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

by Arnopp, Judith

  “No, Elizabeth. A meeting is arranged with Duke Phillip in Calais, I need you there with me. We will be discussing the betrothal of Mary and Charles.”

  My heart leaps. Mary is not yet four years old. Although I know that the day will come, it is too soon to even think of her leaving. Planning makes it somehow too real and too close for comfort, but I know better than to argue. I stand up.

  “I will oversee the children’s packing.” I hurry from the chamber, toward the nursery where preparations for the journey are underway. I peek into the room first where Edmund is sleeping. He is sprawled on top of the blankets; his tunic rucked up displaying his round milk-filled belly. His mouth is slightly open, a trickle of drool on his chin. My heart fills with maternal pride but I do not wake him. Gently, I draw the blanket higher. He snuffles and shifts but does not wake. Kissing a tip of one finger I press it to his forehead and tiptoe away toward the main bedchamber.

  The first thing I see is Harry, his sturdy legs sticking out from beneath the bed. He is unearthing various playthings and throwing them to Meg who is gathering them in her apron. She sees me first and tips the collection of toys onto the floor and hurries toward me, remembering, almost too late, to stop and curtsey.

  She is eleven now and blossoming beautifully. She is quieter than Harry and Mary, and very aware of her status as elder sister. She does her best to mother them although, quite often, she is rudely rebuffed.

  “Good afternoon, My Lady Mother,” she says breathlessly before coming forward for an informal kiss. Hearing her, Harry gives a shout, bangs his head on the bed, before wiggling from beneath, his hose covered in dust.

  “Hello, Mother,” he says, grimacing as he rubs the back of his head. “We are going to Hatfield, did you know?”

  “I did. I have come to wish you goodbye. I thought we could finish that story before you go.”

  “Oh yes.” He runs to fetch the book as Mary skips in from the other room.

  “Mam,” she says, using the name she allotted me in her infancy. She makes a clumsy curtsey as she has been taught, before I scoop her from her feet and into my arms.

  In a few weeks I am to meet her future husband, arrange the details of the alliance. It is absurd to think of her married to anyone. She is yet so fat, still such a delicious baby. I balance my chin on her head and inhale her fragrance, close my eyes and wish life could always be this simple.

  But my reverie does not last long. When Harry returns with the book, Mary wriggles from my lap. Much to Meg and Harry’s disgust she refuses to sit still and listen; she runs about the room, ignoring my pleas for her to join us. Mistress Denton has complained in the past that she is headstrong and difficult to handle. I am beginning to see what she means. I watch Mary for a few moments. She throws a soft ball in the air, fails to catch it, and chases it beneath the settle, hampered by her long skirts.

  “Oh look, Harry; look, Meg,” I say, cupping my hands around an imagined treasure and beckoning them close. “I bet Mary would like to see this, wouldn’t she?”

  The children, quickly understanding my ploy, join in wholeheartedly.

  “Oh, it is lovely, Mother, where did you get it?” Meg gushes.

  From the corner of my eye I see Mary sit up, forget her ball, and look in our direction, her curiosity piqued.

  “Would you like to stroke it, Harry? Be very, very gentle.”

  Harry winks at me and bends over my empty hands, making cooing noises, as if he is stroking the most endearing creature ever seen.

  Mary takes a few steps toward us.

  “What is it?” she demands.

  “Come and see,” I say. “Before it flies away.”

  She runs across the room, launches herself at me and I raise my arms, open my hands, fluttering my fingers.

  “Oh, it has flown away! What a shame.”

  I grab her and she yells, realising too late that she has been duped. She wriggles and squirms, Harry and Meg rolling with laughter while, holding her arms so she cannot move, I cover her furious face with kisses.

  “I wanted you to sit with me,” I laugh. “You are going away tomorrow and I will miss you. Sit with us, Mary, and listen to the stories. You can play with your ball any time.”

  She submits, becomes limp in my arms, pokes her thumb into her mouth and nestles against my bosom. Harry holds out the book and Meg settles once again close to my knee, and I begin to read.

