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

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  Elizabeth sat back and stretched to ease the pain in her lower back. Remembering her own bridal procession, she hoped Arthur and Catherine would find lasting love and contentment in their marriage. For a long time, she had believed that she and Henry had. Now, she was not quite so sure.

  As if her thoughts had commanded his presence, Henry entered the chamber. He surveyed the mess with an upraised eyebrow and dismissed the servants with a silent gesture. His mother remained seated, certain that anything he would say to Elizabeth could be said to her. He did not seem to mind.

  “I would speak to you about the wedding.”

  “I can assure you that we are more than capable of handling this while you take care of the rest of the country,” Margaret said.

  “I have complete faith in that,” Henry assured her with a smile. He never seemed to notice her rudeness. “There is one request that I would make though.”

  “What is it?” Elizabeth asked. She felt the need to remind them that she was in the room.

  Henry rubbed his hands over his face. He looked weary, as if speaking to his wife was one more offensive task that he was forced to perform. “I do not believe that the marriage should be consummated.”

  “What?” Margaret shouted. Elizabeth said nothing but her eyes grew wide. “Arthur is fifteen years old, Henry,” Margaret continued as if speaking to a child. “He is ready to be a husband in every sense of the word. Surely you would like him to beget an heir as soon as possible.”

  Henry poured himself a cup of wine and drank half of it before responding. “I am not certain that his health allows it.”

  “What are you talking about?” This time it was Elizabeth’s turn to go on the attack. “You did not tell me that our son was ailing.”

  “I’m sure it is nothing, Bess. Some weakness and difficulty eating. I would just like him to have a chance to fully recover before taking part in the physical demands of the marriage bed.”

  “The Spanish will not be happy,” Margaret pointed out.

  “The Spanish do not have to know,” Elizabeth said, surprising herself by taking Henry’s side. “If it is a matter of my son’s health, we will take every precaution.”

  Henry looked at her and she could read the silent thanks on his face. She turned away, angry that this was the first she had heard of Arthur’s symptoms. Please, God, she prayed. Do not take this son, the hope of the kingdom, from us.

  ~~~~

  When Arthur arrived in London later in the month, Elizabeth was reassured that her fears had been for naught. Riding into the city at his father’s side, the prince was a vision of elegance and grace. He had the slender, wiry build of a young man, but he would fill out as he grew. It wasn’t until she beheld him up close that Elizabeth noticed the shadows under his eyes and hollowness of his cheeks.

  “You have not been eating enough,” she chastised him. “Have you a case of the marriage jitters?” She joked to lighten the weight that was building and threatening to crush her heart. She shoved a plate in front of him and pretended not to notice that he spent much more time moving the food around than placing it in his mouth.

  “I am fine, mother,” he said wearily. “The trip has been tiresome. I simply need some rest.”

  “Very well,” Elizabeth said, caressing his face with her hand. No fever. “Your chamber has been prepared.” She motioned for a servant to assist Arthur into bed. “We will talk more tomorrow.”

  “Yes, mother,” he agreed, kissing her on the cheek. “God bless you.”

  “May he bless and keep you, my son,” she whispered as he walked away.

  ~~~~

  Catherine of Aragon rode into London amidst cheers from a pressing crowd. Every man, woman, and child hoped for a glimpse of the woman who would be the next queen of England. She did not disappoint. Perched upon a highly decorated mule, Catherine could have been an angel from heaven with her white skirts spread out around her and her light auburn hair flowing down to veil her small body from view. It would not be easy to follow in the footsteps of the popular and beautiful Queen Elizabeth, but most agreed that Catherine looked like she may be up to the task.

  Elizabeth welcomed Catherine to Baynard’s Castle to prepare for the wedding taking place the next day. She was delighted by the lovely, quiet girl who seemed perfectly suited to her serious and solemn son. Since they both spoke Latin, that is the language that they chose to communicate in.

  Catherine curtseyed deeply before her soon to be mother-in-law. “Your grace, I am pleased to finally meet you.”

  “I feel as though I already know you,” said Elizabeth, pulling Catherine into an embrace. “Your letters have brightened many of my days, and I look forward to seeing you and Arthur wed on the morrow.”

  Catherine blushed and looked down at her hands. “Prince Arthur has written many fine letters that I keep with me always.”

  “I believe the two of you will find great happiness together.”

  Elizabeth directed Catherine to a small table with two chairs that she had prepared for them before the hearth. “Let us sit and get to know each other better. You must be hungry,” she said, indicating the plate of cheese and wafers.

  “Thank you, your grace.”

  “Please, call me Elizabeth.”

  “Thank you, Elizabeth,” Catherine said and blushed again at the informality.

  “Have you found England to your liking?”

  “Oh, yes. It is beautiful.” She would have said nothing else. How could she point out that it seemed rather rainy and cold. The people seemed rather improper. The king had even demanded to see her face before he would allow the wedding to take place!

  “I hope you have been made to feel welcome here.” Elizabeth poured two cups of wine, and she placed one in front of the nervous young woman before taking a sip from her own.

