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

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  “Tell me,” Elizabeth said, wishing to waste no time or words.

  “I believe the baby has not turned properly,” admitted the midwife. She hoped the queen would be prepared for what must come. In either death or the solution she proposed, Cecily must endure more pain after the hours of anguish she had already faced. After she explained to Elizabeth what she felt must be done in an attempt to save both mother and baby, Elizabeth simply nodded.

  “Let us see to our work with the help of God then,” Elizabeth stated as she strode from the room.

  Even in her weary, pain-laced state, Cecily had noted the disappearance of the two women. Her eyes asked the question that she couldn’t bring her voice to express.

  “You are going to get through this,” Elizabeth assured her. “The midwife must turn the baby. It will be painful, but I am here with you. More importantly, God is here with you, my strong sister.”

  Worry pooled in Cecily’s eyes, but she said, “Our mother has done this a dozen times. Certainly my Woodville blood will serve me as well as my royal blood does.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “You brave, wonderful girl,” she whispered as she patted a cool cloth over Cecily’s flushed face. She nodded to the midwife who was positioned over Cecily’s abdomen with a look on her face that Elizabeth recognized from seeing men as they headed into battle. “Cecily. Look at me,” she ordered.

  Cecily screamed.

  Over and over again, she screamed. Elizabeth forced herself to keep eye contact, to mumble prayers and words of strength, and to keep her fear and anguish from making an appearance. As the midwife stood from her labors with sweat dripping from the tip of her nose, Cecily fainted to escape the pain.

  Elizabeth had no need to control her emotions with Cecily unconscious. “Will she be alright? Will she wake up?” She shook the poor woman in her distress as if she could make the answers fall out faster and in the form she desired.

  “I believe so, with the help of God,” was the exhausted reply of the thin form that had turned limp as a ragdoll in Elizabeth’s grasp.

  Releasing her with sudden awareness of her actions, Elizabeth said, “Forgive me.” She rubbed her hands over her face, and the weariness that fear had been holding at bay washed over her like the tide coming in. “Forgive me, dear woman. You have saved my sister’s life.”

  The midwife simply nodded and prayed that the words were true.

  Cecily’s respite did not last long. Her contractions awoke her with fierce intensity. She moaned, fighting the pain that drug her from her blissful unconsciousness. “No, I can’t,” she sleepily muttered.

  Elizabeth was immediately at her side, taking up her hand. “Yes. You can.”

  Cecily’s eyes opened at the sound of her sister’s voice. She sounded so sure. Maybe she was right. She felt the midwife examining her and wondered at the complete loss of modesty and privacy that accompanied the birth of a child, royal or peasant.

  “You will push now, and this time it is going to work. You did not go through that pain for naught,” Elizabeth said, imbuing Cecily with courage and the will to continue.

  “Push now, my lady!” ordered the midwife in uncharacteristic boldness.

  Cecily took a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and pushed. She pushed and groaned until she was sure she could take no more. In her mind, she saw her father and Mary and was certain that they would soon be welcoming her into heaven.

  Darkness overwhelmed her.

  Had days passed or only seconds? Cecily looked around the room and saw attendants in a flurry of activity, a radiant smile on her sister’s tired face, and a wiggly bundle that was letting its unhappiness be known in a very vociferous manner.

  She had survived! As had her baby.

  “Bess!” she urged her sister to come closer. Words of appreciation simply would not be adequate, and she allowed tears to run down her face.

  Elizabeth patted her hand and wiped away her tears. “You have a proud and perfect daughter,” she said with a smile. “Cecily, you have demonstrated such strength and courage today. They are no doubt traits that you will instill in my lovely niece.”

  “What is to be her name?” asked one of Cecily’s ladies. Elizabeth had an admonishment on her lips when Cecily offered her ready answer.

  “Elizabeth,” she said. The anguish and exhaustion had already been cleared away by maternal happiness as she held out her arms for the squalling bundle. “In honor of my queen, my sister, and my best friend.”

  November 1490

  Elizabeth watched her children play with their nurses on the lawn at Westminster. She was beginning to long for the countryside and to be gone from the harsh, dirty air of London. Arthur kept running toward little Margaret and gesturing for her to follow him. She would take a few shaky steps before winding up on her bottom. After several attempts to keep up with her brother, she remained on the ground and screamed until she was red in the face and her nurse swept her away.

  That determination will serve her well one day, Elizabeth thought. While Arthur had no trouble reaching Elizabeth’s heart, Margaret had needed time to bond with her mother. Now that a year had passed, Elizabeth was able to appreciate the strong personality that made her young daughter so difficult at times.

  As she watched the nurse carry away the flailing toddler, she saw that Henry was making his way toward her. Arthur also had noticed the approach of his father and flung himself into his arms. Henry, always somewhat uncomfortable with public displays of affection, gave Arthur a brief hug before telling him to run off and play.

  “How are you, my dear?” Elizabeth asked as Henry relaxed next to her. She was glad that the cares of the world seemed to lift from his shoulders when he was with her, but she wished that he didn’t have to carry them at all.

