“When I am a man I shall find the lake and dive down to the bottom and find Excalibur and carry it into battle!”
“No, you won’t Harry, don’t be so silly. This all happened ages ago, the sword will be all rusty by now.”
Harry’s face falls, his bottom lip juts out.
“Then I will have one made. When our brother Arthur is king I will be his right hand man, like Lancelot, and guard him against his foes.”
“Just make sure you don’t steal his wife.”
I open my mouth to reprimand Meg for such a pert suggestion but Harry precludes me.
“Why would I do that? What do I want with a wife? Girls are silly.”
“Kings need sons, Harry. A king isn’t a proper king without lots of sons.”
I watch them, fascinated in the turn the squabble has taken. I should put a stop to it at once but it is revealing, their hot words telling me far more about them than a polite conversation ever would.
Harry’s face turns puce as he searches for a clever riposte. Margaret, two years older, is far wiser and more aware of the way the world works than her brother. I note the glee in her eye as she folds her arms across her chest as he grows crosser.
“Well, all right then. I will have a silly wife but I won’t visit her. I will let her live in a palace on her own and she can fill it with princes.”
Meg laughs, a tinkling sound like my own used to be. She raises her eyebrows to me in mockery of her brother’s lack of worldliness.
News of the conflict with the Pretender has not reached the royal nursery, and for a few hours I am able to forget it. Although, every now and then, Harry’s face, or Harry’s expression, or Harry’s comical conversation reminds me of Richard, the brother I once loved.
Walsingham – October 1497
I decide not to cancel the long standing arrangements for my pilgrimage to Walsingham, but I leave court with a heavy heart. As I ride the roads of autumn, showered in leaves of gold and red, my mind wanders back down the years. I have come far. I have overcome many obstacles, thwarted many foes to arrive where I am today; queen of England, mother of the next king. It is time to give thanks rather than dither between resentment and joy.
It is late when we arrive at the abbey. I am tired out and more than a little grubby from the rigours of the road. I ask for a bath to be prepared. Anne Say helps me out of my gown, rolls down my stockings.
“I feel so tired.” I smile at her as she lays my clothes on the bed. Then I sit on a cushion while she loosens my hair and begins to brush it. The rhythmic strokes of the brush are soothing. I close my eyes and listen to Catherine Hussey strumming the lute.
What will be, will be, I tell myself. There is no point worrying about it. Perhaps when Henry brings the Pretender back he will be a stranger, a vile usurper who ill-wishes my husband and my children. Then I shall be glad of his death. I clench my fingers on the arms of the chair as my whole body begins to stiffen.
“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Ann has stopped brushing and has placed a hand on my shoulder. “You are suddenly very tense.”
I smile at her. “I am fine. I am just worried about the king. I will be glad when we can be reunited. I hate fighting and sometimes I feel there has been nothing else for my entire lifetime.”
“It will cease now the king has the pretender in his hands. We can all relax.”
She begins to brush again and Catherine starts to sing, her soft voice lulling me into a sense of easement. By the time the water has been brought from the kitchens and the tub is filled, I am reluctant to stir. I force myself from the chair.
Fresh clothes are laid out in readiness. I cross the chamber, let Ann help me from my shift and step naked into the warm water. It engulfs my tired limbs, laps against my aching breasts, soothes my chaffed thighs. The water is scented with lavender and chamomile to help me relax and, as I lay there, some of the worries and the fears seep away to be discarded with the dirty water. By the time the water has cooled I will emerge clean and strong again.
As I am made ready for bed, a letter arrives from the king; the messenger has ridden hard from Devon. I order him to be given refreshment and a bed for the night. My eyes scan quickly over the customary greeting to the real news.
As you will have been informed, we have the Pretender in our possession and are riding to London, where he will be placed in the Tower and hopefully forgotten. We need worry no more, Elizabeth; our son’s inheritance is safe. I have one more prisoner, however, who is more difficult to throw into a dungeon. I have Warbeck’s wife, Catherine Gordon, a close relative of the Scottish king. I have no desire to undermine our recent treaty with James and so will house her gently, as befits her station. I request that you take her into your household and treat her with the respect she deserves.
It is no little relief to have dealt with this matter at last. The marriage negotiations with Spain can now move on and, God willing, the Infanta can be welcomed to England soon.
I will send this letter ahead and arrive soon after it, where I will be glad to be in your company again. I hope, wife, that this letter finds you well.
Henry Rex
So, I am no sooner arrived at the shrine than I must ride back again. I spend a day giving thanks for my children, asking that God send little Elizabeth good rest. I thank Him for the happy outcome of the conflict and also just before I leave, I ask for the joy of another child. A son; another son, just like my Harry.
*
For once, when Henry greets me, he makes no concealment of his regard. As soon as it is fit to do so he gives his excuses to his mother, sends my women away and we retreat, almost directly, into the dark sanctity of our marriage bed.
Even at his most passionate I have found him a reserved lover, the peak of our loving passing quickly to polite companionship. But there is something different about him now; a new urgency, a sweet, hot, welcome thirst that is new to me. I open myself to him, glad that our souls can now touch, relieved that the removed threat of the Pretender has allowed this new side of Henry to emerge.
