The Last White Rose, page 44
She nodded, but still she found Henry’s leniency incredible. It was as if he meant to treat Warbeck as the prince he had claimed to be. Other kings would have hanged him! She could not decide if it was folly—or statecraft of the highest order. And it made her wonder if, deep inside, Henry still feared that Warbeck really was her brother.
“On a happier note, I wanted to tell you that I am working for a treaty of perpetual peace with Scotland,” Henry said, breaking the silence. “Under its terms, Margaret will be married to James, as I have long intended.”
Elizabeth listened in dismay. She had expected that Margaret would one day be married to some great prince, but she was not ready to lose her yet. Her beautiful, tempestuous daughter was still so young, and the prospect of being sent so far away to that untamed northern kingdom with its turbulent nobles and its duplicitous king was unbearable.
“It is a great match for her,” Henry said gently, “and it will, God willing, put an end to centuries of warfare between our two kingdoms.”
“God willing,” she echoed, thinking that it might take more than a marriage to do that. “But she is only eight—and he is, what, twenty-five? There is too great a disparity in their ages. And she is not robust.”
“She will not be going to Scotland yet, Bessy. And age is not the prime consideration in this alliance. Plenty of marriages work despite an age gap.”
“Yes, I know, but I have heard things about James that worry me. He has a bad reputation with women. And he has many bastards.”
“As did your father, if I may remind you,” Henry smiled. “And yet he was a great king. James has many qualities and talents, and I am assured that he will treat Margaret well when the time comes.”
There was a knock on the door and Catherine Gordon entered with some embroidery silks Elizabeth had ordered two days earlier. Seeing the King there, she hurriedly sank into a graceful curtsey. And as Henry smiled at her, Elizabeth gained the most disturbing impression. She saw that he could not take his eyes off Catherine, who had flushed under his scrutiny. Suspicion flared. She feared she could see why he had treated her kindly and given her splendid attire fit for her rank. Elizabeth had seen his accounts, in which he himself had itemized each detail of the clothing he had ordered for Catherine, even down to her hose—and thought nothing amiss of it at the time. Today, she was wearing one of the gowns, a stylish perfection of black velvet trimmed with mink, which enhanced her striking looks.
She tried to tell herself that, in decking out Catherine so lavishly, Henry wished to sweeten her kinsman, King James, with whom he was about to conclude the peace treaty that would be sealed with Margaret’s hand. But a treacherous little voice in her head whispered that it no doubt pleased Henry to adorn Catherine’s beauty, too, or even to fantasize about the body he was so bountifully clothing.
As Catherine curtseyed again and departed, Elizabeth watched her husband’s face. His eyes had followed the young woman across the room; he seemed gripped by some enchantment.
“Henry,” she said, and he started. “A penny for them! You were miles away.”
He shrugged. “I was just thinking that it might be hard to stop Warbeck from contriving to see his wife, for she is very comely.”
Would he be so honest with her if he was cherishing a secret infatuation for Catherine? Had she allowed her imagination to run amok for nothing?
“She has a modest demeanor,” Henry went on, “but she is a singularly beautiful lady and, for all that she has borne him a child, there is an untouched look about her.”
Elizabeth said nothing. It seemed an inappropriate observation, but maybe Henry was merely explaining, from a man’s point of view, why Warbeck loved her. Or maybe he was indulging in fantasies of his own. But, again, he would hardly voice them to his own wife.
“I have dealt with her honorably, for she is blameless,” he was saying. “Warbeck is not worthy of her. When I made him repeat his story in front of her at Exeter, she wept and raged at him for lying to her and King James. Her person, her beauty, and her dignity require a man of far greater superiority. I have assured her that her future holds many possibilities and that I will treat her as my sister.”
“She has been but a pawn in this imposture,” Elizabeth said. “I like her; she does deserve better.”
