A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (28 page)

It is good to be out of the palace and on horseback again. In the company of the king’s fools, Richard joins the royal cavalcade as it progresses around Kent. He has always loved the spring; the roadside is burgeoning with primroses and Lenten lilies, the trees coming into bud, the willows yellow with blossom.

As the royal party moves through the countryside, the people come out to cheer. Henry makes sure they know Richard for the pretender Warbeck, and he is forced to rise above the cruel comments, the crude suggestions of where he should bury his head. He tries to focus on the fine blue skies, the undulating meadows, the full and gushing streams.
This should all belong to me
, he thinks.
I should be king over all of it, as my father was.

“Ooh, look at the pretender,” a gap-toothed woman screams from the crowd as they enter Canterbury. “Let me give tribute to the counterfeit king!” She stoops down, scoops up a handful of mud and hurls it toward him. Richard ducks out of the way, his tunic is spattered as the clod of earth sails past him and strikes one of the fools in the middle of his chest. The crowd screams with delight but the fool scowls and Richard knows he will feel the brunt of his resentment once they are settled for the night.

You’d think that the lower echelons of Henry’s court would show some sympathy for the boy, who has committed no crime against them. But, afraid of offending their king, no one dare befriend him and he is denied access to the ring of friendship.

Up ahead he catches sight of the king’s cap, the feather blowing gracefully in the breeze. Beside him rides Catherine, her gloved hands lightly on the reins, her gay laughter light in the spring air. Richard’s gut twists with jealousy. She is forgetting him, enjoying the notice of the Tudor king, regretting her hasty marriage to an ill-fated Pretender.

Why do I stay?
Richard wonders.
If I try to escape and they capture me, kill me, will it really matter?
And if I do get away? Perhaps I can board a ship, sail away from it all and forget who I am, become a peasant, or a pirate. Catherine will not care.

It has been raining and the king’s privy garden is glistening in the morning sun. Drops of moisture hang like jewels from the roses, puddles litter the gravel. Small birds emerge from hiding to hop and twitter as they peck about on the mead. Richard strolls along honey-coloured paths, deep in thought, his hands clasped behind his back. The king’s privy garden is the part of his prison he favours most. He remembers walking here with his mother, in happier days. He can almost hear the laughter of his sisters, the whisper of his mother’s skirts on the grass. Richard reaches the end of the path, notes the pears that are beginning to swell on the tree and turns to walk back the way he has come.

The guards waiting near the hall are talking to a trio of women, a noblewoman and two maids. His heart leaps as he recognises his wife and he hastens toward them. Catherine glides forward, one of the maids in her wake; she is smiling but he detects a new strain about her eyes and mouth. “Richard.”

He takes her hands, kisses her proffered cheek.

“I had not looked to see you today. This is a fine surprise.” He is kissing her hands, reaching out to cup her face, but she pulls away.

“Richard, please. You must listen. I — I have brought someone to see you, but you must be brief.” The servant at her side raises her head, stares at him unsmiling, her large eyes swimming with fearful emotion.

“Elizabeth!”

He drops his wife’s hands and goes to take his sister’s, but Catherine pulls him back.

“No, you mustn’t. Keep your attention on me. The queen will hear and speak to you but do not look at her. I do not know how long Ann can keep the guard’s attention.”

A glance toward the house reveals the other maid servant laughing and chatting with the burly guard. She has thrown back her cloak and is loudly remarking on the glorious sunshine. Richard turns back to his wife.

“It is dangerous, but I am so glad to see you, Bess. Are you well? Does he treat you well?”

“Very well. He is a
good
husband. A good
man
.” Her voice has not changed, it retains the lilt, and even in her misery he can discern a hint of laughter beneath the surface. Catherine places a hand on his arm and they begin to walk sedately along the path, away from the house, toward the bower. The queen places herself at her brother’s left elbow. He looks at the ground, watches the toe of her boots appearing and disappearing beneath her skirts. He can scarcely believe she is here; there is so much to say, so much to ask, but she forestalls him.

“What happened to you? Where have you been?”

