Henry - Book Three of the Tudor Trilogy

by Tony Riches

  ‘King Ferdinand wishes to delay payment of Catalina’s dowry because of this... impostor? My brother is dead—I am certain of it.’ She studied his face with sadness in her eyes. ‘My mother would have told me if she thought, for a single moment, that he still lived.’

  ‘If there were only some way we could convince the people of that, yet I’m at a loss to know what to do. If I send ships to Cork to make his arrest...’

  Elizabeth reached out and took Henry’s hand in hers. ‘The letter says he bears a likeness. If he were my brother I should know it.’

  Henry gave her gold-ringed fingers a gentle squeeze. ‘These things are sent to try us, Elizabeth. It’s a cruel trick these Yorkists play, yet they threaten the lives of our children. I must act against them—while there’s still time.’

  Chapter Eight

  May 1492

  With Elizabeth expecting her next child, Henry welcomed the distraction of the May tournament at Sheen Palace. Planned to last for the entire month, the event attracted competitors and spectators from noble families as far as Germany and Spain, all flying colourful banners and standards.

  Hundreds of canvas tents and a sprawling May fair filled every space in the palace grounds and gardens. The tang of wood smoke from cooking fires and lively music from bands of minstrels added an atmosphere of boisterous celebration. Shouting vendors touted their wares and the once peaceful river bustled with boats and barges.

  The grand tournament provided Henry with a much-needed opportunity to display the new wealth and prosperity of the country. With his court plagued by rumour and treasonable talk, he’d cursed Margaret of Burgundy for welcoming the impostor and claiming to recognise him as Richard, Duke of York. To Henry’s further anger, King Charles had taken Brittany and forced Duchess Anne to become Queen of France at an illegal and secret dawn ceremony.

  Henry’s relationship with his trusted commander John de Vere suffered when the earl claimed he could have prevented it, given the chance to do so. Then he’d reported that King Charles’ army marched towards their border with Italy, where he planned to seize the wealthy city of Naples. If true, there might be no better time to take an army to Calais.

  Henry pulled his favourite longbow to full extent and focused on the distant target. A crowd of spectators watched as he loosed the arrow. He kept the problem of his failing sight a secret from all but Elizabeth and his mother. He shaded his face with his hand as he squinted to see his arrow sticking from the outer ring.

  ‘A good enough shot... for a king!’

  He bowed at the ripple of polite applause. He’d been right to take part in the competition. His mother said he must be seen by his people if he wished them to love him, and he was determined not to disappoint her. At the same time, he knew what they were saying behind his back. If they were to invade France, even Jasper said he would have to sail with John de Vere.

  Henry joined his uncle under the royal canopy of cloth of gold, high on the grandstand overlooking the tiltyard. On his sign, a fanfare of trumpets announced that the day’s tournament was about to begin. Hundreds of spectators thronged the arena as knights in full armour prepared to joust on great warhorses.

  Velvet cushions protected Jasper’s back from the hard wood of their seat. Henry noted how his uncle grimaced in pain when he moved and how the shadows under his eyes seemed darker. The powerful figure he’d always looked up to was starting to look like an old man.

  ‘I must have my physician take a look at you, Uncle. His herbal potions might ease your discomfort?’

  Jasper shook his head. ‘The ravages of age, although I couldn’t stop your grandfather riding into battle with us when he was sixty!’

  Henry recalled the stories Jasper had told and retold during the long years of their exile. His grandfather, Owen Tudor, was executed on the orders of Elizabeth’s father after their defeat at Mortimer’s Cross.

  ‘Not only did he take on York at the age of sixty—he fathered a child with his serving-girl when he was little younger than you!’

  Jasper laughed at the memory. ‘A Tudor, A Tudor!’ He bent double with a fit of coughing.

  Henry called for a cup of wine for his uncle and made a mental note to speak to his physician. He remembered Elizabeth’s concern at news that her mother, now frail at fifty-five years old, had made her will and was not expected to last the month.

  He wondered if he should ask his mother, staying at Sheen to oversee Elizabeth’s confinement, to visit her at Bermondsey Abbey, then thought better of it. Her husband had shown no mercy to his grandfather. Jasper had been made to live with the burden of guilt for his part in that day ever since.

