by Tony Riches
‘Will the ambassador not be... offended?’
‘He should take it as a compliment that I consider his name worthy for my new pet.’ Henry gave her a grin. ‘Others have given us presents of lions, yet I received a monkey as a gift from his master.’
‘You plan to keep it in our private apartments?’ Elizabeth frowned with concern as she watched Henry feed the creature another ripe grape.
‘It amuses me.’ He grinned at her discomfort.
Elizabeth studied the thin gold chain which ran from a leather collar around the monkey’s tiny neck to prevent it escaping. ‘It has sharp little teeth...’
‘I think Rodrigo is clever enough not to bite the hand that feeds him.’
‘The ambassador...’ Elizabeth lowered her voice so the ever-present servants could not overhear. ‘Has he made progress with his negotiations?’
Henry nodded. ‘It seems we’ve found a suitable princess for our son. I expect a considerable dowry—and if de Puebla’s word is to be relied on, Princess Catalina is a pretty girl and bright for her age.’
‘It must be difficult to be certain.’ Elizabeth looked doubtful. ‘I understand the princess is only four years old...’
‘Arthur is only two years old, yet you agree he’s as handsome as his father—and as quick-witted as his mother?’
Elizabeth smiled at the thought. ‘Of course, but then as you often remind me, he is a Tudor.’
‘Half Tudor, half prince of the House of York.’
‘And soon there might be another...’
Henry embraced her. ‘Elizabeth!’ He stared into her amber eyes. ‘You are with child again?’
‘God willing.’ She failed to prevent a giggle at his enthusiasm for the news.
‘I prayed for God’s blessing upon us yet it seemed to be tempting fate to ask for another child.’ His voice became serious. ‘I haven’t forgotten the toll Arthur’s birth took on you.’
‘It is a small enough price to pay.’ A fleeting shadow drifted over her face, the fear of all parents, then the moment passed.
‘I will pray for your good health and that this time it goes easier for you. Now we must celebrate our growing family!’
John de Vere took a deep drink of ale. He’d arrived at Sheen late in the evening at the end of a long journey all the way from York. Elizabeth and most of the servants had retired for the night and they sat in the private, oak-panelled room Henry chose as his study.
A luminous crescent moon glimmered through unshuttered windows, glazed at Elizabeth’s expense. The cavernous stone grate, usually filled with blazing logs, stood empty due to the warm evenings. Tall candles cast their flickering light over the ageing earl’s weather-beaten face, revealing fine grey stubble on his chin.
Before continuing his report, he lifted the heavy silver jug and refilled both their cups, unconcerned at spilling a little on the polished oak table. Henry took a sip. The ale tasted good, with a bitter aftertaste. More appropriate to their mood than the sweet Rhenish wine he’d become used to.
John de Vere half-emptied his cup in one go and wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he looked across the table at Henry. ‘Do you recall the time I escaped from Hammes Castle, Your Grace?’
Surprised at the question, Henry had to cast his memory back to the day they first met. John de Vere arrived at their exiled camp in France looking like a beggar, with an unkempt beard and no cap or helmet to cover his straggling hair. If not for Jasper, he would never have recognised this vagrant as the Earl of Oxford.
‘I remember you were helped in your escape by Sir James Blount, Captain of Hammes.’ Henry took another sup of the strong ale, feeling it start to improve his spirits. ‘It comes back to me now. You returned to the castle to rescue his good lady wife—at great personal risk, I’ve no doubt.’ He studied his old friend’s face as he recalled those troubled times. ‘We were glad to have loyal men of your experience join our mercenary army.’
John de Vere leaned forward in his chair and fixed Henry with a serious look. ‘My escape plan had a near-fatal flaw. I found myself high on the battlements with no way back. I had no choice other than to risk jumping into the moat.’ He took another drink of ale before continuing. ‘The drop proved much further than expected—and the water stank to holy hell.’
‘Well I for one am relieved you survived to fight with us at Bosworth.’