“All over the place; the courts of Europe know me well. They believed me; they would have backed me had fate not turned against me.”

“And what then, Richard? What would you have done with me and my children? Locked us in the Tower and let fate take its course? Condemn them to a life like yours has been?”

They stop in the centre of the path and, careless to the danger, face each other. Her face is white and hostile, his is red with confusion but they are so similar, the truth of their relationship is plain.

“I would never harm you, Bess, or your children.”

“But you’d murder my husband. Did you start that fire? Did you burn down Sheen?”

“No! Don’t be ridiculous. I am watched every second of the day.”

“As you are now?”

He turns his head. The maid is leaning against the wall, laughing up at the guard who, abandoning his post, is doing his best to peer down her bodice.

Richard shrugs and all three move toward the relative secrecy of the rose bower. They sit on a damp chamomile seat among fragrant blooms, scattered petals, and at last he reaches for his sister’s hand.

“Believe me, Bess. I mean you no harm. I just wanted my birthright but now, now I would settle for my freedom; the freedom to live in peace with my wife and …” he almost says ‘son’ but manages to stop just in time.

“You should have settled for that before. Now Henry will never let you go. You will be another Warwick, held captive for the sake of the Tudor dynasty. Henry has dreams of the Tudor line stretching far into the future.”

“You could speak to him on my behalf. Tell him you saw me; if you like you can claim I am a pretender, it is what everyone believes anyway. All I want is to leave here with Catherine to live in obscurity.”

She looks down at their joined hands. His nails are bitten to the quick, the knuckles large and bony; she remembers the plump white fingers of her infant brother.

“What happened in the Tower? What happened to Edward?”

Richard takes a deep breath, his eyes glazing as he recalls the horror of that time.

“You will recall the uprising when Buckingham made his bid for the throne?”

Elizabeth nods, lowers her head. She has heard of it, of course, but cannot quite recall it. At the time of the uprising she’d still been in sanctuary with her mother, her life in turmoil. Richard continues to speak.

“Well, it was at that time. We knew of the unrest but not the cause of it, and when armed men came stealing into our chamber we took them for our enemies. We fought hard against them and Edward fell, struck his head against the settle. He never got up …” He runs his fingers through his hair, his fringe flops forward.

“Brampton. It was Brampton who saved me. He threw a blanket over my head and carried me away, took me to Aunt Margaret. She educated me, clothed me, fed me and made me swear on my life to avenge the crimes committed against the house of York. I was lost, Bess. I wanted to come home, to Mother, to you, to England but it was all gone … destroyed …”

He stops, a little breathless. “I haven’t had a day since when I haven’t been schooled, cajoled, and bullied into deposing Henry and taking back my throne. I am not even sure I want it now.”

The queen is very still, the only movement that betrays she still lives is the gentle rise and fall of her breast. She turns suddenly, her eyes boring into his.

“Nothing is the same now, Richard. I can never claim you as my brother; you can never take your rightful place in the world. If I speak to my husband on your behalf, he will instantly suspect who you really are and find a way to have you put to death. It is better if you escape. Somehow get away from here to a secret place and Catherine can follow after but, if I help you, you must swear never to attempt to claim my Arthur’s throne. The day of York is over. I am of the house of Tudor now. Do you swear it?”

The boy is beaten. He bows his head, almost vomiting the words, “I swear it, Bess.”

“I cannot see you again.” Elizabeth stands up but he keeps hold of her trembling hand. “Catherine will act as my messenger, until we can get you away.”

The boy kisses her hand, reluctant to let go. As she walks away his last sight of her is blurred by his tears.

Richard is alone in the king’s closet staring at the open casement, uncertain if he should go or stay. Catherine brought word from the queen, instructions that a door would be left unlocked, but this is a window. It could be another of Henry’s lures; the promise of freedom to tempt him from his prison. He throws back the covers and steals forward, looks out into the night.

