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Secrets; everybody has them. I collect other
peoples. I like to hug them close and gloat at the power knowledge brings. It
began when I was very young and saw my father humping a dairymaid. Instead of
creeping away, I lingered, taking notes and adding to my store of wisdom. That
day, I learned it was acceptable to dally with servants, and, more importantly,
knowledge was power.
From that moment, I made the secrets of the
household my business. I’d barely reached the cusp of manhood when a little
friendly blackmail eased one of the maids between my sheets. A month or so
later, when she ran weeping to my mother with a belly full of troubles, she was
sent off in disgrace. I was inconsolable until I spied her sister stealing eggs
from the pantry.
Now I am a man, I am an usher at the royal court. I
still watch the people around me and learn. I pass unnoticed, hovering like a pigeon in the rafters. I linger on stairways, or conceal
myself behind tapestries, listening, gleaning, ever alert for the biggest
secrets of all. Usually, the things I hear are not worth the knowing but, every
so often, I learn something significant; secrets so important they could ignite
a kingdom … or bring down a king.
I have no liking for our king. Henry Tudor is not
well-loved, except perhaps by his mother. He spends his days hunched over
account books, his shirt cuffs and fingers stained with ink. For a king, he
takes an ignoble delight in the health of his coffers but the man fascinates
me. So I follow him close, discovering what I can.
It is quite by chance that I come upon the king in
the gardens, drenching Lady Katherine Gordon in his tainted breath. I watch
them stroll among the lavender, stopping now and again to exclaim at the
flowers. The king plucks a rose, and I note how she draws back a little as she
accepts it. Yellow-toothed Henry pats her hand before offering his arm and
escorting her onward. She blushes uncomfortably, and I wait and watch as they wander
by.
Oh my!
She is fair, her skin is like milk and honey, and she glistens like a jewel. Of
all the king’s treasures, I envy him only this one. I would give all my fortune
to unpeel her like an orange to sup upon her juices. Lady Gordon is the object
of my heart’s desire. After that first day, I am never far from her, always
watching, always yearning. It isn’t long before I learn that Katherine Gordon
has a secret she doesn’t want told.
A splash of colour in the orchard and the queen
appears, her ladies gathered around her like fallen apples beneath a tree. The
king, spying his wife’s approach, steps back from his quarry, the back of his
hand brushing her breast, as if by chance. Katherine sinks to her knees at the
queen’s feet, her velvet train marred with dirt and twigs.
I watch them pass, a trio of untold truths, their
bodies speaking a language of their own. Lady Katherine moves closer to the
queen, seeking the protection that her royal presence offers from the king’s
attention.
I hold Queen Elizabeth in great affection and today
she is exquisite; like a white rose that’s been plucked and starved too long of
water. Her eyes are sad, and I know she cannot love the king who slaughtered
her family and stole their throne.
As for Henry, he is the king of enigma. Like me, he
is a lover of intrigue and his spies are everywhere. He does not realise his
own secrets are unsafe but he knows he is unloved. When his back is turned, men
whisper of how he’d near shat his breeches when King Richard bore down upon him
at Bosworth field. Since the battle, victorious or not, he’s lived each day in
fear.
There are many ways for a man to die; by poison or
an assassin’s knife. And there are many, myself among them, who long to sink a
blade between his shoulders. That is why he cannot move freely among the people
but keeps a guard about him so heavy an army couldn’t breach it.
Henry shuffles his feet, unkempt beside the natural
majesty of his queen. He offers her his arm and I watch them process about the
garden. He conceals his resentment well, but I have seen him blanch when
the common folk call her name instead of his as she passes by. As the eldest
surviving child of York, Henry owes his throne to her good breeding. Those who would
rise against him are soothed by the knowledge that the thick blood of York will
dilute the tainted stuff of Tudor.
The queen’s laughter draws my eye from Henry. She
is as fair as the summer sky, and I will not use her secret against her …
unless I have to.
She is the sister of the one they call the
pretender, although there are some who swear his false claims are true. He is
lodged at court, housed in the king’s closet, the butt of all jokes, a humourless
clown among princes. Only the queen and Katherine do not laugh.
Last summer, before Warbeck was imprisoned in the
Tower, I found myself privy to a private conversation, and in possession of the
queen’s greatest secret.
For a while, in his magnanimity, the king allowed
Warbeck the freedom of the court. I call it freedom but his movements were
restricted and his every movement watched. It was shameful for a prince to be
kept among jesters and fools, regarded by all as a figure of fun. He made light
of it but secretly, King Henry was shaken by the pretender’s claims, and more
than once I heard him call out in the night; his dreams haunted both by those
he’d slain … and those he hadn’t.
I saw the queen go swiftly into the garden and, my
curiosity piqued, I followed and hid myself away. At first, I thought it a
lover’s tryst but when the sun crept from behind a cloud to reveal the face of
her companion, my heart began to thump, slow and loud.
