by Jean Stubbs
Henry, signing state papers, smiled at his tone.
‘And now, my lords,’ he said briskly, ‘we have dealt with our title and our finance. Our coronation shall be on 30 October, and we shall call Parliament eight days after that. Let us deal with kindlier matters. Our mother, the Lady Margaret, whose lands were attaindered by Duke Richard, should have some part of our private and public revenue.’
They inclined their heads.
‘And that other lady, the queen dowager — stripped of her estates, her honour and virtue slandered, her children bastardized, her kinsmen slain — shall be restored to her rightful dignity.’
A little rustle round the table indicated that they were unsure, but too good-mannered to speak of it.
‘We shall welcome the lady at our court for state occasions,’ Henry continued, answering their uncertainty, ‘and grant her various lordships for life. The income from these may be spent at her pleasure, but on her death both lands and income shall revert to the crown.’
Smiles of varying degrees showed Henry that they were with him, as he bestowed dignity and money, but not power, upon a woman who might misuse such a commodity.
‘But why do we speak of death?’ said Henry idly, busy with his papers. ‘The lady is not old and should enjoy a long and godly life — perhaps re-marriage.’
‘With whom should the queen marry, sire?’ Oxford asked, lost in these hints and subtleties.
‘We had not thought,’ Henry replied, looking up, ‘but now you question us we think of Scotland. King James wants a wife. We might approach him in good time, my lords. We must have peace with Scotland. We cannot spend time and money in these border squabbles. And King James has two sons, and the late King Edward has daughters. We shall see, my lords.’
Morton pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, seeing the moves ahead.
‘We shall not keep you much longer, my lords,’ said Henry, ‘but we propose to honour each of our Council, and others who have proved our friends, upon the eve of our coronation.’
Jasper, Duke of Bedford. Oxford, High Admiral of England and Constable of the Tower. Sir William Stanley, Lord Chamberlain. Stanley, Earl of Derby and master forester of all game north of the Trent. Morton, Chancellor of England. Earldoms and knighthoods for the rest.
A little flush of pleasure and gratitude warmed the Council Chamber.
‘And last of all,’ said Henry easily, ‘we shall have a bodyguard about us, as in the court of France. Some fifty soldiers — though there may be more if we think fit. And we shall name them the Yeomen of the Guard. Ah, there is one more matter, and a weighty one. We shall repeal the Act of Titulus Regius — that false and slanderous document of Duke Richard’s making — by which King Edward’s children were bastardized. The Act shall be removed from the Rolls and burned. And any man that has a copy of it must deliver it up to the Chancellor before the coming of next Easter. And if he do not, then shall be subject to fines and imprisonments at our pleasure.’
He had spoken sternly and colourlessly, springing it upon them even as they congratulated themselves on their coming honours, and they agreed hastily. A sly humour lightened his next words.
‘We have been thinking, my lords,’ he said amiably, ‘what a damnable want of mercy it shows to kill or maim a rich man, or throw him into a dark dungeon — except his fault be treasonable.’
He looked round his Council to find those who could think with him.
Morton smiled first.
‘So have I often felt, sire,’ he observed. ‘For what does it profit him or the realm? But if he pay for his fault with his purse, rather than with his body, then would the people commend your gracious mercy.’
‘A fine, sire, is more merciful,’ said Fox demurely.
‘We thank you for your good advice,’ Henry replied, serene. ‘You have our leave to go.’
Bemused, admiring, they bowed and left him, one by one. Only Jasper lingered, reaching for a wistful moment at the intimacy they had known.
‘I said you would make a dark prince, sire,’ he whispered, ‘and so you do.’
In the bustle of preparation for Henry’s crowning the sweating sickness struck London, and its citizens fell in the streets even as they talked; or burned with fever in the morning and were cold by night. Thomas Hill, the mayor who had greeted Henry at Shoreditch, was one of the first to die. Before another mayor could be elected four aldermen died. The assembly chose Sir William Stocker, John’s brother, as mayor — and he lived no more than seven days after. But on 8 October, at the Guildhall, John Wade took his place, and survived.