  “In May, when every lusty heart flourishes and burgeons, for the season is lusty to behold and comfortable. So man and woman rejoice and gladden of summer coming with fresh flowers, for winter with his rough winds and blasts causes a lusty man and woman to cower and sit fast by the fire….”

  Meg’s eyes are bright, she absorbs every moment as if the pictures my words are forming are teeming through her mind. Henry sits bolt upright, his eyes alight with joy but, after a short while, too small for such worldly things, Mary’s head nods on my bosom, her thumb slips from her mouth and she begins to snore gently. I lower my voice, Harry and Meg shuffle closer.

  These are the moments that make it all worthwhile. My children are the only people that really matter; even cousins, even kings are nothing compared to them.

  Calais – May 1500

  They tell me the crossing to Calais is smooth but I have never been across the sea before and to me the swelling ocean seems like a tempest. I keep to my cabin, unable to eat or drink, and pray we will reach Calais in safety. I have fifty ladies with me, all adorned in their best, and half the court comes with us; lords, ladies, knights and yeoman all set to make a good impression on Archduke Phillip.

  He is married to Caterina’s sister, Juana of Castile. Although undoubtedly very handsome, he is rather too grand, too aware of his own importance. They tell me he leads a dissolute life, and from the easy manner he adopts with my ladies it is easy to believe. If my cousin Margaret were with us we would probably mock him in private and laugh at his rather long nose. But since she isn’t here I keep my observations to myself and tolerate his conceit with a smile, and the fervent hope that his son is not made in his father’s mould. I would never wish that on poor Mary.

  Much to Henry’s chagrin, the Archduke is more than a little taken with Catherine Gordon. She seems to be in fine fettle; you’d not know she was the wife of a convicted traitor. In public she glows; her gowns, her jewels, her manners are as glittering as a queen’s.

  When Phillip leads her onto the dance floor, Henry scowls and mumbles something derogatory. I do not ask him to repeat it. Whenever Catherine is in my company Henry never seems to be far away, and people mutter about their friendship. I hide my jealousy beneath a proud smile. This is how my mother must have felt when Father paraded his whores before her. Yet Catherine is no whore and swears she does not share the king’s bed, but his desire for her is obvious and hurtful.

  Once the dancing is over and we retire to my private apartments, Catherine allows her shield to drop. She seems to wilt and re-immerse herself in a coverlet of sorrow. It is apparent she is not recovering as well as she’d like the world to think. My heart softens. It is not her fault if she has taken the king’s fancy; she did not set out to catch him. It is my fault for growing older, for telling him he is no longer welcome in my bed.

  The next weeks pass in a whirl of entertainments until I am quite weary of pageants and feasts. By the end of forty days I am tired, and longing for home. I have had news of the children, of course. Arthur has been unwell but his letters say he is rallying now and looking forward to meeting his bride in a few months. The other children write to me too and send me their drawings, and Meg has sewn me a lovely purse that I tuck their letters into as a precious keepsake.

  Reports from England say that the plague is under control now, the number of victims dwindling. Henry, when he deems it safe, says we can return to London. He plans a summer progress, but I am not eager for that. I want to be near the children, who are growing so fast I am reluctant to miss a second.

  I don’t mind
the crossing home so much. Perhaps my mind is on the welcome we will receive, the joy of being reunited with our family. Henry and I may have our differences but we share a deep love and joy in our children. We travel straight to Greenwich and plan to move on to Hatfield in the morning.

  “Are you not too tired?” Henry asks, and I laugh aloud.

  “No, my lord. Never too tired to see our children. I have missed them so much I can barely recall their faces.”

  “Every time we see them they seem to have altered; Harry is growing like a weed and Meg is less like a little girl and more like a woman every time.”

  “I know. I wish they would slow down. I wish I could fold them away and keep them as babies forever.”

  Henry looks up from the letter he is reading.

  “Forever? That might be too long. There is much satisfaction in seeing them grow. It makes me feel as if I have at least done one job right. No one can argue that we have not kept the royal nursery full.”

  I go to bed happy and rise early, eager to make preparation to journey to Hatfield. I have just eaten breakfast and am in the process of getting out of bed when the door opens and Henry enters.

