by Tony Riches
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Author’s Note
Also by Tony Riches
HENRY
Book Three of
The Tudor Trilogy
By
TONY RICHES
This book is sold subject to the condition it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be resold or otherwise circulated without the consent of the publisher.
Published by Preseli Press
Copyright © Tony Riches 2017
Tony Riches asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
ISBN-13: 978-1544762425
ISBN-10: 1544762429
BISAC: Fiction / Historical
Tony Riches is a full time writer and lives in Pembrokeshire, West Wales UK. For more information about Tony’s other published work please see:
www.tonyriches.com
Also by Tony Riches
OWEN - BOOK ONE OF THE TUDOR TRILOGY
JASPER – BOOK TWO OF THE TUDOR TRILOGY
THE SECRET DIARY OF ELEANOR COBHAM
WARWICK: THE MAN BEHIND THE WARS OF THE ROSES
For my grandson
Brannon
Chapter One
August 1485
Henry had a secret, a chilling truth only he would ever know. He’d never wanted to be king. He once tried to tell his Uncle Jasper. Dismissing him with a laugh, Jasper risked their lives to make it happen, so Henry learnt to live with his secret, which troubled his waking thoughts and haunted his dreams.
He’d not believed it possible to become King of England. Too many stood in his path and others waited for their chance. Given the chance he would live out his days in the serene Brittany countryside. He remembered the sadness in the eyes of the beautiful Breton woman he would never see again.
Even as he marched with his rebel army to Bosworth, he’d made his peace with God. Despite his faith, he feared a painful death and prayed it would be quick. The best he’d hoped for was imprisonment. He had been a prisoner of sorts for most of his twenty-eight years, so it wouldn’t have been so bad.
Now he held the gold circlet, he could see it wasn’t a proper crown but a symbol of kingship, made to fit over a sallet helmet. His finger traced the fresh, jagged scar in the soft metal. The force of the blow unhorsed the former owner, his enemy, King Richard. Henry heard the king’s defiant curse as he fell.
An eerie quiet marked their victory, punctuated only by the groans of wounded and dying men. An English knight close to Henry called out, his powerful voice shattering the silence like the boom of a cannon.
‘God save the King! God save King Henry!’
Henry turned to see his uncle join in with five thousand others. Jasper raised his sword high and shouted at the top of his voice. He no longer wore his helmet and tears glistened on his weary face.
‘God save King Henry! God save King Henry!’
‘God save King Henry! God save King Henry!’
Henry mounted his white charger and lifted the gold coronet in the air to a rousing cheer from the men. The sound echoed across the battlefield, startling black flapping crows from their gruesome task.
God did little to save the last king, his body slung naked over a horse, on its way to public display in Leicester. Henry said a silent prayer for guidance. He must rely on his faith even more now. He pushed his dark secret away, its power over him replaced by a new foreboding.
He’d won the crown by God’s will, his uncle’s unwavering loyalty and his mother’s determination. Now men looked to him as their new king, yet he’d seen what happened to kings. He waited for the cheers to subside and recalled the words of his uncle during their long exile in Brittany.
‘A king doesn’t have to fight in wars. If you were king, you could bring peace to this country.’
He clung to that thought on the long march from Mill Bay in Wales. Henry doubted any king could end all wars but he could make his mother proud. First, he must deal with Richard’s supporters. Many lay dead on Bosworth Field, their armour robbed by scavengers. Thousands surrendered, throwing down their weapons. Others escaped in the confusion to fight another day.
Henry stared into the expectant faces of men who’d been ready to sacrifice their lives for him. Several bled from wounds in need of attention, all looked weary from fighting. He raised his eyes to the sky as bright summer sunshine streamed from behind a cloud—a good omen.
‘We give thanks to God for our great victory this day.’ He fought to keep emotion from his voice. He must appear strong, like a king.
Another cheer tore through the soldiers crowding around Henry. He glanced across to his uncle. Jasper nodded in approval, a grin transforming his lined, serious face for the first time since they sailed from France.
Henry knew this was his destiny. God had chosen this path for him. How else could they have won against such impossible odds? The thrilling thought surged through his mind, driving out doubts and fears. He raised the gold circlet in the air a second time.
‘This is the day which the Lord has made. We will rejoice—and be glad in it!’
His voice carried the strength of his new conviction. Henry drew comfort from the words of the psalm, chosen for this moment long ago. Jasper made him shout it across the marshes from battlements of Château Suscinio. He'd called out the words over and again until he’d lost all trace of his French accent.
His powerful horse snorted with impatience and stamped a hoof on the hard ground. Henry muttered soothing words to settle his mount and took a firmer grip on the rein. He resisted the overwhelming urge to leave this place of death. There was much to do. He would reward the survivors but the dead would be on his conscience. May God have mercy on their souls.
