Plantagenet Princess, Tudor Queen: The Story of Elizabeth of York

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  “I am sorry I was not here sooner,” he said. He ran his hands up and down her spine, reveling in the feel of her closeness.

  “Do not apologize,” she insisted. “I can see that you have just arrived and came quickly. More importantly, I have someone for you to meet.”

  With a gesture, she sent away the ladies who hovered for their chance to make themselves useful. If they were horrified by the presence of a man, they had the good sense not to show it. They fluttered from the room as Elizabeth guided Henry to an elaborate cradle with a tiny bundle inside.

  “He was brought to me earlier,” Henry said, certain that she must know this.

  “Ah, but then he did not have a name. Can you truly meet someone if you do not know their name?”

  He smiled and enjoyed the idea of the two of them sharing this private moment, stolen from the eyes of councilors and countrymen. “What is his name to be?”

  “Surely that is for you to decide, as he is your son and heir. I have a feeling though, that you will like the name that has been placed upon my heart for him.” She lifted the sleeping child and kissed his button of a nose. “I believe he will someday be King Arthur.” She lifted him to his father in a private ceremony more moving to Henry than his own coronation.

  “Prince Arthur,” he murmured in agreement as he took his son and gazed into his cloudy eyes. “I am a very blessed man.”

  The three of them standing together with only faint light streaming around the edges of tapestries made a quiet picture resembling the holy family: father, son, and devoted mother.

  ~~~~

  The next day, Elizabeth was allowed to sleep late. She would be kept in confinement until her churching, and her ladies understood her exhaustion. Her cousin, Margaret tiptoed to the side of the bed. Her adoration for Elizabeth was almost worship. She wondered that it never became jealousy. Though their fathers were brothers, Elizabeth was the one with the beauty, royal husband, love of the people, and now a perfect child. Margaret didn’t mind. She did not desire to be put on display. Pursuing royal dreams had never gotten her father anywhere.

  She watched Elizabeth sleep with the attentiveness of a mother watching her child. The gentle rise and fall of her chest was hypnotic, and Margaret shook her head to regain her focus. Her hand reached out to push Elizabeth’s loosened hair into place. When she touched her face, Margaret gasped.

  “Cecily, come right away,” she said quietly but urgently.

  Cecily quickly came from the connecting room. “What is it, cousin?”

  Margaret looked up hopelessly with tears in her eyes. “It is a fever.”

  Color left Cecily’s face and she touched her fingertips to Elizabeth’s skin in hope of disproving Margaret’s diagnosis. She pulled them back almost before making contact.

  “She is burning up.” Now that Cecily recognized the fever, other symptoms became clear. The flushed cheeks they had thought indicated radiant motherhood spoke a much more evil language. The steady breathing suddenly appeared too slow and shallow. No, God, please, Cecily thought.

  “What can we do?” Margaret asked with tears streaming down her face. She had lost her mother to childbed fever and her father to death at his brother’s orders. With her only brother imprisoned indefinitely, how much more could the girl be burdened with?

  “Come, Margaret,” Cecily said as she pulled the girl into her arms. “We will care for her to the best of our abilities. She is a strong woman. She is a York, as are you.”

  Margaret nodded and wiped shaking fingers across her tear-streaked face.

  “Now, send Bess’s most pious ladies to the chapel to pray and get that midwife back in here.”

  By the time the midwife rushed back into the room, Cecily was dabbing Elizabeth’s face and neck with a cool, wet cloth. Elizabeth’s eyes were closed but she did not seem to be asleep.

