“But how can anyone believe it is Edward, everyone knows he is … not himself?”
It is the first time I have known Margaret to come so close to mentioning Warwick’s difficulties. The poor lad cannot tell a goose from a capon and we all fear he will never be more than the child he seems. He is eleven years old yet cannot even tie a ribbon or count beyond five. He spends his days playing a tuneless melody on his whistle and drawing infantile pictures of kittens. Edward of Warwick will never lead men into battle.
One of my women belatedly brings Lady Margaret a seat. She smiles her thanks and sits down, smoothing her skirts before clasping her hands in her lap, her serenity unmarred.
“What does the king say, My Lady? Does he know?”
“He is with the council. We will know his feelings soon enough.”
Like my mother, Lady Margaret is cool. She has learned not to let her feelings show, but I am so stirred up by the news I can barely sit still. All sorts of scenarios and consequences are tumbling in my mind.
“I wonder if the king will cancel his progress into East Anglia and Warwickshire. He may be needed here.”
I look wildly from my mother to my mother-in-law and back again. Both women remain infuriatingly calm and collected; only I am flustered. I cannot remain seated. I get up and begin to pace the floor until Mother orders me to sit down again.
“How long will Henry be in council?” I ask, although nobody has any way of knowing the answer. “Oh, I do hope he comes soon. I cannot think straight. Do you think the Duchess will launch an attack? Lincoln is well loved in England, men may flock to his …” My words fade as I notice the growing fury on the king’s mother’s face. “But, of course,” I finish lamely, “there are many who love Henry, too.”
*
A few weeks later we learn my cousin is indeed with Aunt Margaret, but Henry, refusing to show he is at all perturbed by the threat, sets off on his progress as he’d planned. He comes to my chamber the night before. After we have coupled, he rises from the bed straight away as is his habit.
“I am taking Suffolk with me; that should help keep his son in check.”
I have my doubts but I do not voice them. Suffolk is John of Lincoln’s father, he may prove to be a good hostage to his son’s loyalty but I pray that the chains that bind him are made of silk.
“Be careful, Henry,” I implore as he shrugs back into his nightgown. “Sometimes I fear we have enemies everywhere.”
He looks down at his chest, struggling with the tangled lace fastening at the neck. I move closer, pull his hands away and tie the strings with a neat bow.
“It is ever the way with kings,” he says, smiling his thanks. But he is wrong. I was never fearful when my father rode abroad. Everyone loved him. He was a golden prince full of bonhomie, he basked in the love of the people. England will never know his like again.
Henry places a hand on the back of my head, drawing my face close for a brief kiss. “Take care,” he says. “Go with my mother to Chertsey and pay heed to what she says.”
I nod and watch him slip through the door. I want to call him back. He represents not just my own security but that of our son, too. Our future rests on his narrow shoulders. I climb back onto my curtained bed, hide beneath the covers and lay awake until dawn, wondering if I should tell my husband that my mother may well be involved in this latest plot against us.
Chertsey Abbey ― May 1487
Lady Margaret and I are standing on the spot where the body of King Henry VI once rested. It is a peaceful place, fragrant with May blossom, clusters of primroses hiding beneath the hedge. “I used to visit the old king’s grave,” she says. “But it was never good enough for such a saintly man.” Margaret had loved the old king well. “Moving his body to Windsor was the only noble thing Gloucester ever did.” She sniffs and dabs a kerchief to her eye.
Richard’s name on her lips makes my heart leap a little, a memory of his face, the ease of his presence. I close my eyes and try to conjure the emotion he once roused in me, but although I still feel sorrow at his passingand a lingering sense that, given the chance, he would have made an honest king, I realise my passion for him was nothing but a girlish fancy. Guilt at the sorrow my silly passion heaped upon Aunt Anne swamps me and I send up a prayer for forgiveness.
“Perhaps my late uncle’s decision to honour the remains of King Henry is proof of his innocence in the matter of his death.”
