by Tony Riches
That night they watched the sun touch the western horizon and drank a flagon of rich red wine between them before retiring to bed. The ancient, creaking staircase providing access to their room was so narrow their guards had to remain on the ground floor.
Elizabeth slid across the heavy iron bolt securing their door, and gave Henry a knowing look, leaving him in no doubt of her intentions. She pulled off her velvet slippers then removed her stiffened gold headband and coif cap, shaking her long hair free of its silver pins and plaits.
He watched as she combed it with her long fingers, like golden threads of pure silk in the moonlight. She reached for the fastenings at the front of her long-sleeved, damask silk over gown, without taking her eyes from his face. Then she let the rich fabric fall to the floor at her feet, followed by her scarlet petticoat and fine wool stockings. Unable to resist any longer, he crossed the room and took her in his arms, holding her close.
He whispered in her ear, as if they might be overheard. ‘I love you, Elizabeth of York.’
She embraced him and looked into his eyes. ‘I love you, Henry Tudor.’ She kissed him on the cheek, her eyes twinkling. ‘You know I am unable to remove this kirtle without assistance?’ She turned and waited for him to unfasten the back.
Henry studied the neat spiral of lacing for a moment. In all the years they’d been together she’d always left such matters to her ladies. He pulled at the thin silk ribbon that tied it at the neck, then started to unfasten the back.
As it came loose she cast the restraining kirtle aside then slipped out of her fine white linen shift to stand naked before him. Her favourite pearl and ruby pendant, on a fine gold chain around her neck, served only to emphasise her beauty.
Henry marveled at the smooth paleness of her skin and the perfect curves of her body. Even after bearing two children, to him she was still the most beautiful women in England, fluent in four languages, daughter of one king, wife of another and mother of the next.
She reached out and pulled him close. He kissed her again, with more passion this time, feeling her respond to his touch, no longer a king and queen but lovers without a care in the world.
Chapter Seven
June 1491
Henry ran across the courtyard from the stables, his riding boots splashing in puddles, feeling exhilarated by the heavy downpour. Once in the shelter of the hallway he stood dripping on the polished floor while a young servant pulled off the heavy boots and unfastened his wet cape.
‘Good hunting, Your Grace?’
Henry turned to see his old friend John de Vere waiting to greet him.
‘Good for the stags!’ Henry had to recover his breath after running and grinned at his own joke. ‘They know how to outwit us, by running where the bracken grows too thick for our horses. We would still have pursued them but for this rain.’
‘They say this wet June is a threat to the harvest, Your Grace. What is not good for farmers is not good for the country.’
‘You are right, Sir John. We must pray for the proper season to return.’
Henry gestured for de Vere to follow him to his study and called for a servant to bring them warmed mead. A fire crackled in the grate and Henry warmed his damp tunic in front of the flames.
‘How is the queen, Your Grace?’
‘Elizabeth is in her confinement.’ Henry grinned with pride. ‘Good Mistress Alice Massey is back to her duties.’ He gave de Vere a conspiratorial look. ‘I can confide in you she thinks we are to expect another son.’
Henry’s serving-girl arrived and set out silver cups, then poured them each a measure of the sweet mead. Henry tasted a sip and gestured for the girl to leave the jug on the table.
De Vere raised his cup. ‘May it be God’s will, Your Grace. To the health of the queen.’
Henry raised his cup in reply. ‘The queen’s health.’ The smooth, fermented honey warmed his throat. ‘Am I right to presume you haven’t journeyed here on a wet day without good reason?’
‘Indeed, Your Grace. I need to discuss the future of our alliance with Anne of Brittany.’
Henry nodded, ‘We’ve yet to reply to the letter from Maximilian, after King Charles took Nantes two months ago...’
‘Well, we understand King Charles has now laid siege to Duchess Ann in Rennes—and refuses to recognise her marriage.’
Henry stood and started pacing his study as he thought through the implications of John de Vere’s news. He stopped and turned to de Vere. ‘Her marriage to Maximilian... it is valid in the eyes of God?’
