A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck

by Arnopp, Judith

  He may not be Richard, as he claims, but everyone knows my late father’s weakness for women. Perhaps the boy is some bastard-born child who has inherited my father’s talent for winning love. Father married my mother secretly, or ‘privately’ as they preferred to call it, without the consent of his council. Their union sparked another round of fighting in the long war between Lancaster and York. Their passion was so strong, things could not have been otherwise; their need for each other was stronger than duty, stronger than dynastic requirement. And now the Scottish king is supporting a marriage between this man who claims to be my brother, and his own cousin. Surely the boy is a pretender, surely a pretender, who has somehow been blessed with my father’s face and his way with women.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Henry speaks sharply, startling me so that I jump and give an unconvincing laugh.

  “Nothing really. I was just wondering how much longer this can go on. I am not convinced James really believes Warbeck’s claim and surely the boy cannot roam indefinitely about Europe with this treasonous claim. You will stop him in the end.”

  I add the last few words by way of comfort. Henry sits back in his chair, links his fingers, stretches his arms and makes his knuckles crack. It is a habit I detest, every sinew of my body rebels against it, but I do not say so.

  “Oh yes,” Henry says quietly. “I will stop him, and when I have him, his ending will not be pretty, whoever he may be …”

  Those words echo long after he has departed. Whoever he may be. My former contentment has fled, draining from my body. I can almost sense my optimism scurrying across the floor and plunging from the open window into the dark night beyond. Henry is informing me, quite plainly, that this person who dares to call himself the Duke of York will die, whether his claim is false or not.

  *

  I re-enter my life as queen, glad to be free of the confines of my chamber but sad to see Mary packed off so young to Eltham, where she will take up residence with Harry and Meg. Her household is vast for one so young, but she is a princess and as such must be well attended. I select women I trust, women of experience, and my directions to them are heartfelt and lengthy. Eltham is not far and I will visit very often, but as the cavalcade draws away, leaving me behind, my heart cries out as eloquently as my body, which yearns to nurse her again.

  The king and I leave Sheen in June and begin our journey west. The summer promises much as we pass at a leisurely pace through some of England’s finest countryside. As we go, we hand out gifts to the peasants, coins and new bread, a basket of cherries. It warms my heart when they cry out to us in thanks.

  We linger at Beaulieu, enjoying the gardens and the soft summer sunshine that is encouraging the roses to put on their best display. When the time comes to move on I am reluctant to leave, but once on board a ship across the Solent to the Isle of Wight, the fragrance of the sea refuels me with vigour. It is as if the flowers of Beaulieu had cast a spell of somnolence upon me for now, in contrast, I feel energised and alive.

  Henry and I stand at the ship’s rail together. As always he is self-contained, never betraying joy but, although I try, I cannot hide the thrill of the swelling sea as my blood is invigorated by the stiff Solent breeze. The Wight Isle waits, snug and green in the choppy grey sea. As our ship takes us close, on impulse I clutch Henry’s sleeve and place my cheek on his shoulder, and he doesn’t pull away.

  At first the atmosphere is one of a holiday, and Henry seems relaxed and happy, responding to the raucous crowd with grace. But once we are settled in our chambers I sense a change in him. He is tense and scowling again, making it difficult for me to maintain my holiday mood.

  A messenger bows his way out of the room and Henry sighs, throws his pen onto the table.

  “What is it, Henry? Not bad news from Eltham?”

  He lifts his head, his face showing weariness, his eyes are shadowed, the lines about his mouth cut deep.

  “No, the children are well. It is news from Scotland.”

  “What is it now?” I discard my embroidery and rise from my chair to join him.

