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

by Arnopp, Judith

  Richmond Palace ― January 1502

  It seems I must prepare to say farewell to all my children. No sooner have we married Arthur to Caterina than it is time to put the seal on the treaty with Scotland.

  Margaret is now thirteen and almost ripe to be a bride. Henry has coveted an alliance with Scotland almost as much as he wished for one with Spain. Now it seems all his wishes will be realised.

  James is not yet thirty, but I am troubled by reports of his dissolute life and many mistresses. I do not think he will prove a good husband to our daughter, but Henry will not listen to my concerns. But, much to my surprise, the king’s mother seems to be on my side.

  “The marriage must go ahead,” she insists. “But it should not be consummated until Margaret is older. You must insist upon this, Henry.”

  She fixes him with her authoritative stare. She doesn’t need to remind him of her own experience as a child bride in the hands of an insensitive husband.

  “Very well, Mother. I shall see a clause is added.” That at least comes as some relief, although Catherine assures me her cousin, the Scottish king, is a kind man.

  “He is fond of women, Your Grace. He will cherish and spoil Margaret, I am sure, and will want what is best for her.”

  Somewhat mollified, I begin to school my daughter into the ways of men; it is a difficult lesson and one I do not relish teaching. I see unspoken questions in her eyes and pray she does not demand answers that I cannot give.

  Margaret is wise, self-assured and obedient. When the time comes for the formal betrothal, we assemble beneath the canopy of state. Henry and I are seated, Harry and Mary on stools at our feet. Margaret, my little Meg, stands tall and straight before us and when the Archbishop asks if there is any impediment to the union, she replies clearly that there is none.

  I am so proud. She is so grown up, so elegant and composed.

  “Are you then content and without compulsion and of your own free will?”

  “If it please my lord and father the king, and My Lady Mother, the queen.”

  Meg will not leave for Scotland until September next year, but already that seems too soon. I resolve to spend as much time with her as my other duties allow. My children are slipping away; some go to God, others to husbands and new lives. I worry that she is too little to travel so far abroad, for although our countries are physically attached, the journey there is perilous and long.

  Meg takes a great deal of pleasure from the new address that everyone must make to her. From now on she is known as “Queen of Scots,” and she is my equal in status. Whenever she is in public her head must be covered and her behaviour impeccable; no more squabbling with her little brother.

  There are feasts and dancing and gifts exchanged and, when the ceremonies are all over, I am left feeling empty and sad; but Margaret seems content. She is endowed with more than a little Tudor ambition and seems to relish her new role. She enters into the preparations with alacrity, deciding on her trousseau and overseeing the ordering of it. She makes a list; a crimson velvet gown with cuffs of fur, white and orange sarcanet sleeves, and she asks for a portrait to be made of herself, with the king and I, to present to her husband on her arrival in Scotland.

  My little girl is suddenly adult and serious, and I am a little overawed to realise that I have done a good job in raising her.

  My father would be proud.

  February 1502

  Troubles seldom come singly. I am consumed with worry for Arthur’s health, for news has come to us that he is ailing again. He has been sickly for some time; nothing specific, just a general weakness of the limbs and his pallor is wan. Coming so soon after his wedding, gossip begins to circulate that he is indulging too much in the marriage bed. This is, of course, ridiculous, but I have learned that royal families are never free of speculation and rumour. If Arthur was to neglect his marital duty to Caterina they would say he wasn’t fully a man; now he is obviously taking pleasure in his new role of husband, they criticise him for doing so.

  I pray for his quick recovery and send two priests on pilgrimage to make offerings on my behalf. When I lost Edmund, I saw it as God’s judgement on us for our treatment of Richard; I am not prepared to let anything happen to Arthur. He is our prince, our heir, and represents his father’s hope for the future. His megrim fills me with terror that it may be something more.

  I want to discuss it with Henry, express just how culpable I feel, how afraid I am that we are to be punished. But the king is busy with state matters, his henchmen busy making arrests and imprisoning suspected traitors in the Tower. At first I take little notice, I am too concerned for Arthur who is so far away. But then Cecily brings the matter to my attention.

  I notice she is restless and cross about something. It is not like Cecily not to make loud complaint should something be troubling her, but all I have heard from her for the last half hour are gusty sighs and a lot of fidgeting.

  “For goodness’ sake, Cecily. What is the matter?”

  She opens her eyes wide. “You mean you don’t know? Doesn’t the king tell you anything?”

  It is my turn to sigh. I tighten the rein on my conscience.

  “I haven’t spoken to Henry for a few days, so why don’t you tell me? It is clearly troubling you.”

  “He has excommunicated our cousin.”

  “Suffolk?”

  “Yes.”

  I am so tired of this fighting. The wars should be over. Why can they not see it? My cousin is close to the throne, his elder brother John was made my Uncle Richard’s heir, killed at Stoke battle soon after Henry came to the throne. Although he has kept an eye on him, Henry has allowed Suffolk to be an active participant at our court. He was with us in Calais last year and more recently at Arthur’s wedding. He is a popular, good-natured fellow and I had thought him Henry’s friend, but it seems he has been harbouring resentment all along. He fled in high dudgeon to the court of Maximillian in Austria, who has let it be known he’d aid anyone with a drop of York blood should they wish to contest Henry’s crown.

