Plantagenet Princess, Tudor Queen: The Story of Elizabeth of York

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  Henry observed Elizabeth’s sister, Cecily, now married to the faithful Lancastrian, John Welles. After thinking it, Henry shook his head ruefully. It wasn’t just other people still dividing everyone into roses of red and white. He hoped that by the time little Arthur was king such distinctions would disappear and they could all just be Englishmen. As always, thoughts of his firstborn son brought a smile of pride to his face that made the lines of stress momentarily fade away.

  November 25, St. Catherine’s Day, was chosen for Elizabeth’s coronation. It was no coincidence that St. Catherine was said to be a gentle daughter of a king. This day, Elizabeth would be put on display in pomp and ceremony, but the people were also reminded that she was a humble wife and mother first. Growing up in the royal family, Elizabeth was an expert at walking this fine line. She excelled at appearing both majestic and demure.

  London had loved her father and transferred their love to her when he died. It was for her sake, and that of their pocketbooks, that they gave such loyalty to Henry Tudor. If they could not have a York king, they would settle for a York queen. Three days of celebration would solidify Henry’s reign in the eyes of loyal Yorkists in a way that his marriage and his son had not yet done. As the crown was placed upon Elizabeth’s Plantagenet red-gold hair, a communal sigh of relief was heard.

  A procession of barges travelling down the Thames began the days of ceremony. The floating pageant gave hundreds a coveted glance of the queen’s rumored beauty. The shoreline was crowded with people, and they were not disappointed. Banners and streamers danced in the river breeze, the noise of musicians competed with the cheers of Englishmen, and a red dragon spewed flames. The dragon barge was meant to remind those watching that this was not simply a day to honor Elizabeth, but also the Arthurian legend brought to life in their son.

  The barges that had set out from Greenwich came to a stop at the Tower, where Henry and Elizabeth would spend the night before Elizabeth’s coronation according to tradition. She wanted to pass their time in the Tower’s royal apartment in joyful anticipation of the following day’s festivities, but she found that the ghosts of her brothers haunted her as soon as they crossed the threshold.

  Henry noticed the cooling of Elizabeth’s attitude, but waited until they were in their rooms before speaking of it.

  “Are you feeling well, my love?”

  “Of course.” Smiling up at him, she was happy to be free of the ceremonial gown and robes. It was the simple private moments that meant the most to her.

  “You seemed to hesitate as we entered the Tower grounds.”

  She sighed. “I suppose I did,” she admitted. “It is difficult for me to detach this place from things that have happened here.” That some things displeasing to her were still happening there, she did not say.

  Henry put his arms around her. “Your brothers,” he said.

  She buried her head in his chest and simply nodded. And Edward, she silently added.

  “I will do my best to distract you from such thoughts.” He tilted her chin up to kiss her.

  After spending a surprisingly pleasant night in the place she had least wanted to visit, Elizabeth was up with the sun with ladies buzzing around her to prepare her for her day. This was a day that would be long remembered in England. She hoped that when the crown was placed on her brow, the country would be united in peace between Lancaster and York. Her clothing alone had cost more than most people ever saw in their lifetimes. White cloth-of-gold was trimmed in silk and lace. A luxurious ermine mantle served to keep her warm and demonstrate her majesty. Her hair was topped with a gold circlet that held the place for the heavy crown that would be later set there.

  Her litter was overflowing with more swathes of white cloth-of-gold and surrounded by guardsmen in York livery with white roses and yellow sunbursts embroidered on their chests. It made Elizabeth’s heart swell to see the York emblems proudly displayed once again, and she was eager to thank Henry for his thoughtfulness. How much had he been forced to argue with his mother to secure this display of York pride, she wondered.

  As the procession neared Westminster Abbey, the crowd pressed in. Everyone from the mayor of London to children living on the street was anxious for a close look at the queen. The chance to be near her, or the possibility of hearing her voice, was a strong incentive to the people who her men were forced to hold back in order for her litter to pass by. She tried to look toward each person for a moment that would touch each heart, but there were so many. She was moved by the people’s devotion to her.

