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

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  When they arrived at Raglan Castle and Elizabeth welcomed Elizabeth Somerset as graciously as a favored friend, Jayne knew that she was right.

  That evening, Elizabeth Somerset was basking in the attention of her queen and cared not to question what she had done to deserve it. They had dismissed their attendants and enjoyed a small fire to take of the evening chill.

  Picking up her cup of wine, Elizabeth casually asked her host, “Did your step-mother ever talk about her father?”

  The younger woman, who was incapable of subterfuge, shrugged without wondering why the question was asked. “She did not speak of him much. I believe the subject was painful to her for she often heard the rumors put forth against him.”

  “Then she did not believe them?”

  A worry crossed the hostess’ mind that the queen may not have as high of an opinion of her uncle as Richard’s daughter had. “Of course, she could not know the truth,” she hedged, hoping that she had not caused offense.

  Elizabeth leaned closer. “I do not speak in anger, dear cousin. I am trying to solve a little family mystery, and you are just the person to help me.”

  Brightening again, the young woman went on, “Well, of course she loved him endlessly, she being a bastard and he arranged an advantageous marriage for her anyway. So many girls claim dukes and earls as fathers and don’t receive a second glance let alone recognition from a king.”

  “He was a generous and pious man,” Elizabeth said in encouragement.

  “It was Buckingham she hated.”

  Elizabeth leaned back, her brow furrowed. “Buckingham?”

  “Of course, your grace. She blamed him for everything – his rebellion that turned men against Richard after everything he had done for him, well, then he had no choice but to execute him, but men said that Richard should have let the duke have his say. Forgive me, your grace, but, of course, there is the case of your dear brothers as well. God rest their souls.”

  Elizabeth had been raised to keep her face arranged, be polite in all circumstances, and not be shocked by anything. Those lessons were forgotten now as she stared at her hostess with lips parted and eyes wide. “Buckingham,” she repeated.

