A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (4 page)

“You still believe he will marry you, don’t you?”

Cecily’s voice intrudes into my thoughts and I turn from the window to where she is sewing. She has paused, her needle half in, half out of her work while she looks at me with ill-concealed impatience. “Even though he has had himself crowned and all the nobles in the land have bowed their knee to him, you still think he needs you.”

“He does need me.”

I do not bother to point out that most nobles did not bow to him at all but were executed or fled overseas to safer harbours. In dating his reign from the day before the fight at Bosworth Field, Henry was able to accuse them all of treason. I try not to think of the noble souls who were punished for supporting their anointed king. There are many things I try not to think of these days.

I pick up an apple from the table but a wasp has been at work on it, the neatly burrowed hole discoloured and brown at the edges. I put it down again and join the women who are working at the hearth. As I take my place among them, a little girl leaps up to fetch me a footstool, and I smile in thanks.

Cecily continues her taunting. “Why does he need you now he is crowned? He can beget an heir on anyone. I’ve heard he was fond of … what is her name? Herbert. Maud, perhaps? Or Katherine? Anyway, whichever one it was, the gossips are saying that when they were young he promised to marry her, too.”

She examines me for signs of resentment but I keep my face calm, smooth out the irritation caused by her persistent questions.

The other women show no sign of even hearing our conversation let alone joining in. They are well-schooled but I doubt their loyalty. More than half of them are probably spies on Henry’s or his mother’s behalf. I smile serenely over their bowed heads.

“The king may well favour Katherine, but he will marry me.”

“How do you know?” It is a good question. Half a dozen faces turn toward me, trying not to appear eager for my answer. I stand up again.

“Because he promised,” I reply lamely as I walk away.

A small boy throws open the door to my inner chamber as I approach and I hear Cecily’s footsteps hurrying after.

I am not as confident of Henry as I seem and was taken aback when the arrangements for his coronation began without a word to me. He has punished all those who failed him and honoured all who supported him. His stepfather Stanley is now an earl; his beloved Uncle Jasper now Duke of Bedford and promised the hand of my aunt, Katherine Woodville. Henry has done all he promised; all but appease the remaining Yorkist faction by cementing his claim and marrying me.

As the door closes, Cecily darts in behind me and resumes her attack while I throw myself onto the bed and kick off my shoes.

“You’ve only met him a few times.” She bounces onto the mattress beside me. “How can you possibly know he will keep his promise?”

I don’t know, of course, but I cannot allow my insecurity to show. As if Father is before me I can hear him telling me, ‘Never let them know what you are thinking, Bess. Smile, laugh and keep your own council.’ So, remembering his words, I hide behind serenity.

“I just know.”

“Oh, you are so smug sometimes, Bess. You know nothing about him … only gossip. And what about those other things we heard, you know, the bad things about him being cowardly on the battlefield, pissing his hose and all?”

I roll over onto my belly and laugh at her. “You are lucky his spies can’t hear you. Oh Cecily, those are just tales, told by our uncle’s supporters. You won’t hear a good word for a Tudor from the lips of a man of York.”

She sighs again, pouts as she pulls off her cap and frees her red-blonde hair. “Who am I going to marry, Bess? Now that Henry has had my betrothal to Ralph Scrope dissolved, who will I end up with?”

When Uncle Richard arranged her marriage to Scrope in the year before Bosworth, Cecily was most unhappy, declaring he was too lowly, too poor, and too mean for a princess of York. Poor Cecily has always found it hard to accept our fluctuating status.

“I thought you didn’t like Ralph?”

“No, well I didn’t but at least I was betrothed then and given due respect. Now I am in limbo, and nothing is being planned and it won’t be until the king has you out of the way.”

Out of the way?
She makes me sound like a load of dung tipped from its cart into the path of the king.

“Henry will organise it in his own time.”

“How can you be so patient?” She sits up and punches the pillow, her face red, her eyes bulging with irritation. She looks like our father.

