by Tony Riches
He took his son’s hand. ‘Now, you hold the rein like this, with your little finger under and the other fingers over it.’ He demonstrated, helping Harry to find the proper grip. ‘Turn your hand so your thumb’s on top. Don’t pull too hard.’
Harry glanced around for his mother and beamed. ‘My own horse, Mother! I’m riding my own horse.’
Henry grinned. ‘She’s a Welsh pony, like I learnt to ride on when I was little older than you, Harry. Treat her well and she’ll soon come to know you.’
Harry sat tall in the saddle. ‘Can I ride now, Father?’
Henry laughed and led the pony to walk in a slow circle around Elizabeth and Margaret.
‘Look at him—a natural horseman!’ Henry beamed with pride in his young son, yet his happiness was tinged with regret. He’d been far too busy when Arthur learnt to ride and would never have that time over again. At least he’d honoured his pledge to spend more time with his family.
Elizabeth called out. ‘Keep a firm hand on that bridle—he’ll be off at a gallop if you give him the chance!’
Henry laughed at the thought. ‘He looks as if he’ll turn into the image of your father.’ He patted Harry on the back. ‘You’re strong enough for a boy twice your age.’
Elizabeth smiled at Henry. ‘My father loved riding in the parks here at Eltham. You know there are over a thousand acres? He would have been so pleased to see his grandson ride here.’
‘Even though he’s a Tudor?’ Henry doubted it. He thought King Edward would more likely turn in his grave if he knew the House of York had been so thoroughly defeated by his old enemy.
There had been numerous arrests since Robert Clifford became his spy amongst the Yorkist exiles in Burgundy. Henry’s commissioners had been tasked with investigating numerous treasons and several of the pretender’s supporters now languished in the Tower.
Most of the men arrested had been quick enough to swear fealty and pay Henry’s fines in return for their freedom. Those who did not would have to await their fate at the king’s pleasure. His advisors told him he must have them hanged if he wished to put an end to treason, but for now he preferred to let them stew.
A thought occurred to Henry as he noted how well his son sat in his saddle. ‘We shall mark this day by making our son the new Duke of York.’ He was pleased to see Elizabeth brighten at his suggestion. ‘We cannot allow this... Perkin Warbeck,’ Henry scowled as he said the name, ‘to claim the title any longer—and we will hold a royal tournament in his honour to make certain everyone knows.’
The leaves faded to a crisp golden brown on the trees before Harry’s first public appearance in London, escorted by six of the king’s trumpeters and a grand procession of the mayor and aldermen, followed by the men of the trades in their colourful liveries.
The knights of the Order of the Bath, dressed in mantles of crimson silk, with bright gold chains and tassels, led Harry on his first rite of passage. He would be the youngest ever admitted to the order, although Henry doubted that he understood.
Harry rode the powerful black courser as if he’d been born to it. Chosen for its good temperament, the warhorse would prove daunting for any other three-year-old. Harry beamed at the crowds thronged along the entire route to Westminster. He waved a hand as they cheered, ‘Long live Prince Henry!’
Elizabeth watched with Henry from under a painted wooden podium, erected for the occasion, as the procession reached Westminster Palace. ‘He is a credit to your coaching, Henry.’
Henry smiled at her compliment. ‘I can’t take all the credit. He rides well for his age, I must say. Sometimes... I wish Arthur showed a little more of Harry’s spirit.’
‘Suum cuique pulchrum est.’
Henry agreed. ‘Yes, to each his own.’
‘Arthur is becoming a scholar, far beyond his years.’
He heard the defensive note in her voice. ‘Arthur loves his books, I’ll grant you, yet when he becomes king he’ll need to lead by example.’
‘He’s young and will learn.’ She smiled back at him. ‘Arthur has achieved great skill with his bow.’
‘Thanks to my patience, Elizabeth, yet he shows little appetite for hunting or tennis. I believe he prefers his own company. The other night, when he was supposed to be sleeping, I found him reading by candlelight.’