She settled again to her embroidery, her mind in turmoil, unsure what to think. She was wishing that she was twenty-one instead of thirty-one, and that she was not putting on weight. She had been so slender before the children had come, but five pregnancies had done nothing for her figure, and she kept remembering how her father had quickly run to fat in his thirties. She really would have to look to her diet.
Had the evidence of her eyes deceived her? She had been married to Henry for nearly twelve years and they were still close, still loving. He visited her bed regularly. She had no reason to think he had ever been unfaithful to her. And it was hard to credit that he would have taken advantage of a grieving mother who had found herself in a difficult situation. Maybe it was just a case of a chivalrous king showing compassion and friendship.
But as she lay beside Henry that night and listened to his soft snoring, her mind ran riot and she found herself imagining what might have taken place between him and Catherine in the West Country and wondering if anyone else had noticed the way he looked at her. Who could she ask, without giving away her suspicions? There was no one. She really must stop thinking like this and accept that she was worrying about nothing.
* * *
—
Elizabeth sat enthroned next to Henry, her heart thudding violently. Today, Warbeck was to be presented to them prior to taking up residence in the gilded cage of the court, and the moment when she would finally set eyes on him was approaching. In a few minutes, she would know for certain whether or not he was her brother.
He was entering now, between the two guards who had been ordered to shadow him at all times. He was tall and fair with a prominent chin and bore a striking resemblance to her father. As he knelt before Henry, she gazed on his handsome face and felt faint.
He was not York, whatever the changes time and maturity had wrought; she knew that beyond doubt. She would have wagered much on his being one of her father’s bastards, possibly sired during his exile in the Low Countries. When he uttered his gratitude for the King’s lenient treatment of him, his voice was deep and manly, with a marked foreign accent.
Her heart was steadier now and she was able to incline her head graciously when Warbeck bowed to her and was escorted away. But she was suddenly filled with rage against those—King Charles, Maximilian, the Archduke Philip, Aunt Margaret, and King James—who had used this young man and perpetrated the fraud that had kept her in torment, and Henry under threat, for six long years—years of agonized hoping and fretting on her part. She blamed them too for the crushing sense of disappointment that had seized her, for she had always cherished a small hope that Warbeck might be York. Now she would never be likely to find out what had happened to her brothers. But she must look to the future. At least, with Warbeck captured, Arthur’s betrothal was assured—Ferdinand and Isabella should not be able to claim there was any threat remaining to Henry’s throne.
* * *
—
With a superhuman effort, she recovered her equilibrium and carried on with her life. Warbeck sometimes came to her chamber to see Catherine Gordon, and occasionally Henry was present and treated them both pleasantly. It was obvious that the young man was deeply smitten with his wife.
Once, Warbeck sat down next to Elizabeth and together they watched her ladies practicing dance steps. But he had eyes for only one. “Alas, Madam,” he said, “take pity on a poor wretch. My lady is as brilliant as the stars. Whoever sees her cannot choose but admire and love her. But I am forbidden to do so.”
He looked so dejected that Elizabeth hardly had the heart to point out that it was his own fault. “If you conduct yourself well, Master Warbeck,” she said, “and prove that you are no threat to him, the King may in time relent.” Privately, she doubted it, but hope might keep Warbeck on the straight path. She felt sorry for Catherine, a wife and no wife, with no more hope of children—and none of it her fault. It was clear that she was in love with her husband, even if she was hurt by his having deceived her.
* * *
—
All was in readiness for Christmas, which they were keeping at Sheen. The gifts had been purchased, the Yule log and the evergreens would be brought in on Christmas Eve, and the kitchens were operating at full stretch. Arthur was on his way from Ludlow and the other children had already arrived from Eltham. Elizabeth had stifled her fears about Henry fancying Catherine Gordon, for he had given her no further cause to doubt him, and was looking forward to the twelve days of revelry.
Two days before Christmas Day, around nine o’clock at night, she and Henry were hosting a gathering in her chamber when they heard shouts.
“Fire! Fire!”
