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

by Arnopp, Judith

  Richard watches unseeing as the gaoler disappears through the door, leaving it swinging open. For a full five minutes he stands in a pool of moonlight, thinking; considering the options. If he can only get across the sea, he can send for Catherine; they can send for their son and live an ordinary life. Together. He can stay and rot, or he can run and maybe die; but maybe he would live!

  He snatches up his coat, struggles into it as he slides into the night. Following in his gaoler’s footsteps he heads through the door, along the corridor, down the stairs. The outer gate is open. He slips silently through it and keeping to the perimeter makes his way to freedom.

  The tower precinct is quiet; unusually so but the boy doesn’t think it strange. There is only one thing on his mind now — freedom. Bent low, he feels his way along the outer wall.

  In the Lanthorn Tower Tom the gaoler tries to persuade Warwick to leave. “Your friend Richard is waiting for you. He will take you to his house. I am told he has lots of cats.”

  Warwick sits down and folds his arms.

  “I am not going anywhere,” he pouts like a child. “Not until Puss comes back. She is my favourite. I cannot go anywhere without her.”

  Richard sweats. It runs into his eyes, down his back, dampening his shirt. He begins to scale the wall that seems suddenly much higher than before. He skins his knee, his fingernails break as he claws a way to freedom. A shout behind him and an alarm bell rings. Footsteps; running footsteps, yelling voices, and burning torches fill the formerly silent precinct with surging life and noise.

  “Oi, you! Halt in the name of the king!”

  Richard clings to the wall for a moment, wanting to go on but knowing he is lost. He was wrong to have trusted them. He should have known Henry would never allow unreliable men to guard the Tower prisoners.

  With grief and self-disgust in his belly, he releases his grip, drops to the floor and rolls to a halt at the feet of the Yeoman guard.

  The Tower of London ― 23 November 1499

  The boy prays. His knees are sore, his limbs aching from the hard cold stone, but he does not cease. He does not pray for mercy, or for a sudden redemption. He prays for Catherine; that once he is gone the king will treat her well and, if it is her wish, allow her to return to Scotland. He prays for his son; that he will enjoy a full and carefree life, never knowing his parentage. He wants his boy to thrive and be free. Royal blood is a curse and a shackle. When they come to call him, he quickly asks God for one other favour.

  “Let it be quick, Lord,” he prays. “Please make my ending quick.”

  He steps from the Tower, his hands shackled like a felon’s, and squints against the late November sun. It should be raining, he thinks. My ending should be a damp squib, a rat drowned in mud, for the sun never shone on me in life.

  There is no point in resisting. He fights to keep calm as, unworthy to tread upon the face of the earth, he is lashed face down to a hurdle. His eyes are clamped shut as the horse lurches forward; the crowd howls as he begins the interminable journey toward the Tyburn tree.

  He tries to focus his mind on higher things. Often, in his exile, he dreamt of riding through London to the adulation of the public. He imagined soaking up their joy as they welcomed their new king home. Well, I have their attention now, he thinks.

  Instead of rose petals, they shower him in cabbage leaves, rotten apples, rancid carrots and other, unspeakable things. The stench of the gutter fills his nose, the unbearable weight of the people’s disgust.

  “Pretender!” they scream. “Traitor!” “Son of a cur!”

  Oh, my father would not like that.

  He is glad his mother has not lived to see this. He hopes Catherine is safe, with Elizabeth in her palace, screened from this terrible day. They will need each other when the news of his death reaches them.

  The horse begins to strain uphill. His wrists ache, the ropes about his ankles are tied so tight he can hardly feel his feet. Agony as the cart rumbles over cobbles before lurching to a stop; he hears the sound of footsteps, someone fumbling at the ropes that bind him. The people laugh. “Come on; time to get up.”

  He tries to stand, a stinking cabbage hits him beneath the ear and his knees buckle, a hand clenches his elbow, holding him up. “Come on, lad.”