‘Exactly like his father!’
‘Well, Harry follows you, Elizabeth. He’s already able to manage some Latin and French, yet he has a mischievous sense of humour. He even plays his tricks on my good lady mother!’
‘Yet Lady Margaret calls him your fair sweet son and shows him favour over her other grandchildren. I would never have thought it. She brings him special gifts—and always asks after him.’
‘My mother suggested we should consider appointments for Harry. I’m minded to make him Earl Marshal of England, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland and Constable of Dover. He needs an income now he is Duke of York.’
‘You don’t think so many titles will be a heavy burden of responsibility for our youngest son?’
Henry gave her a conspiratorial look. ‘In truth it means the actual holders of the posts have only temporary tenure. It helps to keep them on their toes, as they know they can be replaced at any time.’
Wearing their crowns and robes of cloth of gold, Henry and Elizabeth presided over the first day of the celebratory tournament. With them sat their sons Arthur, Prince of Wales, Harry, the new Duke of York and their daughter Princess Margaret. The royal grandstand had a canopy of cloths of estate of blue arras, embellished with gold fleur-de-lis.
Next to them sat Sir Jasper, Duke of Bedford, his wife the duchess and Lady Margaret, with her husband Sir Thomas Stanley, Earl of Derby, with many earls, barons and knights.
Henry was pleased to see so many spectators attending, despite the earlier rain showers which threatened to turn the roads to mud. A light breeze now tugged at the pennants and standards of the all great houses of England as the first day began with a fanfare of trumpets.
Four young ladies wearing white satin gowns with crimson sleeves rode fine white horses. They led the knights on horseback into the lists by ropes woven from white and blue silk. The knights rode horses caparisoned with black velvet edged with gold brocade.
They wore the king’s livery of green and white with the queen’s crest of murrey and blue on their helmets. After saluting the royal family, the first two lined up with lances, either side of the tilt to compete for the king’s prize.
The Master of the Joust shouted his command and heavy hooves thudded on hard packed earth. The jousters closed with a smash of wood on metal, taking turns until one was judged a winner.
The champion of the joust, Sir Edward de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk and younger brother of the Earl of Lincoln, was presented with a diamond studded gold ring by five-year-old Princess Margaret. Dressed like her mother, she looked like a miniature queen.
The finale of the first day was a violent mock battle between all the participants, who’d been formed into two opposing sides with sashes of red and blue. They fought on foot and made a great spectacle as swords clashed and men yelled out, pretending to fall with mortal wounds.
Prince Harry wore the same robes of cloth of gold trimmed with ermine as Henry, the only difference the colourful and precious feather of a popinjay in his cap. He stood and called out in his powerful young voice, waving his arms to encourage his chosen side, the reds, to victory.
Arthur seemed not to mind his young brother becoming Duke of York and being the centre of attention. ‘Look, father!’ He pointed a gloved finger as a towering knight rode into the thick of the melee. He was followed by a mounted standard-bearer carrying Henry’s standard, the red dragon of Cadwallader and cross of St George. The tall knight drew his sword, raising it high in the air.
For a moment Henry was reminded of the carnage at Bosworth. As he watched, the knight raised his visor and called in a deep, bellowing voice for the blue-sashed army to lay down their weapons in surrender.
Only then did Henry understand the mock fighting was a re-enactment of the battle at Bosworth. The mounted knight represented himself, portrayed as the hero of the day.
He turned to Arthur. ‘I pray you will never witness a real battle.’ They watched as those pretending to be dead were commanded to arise and staggered to their feet. ‘These play-actors might count themselves fortunate. The wounds of a real fight are more fearsome than a man could imagine.’
‘I’ve no wish to become a soldier, Father.’ Arthur’s face had the same look of concern as his mother.
‘Nor I, Arthur.’ He tried to reassure his son. ‘I plan to hand you a kingdom at peace, on good terms with its neighbours.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘The sad truth is, Arthur, you will find that men like to fight each other.’
‘Why is that, Father?’
