“She also attended to the princes’ needs, so master Roland tells me.”
“Truly? She had access to them in the Tower?” Elizabeth cursed her younger self for not paying more attention to what had gone on during those years. She had been young and selfish, thinking only of her own future as her brothers’ was snuffed out.
“That is what he said, your grace. She saw to their care and visited them regularly. And then they were gone.”
“But master Roland does not believe that they were moved.”
She was shaking her head. “I’m sorry, your grace. No, he does not. He believes that they were killed and their bodies hidden, making it difficult for Richard, a man who many already believed the worst of, to investigate or make public the truth about them.”
“Clearly, he felt that he could not tell me,” Elizabeth admitted, wondering if Richard had ever felt as close to her as she had felt to him.
“I am sorry, your grace,” Jayne said as she rose and fetched Elizabeth’s cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Do not be, Jayne. Your help has been invaluable. I did not hold out hope, well not much hope, that my brothers had survived the year 1483. My desire is to find truth, not comfort.”
“Your grace, if I may ask a question,” Jayne faltered.
“Of course, it may be a question that I should be asking myself.”
“Do you think the king knows?”
~~~~
Once Elizabeth felt up to moving, her procession travelled to Ewelme, which had been in the hands of her de la Pole relatives until their recent activities had put it in Henry’s hands. If she had hoped to find a similarly vociferous and well-informed servant remaining there as she had found in Francis Lovell’s master Roland, she was disappointed. After giving alms and offerings, she gave in to her body’s demands and returned to Westminster, where she called upon Catherine of Aragon to join her.
January 1503
Elizabeth had passed the two months since returning from her progress in relative quiet and inactivity. Catherine was a great comfort to her and assisted with Elizabeth’s charitable work and preparing the confinement chamber. Elizabeth was sure that this was the last time she would bear a child and looked forward to the time when her energy would return and she could feel like herself again. Catherine frequently joined her, kneeling at the altar rail to pray for a son.
If anyone questioned why the queen was not seen in the presence of her mother-in-law, nobody gave voice to it in Elizabeth’s presence.
Splitting their time between Westminster and Richmond, Catherine and Elizabeth built the type of relationship that Elizabeth looked forward to having with her daughters, Margaret and Mary, once they were older. Catherine was happy to arrange for packages to be sent to William Courtenay, who still languished in the Tower, unable to mourn for his son with his wife. Without commenting on the family politics at work in the situation, Catherine attended to the tasks Elizabeth set for her.
The Christmas festivities had been too much for the ailing queen, and she had made only the necessary public appearances. She tried to make up for her lack of enthusiasm through generous gifts, which Catherine helped her arrange and have delivered. Elizabeth was thankful that the revelries were concluded, and she hoped that she could focus on preparing for her confinement at Richmond.
As the month wore on, Elizabeth had difficulty getting out of bed. Fears began to assail her that she would not be strong enough to bear Henry this final son. In her weakness of body and spirit, she requested to be attended by an astrologer.
“Surely, you can’t be serious,” Catherine exclaimed. “Your grace, we must go before the throne of the Lord our God not to men who would claim to have power.”
“I have prayed to God, Catherine,” Elizabeth moaned, tears gathering in her eyes. “My dear, you are like a daughter to me, and I am thankful for the consolation that you have given me. Please, allow me this reassurance.”
“It is not right,” Catherine continued to shake her head. “I will call back the doctors that they may bleed you again. It is bad humors in your blood that we must rid you of.”
“No,” Elizabeth stated firmly. “I can’t explain it, but I feel even worse after the blood-letting. I cannot go through it again.”
Catherine watched the tears flow over the gaunt cheeks of this woman she had grown to love, the woman she should have been presenting with grandchildren, and gave in. “Very well, sweet Bess. I will call upon Doctor Parron.”
He was a surprisingly diminutive man, who would have been shorter than Elizabeth if she could stand. With his shuffling gait, he approached the queen’s bedside without allowing his shock at her appearance to reach his face.
Elizabeth was propped up on pillows with her red-gold braids falling down either side of her. She was painfully thin except for the large mound of her belly lifting the bed coverings. Without energy for small talk, she said, “Tell me what you see in the stars, doctor.”
“Yes, your grace,” he said, bowing repeatedly and never straightening to his full height. “I have been watching the night skies for mentions of your name.”
Elizabeth ignored the look of disdain Doctor Perron was receiving from Catherine, who refused to leave her mother-in-law alone with this man she considered evil.
“And what have you discovered?” Elizabeth pressed.
“I have seen your future in the stars,” he said with a gesture that made Elizabeth look up to see if the stars were in the room. “I can foresee, your grace, great wealth . . . .”
Elizabeth felt herself losing patience. Maybe Catherine had been right. “Doctor, my child?” she said, sliding her hands up the rise in the covers.
“Of course, your grace,” he said, bowing a few more times in rapid succession. “Your son will be a strong prince, one of many, of course.”
“A son,” Elizabeth said, a smile upon her lips.