It must be an hour since noon and Mother is due to arrive. Seeing I am to be allowed little peace, I slide from the bed and smooth my hair, poking pieces back beneath my cap and straightening my sleeves while she watches.

“Don’t you have a woman to do that for you?”

“I can’t be bothered, and it is no trouble. Come, let me comb your hair, Mother will scold you when she sees those knots.”

Cecily meekly crosses the room and sits at my feet. Her bursts of temper mean nothing. I have known her long enough to ignore them, and even her unkindest words no longer have the power to bite that they once did.

Our faces are washed and schooled to obedience by the time Mother and the king’s mother arrive. We sink to our knees in a great puff of skirts and wait for their signal to rise.

Mother has lately been restored to her former position of Dowager Queen and although Henry did not pass all her holdings back, she now has over thirty manors at her disposal again. When Mother opens her mouth to speak, Lady Margaret cuts across her as if to assert her position above her. I flinch inwardly, irked at her ill-manners, but I let nothing show. She is mother of the king and as such is not to be crossed. Why, I wonder, is it always the most irritating women who manage to manoeuvre themselves into positions of power?

“Elizabeth, my dear,” she says, holding out her hand for me to kiss. “What a pretty gown. We must soon begin looking out some suitable fabric for your wedding.”

Cecily nudges me and I grab at the chance to reopen talks of my marriage.

“Will the wedding be soon, my lady? The king has been crowned for almost two months, yet still he has not set a date.”

She blinks, her expression unchanging, but I sense I have displeased her. “The king will speak to you when he is ready, Elizabeth; you must be patient.”

“Oh, we are all patient.” Mother reaches out and takes a cup from the tray one of my women is holding. “I imagine Elizabeth is merely eager for some new clothes; she has always been fond of finery – like her father, King Edward. It is what she is used to.”

Lady Margaret must be able to hear the latent derision in Mother’s words. Cecily and I exchange glances, and I know she is remembering the finery Mother had when she was queen; one room stuffed with velvets, the other piled high with shoes. Whenever we had the chance Cecily and I would rummage through her clothes, trying things on and parading about the chamber as if we were mummers in a courtly play. I remember one occasion when Cecily went to Mass forgetting she had pinned on one of Mother’s priceless brooches. The chamber women searched high and low for hours but when it was discovered, pinned to my sister’s bodice, we weren’t scolded. We were rarely reprimanded; we were kissed and tickled instead and, as a result, we never questioned our position or our place in the world.

But those were carefree days, when the rules laid down for us were far more lax than those we must follow today. Even had Henry Tudor been raised in his mother’s house I am sure he’d never have known the carefree romp through childhood that we enjoyed. There was nothing better than gathering my brothers and sisters close for a story of King Arthur and his knights. Often, on hearing us, Father would join in too; throw himself on the cushions among us and listen as avidly as the children. Those former days of royal domesticity, when the royal privy chamber vibrated with laughter, are gone now and I miss them. There is only stiff formality now and only Henry to rule over us. Henry the king and, if he ever bothers to tie the bonds, I will become his stifled consort.

“I hear the king has ordered new coins to be struck, showing the mark of both our houses.” At Cecily’s words, all faces turn to the king’s mother. She closes her eyes, like a nun laying a blessing upon a novice.

“He has indeed, my dear. And therefore we must surmise that his intention to join our houses will be soon.”

She goes on to tell us of the new regiment of guard Henry has established. Fifty yeomen to follow him about the palace, dressed in lavish uniforms in a resplendent reflection of his majesty. I see it as a vast intrusion of privacy and we all know it is for Henry’s peace of mind, his protection. He cannot hide his fear of an assassin, not in this court.

“How lovely,” I hear myself murmur as she describes how many lengths of braid were used on the coats. “I daresay we will see them at the Christmas court. I expect the king is busy with preparations for the festivities, and I hear His Majesty is planning a progress too before long.”