  I sigh deeply and put a hand to my forehead. I have been suffering from headaches lately and whenever I hear bad news or something upsets me, it begins to bang in earnest.

  “Henry should have made him Duke, as was his birthright. If he had really trusted him, Suffolk would have been loyal, if only for my sake. I am sure of it. Nobody desires war.”

  “Well, that isn’t all, Bess. Other men have been taken to the Tower, our sister’s husband among them.”

  I raise my head, stare blankly at Cecily.

  “Who? You mean Will? Oh for heaven’s sake, what had he to do with it?”

  Cecily shrugs. “I think they have taken up his friends, whether they are involved or not.”

  “And our sister, Catherine, have you seen her? How is she?”

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you’d know better than I.”

  “I will summon a carriage we must go and see how she is.”

  “Shouldn’t she come here? Henry might not like you venturing into enemy territory.”

  “I hope Henry will not hear of it, and besides, he isn’t that unreasonable. Once I explain, I am sure he will relent and free Will. He can hardly execute my brother-in-law.”

  “He killed your brother …”

  I pretend not to hear as I busy myself preparing for a short journey to Warwick Lane, where my sister lives with her family.

  I find her in a state of disarray. She is in the hall, pulling on her gloves. She almost falls when she sees me.

  “Elizabeth, I was just coming to see you. You must help us.”

  I take her proffered hand and we move into the front chamber. Her servants are tidying up, a child is screaming on the upper floor. The house resonates with fear. “Please, Sister, speak to the king. Will has done nothing against him.”

  “I will, I promise. I will do what I can but, you must know my influence is not great. Perhaps if I speak to his mother first …”

  “How c
an he lock a man away for having the wrong friends? We did not know what Suffolk was planning. You must make him understand, Elizabeth.”

  “I will try. Is there anything else you need? Do you have money?”

  “No. Not enough, not now.”

  I hold out a hand to Cecily and she places a purse in my palm. I pass it to Catherine. “It is all I have just now. I will try to arrange an allowance for you until Will is released, but I do not have a vast amount.”

  “And Bess already gives so much to charity.” Cecily takes a seat beside Catherine on the settle, but I remain on my feet. A feeble shaft of sunlight finds its way through the window, showing up the dust that lays like despair in the corners. My sister needs looking after; better servants, a decent nursemaid. The child is still crying upstairs, the former distress turning to anger.

  “What is wrong with your child?” I demand. “Why doesn’t his nurse see to him?”

  Catherine shrugs. “She left, as soon as she found out about Will. She was unwilling to stay in a house of traitors….”

  She dissolves into tears. Cecily pats her hand and I turn on my heel, hurry up the stairs in search of the nursery.

  A child is on the floor, unattended, her face wet with tears, her nose streaming with snot. She stops bawling when she sees me and sinks her chin to her chest, tries to hide her face. Her cheeks are red with what looks like a teething rash.

  “Hello,” I say, misremembering her name. “What’s the matter with you?”

  I hoist her into my arms, my back protesting at her weight, and balance her on my hip while I wipe her nose with my best kerchief. She snivels, her chest juddering, and looks at me from large wet eyes. She reeks of piss and her skirts are damp. “Where is your brother?” I ask, although she can make no reply. After opening various doors in search of her sibling, I carry her downstairs. Catherine barely looks up.

  “We must arrange care for the children, Catherine. You can’t go on like this. Come back to court with me; you can have lodging close to mine and I will find someone to care for them. Where is your son?”

  “In the kitchen probably.” She wipes her eyes and stares up at me tragically. “He goes there a lot.”

  “Fetch him, Cecily.” I send a servant to find outdoor clothes for the children and bear them all home with me.

  On our arrival back at court, I am beset with a further worry. Cecily tugs at my sleeve and begs a private audience which I grant readily, surprised at the formality of her request. She is barely seated when she leans forward and begins to speak rapidly.

  “Elizabeth. Did you know that some of Will’s friends have been taken up as well?”

  “Yes, of course I do, why?”

  She sits up, checks that there are no servants close enough to overhear.

  “One of them, Tyrell, Sir James Tyrell, has confessed to the murder of our brothers in the Tower, in 1483.”

  At first I do not comprehend the meaning of her words. She must be mistaken. I know my brothers’ fate. I know that Edward died an accidental death at the Tower during Buckingham’s uprising, and that Richard escaped. He died a felon’s death, just last year. What can this mean?

  “I don’t understand …”

  “Oh, Elizabeth, stop pretending! You know as well as I do that Richard survived. Warbeck’s identity was as plain as the nose on my face. He was no pretender. I saw him myself.”

  “You did? You never said.”

  “No, I never said. I have learned that in this court, it is best to keep one’s own council.”

  She sits back and waits for me to speak, the only sign of agitation her fidgeting fingers in her lap.

  “I don’t know what this means. Have you spoken to the king’s mother?”

  “No.”

  “Then please don’t. Keep this knowledge between ourselves.”

  “I don’t understand why a man would confess to a crime he did not commit. He must know the penalty will be death.”