  The gaoler is not known to him. He wonders where Tom and Robert, his counterfeit friends, are. He hopes they are proud of their dirty work. The only comfort he can take is that Warwick stayed behind. He can live on in the Tower, unaware of the wrongs done in his name, oblivious to the life that should have been his.

  A path opens through the crowd and he passes through unseeing, his knees quaking as he climbs the makeshift steps. The raucous crowd grow quieter while the rope is tied about his neck.

  It will be no noble death. As a commoner he will die by the rope, no honourable death is due to him; the son of John Osbeck of Tournai. What they will do with his body afterwards he cannot bear to think.

  A priest steps close and begins to babble in Richard’s ear. He jerks his head to dislodge him, as one would a persistent bee. He is done with praying. He made his peace with God in his cell and would rather not express regret to this baying crowd. He has forgotten Henry and the vengeance he will wreak on Catherine if he does not make the required false confession. He takes a breath, the crowd simmer, eager for his words, his perjury.

  Richard is to be seen as Perkin Warbeck: a traitor, a coward who has tried to usurp the king’s rightful place. The words stick in his throat; the knowledge that he will be remembered only as a failure, a bogus prince.

  If he had the strength Richard would argue that, as a citizen of Tournai, a man from Flanders, he cannot, in law, be a traitor to the English king to whom he owes no allegiance. But he says nothing. His fight has gone; he is tired and ready to die.

  “I am not an Englishman, but a Picard from Tournai. My name is Peter, I am the son of the late Peter de Osbeth.”

  He looks out across the massing heads of the crowd. The people he was born to rule have gathered to watch him die;men, women, children, waiting for his blood. He closes his eyes as if to hide from God and tells his lie again.

  “I named myself the second son of King Edward; this is not true.” He stops, his throat awash with vomit. He swallows, takes another breath. “I ask forgiveness of the king, and any other man I have offended. I am ready now to face my God.”

  He cannot breathe, cannot fill his lungs with air. He takes one last look at the world before closing his eyes again and waiting for the inevitable. There is nothing more to do.

  A sudden shout and a jerk, as a void opens up beneath him. He scrabbles with his feet. He chokes, his head seeming to explode as the rope cuts into his neck, cutting off his air. A warm sensation on his thigh as his hose is soaked in sudden piss, an excruciating pain that fades quite rapidly into nothing.

  The rope strains.

  Quietly in the November breeze, the boy kicks and turns.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Elizabeth

  Margaret screams. She falls to her knees, clasping her hands, begging me to save the life of her brother. What can I do? I was unable to save my own, what possible hope is there of securing a reprieve for Warwick? He was captured, halfway across the Tower green, seeking to escape. Or so we are informed.

  Richard, or Warbeck as I must remember to call him, was hung two days ago. In the end I begged my husband, I bribed, threatened and pleaded but he would not be moved.

  “He is a traitor; he has to die,” he said, and then he walked away, leaving me grieving. In all the years since my parents died never, never have they haunted my dreams the way they did that night. I have allowed their son to die. I did not do enough to save him. I have failed. And now Margaret is condemning me, too.

  Her face is ravaged, her hood fallen from her head, her hair snarled, and her nose running. I offer her a handkerchief, a thoughtless, pointless gesture and she throws it to the floor.

  “Please, Margaret, hush. If the kin
g’s mother should hear …”

  She looks up at me, rage and disappointment written clearly on her face. She opens her mouth to condemn me again but Catherine intervenes.

  “Margaret, it isn’t safe. There is nothing we can do, nothing. If there was don’t you think we would have saved my Richard? The king and his council will not be happy until all claimants to his throne are destroyed. The Spanish marriage is paramount in the king’s mind.”

  Margaret droops into Catherine’s arms and, over her head, my eyes meet those of Richard’s wife. She smiles, somehow. I feel I can never smile again. She has been so strong. It is unlikely she would ever have sat back and let her husband commit the crimes that Henry has. She would have made a better queen than I.

