With a sense of fate, Richard allows the weeping Catherine to help him buckle up his armour. He puts on his sword, tucks his helmet beneath his arm and looks at her for possibly the last time. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“When I am gone the ship will take you along the coast to safety. I will send for you when it is safe to do so. Have good care of our son.”
She nods, her words stolen by the tears that drench her face. He steps away, their fingers still clasped, and with a heavy heart wrenches away his hand. He knows she is watching from the deck, he wants to turn, to see her one more time, to wave, but fears it will unman him. He sets his sight on the shore and closes the door on his emotions.
A white stretch of sand draws closer. Already there are small boats on the beach, and men, some eighty Irishmen that accompanied him over the sea, are swarming toward the dunes. The sun is hot on his back, cooking him in his armour as the launch grates onto land, jolting him. He steadies himself, stands tall to scan the horizon for possible foes, and places one foot over the edge of the boat and onto the beach. His boot sinks in Cornish sand. Water, English water, floods between his toes.
England. This is England.
Richard has come home.
It is not a place the boy recognises. He has never been to Cornwall before but he knows it, or a place very much like it, from the Tales of Arthur. He always imagined it to be a land of magic and myth. He expects kings and dragons, green men and knights, but the men who emerge from their humble homes are rough, their tongue strange to his ears. Instead of mythical castles and jousting, he finds tin mines and fishing. The life here is harsh and the people as dark and resilient as the wiry heather that clings to the cliff face.
Richard is bright-haired and tall, and stands out among them like King Arthur come again; a man worth following even if his words are foreign to their ears. But he looks at his followers with a twinge of regret. They are simple men, strong men and honest, but they lack the power he needs. They lack war skills and they lack money. It is the great landowners he needs behind him, the churchmen and the gentry, but they are sworn to Henry and too fearful of Tudor retribution should they show support for a Pretender.
Richard marches his rabble across the rocky moor. At Penzance, when they raise his standard and when he sees it leap and snap in the brisk blue sky, his heart swells. Three thousand more men flock to his cause and with little trouble they capture St Michael’s Mount. He sends word to Catherine, tells her to go to the monastery there for safety, and in return she sends him a kerchief. He holds it to his nose, inhales her scent and tucks it beneath his tunic.
It is too easy, he thinks as he marches across country to Bodmin, where the people proclaim him King Richard IV; King of England, Wales and Lord of Ireland. For a while he basks in glory; women throw flowers at his feet, men cheer and children race beside the cavalcade as he marches through town.
It is too easy, he tells himself again as they cross the Tamar and enter Devon. He sends out stern orders that there is to be no looting, no pillage or rape. These are his beloved subjects and everything his army uses is to be paid for. His numbers are steadily swelling and when the sheriff of Devon orders his men to stand against him, they refuse to fight. They throw down their weapons and cheer the conquering King Richard.
The boy smiles. He uses his charm and makes magnanimous speeches full of wild promises of prosperity for all. If they will only help him overthrow the Tudor, he will give them anything. He swears the first English town to admit him will be made into another London, promises unimagined prosperity. He boasts of his son, his heir, and another soon to follow. Sons who bear the good blood of York, untainted by bastardy, untainted by Tudor.
News slowly filters to him. The Tudor king is at Woodstock and offers Perkin Warbeck a pardon if he will surrender.
“I know nobody by that name,” Richard declares and marches on, the king of York.
Henry then puts out a reward, promising one thousand marks if the Pretender is taken alive. The Tudor is desperate to have Richard in his power, but the boy sees through Henry’s trickery and knows that once in enemy hands his days of liberty will be short.
Richard and his army surge like a tide across the West Country, but at Exeter his path is blocked. The city holds firm and King Richard halts at the gates, almost perplexed at this delay. He takes a few moments to collect himself and then, undeterred, he surrounds the city. While the good men of Exeter turn their guns upon his army, he fires back with rocks, tries to batter down the defences and orders his men to set fire to the north gate. The fight is long and desperate, his eyes sting with smoke, his stomach groans from lack of food. Each time one of his men is stricken down he bites his lips, sends up a prayer. Let it be quick, Lord. Send me victory but let it be swift.