  I drag on my robe. “What is it? Henry, what is the matter?”

  He is so grey I think him ill. He clutches at the yoke of his nightgown, bunches it in his fist, his face distorted. It is his heart.

  “Catherine, call the king’s physician quickly!”

  She runs from the room, the door banging in her wake. Henry slumps onto the side of my bed. “Henry, Henry. What is wrong? Where does it hurt?”

  He bangs his chest with a feeble fist and looks at me with despairing eyes.

  Don’t die, I think. Don’t die, I love you.

  “I am not sick, Elizabeth.” His voice is coarse, grating. “It is Edmund.”

  “Edmund!” I stand up, begin to back away, not wanting to hear it. No, no, not Edmund. Not again, I can’t bear it. I fall backwards onto the settle. My women flap about me, fanning me, trying to take my hand.

  “Get off!” I cry in rage. “Leave me alone. Fetch my clothes and help me dress. I must go to him. I must ride to Hatfield right away. Hurry.”

  It is not the joyous journey I had imagined. I am not glad to be in England. The countryside that I ride through is glorious and green, the birds singing joyfully. I want to scream at them to shut up. I want to shout at the sky, summon the clouds, beg for a day of dreary rain to match my mood.

  Cold, constant, unrelenting rain.

  *

  His coffin is so small. His funeral so vast. Henry salves his pain by organising a lavish state affair. Our son’s coffin, complete with marble effigy, is brought from Hatfield on a black-draped chariot, drawn by a team of six horses. The common people come to watch him pass, they weep at the roadside, and in London the people, led by the Lord Mayor and the guildsmen of the town, line the sorry streets.

  My Edmund never had a chance to grow into a proper boy. He was still a baby, had not yet mastered many words or learned to ride his pony. I will never see him grow. I can’t bear the pain. Henry and I wait at Westminster Abbey, I try to school my face into acceptance, present a composed face to the world. The funeral dirge rings in my ears, a dirge that will haunt me until the day I die.

  They carry him to the altar and some prayers are said, then they take my child, my baby, the second I have lost in five years, and lay him in Edward the Confessor’s chapel.

  They seal my Edmund in a dark, cold tomb; shut him forever away from the world when he should be playing in a sunlit garden.

  Afterwards, when he is closed away, they lead me back to the palace and sit me in my favourite chair beside a cheerless fire. The flames struggle in the grate, as I struggle to breathe.

  I will never smile again.

  Sheen Palace ― Autumn 1501

  But I do, of course, smile again. It is my duty and I have other children to think of. Human nature is curious and, almost against my will, I find myself healing, acting and speaking normally. Sometimes I go for long intervals in which I forget to grieve, forget I have lost my youngest son. As October approaches and Caterina’s arrival is at last around the corner, preparations gather speed.

  Arthur arrives from Ludlow and he and his father ride to meet the Infanta in Hampshire. Henry is almost as eager as Arthur to see her for himself. He will not accept an ugly or malformed bride for his heir; she is the future mother of Tudor kings and as such must be flawless. It seems she is so for Henry and Arthur arrive at Sheen in glowing spirits.

  “What is she like?” I ask as soon as we are settled together in the king’s apartments.

  “She is very fair!” Arthur speaks before Henry has a chance and the king quirks his brow in amusement. “Her face is very sweet and she seems to be of a willing disposition.”

  “I am glad she found favour with you. When does she arrive?”

  “She is travelling slowly to London so the people can get a good look at her and she doesn’t arrive in London too tired. Her voyage from Spain must have been exhausting. I understand Harry is to formally greet her and escort her from Kingston to the city.”

  “Yes, he is very pleased to be doing so and has practiced his welcoming speech so well that he recites it in his sleep.”

  “I was wondering, Father,” Arthur turns to the king. “If perhaps on the day of the ceremony, Harry could escort Caterina into church, if he manages his first task well, of course.”

