Arthur

Epilogue

Elizabeth of York; February 11th of 1503

Sometimes, life guides us to where we are supposed to be; the rest of us guide life.

Now that mine is so near to its end, I understand it. It was never a matter of choice to me; I was bound to be Queen of England one way or another. Life has guided me to this moment, as it guides everyone to Death.

I’m not a great war hero; I have not cheated Death in the bloody battles of my family. I was not even enough to take my father’s throne on my own account. I am not a troubadour, who immortalize themselves with their pens. I am the daughter of a King, the sister of another, the niece of another and the wife of another. Sadly, I shan’t live enough to see my son Henry as King of England. Most likely, people will remember everyone else: my mother, the Queen who won a king’s heart and whose courage was unbeatable; my mother-in-law, Lady Margaret Beaufort, who put her only son on the throne of England; my husband, King Henry, the kingdom’s pacifier. My uncle Richard, the mysterious King. Everyone shall have a place in History, when I will take the second place as their pawn in the game.

I lost my precious son, and my life was never the same. Days after his burial, my husband came to me. He did not say a word; there was no need for them. Whatever his mother has done, I understand now that Henry was little more than a pawn himself. Long before he was even conceived, people already had plans for him. But at that moment, while he was sat by the window, looking down, I knew we both had the same pain. “We raise a son and see him becoming a man, surviving a childhood that took so many children from others,” he said to me gloomily as I put my hand on his shoulder. “We think nothing will happen to them. And we are wrong.”

My other children learned that day that even the son of a King, even the King-to-be, is not unbeatable. Henry, who will take his brother’s place, still believes this law applies only to everyone but himself. I wish I had more time with him, I know he is not ready to rule. My daughter Margaret was contracted and married to the King of Scots, and now she is styled as Queen Margaret. I begged them to let her be with me a bit longer, and Henry cried and screamed when he realised his sister held higher precedence than him at court. What can we expect of a King like this?

“Elizabeth,” my husband comes in, looking paler than I could remember. He goes down on his knees by my bed and kisses my weak hand.

“Forgive me, Henry,” I whisper. “I was not able to deliver you another healthy child. Now I will die for this.”

“Do not say that! Do not even think of that!” He chokes, shaking his head. “You gave me only beautiful children, though it has pleased God to take some of them away. Elizabeth, forgive me. I know I was not your choice for a husband. I know I made you suffer. Forgive me… I loved you for a long time at distance, and I loved you even more the minute I laid my eyes on you…”

I smile at him, taking his hand. “Forgive me for sometimes not seeing it. And for not showing that I, indeed, grew to love you, Henry.”

My husband approached my face and kisses my lips. I fear the salt of his tears, and his shaking body.

“My poor Elizabeth,” he sobs. “My poor, dear wife. This damn fever is taking you away from me.”

“If only I had been able to deliver you a healthy baby,” I say sadly, thinking of the weak little girl I had given birth to two days before. My baby Catherine was called by Melusina as soon as she reached this world.

“I’d rather having you,” he says. “Forgive me, Elizabeth, forgive me…”

“Take care of our children,” I beg. “They are too small. They need guidance; especially Henry.”

“I shall care for them and protect them.”

“And tell them I love them…”

Henry rests his head on my chest, letting himself cry. I put a hand on his hair, feeling the peaceful movement of my weak heartbeat and my heavy breathing. I realise I love him, and I wouldn’t do anything differently. I think of him on our wedding day, on the day our children were born… His eyes were full of love and adoration. There was no better feeling to have at my deathbed than the feeling of being so beloved.

 A beautifully merry song reaches my room from outside. Henry seems not to hear it, and I know he cannot. It is for me, a song I had never heard before. I smile; She has, a last, come to me.

“Mother…” I close my eyes, and I let her take my hand to the depths of the Rivers.