by Linda Porter
But in 1488, in the first, uncertain days of his reign, the young James IV could not yet spread his wings. The manner of his accession, the fact that his instructions not to harm James III had been ignored, clearly sat uneasily on his conscience. Later he would wear an iron belt around his waist in penitence, adding weight to it every year. But however troubled he was by his own role in the fate of his father, there was no disputing the fact that the Crown of Scotland was his. It was an outcome he had sought quite deliberately and now he would have to live with the consequences. Alone and ill-prepared, James IV had much to learn.
Part Two
The Road to Flodden Field
1488–1513
CHAPTER THREE
Uneasy Crowns
‘He was a wise man and an excellent king; and yet the times were rough, and full of mutations and rare accidents.’
Francis Bacon
‘Our king hath not hitherto busied himself with state affairs but hath now arrived at a becoming age.’
The Scottish ambassadors to the emperor Maximilian, June 1495
FOR BOTH THE FIRST TUDOR and the fourth James Stewart, gaining the throne was one thing. Keeping it was quite another. Sixteen years separated them in age, and a gulf in experience, but certain key aspects they had in common. Both were highly intelligent, neither had any experience of government and they were equally determined, whatever difficulties might lie in their paths, to hold on to their crowns. In the British Isles of the late fifteenth century this inevitably meant that their domestic security would be critically affected by their own relationship. Scotland and England were neighbours but they had long been hostile ones and that hostility, particularly on the border of the two countries, was deep-seated. It could not be suddenly changed, especially when emotive issues such as family honour and longstanding blood feuds were involved. Henry VII, however, did not share the prejudices of many of his countrymen towards the Scots. His exile had made him remote from such xenophobia and he had, of course, good reason to be grateful to the Scots who had fought alongside him at Bosworth.1 As king, he would work painstakingly towards a lasting Scottish peace from the beginning of his reign but his commitment was not always shared by his younger rival in Edinburgh. There were distractions aplenty for both monarchs. And the times were, indeed, rough, as the next few years would amply demonstrate.
As he journeyed south towards London, Henry Tudor passed through a landscape unfamiliar to him, at best, perhaps, half-remembered from his youth, on the rare occasions he had left Wales. He and his new kingdom were strangers to each other. What he saw must, though, have pleased him, as it did outsiders, often somewhat to their surprise. The Wars of the Roses had devastated the English nobility but not the physical face of the country itself. It remained, in the words of a contemporary Venetian visitor, characterized by its ‘pleasant, undulating hills and beautiful valleys, nothing to be seen but agreeable woods, or extensive meadows, or lands in cultivation; and the greatest plenty of water springing everywhere.’2 He was less complimentary about the people, noting their ‘antipathy to foreigners’, their coldness and mistrust of each other, and deploring the way they treated their children, who, regardless of their social standing, were sent away from home, sometimes as young as the age of seven, either to be apprenticed or to ‘learn better manners’ in another household. Aghast at this callous disregard for the welfare of the young, the writer concluded that ‘they do it because they like to enjoy all their comforts themselves.’ The English were a good-looking people with a high opinion of themselves and their country, being ‘for the most part, both men and women of all ages, handsome and well proportioned’ (though he went on to say that he had heard that the Scots were much handsomer) and ‘great lovers of themselves and everything belonging to them; they think that there are no other men than themselves, and no other world but England.’3 Their love of fashion and finery was legendary.
It was noted, however, that the country appeared to be thinly populated in comparison to its evident fertility and riches. This was true enough, for England had still not recovered its population level from the disasters of the Black Death nearly 150 years earlier. Further epidemics and economic difficulties in the fifteenth century had kept the population down and late marriage reinforced this trend. Henry VII’s realm contained fewer than three million souls and few towns of more than 10,000 people. London, at about 50,000, was by far the largest urban centre, but it was not a major European city; thirteen others, headed by Paris at 225,000 and including all the large Italian cities, were bigger. The rise of commerce and trade that would characterize northern Europe in the next two hundred years was not yet apparent.4 But London impressed those who approached it from across the river Thames, with its vista of church spires and its vibrant atmosphere. It was also, of course, a violent and unpredictable place in 1485, where muggings and tavern brawls were commonplace and life was easily departed. The immodest but immaculately dressed Englishman was ever quick to take offence. And it was to this prosperous but unruly capital that Henry Tudor now hastened.
