A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (10 page)

Dressed in royal purple velvet, I sit in splendour on the ancient throne. With the elite of England looking on, the crown is lowered onto my head. It is heavy and I am forced to balance it most carefully. As Mass is said I fear I am in danger of losing my crown, so I keep my chin high and look across the nave of bared heads, lowered in prayer.

One day my son will sit here to be crowned king. The blood of York and Tudor run richly through his veins and will flow in his children’s too. This is but the first step.

The whole world is watching. I am aware of the king’s eyes upon me as well as those of his mother; my enemies as well as my friends are all looking on. I am just a small woman; a few years ago I was a bastard with no future at all. Now, a million eyes are boring into me; the ghosts of my father and uncles, my grandfather of York, together with those who have fought and died for us down the ages. As I achieve their dream to be risen before God to a higher state, all of them are witness to it.

The boy closes his eyes, remembering previous Christmases; his sisters squealing with excitement, his father in blustering good humour. One Yule, he hides behind the drapes of his mother’s chamber, watching her woman brush out her beautiful long hair. It crackles beneath the brush and glints in the candlelight. She has forgotten he is there and has put aside her indulgent maternal face and is completely herself. He notices something different about her. She is proud and beautiful as she always is but there is a new expression, something he hasn’t yet learnt the word for.

When the door opens the maids bob a curtsey to the queen and scurry out, giggling as they hurry past the king, who takes a playful swipe at the bottom of the last out of the door. Forgetting them immediately, he tosses his doublet on the floor and turns to his wife, his expression altered. The jovial king has gone, replaced by someone new, someone softer and yet more predatory. He holds out his hand and clicks his fingers; the queen rises and moves sinuously like a cat across the floor toward him.

“Elizabeth.” His father’s voice is husky. With both hands he lifts the mantle of hair from her shoulders, lets it run between his fingers to fall like a sheet of golden rain. He is so tall the top of her head does not even meet his chin. With her back arched and her face tilted to his, she takes a step closer and their bodies touch. The king’s hands skim across her, run lightly down her spine and linger at her buttocks. The boy watches entranced as his mother’s arms slide about his father’s neck. He realises he is seeing a side to his parents he’s never known before; a glimpse of a hidden adult world that is forbidden him.

She throws back her head to allow the king to feast upon her long white neck; at the touch of his mouth she gasps, closes her eyes, clutching at his sleeves while his big jewelled fingers dig into her buttocks. Effortlessly the king hoists her into his arms and her legs wrap about his waist. The boy holds his breath as his father carries his mother toward the bed and throws back the curtain.

“What the devil?”

The boy draws back in alarm, thinking he is due for a spanking. His mother squeals as the king tosses her gently onto the mattress before lunging at his son. With a yelp, Richard pulls away and leaps out the other side, crawling beneath the table, waking the dogs and setting them yapping. “You rascal,” his father yells. “Wait till I lay hands on you!” But the boy recognises the amusement in his voice and the tinkle of his mother’s laughter.

When he reaches the door, he turns and wags a cheeky remonstrating finger at his father before wrestling with the catch and darting into the corridor. As he heads for the nursery
,
the conjoined laughter of his parents follow him up the tower stairs.

Life is different now. Once everything was multi-coloured, flavoured with saffron; life was soft and comfortable. He was a blessed prince, everyone’s little darling. Even the time in sanctuary after his father died was cushioned by the love of his mother and sisters. They shielded him from the worst of the sadness, the danger they were in, and the chilly damp living conditions all seemed part of an extravagant game.

“I will see you again soon,” his mother said on the day he was sent to keep his brother Edward company in the Tower while he awaited his coronation. But she was wrong; he never did. The day he left sanctuary was the day his life changed forever.

Since the night Brampton wrapped a rough blanket over his head and carried him kicking and screaming from the Tower, the world had become an unstable, constantly shifting mystery. Now it is difficult to know who he is or what he wants. The only peace he knows is in Nelken’s arms and she has spoiled it all by announcing she is carrying his bastard. Now she has no time for him. She spends all her days throwing up into a bucket and he can no longer bury himself in her depths and forget his problems. She is his problem now; the biggest one of all.

*

“Cheer up, boy, it’s Christmas!” Brampton claps the boy on the back, making him spill wine down his chin and the front of his jerkin. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Damn you, Brampton, you almost drowned me.” He puts down his cup and casts a glowering eye around the room. The hall is in full swing, the remains of the feast spread like the aftermath of battle across the white tablecloths. A trio of fools cavort before the dais and the musicians are making ready to play, issuing a sharp discord as they tune their instruments.