I sat unmoving, scarcely breathing.
Warbeck stood up when he heard the queen’s soft
step. He whipped off his cap.
‘Richard?’ she whispered. For a long moment they
stood a foot apart, and then he fell to his knees. While he planted kisses on
the back of her right hand, her other went out to caress his fair hair.
‘Elizabeth?’ he murmured. ‘You know me then?’
She did not speak and so he continued. ‘You have
grown as fair as Father always said you would. Do you recall when the French
king broke the treaty and you were downhearted? Father swore the Dauphin would
come to regret it, for you would grow to be the fairest princess in
Christendom. He was right; you are a beauty!’
A single tear fell upon her cheek.
‘I never wanted marriage with France but it hurt to
be discarded all the same,’ she smiled.
‘… and then Uncle Richard gave you a puppy to cheer
you - what was his name? Ceasar? Brutus?’
‘Rufus,’ Elizabeth laughed. ‘And wasn’t Mother
furious when he chewed her new slippers?’
Two heads, identical in colour, came together at
the shared memory. They did not release each other’s hands but clung on.
I was empowered. Elizabeth, the queen, recognised
the pretender as her brother. Warbeck was, indeed, England’s lost prince. The answer
to York’s prayers.
I wiped sweat from my brow and watched the couple
rise and stroll about the garden. I strained to listen and heard Warbeck say; ‘Will
you speak in my defence, Bess?’
I held my breath, willed her to answer ‘yes,’ but
the queen dropped her head. I noticed her shoulders were shaking.
‘How can I, Richard? I cannot fight Henry, and if I
speak against him, he will have me put aside. How could I depose my own son for
my brother’s cause? The king is ruthless and his retribution would be thorough.
My position, my reputation would be entirely destroyed! No Richard, you must
renounce your claims and I will beg Henry for clemency. Let him believe you are
the impostor, Warbeck, as he says you are. I will entreat him to allow you to
retire to the country with Katherine Gordon. You can live in contentment there,
a country squire and his wife; it will be better than prison … or worse.’
Richard’s head went up. Familial faces; his
stricken, hers tortured.
‘You know I can never give up my rightful place,
Bess. I am of York! Father would want me to fight to the death for my crown,
and so I must.’
She lifted her chin, proud and determined through
her tears.
‘Father would not want you to fight against my
sons.’
Her tears fell freely but he offered her no
comfort. The hopes he had placed on this one meeting were all in vain, and their
kinship disintegrating. With a great cry, mixed of anger and anxiety, he turned
and sped away.
‘You will not win, Richard …’ she cried after him
before dropping onto the arbour seat.
I dithered, uncertain how I should use this
knowledge. The country was seething with unrest. I could raise support for
Warbeck and help him terminate the Tudor tyranny but, in backing him, I would
lose all hopes of Katherine for she would be queen and even further from my
reach.
If I betrayed him to the king, the man I hated, I would
be rewarded well. With Warbeck sentenced to the darkness of the Tower, slowly
but surely, hook by hook, I could reel her into my bed.
But now it seems, I have a greater rival than her
husband. His tryst spoiled, the king bows over the queen’s hand, and then
lingers over Katherine’s, leaving a string of royal spittle on her wrist. I
notice her wipe it on the back of her gown as he scuttles back to his counting-house. Once he has gone, the women seem to breathe more easily. They seat
themselves in an arbour where red and white roses cascade above and behind,
twining with honeysuckle and late columbines. The queen reaches up to pluck a
rosebud and holds it to her nose.
‘This is where I saw him last,’ she murmurs. The
women look about the garden to ensure they are not overheard and, in my hiding
place, I prick up my ears.
‘I am his wedded wife, yet once he was in the tower
I did not see him at all.’
Elizabeth places her hand on Katherine’s. ‘If I
could have changed anything, believe that I would have.’
‘I know, I know.’ Katherine’s tears teeter like
raindrops on leaf’s edge. ‘How did he seem, when you saw him?’
‘At first, we were like strangers, each nervous of
the other. I hadn’t seen him since he was ten years old, and I had truly
believed him dead. I was afraid I would not know him yet, at the same time,
afraid that I would. I imagine he felt the same. It was confusing, a mix of
longing and dread; so much depended upon me knowing him.’
‘So much,’ Katherine whispers, ‘yet, in the end, it
meant nothing.’
Ignoring the barb, the queen continues.
‘When I came upon him sitting just here, where we
are now, I recognised him straight away; the tilt of his head, the way his hair
glinted in the sun, the exact shade that Richard’s had been. Then, when he
looked up, he had the same eyes, the same nose. Oh, yes, I knew him straight
away. As we talked, afraid at every moment of discovery, he
recalled things from his childhood that only I would know but he didn’t need to
prove himself to me. I would have known him anywhere. If only I could have
persuaded Henry to spare his life, but he would not hear of it. Richard was a
threat; Richard had to die.’
