The Last White Rose, page 38
“Margaret,” he said, beaming at his mother. “She shall be called Margaret, after you, my lady mother.” The baby gave him a grumpy stare and waved her tiny fists. “She’s certainly healthy.”
“You are not sad that she is not a son?”
“Not at all,” he smiled. “We are young yet, Bessy, and there is plenty of time. For now, I am happy with this lusty girl. Princesses are the key to great alliances. We shall have to find you a great prince, won’t we, sweetheart!” Little Margaret made her disapproval plain by yelling.
After Arthur had been brought in to see his sister and had stroked her head and said “Baby!” in an awed voice, Elizabeth was left to rest. She slept soundly after her travail, happy and contented, with her mother sitting sewing by her side.
The next day, the newborn Princess was carried to St. Stephen’s Chapel in great state for her baptism. As before, Henry waited with Elizabeth until she was brought back to them for their blessing and laid in an oak cradle lined with ermine and covered with a cloth-of-gold canopy.
Later that day, in the Parliament Chamber, Arthur was created Prince of Wales. In the evening, Henry brought him to see Elizabeth and told her how well behaved he had been as he sat on the throne beneath the cloth of estate and presided over the feast held to celebrate the occasion.
“You’ll make a fine king one day,” he told his son.
“But not for a long time, I hope,” Elizabeth said, stretching out her hand to her husband, as Arthur crawled across the bed to her.
She was still lying in when she received a personal letter from King Ferdinand, informing her that he had conquered the town of Baca in the kingdom of Granada, and had made great progress in the war against the Moors. As our victory must interest all the Christian world, he had written, we thought it our duty to inform the Queen of England of it. She liked that. He could easily have written only to Henry, or jointly to them both, but he had recognized her status as the rightful Queen of England.
She was thinking how she might respond when the Lady Margaret appeared. “I don’t want to worry you, Bessy, but some of your ladies have caught measles.”
Elizabeth instinctively bent over the cradle beside her. “Have they been in here?”
“No, thanks be to God. But I think you should remain in confinement until the danger is past.”
“What of Arthur?” She was suddenly in terror. If he caught measles, he might not have the strength to withstand it.
“Henry is sending him to Richmond today. He thinks it is safer there. Shall I bring him to say farewell?”
“No. I don’t want to put him at any risk.” It came to her, forcibly, that only a mother who loved her son would deny herself the sight of him for the sake of his safety. Fearful as she was, a great sense of relief filled her heart. She did love Arthur! She wasn’t an unnatural mother.
The measles outbreak persisted. Several ladies of the court died. Although Elizabeth had made a good recovery from Margaret’s birth and was out of bed and sitting in a chair, she remained in her chamber, keeping the baby with her. She was not churched until the feast of St. John, the third day of Christmastide, and then only in private. Two days later, Henry moved the court to Greenwich to escape the contagion. There were no disguisings and fewer plays and entertainments, but he did sanction the appointment of a lord of misrule, who made much sport and good cheer.
By Candlemas, the measles outbreak had died away and the court was back at Westminster, where Henry and Elizabeth went in procession to Westminster Hall, and thence to Mass. Afterward, they watched a play in the White Hall. That night, in the Paradise Bed, he took her in his arms and reclaimed her after the long months of abstinence. It was life-affirming to be one with him again. Afterward, as they lay drowsily, her head in the crook of his shoulder, he told her that he was increasing her mother’s allowance. Silently she rejoiced, very sure that soon he would grant Mother the freedom to return to Cheyneygates.
Chapter 16
1491–1492
On a rainy day at the end of June 1491, Elizabeth’s second son was born at Greenwich Palace. When he was placed in her arms, she fell instantly in love. Red-haired and sturdy, he was a true Plantagenet, the image of her father, and he could easily have passed for a child of two months.