There is no moon, the garden is wreathed in shadow, the only sound is of the water playing in the fountain; a joyful, buoyant sound. He pushes the casement wider and leans out. It is not a long drop to the ground: ten, maybe twelve feet. The boy bites his lip. He might snap his ankle, break his knee. He pulls it closed again and turns back toward his narrow bed. But the fragrant stench of his comfortable prison sickens him; the sweet herbs and pomanders meant to keep the king’s clothes smelling fresh fill him with nausea. With great stealth he begins to pull on his jerkin, searches for his boots. He has no sword and feels naked without one; venturing into danger without a familiar blade at his hip is madness indeed.

One leg over the sill and panic seizes him again. He pauses, takes a deep, shuddering breath. It is now or never, and the thought of living out his days as Henry’s lackey, Henry’s dupe, gives him the courage he needs. He slowly lowers himself from the window.

The rough ledge scrapes his belly, he clings to the wooden frame, legs dangling and, as he releases his grip, prays for a safe landing. As he hits the ground, his ankles give way and he rolls onto his back, jarring his elbow on the gravel. His landing was loud enough to rouse the guard. He crouches, listening, ready to flee, but there is no sound of approaching feet, no alarm bells ring out. The garden gate will be locked, he tells himself. Like all his other plans he expects this attempt to fail.

It is open. He sidles through it, pauses to scan the palace grounds, straining his eyes for signs of life. It is empty; no movement. He takes no time to consider how unusual this is, he just keeps moving. Driven on, he keeps to the shadows as he runs, his body doubled, crouched low. He heads for the river and begins to follow the course upstream. He has no idea of his direction, no notion of the terrain through which he flees. The need to escape, to finally free himself of Henry’s grasp, is all consuming.

He blunders in the darkness, plunges unseeing into puddles and mud. His cap is lost, left hanging on the low slung branches of a tree but he does not wait to retrieve it. His breath comes fast, a pain in his side like a knife, a trickle of blood runs from the knee he grazed in his climb from the window.

With a hand pressed to his aching side he comes suddenly upon the river, splashes through marshy ground and falls to his knees to take his first rest. He looks about him, peering through the semi-dark. A faint stripe of pink bleeds into the horizon, betokening the dawning day. Somewhere a cockerel calls.
I must move on
, he thinks,
but which way? Where do I go?

Catherine said there’d be a horse waiting, a servant to ride with him to safety. He must have missed him, taken a wrong turn … unless, unless he was not following the carefully laid plans of the queen after all, but a malicious, deceitful trap laid by the king.

“Summon Catherine Gordon, I would speak with her.” The maid curtseys and hurries to do my bidding while I wait in agitation for Catherine to arrive. There is no one else I can confide in, no one I can ask for confirmation.

When she finally enters, remembering the proper genuflection, I can immediately see from the whiteness of her cheeks that the rumours are true. I beckon her close and flick a hand to dismiss my other women. “Sit down,” I say, “before you fall down, and tell me if the tales are true.”

“They seem to be,” she sobs, pulling a kerchief from her sleeve and dabbing her eyes. “Although I don’t understand why; why didn’t he wait for our instruction?”

“I don’t know.” My mind races through a dozen scenarios but none of them make any sense. Plans were in hand for a faultless escape; a horse to take him to a ship. He should have sailed far away from England to begin his new life. Why would he leave before I sent the final word?

Since one of my women told me of his departure this morning, my heart has been leaping and starting in my breast as if I am ailing. I am in terror that Henry has known of our plot all along and has forestalled me. Every footstep in the corridor has me starting up from my chair, expecting the king’s guard to come and take me to my fate.

“They are saying that the king has sent out a party to seek him. He has set guards at every port and demanded each ship be searched.”

“Where will he go?” I whisper, more to myself than Catherine, who has subsided once more into tears.

“If they catch him,” she sobs, doubled up in an agony of grief, “they will throw him in the Tower; he will never be free again. All we want is an ordinary life. All he asks for is liberty.”

“He should never have come here, he should have stayed in Flanders.” I speak through clenched teeth. My head is aching, my stomach rebelling from the early stages of pregnancy.

Catherine sits up. “I would never have known him had he done that; he would never have known what it is to love.”