Henry’s immediate priority after Bosworth was to establish himself as king. This was much more of a challenge than it appears with hindsight. We know that Henry was ultimately successful but the day after his victory on the fields of Leicestershire this comforting assurance would not have come so readily to the man himself. No adult king of England since the Norman Conquest had come to the throne in such unlikely circumstances, almost completely without immediate family or so utterly lacking in formal preparation for the task ahead. But training and education are nothing if the individual concerned lacks the basic qualities or intellect to turn them to positive advantage, as the sad figure of Henry VI had shown, and the new king of England was no green boy. The long years of exile in Brittany, impoverished and insecure, had taught him much. His immediate strategy was clear. To bring home the reality of his victory he decided to date his reign from 21 August, thus making all those who had opposed him at Bosworth traitors in the eyes of the law. Yet he was quick to make it clear that the rule of law itself had been properly restored and resided in him, issuing a proclamation protecting the property of returning troops after the battle, commanding that ‘no manner of man rob or spoil no manner of commons coming from the field; but suffer them to pass home to their countries and dwelling places, with their horse and harness.’5
These preliminary but vital aspects of his reign accomplished, Henry then made for London as quickly as possible to secure the capital, get himself crowned in Westminster Abbey and call a parliament. Once he had underlined the sacred and secular aspects of his rule, he could set about governing, showing himself to the people in the north where there remained a strong groundswell of support for the defeated Richard. There were a great many men of dubious loyalty watching him attentively in these first weeks and months. He would need to choose his advisers carefully, since he could not ignore the fact that the men with the most experience of government had all served the previous Yorkist regimes. A complete replacement of the old order with a trained and reliable staff of his own was impossible – such men did not exist. And, finally, he needed to establish his dynasty and, hopefully, quell the fears of the Yorkist faithful by making good on his promise of Christmas Day 1483 and marrying Elizabeth of York. For the moment, however, that would have to wait.
According to the Great Chronicle of London Henry wasted little time in getting to the capital, arriving in the vicinity on 27 August, only five days after Bosworth. His formal entry, however, was not until a week later, on 3 September, by which time presumably the appropriate arrangements for all the ceremonial that accompanied these occasions had been made.6 Certainly the City of London turned out in force to greet their new king:
When he approached near the city, the Mayor, the Senate and the magistrates of the same, being all clothed in violet, met him at Shoreditch and not only saluted and welcomed him with one voice in general, but every person particularly pressed and advanced himself, gladly t
o touch and kiss that victorious hand which had overcome so monstrous and cruel a tyrant, giving lauds and praisings to almighty God … and with great pomp and triumph he rode through the city to the cathedral church of St Paul, where he offered his three standards. In the one was the image of St George, in the second was a red fiery dragon beaten upon white and green sarcenet [a fine silk fabric] and the third was of yellow tarterne [another silk fabric, originally from China] in the which was painted a dun cow.
Offering up to God his victorious standards in this way reinforced the single most important aspect of Henry Tudor’s claim to the English throne. It was won in battle, with God’s help. This was incontrovertibly true, and presented a stronger claim than the dubious Beaufort line of his mother. God had given him the victory and no man – or woman – could gainsay that.
In these first public acts of his reign we see the Henry VII who had a natural instinct and a flair for performance and show that would characterize all the Tudors. No doubt he had observed and learned much from the courts of Brittany and France but his own love of spectacle was asserted at the very start of his rule. It might be argued that an appreciation of ceremonial was a prerequisite of successful kingship at the time (James IV and the Stewarts practised it, too) but it was remarkable in a man who did not know the English court and customs at all and whose life had been spent largely in hiding rather than as the centre of public display.
* * *
THE NEXT STEP in Henry’s well-orchestrated debut as king of England was his coronation. This took place on Sunday 30 October 1485 in Westminster Abbey. A considerable body of surviving documentation reveals that this was intended to be a memorable spectacle on a lavish scale. The total outlay for furnishings, decorations and clothing for all those involved, from the king to his footmen and horses, was just over £1,500, or £7.4 million today, a staggering sum for the anointing of a man who had been compelled to raise his own loans to finance his invasion of England just a few months earlier.
The formal ceremonies surrounding the coronation took place over several days, starting on 27 October when Henry dined at Lambeth with the archbishop of Canterbury. After the meal, the king and his entourage rode on towards the city, ‘riding after the guise of France with all other of his nobility upon small hackneys [ambling horses for leisure riding], two and two upon an horse.’7 At London Bridge, the mayor and other city dignitaries, including representatives of the guilds, met him and he then rode on to the Tower of London.
Popular history has given the Tower a sinister reputation, associated as it is with imprisonment, execution and mysterious deaths, so it is easy to forget that it was also a great palace and would have been the natural residence for the new king before his coronation. Within its more luxurious accommodation the next day, Henry bestowed pre-coronation honours on the men who had brought him to the throne. His faithful uncle, Jasper Tudor, already restored to the earldom of Pembroke, was created duke of Bedford and Henry’s stepfather, Lord Stanley, whose intervention at Bosworth had spelled the end for Richard III, was made earl of Derby. Bishop Morton would have to wait a little longer for the preferment he so richly deserved. Two key posts came to him in 1486, first the lord chancellorship in February and then the archbishopric of Canterbury in the autumn. This politically astute churchman, a capable administrator of gentry stock, was to remain the closest and most valued of all Henry’s counsellors until his death in 1500.