Richard urges his men on, spurs them on to breach the walls but slowly, inexorably, they are beaten back. Although they put up a desperate fight, no impact is made on the stout defences. It seems they have lost until, on the eighteenth of September, they finally break through the barricades and flood into the high street.
Later, he snatches some time to write to Catherine.
Dear heart,
A fierce battle at Exeter, where Courtney held fast against us and there was much loss of blood. My men were exhausted by the time the walls were breached, as were the enemy. But Courtney and I have reached a truce, a chance to recoup.
It goes hard with me to shed the blood of my own countrymen, my own subjects, but the Tudor forces my hand. I learned in Northumberland that softness wins nothing; I must show myself to be a hard leader if I am to lead at all. But if they would only join me and turn against Tudor, I would pardon them all. Life would be sweet for all of us.
I hope you keep well, sweet wife. You can go to your rest knowing that I will send for you soon.
A strange state of calm washes over him, a sense of fate. Richard shrugs off Henry Tudor’s promise of pardon. He knows the usurping king will never show him leniency. He surveys his army, now eight thousand strong. These are men who are prepared to fight for his cause, prepared to die for it.
It is now or never, he thinks. By the end of this day I will either be king or I will be dead.
The thought does not alarm him. He is detached from himself; it is as if he watches his massing army from above, as if his real ‘self’ is suspended some way above the earth, watching from the sky. He can see his own men, a rabble of mercenaries and disaffected Cornish with no heavy guns, patchy armour, and some without boots. Can we really overcome the royal army? He pushes the thought away and squints into the distance.
The royal cannon have been ringing out across the valley all morning in demonstration of Tudor’s greater strength. Richard looks toward the opposition where Henry’s standard snakes threateningly in the darkening sky, and shakes off fear.
He manoeuvres his horse forward, stands high in his stirrups and calls for silence, waits for the cheering to die down to a rumble.
“I am your rightful King,” he cries. He holds up a roll of parchment, tied with ribbon. “I have here a papal bull declaring before God that I am the son of Edward IV and the rightful king of England. Henry Tudor is a usurper and a brute and we will tolerate him no longer.”
His cheering supporters drown out his wavering voice; the sound of their adulation floods across the valley to where Henry waits … and grows uncomfortable.
Richard’s men are ready, their energies wound tight, ready to burst forth as soon as the order to charge is given. His commanders watch him, waiting for their leader’s word or the raising of his hand.
But it does not come.
Richard dismounts without warning from his side-stepping stallion and disappears into his tent. He pulls off his helmet, throws his gauntlets on the bed and snarls at his attendants to get out. Inside his armour his body is bathed in sweat, his hands are shaking and vomit churns and bubbles in his throat. He spews his breakfast, draws the back of his hand across his mouth and slumps t
o his knees.
I cannot do it. He is weeping now, consumed by the fear he has been denying, and knows that his father, looking down from his place in Heaven, will be ashamed. Richard has failed. He is a coward. He may have inherited his father’s looks and pretty manners, his courtly charm, but he possesses not a drop of his military genius, his prowess in battle. His fair head falls forward, tears — stupid, womanish tears — drip onto his breastplate. He does not bother to hide them when the tent opens to admit Skelton.
“What is it, my lord? The men are waiting.”
For a long moment Richard makes no answer, then slowly he lifts his head, and does not attempt to hide his utter defeat. Skelton takes a step back, gesticulates feebly toward the entrance. “Tudor is just there, waiting. Now is our time, Richard. We can destroy him today; you can be on your throne by morning.”
Richard shakes his head. “The omens are wrong,” he lies, taking refuge in superstition. “It is not the time to do battle.”
