I have done it. I have given Henry the peace of mind of two sons. We have a Prince of Wales and a Duke of York; what more can he now ask of me?
*
When the news is out the country erupts into celebration. It is hard for me when they take the baby, wrap him in a mantle of gold furred with ermine, and bear him off to church for his christening. He is to be named Henry after his father, but there the similarities end.
It is clear to me, even at this early stage, that little Henry, in build, looks and manner will resemble one man only; my father, Edward IV. I wonder how the king and his mother will like that. So far they are both besotted with him and the plans for his christening are extensive.
My son is escorted by two hundred torch-bearing men, and the church is hung with cloth of gold. The Bishop of Exeter, Richard Fox, is to officiate, and Henry has sent for the silver font from Canterbury Cathedral. Nothing is overlooked; this christening is to be as grand as any there has ever been. I just wish I was there to see it. By the time they return him to me my breasts ache from want of him, and the first thing I do when they place him back in my arms is loosen my bodice and let him feed.
Feed time is the only period that he is truly peaceful. He likes to be held and when I cradle him in my arms to look at his tiny fingers and toes, the pale sandy lashes that curl on his cheek, the red button nose and pursed, sucking lips, he watches me through slitted eyes.
I am determined not to relinquish this child too soon. I would like all my children to grow up close to me. I want to witness their first teeth, their first steps, their first words. I want to teach them their letters and tell them stories of old. It goes without saying that this boy will delight in King Arthur and his knights. He is made in my father’s image and every time I look at him, I remember the past and my little brothers of whom we were all so proud. Their memory burns suddenly bright again and with it comes the pain of losing them. This child might go some way toward making up for their loss. I hug little Henry suddenly close, making him squeak, and determine that nothing shall harm this child. No matter what it takes, or what it costs, I shall guard him to my last breath.
Chapter Twenty-One
Boy
Lisbon ― Autumn 1491
Brampton’s wife is sick and he reluctantly allows the boy to return to Flanders on his own. He finds him a berth on a ship and goes with him to watch him embark. “Stay out of trouble,” he says. “Keep your head down.”
The boy agrees, suddenly tongue-tied, conscious of a thousand things he should say, a thousand thanks he owes this rough and ready fellow. As Brampton turns and begins to clamber overboard, the boy suddenly grabs his arms and pulls him round to engulf him in an embrace. Brampton thumps him on the shoulder and returns the hug. “Take care, boy,” he says throatily. “We will not be parted for long.”
It will be a long voyage, the ship calling at other ports and countries to deliver cargo. For the first time, the boy is alone. As the ship slowly moves from the dock Richard finds his throat is tight with regret, his eyes stinging with tears. Man up, he tells himself as he forces himself to face the open sea. Man up and remember you are a king.
It is a rough few days. For the first time he is seasick, hanging miserably over a bucket, spitting bile. But, as the ship draws closer to land, the swell lessens and he is able to hold up his head again.
He emerges on deck, stumbling a little and hanging on tight to the ship’s rail. They pass a remote rock, too small to be called an island, where a colony of gulls set up a ruckus at their passing.
“Where are we?” he asks a passing crew member.
“Just nearing Ireland, my lord, where we will put up for a few nights.”
“Ireland!” Richard peers into the distance where a ruffle of cloud cushions the horizon. “Ireland is almost home.”
He scrambles back to his cabin and sorts through his clothes, donning his best striped sleeves and topping it all with his favourite cap. He is still strapping on his sword as he arrives back on deck. One of the crew whistles admiringly, but when he turns he cannot determine who it was.
The ship is close to the shore now. He can see green fields, clusters of houses, a church steeple, people swarming at the dock.
The captain stops hollering orders to the crew when he notices Richard’s attire. “Are you going ashore, Sir?”
“Yes, yes. I need to stretch my legs.”
“Well, you cannot go alone. Brampton would have my head. I will get up a party for your protection.”
