“Of course he will not,” she agreed. They stood together as if by silent agreement. This threat and newfound confidence made him seem taller, broader. She felt a familiar stir at the hunger that replaced the suspiciousness in his eyes. When he roughly claimed her mouth with his own, she gladly allowed herself to be conquered.
Later, when the heat from the fire and their passion no longer heated the room, they burrowed into the thick covers on the bed. With Henry more at peace, Elizabeth dared to question him.
“What will you do next?”
“Next? Good God, woman! Are you not satisfied?”
Elizabeth smacked at him playfully. “You know that is not what I meant.”
He instantly became more serious. “Stanley will be brought before me tomorrow to answer the charge of treason.”
Pressing her lips together into a firm line, Elizabeth nodded. Though it did not give her joy to hear it, she also could not bring herself to feel an ounce of sympathy for the man who had betrayed more than one king.
“You will defeat the pretender without him,” she stated firmly. While she could not bring herself to use the name that she was certain her husband had created for him, she also would never call this man Richard of York. Who was he, really, she frequently wondered on nights when sleep failed to claim her.
Henry pulled her into his arms. “You do not know what it means to me to have you at my side.”
She refrained from pointing out that he had accused her of untrustworthiness not an hour ago and decided that the unspoken accusation was better left forgiven and forgotten. Before her mind could wander into the swamps of the unanswered questions and unspoken concerns, Henry spoke again.
“I would see your remaining sisters married.”
Elizabeth gasped but quickly controlled herself. “Who do you have in mind for them, if I may ask?”
A smile tugged at one side of his mouth. “You may.”
“Henry, do not tease me.”
“I have spoken to Sir Thomas Howard regarding Anne, she being the older of the two. Cat, I am still considering options for.”
“What about William Courtenay?” Elizabeth blurted before she had considered whether her suggestion would work for or against the young man who made little Cat blush each time he spoke. She hoped that he would dismiss the idea that had been put forth to marry her to James Stewart, duke of Ross and brother of the Scots king. As unrealistic as it may be, she hoped to keep her sisters in England.
Henry frowned thoughtfully, but would give up nothing. “I will think on it,” was all he would promise.
February 1495
Thomas Howard had certainly been willing to wait for Anne of York to become his bride. Originally betrothed to her under Richard III in 1484, he finally took her as his bride in 1495. Quiet Anne glowed in her wedding finery and blushed each time comments regarding the upcoming bedding reached her ears. Never straying far from her new husband’s side, she attempted to shyly avoid the spotlight at her own wedding feast.
Elizabeth smiled seeing her sister so content with the man who had been chosen for her long ago. Observing her simple joy and submissive attitude, few who did not know her would have guessed that she was a princess born of Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville. Though she had her share of blond, sapphire-eyed beauty, she had none of the arrogance or even confidence of her parents. This seemed to suit Sir Howard just fine. Elizabeth was happy that Anne had been married to someone who seemed capable of finding contentment in the type of quiet family life that would please her. The last thing Anne needed was the type of husband who would put politicking over his family.
As Elizabeth was envisioning Anne’s future full of children and country manors, Henry stepped up to her side and pressed close to her. She caught the scent of wine in the air as he handed her a cup. She accepted it gladly, thankful that this was an occasion for them to enjoy without being the center of attention. Of course, there were those who took this opportunity to press Henry with their ideas and desires, but he brushed them aside with good-natured invitations to join him in a toast to the bride and groom.
“Henry, it pleases me to see you so light-hearted,” Elizabeth whispered as they watched dancers take the floor.
“What is not to be happy about?” he asked rhetorically, pulling her closer to him. “I have the most beautiful wife in England, two healthy sons, and matters are working themselves out nicely.”
Elizabeth did not wish to ask what those matters might be and shatter the pleasantness of the moment. Instead, she gestured to her sister, Cat, flirting mercilessly with the handsome William Courtenay.
Cat was sixteen and beautiful. She shared Elizabeth’s reddish blond coloring as opposed to Cecily’s more silvery blond. A light dusting of freckles that would have made a lesser beauty appear low-class, only added to her playfulness. Poor William was no match for this vixen who had watched each of her older sisters snatch men’s hearts. For her own part, Cat did not notice the other men looking enviously at Courtenay as her eyes never left his deep brown ones.
Elizabeth looked at Henry in eagerness for his acquiescence. How could anyone watch the young couple and not wish them well? Courtenay was the close friend of Elizabeth’s cousin, Edmund de la Pole, which made him even more suitable in her eyes. Henry, who looked at Edmund as a possible rival with his copper hair and Plantagenet blood, may not see it as a credit to William. He was ready to pose his argument when he looked down at his wife, who clearly had dreams of romance and happily ever after on her mind.
“Very well,” he said gruffly. “She may wed Courtenay.”
