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Chapter Seven: Hatched, Matched and Despatched.

Sir William Courtenay cut a fine dash as he swept a low bow to Queen Elizabeth, who was seated beside her mother in law, the Countess of Richmond up on the dais of the Presence Chamber. Elizabeth glanced through the corner of her eye to where her sister, Catherine of York, cowered like a nervous child behind one of the velvet curtains with her eyes as wide as plates. She then turned her attention back to Sir William. The man was a loyal Lancastrian, and had just been created Earl of Devon by King Henry for his services to the Tudors' during their long years of struggle in exile. Now, Sir William had come to offer himself for an altogether different service to the Crown and Country.

"So, Sir William, you think that you'll be a suitable match for my beloved sister?" Queen Elizabeth asked, unable to resist another side-long glance at Catherine, who had flushed scarlet at the mention of her name and the possibility of marriage. "You don't object to being matched to one of us wild ladies of York?" She sounded almost teasing.

Sir William righted his posture. He stood with his back straight, and looked Queen Elizabeth in the eye. In return, Elizabeth smiled appreciatively. Only an honest man would look a Queen in the eye. It boded well, and already Elizabeth had high hopes of success. Her baby sister, married at last; however, she certainly couldn't let Courtenay think he'd won his prize that easily. Even high born men needed to sweat a little, before getting their way.

"With your leave, madam," He politely asked for permission to press his suite. "This is the vision for the new monarchy, spearheaded by the gracious King, and yourself. To see the houses of our families reunited. The white rose and the red brought together to compliment each other, after years of conflicting with each other. Besides, I have seen Lady Catherine. Is it not the duty of all men to love her, from afar? I don't see why I should not be the one to make an honest match for her. I believe that I can make her the happiest woman in England … And I have an Earldom, now."

"Smooth," Elizabeth replied with a broad smile. For a moment, she could have sworn she saw the man wink at her, as though she were a dairy maid at the local faire. "If the Countess of Richmond is agreeable also, we shall go ahead and ratify your proposal, and you shall have Lady Catherine's hand in marriage."

Elizabeth turned to face her mother in law, who looked back with a faint smile. Her vision of the Tudor future got clearer by the day.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Lady Margaret acknowledged the Queen. She turned to Sir William: "I see no impediments to the match at all. You have my blessing, and I wish you a fruitful union, my lord of Devon. May God bless you."

"I realise, Sir William, that you have espied Princess Catherine about my Court on numerous occasions," Elizabeth's face had turned rather stern as she spoke. "However, you realise that it would be most improper for you to see her again before your wedding? You shall have to be sent from Court until the wedding day."

"Yes, Your Grace. I shall be leaving at high noon," Courtenay replied with another low, sweeping bow to the two ladies before him, cap in hand as ever.

"If that will be all, you're dismissed, my lord of Devon," Margaret Beaufort clapped her hands, and Courtenay backed away, still stooped in deference. "You can come out of hiding now, Lady Catherine."

Elizabeth watched as her sister peeked coyly from around the curtain before treading softly up on to the dais. Her relief was etched all over her face.

"Thank you so much, Your Graces," Catherine sank into a low curtsey. "I couldn't have hoped for a finer gentleman for a match."

"May God bless you both," Margaret raised Catherine from her curtsey. Memories of her own marriages usually filled her with horror. Betrothed at nine to John de la Pole, an arrangement annulled two years later. Then came Edmund, Earl of Richmond. She was eleven. He was twenty-five. Henry was the only good thing to come from that marriage. Her body, just thirteen years in maturation, had been so twisted by the delivery of Henry, that she'd never had any more children, despite a further two husbands. She had longed for more. Boys or girls. Any would have done, especially as Henry had been all but snatched from her arms when he was barely a year old. Margaret had played her part in his life, just by safely birthing him. It was there that her role in his life was expected to end. She had learned, at just thirteen, that she would have to fight tooth and nail for him, and for herself. "Excuse me, Ladies. I must to Chapel," Margaret excused herself before they noticed the tear in her eye.

"Is Lady Margaret all right, Elizabeth?" Catherine asked as she watched the wizened old lady vanish behind the doors.

