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Arthur is the sweetest babe Elizabeth has ever laid eyes on, and being the eldest York princess means she has encountered many a babe, most of them her younger siblings and cousins. Even at only a few months old, her son already has a thick head of light hair that she thinks shall darken to a shade near her own. She delights in smoothing her hand over it, in bopping the nose that so resembles Henry’s, in placing gentle kisses on her son’s flushed cheeks as he sleeps soundly, content in a way she can only hopes she as his mother shall be able to preserve.
She has only just recently been churched and allowed to return to court, and yet Elizabeth cannot wait until the day she gives Henry another child. Arthur is already so very changed from the moment they first placed him into her arms, her son wailing with displeasure, his tiny face so screwed up in contempt that she couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. Elizabeth doesn’t think she would have as many children as her mother did, but she is certainly amenable to providing Henry with a few more.
At the very least, her husband needs another son to secure their new dynasty, and what wife would she be if she did not see fit to provide him with one? And she has found the marriage bed to be so very delightful, quite unlike what she imagined – or better yet, what she had feared. Henry touches her as if she is made out of glass, takes such great care of her that she might weep for joy. She knew that if Henry Tudor won the battle and claimed England for his own that she would have to marry him as their mothers had arranged, but in the days before Bosworth she never thought she would be glad for his triumph. As her father’s eldest daughter, Elizabeth had once been promised to the Dauphin, had once dreamed of a life in France where every luxury would have been available to her, but she knows now that she would rather be England’s queen and Henry’s wife. Her husband may seem closed off and stern to their courtiers, but when they are alone, it is for her and only her that he smiles, that he laughs. It is only around her, his wife, that he allows himself to relax, discards his royal façade and allows himself to just be Henry, a husband and father.
Their chambers are their safe haven away from the rest of the court, and it is there that they spend their nights, often dining alone in order to snatch a few quiet moments together. These chambers may have been occupied by her parents once, her uncle Richard and his wife after that, but Elizabeth has taken care to decorate them in a way that celebrates her marriage to Henry. The Tudor rose, the proud red and white rose that combines York and Lancaster, hangs above their bed, with a small table littered with Henry’s papers in one corner of the room, the mirror and table she was given for her fourteenth birthday in the other. These chambers are neither hers nor Henry’s, for the rooms belong to both of them, and she delights in the small items her husband leaves behind as he rushes from one engagement to the other; a discarded item of clothing, a piece of paper, a half-eaten piece of food.
She often arrives at their chambers far earlier than Henry does, and so it is upon her that the duty of lighting candles and tidying the room falls. She doesn’t mind doing such mundane chores, for she finds them a testament of how entwined their lives have become. They share a son, a kingdom, a life. She has come to love Henry, and she knows he loves her. It may not be the match she foresaw herself having as a child, but she would not alter it for anything.
And so, that is why she confesses something that has been on her mind lately to her husband when he finally steps into their chambers, expelling a soft sigh and rubbing his brow with the back of his hand. He smiles wearily at her, and she returns the sentiment from her position seated on their bed.
“I would like Arthur to marry for love,” she tells Henry without preamble, undoing her braided hair slowly. The days when she wore her hair loose and trailing down her back seem so long ago, another lifetime entirely. Those were the days where her father was still alive, her brothers too, and she was beginning to fret over who her parents could possibly chose to marry her to, with the French match dissolved and her age increasing with every passing month. A Yorkist nobleman seemed the most logical choice, but who? Her parents had married for love and had caused strife by doing so, but Elizabeth had dared to hope that they would allow her to the same. But before she could voice her opinion on the matter, her father had fallen ill, the man who had so easily hoisted her onto his shoulders when she was a child fading away so very quickly. Her uncle had taken the throne, her brothers had disappeared and everything had changed.
“For love?” Henry queries, coming to sit down beside her. Her hair is now loose around her shoulders, and he runs his fingers through it softly. “Bess, Arthur is only a few months old. He shan’t be marrying any time soon,” her husband laughs, offering her a gentle smile.
She arches an eyebrow at his jest, silent. “I am aware our son won’t be marrying any time soon,” she murmurs, taking Henry’s free hand and lacing it with her own. “But when the time comes, and that shall be sooner than we think, I would like him to marry for love.”
“We didn’t not marry for love,” Henry responds, lowering his eyes. “But we grew to love each other, didn’t we?” Concern is etched into his brow, and the very idea that he is not certain in the love she holds for him saddens her.
