He shrugs. I turn away but his next words give me pause.
“I’d say it was my upbringing. Raised first by my enemies, your father’s liegemen, the Herberts, at Raglan. Then my teenage years overseas, exiled, on the run, never knowing who was a friend and who a paid assassin. Your people made me the man I am, Elizabeth. Your precious father; I cannot change that. I cannot be joyful.”
He speaks the word ‘joyful’ as if it is a flaw, a defect. I narrow my eyes, spit through my teeth.
“Then you have my pity, sir. I bring you the best news a man can have; tidings of the son your house craves, and still you see demons. For Heaven’s sake, why not look upon it as God’s blessing on our union? It is what the people want. They are crying out for you to make me your wife and now you should do so before I am shamed before the world.”
There is a long drawn silence. He turns and perches on the edge of the table, puts his cup beside him on a sheaf of papers. His eyes are sad.
“Oh, I will make you my wife, Elizabeth. I will not deny you that, but it will be a dark day in hell before I trust you.”
With one hand he gives what I have asked for, and takes from me with the other.
“How am I to rule alongside a man who can show me no trust?”
“You will not rule beside me. I will make you my wife; I might even be persuaded to let them crown you if I have to, but you will never rule. York shall have no more influence over the future of England than the colour of our son’s first shoes.”
Chapter Nine
Boy
Overijsse ― 1486
A nightingale sings in the tree outside the window. The boy, familiar now with the smell of ink and parchment, puts down his pen and goes to lay his head on the sill. He closes his eyes, drinks in the sound of the birdsong and waits for Brampton to arrive.
For two years now the boy has been here in monastic quietude learning the delights of philosophical discourse. At first he was homesick, always looking forward to Brampton’s next visit or rare invitations to his aunt’s court — always incognito, of course.
As good as her word, Margaret has kept the boy supplied with serviceable clothes, good food on his table, and his chambers replete with books.
“It is important,” she tells him in her letters, “that you learn to be the prince you were born to be.”
He learns fast. There is little else for him to do. Sometimes he even forgets he is an exile, assuming the identity of another until the time comes for him to be Richard of York again. He knows Latin and Greek, philosophy and history and, when Brampton comes, he practices his skill with the sword and in the tiltyard.
It has been many months since Brampton last visited, and the boy is impatient for the sound of his horse in the distance. Brampton brings news from home, word from his mother, sometimes a note written in cypher expressing her love and loyalty. At last, when the afternoon sun is heading west, a swirl of dust appears on the road. He hears a clatter and a cry at the gate and his old friend rides wearily into the courtyard.
Last year when he came, Brampton brought tearful news of his Uncle Richard’s inglorious death on the battlefield against the usurping Tudor. The boy wept to hear how the last Plantagenet king was betrayed by his own countrymen. A new regime now ruled in his place.
The boy spat in the dust when he learned of his sister’s marriage to that invading king. He remembers his eldest sister with fondness; the rainy afternoons when she read stories of Arthur and his round table. It is hard to reconcile that memory with the woman who is now his enemy, Tudor’s queen.
The boy hurries down the steps and they embrace before Brampton ruffles his hair in the same infuriating way he used to. The boy ducks away from him and scowls playfully.
“How are you, boy?” Brampton throws off his gauntlets and summons a passing monk for wine.
“Well enough, what news from home?”
“The Tudor is over the moon now your sister is soon to be lighter of a son. I’ve heard they plan to name him Arthur.” Brampton laughs derisively.
“Arthur, like in the tales?” The boy looks pleased, forgetting momentarily that the newborn will be a rival, son of his deadliest enemy. “Is Elizabeth well?”
Brampton shrugs, surprised to notice a downy shadow on the boy’s upper lip. Mentally he counts backwards, working out his age as he makes his answer.
“I don’t know, but if she is anything like her mother the child will be brought forth safely, and I doubt Tudor will waste any time before getting another on her. A king can never have too many sons. Look at your father; he had a nursery full of brats, two strapping boys and yet … his royal line will die out with you. Unless you do something about it.”
