But none of these dramatic actions did anything to solve the duke of Gloucester’s Lancastrian problem – or to satisfy his own ambitions. Historians will never know the precise motives for the actions he took next – though common sense suggests that they speak for themselves. In June 1483, he struck. At a council sitting on June 13 to plan Edward V’s coronation, he accused the old king’s lord chamberlain and confidant, Lord Hastings, of plotting against his life. Hastings was arrested immediately and beheaded without trial. With Hastings safely out of the way, Gloucester’s allies took the opportunity to suggest that Edward IV, famous for his sexual escapades, had promised to marry another woman before his marriage to Elizabeth Woodville. This assertion, if true, would invalidate the Woodville marriage in canon law, thus rendering King Edward V and his younger brother, Richard, duke of York (1473–83?) illegitimate, and so leaving the duke of Gloucester the true Yorkist heir to the throne. Parliament, acting on this suggestion – and possibly fearing the consequences of rule by a small boy – declared the late king’s marriage invalid. The duke of Gloucester was crowned King Richard III on July 6, 1483.
This still left the problem of the two royal nephews, Edward and Richard, currently housed in the Tower of London. As July faded into August, the two princes were seen playing in the Tower grounds less and less; finally, they were no longer seen at all. The obvious assumption is that Richard had the two boys murdered, as portrayed in Thomas More’s History of Richard III and Shakespeare’s play which was based on it. During renovations in 1674, two skeletons were found under a staircase which were assumed to be those of Edward and Richard and so were given royal burial. Forensic examination of the remains in 1933 suggested that their respective physical development was consistent with the ages of the two princes in 1483. While none of this proves Richard’s guilt, he remains the most likely suspect. Still, alternative suspects have been suggested, such as the ambitious duke of Buckingham. As a result, the question of who murdered the little princes in the Tower remains one of the great murder mysteries in English history,4 and will almost certainly never be fully solved. In fact, there may not have been a murder at all. There is some evidence that either one or both boys were ill in 1483. It is just possible that the two young men, living in the damp confines of the Tower, succumbed to natural causes. This would explain the new king’s failure to address their situation publicly or produce their persons for display; after all, who would believe that their deaths were natural?
In fact, it did not matter who – or what – killed the princes. Contemporaries assumed that Richard did it. Whatever his responsibility or motivation, his ruthless ascent to the throne divided the Yorkist affinity and left a bad taste in the mouths of his subjects. He spent the remainder of his reign seeking to prove that he really wasn’t such a bad guy after all. In fact, Richard III was not the hunchbacked monster portrayed in subsequent Tudor propaganda. He had proven an able and courageous warrior during the Wars of the Roses. He was intelligent and cultured and prudent enough to continue his brother’s policies. The legislation passed by his parliaments was favorable to trade and the economy. Even his physical problems were exaggerated by the Tudors: he was short and seems to have had one shoulder slightly higher than the other, no more.
But the bloody opening of Richard’s reign besmirched the Yorkist cause, his over-reliance on northerners offended established familes in the south, and the flimsiness of his claim encouraged others to try for his throne. In the autumn of 1483 he put down a revolt by his erstwhile ally, Buckingham. The duke paid for his gamble, as did most rebels, with his head. In the summer of 1485, Richard faced another revolt, this time by a Welsh nobleman with only the most tenuous of Lancastrian claims, Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond. His father was Edmund Tudor, earl of Richmond (ca. 1430–56), a powerful Welsh landowner and the son of Catherine of Valois (1401–37), Henry V’s widow, by her second husband, Owen Tudor (ca. 1400-61), who was not of royal blood at all. His mother was Lady Margaret Beaufort (1443–1509), a direct, but female, descendant of John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, by his mistress, Katherine Swynford (1350?–1403; see genealogy 2, p. 430), whom Gaunt later married, thus legitimizing the line. This provided a claim, but nothing stronger than those of about half-a-dozen other English peers. Nevertheless, when the Lancastrian cause collapsed in 1471, Richmond’s lineage forced him into continental exile. There, he bided his time and attempted to shore up support among the Lancastrian nobility.
