Jean Plaidy

by To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII;Elizabeth of York

  And because of this he had plotted against the King. Had he? He had not known that. He had merely wanted to be free.

  The Earl of Oxford visited him. “Yes,” he said, “you wanted to be free so that you could take the crown.”

  The young man looked puzzled. “I wanted to be free,” he said.

  “You have been here a long time.”

  “I came when I was ten years old. I am now twenty-four. More than half my life I have been King Henry’s prisoner.”

  “Oh … not a prisoner,” said the Earl of Oxford. “You were put here for your protection.”

  “Did I need it for so long?”

  “The King thought so. And because your father was the Duke of Clarence you thought you had more right to the throne than he had.”

  “I had more right to the throne.”

  The poor innocent boy. He did not realize that he was signing his own death warrant. It was so easy to trick him … this innocent. How could he be otherwise, having spent so many years shut away from the world?

  “I have come here to help you,” said the Constable of England. “It would be better for you if you confessed that you know you have more right to the throne than the King and you wanted to depose him.”

  “I have more right to the throne… .”began the boy.

  “Ah, that is what I said. Confess your guilt and the King will doubtless forgive you as he did Perkin Warbeck.”

  “Oh, he is free then?”

  “He is not free now. I was referring to what happened when he was captured and brought to the King. The King was lenient to him and at first forgave him … but he tried to get away and only then did the King put him into the Tower. Confess to your guilt and the King may well be lenient with you.”

  The young Earl was persuaded and the Constable went in triumph to the King.

  “He should be tried and condemned at once. Warbeck too.”

  “They will both be found guilty,” commanded the King. “Warbeck is unimportant. He has been proved to be a fraud. But I have had enough of the ungrateful fellow and he could have a following and one can’t be found guilty and pay the penalty without the other.”

  So Perkin and the Earl of Warwick were tried, found guilty of treason, and both condemned to death.

  The King did not wish to take revenge on either of these traitors. They were young and foolish, he said; but they had made trouble and for the good of the country this time he intended to act. He had been lenient before; but he had been answered by ingratitude.

  Perkin Warbeck should be taken to Tyburn and hanged; the Earl of Warwick should be beheaded on Tower Hill.

  In their cells in the Tower the two men awaited the death sentence.

  Perkin was resigned. He would never see Katharine again. He wondered what her life would be like without him. It was true that they had been separated for some time while he was imprisoned. But there had always been hope.

  This was the end then—all those grandiose schemes were to end up at Tyburn.

  There was no hope now. Waiting for them to come and take him he wondered if there was some point where he could have altered the course which had led him to this day. He did not know and it did not matter now.

  The people had crowded into the streets to see his last moments. It was a holiday for the spectators. He heard their shouts as he was drawn along. He did not care that they jeered at him, that they had come to witness his last humiliation.

  As they put the rope about his neck he was murmuring Katharine’s name; and he hoped that she would recover from the desolation he knew this day would bring her. He was praying that she might find some happiness after he had gone.

  This was the end then. He, Perkin Warbeck had coem to the end of the road.

  At Tower Hill there was another spectacle. The young Earl walked out of the Tower and felt the cool air on his face; the mist was on the river; it was a bleak November day. But it was a great experience to walk out from those gray walls. He wondered what his life would have been like if he had been at liberty for those fourteen years he had spent in prison.

  But the time had come for him to lay his head on the block. He did so … feeling almost indifferent. Why should he regret leaving a life of which he knew so little?

  One swift stroke and it was over.

  They brought the news to the King: Warwick is dead.

  Henry nodded. Now he was sure the negotiations with Spain would be delayed no longer. He had removed the only claimant he had to fear.

  The Spanish Princess

  he Court was at Richmond. Prince Henry with his sisters Margaret and Mary had ridden in the day before from Eltham; everyone was excitedly talking about the imminent arrival of the Infanta from Spain.

  Prince Henry was now ten years old, and more resentful than ever because he had not been born the eldest. It was small consolation that when he and Arthur rode together he was the one people cheered and he knew their eyes were on him. When he remarked with a certain modesty—he thought—that he could not understand why the people stared so: was there anything wrong with him? his sister Margaret who had a very sharp tongue, retorted: “Yes, a great deal.”

  Mary would snuggle close to him and say that it was because he was so much prettier than Arthur, which was what he wanted to hear—though he would have preferred handsome to pretty. He must tell Mary that boys were not pretty.

  Mary was very ready to learn. She admired him and thought he was the most wonderful person at Court. Margaret, who did not share their sister’s views, said that Henry had too great a conceit of himself.

