Judith Arnopp is guest-posting on my blog, a nonfiction article on Elizabeth of York, followed by an excerpt from A Song of Sixpence.
By Judith Arnopp
The unexpected death of King Edward IV in
1483 threw the county back into civil war. Elizabeth of York, eldest daughter
of the king, fled with her mother, Elizabeth Woodville, and her siblings, into
Sanctuary at Westminster. Her uncle, Richard of Gloucester, took his place as
Lord Protector and her brother Edward was brought to London to await his
coronation, as was tradition, in the royal apartments at the Tower.
Shortly afterward it emerged (whether true or
not is another question) that Edward IV’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville was
bigamous due to a prior contract of marriage. All children of the union between
Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville were pronounced illegitimate. As we all know,
Gloucester was declared King Richard III and at some point between 1483 and
1485, Elizabeth’s brothers disappeared from the record. (That is not proof
however that they disappeared from the Earth – there are any number of possible
explanations).
Elizabeth, lately the leading princess of the
realm, was now a royal bastard, living in exile from court in the squalor of
sanctuary.
We don’t know what happened to her brothers
and it is possible she was similarly ignorant of their fate. It has been
suggested her mother knew the boys were safe because, after scurrying into the
safety of Westminster in fear of her life, she suddenly handed her daughters
into the care of the very man suspected of injuring her sons. It seems an
extraordinary thing to do if she had any suspicion of Richard being involved in
the disappearance of the boys.
At the new king’s invitation Elizabeth and
her sisters returned to court to serve Richard’s queen, Anne Neville. They were
treated with every courtesy. Queen Anne was ailing and clearly dying. It was at
this time that rumours began to circulate of a relationship between Richard and
his niece, Elizabeth. It is now impossible to be certain of the truth behind
the allegation but at the time gossip was strong enough for Richard to
publically deny the accusation. Innocent or not, some scandal would have been
attached to this, but she seems to have continued in a prominent position at
court, serving the Queen until her death in March 1485.
In August, when Henry Tudor’s invasion was
looming, Elizabeth and other children from the royal nursery, were sent north
for safety.
Henry Tudor, the Lancastrian heir, to win
support of the Yorkists had promised that, if he became king, he would marry
Elizabeth of York and unite the warring houses of York and Lancaster, putting
an end to the Wars of the Roses forever. He appears to have had few English
followers. Most of his army was made up of mercenaries; his abilities as a
military commander were untested. Yet he faced one of the most skilled soldiers
of the age. Elizabeth, in all likelihood
would have been quietly confident of her uncle’s victory when he rode off to
make battle with Henry at Bosworth. The news of Tudor’s victory and her
imminent joining with a stranger, and her family’s enemy may have been
difficult to hear.
After Richard III’s defeat Elizabeth of York
was taken to the king’s mother’s house at Coldharbour to await the wedding. But
Henry was slow to marry her, and slower to crown her. Some historians see this
as a deliberate ploy but they were eventually married in January 1486. In
September the same year Elizabeth gave birth to their first child, a son whom
they named Arthur. No further children were born until two years after her
coronation which took place in November 1487.
Henry Tudor’s reign was fraught with
rebellion. Pretenders emerged throughout, most were swiftly dealt with but one
in particular, Perkin Warbeck, claiming to be Elizabeth’s younger brother,
Richard, harried the king for years. We will never know his real identity, although
the king went to great lengths to provide him with a lowly one.
Elizabeth is always described as a dutiful
wife and devoted mother. She took no part in ruling the country and there are
no reports of her ever having spoken out of turn or ‘disappointing’ the king.
Henry appears to have been a faithful husband, his later relationship with
Katherine Gordon, wife of Warbeck, was possibly no more than friendship.
Although Prince Arthur was raised, as
convention dictated, in his own vast household at Ludlow, Elizabeth took an
active role in the upbringing of her younger children, teaching them their
letters and overseeing their education.
When Arthur died suddenly in 1502, both Henry
and Elizabeth were distraught, the king thrown into insecurity at having been
left with just one male heir. Reports state that the king and queen comforted
each other and, although there had been some hint of a possible estrangement
between them, Elizabeth promised to give Henry another son.
She quickly fell pregnant and gave birth to a
girl, Katherine, ten months later but succumbed to Puerperal fever and died on
her birthday, 11th February 1503.
Elizabeth was a strong, stalwart woman, bound
by duty to serve her country as best she could. Once he had dealt with Warbeck, her union with Henry ended
the battle between York and Lancaster, and the children she bore provided
political unions between England and France, Scotland, Spain. Ultimately, she
died doing her duty to England.
When a king gives his life for his country,
on the battlefield defending it, or in his bed after a long and profitable
rule, he becomes a hero, often, if he is on the right side, he is honoured
throughout history.
Yet Elizabeth gave her life for England too.
She married dutifully; quickly producing an heir, a spare, and several
daughters to increase the king’s bargaining power. At the tragic loss of Arthur,
England’s beloved heir, despite her age and the suggestion of medical problems,
she took the most dangerous decision to try to give the king another heir.
She died in service of her king and country.
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Below is an excerpt from A Song of Sixpence –
available on Kindle now. The paperback soon to follow.
Elizabeth and her family are at Sheriff
Hutton with her Plantagenet relations awaiting news of the outcome of the
battle at Bosworth.
Sheriff Hutton Castle ―August 1485
I am bored, we all
are. The babies are fractious, the infants beginning to quarrel; even Cecily
and Margaret had a falling out earlier over a game of knucklebones. Only
Warwick seems content, tormenting his kittens with too much love.
Allowing my sewing to
fall to my lap, I stretch my arms and heave a hefty sigh. “This day is
endless.”