The sickness raged from the third week in September to the end of October, in stinking sweats and high fevers, in agonized heads and tortured bowels. In the beginning it killed outright. But then it was observed that if a man took to his bed straightway — with not so much as a hand outside the covers — and kept warm, and drank temperate cordials, he would live. For once, the poor suffered less than the rich, though no one knew why. Nor did they know why it abated as suddenly as it had come. But every man took it as an omen, and said that the king would rule only with the sweat of his brow, and that his reign would be troublesome.
At one minute after noon, on the eve of the coronation, the Mayor of London, aldermen, heralds of arms, sergeants at arms, trumpeters and minstrels and officers, assembled at the Tower. And from there they escorted the king to be, through Cheapside and Fleet Street and down into the Great Hall in the Palace of Westminster.
He rode bare-headed beneath his canopy of gold baudekin, the web of which was gold and the woof silk and all gloriously embroidered: resplendent in purple and ermine with the collar of Lancaster upon his breast, and his horse rich in trappings. At certain places along the route the four knights who bore the canopy changed with four others, so that many noblemen might be honoured. London flocked to cheer him as the cavalcade jingled through the dirty streets: shouting themselves dry for Henry, and hoarse for Elizabeth in her open litter: and then dispersed reluctantly, to soothe their throats.
On the Sunday morning, Sir Giles Daubeney, Chamberlain for the day, brought his royal burden of robes into Henry’s chamber, and began the leisurely dressing of a monarch in crimson and gold. Even the splendour of the eve was outmatched as Daubeney tied gilt and silver tags, laced the stockings with satin bands, and settled the surcoat of miniver and the mantle of crimson that was garnished with gold ribbon, and smoothed the hood of estate bordered in ermine.
‘You look but palely, sire,’ he observed, and signalled a page to bring mulled wine. ‘The day is cold and fine, sire.’
‘And so are we,’ said Henry ruefully, mocking his own discomfiture. ‘For this is very well, sir, but we are not. We would sooner fight Bosworth over again. And today, good Daubeney, we remember King Henry VI that once told us to fear nothing and care for nothing but God. We shall build a tomb for that gentle prince, and ask the Pope to have him canonized. For if ever sad saint was made unhappy monarch that saint was Henry Lancaster. We shall not be as good a man, sir.’
‘But a better king, sire — craving your pardon.’
The populace had to content themselves with the scenes outside the Abbey, and the sounds that came from within it. They pushed and pressed and shivered in the autumn air, and held their ragged children aloft and jostled their neighbours unmercifully.
From Westminster Hall to the Abbey the ground had been laid with striped cloth by the almoner. And now came the aged Bourchier, who had crowned two kings and lived through six reigns. A little behind him walked Rotherham of York and John Esteney, Abbot of Westminster, bearing the gold chalice. Then Henry, bare of head and feet, supported by the Bishop of Exeter and Bishop Morton of Ely. Then Jasper, Duke of Bedford, carrying the crown of England; Suffolk with the dove-headed sceptre and Arundel with the rod of gold; Stanley holding the sword of state in its scabbard; the Earls of Shrewsbury, Devonshire and Nottingham with naked swords; Essex with the king’s gold spurs; and the newly created Knights of Bath in li
very.
Henry acted as he had on Bosworth Field, losing himself in his state, as the orison Omnipotens Sempiterne Deus rose into the vaulted roof; and heard the congregation cry, ‘Yea, yea, yea. So be it. King Henry! King Henry!’ as he was presented to them.
With the cold jewelled hands that were his and yet not his, he presented the king’s offerings: the pall, the pound of gold, the coins of the realm. He prostrated that body on the carpeted and cushioned pavement before the high altar as they sang Deus Humilium. His voice took the oaths upon the sacrament. And then Bourchier loosed the splendid clothes and anointed head and breast and back and shoulders and elbows with holy oil, in the form of a cross. Ungantur caput ... ungantur scapule... He dried the king with a linen cloth and drew on the linen gloves and the tabard and coif, and blessed the sword, and blessed the stole that was woven in gold and set with precious stones. Accipe gladium, accipe armillam...