  Once inside the cathedral, she gazed up at the soaring arches and was amazed once more by the beauty and wonder of this building. Though she had grown up with Westminster as part of her family’s life, she never grew used to the splendor of the place. Before the noblemen of the land, she was anointed on her chest and on her head with blessed oil. She received the ring, scepter, and rod with all the dignity expected of her. Finally, the gold crown was placed on her head. She was no longer just the king’s wife or the prince’s mother. She was the Queen of England.

  She thought of Henry watching from behind a lattice panel to ensure that the day’s focus was kept on her. Was he proud of her at this moment? Was he hurt by the love shown for her by people that should love him? Would he be content with peace even if it did not include love? It was so difficult to obtain both.

  The procession moved to Westminster’s Great Hall to enjoy a banquet menu that included courses of food that were as carefully crafted as the clothes Elizabeth wore. Some of the pastries and marzipan were almost too beautiful to eat. The scent of roasted meat and sound of music filled the air to create a festive atmosphere. Elizabeth wished that Henry could share this moment with her rather than remain hidden away with his mother in their concealed balcony.

  She was ready for the dancing to begin, having eaten more than her fill. Dance she did, with everyone from her sisters to the little duke of Buckingham. Cecily had shed her despondency when she gained a husband. Viscount Welles may not have been who she would have chosen for herself, but she was a woman made for married life and was relatively pleased with the king’s choice for her.

  “Cecily, you look radiant,” Elizabeth said as they danced. The warmth of the hall and the dancing gave both women a rosy glow.

  “Thank you, your grace,” Cecily said with an elaborate curtsey.

  They giggled like little girls as they spun around the room.

  “You seem quite pleased with your husband,” Elizabeth continued.

  Cecily gave her a secret smile that acknowledged much more than what had been said. “I am pleased.”

  “I am glad to hear it. When Henry asked my opinion of John, I was not sure whether or not to recommend him.” He was a staunch Lancastrian. Did this bother Cecily? Elizabeth laughed at herself. She was happily married to a Lancastrian king after all.

  “I was not sure myself at first,” Cecily said. “But he has been an attentive husband. I admit that his pleasure over having a young, attractive wife has resulted in numerous benefits for me,” she said with a laugh.

  How wonderful it felt to talk as wives rather than displaced princesses. Elizabeth thought ahead to Cecily having children and pictured their babies running and playing together. Even on her coronation day, Elizabeth found more pleasure in the simple aspects of life.

  “How is little Arthur?” Cecily asked. The way the corners of her mouth upturned told Elizabeth that Cecily hoped to soon hold her own child.

  “He is well. He thrives despite his early birth, for which I thank God daily.”

  “I include our young prince in my daily prayers as well,” Cecily said. “You keep him with you?”

  “As much as I can. It will not be many years before he will be taken from me to learn to govern and soldier. I baby him now while I can.”

  “As would I, sister. And a brother or sister for him?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. Almost a year had passed since Arthur’s birth and she had not yet conceived a
gain. Arthur had been conceived so quickly that she had assumed that more children would arrive with similar ease.

  “Henry was gone much of the summer,” she offered as excuse.

  “I have no doubt that you will conceive again in good time,” Cecily said. “Do not rush God’s plans, dear Bess. Too many women wear themselves out with new babies each year.”

  “You are right, of course. I do have hope that God will bless us with another child soon though.”

  They continued to dance for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts.

  “Do you miss mother today?” Cecily asked.

  Elizabeth was too caught off guard by the question to completely hide her surprise.

  “No?”

  Elizabeth contemplated before answering. “Our mother has made it difficult to miss her.”

  Cecily laughed. “Well said, but it does seem like her presence is missing today.”

  Elizabeth swept her eyes across the room and agreed. “She was so frequently the center of attention at an event like this.”