In August 1485 he returned, landing with perhaps 2,000 supporters, including French and Scottish troops, at Milford Haven, Wales. Important noble families flocked to his side, not so much out of loyalty to him as dissatisfaction with a usurper king. As we noted at the beginning of this chapter, the rival armies met at Bosworth Field, Leicestershire, on August 22. Richard found out just how weak his support was when, soon after the opening of battle, the powerful Stanley family and their followers deserted for Richmond’s side. Indeed, it was actually a party of Stanley retainers who killed the king after he had been unhorsed in a brave but desperate charge of Henry’s bodyguard. The sun of the house of York had set. The day belonged to the house of Richmond – or, as, it is now more popularly known, the house of Tudor.
Establishing the Tudor State
By 1485, England had experienced civil war for well over three decades, and an uncertain succession for almost a century. The new king’s prospects could not have seemed promising. He was only 28 years old. He had no affinity, no important friends, no experience of government. He had not even run his own estates, having spent his youth on the run, first in Brittany and then, from 1484, in France. Moreover, there remained in play a clutch of Yorkist pretenders to the throne, some with better claims than Henry. There was, for example, John de la Pole, earl of Lincoln (ca. 1460–87), the nephew of both Edward IV and Richard III and the latter’s designated heir. There was also Edward, earl of Warwick (1475–99), and his sister Margaret, countess of Salisbury (1473–1541), the children of the duke of Clarence. Later, Henry, marquess of Exeter (ca. 1498–1538), a grandson of Edward IV, would become a factor. Finally, for the romantically inclined, it should not be forgotten that the bodies of Edward V and his brother, Richard, duke of York, had never been found. This would give rise to the fifteenth-century equivalent of “Elvis-sightings” and therefore the possibility that an impostor could play on the nostalgic credulity of the populace. That possibility might be exploited by enemies abroad: Margaret, duchess of Burgundy (1446–1503), sister of Edward IV and Richard III, could provide a continental base of operations and sanctuary well out of Henry’s reach. As we will see, the French, the Scots, the Irish, even the Holy Roman emperor might find it in their interests to dislodge Henry or destabilize his regime. After all, the rulers of Brittany and France had done as much for Henry against the Yorkists; just like rebellious barons, they might not find it easy to break the habit.
But the Wars of the Roses did end. Henry VII did establish his authority, and his dynasty as well: the Tudors would rule England for well over a century, effectively and, for the most part, unchallenged. How did he – and they – do it? Before we can answer that question, it is necessary to understand what sort of man he was. His image (see plate 2) provides some clues. Henry Tudor was shrewd, tight-lipped, suspicious, and intensely practical. Like many late medieval rulers, he anticipated the sort of prince described in Machiavelli’s book of that name: ruthless, capable of sharp practice and even cruelty if necessary. The result would have pleased the author of The Prince (written 1513, pub. 1532), for in the words of one contemporary: “The King is feared rather than loved.”5 But where cruelty was not necessary, Henry VII was content to let sleeping dogs lie. That is, while he forgot nothing, he tended not to hold grudges or engage in personal vendettas.
This practical side of Henry’s character led earlier historians to identify him as a more or less “modern” personality and, indeed, his behavior can sometimes remind one of a twenty-first-century CEO. But Henry was born in the fif
teenth century and many of his habits were purely medieval. He was a loyal son of the Church who burned heretics, heard multiple daily masses, and spent £20,000 building the glorious chapel in Westminster Abbey which bears his name and enshrines his body, along with those of many of his descendants. A firm believer in Purgatory, and perhaps out of concern for what all that practicality and ruthlessness had done to the state of his soul, he left money at his death to pay for the celebration of 10,000 masses.
Plate 2 Henry VII, painted terracotta bust, by Pietro Torrigiano. © The Board of Trustees of the Victoria and Albert Museum.