St Edward’s crown, first raised towards heaven, was lowered on his head. The ruby ring blessed and threaded onto the fourth finger of his right hand. Accipe regie dignitatis... And chanting and solemn mass, and the toothless mouth of old Bourchier set in aged resolution. The royal gloves over the linen ones — stiff with embroidery — and the sceptre in one hand and the rod of gold in the other, sandals and spurs. Weight upon crushing weight over the crimson velvet and satin, over the miniver and ermine, his lawn shirt sweat-soaked already; and crawling from his forehead little beads of moisture which the archbishop wiped away.
One by one they paid homage and swore fealty, kneeling before an image that might have been marble or stone but for the grey eyes in the pale face. Then the crowned king kissed the book of the Gospel, and took the sacred wafer in his mouth and drank from the chalice of holy wine. And the chanting merged from solemnity and rose to jubilation as they led him out. He moved languidly in the heaviness and heat of his robes, and the bishops supported him and matched their pace to his own.
They spoke little, and only of what immediately concerned them, as they divested and re-arrayed him for the populace. The ritual had hushed their tongues and channelled their emotions, so that they laid aside even the wet lawn shirt with reverence; and dried his body and dressed him in purple and miniver, and gave him to his people.
The usual ritual of a royal banquet was superimposed by the greater ritual of the coronation. While everyone recovered from the glut and glory of the first course the king’s champion rode into the hall, and cried that whoever said King Henry was not their rightful king should fight him at utterance.
‘King Henry! King Henry!’ they shouted obediently, joyfully.
So the knight rode into three parts of the hall, demanding the king’s allegiance, and was rewarded each time by a great shout. Then he commanded a gold cup of wine to be brought; and drank, and flung the dregs to the floor, and departed with the cup.
Now the royal heralds called thrice for their allegiance, and they answered them likewise.
‘King Henry! King Henry!’
Until the night darkened and the torches were lit, and the long day was done.
The Parliament that met on 7 November found the king in full command of himself and them. Just once did his sense of mischief break through, and that was privately, so only Jasper enjoyed the comment. For the Chancellor, John Alcock, bishop of Worcester, preached the opening sermon which was long and eulogistic. He likened Henry to Agrippa who had put down sedition in Rome, and spoke of the mutual duties of king and subjects, who between them provided the wax and honey of the realm’s hive. He said that the ages of silver, bronze and iron were past, and now the golden age was come.
‘God has sent us a second Joshua!’ he cried.
‘We pray you, uncle,’ said Henry, speaking softly and keeping his face attentively towards his Parliament, ‘what thought you of that sermon?’
Jasper replied with twinkling solemnity, ‘No fault in it, sire — except he praised your grace too much!’
Henry’s smile broadened, ‘Truly, we were of that opinion ourself, my lord!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Thus let one blood be made of two,
and hereafter let one house seek the rule.
Pietro Carmeliano of Brescia at the court of King Henry VII
So for the third time in four months the citizens of London prepared to celebrate a royal spectacle, and this time it was Elizabeth’s day. Though snow lay on the ground they turned out in their thousands to greet her. Fires burned in the streets to roast sheep and oxen for the poorer populace, and hogsheads of wine and barrels of beer were set in divers places for their enjoyment.
A winter bride, she came in white cloth of gold, and a white mantle fastened across the breast in a rich knot of silk. Smooth and fair her hair hung down her back, imprisoned by a glittering net.
All the pomp and power of London bowed before her, from Oxford to the last herald. All the pomp and power of the house of York was paraded in her servants’ liveries of murrey and blue, and her own white rose embroidered on the horses’ trappings. The people exchanged remarks on her beauty, shouted rough compliments, and called that they loved her and wished her well. One vast fellow in a sheepskin jacket held his urchin high above his head, crying, ‘I have six such sons, my lady. May you have twice as many.’ So that she laughed and bowed her gleaming head in token of his goodwill, and he grinned round on his neighbours, delighted by her courtesy.
The first half of the service was in English, and as leisurely as the second which was in Latin. Two symbols of two houses, they made their responses; kneeling in prayer, taking the sacrament, leading by way of Psalm 68 and the Kyrie and the Lord’s Prayer, through a series of six collects and blessings, and into the nuptial mass. Henry crowned her thumb and first and second fingers lightly with the ring, and slipped it into place on the third. They were cold and stiff, even in the warmth of their robes, by the end, as Henry raised his bride to her feet and kissed her formally on both cheeks.
