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

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  “Don’t you look lovely,” Margaret said. She approached Elizabeth with outstretched arms while her eyes examined her figure.

  Elizabeth knew that her mother-in-law was searching for signs that she was with child. Curtseying just enough to be respectful, Elizabeth responded, “As do you lady mother.”

  Lady Margaret waved the complement away. “Beauty has never been my gift. It is better left to girls of York.” She had a way of saying it that made it sound like an insult, as if that was all the poor York women had. “I hope you are as healthy as you appear.” It was what passed for subtlety with Margaret Stanley.

  “I am lady mother, though I do hope to find myself with child again soon.” She had no patience for her mother-in-law’s barely veiled questions and references, so she dashed her hopes directly.

  A disappointed grunt escaped Margaret’s throat. “Surely, the Lord our God will bless the king with another son in his own good and perfect time.” She looked down her nose at Elizabeth to make clear that she knew who was standing in the way of God’s plan.

  “I have complete confidence in the Lord’s plan,” Elizabeth responded dutifully. Though she did, in fact, trust God in this, the words felt hollow when speaking them to her mother-in-law.

  “Henry has learned patience through the hardships of his life,” Lady Margaret said, and Elizabeth felt the inference that she was one of those hardships, comparable to exile in Brittany.

  “Certainly he does not wish Arthur to remain an only child as he himself grew up with that burden to bear.” Elizabeth could not stop the words from escaping, but then despised how Margaret brought out the worst in her.

  Lady Margaret did not respond to this reference to her barrenness which followed giving birth to Henry at the early age of thirteen. She narrowed her eyes and examined Elizabeth, who refused to flinch or look away. Finally, it was Margaret who dipped her head to Elizabeth before walking away. Elizabeth had expected Margaret to react in anger or pride, but what she had seen in her mother-in-law’s eyes before she turned away was unexpected: respect.

  Summer 1488

  The rose was white in the center with blood-red at the edges of the petals. A white York rose dipped in Lancastrian blood. The morbid thought came to Elizabeth’s mind uninvited while she examined the new rosebushes that had been contracted by Henry. He would cement his reign even among the flowers which would no longer be allowed to display their loyalty in red and white. This beautiful hybrid was being planted around royal palaces as fast as they could be grown.

  A bench hidden in climbing clematis vines became Elizabeth’s sanctuary from the new Tudor roses and prying eyes, but the colorful blooms could not keep her own thoughts from her. How she wished God’s plan was clearer to her. She had felt that he had led her to marry Henry. What else could she have done? Her womb remained empty since Arthur’s birth, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it were due to the disfavor of the Almighty. She placed her hand on her flat stomach and sighed. If the might of her will could create a flutter there, she would have carried and birthed another child by now.

  Confusing thoughts flitted through her mind about the rumors that never failed to abound at court. Not only did she carry her personal sorrow over her seeming barrenness, but Henry’s reign was far from peaceful. The uniting of the houses of Lancaster and York had not convinced all Englishmen to lay down their weapons. Edmund de la Pole, brother to the dead John de la Pole, remained on the Continent – plotting, they all knew. Whispers of another claimant had reached her but not in enough detail for her to determine the danger. Regardless of who Henry had married, a remnant existed that would never accept him.

  Elizabeth prided herself on being a godly, submissive wife, but she was troubled by what she heard of Henry’s methods of taxation. The vile John Morton, who was now Archbishop of Canterbury, had created a process of extortion known as “Morton’s Fork.” If a man was well off, he had plenty to share with his king. If he had little, he was adept at getting along on less and could give to the king. Hatred was a feeling that Elizabeth rarely indulged in. For Morton, she made an exception. He had caused trouble for her father and uncle with his thinly veiled Lancastrian loyalties. Though he rejoiced in Henry as a Lancastrian king, Morton did little to gain for Henry the love of the people.

  “You are adept at hiding.”

