Arthur

Chapter 37

Elizabeth of York; London, England. March 1502.

“Henry!” My voice echoed through the corridors; I had no interest in those walking by, looking at me as if I had gone mad. Nothing of that mattered.

“Henry!” I called him again, walking to his office without waiting to be announced. My husband was there with his council, and all of them turned their faces to me in surprise.

“Leave us.” I told the men who had bowed to me as I entered. They looked uncertain to my husband, as if they were not sure if they should obey me. “LEAVE US!”

Henry nodded to the men, who rushed to leave the room. It was not before the last one had closed the door behind me that I began to speak:

“We must go to Ludlow at once.” I walked to Henry and stared at him. He did not seem alarmed by my tone anymore. “Arthur is ill, Henry. Let me see my son.”

“Elizabeth, what are you talking about?” Henry asked, surprised. “He is not ill!”

“He is. I can feel it!” At my two last words, the candle that was burning on my husband’s table was blown away, as if a sudden wind had taken its flame. Henry looked at me, his jaw opened.

“Elizabeth,” he started. “What are you saying?”

“My son is ill, and I want to see him, Henry! You cannot deny me that! He is my boy, my precious son and I command you to let me see him!”

“Command me?” His lip trembled with fury. “Command me? I am the King of England, madam, may I remind you of that? You are my wife. You do not command me, Elizabeth!”

“You know fully well you should not be where you are now.” The words came out of my mouth without much reasoning. “You were a claimant. A mere claimant, when I was the Princess of York, daughter to the King. You passed through many coffins of my family, Henry, and you reached the throne as you wished. But that does not change who we both really are.”

His face went pale; nobody had ever said such words to him before, nobody had ever confronted him. His mother had always let him have his way, and he was spoiled by his uncle Jasper who treated him as a Prince from birth. But his hazel eyes could not hide that he knew I was speaking the truth.

“Let me see my son,” I asked, in a low voice.

Henry still looked to me, blankly. He sighed, frustrated. “No. There is nothing wrong with Arthur.”

“If you do not let me go to my son, Henry, I swear –”

“Swear what?” Henry stood up, livid. “Don’t you dare threaten me, Elizabeth. You are my wife. I am the king of England. My mother was right about you.”

“You should not trust every word your mother says! She lied to you, Henry!”

“You are insane. My mother has never lied to me!”

“Oh, yes, she has, Henry! And she keeps hiding things from you! She has manipulated your life, my life! And she still does it through you!”

As I spit the words, I felt a burning strike on my face. It was only when I saw myself on the ground, struggling to stand up, that I realised Henry had slapped me.

“How dare you?”

“You will not speak of my mother in such way, Elizabeth.” His voice was shaky, as he could not believe what he had just done.

Slowly, I stood up. Henry and I had grown strangers, and I had no sympathy for him any longer. There was no reason for me to spare him from the truth anymore.

“Your mother has lied to us all,” I murmured. “And I have proof of that.”

Before I could say anything else, the pageboy gently knocked on the door and entered, announcing a messenger. Henry barely noticed him, as he was still looking at me as if I were an uncaged beast.

“Your Majesties,” he bowed. “I have news of urgent matter.”

“Not now,” Henry growled between his teeth. “Not a good moment.”

“It cannot wait, I’m afraid, Your Grace,” the man said, without blinking. “I bring news from Wales. The Prince of Wales has fallen ill. Lady Margaret Pole has requested the court’s physician to care for him.”

The words hit me in the chest; I had to hold on to a chair so I wouldn’t fall again. I did not even bother to look at my husband. I knew he was in shock.

“What does he have?” I heard Henry’s weak voice as the tears burst from my eyes.

The messenger sighed. “It’s the ague.”