De Vere shrugged. ‘Her marriage was a betrothal by proxy,’ he gave Henry a knowing look, ‘and as far as we know was never consummated.’
‘So, Charles of France intends to claim Brittany by conquest and win young Anne for himself?’
‘He has the men to do it—and the Breton army has never recovered from their defeat at Nantes.’
Henry cursed. ‘We should have been better prepared for this. The signs were there for anyone to see.’
‘We’ve prepared as well as we could, Your Grace. This could be the chance we’ve been waiting for...’
‘What?’ Henry’s question echoed in the stillness of the room. He turned on de Vere. ‘I owe a great debt to the late Duke Francis and pledged to support his only daughter, yet I can’t believe it is God’s will for me to make war with France.’
‘Forgive me, Your Grace, for taking a soldier’s view. Will you permit me to explain?’
Henry sat back in his chair and refilled his cup with the rich golden mead. ‘You have a plan?’
‘King Charles has dug in for a long siege. The last thing he’ll expect is an attack from the rear!’ John de Vere chuckled at his joke and took a sip of his drink and savoured the taste before continuing.
Henry raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you propose we could surprise them?’
De Vere placed his empty cup on the table. ‘Your fleet is now the finest this country has ever seen. We must move swiftly, reinforce our garrison at Morlaix and march on Rennes before the French realise what’s happening.’
‘Rennes is over a hundred miles west of Morlaix.’
‘Our men could march across country at night, avoiding the main roads in the small hours to make the most of the element of surprise.’
Henry had misgivings about de Vere’s plan. With typical arrogance he underestimated the resourcefulness of the Bretons. The seemingly unpopulated countryside was home to a close-knit community. The notion that an army of Englishmen could march to Rennes without being seen was laughable. All the same, he’d sworn to do what he could to protect Anne and had no wish to see her birthright stolen by the French.
He glanced across and realised John de Vere waited for his reply. ‘I shall have to think on this.’
John shook his head. ‘Your Grace—there is no time to lose.’
‘Then make good the preparations—but not one ship is to sail until I give the order.’
John de Vere prepared to leave. ‘Understood. I shall start right away.’
Henry sat alone while he finished his drink. He threw a fresh log on the fire. As he watched it blaze he recalled his time in exile and the young Breton girl he’d left behind. She’d talked with such pride of her city of Rennes. It seemed strange to think she would be over thirty, no longer the dark-haired elfin beauty of his memory but more likely a thick-waisted matron, old before her time with the hardships of childbearing.
For a moment he imagined her grateful thanks for his heroic return with his army to liberate her city from the French, then dismissed the idea. He crossed to his desk and wrote two brief, identical notes. After reading them both through, he lit a taper from the fire and melted a little of his dark red sealing wax, then sealed them with his signet ring.
He called for a servant. ‘Have these delivered to my lady the king’s mother—and also Sir Jasper Tudor. Tell the messenger to explain the king requires their presence regarding a matter of some urgency.’
Lady Margaret arri
ved early, soon after Henry emerged from the chapel where he’d been praying for guidance. She was accompanied by her priest and confessor, Christopher Urswick, Archdeacon of Richmond. Henry hadn’t seen Urswick since Arthur’s christening and greeted them both warmly.
‘I trust, by God’s grace, you are able to remain here until after the child is born, lady Mother?’
‘Of course. There is much for me to do—and I pray your lady wife is in good health?’
‘She is, and will be comforted to know you have agreed to help her.’
In his heart Henry doubted it, yet the lie was a modest sin to keep the peace between them. Elizabeth made a good pretence of her affection for his mother, yet he knew her too well. He showed them both into his study and offered them a seat before turning to Christopher Urswick.
‘We are indebted to you for your services while we were in exile, Archdeacon. It is good fortune to have you with us. Now we must make an important judgement on matters in Brittany.’
Christopher Urswick gave a slight bow. ‘Thank you for your kind words, Your Grace. I’ve followed the news of recent events and appreciate the dilemma they present.’
