by Tony Riches
He took Arthur’s hand in his and placed on it a gold ring, so small it fitted perfectly. ‘This belonged to your great-grandmother, Queen Catherine of Valois.’ He looked deep into Arthur’s dark eyes to stress his point. ‘It is precious beyond price... all we have to remember her by.’
Arthur examined the gold ring. ‘Je vous... remercie, mon Père.’
Henry smiled in surprise at the confidence in his young son’s angelic voice. ‘Master John Rede tutors you well, Arthur, yet now you must use English.’
Arthur looked up at him in bewilderment. ‘Yes, Father.’ Arthur twisted the ring on his finger. ‘I shall care for it.’
‘Take care of it,’ Henry corrected, ‘for one day, you will pass it on to your own son.’ He took comfort in the thought, which seemed to put all the hardships and danger he’d endured into perspective.
Chapter Six
August 1490
Elizabeth sat close to the leaded-glass window for the light as she worked on her embroidery, two of her favourite greyhounds at her feet. She employed a French embroiderer and all her ladies were expert with a needle, yet she chose to embroider Henry’s new Garter robe herself. Using gold Venetian thread, she’d spent a month on the Latin motto alone. Now she stuck the needle into her pincushion.
‘What do you think, Henry?’ She held her work up for his opinion.
Henry scratched a cryptic note in the margin of the ledger. He wished he’d taken his mother’s advice to hire ships when needed. He’d underestimated the running costs of his new fleet and would have to ask Parliament to vote for more. He laid down his quill and turned away from the chamber accounts he’d been checking for the past hours, to study her handiwork.
‘Honi soit qui mal y pense.’ He raised an eyebrow.
Elizabeth looked down at the golden lettering for a moment. ‘Shame on him who suspects the worst of other’s motives.’
‘Then I must be shamed. Five years have passed since Bosworth—yet still no one is quicker than I to wonder at people’s true intent!’
‘Like my mother?’ Her voice sounded matter-of-fact yet he heard the note of bitterness.
‘Your mother played a full part in our daughter Margaret’s christening...’
‘You returned her to the abbey before Christmas.’ She studied him for a moment. ‘If I didn’t know better I could think you were punishing her for something.’
‘Don’t be foolish, Elizabeth.’ Henry ignored a twinge of conscience. ‘Your mother is the only godmother to our son—and you forget I increased your mother’s pension to four hundred pounds, although I wonder what she finds to spend it on.’
‘I grant you agreed to my request.’ Her voice was softer now. ‘You know my mother spends little enough on herself. She pays for prayers to be said for her sons...’
Henry cursed inwardly as her mention of her brothers reminded him of yet another new conspiracy he must deal with. ‘You are free to visit your mother whenever you wish, although as far as I know, you’ve not done so for some time?’
Elizabeth didn’t reply and busied herself tidying away her needlework. He wondered if she knew how her silence infuriated him. He would speak to his own mother about this. She always knew what to do. It would be good for Elizabeth to take the children to stay with her at Woking Manor.
Henry put away the ledgers and accounts and placed the stopper back on his engraved silver ink pot to prevent it drying out. He once told his confessor he’d committed the sin of wishing Elizabeth’s mother dead. He regretted that now and returned to his original point.
‘When I referred to people’s motives, I was thinking of the motive of men like King Ferdinand. First he gives me a present of a troublesome monkey—and now he writes to you?’
Elizabeth finished packing away her needlework and prepared to leave. Her greyhounds stood waiting. ‘I’m sure King Ferdinand means nothing by it...’
‘So I am mistaken if I see it as a slight,’ He interrupted her explanation, ‘that my future daughter-in-law’s father tells you of his victories over the Moors in Granada?’
‘You know the rest of his letter was of little consequence, as was my reply.’
‘He plays games with us, Elizabeth. These people...’ he struggled to think of something to justify his annoyance, ‘they have no respect for the proper order of things.’
