I look up from my musing as Henry returns, looking sheepish.
“Now, where were we?”
I expect him to join me but instead, he moves to the table and pours two cups of wine. I am not thirsty and when he hands me my cup, I put it down. In the firelight, he is better looking; his eyes that tend to dart about a room seem somehow darker and warmer. As if my body is being operated by some external force, I walk boldly toward him and take away his wine.
“What are you doing?” He is half laughing, half hostile as I place my forefinger across his lips.
“Hush,” I say, as if he is not the king and, reaching up on tiptoe, I place my mouth on his. At first he does not respond, but when my arms slide up around his neck and my tongue licks across his lips, I feel him relax a little. His hands slide reassuringly down from my waist to cup my buttocks. I press myself against him, the jewels on his collar digging into my flesh, his codpiece hard against my thigh. With a groan in the back of my throat I kiss him harder, closing my eyes. In the gloom of the chamber he could be anyone … he could be … I sever the thought, open my eyes and focus on my husband.
“Come,” he says, pulling away but maintaining his hold on my hand. “Come to my chamber.”
But I resist him. “Let us do it here, Henry,” I say, “before the fire where it is warm.” I snuggle up against him again and, putting aside his reservations, we sink together to the floor.
He pulls off my hood and my hair falls around us as I struggle to free him from his coat, pull his jerkin from his back. Suddenly, a picture imprints on my inner eye of how we would appear should anyone enter; the king and queen coupling on the floor like peasants. I begin to giggle and our teeth clash. He makes to pull away but I bring his face back against mine and squirm beneath him. He cannot resist me.
He tugs at my bodice and I relish the pain of the hard bones biting into my flesh. His brow is beaded with sweat. He balances himself, his body forming a bridge above me, allowing me to reach down between his legs. I scrabble at the lacings of his codpiece as he burrows beneath my skirts and wrenches them high.
It has never been like this between us; even our best lovemaking has hitherto been polite and businesslike. The man who now takes me like a hearth wench is a Henry I’ve never encountered before. When he enters me I cry out and wrap my legs about his waist, cling on as he pounds into me.
At first I am not sure what is happening to my body, but after a while I no longer care. It is as if my mind is possessed by wanton demons, but it is a feeling I relish. I strain upward to meet him, my pleasure building with each thrust. When I open my eyes I see the veins standing out on his forehead, his eyes bulging, his teeth bared, sweat dripping from his brow onto my face. I grab his drenched hair and force his mouth against mine. And then … an explosion, a roaring fire that rips through my body, consuming me, consuming both of us so that we cry out in unison, his voice hoarse, like a lion’s roar, mine high pitched, like a bird’s.
We fall together in a heap of sweaty velvet and silk, and as my breath returns and I remember who and where I am, I wonder if our cries of pleasure penetrated the walls to his mother’s apartments.
He doesn’t speak but stands up, avoiding my eye, and begins to fumble with his lacings. I sit up, my heart still heaving, and begin to gather up my skirts to cover my legs. The peach-coloured silk is smeared with ash, the lace of the sleeve torn, and the petticoats closest to my skin are damp with royal semen.
As soon as he is decent, he hesitates, gives me a half smile before offering me his hand and helping me rise. As our faces come level I notice his eyes are fixed on my breasts which still bounce free of their lacings. There are marks left by his mouth, marks that, when I see them, send a dart of delight deep into the pit of my stomach. He reaches out and wrenches my bodice up to cover them, clears his throat.
“I am sorry,” he croaks and makes to turn away, but with a hand on his sleeve I restrain him.
“Sorry, Henry? Don’t be sorry, my lord. We should be glad.”
