A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (22 page)

“They are slaughtering my countrymen, raping the women. This isn’t why I’ve come. I came in peace to free them … this — this is just …” His voice cracks, his head drops forward. He is close to tears.

“You’d do well to take my advice and leave them to it. Once darkness falls the violence will stop and we can regain control in the morning.”

“In the morning? James! Your Grace, I humbly beg you to stop this savagery of my country and my people. They will never put trust in me now.”

“That is none of my concern, Sir.”

“I promised you many things, James. I promised you Berwick, I promised to repay every penny of the 50,000 marks I owe you. But never once, never once did I say I would stand for your troops inflicting carnage on my countrymen.”

“It is what happens in war. Blood is spilled, lives are lost, virtue is stolen but life goes on. It is the way of things. If you are going to be a king you need to get used to it.”

Sickness washes over Richard. Suddenly he sees James with new eyes.
He is a royal wastrel,
he thinks,
an adventure-seeking dissolute who has used me for his own amusement. He cares nothing for my cause, and God curse me if I continue to call him family.

Richard rubs the palm of his hand over his face; it comes away grimy. He shakes his head, the wet strands of his hair flicking drips around the royal tent. White-faced, he stares at his former ally.

“Well, I won’t do it.”

He cannot stay here. He will no longer be a part of it. He will ride back to Stirling, alone if he has to, and carry his wife as far away from James as he can get.

As the boy rides closer to Stirling, he begins to forget the colourful horror of the raids. His messenger keeps him informed of James’s doings and he knows that the violence continues. The Scottish king, making the most of the chance to strike at England, lays siege to Herton Castle, bombarding it with his big guns until the threat of English troops approaching from Newcastle send him scurrying for the hills.

But Richard will be in Stirling before the king.
I will pack up my things,
he thinks,
take Catherine and the child, if he is born, somewhere far away. I cannot associate myself with the sacking of England. No one will follow a cruel and violent king.

But when he arrives, reality forces him to rethink. His wife is in confinement, awaiting the birth that is only days away. His friends find excuses to leave the court and he finds himself, more or less, alone. His possessions and what little wealth he has are provided by James, the very man he wishes to disassociate himself from.

During his wild ride Richard thinks only of Catherine, the reassurance of her love the only thing to keep him going. He tries to see her but horrified women turn him away, tell him he must wait. He sends her letters, pouring words onto a page, praising her hair, her face, her skin, her fine bosom. The knowledge of her, and their son, and the jug of wine at his elbow are his only defence against despair.

In the royal corridors they whisper of his cowardice. A king should fight, not run away. Instead of his pity being judged as noble, he is seen as a coward, craven and weak.

Where inside of me does this weakness lodge?
he asks himself. His father was strong. Edward IV was a soldier who loved to fight. He never lost a battle and gained only honour by hand to hand fighting, on the field, at the head of his men. Richard is shamed to acknowledge that he is most unlike his father. He tries to remember his uncles who were soldiers, too. Not one of them was ever named a coward. Richard of Gloucester had been called many things but never that, and even unfaithful George of Clarence had seen his share of battle. His mother’s brothers, Anthony, John and Edward, had fought bravely, dying for this king or that.
Why then, why can I not tolerate violence
?

By the time James returns, bursting with news of his short campaign, Richard is the father of a fine son. He breaks etiquette and demands to be allowed entrance into Catherine’s chamber. Her women look on askance, making outraged Scottish noises at his audacity, but Catherine, looking pale and shadowed beneath the eyes, opens her arms in welcome.

To the continuing scandal of the women, he climbs onto the bed and wraps his arms around her. “Was it very bad?” he asks.

Catherine strokes his hair back from his brow, as his mother used to do.

“Oh, no. Not so bad,” she says. “I am sure you had a worse time of it than I.”

He sits up, his blue eyes troubled.

“It was bad for me, sweetheart. I learned things about myself. Things a man would rather not know.”

“What things?” Her voice is gentle, like a song, and he finds himself confessing to feelings he’s sworn never to utter.