“What …?” Skelton is robbed of speech. He has followed the boy all round Europe; for years they have dreamed of this day, lived on it. He placed what little he owned on the chance of Richard one day supplanting Tudor. He takes a step back, pauses. “Give yourself an hour, pray, search for strength; but I warn you, Richard, if you do not fight today, your cause will be lost.”
Richard does not move. He stays on his knees, sometimes praying, sometimes giving in to despair. As the day stretches toward dusk, his men begin to sneak away. In the morning just a stalwart few remain.
*
Across the valley the Tudor king sends out spies to ascertain the cause of the delay. He waits uncertainly, frowning and snapping at everyone until, leaving Jasper in charge, he returns to his lodging. Tomorrow then, he thinks. Tomorrow I will have him.
But, when the damp, chill morning dawns, the opposite hill is empty and the eight thousand-strong army, finding itself without a leader, has dwindled away. Warbeck is nowhere to be found.
Henry throws down his plate. “Find him!” he yells with unaccustomed fury. “Find him and bring him to me alive!”
Chapter Thirty
Elizabeth
Sheen ― October 1497
I am praying for my husband’s safe return, but before I rise I add a short plea for the fate of Warbeck, if he be my brother. The past weeks have been hard. Waiting is always difficult but this time my inconstant heart cannot wish unreservedly for the battle to go in Henry’s favour. There is always that question; that ‘but suppose it is Richard,’ that I cannot ignore.
I cannot concentrate, and even the joys of the nursery cannot distract me from constant worry. When Cecily and our cousin Margaret come to see me, I greet them thankfully. Although we cannot mention him, I know that deep down we are on the same side, but I do not speak of the Pretender.
Cecily is deeply attached to Henry’s mother and if I were to unburden myself to her, I do not trust her not to run straight to Lady Margaret with the tale. I greet them warmly, kiss their cheeks, and admire their gowns before we settle ourselves at the hearth. Cecily is a little pale and I remember her daughter Elizabeth has been ailing.
“How is little Eliza, Cecily? Did she like the books I sent her? I hope they help to relieve the boredom of the sick bed.”
My sister flashes a smile that dies as soon as it is born. She looks down at her hands and shrugs her shoulders.
“She rallies and then fails again. Sometimes I despair, sometimes I have hope. The physicians can determine no cause for her malady.”
I reach out to place a hand on Cecily’s shoulder, as if physical contact can ease her pain.
“She is in my prayers, constantly.”
“And mine,” Margaret adds. “And the king’s mother prays for her, too. I am told God holds her in very high regard.”
It is no time for levity but Margaret’s poor joke makes me smile. As yet, neither my sister nor my cousin know the pain of losing a child and, remembering my own experience, my heart twists with pity. Elizabeth has been ailing for months with no sign of real improvement. I fear she will die and, not for the first time, I wish that being queen provided real power; the power of life over death. All we can do is pray.
“I saw your brother, Edward, a few weeks ago. He is tall now and seems content.” A shadow crosses my face as I recognise the crassness of my words. How can anyone be content incarcerated in a living tomb, even if it is well furnished with cushions and picture books?
Margaret’s face opens, a half smile plays on her lips. “He is well? Did you give him my love? Oh, how I wish the king would let me see him. What harm could it possibly do?”
Her words send a squirm of guilt through me, guilt that my husband, the man I have come to love, can inflict such suffering on my family. A devil sits on my shoulder, pouring poison into my ear. If he truly loved you, wouldn’t he honour your family instead of punishing them? I bite my lip, jerk the imp from my shoulder and turn the talk to other things.
“I will speak to the king again, Margaret, but I will wait until he is in a happier frame of mind. He is much distraught over the Pretender and when he is with me I need to soothe his spirits not agitate them.”
“I understand,” Margaret answers, her eye on the window, but I know she doesn’t. She can never have any idea what it is like to be me, and what marriage to Henry entails.