‘The reason I refer to it is we put Henry Percy in a similarly impossible position. The poor fellow knew he would be dammed if he did—and dammed if he didn’t.’
Henry noted his critical tone and lack of formality but decided to allow it on this occasion. The ageing earl had been drinking and had travelled far with his news. ‘They were his people, so who better than Henry Percy to collect the taxes due?’
‘You are right, Your Grace, although we always knew there’d be trouble when we announced the new taxes.’ He cursed. ‘Who knows how many Yorkists rebels lurk there, waiting their chance?’
‘Henry Percy visited to warn me in person and put the case for the people.’ He frowned. ‘He wanted me to agree concessions but the timing made it impossible. The Grand Council had committed six thousand men to support Anne of Brittany.’
John de Vere raised an eyebrow. ‘I understood the cost has been repaid in full by Brittany?’
‘Only after it had been incurred.’ Henry drained his cup and placed it on the table with an irritated thump. ‘How could we allow one part of the country to pay less than the taxes due?’
‘Henry Percy handled the task badly, by all accounts. He failed to win over the dissenters and called them knaves. I liked him, though. You know he had command of King Richard’s reserves at Bosworth?’
‘And refused to engage them against us.’
‘He deserved better than to be lynched by a mob, but foolish to leave himself unguarded at such a time.’
‘I heard rioters attacked him in their thousands?’
‘An exaggeration, Your Grace. All we found were a few hundred men, armed with pitchforks and sticks. It proved easy enough to capture the ringleader and after that they ran for their lives.’
‘You executed the leaders?’ Henry already guessed the answer—more deaths to add to those already on his conscience.
‘Only one, a yeoman, hanged in York when he admitted his treason. The main Yorkist troublemaker, Sir John Egremont, has either gone to ground or fled the country. He’s no doubt become Margaret of Burgundy’s new lapdog—a fitting reward for his disloyalty!’ De Vere’s deep chuckle echoed in the stillness of Henry’s study.
‘And now your advice is we should progress to York to restore order?’ Henry struggled to see the humour in the situation, particularly if his own life would be put at risk once more.
‘We’ve done it before and can do it again, Your Grace. We need to serve the northerners a reminder—while there is still time.’
Henry appointed former Yorkist Sir Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, Lord Lieutenant of the region once governed by Henry Percy and ordered him to ride ahead with a vanguard. Howard carried the sword of state at King Richard’s coronation and had been taken prisoner after the Yorkists were routed at Bosworth. Henry decided to release him from the Tower after three years, relying on his instinct rather than his advisors.
The ride of over two hundred miles north from Sheen Palace meant a stop at Leicester, where they took the opportunity to recruit more men before pressing on to Nottingham Castle. Successive kings created the finest deer parks in the country at Nottingham but Henry felt in no mood for hunting.
After a restless night, rising early for his prayers, he prayed for Elizabeth. He missed her but judged it too great a risk for her to travel with him. He also missed his Uncle Jasper, who’d always been at his side on visits to York but now too old for such long journeys. At the same time, he knew it would be good for the people of York to see him as his own man, not in the shadow of his uncle—or of his wife.
Heralds and sergeants-at-arms cleared their way
through the narrow streets of York yet Henry glanced from side to side, looking for shadows in doorways. He’d not forgotten the savage anger of the man who attacked him with a dagger three years earlier and might have killed him if not for his uncle’s swift action.
He also noted less enthusiastic cheering from the crowds, who seemed more curious to see their king. His badge of the Tudor rose still decorated doorways, although he spotted some of the more defiant wore the white rose of York. He consoled himself with the thought it remained the queen’s chosen emblem.
‘Welcome to York, Your Grace!’
He turned to see a smiling Thomas Howard, who’d been waiting to greet their arrival. ‘Earl Surrey, we trust you’ve had no further trouble with rebels?’
Surrey looked pleased with himself. ‘I’ve charged six more with treason and ordered them to be hanged in the morning.’
Henry froze. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected. ‘Let it be known these six will be the last, Sir Thomas. I’ve come to York in peace.’