Henry’s mother was more forthright. ‘You cannot allow that scoundrel Charles of France to take advantage of the poor girl Anne.’ She stared at Henry, her eyes wide. ‘She is fourteen years old, little more than I was when you were born. Furthermore, I understand Charles is already betrothed to the daughter of Maximilian?’
‘It seems King Charles feels he may do as he pleases now he is of age.’ Henry shook his head. ‘Are you saying I should agree the Earl of Oxford’s proposal to go to war with France?’
His mother cast her eyes down. ‘It is a dilemma, Henry. I would not wish you to go to France unless we are certain of your safety.’
‘I agree, lady Mother,’ Henry exchanged a look with the archbishop, ‘which is why I wait for my Uncle Jasper’s advice.’
Jasper arrived late in the evening after Lady Margaret retired to her rooms. Instead of riding on horseback he travelled in a high-sided wagon. Henry noted it was also laden with his uncle’s luggage, a sign he’d conceded to Henry’s request to keep him company until the child was born.
Henry embraced him. ‘It has been too long, Uncle. I’m glad to see you.’
‘By God I’m glad to see you too, Henry!’ His deep voice echoed. ‘I’m also relieved to be out of that old wagon. I know every bump and rut in the road! Curse this back of mine.’ Jasper loosened his jerkin and stretched. His visits had become fewer now he was less able to manage long rides.
‘You must be hungry after your journey?’
Henry sent for venison, Jasper’s favourite, and led him to the great hall where places were set for them both at the long oak table. Jasper admired the new tapestries of hunting scenes. Richly embroidered horsemen galloped through green forests in pursuit of their quarry.
‘A gift from King Ferdinand.’ Henry explained.
Jasper took a closer look. ‘They put me in mind of hunting wild boar in Suscinio.’
Henry remembered. ‘Those years at the duke’s château in Suscinio seem so long ago and far away... although I might return to Brittany yet, if John de Vere is let off his leash.’
‘You make him sound like one of the queen’s greyhounds!’ Jasper laughed. ‘De Vere has already told me of his plans.’
‘I trust you told him he doesn’t have a chance of surprising King Charles at Rennes?’
Jasper grinned at the thought. ‘I admire John de Vere’s ambition, Henry, if not always his battle plans.’
Henry agreed. ‘I sent him to prepare the fleet. Perhaps the sight of our new ships will make King Charles reconsider?’
‘Send your ships, Henry—but be clear they are not to make landfall without your order.’ Jasper grinned. ‘We’ll put on a show for the French.’
‘You seem to forget, Uncle—you are half French yourself—and I am one-quarter Valois.’
‘You’re right, Henry—and you are half English and one-quarter Welsh. We Tudors are turning into a mongrel breed.’
A cheerful northern woman, who had served Henry since Bosworth, brought thick slices of steaming hot roast venison on a silver tray, with a loaf of bread and an earthenware jug of strong Breton cider.
Henry watched as she filled two tankards and Jasper grinned in approval after tasting the cider. ‘By the heavens, that brings back memories, Henry!’
‘I’ve been keeping it for you, Uncle.’
Jasper cut a trencher of bread with his knife and filled it with steaming slices of venison. ‘You’ve already eaten?’
‘I’ll join you with a cup of cider—we have to drink the rest of the barrel now we’ve opened it.’
Jasper pointed to the tapestries with his knife. ‘Can your good ally King Ferdinand not come to the aid of our Breton friends?’
‘He has yet to agree the dowry for his daughter’s marriage to our son Arthur, although your suggestion is a good one, and a useful test of our future alliance.’
Jasper agreed and filled Henry’s tankard with the golden cider. ‘A toast is in order, Henry. You’ve been so concerned with King Charles; you seem to have forgotten we expect the next in our line of Tudors!’
Henry raised his tankard. ‘To our son, wishing him a safe and healthy welcome to this troubled world!’
Jasper refilled his own tankard and held it high. ‘To the Tudors, may God keep watch over us all.’
Heavy rain continued to drum on the roof of Greenwich Palace as Henry paced in the corridor. His mother promised to keep him advised of Elizabeth’s progress, yet several hours had passed since her last appearance.