“And the queen?” Catherine surprised them by asking from her perch in the corner. “What of the queen’s health?”
“Yes, my lady,” the doctor said with more bowing. “The queen will go on to bear more sons before going to her God when she is of a great age, not less than eighty years.”
Catherine allowed herself a half smile, met Elizabeth’s eyes, and nodded.
“Thank you, doctor,” Elizabeth said as Catherine handed him a pouch of coins.
~~~~
Cat returned to Elizabeth’s side to serve her in her confinement. She still mourned for her small son, but hoped to be in a better position to serve her husband at her sister’s side. It was not possible for her to hide her surprise upon seeing Elizabeth’s wasted condition.
“Sister dear,” we must not travel for Candlemas. “You should be abed and surrounded by tempting foods.”
“The babe is not due for another three weeks,” Elizabeth insisted. “I will enter the confinement chamber upon our return.”
Cat pressed her lips together, but conceded. On January 26, the pair of sisters arrived at the Tower.
Upon their arrival, Elizabeth was whisked away to bed on the orders of her younger sister. She did not argue. In truth, she had to admit that Cat was right, and she should not have attempted the journey. Elizabeth was determined to travel only in order to enter her carefully prepared confinement chamber as soon as she could.
February 2, 1503
“Cat, you must forgive me,” Elizabeth groaned. “This baby will not be waiting!”
The color drained from Cat’s face, but she took charge with only a second of hesitation. The luxurious chamber at Richmond that had been prepared would go unused, and Elizabeth’s child would be born within a cold, damp Tower chamber just like the one her brothers had died in.
Cat had never had any doubt that her brothers were dead and had not greatly concerned herself with who had been responsible. Her thoughts had always been for the future, a future in which William Courtenay and Edmund de la Pole would play a greater part.
Elizabeth groaned
again and Cat was brought back to the present where she wondered if the future would include her eldest sister. She sent her sister’s ladies scurrying to fulfill her commands as Elizabeth writhed upon the bed.
The midwife arrived just in time to deliver the queen of a thin, weakly crying baby girl. Named Catherine for the several wonderful women of that name that Elizabeth cherished in her life, the baby was quickly placed in the care of nurses as doctors were called upon to see to the queen. Despite their best efforts and the prayers of many, Elizabeth’s health seemed to fail further.
February 11, 1503
Through half opened eyes, Elizabeth surveyed the room around her wondering why it did not seem familiar. The tapestries and darkness seemed subdued and gloomy. This was not her chambers at Richmond or Westminster. The Tower. A chill ran through her as reality flooded into her weary mind. She was in the Tower, the last place she had wanted to bear her child, but it had all happened so fast. As when Margaret had been born, this child had come with painful ferocity.
The child, had it been a girl or a boy? Why could she not remember? How much time had passed? Clouds seemed to move slowly across her thoughts making it difficult to focus on the memory beyond the pain that still lingered in her body.
A figure rushed to her side. One of her attendants had realized that she was awake. Thirst suddenly assailed her and she was grateful for the quick movements of the woman she could not yet identify, but she took eager gulps from the goblet as it was held to her lips.
“Slowly, sister dear. You will sicken.”
Cecily. Of course, it was loyal, sweet Cecily. Elizabeth was overwhelmed with gladness that this person, who had served as a confidant practically since birth, was here beside her. Elizabeth knew that she would understand the request that she must make.
“My confessor. Please, Cecily.”
Cecily pressed her lips together and blinked quickly to clear the tears from her eyes. Denying the request would not keep her sister with her but endanger her eternal salvation, but how she wished to say no. Without a word, she nodded curtly and turned from the bed.
Elizabeth heard only the rustling of skirts and hushed tones before the door opened and shut, leaving silence once more. Again, her sister was at her side. Cecily’s hand in hers felt warm and smooth while her own seemed papery, cool, and almost as if it were not attached to her body.
Before too many minutes had passed, a tall figure burst into the room. The words of protest died on the lips of the women in attendance as they fell into low curtseys. Only Cecily stood and approached the king. They exchanged quick, quiet words before she stepped aside, and Henry rushed to the bed.
“Henry,” Elizabeth whispered. “Then my instincts tell me the truth.” There was only one reason her women would allow a man into the birthing chamber, king or not. How many breaths remained to her? It had never occurred to her to consider them finite.
“My beloved,” Henry wept freely, showing more emotion to the ladies in the room than most had seen from him in the last twenty years. “Elizabeth, forgive me,” he whispered.
Her hand raised from the bed to reach out to him but fell back before reaching its destination. “What would I forgive?” she asked.
He shook his head, remembering that the chamber was full of eager ears. Even his farewell to his wife would have to be controlled and carefully considered.
“Forgive me any time I have not loved you as fully as you deserved,” he said more evenly. How he wished to say more. He was sorry for the grief he had caused her and her family, but he could not regret snatching the crown from her uncle’s head.
She closed her eyes and nodded slightly, sensing that there was more he would say. A queen could not have privacy though, even in death. Were her breaths remaining now only one hundred? Fifty?
