Part II – Tudor Queen
September 1485
The fall weather was unusually warm and pleasant for travel. Elizabeth was angry that it was. How dare the sun still shine and birds still sing when her life was turned inside out? She couldn’t adjust to thinking of Henry Tudor as her betrothed rather than Richard’s enemy. Her mother had warned her that she was being foolish and that Henry was her future. If only she had listened. She would have been prepared. She wouldn’t feel like her heart had been ripped out of her chest.
Elizabeth reminded herself that she did not know what Richard’s feelings towards her had been. It was difficult to know how to mourn in the midst of wondering. Had he been fond of her as his niece or loved her as his future wife? Now she would never know. Replaying the conversations that she’d had with Richard in her head did not help. She wished that she had pressed him, but she had been afraid of rejection and embarrassment. Never had she considered that she would not see him again this side of heaven.
And what of her brothers? Would she ever discover where they were hidden or if they were even alive?
Her cousin, Edward, guided his pony to be near her. He was smiling and enjoying the day with the ease of a small child. Elizabeth wondered if he was the lucky one, unencumbered by daily worries and stresses. Edward of Warwick would never learn to be a soldier or a king, but he was happy with what God had given him.
“Give me that feeling of contentedness, Lord,” Elizabeth quietly prayed.
“Bess, will we stay at Baynard Castle with our grandmother when we get to London?” Edward asked. He looked at her with such trust and confidence in his eyes. If only he knew that she was more worried about their future than he would ever be.
“That will be the king’s decision,” she said in a more clipped tone than she intended.
Edward didn’t seem to notice. “Imagine, Henry Tudor being king.”
He said it like it was inconsequential, as one would comment on someone wearing a color not suited to their skin tone or rank, not the way one of the few York princes remaining should regard the Tudor usurper.
“It is difficult to imagine,” Elizabeth agreed. “But we must give him the full respect he deserves.”
Elizabeth worried that Edward would make improper remarks about his royal family, not realizing the precarious position he would be in at the Tudor court. Would people rally to Edward as the York heir? Surely not, Elizabeth answered her own internal question. If any loyal Yorkists remained, they would flock to John de la Pole. John was twenty-four years old and had been Richard’s heir after his son’s death. He would make a more attractive rallying point than the simple-minded Edward. Would Henry be safe on his throne? She didn’t know. She had thought that Richard was.
“Edward, do go and gather those wildflowers in the field,” she requested. “Then I will show you how to weave them together into a crown.” The only crown the boy would ever wear, she was sure.
~~~~
London was a blurry shape in the distance. Elizabeth still wasn’t sure that she was ready for what she must face, but she had been given little choice. She wondered if Henry would greet her as soon as her procession entered the city. Was he anxious to meet her or did he share her concerns about their match. She was eager to see her mother and would listen to her wisdom this time.
Conversation among the travelling party quieted, and Elizabeth pretended to be taken in by the scenery as they plodded on toward London. The city she formerly considered home when it was under her father’s rule now felt like a foreign land to Elizabeth. It was ruled by a Welshman who had been living in France and Brittany. It was a foreign land.
If only her father had not died.
Their party approached the northern gate of the city and Elizabeth began to wonder what reception they would receive. Henry would likely not be happy with an overly exuberant welcome for the York children, but the people still loved Elizabeth and her sisters for the sake of their father. She couldn’t expect the lively crowds that used to line the streets for them, and she was uncertain what she should anticipate. She lifted her chin and straightened in her saddle. Whatever would come, she was still a princess.
Soon a crowd formed around their caravan, though it was not as large or lively as what Elizabeth had become accustomed to. Everyone in London seemed to share the desire to not offend their new king.
“God bless our York queen!” one man bravely shouted.
Elizabeth was flattered, but also afraid of what punishment such opinions could incite. She focused her attention on directing her ladies to hand out coins to the peasants pressing in to gain what reward they could. The sight of children in dirty, torn clothing caused tightness in Elizabeth’s chest as she imagined what their lives must be like in the grubby hovels throughout the city. There were worse destinies than being queen to the wrong king, she decided.
“Bless you, little one,” she said to one little red-haired girl. The small child appeared to be only eight years old, but had calluses from years of work already on her tiny palms.
“God be with you, your grace,” the little girl whispered in awed response.
Elizabeth gave her own troubles over to God as she concentrated on serving those who had so much less.
~~~~
Elizabeth, with her sisters, mother, and Warwick cousins, was given rooms at the Palace of Westminster. It felt odd to stay in rooms besides those for the royal family. Though they filled some of the finest rooms available, it was still clear that they were guests and supplicants. After a few days to settle the large family and get gowns, bedding, and other necessities unpacked, Elizabeth had not yet heard from Henry Tudor.
“Cecily, I am so thankful that you are here with me,” Elizabeth said to her sister as they occupied themselves with sewing.
“Of course I am with you, Bess,” Cecily said matter-of-factly. “You need me.”
“I’m afraid I will always need you.”
Cecily smiled. “Have more confidence in yourself, Bess. You are likely to be Queen of England!”
