The Last White Rose, page 34
“Of course, Madam. I will see that his Grace’s orders are carried out to the letter.”
It was with a guilty sense of relief that Elizabeth departed for Placentia to rejoin Henry. She told herself she should not feel blameworthy, for she had discharged her chief responsibility of appointing trustworthy attendants to care for Arthur. And she could not have chosen anyone better than Lady Darcy. It was not necessary for her, his mother, to be with him, and it was impractical, for queens had duties to perform. She herself and her siblings had been raised by their lady mistresses; it was the way of the world. Arthur was in the finest place. She had done her best for him.
Yet her conscience kept telling her that she should feel some pang at being parted from her baby. Arthur was deeply important to her, but still she could not feel for him that all-encompassing love that other mothers clearly felt for their children. She prayed constantly that, one day, it would come; and she told herself that a good mother, after all, was one who cared for her children, looked to their advancement, supervised their upbringing and education and, later, ensured that they made advantageous marriages. She had made a creditable beginning with all that and knew that she always would continue to look to Arthur’s best interests.
Lying next to Henry the night after she arrived at Placentia, the bedclothes rumpled with their lovemaking, she thought she might go mad if she could not rid herself of this guilt. It occurred to her that she might be armoring herself in case Arthur was taken from her. Because once you loved, you laid yourself open to loss—and what could be worse than the loss of a child?
* * *
—
“We must see to your crowning, Bessy,” Henry said, rising from bed and stretching the next morning. “I thought not to tire you while you were pregnant, but now I will order that preparations be made.”
“That would be wonderful,” she said, admiring his lean and muscular body, and wishing that he would climb back between the sheets and take her in his arms. But his mind was now on coronations and state affairs, and she had lost him for the present.
There was no point in lying abed now. She got up and summoned her women to dress her, then went to her chapel for Mass. There, she was astounded to find Cecily in tears, sitting in the royal pew.
“Whatever is wrong?” she asked, hastening to her. “Cis?”
Her sister turned a tear-streaked face to her. “It’s the King!” she sobbed. “He is having my marriage to Ralph annulled. I am not to go back to Upsall or ever see him again.”
Elizabeth was speechless for a moment. “What? He hasn’t said a word of this to me.”
Cecily dabbed at her eyes. “He summoned me to his closet this morning and said that Ralph is not a fitting husband for me because his father supported King Richard.”
“But Lord Scrope was one of those pardoned after Bosworth.”
“The King still suspects his loyalty. But Ralph is no enemy to him, I swear it. Bessy, can’t you speak to his Grace and plead for us to be allowed to stay together? I love Ralph. I cannot bear the thought of being parted from him.” Cecily broke down in tears again, her shoulders heaving.
“I certainly will,” Elizabeth said. “Wait here.”
* * *
—
The King, she was informed, was at breakfast.
“Let me pass,” she commanded the guards, and swept past them into Henry’s lodgings. He looked up in surprise as she burst into his dining parlor and gestured to his servants to leave them.
“Cariad, to what do I owe the pleasure? You seem agitated.”
“Indeed, I am!” she retorted. “I have just heard the most appalling news. My sister is in grief because her marriage is to be annulled. It was the first I’d heard of it. I found her in my chapel, just now, crying her heart out. Tell me it isn’t true.”
“Elizabeth, sit down,” Henry bade her, with the air of someone about to explain something to a child. “It is true. I have my doubts about the loyalty of the Scropes, and Ralph is not a fitting husband for Cecily. I have a far better match in mind, for I would see your sisters well married.”
“And who might that be?” She was not prepared to be mollified.
“Lord Welles, my uncle. He is my mother’s half-brother.”
“I see.” She did. Margaret had probably had a hand in brokering the marriage.
She knew Lord Welles. He had been in high favor with her father and one of those prominent Yorkists who had opposed the Usurper and joined Henry in Brittany. For that, he had received his peerage. He was a likable man, but twice Cecily’s age, although that was not an argument that would wear with her husband.
She opened her mouth to protest, but what was the point? She would not win. That was as certain as the Last Judgment. When Henry had made his mind up, he was immovable.
The fight suddenly went out of her. She saw why the match appealed to him, for he must regard her sisters—or the men they would wed—as potential threats to his throne. It would benefit him to marry them off to his loyal supporters. She could not argue with that. But it was hard on Cecily, being forced to leave the amiable Ralph.
She comforted her as best she could, even as she guessed that Cecily thought she had let her down.
“I did my best,” she told her, knowing that all the protests in the world would not have moved Henry.
Cecily shook her head. “Was ever princess so unfortunate? We are but pawns, Bessy, to be moved at a king’s whim. And he will not listen, even to you.”
The annulment was speedily granted, and, late in November, Elizabeth found herself standing with Henry in St. Stephen’s Chapel, witnessing Cecily’s wedding. The bride wore cloth of gold and a tragic countenance; the groom was attentive, coaxing—charming, in fact—and before the feast was finished, he had won from Cecily a poignant smile. Elizabeth allowed herself to relax a little. It would be all right. Welles would make her sister a good husband.