  At the sound of Henry’s voice, Elizabeth’s hand slid from her lap where it had been guarding her empty womb and she lifted her face to meet his gaze.

  “I wish I could hide from the world sometimes,” she admitted.

  He moved toward her, his lithe muscles beneath velvet caused a stirring within her. She wondered if he knew that he and Richard, the man he had been so intent on destroying, were not so very different. When she did not move to make room for him, he was forced to sit with his body pressed against her side. It made her smile to exhibit some small level of power.

  “You have not been yourself,” he said.

  “And who have I been?”

  He snorted and nodded. “You sound like your sister.”

  Elizabeth thought of Mary, but she knew that he meant Cecily.

  “I would be more like her, living in the country as a wife and mother rather than a queen.”

  Henry took her hand in his. With his other hand he caressed her cheek and turned her face to him. “Why are you so despondent?”

  Though she could see concern in his eyes, Elizabeth could not deny the desire to snap at him. “I am a barren queen with murdered brothers, a cousin imprisoned for sharing my blood, and another in exile because he desires my husband’s crown. Let’s not forget that I am forced to give up my rooms to the king’s mother.”

  The quick intake of breath she heard told her that she had succeeded in shocking Henry. So rarely had she allowed dark clouds to shadow her sunny disposition that he was not prepared to hear the burdens on her heart. He squeezed her hand and looked out toward his Tudor roses, and she wondered if he was sorry he had sat next to her.

  “Elizabeth . . . .” he said and then faltered because no answer he could give to her complaints would ease her pain. “Do not call yourself barren. Arthur is such a joy to both of us.” It was the safest course of action to speak of their son. Just as he brightened a room by entering it, mention of his name blew some of the storm clouds from his mother’s face.

  “You are right, of course,” she whispered but her head remained hung over stooped shoulders. Was it the weight of the world pressing down upon them?

  “Bess,” Henry said as he lifted her chin once more. “We must travel to Sheen. It will lift your spirits to spend time with our son away from London.”

  She looked away from him because she wanted to ask if he would join them there but knew that she was supposed to be comforted by the thought of time away with Arthur. She did truly love the manor house at Sheen. It was more of a large family home than a royal palace, and she held many memories of times there with her father and mother. Back when the world was a different place. She could not reconcile the anger and depression she felt that made her want to lash out at Henry with the deep desire to be with him.

  He pulled her to him, ignoring the weak resistance she offered. “We will go by Christmas and stay there together,” he whispered in her ear with his mouth close enough to brush her skin. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver through her body and she let go of her ambivalence toward him. She would direct it at someone else and cling to Henry as her lifeline.

  Easter 1489

  By Easter of the following year, Elizabeth’s spirits were lifted by the time spent at Sheen and the secret that she carried. Christmas had been spent at the relatively private manor house. After the requisite amount of pageantry and feasting, the cold winter months had been spent with the old moat separating the royal family from the cares of state. She knew that it had been a sacrifice for Henry to delegate duties in order to spend time with his wife and son. The smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth was proof that it had been wor
th it.

  They had decided to celebrate Easter at Hertford Castle, and Elizabeth was content to avoid the city of London for a few more weeks. Henry’s arrival would mean the descent of courtiers and petitioners, but not the level of chaos that would be found when they lodged at Westminster. She did not even regret that Lady Margaret would arrive with him now that she knew that she had news that would serve as both weapon and gift.

  She had decided to welcome them in the great hall rather than waiting in her private rooms as she would normally do. Her confidence and optimistic disposition were renewed. The greeting would please her husband and remind her mother-in-law of who was the true queen. She had spent a ridiculous amount of time having her hair organized in an intricate design, her face lightly powdered, and an expensive blue cloth-of-gold gown arranged around her. Her hair was woven around a delicate gold circlet that was barely discernible among her copper locks. She was not a vain woman but was aware that her appearance would greatly please Henry. The majestic public greeting would be improved upon only by her ardent private welcome that would follow.