Any moment now the dancing will begin, and he will paste on his mercurial, fun-loving face. He has come to detest the endless round of smiling faces, the pointless conversation. Richard’s tall bright looks act as a magnet to women both young and old, but he has no taste for what they offer. As he gazes unseeing at the vaulted rafters, a voice breaks into his reverie.

“I hope you manage to find time to partner me this evening, young man. I was quite left out last night.”

A middle-aged woman, still bearing the traces of her former glory, drags him back to the moment. He bows politely, kisses the back of her clammy hand and murmurs that she can be sure of it. She opens her mouth to speak again but Brampton grabs his arm, makes a glib excuse to the matron and drags him to one side.

“What is wrong, boy? You’ve been sulking about something for weeks. Have you fallen out with your hearth wench?”

The boy scowls. “She is no hearth wench and no … we haven’t fallen out.”

“Then what is it? I’ve not seen you this despondent since …”

“Since when? Since you dragged me from my home, my family?”

His face is hot, his lips tight against his teeth in a sudden ungovernable rage against fate, against Brampton who is his only friend and doesn’t deserve it. Brampton draws back, his face stretched with surprise.

“Most men would argue that I’d snatched you from certain death.” His face relaxes. “Ah, I see what it is. It’s Christmas, the past always seems closer at such times, and old memories have a habit of spoiling the present. Drink up and be merry, boy; there is no need to linger here, go and find your woman and lose yourself in her.”

“I can’t.”

“Why, has she tired of you? Well, there are plenty of others, most of them are falling over themselves to be bedded by the English prince.”

A jerk of the boy’s head negates Brampton’s suggestion. “It isn’t that.”

“Then what is it, boy? You can tell me.” He hooks an arm around Richard’s neck, his ear close to the boy’s mouth.

“She is with child, as green as a frog and throwing up her guts all over the chamber.”

Brampton pulls away, gives a silent whistle.

“Your aunt will be livid, she doesn’t tolerate loose living among her servants. How far along is she?”

The boy shrugs miserably. “How should I know?”

“Is she fat yet? Are her tits any bigger?”

“She is just sick and green and won’t let me near her. All she does is weep, and no, she isn’t fatter, she is thinner if anything. If this goes on it won’t be long until she is skin and bone.”

“Well, they don’t tend to die of it, not at this stage anyway. We will have to find her lodgings somewhere, give her some money to keep her mouth shut. But listen; don’t make a habit of it. It won’t do to litter the continent with York bastards; they could come back one day and bite you in the heel.”

The boy raises his head and blinks at Brampton for a long moment. “I won’t abandon her; she isn’t a whore.”

“She might not be now but she soon will be. How else is she to make a way in the world now? What do you propose then, marry her?” He leans back in his seat, folds his arms and puts his feet on a stool. “She will drag you down. You need to take a princess or a rich man’s daughter to wife, not a drab. Half the court will have had a go with her before you got there. You have to forget her and look to the future.”

When the boy makes no response Brampton continues, speaking quietly and earnestly. “Life is shit, boy, you have to get used to it. Under your Uncle Richard I was a rich man in England, Governor of Guernsey, property in Northampton, but I lost it all when the fates smiled on Tudor. I could have sat down and wept like a woman but I chose to grab what I could and make the best of it. Fate sent me you; our future is bound, boy. You need to grow up. I’ve a mind to take you with me on my next trading trip — incognito of course; you must leave off your fancy clothes. I will tell the Duchess you need some experience of the world. I will take you to Lisbon where I am having a house built. Your wench will have recovered by the time we return and the brat, if it lives, can be fostered out.”

Worn out by the long uncharacteristic speech, Brampton sits back and waits for the boy’s reply. In the end Richard rubs a hand over his face.

“I want to stay here; I am needed here.”

“No you’re not, boy. You are needed in England; the people are restive under Tudor. When the time comes your return will be welcomed, but not if you have a foreign whore on your arm, so forget her and think like a man, like a king.”

Brampton’s earring glints in the torchlight as he winks, but the boy turns away. His heart is sore; he is afraid of the future, afraid of the man he is becoming.

He gets up and fights his way across the hall, through the celebrating mass of courtiers, almost falls over a tumbling dwarf and crashes into a servant bearing a tray of cups.