  “I am well, of course,” he said, but the way he fidgeted needlessly with his sleeves hinted at something that he did not want to tell her.

  “What is it, Henry?”

  He sighed and looked up to the sky. “Nothing of great import. My uncle Jasper has just sent word that Katherine has given birth, but to a stillborn babe.”

  “Poor Katherine!” Though she would not say so, she was thinking of Katherine’s other children, the product of her long and loving marriage to Henry, duke of Buckingham. They had been made wards of the king upon Henry’s crowning. She couldn’t imagine how her aunt must feel now to lose this child as well.

  “It is to be expected of course,” said Henry matter-of-factly, though Elizabeth knew that he would mourn for Jasper’s lost heir.

  “I know how much Jasper means to you,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sure that his loss feels almost as painful as if it were your own.” She placed a hesitant hand upon his arm. Would he wish to address his feelings or be embarrassed that she had mentioned them?

  He closed his eyes and lowered his head to his hands. “Jasper is getting no younger, and it must pain him to lose his son.”

  Her hand grasped his arm more confidently. “It was a boy then? Surely, Katherine will provide him with another.”

  “Katherine also is getting no younger, but the Lord does work miracles in his own time.” His voice expressed no confidence in the power or willingness of the Lord to work a miracle in this case.

  Hesitating only a moment, Elizabeth decided to share news that was sure to bring Henry out of his melancholy mood.

  “Henry, my love. I do not know God’s plans for Jasper and Katherine, but I do know that he intends for you to have another son for your quiver.”

  For a few seconds, Henry did not move, and Elizabeth wondered if he had understood. Then he slowly raised his head from his hands and grasped her arms. Light returned to his eyes and a smile to his lips.

  “Truly? You are certain to be with child again?”

  “Quite,” Elizabeth confirmed with a smile. “I wanted to be sure before I told you after the wait we endured between Arthur and Margaret.”

  She said no more because Henry was no longer listening. He had jumped
from his seat and was swinging Arthur around in the air.