Lady Margaret sniffs and jerks my hand from her elbow. “It could equally indicate culpability.”
She stalks away and I bite my tongue at having spoken out of turn. If only I could forget my origins and begin to think like a Tudor. I am learning that it is more beneficial to keep my mother-in-law sweet than to bear her disapproval.
Since I produced Arthur she has been gentler with me, less inclined to remind me of the debt I owe to her and her son. She is always reminding me I could have been left in ignominy. I lift the hem of my skirt and hurry after her. As we near the outer gate we hear the sound of galloping hooves, and she stops with a hand to her throat, anticipating ill news.
“Your Grace.” A dusty messenger falls to his knees, forgetting in his haste that it is me he should greet first. Lady Margaret snatches the letter and tears it open, her eyes flicking back and forth as she quickly scans the page. As she reads the blood drains from her face, her cheeks are paper white.
“We must join Henry at Kenilworth,” she says, turning on her heel in the direction of the abbey.
“Today?” I ask as I hurry along behind. “What does the message say? Let me read it.”
She throws open the chamber door, tosses the letter on the bed and begins to issue orders to her women. Our apartments are thrown into disarray and as my clothes are dragged from the coffers and thrown upon the bed in a heap of velvet and lace, I snatch up the letter and begin to read.
“Lincoln is in Ireland with Francis Lovell and the pretender has been crowned king of England at Dublin. My informers warn of an imminent invasion. You must join me here at Kenilworth with all haste.”
“We must fetch Arthur en route.” I look up from the letter. My mother-in-law is already tying up her cloak and pulling on her gauntlets.
“There is no time. Henry orders us to join him at once; he makes no mention of your son.”
“Well, I will not leave him to the mercy of our enemies. Lincoln knows very well where the prince is lodged. Do you want him raised with the enemy as Henry was? It will not take us far out of our way. You go straight to the king if you must but I will not budge without my child. Tell the king if you will that you were too rattled by the threat of invasion to save his heir.”
She looks at me, cold fury in her eye, her lips pulled so tight they are devoid of colour.
“Very well,” she says at last. “Have it your way.”
I send a messenger on ahead to ensure the prince and his household are made ready for a journey. I want to tarry at Farnham for as short a time as possible. If we hurry we can reach my son tonight and leave for Kenilworth first thing in the morning.
*
The sun has barely risen when we mount up and ride across country to be with the king at Kenilworth. By midday the sun is so hot that I discard my cloak and wish I’d worn a lighter kirtle. Dust from the road is kicked up by the horses’ hooves, coming down again to coat us, cloying at our noses. The nursemaid keeps Arthur’s head covered to protect him both from the sun and the dirt. Behind us comes his wet nurse, bundled onto an ancient mare, and I hope the horse’s jogging does not curdle her milk; it will not do to have Arthur fractious.
Henry barely greets us when we arrive. He remains closeted with his Uncle Jasper and leaves me to settle in as best I can. Kenilworth is well-fortified and I am satisfied that nothing could breach its thick defences, which are surrounded on three sides by a wide mere. My chambers are luxurious and the great hall is even grander than I remember it from my father’s day. I am eager to see the new tennis court that Henry is having constru
cted, although I am sure there will be little time for leisure while we are here.
But the luxury and security of Kenilworth help my fears recede a little, and my ladies and I make ourselves at home. There are men coming and going at all hours, messengers galloping away in the dead of night. I wonder if Henry sleeps at all.
He certainly has no time for me. I am barely settled into my apartments when it is time for him to ride off again at the head of an army. He has the courtesy to come and say farewell. He kisses me goodbye and bids me care for our prince. When he turns away, I leave his mother to dominate the leave-taking as she always does, and climb a winding stairway to the top tower.
I look down at the mustering men at arms. A few short months ago I believed the wars were over but now, thanks to my cousin’s dissatisfaction, there is to be another battle. More men must die. Knights and their followers have ridden from all parts of the realm at Henry’s command. I pray they are more loyal than those who followed Richard.