After he has taken me, he lingers in my bed, curling my hair about his fingers; tracing the line of my breast and laughing when my nipples rise to greet their king. He is almost gay, and in return I am relaxed and happy to discover this new husband, this new lover. I cannot help but let him see how much I welcome and revel in our loving.
When we finally rise from our bed, we are both rosy from our romp. He helps me into a loose gown, and even goes so far as to brush the worst of the snarls from my hair so that my ladies do not remark on it. As I meet his eyes in the glass, he looks different, his reflection somehow altered. I blush beneath the heat of his gaze. What has happened to Henry? Surely quelling the uprising and ridding himself of Warbeck’s threat cannot have unleashed such an uprising of lust? Has his insecurity been obscuring his true nature for all these years?
Sheen Palace – November 1497
I am dressed in my finest; a gown of white cloth of gold with a regal train. From my ears hang two of the world’s most enormous pearls. Ann hands me my fan and my prayer book, and we make our way down to the hall for supper.
Customary trumpets mark my arrival and the court falls to its knees while I take my place on the dais. I cast my eye about the hall, looking for Henry. It is unusual for him to arrive after me; he is usually in his place, discussing matters of state with his uncle Jasper.
I locate the king’s mother first. She is speaking to the archbishop, probably complaining about some breach of his service. I link my fingers and wait with back erect for Henry to arrive. And then I hear him laugh. I jerk my head in the direction of the sound. It is a laugh quite unlike anything I have heard from him before; usually his amusement is sparing or at the expense of others.
He is hidden from my sight, screened by a curtain that is suddenly pulled back to give him admittance. He steps into the torchlight, a half smile on his face, his eyes soft and relaxed, as if he has just risen from my bed. This evening he looks ev
ery inch a king.
He is splendidly apparelled in purple velvet, his hair falling in a smooth curtain to his shoulder. And on his arm is the most exquisite woman I have ever seen. She is chatting, embellishing her words with long white fingers, and he is leaning toward her, entranced by what she is saying, something I cannot hear. He laughs again, and the court titters in accompaniment, happily surprised to see their king so relaxed.
He notices me watching him and his smile widens.
“Elizabeth, my dear.” He moves forward quickly, bringing the woman with him. When they are before me he keeps a hold of her hand and stands tall while she curtseys, extravagantly low.
“Your Grace,” she greets me in a voice like honey. “I am very grateful to you for welcoming me into your household.”
She is so beautiful, so young, and Henry is obviously besotted. She is all in black, festooned with pearls, the whiteness of her cap lending luminosity to her wide blue eyes. Alarm bells ring in my head. The whole court is looking on, eagerly awaiting my response.
Catherine Gordon is as I was ten years ago and instantly I feel old and fat. My heart begins to splinter, but I realise everyone present is waiting for my next words.
“It is good to have you here,” I answer woodenly. My eyes are captivated by the sheen of her skin, the rise of her forehead, the plump invitation of her lips. I drink her in and she curdles like poison through my veins.
Henry is still staring at her. I notice he has maintained hold of her hand far longer than is required, and he is delicately stroking her long white fingers with his ink-stained thumb. Jealousy strikes like a dagger, so sharply I almost cry out against it.
The change I have detected in Henry isn’t due to me, or Warbeck, or our victory over the Cornish. He didn’t make love to me with a new vigour because of anything like that, or from a newfound appreciation for me, his wife, and all that I have sacrificed for his happiness. No. His passion is not for me at all, and all the time he made love to me, he was wishing it was her.
*
It is not easy to pretend all is well, but I do my best. Years of training to conceal my real feelings come to the fore. I continue the charade and push all my jealous rage deep down inside me and paint a serene smile on my face.
I open my arms to Catherine and welcome her into my household as if she is dear to me, but my heart is closed to her. Each time I look on her face I am reminded of Henry’s defection. I have no idea if they are lovers or not. She professes to be in love with her husband, Warbeck, but that does not prevent her from hanging on my husband’s arm, or sharing long, intimate hours with him over a chess board. He used to play with me; I always made sure his ego remained high by ensuring he won. But Catherine beats him. She takes loud satisfaction in felling his queen and, to my astonishment, Henry doesn’t seem to mind.
The Pretender is now safely in the Tower; the king and our sons are safe from him. Several times it is on the tip of my tongue to ask Catherine about him, but so far I have resisted the temptation. I know Henry would not wish it. Any curiosity on my part would suggest I give credence to Warbeck’s claim. So I sit quietly, watching her from the corner of my eye and wondering if she is the wife of a pretender, or if indeed she is my sister-in-law.
During the day, Henry comes to my chambers much more frequently but it is not to see me. For the first time in all our married life he sits among my ladies, takes an interest in their needlework and, on one occasion, holds a skein of wool while Catherine Gordon rolls it into balls.
I bite my tongue, plead a headache, and send her for some salve to rub into my temples. Henry sits back, displeased, and sends me a sharp look, but he does not reprimand me. Instead he turns the conversation to the forthcoming marriage of Arthur and the Spanish Infanta.