Yet again, Elizabeth refused to be drawn. Henry realised he should have complimented her on her work, rather than raise such matters. Her deft fingers crafted plain velvet into a magnificent robe fit for a king.
He wondered if she had any idea he sometimes envied her skills. Not only her needlework, for he’d watched as she turned battle-weary knights and the most astute ambassadors into her lap-dogs.
In a break with tradition, he often sent for Elizabeth to keep him company while he worked. Alone, apart from the guards outside the door and occasional servants and messengers, they could speak without being overheard. His mother once told him such candour was good for the soul.
Greenwich Palace lacked the warren of private apartments of Sheen, separated by a moat from the court. Henry valued the privacy of his study. Built by the wealthy Duke Humphrey, brother of King Henry V, the palace had been remodeled by Queen Margaret of Anjou. The glazed tile floor at Henry’s feet was still decorated with her fleur-de-lis and marguerite emblems.
As well as being convenient by river for Westminster, Henry enjoyed riding and hunting in the two-hundred-acre deer park. He crossed to the window, which had views out over the Thames. A tall-masted merchant ship floated past, men hanging from the rigging ready to change the sails as they proceeded upriver to dock.
A Thames ferryman strained his oars against the tide, making poor progress despite his best efforts. His passengers seemed to be remonstrating with him, rather than offering any encouragement. It reminded Henry of his long struggle to win over the Yorkist faction. Whenever he thought it safe to relax, any progress he made was soon lost.
He turned to Elizabeth. ‘Do you believe there is any chance either of your brothers could still be alive?’
She was standing, about to leave but stopped and stared at him with questioning eyes. ‘I do not. Although...’
‘You’ve heard the rumours?’
She hesitated. ‘There are always rumours. I sometimes wonder if people enjoy nothing better than to gossip. I once ordered my ladies not to repeat anything they knew to be rumour. I never heard them so silent.’
‘I’ll wager they forgot your instruction soon enough. I met with my Uncle Jasper last night. He told me there might be yet another pretender, this time disguising as your poor brother Richard.’
‘Where did he hear this?’ Elizabeth sounded disinterested yet Henry doubted it.
‘A Flemish merchant adventurer, returned from Calais.’ Henry scowled. ‘If it’s true, I would suspect the hand of Margaret of Burgundy. Our agents report how your aunt collects Yorkist waifs and strays and continues to plot against us.’
‘You reminded me five years have passed since Bosworth. Is it not time to end this bitterness?’
‘Reward her treachery? Margaret of Burgundy justifies her actions because her brother died opposing us.’ He realised he was raising his voice and calmed himself. ‘In truth she schemes because I’ve not allowed her to profit from trading agreements granted by your father.’
Elizabeth crossed the room to join him at the window, her long gown swishing on the tiled floor. She took his hand in hers, something she’d not done for a long time. ‘It can’t be good for you to dwell on such things. We have much to thank the good Lord for.’
Henry wanted to embrace her, feel the warmth of her body through the silk of her gown, yet he did not. Instead he gave her soft hand a gentle squeeze. ‘That’s why I need you here while I work on my accounts. Seeing how the costs are rising could make any man turn to gloomy thoughts.’
‘Even the richest man in the land?’
‘Particularly the richest man in the land—if he wishes to re
main so.’
‘You need a rest from matters of state, Henry. You’ve surrounded yourself with good men to take care of it for you, yet you still initial every expense.’ There was a note of admonishment in her voice.
‘You don’t understand, Elizabeth. I have no choice. However, you are right, we should make the most of this fine weather. I have a gift for Arthur, a new crossbow made by Swiss craftsmen.’
A look of anguish crossed her face. ‘He’s far too young for such things...’
He grinned. ‘I think our son will surprise you—come with me and watch!’
Prince Arthur looked delighted at the sight of the little crossbow. With a carved ash stock, its polished and engraved silver fittings gleamed in the warm sunshine. No toy, it fired sharp bolts with great force yet fitted well into his little hands.
Elizabeth looked at the crossbow. ‘Be most careful with it, Arthur. This weapon could kill a man.’