Henry had to think for a moment. ‘There are many reasons. Some seek glory, others fight to become rich.’ He studied his son’s attentive face. ‘Many fight for what they see as their duty to the will of God and loyalty to a noble cause.’
‘You fought for such a cause?’
He studied his son’s face as if seeing him for the first time. ‘You will learn that sometimes your destiny leaves you with no other choice.’
Henry suspected he’d read too much into the question from a boy not yet eight years old. With a jolt, he realised although his son was half Tudor, he was also a son of York.
Henry cursed as he missed yet another ball from his courtier and tennis partner, Lord Robert Curson. He’d yet to show real skill at the game but it proved a good diversion from matters of state. He enjoyed learning the tactics. Lord Curzon sliced at the ball with a cutting stroke, which gave it an unpredictable spin.
Unfortunately for Henry, his weakness for gambling had already got the better of him and tennis was proving an expensive pastime. As well as the cost of building the courts, Henry chose to retain the full time services of a Spanish tennis master. He’d yet to win a single game.
Lord Curson called out, his voice echoing in the high-walled court. ‘Do you wish to take a rest, Your Grace?’
‘I do not—although I regret accusing you of going easy on me.’ He grinned and took a firmer grip on the handle of his racket. ‘Your service, again, Lord Curzon.’
Henry feared the real cause of his problem was not the fault of the Spaniard’s poor coaching so much as his own weakened vision. Still keen to keep such an unkingly defect from the world, he was aware it had become something of an open secret amongst his closest courtiers.
This time he reached for the ball and managed to return it, much to the surprise of his partner, who seemed to be caught off guard. Henry wiped the sweat from his eyes and watched for the next service. He might never become a competent tennis player but it would not be through lack of trying.
‘Is there to be no end to this... treachery?’
Foxe regarded Henry with a grim expression. ‘I regret, Your Grace, that I had no cause to suspect the dean, or else...’
‘I’ve known Master William Worsley, Dean of St Paul’s, for more than twenty years,’ Henry shook his head, ‘and now he plots against me—to support Perkin Warbeck!’
Bishop Foxe nodded. ‘He’s one of the wealthiest clergymen in England, Your Grace. I considered him a friend until I heard of his arrest.’
‘You would have reported him to me yourself, if you had known?’
Foxe seemed unperturbed by Henry’s tone. ‘Of course, Your Grace, without hesitation.’
‘Well, I thank the Lord my commissioners have exposed his disloyal servant’s treason. The man must think us fools that he can mock us with impunity?’
‘It seems Dean Worsley remained loyal to York and waited his opportunity all these years.’
The continued dull ache from Henry’s tooth had worsened and he felt in no mood for clemency. He paced the floor as he tried to think, a habit he’d tried to rid himself of. ‘There are those who’d have him hanged, as an example to others.’
‘Might I ask Your Grace to consider the many years of service the dean has given to his church and country?’
Henry stopped pacing and turned to face Foxe. ‘Does it not make his crime so much worse that he was in a position of our trust?’
Bishop Foxe remained silent, as if he knew better than to press his point until Henry had calmed a little.
Henry knew Foxe well and understood his silence. ‘I meant no criticism of your good self—I just wish an end to this treachery.’
‘May I make a suggestion, Your Grace?’
‘Please do. I am at a loss to know how to deal with these...’ Henry stopped himself from cursing. ‘These traitors who plot against us!’
Foxe looked at Henry in silence for a moment. ‘Dean Worsley comes from a well-connected family and inherited a great deal of land from his late uncle, Archbishop Booth. I understand, Your Grace, the bequest included estates in Hackney and Tottenham, as well as an income of some two hundred pounds a year in rent.’
‘You seem particularly well informed, Bishop.’ Henry realised it sounded like an accusation. ‘I recall hearing he owns a fine house, more of a mansion, in Hackney. I thought at the time this was unusual for a dean, even of a great cathedral like St Paul’s.’
