He kneeled before her. “I desire your blessing, my lady queen.”
“In Our Father’s name, you may have it. May he bless you and your mission.” She lightly touched his forehead as she said it the way she did when she blessed her children.
He stayed on his knee head bowed for a moment longer than necessary, and Elizabeth knew that he was saying one last silent prayer before leaving her for what they both knew could be forever. When his eyes were lifted to meet hers, she said, “The Lord will keep you, Henry. Of that I am sure.” Once again, she had reason to be glad that she was capable of infusing her voice with more confidence than she felt.
“With your blessing and continued prayers, I believe that you will be proven right.” He stood, without the slowness that some men his age displayed.
“You will certainly look more fine than Charles,” Elizabeth said, holding her arms out to draw him in. “I am almost tempted to keep you here for one more hour for a proper farewell.”
Henry leaned down. With his forehead and nose lightly touching hers, he said, “Do not tempt me, woman. I may never again find the strength to leave your bed if I give in now.”
“Very well,” she said, lightly kissing his lips before growing more serious. “Do be careful, Henry.”
“You needn’t be concerned, my love. I will be back with the pretender in hand before our babe’s birthday.”
Elizabeth wished that she could send Henry with the knowledge that she was again with child, but it was not the case. With little Eliza just five months old, she could hardly be disappointed. However, she did wonder how long Henry would be gone, how long before her womb would have the opportunity to quicken again.
“You do believe that King Charles will turn over . . . the pretender?” Who was he? She wished she had a name for him as she was not about to call him what he had begun calling himself, Richard IV.
Henry nodded firmly. “Certainly. He has nothing to gain by protecting this supposed king. As much as the French king may enjoy needling me with his presence, he will not be worth fighting for.”
“Go with God then, my love.”
They joined hands and exited the room. With each step, Elizabeth held her head a little higher and her back a little straighter. When she appeared before the rows of mounted men, she was no longer a worried wife but a stately queen. The men marched off, ready to die for her.
~~~~
Henry was disappointed to not bring his rival back to England in chains. Instead, he brought home a chest of Charles’ money and a signed treaty that exiled the sometime Richard IV into Burgundy.
July 1493
“Perkin Warbeck.”
“I’m sorry?” Elizabeth’s eyebrow shot up as she curiously looked at her husband.
“The pretender, he is Perkin Warbeck. He is Flemish and certainly not your brother.”
“Well, that much we knew to be true.”
“I will ruin him. Nobody will believe that he could be Richard of York when they hear the true story. My spies have located a father, a simple fisherman in Flanders.”
A father, Henry had said. Not his father. Elizabeth mentally filed this away.
“Henry, what will the French king say to this?” It mattered not whether she believed him, but whether their royal peers did.
“He has already sent him into exile. He should be thankful that he has and does not have to deal with the embarrassment of harboring a common fishmonger as a king.”
“But he is welcomed to the Burgundian court as the English king,” she risked pointing out.
“Bess, your aunt Margaret would welcome Satan himself to her court if she believed that he may rebel against me.”
Elizabeth crossed herself but said nothing.
“The fact of the matter is that your father’s sister is not content that you, her niece, are queen of England. She will not rest until a male York heir has taken my place, even if she has to create one.”
It was true. Elizabeth did not understand it, but the duchess of Burgundy was not content to leave England in peace with Henry as king. The sons of Elizabeth and Henry were not Yorks in her mind, but Tudors not fit to wear the crown.
“But this man is certainly not a York heir, why would she give him her support?”
Henry poured himself a cup of wine before shrugging and saying, “Who knows? She hopes to replace him with someone more suitable after removing me. She believes that he is one of your father’s illegitimate sons and figures one of his by-blows is better than his daughter. Her mind is an enigma to me, Bess.”
“Do you believe he is my father’s son?”
Another shrug. “I have no idea. It is said that he resembles your father in looks and character. He is charming and is blessed with that red-gold hair you all seem to have. While your father does not have quite the reputation for spreading his seed as Henry I, it would not come as a surprise if Warbeck is the result of one of his trips to the continent.”
This gave Elizabeth pause for thought. While she couldn’t bring up any real hope that this Perkin was her brother, Richard, she was only slightly less uncomfortable making war upon a man who may be her half-brother. Feelings of mercy were sometimes better left to God. This man had started the battle, not her, but she would fight for her son’s inheritance.
September 1494
“Your grace, I would speak to you.”
Elizabeth recognized both the formal greeting and the voice that held no respect for the title that she must use.
“Yes, Lady Margaret,” she said in response, knowing that Margaret preferred a more stately honorific.
The two women took measure of each other, Elizabeth’s face calm and giving away nothing, Margaret’s heavily lined with a sourly puckered mouth.
“We can use my chambers.”
Elizabeth had little choice but to follow as her mother-in-law strode quickly in the direction of her rooms that connected with Henry’s. Theirs was a fragile peace. Elizabeth chose not to speak up about the times her husband’s mother attempted to usurp her position, but Margaret understood that if she pushed too far it was Henry who would be enraged rather than his wife.