"She is fine, sister. She's as tough as a Tanner," Elizabeth linked her arm through Catherine's as she rose from her seat. Her belly was starting to protrude with the baby, now. Slight, but rounded. Small, but still visible. "This business with the Pretender is getting to her, too. It is starting to get to all of us."

"I am sorry that King Henry had no chance to capture the Pretender," Catherine replied, dropping the subject of Lady Margaret as soon as their pretended brother was mentioned. "I was curious to see him."

Elizabeth stopped dead in her tracks, and tugged on Catherine's arm so that they stood face to face. They were in the connecting gallery that linked the Presence and Privy Chambers, and were quite alone, however Elizabeth shot a furtive glance around them all the same.

"Sister, tell me you're not trying to say what I think you are?" She demanded, fixing Catherine with a hard stare.

"What?" Catherine protested, her voice sounded stung. "Elizabeth, what is wrong with you? I was not thinking anything."

"He is a fraud, Catherine," Elizabeth stated firmly. "He is not our brother, because our brothers' are dead. All of them."

Catherine looked at Elizabeth and winced from the pain as her fingernails dug deep into her elbow.

"Elizabeth, you're hurting me!" Catherine yelped. Elizabeth, as though she had suddenly snapped out of a trance, relinquished her grip on Catherine's arm.

"I-I'm sorry, Cate," Elizabeth stammered as she kneaded her temples. A dull ache had begun to gnaw there every time the Pretender was mentioned. The way that Catherine looked back at her brought a wave of guilt crashing over already fraught mind.

"Elizabeth, what's happened to you? Ever since that man first appeared … " Catherine let the rest of her sentence dissolve into the heavy silence that descended between them as they resumed the rest of the short journey to the Privy Chamber.

"Do you remember him?" Elizabeth asked as she settled into a more comfortable chair by the fire. Catherine, as usual, knelt at her sister's feet, and let her head rest in Elizabeth's lap.

"Our brother Richard?"

"Yes," Elizabeth answered dully. "I don't suppose that you do, you were only four when he and Edward died. He was ever so gentle. Thats' why I don't think this pretender could possibly be him."

"Elizabeth, don't," Catherine implored her. "You'll upset yourself again. You need to think about the baby, now."

Elizabeth said no more. She took up her needlework, and Catherine rifled through a wooden box of fabrics, looking for the perfect scrap to mould into a baby gown. Whatever you say, say nothing at all. A ringed off patch of silence in their hearts where their brother's should have been. An almost imperceptible flutter in her belly reminded Elizabeth that she had a future to think about, too. But the future was so hard, when the ghosts of the past refused to lie peacefully in their graves.


The King's carriage clattered over the cobblestoned streets of London as they made their way home to Greenwich Palace. After two months of clean country air, the malodorous stench of the town slapped them in the face like a final insult. John De Vere, sat to King Henry's left, pulled back the velvet curtain, and looked out as the city rolled slowly by. The sounds of the market traders plying their wares, the calls of the good wives rounding up their semi-feral children, and the singing of the drunks down by the riverside filled the air, and followed them in their wake. London. The hub of humanity.

"Your Grace," The Earl spoke after letting the curtain fall, and blot out his view of the City. "Maybe this is the last we'll ever see of him?"

"You mean, he's chanced his arm once, and nearly had it bitten off?" Henry asked, scepticism dripped from the tone of his voice.

"Its' a bit hopeful, especially with the French backing he had," De Vere admitted. "But that was piss poor, even by the standards of past Pretenders."

Henry snorted with derisive laughter. "Well, here's the Palace. Sir Robert will have written again by now. Lets just see what he has to say."

Even before the carriage pulled up before the Palace, various bodies spilled outside to bombard him with petitions, queries, gossip, and intrigue. He looked over the sea of clamouring faces, trying to spot if Queen Elizabeth lurked among them, trying to reach him. But wisely, she's stayed away. It never stopped him from hoping. All those who needed to know about the Pretender's escape already did. Henry had no need to stop and break the news again.