Then bells clamoured from steeple to steeple, surging and retreating like the sea. Guns exclaimed upon the air, marking the cacophony in measured booms, so that the citizens — between the sight of the royal pair, and the noise of celebration, and the promise of free meat and drink to come — threatened to suffocate themselves with excitement.
The tailors could now rest content, but the cooks reached a meridian. The kitchen fires had not been let out for a week, and the scullions had run to and fro in a frenzy of mincing, chopping, plucking, turning, stirring, skimming and carrying. A mountain of white napery had been drawn, couched and spread upon the tables; gold and silver salt cellars set; cups, spoons and fair carving knives placed. Tapestries covered the rough white bands of mortar in the hall, candelabra hung ready to be lit. Twelve torch bearers stood behind the royal table, to hold the winter evening at bay.
Grace was said, the royal hands washed and dried, the covers removed from the bread, and the domestic campaign was underway with the first subtlety. Fashioned from sugar in a marvel of skill and artistry, it was put on the high table to be admired, before the guests broke off a turret here or a flag there and popped the fragment into their mouths. The dishes followed in indigestible magnificence: brawn, venison, hart, pheasant, swan, capon, lampreys, crane, pike, heron, carp, kid, perch, mutton, custards, tarts and fruit. Another subtlety, with the writing of ballads on its base, ended the first course; another brought in the second course when they had finished washing, and the tables were re-laid.
Sturdily the company worked through peacock, partridge, plovers, sturgeon, rabbit, lark, quail, baked quinces, marchpane royal, cold baked meats, cakes and dried fruits and gingerbread, and little temples of jelly. They washed down the orgy with draughts of wine, crumbling their bread, eating more slowly as the hours passed: unwilling to leave a single dish untasted.
But at the high table Henry and Elizabeth ate sparingly, nibbling hot moist almonds before their meat to prevent the fumes of the wine from fuddling their heads. Fifty dishes were prepared
and served for the marriage feast at Whitehall, a multitude of stomachs wildly disordered, and the cooks complimented on a meet and fitting banquet.
It had been a day of ceremony, and one last ceremony was to come. In the royal bedchamber the groom porter entered; bringing wood for the fire and tall wax candles for the table. A second groom carried a tray of syrups, green ginger and junkets. A third bore wines: Tyre, Hippocras and Muscadel. Yet another set out wooden bowls of soft Bristol toilet soap, scented with herbs; silver basins and ewers and thick towels. A fifth rolled solemnly up and down the bedstead to make it even, and then took his place with three other grooms, one at each comer of the huge bed. Faces intent, they laid the canvas, beat the feather bed with abandon, slipped a blanket over it, tucked in the fine white sheet, pummelled the bolster and pillows: moving in silent unison. They smoothed the top sheet, stroked the wrinkles from the blankets, set the head-sheet of Rhennes cloth, and covered the whole with a counterpane of ermine and cloth of gold. Standing on stools they fixed the gold tester over the bed, hung curtains of white sarcenet about it, and then curtains of heavy arras. And stepped down in quiet satisfaction.
The gentleman usher inspected their arrangements, nipped up a thread of wool from the carpet, and indicated that they might withdraw.
Tired patient dolls, in their separate dressing-rooms, Elizabeth and Henry were divested of their robes by half a dozen attendants. Each garment, as it was removed, was brushed busily and put away or set aside for laundering. Automatically now, the bridal couple held out obedient arms and legs, and ducked obedient heads through the necks of their nightgowns. Their hair was combed with combs of ivory, embroidered mantles put ceremoniously upon their shoulders — that in another few minutes would be as ceremoniously removed.
Elizabeth’s procession entered the royal bedchamber. A waiting woman turned back the covers and scattered rose petals over the sheets. Then Henry’s procession, with rather less noise than was usual on such occasions — since he had forbidden even the mildest connubial jest — escorted him to bed. Side by side they sat against the high pillows, while the priest blessed them and wished them fruitful union of the flesh. The last head bowed, the last pair of legs paced discreetly backwards, the last strains of the minstrels faded, the door closed, and a numb silence descended.
