Author's Note: I wrote this story a long time ago as part of an RP challenge, and dug it out today. I made a few changes, and uploaded it on to another site. However, I think it will work here, too, even though it is not actually about "The Tudors" TV show. Plus I needed a break from writing about Anne Boleyn. Anyway, I hope people enjoy it. Usual disclaimers apply (I own nothing), and reviews are welcome.
Chapter One: The Mystery Guest.
May, 1491
Queen Elizabeth sits, bathed in the broad afternoon sun that spills through the Privy Chamber windows, her head bent over her needlework. Her youngest sister, Catherine, watches intently as the delicate threads begin to form the bright pattern at the hem of the tiny, cloth of silver gown. She shifts her gaze over to Elizabeth's discreetly disguised belly, and tries to imagine the thing that grows in her. It's flesh knitting together in time to its' mother's stitches in the gown. The organs growing and spreading like the intricate patterns that are worked into the cloth. A small flicker of human existence flourishing in the silence of the royal womb.
"I think it will be a boy. A Duke of York," Catherine informed her sister, a knowing smile on her face.
Elizabeth put down the needle, and spread the gown out across her lap, regarding it closely before turning to look up at Catherine. She had deliberately kept the gown asexual, despite her nightly prayers for another boy to pad out the royal nursery. An heir, and a spare; especially in these troubled times.
"You're tempting fate, sister," She admonished, but the smile on her face betrayed her true feelings. "If God so wills it-"
Elizabeth's sentence was broken off by a bark of mirthless laugher coming from the outer chambers. Voices raised in anger, muffled by the closed doors, could he heard echoing down the galleries. Elizabeth recognised King Henry's among them, and allowed herself a silent sigh of exasperation. After an exchange of loaded looks with Catherine, she rose to her feet and smoothed down the front of her skirts, making herself every inch a Queen of England, despite her expanding middle.
"Wait here, Cate," She commanded as she swept through the Privy Chamber.
She paused as her hand gripped the handle of the door, and arranged her face into an expression of placid curiosity while bracing herself for the latest storm that had assailed her husband's Government. With a deep, steadying breath, she wrenched open the door, and found herself face to face with the entire Privy Council, as well as Henry himself.
"Your Grace!" Bishop Morton looked at her as though she were from another planet as he swept into a low bow of supplication. Richard Empson, and John Dudley quickly followed suit, but the others were too busy haranguing her husband to notice her. Elizabeth, after a polite nod in Morton's direction, turned to watch the others, her head cocked to one side.
"You must take this seriously!" Sir Richard Pole implored the King, his hands open before him like an angry beggar.
"God's death, Richard. I'll have that bastard upstart turning the spits in the kitchens alongside Simnel by the end of next week, just you see I do!" Henry snapped back at him.
"No, really, Your Grace, I don't think you understand-"
"Enough!" Henry's voice boomed across the whole chamber, he turned on his heels and began to storm off. It was only then he noticed Elizabeth's presence. His eyes widened in horror as he stopped dead in his tracks. "Why didn't you tell me the Queen had arrived?" He hissed at Morton who's face flushed a deep scarlet as he stammered an incoherent reply.
"Never mind that," Elizabeth spoke up as she moved to be by Henry's side. "Why are there arguments happening outside our private apartments? My ladies could hear you, and the children are not far away."
A murmur of hasty apologies, all waved away by the King who finally dismissed the lot of them. He glowered at their retreating backs, and waited until the last man closed the door of the outer gallery, before taking his wife over to the window embrasure.
"How much did you hear?" He asked as he helped her sit down, ever mindful of her condition.
"Almost nothing. Why? Whats' happening?" Elizabeth was getting worried, now. Her brow creased in concern, darkening her face as she scrutinised him closely. He just looked weary, but the way her avoided her gaze made her fear the worst. "Please, just tell me," She implored him.
"It's... Well..." Henry, seemingly rendered speechless by the latest turn of events, began pacing the floor in agitation. "It seems we have another Lambert Simnel on our hands."
"Another one!" Elizabeth groaned as she let her head fall back against the wood panelling behind her.