  The wine improved Jasper’s spirits. They both cheered and applauded as a Flemish knight raised both hands in the air in mock surrender, calling out for the king’s mercy. It was not the show of great chivalry Henry hoped for, yet the crowd seemed to enjoy the spectacle.

  ‘Next in the list is a Welshmen from our exile in Brittany.’ Jasper had to raise his voice to be heard over the cheering. ‘Sir Hugh Vaughan of Kidwelly.’

  Henry remembered him. ‘A good man—and loyal. He has a dispute over a coat of arms with Sir James Parker.’

  ‘Could you not settle it, Henry, for old times’ sake?’

  ‘He requested a judicial joust.’ Henry surveyed the cheering spectators. ‘The spectacle has drawn the biggest crowd of the day.’ He grinned at his uncle. ‘I’m hoping Sir Hugh will show the folly of challenging the king’s man!’

  ‘And a Welshman!’ Jasper pointed at Vaughan’s banner.

  The spectators fell silent as the two knights readied their lances, then charged. Sir Vaughan’s lance shattered as it smashed into his challenger’s face with such violence he was flung from the saddle and crashed to the ground. Some in the crowd groaned, yet many more continued to cheer the victorious Welshman as yeomen carried his challenger’s limp body to a nearby tent.

  Jasper stood for a better view, a look of concern on his rugged face. ‘I fear this dispute has been settled, although not as Sir James might have wished.’

  Troubled by the incident, Henry visited Elizabeth before she retired to her chamber. He made a judgement not to mention the death of Sir James at the joust that day or of the spectator struck by a stray arrow. Instead, he contrived to appear cheerful, knowing it could be a month before he would see his wife again.

  Elizabeth smoothed the silk gown covering her bulging middle and looked up as Henry entered the room, where she sat surrounded by her ladies.

  She dismissed them and waited until they closed the doors, then took his hand and placed it over the child.

  ‘Can you feel her moving?’

  ‘You think it’s another girl?’

  She looked tearful. ‘I have a great favour, if you will?’

  ‘If it’s a girl, might we name her Elizabeth?’

  ‘After your mother...’

  ‘Pray for us, Henry.’

  ‘You have cause for concern?’

  ‘Only that... this child seems eager to enter the world. I was not fully recovered from little Henry...’

  ‘We will pray for you, our two Elizabeths!’ He turned to leave, then looked back. ‘I love you, Elizabeth of York.’

  ‘I love you, Henry Tudor.’ She raised a hand and smiled, although her eyes misted with sadness.

  He wiped a tear from his cheek and struggled to compose himself as he made his way back through the maze of corridors. Henry fixed the memory of her smile in his mind and fought to dismiss the thought he might never see Elizabeth alive again.

  St George’s chapel in Windsor echoed to the solemn words of the priest. He ran through the absolution of the dead with professional detachment, a man doing what was required of him. A bouquet of white roses on the simple wooden coffin seemed a fitting tribute to the former Queen of England, although there were few enough guests to see them.

  Her daughter Elizabeth remained at Sheen Palace in her confinement, together with her sister Lady Cecily. E
lizabeth’s remaining son, the Marquis of Dorset knelt with his hands clasped in prayer, with her other daughters, Lady Anne, Lady Catherine and the youngest, twelve-year-old Lady Bridget, who travelled to Windsor by river barge, with several of their ladies.

  Henry remembered Lady Elizabeth Woodville in his prayers that Whit Sunday. It troubled his conscience that the full cost of her funeral had to be met by Thomas Woodville. Her only son paid for her to be laid to rest alongside the man she had loved, the enemy of the Tudors, Edward IV.

  Henry rubbed his eyes as he lost another hand of cards. Four pounds could keep a family fed for a year yet he’d let it slip through his fingers in less than an hour. His mind was on Elizabeth and he closed his eyes for a moment in silent prayer.

  He’d made the mistake of taking her love for granted. Lost time they could have spent together filled instead with discussions about revenue or what to do about the York impostor. Now he could lose her he realised he’d seen more of his mother than his wife since the birth of little Harry.

