A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (35 page)

Christmas is gay this year. The court makes a determined effort to put sorrow aside and give thanks for what we have. The long shadows that trouble us are pushed purposefully aside to let the light pour in. There is the usual dancing, feasting, merrymaking and entertainments, and when the New Year arrives and gifts are exchanged, I begin to think that perhaps we can all be made anew. Perhaps this year will be a new beginning and the dawn of an age of hope.

In January, with Christmas behind us and a new year still unspoiled, I am rowed back to Richmond Palace. Soon it will be time for my confinement.

I have given birth many times now but never before has the thought of my lying-in period been so welcome. I have never felt so tired and I eagerly look forward to an end to the pregnancy and a long peaceful rest. It will be good to be lighter of this child, perhaps then my feet will return to normal size and, with a new heir in the royal cradle, I will feel light-hearted again. Until then, I continue to tire quickly and I know I will need all my energy for the coming birth. Once Candlemas is over and the time comes for me to retire, I will be more than ready to go.

*

Henry waits at Westminster for Catherine Gordon and I to arrive, and then we set off for the Tower. As always when the grey walls loom above us I cannot help but shudder. I look up at the windows, where countless unseen faces may be looking down, and wish I were somewhere far away. This place has always filled me with a sense of unease, a sense of foreboding. So much has happened here and I fear there are too many more dark events to come.

My husband must be aware of the bad feelings connected with the Tower but, with his usual lack of sensitivity, he is keen to show off the improvements he has made. He has extended the lodging in the Lanthorn Tower, adding a new bedchamber and privy closet and a new tower, a square one, that Henry has dubbed the ‘King’s Tower’. It has a private chamber, a library and large windows that look out across the river. While he makes himself comfortable there, I take up residence in the Queen’s lodging that lie adjacent to Henry’s.

We plan a lengthy domestic time in which, hopefully, leisure will be a high priority. The king’s mother is at her house at Coldharbour, so although we will see her often, she won’t be popping in and out of our privy quarters at all times of the day and night.

I spend most of my time in my chamber, trying not to think of my sister’s husband who is closeted away somewhere within the confines of this place. I try to ignore the echo of my brother’s memory, and the unseen presence of my little cousin Warwick. I push them away and order the shutters to be opened wide, to allow as much light as possible into the corners.

I write letters and then settle down to put the finishing touches to a cap I am embroidering for the baby. It is almost bedtime when Henry comes to bid me goodnight. I watch him in the torchlight, the shadows leap and dance on his face, belying the lines of strain and worry. I stand up and he takes my hand, holds it while I raise myself on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Just as soon as my lips touch his skin, I feel a pop, and my legs are suddenly doused in warm, sweet smelling fluid. We both look down and the king sputters in astonishment while my head reels with embarrassment. I am horribly humiliated that he should be witness to such a thing.

“Henry!” I exclaim. “It is the child.”

“It is too early, surely …” He shouts loudly for the guard to send for Alice Massey, the midwife, who is thankfully installed somewhere in the Tower. Soon, summoned by the scurrying guard, my ladies come rushing in. Henry stands helplessly by as they hurry me to bed. As they bear me off, I raise a hand.

“Goodbye, Henry,” I say, as if I am going for a walk in the park.

*

The birth is quick; too quick according to Alice, who prefers a woman to suffer a little. I barely have time to prepare myself for the task before it is over. While the child is whisked away to be made presentable, Alice dithers over the afterbirth. She carries it away, for some reason unhappy that it has come away in pieces. Soon I am washed and dressed in a fresh gown, and they hand the child to me.

She is tiny. I look down at her delicate features, her bruised forehead and tiny wrinkled fingers. According to Alice she has come a little early, but she appears to be healthy, if rather small. She feeds but slowly, often falling asleep before she is properly full.

“Shall we name her Catherine?” I suggest when Henry comes to look at her. He is so relieved that the child and I have both come through our ordeal safely that he quickly agrees. I have now managed to name each of my daughters after one of my sisters, and I lay back with satisfaction.