Katherine is tearing her lace kerchief to pieces in
her lap. Her head is down but I can see her chin wobbling, the teardrops that fall
upon her hands.
‘I could not bring myself to believe it would
happen,’ she weeps. ‘I was certain help would come from somewhere. I was on my
knees, night and day, begging for God’s mercy, for a reprieve. But now all I
can do is pray for his heavenly redemption.’
Her voice breaks on an ugly sob, and the queen places
her arm across Katherine’s shoulders.
‘At least you have the boy,’ she whispers and Katherine’s
head jerks. Her face pales.
‘How can you know of him?’
The queen smiles.
‘In my position it is as well to keep informed, my
dear. I am glad your son thrives; he is my nephew and one day, perhaps, he can
take his place at court.’
‘He can never take his rightful place,’ Katherine hisses, ‘not as long as a son of yours is
alive.’
Elizabeth withdraws her arm.
‘My son, Prince Arthur, will make a fine king, in
the manner of his grandfather, Edward. He will rule in the Yorkist way. Your
son, Lady Gordon, will not rule. You
must give up all idea of him ever inheriting the throne. His identity must
never be revealed. You’d not want him to swing, like his father.’
I am surprised to discover our meek, obedient queen
conceals a heart of steel.
Katherine drops her hostility like a hot coal.
‘Forgive me; I am overwrought. But
please, does the king know?’
The queen pats Katherine’s hand and they are wary friends
again.
‘No, no, and as long as you keep quiet, he will not
learn of it from me.’
Lady Gordon smiles upon her queen.
‘I am not able to see my son for more than a few
weeks in the year. I would like to leave the court but the king will not hear
of it. He keeps me here in what he calls ‘honourable confinement.’
Her dagger does not find its mark.
‘I know that also, Katherine, and you have my
condolence. Your confinement suits the king’s purposes very well but his favour
brings you some worldly comforts though, does it not? I hear you have a fine
white palfrey, and you are well clothed. I even noticed him allow you to win at
cards, something which is quite against his principles. The winnings must provide
substantial supplement to a gentlewoman’s income.’
This news displeases me.
I shudder at the thought of my lovely flower, crushed beneath the body of the
king. She may be paid well for her services but there are surely some comforts
a woman can do without. I wish I had moved against the king when I’d had the
chance. In ridding myself of one rival I have gained a greater. But … Warbeck
has a son – a son of York… this
is news indeed.
I claw
the knowledge away.
The women kiss and the queen leaves Katherine
wilting like a cut lily in the arbour. As I slip from concealment, my heart is
pounding. I have never dared to speak to her before. When I clear my throat,
she ceases weeping.
‘Lady?’ I murmur, in horrified tones. ‘Are you
unwell? May I be of assistance?’
She looks up, a vision of Heaven, and fumbles with
her ruined kerchief.
‘Allow me, Lady Gordon,’ I say, revelling at the sound
of her name on my tongue. ‘I notice your own kerchief is of little use.’
She looks up at me, her blue eyes blurred with
tears.
My pulse races, my loins stir.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ she says, ‘but, you have the
advantage of me. I am afraid I do not know your name.’
She blesses my kerchief with her tears and attempts
to smile.
‘My name, dear lady, is James Strangeways; gentleman
usher to the king. Forgive me, lady, but I knew your husband, Perkin Warbeck …or
Richard, as he preferred to be called.’
I am lying, of course. I’ve never been a friend to the pretender but her answering smile is like sunshine...
©Judith Arnopp 2019
Did you guess the song title?
(Official You Tube Video)
Author’s note
Sometime between the last days of Richard III’s reign and Henry the VII’s early years on the throne, the two young sons of Edward IV disappeared from the Tower of London. Their names were Edward, Prince of Wales and Richard, Duke of York. The Tudor’s claimed they were slaughtered by their uncle, Richard III. However, during Henry’s reign, a man with many loyal followers challenged Henry’s throne, claiming to be the younger of those princes.
Despite his princely demeanour and detailed knowledge of Edward IV’s court, he was dismissed as a pretender. Henry declared him to be Perkin Warbeck, the son of a Flemish boatman and, prior to his execution, he admitted as much
Despite his princely demeanour and detailed knowledge of Edward IV’s court, he was dismissed as a pretender. Henry declared him to be Perkin Warbeck, the son of a Flemish boatman and, prior to his execution, he admitted as much
The Pretender’s wife, Lady Katherine Gordon, was kept at Henry’s court in ‘honourable confinement.’ She served as lady-in-waiting to Elizabeth of York (the sister of the lost princes) until the queen’s death in 1503. After that, she remained at court as King Henry’s companion, some say paramour, but there is no evidence of this apart from a few hints at intimacy and grants of land and wealth that she received.
