by Jean Plaidy
“What I did, my lord, was what any of your loyal subjects would have done had God favored them with the good fortune to see the truth.”
He saw himself riding into Canterbury, the Archbishop who had saved the throne for the rightful king and rid the country of the impostor.
But these were only dreams—pleasant to indulge in for a while, but insubstantial. There must be some action some time.
He visited his friend frequently and often he was on the point of telling him of his discovery, but he refrained from doing so. He was afraid of bringing his theories into the light of day because he greatly feared they would immediately evaporate.
Instead he talked of events of the days of great Edward and the accession of Richard.
“The Tudor has a very flimsy claim to the throne,” he insisted.
His friend always looked furtively over his shoulder when he talked like that. He was a timid man. “It is of little concern to us,” he said. “What difference does it make to the life of a humble priest what king is on the throne?”
“I like to see justice done,” said Richard piously.
“We all do as long as it doesn’t do us any harm. We know it could have worked so differently. As you say, Richard might not have died at Bosworth. He might have lived to have sons. Or there might have been others to come to the throne. There’s young Edward of Warwick and his sister Margaret. They are children, I know. But there is John de la Pole, the Earl of Lincoln. They say that Richard made him the heir to the throne . . . in case he didn’t get children of his own . . . on account of the Earl of Warwick’s being but a boy.”
“The King has young Warwick under lock and key in the Tower, which shows he’s afraid of him. What has this young boy done . . . a boy of ten years or so, to deserve imprisonment? Why he’s as innocent as . . . as . . .”
A vision of the young Lambert Simnel came into his mind. He must be about the same age as the imprisoned Earl of Warwick.
“I wonder,” he went on, “why some of them don’t rise up and, er . . . do something about it.”
“Oh, Henry Tudor is safe on the throne, particularly now he’s married Elizabeth of York . . . uniting the houses . . . and as they’ve got a son . . . young Arthur . . . well, he’s safe enough now.”
“But I reckon some people feel angry about it. I reckon there’s the Earl of Lincoln for one. . . .”
He was excited. He wanted to get away to think. He had to be practical. What hope had a poor unknown priest of bringing about a rebellion? Why hadn’t he seen before that he needed help? He was reluctant to share the glory but on the other hand shared glory was better than no glory at all.
Suppose he went to the Earl of Lincoln. Would the mighty Earl receive a humble priest? But perhaps he would want to see a priest who believed he had made a great discovery.
And then it seemed to him that he had a sign from Heaven.
It was his friend who imparted the news to him. He had been wondering how he could find the Earl of Lincoln when his fellow priest said: “Have you heard the latest news? They say that the young Earl of Warwick has escaped from the Tower.”
Richard’s heart began to hammer against his side. Escaped from the Tower! When? It could have been some time ago because such news took a long time to get around.
The young Earl of Warwick was aged about ten. He must look rather like the boy in the baker’s shop.
Now he must act. This had decided him.
It was not easy to get an audience with the great Earl of Lincoln but when Richard Simon eventually succeeded in doing so what he had to say received the Earl’s full attention.
John de la Pole was about twenty-three years old. He deeply resented what he called the usurpation of the Tudor. In his view Richard the Third had been the undoubted King and he believed that the children of Edward the Fourth were illegitimate, which made the Earl of Warwick the heir to the throne. Nobody wanted a child king; nothing was worse for the stability of the country; therefore the Earl of Lincoln himself was the one who should be wearing the crown. His mother had been Elizabeth, sister to Edward the Fourth, and therefore he considered his claim indisputable. Richard the Third had thought so too for he had named him his heir.
“I was struck by the looks of this boy called Lambert Simnel as soon as I perceived him,” said Richard. “He quite clearly did not begin his life in a baker’s shop.”
“But you do not know what the Earl of Warwick looks like.”
“That is true, my lord, and my first thoughts were that here was one of the Princes . . . son of Edward the Fourth.”
“They are illegitimate. They haven’t the same claim to the throne as the Earl of Warwick.”
“And now that we hear he has escaped from the Tower . . .”
The Earl nodded.
“Has he the looks of an earl? Has he the manner?”
“He has indeed, my lord.”
“And have you spoken with him?”
Richard hesitated. “His speech is a little rough . . . like that of apprentices in the streets of London.”
“Not like an earl . . . eh, and a royal earl. Of course speech is acquired and if he has been long in the baker’s shop, it would be natural for him to adopt that method of speech.”
“So thought I.”
“The people would not accept him unless he appeared perfect in every respect. There would be those who would call him an impostor even though he were proved conclusively to be the Earl of Warwick.”
The Earl of Lincoln was thoughtful. Then he went on: “There would be many who would support the Earl of warwick against the Tudor.”
“I know that well, my lord. There are many who murmur against Henry Tudor. One hears whispers in the streets.”
“It is among people in high places that we should look to support this cause. When we have that, the people in the streets may flock to our banners.”
“My lord, I would do everything within my power to see this wrong righted.”