Finally, there is one further aspect of Henry’s personality which may be interpreted as either medieval or modern or, perhaps, both at once: his instinct for ceremony and propaganda. Like Edward IV, Henry VII knew that a king must be seen to be magnificent. He mounted elaborate processions and commissioned works of art to show himself and his regime in the best possible light. At the same time, artists and writers were encouraged to trash the memory of Richard III and the Yorkists as much as possible. This even extended to having paintings of the late king altered to increase the size of his hunchback’s hump! No modern politician was better at going negative.
The new king demonstrated his hard-headedness and practicality immediately after seizing the throne. The first thing Henry did upon his triumphant arrival in London was to get himself crowned, on October 30. Only then, on November 7, did he assemble a parliament. Thus, rather than seek its permission to claim the throne (as Henry Bolingbroke had seemed to do), he simply informed them of the already accomplished fact. He then had them ruin the most powerful Yorkist peers via attainder, but he left those of lesser power and wealth alone. In fact, Henry VII continued to employ mid-level Yorkists and former servants of the Yorkists in his administration. That is, he destroyed those who had the potential to challenge him, while offering his protection and favor to those who were not a threat. This accomplished three purposes. First, it led many former Yorkists at this level to switch sides to the new king. Second, it deprived possible Yorkist pretenders to the throne of a rank-and-file. Third, it ensured that the new administration would continue to function with the smooth precision of its Yorkist predecessor, because it would largely be the same administration. Later, in 1495, Henry signed into law the De facto Act, which exempted from prosecution anyone acting on the orders of an English king. The idea was to reassure old Yorkists that he had no intention of pursuing them further for past actions, while encouraging his own followers by promising indemnity against the resentment of some future ruler for obeying his orders.
Henry’s willingness to embrace Yorkists received its ultimate expression in his choice of a consort. Five months after Bosworth Field, in fulfillment of a promise he had made in 1483, he married the Princess Elizabeth (1466–1503), daughter of Edward IV, elder sister of the two princes who had died in the Tower – and therefore the niece of Henry’s mortal enemy, Richard III. At this late date, it is impossible to judge the feelings that may have existed between Henry and Elizabeth. Every indication is that their marriage became a solid one, producing eight children (though only three survived their parents). But its beginning seems to have been a matter of pure calculation: on the one hand, it was the clearest signal yet that Henry intended to bury the hatchet with the Yorkists. On the other hand, by waiting five months after his accession, the new king also made clear that his Crown was in no way contingent on a Yorkist alliance. Above all, this union resulted in the mingling of Yorkist, Lancastrian, and Tudor blood. In September 1486, Queen Elizabeth gave birth to a son. Even the choice of name for the new prince was calculated: Arthur (1486–1502). This name was, of course, symbolic of English (and Welsh) unity and seemed to pledge that the monarchy would return to its former greatness.
Finally, in the spring of 1486, Henry made a progress through the North, the most “Yorkist” of his dominions. His purpose was, first, to show himself to his people in full kingly magnificence; but also to demonstrate that he was backed by a large and powerful entourage. Just in case anyone missed the point, that entourage arrested the earl of Warwick, one of the most prominent Yorkist claimants to the throne.
These were shrewd measures, but die-hard Yorkists stayed restless. Since most Yorkist claimants were either too young, too dead, or safely deposited in the Tower, these attempts tended to involve “pretenders to the throne,” i.e., impostors. In 1487 a boy named Lambert Simnel (b. 1476/7, d. after 1534), the son of a baker, was passed off by the Yorkists as the imprisoned Warwick. On May 5 Simnel, accompanied by the earl of Lincoln (a real Yorkist claimant) and 2,000 German mercenary troops supplied by Margaret of Burgundy, landed in Ireland, where Yorkist support was strong. There, Gerald Fitzgerald, earl of Kildare (ca. 1456–1513), the lord deputy and most prominent Anglo-Irish landowner in the island, recognized Simnel as king. On June 4 his forces, augmented by Irish troops, landed in Lancashire and marched south on the capital. Perhaps because the country was weary of war, perhaps because Henry was proving an effective ruler, the rebels gained little support. A royal army met and defeated them at East Stoke, outside Newark, Nottinghamshire. Conveniently for Henry, Lincoln died in battle. As for Simnel, Henry made him a servant in the royal kitchens: the first Tudor was not without mercy or a sense of humor.