Henry is leaning over the cot, examining his offspring for flaws. I am satisfied he will find none. He straightens up and grunts in satisfaction as he returns to my bedside.

“I was worried for you, my dear,” he says. “I think we should risk no more children, not for a while anyway.”

I am almost thirty-seven. The anniversary of my birth is just a short week or so away; I doubt I have many more years of childbearing left to me. I say nothing. I let him continue his dream of another Tudor prince and the great dynasty he longs for.

“You look tired,” he says, standing up and shrugging into his coat. “I will leave you to rest.”

He creeps away as if afraid of disturbing the child, and I roll onto my side and close my eyes.

Sometime later I am woken by the king’s mother. She comes creeping into the chamber and leans over the cradle to admire her newest grandchild. I drag myself back to consciousness to greet her.

“Sorry,” she says loudly. “I didn’t intend to wake you. I just wanted a peek at her. She is very small. Is she feeding properly?”

“She is not the little piggy her siblings were but is doing well, I think. She is slow; the wet nurse will have to be very patient. A woman is coming tomorrow.”

My breasts are full of milk. Already the conversation has made it begin to flow; I can feel it seeping through the bindings, a growing stain appears on the front of my nightgown. I hope the king’s mother doesn’t notice.

She stands up. “You have done well, Elizabeth. A son would have pleased the king more but he seems very content for now. Well done.”

I am still basking in her praise when Catherine wakes, her tiny mews making my milk begin to flow afresh. I cradle her to my breast, enjoying the pull of her mouth, the touch of her tiny hand on my skin.

I open my eyes to darkness. I am cold, shivering, yet my pillow is damp. My head aches and my throat is parched. I call out for a drink but I can make no sound; my voice is hoarse. Nobody comes.

I drag myself onto my pillows and peer through the darkness into the antechamber where I can just detect the outline of my woman, her body humped in sleep.

There is a jug of wine on the table, just out of reach. I stretch out an arm but it is too far. Throwing off the covers, I swing my legs from the bed and put my foot on the mat. The room tips, the floor coming up to meet me as a gush of something wet and warm floods from beneath my petticoats. Instinctively, I reach down; my fingers come away sticky, stinking of blood.

It is then that I begin to scream.

My woman leaps from her truckle bed, rushes into the room, takes one look at me and pushes me back down on the mattress. “I will fetch help, Your Grace,” she cries before she leaves me. I hear her running along the corridor, shrieking for help.

I close my eyes and groan. “Not now, Lord; not now, not like this.”

Henry is in my chamber, his nightgown showing white in the gloom. He shouts for a light, for a physician, for the midwife. Everyone is shouting. Alice comes, the king’s mother behind her, her hair a thick grey plait like a horse’s tail. She takes control of her son, propels the king from the room. I can hear her telling him loudly that everything will be all right, the queen is in good hands. I draw comfort from her words; the king’s mother is a wise woman. She is always right.

Alice is wrenching up my shift, examining my tummy, while my women thrust cloths between my legs to staunch the flow. They illuminate the chamber with torches and candles, and the fire is poked back into life. As I look upon the scene I feel detached from it, as if it is all happening to someone else.

Poor Henry.As his physicians battle their way across country to get here, I am leaving him, little by little; as the blood flows faster
,
my strength grows less. I feel strangely detached from them all, cannot understand their tears. The pain has passed now but my head feels light, as if it is stuffed with muslin. When they tell Henry they can do no more, he hangs onto my hand, kissing it, telling me over and over that all will be well. He is the king, he has commanded it.

“The children, Henry. Look after the children. Let them marry well and Harry, he is young, let him fly, Henry. Do not hold him too tightly or you will damage him. He is our heir, let him grow strong.”

“Yes, yes.” Henry has tears on his cheeks; the parallel lines that flank his mouth become conduits for his sorrow.

“I tried to be a good wife, Henry. I did my best, all I could. I never meant to cross you.”

