I bit my lip. Perkin was repeating what he’d been told to say.
“It serves him right,” de Puebla finished.
He, too, was saying what he was expected to say. I dropped my hand from my brow and looked at the old man through my tears.
“YOU DIDN’T NEED TO TORTURE HIM!” I CRIED TO Henry that night, pacing to and fro, wringing my hands. Never had I been so agitated, so furious, or felt my helplessness so wretchedly. “You can make him say or do anything you want merely by threatening harm to his wife and child!”
“It was necessary,” Henry said calmly.
I halted my steps and whirled on him. “For what purpose? Give me one reason!?”
“Because the world thinks he is your brother.” He looked at me coldly, with a piercing gaze. “And because you think so, too, do you not?”
I opened my mouth to deny it, but I closed it without a word. There was nothing more to be said.
Or was there?
Yet one more reason remained for such brutality; one he had not mentioned. More than anything else, he wished to destroy the face that Catherine Gordon loved. I lifted my eyes back to his, and what I saw there sent a cold shiver racing along my spine. I could not breathe and my chest felt as if it would burst. A ghastly thought took shape in the far reaches of my mind and, fed by fear, grew into appalling proportions; like a shadow, it stole forward and loomed over me.
“You believe it, too, don’t you?” I breathed. “ ’Tis why you destroyed his face! Before you kill him, he must be stripped of his resemblance to my family, so you can do the deed!”
Henry said nothing. Behind the opaqueness of his eyes, something stirred.
I tore my gaze from his and sank into a chair, feeling as if I were devoured by blackness. My mother’s words of long ago clamored in my head. Well he knows that if Dickon lives, he is a usurper. Dimly, through the tumult in my head, I heard my husband’s footsteps fade away on the tiled floor. The door shut. A terrible silence engulfed me.
I looked up at the empty space he had occupied before me, a single thought thundering in my ears, my heart, my soul. Perkin must die because he is Dickon.
THERE WAS TALK OF RESCUE, BUT THE PLOT WAS DISCOVERED before it could bud. Henry told my Aunt Margaret and Maximilian that he would not release Perkin, but if they agreed to cease all efforts on his behalf, he might not kill him. He told James IV of Scotland that if he agreed to a truce and a marriage with our daughter Maggie, he would ensure the safety and honorable treatment of his cousin, Catherine Gordon.
A letter arrived for Henry from Aunt Margaret; it was the first she had ever written him. In a most civil tone, she offered an apology for her behavior of the past and promised not to make any more trouble. Maximilian did the same. I knew this was their last hope of saving Perkin, and I wondered at the strength of their faith in him, and at their willingness to humble themselves before Henry to beg for his life.
Was he my brother, Dickon?
He has to be my brother.
He must not be my brother.
Oh, Blessed Virgin, help me to accept what is!
I feared that worse was yet to come. Henry wanted this marriage between England and Spain desperately, for the alliance would stamp his kingship with legitimacy, and he would no longer be seen as a usurper, but as the founder of a proud new dynasty.
With the advent of October, a heavy listlessness settled over me and all I saw when I looked around me was darkness. I was pregnant again and I couldn’t help wondering how many more babes I would have to bear before God permitted me rest. Then Yuletide came, and Arthur appeared, shining before my eyes like the sun at the zenith of a bright day. Tearful with joy, I embraced my beloved son. Before I realized it, the new year of 1499 was blowing in on a ferocious storm that shook the ground beneath our feet. Twelfth Night followed swiftly on its heels. I bid him farewell once more, and the sun faded from the sky as I watched him leave.
In February, I received the news of the death of Cecily’s husband, Viscount Welles, with little emotion. I did not know him well; he was merely one of the faces that came and went at court. Nor does Cecily seem to mourn him deeply, I thought, watching her laugh with friends, dressed in her black widow’s weeds. One day she disappeared from the palace, and all I could learn about her was that she’d gone to Lincolnshire. Even Kate didn’t know more. I put her from my mind; she would be back when it suited her.