Margaret’s rooms were lavishly decorated with tapestries detailing the life of Christ and his saints upon each wall. A thick Turkish carpet covered most of the floor, and cushioned chairs were pulled close to the hearth. A flagon of wine with finely engraved silver cups stood on a small table and informed Elizabeth that this meeting had been planned in advance.
Elizabeth did not wait for Margaret to give her permission before claiming the seat she preferred and waited to be handed a cup of fine wine from Burgundy before speaking.
“What do we have need to discuss?”
Margaret, for her own part, sat upon the other chair as though it were a throne and dismissed her attendant before favoring Elizabeth with a glance, let alone an answer.
“I am in the process of planning Harry’s installment as duke of York, and Henry insisted that I enquire as to whether you had any desires regarding the ceremony.”
Elizabeth lifted her cup to give herself time to think. She was somewhat hurt that Henry had not even shared his intentions with her, hated it when she learned something from her mother-in-law. Then there was the idea of her little Harry as duke of York, a position that had last been held by her brother, Richard. The man exiled to her aunt’s court in Burgundy claimed to currently bear this title when he was not calling himself Richard IV.
“I trust your judgment on this, of course.”
“It is to take place as soon as possible, now that your aunt has pushed Henry beyond even his saintly patience.”
She didn’t want to ask, knowing that it was exactly what Henry’s mother was baiting her to do, but her curiosity got the best of her. “What has the duchess of Burgundy done?”
The smile that lit up Margaret’s haggard face told Elizabeth that she was mentally scoring herself a point in a game that only she kept track of. She took her time before answering.
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br /> “Surely you heard. No? The Flemish pretender was paraded at the funeral of the Holy Roman Emperor as Richard IV.”
Elizabeth allowed herself no reaction to this news, and Margaret was forced to carry on.
“Phillip of Burgundy, now the heir, has been providing him with men, money, and the title of king of England. Henry has decided that naming his son duke of York will send a confident message that we do not believe anyone else alive holds that particular title.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment before responding. She was sure that Margaret never considered the fact that she was speaking of Elizabeth’s little brother when she tactlessly referred to his death.
“Maximilian is maintaining his support of the pretender now that he has been named Emperor in his father’s place then?”
“Maximilian allows Phillip free reign to do whatever he will,” Margaret said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Whatever is allowed in Burgundy, it will no longer be accepted in Henry’s kingdom. Harry is to be duke of York and no other.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I agree. I ask only that in the planning of festivities it be kept in mind that the prince is only three years old. He will tire easily and his temper will be demonstrated publicly if too much is required of him.”
“Certainly, I am well aware of Harry’s age and abilities.”
“Then I leave it in your capable hands,” Elizabeth said as she stood to leave. She knew that she should be happy to see her young son honored as duke of York, but it felt too much like the final strand of hope that she would ever see her brother again was fraying and about to snap.
~~~~
By the end of October, England had a new duke of York. Prince Henry had charmed and exceeded everyone’s expectations during the lengthy ceremony, games, and meals that had been deemed necessary components of the festivities. Only one thing marred the occasion. Henry and his mother had agreed that men should be carefully placed throughout the crowd, listening for whispers of discontent or faith in another duke of York.
January 1495
Elizabeth was mentally packing for the move to Sheen, calculating certain items to be left here at Greenwich and others that she could not do without. How she longed to be gone from this palace, not due to any particular fault that it had but because Sheen would always feel more like home. As she sat absent-mindedly toiling at her embroidery which was always close to avoid idleness of hands, Henry stormed into the room.
It was unlike him not to follow accepted etiquette even when entering his own wife’s chambers. Almost as if he believed that following royal procedure would help people accept his kingship, he would remain formal until they were alone. Whatever had upset him, took up enough space in his mind to force these expectations from the forefront. He looked more furious than she had ever seen him, and the thought flitted through her head that he did indeed have a few drops of Plantagenet blood.
“Clear the room!” he ordered, sending servants and ladies-in-waiting scurrying from the path of his wrath.
Elizabeth stood slowly and watched her attendants for signs of disobedience. Any, who may have considered questioning Henry’s command, withered under her calm gaze. While his temper was all the more terrifying for its infrequency, Elizabeth had been dealing with fiery tempers her entire life and was able to be an island of peace.
“What is it?” she asked quietly when the door had shut behind the last bowed page. She placed her hand on his arm and could feel his pulse racing through a vein that always popped up near the surface of his skin. Her cool fingers gently massaged in an absent-minded fashion, as though to slow the beating of his heart.
“Stanley,” he grunted as if the word was a curse, and maybe it was.
Elizabeth certainly would have cursed William Stanley straight to hell had it been within her capabilities after the battle of Bosworth. She mentally shoved aside the conflicting thoughts and feelings that threatened to surface whenever she allowed herself to dwell for too long upon the brief time between her father’s death and her uncle’s. William’s brother, Thomas Stanley, Henry’s stepfather, was not much better, but surely he was not opportunistic enough to plot against his wife’s son. Elizabeth waited in silence, knowing it was the best way to draw Henry out.
