A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (7 page)

“Push, Elizabeth,” she demands. “Push, push like a daughter of York. Push as if you are having a shit.” There is no time to be surprised at her crudity. Her teeth are clenched as she bears down with me, her gown as damp with sweat as mine, her flaxen hair fallen about her face that shows each exhausted line. I grip her tightly, I clench my teeth as she is doing and, screaming and bawling like a cow in the byre, I push harder than I have before. My child shifts in the birth canal, startling me, making me realise I have the power to do this. I am Queen of England and I will give them a son of York.

The pain relents just for a moment. I squat, still clinging to my mother’s hands, and I wriggle my hips as she has instructed. The child shifts again and, when the next pain assaults me, with a great scream I force my son out of my body and into my mother’s waiting hands.

I fall forward onto my face, fighting for breath while my women scrabble behind me. There are hands on my buttocks, my thighs, warm wet fluid flowing all around us, the sweet sharp smell of new life flooding the chamber.

While the midwife washes and binds him tight, my son squawks like a piglet. I am still panting and weak when they put him to my breast. I look down at his battered face, his bruised nose and blood-clotted hair, and with a shock, I realise he is the image of his father.

We name him Arthur, after the king of old. The name makes me think of my brothers who loved to listen to stories of Arthur and his knights. I push the painful thought of them away and lower my lips to my son’s head. I inhale the heady scent of infant and my senses swim with contentment.

I have all I need.

Arthur is sleeping now, his eyes shut tight, his rosebud lips making sucking motions as if he dreams of my breast. Soon they will take him from me and lay him in his vast gold-encrusted crib of state, but for now I snuggle him close and sink further beneath the covers.

I must make the most of him. The wet nurse is coming tomorrow. Since Arthur is heir to the throne, Henry’s mother insists everything must be done by The King’s Book. Left to my own devices I could probably persuade my husband to allow me a few more weeks with my son, but I know better than to ask it. It has long been the convention for the royal princes to be raised separately from their mothers. At least he will be nearby for a while but, in time, he will have his own household, away from court. Henry suggests Ludlow on the Welsh border is a suitable residence for the Prince of Wales, and even though my heart weeps at the thought, I do not demur. That day is in the future, for now Arthur is here with us, and I must make the most of it.

I watch Henry with our son, counting his long perfect fingers, feeling his strong kick and although he doesn’t say so, I know I have done well.

A bead of sweat trickles from Brampton’s brow and into his eyes, giving the boy a chance to undercut his guard. A clash of steel and with a grunt of defeat Brampton stumbles backward to land on his backside in the bracken. “Ha!” The boy waves the tip of his sword before his instructor’s face. “I have you.”

“So it seems.” Brampton shakes his wet hair and with a wary finger guides the sword-point away from his nose. The boys steps back, reaches out a hand to help him to his feet. “You have made progress since my last visit.”

“I’ve been practicing daily. One of the lay brothers was a soldier in another lifetime. He is still agile enough with the sword to keep me on my toes.”

The boy flops onto his knees in the grass and fumbles beneath his discarded jerkin for the wineskin. He tilts back his head and, as he drinks, Brampton notices the strong sinews of his neck, the large Adam’s apple that speaks of encroaching manhood. The boy hands over the wine and Brampton drinks with him.

Here, where the pine trees form a dense circle about the clearing, the boy is relaxed; there is no sign of his former anxiety. Brampton notices a new confidence. The boy is growing up, maturing into a handsome young man with a striking resemblance to his father. Already, he is better educated than Brampton and his sword skills look set to soon match his.

Throughout his years here at the remote monastery, the Duchess has sent regular tutors both to entertain and to teach the boy courtly manners. He will be an all-rounder; the Duchess has ensured that he can dance, fight, sing and play. It seems that, like his father, he has a natural talent for making people love him. When the day comes for him to go to court and reveal his true identity, the women will fall at his feet.

“How long are you staying this time?” the boy asks. He is lying on his stomach, a blade of grass between his teeth, the sun glinting on his bright hair. Brampton, resting on one elbow, looks at the clear blue sky and has no wish to leave.

“I have no need to be in Lisbon until July. I may stay a few weeks.”