CHAPTER 25
Blood of Roses, 1499
TEN DAYS AFTER MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY, WHICH I spent in the darkness of my bedchamber under the watchful eye of Margaret Beaufort, I gave birth to a third boy-child, who was named Edmund, for Henry’s father. Margaret Beaufort was elated, but Henry barely rejoiced and merely patted my hand and murmured that I had done well. He had been morose and irritable all winter. No doubt Warbeck and Warwick weighed on his mind, along with Catherine Gordon, who still rejected his overtures. As for me, I felt weary, listless. The days bore down heavily on me, and I wished only to sleep through the grayness of February.
“I have asked my astrologer, William Parron, for a reading on Warwick,” Henry announced to me one day in mid-March as he sat at my bedside. “I shall take it here, in your chamber.”
Candles flickered in the iron candelabras and on the large table but failed to cheer the room, for the day was gloomy, filled with shifting shadows. I accepted my seat with trepidation and watched the bearded man in the long brown gown lay out his charts.
“I have examined at great length the signs at the birth of a certain man not of base birth—”
My cousin, Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick.
“It is difficult to describe how hopeless his stars were at the time he was born. All the triple lights were unlucky, set firmly in the house of death.” He pointed to an intersection of lines on the chart. “See here—Mars in conjunction with the sun signified the execution of the father and the destruction of his property. For the young man himself, it meant the clash of iron and combustion of fire.”
“War?” said Henry.
“Indeed, sire. The positions of Saturn and Mars spelled utter destitution and prison. The movement of the moon between them meant that nothing he desired would come to pass. See this aspect—” Parron turned the chart toward Henry and me. “It means he is imprisoned. Shackled. Troubled.”
I averted my eyes from the hideous chart. His words meant nothing to me. I had never put great store in omens or astrology, and I suspected Parron was telling Henry what he wished to hear. And Henry wanted me to bear witness so I would absolve him of the crime he was about to commit.
“The young man is unlucky not only in himself, but also, despite his impotence, for England. He shall be a lasting focus of unrest and rebellion”—Parron met Henry’s eyes, but glanced away from mine, as I did from his—“until death removes him.”
“Am I justified in keeping him in prison?” demanded Henry.
“Absolutely. A prince may imprison another prince for fear of insurrection. That is without sin.”
“What if I put him to death?”
I tensed; beneath the table I tightened my grip of my chair.
“That, too, is not necessarily an evil act. A judge who condemns a man to death for a crime does not sin unless he revels in the death.”
“What if the condemned is innocent?” Henry demanded.
“Christ was innocent, and His death was the most evil act of all, yet God ordained it for the good of mankind. Considered in this light, Christ’s death was an act of charity and mercy.” The astrologer looked at his charts, and added,“It is undoubtedly good for the land that this one man die in order to preserve the peace.”
Henry inhaled a long breath and let it out thoughtfully. “ ’Tis what Caiaphas said of Jesus, is it not?”
The astrologer nodded.
The words were those Skelton had made Harry recite, and instantly I knew it was no coincidence. Behind Henry stood Parron and Skelton, and behind them both Margaret Beaufort and Cardina
l Morton, working the strings of their puppets, turning their actions from black into white and making their policy seem as if ordained by God Himself.
I rose from the table and went to the window. The winter frost lay thick as glass on the panes, and I could see nothing. From behind me came the sound of parchment being folded, of pen and ink being put away, and the click of a door closing. I did not turn. I merely fixed my gaze on a small pitcher of intermingled white and red roses set on a coffer by the edge of the window. If I had fled Sheriff Hutton all those years ago, would this be happening now?
Henry appeared at my side.
“You understand that it must be done?”
“I do not understand.”
Henry said roughly,“Did you follow his explanation?”
I looked at him. “I followed it. But I am not fooled. Nor are you. You want me to sanction what you wish to do to Warwick, who is innocent of any crime against you, and whom you have imprisoned since childhood. I cannot condone murder. ’Tis an evil act, whatever this astrologer says.”
“For God’s sake, Elizabeth, you are not making this easy!” He slammed a fist on the wood chest. “ ’Tis either Edward or Arthur! Kill or be killed. One must die so the other can live. There cannot be two claimants in a land. You of all people should know that.”