  “What must we do?” Cecily demanded before Mistress Cobbe could speak.

  “First thing is to warm it up in here,” Marjory said as she walked awkwardly into the room. She had an uneven stride that was evidence of a childhood cart accident. “Her body is hot because it fights with itself,” she continued, touching Elizabeth’s flushed cheek. “Give it the heat it needs.”

  “The doctor wants to bleed her.”

  Marjory let out a harsh laugh. “And how many people do you know have said they felt better after a bleeding?”

  Cecily examined the woman’s face. It was up to her to decide whose advice to take with her sister’s life in the balance. She had not shared her concerns with Henry or his mother yet. Certainly, once they knew, they would take over Elizabeth’s care. Cecily knew she must take advantage of the time she had to do her best for Bess. She nodded, her decision made.

  “Margaret,” she said. “Cover the windows and have wood added to the fire.” Margaret rushed to do as ordered when Cecily added, “And do not let that doctor step foot in this room again.”

  The eyes of Marjory and Cecily met with a new respect in each for the other.

  “She also needs to eat,” Marjory continued. “Broth is best.”

  Cecily looked to her cousin, who nodded. “I will see to it straight away,” Margaret said before rushing from the room.

  When she returned with the thin soup, Cecily was on her knees before the small altar that had been set up for Bess to use for her devotions during her confinement. Hearing the girl arrive, she crossed herself and stood. She took the bowl from Margaret’s hands and they moved together to the bed.

  “Bess, sweet sister,” Cecily whispered. “You must wake and take some nourishment.”

  Elizabeth’s eyelids fluttered but did not open.

  “Come now, Bess. It is tasty broth,” Margaret begged.

  Elizabeth opened her eyes and seemed to struggle to focus them on the two women. It was all the opening Cecily required.

  “Here you are,” she said, forcing a spoonful into Elizabeth’s mouth.

  The warm liquid revived Elizabeth somewhat and she woke enough to hungrily finish the bowl. Cecily was pleased with this result and sent Margaret for more.

  “You will get better,” Cecily informed her sister.

  Elizabeth nodded weakly, but Cecily was not discouraged.

  “I had a peace come over me while at prayer. I believe God will heal you. You have not completed his plan for your life.”

  Elizabeth focused her eyes on Cecily for just a moment, smiled slightly, and fell back to sleep.

  The next day, Henry stormed into the room careless of the noise or inappropriateness of his presence. He rushed to Elizabeth’s bedside and kneeled before her.

  “Elizabeth, you must wake.”

  “What are you doing?” Cecily demanded, not caring that she addressed the king.

  Henry stood and strode across the room to her. “Why wasn’t I informed of her illness?”

  Cecily stepped back from him, surprised that he could become such a commanding presence. Still she was not afraid. She had grown up surrounded by larger than life, opinionated men. “I am caring for her with Margaret’s assistance.”

  “Has the doctor been called?” The heat seemed to go out of his anger, and he centered on their common goal.

  “I will not allow that man in the room again.” Cecily could be a diplomatic princess, but she also had the ability to enforce her will. In some things, her mother’s lessons were helpful.

  “What? Why?”

  “He recommended bleeding her.”

  “Then we shall.” He moved as though he planned to bring the doctor back that very instant. Cecily put out a hand to stop him.

  “Your grace,” she said. “Henry, think about the bleedings that you have observed.” She looked directly into his eyes. “My father was bled in the hope of healing him.”

  His hard gaze bore into her eyes, so much like Elizabeth’s that it softened him. He let out the breath that he didn’t realize he was holding and released the tension in his shoulders. Rubbing the nape of his neck, he struggled wit