Greenwich ― Late Summer 1490
My ladies and I, along with a few gentleman courtiers, are enjoying the late summer sunshine when Henry and his mother join us in the garden at Greenwich palace. I pass Margaret, or Meg as we have begun to call her, to her nurse and rise to greet them. I shuffle along the bench and offer the king’s mother a seat and she sits down and looks about the garden. Her quick eyes do not miss one of my younger ladies sitting a little too close to Henry Stafford. Stafford shows the ladies much attention, but has never yet come close to matrimony. I’ve been watching them for a while, reluctant to spoil their fun. Summer was so long in coming and soon it will be over, and the romances that bloom in the warmer weather will fade as the temperature drops. Lady Margaret is watching them with a twitch of displeasure that quite mars the afternoon and reluctantly, remembering my duty, I sit up straighter. The minstrel instantly ceases his tune.
“Emily,” I call across the mead. “Can you fetch my shawl, I feel a chill.”
The girl, with a reluctant smile at her admirer, rises to her feet, drops me a brief curtsey and hurries toward the hall. Lady Margaret, satisfied that their pleasure is spoiled, settles herself on the turfed seat and begins a conversation with Cecily.
It is some time since I’ve seen Cecily. She is wed now and the mother of two, as I am. Her children are often ailing and she spends her time torn between her duties at court and those of motherhood. I watch her now, plucking at her kerchief as she responds to the king’s mother’s questions. The Lady Margaret has taken a great fancy to Cecily; sometimes I think she’d have preferred her as a wife to her beloved Henry, but I know he wouldn’t agree.
In a very unkinglike manner, Henry has managed to sidle around the company until he is at my side. He sits beside me, kisses my fingers surreptitiously. “Are you well?”
“I am quite well, my lord.” I cannot help but flush, for this question has become code for when he wishes to enquire if he is welcome in my chamber. Invariably my answer is yes.
Our relationship has developed into something closer to that which I’ve always hoped for. I am slowly unravelling the cocoon of distrust that Henry wraps around himself. I may be born of York but I am Tudor now, and his loyal wife. Nothing can alter that.
As we relax and listen to the minstrels, the call of the birds and the chatter of the women, it is good to feel the press of his arm against mine. Meg, as usual, is not far away. She is crawling now, trailing her gown through the dirt and trying to eat the garden soil or sample the flowers. She seems to think that every new thing she encounters belongs in her mouth. Henry and I watch her, and laugh at her antics, confident that the nurse who hovers behind will prevent her from eating anything too unpalatable. We linger in the garden until the sun begins to sink and the air grows chilly, when we move indoors. It is time to freshen our bodies, change our clothes in readiness for the evening entertainments.
As we reach the door, a messenger appears and asks to speak to the king. With a smile of regret, he leaves me to continue to my apartments alone. I do not see him again that evening. I dine in my chamber and the court is forced to enjoy the entertainments in the absence of both king and queen.
It is much later, when I am almost ready to slip into bed, that he comes to my chamber. I can see straight away that something is wrong. Immediately, I think of Mother, a sudden twist of fear that she may be ill.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
His face is pale and I sense he is concealing, or trying to control his anger. My fears increase. He’d not be angry if my mother was ill; it must be something worse, or some political insult he has received. He moistens his lips to speak, glances at me, looks away, and tightens his lips.
“My spies inform me that there is a fellow … some crazed pretender … at your aunt’s court in Burgundy, who is claiming to be your brother.”
“Edward!” My heart turns somersault. “Is it him?”
Henry, his face like thunder, brings h
is fist down hard on the table.
“No.” His voice is harsh, almost a shout. “He claims to be the other one. Richard. But it is not him, is it? How can it be? They are dead, aren’t they? You told me they are dead!”
Greenwich Palace – June 1491
In the months that follow I try very hard to regain Henry’s confidence but he resists me, pushes me away. When he does come to my chamber it is to perform a duty, the joy has gone from our marriage. Yet, by the autumn, I am pregnant again and once more embracing the depths of my chamber pot. This time the sickness doesn’t last as long, and by the time I am mid-term I am thriving and bonny. For the first time I enjoy the ‘bloom’ of pregnancy that I have previously dismissed as a myth.
Although he is pleased by the news, the edginess between the king and I continues, as does the uneasy truce between me and his mother. My cousin Margaret finds time in her schedule to visit from Ludlow. She has scarcely sat down when she begins urging me to speak to the king on behalf of her brother. Poor Warwick is still incarcerated in the Tower. He is sixteen years old now and I have not seen him since he was a small boy, although Margaret has regular word from his servants.