  He and Margaret were not good friends; Henry never liked people who were critical of him—except perhaps his tutor John Skelton who was constantly laughing at something in a way which was not exactly complimentary. Henry did not know why he bore John Skelton no resentment—perhaps it was because he amused him and wrote such witty poems. But no one else must criticize him—except of course his father whom he could not prevent doing so and whose cold looks were a continual criticism. Henry had known from his early days that his father was one of the few people who preferred Arthur. It was because Arthur was the eldest, the Prince of Wales, the King-to-be. The odd thing was that Arthur didn’t seem to be greatly impressed with his superiority.

  It was late summer when they rode into Richmond Palace. Henry never passed under the gateway without remembering that day just before Christmas three years before when Shene Palace had been burned down. It had been nine o’clock at night. He had been in the nursery apartments he shared with Margaret and Mary when he had been roused from his pallet by his sister Margaret shouting to him. Leaping out of bed, he had smelt the strong acrid smell of smoke and immediately the children had been surrounded by excited men and women and were marshaled together and taken to their parents. The fire had started in the royal apartments; the rushes were aflame in a very short time and before anything could be done to save the palace it was burning fiercely. Beds, hangings and tapestries were destroyed on that night. The King had been desolate, thinking of all the valuable things which had been lost, but everyone was safe, which was a consolation; and his father had immediately ordered that a new palace should be built on the ruins of the old. Thus old Shene had become Richmond Palace, always a favorite of them all because of its nearness to London—that most exciting city—and the view from the front, of the River Thames. Henry liked its long line of buildings with their towers both circular and octagonal topped by turrets, though Skelton said that the chimneys looked like pears turned upside down. It was his father’s favorite residence, perhaps for the reason that he had rechristened it Richmond after one of the titles he had had before he became King. So they were there very often.

  Henry was beginning to believe that his father was not always so calm and self-assured as he tried to pretend he was. Henry sensed quickly that though the people accepted his father as their king they did not like him very much. Their cheers were not spontaneous as they were for him. He always hoped when they we
re riding in procession that his father would notice how they smiled and waved and called for Prince Henry. He knew how to make them like him. He waved and smiled and sometimes blew kisses—which delighted them. His father had said to him afterward: “The people like you yes but it will be well for you to remember that you are not the Prince of Wales.”

  “I know, my lord, that I am not. It is my brother who is he.”

  “Remember it,” was all his father said.

  The King was a man of few words, and those words did not always express what he was thinking. Henry liked to watch his father; his little eyes would narrow in speculation. Henry knew about Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck. He had exchanged words with Simnel about his falcon for Simnel was a good falconer and very pleased when Henry asked him questions. It was impossible to believe that he had once thought he would be king. Perkin Warbeck was different. He had paid the price of his ambitions. His head had been killed, which was the best way of treating traitors. Skelton talked about Perkin Warbeck. There was no subject about which Skelton could not be lured to talk. Skelton thought Warbeck was probably a natural son of Edward the Fourth because he was so like him.

  “Your noble grandfather was in Flanders some months before the birth of Warbeck. And I can tell you this, my young lord, where Edward was there might well spring up little bastards… . He was a great man. Great in all ways … as you will be, my young bantam lord. Oh yes, I see another such as great Edward strutting there.”

  It was disrespectful talk. His father would not agree with it, but Henry liked it. It was pleasant to think he was going to be like his maternal grandfather. Skelton remembered the late King when he was a man of forty and said his years had sat lightly on him. “Even the men cheered Edward,” Skelton went on. “It seems they liked him to admire their wives … and as his admiration was of a practical nature if you know what I mean …” He nudged young Henry who laughed with delight. “Then you do know what I mean!”

  Skelton was a wonderful tutor, for he was a clever poet, a man of education who had studied the classics and French literature; he had translated Cicero’s Letters. That he was ribald and bawdy was accepted because of his achievements and Henry would not have changed him for anyone else. He attended to all aspects of Henry’s education and gave him not only an appreciation of the arts but of women. Sometimes he talked to the boy as though he were a man. Henry liked it. He could never bear anyone to refer to his youth.

  At that time Henry was destined for the Church.

  He disliked the idea but Skelton laughed at him. “A very good time can be had in the Church, my lord. Particularly for one of your rank. I swear you’ll be Archbishop of Canterbury before you are very old. Think of the power you’ll have.”

  “I do not wish to go into the Church.” Henry’s eyes were narrowed. But at the same time he looked up at the sky to placate an angry god who might be listening, for what he feared more than most things was heavenly vengeance. “At least …” he added. “At least … if I can serve my country in any other way. I do not think I am suited to the Church.”

  “Nor are you, my lord, but wise men fit the post to themselves not themselves to the post. And think of our illustrious Pope Alexander the Sixth … otherwise known to the world as Rodrigo Borgia. He manages to live a very full and varied life … Church or not. Don’t tell me my lord that you as an Archbishop of Canterbury cannot be as clever as the Pope of Rome.”

  That was how Skelton talked—laughing, irreverent, full of anecdotes. A very exciting person to be with.