Everyone leaped up as the King opened the door to the antechamber and Elizabeth peered over his shoulder. She could smell smoke. Making haste, they led their courtiers through the door to the gallery that connected with the spiral stair and—God willing—safety, but the smoke was thicker there and they could hear crackling below them.
“This way, Sire!” called a guard at the other end of the gallery. “Hurry!”
“Is it safe?” Elizabeth cried, petrified. “Where are the children? And the Lady Margaret?”
“Some guards have gone to get them,” the man replied. “I beg you, make haste!”
Henry grabbed her hand and ran through the smoke. The floor felt hot beneath her feet and she bunched up her skirts and threw her train over her arm. She was in terror lest the floorboards catch light.
She was shaking as they reached the stairwell and horrified when, behind them, just as the last man reached the stair, the gallery floor collapsed and the flames roared upward.
“Get downstairs, now!” Henry shouted, and they followed the guard to the bottom. At one point, the wall was glowing and they shrank back, not daring to touch it. But, at last, they were out in the courtyard and there, to Elizabeth’s profound relief, were the children, standing with the Lady Margaret, the girls clinging to her, Harry agog at the activity around him. Servants were running with buckets and bowls of water, and the yeomen of the guard had formed a chain, passing them along to the blazing building, but their frantic efforts were ineffectual, for the conflagration had spread and Henry and Elizabeth could do nothing but shepherd their family to the greater safety of the park. From there, they could see the burning palace silhouetted against the sky. The children were staring at it in awe. Elizabeth, clasping their hands, could only shudder to think what a close escape they had had.
For three hours the inferno raged, as various household officers came to the King to report what was happening. The Lord Chamberlain thought it had started in the King’s lodgings.
“Can it be put out?”
“It has taken too great a hold, your Grace. People have tried to save hangings, beds, plate, clothing and jewels, but the heat is too fierce.”
Henry looked grim. “They have done their best, and I appreciate it. Look, the chapel is burning!” He watched for a while, then turned to Elizabeth and his mother. “It grows late. We had best get you all to bed. It’s fortunate that my old manor of Byfleet is just beyond the gardens. My Lord Chamberlain, have it prepared for us. Don’t go to too much trouble, for I know the household are needed here. We just need beds for the night; the children are tired.”
“I’m not, Father,” said Harry.
“Well, I am!” said Henry firmly. “It’s long past your bedtime.”
An hour later, when the chamberlain came to escort them to the manor house, and Elizabeth, with a sleepy Mary in her arms, led the others away, Henry, exhausted as he was, insisted on staying until the fire was extinguished. But the palace was well alight, and it looked as if it would be some time before that happened.
When Elizabeth woke the next morning, in musty sheets in need of a good airing, she found Henry beside her on the bed, still wearing the clothes he had had on the night before, his face grimy with smuts. He was in a sound sleep and had evidently been too shattered to disrobe.
Later that morning, after a breakfast of new-baked bread and cheese purveyed from a nearby farm, he took her to inspect the damage. They could not get too close, as the ruins were still smoking, but it was a relief to see that the great tower was more or less intact. But the fire had done a lot of damage, and Henry stood staring gloomily at the burned-out palace.
His chief officers crowded around him. “Does anyone know how it started?” he asked.
The Lord Steward spoke. “By accident, Sir, I am sure, and not by malice. Some think a spark caught a beam.”
Master Treasurer shook his head. “Others think that Perkin Warbeck set the palace on fire.”
“No, he was with me when it started,” Henry said.
“That’s as may be.” The treasurer still looked dubious. “But, Sir, the damage might run to thousands of pounds.”
“There’s no use weeping over it,” Henry shrugged. “I will rebuild the palace, much finer and bigger than before. I pray you, offer a reward to anyone who finds some of the crown jewels in the rubble. In the meantime, my Lord Chamberlain, have the manor house prepared properly. We’ll keep Christmas there.”