“Sorry, sorry!” He holds up his hands and backs out of the room, his pace quickening as he reaches the tower door. As he climbs the stairs, each step he takes grows heavier. He pauses outside Nelken’s chamber, hesitates before knocking, pressing his ear close, listening as the seconds slip by. He hears a snivel from within, the sound of retching, a splash of vomit, a groan of misery. After a moment, he turns and hurries quietly away.

I am queasy, my head is light, my belly churning, but I welcome it. Yesterday I realised that I am, at last, in the early stages of pregnancy. I have slept in this morning, detaining my women for a long time over my toilette and lingering to dry my hair before the great fire that is roaring in my chamber. I am staring at the flames, dreaming of my unborn son when Henry comes upon me unexpectedly. He sends my ladies scurrying from our presence.

I rise to my feet, cling to the back of a chair while I fight off an unexpected wave of nausea. “Henry,” I smile weakly. “I did not expect you.”

“No.” He looks uncertainly about the room and I sense that something is bothering him.

“Is anything the matter?”

His answering smile is rigid. He gives a half laugh and looks down, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. With a gusty sigh, he raises his hands in agitation.

“There is always something. No matter what I do, how hard I try to win them over; there is always some new trouble brewing.”

He is missing the guidance of his mother who is absent from court, attending to matters of her own. I sense that Henry is in need of someone to talk to, someone he can trust. I take a step toward him, hold out my hand.

“Come, Henry, why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it? I might not have the answer but sometimes it helps just to have someone listen. You know you can trust me as you can no other.”

Poor Henry craves loyalty. He has not yet learned that, as the mother of his son, I am on his side. The king has recently secured a treaty with Spain with the understanding that their daughter Caterina will be betrothed to our little Arthur when the time is right. It is a fine alliance between our countries and proof of Spanish acceptance of Henry as King of England. This should help to secure his position. If the great heads of Spain accept him, then hopefully others will too.

He follows me uncertainly to the window and waits while I make myself comfortable, but he doesn’t join me. Instead he begins to pace up and down, four steps to the right, then four to the left, so that I grow quite dizzy waiting for him to speak.

“The north has risen in rebellion against us,” he says at last. I sit up straighter, doing my best to keep my expression bland. It is important that I do not show surprise or fear; he must think I view the odd uprising as nothing more than a necessary hazard of kingship. In truth, fear unfurls in my belly like a sickness. I am no stranger to rebellion and have been close to losing everything many times. The chill memory of my father’s exile and my time in sanctuary with my mother and siblings makes me shiver.

“Indeed?” I manage to say calmly. “And what troubles them this time?”

He throws up his hands again. “They sent Northumberland to me in protest against the taxes I imposed. The higher levies are essential. I need to fund the business in France, but they say they are unjust, unrealistic. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? It isn’t just about the money. They resent
me
; they still hanker after your wretched uncle, although he’s been four years in his blasted tomb.”

Petulantly, he punches a cushion, but I make no answer. I have learned it is best that we do not discuss Richard. After a moment he joins me on the window seat, perching on the edge of the cushion and speaking earnestly into my face, watching my every reaction.

The lines that flank his nose seem deeper today, accentuated by care. His grey eyes are cloudy with trouble. His tongue flicks across dry lips. “I sent Northumberland back to ensure the monies due to me are paid, and the mob turned on him. They dragged him from his horse and … and they murdered him, like a dog in the dirt!”

“Henry Percy?” I cry, my hands to my mouth, remembering the great earl who was such a friend to my father, and ultimately, an enemy to Richard at Bosworth.

“Yes, Percy. And now the mob runs amok like the misbegotten bastards they are.”

“Poor Maud …” My voice trails off as I think of Northumberland’s bereaved wife.

“Aye, poor Maud indeed.”

His voice is soft, bringing my head up sharply. Our eyes meet. Henry’s are narrowed, as deep in thought he looks away and stares into the corner. Once, so the gossips say, Henry was betrothed to Maud, the daughter of William Herbert, who held him in honourable captivity when he was a boy. The arrangement was stopped by Jasper Tudor’s brief return from exile when my father was overthrown. On York’s return to power, when Jasper fled once more overseas, he took Henry with him and the betrothal was broken.

“Did you care for her, Henry?” The words are out before I have thought them through. He looks up surprised, and laughs; a series of breathy snorts down his long nose, a sardonic smile lingering as he denies her.

“Nay, not really. We were young; it was a tactical match that would have suited her father, but myself? Not so much.”

“Not that it matters now,” I assure him. “It was all so long ago and feelings change.”