  “That fellow … Warbeck. I told you James has blessed the marriage to his cousin … well, I have the report of the ceremony. Apparently it was ostentatious in the extreme, distastefully so. It was clearly intended to persuade the world that it was not a match between some base-born adventurer and a distant relative of the king but of a king to a lesser royal. The wedding bore all the extravagance of a royal celebration and the people of Scotland now hail the pretender with great relish. Look here,” he waves a letter beneath my nose. “He was married in purple silk, no expense spared! And all this from the coffers of a king of Scots whose usual generosity makes me seem a spend thrift! The pretender’s bride, Catherine or Caroline, or whatever her name is, was dressed up like a queen, and the banquet … I tell you, James pulled out all the stops. He has gone too far this time. There will be no peace between us now — not until I have that boy in my hands.”

  I don’t know what to say, what to suggest that may both appease and bolster him. I pat his shoulder ineffectually, but he shrugs off my hand. For a while I watch him pace the floor, judging the extent of his fury and how much of it is directed at me. I don’t understand why his displeasure is aimed at me for I have done nothing. Perhaps it would be as well to remain silent, but I can’t help myself.

  “It is just bluster, Henry. Nobody really believes his story. It is all for show … for — for effect …to alarm us …”

  Henry turns on me, his face screwed up in ridicule.

  “You believe that? You honestly believe that no one gives him credit? What about your damned aunt? What about Maximillian? What about Ireland? The heads of Europe are biding their time, unwilling to pledge themselves to either me or the Pretender until a clear winner emerges. I curse the lot of them. I wish them all to the devil.”

  “Spain is on your side. Ferdinand and Isabella favour a match between Arthur and their daughter, Caterina.”

  “Spain,” he sneers. “Why do you think Ferdinand is spinning the process out, pretending to negotiate? He is worried, uneasy, and all because of this damned boy. The king of Spain won’t send his daughter to us while Warbeck is at large. That boy is a thorn in my flesh, Elizabeth. A thorn I will rip out no matter how much pain it causes.”

  “Can you not negotiate with James? Perhaps you can make it worth his while to hand the boy over to you?”

  I do not speak from the heart and I quail with fear that the Pretender is indeed my little brother. What will I do if it is? I will want him to live, I know I will, even if I dread him being the victor. I know that should Henry lay hands on him he will be shown no mercy, and the thought is killing me. I am torn cleanly in two like a piece of parchment.

  That night, after the lights are extinguished, I lay quietly, thinking of the boy and his long years of exile in foreign lands. As always when I think of him, my mind betrays me and it is my little brother, Richard, that I see. His bright shiny face is still round with youth, his eyes still merry. The image is so real I can almost smell the puppy dog fragrance of his skin.

  “Oh, Richard,” I whisper to the moon. “If you are indeed my brother can you not give it up and travel far away to where you will be safe?” A tear trickles onto the pillow, and more follow. Soon I cannot control them but let them roll like wax down a taper.

  In the morning we journey on. When we are alone Henry is distant, his mind on his troubles, but he dons a jovial public face for the benefit of those who come to cheer us. The men who host us along the way are charmed by his courtesy, and the king does his best to be amiable. But I know it costs Henry a great deal to overcome his natural reticence.

  I try to add my own easy charm to ensure we are seen as kind and humane monarchs. Without being asked I attempt to silently guide him. I squeeze his arm should his smile slip, or surreptitiously nudge him in the back should he make some small breach of etiquette. The king has not been bred to this life. Befor
e Bosworth his existence was similar to that of Warbeck’s, and he too was lost and exiled and alone.

  By summer’s peak I am growing weary and missing my children. I have regular missives to keep me abreast of their news and often a small note or a picture is folded within. When I am alone I take them out and gloat over the careful spelling and brightly hued drawings. They make me smile.

  “Look, Henry.” I pass him the latest letters and he casts an eye over them.

  “Their writing is improving,” he says. “I hope they work as hard at their other lessons.”

  “Oh yes, the reports are very good. And Mary has grown a tooth.”

  “That will surely not please her nurse.”

  I cannot help but smile at the picture his words evoke.

  “Ha, yes. I am sure you are right. Once they get teeth they begin to gnaw everything.”