Her confessor was ushered in. He moved slowly and solemnly to Elizabeth’s bedside, assured that death would wait for him to perform his duties at their proper pace.
Words coursed through Elizabeth’s mind. Sins she would confess. Questions she would ask. But she had the strength for none of them. “Pray Lord, forgive and receive me,” was all she had the strength to say.
The priest made the sign of the cross over her and placed the tiniest portion of a communion wafer on her tongue. He stood, his duties complete. She sighed, ready for her journey.
Images of her children raced through her mind. Henry would be king, though she would never see the crown placed on his russet head. Henry VIII. What kind of king would he be? He was a bright boy, and she hoped he would not make the mistakes that his ancestors had made. A prayer for him and the future of England floated like a mist through her mind. He looked so much like his grandfather. A smile flitted across her lips as she thought about this future king, who would be called a Tudor, but was thoroughly Plantagenet.
She opened her eyes to see Cecily and Henry, each holding one of her hands. Funny that she couldn’t feel the pressure of their skin against hers. The energy to keep her eyes open was more than she contained. They closed. Was it now twenty? Ten?
“Happy birthday, my queen,” Henry whispered. She was thirty-seven.
All went dark and quiet, and for a moment she was afraid. Then it was as though she had been miraculously healed. Pain lifted from her as if a bird carried it away. Strength flowed into her limbs, and she felt the urge to run through a meadow of wildflowers. Beautiful, yet indefinable, music filled her ears. More than one song played at a time, but her mind could snag each one from the cacophony. Then she opened her eyes.
Tears of joy ran in streams down her face as she ran to meet those waiting to greet her. Into the arms of her father she fell, and she took deep gulps of breath. He still smelled slightly of sweat and horses, but his body was not as she had seen it last. Instead, when she looked up at him, she was reminded of the day he had victoriously rode into London and saved them from sanctuary when she was just a girl.
That was when Edward, her brother, had been born. She turned quickly, her unbound hair flying around her. Her brothers. Of course they were there. They surrounded her, but she felt only happiness at their reunion. The doubt and curiosity that had plagued so many of her hours now dissipated in their presence. Only love and grace filled their eyes, not anger or condemnation.
Richard and Anne. The love between them was still clear, and she wondered if it hadn’t been God’s plan to not separate them for long. No passion flamed in her, only sisterly love for her uncle as she embraced them in turn.
So many waited to greet her, but the crowd did not press. She saw no sign of impatience, only joy and happiness as they welcomed her into their presence. It was as if they had all eternity.
Then she heard the voice that did not need to be defined for her. It was a voice that she had never heard aloud though it had spoken to her heart, and she recognized it now as it beckoned her forward. Her family, friends, and those she instinctively knew to be her ancestors stepped aside leaving a path for her to follow as the voice gently commanded her.
“Come, my good and faithful servant.”
Epilogue – February 1503
Henry left his wife’s chambers for the last time. He would not cry until he was alone, so his mother’s presence outside the confinement chamber kept him from breaking down. His face still gave away enough that she knew that the queen was dead.
“I am so sorry, Henry,” she said, not because she cared all that much about her daughter-in-law, but because of the pain that it would cause her son.
Henry pressed his lips together, attempting to maintain control. It was easier to attack than mourn. “You need not worry, mother dear. She never discovered your secret.”
Margaret watched her son stride away with her mouth agape and her eyes wide. They had agreed never again to mention those boys. She would have killed a dozen princes to ensure that her son sat on the throne of England.
Afterword
A lavish funeral was planned for Queen Elizabeth. If he had not always demonstrated it
during her life, Henry Tudor left no doubt upon her death that he had truly loved Elizabeth. He never remarried, and his own health quickly failed.
Henry never entered the Tower again before his death on April 21, 1509. By this time, the fortress held as many bad memories for him as it had for his wife. Their son, Harry, who would become Henry VIII, would add to the blood soaked ground surrounding the Tower, but that is a story for another day.
Author’s Note
I decided to write about Elizabeth of York on April 12, 2013, my thirty-seventh birthday. Therefore, every day that I spent researching and writing about this captivating woman used one more day than she had been granted on earth. It was difficult but rewarding to enter the mind of this Tudor queen who I still prefer to think of as a Plantagenet princess. Though everyone recognizes the name of Henry VIII, few know that Elizabeth of York was his mother. I felt that it was high time that she receive some credit for bridging the gap between the Plantagenet and Tudor dynasties. What did she really think about her uncle and the fate of her brothers? Was she in love with Henry? I have tried to answer these questions to the best of my ability, but understand that it took as much imagination as research. Unfortunately, only so much information exists on this daughter, sister, niece, wife, and mother of Kings of England. I hope you have enjoyed my version of her story.
Connect with Samantha at samanthawilcoxson.blogspot.com
or on Twitter @carpe_librum
Plantagenet Princess, Tudor Queen: The Story of Elizabeth of York Page 34