Henry’s journey from the Tower to Westminster Hall prior to the coronation was intended to impress. The entourage was arranged in an order set out ‘according to a book made by the order of the king’s council’ – perhaps a reference to the document known as A little devise of the coronacion of … Prince Henrie the vij, which was itself based on the fourteenth-century order for English coronations, the Liber Regalis. The ceremonial importance of these great occasions of state was too important to be left to chance and the weight of historical procedures was needed to emphasize the continuity of kingship, especially as there might be scepticism about Henry’s claim to the throne and how long he might survive on it. For the procession was all about the king himself, who was at its very heart. Henry rode bare headed, as protocol decreed, but his attire was striking: ‘He was arrayed in a long gown of purple velvet furred with ermines and wore a rich baldric [a decorated belt worn pendent from one shoulder across the breast and under the opposite arm]; the trapper of his horse was of cloth of gold and similarly trimmed with ermine.’8 At Westminster, Henry was greeted with a collation of spices and wine and then went off to his own chambers to bathe, as was the custom.
For the coronation itself the next day, no expense had been spared. The abbey and the hall at Westminster blazed with scarlet cloth (sourced from six different suppliers) and the king was resplendent in a variety of richly decorated and furred robes, as well as jackets and gowns, changing them for the different stages of the ceremonial. There was a dazzling display of red, blue and white cloth of gold, rich velvets in russet and crimson and satins in similar hues. The precise form of the coronation seems to have followed closely that of Richard III (presumably because of the dictates of time rather than any admiration for the forms used by the detested previous monarch), indicating that the Little Devise was a Yorkist manual originally. But in one important aspect, Henry did not follow the earlier script. Richard’s coronation ceremony had been adapted to allow for the crowning of a queen alongside the king and he and his wife, Anne Neville, had duly been crowned together. Henry Tudor, having, as yet, no consort, was crowned alone. There were also other more subtle differences, some of them with political overtones. The key roles were performed by those closest to the new king: his uncle carried the crown in front of him, his stepfather held the sword of state and the earl of Oxford carried his train. Though Thomas Bourchier, archbishop of Canterbury, performed the religious heart of the coronation, the anointing and crowning itself, at eighty he was deemed to old to handle the entire proceedings and was therefore assisted by the bishops of Exeter and London.
The lavish coronation feast that followed had its own ceremonial, including the customary challenge issued on horseback by the King’s Champion, Sir Robert Dymmock, mounted on a charger trapped with the arms of the Welsh hero, Cadwallader. Clearly, Henry wanted to make a point about his Welsh roots. In all respects, though, this demanding and emotional day (Margaret Beaufort was said to have wept copiously as her son was crowned) went without a hitch and the king’s confidence was boosted by its success. The next priority for the newly crowned king was the opening of his first parliament.
This took place on Monday, 7 November 1485, amid the ritual and pomp that was part of its historical tradition.9 Wearing their parliamentary robes, Henry and the peers of England left Westminster Palace between nine and ten in the morning and walked in procession to the abbey. Here, Mass was celebrated and the king made an offering. Meanwhile, Henry’s stepfather, the newly created earl of Derby, supervised the roll call and swearing-in of members of parliament back in the palace. When this was over, everything was ready for the full parliament to convene, probably in the Painted Chamber in the south of the palace.10
Proceedings began with a sermon from the chancellor, Bishop Alcock of Worcester, a Yorkist who had swiftly accommodated to the change of regime. His text encapsulated Henry Tudor’s life and aims: ‘Strive to prosper, go forth and triumph.’ Drawing on biblical and classical sources that would have resonated with his audience, the bishop’s aim was to establish Henry as the deliverer from discord and the provider of peace and prosperity. When he had finished, the assembly joined in prayer. When the newly elected Speaker of the Commons was presented to Henry on 9 November, the king made his first speech to parliament. Unsurprisingly, it dealt with a vital but sensitive issue – his own claim to the throne.
The speech itself is not recorded, but is briefly described in the parliamentary roll. Henry asserted the justness of his title and God’s supportive judgement by giving him victory in battle. We do not know
how much farther he went in developing arguments based on his own Lancastrian lineage but as this was a much more contentious area than the incontrovertible argument of military success combined with divine approbation, as shrewd a man as Henry Tudor would probably not have relied too heavily on his Beaufort descent, no matter how much he loved his mother. Nor can we be certain what language the king used for these first public utterances. He would surely have wished to speak in English if he could but it is possible that Henry was not yet confident enough in a language that he had scarcely used for years, and spoke in Latin, or even in the French that came more easily to him.
So a short bill was introduced declaring the king’s title without any explanation, together with another intended to remove any taint from the legitimacy of Henry’s future wife, Elizabeth of York. This legislation nullified Richard III’s bastardization of the children of his brother, Edward IV, in 1484 and paved the way for another carefully planned piece of political theatre. For when parliament was prorogued on 10 December, the Commons requested that Henry should marry ‘that illustrious lady Elizabeth, daughter of King Edward IV’, thus enabling ‘the propagation of offspring from the stock of kings’. If this was a veiled reference to the lack of such pedigree in his own bloodline, Henry does not seem to have taken it badly. The king assented personally and preparations for the wedding were put in place. The couple were eventually married on 18 January 1486 in Westminster Abbey by the aged Archbishop Bourchier, almost five months after Henry’s victory at Bosworth. Some might have wondered why this dynastically imperative union had taken so long but Henry’s bride had seen a lot of life in her twenty years. She was used to waiting.