“Then we can practice every day.” The boy rolls on to his back, his long hair falling away from his face, the strong bones of his jaw prominent. “I dislike being in the classroom when the weather is fine.”

“I will be black and blue.” Brampton ruefully rubs his buttocks and the boy laughs.

“At least you can’t scold me for not being committed.” He plucks another blade of grass and examines the emerald green beetle that clings to it. As the creature trundles to the end, the boy turns the blade and forces it to travel back the other way. The insect follows his directive for long moments, running back and forth on the same path until, either bored or frustrated, it flies suddenly away. The boy watches it go before turning his attention back to the conversation. “What news is there from home?”

Brampton begins to speak, hesitates, and clears his throat before opening his mouth again. The boy is immediately alert. He sits up, leans closer. “What is it? What has happened? Is my mother well? My sisters?”

“They are fine, as far as I know. No, there is another matter. A curious thing has happened.”

The boy is kneeling now, leaning forward, his loose white shirt stained with grass. The lacings gape at the collar, revealing his chest, which is not yet quite that of a man. A trickle of perspiration hurries down his throat and settles in the hollow of his neck.

“A fellow has turned up in Dublin, claiming to be young Warwick. He has challenged Tudor’s throne, declared himself King of England.”

“What?” The boy sits up, his eyes crinkled incredulously. “Warwick? You said he is in the Tower.”

“So he is, as far as I know. Maybe Henry has some innocent locked up in his place, I don’t know.”

The boy frowns, his eyes darting about Brampton’s face as he digests the information.

“Where did you hear this?”

“I got it from a contact. You don’t need to know the details.” Brampton brings his knees up and loops his arms around them. “They are now claiming he is Edward of Warwick, but I am told in the beginning they declared him to be you.”

“Me? Who the devil is he?”

Brampton shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine but Lovell and Lincoln are backing him. He has mustered an army.”

The boy jumps up, his face red with indignation. “That is tantamount to treason!”

Brampton looks up at him silhouetted against the blue sky. In his rage he looks every inch the fellow his father was in his youth; tall and strong and a match for any man. Even though he is just a boy, Brampton would think twice before fighting him in earnest.

“Tudor is certainly seeing it as such.”

The boy emits a humourless laugh. “I didn’t mean it was treason against Tudor. I meant treason against myself. Lovell and Lincoln should follow no one but me!”

“But they think you are dead, boy.”

The boy’s eyes narrow, his chin juts forward. “But I am not dead, am I? And if I am ever to reclaim what is rightfully mine I need the men of York to fight for me, not waste their blood over some pretender. What is to happen now? Is he marching on London? Will there be a fight?”

Brampton shrugs.

“I await news. I cannot tell the future. We will watch and wait and the outcome will help us decide what our next move should be. A messenger is due from your aunt, who has spies everywhere. You know, she wants you to join her at court very soon.”

“Leave here? For her court? Soon?” The boy’s eyes are shadowed, suddenly shifty as if he does not relish the thought. Brampton sits up straighter.

“I thought that would please you.”

“Oh, yes. It does, it does. I just … no matter.”

“Come, we should get back. I will need to take a bath before Mass. I stink like a mule.”

The boy looks into the wood, his mind distracted, his brow troubled.

“I will follow after,” he says. “I want to check if there are rabbits in my traps.”

Brampton picks up his doublet and tosses it over his shoulder. He had no idea the boy had taken to rabbiting.

“I will see you at dinner,” he says as his charge meanders into the wood.

The boy raises a casual hand but Brampton doesn’t leave at once. He watches as the boy passes into the shadow, sees him shrug into his jerkin and pick up his pace, heading for the track that leads into the wood. And then, as Brampton makes to turn away, his eye is taken by a movement in the trees. He squints into the sun and sees a figure emerge. They meet in a shaft of sunlight and the boy slips an arm around her shoulder before they disappear into the covert.

*

“Must you go, Peterkin?”

The boy extricates himself from her arms and dries his lips that are wet from her kisses.

“I must. I have duties, and so do you.” He pushes her playfully and she laughs up at him from the meadow grass. There are seeds and twigs in her hair, the mark of his mouth on her white throat. His heart twists at the thought that soon he will be forced to leave her for good and reside at his aunt’s court. Marin will stay behind, become the wife of someone else, grow fat with another man’s children, roughened and embittered by her peasant lifestyle. He wishes he could take her with him but his world is not for her.