“How is he?” I ask and pretend I do not see the furious anger that passes swiftly across her face.
“He is well enough but he knows no different. He knows no other home than the Tower. He is content with his picture books and cats but it is no life for him, shut away from his family for no greater sin than being born too close to the throne.”
I lower my eyes. I feel so useless, so helpless. I fiddle with my cuff, tracing an intricate line of the embroidery with my fingernail.
“I have tried to get Henry to see reason, Margaret, I really have, but he says it is for the boy’s safety. He knows Warwick is not … not really capable of starting an uprising but that is not the point. There are those who would manipulate him and use him as a figurehead for insurrection. Henry has to be careful, so careful … especially now …”
She jerks her head in my direction and slides along the settle toward me so her words cannot be overheard.
“This … pretender, Elizabeth … who is he? Do you know?”
I straighten up, my eyes darting around the room to see who might be listening. I shake my head and mutter a reply.
“We don’t know but the king is very shaken by it. Henry’s spies are busy trying to discover his identity, but so far they have learned nothing.”
“Our Aunt Margaret is backing him.”
“But she hates Henry; she would back the devil himself if he offered her the chance to displace him.”
“But that doesn’t mean the boy isn’t your brother. I mean, we both know Uncle Richard would not have harmed his own blood. He looked after all of us so carefully. The boys were no threat to him; the king had more reason to …”
She stops midsentence, suddenly realising she is speaking treason to the Queen of England. Blood rushes into her cheeks, she puts a hand to her face and shakes her head. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. Elizabeth, honestly, I wasn’t suggesting …”
“I know.” I cover her hand with my own. “It is so hard to speak openly, to anyone. Henry didn’t harm them, I am sure of that. He has been frantic to discover the boys’ whereabouts since he won the throne. If he had ordered them killed, he wouldn’t be so worried now.”
“To think it has come to this.” She shakes her head sadly. “Our family fragmented, your brothers lost, my brother imprisoned and us, both of us, married to men our fathers would have scorned. Nothing is ever certain, is it? Not in this world.”
At that moment the child leaps in my womb, making me gasp. “This little fellow seems very certain of himself,” I laugh, in an attempt to break the sorry tension that has descended upon us.
Margaret smiles. “Do you think it is a boy?”
“If it isn’t, it will be a princess with very large feet and a kick like a donkey.”
Margaret moves even closer, drops her voice to a whisper. “Maybe she favours her paternal grandmother.”
We burst into laughter, drawing the attention of my ladies who are sitting a little way off. Cecily detaches herself from the group and approaches us, laughing although she is unaware of the cause of our mirth.
“What? What is it?” She sits beside us, her smiling eyes moving from my face to Margaret’s. We both sober.
“Nothing,” I reply. “Just a silly thing about … about kittens.”
Watching me closely, Cecily’s face falls a little and I feel a twinge of regret that I can no longer confide in her as I used to. Her relationship with the king’s mother is strong now and she is too quick to carry secrets to her. This is one joke that would entirely fail to amuse the Lady Margaret.
Coolly, Margaret proceeds to admire Cecily’s gown. She reaches out to feel the fabric and they fall to speaking of safer, domestic things. As their conversation washes over me, I run my hand across my bulging belly and count the kicks and nudges issuing from within. The child seems to be dancing a saltarello. By my reckoning the babe should be born sometime in June or July, and I have already begun issuing orders for my confinement, which will begin very soon.
The chamber is made up as it was before, with soothing tapestries and yards of sumptuous hangings adorned with red and white roses. I order my needlework, my lute and favourite books to be placed within easy reach, for I know from experience how long and tedious the waiting can be. This is the first time I shall be giving birth in the heat of the summer, and I hate the thought of shutting out the sun and stifling behind sealed windows. When I confide in Cecily how I dread it, she pulls a face.