The image of young Edward’s little figure surrounded by guards as he disappeared into the Tower flashed before me, and I heard my father’s words of long ago. Sometimes a king must do what he knows is wrong, what is hateful to him. For the peace of the land.
“I pray you leave me, my lord. I cannot listen anymore.” Swept with desolation, I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the stone embrasure of the window.
Henry strode to the door and slammed it shut behind him. My glance returned to the vase of white and red roses, and the emotion I had held back by force of will flooded me all at once. I grabbed the vase and hurled it against the wall.
AS WE PLAYED DICE IN THE SOLAR WITH HARRY BY torchlight, while frost still lined the garden paths of Westminster, there came news of a young man on the borders of Norfolk who claimed to be Edward, Earl of Warwick, escaped from the Tower.
“He is a youth named Ralph Wulford, the younger son of a shoemaker who lives in Bishopsgate, Your Grace. Apart from a priest who preached his cause, he has no adherents,” said the spy.
“Pick him up and hang him for treason,” replied Henry.
“Henry, I pray you to reconsider!” I pleaded. “What threat can he pose?”
Henry pushed to his feet angrily. “The rebellions never stop! Must this procession of pretenders go on forever? Shall I be made to end like Richard, dispossessed of everything I own? I care not about his youth or that he has no adherents. He must be made to hang—to hang until he rots!” Henry glanced at Harry before returning his gaze to me. “Think on it, madame. Is this what you would have for your son?”
I put a hand to my throbbing head.
Weeks later, as April glimmered, a man-at-arms came to Henry.
“Sire,Wulford was hanged on a gibbet at St. Thomas Watering. He has dangled there in shirt and hose since Shrove Tuesday. The stench has grown so foul that passersby complain of annoyance. My liege, may we have permission to take down the rotted corpse?”
Henry nodded assent.
It was at this time that Henry angrily informed me Cecily had married a humble Lincolnshire knight by the name of Thomas Kyme and gone to live on the Isle of Wight without his royal permission.
I set down my Book of Hours and rose to my feet, unable to comprehend what I heard. “ ’Tis impossible! Cecily cares too much for wealth and position to wed a humble squire.”
“Welladay, she has done it. As of now, she has no wealth or position to concern herself about, because I am confiscating all her lands. Nor is she welcome at court.”
I didn’t know what to make of Cecily’s marriage. It was scarce to be believed, but since she had done it of her own free will, I could not help wishing her well. And in spite of myself, I did miss her.
On a dreary morning at the end of October, Kate came to me as I sat on the bench in the walled garden below my bed chamber, reading Boethius. I looked up at her, and the expression on her face sent a shiver through my body.
“Perkin and Edward were caught escaping from the Tower,” Kate said.
She took a seat beside me. I had told her what to expect, and it came as no surprise to her that they had managed such a feat, one never before accomplished in the history of the Tower. No surprise, either, that they were so easily recaptured, and that no one questioned the story.
No one ever questions anything Henry tells them, not if they value their life. Nevertheless, Kate had been weeping and her eyes were red-rimmed. I gave a heavy sigh and took her hand. We sat together in silence, staring at the garden where autumn had turned the leaves to gold.
“Even the trees are dressed for death.” I sighed.
WE DIDN’T HAVE TO WAIT LONG FOR THE ANNOUNCEMENT. Perkin was to die on the twenty-third of November, the Feast of St. Clement’s. It was a Saturday, the day of the week that Henry considered his most fortuitous. On that morning, the young man, who was believed to be my brother Richard, Duke of York, by all the world save England, was drawn on a hurdle behind a horse for three miles, through muddy streets littered with dung and fallen leaves, to Tyburn, where a huge crowd awaited.
Kate’s husband, William Courtenay, and de Puebla witnessed the execution, but only William was prepared to give us the details. De Puebla, with tears in his eyes, begged to be excused. I inclined my head and watched him leave. William stood before us in my bedchamber, which had been emptied of all my ladies except Kate. He took his time before launching into his report.