‘What is to be done with the other rioters we’ve captured, Your Grace?’
‘Tell them the king offers them pardons in return for swearing fealty.’
The archbishop’s voice echoed in Westminster Palace as he read aloud the orders to create young Prince Arthur a Knight of the Bath. Arthur fidgeted in his long blue robe, oblivious to the meaning of the ceremony.
‘You shall honour God above all things, be steadfast in the faith of Christ. You shall love the King your Sovereign Lord, and his right defend to your power.’
The archbishop paused as he heard someone ordering the men guarding the door to stand aside but, at a sign from Henry, continued with the formal ceremony.
‘You shall defend maidens, widows, and orphans in their rights, and shall suffer no extortion, as far as you may prevent it, and of as great honour be this order unto you, as ever it was to any of your progenitors or others.’
The doors burst open to admit the queens’ chamberlain, elderly Sir Thomas Butler, Earl of Ormond, responsible for reporting to Henry on progress with her confinement. He didn’t need to speak, the look he exchanged with Henry was enough. Their new child, next in the growing line of Tudors, was about to make its dangerous way into the world.
Henry nodded to dismiss Sir Thomas. ‘Pray continue, Archbishop.’ He glanced at the long line of those waiting their turn. ‘We have seventeen more knights to be created this evening and I wish to attend to them all.’
He tried to focus on the formal words, recited so often it could be difficult to note their meaning. Little Arthur looked up at him, as if sensing something had changed in his father. Henry allowed himself a brief smile to reassure his son. Something had changed, as it does for any parent, new responsibilities, new possibilities and new worries.
Elizabeth seemed in good spirits as he visited her chamber for the last time before her confinement. As usual, she’d distracted his questions about her health with a request. He understood why she wished her mother to be brought out of her retirement to support and represent her. Happy to do anything in his power to help her, he agreed.
His own mother attended to the minutest detail of the birthing, leaving little for Elizabeth’s mother to do other then hold her hand and pray. As for representing the queen, the steady flow of foreign ambassadors requesting an audience made it easy to find some of little consequence for Elizabeth Woodville to meet. All the same, he ensured his mother would also be in attendance.
As the final new Knight of the Bath was created, Henry announced his news. He asked them all to adjourn to the king’s chapel to pray for the good health of the queen and his new child. Something at the back of his mind prevented him from saying they were to pray for his son. In a moment of insight, he realised Elizabeth never mentioned it might be another boy. He recalled her once telling him a mother knew, so there could be good reason for her silence.
He glanced down at Arthur and took his little hand, leading him through the candlelit passageways that would take them to Elizabeth. He was proud of his son, now a knight of the realm and soon to become the Prince of Wales. A daughter created new possibilities and he’d long ago resolved there could only be one choice of name.
The faces of those waiting outside Elizabeth’s chamber told him everything he needed to know. He handed Arthur to her ladies-in-waiting and, gesturing for her guards to open the doors, passed through the outer rooms to her privy chamber.
It took a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the poor light of her inner sanctum. The delicate scent of lavender mixed with exotic incense. A fire burned in the hearth and the warmth of the room contrasted with the chill stones of the corridors.
In place of precious tapestries, all the walls and even the ceiling was hung with cloths of deep blue arras, ornamented with golden fleur-de-lis. Elizabeth’s bed had a high canopy of cloth of gold and a velvet counterpane embroidered with beautiful roses of Lancaster, his mother’s personal contribution.
Surrounded on both sides by her silent ladies, Elizabeth sat upright in her grand bed. After Arthur’s birth she’d been bathed in sweat, yet now she wore a new silken robe, with her long golden hair combed over her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled with joy and Henry realised he’d been holding his breath.
‘We have a daughter, a perfect, beautiful daughter.’
Henry reached out to take her pale hand in his, noting red marks where her gold rings had been pulled from her fingers. ‘Thanks to God.’