  Bishop Foxe caught his eye yet his face had its usual impassive expression. He excused himself from his gambling party and followed Foxe into the relative privacy of the anteroom.

  ‘You have a daughter, Your Grace.’ Richard Foxe gave him the briefest smile. ‘May I be the first to offer my congratulations?’

  Henry sensed a great weight lifting from his shoulders as he followed Foxe through dimly lit corridors. He pledged to himself he would be a better husband to Elizabeth, a better father to his children—once he returned from the war in France.

  The midwife Alice Massey seemed to be holding something back as she confirmed the news of his daughter. Having been through the tension of Elizabeth’s confinement three times before, Henry knew the buxom woman well and was concerned by her subdued manner.

  ‘All is well with the queen, Your Grace.’ She avoided his eyes, choosing instead to look at Henry’s shoes.

  ‘The baby—is there some problem?’

  Alice Massey hesitated long enough for Henry to fear the worst. ‘Your daughter is small, Your Grace, yet has a good pair of lungs.’

  Henry allowed himself to breathe again. He passed her the purse of gold coins he carried. Ten pounds seemed a small price to pay for her service to his family. ‘Please tell the queen I wish her well—and pray for our two Elizabeths!’

  Henry stared up at the sails of his flagship Regent billowing in a fresh autumnal breeze. His standard, the red dragon of Cadwallader and the cross of St George, flew proud and high on the topmast. He said a silent prayer for his army, already readying weapons as the fleet neared the coast of Calais. After months of preparation they were finally going to war.

  Much to his disappointment, the people of England welcomed his difficult decision. It seemed they longed for him to be a warrior king, not a peacemaker. The men of Kent lined the streets of Sandwich to see the fleet off, throwing coins to the sailors and shouting for them to give Charles of France a bloody nose.

  Jasper’s shout broke through his reverie. ‘A fair wind, Henry, a good omen!’

  He’d urged Jasper to remain at home, yet his uncle insisted he was still Henry’s guardian, pledged to protect him.

  ‘The wind brings the colour back to your face, Uncle.’

  ‘It’s good to be at sea. I wondered if I’d ever set foot in France again.’ Jasper studied the fleet, which followed behind them into the far distance. ‘We sailed from France with a handful of borrowed ships, yet we return with too many for me to count.’

  ‘There are more than five hundred in the fleet,’ Henry heard the pride in his voice, ‘enough, I pray.’

  ‘John de Vere was right, Henry.’

  ‘Right or not, we’ve rolled the dice.’

  Jasper grinned. ‘Well, I pray you have better luck with dice than you do with cards!’

  Sir John de Vere led the first wave of ships into Calais, where over fifteen thousand men prepared to disembark. In no time the quayside became a mass of soldiers, unloading horses, siege weapons and supplies for a long campaign. Henry’s ships soon filled the harbour to the entrance, the greatest invasion of France in a generation.

  Sir Edward Poynings, a veteran of Henry’s exile and one of his oldest commanders, waited to greet him in the great hall of the old castle. Now over seventy, Sir Edward needed a stick to walk yet brandished it in the air like a weapon.

  ‘Welcome to Calais, Your Grace.’ He recognised his old friend Jasper, ‘and to you, my lord!’

  ‘It’s good to see you, Sir Edward, and we thank you for clearing our way of the French.’

  ‘All we met were a few Flemish pirates!’ He shook his head. ‘They ran before we could even fire a shot.’

  Henry took his seat at the head of the table and the others joined him. ‘My lords...’ Henry glanced around the table at the members of his war council. Many had been loyal to him before Bosworth. ‘You will not be surprised to learn that I hope for peace with France—not war. My problem is that since we took the throne, our efforts to maintain that peace have cost more than half the revenue of our country.’ He paused and glanced at Sir John de Vere. ‘The French must repay that cost in full—and swear to never support our enemies.’

  Sir Edward Poynings was the first to reply. ‘If they refuse, Your Grace?’

  ‘If they refuse, Sir Edward, then we shall assert our sovereignty by force.’