Jasper snored in a comfortable chair nearby, having been given the privilege of free rein in Henry’s wine cellar. A messenger had been send with an urgent letter to the Earl of Oxford in Dover, with orders to patrol the coastline but not to land or engage the fleet without the command of the king.
King Ferdinand’s ambassador, Rodrigo de Puebla, was summoned from Westminster to help word a letter to his master. Without any knowledge of their language, Henry had no option other than to place his trust in the ambassador.
For his part, de Puebla seemed grateful and promised to deliver Henry’s request to King Ferdinand in person. It was the best Henry could offer to Brittany in the circumstances, and now all he could do was wait for news of the outcome.
Henry recognised the sound of his mother’s voice as her hand shook his arm to wake him. Unwilling to retire to bed he’d followed his uncle’s example and fallen asleep in a chair.
‘The good Lord has blessed you with another son.’ His mother looked tired yet happy to bring him the news.
‘Elizabeth?’
His mother gave him a rare smile. ‘She is well.’
Henry embraced his mother and her thin body tensed at his unexpected show of emotion. ‘We thank the good Lord our prayers are answered.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘I wish to see the baby—and Elizabeth.’
His mother glanced back towards the queen’s rooms. ‘Her physician advised her to rest—but I know Elizabeth will be pleased to show you your new son.’
She led him into the inner sanctum where Elizabeth lay, her eyes closed as if she was sleeping. Henry held up a hand to show the midwife he’d no wish to disturb her. He peered into the gilded cot where his new son lay sleeping and turned to his mother, waiting behind him. ‘His reddish hair might owe more to his Plantagenet grandfather than the Tudor line.’ He kept his voice low, to not wake the sleeping mother and child, and smiled. ‘We shall name him Henry.’
Two hundred yeomen lined the route from Greenwich Palace to the house of the Observant Friars. On a command from Jasper, they lit blazing torches to light the way on the moonless night. The smoke scent of pitch blended with pine resin carried in the still air. The bright orange flames dazzled Henry as he led the procession of bishops, barons and earls for the christening of his second son.
Fresh rushes were strewn over the groun
d for every step, as prescribed by Lady Margaret’s ordinances, which set out every detail of the christening. Elizabeth rode on a canopied gilded litter, supported by velvet cushions, their new baby, wrapped in a mantle of cloth of gold trimmed with ermine, cradled in her arms.
Nobles from all over England and Wales cheered and applauded at the sight. The River Thames glittered with the lights of a thousand lanterns as the people of London took to boats to catch a glimpse of the great spectacle. The mayor and aldermen had been rowed to Greenwich on barges, and were dressed in all their finery as they formed a line to greet the new prince.
In the church the light of a hundred candles glinted from the silver font, brought from the cathedral at Canterbury. Surrounded by Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting, a canopy of crimson satin fringed with gold hung over them.
The honour of conducting the service was granted to Richard Foxe, now Bishop of Exeter. Lady Margaret Beaufort looked pleased as she watched her newest grandson named Henry. Foxe made the sign of the cross on the sturdy child’s head. Little Henry would be prepared for a life of religious devotion. One day he would become an archbishop and a cardinal of Rome, caring for the spiritual life of his elder brother Arthur, when he became King of England.
Henry squinted as he reread the troubling letter from Rodrigo de Puebla, as if there might be some clue he’d missed the first time. He stayed at Sheen Palace as often as matters of state allowed, and it suited him that Elizabeth accepted his mother’s visits with good grace.
He placed the letter to one side as Elizabeth entered. Still recovering from the delivery of their robust son, she claimed to be in good health yet he worried that she spent so long sleeping. She glanced at the unfolded parchment then back at his face.
‘What is it, Henry?’
He gestured towards the letter. ‘You remember the impostor who claimed to be your brother? He’s landed in Ireland and they’ve proclaimed him as Richard of York.’ Henry passed her the letter to read and watched her face as she studied it. She looked pale and tired, yet when she finally spoke her voice sounded determined.