  “Well, of course, your grace. Who did you think did it?”

  ~~~~

  Elizabeth and her party remained at Raglan for enough days to not seem that they were hurrying away, but Elizabeth never uncovered more information than she had that first night. Richard’s daughter had blamed Harry Stafford, not only for her father’s downfall but for the death of his nephews.

  It made some kind of sense, Elizabeth reflected, though she still could not imagine handsome, well-mannered Harry killing his own cousins. She smiled sadly to herself. If men could not kill their cousins, there would be many more men alive today. But she had loved Harry . . . . and Richard. She loved Henry, too, and did not want any of them to be guilty.

  September 1502

  The lazy days at Raglan had been easier for Elizabeth to bear. Back on the road, she realized that her health was not as improved as she had hoped, but she insisted upon one more stop before returning to Langley to convalesce.

  At Berkeley Castle, she was forced to be discreet with her inquiries. She was not likely to find many people who were as well informed and willing to talk as Elizabeth Somerset. The elderly Maurice, Lord Berkeley, had served as Knight of the Body to Elizabeth’s father, Edward IV. The task of having private word with the master of Berkeley Castle proved much more difficult than the same task with the mistress of Raglan. Though Lord Berkeley was effuse with his praise of Elizabeth’s father and what he called the “good old days,” he became tight-lipped on the topic of Elizabeth’s uncle.

  Elizabeth spent a few days resting to recover from the stress of traveling. She was surprised at the weariness she felt and the way her heart felt as though it would burst out of her chest with any physical exertion. She was frequently found kneeling in the small Berkeley chapel.

  Jayne was packing Elizabeth’s things. After a week at Berkeley, her mistress seemed ready to travel again and disappointed that she had not found whatever it was she was looking for. Elizabeth was taking a slow stroll around the garden, enjoying the warm sun and sound of birds singing. Soon a fall chill would be in the air, and some leaves were just beginning to turn color.

  “Your grace, I hope that you have enjoyed your stay.”

  It was Lord Berkeley, examining some plants and bushes that would need pruning before the cold set in. Elizabeth sent a silent prayer of thanks for this opportunity that she had been waiting for.

  “It is lovely here,” she said with a friendly smile. “I must apologize for my poor health. I would have enjoyed the opportunity to speak with you more.”

  Not one to mince words, Berkeley asked, “And what would the queen like to talk to an old knight about?”

  “My brothers.” She knew that she was being too direct, but time was running out and she had the impression that Maurice was one who appreciated directness.

  He took a deep breath and stretched his back. “What do you mean?”

  “I think you know what I mean,” Elizabeth said, watching his face. “What do you think happened to them?”

  “You do not still hold out hope that they are alive?” he asked in astonishment.

  “No,” Elizabeth admitted, eyes downcast.

  “May I ask you a question, your grace. If you forgive an old man for being too forward.”

  “Of course.”

  “The Warbeck boy . . . . was he . . . .”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I saw him with my own eyes and spoke to him several times. He was not Richard.”

  Maurice’s jaw tightened, but he nodded as if he expected as much. “Then he really did it.”

  “Who?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly.

  He took in her eager face and made a decision. Best leave deeds nobody should want to claim to those who are already gone. “Your uncle.”

  Elizabeth’s face fell and her shoulders stooped. “You believe that Richard killed them.”

  “Well, not personally, of course,” he said, looking away from her, supposedly to examine more plants. “Someone would have done it for him.”

  After a moment, Elizabeth asked, “Buckingham?”

  Berkeley’s head jerked. He was clearly surprised by this theory. “Well, now, I have no reason to believe that. It is James Tyrell who has been executed for the crime after all.”

  “Ah,” Elizabeth understood. She would not be gaining personal insight from Maurice of Berkeley. It was probably a habit that had enabled him to live a long, happy life. “Thank you, Maurice.”

  She did not see Lord Berkeley again until he assisted her into her litter. She would spend the rest of the month at Langley, praying that she would not lose the child that had just began making its presence known through the fluttering in her womb.

  ~~~~

  “Please, my lady,” Jayne begged. “You must allow me to send for an apothecary.”

  “I do not want word to reach Henry that I am ailing.”

  “But you are, your grace.”

  Elizabeth gave a faint smile. “I would write to my sister, Bridget. The prayers of one closer to God would do me well.”

  “Yes, your grace.” Jayne sent the message to Bridget, but also instructed the messenger to return with an apothecary.

  Elizabeth fixed an angry glare on Jayne when the man entered her chambers, but she was too weak to make any further protest. Clearly, Jayne had already filled him in on the details of Elizabeth’s symptoms: nausea, fatigue, dizziness, racing heartbeat. He left her with a few toxic looking potions and vowed to return in a few days. When he returned, Henry arrived as well.

  “My love, why did you not let me know that you needed me?” Henry asked as he rubbed her cold hands and he ordered a cup of wine brought with nothing more than a glance.

  “I am just not as young as I used to be, Henry. The babe is sapping me of energy, but he will be strong and that
is what is important.”

  She could not decide how she felt about his presence. On one hand, she had not discovered any other evidence that it was Henry who had killed her brothers. On the other, only the flighty Elizabeth Somerset had dared to share a theory that opposed the confession of James Tyrell. She could not evade her husband based on unfounded rumor forever.

  “I am glad you are here, Henry.”

  She was rewarded by seeing his face light up, which only served to confuse her more.

  October 1502

  “Why Minster Lovell?” Henry asked. He had been as attentive as any husband could be for the past fortnight, but Elizabeth insisted that she felt well enough to continue on her progress. Henry was just as adamant that he would join her. It would make it trickier to ask her questions, but she could do nothing other than thank him for being so thoughtful.

  “I would see that it is being cared for as it should be since it is now in our son’s hands.”