“Get married again, you mean. My first wife is dead.”
Hot from the saddle Brampton eases off his jerkin, untucks his shirt and pours some water into a bowl, rubs a cloth around the back of his head.
“I meant make some preparation to take back your throne – you can’t do that with a wife in tow.”
“Oh. I am not ready.” The boy’s eyes are fearful but Brampton pretends not to see it and hopes he will outgrow his cowardice. Brampton, his wet hair standing up on end, plucks a grape and pops it into his mouth.
“Of course, you know what Tudor has done?”
The boy shakes his head, just once, his eyes fastened on the man’s face. He watches as Brampton tosses a couple more grapes between his big yellow teeth.
“Think about it. In preserving his own son’s claim he reversed that act, the Titulus-something-or-other, that declared you bastard. To marry your sister he had to legitimise her. Yes?”
“Yes.” The boy nods, watching Brampton’s gyrating jaw as he obliterates the grape. The man reaches forward for the wine again.
“Well, in doing that, he made you legitimate too. As long as you were legally a bastard, the crown was rightfully Tudor’s. Now, since you are not misbegotten, you are once more your father’s heir. Tudor’s only right to the throne is through your sister, Elizabeth, but you, boy, are heir before her.” Brampton drains his cup and bangs it on the board. “And legally the rightful king of England.”
The boy blinks but doesn’t speak. His mind is awash with many things. He is beginning to feel he belongs here, sometimes he thinks he’d prefer to stay put, devote his life to study. There is a girl in the kitchen who smiles whenever she passes; a pretty girl with big grey eyes. He likes it here although memories of home often intrude on his present peace; a distant image of a loving family, a bevy of sisters, all doting and giggling over him.
England; it is like another lifetime, one of privilege until his father died and he and his mother and sisters were plunged into danger, taking refuge in sanctuary. He prefers not to remember the period of uncertainty while he and Edward were housed in the royal apartments at the Tower, awaiting the glorious coronation that never happened; the sudden reversal of fortune.
Uncle Richard came to them in the Tower, his face white and anxious as he tried to explain why Edward could never be king. The boy blinks away tears at the memory of Edward’s sharp and sudden anger, his refusal to obey, his denial of food, his rejection of comfort or sleep. The boy flinches physically from the unbidden memory of that last night and his elder brother’s rejection of Brampton’s attempt to save them. He can never forget the smothering blanket, the fear; the foolhardy escape beneath London Bridge in the custody of the man who brought him halfway across Europe into the protection of his aunt.
Brampton spits on the floor, pulling the boy from his reverie. “Of course, Tudor has no idea you are alive. He is living a fool’s paradise and so is your sister, but we will let them continue until the time is right.”
“We will not hurt Elizabeth, or her child?”
Sometimes the boy is unsure if he wants that day to come. The thought of raising an army fills him with dread. When he tries to picture himself leading a large troop into enemy territory, his imagination baulks. Why would men follow him? He is ju
st a boy. He likes it here; he wants to pluck up the courage to speak to the girl with the grey eyes, to find out her name.
“Perhaps it is too late, Brampton. Perhaps we should leave well alone. I was not born to be king, Edward was. I am happy enough here with my books. I have thought perhaps I might enter the church.”
Brampton roars like a lion and punches the wooden table. “I have spent three years of my life defending you, keeping you safe, giving up my own ambitions for the day we will fight for yours. Don’t tell me of your reluctance to leave the cushioned existence you are enjoying here. Whether you like it or not, the day will come and you will welcome it, boy, come hell or high water!”