Arthur seemed not to understand and looked up at Henry. ‘Father?’
‘Let me show you, Arthur.’
He pulled back the arming lever and placed the first bolt in the groove. Taking aim at the painted wooden target he pulled the trigger and heard the bolt find its mark with a satisfying thunk.
Arthur clapped his hands and looked up at Henry in admiration. ‘Me now, Father?’
Henry grinned at his son’s enthusiasm. Elizabeth had been right. They needed to spend more time like this, as a family. He reset the crossbow before handing it to him. ‘You need a steady hand, Arthur. Brace your arm against your side, like this.’
He demonstrated and was pleased to see Arthur copy his stance. Placing a second little bolt in the groove he showed Arthur how to take aim, sighting on the target. His son misunderstood and pulled the trigger, sending the bolt flying high into the air.
Elizabeth called out in alarm and stepped forward to intervene. She turned to Henry. ‘We should wait until Arthur is a little older.’
‘No!’ He immediately regretted the note of annoyance in his voice. Their moments together as a family were rare enough and Elizabeth was right to show concern. He took the miniature crossbow from Arthur and reset the cocking lever.
‘I learnt to use a proper bow at little more than his age.’
Arthur, no longer smiling, looked close to tears.
Elizabeth stepped forward. She picked Arthur up to comfort him, seeming to struggle to control her anger as she turned to Henry. ‘He’s tired. I shall take him back to the nursery.’
Henry still held the little crossbow and cursed to himself as he watched them leave. He understood Elizabeth’s concern for their son but she didn’t understand why this was important. These skills took years of practice. He was already thinking of having a yew longbow specially made.
Arthur would learn more than chivalry and diplomacy. His son would learn skill with the bow and sword and ride at the joust as soon as he could hold a lance. Arthur would not need to rely on men like John de Vere to fight his battles for him. He would make his son into a warrior king.
The setting sun glowed like a ripe peach in a pastel October sky by the time their entourage rode into the cobbled courtyard of Ewelme Manor. Deep in the Oxfordshire countryside, it was once the property of the treacherous Earl of Lincoln until Henry forfeited Lincoln’s estate under an Act of Attainder.
He’d also claimed the well-appointed old manor house, which he now let to the late earl’s younger brother, Edmund de la Pole. Despite his professed fealty, being the last remaining York heir made Edmund a possible focus for malcontents.
Henry would have slept better in his bed at nights if Edmund de la Pole was held under guard in the Tower. Instead, all he could do was have his agents keep close watch on Edmund, yet he’d allowed him to resume the title of Earl of Suffolk in recompense.
They’d travelled to the country at the suggestion of his Italian physician, who advised that the foul air of London caused Henry’s toothache to worsen. He’d begun to suffer with his teeth since May and several had begun to turn black, despite his perseverance with odious herbal remedies and his daily prayers for relief.
Henry also welcomed a respite from the constant demands of court and state. Ambassadors from countries he’d never heard of arrived with every ship, wishing to discuss trade and alliances. Parliament required his attendance whenever new statutes were passed, involving long and often tedious meetings. Worse still, the noble families of England had finally woken up to the way he’d whittled at their power.
From early morning prayers until midnight mass there seemed to be constant meetings and decisions to be made, leaving him little time to spend with his family. Elizabeth chose to take no part and showed little interest in affairs of state, other than the charities, religious and educational foundations she supported with his mother.
Prince Arthur now spent more time with his tutors. Although Henry looked forward to his weekly visits, there was rarely time to spend more than an hour with his son. He feared Arthur would become a stranger to him. He could hardly recall when he’d last spent time with his daughter Margaret. Still in the care of her nursemaids at Sheen Palace, as had her mother before her, he’d forgotten his baby daughter.
The dull ache from his tooth did little for his patience with dim-witted servants. One was recently dismissed for talking too loudly in the antechamber and another for dropping a plate he was serving. Henry even raised his voice when Richard Foxe suggested he should rest for a week. Now he was glad he’d taken his loyal secretary’s advice.