Henry, gazing down on the lusty infant, was inordinately proud. “This little one’s birth makes my dynasty doubly secure. We shall call him after King Henry VI, who, I am sure, will soon be made a saint—if all the gold I am spending in Rome is sufficient to stir the Pope! And it’s my name, too, so a fitting one.”
Elizabeth fleetingly recalled poor, confused Henry of Lancaster quavering in the Tower. He had been a gentle soul, unfortunate to find himself at the center of a civil war. God willing, his young namesake would enjoy a happier life.
Wrapped in a mantle of gold and ermine, and escorted by two hundred men bearing torches, the new Prince was baptized in the nearby church of the Observant Friars, in the same silver font used for Arthur.
He thrived. Elizabeth could barely let him out of her sight. This was what she had wanted to feel—but had never felt—for Arthur; it transcended even her love for Margaret. Henry—or Harry, as they called him—was so much the image of her father that he won all hearts. She could not help but wish that he had been the firstborn son, rather than Arthur; he was infinitely stronger and there was something innately special about him, as if God had showered him with gifts and talents. Look at those plump little hands, stretching out to grab everything in reach! Beside him, poor Arthur was a weakling. At nearly five, he was a serious little boy, diligent at his lessons and striving to live up to his father’s expectations. Harry, she knew, would never have to make an effort.
Alas, the maternal idyll could not last. Soon after Elizabeth had been churched, Henry established a household for their children at Eltham Palace, east of London. It stood in a bracing location on a high hill with commanding views over the City, and Elizabeth knew it well, for it had been one of her father’s favorite houses. It was he who had built the soaring great hall.
When Henry told her, over dinner, that Harry was to be sent away with Arthur and Margaret, she burst into tears.
He squeezed her hand. “Eltham is not far from London. You will be able to visit the children whenever you wish. Lady Darcy will be in charge and Mistress Oxenbridge comes highly recommended as a nurse for Harry.”
“I know. I appointed her myself. But I cannot bear to miss out on Harry’s babyhood. It pains me to think he might grow fonder of his nurse than of me.”
Henry smiled at her. “I’m sure that won’t happen, especially if you visit him frequently.”
“Oh, I shall. With your leave, I will stay there regularly.”
“Of course. And when Eltham needs cleansing, we can send the children to Sheen or Greenwich. Both are well away from the unhealthy air of London. But your place is here with me, Bessy. You have your duties as queen. The children will be well cared for and, in time, you will interest yourself in their education and their marriages. That’s what good mothers do.”
She appreciated Henry’s efforts to cheer her, but leaving her little ones, especially Harry, at Eltham was heartbreaking, all the more so when the baby gave Anne Oxenbridge a gummy smile as she took his swaddled form in her arms.
Lady Darcy smiled. “I know it’s not easy leaving them for the first time, Madam. But young Prince Henry looks more than capable of taking change in his stride. We will keep him in good remembrance of you.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, blinking back tears. “And I will come next week.”
With her ladies following her, she made her way back through the palace. On the great hammerbeam roof of the hall, her father’s gilded badges of the white rose and the sun in splendor still gleamed. If she closed her eyes for a moment, she could imagine that time had rolled back to when the vast empty space was filled with the Yorkist court, and that she was there, at the center of it, with her tall, magnificent sire, larger than life as she remembered. How proud he would have been of his grandchildren, especially Harry.
As her chariot bumped across the drawbridge, Elizabeth reflected that her children would be happy at Eltham. And next week, she would bring bolts of velvet, satin, and damask, to be made up into clothing for them. It was important that their royal state was observed from infancy.
* * *
—
She became a regular visitor to Eltham and was slowly growing accustomed to the separation. But life never seemed to go on smoothly. Always, there was something to worry about.
It was Anne, now sixteen, who told her about the gossip.
“I heard the other ladies talking,” she said, as she prepared Elizabeth for bed. “There are new rumors that one or both of our brothers still live.”
Elizabeth caught her breath. “There have been rumors before.”