Margaret looks up
from her book. “Word will come soon enough.”
“Let us hope it is
good news when it arrives.” The tone of Cecily’s reply leaves us in no doubt
that she fears it won’t be. We subside into silence again and brood until a
sudden scream from my little sister makes us leap from our seats.
“Bridget, let go!”
She is clasping a handful of Catherine’s hair and has forced her sister to her
knees, her mouth wide and her screams piercing. The nursemaid rushes forward.
“Oh, I am sorry,
Madam. They are so naughty today.”
I wince as she
spanks Bridget’s hand and Bridget immediately opens her mouth to add her cries
to Catherine’s.
It is as if the
children sense our tension. In other circumstances such domesticities would be
a welcome interlude, something to laugh about later, something to add to a
letter to make Mother smile. But today I am so distracted I offer them comfort
with more impatience than empathy. I just want them to be quiet, to sit and be
silent so that I can fret in peace.
When the children
are calm, I summon the nursemaid from her corner. “I think they need to rest;
they are fractious because they are tired.”
Amid wet kisses and
sticky waves goodbye the children are ushered out, leaving Margaret, Cecily and
I alone. I move to the window and look out across the battlement to the road
beyond, where a puff of dust on the horizon betrays the approach of a small
band of horsemen.
“Someone is coming.”
The girls hurry to
the window, jostling for a view.
“Who is it? Can you
see? What badge do they wear?”
As yet, they are too
far off to determine. We watch as the horses grow larger and the shapes of the
men slowly detach from the dun coats of their mounts. With a sick thumping
heart I screw up my eyes to identify them, but their badges are obscured and
they carry no flag. Cecily’s shoulder is pressed against mine as she strains to
see.
“Tudor would come
with an army. He’d not come with a small retinue like that.”
I turn away, smooth
my skirts and try to arrange my thoughts.
“Tudor would not
come at all. He would send a messenger, as would my uncle.”
I clench my fists,
pray silently and rapidly that Richard is safe. If York should fail, my life,
all our lives, will change beyond recognition. Soon, although it seems like
hours, there are sounds of arrival in the bailey. A trumpet sounds and a door
slams far below and someone shouts for a groom. A dog runs out barking
frantically, setting off the others. I watch and wait, my heart a sickening
throb in my throat. Blood pulses in my ears, and I know Cecily and Margaret are
just as afraid as I. I can hear their high rapid breathing as we stand in the
centre of the room, side by side, with our clasped hands hidden in our skirts.
Footsteps on the
stair outside are followed by a curt command, and the door is thrown wide. “Sir
John Willoughby,” my page announces. “And Sir John Halewell.”
Two men enter, draw
off their helms and make a hasty bow.
Lancastrians.
York has lost.
My heart turns
sickeningly.
I loosen the girls’
hands and move forward to stand behind my chair. I lift my chin, bite my lip
and remind myself who I am, the house I represent.
It isn’t the end, I tell myself. It isn’t the end. Richard will rally and
fight again. It isn’t the end.
Unsmilingly, I hold
out my hand while they bow their perspiring heads. They are ripe with the
stench of horse and sweat, the megrims of the ride.
“Well, my lords?” I
say at last. “What is the outcome?”
Willoughby throws
his gauntlets onto the table with a satisfied flourish. “Richard of Gloucester
is dead and Tudor is victorious.”
The world swims but
I clutch the back of my chair tighter, my nails digging into the carved wood.
“Dead?” I hear
myself say. “York is vanquished?”
“Most certainly.
Like a fool, Gloucester took one last insane risk and tried to fight his way
through to the king. Luckily for us, Stanley, changing his allegiance at the
last, moved in and his army beat the usurper down. I watched myself as Lord
Stanley plucked up the fallen crown and placed it on the rightful king’s head.”
As he delivers this
good news he beams around the room, nods familiarly at my sister and cousin as
if they are tavern wenches and not of royal blood.
I am confused. His
rightful king and mine are two different men. The news that Richard has fallen
refuses to take root in my mind. I had thought that even if the battle was
lost, we would fight another day. The see-saw of York and Lancaster has ever
swung up and down, and up again, but now, now … who is left to fight on?
With my brothers in
hiding or dead, who does that leave? My cousin, John Lincoln? My little cousin,
Edward of Warwick? Neither are strong enough and neither have experience at
rallying men. Richard cannot be dead.
While my mind pushes
away the fact of Richard’s defeat and whirls with possibilities for York to
regain power, Willoughby’s voice continues. I drag myself back to the dreadful
present.
“We are sent to
bring you and your sister”—he nods in a perfunctory manner in Cecily’s direction—“to
London, and the boy, Warwick, too.”
A sudden movement, a boyish yelp of protest,
and Warwick emerges from beneath the table. He has been there unnoticed all
along and heard every word. For once I am glad he lacks the wit to fully
understand. He struggles to his feet, still clutching his favourite kitten.
“I don’t want to go
to London; I like it here.”
With a cry, Margaret
swoops toward him, guides him as far as she can from the men who have come to
detain us.
“We must do as the
king says,” she says gently, for the benefit of Willoughby. “The king in his
wisdom knows what is right and best for us.”
I realise then that
she is trying to guide me, subtly beseeching me not to argue with them. We must not grieve for Richard, we must do
all we can to pacify this new king. ALL we can.
I know she is right.
There is little point in protesting. We must ride to London on the orders of
this Tudor king and face whatever fate awaits us. Whether I find myself a
prisoner in his Tower, or bedded as his wife, I have no choice.
To purchase your copy of A Song of Sixpence, click on the link below. Author.to/JudithArnoppbooks
