“Yes, he is a perfect little Plantagenet prince.”
“Do not let Henry hear you call him that!”
“I only give voice to what you were thinking, Bess.”
“Be that as it may, it would hurt his pride. He has plenty of others to do that.”
“And what of little Margaret and Mary,” Cecily asked, steering the conversation back to the happier topic of the children though it hurt to think of her own little ones swept up to heaven.
“Margaret will be married to James, though when she should be sent to him is a matter of some debate.”
“His reputation does not paint him as the ideal husband to a child bride,” Cecily agreed. “Is it that you are afraid that his womanizing will hurt Margaret’s feelings or that he will take her to bed too soon?
“Both.”
Cecily snorted. “In that you are likely justified in your fear.”
“I have my mother-in-law to thank for this victory,” Elizabeth admitted and smiled at the shock on Cecily’s face. “She was a strong voice in the argument that girls should not be expected to be wives in the full meaning of the word until they are at least fourteen.”
Cecily nodded. “Having given birth to Henry when barely thirteen certainly qualifies her to speak on that topic.”
“Yes, there was no need for her to point out that she had never been able to conceive again. Of course, Henry takes his mother’s advice to heart on all matters, but on this she is indeed an expert.”
“And James is content to wait on his young bride?”
“He has agreed not to demand that she be sent to him before September 1503. By then I will have to form a new argument for her delay.”
They shared a knowing smile.
“Mary is a sweet, little beauty, who can wrap anyone around her smallest finger,” Elizabeth continued. “Even Harry will take a break from his vigorous activity to take refreshment with his youngest sister. I believe he will see himself as her protector throughout their lives.”
“You have done well, Bess. And this little one,” Cecily patted her sister’s large, rounded stomach, “will be no less blessed.”
~~~~
Edmund entered the world just a few days later, and Elizabeth prayed that she had not cursed him by not desiring another boy. She also prayed that this set of brothers would grow up in peace with each other to live long and happy lives that had been denied to so many other sets of Plantagenet brothers.
June 1499
“The Spaniards are not going to accept anything less than execution,” Henry said as he paced the room. His hair was disheveled and greyer than ever. He worked his jaw in a nervous motion that let Elizabeth know that he also had a toothache. The yellowish tinge to his skin and the way it hung loosely on his frame did not speak well toward his state of health.
“Please, Henry” she said, directing him toward a bench. “Sit down.”
He followed her command like a child. “I’m sorry, Bess. I know that it will be difficult for you, but I must do this to secure Arthur’s future.”
Taking a deep breath to give her time to consider her words, Elizabeth sat next to her husband. “I do not wish for Warbeck’s death, but he is a traitor. Your decision would be legally justified.”
Henry gave her an odd look. “You don’t understand, Bess. Not just Warbeck.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows drew together. “You’re right. I don’t understand.”
He took her hands and kept his eyes on them rather than her face. “It is not only Warbeck that they insist must be executed for treason. They want no rival claimants to their daughter’s position.”
“But, Henry, who?”
He forced himself to look her in the eye. He was a king not a coward.
“Warwick.”
Elizabeth sprung to her feet, her hands fisted tightly at her sides.
“No! You have kept Edward in prison for over half his life despite the fact that his only crime is possessing royal blood in his veins. I will not stand for this. He is innocent!”
She paced across the room while Henry silently watched her fume.
“I have begged you to make a place for him, Henry. Pleaded for you to give him some minor position, but you have left him only with the title of rebel. Lambert Simnel, who rode with an army against you, cares for your falcons, but my cousin you would kill?”
“It is not my wish.”
“You are the king! If it is not your wish, do not do it.”
Henry stood and made his way toward the door. “We will talk about this more when you have had time to calm yourself. Think about our son.”
He left as the tears began to stream down Elizabeth’s face.
~~~~
“What is going on, Jayne?”
Elizabeth was bouncing little Edmund on her knee, casually wondering if he would be her last child. She would have had to have been blind to fail to notice the way servants were huddling together whispering the latest rumors.
“It is news from the city, your grace,” Jayne said hesitantly.
“London? What news?”
Elizabeth was only half listening as she admired her youngest son’s strength and obvious charm. She was admiring his toothless grin when Jayne’s next words chilled her to the bone.
“An escape from the Tower, my lady.”
Elizabeth’s knee became still and she locked her gaze on Jayne. The look on her closest companion’s face told her that they shared the same thoughts. Nobody escapes from the Tower . . . . unless they have help.
“Warbeck?”
Jayne nodded before adding softly, “With a conspirator.”
“No, he wouldn’t!”
Jayne didn’t ask if Elizabeth meant Henry or Edward of Warwick. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to know.
~~~~
Elizabeth did not go to London, refused to beg for the life of her cousin when she knew it had already been forfeited. Edward would not have partnered with Warbeck to escape from the Tower. Even if he had, it would have been impossible for them to do so without the collaboration of a guard or servant. Henry had arranged it, she had no doubt, and she would not look him in the eye as he attempted to deny it.