  “Like little rats.”

  “Rats, Henry? Is this our daughter you speak of?”

  We are still laughing when a boy comes to light the candles and draw the shutters closed.

  Henry dismissed my women some time ago and night is almost upon us. We are alone; our bellies replete, our minds mellow with wine as we watch the light dwindle. Henry is close beside me, his hand slides about my neck, his fingers finding my skin. He strokes and instinctively I lay my cheek upon his hand as warmth floods my limbs.

  It has been quite a while since he came to my bed, and I relish his unspoken request. I am made differently to my husband, my needs are greater than his, and the long weeks without his company at night can be very trying. But I have learned to hide it and try to match my desire to his.

  “Come along,” he says, taking me by the hand and leading me to the bed. As he unlaces me, his fingers are as deft as any lady’s maid’s. My petticoats slide to the floor with a hush of silk, and he holds my hand as I step out of them. There is no embarrassment, no hurry, and little hunger as we prepare each other for bed.

  I have long given up hope of a heady passion, an all-consuming desire for each other, but this is comfortable, and I feel secure in his arms now. I want for nothing else, no one else. I know pleasure will come for both of us but it will come later in the full dark when his blood warms and his mouth and fingers grow more urgent. His methods of love are such that I learn only by stealth how much he needs me.

  *

  Gradually we grow nearer to home, passing through Bristol, Malmesbury, and Woodstock. Our various hosts do all they can for our comfort, some of them must have bankrupted themselves to provide such luxury. They might as well have not bothered for although I try to hide it, I am unimpressed. My desperation to see my children is overriding everything else and is difficult to conceal. I count the days until we can return to London.

  Henry remains attentive. We walk in the gardens, and enjoy intimate suppers when we can. When we are forced to bear company he stays close to me, bringing me into the conversation. I am grateful and, for a while, he treats me as his equal. Perhaps it is because his mother has stayed at Eltham to oversee the children and is not here to take him from me. Perhaps our more frequent intimacy at night is spilling over into the daytime. Whatever the reason I find I like it, and welcome this often hidden side to the king.

  As my moon-time nears, half in dread, I begin to look for signs of pregnancy. It is too soon after Mary and although more children will be welcome, I am greatly relieved when the bleeding starts and I know I have a little longer before motherhood claims me again. I am enjoying the lack of constraint, the absence of the king’s mother’s disapproval, and hope the new relationship that has developed between us will long continue.

  It is September before we spy the towers of Windsor above the treetops. As the royal cavalcade jogs on through the trees, the late sunshine turns the leaves to gold above my head. “Let us hurry, Husband,” I call, and spur my mount forward, outstripping the rest of the party. I am happy to be coming home. I am loved and confident and my husband seems content, too. I can hear his horse’s hooves thundering close behind me and I turn my head to smile.

  “It is good to be home, Henry,” I call gaily and he grins back at me, his face warm with affection, the thrill of the ride casting a pink glow upon his usually sallow cheeks.

  Please let this last, I pray silently; this new warmth between us. Let it last for the rest of our lives.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Boy

  Stirling Castle ― September 1496

  Richard rolls over and sits on the edge of the bed, head in hands, trying to dispel his lingering dreams. Morning has come too soon and he is loath to leave the comfort of his blankets. Today of all days he should be ready, his mind should be honed as sharply as a blade but instead he feels lethargic, reluctant to move.

  He rubs a hand over his face and squints as daylight pierces the shutters. He has planned and plotted for this day for more than half his life. Today, with the support of King James, he will invade England and, God willing, take back that which is rightfully his. He had imagined that when the time came he would be brave, invincible, but now the moment is here, his overriding emotion is one of fear.

  “Richard? Surely it is not yet day. Come and lie with me a little longer.”