‘My suggestion, Your Grace, is a suitable punishment would be to impose a fine in return for your gracious pardon. You could also demand the income from his estates.’
‘If he hangs, his estates will be seized by the crown...’ Henry’s aching tooth made it hard to think.
‘Yet instead you could have him pay to you, say, two hundred pounds a year, for the rest of his life?’
‘You are right, Bishop Foxe. This business has cost me, both in sleepless nights and the cost of my commissioners. It’s about time we had some financial return.’
Henry lay awake before dawn, listening to the strange, nocturnal noises of the old Palace of Westminster. Shutters rattled in a gust of wind, eerie echoes haunted empty, dark corridors. A dog barked outside, then yelped as its noise was cut short.
He’d doubled the guards outside his door. Good loyal men, yet now he strained to hear their whispered conversation. Only a few words reached him. The conspirators would celebrate if they knew how well their efforts disturbed him. Troubled by his conversation with Bishop Foxe, he’d been unable to sleep.
The conspiracies made him suspect everyone. Richard Foxe did whatever he asked, even risking his life in his Scottish negotiations, yet he’d been ready to question his loyalty. He recalled the bishop’s wounded expression. Such loyalty was hard won yet could be so easily lost.
He recalled how King James of Scotland was murdered by his own subjects who replaced him with his own son. Henry worried his tax raising and limiting the power of the barons could be fuelling dissent. He struggled to imagine Arthur having any part in such a rebellion, yet the new King James claimed he’d not known his father would be killed.
He closed his eyes and tried reciting prayers, yet the whispering somewhere in the back of his mind continued. He imagined he heard what his guards were saying. Warbeck was Richard, the true Duke of York, and they would not oppose him when he returned to claim his right to the throne.
Henry sat up in bed and shouted for a servant to light a candle. For the first time, he contemplated the implications of Margaret of Burgundy being right. His commissioners told him the man was an impostor yet could have been saying what he wanted to hear.
If the man he knew as Perkin Warbeck was the missing Duke of York, his beloved wife could side with her brother, as could his treasured sons. Even members of his own mother’s family had been implicated in supporting Warbeck’s scheming.
The only person he could trust without question was his Uncle Jasper. He knew what his uncle would say. Urged on by the good intentions of advisors like Bishop Foxe, he’d shown too much leniency. Even those he’d pardoned could be laughing behind his back. It was time to act like a king. His life depended on it.
Chapter Eleven
February 1495
Henry decided to visit his mother in person with his grim news, rather than send a letter or imposing the indignity of summoning her to his presence. He’d rehearsed his words many times as he rode the twenty miles south from Sheen Palace with his Yeomen of the Guard.
Now his mother’s grand manor house in Woking came in sight his courage slipped away. He’d had to act fast, as the news would reach her within a day. He could think of no way to soften the blow and cursed the man who’d caused him to upset her.
His mother was at her prayers when he arrived. An elderly servant in his mother’s livery bowed and showed him into the great hall. He declined the offer of wine and looked around the hall as he waited, struck by its lack of decoration.
The stone walls, once hung with fine tapestries, were bare except for the carved and gilded Beaufort portcullis over the fireplace. The polished oak table stood empty, as if rarely used. Henry guessed it had been some time since his stepfather, Sir Thomas Stanley, last stayed there.
The door opened and his mother entered, dressed, as she often now chose to, in the black robes of a nun, with a tight, starched white linen coif and pale grey hood concealing her hair. She carried a small prayer-book bound in black leather.
‘I bid you welcome, my most dear son.’ Her eyes, as sharp as a hawk, studied his face. ‘I was not expecting your visit. I trust all is well?’
Henry hesitated to answer. ‘These are... difficult times, lady Mother. With sadness in my heart I bring news of a traitor within our family.’ Henry glanced at the door. ‘We need privacy, while I explain.’
He watched as she crossed to the door and dismissed her servant waiting outside before closing it and inviting him to be seated. She took a firm hold on her prayer-book in her thin fingers, as if preparing herself.