  “You’re going to be a big brother!” he shouted as Arthur giggled in delight.

  ~~~~

  A few days later, Elizabeth was pleased to have her sister, Bridget, visit her. A ten year old who seemed to have the soul of a mature adult, Bridget was expressing her desire to enter a convent.

  “It was always our father and mother’s plan for me,” Bridget needlessly explained. “I am ready.”

  Any other young girl telling Elizabeth that she was ready to make a lifelong commitment would have been dismissed immediately, but Bridget had never been like other children. She had grown up through trying circumstances, which she believed God had seen her family through.

  “If you wish to devote your life to God’s work, I certainly will not stand in your way. However, it is Henry who must approve this plan. He may have a royal match in mind for you.”

  Bridget cringed visibly. “Bess, I have no desire for a life of public drama.”

  Elizabeth smiled rather than admonish her sister for her tactlessness. Was it really any different than the opinion expressed more eloquently by Cecily?

  “I vow to speak to the king on your behalf,” Elizabeth promised, and Bridget contented herself with that.

  Luckily, Elizabeth had recently given Henry the news that made him willing to fulfill her heart’s desire. When he came to visit her, she welcomed him enthusiastically to her rooms.

  “Henry, do relax by the fire. You look absolutely careworn.” She accepted a tray of cheese and wine from a servant before gesturing for them to be left in privacy.

  Henry melted into the chair and gratefully accepted the food and drink. “Bess, you always see my needs before I see them myself.”

  “You really must make sure that you have time to rest,” she said as she took her place next to him. “Surely, you cannot be efficient in your work or clear-minded in your decisions if you are plagued by constant weariness.”

  He just nodded with his eyes closed. He was soaking in the warmth from the fire and enjoying the one place where he was free to relax. Elizabeth sat back, content to allow him a moment’s peace. She was surprised when he sprang up after just a few moments.

  “I almost forgot,” he said with a smile brightening his face and making him look years younger than just a moment before. “I have brought you a gift.”

  He brought a small package forth that had been hidden beneath his robes and held it out to her. She smiled up at him as she took it.

  “What is this?” she asked as she opened the small wooden box. Inside, a gold ring glimmered with diamonds and rubies that had been painstakingly formed into the design of a perfect Tudor rose. Elizabeth gasped at the perfection in the intricate design. “It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen! Oh Henry, where did you find a jeweler with such skill?”

  “I am happy that it pleases you,” he said as he pulled her into his arms. “Only the best is acceptable for my lovely queen, especially now that you are going to give me another son.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Anything you need. You need only ask.”

  She chose her moment well. “There is one thing I have been meaning to discuss with you.”

  Henry looked shocked to be taken up on his generous offer. “Yes?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Do not worry, my husband. I will not be requesting half of your kingdom.”

  He also chuckled at the idea that Elizabeth would ever ask for more than he could give. “What is it then?”

  “I would like you to send Bridget to join the Sisters of the Order of St. Augustine.” She did not give him a chance to interrupt. “She is simply set upon the idea of going to Dartford, as my parents always intended for her. I know that she is young, but this is her calling, of that I am sure.”

  Any argument Henry may have posed died on his lips. “Very well, my queen. You may give her my word that she may retire to the Dominican priory.”

  June 1491

  Elizabeth’s sister, Anne, had become her attendant when Cecily left court for marriage. She was more reserved than anyone else in her family but was pleased to serve her royal sister. Anne quietly closed the door to the lying in chamber behind her. “It is a robust, young prince, your grace,” she said with a humble curtsey.

  “Thank God!” exclaimed Henry. “And Bess, she is well?”

  Still not raising her eyes to meet his, Anne replied, “Of course, your grace. The queen is resting but is in perfect health.”

  “Praise the Lord,” he mumbled without thought or much praise. His mother was striding down the hall toward him.

  “Henry,” she said as if she was still addressing an undisciplined youth rather than the king of England. “The baby?”

  “A boy.”

  Margaret hastily crossed herself and murmured the required thanks. “I must speak to you.”

  “Yes,” Henry agreed. “Another boy.”

  Anne, who seemed to have been forgotten as she often was, wondered at Henry repeating himself. Apparently even those welcoming their third child could have new father fears and confusion.

  “We must discuss him at once,” Margaret demanded. “He is claiming to be Richard of York.”

  The two of them turned as one and walked away without so much of a glance at Anne. Her eyes widened at the mention of her brother’s name, the brother she barely remembered and had long thought lost. She rushed back into the room to tell Elizabeth that their brother had been found.

  September 1491

  “Do you truly believe it is him?” Elizabeth asked. She was bouncing her newest son, named Henry after his father and the long line of Lancastrian kings before him, on her knee as her husband ranted about the man who the Irish were calling Richard of York. While Henry paced, she considered this possibility and what it would mean to her – and her sons – if her father’s heirs were still alive. Where had he been all these years?

  “Of course, I do not believe it is him!” Henry’s nervous fidgeting and obsession with obtaining information about the pretender spoke louder than his angry words. “Do you?”

  Elizabeth pondered this question, which deserved a careful answer. Could this be her youngest brother? Certainly, it was possible since her brothers had not been seen since September of 1483. Did she believe it was? It would mean her sons were disinherited, her husband a usurper, and she a fraudulent queen. Once again she asked herself if she believed that Richard could have killed them. Mixed messages swarmed her memories. She didn’t know, but she had to support her husband.

  “No,” she stated firmly, offering no explanation for her certainty.

  It was the right decision. She could see the tension leave Henry’s face and shoulders as he ended his pacing and eased himself onto the bench next to her.

  “He has landed in Ireland,” he said in a more controlled voice, as if they were discussing a merchant bringing an interesting load of goods. “They are going to crown him Richard IV.”

  Elizabeth turned her face away and closed her eyes. Richard IV. Could it really be? No, Arthur was England’s next king.

  “Ludicrous,” she said.

  “Quite,” agreed Henry, and they said no more.

  February 1492

  “I believe we should visit our mother,” Anne said in her soft, hesitant voice.

  Elizabeth lifted her eyes from the altar cloth she was embroidering with tiny green leaves. Her sister rarely made a request having none of Mary or Cecily’s boldness. “You miss her?”

  “Of course,” Anne replied as she fidgeted with her own sewing. It appeared she was doing the fabric more harm than good.

  Elizabeth took her nervous fingers in her hands. “Anne, please stop punishing the cloth. You may speak to me as a sister, not always as a queen.”

  Anne took a deep breath and forced herself to look into her older sister’s eyes. “I know that our mother has caused you – all of us – some hardship in the past, but she is deteriorating, Bess.
She is more ill than she wishes for us to know. Before you go into your confinement . . .” she trailed off as her courage ran dry.

  “You are right,” Elizabeth admitted as she rested her hand on her stomach that was once again rounded with new life. I have not honored our mother as I should. All past mistakes should be forgiven as I hope that my children will forgive me for my own faults.” And I pray my brothers forgive me for denying them if one of them is truly still alive, she thought to herself. “Is her condition as severe as that?”

  Anne’s slender shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I cannot say for certain. She puts on her most queenly façade when I visit, but I feel it, Bess. She will soon join our father . . . and brothers, in Heaven.”

  Elizabeth searched Anne’s face looking for explanation of the hesitation before adding Edward and Richard to the inhabitants of Heaven. Did she believe that the young man in Ireland was Richard? Not surprisingly, Anne broke eye contact first and focused on her thin hands in her lap without saying more.

  “We shall visit Bermondsey tomorrow,” Elizabeth stated. “Please inform the ladies and pages who will need to prepare.”

  Anne jumped up to see that Elizabeth’s orders were carried out before any awkward questions could be asked of her.

  The next day, Anne and Elizabeth set out with the minimum number of attendants to visit their mother, former queen of England, who now presided over the nuns of Bermondsey. During her morning prayers, Elizabeth had asked forgiveness for having neglected her mother and thanked the Heavenly Father for Anne’s intercession. She silently repeated these prayers when she stepped into her mother’s room.