These qualities would be tested a few years later by another adolescent impostor, Perkin Warbeck (ca. 1474–99). Warbeck, the son of a Flemish government official, was, apparently, a remarkably well-dressed young man. In 1491 the inhabitants of Cork, Ireland, mistook him for the long-dead Richard, duke of York. (Henry later remarked with exasperation: “My lords of Ireland, you will crown apes at last.”6) No one in England seems to have believed that Warbeck was Richard, but the Yorkists nevertheless seized the opportunity. Margaret of Burgundy coached him on how to act and the rulers of France, Scotland, and the Holy Roman Empire went along with the charade for political reasons of their own. In fact, he even managed to marry into the Scottish royal house and use Scotland as a base from which to attack Henry. But successive invasions of England were beaten off in 1495, 1496, and 1497. In the last case, Warbeck joined a preexisting rebellion in Cornwall against high taxes. In early summer some 15,000 Cornishmen had marched on London; they were defeated at Blackheath, on its southern outskirts on 17 June. Warbeck only showed up in September. Though some 3,000 additional Cornishmen joined his cause, he was soon captured. Like Simnel, he was spared at first but, after evidence emerged – or was fabricated – that he had been plotting yet another revolt with the real earl of Warwick, both were executed in 1499. This represents the last serious challenge to Henry’s regime. By the 1490s, if not earlier, English men and women were heartily sick of civil wars and pretend kings and had decided to settle for the sovereign they had.
Nevertheless, these incidents convinced Henry of the dangers of isolation. It was not enough to overawe, satisfy, or neutralize his own subjects; he needed friends abroad. After all, he had used France as a base from which to launch his own rebellion against Richard III and his enemies had found support in Burgundy, France, Scotland, and the Holy Roman Empire. Henry began by trying to win over the king of France, Charles VIII (1470–98; reigned 1483–98), but the latter was not interested. Henry responded in 1489 by throwing his support to the rebellious nobles of Brittany, claiming the throne of France for himself, and, in 1492, launching an invasion from Calais. This got the French king’s attention.
The result was the Treatyresult was the Treaty of Étaples, by which Henry agreed to withdraw in return for a subsidy of £5,000 for 15 years.7 Similarly, from 1493 to 1496, Henry used trade embargoes against Burgundy and the Holy Roman Empire to persuade them to withdraw their support for Perkin Warbeck. Next, Henry set out to secure his northern flank. King James IV of Scotland (1473–1513; reigned 1488–1513) had provided Warbeck with valuable support and an easy route into England. Henry won him over by offering a diplomatic marriage with Henry’s daughter, Margaret (1489–1541). Truces in 1497 and 1499 were sol
idified in the optimistically titled Treaty of Perpetual Peace of 1502; the marriage took place the next year. While this alliance did not prevent future antagonism with the Scots, it did link the two royal houses. That would lead to a Stuart accession in England after the death of the last Tudor in 1603.
But Henry’s greatest diplomatic coup was his alliance with Spain. In the 1480s Spain’s situation was not unlike that of England: after a period of division and weakness, it had just been united under the rule of Ferdinand of Aragon (1452–1516; reigned 1479–1516) and Isabella of Castile (1451–1504; reigned 1479–1504). This new dynasty needed friends too, especially against its powerful northern neighbor, France. So, in 1489, England and Spain signed the Treaty of Medina del Campo, by which Henry promised (1) military support against France and (2) his son, Arthur, in marriage to Ferdinand and Isabella’s daughter, Catherine of Aragon (1485–1536). Since the two royal children were well under age, the marriage did not take place until November 1501. The Tudor court put on weeks of festivals, feasts, tournaments, and dancing. Well might Henry have been in a celebratory mood, for by 1501 Spain had acquired a great empire, thanks to the explorations of Columbus (1451–1506) and others. Henry’s courtship of this up-and-coming country looked to be a fabulous success.
Early Modern England 1485-1714: A Narrative History Page 8