Twenty minutes later, the boy feels firm ground beneath his feet and inhales the sweet moist air of Ireland. It is almost home, closer than he has been for many years. With a cheerful smile he sets off through the town, walking the muddy streets just for the hell of it. At first he doesn’t notice the stir he is making. He doesn’t hear the muttered questions. “Who is he? Why is he here?”
He turns a corner into a market square full of livestock, the stench of the farmyard almost making him recoil. A sharp breeze comes from nowhere and takes off his cap, and one of the ship’s crew set to guard him runs after it, chasing it like a cat after a mouse. Richard throws back his head and laughs, his bright hair glinting in the sunshine. A peasant steps forward from the crowd and directs a dirty finger in the boy’s direction.
“It is the king,” he cries. Richard’s head jerks up, his blue eyes assessing the mood of the crowd. The crew move in closer, hands to their daggers.
“The king? Don’t be daft, man; what would the king be doing here? Hasn’t he enough trouble of his own?”
People begin to laugh. A pretty peasant girl runs forward and offers Richard a rose; it is off-white but close enough. He bows politely and tucks it in the lacing of his doublet.
“I don’t mean the Tudor King; I mean the real one, King Edward or Richard … or if it isn’t, he looks as damn near like it to suffice.”
The crowd falls silent, then a woman steps closer. “I think you might be right, Pádraig. I saw King Edward once and if this boy isn’t made in his image then you can call me a donkey.”
“You’re a donkey,” someone shouts from behind, and the town square fills with laughter. The people surge forward, dancing and calling ‘A York!’ The ship’s crew edge closer to their charge, waving their daggers to little avail.
As the Irish surge in, Richard feels grubby hands upon him, smells their unwashed bodies. He flounders, begins to lose his footing and grabs at someone’s jerkin to save himself. But before he can fall, he feels strong hands grasp him and the claustrophobic crowd breaks so he can breathe again. His head bursts into the air as he is lifted aloft onto their shoulders, and he looks down on a sea of heads as they begin to march him triumphantly through the town.
Malines –Late summer 1493
Two years pass, years of campaign, years of plummeting fear and soaring hopes. The Duchess works tirelessly. To Richard, now publically declared to be the rightful king of England, her hatred for the Tudor usurper seems sometimes irrational, sometimes he shares it. Barring Spain, they have the support of the heads of Europe and relations between Brussels and England have all but broken down.
Henry Tudor is furious that they are harbouring what he calls a ‘pretender’ to his throne. The English king may have power, but he is distrusted and scorned the world over. York’s star looks set to burn bright again over the skies of England.
Richard is euphoric but when news comes of his mother’s death, her life ending in a cheerless nunnery, exiled from the royal court, he is consumed with angry sorrow.
He recalls her gentle hands, her ringing laughter, her soft singing, and his chin wobbles like a child’s as he dashes away a tear. He had thought to go back one day, to draw her from her cloistered prison and greet her before the world. Just once more to call her ‘Mother’ and hear her name him as her son. Now she is gone, her vigour shrivelled, her silver bright hair and high clear brow is shrouded and sealed in a lowly tomb.
He should have been there with his sister
s to see her laid to rest. Her life should have been celebrated throughout Christendom, but Henry Tudor, with customary parsimony, keeps her funeral small and mean.
“Why didn’t Elizabeth demand a proper funeral as befits a queen?” he asks.
Duchess Margaret turns from the window. “I understand your sister had nothing to do with it. She was in confinement awaiting the birth of her fourth child; a girl, they tell me. She is nothing if not diligent in that department.” She sniffs disdainfully, as if she wouldn’t welcome a child of her own, whatever the gender.
The boy puts down the letter and flops back in his chair. “I wonder what she thinks of all this, of me …”
The Duchess leans forward and selects an apple from a bowl on the table, sinks her big teeth into it.