The limited accommodation at the manor house meant only essential servants accompanied them. After much debate, they brought Henry’s elderly priest to conduct the mass, his physician and the green and white Tudor liveried yeomen of the King’s Guard.
Henry left the Lord Chancellor, Bishop John Morton, together with Richard Foxe, to oversee matters at Westminster during his absence. Although seventy years old, Henry relied on the bishop’s experience and trusted him implicitly. At Henry’s side since his exile in France, the bishop proved skilled at overcoming objections to the new taxation.
Even the most vocal objectors struggled to argue with the bishop. He maintained that those with the money to save should invest in the future of the state, while those with money to spend could afford the king’s taxes.
Now Henry could clear his mind of the concerns of kingship for the first time since leaving Brittany all those years ago. After a sound night’s sleep, he rose early for mass in the simple chapel, little more than a small-windowed room furnished with a wooden altar. An old tapestry of the figure of Christ on the cross hung above the altar. Fresh rushes made it tolerable to kneel on the cold stone floor.
Already less distracted by his aching tooth, he prayed for the health of his mother, his wife, son and daughter. He raised his eyes to the faded tapestry and asked only that his people could be allowed to live in peace. To Henry’s great relief there had been no further talk of impostors or bands of Yorkist rebels.
He’d sent Richard Foxe to Scotland to renew his treaty negotiations with the fifteen-year-old King James IV. Others were in Ireland, doing what they could to prevent it becoming a haven for Henry’s enemies. He thanked God for the good men who risked their lives to keep the peace.
Now only events across the Channel continued to worry him. King Charles was due to come of age and at twenty-one would rule in his own right. He feared the worst news each time he read the reports of his agents in France. Henry prayed that his taxes would never be needed to finance war with the French.
After a platter of roast beef, served with a trencher of bread still warm from the oven, Henry decided to take a walk in the manor gardens with Elizabeth. She looked happier than he remembered for ages, with a fur-edged cape over her satin gown. Pearls and diamonds flashed in the sun from the edging of the fashionable cowl covering her plaited hair.
She took his arm in hers, a habit he found comforting. ‘I’ve missed having you to myself, Henry.’ She smiled, ‘I know yo
u work hard to keep the country at peace, yet I worry at how it takes its toll on you.’
‘You are right. I find it too easy to become immured in matters of state.’
‘Well, now we shall see if the country is able to cope without your endorsement of every decision.’ Her eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Instead your duty can be to attend to your own desires for once.’
Henry stopped walking and embraced her. The yeomen guards following them at a distance looked away as he kissed her. He recalled the memory of a cold Christmas Day in the great cathedral of Rennes. That was when he’d first pledged to marry Elizabeth, King Edward of York’s eldest daughter, a girl he’d never set eyes upon.
Arranged by his mother it was no love-match but a calculated plan to win over those loyal to the House of York. Henry had worried the people would whisper behind his back that he owed his throne to Elizabeth. When he thought he would lose her to her uncle, King Richard, he began to consider alternative brides.
Now he knew for certain it had always been his destiny to marry Elizabeth. He marveled as she returned his kiss. They’d had their disagreements yet their union had somehow become a love-match after all. His love and respect for her grew even stronger after coming so close to losing her after the birth of their son. He thanked God each day for the miracle of her recovery.
They walked in silence down the grassy path through the well-tended orchard heavy with apples. Henry picked a ripe one and inspected it before offering it to her as a gift. ‘The forbidden fruit.’
Elizabeth tasted the flesh and smiled in approval. ‘Now I have knowledge,’ she laughed as she played along, ‘you must also.’ She handed the apple back to him.
Henry took a bite. The sharp sweetness took him by surprise and he laughed. ‘This might not be the Garden of Eden, yet I name you my Eve, my lady.’
‘And you are my Adam, no longer the innocent!’ She shared another bite of the apple as they continued to explore the gardens, their armed escort following at a discreet distance.