He stormed to the table holding a flagon and wine glasses. Though he normally ate and drank only as minimally required, he took a huge gulp before refilling the cup and handing the other to Elizabeth. She gestured for him to sit, and he took another long drink and accepting the offered seat.
Elizabeth watched his face, which was focused on the low fire that served to keep the winter chill from her chambers. Severe lines were etched into his forehead and around his mouth. He seemed not to move even to breathe, taking on the appearance of a gargoyle frozen forever in anger. She was beginning to wonder if she would in fact have to drag his story from him when he made a quick movement.
She leaned over to extract from the rushes the small item that Henry had tossed angrily in her direction. It was a badge in the shape of a white Yorkist rose, the type she remembered men in her father’s household affixing to their hauberks. Her fingers caressed the emblem, almost lovingly, before she was pulled back into the present.
“It was found among dear uncle William’s belongings, along with many other trappings of York livery and enough cash to fund a well-armed contingency of men.”
Instead of loud anger, there was now quiet fury in his voice. Elizabeth found the latter had much more effect on her nerves. She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat.
“I don’t understand,” she said, though she was afraid that she did very much understand. Stanley had decided that he might benefit from playing kingmaker again. How much would the man claiming to be her brother reward Stanley for turning on his brother’s stepson?
The look Henry gave Elizabeth told her that he was not convinced of her ignorance but that he would humor her.
“Clifford assures me that Stanley intended to give generous support to your Perkin once he managed to land on our shores,” he said while intently watching her face. She kept it carefully arranged in neutrality.
“Henry? ‘My Perkin’? Certainly, you do not mean to accuse me of having anything to do with encouraging others to take away the throne of my son.”
His eyes narrowed. “You concern yourself not with the crown of your husband?”
She was tempted to stand and walk to the window. She wanted to remove herself from his suspicious glare but knew that it would only work to convince him of her guilt.
“I meant only that I have no reason whatsoever to ally myself with the likes of William Stanley.” She spat the name out with more venom than he had ever heard direct toward for any man. It was enough to shock him from his anger and into curiosity.
“Surely, you have allied yourself with him before.” At her upraised eyebrow, he continued. “Before I came to claim the crown from the usurper, Richard, the Stanleys assured me of your encouragement – your desire to become my wife.”
Elizabeth felt heat rising to her cheeks. Though she thanked God for the love she now felt for Henry, she certainly had not had anything of the desire Henry referred to while her uncle was still alive. Her daily life now centered on her children and striving to be a God pleasing queen. She rarely allowed herself to consider her torn feelings over how her marriage had begun. How much could she say about that to Henry?
“I assure you that I am not now and have never conspired with any Stanleys.”
Again, Henry’s hazel eyes attempted to look deep into her soul. She liked it not. Thoughts and feelings resided in her soul that she wanted nobody to examine, not even herself. She forced herself to sit with her back straight and her face confident.
“You did not wish to marry me.”
“I did not know you.”
“But you knew that I would save you from your uncle. Was it not enough?”
Elizabeth sighed. “Why should any of this matter now?”
He
shifted in his seat, leaning back as if to consider her from another angle. “Were you in love with Richard?”
“I thought you came to tell me about the treasonous William Stanley. Do you prefer to speak about my uncle who has been dead these past ten years while I have been warming your bed and bearing your children?”
It was Henry’s turn to look surprised. Elizabeth was infrequently anything other than docile and submissive. He had hit a chord, but did he want to continue to play it? He leaned forward in his seat and decided that he did not have patience for more doubts and puzzles.
“Sir William has been arrested and has been given accommodations in the Tower.” He went back to looking at the fire.
“I’m so sorry, Henry.” Elizabeth moved her chair closer to his and placed her hand on his arm. This time, the blood was not racing with the same intensity. The lines were not as deep in his face, but neither had they disappeared. “I know it must be a severe blow to you that William would betray one of his family for a pretender.” She bit her tongue to keep from saying anything more about how she felt about the Stanley brothers, who had always seemed to end on the winning side of any fight. She thought that she would need to speak to her confessor about the feeling of joy that rose within her breast when she envisioned William Stanley as a desperate Tower prisoner.
Henry sipped wine from his cup before responding. “I can trust nobody. Except Jasper.” He fixed his gaze on her as he said it, leaving no doubt that she had been purposely excluded.
“Jasper has been your greatest supporter and confidant,” she agreed, refusing to join in a battle that was sure to wound on both sides. He looked disappointed.
“Perkin will attempt to land.”
Elizabeth nodded. “It seems likely.”
“He will not win.”
The confidence in Henry’s eyes was proof that, while many in England still thought of him only as Elizabeth’s husband, he considered himself king in his own right and was willing to prove it on the battlefield once again.
Plantagenet Princess, Tudor Queen: The Story of Elizabeth of York Page 21