For weeks now they’ve met daily, at first just talking and walking until he plucked up the courage to hold her hand. Hand holding soon emboldened him to sink with her into the long grass, the sweetness of her body encouraging him to touch and kiss. But he’d been careful not to harm her. She was young and a virgin still, although for how much longer he could not promise.

Each time they embraced she allowed him further liberties, and sometimes it seemed he would drown in her softness. It was harder and harder to withdraw.

He turns reluctantly away from her, pulls on his jerkin while she arranges her petticoats and tugs up her bodice. When she is safely covered he pulls her to her feet, kisses the tip of her nose and sends her on her way.

She runs along the dwindling path and, as soon as he can no longer glimpse the whiteness of her cap through the trees, he turns on his heel and heads for the monastery.

Cousin Margaret pulls me casually to one side to whisper in my ear. Her tight grip on my forearm is the only sign of her agitation. At first I can make no sense of her words, her breath buzzes in my ear, making me shiver involuntarily.

“Lincoln has fled court.”

Our mutual cousin, John of Lincoln, has seemed content to serve Henry since the king pardoned him. As Richard’s heir, he could have been punished with the rest of them. I had thought he was grateful for his life. Just last week I danced with him and found no sorrow or discontent in his manner. He seemed to be forgetting and beginning to move forward, but it seems I was mistaken. I squeeze Margaret’s hand and draw her with me to my mother’s side. Mother looks up from her Bible, surprise wrinkling her high clear brow. “Is anything wrong?”

“Margaret tells me John has fled England.”

She closes her eyes slowly and smiles at me condescendingly as if I am still a child.

“And that surprises you? You thought he was content to play second fiddle? He is for York, as always.”

She lowers her eyes back to her book and I realise she is not surprised. More to the point, she knew it was going to happen. How can she be so disloyal? I snatch away her book and hiss through my teeth so as not to arouse the suspicion of my women.

“Did you know of this? Are you involved in it?”

Mother’s lips tighten and she reaches out to reclaim her book.

“I am not involved, no. Let us say, I guessed something like this would happen. York will never lie quiet under Lancastrian rule.”

A fine line of perspiration coats her upper lip and she isn’t looking at me. I fear she is lying. I sink to my knees and grip her hands, wrenching her attention from her book.

“Mother, if you are in any way culpable, I will not be able to save you. You must not get involved. Henry does not listen to me.”

“No.” She cannot hide her disdain. She looks up from the page, closing the book but keeping a finger between the leaves. We regard each other for a long moment.

“Have you betrayed me, Mother, and my son? Does the blood of York not flow strong enough in us?”

A slight movement of her head suggests the negative but I don’t know if she is denying the betrayal or the potency of my son’s Plantagenet blood.

I open my mouth to probe further but there is a disturbance at the door. The king’s mother and Cecily come sailing into the room. They make the necessary greeting and then, throwing courtesy to the winds, Cecily comes forward and grabs for my hand.

“Bessie, did you hear about Cousin John? They are saying he has fled to Burgundy, to Aunt Margaret who is launching a challenge on Henry’s throne. She has found a boy to head her army and she says he is Warwick.”

“My brother?” Margaret interjects. “But that is absurd, everyone knows the king has him prisoner.” She flashes a look at Lady Margaret, half rebellious, half fearful.

The king’s mother’s smile does not falter. “Not a prisoner, my dear. My son merely keeps your brother safe from the grasp of unscrupulous people like your aunt, who would undermine our rule.”

“But how can anyone believe it is Edward, everyone knows he is … not himself?”

It is the first time I have known Margaret to come so close to mentioning Warwick’s difficulties. The poor lad cannot tell a goose from a capon and we all fear he will never be more than the child he seems. He is eleven years old yet cannot even tie a ribbon or count beyond five. He spends his days playing a tuneless melody on his whistle and drawing infantile pictures of kittens. Edward of Warwick will never lead men into battle.

One of my women belatedly brings Lady Margaret a seat. She smiles her thanks and sits down, smoothing her skirts before clasping her hands in her lap, her serenity unmarred.

“What does the king say, My Lady? Does he know?”