Word of their victory travelled faster than Henry’s army. The narrow streets of Coventry thronged with cheering crowds, welcoming their new king. Riding his charger, Henry thanked God the people were ready to accept him. The clatter of hooves competed with the rhythmic thump of a thousand marching boots drumming on cobble-stones. Cheers echoed from half-timbered buildings on either side. An attractive woman caught Henry’s eye and waved to him from an open window.
‘Long live King Henry!’
Men applauded and raised their hats in the air as the grand procession passed, calling out in deep voices.
‘God bless the king!’
Barefoot children squealed with excitement as they ran ahead, leading the way to the waiting reception. Henry noted the rich velvet robes and heavy gold chain of the mayor as the man bowed before him.
‘Welcome to our fine city, Your Grace.’
Henry nodded in acknowledgement. The face of the mayor seemed ordinary enough, yet his glittering badge of office set him apart. Conscious of his own mismatched armour, lank hair under an old felt hat and faded, travel-worn cape, Henry added more items to his mental list.
Jasper spoke for them. ‘We need
lodgings for the king and his servants, as well as billets for our men.’ His voice carried the new confidence of a victor and uncle of the king.
The mayor peered behind Jasper at the battle-weary soldiers. ‘I wish to offer the use of my own house, my lord. Your knights will find a warm welcome in our hostelries—and your men may camp on the common for as long as you wish.’
Jasper smiled. ‘Thank you, good sir. We appreciate your hospitality, which we will reward'.
Henry sat at the heavy oak desk in the study of the mayor, Master Robert Olney, who proved to be a wealthy wool merchant and a useful ally. It had been a long day and his candle burned down to a flickering stump. He rubbed his eyes and hesitated, quill in hand, as he reread the arrest warrant. Bishop Stillington tried to trick him into King Richard’s hands.
Not being in a vengeful mood, Henry might have forgiven him. Then came news the corpulent bishop had been complicit in declaring Princess Elizabeth a bastard. Henry’s brow furrowed as he marked the parchment with a bold letter H, underscored with a tapering stroke of black ink.
The next warrant proved more of a test of his resolve. Henry had agreed that Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick, should be taken to the Tower of London. Ten years old, the boy’s only crime was one of birth. Henry bit his lip and pushed the warrant to one side.
‘Fetch my uncle, if you will?’
His servant bowed and left, closing the door behind him. Henry found himself alone for the first time he could remember. He’d learnt all he could from the men fleeing King Richard to join him in exile, yet the burden of his new responsibilities unsettled him. Clasping his hands together he prayed again for guidance. He repeated aloud the Latin words of the Te Deum, sung earlier that evening in celebration by black-garbed monks in the nearby Priory of St Mary.
‘Te ergo quýsumus, tuis fámulis súbveni, quos pretióso sánguine redemísti...’
The door opened and Jasper entered, wearing a smart emerald green doublet Henry hadn’t seen before. ‘What is it?’ He sounded short of breath.
Henry raised a calming hand. ‘The hour is late and you look tired, uncle, but I need your opinion.’
Jasper noted the warrants on Henry’s desk. ‘Is there trouble?’ A worried frown returned to his tanned brow.
‘On what grounds do we imprison young Edward Plantagenet?’
Jasper sat in the spare chair and rubbed the stubble on his chin as he considered the question. He’d chosen to shave his beard on the journey from Wales. He looked younger clean-shaven, but a beard suited his uncle, and Henry guessed he was already growing it back.
‘King Richard considered the young earl enough of a threat to declare him illegitimate.’
Henry allowed himself a smile. ‘King Richard declared everyone illegitimate, other than himself. Young Edward is a cousin of Princess Elizabeth.’
Jasper returned his smile. ‘Half of England is related to the Woodvilles one way or another.’ His face became serious. ‘We need time, Henry. Time to win over the doubters. We could say it is for young Edward’s own safety?’
Henry picked up his quill and dipped it in Mayor Olney’s inkpot before signing the warrant. ‘We must ensure the boy is well treated—I wish no harm to him.’
‘Then we must move with all speed,’ Jasper sat back in his chair, ‘before the Yorkists see a chance to take him.’ He loosened the front of his doublet and stifled a yawn.
Henry realised he’d kept his ageing uncle up too late. ‘We must ensure the safety of the princess, who is also at Sheriff Hutton Castle...’
‘Princess Elizabeth is in the care of her mother—so the sooner you marry her the better.’
A twinkle of amusement flashed in his uncle’s eye. ‘Not until after the coronation, as we agreed.’
‘As it should be. You are king in your own right, not by any marriage.’
Henry was heartened by Jasper’s words. ‘Thanks to you, Uncle. I will never forget all you’ve done for me, and I’m finally in a position to show my gratitude.’
Jasper poured himself a measure of red wine from the untouched jug on the mayor’s desk and took an appreciative sip. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘A dukedom. Sir Jasper Tudor, Duke of Bedford—and of course we will restore your title of Earl of Pembroke.’
