A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (26 page)

I am dressed in my finest; a gown of white cloth of gold with a regal train. From my ears hang two of the world’s most enormous pearls. Ann hands me my fan and my prayer book, and we make our way down to the hall for supper.

Customary trumpets mark my arrival and the court falls to its knees while I take my place on the dais. I cast my eye about the hall, looking for Henry. It is unusual for him to arrive after me; he is usually in his place, discussing matters of state with his uncle Jasper.

I locate the king’s mother first. She is speaking to the archbishop, probably complaining about some breach of his service. I link my fingers and wait with back erect for Henry to arrive. And then I hear him laugh. I jerk my head in the direction of the sound. It is a laugh quite unlike anything I have heard from him before; usually his amusement is sparing or at the expense of others.

He is hidden from my sight, screened by a curtain that is suddenly pulled back to give him admittance. He steps into the torchlight, a half smile on his face, his eyes soft and relaxed, as if he has just risen from my bed. This evening he looks every inch a king.

He is splendidly apparelled in purple velvet, his hair falling in a smooth curtain to his shoulder. And on his arm is the most exquisite woman I have ever seen. She is chatting, embellishing her words with long white fingers, and he is leaning toward her, entranced by what she is saying, something I cannot hear. He laughs again, and the court titters in accompaniment, happily surprised to see their king so relaxed.

He notices me watching him and his smile widens.

“Elizabeth, my dear.” He moves forward quickly, bringing the woman with him. When they are before me he keeps a hold of her hand and stands tall while she curtseys, extravagantly low.

“Your Grace,” she greets me in a voice like honey. “I am very grateful to you for welcoming me into your household.”

She is so beautiful, so young, and Henry is obviously besotted. She is all in black, festooned with pearls, the whiteness of her cap lending luminosity to her wide blue eyes. Alarm bells ring in my head. The whole court is looking on, eagerly awaiting my response.

Catherine Gordon is as I was ten years ago and instantly I feel old and fat. My heart begins to splinter, but I realis
e
everyone present is waiting for my next words.

“It is good to have you here,” I answer woodenly. My eyes are captivated by the sheen of her skin, the rise of her forehead, the plump invitation of her lips. I drink her in and she curdles like poison through my veins.

Henry is still staring at her. I notice he has maintained hold of her hand far longer than is required, and he is delicately stroking her long white fingers with his ink-stained thumb. Jealousy strikes like a dagger, so sharply I almost cry out against it.

The change I have detected in Henry isn’t due to me, or Warbeck, or our victory over the Cornish. He didn’t make love to me with a new vigour because of anything like that, or from a newfound appreciation for me, his wife, and all that I have sacrificed for his happiness. No. His passion is not for me at all, and all the time he made love to me, he was wishing it was her.

*

It is not easy to pretend all is well, but I do my best. Years of training to conceal my real feelings come to the fore. I continue the charade and push all my jealous rage deep down inside me and paint a serene smile on my face.

I open my arms to Catherine and welcome her into my household as if she is dear to me, but my heart is closed to her. Each time I look on her face I am reminded of Henry’s defection. I have no idea if they are lovers or not. She professes to be in love with her husband, Warbeck, but that does not prevent her from hanging on my husband’s arm, or sharing long, intimate hours with him over a chess board. He used to play with me; I always made sure his ego remained high by ensuring he won. But Catherine beats him. She takes loud satisfaction in felling his queen and, to my astonishment, Henry doesn’t seem to mind.

The Pretender is now safely in the Tower; the king and our sons are safe from him. Several times it is on the tip of my tongue to ask Catherine about him, but so far I have resisted the temptation. I know Henry would not wish it. Any curiosity on my part would suggest I give credence to Warbeck’s claim. So I sit quietly, watching her from the corner of my eye and wondering if she is the wife of a pretender, or if indeed she is my sister-in-law.

During the day, Henry comes to my chambers much more frequently but it is not to see me. For the first time in all our married life he sits among my ladies, takes an interest in their needlework and, on one occasion, holds a skein of wool while Catherine Gordon rolls it into balls.

I bite my tongue, plead a headache, and send her for some salve to rub into my temples. Henry sits back, displeased, and sends me a sharp look, but he does not reprimand me. Instead he turns the conversation to the forthcoming marriage of Arthur and the Spanish Infanta.

“I had imagined that once I had the Pretender under lock and key, Ferdinand and Isabella would agree to let the Infanta travel here, but still they prevaricate. Still they do not trust me.”

I pluck a few crooked stitches from my work and begin again. “You don’t think they give his claim any credence do you, Henry? I mean, if it were Margaret or Mary I should hate for them to go to a foreign country unless their future was assured.”

Henry shifts his limbs irritably. “It is clear he is a pretender, he has made a full confession to the fact. He is a commoner from Tournai, not a drop of royal blood in him.”

He crosses his ankles, folds his arms defensively. I smile soothingly.

“I know that, Henry. Of course I do, but perhaps the Spanish need a little more persuading.”

I bow my head over my sewing again and silence falls between us. From the antechamber come the sounds of a lute, muffled giggles, the light thumping that sounds to me like one of the fools tumbling across the floor. While I sit here talking politics with the king, my ladies are enjoying themselves.

“It will all come right, Henry,” I say. “Do not worry.”

He stands up, stretches his arms, arching his back before shrugging on his cloak and smoothing the fur collar. He bends to kiss my cheek and I resist the impulse to cling on and prolong the moment.

“I must see my mother before she retires; there was a matter she wished to discuss with me.”

He is going to her,
I think. I look down at the neat stitches that represent my empty hours and the work blurs, a tear blots the fabric. With a deep breath, I raise my head, wipe the tears away.