“Of course we did,” she assures him, squeezing his hand tightly. He looks up at her, his lips drawn. “You must know that I love you Henry. I love you, and the family we have created together.” When he nods, seemingly in acceptance of her words, she smiles at him, her free hand cupping his cheek tenderly. “I only wish for our son to have a chance to experience the love we possess for one another.”
“And he will. Arthur shall have his choice of the finest princesses in Europe. Isabella of Castile gave birth to yet another daughter only last year.” She can almost see Henry’s mind whirling with possibility. This is something he has mused over for quite a while, even if he is only sharing it with her now. Elizabeth knows just how important securing alliances are for a king, especially for one who has just taken the throne like Henry has. Now that he has a healthy son, her husband shall be able to secure an alliance through Arthur’s marriage, with the rest of the children she provides him with married off accordingly. Still, she can try her best to ensure that these matches are based in affection, if not love. Her children deserve that much. “A match with Spain would be quite beneficial.”
A Spanish princess for their son. She already knows what people will say, that Henry is grasping for more power than he is due, that their son is of Welsh stock and therefore undeserving of a daughter of the Catholic Monarchs. She knows Spain’s monarchs themselves may not even consider such an alliance, for they do not know how beautiful her son is, how promising his future is. He shall be England’s king, like his father before him and his grandfather before that, and it would be an honour for Spain to have one of its princesses seated on the throne beside him.
“What is her name? This Spanish princess?” she queries, curious.
“Catalina,” Henry tell her, the Spanish word sounding strange coming from out of her husband’s mouth. “If they were wed and she were to become queen, she would be called Katherine.”
“Have you made any suggestion of this desire of yours to the Spanish ambassador?” she asks, taking her husband’s hand. His palm is callused from holding a sword, whereas hers is smooth, soft, having only held a needle and thread. Her hands are those of a princess, whereas her husband's are more like a warrior's, despite his noble status. He fought for the throne, and she will fight to ensure their son follows him as king.
Henry shakes his head, a smile on his lips. “No, of course not. I have only told you. After all, the news of Arthur’s birth has most likely only just reached the Continent. I will allow the Continent some time to despair over the fact that the Tudor invader has a son, before I make any suggestion to the ambassador. I will allow them time to hear how handsome and talented our son is, how thankful their daughter would be to be his queen.”
Elizabeth cannot help but grin at her husband’s words, her lips curling in uncontainable delight. Since his triumph at Bosworth, Henry has proven to be logical in all things. He did not wed her until his own reign proved to be secure, for fear of Yorkist supporters rising up in support of her claim and disrupting the fragile peace that had settled over England in the months after the battle. Not that she would have ever wanted to take the throne for herself, not when she had witnessed firsthand what it is did to her father, her brothers, her uncle. He had asked her if she would agree to go into confinement at Westminster, to imply that their son’s birth heralded the beginning of a second Camelot. Henry is nine years older than her, and the difference in their ages is never more apparent than when her husband is making decisions as a king should, his age giving way to wisdom that she knows one day she shall too possess.
"Do not allow them too much time Henry," she informs him, running a thumb gently back and forth over his index finger. "If Arthur cannot marry for love, I would like him be given enough time so that he knows the woman he is to marry. I would like our son to be as happy as I am."
"You do not wish for Arthur to be as happy as I am?” Henry counters, quirking a brow at her. “For Bess, I am surely happier. It was only just over a year ago that I thought to die at Bosworth, sword in hand. Now I am king, with a beautiful princess as my wife, wedded to a woman who has already given me a son and heir. A woman who loves me, not just because I am king.”
She shakes her head. “That may be so Henry, but without you this country would not be secure. I would be married to some Yorkist supporter or another, in order to ensure his allegiance. I would be powerless, still stripped of my royal title. And, I fear, I would be dreadfully unhappy.” She looks at him, unblinking. “I wouldn’t have Arthur… and I wouldn’t have you.”
Her churching was well over a sennight ago, and yet Henry has still not taken her to bed. The last time they lay together was months before Arthur’s birth, before her belly had grown large and she was constantly exhausted from its weight, constantly worried that the babe inside her would not be the heir Henry needed. But now, the look in her husband’s eyes reminds her of the first time they lay together, before they were wed at Westminster, when she undressed herself with somewhat shaky hands, and stood bare in front of the man who was going to become her husband in the weeks following Yuletide.
Henry says nothing, merely leans forward and presses his lips to hers, a hand cupping her cheek tenderly. She returns the kiss with fervour, her own hands coming to lace loosely around Henry’s neck, fingers twisting around his dark curls.
Lord but how she loves this man. So very much, that even though she wishes it could be so, Elizabeth does not think her children will ever come to love their own spouses quite as much as she loves their father.