My heart softens. “Even if his freedom is lost, at least he has known that and had it returned full measure. Take comfort from that.”

*

When I next see Henry the effect of Richard’s escape is very apparent. “You look peaky, Husband,” I murmur when he joins me for a private supper.

“Are you surprised? That blasted boy has interrupted both my sleep and my digestion. I swear my belly is full of poison.”

I look up, alarmed, but he is speaking figuratively. I pretend a confidence I do not feel.

“They will catch him soon. No man on earth would turn down such a high reward for a felon.”

“Hmmm.” The king picks over the food on his plate, selecting a choice cut, spearing it with his knife. He chews slowly, watching me, and I feel my cheeks reddening. “How are you feeling now? Has the megrim passed? When can we expect the child?”

I feign a delighted smile. “Early next year, I suspect. This time it is sure to be a son.”

“A royal Duke; an Edward, perhaps …”

“Or perhaps an Edmund, by way of a change.”

A slow flush spreads across his face. He puts down his knife with a pleased smile.

“After my father? That is a good thought, wife. My mother will be pleased; I shall pray for a son.”

I breathe a sigh of relief, glad to have regained his confidence. Perhaps he wasn’t suspicious after all. Perhaps he has no idea of my attempts to free Richard. I watch him from beneath my lashes as he continues to pick at his dinner. I notice he drinks more wine than usual. A knock on the door and he puts down his cup and calls to whoever is outside to enter.

The servant bows with a flourish. “The Prior of the Charterhouse wishes to speak to you, Your Grace.”

Henry shows no surprise, he lifts his cup again and takes a long draught.

“Show him in,” he says with a wave of his hand. The prior, Ralph Tracy, edges into the room, genuflects low before his king.

“Well?” says Henry. “What is it, Ralph?”

“Your Grace, I have to inform you that the fugitive, the man calling himself the Duke of York, has taken refuge at the Charterhouse. He begged for shelter, which I promised him but having him safe, I then thought it best to inform you of it.”

“Ha! You did well, Ralph.” He gets up and embraces the prior, the splendour of his robes outshining those of the Carthusian. “I shall see you are well rewarded.” He shouts for the guard, calls for his Uncle Jasper to send a party to apprehend my brother.

“Will you break sanctuary, Henry? Is that wise?”

He turns toward me as the prior disappears through the door, his eyebrows are raised but I can see he is pleased, silently congratulating himself. My pleas for caution will be ignored.

“Break sanctuary? If I have to; after all, it was good enough for your father after Tewkesbury, wasn’t it?”

What can I say? There is no defence against that and I can hardly beg for him; I can hardly step from my usual placid role to plead for the life of a pretender. After all, the captive is not my brother.

*

Henry orders the Pretender to be put in the stocks at Cheapside where the common people vent their scorn upon him. At Westminster, still smeared in the detritus that was thrown at him, he is made to repeat his false confession. He is now in the Tower, in a deep dark cell where Henry swears he will see neither the sun nor the moon again. As soon as it is done and my brother is held fast under lock and key, Henry turns his attention to Spain. He panders to their demands, promising Ferdinand and Isabella that it is now perfectly safe for Caterina to come to us.

But, as confident as my husband feels, his health has taken a turn for the worse. He is not ill but he is ailing. His teeth have become troublesome, his hair is thinning and his digestion continues to bother him.

“I am getting old,” he growls when I show my concern, but he is not much past forty. I am seized by sudden panic that he will die and I will be left at the mercy of his mother.

“You must let us coddle you a little, Henry. Stay in bed longer of a morning and take more exercise. I shall order the cooks to prepare you a nourishing broth …”

“You will do no such thing. I am not a child to be swaddled. I shall do well enough; this year has been fraught with worry, that is all. Next year will be better.”

His eye drops to my belly, a smile plays on his lips. “We are young yet, plenty of time left. I will give you enough sons for an army of Tudors.”

I move behind his chair, drop a kiss on the top of his hair and try not to notice how grey and thin it has become.

“And I will do my best to bring them all forth in safety.”