‘He was indeed,’ agreed Elizabeth, whose sympathies had briefly swung towards Warbeck. However, his foolishness in including the Earl of Warwick, the son of Isabel Neville and George, the Duke of Clarence, uncle to the queen, Elizabeth of York, had been seen as high treason and this had hardened her heart against the pretender.
The young Earl of Warwick had been a prisoner in the Tower of London for many years, his royal blood through his father making him a constant threat as a rallying point for disgruntled Yorkists who wished to dethrone Henry Tudor. Thomas had explained to Elizabeth that the king was planning to execute both men in an attempt to finally end the Yorkist threat.
‘He’s lived with it since he took the throne in 1485,’ Thomas had said. ‘The king wants to ensure the path is clear for Prince Arthur to succeed him, especially since the proxy marriage took place in August between the prince and Katherine, the daughter of Isabella I of Castille and Ferdinand II of Aragon, all eyes are on them to continue the Tudor dynasty.’
‘Your husband has behaved foolishly,’ said Elizabeth, ‘but perhaps the king will allow him to live in exile.’
‘We must pray that is the case,’ Lady Catherine replied.
‘Come, the queen is expecting us,’ said Elizabeth. ‘We will hear all the news as soon as there is a decision.’
Catherine stifled a sob, and Elizabeth felt a pang of remorse at her clipped tone. She had never liked Warbeck, finding his charm slippery and venal, but there were many who had been taken with him. There was no doubt Catherine truly loved him, but, as the daughter of the Scottish noblemen, the Earl of Huntly, she was aware of the danger within royal courts.
‘Come, let us be with friends,’ said Elizabeth, linking her arm through Catherine’s and leading her through the maze of corridors to the main hall of Whitehall Palace. A page in Boleyn livery followed, the emblem of the three black bulls’ heads and red chevron unmistakeable.
Crowds milled and as Elizabeth waved the page forward to clear their path, curious glances followed them. It was with relief they reached the queen’s court, where fewer were allowed access. Two of the Yeomen warders Henry VII had created as his personal bodyguard waited outside the double entrance doors. The page announced them and the doors swung open. To her surprise, Elizabeth was greeted by gales of laughter.
‘Why are they so merry?’ asked Catherine, offended by the levity.
‘…And then, the puppy ran the full length of the corridor with my hat in its mouth, its tail wagging being very cheeky,’ piped a child’s voice, and as a space cleared to make room for Elizabeth and Catherine, they saw the cause of the commotion.
Young Prince Henry was entertaining the ladies of his mother’s court. His bright red hair glinted in the candlelight. Despite the early hour, the weather was dull and the many candlesticks and sconces around the room added a golden warmth to the room.
‘Did you retrieve your hat?’ asked the queen, smiling fondly at her eight-year-old son.
‘I did and I told Lancelot, the puppy, he must never do it again. He licked my nose, so I believe that was his promise to behave more like a royal doggy in future,’ said Henry.
More feminine laughter greeted this comment and Henry blushed, but he also stood taller, enjoying the attention.
For a moment, Elizabeth felt the room swim, her eyesight clouded and she heard the swish of a sword followed by a shocked gasp, then her vision cleared, but she felt chilled to the bone.
‘Lizzie, are you well?’ whispered Catherine.
‘Fine, overwhelmed by the warmth,’ she said, placing her hand on her swollen belly, using her pregnancy as an excuse. It was many years since her unexpected visions had visited her; she had not missed the unsettling emotions these episodes left behind.
She allowed Catherine to lead her towards the crowd as the queen asked, ‘Will you remain with us, my dear? We shall be having refreshments soon and there will be small marchpane pastries, which I know are your favourite.’
A serious expression flooded the boy’s face as he considered the question.
‘I should return to my tutor, John Skelton, to continue with Latin declensions, but if you require my presence, then I shall remain with you, Mother.’
Elizabeth bit back a smile, Prince Henry was known for his confidence and also his closeness to his mother. He usually lived at Greenwich Palace with the younger princes and princesses. The queen spent a great deal of her time there, ensuring her children’s upbringing was happy and secure. Henry was the third child born to the king and queen. He had been followed by the Princess Elizabeth, who had tragically died in 1495. Princess Mary was a healthy three-year-old and the most recent additionto the royal nursery was Edmund, Duke of Somerset, who had been born in February 1499.
Henry’s older royal offspring were taking their first steps into the world. The eldest, Prince Arthur, was at Ludlow Castle, where he was being trained as the Prince of Wales and future king. Princess Margaret was next and she was betrothed to James IV of Scotland. However, being only ten years old, she remained in England, until she was old enough to travel to Scotland to take her place as queen. She often spent time with their grandmother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, learning the ways of a queen consort.
‘You are most kind, my dearest Henry,’ said the queen and Henry took a seat beside her. ‘We should be honoured by your presence.’
‘Your Majesty,’ said Elizabeth and the queen jumped in surprise.
‘My dears, you arrived like ghosts on silent feet,’ said Queen Elizabeth, stretching her hand towards Elizabeth and Lady Catherine. ‘Come join us.’
She waved to one of the pages, who brought chairs forward for the two women. There were murmurs as Lady Catherine took her seat near the queen and Elizabeth saw Henry’s eyes narrow in anger. He stared at Lady Catherine with an insolence she felt sure the queen would reprimand, but no scolding followed. Instead, with great deliberation, the small boy shifted his chair away from Lady Catherine and closer to Elizabeth.
‘Anne, will you read for us, a suitable poem, perhaps,’ said the queen, who was unaware of her son’s behaviour.
Elizabeth smiled at the sound of her sister’s voice.
‘Would Chaucer be acceptable?’