  I am married to a harsh man, yet I love him still. There is nothing I long for more than to live in peace with him. If I can ever forgive him. Each time I try to move on, to act normally, the face of my little brother rises before me, a face so like Harry’s that my heart breaks anew.

  I knew nothing of Richard’s arrest, nothing of his impending execution until it was over. Henry kept it from me. He claims it was to protect me, to prevent me from being part of it. I consider how I would have felt had I known; what wouldn’t I have done to stop it, if I could?

  I stand up, smooth my skirts.

  “Margaret if you will cease crying I will speak to the king. I can’t promise it will do any good but I will try. It is the least I can do.”

  I leave her in Catherine’s arms, still weeping. Catherine lays her face on Margaret’s hair. “There, there,” she whispers. “Do not cry …”

  *

  To my great relief I find Henry alone. He looks up when I enter, puts down his pen and closes the lid of his coffer. “Elizabeth? Is everything all right?”

  “You know it is not.”

  I decide not to beat about the bush. He looks down at his linked fingers with a sigh that speaks volumes. He has no wish for this conversation. I will be lucky to get past the first sentence. I move toward him and perch on the window seat, smoothing an imagined crease in my skirt.

  “You say you could not spare my … Warbeck. You say he had to die for the security of our sons and I accept that. The alliance with Spain, Arthur’s future, depended on his death.”

  I keep my eyes fixed upon his. He looks away first, his lips clamped tightly over his teeth.

  “Yes,” he says and waits for me to continue. I take a deep breath and send up a silent prayer for God’s help.

  “My cousin is no such risk. He has never made any attempt to defy you before. Margaret and I believe he was searching for his cat, not attempting to escape. You don’t need to be rid of him, Henry. Please, spare his life; if you have any love for me at all, spare my cousin’s life.”

  “I cannot.”

  “You are the king! Of course you can!”

  “He is a threat to our throne, our sons. Do you have more care for your cousin than for them?”

  I toss my head, speak through clenched teeth.

  “He is all but an idiot, Henry. He can never do you any harm. Show him off to Ferdinand and Isabella, let them see he is simple, an infant. For the love of God!”

  I am shouting now, standing up, my hands balled into fists, leaning forward and berating him as I never have before.

  “That’s enough.” He stands up, grips my upper arm and turns me around, compelling me to walk toward the door. Before he can push me from the chamber, the door opens and his mother appears.

  “I thought I heard voices,” she says smoothly. “I am sure the whole palace heard them, too.”

  Henry’s hand drops from my arm, his face flushes.

  “We were just having a discussion.”

  “About Warwick, no doubt.”

  She turns to me, ushers me back toward the hearth and places a sympathetic hand on my arm.

  “Elizabeth, I know it is hard for you. I know you feel betrayed by us, but it is for the best. It is the only thing to do.”

  “It is a mistake,” I hiss. “He is a royal Duke and has committed no crime. The people will not stand for it.”

  “It is never a mistake to be rid of a rival.” She pours a cup of wine, the liquid flowing thickly like blood, and hands it to me. I look at it as if it is poison.

  “Henry was your father’s rival, and your uncle’s. Imagine if they had done the sensible thing and rid themselves of him, your uncle Richard would still be king today. You’d not want a similar situation for your son, would you, Elizabeth?”

  Henry, now equipped with his own wine, lifts his cup and quirks his brow waiting for my reply. He seems like a stranger.

  “Of course not.” My voice rasps, my heart breaks. I put down the cup without drinking and move toward my husband, place my face very close to his. I speak quietly, my words for him alone.

  “I have come to love you very much, Henry. You are my dear, dear husband but you have destroyed my family and continue to do so. I have turned the other cheek; I have tried to understand but … not this. Destroying Warwick is like smothering a babe in arms and God will punish you for it. I too, will punish you for it. If you do not spare him, you will never be welcome in my bed again. Any future sons I bear you will be born of rape.”

  I turn my back, raise my head and walk from his presence without the respect due to a king.