“I know. But where do they come from, Bessy? Is it just idle gossip or wishful thinking—or could there be any truth in them?” Anne flushed.
It was true that Henry’s popularity had dwindled, for he had gained a reputation as a miser. But that was too simplistic a view. He was building up the wealth that would bolster his dynasty, tightening the laws so that the great nobles could not rise up and make war as they had under Lancaster and York. Some of his measures were disliked, so it was no wonder that a few people harked back to the promising young Edward V.
“I wish I knew where these rumors originated,” Elizabeth said, taking off her rings. “And I wish we knew for certain what happened to Ned and York.”
Anne caught her eye. “Do you still think that they could be alive?”
“I have long wondered. But, in the absence of any news of them, I think, sadly, that we must assume they are dead.”
Anne nodded. “I think so too.”
* * *
—
The next morning, Henry arrived unexpectedly in Elizabeth’s privy chamber as she sat among her women embroidering an altar cloth. His face was gray.
“Ladies, leave us,” he ordered, and they disappeared into the great chamber in a rustle of silks.
Elizabeth had risen. Her first thought was for the children. Had something awful happened? “You look shaken, Henry. What is wrong?”
He sank down on the settle by the fire. “Another pretender has appeared in Ireland.”
Her mind flew back to her recent conversation with Anne. Had this something to do with that fresh crop of rumors?
“A week ago, a Breton merchant ship docked in Cork. There was a youth on board, a fair young man magnificently attired, who bore himself with such dignity that the people were at once convinced that he must be of royal or noble blood. At first, there was talk that he was Warwick, escaped from the Tower. But then it was announced that he was your brother York. He’s about the same age that York would be now, and he bears a strong resemblance to your father. My informants also report that he knows a lot about King Edward’s court.” Henry leaned back and sighed. “In truth, Bessy, I know not what to think.”
She sank down beside him, trembling. Could this youth really be her brother? Had Richard been speaking the truth about the princes having just disappeared? Oh, if it was York…
Henry reached for her hand. “I know what you are hoping for. But, Bessy, if this young man really is your brother, many will say that he has a better claim to the throne, never mind the Act confirming my title.”
“And we would be displaced—and our children. Oh, Henry…” She was wringing her hands. “You must understand how torn I feel. My brothers were robbed of their future; all these years my poor mother, my sisters, and I have been wondering what happened to them, always imagining the worst. Finding that York is alive would be the best news we could receive—and, for you and me, the worst.” She was sobbing now.
Henry drew her into his arms. “I understand how you feel,” he murmured against her hood. “But you must understand that I am King now; Parliament has named me so. If this lad is York…It all depends on what his intentions are, and who is helping him. And, Bessy, I fear he might be making a bid for the throne. The priority now is to find out if he is who he claims to be. So hold yourself in patience until we know what we are dealing with.”
“I will,” she said, knowing it would not be easy.
* * *
—
Anne and Katherine were agog when they heard the news.
“Do not mention this to anyone,” Elizabeth cautioned. “We don’t know anything for certain yet. The youth might be an imposter.”
“And he might be our brother!”
“We’ll meet that when we come to it,” she countered, wondering how on earth Henry would deal with it. She was not optimistic, given his treatment of Warwick, who still languished in the Tower and looked to be there for good. York, if it truly was he, merely by existing could not be anything but her husband’s enemy—and hers.
Within a few weeks, Henry had more information, which he relayed to Elizabeth as, wrapped in their cloaks, they walked in the autumnal gardens, the dead leaves crackling beneath their feet. “Four years ago, this boy was taken into the service of King Edward’s godson, Sir Edward Brampton, who fled into exile in the Netherlands after Bosworth. He could have told the lad what he needed to know about your father’s court.”
“Yes, but do we know who he is?”
“Not yet. He might conceivably be King Edward’s bastard; that would account for the resemblance. But, for all he claims to have been brought up at the English court until he was ten, he knows very little English.”