October 1495
Though the path was worn fairly smooth by thousands of feet that had trod it before her, Elizabeth could still feel the edges of small stones press uncomfortably into her bare feet. She knew that others would feel that it was unnecessary for her, as a queen and mother of three healthy children, to make this pilgrimage to Walsingham, but she had felt drawn to it. The recent loss of her three year-old daughter, Eliza, had forced her to acknowledge that a crown did not protect her from death. It reached out its ugly talons to snatch away peasant and princess alike. There was no better place than Walsingham to appeal to the Lord for more children and give him thanks for those he had trusted to her.
She had refused to wear anything on this last stretch of the journey that would identify her as a queen, but even bare of accessories and in her simple shift, her regal bearing and beauty gave her away. She was almost thirty, and childbearing and overflowing royal tables had caused the lithe figure of her younger years to disappear under a body that was more voluptuous, and Henry claimed more pleasing. Her face was slightly more round but had yet to bear any fine lines that would give away her age. A few of her rings had needed to be expanded to accommodate fingers that were no longer as slender, but her hair, let loose for this visit with God, shone like new copper in the bright sun.
Some would notice the bulge beneath the loose flowing fabric that indicated that Elizabeth had already been blessed in the way most supplicants to the Virgin at Walsingham prayed for. It was another reason for people to wonder why she made this holy walk, but she did not care what people thought. She had lived so much of her life concerning herself with what people would think, but today was between her and her God. She would beg him for the serenity required to accept the death of her daughter and ask for his hand upon the child she could feel fluttering in her womb.
Her mind focused on just how to express her requests to God when she entered the chapel, she failed to notice the crowd that grew around her or the quiet conversation that praised her beauty and piety. Unlike some, even among those who worked within the church, Elizabeth’s faith was as real and important to her. She did not walk this path for show, and she took little note of those quietly gathering to get a glimpse of her.
A cool autumn wind blew through her hair, lifting it as though it were her banner. The folds of fabric gave her little protection against the cold, but she did not feel it. Her e
yes were focused upon the intricate stonework that soared toward heaven. She tried to force the scene before her to replace the images of her lifeless child that kept trespassing into her thoughts.
A child’s death was nothing new or infrequent, but it did not keep it from being any less tragic when it was your own. Elizabeth’s hand moved to her throat in an automatic motion to finger the locket that she had begun wearing, within it hid a tiny lock of little Eliza’s pure white blond hair. With a slight shake of her head, she dropped her arm back to her side. The locket was back in her borrowed rooms, along with all other jewels and fine clothes. She must be thankful that she would see her beautiful daughter one day when they met in heaven and stop longing for her earthly presence. Oh, how it tested her faith.
She was thankful that Eliza had been taken quickly. Though it meant that Henry and Elizabeth had not been able to reach Eltham in time to sit at her bedside, it also meant that Eliza had not suffered the pain of dying that others were often forced to face. A fever had raged like a fire through her small body for only a few days before she succumbed. By the time Elizabeth had reached her and laid a shaking hand on her waxen cheek, Eliza was strangely cool and at peace.
The new life Elizabeth carried kicked and rolled, drawing her back into the present and away from her daughter’s deathbed. “Are you attempting to console me, my little one?” Elizabeth whispered. She was careful not to look down at her growing belly as she spoke, not wanting quite yet to make her condition public. Some would guess anyway, but the recent reminder of the stealthiness of death made her wish to keep her pregnancy unknown. Maybe she could shield the new life if its existence were less known.
As she entered the chapel, the stones under her feet became smoother but not warmer. She closed her eyes as she shuffled forward, taking in the scent of incense and fresh rushes. Surely, God was in this place and would hear her more clearly from this sacred place. When she opened her eyes, she spotted the altar holding the vial of the Holy Mother’s milk and a beautifully jeweled image of Mary herself. Kneeling before these sacred artifacts, Elizabeth poured her heart out to the Lord of all and listened intently for his voice.
~~~~
Henry sat before an untended fire, looking every one of his thirty-eight years. His spine curved, the weight of the world seeming to become too heavy for him. Though he must have heard Elizabeth’s approach, he did not lift his head or move a muscle.
“Henry?” Elizabeth paused before him wondering if he was lost in mourning for their little Eliza. She slowly moved forward and knelt before him.
“Henry.”
His body twitched as if waking from sleep and his eyes moved to seek her face.
“What is it, my love?” she asked.
He took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair.
“Warbeck.”
It took Elizabeth a moment to switch gears in her mind. Her thoughts had been only of her children, the one lost and the one on the way. She searched her memory for recent developments regarding the man everyone now referred to as Perkin Warbeck.
She remembered that he was in Scotland being treated as a royal guest. Elizabeth assumed that this was more to annoy Henry than because King James actually believed Warbeck’s story about being her brother. It was revenge for the several English princesses who had been offered as Scottish brides but had never set foot in that rugged northern land. Or so Elizabeth had assumed.
“What news is there of him?” she asked when it was clear that Henry was going to offer nothing more.
An ironic smile formed on his lips but did not reach his eyes. “He has been given a noble bride.” Henry shook his head as he spoke as though he thought he must surely be mistaken.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in surprise. This was more than a game to torment England’s king. For James to have offered Warbeck such a prize was to recognize his claim to the throne.