  “She continues at Bermondsey?”

  “Yes, but you need not worry. She is not kept like a nun.”

  “I would not have believed otherwise.”

  “She runs the abbey as though she has always been there and it is her own private kingdom.”

  Cecily nodded. “She is happy then.”

  “Who knows?” Elizabeth asked. “One would have thought she’d have been happy with a daughter on the throne and a grandson as heir to the crown.”

  Cecily took Elizabeth by the arms and pulled her aside, causing a momentary stumble on the part of the dancers surrounding them. “You are still sore over her plotting.”

  “I suppose I am,” Elizabeth admitted. “It hurt enough that our cousins would plot against me, but our mother?”

  Cecily wrapped her arms around her sister. “I know. I think that, despite the fact that she forced you into this marriage, she believes that you would be happy to be freed of it.”

  “Why would she believe that?”

  “For some, being a York is all that matters.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “It is insane! It will keep these petty rebellions going on for decades, until the last drop of Plantagenet blood has seeped into the ground.”

  Cecily said nothing, but the look on her face told Elizabeth that was exactly what she thought would happen.

  Christmas 1487

  Elizabeth and Henry retired to the palace at Greenwich to celebrate the Christmas festivities. Unlike all other occasions Henry had taken advantage of to demonstrate his majesty, this Christmas they spent together with Arthur in relative quiet. After the pomp and circumstance of the coronation, Elizabeth was content to spend time with her baby and took advantage of the extra time with Henry to attempt to conceive another. She hoped the sickness that she endured after Arthur’s birth would not interfere with presenting Henry with future sons.

  As she watched Arthur toddle about, she thought back to the previous Christmas spent in this same beautiful castle. Then he had been only a few months old and fears still hovered like dark clouds that his premature birth would cause sickness or death. A smile lifted her lips to look at him now, healthy and robust. His thin body had filled out with baby rolls and dimpled knuckles so that nobody would guess his surprising entry to the world.

  Henry lay on the floor among the rushes in a most undignified manner to play with their son. He too seemed to have a healthier pallor after two years in England. Surely the air was healthier here than in France, Elizabeth thought. Though Henry was still rail thin, his cheeks weren’t quite as sunken, and his skin had lost the yellow tint it had formerly held.

  Despite the difficulties they had encountered in their short marriage, Elizabeth was sure that God was smiling on them now. With peace in the land, Elizabeth looked forward to her husband’s prosperous reign and seeing additions to their family.

  St. George’s Day 1488

  Elizabeth gazed out the window while preparations for St. George’s Day went on around her. White flags blazing with St. George’s cross were fluttering in the wind as far as the eye could see. This holiday, coming in the wake of Easter, would be filled with feasting and dancing. Wine would flow like water, leaving many wishing that they had not celebrated quite so enthusiastically the next morning.

  The spring air carried the scent of new life and renewal after the cold winter. The warmth was welcome, and Elizabeth closed her eyes to bask in the sunlight. She prayed that the spring would bring new life to her womb as well.

  “Your gown is gorgeous!” exclaimed Cecily as she held up the deep purple folds of fabric. Cloth-of-gold accents and embroidery punctuated the waistline, sleeves, and hem.

  “Lady Margaret had it designed along with one for herself,” Elizabeth said. She moved toward her sister and gently ran her hand down the full skirts.

  “You will match the king’s mother?” Cecily said with a raised eyebrow.

  Elizabeth smiled at Cecily’s skepticism. “Yes. It will show our unity and our support for Henry.” Seeing Cecily’s remaining doubt painted on her face, she shrugged. “We will show that we are loving daughter and mother-in-law.”

  It was Cecily’s turn to smile. “You have the patience of a saint, Bess.”

  “Was St. George known for his patience?” Elizabeth asked in an effort to lighten the mood and change the subject.