My stomach churns at the thought of what war means but I try to steel myself, push away fruitless tears and pray for my husband’s victory. It is better to lose another cousin than to sacrifice my son’s throne to the cause of York. I hope, if he is aware of it, my father will understand.
I know my mother won’t.
I lean as far as I dare over the parapet and see below me, among the tall glittering knights, Henry seemingly small and vulnerable. From this angle his body appears squat and distorted, like a silver-clad dwarf. He kisses his mother and, as he pulls away I see her reach for him again but he is gone, calling to his uncle who runs, mail clanking, to join his king.
Jasper has supported Henry throughout his life. He is the only man he can wholly trust. They mount up. Henry places a hand on his sword hilt as if to reassure himself it is there.As he does so a sudden breeze snatches at my veil, almost tearing it from my head, and I give a cry of surprise. Henry glances up, white-faced, alert for an assassin. I raise my hand and blow a kiss into the wind and he smiles, suddenly and unexpectedly, and blows one back to me. My heart flips in my chest and a kind of peace descends upon me. I smile despite my fears and lean further over the parapet so as to keep them in my sight for as long as possible. As the king rides out to face his foe he doesn’t turn around, but I know instinctively he will come back.
Chapter Thirteen
Boy
Malines, Brussels – July 1487
“Richard!”
The boy, having grown used to the name ‘Peterkin,’ flinches at the use of his old name. The Duchess rises from her gilded chair and embraces him unexpectedly. He flounders in her embrace for a moment, and over her shoulder sees Brampton smothering a laugh. As soon as he is free to do so, he executes the special bow he has been practicing for this meeting while she smiles indulgently.
His aunt launches into a criticism of the recent events in England, and the boy cranes his neck about the vast hall. It is a long time since he has enjoyed such luxury, if indeed he ever has. Every interior surface, the doorways, the ceiling, tables and chairs are encrusted with gold, or something as much like gold as to make no difference. The hangings are the finest he has ever seen. Beside him, Brampton is unaffected by the splendour. He coughs and nudges the boy, indicating that he should speak.
Peterkin bows again and clears his throat.
“It is good to be here at last, Your Grace.”
“Dear Richard,” she says again, lifting his chin with her forefinger to examine his face. “So handsome; so very much like your father.”
She claps her hands and a serving wench enters with a tray of wine and three cups. She places it on a table by the window. The Duchess ushers them toward it and with a wave of her hand bids them admire the vast formal gardens outside. With a jerk of his head Brampton sends the girl away and begins to pour the wine. He bows as he offers the Duchess the first cup.
“I take it you were behind the fiasco at Stoke, Your Grace?” Although there is no one near, he speaks quietly, takes a gulp of wine and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.
“It is of no matter. It was an experiment, to test the water. It proved to us that there are many in England who resent Tudor’s rule and who will rise in numbers should the right candidate appear.”
Brampton puts down his cup. “Not many chose to ride against Tudor on this occasion, Your Grace, but many died. How can that be of no matter?”
She fixes him with a sharp stare.
“They knew what they were doing. Both Lovell and Lincoln knew the boy they used as bait was nothing but a dupe. Had they won, we would have replaced him with Richard here, once it was safe to do so.”
She nods toward her nephew. It is strange to be called by his given name again; the boy has grown used to ‘Peterkin’ or ‘boy’. In the early days he saw the rustic name as an insult, but now it has become a term of endearment, a familiarity he has come to enjoy. He has few enough friends and now that he has left Overijsse, he misses Marin as much as he once missed Edward and his sisters. He wonders what she would make of all this. What is she doing now? Weeping probably, wishing for his return.
The boy drags his attention away from Marin’s charms and back to the conversation; his aunt is speaking, a flush of agitation spreading on her cheek.