“Who?” she whispered, suddenly glad that Henry had seen to it that each of her sisters was married. It had seemed the overly suspicious act of one who saw enemies in every shadow at the time, but now she saw that he had been right to do it. Of course, Warbeck himself would not have been able to marry a princess that he claimed to be a brother of.
“Kathryn Gordon,” Henry said with a great exhale of breath. “She is supposedly a great favorite of the Scots king. It is rumored that he would not have given her up if she had agreed to become his mistress instead. Unfortunately for James, the lovely lady also has high moral standards.”
“But to give her to Warbeck is to support his claim. It is a notice to all that James believes him to be . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say Richard IV or Richard of York. “Who he says he is.”
Henry looked at her like a tutor humoring a slow student. “Yes, it is.”
Shrugging, Henry reached for his goblet of wine. “He undoubtedly does not believe that Warbeck is your brother, but is willing to sacrifice the fair Kathryn to give me headaches in all foreign relations.” He had stood and began to restlessly pace, leaving Elizabeth kneeling before an empty chair. Now he spun on her. “Do you know what this is going to do to our negotiations with Ferdinand and Isabella?”
Sliding into the chair that Henry had vacated, Elizabeth did not answer immediately. They had been attempting to forge a marriage contract between their son Arthur and the Spanish princess, Catherine of Aragon. Would they be hesitant when they learned that Henry’s rival had gained the support of Scotland?
“Surely, they will not be greatly affected by the actions of James Stewart. They know him to be rash and short-sighted.”
Henry shook his head again, wondering if the peace that currently reigned in England would ever envelope him or if he would always feel that he was fighting for his right to wear the crown. “They may know that in their hearts but still not be willing to give up their daughter in show of support. How much easier it will be for them to simply find her another husband while we work out our own struggles.”
The mother’s heart took over in the queen. “If that is so, then we will find a more appropriate bride for our son. He is to be the king of England – how dare they look down their noses at him!”
This finally brought an authentic smile from her husband. He approached her and pulled her up from the chair. “Of course, you are correct,” he said once she was firmly in his arms. “But I do not intend to let this pretender determine who my son can and cannot marry.” He released her to resume his pacing. “I am beginning to wish that his landing in Kent had been successful, so that I may have defeated him once and for all.”
Even after the beheading of William Stanley, Warbeck and a small force paid for by Maximilian of Burgundy had attempted to invade the previous June. At Deal Beach, Henry’s men had butchered an advance party, sending Warbeck, who had never left his ship, back to sea. At the time it had seemed a great victory, but as this phantom enemy continued to flit about the edges of their lives and their coastlines, Elizabeth wondered if they wouldn’t have been better off letting them land, as Henry now seemed to wish for.
“When he does, you will be ready. How can he expect to stand up to you,” she said. “If men could not be raised against you at Stoke, they certainly will not run to this known fraud now.” She was glad that her voice sounded more confident than she felt.
Henry seemed convinced by her words. He once again held her close, but there was no passion in his embrace. She could almost see the wheels that were still spinning in his head.
December 1495
The great hall at Sheen was filled with people, music, and laughter. It was difficult to remember that outside the wind blew and snow fell. The glow of candlelight and aroma of appetizing food to be served completed the cozy scene. Elizabeth especially was enjoying watching her children interact and dance. It seemed like it had been too long since they had all been together as a family.
Before she had much opportunity to appreciate the idyllic setting, she felt Henry tense beside her. She turned and saw that his
face had gone ghostly pale and his hand was tightly clenching a piece of parchment.
“Henry, what is it?” she asked, laying a hand upon his arm.
He looked at her and she was reminded of the look upon Arthur’s face when she had told him that he would not see his favorite hound again. It was the look of a wounded little boy looking for comfort.
“Henry?” She felt fear rising within her but reminded herself that all of her children were present, so the worst certainly could not have happened. “What is it?” she repeated.
He shook his head incredulously. “It is Jasper. He is dying.”
Jasper Tudor was by no measure a young man, but he was Henry’s mentor and most strident supporter. His death would be a crushing blow to the king, who saw traitors surrounding him at every turn since William Stanley had plotted against him.
“I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth said as she took the hand that Henry was using to mangle the unwelcome missive. “I know Jasper has been like a father to you.”
“I will have nobody left in whom I can put my complete trust.”
Elizabeth was used to these comments that inadvertently insulted her but was surprised that he did not make an exception for his mother either.
“What ails him?” she asked. “Is there time to go to him?”
“He made his will on the fifteenth.” Four days ago.
“Will you ride to Thornbury tomorrow?” All visions of a family Christmas shattered, but she admitted that she could not take away Henry’s opportunity to see Jasper one last time.
Henry stood, leaving his untouched food on the table before him. The revelries going on around them suddenly seemed incongruous with the feelings coursing through them. He looked down at Elizabeth who was trying to decide if she should leave with him and said, “If I cannot find a way to leave yet tonight.”
Plantagenet Princess, Tudor Queen: The Story of Elizabeth of York Page 22