  He turns smiling eyes on his touselled wife as she blinks sleepily, clutching the sheet across her breasts. Her usually smooth blonde hair is snarled and knotted from sleep, and there is a mark on her neck where he kissed her too roughly. He reaches out and grasps the sheet, tugging it sharply from her grasp. She squeaks and giggles until his eyes fasten on the dark hue of her nipples, the bulge of his child in her womb. She quiets, her breath stilled, waiting.

  Although the late stage of her pregnancy means he cannot love her as fully as he’d like to, his loins stir again and he falls onto the pillows beside her. He pulls her close, tastes the sweetness of her mouth, feels the tremble of her wanting as his fingers rediscover her willing flesh.

  “Be gentle, my love,” she reminds him and she is right to do so for when the blood is up it is easy to forget that he cannot take her as he’d like to. Her hands are skilled and willing and in the joy of her touch he forgets the pain of leaving, the fear of defeat, and the uncertainty of the unknown. He rolls onto his back while she delights him, feeling the tension flow away as they drift together on a cloud of pleasure.

  Afterwards, when he has untangled himself from her arms and stands half-dressed by the bed, she pulls herself upright on her pillow.

  “Don’t get up, Catherine. Don’t watch me ride away; I am afraid I will lose courage if you should cry. It wouldn’t do for me to scuttle like a frightened mouse back to our chamber.”

  She places a hand on her belly and his eyes follow her fingers as she strokes their growing child. “He may be with us before you return, my lord.” Her eyes are huge and filled with tears. “Keep yourself safe for we have need of you.” Her voice breaks but he doesn’t comfort her. Instead, he turns away to hide his own grief.

  “And may God keep you safe too, my Catherine. Look after our son. If he comes in my absence, tell him that I have ridden away to regain his birthright.”

  His armour clanks and his sword clatters on the wall as he hurries down the stairs and into the sunlight where men at arms and mounted soldiers are gathered, waiting for him.

  Richard’s eye is immediately taken by a fluttering pennant. The banner of York, the undulating white rose, embroidered by Catherine’s hand, declares his identity and his right to contest Henry Tudor’s claim. His unease is soothed a little by the sight. He remembers the emblem of York when it blazed over his father’s throne, a throne that would have been his had his future not been stolen.

  A few days ago James rode forth amid a clarion of trumpets and celebration, clad in a new cloak of crimson velvet and satin. Richard looks down at his newly-forged armour, pulls on his gauntlets and tries to appear as brave, as much in command as James had been. He raises a hand in salute as if his heart wasn’t failing.

  “Good morrow, frie
nds. It is a fine day for an invasion.”

  A cheer goes up and Keating brings his prancing horse under control, removes his plumed helmet and bows his head to his monarch.

  “The people of England will flock to your standard, Your Grace. Never doubt it. They have no more love for Tudor than we do.”

  They mount up and begin to ride out amid a chaos of cheers. An impressive array of horse and foot soldiers, padded and armed against the fray. A long line of supply wagons comes next, followed by barking dogs, screeching children who see it all as a lark, a frolic. As he passes beneath the gate, a group of women throw petals from an upper window. He cranes his neck for a last glimpse of Catherine but she is not there; she has obeyed him and stayed away. He wishes she hadn’t.

  I know nothing of England, he thinks, as the cavalcade passes from town to country, and moves single file along the leaf-strewn road. I know nothing of the people, their needs and desires. I don’t even know how to be a king.

  James and his force are a few days ahead, waiting for them to join him. The cavalcade passes through hamlets and villages where the Scot’s people emerge to see them pass. Richard’s horse puts down his head and his back end heaves at the din, but Richard reins him in with one hand. With the other he waves to the peasants, blows kisses to the fairest girls in the crowd.

  Young as he is, he looks every inch a king, but his appearance hides inner insecurity. Richard bites his lip and hopes he can live up to James’s image. It is easy for James; he was born to it, has lived each day of his life as a prince and a king. He has not known uncertainty; even at his lowest ebb he never lost his position, witnessed the death of his brother, or suffered his sister being married off to the usurper of his very throne.