h the decision more than any other he had been forced to make.

  “So be it,” he said. “What can I do?”

  Together they fed Elizabeth as much broth as they could get her to take. They talked to her and to each other for several hours. It felt surreal to Cecily to share such intimacy with the king. This was the man that Bess had raged about to their mother, and now he looked down upon her with unmistakable love. God’s ways are definitely not our ways, Cecily thought wryly.

  “What is going on in here?” asked the demanding voice of Lady Margaret from the sitting room.

  Cecily almost laughed out loud when Henry straightened and a look of fear flitted across his face. Even the king can be made to feel like a little boy at the stern voice of his mother, it would seem. It had lasted only a moment though, before he stood and set his jaw. He met his mother at the door.

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion, mother?”

  Lady Margaret looked taken aback by his tone. “What are you doing in here?”

  “I am caring for my wife, and you must lower your voice.”

  The expression on Lady Margaret’s face left Cecily wondered if Henry had ever stood up to her before. She found she was clasping Elizabeth’s hand firmly as if cheering for him.

  “You should not be here,” Lady Margaret insisted. “What if you should fall ill?”

  “Because I am the king, and therefore less disposable than my wife?”

  Lady Margaret shrugged, “Well, yes, to put it plainly.”

  Henry shook his head and moved back to Elizabeth’s bedside opposite of Cecily.

  “Henry, really. This is quite unheard of,” Lady Margaret went on.

  “I do not care if it is not heard of,” Henry growled. “I will be with Elizabeth. This happened because she gave me a son. I will not leave her.”

  Lady Margaret looked from Henry to Cecily and back again. “Fine,” she said before stomping from the room.

  The next day, Elizabeth woke and was able to think and speak with more clarity than she had since giving birth. Cecily knelt at the small altar to offer up prayers of thanksgiving and was surprised when Henry went to his knees beside her. As they crossed themselves and rose, they shared a smile of victory. Death would not claim their beloved Elizabeth. Cecily no longer wondered how Bess could love this man. The stern, quiet exterior housed a devoted soul. As they crossed the room to Elizabeth’s bed, she held out her hands to them.

  “Thank you for nursing me.” Though she was still pale and gaunt, her smile shone with promised health.

  “Oh, Bess, I would nurse you if you came down with the plague,” Cecily said.

  “God forbid!” Henry said, crossing himself.

  Elizabeth laughed. “You will have to excuse my sister’s outspokenness. She seems to be trying to take the place of our beloved Mary.” Enough time had passed that Mary’s name could be spoken with the smile of memory and not the pain of mourning.

  Cecily joined in Elizabeth’s laughter. “I suppose I have become bolder in my old age.”

  Henry watched the two lovely sisters with a smile but could not join in their laughter with his fears for Elizabeth’s life still so near the surface.

  “Can we let in some air?” Elizabeth asked. “It is horribly stuffy in here.”

  “I’m sure that would be acceptable now that you are well enough to request it,” Cecily said.

  “Should we not wait and summon the doctor . . . . or Mistress Cobbe?” Henry amended when he saw the look on Cecily’s face at the mention of the doctor.

  Cecily was already throwing shutters aside. “My sister is a grown woman and capable of determining what her wishes are.”

  One side of Henry’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “She is the bold one,” he whispered to Elizabeth. “I am thankful for my choice of York princess.”

  Elizabeth swatted his hand. “Are you certain? Cecily remains unmarried.”

  Now Henry did laugh out loud. It was a testament to how much their relationship had grown that they could joke about this once painful subject.

