a little closer to safety. With each portcullis and drawbridge we cross, I become both more secure and more terrified. One by one they crash closed behind us with a great clanking of steel and grinding of chains. It is as if we are travelling into the bowels of the earth and will never taste freedom again.
How did my brothers feel, coming here alone? What did they think when they finally realised Edward’s crown had been taken and they were prisoners rather than honoured guests? They must have known they’d never escape; that their fate was sealed. The Tower is the last place they’d seen.
“It’s all right, Mother,” Harry whispers. “We are safe now. Nothing can get us in here.”
I smile as if I believe him, and pass him into the arms of a waiting guard. A flurry of servants arrive and the children are scooped up and carried into the White Tower while Lady Margaret and I follow on behind. I am halfway up the steps when I remember something and whirl around, run back to the horses.
“Bring me that package,” I order the guard, indicating a long box on one of the pack horses. “Bring it now, please.”
He bows solemnly and I wait as he unstraps the box and hoists it beneath his arm. I ascend the stairs again, checking every now and then that he is following.
“Put it there and you can go,” I say when we reach the inner chamber. I look about the room where the nurse is helping the children remove their wraps. Mary has woken and started to wail, her nurse fussing with her linen.
A fire blazes in the hearth and the furnishings are soft and plush, but I shudder and rub my arms. Everything we need is here, all that can be done for our every comfort has been attended to, but I hate this place. I always have, but now, until Henry manages to quell the rebellion, I must call it home.
Lady Margaret stands in the centre of the room, directing the servants, ordering refreshment for the children. Harry and Meg sit by the hearth, their faces pale from lack of sleep, their eyes shadowed and afraid. Mary continues to bawl in her nurse’s arms; I jerk my head, silently ordering her to leave us in peace.
“Here you are, Harry and Meg; have a drink and a slice of pie and then you must go to bed. It is almost morning. We’ve had quite an adventure but now it is time to sleep.”
Meg takes the cup and sips her milk, but Harry just clutches his to his chest and looks about the unfamiliar chamber with large, fearful eyes.
“Have the rebels gone now, Mother? Are we really safe?”
“I am sure we are. Your father would not allow them to come too close to London.”
“So why did we have to come here then, if you are so sure of father’s victory?”
I turn in surprise at Meg’s voice. She is not usually one to question adults. She is obedient and trusting. In speaking out she reveals the depth of her fear. I run my hand over her hair and do not reprimand her for questioning.
&nbs
p; “We came here to put the king’s mind at rest. We are important to him; he loves us all very much and would not fight so well if he had to worry for our safety. He will be here in the morning and we can all go home to Eltham, you’ll see.”
Lady Margaret makes a sharp movement. “I am going to the chapel to pray, Elizabeth. I shall see you tomorrow but do not look for me early for I will spend the night in prayer.”
“What is left of it,” I murmur but she doesn’t hear me. The door closes on her whispering black skirts and I breathe a sigh of relief to be left alone with the children.
“Come along,” I say. “Let’s get you settled.”
I tuck them up together in the same bed, finding some comfort in the act. Usually this sort of task is left to servants. I stroke Harry’s hair back from his brow and trace the line of his sandy eyebrows with the tip of my finger.
“Good night, my prince,” I say and leave a kiss on his brow. “Good night, my princess,” I murmur, but Meg is already half asleep and doesn’t acknowledge me. I kiss her anyway, and tuck the covers tight about them. “I will leave a candle burning, Harry,” I say before I leave, “and the chamber door open just a little so you can hear me. I will be just through there. Sleep well.”
I blow him a kiss and he pretends to catch it in his chubby palm and press it to his mouth.
*
I sit alone in the firelight, waiting. Waiting for what, I do not know. It could be defeat, it could be victory. The reports that have managed to reach me are of stalemate but, when I ask, I am relieved to know that there is no sign of Warbeck.
The present threat is not from the Pretender, although he is the cause of it. His misconceived alliance with King James and their attack on the north of England instigated this latest war with Scotland, and now the Cornishmen are protesting at the taxes to pay for it. Rumour has it that Kent, that nest of turmoil and treason as Henry calls it, is rising too. Will the man calling himself my brother take advantage of this and strike while the king is preoccupied? My father would have, and if Warbeck’s claims are true, his father would have also.
I sit there for so long that my maid’s head nods and she begins to snore quietly, her chin on her chest. The fire slumps, I draw my shawl about my shoulders and try not to notice the shadows that seem to be creeping from the corners. My disquiet soon mushrooms into terror and I cannot rest. I have never been more wide awake.
My eyes travel about the room, scanning the walls that seem to be closing in, breathing loudly, raucously, like a drunken old man. Although the Tower is full of men and servants, I have never felt so alone, so vulnerable.
My heart is beating fast, short and sharp, and my ears begin to ring. I feel something is close, something dark and menacing, threatening my children, threatening me, threatening England.
With a stifled cry I leap from my chair and rummage for the box that the guard left where I’d instructed. I pry open the lid, pull away the straw packing and peel back the wrapping. A sword, my father’s sword; the sword that won him England.
It is heavy and there are signs of rust on the blade, but I manage to heave it from the box. As quietly as I can, I open the door and sneak along the corridor to take up a position at the outer entrance to our apartment.
The White Tower is heavily guarded. There are soldiers at every gate, every window. There are armed men on the roof, a ring of barges on the river. And outside the Tower, the whole of London is armed and ready; the outer city wall manned and every gate defended. I am safe, as safe as I can be from earthly foe, but the memory of others who have died here in the Tower will not let me rest.