  It was a lame excuse, and she knew it. Lovell Hall had been the estate of Richard’s most loyal companion, Francis Lovell. They had grown up together, both trained in Warwick’s household at Middleham. After Richard’s death, Francis had fought for the fake Edward of Warwick at Stoke. Elizabeth knew that Francis would have realized that Lambert Simnel was not Edward, so she assumed that his loyalty had truly been with John de la Pole, Richard’s heir who died fighting that day. Francis had not been seen since.

  Henry only looked at her with a bemused expression before apparently chalking it up to the insane whim of a breeding woman.

  Henry and Elizabeth gave offerings and handed out alms at every church and chapel along their path. They had so many things to place at the feet of God, including the soul of their firstborn child and the life of the one yet unborn.

  Once they arrived at Lovell Hall, Elizabeth knew that she would not be able to carry out her own investigation. A skeleton crew kept the Hall in operation since it was rarely used, so it would be too noticeable for the queen to interview the servants looking for those who knew Francis. Jayne would have to do it for her.

  Jayne was thankful to finally be brought completely into Elizabeth’s confidence. “I knew that you must be up to something of this sort, your grace,” she said when Elizabeth had explained her mission to solve the mystery of her brothers’ murder. “I will do everything that I can.”

  When she reported back, Elizabeth cursed herself for not involving Jayne to a greater extent earlier.

  “The cook, she was here and served Lord Lovell,” she said as she ticked people off on her fingers. “And the master of the horse, though he’s not master of much now. The gardener and one of the footmen both remember him well also.”

  “Good work, Jayne! And did you ask them about the princes?”

  “Eventually, my lady. I have spoken to the cook as she will sing of the glory of days past to anyone who dares enter her kitchen, but the others may take more time to warm up to me.”

  “As you see fit,” Elizabeth agreed remembering Berkeley’s refusal to speak.

  “The cook does not believe for one second that your Richard had anything to do with the deaths of the boys,” Jayne stated, hoping that would be enough to please her mistress. It was not.

  “But who does she think did?”

  “Your grace, Lovell was devoted to Richard, unable to believe anything bad about him. Those of his household are likely to believe the same.”

  “That is why we are here. I need to know what those who remain loyal think.”

  Jayne looked down at her hands, twisting them together nervously. “She believes that it was at the hands of your husband, your grace.” She was surprised when the queen simply nodded. “She has never left this estate, your grace. She has no way of knowing.”

  “But she does,” Elizabeth interrupted. “For she would have heard it from Francis.”

  “If I may, your grace.” Jayne hesitated, and Elizabeth urged her on. “Your husband was not in England until 1485. How could he have done it?”

  Elizabeth had never tried to work out the how of Henry’s guilt, but Jayne was right. It was something to consider. “Let me know when the others speak.”