“He is with the council. We will know his feelings soon enough.”

Like my mother, Lady Margaret is cool. She has learned not to let her feelings show, but I am so stirred up by the news I can barely sit still. All sorts of scenarios and consequences are tumbling in my mind.

“I wonder if the king will cancel his progress into East Anglia and Warwickshire. He may be needed here.”

I look wildly from my mother to my mother-in-law and back again. Both women remain infuriatingly calm and collected; only I am flustered. I cannot remain seated. I get up and begin to pace the floor until Mother orders me to sit down again.

“How long will Henry be in council?” I ask, although nobody has any way of knowing the answer. “Oh, I do hope he comes soon. I cannot think straight. Do you think the Duchess will launch an attack? Lincoln is well loved in England, men may flock to his …” My words fade as I notice the growing fury on the king’s mother’s face. “But, of course,” I finish lamely, “there are many who love Henry, too.”

*

A few weeks later we learn my cousin is indeed with Aunt Margaret, but Henry, refusing to show he is at all perturbed by the threat, sets off on his progress as he’d planned. He comes to my chamber the night before. After we have coupled, he rises from the bed straight away as is his habit.

“I am taking Suffolk with me; that should help keep his son in check.”

I have my doubts but I do not voice them. Suffolk is John of Lincoln’s father, he may prove to be a good hostage to his son’s loyalty but I pray that the chains that bind him are made of silk.

“Be careful, Henry,” I implore as he shrugs back into his nightgown. “Sometimes I fear we have enemies everywhere.”

He looks down at his chest, struggling with the tangled lace fastening at the neck. I move closer, pull his hands away and tie the strings with a neat bow.

“It is ever the way with kings,” he says, smiling his thanks. But he is wrong. I was never fearful when my father rode abroad. Everyone loved him. He was a golden prince full of bonhomie, he basked in the love of the people. England will never know his like again.

Henry places a hand on the back of my head, drawing my face close for a brief kiss. “Take care,” he says. “Go with my mother to Chertsey and pay heed to what she says.”

I nod and watch him slip through the door. I want to call him back. He represents not just my own security but that of our son, too. Our future rests on his narrow shoulders. I climb back onto my curtained bed, hide beneath the covers and lay awake until dawn, wondering if I should tell my husband that my mother may well be involved in this latest plot against us.

Chertsey Abbey ― May 1487

Lady Margaret and I are standing on the spot where the body of King Henry VI once rested. It is a peaceful place, fragrant with May blossom, clusters of primroses hiding beneath the hedge. “I used to visit the old king’s grave,” she says. “But it was never good enough for such a saintly man.” Margaret had loved the old king well. “Moving his body to Windsor was the only noble thing Gloucester ever did.” She sniffs and dabs a kerchief to her eye.

Richard’s name on her lips makes my heart leap a little, a memory of his face, the ease of his presence. I close my eyes and try to conjure the emotion he once roused in me, but although I still feel sorrow at his passingand a lingering sense that
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given the chance, he would have made an honest king, I realise my passion for him was nothing but a girlish fancy. Guilt at the sorrow my silly passion heaped upon Aunt Anne swamps me and I send up a prayer for forgiveness.

“Perhaps my late uncle’s decision to honour the remains of King Henry is proof of his innocence in the matter of his death.”

Lady Margaret sniffs and jerks my hand from her elbow. “It could equally indicate culpability.”

She stalks away and I bite my tongue at having spoken out of turn. If only I could forget my origins and begin to think like a Tudor. I am learning that it is more beneficial to keep my mother-in-law sweet than to bear her disapproval.

Since I produced Arthur she has been gentler with me, less inclined to remind me of the debt I owe to her and her son. She is always reminding me I could have been left in ignominy. I lift the hem of my skirt and hurry after her. As we near the outer gate we hear the sound of galloping hooves, and she stops with a hand to her throat, anticipating ill news.

“Your Grace.” A dusty messenger falls to his knees, forgetting in his haste that it is me he should greet first. Lady Margaret snatches the letter and tears it open, her eyes flicking back and forth as she quickly scans the page. As she reads the blood drains from her face, her cheeks are paper white.

“We must join Henry at Kenilworth,” she says, turning on her heel in the direction of the abbey.