“I will be glad when this fray is over. The Cornish are so troublesome. I fear Henry’s punishment will be severe this time and who can blame him? There has been one uprising after another and he does his best to be a just king …”
Two pairs of eyes are upon me. They are wondering when I changed and what changed me. Cecily shuffles in her seat.
“The king’s mother says there will be no clemency this time. Once he lays hands on Warbeck and his followers, he will hang them all.”
Our eyes meet, our gaze holds for a long moment, and we are both wondering if indeed Warbeck might be who he claims to be. If he is, how will we ever sit by and watch as Henry murders him? My reticence dissolves.
I lean forward and they meet me halfway, two blonde and one dark head together, like a trio of conspiring witches. “I will know when I see him. If it is Richard, I will beg Henry for leniency. I will not let him kill our brother.”
We sit up in unison and regard each other with wide, frightened eyes and I can see that neither of them has the least faith in my influence with the king.
An hour of desultory talk and then the door opens and the guard announces my mother-in-law. Cecily and Margaret rise to their feet, make the required obeisance, although they both ignore etiquette when in private consultation with me.
“Cecily; how lovely to see you.” The king’s mother kisses my sister on either cheek and greets Margaret rather more coolly. “Elizabeth,” she bows her head to me so discreetly she may as well have not bothered. “I have a letter from the king.”
I am on my feet. “What does he say? Is he safe? Has he caught up with the Pretender yet?”
She waves the sheet of parchment beneath my nose. Henry’s familiar scrawl is covering the sheet and I long to snatch it from her. Instead, I bite my tongue, quell my impatience and wait for her to relate the contents.
“The king caught up with the Pretender but there was no fight. It seems the churl took fright in the night and fled with his closest companions, leaving his army to face the wrath of the true king. Henry and Jasper have followed their trail and expect the pretender to be in their hands very soon.”
She beams about the room and we try to look happy that the boy is soon to be within Henry’s grasp. I feel sick and long for her to leave us, but she summons a chair and settles herself for a long stay. The rest of the afternoon is spent listening to her embroidering Henry’s many virtues. He is described in such glowing terms that I quite fail to recognise my husband who, although beloved, is often short tempered and very seldom glorious.
By the time she leaves us, Cecily and Margaret also have to leave. I
walk with them to the door where Margaret clings to my hand. “Try and speak to the king on Edward’s behalf. Once the Pretender is captured and his own position more secure, he may think differently. I would take Edward away from court; the king need never lay eyes on him. He is my brother, Elizabeth.”
She clings desperately to my hand while I nod whitely and promise to do what I can. As she and Cecily take their leave, my thoughts turn to my own brother and reflect that his fate may very well now be as perilous as Warwick’s.
Eltham Palace – October 1497
For the next few days I am jittering with nerves. I can’t settle, neither to sleep nor to prayer, and my meals go back to the kitchen untouched. In the end I take a few of my favourite women and ride to Eltham to spend some time with the children. When they hear me arrive they tumble from the palace to greet me; Harry reaches me first and throws chubby arms about my waist and buries his head in my skirts. Mary’s arms are round my knees hampering my progress, but Meg waits, hands clasped decorously before her, and I remember the King’s mother has been overseeing her deportment.
When the children give me the freedom to move, I ignore her outstretched hand and kiss her cheek, drawing her into an embrace. She relaxes against me gratefully, glad that I forego the formality insisted upon by her grandmother.
With Mary balanced on my hip and Harry’s hand clasped tightly within my own, Margaret and I follow Elizabeth Denton up the stairs to the hall.
I spend a happy hour or so playing and drawing, teaching them new words, telling them stories. Elizabeth Denton is always quite scandalised when I put off my queenly dignity and sit with my children on the floor before the fire. Perhaps I should heed her disapproval but part of me delights in shocking her.
Mary is in my lap, Harry and Meg close by as I tell one of the stories from Arthur. When I get to the part where Arthur casts Excalibur into the lake, Harry leaps to his feet, his face pink with heroic joy.
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 25