  The room fell silent for a moment. For the first time, Henry realised they looked at him with new respect. He’d forgotten the thrill of taking such great risks. Jasper was right. He’d lost more often than won at his games of cards. Now he played for the highest stakes, and gambled with his life, and the lives of all who sailed with him to France.

  At a signal from Henry, John de Vere spread out a parchment map. ‘We have but a toe-hold here in Calais.’ He pointed to the coastline south of them. ‘Sir John Savage will lead a siege of Boulogne, whilst our ships blockade the port. The plan is to divert the French as my men push north and eastwards and establish our front around Calais.’ De Vere glanced around the table. ‘If the French decide to attack us here in Calais, they will find us ready.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir John. All our resources are at your disposal as our commander in the field.’ Henry glanced at his uncle. ‘Sir Jasper will lead our diplomatic mission. We can allow him only one month, and then this council must declare war on France.’

  Gulls screeched overhead as Henry waited at the rail of his flagship in the staple port of Étaples, at the mouth of the River Canche. Only two weeks had passed since they’d set a deadline at that meeting in Calais, yet to Henry it seemed much longer.

  Unable to do anything other than wait for news, he’d spent long hours at prayer. Then Sir John’s forlorn men returned to Calais carrying his body, wrapped in a canvas shroud. Their ships continued to prevent access to the old walled port, but the siege ended when the French launched an ambush under the cover of darkness.

  Jasper seemed to read Henry’s mind. ‘Sir John Savage was one of the first Yorkist commanders to support us. You recall his men wore white hoods at Bosworth?’

  ‘I do. He fought for York at the Battle of Tewkesbury and captured Queen Margaret of Anjou—but told me he never trusted King Richard.’

  Jasper frowned. ‘Don’t take it to heart, Henry. If Sir John and a handful of men are the only casualties of this... adventure, we should count ourselves fortunate.’

  ‘We must see his family are cared for.’ Henry pointed to approaching riders carrying a white flag of truce. ‘It seems the moment of truth approaches, Uncle.’

  They watched as the men dismounted and approached the guards on the quayside. Henry counted them—six men wearing the royal livery of the House of Valois, the once familiar blue-and-white surcoats with golden fleur-de-lis. He would have wished to meet King Charles in person, but on Jasper’s advice agreed to negotiate with his ambassadors.

  ‘You are certain they will agree to our demands?’

  Jasper grinned
. ‘We shall find out soon enough—but winter is coming, Henry. Our cousin Charles prepares his army to invade Italy, so I believe he has little choice.’

  ‘I pray you are right, Uncle. Many lives depend upon it.’

  The negotiations proved a formality, as the king’s ambassadors carried a treaty that only required Henry’s signature. As well as reparation in full for all expenses incurred over the past six years, King Charles committed to never support the Enemies of England, including pretenders or claimants to the English throne.

  After the French left Henry embraced his uncle and called for strong drink to celebrate.

  Jasper looked pleased. ‘I think this is known as a king’s ransom. Three-quarters of a million crowns is more than I could have hoped for.’

  ‘We’ve won, Uncle. Yet in my heart I know the people of England will not understand.’

  ‘Then you must see to it that they do, Henry. It’s time to consider what matters most—that’s the true measure of a king.’

  Henry watched as their mooring ropes were cast off and sailors scrambled to catch the wind. His uncle was right. He bit his lip to focus his mind. He was doing God’s will. He’d defied the odds yet gain to prove himself worthy of the crown of England. He’d defeated his enemies, overcome his secret doubts and knew he would make his mother proud.

  Chapter Nine

  January 1493

  Christmas at Westminster Palace was marked by a nativity feast of fat geese, painted with saffron butter to give them a golden glow. A private family occasion, a choir sang to the accompaniment of musicians with lutes and dulcimers, as well as Henry’s precious new clavichord, paid for from his own purse.

  To Henry’s left sat his son Arthur, then his mother, Lady Margaret and her white-bearded husband, Sir Thomas Stanley. Beside him sat Sir Jasper, with his beautiful young wife Catherine Woodville. At the side of the queen sat her sisters, Lady Anne and Lady Catherine, both yet to be found suitable husbands.