I risk a glance at him and see he is watching me. Taking advantage of this new harmony between us, he takes my fingers in his palm.

“They tell me you had a fancy for your uncle once. Do you think of him still?”

My face grows hot. I shake my head, my hair, still damp from washing, falling across my cheek.

“No, of course not; that was nothing but a sly rumour. I am happy with the man I have.”

I can see he is pleased. He squeezes my fingers gently, raises them to his lips but says nothing. I have learned not to expect sweet words from Henry, who shows his feelings by way of gifts and actions. If he joins me in my chamber after supper, I can surmise I have pleased him in some way and I have learned to be content with that.

“So, what do you propose to do about the northern rebels, Henry?”

He shrugs. “I have sent Surrey north with an army to restore order. I have instructed him that once they are quelled, he should hang the leaders and then listen to the people’s grievances, see if we can reconcile them by answering their needs.”

“That sounds a better way of winning them to your side than fighting them, Henry. People respond to reason. When things are quieter you should perhaps take a progress north, let the people see for themselves that you are a reasonable king.”

He begins to look happier.

“That is an idea. You must come with me, my dear. The people seem to love you.”

My cheeks flush. “I fear I will not be able to, my lord. Not in any comfort.”

In answer to his enquiring look, I place two hands on my belly and my smile stretches wider. “I have some hope that I carry another son, my lord.”

The summer that follows is long. I am uncomfortably hot and remain at Hertford for as long as possible, enjoying the cooling breezes that blow in off the River Lea. Henry travels from palace to palace, joining me when he can, always with an anxious enquiry as to the health of his child. He heaps gifts upon me: a bolt of black velvet, some lovely russet cloth, and an exquisite squirrel fur that I plan to have made into a hat. He also orders new shoes for my increasingly swollen feet.

I am in lusty health, eating like a horse and fighting a craving for pomegranates. Lady Margaret, when she visits with Cecily, says it is a sign I will prove fruitful and from the way my son kicks and stretches in my womb, I think she may be right. We spend a few days discussing domestic womanly things until a summons from the king sends her scurrying away again. She kisses me warmly, a hand on each shoulder, and I realise she has come to approve of me a little. The birth of Arthur and the imminent arrival of a little Duke of York has helped her to overlook my Plantagenet failings.

I go with them to the door and smile warmly as they mount up, remaining on the steps as they ride away before turning gratefully inside.

There are preparations to be made for my return to Westminster where my lying-in is to take place. By summer’s end I must shut myself away from the court and not emerge until the child is born. By my reckoning, I will miss the ceremony that will make Arthur, now almost three years old, a Knight of the Bath. It will be a special day for him and I am sorry to miss it, but it cannot be helped. Both Henry and my cousin Margaret have promised to describe the events in detail.

Within a few days, my coffers are packed and the horse litter made ready for the journey to Westminster. There will be a brief time to spend with the king while I ensure the lying-in chamber has been properly prepared. I look wistfully down at my vast belly and wonder what he will make of a wife who is the size of a galleon.

I need not have worried; his expression when we meet shows no surprise. He takes my arm and leads me into the hall, enquiring after my well-being.

“Is Arthur here?” I ask, scanning the hall hopefully, but Henry shakes his head.

“Not yet; we do not expect him for a day or so.”

My face falls. I had hoped to see him before my confinement, but I make no fuss and manage to summon some enthusiasm when my cousin Margaret suggests we visit the birthing chamber.

My apartments that look across the river smell familiar; wood smoke, perfume, a hint of spices, and the fresh tangy aroma of the aloe vera salve I use on my skin. I sink gratefully onto the bed and kick off my slippers. My ankles are a little swollen and the skin feels tight and hot.

Margaret is busying herself about the room, peering into cupboards and examining the array of bottles and potions the midwife has stored there. Alice Massey is to be in attendance to me; she was present at Arthur’s birth and proved a stalwart support when I knew so little about what to expect. I don’t think I can do without her now.

The bed on which I lie is soft; another gift from the king, the featherbed stuffed with down and covered in the finest Holland sheets. The walls are hung with fine floral tapestries and the ceiling with blue arras cloth starred with golden
fleurs-de-lis
. The pallet bed where I shall give birth is similarly fine, with a high rich canopy of gold with a velvet pall, embroidered all over with red roses. I reach out and feel the fabric between finger and thumb.

“It is very comfortable,” I remark, and Margaret turns to me.

“Cousin, it is a chamber fit for a queen.” We both break out into silly, girlish giggles.