“I had imagined that once I had the Pretender under lock and key, Ferdinand and Isabella would agree to let the Infanta travel here, but still they prevaricate. Still they do not trust me.”
I pluck a few crooked stitches from my work and begin again. “You don’t think they give his claim any credence do you, Henry? I mean, if it were Margaret or Mary I should hate for them to go to a foreign country unless their future was assured.”
Henry shifts his limbs irritably. “It is clear he is a pretender, he has made a full confession to the fact. He is a commoner from Tournai, not a drop of royal blood in him.”
He crosses his ankles, folds his arms defensively. I smile soothingly.
“I know that, Henry. Of course I do, but perhaps the Spanish need a little more persuading.”
I bow my head over my sewing again and silence falls between us. From the antechamber come the sounds of a lute, muffled giggles, the light thumping that sounds to me like one of the fools tumbling across the floor. While I sit here talking politics with the king, my ladies are enjoying themselves.
“It will all come right, Henry,” I say. “Do not worry.”
He stands up, stretches his arms, arching his back before shrugging on his cloak and smoothing the fur collar. He bends to kiss my cheek and I resist the impulse to cling on and prolong the moment.
“I must see my mother before she retires; there was a matter she wished to discuss with me.”
He is going to her, I think. I look down at the neat stitches that represent my empty hours and the work blurs, a tear blots the fabric. With a deep breath, I raise my head, wipe the tears away.
“Are you all right, Madam?” Catherine moves forward from the darkness. “What is the matter?”
Relief floods through me. I had truly believed he was making excuses to leave me so he could go to her. I smile blindly and shake my head.
“Nothing, I am just being silly.”
She sits on a low stool beside me, her dark skirts ballooning around her.
“It is never silly to cry, Your Grace. I cry often. I miss my husband more than I’d miss my right hand.”
Our eyes meet. Another tear drops on my cheek. I try to blink them away and her hand reaches out to cover mine.
“Tell me about him,” I hear myself saying. “Tell me about Perkin.”
After a long silence she begins to speak, her voice husky with emotion.
“I call him Richard, of course. Despite his confession I can think of him only as the Duke of York …” She stops, her face white, her eyes luminous in the firelight. “Do I have your permission to speak freely, Your Grace?” She looks toward the door, shuffles closer on her stool. “Can I speak from the heart?”
I nod once and cold fear creeps through me and takes hold of my heart.
“I believe his story. He told me so many things, small things about his life before … before your father died. He spoke of you, your mother and sisters, the death of your father, your time in sanctuary. His descriptions were so real, so vital; they cannot have been the invention of a boy from Antwerp. I am sure of it.”
I am frowning, pain is in my heart and tears spout from my eyes. I cannot help it. I have no control. If Henry were to come back now and see us together, he would know at once that we were discussing the forbidden.
Catherine is leaning forward, clasping my hand, her eyes earnest, and I see now that her flirtation with the king, her light-hearted gaiety, is all an act; an act to fool the gullible king. I fumble for the desire to defend him.
“Some men are very good liars.”
She sits up straighter, her indignation plain.
“You do not know him, Your Grace. Honour and chivalry are the closest things to his heart. He wanted to be the second Arthur; he intended to rule like the kings of old, like King Arthur. He is not a violent man. His one desire was to stop suffering, to bring peace, but all he has brought is death and insecurity. That is the thing which is killing him …”
She breaks off, her voice cracking into sobs. I watch her shoulders shake for a while but then, unwillingly, my hand creeps out to comfort her. As she weeps into my lap, my own tears spill over again but at length she sits up, dabs her face with a kerchief.
&n
bsp; “I have tried to persuade the king to allow Richard to come to court. He is wavering. I tried to convince him that if the courtiers saw them together that Henry’s nobility would outshine my husband’s and he would be clearly seen as a pretender.”
Her eyes are penetrating deep into mine, manipulating my thoughts, urging me to speak against the king, against my husband. When I do not reply she lowers her voice, tempting me like a devil to betray my husband’s trust. “The king is considering it but, Your Grace, if he was allowed to come, you’d see him for yourself. If anyone can identify him, it is you.”
*
“You are not to make any attempt to see him. If I discover you have disobeyed me in this I will send you from court, do you understand?”
I keep calm and try to present a placid face to Henry’s back as he paces up and down the chamber.
“I will obey you, as I always do. I have no wish to meet a pretender who has caused us so much grief.”
“And cost us so much money. My coffers are low because of him. I shall let the court and any who care to look see him for the pretender he is. A low-born foreigner sent by the Duchess Margaret to be a thorn in our flesh. Well, that thorn is well and truly drawn now.”
“Indeed, my love.” It is better that I do not say too much. He must think me content to be ordered to stay in my rooms on the nights Warbeck is in the king’s company. Henry must think I have no ambition or curiosity to look upon the man at all. But, in truth, my blood is boiling. After all these years I am desperate to know the truth. “When Warbeck is to join you at supper I shall keep to my rooms; it is good sometimes to dine quietly and take my leisure in my own apartments, but I trust you will visit me as usual, whenever it pleases you.”
I flush as hotly as if I am propositioning a stranger, and Henry laughs quietly and bends over my hand.
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 26