“No …” His voice cracks, he tilts his face to the ceiling and I am sure he is praying. There is a movement at his side and I notice his mother. She is weeping too; I never expected that. I thought she resented me but I suppose I must have been wrong. I hold out my hand and she takes it, her fingers are dry and cold.

“Look after them,” I beg her. “They are so small. Do not be too harsh with them.”

She dashes a tear from her cheek and turns her face away. My hand drops to the counterpane.

“Where is Catherine?” I ask. “I want to speak to Catherine.”

There is a rustle of silk and a woman appears. Henry steps away. It is not my sister, Catherine, whom I had asked for; it is Catherine Gordon, my brother’s widow.

“Your Grace?” Her face is so fair; so ethereal, so delicate. “You wanted to speak to me?”

I hadn’t called for her but since she is here I grip her hand and urge her closer. I try not to notice how she flinches from my tainted breath. I must stink of death.

“He will be lost without me,” I whisper. “Look after him, give him your comfort.”

For a moment she is stunned, she blinks rapidly, her mouth working, her tears dropping onto our joined hands.

“I will,” she says.

A priest is mumbling a prayer. There are cold fingers on my face, on my lips. Someone is sobbing in the corner. A baby is crying, a feeble cry like the sound of a gull tossed in the wind.

I slip into a sort of dream. I see Harry’s face; he is teasing Meg, laughing because she is in a rage with him. Close by is little Mary; she is tormenting a kitten, trying to make it fit into a jewelled box. My children; I have filled the royal Tudor nursery with children of York. This is the one thing I have done well.

I try to wake, to open my eyes. There is something I need to tell Henry. I open my mouth to call him. I see him turn, his face illuminated by the light of the fire.
He is old
.

I start up in the bed but darkness encroaches from the periphery of the room. It pushes me back, heavy on my chest, constricting me, pressing me down, down into nothingness. There is only darkness.

Light the torches, please.

The divide between life and death is narrow. Sometimes it creaks slowly back and forth
,
like an old door; one moment promising darkness, the next plunging us back into the blinding reality of this world. Other times, when we least expect it, the portal opens quickly, drags a victim through and slams shut, forming an impassable rift between loved ones.

A boy in black velvet, edged with lambskin, creeps along the corridor, his new black shoes soundless on the stone floor of the Tower corridor. He looks over his shoulder. He must not be seen. He reaches out, grasps the latch and pushes open the door.

His mother’s chamber is empty now; the cot that held his baby sister for the few short days she lived is still in its place, close to the bed. But his sister’s cries are silenced now and his mother breathes no more.

The room is bleak, the fire cold, and the table at the bedside is littered with an array of medical instruments; a small glass phial, a knife, and a stone bowl. He wrinkles his nose at the acrid, bitter smell pervading the air and knows it for the aroma of death.

Empty of feeling, Harry steps further into the room and stares at the empty bed. Someone has tidied it; the lace-trimmed pillows are plumped, the rich velvet coverlet has been smoothed. At the foot, his mother’s prayer book is open, the bright illuminated page a gay mockery of his bewildered sorrow. Her robe is folded across a chair, her slippers partnered neatly beneath. A white scrap of embroidery has fallen to the floor.

Only his mother is not here. She has abandoned him.

He reaches out, tentatively rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers, and her fragrance wafts from the disturbed folds. Lifting it to his face, he buries his nose in the fur collar, and, as if some giant has taken hold of his heart and is squeezing it dry
,
his tears erupt.

The heir to the English throne drops to his knees and casts himself onto the bed. He pushes his face into the counterpane, smearing it with tears. To escape the terrible ache in his heart, he squirms, consumed by sharp twisting agony. He bunches the coverlet in his hands, screwing it between his fingers, and sends a gasping prayer to God.

“Bring her back, God. Please, just bring her back. I need her. I want my mother.”

But God doesn’t answer; He is deaf to the pleas of children. Boys, even princes, even kings, cannot counter-command death, or dictate the will of God.