“I dispensed with all that when I birthed Elizabeth. I realise my own confinements do not demand the degree of ceremony as yours do but, for heaven’s sake, Elizabeth, you are the queen. Demand that they open a window if it pleases you.”
I hadn’t thought of that. My whole life is spent conforming, trying to please the king and his mother, but during labour, when my life and that of the unborn child are at risk, is perhaps the time they will bow to my wishes.
In early June I ceremoniously bid farewell to the world and, with a blessing from the bishops, I retire to my chambers. By the time I emerge again, the summer will be well past its zenith. It will be a shame to miss the last days of summertime. But I am tired and glad for the rest. In the privacy of my chambers I can relax and wear loose-fitting clothing, and be as lazy as I please until the child decides to make his appearance. But I must have made a miscalculation because midsummer’s day has only just passed when I feel the first pangs of labour.
I put down my lute and place a hand on my tightening belly.
“What is it, Your Grace?” Anne Crowther puts aside her sewing and sinks to her knees at my feet. I reach out and squeeze her hand.
“I think the baby might be on his way.”
She stands up to run and summon the king’s mother and tell Henry that the child is imminent, but I grab her wrist, shake my head.
“Don’t go yet, Anne. It may be a false alarm. I don’t want to worry anyone until we are sure.”
But this time it is quick and there is no opportunity to send for anyone other than the midwives. At first I walk about the chamber, but after just half an hour of this my waters break, drenching my petticoats and, almost straight away, the pains begin in earnest. It seems this child is in a hurry to be born. I dig my fingers into Anne’s arm and bend over, gasping with pain.
The midwife aids me to the bed and without seeking my permission lifts my sodden clothes to determine the child’s position. Her hands are cool and dry. As she examines me I feel the pain returning, my womb tightening and squeezing. With a cry, I clench down on her arm and hold my breath, fighting against it.
“Don’t fight it. Breathe, Your Grace. Breathe and try to relax. There is no point in fighting it.”
Belatedly I recall my earlier training; it worked before, once I gave in to the inevitable and went with the pain. With difficulty I suck in air, blow
it out again, my cheeks puffing like a hearth wench blowing on kindling. Very slowly, inexorably, the pain reaches its peak, begins to ebb. I breathe deep and calm, close my eyes and ride toward the break in the battle.
Anne calls for a drink and between contractions she moistens my lips, dabs my brow with a cooling cloth. “Not long now, Your Grace; I think this little fellow is in a hurry.” The midwife stands up, her face pink with sweat. “I can see the top of his head.”
“Already?” I try to laugh but another pain is beginning and I break off to breathe and puff like an elderly dragon. The window is open, the sounds of the river floating in on the summer breeze, a strain of music from the garden. I bring my knees up high, hook them over my elbows and, tucking my chin to my chest, I begin to bear down. While the midwife hollers instruction from between my legs, and my women hover in a flutter of concern about the bed, I lose myself in the battle to bring my child into the world.
Deep in my nether regions I can feel his head move like a cannonball along the shaft. I push and he fights with me, inching closer until my quaint bulges and I am fit to burst. I put down a hand, feel his wet pulsing head and, when the next pain comes, I push again. A burst of water and his head is born, filling the chamber with the sweet aroma of birth fluid. Almost screaming with every pant, I cease to strain until the midwife instructs me to continue with gentle pushes. Together, with great care, we ease my child into the world.
“It’s a boy!” someone yells. “A great fat boy!”
I scramble up, supporting myself on my hands, and look down at the baby on the bed.
He is very large and very angry, and not at all shy of letting the world know of his displeasure. Puce with screaming, his fists are clenched and his legs, already chubby at the thigh, kick the air in outrage. I lean forward to pick him up, cord still trailing, and hold him, just for a moment.
His toothless mouth is downturned, his chin juddering in grievous protest as I drop my first kiss on his brow and settle him to my breast. Like an expert he latches on straight away, greedy for life, and his tiny fingers clench about my own. Quieter now, his limbs cease to agitate as he feeds upon me. I draw a shawl across him and relax into the pillow.
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 14