The midwife, Alice Massey, who earned Henry’s respect at Arthur’s birth, brought the baby forward. Wrapped in pure white linen, their new daughter gazed at him with large round eyes. Henry stared back into her pink little face in wonder. ‘Her eyes are the most delicate blue...’
The midwife glanced at Elizabeth for her permission to speak. ‘Babies are often born with blue eyes, Your Grace.’ She spoke softly yet with authority. ‘The true colour might show after a few months although I’ve known it to take over a year.’
Henry laughed at his own lack of knowledge. ‘Perhaps, good Mistress Massey, our daughter will prove to have the dark eyes of the Tudors!’
For the first time Henry recognised the woman standing to his wife’s side as her mother, Elizabeth Woodville. When he’d last seen her the former queen had been a great beauty. He’d even asked Richard Foxe to see if she could be married off to King James of Scotland.
Her once golden hair was under a coif and gable hood, although even in the low light he could see it had turned grey. Her pale face looked lined, her eyes a little sunken, yet they fixed on him with the look of one who is more than equal. When she spoke, her voice sounded husky, older than her years.
‘My daughter is strong, thank the merciful Lord, as is my new granddaughter, Your Grace.’ She cast her eyes down, as if realising what her outspoken display of confidence might cost her.
Henry gave her the briefest nod of acknowledgement and looked across at his mother, standing on the opposite side of Elizabeth’s bed. The glint of Beaufort steel flashed in her eyes, although her face was impassive. He guessed old rivalries must have resurfaced. Richard Foxe had been right to suggest Elizabeth’s mother deserved a peaceful retirement. He resolved to ensure she returned to it for good, for the sake of the peace between his mother and his wife.
‘I thank God I have lived to see such a wondrous day—and wish to thank you all for the support you have given my wife and new daughter.’ He paused as he glanced again at his mother, still standing in the shadows. ‘I’ve always known the name of my first daughter... she is to be called Margaret, in honour of my lady the king’s mother.’
Shining pearls of water dripped back into the Thames as ten rowers of the gilded royal barge raised their oars as one. Yeomen in royal livery at the bow and stern threw mooring ropes to those waiting at King’s Bridge pier, while the king’s heralds blasted a raucous fanfare of welcome. Prince Arthur was unperturbed by the pageantry. It was all he’d known since birth.
With him in t
he royal barge were four bishops and seven earls. His mother’s own minstrels, dressed in York livery, played her favourite tunes on lutes and flageolets, although neither she or his father were present. This was his moment and neither wished to divert the attention on his subjects.
A wintry breeze tugged at the long pennants and standards on the barges of the Mayor of London, the trades and guilds following behind. All wore their finery and added to the air of celebration with happy cheers and shouts of ‘God save Prince Arthur!’
Few would guess that Arthur celebrated his third birthday two months before. He dressed like a miniature king, with cloth of gold and a bright ruby gleaming in his new cap. Henry prepared him well for what was about to come, taking the time at Sheen Palace to explain each step of the ceremony.
‘Your great-grandfather, Owen Tudor, came from a long line of Welsh princes, Arthur.’ He studied his son’s face searching for a sign of understanding. ‘He would be so proud to see you become the new Prince of Wales.’
He gritted his teeth with impatience that his son was still too young to even make sense of his words, let alone the significance of this day. Henry reconciled himself with the knowledge that day would come. The innocent child in front of him would be King of England and Prince of Wales.
He’d been king long enough to know he’d taken the crown poorly prepared. Despite the best advice and guidance of Jasper and his mother, he’d had no option other than to employ those who’d served two Yorkist kings. He already planned how he would school Arthur in the skills of kingship. He would also teach him to keep his enemies close, to be a merciful king and how to win the love of his people.
He would also teach his son to take pride in his Tudor roots. For a moment Henry recalled the stories his Uncle Jasper entertained him with during their long sojourn in Brittany. Looking back, he wondered if some were too fanciful to be true yet, however unlikely it seemed, a Welsh servant had somehow married the beautiful, widowed queen of a warrior king.