“I am not a fighting man, Catherine. I find I cannot tolerate bloodshed. I saw men killed and women violated and I did little about it. There was one man, one of the mercenaries I hired, I struck him down. I killed him, Catherine, when I saw him dishonour an innocent girl. After that I had to get away. I couldn’t bear to look on him. I still see him, almost every time I sleep, the blood seeping slowly from his skull, his eyes wide and sightless staring at me … staring right through me, into my soul and seeing me for the coward that I am …”

“Stop it!”

Catherine’s eyes are wide, her face white, tears trickling down her cheeks. He looks down at his hand that clutches tightly on her wrist. He lets go, almost weeps at the red weal his grip has left behind. She rubs it, and cuffs away her tears.

“You have not even asked to see your son,” she reproaches, her voice full of sorrow.

“Oh God, my love, I am sorry.” He takes her wrist, smothers it in healing kisses as the child is brought to them.

“He is like you,” she says, as the infant is laid in his arms. “I’d like to call him Richard.”

He smiles. “Some would say it is an ill-fated name. It has certainly not helped me, or my uncle.”

“I don’t believe in that sort of thing. Your fate and that of your uncle and brother has more to do with your status than your names. How silly men can be sometimes. Do you have a better name for him?”

Richard takes his child’s hand, unfurls his tiny fingers to examine his miniscule nails.

“No,” he says quietly. “Richard it shall be. By happy chance, he may be the one to alter fate and come peacefully to his throne.”

“Amen.”

Their eyes meet above the child’s head; Catherine’s are tearful, Richard’s are full of doubt. “Amen,” they say together as his hand closes over hers.

My mother-in-law sits erect, her hands clasped in her lap, the cup of wine beside her untouched. I am sewing quietly, waiting for her to speak. I know she has called by to impart some news, or perhaps complain of some indiscretion on little Harry’s behalf. From time to time I look up from my needle to smile and offer her further refreshment, which she rejects with a brief shake of her head. At length she clears her throat. “Henry is not himself.”

I put down my work and give her my full attention, mirroring her position by linking my fingers in my lap.

“Is he not? I know he is concerned about the unrest in the West but he seems well enough.”

She sniffs, her lips twitching, her eye not quite meeting mine.

“He is hiding his concern from you. Yesterday, when I questioned him, he suggested you may be with child again.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks, irritation that he should see fit to discuss such a thing with his mother before enquiring of me if it is so.

“Well, I am sorry to disappoint but my husband is mistaken.”

She sniffs again in dissatisfaction. I try to prevent my fingers from plucking at my skirt but they won’t keep still, not until I clamp them together hard. Mary is not yet a year old, surely I am due some respite. To the king’s mother, and so it seems the king also, I am nothing but a brood mare; good blood to boost their bastard stock.

“Well,” she says, for all the world as if I haven’t already supplied England with two heirs, “there is still time for another prince.”

“What is wrong with the two we have?”

“Nothing at all,” she says, finally picking up her cup and sipping her wine. “But a king can never have too many sons, you should know that.”

Whenever I begin to think my mother-in-law may not be so bad, she shatters that belief with small annoyances. Small reminders of the disdain she has for my family; insinuations that little Harry is too naughty, Mary is undernourished, or Margaret too pert. She has been kind to me on occasion and there have been times when I have almost warmed to her. But her sense of superiority and her jealousy of my relationship with her son are always between us. She is eternally present and I try so hard to like her for Henry’s sake, but she is cold and unyielding; a yoke that I find increasingly hard to bear.

“What do you make of this unrest in Cornwall? It is not just peasants, is it? Their leaders are prominent men.”

After the Pretender invaded with the Scottish king and slaughtered so many Englishmen, Henry declared war on James. To fund it he has levied taxes, harsh levies in which the Cornish, living so far from Scotland, can see no justice. They are protesting loudly and violently against the king, against the crown, and the band of disaffected rebels draws ever closer to London.

The Lady Margaret’s eyes are hooded, her hawklike features disdainful. “It will be contained; I have no doubt of that.”

“I hope so. I am so tired of conflict. It seems to me that all my life …”

“All
your
life? It is not just you, Elizabeth. My life too has been fraught with conflict. Imagine being forced to live apart from your son, not knowing if he was properly cared for, if he wanted for anything? Imagine then having to serve the monarch who slaughtered your kin and issued those orders, and then complain to me of your hardships.”