  Henry grunts, swills wine around his mouth and goes to speak but, worried that he will dismiss the idea and spoil the afternoon, I intervene:

  “Have you seen the improvements your grandmother has made to Coldharbour House? It will be the perfect home to take your bride to after the wedding. Oh Arthur, I am so pleased for you. So excited for the future. After all the woes your father and I have recently suffered, the wedding brings some welcome cheer for us all.”

  Arthur rises from his chair and moves to the window. “I am excited too,” he says. “It is a shame we have to go back to Ludlow so soon. You will scarcely have time to get to know her.”

  “Oh, we can visit. In the summer I could bring the children. Harry would love that.”

  Arthur turns from the window. His smile is like Henry’s but much freer. He has never known the insecurities his father suffered and is a mixture of the best of both of us, bearing his father’s looks and my optimism.

  *

  No expense is spared for the wedding of Henry’s heir; the future king and queen of England emerge from St Paul’s with the bells ringing in their ears. The whole of London celebrates while Henry and I watch the ceremony from behind a screen.

  Harry, dressed in silver tissue embroidered all over with gold roses, leads the Infanta to the altar with so much pride he could be mistaken for the groom himself. Impulsively, I reach for Henry’s hand and draw him forward for a better view. My heart is filled with renewed affection for him. We have made mistakes, but God is smiling on us again this day. I don’t mind taking a back seat for this is Arthur’s triumph, and that of his bride. It fills my heart with joy to see them so well-received, and Henry is not afraid to show his pleasure either.

  “They will do well together,” Henry murmurs in my ear. “Arthur will rule well.”

  “Yes.” I watch our son take his bride’s hand and swear to love and honour her, and Caterina, blushing and buxom beside him, smiles up at him with adoration.

  From her build and apparent health, she should prove very fertile. I have a sudden image of grandchildren; the royal nursery replete with babies once again. My days of childbearing may be ending but Caterina is still a girl; she has years of motherhood ahead of her.

  Harry leads the procession back to the Bishop’s Palace for a grand feast, where we eat from gold plates and drink from jewelled cups. As the wine flows the company becomes wilder, and I watch with astonishment when Harry takes to the dance floor. I am amazed at his grace as he leaps and tumbles like an expert. His face is flushed and his hair is stic
king to his head like a red cap.

  Henry leans forward, frowning, as if to summon him from the floor, but I put out a hand to stop him.

  “Leave him, Henry. The people are loving it, look.”

  And I am right. To Harry’s delight, the court moves back to clear the floor, giving the boy centre stage. They clap their hands to the rhythm of the music and cheer each time he makes a giant leap into the air. My son is a natural, if he were not the Duke of York he would make a fine entertainer.

  When the night draws to an end, the time comes for the traditional ceremony of putting the newly-weds to bed. Caterina cannot conceal her worry; she has obviously heard some hair-raising stories about our English rituals but, thanks to my intervention, Henry has warned the men not to go too far.

  The Infanta is led away by her women to be made ready and Arthur is dragged to his own chamber, red-faced and sweating, by the men of his household.

  Poor Caterina, we must seem so strange to her. When Henry rises to hurry off to witness the bedding of his son, I bid him good night. The hall is quieter now. The decorations hang limp, dogs are sniffing beneath the tables for scraps, and servants are collecting cups, and mopping up spilled wine. I yawn and suppress the need to stretch my limbs. “Come along, Anne,” I say. “Take me to my bed.”

  After a week of celebrations, the royal couple leave for Ludlow just before Christmas. After the rigours of the wedding, I am not sure how I will cope with the jollity of Christmas. I see the newlyweds off, hard pressed to conceal my sorrow at their leaving.

  “Goodbye, Arthur; goodbye, Caterina, my dear. If there is anything you need, just write to me and I will see to it.”

  Henry kisses her on both cheeks and we stand together as they mount their horses and prepare to ride away. I raise a hand in farewell and Caterina waves back.

  Arthur takes her reins and kicks his horse forward, the Infanta jerks in the saddle but laughingly, quickly regains control. I watch until they disappear from view. She is laughing and chattering to him, her face alight with pleasure and Arthur is smiling back, the feeling in his heart echoed on his face.