Elizabeth sighed. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
The look Cecily gave her spoke volumes about what Elizabeth had left unsaid.
“I know that you had thought of attaining that position differently . . . .” It was all she dared say. Everyone in was afraid of appearing too fond of Richard in the eyes of his successor.
“I was foolish. A child,” Elizabeth stated firmly, lifting her chin in false confidence. She heard her mother’s voice in her own words.
“Maybe,” Cecily admitted. “I pray that you will be blessed and happy.”
Elizabeth allowed her chin to fall as she glanced sideways at her sister. “I pray for us all,” she said quietly.
They both worried that no word had come to them from the new king beyond beckoning them to London. “Maybe he has changed his mind,” Elizabeth whispered to Cecily.
“Certainly not. He has many responsibilities to attend to. It is difficult work to usurp a crown,” she added wryly.
“Cecily! You know that Henry’s men watch carefully for those who speak against him.”
Cecily regretted her words when she saw the fearful look in her sister’s eyes. She placed her hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “You’re right, sister dear. I apologize for my outspokenness.”
“I do not mean to admonish, Cecily, but what would I do without you?” Elizabeth shook her head and abandoned her work to lean in more closely. “To think that he has dated his reign from the twenty-first of August.”
“In order to brand many good men as traitors.” Cecily laid aside her own fabric and gazed toward the window.
“You are thinking of Lord Scrope,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sorry, Cecily. I have been selfish with my own concerns.”
Hastily retrieving her work, Cecily said, “It is of no concern. The King has decided that my marriage is to be annulled.”
Elizabeth’s gasped and waited for Cecily to offer more information, but she had firmly clamped her
mouth shut. “I was never certain why Richard married you to someone beneath you as Ralph was.”
A single tear traced along Cecily’s cheekbone. “Because I asked him to allow it.”
“But why? And why didn’t you tell me?” Elizabeth was shocked. She had thought that there were no secrets between her and Cecily.
Cecily kept her eyes on her work as she replied. “Because he loved me, and I felt that I could grow to love him.” Seeing the confusion on Elizabeth’s face, Cecily continued. “I had no desire to be sent away to be the Plantagenet bride of a foreign prince. England is my home, and I have no desire for politics.”
The sisters shared a knowing look. Their family had been embroiled in political upheaval and war for their entire lives.
“Ralph was sweet and safe,” Cecily finished in a whisper.
“I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth said, pulling her sister into a hug.
“You’ve no need to apologize, Bess. It is simply fortune’s wheel turning.”
“I prefer to think that God is the one in control,” Elizabeth countered.
With a small sigh, Cecily responded, “If God is in control, he seems not very fond of England.”
“Lady Elizabeth?” The call came from a servant dressed in green and white, the new Tudor livery.
Elizabeth beckoned him forward, her stomach suddenly in knots. “Yes, what message do you have for me.”
“Your presence is required at Coldharbour House. His grace the King and his Lady Mother would speak with you.”
It did not pass either sister’s notice that no part of this was worded as a request.
“Of course, I will be in attendance as soon as possible,” Elizabeth replied.
The servant stood for a moment as if he expected to see evidence of her preparing to leave. Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow toward him.
“You are excused,” she said in a voice of authority that she copied from her mother.
As the man left, she whispered to Cecily, “Best that we not let them forget that we, too, are royalty.”
Cecily smiled and wondered if it wouldn’t be better if they just let everyone forget.
Elizabeth and Cecily approached the home of Henry Tudor’s mother, Margaret Stanley, with heads held high and their ladies trailing behind them. Despite her uncertainty, Cecily did not hesitate to support her sister.
They were led to a great hall and greeted by an unexpected person.
“Mother! What are you doing here?” Elizabeth asked. She had seen little of her mother since returning to London.
“I’m here to help you of course,” she said as she placed a kiss on her daughter’s cheek that felt as light as a butterfly.
Elizabeth looked at her mother’s face which was still beautiful though there were lines around her eyes and creases of tension in her forehead. Was it better to have her mother, who was infamous for her scheming, here with her? She turned her gaze to Cecily. Her eyes wide and worried, nobody need guess that Cecily thought their mother was a detriment.
“What is going on, mother?” Elizabeth asked.
“Your betrothed is anxious to meet you.” The former queen took her daughter’s arm and began pulling her across the room that bustled with courtiers.
“So, he is still my betrothed?”
“Of course! It has been my sole concern since Henry ascended the throne.”
That seemed such a positive way of saying since her uncle had been killed and his crown usurped.
“Thank you, mother.”
Elizabeth’s mother took her firmly by her upper arms and gazed intensely into her eyes. “You will be queen. Do not ever doubt it.”
Digging down to bring her own confidence into her response, Elizabeth replied, “I do not doubt it.”
“He needs you,” Elizabeth Woodville continued as she released Elizabeth’s arms and guided her more gently to the other end of the room.
Elizabeth looked quizzically at her mother but dared not voice her question.
“He knows as well as the rest of England that he has less than a drop of royal blood. He needs yours.”