“Today?” I ask as I hurry along behind. “What does the message say? Let me read it.”

She throws open the chamber door, tosses the letter on the bed and begins to issue orders to her women. Our apartments are thrown into disarray and as my clothes are dragged from the coffers and thrown upon the bed in a heap of velvet and lace, I snatch up the letter and begin to read.

“Lincoln is in Ireland with Francis Lovell and the pretender has been crowned king of England at Dublin. My informers warn of an imminent invasion. You must join me here at Kenilworth with all haste.”

“We must fetch Arthur en route.” I look up from the letter. My mother-in-law is already tying up her cloak and pulling on her gauntlets.

“There is no time. Henry orders us to join him at once; he makes no mention of your son.”

“Well, I will not leave him to the mercy of our enemies. Lincoln knows very well where the prince is lodged. Do you want him raised with the enemy as Henry was? It will not take us far out of our way. You go straight to the king if you must but I will not budge without my child. Tell the king if you will that you were too rattled by the threat of invasion to save his heir.”

She looks at me, cold fury in her eye, her lips pulled so tight they are devoid of colour.

“Very well,” she says at last. “Have it your way.”

I send a messenger on ahead to ensure the prince and his household are made ready for a journey. I want to tarry at Farnham for as short a time as possible. If we hurry we can reach my son tonight and leave for Kenilworth first thing in the morning.

*

The sun has barely risen when we mount up and ride across country to be with the king at Kenilworth. By midday the sun is so hot that I discard my cloak and wish I’d worn a lighter kirtle. Dust from the road is kicked up by the horses’ hooves, coming down again to coat us, cloying at our noses. The nursemaid keeps Arthur’s head covered to protect him both from the sun and the dirt. Behind us comes his wet nurse, bundled onto an ancient mare, and I hope the horse’s jogging does not curdle her milk; it will not do to have Arthur fractious.

Henry barely greets us when we arrive. He remains closeted with his Uncle Jasper and leaves me to settle in as best I can. Kenilworth is well-fortified and I am satisfied that nothing could breach its thick defences, which are surrounded on three sides by a wide mere. My chambers are luxurious and the great hall is even grander than I remember it from my father’s day. I am eager to see the new tennis court that Henry is having constructed, although I am sure there will be little time for leisure while we are here.

But the luxury and security of Kenilworth help my fears recede a little, and my ladies and I make ourselves at home. There are men coming and going at all hours, messengers galloping away in the dead of night. I wonder if Henry sleeps at all.

He certainly has no time for me. I am barely settled into my apartments when it is time for him to ride off again at the head of an army. He has the courtesy to come and say farewell. He kisses me goodbye and bids me care for our prince. When he turns away, I leave his mother to dominate the leave-taking as she always does, and climb a winding stairway to the top tower.

I look down at the mustering men at arms. A few short months ago I believed the wars were over but now, thanks to my cousin’s dissatisfaction, there is to be another battle. More men must die. Knights and their followers have ridden from all parts of the realm at Henry’s command. I pray they are more loyal than those who followed Richard.

My stomach churns at the thought of what war means but I try to steel myself, push away fruitless tears and pray for my husband’s victory. It is better to lose another cousin than to sacrifice my son’s throne to the cause of York. I hope, if he is aware of it, my father will understand.

I know my mother won’t.

I lean as far as I dare over the parapet and see below me, among the tall glittering knights, Henry seemingly small and vulnerable. From this angle his body appears squat and distorted, like a silver-clad dwarf. He kisses his mother and, as he pulls away I see her reach for him again but he is gone, calling to his uncle who runs, mail clanking, to join his king.

Jasper has supported Henry throughout his life. He is the only man he can wholly trust. They mount up. Henry places a hand on his sword hilt as if to reassure himself it is there.As he does so a sudden breeze snatches at my veil
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almost tearing it from my head, and I give a cry of surprise. Henry glances up, white-faced, alert for an assassin. I raise my hand and blow a kiss into the wind and he smiles, suddenly and unexpectedly, and blows one back to me. My heart flips in my chest and a kind of peace descends upon me. I smile despite my fears and lean further over the parapet so as to keep them in my sight for as long as possible. As the king rides out to face his foe he doesn’t turn around, but I know instinctively he will come back.