* * *
—
Henry and Elizabeth spent many hours together that autumn and over Christmas, making plans for her crowning and drawing up lists of the ladies who were to attend her, the rich apparel she would need, and the guests they wished to invite. But, over the festive season, Henry seemed troubled.
“There is a rumor gaining currency that more will be heard of the Earl of Warwick before long,” he said, sitting down beside her to listen to a performance by the choristers of the Chapel Royal. “Some of my councillors have heard it, in taverns and churches, but no one knows where it originated. There are other rumors, too, that Warwick has escaped, or been murdered in the Tower, but he was there today, and very much alive and well.”
She was pleased to hear that, for she had been worrying about her young cousin. But the rumors were troubling.
“Do you take these bruits seriously?” she asked.
“I think we need to stay alert,” he said. “I can risk no threat to my security.”
The choristers were waiting. Henry nodded, and their voices soared.
* * *
—
On a cold January day, Elizabeth was playing backgammon with Anne when Henry arrived and sent her sister away. She could tell from his face that he was agitated about something.
“Cariad,” he said, joining her at the table, “I am very sorry, but your coronation must be postponed again. News has just reached me that a pretender to my throne has appeared in Ireland, claiming to be Warwick.”
She was shocked. “But Warwick is in the Tower!”
“He is indeed—we’ve checked. But this Lambert Simnel— that may not be his real name—claims to have escaped from his prison there.”
“And who is Lambert Simnel?”
“A mere boy; the tool—I fear—of some chance opportunist. It’s an odd name. One of my agents told me that his name is John, so it may be made up. The frustrating thing is that we’re very much in the dark about this conspiracy, and what worries me is that people are being taken in by this imposter. One, I might add, is Lord Scrope.” He looked at her as if to say I told you so, which she tried to ignore. “By all reports, the boy is well spoken, handsome, and gracious, and he apparently gives an accurate and convincing account of his past. Some think he really is Warwick. And he is bragging that he means to overthrow the Welsh milksop who has seized his crown.” He snorted contemptuously.
“Someone must be coaching him,” Elizabeth said, clenching her fists in outrage. Anyone who moved against Henry threatened Arthur, too.
“Exactly my thoughts,” Henry agreed. “I think it is some prominent Yorkist with a close knowledge of the court and the royal family.”
“But prominent Yorkists will know that Warwick is in the Tower!”
“Ah, but they might believe that he has been spirited away.” Henry hesitated. “They may even want to believe it, just to discountenance me. This lad may be a front for one who has pretensions to the crown but dare not come out in the open. And, Bessy, I have reason to fear it may be your cousin Lincoln.”
She was about to protest, but realized that he could well be right. Henry’s victory at Bosworth had put paid to Lincoln’s hopes of a crown. Those who wanted a Yorkist king on the throne would readily back his claim. It was certainly possible that Lincoln had secretly groomed Simnel as a pretender to mask his own intentions.
“He pledged his allegiance at my accession,” Henry said, “but I’ve always found it hard to trust him. He was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland under the Usurper. Do you not think it significant that this pretender has emerged in Ireland?”
“You may be right.” Still she was reluctant to accept that a member of her house was a traitor. “What will you do? Arrest him?”
“No.” Henry’s smile was grim. “I’m having him watched and my Council is trying to find out more about Simnel. I’ve tightened security at the ports and am ready to act swiftly if need be. Do not worry, cariad. We will deal with this pretender.” He made to stand up, then paused. “What do you know of Sir James Tyrell?”
The question startled her. “Why do you ask?”
“The Usurper made him governor of Guisnes in the Calais Pale. He’s still there, and I am pondering on whether I should confirm his appointment.”
“All I know of him is that he was sent to the Tower to collect items from the Wardrobe for the investiture of the Usurper’s son, and he was there at the time my brothers disappeared.”
Henry frowned. “You think he was involved?”
“I don’t know. I have often wondered. Probably it was just a coincidence.”
“Hmm. According to my clerks, he received several high offices from Richard in the months afterward. Yet he did not fight at Bosworth and so escaped being attainted for treason. I’ve sounded out others on his worthiness, and he’s served me well in Guisnes so far, so I will confirm him in the post.”
He kissed her and left. She sat there, wondering why Richard had given Tyrell those high offices. Had his service and abilities really merited them? Or were they rewards for a deed secretly done?
She must not think that way. She must rely on Henry’s judgment, which was more objective than hers.
* * *
—
There was no more news for a while. As she traveled to Farnham in February to visit Arthur, Elizabeth felt uneasy, as if a storm was about to break. The threat from Simnel, she feared, would not go away.
At four months, Arthur had put on weight, although he still looked delicate. When she held out her arms to him, he shrank back against Lady Darcy’s ample bosom and regarded her warily.