Jasper smiled. ‘I should like that.’ He noticed the candle looked about to burn out and placed a fresh one in the silver holder, lighting it from the flickering stub. He gave a nod of satisfaction as a bright flame caught. ‘It would be good to have my own income again.’
‘I’ve also been thinking... it’s time you found yourself a wife, Uncle.’
Jasper laughed, ‘I’ve been a bachelor too long...’ His voice softened a little at the thought.
‘Too long for a rich, beautiful widow, half your age?’
‘Most certainly, although...’ Jasper took another sip of wine, ‘you have someone in mind?’
‘Lady Catherine Woodville.’ Henry watched for Jasper’s reaction. ‘It’s two years since Buckingham’s execution, so she’s no longer in mourning.’ His tone became conspiratorial. ‘I understand Catherine has the pleasing looks of all the Woodville women.’ Henry leaned forward in his chair. ‘You will help to unite Lancaster and York.’ It sounded like an order.
Jasper grinned at Henry’s new authority and drained his goblet of wine. ‘I will give the matter serious consideration.’
They first heard of the sweating sickness from a merchant fleeing London. Henry’s entourage had covered less than two-thirds of the hundred-mile journey south-east to the capital to make arrangements for Henry’s coronation. The merchant held up a gloved hand and shouted to Jasper as they passed on the road, not recognising Henry as the king.
‘London has a plague, my lord.’
Jasper cursed and called them to a halt, glancing back at Henry, his eyes full of concern, then studied the man’s florid face. ‘What are the signs?’
‘They shiver, then burn with the fires of Hell.’ The merchant scowled at a memory. ‘They call it the sweat, my lord, because the fever is so sudden. I’ve heard young and old are dead in a day—so I’d say London is no place to be heading.’
‘I thank you, sir, for your good advice.’
The merchant tipped his hat and continued on his way. A horse-drawn wagon, laden with his baggage, followed with his coterie of grim-faced servants, struggling to keep up.
Jasper rode to Henry and glanced back at the departing merchant. ‘We’ll stay clear of the city until this fever has passed.’
Henry felt a stab of concern to hear his uncle dismiss the deaths of innocent people, then realised he too must become hardened. They had been safe from plague in Brittany but he’d heard the stories and his mind raced with the consequences.
‘They will say this plague is an omen...’
Jasper dismissed the idea. ‘It will pass—but for now we must find a place of safety.’
Henry peered up the long road ahead. More wagons laden with as much as they could carry headed from the city. ‘No.’
‘The risk is too great, if what that man says is true.’
‘We take many risks. What would the people say if we ran to safety now?’
Jasper seemed undecided. ‘I could ride ahead, see for myself.’
Henry shook his head. ‘You should be at my side when we enter London. Trust in the Lord, Uncle.’
The setting sun cast a warm glow over the city as they rode through the gate into Shoreditch. Word of their arrival drew curious crowds, despite the sickness. It seemed he’d won over the people by his presence at such a dangerous time for them all.
This time his proud mother led the reception, flanked by the murrey-cloaked aldermen of the city. She looked older than he remembered, yet her sharp eyes missed nothing.
‘We thank God for your safe arrival.’
The pride Henry heard in his mother’s voice triggered long-forgotten memories, threatening to choke his words. ‘We are grateful for your presenc
e here, Lady Mother,’ he recognised Lord Stanley, standing a discreet distance behind his wife, ‘and to my stepfather, for his loyal support.’
An elderly alderman wearing a gold chain of office stepped forward. ‘We bid you welcome on behalf of the Mayor of London, Your Grace.’
Henry raised a hand in acknowledgement. ‘Where is the mayor?’ He guessed the answer.
The alderman’s face tensed. ‘He has the sickness, Your Grace, along with many other good men and women of this city.’
‘We will pray for their mortal souls—and mark this day with a special service of thanksgiving.’
A discordant fanfare of trumpeters sounded as they entered the grand cathedral of St Paul’s. Henry led a slow procession through the gathered nobles, recognising loyal Lancastrians who’d shared his exile in Brittany and France.
Choirs sang the Te Deum and Dean William Worsley, who’d outlived two previous kings, read a fitting sermon, his deep voice echoing. Henry studied the austere figure of his mother at the front of the congregation with her husband, whose action saved the day at Bosworth Field. He would reward Lord Stanley with an earldom and make his mother a countess. He also planned to restore his mother’s fortune and build her the finest house in London.
As they were leaving the service Henry’s eyes met those of his future wife. Wearing a rich burgundy robe trimmed with black fur, Princess Elizabeth studied him with a confident, knowing gaze. He’d imagined her eyes would be sapphire blue yet, like her hair, glimpsed under her hood, they dazzled with the golden intensity of a rising sun. The back of Henry’s neck tingled as he had a vision of his destiny.
At Elizabeth’s side stood an older yet attractive woman who studied him with an appraising stare. Henry realised this must be his future mother-in-law, York’s queen, Lady Elizabeth Woodville. He sensed her sadness, yet a flash of ambition crossed her face at the sight of him.