She was at Greenwich with her children gathered around her, remembering Edward as a child. He had enjoyed such simple things in life, things that had been denied him for over a decade. What would this do to his poor sister, Margaret? She surely would not believe the story of the two prisoners managing to communicate from separate cells and coming up with a plan to escape. Only those who did not know him would be tempted to believe, they and the people who wanted him dead. They would believe it because they wanted to, because it was easier than believing the king of England was a cold-blooded murderer.
Little Mary ran through the grass on short, sturdy legs, and Elizabeth wondered when was the last time that Edward had been allowed outside, let alone to run free. He was a man grown now at twenty-four and had spent more years in the Tower than out of it. Elizabeth closed her eyes so that only the orange of the bright sun was visible. How many more times would Edward be allowed to feel the warmth of the sun upon his face?
A tear rolled down her cheek, and a little voice said, “Why are you crying, mama?”
Elizabeth blinked back her tears and wiped her face. Harry was standing in front of her, hair and clothes in complete disarray, but concern on his face.
“Who has made you cry, mother?” he demanded, and she could imagine him placing his hand on a sword hilt at his side if he were old enough to carry one.
“It is nothing,” she insisted, pulling him into her arms. He would have patience for his mother’s embrace for only a moment, so she cherished the feel of his warm body. “Sometimes mothers just get sad.”
He looked at her while deciding if this explanation satisfied him. “Sometimes Mary and Margaret cry, but I don’t.”
Elizabeth laughed. “It is because you are a strong little man, Harry. We soft-hearted women need strong boys like you to c
are for us and protect us.”
Harry pulled from her arms, as she knew he would. He put his hands on his hips and said, “I will protect you, my lady mother.”
“And your sisters?”
He looked across the lawn for a moment before promising, “And my sisters.”
“Thank you, Harry. God bless you.”
Harry, certain that he had made his mother feel better so that she would no longer have to cry, strode proudly back to his sisters.
November 1499
Warbeck was executed after a vague statement about not being who men thought him to be. Those who believed him to be Richard wondered if they had been following a pretender. Others, who had been sure that he was not their prince, worried that they may have just watched the execution of Edward IV’s son.
Edward of Warwick, son of George of Clarence, who had himself been executed by his brother for treason, was executed for treason on the twenty-eighth of November. Some were struck by the youthful innocence of his appearance as he strode slowly but steadily to the gallows. Before placing his neck on the block, he looked up toward the sky with his arms outstretched, collecting the crisp fall air and heat from the sun into his embrace before kneeling to never feel it again.
A plague tore through London with damning speed. With a third of the city’s population dead, including Henry’s oldest supporter and advisor, John Morton, there were whispers that the wrath of God had fallen on the king for the killing of England’s true king. Whether that true king was Richard or Edward, could not be agreed upon.
Early in the new year 1500, Henry and Elizabeth travelled to Calais to visit Archduke Philip and remove themselves from the path of the plague.
June 1500
Elizabeth had played her part as the dutiful wife and proper queen during their stay in Calais. She wished that her first trip abroad had been under different circumstances so that she could have enjoyed visiting the lands of her Angevin ancestors. They had left the children, besides Arthur, at Hatfield in Hertfordshire, where they should have been sequestered from the pestilence of the city. Far from London at Ludlow, Arthur should have been safe as well, but word had reached them that he was ailing. Elizabeth prayed without ceasing that he would be healed, could not imagine what would happen if he succumbed as so many others had.
With the wind whipping around her and pulling her hair from its pins, she squinted over the water for the first glimpse of land. Henry kept trying to convince her to rest in the tent that was set up for them, but she felt closer to her children if she stood in the prow of the ship.
“Land ho!” shouted the sailor keeping watch in the crow’s nest.
Elizabeth turned her head to look at him. He was peering in the same direction as she but must have better vision. She leaned out as far as she could without fear of falling and narrowed her eyes. Was that green in the distance? It must be the shores of Dover. She smiled as the shoreline grew into existence before her eyes.
She thought of each of her children in turn and longed to hold them in her arms. How much little Edmund would have changed in the weeks since she had left him. She prayed again for Arthur and hoped that she had not cursed him with her comments about kings with too many sons. Her oldest was almost fourteen years old and would soon be ready for marriage to the Spanish princess his father had chosen for him. The last time Elizabeth had seen him, he had been able to rest his chin on the top of her head. He was no longer her little boy, but she could not help but worry about him as if he was.
He must be cured. God would certainly see to it. Henry had been through so much already in his attempt to secure his hold on England’s throne. Her lips thinned as she pressed them together thinking of the sacrifices that had been made to guarantee his son’s rights.
Jayne made her way to Elizabeth’s side. “Glad I am to see these shores,” she exclaimed. Jayne had not enjoyed being aboard the ship or the forwardness of the men of Calais.
Elizabeth took her hand. Besides her sisters, Jayne was Elizabeth’s most beloved confidant and was always with her even when her sisters could not be. “Praise the Lord, we have safely arrived. I am anxious for news about Arthur.”