“I doubt she thinks of you at all. Not as her brother at any rate; she will see you as nothing more than a usurper. You can be sure that having whelped four Tudor pups, she will no longer think like a daughter of York.”
He tries to reconcile this image with the Bess he once knew and loved. Her bright stories of courage and valour, her firm conviction that York would always be the victor cannot have altered. The knightly king she described in her stories and sang about in ballads was always tall and fair like their father … just like the man he, Richard, had now become. Surely, when the time comes, she will recognise him as a returning hero and welcome him home? Bess was always the champion of justice, cheering for the underdog, the rightful victor. Surely, a few misbegotten brats with a man she cannot love won’t change that?
The Duchess is speaking, gloating over the success of the plot she has hatched with John Kendal, a Yorkshire man in the confidence of Henry Tudor. She has persuaded him to use his position to work for their cause, undermining the English king’s position. She chews audibly, apple juice on her lips as she speaks with her mouth full.
“There was a meeting in Rome …” She pauses to prise a slither of apple skin from between her teeth, “… where they pledged to seek ways and methods to bring about the death of Tudor, his mother, his children and close relations —”
“Not Elizabeth!” The boy is on his feet. “The children I can understand, although I heartily dislike it, but not Bess, not my sister — she and my other sisters are the only family I have left. They are not to be harmed.”
“Sit down, Richard. No one has been injured yet. Anyway, I have little hope anything will come of it. My informers tell me that they plan to employ astrology and black magic against them. Personally, if I wanted to kill someone I’d hire an assassin. I’ve no faith in the mysterious arts.”
She examines the flesh of her half-consumed apple, which is beginning to turn brown. Tossing it to her dog, she stands up, smoothes her skirts and turns toward the door. A bevvy of waiting women follow her. At the entrance, she stops and turns. “You need to form a tougher skin Richard, or you’ll never get anywhere. Kings, even if they bleed, must never let the pain show. Get yourself some invisible armour or you’ll be unhorsed by the first strike.”
He sits alone while the busy palace moves on without him. The chamber grows dim, it is almost dark when a servant comes to light the torches. Slowly the room is illuminated, and when she notices him in the shadows, she jumps, bobs a curtsey.
“I am sorry, my lord, I didn’t see you there.”
“Carry on.”
He nods at the hearth and she begins to build the fire while he watches her. She works quickly, every so often glancing up at him as if his presence discomforts her. His thoughts go to Nelken; poor, poor Nelken who did not survive the birth of their child.
Somewhere he has a son, he knows that much, but where the child is now Richard cannot discover. The Duchess refuses to speak of it, will answer no questions. On impulse, he moves forward to crouch beside the girl at the hearth.
“You knew Nelken?” he whispers.
The girl is immediately on the alert, her eyes darting to the corners of the room, checking the door. “I did, my lord, yes. She was a good friend.”
“Then you must know what became of her son. Where was he taken?”
She stands up and begins to back away. “I don’t know, my lord. Why would they confide in me? I am just a servant.”
“Just a servant. Yes, I am sorry, but … he is my son … all I have left. If … if you should learn of his whereabouts, would you tell me? I will reward you well and the Duchess will never hear of it … I promise.”
For a long moment she looks at him, taking in his fine figure, his fair hair, his troubled expression. One of his eyes has a slight cast, which gives him the appearance of being troubled, vulnerable. She smiles suddenly, her prettiness breaking through the grime of her workload.
“Very well, my lord. If I should hear anything, I will find you and let you know.”
She bobs a curtsey and, gathering up her bucket, hurries away, leaving him alone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Elizabeth
Westminster Hall – December 1493
Christmas is lavish this year, but I sit beneath the royal canopy and watch the entertainments with fear in my heart. I miss my mother and I badly need her advice. My new born daughter, Elizabeth, is not thriving; she feeds sluggishly and rarely smiles. I bore her in July, just after my mother died. I was not allowed to leave confinement to share Mother’s last hours, the king’s mother forbade it. She said it went against the guidelines in her blessed book. I wanted to scream at her that they were guidelines only, but I could tell from her frigid looks that my argument was futile. Instead, I fell to my knees and prayed that Mother be taken quickly and painlessly to Heaven.