“A large crowd came to see him die. They wanted to hear his confession, for men do not lie at the point of death.” William spoke haltingly, in a low tone. “Wearing the simple knee-length white shirt that is the garb of the condemned, Perkin climbed the small ladder up to the scaffold. His wrists were bound and he had difficulty, so the guards pushed him up. When he arrived on the platform, the executioner placed the halter on him. Perkin didn’t say who he was, but he told the people that he was not who he was thought to be. At the end of the confession, he asked for the forgiveness of God, and the king, and all others he might have offended.”
William fell silent and took a moment to compose himself before he went on. “Then he gave himself up to the executioners and went to his death meekly, as our Lord Jesus is said to have done. He was granted mercy, and was not disemboweled at the end. He just hung there, by the neck, in his white shirt. He did not struggle but waited patiently for death. The crowd watched and waited with him. It took him an hour to die.”
I averted my face and swallowed hard, for a suffocating sensation constricted my throat.
“Some in the crowd still believed he was your brother, Richard of York, though he did not look much like him anymore,” William murmured.
A lengthy silence fell.
“May God in His infinite mercy grant him blessing and eternal rest,” I whispered, making the sign of the cross, “whoever he may have been.”
I HAVE LEARNED THAT THE FIRST DAY AFTER A DEATH is the hardest.
You wake up to a vast emptiness of soul that is as trackless, shoreless, and boundless as the skies that stretch over your head. The dawn is always bleak and gray. Church bells toll, monks chant, and it seems that all the world weeps with you. Yet you know you are alone.
Perkin lay dead at twenty-four years of age, in the summer of his life. I did not know who he was, but somewhere deep within my being I believed him to be Dickon. That he had denied being Dickon meant nothing. Henry had taken his child, and Perkin, to protect his babe, had uttered the words Henry wished England to hear. Probably, too, he had been offered mercy and wished to spare himself the agony of a hand groping inside his entrails while he still lived. He was never brave, had always detested bloodshed.
I thought of Catherine, who
mourned Perkin as the husband she had loved and as the father of the child she would likely never see again. Her loss was infinitely greater than mine had been after Bosworth. And still, all these years later, I remember how I’d grieved for Richard, how hard it was for me.
The castle stirred around me but gently; the voices were subdued, the steps quiet, as if everyone walked on tiptoe. I kept to my chamber and gave orders not to be disturbed. Even so, Kate came to me that same night.
“The king is here to see you,” she said.
“I do not wish to see the king,” I replied.
“What shall I tell him?”
“Tell him I am indisposed and know not when I shall be well again.” Then I went to my prie-dieu and bowed my head in prayer for Perkin. O Christ, my God, O Christ, my Refuge, O Christ, King and Lord; Have mercy upon him; pardon all his transgressions; shelter his soul in the shadow of Thy wings. Make known to him Thy grace.”
I committed myself to prayer for the next day, and the following, and the one that came after that. For death crouched beside me, waiting, and I feared to sleep for the dreams that plagued me, and I feared not to sleep for the thoughts that tormented me. I begged Kate to stay and share my bed. When she agreed, I embraced her tightly.
“O Kate, Kate—how different it would have been had King Richard lived!” I wept, giving voice to my anguish for the first time in my life. “I miss him more with each year that passes, Kate.” It was dangerous to speak such things, and dangerous for Kate to hear them. The strength ebbed from me; I let her go and dropped into a chair. I closed my eyes.
Kate rested a hand on my shoulder. “How you have borne it all, I know not.”
“Arthur,” I murmured on a breath, enfolding her hand with my own.
MY COUSIN EDWARD, THE CHILD I HAD KNOWN AND loved, died by the headsman’s axe five days after Perkin, on the twenty-eighth of November, 1499, at two o’clock in the afternoon. He was led out between two guards to Tower Green. It was a private execution. There was no one to watch, no one to comfort him, and no one to weep. As soon as he was pronounced dead, the sky turned black and rain poured down as if it would never cease. Fierce winds, thunder, and lightning shook the palace windows. All over England, there was flooding. It was as if Heaven itself grieved.
The King's Daughter (Rose of York) Page 35