The fate of the son she bore to Perkin Warbeck (or Richard of York) is not recorded but today the Perkins family, who live on the Gower peninsular in Wales, trace their family tree back to the son of Peter Osbeck of Tournai. This tale is more legend than fact but it becomes more intriguing when one considers the last years of Katherine’s life.
After Henry’s death in 1509, Katherine married the first of two subsequent husbands. The first, James Strangeways, died six years after the wedding. Katherine subsequently married Matthew Craddock, the Earl of Worcester’s deputy in South Wales. He died in 1531 and Katherine settled near Swansea, just eight miles from the home of the Perkins family in Reynoldston on the Gower peninsular.
Judith Arnopp is the author of twelve historical fiction novels written from the perspective of historical women from all walks of life, prostitutes to Tudor queens. Her non-fiction articles feature in various historical anthologies, magazines and historical blogs.
Judith Arnopp is the author of twelve historical fiction novels written from the perspective of historical women from all walks of life, prostitutes to Tudor queens. Her non-fiction articles feature in various historical anthologies, magazines and historical blogs.
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The Full List of Authors
December
4th Helen Hollick Promises, Promises
5th Paul Marriner Memories
6th Pam Webber One Door Closing
8th Barbara Gaskell Denvil Sticks and Stones
9th Judith Arnopp Secrets
10th Erica Lainé Silk Stockings
11th Anna Belfrage Hold Me, Love Me, Leave Me?
12th Annie Whitehead Frozen
13th Tony Riches Alas, My Love
14th Clare Flynn, Zipless
15th J.G. Harlond The Last Assignment
16th Elizabeth St John Under The Clock
17th Alison Morton Honoria’s Battle
18th Jean Gill The Hunter
19th Patricia Bracewell Daddy's Gift
20th Debbie Young It Doesn't Feel Like Christmas
21st Ruth Downie Doing It Properly
23rd Elizabeth Chadwick The Cloak
24th / 25th CHRISTMAS BREAK
27th Barbara Gaskell Denvil Just The One... Or Maybe Two
28th Deborah Swift Just Another Day
30th Cryssa Bazos River Mud
31st HAPPY NEW YEAR
Note: There is copyright legislation for song lyrics
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Fascinating history and a villain so slimy I need to go and shower! Brilliant choice of viewpoint and adds suspense to this turbulent time.
ReplyDeleteHa ha, yes a hot shower and a bar of carbolic should sort it - lol
DeleteGreat story Judith! What an interesting premise and what a great character James is. Nasty, scheming, but great!
ReplyDeleteI have probably done Mr Strangeways a great disservice. Thank you for enjoying my villain.
DeleteNot being a Tudor 'fan' I know very little about this period - heard the name of this guy but that's my limit so I found this story particularly interesting - thanks Judith!
ReplyDeleteGlad you enjoyed it. We know very little of Strangeways and I'm sure he was a lovely chap really.
DeleteOh yes, love this story. great sense of period and two villains! Well done!
ReplyDeleteThank you. I had fun with it.
DeleteHow intriguing! And how tragic, with poor Elizabeth having nothing to offer her brother...
ReplyDeleteThank you. Elizabeth never officially met Warbeck but I imagine she must have seen him and if it had been Richard … would she have admitted it? I doubt it.
DeleteThank you for all the kind comments.This short story inspired me to take it further and write A Song of Sixpence which tells the story of Elizabeth in more detail. I had one person this morning complaining that Henry Tudor was a good guy but of course these aren't my opinions, they are James Strangeways' - lol.
ReplyDeleteI absolutely fail to see how Henry VIII could be seen as a good guy... and hooray for the expanded version, will you make it into an entire novel? (hope so!)
DeleteI already did Helen, A Song of Sixpence came out in 2015 - lol
DeleteIntriguing and enjoyable story
ReplyDeletethank you :)
DeleteA terrific villain – a real shudder job – and poor Katherine Gordon!
ReplyDeletei love these mysteries of history, the side stories of great events and great people. Thank you!
I love writing villains. You are right, where would Histfic authors be without these lovely voids in the historical record.
DeleteVery cool story, Judith!
ReplyDeleteThank you :)
DeleteFascinating Judith, and really enjoyed!
ReplyDeleteThank you :)
DeleteWhat wonderful writing, and I totally agree, Henry Tudor was a cad! And poor Elizabeth - I didn't think I could feel sympathy for her.
ReplyDeleteThank you. I must admit my feelings toward Henry have mellowed since I wrote this. The research I did for The Beaufort Chronicle when I had to view him through Margaret Beaufort eyes suggested he wasn't all bad :)
ReplyDelete