It had been worse since the baby had been born. It was the Countess of Richmond who gave orders in the nursery. What did she know of the care of children? She had been thirteen when her son was born . . . the only one too, and when Elizabeth considered her own brood—most of them healthy—she wondered how Margaret Beaufort had the impertinence to try to tell her what should be done.
Little Arthur was not exactly robust. How could one expect an eight-month child to be? He needed very special care. He needed a little coddling. But the Countess would have none of that. She wanted him to grow up sturdy and strong, she said. “And I”, had retorted Elizabeth Woodville, “want him to grow up!”
It was frustrating and the Queen seemed very much in awe of both her husband and her mother-in-law. How things were changed since those days when Edward was alive and she had managed to get her own way, which he was prepared to grant providing she did not interfere with his love affairs. Not that she ever attempted to for she had been secretly glad that there were other women to cater for his insatiable sexuality. They were the good days. How different it would be if the Countess of Richmond were not here! Then she, Elizabeth, could step into her rightful role as grandmother to the heir to the throne. Dear child. She was sure he had a look of Edward. He should have been called Edward of course. Arthur! What a name for a king. He would be constantly compared with the mystic Arthur and that was not going to be of much help to him. Every time anything went wrong the magical name would be recalled. Oh no, Arthur was not going to find life easy with a name like that and it was a great error of judgment to have saddled him with it.
If only they had taken her advice. . . .
But they would never do that.
She was in a very disgruntled mood when she heard that a priest was asking for an audience with her. He came on the recommendation of the Earl of Lincoln.
The Earl of Lincoln had been a firm adherent of Richard, and she was not sure how he regarded her. One of the most shocking moments of her life had been when she heard that Richard was declaring her children to be illegitimate. He had revived that absurd story of Eleanor Butler’s marriage with Edward and as Eleanor Butler had been alive when he had married her, Elizabeth, that meant their marriage was invalid and her children illegitimate.
Nonsense! Nonsense! she had wanted to cry; but it had been accepted as fact and Richard therefore became the King; he had behaved as though her two sons, young Edward and Richard, did not exist as claimants to the throne. He had considered Clarence’s son, the young Earl of warwick, as his heir but because he was only a boy and the country needed a strong man he had named Lincoln.
She could imagine how Lincoln was feeling now . . . ready for revolt against the Tudor, she did not doubt.
Well, that gave them something in common for she felt the same.
Therefore she was ready to receive the priest who was Lincoln’s protégé.
Richard Simon was overawed. Elizabeth Woodville could be very regal when she wished; but that she was eager to hear what he had to say was clear.
He came quickly to the point and told her that he had seen a boy whom he had reason to believe was the Earl of warwick. He was at the moment working in a baker’s shop. He had reported his discovery to the Earl of Lincoln who, as she knew, had suggested that the matter be imparted to her. The Earl had left for the Continent. He was going to see the Duchess of Burgundy, so strongly did he feel that this matter should not be brushed aside.
The priest was aware of a terrible fear in that moment. There was a cold glitter in the Queen Dowager’s eyes. What a fool he had been to come! True, she was of the House of York, having married the great Yorkist King—but her daughter was now the wife of Henry Tudor. Would she work against her own daughter?
For a few moments he visualized himself seized, dragged away to a dungeon, tortured to reveal things he did not know. Fool . . . fool that he had been to deliver himself right into the lions’ den.
But he was wrong. Elizabeth Woodville had always reveled in intrigue ever since she and her mother had plotted to entrap Edward in Whittlebury Forest. She was furiously angry with the Countess of Richmond, who treated her as though she were of no account at all. Her daughter, Queen Elizabeth herself, was treated as though she were merely a puppet by these Tudors.
Of course Henry was an impostor. What of her own little boys? Where were they? Sometimes she dreamed of them at night. They were stretching out their arms to her, calling for her. She kept thinking of the last time she had seen the younger of them, little Richard, who had been taken from her to join his brother in the Tower. “I should never have let him go.” How many times had she said that?
And where were they now? She never mentioned them to their sisters. The Queen never wanted to talk of them. There was that horrible slur of illegitimacy which King Richard had laid on them and which Henry had ignored. And if he ignored it . . . then the true king was little Edward the Fifth. But where was he? And where was his brother?
When she thought of her boys she thought of Henry Tudor and that he had no right to be on the throne. If he had been humble, a little grateful because she had allowed her daughter to marry him, she would have felt differently.
But every day the Countess of Richmond gave some indication that the King and his mother were the rulers while the Queen and her mother did as they were told.
An intolerable situation, and if she could make trouble for Henry Tudor—no matter with what consequences—she was ready to do so. Moreover life was dull nowadays; she thought longingly of the intrigues of those days when she was the King’s wife and had ruled him in many ways of which he was ignorant.
So now she was ready for a little divertissement. It would be welcome.
“And how did you discover this boy?” she asked.
“Strangely enough, my lady, I went into the baker’s shop to buy a cob loaf. I noticed at once his grace, his dignity. It was unmistakeable.”
“Have you spoken to him of these matters? Have you spoken to the baker?”
“My lady, I have spoken only to the Earl of Lincoln. He is convinced that this boy is the Earl of Warwick. He was most anxious that he should have your approval of this matter before proceeding. It is dangerous, he said. I know if we went to the King and laid the matter before him we should be clapped into prison and never heard of again.”
“That is very likely,” said the Queen, and Richard Simon began to breathe more easily.
“So the Earl suggested that we come to you.”
“What help does he expect to receive from me?”
“He wants your approval, my lady. He wants to know whether you would consider it wise to pursue this matter.”
“He asks me?”
“He remembers your judgment . . . when you were able to give it. He remembers how you were of such help to our great King Edward.”
“Ah.” She sighed. “There was a king. We shall never see his like again.”
“It is true, my lady, but we must make the best of what is left to us. The Earl wished to know if you thought it wise for us to take up this boy, to discover more of him. And if he did indeed prove to be the Earl of Warwick, attempt to get him to that place where he belongs.”
The Queen nodded slowly. “The House of York would be reigning again. The House of Lancaster was never good for this country.”
“My lady.” He had lifted his eyes to her face and they were full of admiration for her beauty, of course. Elizabeth Woodville had been used to such looks all her life—though they came more rarely now. She had never grown tired of them and never would. “I shall proceed with a good heart. My plan is to take the boy to Ireland.”
“The Irish were always friends of York.”
“So said my lord of Lincoln. He is on his way to Burgundy.”
To Edward’s sister Margaret, of course, the forceful Duchess. She had always been a strong adherent of the House of York and had, like all the family, idolized her magnificent brother Edward. Naturally she would want to see a member of her family, her own nephew on the throne; she hated the usurping Tudor.