  “Quite,” Catherine said. She would not admit that she felt like a displayed trophy more than a welcomed princess.

  “Good,” Elizabeth said taking another sip. She waved away her attendant and turned back to Catherine. “And now you may tell me how you truly feel.”

  Catherine’s eyes widened in fear and surprise. Could the queen discern her disappointment? She tried to mumble an assurance that she could not be happier but stopped when she finally looked up from her lap to see the queen’s face. Elizabeth looked as friendly as any merchant’s wife with her eyebrows upraised and a twitch of a smile on her lips.

  “I have been a paraded princess all of my life, dear Catherine,” she said, patting the girl’s cold, clammy hands. “I do know what it feels like. I have not however had to leave my country and be paraded in front of complete strangers who do not share my language. It must be awful. Praise God for bringing you through it for you have more trials to come.”

  Catherine’s jaw dropped and her mouth worked to come up with a response. Then they were both laughing, and Catherine’s fears melted away.

  “Thank you, your grace. I feel that I have a friend here.”

  “The first of many, I am sure,” Elizabeth said, taking a few morsels from the table. She shouldn’t, she needed to fit into her gown specially made for the wedding festivities. “Arthur will be an attentive husband, and I do not say that simply because he is my son. I think the two of you are well suited and will be happy together.”

  “I pray that God blesses us with happiness and many children,” Catherine said, almost keeping another furious blush from covering her face.

  “That is my prayer as well. Is there anything else that I can do for you? Do not be afraid to ask?”

  Her hands twisted in her lap and she had to force herself to look up. “I do have one concern,” Catherine admitted.

  “What is it?”

  “A motto,” Catherine said almost in a whisper. “I am told that queens of England have a motto.”

  “That is true. Mine is ‘Humble and Reverent,’ though sometimes I must work to personify these qualities.”

  “That is lovely, your grace . . . .
Elizabeth. I do not know what mine should be.”

  Elizabeth did not allow the smile that threatened to creep up to her face. She could see that, to Catherine, this was a serious dilemma indeed. Examining the girl thoughtfully, she could see that she embodied humbleness more than herself. What would be a fitting motto for the wife of her son?

  “Humble and Loyal.”

  Catherine tilted up her chin and smiled. She was not one to notice her own strengths but was pleased by what the queen had seen within her. “Humble and Loyal. Yes, I do like that. Thank you, your grace.”

  The next day, Arthur and Catherine said their vows in St. Paul’s Cathedral, and the festivities that would last for the next twelve days began.

  On the morning following the wedding, Arthur boasted of spending the night in Spain.

  December 1501

  It was time for Arthur and Catherine to make their way to Ludlow, where they would rule as the Prince and Princess of Wales. Arthur was anxious to return to what he considered his home. The festivities had exhausted him and he was weary of keeping up appearances. Catherine was fond of her new husband but was fearful of another move and leaving those she was just growing to love.

  “Catherine, my dear,” Elizabeth said, embracing the younger woman. “Thank you for the time we have spent together. I know that you will make my son very happy.”

  “Thank you, Elizabeth. I mean to.” She no longer felt that she needed to keep her eyes down when she spoke to her mother-in-law and would miss her greatly in the days to come.

  “Keep him on the straight and narrow,” Henry joked, knowing that nobody held Arthur to a higher standard than himself.

  Catherine laughed and said, “I will, your majesty, and thank you for all you have done for me.” She was no longer appalled by Henry forcing his way into her lodgings to see for himself what his son’s Spanish bride looked like. Now he was the caring father-in-law who had showered her with jewels and shared his library with her when she was morose over the return of her attendants to Spain.

  Henry spoke with Arthur off to one side where the women could not overhear. Arthur seemed to be assuring his father of something, but Elizabeth couldn’t be sure what.

  “Do let me know when you find yourself with child,” Elizabeth whispered conspiratorially to her daughter-in-law and was surprised by the deep blush it raised.

  “Of course, I will, and I pray that it will be soon.”

  “God bless you and keep you, my dear daughter.”

  “And you,” Catherine said with a small curtsey.

  Their procession began its journey, and Elizabeth stood watching until they were out of sight. It made her sadder than ever to watch Arthur return to his own estates.

  January 1502

  Elizabeth found it difficult to believe that it was time to lose another of her children to marriage. She still missed Arthur and Catherine more than she admitted to anyone other than Jayne, but it was time to sign the long negotiated treaty with the king of Scotland.

  Princess Margaret was formally betrothed to James IV in an elaborate ceremony that emphasized the solidity of the Tudor monarchy and its unity with its neighbor to the north. With this treaty in place and Arthur married to the Spanish princess, few could doubt Henry’s permanence.

  Elizabeth sat beneath a canopy wrapped in warm furs with her youngest children, Harry and Mary, at her feet. She looked at them and longed to tousle their hair and pull them into her arms. Their day would come too soon. Though she longed for an advantageous marriage for Mary and a prominent church position for Harry, she hoped that both could be put off for several more years.