The Earl nodded. “The Irish have always supported the House of York,” he said. “They deplore the coming of the Welshman. My aunt, King Edward’s sister, the Duchess of Burgundy would help us I know. I have a feeling that the Dowager Queen is not very happy even though Henry Tudor has made her daughter Queen. I will leave England and sound out these people. In the meantime it would be well for you first to have an audience with the Queen Dowager, sound her. She could be a very good ally in the very center of Court itself.”
Richard’s heart was bursting with pride. His wildest dreams were becoming realities. He, to have an audience with the Queen Dowager! It was beyond belief. But he would do it. He would bring this about. The Archbishopric of Canterbury was not far off.
“Then,” went on the Earl of Lincoln, “you must get the boy and bring him to Ireland. There we will make sure that he has forgotten none of those customs and modes of speech which would be becoming in the Earl of Warwick.”
It was very irksome for Elizabeth Woodville to be frustrated at every turn by the Countess of Richmond. She wanted to shout at her: “I am a queen. What are you? A countess! Your husband was the son of a bastard; and you yourself come from the bastard Beauforts. I am a queen I tell you. I reigned with Edward. He was my devoted husband until the day of his death. My daughter is now Queen of England. How dare you adopt this patronizing manner toward me!”
It had been worse since the baby had been born. It was the Countess of Richmond who gave orders in the nursery. What did she know of the care of children? She had been thirteen when her son was born . . . the only one too, and when Elizabeth considered her own brood—most of them healthy—she wondered how Margaret Beaufort had the impertinence to try to tell her what should be done.
Little Arthur was not exactly robust. How could one expect an eight-month child to be? He needed very special care. He needed a little coddling. But the Countess would have none of that. She wanted him to grow up sturdy and strong, she said. “And I”, had retorted Elizabeth Woodville, “w
ant him to grow up!”
It was frustrating and the Queen seemed very much in awe of both her husband and her mother-in-law. How things were changed since those days when Edward was alive and she had managed to get her own way, which he was prepared to grant providing she did not interfere with his love affairs. Not that she ever attempted to for she had been secretly glad that there were other women to cater for his insatiable sexuality. They were the good days. How different it would be if the Countess of Richmond were not here! Then she, Elizabeth, could step into her rightful role as grandmother to the heir to the throne. Dear child. She was sure he had a look of Edward. He should have been called Edward of course. Arthur! What a name for a king. He would be constantly compared with the mystic Arthur and that was not going to be of much help to him. Every time anything went wrong the magical name would be recalled. Oh no, Arthur was not going to find life easy with a name like that and it was a great error of judgment to have saddled him with it.
If only they had taken her advice. . . .
But they would never do that.
She was in a very disgruntled mood when she heard that a priest was asking for an audience with her. He came on the recommendation of the Earl of Lincoln.
The Earl of Lincoln had been a firm adherent of Richard, and she was not sure how he regarded her. One of the most shocking moments of her life had been when she heard that Richard was declaring her children to be illegitimate. He had revived that absurd story of Eleanor Butler’s marriage with Edward and as Eleanor Butler had been alive when he had married her, Elizabeth, that meant their marriage was invalid and her children illegitimate.
Nonsense! Nonsense! she had wanted to cry; but it had been accepted as fact and Richard therefore became the King; he had behaved as though her two sons, young Edward and Richard, did not exist as claimants to the throne. He had considered Clarence’s son, the young Earl of warwick, as his heir but because he was only a boy and the country needed a strong man he had named Lincoln.
She could imagine how Lincoln was feeling now . . . ready for revolt against the Tudor, she did not doubt.
Well, that gave them something in common for she felt the same.
Therefore she was ready to receive the priest who was Lincoln’s protégé.
Richard Simon was overawed. Elizabeth Woodville could be very regal when she wished; but that she was eager to hear what he had to say was clear.
He came quickly to the point and told her that he had seen a boy whom he had reason to believe was the Earl of warwick. He was at the moment working in a baker’s shop. He had reported his discovery to the Earl of Lincoln who, as she knew, had suggested that the matter be imparted to her. The Earl had left for the Continent. He was going to see the Duchess of Burgundy, so strongly did he feel that this matter should not be brushed aside.
The priest was aware of a terrible fear in that moment. There was a cold glitter in the Queen Dowager’s eyes. What a fool he had been to come! True, she was of the House of York, having married the great Yorkist King—but her daughter was now the wife of Henry Tudor. Would she work against her own daughter?
For a few moments he visualized himself seized, dragged away to a dungeon, tortured to reveal things he did not know. Fool . . . fool that he had been to deliver himself right into the lions’ den.
But he was wrong. Elizabeth Woodville had always reveled in intrigue ever since she and her mother had plotted to entrap Edward in Whittlebury Forest. She was furiously angry with the Countess of Richmond, who treated her as though she were of no account at all. Her daughter, Queen Elizabeth herself, was treated as though she were merely a puppet by these Tudors.
Of course Henry was an impostor. What of her own little boys? Where were they? Sometimes she dreamed of them at night. They were stretching out their arms to her, calling for her. She kept thinking of the last time she had seen the younger of them, little Richard, who had been taken from her to join his brother in the Tower. “I should never have let him go.” How many times had she said that?