“Are you all right, Madam?” Catherine moves forward from the darkness. “What is the matter?”

Relief floods through me. I had truly believed he was making excuses to leave me so he could go to her. I smile blindly and shake my head.

“Nothing, I am just being silly.”

She sits on a low stool beside me, her dark skirts ballooning around her.

“It is never silly to cry, Your Grace. I cry often. I miss my husband more than I’d miss my right hand.”

Our eyes meet. Another tear drops on my cheek. I try to blink them away and her hand reaches out to cover mine.

“Tell me about him,” I hear myself saying. “Tell me about Perkin.”

After a long silence she begins to speak, her voice husky with emotion.

“I call him Richard, of course. Despite his confession I can think of him only as the Duke of York …” She stops, her face white, her eyes luminous in the firelight. “Do I have your permission to speak freely, Your Grace?” She looks toward the door, shuffles closer on her stool. “Can I speak from the heart?”

I nod once and cold fear creeps through me and takes hold of my heart.

“I believe his story. He told me so many things, small things about his life before … before your father died. He spoke of you, your mother and sisters, the death of your father, your time in sanctuary. His descriptions were so real, so vital; they cannot have been the invention of a boy from Antwerp. I am sure of it.”

I am frowning, pain is in my heart and tears spout from my eyes. I cannot help it. I have no control. If Henry were to come back now and see us together, he would know at once that we were discussing the forbidden.

Catherine is leaning forward, clasping my hand, her eyes earnest, and I see now that her flirtation with the king, her light-hearted gaiety, is all an act; an act to fool the gullible king. I fumble for the desire to defend him.

“Some men are very good liars.”

She sits up straighter, her indignation plain.

“You do not know him, Your Grace. Honour and chivalry are the closest things to his heart. He wanted to be the second Arthur; he intended to rule like the kings of old, like King Arthur. He is not a violent man. His one desire was to stop suffering, to bring peace, but all he has brought is death and insecurity. That is the thing which is killing him …”

She breaks off, her voice cracking into sobs. I watch her shoulders shake for a while but then, unwillingly, my hand creeps out to comfort her. As she weeps into my lap, my own tears spill over again but at length she sits up, dabs her face with a kerchief.

“I have tried to persuade the king to allow Richard to come to court. He is wavering. I tried to convince him that if the courtiers saw them together that Henry’s nobility would outshine my husband’s and he would be clearly seen as a pretender.”

Her eyes are penetrating deep into mine, manipulating my thoughts, urging me to speak against the king, against my husband. When I do not reply she lowers her voice, tempting me like a devil to betray my husband’s trust. “The king is considering it but, Your Grace, if he was allowed to come, you’d see him for yourself. If anyone can identify him, it is you.”

*

“You are not to make any attempt to see him. If I discover you have disobeyed me in this I will send you from court, do you understand?”

I keep calm and try to present a placid face to Henry’s back as he paces up and down the chamber.

“I will obey you, as I always do. I have no wish to meet a pretender who has caused us so much grief.”

“And cost us so much money. My coffers are low because of him. I shall let the court and any who care to look see him for the pretender he is. A low-born foreigner sent by the Duchess Margaret to be a thorn in our flesh. Well, that thorn is well and truly drawn now.”

“Indeed, my love.” It is better that I do not say too much. He must think me content to be ordered to stay in my rooms on the nights Warbeck is in the king’s company. Henry must think I have no ambition or curiosity to look upon the man at all. But, in truth, my blood is boiling. After all these years I am desperate to know the truth. “When Warbeck is to join you at supper I shall keep to my rooms; it is good sometimes to dine quietly and take my leisure in my own apartments, but I trust you will visit me as usual, whenever it pleases you.”

I flush as hotly as if I am propositioning a stranger, and Henry laughs quietly and bends over my hand.

“Of course, wife; that goes without saying.”

I am still uncertain if he has taken Catherine as his mistress. Never in all our years has he shown a flicker of interest in another woman and it is strange now, to see him so besotted. She is constantly in his company, when she is not in mine, and her merry laugh can often be heard issuing from his apartments. I cannot ask her. I cannot reveal the extent of my jealousy, my despair that having taken so long to fall in love with my husband, he now develops a passion for someone else.

The royal court vibrates with excitement about Warbeck’s presence. We are all curious, all surprised that instead of condemning him to a lifetime in prison, the king has instead decided to make a mock of him. But I recall Henry doing this before, with another rival to his throne, a less dangerous one but a threat nevertheless.

Lambert Simnel was, for a few years, made a mockery of at court and then when the king tired of baiting him, was sent to work as a turn-spit in the royal kitchen. He now works in the mews where he shows a talent with the falcons. Simnel was a puppet, pressured by others to act against the king, and Henry could afford to be lenient. Warbeck is different. He has dogged Henry for years, caused him sleepless nights, stolen some of his closest subjects and cost him an enormous sum of money.

On the day he is brought from the Tower, I keep to my chamber. My women bring me news of him and tell me that he has been installed in the King’s apartments where his every movement is shadowed by two burly guards. He sleeps in the royal wardrobe, the chamber where Henry’s gowns and royal robes are stored. I imagine he is searched regularly for weapons for, at such close quarters, I am surprised my husband manages a wink of sleep.

The gossips say Warbeck is very handsome but his spirits are low, his hopes so dashed he scarcely raises his head. Catherine is allowed to speak to him in company, but marital relations between them are forbidden. That must suit Henry very well. My informants describe how the king continues to commandeer her attention, leads her out to dance in my absence. The only comfort I have is that he continues to visit my chamber, sometimes lingering until morning, and we both nurture hopes for another child.