The right of conquest would only take him so far. There were York descendants with a better claim: John and Edmund de la Pole, Edward of Warwick, Elizabeth’s brothers…what of them? She shook the question from her head. She needed her wits about her when she met the man who was now king and was to become her husband.
“There he is,” her mother said as she subtly gestured to an ordinary looking man standing with Margaret Stanley. Elizabeth knew Lady Margaret from her days as her mother’s lady-in-waiting. How odd that their roles had been reversed.
Henry Tudor was only slightly taller than Elizabeth with little of the swarthy Welsh handsomeness that she had expected. She couldn’t help comparing him to Richard, and Henry did not fare well. Where Richard had been strong in a lithe sort of way, Henry looked thin and almost ill with pale, gaunt cheeks. She tried not to imagine Richard’s dark good looks as she gaped into Henry’s dull hazel eyes. The slight cast in his left eye caused her to be uncertain what his gaze focused on. His stringy, brown hair had only a slight glimmer of the auburn that so defined the Plantagenet family. She thought of her father who had been handsome, fit, and commanding in his presence. There had been no need to point out who was king when her father was in the room. Henry Tudor did not look powerful among his court. He eyed each person in wariness and distrust.
“Your grace, the Princess Elizabeth,” her mother introduced her, and Elizabeth dipped into a deep curtsey. He seemed to forget for a moment that he must ask her to rise, but she greeted him with a smile regardless of his social ineptness.
“Your grace,” she said in a shy, submissive tone, keeping her eyes downcast.
“I have looked forward to this day for many months,” Henry said as he took her hand and placed it on his arm. He guided her away from their mothers. Elizabeth glanced back and saw that her mother took joy in this. His did not.
“I, too, am happy to meet you,” she said. She hoped it was adequate, not being able to overstate her excitement. She couldn’t push from her mind the fact that she had hoped this day would never come.
He led her through those gathered for the feast laid out by his mother with little effort. Each person stepped aside and bowed to him – or was it to her – as they passed. Finally, they reached a door leading to a garden. It was bare and brown in its fall phase, but Elizabeth could see that it would be beautiful come summer.
“Ah, this is better,” Henry said once the noise was muted, and he smiled at the relative quiet of the outdoors.
“Yes, it is,” Elizabeth agreed, remembering meeting with Richard in the garden at Westminster in its summer warmth and beauty. She wondered if she would ever stop comparing the two men.
“Are you comfortable in your rooms?” he asked.
“They are adequate for our needs, yes.” Elizabeth admonished herself for her rudeness, but she despised being treated as a guest in the palace that she had called home for most of her life.
Henry glanced her way and considered her response. “I hope to see more of you.”
“I would enjoy that as well.”
“Would you?” he asked, facing her.
“Of course, your grace,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
Henry touched her chin and lifted it. “None of that,” he said. “I have everybody saying, ‘yes, your grace’ now. I desire honesty between us. You are to be my wife.”
Elizabeth studied his face more carefully. Yes, he was thin and pale, but a hidden strength was evident. His eyes shone with the same determination that had led him to land on English soil and attack a king who commanded armies that dwarfed his own. The tilt of his chin dared anyone to question his right to be sitting upon England’s throne. He was younger, but more serious, than Richard had been. It had initially made her think that he looked older, but seeing him up close, she realized that his face had youthfulness that some time with less stress would increase.
Sh
e took his hand and felt the roughness of hard work. He had lived a life that included privileges of court but also times of hidden exile. This is where God had placed her and she would put forth her best effort.
“I apologize, your grace. I was concerned about your feelings toward me as well.”
A smile lifted one side of his mouth, and he almost appeared charming. “Just Henry, please.”
“As you wish, Henry.” She forced herself to smile back.
~~~~
The outbreak of an illness worse than any London had ever seen kept Elizabeth from further audiences with the new king. Some, who were well at breakfast, were dead before nightfall, and each household was terrified of letting it in. Any who could stay at home did. Even Elizabeth sent away local servants, keeping with her only those she was closest to, those who had come with her from Sherriff Hutton.
Whispers spread as quickly as the sweating sickness that Henry Tudor had cursed England. His foreign mercenary troops must have carried this plague with them as the path of death seemed to follow them from Milford Haven, where Henry had landed, to Bosworth, where Richard had died, and finally to London.
“It is a curse from God that we allow this usurper to be anointed when we have royal heirs at hand,” Elizabeth heard one of her ladies whisper.
And who would they have crowned? Edward, who was a simple-minded youth, but a Plantagenet son? John de la Pole, Richard’s nephew and heir? For not the first time in her life, Elizabeth wondered if the people enjoyed having something to fight about.
Pushing the rebellious thoughts and rumors from her mind, Elizabeth focused on doing what she could to help those affected by the sweating sickness. She forwarded extra money to the priests who were charged with caring for the sick and their families. Since she had been forbidden from leaving the palace, she put her time and talents to sewing simple clothing that could be distributed to poor families who had lost their means of support.
She did not see Henry, but heard that his coronation would be delayed. She was thankful, for the thought of thousands of people gathered together with this illness lurking among them made her stomach churn.
Plantagenet Princess, Tudor Queen: The Story of Elizabeth of York Page 8