  But, of course, Henry’s pride does not allow him to seek my company if I do not wish it. With cold dispassion, he executes my little cousin and turns for comfort to another.

  *

  Catherine Gordon is my sister-in-law and my friend, but now she is my rival too. Before the whole court Henry follows her like a puppy. He laughs at her jokes, showers her in gifts and somehow, although I know her heart is broken, she seems to welcome him. I have never felt so lonely in my life.

  Margaret asks permission to leave the court. I miss her visits, miss her company and fear she will never forgive me. I can scarcely forgive myself.

  Since finally ridding himself of his rivals I had expected Henry to be in celebratory mood, but instead he seems to shrink. Since I forbade him he does not come to my chamber now, and we only see each other on formal occasions. I try not to mind, try not to miss him, or to care how he is. But, after a separation lasting several days, I am concerned to see him looking peaked and wan.

  His mother is at his side, constantly advising, giving her opinion, trying to rule him. Usually Henry is responsive; he enjoys a political debate and has often claimed she has the most astute mind in the court. Today he merely nods and looks glumly about the hall. No doubt he will cheer up when Catherine comes, but when she appears some time later, I notice no improvement in his spirits. He does not dance after supper, he does not engage Catherine in a game of chess and he does not closet himself away with his courtiers. He slumps in his chair, apparently watching the tumbling fools, but he forgets to applaud when they have done.

  My concern grows. I catch the eye of Catherine Gordon and she comes to my summons. “Sit with me, Catherine,” I wave her into a nearby chair. “How is the king? He seems listless and pale.”

  “Oh.” She looks toward the king. “He hasn’t said anything.”

  “Can’t you tell? You spend enough time in his company. Is he happy? Is he eating? Is he sleeping well?”

  Her face floods, her eyes grow hostile.

  “I would describe his appetite as sparse but I think that is natural for him, and as to his mood, he seems to desire comfort, reassurance. As to the last, I would not know. He does not make me privy to his sleeping habits.”

  She is upset, offended that I have heeded the rumour that she is the king’s mistress. I reach out for her hand and she doesn’t pull away.

  “I am sorry, Catherine, but please, be frank with me. Does the king really sleep alone?”

  “As far as I know, Your Grace. I can only confirm that he does not share a bed with me.”

  Relief floods through me. For weeks now I have lain awake at night imagining him tak
ing his pleasure of her. “That is good to hear.” My voice is husky with gladness, my eyes mist over, the room dissolving into moving patches of crimson and gold.

  She relaxes a little, looks away toward the dancing. “Are you well, Catherine, is there anything you need?”

  “No.” She looks down at her lap. “No. The thing I desire cannot be returned to me.”

  “We have all lost something,” I say. “Every one of us. You lost a husband, I lost a brother, Margaret lost a cousin and Henry, well, Henry lost his self-respect.”

  “And his wife?” she whispers, her words not just a question but an accusation.

  Early summer, Westminster ― 1500

  A new century, a time for looking forward, but my heart is heavy and I can only look back. I feel old. I am growing stout; my face is showing signs of age, signs of sorrow. Henry, nine years my senior, is ageing too, his health deteriorating. He has trouble with his teeth, and his digestion. Toward the end of last year he spent a few months confined to his chambers. His physician says he came close to death, but Henry dismisses it and claims the doctor is seeking glory for having saved a monarch’s life.

  Henry has never been more secure on his throne. He should be happy yet he complains constantly of the cold and hunches deep into his furs, huddles close to the fire. In comparison I am well; it is just my spirits that are lacking. I am filled with a sadness I cannot dispel. I try to cheer myself with the knowledge that Caterina will soon be on her way to us from Spain; there will be a royal wedding, celebrations throughout the kingdom. There are preparations to be made; new clothes to be ordered.

  But the plague that has raged unchecked all through the winter suddenly comes too close and Henry, always nervous of sickness, orders the children to Hatfield where they will be safe from contagion.

  “I think I’ll go with them,” I say, dreading to think of them so far from me.