Chapter Ten
Elizabeth
Placentia Palace, Greenwich ― March 1486
Henry is a complex man, warm and cool in turns; one moment an ardent lover, the next little more than a gaoler. In early March, just as the worst of my sickness is passing, he embarks upon a progress north. Constant rumours of unrest, small pockets of demonstration against his rule, force his hand. I do not even suggest I travel with him, although as a young girl I accompanied my parents on many such journeys. There was nothing I liked better than hearing the people in full song as they expressed their love for us. But I sense Henry’s uncertainty; he is not yet used to showing himself to his people and is unsure how to get them to love him. He is so fearful of an assassin that when he is in public his shoulders tend to hunch and his eyes dart uncertainly from side to side. It is not an endearing picture of a king.
For days the palace is in upheaval as he prepares for a few months on the road. On the last night he comes to me in my chamber but, fearful of injuring the child, he does not lay with me. As if I am a child that cannot get by for a few weeks without guidance, I am given a list of instruction.
“Be ruled by my mother, she is my mouthpiece in all things.”
It is always so, I wonder that he needs to remind me. His mother, who has spent her life fighting for her son’s concerns, is not content to be called by the long-winded title of My Lady, the King’s Mother, but has taken to signing herself Margaret R., as if she is herself the queen.
I do not stoop to fight her; I know I cannot win. She stands upright beside me while the king’s horse is brought to him. Henry is fiddling with his gauntlets, shrugging his fur cloak higher about his neck. He glances at me and away again before I can speak or catch his eye.
He is riding north, into Yorkist territory. There may be people there who will speak out against him, or worse. For the first time I feel a thrill of fear as I contemplate the possibility of an assassin. In the crowd-lined street it would be easy for an unknown hand to strike against him … or a small army of them to rise suddenly. Henry is the last of his line.
My hands travel to my belly. It is flat yet, his child is not yet making himself known, but I am vulnerable … we all are. Security is not a luxury of kings but for Henry, whose enemies are legion, it is worse. If I lose him now, I will be alone, my unborn child at the mercy of the cruel world.
A sudden craving for his reassurance washes over me. I want to feel his gentle touch on my hair, his kiss on my forehead. I step forward, reach out to detain him and whisper in his ear to keep safe. But before my fingers can grasp his cloak, Lady Margaret steps between us. She kisses him on both cheeks in the French way and issues some last minute instruction, no doubt telling him to be sure to wash behind his ears.
My hands fall to my sides. Through a blur of tears I watch Henry mount; he gives a quick, tight smile and raises his hand in farewell. Then he calls to his outriders and they clatter away, leaving me at the mercy of his mother.
*
I keep to my chambers as much as I can, closet myself with my favourite women. We busy ourselves fashioning tiny garments for the new prince. Anne Parry softly reads a passage from the Bible, and a minstrel strums a lute in the corner. When Anne’s voice fails I tell her to put the book away, and to while away another hour, we each take it in turns to sing. When Elizabeth Stafford sings the cuckoo song, I am whisked back to my girlhood when I would delight to sing before my father’s court.
Beside me, my cousin Margaret remembers it too and her eyes fill with ready tears. She has been weeping on and off for days, unhappy at the marriage Henry has proposed for her to his cousin, Sir Richard Pole. She has reduced several kerchiefs to shreds as she constantly beseeches me to intervene with Henry, both to delay her marriage and to allow her brother Warwick to leave the Tower.
To alleviate her misery I promise to do all I can, but I don’t know how I am to approach the matter. Henry never encourages any intervention from me and, with the constant rumblings of discontent from the Yorkist party, I can quite see why he would want to keep young Warwick close. I wonder if there will ever be peace in England. I had hoped that my joining with Henry would satisfy the warring houses of York and Lancaster, but now I lose hope. In the early days of our marriage I secretly rooted for York, but now I carry the heir in my womb, my allegiance is shifting. I am neither one thing nor the other.