  “His Majesty King Henry and Lady Margaret the King’s Mother,” declared a page. Elizabeth had instructed them to formally announce members of nobility as they arrived, including her husband. She straightened her back and felt a flush rise to her cheeks.

  He entered with the dirt and sweat of the road still upon him. Rather than being offended, Elizabeth was attracted to the road-worn look and scent of horses that she subconsciously connected with her father. She thought men were more appealing in this state than in flowing court robes and glittering jewels. She held herself back from rushing to him and waited for him to approach.

  “My lady,” he said as he bowed before her, keeping up the standard of formality she had set.

  Half a pace behind him, his mother was forced to follow suit and curtsey before her daughter-in-law.

  Elizabeth smiled and beckoned Henry forward. “You are weary from your travels,” she said. A barely perceptible movement of her hand brought a servant to her side. “Please show our lady mother to her rooms and see to her needs. I will tend to the king.”

  His mouth turned up only slightly, but she saw the desire in his eyes that matched her own. He turned to his mother. “I will see you this evening, mother,” he said and kissed her hand. “Please, feel free to rest as long as you feel is necessary.”

  Lady Margaret looked from her son to Elizabeth, saw that she was being sent away, and was annoyed that there was little that she could do about it. She had wanted Henry to marry Elizabeth, but never thought that the York princess would replace her as first woman in his life. It was the way life should be, she knew, but that did not mean she had to like it. She tilted her head toward each of them before stalking out with the servant hurrying after her.

  As the heavy oak door closed behind her, Elizabeth released her laugh and stood to embrace Henry. He kissed her hair, ear, and neck before pulling back to look into her eyes. “You tease poor mother.”

  “It was not my intention,” she admitted. “But a happy coincidence.” She looked up at him through her downcast lashes. “My intent was to tease you, your grace.”

  “That you have.” He wrapped his arms around her waist to swing her around. Her carefully arranged skirts flowed around her before he set her back on her feet. “We should retire to your rooms,” he said, placing a soft kiss on the corner of her mouth.”

  “Yes, we should,” she agreed. “For we have much to celebrate.”

  “Do we?”

  “I do believe that our time at Sheen was quite therapeutic,” she said as she took his hand and began leading him from the hall.

  “Good, it was intended to be so.” He was still looking at her quizzically.

  “I believe it was also rather . . . . productive.”

  She turned to face him while they stood before the door, and the look in her eyes told him the truth. His hands flew to her abdomen. “Truly, my love?”

  “Yes, Henry. God has blessed us again. I believe that we will have another autumn baby.” She smiled radiantly, all her previous cares diminished in her current joy.