“Next time, mark me, things won’t go as well for Henry Tudor. Perhaps this time we were a little impatient but we will learn from that. Had Tudor not held Lincoln’s father in such close custody, I have no doubt more men would have ridden out beneath our banner. Next time we will know better.”
“Tudor is no easy conquest. He is wily and wise; his life in exile has made him so.”
“Tudor is not made of the material of kings; he is an upstart and a usurper. He will be no match for us.”
The boy wonders how such a weak and feeble king managed to overthrow King Richard, who was one of the finest generals in England. But he says nothing. He can see the Duchess is growing riled. He looks from her to Brampton, listening intently, and for the first time begins to realise that men have actually died for the cause that was lost before it began.
“What of the boy, Simnel, I think they are calling him? What has Tudor done with him?”
Margaret’s laughter tinkles like a thousand tiny bells as she seeks to soothe him. “Tudor is a fool. He has set the boy to work in his kitchen; he is too soft to punish him properly, luckily for the child.”
Richard is relieved to hear it. It would be hard to hear an innocent lad had died on his behalf; a lad who, so they said, was little brighter than the real Warwick he pretended to be.
“Warwick will never be a contestant for any man’s throne. Tudor had him taken from the Tower and paraded through the streets to prove our boy, Simnel, was a pretender. My informers tell me your cousin can barely tell one end of his horse from the other.”
She throws back her head again. The boy watches her; the gaping mouth showing broken teeth, a thick coated tongue that wobbles in her throat as she laughs. The Duchess’s finery goes only so deep, he thinks, and not for the first time wonders if his quest is worth it.
The boy Warwick, whom she mocks, is her nephew too, and Richard realises he himself only finds her favour because he is strong enough to promise victory. Because of his resemblance to his father, the men of York will flock to his banner, but what are the chances of success? His main supporters are made up of one reprobate Portuguese and a dowager Duchess bent on revenge. The others who promise him backing are as yet faceless, too fearful of the Tudor king to join with him openly. The boy sips his wine, feels the thick red Burgundy soothe his throat.
“We need more support,” he says, putting forward his first proposal and moving a step closer to the adult world of intrigue. “France is no friend to England and neither is Scotland. Can we not approach them for backing?”
The Duchess plucks a grape from a piled up bowl and pops it into her mouth. It bulges in her cheek for a moment before she dispatches it to her belly.
“It is all in h
and, my dear,” she says. “Now, I have had a chamber prepared for you close to mine. Nelken,” she summons the maid, “take my nephew to his chamber and make him comfortable. There are matters I would discuss with you, Brampton. I will see you at supper, Richard.”
Thus dismissed, the boy obediently puts down his half empty wine cup and follows the girl from the hall. She leads him along great wide corridors and up vast staircases that could take five men abreast going up, and another five coming down. At the turn in the stair she pauses, one hand on the bannister, and looks over her shoulder at him while she waits for him to catch up. He looks about him with his mouth open, overawed at the grandeur of the palace. As they progress side by side to the upper floor, a host of disapproving framed Belgian royalty watch them go, their painted eyes seeming to follow, an arrogant knowing quirk upon their brush-stroked lips.
She throws open the chamber door and the boy enters. The room is vast; the bed in the centre is itself the size of a small ship. There are windows on three sides looking across formal gardens to the wooded hillside beyond. Everything is splendid; dark carved wood, plush rich coverlets, thick bright hangings, and enough candles to illuminate a cathedral. It is far grander than he’d been used to in England and certainly grander than the humble monastery he’d recently left.
He turns from the window and looks on the bed, the promise of downy softness making him yawn. It is a bed made for sharing.
“Are you going to rest now, Your … Sir?”
She is unsure how to address him. After all, who is he? A king? A prince? Or a bastard his aunt has picked up on the streets? At the sound of her voice he turns in surprise. He had not realised the girl still lingered. He gives a half laugh and tosses his cap onto a nearby chair.
“Yes,” he says as he sits on the edge of the mattress. “Would you help me with my boots?”
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 8