Lady Margaret enlightens us further as to Henry’s plan to show himself to the people of the north. None of us gathered think this wise. The northern populace loved Uncle Richard dearly, and their love increased once he was their king. They will not give a warm reception to the slayer of the man they prized.

“We will pray for clement weather,” I say, plucking at the most innocuous words I can think of.

“The sun shines on the righteous.” My mother’s face is empty of irony but I can hear it in her tone. I pray God Margaret Beaufort is too full of self-congratulation to perceive it.

Before she takes leave of us, I ask the king’s mother to pass on my remembrance to Henry. Perhaps if she speaks of me he will be shamed into action. Before we know it, Christmas will be upon us. I should be wed by then. People are beginning to talk.

She squeezes my hand and says that she will indeed pass on my greeting and we all hold our breath as she leaves. As soon as I can I send my women away, and Cecily and I settle in the parlour alone with Mother.

When they have gone she sinks into a chair and emits a small explosion of ire.

“That woman!” With both hands she thumps the arms of her chair. “You’d think she was the only lady to ever birth a king.”

I move to her side, bringing a bowl of nuts.

“I thought you were getting on well.”

“Oh, we pretend, but it will never be more than that. Too many injuries have been done; too many and too great to ever be fully forgiven. I’m sure she knows something … I am always waiting for her to blurt something out …”

“Have you heard anything, Mother?” I duck my head closer to hers. “Of the boys, I mean?”

For a long moment she looks at me. “Nothing, Elizabeth; nothing at all.”

I wait for her to expand but, studiously ignoring me, she picks at a fingernail, nibbling it smooth with her teeth. I know she receives letters. I have seen messengers come and go, unmarked and discreet. She is in touch with people all over Europe and I have always suspected she knows more than she reveals about the fortunes of my brothers.

What is she hiding? What does she know?

Cecily begins to crack nuts, a pile of shells growing in her lap. The flames of the hearth cast shadows on our faces and, as she hands the kernels out in turn, first to Mother, then to me, we eat in companionable silence. It is a peaceful scene, one could even mistake it for contentment, but each of us is aware of the other’s restless thoughts. We will never be free from worry; our smooth expressions merely mask a torrent of unanswered questions and unsolved problems.

From the other chamber I hear the muffled voices of my women and know that I should call them to join us where the fire is warmest. But we women of York cherish these moments when we are alone and unwatched. We huddle like a coven about the fire. Each can trust the other; each would stand shoulder to shoulder against a foe; and yet, as we sit in silence, I become aware of something.

Some new change is taking place. It is as if my association with Henry Tudor has undermined me a little, inched me from their sphere and thrown me off centre. I am on the cusp of being apart from them; no longer entirely York but not yet Lancaster either. I am neither white nor red. I am merging; blurred.

*

It is quite late and I am almost ready to go to bed. I sent my ladies away some time ago, even Cecily and Margaret, who has been fidgety with a toothache. I am seldom alone these days and enjoy a rare moment of reflection. The chamber is full of shadows, the fire that burned brightly all day has slumped now and the shutters are closed against the chilly night.

I put aside my needlework and as I do so I notice a tiny tear in the lace of my sleeve. I poke the tip of one finger through so it shows pink beneath the hole and make a mental note to have it repaired tomorrow. I rise from the chair and pick up my book; I am just reaching for the candle when a small sound at the door alerts me. I look up, expecting Cecily or Margaret. My book falls open on the table, and my mouth goes very dry.

“Your Grace.” I sink to my knees and wait while he slowly approaches. I feel his hands upon my head but he does not bid me rise. I can see only the royal feet and notice he is wearing slippers, a loose gown. His ankles are bony, hairy and bruised from the stirrup. While I crouch at his knee, his fingers move in my uncovered hair, testing the softness and sending a swathe of goose pimples scurrying across my shoulders.