"Stand back, Gentlemen!" De Vere warded off the Courtiers as he bustled King Henry back into the sanctuary of the Palace. "The King had important business to attend to. Audiences will be granted in the usual way!"

"Thanks, John," Henry mumbled in the Earl's ear as they battled their way through the press of bodies to the Royal Apartments.

"Papa!" A shrill voice rang out across the Presence Chamber as soon as Henry had opened the door, just as an auburn headed canon ball careered across the room, and slammed into his leg.

"Hello, Harry," Henry scooped his two year old son up into his arms. The Prince's face shone with excitement to see his father home, again.

"Where've you been?" Prince Harry demanded indignantly as he glared up at his father.

"Account for yourself, your grace," John De Vere mocked good naturedly as he hovered in the doorway of the Chamber.

"Papa's been busy," Henry explained gently as he carried the child through to the Privy Chamber. His way, however, was barred by the looming presence of Archbishop Morton.

"Your Grace," Morton bowed solemnly to the King.

As he sensed the impending doom in the Archbishop's voice, King Henry let Prince Harry slide to the floor so he could run back to his nurses who'd trailed after them.

"Your Grace, what news?" Henry asked.

"The Pretender has landed in Scotland," Morton explained. That much, Henry had already expected. There was more, though. He could see it in Morton's rheumy eyes. "The Scots King, James, has offered the Pretender the hand of Lady Katherine Gordon in marriage."

"She is the daughter of the Earl of Huntley," Henry replied, scandalised. "What in the name of God is the Scots King playing at?"

"He is trying to goad you," Morton stated firmly, silently warning the King not to overreact. "There is, however, some good news. Sir James Tyrrell has confessed to murdering the two Princes-"

"How?" King Henry interjected. "How badly did they rack him?"

"He confessed, Your Grace," Morton pointedly replied, as though nothing else mattered. It was not what Henry had asked, but he took his cue from the look on Morton's face, and quietly dropped the subject.

"See that he is dealt with, and publish his confession throughout the Kingdom. Every man, woman and child in this Realm must hear it," Henry instructed. He was about to side step the Archbishop, but Morton stilled him, again.

"One final thing, Your Grace. Sir Robert Clifford found these among the possessions of the Pretender while he was staying in the home of the Duchess," Morton handed over two dog-eared letters. One from a creditor to a debtor, the other from a father to his son. Pierre Osbeck, and Perkin Warbeck. Henry smiled. Henry smiled like he hadn't smiled for a long time.

"We've got the bastard!" He yelped happily. He could have kissed Morton, but he restrained himself at the last minute. The Archbishop, however, was keen to strike a cautious note.

"Sir Robert has left the Duchess's home, and is now travelling to Flanders where he will be following lines of enquiry. Let us pray that we have, indeed, found the bastard, as Your Grace terms it."


Elizabeth felt the pangs of labour early. Weeks earlier than expected. She gave birth in her confinement chamber, and it had felt like shelling a pea. Over in what seemed like moments. The tiny scrap of humanity slid effortlessly out in to the world, looking as though she was ready to slide right back out of it, again. But Elizabeth, with Lady Catherine at her side, wrapped little the tiny Princess in a hot towel. They had rubbed her little back. They dripped milk into her mewling, gummy mouth. They had nursed her all through the seemingly endless night, and she lived.

Henry, once again in direct breach of the rules of confinement, had bounded through the doors of Elizabeth's Chambers. All smiles, and tears in his eyes as he held his daughter close to his unshaven face. His eyes bore testament to his sleepless night. No doubt, they'd told him to prepare for the worst. Henry cradled the child lower in his arms, and he turned to the ladies who milled about the Chamber.

"She is a fighter. She is a wild lady of York, and she'll never give in. We'll call her Elizabeth."

Thus the year had closed. The winter chased the sun burned fields of summer away as one season melted into another. The Scottish semi-Royal married the English Pretender, who's real name seemed to be Perkin Warbeck. Princess Elizabeth failed to flourish, but kept on breathing. Traitors were executed. Catherine of York married Sir William Courtenay. Marriages made, and promises kept. New life, replacing the old. Hatched, matched and despatched. The cycle of life revolving ever onwards.