Chapter 19
1498–1499
Warbeck had fled the court! The news traveled around Westminster as quickly as the flames that had destroyed Sheen six months earlier.
“He evaded his guards and climbed through a window in the wardrobe,” Henry spluttered, angrier than Elizabeth had seen him in a long time. “And this is how he repays me for my leniency! Well, I’ll not be so merciful next time. He’s probably making for the coast, so I’ve sent men after him and given orders for the roads to be closed.”
“He may be seeking sanctuary somewhere, like he did at Beaulieu,” Elizabeth suggested, as Catherine Gordon burst into the room in a distraught state and stopped, seeing the King there. Henry ceased pacing and gave her that look Elizabeth had seen before.
“You are not to worry, Lady Catherine,” he said kindly. “I know you are blameless. It is your husband who will suffer when my men catch him, as they will. And no”—he held up a hand—“it will do you no good to plead for him.”
But Catherine fell to her knees anyway. “All I beg is that your Grace spares his life!” She held up her hands beseechingly.
“Alas, Madam, you ask too much.” He looked pained. Elizabeth helped Catherine to her feet, shocked to find herself gratified that Henry had rebuffed her. She thought of interceding for Warbeck herself, but knew it would do no good.
At that moment, Derby and two other councillors appeared. “Your Grace, the Prior of the Charterhouse at Sheen is here. Warbeck claimed sanctuary there and they have detained him.”
“Good,” Henry replied. “Send him in. And inform Dr. de Puebla of this. If Ferdinand and Isabella have heard of his escape, tell him to reassure them that he has been speedily found and will be dealt with.”
The Prior described what had happened, then he too knelt and urged the King to spare Warbeck’s life.
“Father Prior,” Henry answered, “I am not a bloodthirsty man, but I am no longer prepared to be lenient with him.”
And there was no arguing with him. When Warbeck was taken, he was clapped into the stocks, first in Cheapside and then at Westminster, and made to read aloud his confession in both places before jeering crowds. Then he was marched under a strong guard to the Tower and imprisoned.
“I’m told that, even now, he is still asserting that he is York,” Henry said tersely over a dinner that Elizabeth did not feel like eating. “He told the Constable that, when he was delivered from the Tower, he would wait for my death, then put himself into your hands, as his sister and the next heir to the crown. If he were my subject, I’d have him executed for treason. But he is not, so I’ve had him incarcerated in a cell where he can see neither sun nor moon and will trouble us no more. He has to be taught a lesson.”
“You will not have him tried and executed then?” She was thinking of Catherine, although she could not feel much sympathy herself for Warbeck, who had acted like an imbecile and was still perpetrating his lies.
“No,” Henry said.
She was taken aback. She had been certain that this would be the end for the pretender. No foreign ruler, even Aunt Margaret, could blame Henry if he put this offender to death. So why was he holding back?
She looked at him across the table. The years of uncertainty had taken their toll. He appeared old for his forty-one years. His hair had thinned and was turning gray, his complexion was pale and scored with lines of worry. Constant anxiety had done nothing for her either. She too had aged. Her mirror showed her a plump matron with pinched lips and a double chin.
Stop brooding! she admonished herself. With Warbeck securely imprisoned, the outlook for the future was bright, and the way clear for preparations for Arthur’s wedding to the Infanta to proceed smoothly. And when Dr. de Puebla had an audience with Henry that afternoon, at which she was present, she was pleased to see him beaming at them.
“Your Majesty, my sovereigns will be very pleased to hear that your crown is now undisputed, and that your government is strong in all respects. I will recommend that they send envoys to England to discuss the arrangements for the Infanta’s wedding to the Prince of Wales.”
That was good news!
The envoys arrived in July. They were almost as grand as their sovereigns, but their courtesy was exquisite and Henry, Elizabeth, and the Lady Margaret got on so well with them that the private audience continued for four hours, with many extravagant compliments and pleasantries being exchanged.