Elizabeth of York, the eldest daughter of King Edward IV, had had two brothers. The eldest was Edward Prince of Wales, and Richard of Shrewsbury, Duke of York, was the youngest. Following the death of their father in 1483, their uncle, Richard of Gloucester, had taken Edward to the Tower of London to prepare for his Coronation. Then, Richard too was taken to the Tower, so that the new King, Edward, would have some company during his wait. The two boys vanished from the Tower that summer. One day, they were seen playing together in the Tower gardens, the next, they weren't. It was as simple as that. There one minute, and gone the next. Her uncle, Richard of Gloucester declared them all bastards, and himself as the new King of England. Thus, he reigned until Henry Tudor poured on his parade two years later, in 1485. With her dear uncle Richard dead on the battle field, Elizabeth married Henry in 1486, and promptly provided him with an heir, Prince Arthur. The new Tudor Dynasty was set to flourish. But, then the pretenders began to show up, claiming to be the younger of the two vanished Princes, Richard of Shrewsbury.
First came Lambert Simnel. Trained by desperate Yorkists clinging to the old regime, to imitate Richard of Shrewsbury. But, Simnel could barely read and write his own name. A peasant boy plucked from obscurity, to be used and abused by others more powerful and learned than he could ever imagine. Naturally, the King had taken pity on the poor little fool, and instead of hanging him, gave him a job in the Palace kitchens. Now, Henry's lenient treatment of the fist pretender had given rise to another.
"Henry," Elizabeth reached out to stop her husband's pacing. "Look at me. Is Sir Richard right? Is this serious?"
Henry looked down at her, his shoulders slumped, a gesture of defeat.
"I don't know," He replied, his voice low. "But your aunt, Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, has formally acknowledged him as her rightful nephew, and is now calling him King Richard IV of England."
"Oh, what would she know!" Elizabeth snapped as she leapt to her feet, momentarily disregarding her condition. Her stomach lurched, acrid bile rising up her throat, at the blatant exploitation of her brother's sacred memory. "She only met him once, when he was but a babe in arms!"
Henry sensed the danger, hastily crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her.
"I know," He soothed. "I know. I will not let this chancer destabilise the peace that we have all worked so hard to build."
Elizabeth pulled away, looking deep into his hazel eyes.
"Deal with him, Henry," She firmly stated. "No second chances, like with Simnel. Just deal with him. Do whatever it takes. Set your mother on him."
He smiled. He couldn't help it. His mother, the indomitable, formidable, Lady Margaret Beaufort, could make dog meat of the most accomplished of Knights in the Realm. It amused them both to think of the possibilities.
"In all seriousness, Henry," Elizabeth added after composing herself. "Find out who he is, and nip this in the bud. The civil wars are over. Make sure him, and his puppeteers know that."
The night closed in like a spreading ink stain. Once Elizabeth concluded her nightly prayers, her ladies prepared her for bed. Her English hood replaced with a simple linen coif. Her heavy gowns swapped for a fine silk shift. Once safely inserted between the cool cotton sheets, her army of ladies in waiting filed silently from the chamber. The candles extinguished, but the fire blazing in the hearth. She allowed herself to relax against the feather mattress that conformed itself to the ever-changing contours of her body with ease.
Alone, she could allow her mind to freely wander into the past. Sleeplessness afforded her luxury of reflection. She turned her face to the mullioned windows, and looked out at the pale crescent moon that hung in the skies. London stretched out below it. The citizens, war weary, and enjoying the first fruits of peace, sleep on. Blissfully unaware of the approaching storm, the city in untroubled this night. But Elizabeth knows, at the drop of a hat, they will take up arms to defend the new King. They'd already done it once before, and if any pretender wants to take the Tudor crown, it will be the Londoners who they must first get on side.
She closed her eyes, and thought of her brothers. Edward was twelve. Richard was nine. Just children. Dead for eight years, or thereabouts, now. Elizabeth thinks on. Just beyond the river, the Tower sits. Within those granite grey walls, she knows, the truth lies hidden and buried in an unmarked grave.