And where were they now? She never mentioned them to their sisters. The Queen never wanted to talk of them. There was that horrible slur of illegitimacy which King Richard had laid on them and which Henry had ignored. And if he ignored it . . . then the true king was little Edward the Fifth. But where was he? And where was his brother?
When she thought of her boys she thought of Henry Tudor and that he had no right to be on the throne. If he had been humble, a little grateful because she had allowed her daughter to marry him, she would have felt differently.
But every day the Countess of Richmond gave some indication that the King and his mother were the rulers while the Queen and her mother did as they were told.
An intolerable situation, and if she could make trouble for Henry Tudor—no matter with what consequences—she was ready to do so. Moreover life was dull nowadays; she thought longingly of the intrigues of those days when she was the King’s wife and had ruled him in many ways of which he was ignorant.
So now she was ready for a little divertissement. It would be welcome.
“And how did you discover this boy?” she asked.
“Strangely enough, my lady, I went into the baker’s shop to buy a cob loaf. I noticed at once his grace, his dignity. It was unmistakeable.”
“Have you spoken to him of these matters? Have you spoken to the baker?”
“My lady, I have spoken only to the Earl of Lincoln. He is convinced that this boy is the Earl of Warwick. He was most anxious that he should have your approval of this matter before proceeding. It is dangerous, he said. I know if we went to the King and laid the matter before him we should be clapped into prison and never heard of again.”
“That is very likely,” said the Queen, and Richard Simon began to breathe more easily.
“So the Earl suggested that we come to you.”
“What help does he expect to receive from me?”
“He wants your approval, my lady. He wants to know whether you would consider it wise to pursue this matter.”
“He asks me?”
“He remembers your judgment . . . when you were able to give it. He remembers how you were of such help to our great King Edward.”
“Ah.” She sighed. “There was a king. We shall never see his like again.”
“It is true, my lady, but we must make the best of what is left to us. The Earl wished to know if you thought it wise for us to take up this boy, to discover more of him. And if he did indeed prove to be the Earl of Warwick, attempt to get him to that place where he belongs.”
The Queen nodded slowly. “The House of York would be reigning again. The House of Lancaster was never good for this country.”
“My lady.” He had lifted his eyes to her face and they were full of admiration for her beauty, of course. Elizabeth Woodville had been used to such looks all her life—though they came more rarely now. She had never grown tired of them and never would. “I shall proceed with a good heart. My plan is to take the boy to Ireland.”
“The Irish were always friends of York.”
“So said my lord of Lincoln. He is on his way to Burgundy.”
To Edward’s sister Margaret, of course, the forceful Duchess. She had always been a strong adherent of the House of York and had, like all the family, idolized her magnificent brother Edward. Naturally she would want to see a member of her family, her own nephew on the throne; she hated the usurping Tudor.
“I should be kept informed,” she said.
“We shall see that you are, my lady. And you will be here in the Court. You will be able to keep an eye on what is happening here. The Earl was most anxious that he should have your approval. I think if he did not have it he would want to go no further in this dangerous matter.”
She was delighted. She would keep her eyes open. She would be watchful and any discovery she made would be passed on to the Earl of Lincoln or her sister-in-law of Burgundy.
The priest left her. She felt as though she were alive
again. Something was happening and if this were successful she would be the recipient of much gratitude. Land perhaps . . . wealth . . . and above all the opportunity to show the Countess of Richmond that she was not nearly as important as she had believed herself to be and indeed must now be subservient to her archenemy Elizabeth Woodville.
The next step was to get possession of the boy. Richard Simon strolled along to the baker’s shop. Baker Simnel recognized him at once as the priest who came in now and then for his cob loaf.
“There it is, Father,” he said. “All waiting for you. Don’t stand there like a zany, Lambert. Wrap it for his lordship.”
Richard watched Lambert wrap the loaf. Then he turned to the baker.
“I would like to have a word with you. Is there somewhere where we could go in private?”
The baker looked alarmed. He immediately began to search his mind, wondering if he had said or done something which could be brought against him. The priest had seemed very interested in his shop for some time.
“Oh yes . . . yes . . .,”he said. “Come this way. Take charge of the shop, Lambert. And call me if I’m wanted.”
Richard followed him into a dark little room at the back in which were two stools. Richard took one and the baker the other.
“This is good news for you, my friend,” said the priest. “It concerns your boy.”
“Lambert? Why so, Father? What has he done?”
“He has done nothing for which he can be reproached. He is an unusual boy.”
“He’s not so bad, you know. Not as bright as some you might say but he’ll improve, I shouldn’t wonder. He is getting quite good in the shop.”
“He is amazingly handsome.”
“Oh yes, a good-looking boy. He takes after his mother. ’Tis a pity she went. . . .”
“Went?”
The baker raised his eyes. “She was took to Heaven seven years since. It was when our other boy was born.”
“So you have another son.”
“Bright he is . . . brighter than Lambert. . . . He’ll be coming along.”
“I’m glad to hear it because I am going to ask you to let me take Lambert into my service.”