  ~~~~

  Arthur filled Elizabeth’s days with happiness. She no longer took note of evenings when Henry worked late into the night, though she was joyful when he appeared. Her heart was filled with love for the tiny human that had been created between them. Each gaze of his grey eyes and grasp of his tiny fingers bound her to him in a connection she had never felt with any other person. She now understood what the priest meant when he said that God loves people as his children. She would not hesitate to die for Arthur if it were to be required of her.

  Winter 1486

  Motherhood made Elizabeth’s concerns fade away. Few things held the importance that they once had when she gazed upon her infant. Arthur would take after his father. This was already clear to her in his dark hair and serious eyes. Her only regret was that she could not nurse her own child. She understood the reasons why, of course. She was unlikely to conceive another child if she was nursing this one. Nobody needed to explain to her why it was so important for a king to have more than one heir. Still her heart ached every time she was forced to hand Arthur over to the round, buxom wet-nurse.

  Arthur’s rockers had little to do since his mother frequently held him or rocked him herself whenever he was not in the arms of the wet-nurse. They served more as company for Elizabeth than servants for her son and gave her tips on baby care. Not that she required much help. As the oldest of her father’s ten children, she grew up watching and assisting with the care of younger siblings.

  Although Henry was frequently kept away, he checked in with his wife and child at least once each day. Whether to take supper, walk in the garden, or simply sit by the fire, he made it a priority to spend time with them and ensure that they received all they needed. Elizabeth loved these moments when they were a family like any other in England, and they need not think about being king, queen, and prince.

  Arthur did not seem to suffer from being born a month early. Though he was somewhat small, he was healthy in every way. Only a lack of baby fat attested to the fact that he had not spent quite the normally required amount of time in the womb. With the dedicated services of the wet-nurse, even this deficiency was soon taken care of. As his baby thighs obtained the customary rolls and cheerful belly laughs filled the nursery, concerns for his health dissipated entirely.

  Little did Elizabeth know, this peace that they enjoyed as a loving family was the calm before the storm.

  Spring 1487

  Elizabeth was playing on the floor with a decidedly chunkier baby Arthur when Henry stormed into the room. She jumped to her feet and a nurse swooped in to remove the baby. Never had she seen Henry fuming this way.

  “What is it, Henry?”

  “Tell me why you did not believe your brothers to be dead,” he ordered.

  Elizabeth sucked in a breath. She had not thought of her brothers’ deaths since Arthur was born. His life had become a dividing line in her life, and she did not allow the ghosts of the past to cross it. She did not know what to say. Henry stepped closer.

  “Why did you believe they were alive?” he asked more calmly.

  “I’m not sure,” she stuttered uncertainly. “I suppose that I believed what I wanted to believe: that my uncle would not do such a thing and that they were simply hidden away.”

  “What made you think that?”

  She took a deep breath to brace herself against this line of questioning. “Richard and Anne had assured me that they were safe. I believed them.”

  Henry shook his head and paced the room, rubbing the nape of his neck to relieve the tension found there. “But where could they have been?”

  Elizabeth suddenly realized what Henry was asking. “Do you believe they are alive?” She couldn’t keep the hope from her voice, but at the same time wondered what it would mean for her small son if it were true.

  Henry stopped moving and looked carefully into her eyes as if he could discern the truth there. Giving up, he resumed pacing.
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  “Henry, what has brought this up again? You told me yourself that they died at my uncle’s hand.”

  “Because that is what everyone believed,” he said in exasperation. “For heaven’s sake, Bess. They had not been seen in over a year. My men had searched everywhere for them in coordination with the hunt for traitors after my coronation.”

  “But now?”

  “I don’t know.” He dropped into a chair and hung his head in his hands. “I just don’t know, Bess.”

  “What makes you doubt?” she asked. “My mother always believed as you do and said I was naïve to believe Richard. What has made you change your mind?”

  “I didn’t say that I’ve changed my mind. There are rumors.”

  Tightness began in the center of Elizabeth’s chest and spread out until she felt the need to sit down next to her husband. “What kind of rumors?”

  He took a deep breath and slowly released it before answering. “In Ireland, our discontent York supporters are gathering around a boy.”

  Elizabeth clutched a hand to her breast. It could not be.

  “Messages have brought conflicting information,” Henry continued. “Some say he is claiming to be your younger brother, Richard. Others say he is Edward of Warwick.”

  “Who, of course, remains in the tower,” Elizabeth said. The tightness lessened as she realized that there was no way this was her brother. This was a pretender being used to rally rebels. If they couldn’t even decide who he was, he was certainly nobody. She placed a hand on Henry’s, sorry that he was required to deal with this pointless uprising.

  “Yes,” Henry stated firmly. “For this precise reason.”

  Elizabeth nodded her assent. She would not debate the issue of Edward’s ongoing imprisonment at this time. Her heart sank at the thought of men going to war once again, and this time with an unknown pretender leading the way.