“I didn’t mean …”

“I am sure you didn’t. You speak of things you cannot know.”

The conversation is closed. The words she didn’t speak ring loud in my ears, far louder than those she uttered.
Your father.
That is what she meant.
Your father did those things and forced me to live apart from my son.
She will never forgive me. I don’t know why I try.

I turn my head from her to look from the window to the gardens where the Lenten Lilies nod their gay heads as if war and suffering do not exist. I have a sudden longing to be outside but I do not suggest it. She will say the wind is too chill, or the ground too damp. Later, when she has gone, I may ride to Eltham and spend a day or so with the children. We can ride in the woods and picnic in the grounds. That will cheer me. For now, I must bite my tongue and bear my penance.

As the silence stretches I search for a subject on which we will not clash, but as I open my mouth to speak, we hear a disturbance in the outer ward. She stands up, holds up a finger to silence me while she strains her ears.

“It is the king,” she says. “Something is wrong.”

The door is thrown open and Henry enters, casts off his cloak and tosses it over the back of a chair.

“Henry.” I sink into a brief curtsey, more for his mother’s satisfaction than the king’s. “What is the matter? What has happened?”

“Mother.” He kisses Lady Margaret’s hand before addressing me. “Elizabeth.”

He picks up his mother’s cup and drains it. “The rebels grow close to London. I must ride forth to deal with it. Elizabeth, you are to take the children to safety in the Tower. I have organised a stout escort. You will be safe there. The Tower has never been breached.”

I try not to think of the day my brother Richard left sanctuary to join our brother Edward there. I never saw them again, and now Henry wants me to place my own children there
in safety.

But I do not argue. I never argue.

“When shall we go, Henry? Now? Today?”

“Yes today. The rebel army has assembled at Guildford. Lord Daubeney is there with our forces and I must join them. I must show my face and bolster their courage.”

“A rebel
army
, Henry? Surely they are just a rabble?”

He takes my hand, spares a second for a warm look such as I am only accustomed to seeing in our bed.

“They may be a rabble but they are fifteen thousand strong.”

“Fifteen thousand? But they won’t beat us, will they? You won’t let them?”

I think of my father who never lost a battle, my uncle Richard who perished despite his many campaigns, and I think of Henry, my husband. He is a politician not a soldier, but nonetheless he is riding into danger and leaving us behind. I button down my fears and take control.

“I will make ready at once. Lady Margaret, you will accompany us. Your safety is paramount.” She nods and for once doesn’t contest my authority. “I will send a messenger ahead to ensure our rooms are prepared. If we hurry we can be there before dark.”

I whirl around, clapping my hands to summon my women, but Henry grabs my wrist, spins me toward him. His face is dead white, his eyes glowing dark, the lines that flank his mouth deep, grim folds of concern.

His hand slides beneath my hood, his fingers moving in my hair as he absorbs every plane and shadow of my face. For the first time I see love in his eyes. Not lust, or lingering resentment, but love and respect, and concern. My heart leaps like a hind in the forest and I grasp his wrist, close my eyes, waiting for his kiss.

When it comes it is long and full of tenderness. He rests his forehead on mine. “Take care, my wife. Take care of yourself, and our children.”

I nod, unable to speak, for there are tears on my face and an immovable lump lodged deep in my throat. He pulls away with a brief sorry smile.

His mother quickly turns away but she witnessed the moment; she knows now that he has a care for me and I fear her resentment will increase.

Henry is at the door, he lifts his hand before passing through it, and I watch him go with a strange mix of euphoria and dread. He may never return. His actions this day may plunge my children and I into a life of exile and fear, but I know one thing. I have been loved. I just never saw it before.

*

The children are bundled into warm clothing to ward off the night air. It is cold for June, the sky lying heavy over London, and the smoke so thick in the air we can taste it, our lungs filling with dank moist filth.

Meg rides behind her grandmother, her white face peering from deep within her voluminous hood, her eyes wide with unspoken fear. Mary is clasped close to her nurse’s bosom; she sleeps on, oblivious to the drama, and the terrified prattle of her nurse.

“Be quiet,” I snap as I hug Harry tighter and kick my mount to move forward.