  “Praise the Lord!” Henry said and embraced her again. After a moment, he pulled away with a look of concern. “But if you are with child, I should have my own rooms.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “And we should not have relations on Fridays or during Lent.” She mocked the rules of the church uncharacteristically. “My mother has assured me that it is no cause for concern.” Her hand found its way underneath his tunic, and his objections died before reaching his lips.

  ~~~~

  Elizabeth was pulling gowns from trunks when Henry walked into her room a fortnight later. She smiled when she saw him standing in the doorway and held up a deep green gown for his approval.

  “It appears that I have allowed my condition to remove my inhibitions about Easter feasting,” she explained with a laugh. “I am getting clothing from storage with a little more room for expansion.”

  He chuckled with her and wrapped his arms around the waist that he could not perceive was any larger. “You have been a glutton, then? No matter, it is a softer, safer home for our child to grow.”

  “Henry!” she lightly smacked his arm. “How can you sit next to Archbishop Morton and call me a glutton?” she asked half-jokingly.

  “Ha!” he laughed sharply. “Sometimes it is the princes of the church that are most vulnerable to temptations.”

  “Not princes of the realm?”

  “I am strong as steel in the face of beckoning sins.”

  Elizabeth looked at him as if to say she knew he could be tempted but she would show mercy at the moment. “Have you told your mother our happy news?”

  “I have, and she is thrilled.”

  “Because she believes you will stop visiting my rooms,” Elizabeth couldn’t help saying.

  Henry pulled her closer. “Then she will be sorely disappointed.”

  Just as he leaned to kiss her, a breathless servant appeared in the doorway. He hurriedly kneeled and said, “Your grace, a messenger.”

  Henry silently cursed the man, kissed Elizabeth quickly on the tip of her nose, and turned away from her. “Have him sent to the hall,” he said before following him from the room.

  The messenger brought news that confirmed it was not just Elizabeth who was displeased with Henry’s taxes and Morton’s justifications. The duke of Northumberland had been set upon by a mob while attempting to collect taxes in his region. While Percy was hacked at with the crude weapons of peasants, his retainers stood aside and refused to protect him. Henry was horrified at the news and couldn’t help but wonder. Had the anger toward Northumberland been due to taxation or the fact that he had held back his troops from supporting Richard at Bosworth? Would the ghost of the last Plantagenet king ever cease to haunt him?

  November 1489

  The river Thames churned cold and grey with icy raindrops pelting its surface. From Elizabeth’s perch within her warm confinement rooms, it was a beautiful sight displaying the wrath of nature upon the water. Elizabeth stood and crossed the room to enter the small attached chapel. She kneeled before the altar with slow, clumsy movements in order to give thanks for her healthy pregnancy which seemed to be lasting a full term.

  Arthur had not been pleased when he was told that his mother would be away from him for several weeks. He had stormed and stomped with all the fury of a spoiled three year old who is not getting his way for the first time. Elizabeth had soothed his hurt with hugs and kisses while wiping tears from his plump cheeks which were pink with frustration. He had sniffled and she wiped his runny nose with her handkerchief. She wore a confident, reassuring face to hide her own lack of desire to be away from him.

  Kneeling in her small, private chapel, she thanked God for Arthur and prayed that he would be pleased to be presented with a baby brother. Elizabeth would not allow herself to consider the reason Henry, Margaret, and the rest of England prayed for another bo
y. Surely, Henry would never find himself in need of a spare heir. Would any number of sons make him feel secure on his throne?

  As she stood and crossed herself, the familiar pains gripped her and she called for her mother. Despite some bad feelings between them, at this moment when her life and that of her child hung in the balance, her mother’s presence was a balm to her worries.

  Elizabeth Woodville rushed into the chapel without saying a word. The pain edged with fear on her daughter’s face told her all she needed to know. As her mother approached, Elizabeth had a fleeting thought that the former queen seemed to have done all of her aging in the years since Edward had died. Was it due to the concerns and schemes or because she no longer had the king to retain her beauty for. Though fine lines etched the skin around her eyes and mouth, she remained lovely, and Elizabeth hoped that she was so well preserved at fifty-two years of age. Another pain broke through her thoughts and she leaned upon her mother to be guided to the bed.

  The walls of the room were covered in tapestries featuring Biblical scenes, not pictures of battle or sacrifice, but peaceful mothers such as Elizabeth and Mary and one of the angel horde exclaiming halleluiahs over the shepherds. As pains continued to grip her in rapid succession, Elizabeth focused her eyes and thoughts upon these scenes. Her mother’s words of comfort were soothing white noise without distinguishable words. How much fear did Mary feel when she brought our Savior into the world, Elizabeth wondered. Did she ever wonder if her life would be given in exchange for his? Though Elizabeth had hoped and prayed for the child about to be born, she could not help but utter a whispered prayer for herself.

  The baby was coming quickly and the midwife had been sent for immediately after Elizabeth’s mother had assessed her progress. She ordered prayers spoken as a part of the routine of delivery rather than piety. She may have retired to a nunnery, but Elizabeth Woodville would always be a woman who trusted first in herself and believed in creating your own destiny. If God was otherwise occupied, she would ensure that her daughter and grandchild were cared for that day.