  “Unless he has been tortured, or promised otherwise …”

  I cannot bear to think that Henry would go this far to prove that the man he hung last year was a pretender. It is a clever ploy. He wants to be rid of Tyrell, just as he wanted to be rid of Richard, and by concocting this story he can justify the judicial murder of both. But I am sure that such actions will not be condoned, not by God and certainly not by me.

  Greenwich Palace ― March 1502

  It is all becoming too much. I cannot turn around without stumbling across some fresh disaster, some new mischance. I want to ride to Ludlow to be with Arthur, to discover for myself the extent of his illness. I write to Caterina asking for news of him and she sends straight back to me, reassuring me that he is on the mend and was well enough to wash the feet of fifteen poor men on Maundy Thursday, as is tradition.

  The physicians recommend plenty of rest, and as much food and fresh air as he can get. Caterina promises she is doing all she can to ensure he follows the advice. Her words mollify me a little, but I send back a note full of motherly advice for his treatment. I am halfway through composing it when the door opens and Henry comes in, holding a letter. I put down my pen.

  “What is it?”

  “A letter from Rome, regarding the canonisation of Henry VI. You will recall I spoke to you of it.”

  Henry has been pursuing this idea for months now; you’d think he could find more important things in this time of crisis. I sit up, ready to listen with feigned interest. He drones on about the late king’s goodness, his charity, his piety, and all the time his unspoken accusation screams in my ears.

  My father had the old King Henry put to death. He was a rival, a claimant to the throne with many followers, just like my brother was, just like Suffolk is. It is Henry’s way of illustrating that he has no option, no choice. But I ask myself how many more must die for the sake of a gilded chair and a circlet of gold?

  *

  While the king is occupied with worldly things I am beset with worry about my son, about God’s opinion of our rule. I am tormented with fear that He may seek vengeance upon us.

  I send up prayers, I make offerings, I send money I cannot afford to the church, to charity, to the aged woman who was once a nurse to my little brother. And when I am alone, I wring my hands, as close to despair as I have ever been.

  I need a break, some respite from court, from Henry, from the constant fear that haunts me. I break into his conversation and he stops, his words suspended to hear me speak. “I am going to spend a few days with the Daubeneys at The Hospitaller’s House. It is quiet there, a retreat from all this madness, but I will be close enough should I be needed. I am sure they will welcome me.”

  “Oh.”

  He looks away. He is surprised and stutters a few words, approving my request as if I had asked his permission.

  I have escaped to The Hospitaller’s House before in time of need. It is at Hampton, on the edge of the river; a moated house with lovely gardens. Since they were given the lease, the Daubeneys have spent much time and money improving the place, but it retains a sense of monastic peace. It is that peace that I need, in a place where I can feel close to God and perhaps appease His anger a little.

  Greenwich Palace – 4 April 1502

  I have not been gone for more than a fortnight but it seems I have been missed, for Henry greets me warmly on my return. My husband excuses himself from council to share dinner with me in his chambers. The firelight, the soft music, and the undulating curtains at the open window recall our earlier days when I still had hopes of romance between us.

  He smiles at me above his raised glass. “It is good to have you back with us, Elizabeth. We have missed you.”

  At moments like this it is easy to forget his previous sins. He is a charismatic man when he sets out to be. I look around the chamber. It is masculine and comfortable, open books on a side table, a lute left on a chair, his dog sleeping before the fire. I realise I have missed him too; as much as he sometimes enrages me, it seems I would not be withou
t him.

  “I am sure there were plenty to keep you company.”

  He chooses to ignore my hinted accusation. I can see no sign that a woman has been with him but, in my absence, Catherine Gordon will have seen to most of his needs. I am always afraid that the day will come when she eventually capitulates. He is, after all, a king.

  “Can we go to see Arthur?” I blurt the words out when I had planned to lull him into a good mood first and then make my request meekly. He puts down his wine and sighs.

  “I am busy this week but perhaps we can travel to Ludlow on Tuesday next.”

  For the first time in what seems like an age, my smile is genuine. It reaches my eyes. I can feel my jaw ache, my lips almost splitting with the unaccustomed expression.

  “Thank you, Henry. I was so afraid I would have to go alone.”

  When we have eaten our fill, the trenchers are removed and our wine glasses refilled. We move from the table to sit at the hearth and, as is my habit, I sit on the floor, close to the fire and watch the images in the flames.

  The black and red heart of the fire is like a living story book, inhabited with goblins and dragons. Henry sighs, stretches out his legs. It is growing late and I should really go to bed, but I am reluctant to leave. I want Henry to ask me to stay. I want him to put his arms around me, offer me his comfort and his body.

  I straighten my back and swivel around so that most of my weight is on my right arm, for the left has lost all sense of feeling. Really I should face the fact that I am getting too old to sit on the floor.

  Henry sighs again and shuffles his feet and I am tempted to shift my position so I can lay my head upon his knee. But I cannot be so forward. If he desires me, he will have to ask.

  I open my mouth to ask how his communication with the pope is going when we notice a disturbance outside the chamber. The king puts down his cup and I sit up, wondering who would disturb the king so late.