  Elizabeth found that she was holding her breath when the Archbishop of Glasgow asked Margaret if she entered into this agreement of her own free will. Ten year old Margaret certainly knew plenty about free will, but she played the part of the dutiful daughter on this day and answered in the affirmative. The marriage by proxy was quickly completed and Margaret was officially the Queen of Scots.

  The agreement was that Margaret would be sent to her husband in September of the next year, but Elizabeth hoped to delay the day when that time approached. Though she could not express it publicly, she still had concerns about her womanizing son-in-law. She knew that September 1503 would come far too soon to please her. She made up her mind to enjoy the wedding festivities and her daughters’ company rather than concern herself with tomorrow’s troubles.

  February 1502

  “Henry, I must speak to you,” Elizabeth said, catching him between petitioners in the great hall at Westminster.

  “Of course,” he said, and he rose to lead her into a more private chamber.

  “I have received a letter from our daughter-in-law.”

  “News?” He knew it must be important for her to seek him out. She continued to speak to him only when necessary since the earl of Warwick’s execution. She never outwardly opposed him, so he said nothing but prayed for healing between them.

  Elizabeth nodded. “I am afraid that Arthur has fallen ill.”

  Henry’s lips pursed into a thin line. He had warned his son about waiting to consummate the marriage, though he was as eager as any new husband. His health was the first concern, for the sake of the kingdom.

  “Catherine writes that he is bound to his bed, and she struggles to get him to eat.”

  “She is a good and devoted wife, and he is a young man. He was probably out of bed before you received the message.”

  “I do hope so,” Elizabeth said doubtfully. She remembered Arthur’s pale complexion and weariness that he had tried to hide over the weeks that he had been in London. Ignoring the signs of consumption, she acknowledged that there was nothing to be done if that was what Arthur suffered anyway. “I would like to pay for prayers to be said for him.”

  Henry shook his head. “We cannot allow doubts and rumors to spread. I already have my hands full dealing with another one of your troublesome cousins.”

  “Edmund?”

  “Of course, Edmund.” He began to pace, a sure signal of his anxiety. “Your de la Pole relatives insist that they are not content with my rule even without Edward as their figurehead. Maybe it is Edmund himself who believes he should take his place.”

  Elizabeth said nothing. She would not rise to his bait. Besides, she knew nothing of her cousin’s plans. She was not surprised that Edmund and his brother, William, were not deterred by Edward’s execution but infuriated by it.

  “I am in the process of revealing the conspiracy supporting him, which, of course, will include William Courtenay. I am sorry, Bess. They may be your extended family, but they continue to plot against me.”

  Elizabeth forced herself to take a deep breath and unclench her fists. “I will have the masses said for both Arthur and Catherine. Everyone will assume that we pray for them to be blessed with a child.” Then she turned and walked away.

  ~~~~

  William Courtenay, Cat’s husband, and William de la Pole were arrested and put into the Tower, as was James Tyrell, a former follower of Richard III, who had been convinced to leave the relative safety of Calais and return to England. Edmund de la Pole remained at large, though Henry managed to have him excommunicated.

  Elizabeth sent care packages to her cousins in the Tower, much to her husband’s chagrin.

  April 1502

  “Your grace, wake up. It is the king. He has sent for you.” Jayne had been the only one of Elizabeth’s ladies willing to disturb her when the king’s page arrived at her chambers. She could not remember the king calling for her at such an hour, or rarely ever, for he would simply come to her chambers if he wished to see her. That had not occurred for some time either.

  “What is it, Jayne?” Elizabeth mumbled sleepily.

  “I’m not sure, your grace. The king requests that you attend him.”

  A feeling of foreboding coursed through Elizabeth’s body. Her mind immediately brought up words from Catherine’s letters of Arthur’s failing health. He had been able to
spend some time out of bed, but would quickly grow weary and return to it. She was immediately awake and had Jayne assist her with her closest dress. “Pray for Arthur,” she whispered in Jayne’s ear before rushing out the door.

  Henry was waiting for her, seated upon a bench with his confessor before him. Elizabeth looked from one to the other but could not discern the reason for her being yanked from her bed. She took the seat next to her husband when he offered it.

  “Your majesties,” the aged friar began, “I regret to be the one to bring you tidings of the worst sort.”

  Elizabeth’s heart plummeted and she grasped Henry’s hand. Forgotten were any of the crimes that she had held against him. He was no longer the murderer of her cousin but the father of her son.

  “Three days ago, on April 2, your dearest son, Prince Arthur, was departed to God.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes as tears began to stream down her face. Henry was squeezing her hand so hard that it hurt, but she didn’t care. She wanted to kick and scream. Arthur, the mingling of Tudor and Plantagenet blood named after the golden king of legend, was dead before reaching the age of sixteen. Images of him as an infant, toddler, and small boy flashed before her mind’s eye. She had been so full of hope for him. He had been as serious and contemplative as his father, but with enough of his mother’s charm and piety to earn the love of the people that eluded Henry. Now, he was gone.

  She realized that Henry’s confessor was again speaking.

  “If we receive good things at the hands of God, why may we not endure evil things?”

  It was true, but it was not what the grieving couple needed to hear at this moment.