Old King Henry was murdered a few floors below, murdered by my father and uncles for his crown; George of Clarence died here, killed on my father’s order. Warwick, my cousin, little Edward of Warwick, is here somewhere, guilty only of making Henry uneasy; a simple boy, no threat to anyone. I bite my lip, realising I have not visited Edward for months. Suddenly I wonder if he is even still here, or if he has been put to death, his ghost joined with my brothers and other men, both innocent and guilty, who have perished here in the darkness of the Tower.
I imagine their spirits emerging from the walls to flaunt their gory end in my face, holding me to blame, cursing me for loving a Tudor. I suddenly see myself through their dead staring eyes, a traitor to my family, to my blood.
My nostrils fill with the stench of my own fear, my mouth with vomit; my own breath is rasping in my throat. Suddenly weak, the tip of my father’s sword falls to the floor. I place a hand to my throat and fight for breath, battling to overcome blind panic. There is nothing there, I tell myself, nothing that can hurt you.
But there is a figure in the doorway, a small boy, all in white, the light of the dying hearth shining through his shift. His feet and legs are bare, his fair hair is ruffled. My breath ceases. I open my eyes wide, my voice strangles in my throat. I lift the sword and hold it defensively before me, as if I have the power to smite even the dead.
“Richard?” My voice echoes in the dark, alien, full of fear, the terror unmasked and raw. He lifts a hand, knuckles his eye and begins to cry.
“It is me, Mother. What are you doing with that sword?”
A great crash of metal echoes up and down the corridor as I let the sword fall. I drop weeping to my knees and cover my face with my hands. Soon, his arms creep around my neck. He is warm and living; he is my son.
I hold him close, much too close, sobs wracking my frame, tears wetting both of us.
“Oh, Harry,” I sob, stroking his hair, touching his dear little face to ascertain he really is flesh and blood. “Harry, I — I thought you were somebody else.”
*
Two thousand men lay dead on Blackheath, two thousand rebels, I remind myself. They are men who marched against Henry; men who marched against our rule. Henry rides triumphantly back to London where the crowds line the streets to cheer him home.
For once, their outpouring of love is his alone. After giving thanks at St Pauls, he comes to me in the Tower and I am so glad to see him that I hurl convention to the winds and throw my arms about his neck before he has time to remove his gauntlets.
“I was so afraid, Henry.”
“Did you doubt me then, Elizabeth?”
I am chastened, I bite my lip.
“No, I don’t think I doubted you … but I have lost those I love in battle before and I’ve learned the hard way that …”
“I know.” He stems my explanation by kissing my forehead. I watch as he pulls off his gloves, unties his cloak and hands it to a waiting boy at his elbow. We move to the hearth where a flagon is waiting and he sits down, holds out his hands to the flames. I notice his boots are mired and beads of moisture still cling to the ends of his hair.
“I will order the servants to bring hot water, Henry. You will appreciate a bath.”
There is a long wait while the water is heated and his servants troop from the kitchens with jugs and ewers. I make myself comfortable at his side while he regales me with the trials of the campaign.
We can hear the children playing nearby. Yesterday, they crept about the chamber as if they were trespassing, but now the romp is loud, clearly illustrating that the safe arrival of the king has dispelled their fears. I sit on the floor with my head on Henry’s knee, his hand on my hair, and close my eyes, as close to bliss as I have been since girlhood.
“We should give thanks to God,” I murmur. “A gift to the church, and a pilgrimage … to Walsingham, perhaps.”
“It isn’t over yet, my dear. I still need to get my hands on the Pretender and put an end to his games once and for all. I can make no progress with Spain until he is silenced.”
I try to suppress a shudder as a cloud dims my optimism. I know he is right. He thinks as a soldier, a king, and has no room for womanly sentiment. I close my eyes against the picture of my little brother that rises in my mind and replace it with the face of a desperate rogue; a murderer of innocents; a threat to my children.
>
The door opens and Henry’s mother enters unannounced, her face lined with concern. She ignores me and makes straight for her son, both hands outstretched.
“Henry, my prayers are answered and you are back safe. I am so proud …” They exchange kisses, her eyes closed, her mouth pursed. As Henry offers her his seat, he sends me a fleeting smile and offers his hand to help me to my feet.
“Why are you on the floor, Elizabeth?” his mother says, not bothering to hide her impatience. “Are there not enough chairs?”
She has no concept that she has interrupted an intimate moment between husband and wife. What can she know of that? She has only ever married for advancement, for political gain; she knows nothing of intimacy, or affection. Some people say that after the birth of Henry, she shunned intimacy with any man, even her husbands. I can only think they were glad of it. Bedding Margaret would be like sleeping with a block of stone.
Henry nods to a servant to bring her wine, and I pass her a bowl of fruit and nuts. She chews diligently while Henry describes the campaign and the effective manner in which the rebels were disbanded. Neither of them can see the tragedy of a king turning his weapons on his own subjects. My own father did his share of it in his day, but he was always sorry and wished for a more peaceful way. We should not make war upon our own. Suddenly, I remember Warwick.
“Henry.” I turn to him, almost interrupting my mother-in-law’s complaint. “I would like to visit my cousin Edward, is that possible, while we are lodged here in the Tower?”
I have spoken impulsively without thinking the matter through, and while Henry considers his answer my heart begins to hammer beneath my ribs. He exchanges glances with his mother, who shifts in her seat, selects an orange and begins to unpeel it.
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 23