We are flanked by armed guards, stern-faced soldiers in full armour. They form a barricade around us as we ride through the empty, rain-washed streets. The slick cobbled road glistens blackly, the sound of our horses’ hooves echoing loudly in the dark, setting the town dogs barking.

Harry’s hand sneaks up my chest, to grip the neck of my gown. I can feel his little heart pattering; the sound of his breath is quick and fast. With a squeeze of my arm I send him a fleeting smile of encouragement and he returns it, his eyes trusting but afraid.

“It isn’t far now, my son,” I say. “Look, you can see the river.”

The Thames flows thick and black, slapping against the wharf as the grey walls of the Tower loom ahead, silhouetted darkly against the moonless sky. My horse’s hooves slither on the wet pavement and I snatch at the reins to steady him.

Beneath my cloak, Harry clutches tighter. I press my heels to my mount’s flanks, turning my head quickly to ensure that the king’s mother and the maid follow with my daughters.

A sharp cry as we reach the outer wall; a challenge from the Tower guard that is answered by our leader. The first of many gates slides open and we draw a little closer to safety. With each portcullis and drawbridge we cross, I become both more secure and more terrified. One by one they crash closed behind us with a great clanking of steel and grinding of chains. It is as if we are travelling into the bowels of the earth and will never taste freedom again.

How did my brothers feel, coming here alone?
What did they think when they finally realised Edward’s crown had been taken and they were prisoners rather than honoured guests? They must have known they’d never escape; that their fate was sealed. The Tower is the last place they’d seen.

“It’s all right, Mother,” Harry whispers. “We are safe now. Nothing can get us in here.”

I smile as if I believe him, and pass him into the arms of a waiting guard. A flurry of servants arrive and the children are scooped up and carried into the White Tower while Lady Margaret and I follow on behind. I am halfway up the steps when I remember something and whirl around, run back to the horses.

“Bring me that package,” I order the guard, indicating a long box on one of the pack horses. “Bring it now, please.”

He bows solemnly and I wait as he unstraps the box and hoists it beneath his arm. I ascend the stairs again, checking every now and then that he is following.

“Put it there and you can go,” I say when we reach the inner chamber. I look about the room where the nurse is helping the children remove their wraps. Mary has woken and started to wail, her nurse fussing with her linen.

A fire blazes in the hearth and the furnishings are soft and plush, but I shudder and rub my arms. Everything we need is here, all that can be done for our every comfort has been attended to, but I hate this place. I always have, but now, until Henry manages to quell the rebellion, I must call it home.

Lady Margaret stands in the centre of the room, directing the servants, ordering refreshment for the children. Harry and Meg sit by the hearth, their faces pale from lack of sleep, their eyes shadowed and afraid. Mary continues to bawl in her nurse’s arms; I jerk my head, silently ordering her to leave us in peace.

“Here you are, Harry and Meg; have a drink and a slice of pie and then you must go to bed. It is almost morning. We’ve had quite an adventure but now it is time to sleep.”

Meg takes the cup and sips her milk, but Harry just clutches his to his chest and looks about the unfamiliar chamber with large, fearful eyes.

“Have the rebels gone now, Mother? Are we really safe?”

“I am sure we are. Your father would not allow them to come too close to London.”

“So why did we have to come here then, if you are so sure of father’s victory?”

I turn in surprise at Meg’s voice. She is not usually one to question adults. She is obedient and trusting. In speaking out she reveals the depth of her fear. I run my hand over her hair and do not reprimand her for questioning.

“We came here to put the king’s mind at rest. We are important to him; he loves us all very much and would not fight so well if he had to worry for our safety. He will be here in the morning and we can all go home to Eltham, you’ll see.”

Lady Margaret makes a sharp movement. “I am going to the chapel to pray, Elizabeth. I shall see you tomorrow but do not look for me early for I will spend the night in prayer.”

“What is left of it,” I murmur but she doesn’t hear me. The door closes on her whispering black skirts and I breathe a sigh of relief to be left alone with the children.

“Come along,” I say. “Let’s get you settled.”

I tuck them up together in the same bed, finding some comfort in the act. Usually this sort of task is left to servants. I stroke Harry’s hair back from his brow and trace the line of his sandy eyebrows with the tip of my finger.