My mother was a woman of many secrets. Her life was one of political intrigue, and many stories that are told of her are uncomfortable to hear. But I loved her; she was my mother. I just wish that I could have seen her one last time. Perhaps, with God’s angels looking over her shoulder, she might have revealed to me the fate of my brothers. I would lay down my life on the fact that she knew of it.
With a heavy heart I watch the tumblers, I applaud the minstrels, and clap my hands with what I hope is convincing glee. William Cornish comes galloping into the hall dressed as St George, followed by a ferocious dragon that spits fire from its mouth. I glance at Henry who is leaning forward in his chair, watching appreciatively as a lavishly garbed ‘princess’ screams at the monster’s approach.
Inwardly I sigh, and long for the night to be over so I can retire to the peace of my chamber. I cannot keep my mind from little Elizabeth. I must find a way for her to thrive. All my children are healthy except for her. Young Henry is growing apace. At eighteen months old he is as loud and demanding as an untrained puppy. He is my consolation. There is nothing I like more than when he climbs onto my lap, puts his thumb in his mouth and nestles up close. Henry and Meg make up for missing Arthur so much, but I am not sure if even they could make up for Elizabeth … should I lose her.
*
The king is simmering inwardly but does not share his worries with me. I discover by nefarious means that his lack of ease is due to the men flocking from his court. The court gossips whisper that they are heading for Europe, to the standard of the man calling himself Richard of England.
I don’t know what to think. Even one of my own household, my chamberlain, has gone, preferring a pretender to me.
But is he a pretender? The fearful question is persistent. It returns in the dead of night, in the midst of the day when I should be at peace; in our marriage bed when my mind should be on other things. Suppose it is Richard? Suppose my brother and I are ranged against each other? Suppose my husband is forced to kill my brother, or my brother to kill my husband?
Neither scenario bears thinking of. I hold little Henry tight, lay my face against his fine red baby hair, close my eyes and pray for him.
I pray for all of us.
Westminster ― November 1494
For almost a year the king is on edge, snapping at innocent questions, suspicious of my every m
ove. He still suspects me of some duplicity, of knowing the truth, or secretly supporting the pretender’s claim. His fear eats away at him like a maggot on a piece of rotting meat, tainting everything. It is difficult to get close to him. Time and time again I have tried to explain that my husband and my children come before everything and anyone else. Even if this pretender is my brother, which I hope he is not, I would never choose him above my sons. But I cannot convince Henry.
He sends forth spies to determine the pretender’s identity, to disprove his claim to be of the house of York. Between them, Henry and his uncle Jasper decide the Pretender is a Fleming who goes by, or used to go by, the name of Perkin Warbeck. It sounds an unlikely name to me and how would a common foreigner persuade half of Europe that he is a royal prince? I keep quiet and, with admirable cunning, Henry manages to undermine the friendship France has displayed toward the Pretender. Now France’s support has been severed, Warbeck will find things harder, but Henry doesn’t leave it there.
“There are more ways to win a war than in battle,” he says with grim pleasure. I try not to reflect that I never heard such words from my father and applaud when I learn of his plan.
“It was my mother who thought of it,” he boasts, and I try not to let my envy bite too deeply. “You will recall that I have already made young Henry Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports and Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and Warden of the Scottish Marches?”
I nod, keeping my eyes wide and fixed upon him, terrified that whatever he has to tell me might somehow betray me into disloyalty. “Well, now I play the trump card. I plan to make Henry the Duke of York; there can only be one, can’t there? It should state quite clearly our disbelief in the Pretender’s claims and put him firmly in his place.”
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 15