  Skelton was glad he was not Arthur’s tutor. “There would be no fun with our Prince of Wales,” he said. “He is a very serious young gentleman. Not like you, my lord of York … ah, my lord of York, my Prince Henry, my willing pupil … there is a man … a man who was born to be king.”

  Skelton should never leave him if he could help it.

  Henry thought a great deal about his father and he came to the conclusion that he did not really enjoy being a king, which was strange because to Henry that seemed the ultimate achievement—that was happiness and contentment.

  The King acted very strangely now and then. Henry remembered something, which had happened not very long ago, which gave him a certain insight into his father’s nature.

  It had happened at the arena. The King kept a large menagerie and he was very fond of sports in which the animals took part. Young Henry believed that his father was always trying to make the people like him. He showed them how lenient he was to his enemies; they were always present at tournaments and shows in the arena. But he always looked so stern and he rarely smiled. If only he would smile, speak to some of them in a friendly way, he would have been liked so much more than he was because he forgave Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck too … for a very long time. If I were the King … Henry thought. It was a recurring observation.

  But on this day in the arena the King’s lion was brought out. He was a fierce and splendid animal and when the dogs were set on him he was always the victor. His name was Rex, which meant he was the King.

  On that day four mastiffs were set against him. Never had the dogs beaten Rex, but they did that day. Young Henry loved the dogs and they put up a magnificent fight against old Rex. They were battered and wounded … but the dogs won in the end and it was Rex who lay dying in the center of the arena.

  Young Henry’s impulse had been to shout with excitement but he had caught the stern looks of his father, and his mother, who sat beside the King, was watching Henry and her look begged him to restrain his high spirits. Then he realized that the King saw something significant in this episode. The King had been set on and killed. Poor Rex was king of the animals no more.

  It was a symbol. These mere dogs had set on the king of the beasts and killed him. Rex was the King. Henry saw it clearly when John Skelton pointed it out to him.

  The King had left the arena in silence. People had thought it was because he had loved his lion. But it was more than that. Before sunset those four victorious mastiffs were brought out from the kennels and hanged on gibbets in the arena. Their bodies dangled there for two days so that all might see them.

  It was a symbol and a warning to all would-be traitors. The mastiffs had killed the king of the beasts. Therefore they were traitors.

  Henry was a little bewildered. He talked over it with Skelton.

  “But it wasn’t the fault of the dogs. They were put in the arena to fight Rex,” he pointed out.

  Skelton said: “One does not have to be at fault to be hanged as a traitor.”

  “Then how can they help it?”

  “They cannot. Young Warwick couldn’t help it, could he? He was born to what he was … so he was a potential traitor if another should take over the throne.”

  “Warwick wanted to take my father’s place,” said Henry.

  Skelton bowed low. “Ah, the noble Tudors. Bless me, I had forgot. They have a right to the throne. The rank of Lancaster! Of course. Of course. York must stand aside for the Tudors.”

  Henry laughed as he often did at Skelton. But he would not repeat quite a lot of what Skelton said because he knew that if he did he would his lose his tutor and who knew—his tutor might lose his head. But he did know, through Skelton’s innuendos, that his father was very much afraid that someone would rise up and take the throne from him.

  There was another occasion when the King had one of his best falcons killed. This amazed young Henry. He loved his own falcons and he could not understand why the very best one of all should be destroyed.

  The falcon had matched itself with an eagle, he was told. And it had bettered the eagle. All knew that the eagle was the king of the birds as the lion was the king of the beasts.

  The King had said: “It is not meet for any subject to offer such wrong to his lord and superior.”

  Henry was bewildered. He came to Skelton for explanation.

  “It’s a parable, my lord. Your noble father is fond of parables. That is because he sees himself as our go
d. He wishes it to be remembered that he will brook no traitors. Any who threaten his throne will go the way of the mastiffs and the falcon. Poor innocent creatures who must be so sadly used in order that the King’s human subjects be provided with a lesson.”

  “I would never destroy my best falcon,” said Henry.

  “Let us hope, dear lord, that if you should attain the throne you would never find it necessary to teach us all such a lesson.”

  “I should just wait until I had real traitors and then cut off their heads.”

  “Ah, if my Prince ever came to the throne then the heads would begin to roll, would they?”

  “Traitors’ heads would.”

  “And traitors would be any who opposed my lord’s will. Ah, but such talk is treason … to our lord the King and to the Prince of Wales. I must take care or I shall find myself hanging beside the mastiffs.”

  “I would prevent that, good Skelton,” said Henry.

  Skelton laughed and coming close to Henry whispered in his ear: “Ah, but my lord Prince, you are not the King … yet.”

  “You say yet … good Skelton as though … as though …”

  Skelton laughed. “Life is full of chances,” he said. “You are at the moment second in line… .”

  “Skelton, have you been seeing the soothsayers and wise men?”