Giving Elizabeth’s hand a squeeze, Jayne nodded. “He is a strong boy with a legion of prayers being sent the Lord’s way for him. When we arrive, we will hear that he has been back out hunting for the past week.”
Elizabeth laughed and took comfort in Jayne’s optimistic attitude. “I pray that your prophecy comes true.”
As they disembarked, a man that Elizabeth recognized from her children’s household approached. The look on his face gave her a sinking feeling, but she forced herself to stand tall and await his message. He knelt before her and waited for her to give him leave to speak.
“God bless you for greeting me with news of my children,” she said, raising him up. She was astounded that her voice did not shake.
“Do not bless me, your grace, for I bring tidings that will bring you grief,” he said with a curious amount of moisture in his eyes.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and said a brief silent prayer for strength. “Tell me.”
“It is your son.”
“No.” She shook her head and would have backed away had Jayne not put an arm out for support. “Not Arthur!”
Confusion briefly clouded the messenger’s face. “No, your grace!” he cried out. “It is not the heir whom I bring news of, though I have heard that he was recently cured of an illness.”
Elizabeth sighed in relief, but Jayne held fast.
“I come from Hatfield,” he continued. “It is your youngest son,” he sputtered quickly before any more confusion could ensue. “Prince Edmund died three days ago of the plague.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened and she sucked in her breath. She prayed it would be her last. How could she go on after the death of the little boy she had said she did not want? “No,” she whispered. It was not the overwhelming grief that she would have felt over the death of her firstborn but a wave of guilt that washed over her.
Edmund had just been learning to walk when she had seen him before leaving for France. Now he would never toddle toward her again, holding out chubby, dimpled hands for her to catch him. He had joined his sister, Eliza, in heaven. Elizabeth hoped that their first meeting had been a joyous one.
Henry, just noticing the scene on the dock, made his way to his wife’s side. “What is it, Bess?”
Elizabeth shook her head, unable to speak. Henry looked to the messenger, who was dismayed at having to repeat his sad news. He knelt once again, and said, “Your grace, it is your son, Edmund. He died three days past, may God assoil him. Forgive me for being the cause of the queen’s grief.”
The lines on Henry’s face deepened as he tightened his face to gain control of his emotions. “God bless you as forgiveness is unnecessary,” he said after a moment. “I pray that he did not suffer.”
“No, not for long,” the messenger said, though he did not know if it were true. He would not be the one to inform his king and queen that their son had died after days of crying and anguish, too young to understand what was happening to his feverish body.
“Thank you,” Henry said. He placed his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders and steered her away from the onlookers that were beginning to gather. “Bess, I am so sorry,” he whispered in her ear.
“As you should be,” she said, angrily shaking free of his embrace and swiping at the tears on her face. “You have cursed our family with murder, and now the plague brought upon our kingdom has taken our son!”
Henry stood on the dock, speechless, as Elizabeth hurried to the waiting litter with her women scurrying to follow.
November 1501
Catherine of Aragon had landed on English soil with her Spanish retinue. After over a decade of negotiations, and more concessions than Elizabeth cared to think about, she would see her firstborn married. Her heart swelled with pride to imagine her son taking a wife, fathering children, and wearing his father’s crown.
She prayed that God would allow her to witness each of these milestones in his life.
Relations between her and Henry had been strained ever since the deaths of Edward and Edmund. When Elizabeth had been a little girl, she had been able to look the other way and stop her ears from hearing rumors of her father’s ruthlessness. She was no longer a little girl, and Henry’s actions repulsed her. She wondered if her cousin, Margaret, would ever forgive her for not being able to save Edward. Maybe she should have made more of an effort years ago. She had never foreseen the length to which Henry would go.
In order to plan an elaborate twelve day celebration for the wedding of the heir to the throne, Elizabeth had been spending more time with her mother-in-law than her husband. Lady Margaret did not comment on the marital division that she was no doubt aware of. Since Henry had the sons he needed, she probably did not care. The two women were able to be united over their common excitement concerning the upcoming nuptials and did not discuss Elizabeth’s marriage problems.
“They should stay at Baynard during the festivities,” Margaret said in the tone that she always used, one that allowed for no other opinion than her own.
“That would be suitable,” Elizabeth agreed. She had learned long ago that it was easiest to let Margaret have her way unless a detail was worth a battle.
Fabric samples and documents were scattered around the room as the women planned for the most important event of their lives the way the men planned for battle. The path of the procession was charted, and they had ridden it several times to note any problems that may crop up. Enough fabric had been ordered to carpet the entire trail so that the royal wedding party would arrive at St. Paul’s undefiled by dirt or any less desirable substances that frequented the London streets.
Wine would flow freely in the streets for the entertainment of the people whose involvement would be limited to catching a glimpse of the prince and his Spanish bride as they rode past. Extra guards would be on duty to keep the crowd from becoming overly enthusiastic in their celebrations.
Plantagenet Princess, Tudor Queen: The Story of Elizabeth of York Page 29