The song comes to an end, Elizabeth resumes her seat, and the minstrel puts down his lute and takes some refreshment. Mother is dozing at the hearth. She spends much of her day with me now, for we are both missing Cecily. My sister has lately been taken into the Lady Margaret’s household, and a fine new wedding has been arranged with John Welles. She is pleased to be getting herself a viscount, but he is an unambitious fellow and, since he is so loyal to Henry, I rather suspect that the king is bundling Cecily out of harm’s way. His mother keeps my sister close, as if they fear her Yorkist blood makes her prey for the disaffected faction at court. I know my sister better; her interests do not stray beyond the latest fashion in hoods and sleeves. There is not a political bone in her body. She is not the one they should watch.
I lay a hand on Margaret’s sleeve and ask her to pass the bowl of honeyed nuts for which I have a craving. She dabs away a tear and leans forward for the dish, passes it back to me. I offer her one and she absentmindedly takes a handful. We chew contentedly, our attention half on the conversation and half on private matters.
A scuffle at the door and the king’s mother is announced. She sweeps into the room and immediately every one straightens up, the atmosphere shifts and thickens. At the sight of her my heart sinks, but then I see Cecily is with her and it lifts again. Mother stirs at the disruption, surreptitiously wiping a trickle of drool from her chin. “Lady Margaret,” she says thickly. “Cecily.”
They greet me first, as is etiquette, and then Cecily hurries to Mother’s side and begins to enthusiastically describe her wedding dress. Lady Margaret lowers herself into a chair, her back straight as she fans herself rapidly, although the chamber is not over warm. She looks distracted, two parallel lines stand sentinel on the bridge of her beaky nose.
“Are you well, Lady Margaret?” I venture, and she turns toward me with a quick movement, like a bird of prey when its hood is suddenly removed.
“Perfectly. I have had word from the king.”
I put down my sewing and cock my head enquiringly, determined not to show how annoyed I am that he writes to his mother yet neglects to send word to me.
“And how is he?”
“He is well enough but we fear trouble may be brewing.”
It is just as I feared. I lean forward in my chair.
“Trouble?”
“Stafford and his brother have escaped sanctuary at Colchester and are inciting rebellion. Richard of Gloucester’s former lap dog, Lovell, is stirring trouble too.”
My heart sets up a dull thump that fills my ears, making me nauseous. I swallow a lump from my throat.
“Where is Henry? Is he safe?”
I cannot help but remember another king who believed he had the support of his courtiers. Of all Henry’s followers the only one whose loyalty is unshakeable is his Uncle Jasper.
“Henry was at Lincoln when news came. He kept holy week there and now plans to ride on into Yorkshi
re and put the rebels down.”
“Oh, pray God he is successful.”
I get up and walk to the window and back to the hearth. My mother’s face is pensive, her eyes fixed on the dying flames, but she doesn’t speak. It is my mother-in-law who answers.
“Of course he will be. God is on our side. He proved that at Bosworth.”
As soon as I am able, I excuse myself and sit down to write my husband a letter.
“I would have word of your well-being, in your own hand, my husband. I fear for your safety. I pray you send me a letter by return. I shall not rest until I hear from you.”
Within the week a messenger arrives with his reply. When it is brought to me I am attended by just one maid of honour, a girl of twelve who is soothing my aching head with an infusion of camomile. Her hands fall away as I sit up and reach for the letter; my eyes quickly scan the neatly written script that makes light of my concerns. I can almost hear the derision in his tone.
“There is no need to worry. The good people of York lined the streets in welcome,” Henry boasts,“and cried my name with one accord. You have no need to worry. ”
I glance up at the messenger boy and recognise him from my father’s court. I give him the benefit of my best smile.
“All is well with the king … that is good news,” I say, but as I am about to return to the letter, I notice he avoids my eye. His expression denies the comfort of Henry’s words; my heart misses a beat.
“What?” I demand, leaping too quickly to my feet so that the room tilts a little. “What is it? You must tell me what you know.”
As tiny bright lights dance in the periphery of my vision the fellow reluctantly stammers a story of an attempted kidnap at York, and the king escaping by the skin of his teeth when Lovell and the Staffords try to lay siege to the city.
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 6