  Jayne heard the unspoken dismissal and returned to her new position as royal spy.

  ~~~~

  Elizabeth sat in a window seat looking over the gardens of Lovell Hall. They were compelled to remain because she was, once again, not well enough to travel. She was forced to admit that the routine of rising from bed, breaking her fast, and being clothed for the day, was exhausting for her. Her breath came in short bursts and she could feel her heart beating a quick cadence, so she had sat down to rest.

  One of her attendants handed her some watered wine which she graciously took. It seemed to help settle the never ending nausea. With her previous pregnancies, the sickness had lasted only a few weeks. She was well into her pregnancy now with her belly rounded enough to leave nobody guessing, but still was sick into her pot every day. Her baby grew, but she felt herself getting thinner and weaker.

  The sight of Jayne out on the lawn brightened her up a little. She was walking with Francis Lovell’s former horse master, who was little more than a stable boy to an empty stable. Elizabeth hoped that Jayne would find out why he remained here on an abandoned estate rather than serving another nobleman. Maybe he knew something that the rest of them did not.

  Elizabeth could not help but smile as she watched her conservative, respectable lady-in-waiting turn in to a coquettish flirt with the man who was easily twice her age. If the man suspected that he was being harvested for information, he gave no sign of it. Jayne even allowed him to kiss her on the cheek before walking away with much more sway to her hips than normal.

  “Leave us,” Elizabeth commanded as soon as Jayne entered the room. She ignored the knowing smiles that passed between her ladies who assumed that the prissy Jayne was about to be taken to task for her improper behavior.

  When they were alone, Elizabeth patted the seat next to her, which Jayne hurriedly took.

  “He has spent much time with Lord Lovell, your grace. Apparently, Francis – as he calls him – had no quandary with fraternizing with those beneath him and considered master Roland one of his greatest confidants.”

  “No,” said Elizabeth, not believing her luck. “Is that why he remains here?”

  Jayne nodded. “He does not believe that Francis is dead and asked me, ‘How would he know how to find me if I were to leave?’”

  Elizabeth leaned forward in expectation, forgetting her weariness for a moment.

  “He is a staunch supporter of your uncle, too, of course, he being the friend and noble king of Lord Lovell. He believes that Richard intended to send your brothers to safe homes where they could have a normal life and not be the figureheads of rebellions the way your poor cousin, Edward, was.”

  “That is what Richard told me,” Elizabeth said with enthusiasm. “He even had us write to them, though we never received letters back. Does he know where they were sent?”

  Jayne took a lingering drink from her wine cup, trying Elizabeth’s patience. “Forgive me, your grace, but I said that was what he believes Richard intended. He does not believe that it ever came to pass.”

  Drained of the hope that had fueled her energy, Elizabeth leaned back in her seat. “Why not.”

  “Because they disappeared before he had an opportunity to put his plan into place.”

  “Jayne, tell me. Did he use the word ‘disappeared’?”

  “No, your grace. He did not.”

  Elizabeth allowed her gaze to move back to the window and the overgrown gardens that had not been properly cared for since Francis Lovell’s disappearance. Was he still alive? Oh, how she longed to speak to someone like him, who would be the owner of so many answers she searched for. Looking back at Jayne, she said, “Continue.”

  “He believes that they were murdered before Richard could move them by somebody who was close enough to know of his plans.”
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br />   “Buckingham?” Elizabeth asked. She was no longer shocked when people suspected the handsome, fun-loving uncle she remembered of murdering his nephews.

  “No, your grace. He believes that the duke of Buckingham made an ill-advised decision to press his own claim to the throne because he was led by the same person who arranged the death of the princes.”

  This was a new theory, and Elizabeth’s face was filled with expectation.

  “Buckingham’s rebellion was nothing but a distraction and ploy to blacken Richard’s reputation, according to master Roland. Henry Stafford was a tool in the hands of one more crafty and clever than himself, and he was drawn in by the vision of a golden crown upon his head. His head was filled with lies and promises that would not be fulfilled so that the way could be cleared for another to take Richard’s place.”

  Elizabeth had gone cold and wished she had her wool cloak. This was the theory of Henry being behind the death of her brothers, but in much more detail and from a source who would have reason to know whether or not it was true. Had she married and had children with the man who killed her brothers and replaced them on the throne?

  “That is not what my mother believed. She was fully supportive of my marriage to Henry.” Elizabeth felt like she needed to defend herself.

  “You misunderstand me, your grace,” Jayne said softly, patting Elizabeth’s icy hands. “He does not accuse King Henry, but the one who would pave the way for him.”

  Furrowing her brow and frowning, Elizabeth tried to force her weary mind to think. Jayne seemed to be urging her to come to the conclusion without needing to be told. She had the open and encouraging countenance of a tutor waiting for their student to give them the right answer. Then Elizabeth’s mouth fell open and the wrinkles cleared from her forehead.

  “Margaret.”

  “Just so, my lady.”

  “She was a lady-in-waiting,” Elizabeth said, searching her memory for facts about the woman she had paid very little attention to at the time.