Elizabeth felt torn between relief and sadness. “That’s telling. No one would forget the mother tongue they had spoken for ten years. He must be an imposter.”
“The brainchild of your aunt Margaret, no doubt,” Henry said grimly.
“You think she’s behind this?”
“Assuredly. She has doubtless been waiting for an opportunity to unseat me since Stoke. I’ll wager that Brampton pushed the boy in her path and she took advantage of the situation. Probably she knows that the lad is not her nephew.”
Elizabeth pulled her cloak tighter around her and thought back. “She never saw York. She might believe the boy’s tale.”
Henry looked dubious. “I think she’s been looking out for a handsome youth to play the Plantagenet. She could have taught him all he needed to know to convince people that he was York—and arranged for him to go to Ireland to stir up the Yorkists there.”
“She could have done, yes. But, Henry, this is all pure speculation. You don’t know for certain if my aunt has ever met the boy.”
“True,” he conceded reluctantly, as they ascended the spiral stair to the Queen’s lodgings. “But some conspiracy must have been formed before he appeared in Ireland. I’m still convinced it originated in Burgundy. That woman would do anything to overthrow us and replace me with any member of the House of York who is remotely suitable.”
Elizabeth could not disagree, even though she hated the idea of any of her kin being actively hostile to Henry. It had been bad enough when Lincoln rose against him, but Lincoln had paid the price. Henry could not touch Aunt Margaret.
They had reached the door to her chamber and he raised her hand to kiss it. “I have accounts to check now, Bessy, but I will let you know if I hear any more about this feigned lad.”
That warmed her heart a little. Even though she was sad that the pretender could not be her brother, she was pleased that Henry now trusted her enough to take her into his confidence.
* * *
—
He and she might believe that the young man in Ireland was a fraud, but they could not stem the tide of public opinion. The news of York’s apparent survival seemed to have come blazing and thundering into England, arousing much excitement and speculation.
Henry showed Elizabeth the reports, exasperated. “There’s no doubt now that this is all down to the magicking of the Duchess Margaret, who has raised up a ghost to vex me!” he fumed. “And a finer counterfeit than Simnel. This lad who calls himself Plantagenet seems to move people to pity and induce belief. It’s as if they are gripped by a kind of fascination or enchantment.”
He flung the papers on the table and joined her by the fireside. “He claims to have been spared by those who came to kill his brother. As if they would leave him alive!”
“We do not even know for certain that Ned is dead,” Elizabeth reminded him. “Do you think this pretender will attempt an invasion of England?”
“At present, he appears to be doing his best to win over the Irish, no doubt in the hope of raising an army. But my agents tell me he is having little success. I am following a policy of watch and see. It may be that this imposture will fizzle out before any harm is done.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” Elizabeth said.
* * *
—
They heard little more of the pretender for some time. Christmas passed, and soon spring was dawning. It seemed that the Irish had thought better of supporting him.
And then, in March 1492, as Elizabeth, pregnant once more, sat watching Henry receive foreign ambassadors, his uncle of Bedford came in and passed him a note. Henry frowned, but continued with the reception. As soon as it was over, he hurried Elizabeth away to his closet.
“The pretender is in France. King Charles sent a ship for him and has received him with royal honors as King Richard the Fourth.”
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“We have good cause to worry,” Henry muttered. “France is angered at my alliance with Spain, her enemy, and Charles will be glad of an opportunity to discountenance me. He could even set an army at the feigned lad’s back. Would you believe he has assigned him royal apartments and a guard of honor? The young fool must think himself in Heaven.” He got up and poured himself a goblet of wine, spilling some in his agitation. “What worries me is that he has already subverted the loyalty of some of my subjects—fools who are discontented with my rule and the taxes I have to impose, others who are ambitious, those who enjoy change and novelty, but most the simpletons who love to nourish these bruits. By God, I govern a nation of idiots! I bring them peace, and this is how they reward me.”