“That’s no way to greet your lady mother, my lord Prince,” the lady governess chided him. “Come now.” She handed him to Elizabeth, who kissed his downy head and tried to feel maternal. Her inability to do so made her panicky. Even a sweet gummy smile failed to tug at her heartstrings. What she did feel was an overwhelming pity for this frail little boy who lacked for nothing materially, but whose mother could not love him. And yet, she would have died to protect him, for he was of her blood and he was vulnerable. Maybe that was a kind of loving.
She returned to Westminster feeling miserable. What a sorry mother she was. She made up her mind to visit Arthur more often.
“How is our son?” Henry asked, when he arrived in her chamber for supper.
“He is doing well,” she said. “He’s certainly heavier, and he is smiling and taking notice.”
“Good. That’s reassuring. I will go to see him myself soon.” He smiled at her, but there was a look in his eyes that perturbed her.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, laying down her knife.
There was that shifty expression again. He had done something she wasn’t going to like.
“Bessy, I have some concerns about your mother.”
“What?” He had always been courteous to Mother, had chosen her to be Arthur’s godmother. “What concerns?”
He swallowed. “I cannot forget that she imperiled my cause when the Usurper was reigning.”
“She aided it!” Elizabeth was quick to spring to her mother’s defense.
“But she made her peace with him and voluntarily submitted herself, you, and her other daughters into his hands.”
“She had no choice!”
“Didn’t she? Had she remained in sanctuary, he could not have schemed to wed you.” So there it was, still festering, his anger at Richard trying to take her from him.
“By leaving, she betrayed those who had, at her most urgent entreaty, forsaken their lands and fled to me in Brittany, on the understanding that I would pledge myself to marry you.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks were hot with anger. “Henry, listen to me, once and for all, please! We could not stay in sanctuary. Leaving seemed, as I have explained before, to be the only course open to us. If Mother had not let us go, Richard would probably have taken us away by force, as he did my brother York. Our remaining there was causing embarrassment and inconvenience to the Abbot; Westminster Abbey was under siege. It was a terrible time, and we thought your cause lost.”
He did not look convinced. “But she must have known that I would try again. I had sworn to marry you, and I meant to keep my vow. She schemed to wed you to the Usurper, and if the marriage had taken place, you would have been lost to me, and those loyal noblemen who, at her urging, took my part could never have returned to England without danger to their lives.”
She was shocked to realize how deeply his resentment went, how savage a blow her mother’s actions—and her own—had dealt him. She had hoped they had been forgiven. She’d believed Henry had understood why she had acted as she had.
Evidently that understanding did not extend to her mother.
It did not make sense. She reached across the table and laid her hand on his. “Henry, this is history; none of it is news to you, so why grieve about it now? You have never shown any resentment toward my mother. On the contrary, you restored her royal status and you have always treated her honorably. You chose her above your own mother as godmother to our firstborn. You are even thinking of making her queen of Scots.”
Henry withdrew his hand. “I have never trusted her. I have been keeping a watchful eye on her. Now that we are threatened by the pretender Simnel, my Council has advised me to deprive her of the wherewithal to make any more mischief.”
She could not credit that he had it in him to be so two-faced. “What have you done?”
“The Council has issued a decree depriving her of all her possessions. I have taken her property into my hands, and Parliament will allocate her a pension.”
She was momentarily speechless. “And you waited until I was away to do this!”
“Elizabeth, calm down. This is a matter of security.”
“You really think that my mother would plot to overthrow us—and her grandson—in favor of some upstart who has the idiocy to claim he is Warwick? She would not do that for the real Warwick! This is madness.”
Henry’s expression darkened. “You forget yourself, Madam. None could hold the book so well to prompt and instruct this stage play as she could.”
“I can’t believe you said that!” She was horrified, unable to grasp that he had dissembled for so long. “How much is the pension to be?”
“Four hundred marks.”
“That is less than Richard assigned her.”
“It is more than she deserves. She will be an example to others to keep faith.”
“Henry…” she began, but suddenly her vision cleared. “I know why you are doing this. You’re making an excuse to relieve yourself of the responsibility of providing for her.”
He banged the table, anger flaring. “You have me all wrong, Elizabeth! Your mother is a busy, negotiating woman, and it was she who hatched the conspiracy against the Usurper.”
“No, it was your own mother.”
“Whoever it was, yours was in the thick of it, and she might well decide to plot against me, too.”
“But why?”
He paused. “I think she anticipated that you would enjoy more influence as queen, the kind of influence she enjoyed in her day, and I believe she is extremely discontented with me, thinking you not advanced, but oppressed.”
“That’s not true. I am contented with my life and she knows it. She has never made any complaint against you. You are not making sense, Henry. Why would my mother plot against you when it could only be to the detriment and ruin of her own daughter and grandson? She worked indefatigably to bring about our marriage. And even if she did resent my having too little power, she would know that I’d have even less if you were deposed.”
Henry’s eyes were like steel. “But what if she believes her sons to be still living?”