  With a laugh, Cecily said, “As much patience as any Plantagenet warrior, no doubt. You may be the only one in a long line of kings and queens to possess the trait, sister dear.”

  Elizabeth was still fingering the soft folds of her dress. She raised her eyes to meet her sister’s and asked, “Do you remember when Anne and I wore matching dresses at Christmastime?”

  “Of course,” Cecily said. Both sisters retreated into thoughtful silence.

  The days at the court of Richard and Anne seemed part of a different lifetime. Now that she was older, she wished that she had not paraded her health and beauty while Anne wore her matching gown. Poor Anne died believing that Richard would be soon married to Elizabeth. Instead, she had married his murderer. Murderer? Not exactly. It had been a long time since Elizabeth had thought of Henry in those terms or envisioned what it had been like for Richard to be killed in battle.

  “Richard has been dead for almost three years.”

  Cecily nodded and examined her sister’s features for a moment before replying. “Do you miss him?”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath and shrugged. “I try not to think about it . . . . try not to doubt God’s plan. If I think about it, I find myself filled with doubts and questions.”

  “What kinds of questions?”

  Elizabeth let her eyes survey the room for eavesdroppers before answering. “I thought I loved him. Then I was convinced that he had our brothers murdered, and I was ashamed of having loved him. Now the only thing I am sure of is that he is dead.”

  Cecily’s mouth formed a flat line while she bit her lips and considered her response. “Henry believes that our uncle killed our brothers.”

  “Sometimes, I am not sure that he is certain of it either, but it is easier for him if it is true.”

  They neared precarious ground. Cecily was not sure who Bess was loyal to before all others, her husband or her brothers. “If they are still alive, they are a threat to his crown.”

  “And mine,” Elizabeth finished for her. “But if they are dead, our uncle is a murderer.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Elizabeth was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sure that anybody who has spoken to you on this matter would have you believe that the only possibilities are that our uncle had Edward and Richard killed or hidden, but what of others?”

  “Who?” Elizabeth whispered. Part of her didn’t want Cecily to answer. This was exactly why she chose not to think on this topic. Where would it lead?

  “What of Henry Stafford?” Cecily asked, not because she belie
ved the duke of Buckingham had killed her brothers but because she was not sure she could mention those suspects at the top of her list.

  “Harry?” Elizabeth shook her head so furiously her hair began springing from its pins. “Surely not. Anne believed them to be alive.”

  “Maybe they were,” Cecily agreed. “At the time.”

  “Then who . . . .” Elizabeth’s voice trailed off as Cecily’s implication became clear to her.

  “Margaret,” Cecily said quickly, before Elizabeth could let the thought form in her mind that her own husband could be the culprit. “Margaret Stanley would have done anything to clear the way for her son to take the throne.” She saw relief flit across Elizabeth’s face and was glad, but she wondered where her thoughts would wander later.

  “Henry’s mother,” Bess shook her head more slowly, not wanting it to be true. “I don’t know, Cecily. This way of thinking will only lead us to distrust those closest to us.”

  “They have never been found. They are your brothers and you are the queen.”

  “What can I do?” Elizabeth asked with tears in her eyes. “I have left matters of state to Henry and his mother.”

  “I’m sorry, Bess,” Cecily reached for Elizabeth’s hand and pressed it within her own. “I do not know what I hoped to gain by dragging this up.”

  “I miss them so,” Elizabeth said as a single tear escaped and created a path through the light powder on her face.

  “As do I,” whispered Cecily as she embraced her sister, a queen with no power.

  ~~~~

  That evening Elizabeth and Lady Margaret appeared in their coordinated gowns, and Elizabeth had further reason to be reminded of Anne. Though Lady Margaret was barely into her forties, her face was crossed with harsh lines of worry and conspiracy. Due to a pious lifestyle that included a minimalist diet, her figure was thin and sickly. Compared to Elizabeth’s full figure and rosy complexion, Henry’s mother appeared elderly and unhealthy.