by Tony Riches
‘I wish you to tell me, Henry. Who is this traitor... and what crime have they been accused of?’
He sensed the note of sadness in her voice but knew he could not keep it from her. ‘Sir William Stanley,’ Henry avoided her eyes, ‘is to be executed for treason.’
‘Our own dear Will?’ She seemed to age a little before Henry’s eyes. ‘There must be some mistake?’
Henry shook his head. ‘I find it difficult to understand those who plot against us, yet this is so much worse to comprehend.’
‘Will has been like a brother to me. He fought for you at Bosworth. He has served you...’ Her words tailed off.
He took a deep breath. ‘He’s made a confession—that he supports the pretender, known to us as Perkin Warbeck.’
They sat together in the silent room for a moment while she considered the implications of Henry’s words. He longed to take her frail hand in his and offer some words of comfort, yet he’d never been more conscious of a distance between them.
‘Has my husband...’ She studied his face as if dreading to hear the answer, ‘Has Thomas been implicated in any way?’
‘I pray he has not, Mother.’ He rubbed his eyes.
‘I know my good husband, Henry. You will not find a man more loyal—whatever his brother has done.’
Henry flinched at the sharpness of her tone. His mother always spoke to him with great affection. He could not recall hearing a cross word from her, yet he knew she’d defend her husband. For the briefest moment he suspected she might be hiding something, then dismissed the thought.
‘You know how people like to make mischief and must prepare yourself for gossip.’
She studied him with weary eyes. ‘Have you come all this way to test me, Henry?’
‘Both your husband and his brother have served us well but were once loyal to York. I have come here to explain why I can’t show Sir William leniency.’
‘Not for my husband’s sake? This could do great harm to his reputation.’
‘I cannot, even for your own sake, Mother, although it grieves me to say these words.’
‘Sir William is a wealthy man. I understand you have fined others, attainted their lands?’
‘I must tell you a great secret, Mother, which you must promise never to repeat, even to your husband.’
She gripped her prayer-book. ‘You have my word.’
‘I have an agent at the court of Margaret of Burgundy. His information has resulted in many arrests, including our steward, Lord Fitzwater. Sir William has been in contact with our agent for over a year to keep in touch with the pretender to our throne.’
She nodded in silent understanding.
‘I shall meet the expenses of his funeral and ensure he does not suffer unduly.’
Henry made the long journey back to London with a heavy heart. He’d prayed with his mother for the soul of William Stanley, once a trusted friend, now his enemy. He’d also prayed to the Holy Virgin that his mother and her husband would understand he’d had no choice.
Sir John de Vere looked tired from his ride. Concerned at reports that Perkin Warbeck landed at Deal in Kent, Henry had sent him with five hundred men to investigate.
‘He never came ashore, Your Grace.’ De Vere scowled. ‘Word is he’s sailed on to Ireland. They counted fourteen ships, some flying the flag of Burgundy.’
‘Yet you are certain it was Warbeck?’ Henry studied his old friend’s battle-scarred face. ‘Or was it all rumour, put about by our enemies?’
‘He was there. We found some of his men.’ De Vere shook his head. ‘Seems he abandoned the men he’d already put ashore—to save himself.’
‘As we had to in Dorset,’ Henry made a quick calculation, ‘nearly twelve years ago.’
‘I’d forgotten—we almost lost Jasper in the confusion!’
‘Warbeck’s men, were they foreign mercenaries?’
‘At least a hundred and fifty died but those we found alive were quick enough to talk.’ De Vere shook his head. ‘Some were English and confessed they’d planned to gather enough supporters to march on London.’
‘Yet the men we had watching the coast of Kent saw them off?’
‘They served you with loyalty, Your Grace.’ He grinned. ‘Warbeck’s men didn’t have a chance.’
‘We must note this as a warning, Sir John. We learnt from our near disaster in Dorset.’ He raised an eyebrow at the memory. ‘I’m encouraged to know our defences proved sound, yet what if he’d landed in the North?’
‘Then... we might have a problem, Your Grace.’
Henry turned to him in surprise. ‘We have men to watch the coast, and our agents in Ireland can try to learn what he plans to do next?’
‘I pray you are right, although you know there have been riots after Sir William Stanley’s execution. The Stanley family always had great affinity in the North. They considered Sir William as one of their own...’
‘Now they use his death as an excuse to rebel against the taxes. It would have gone easier if I’d spared Sir William—although I could never again count him as loyal.’
‘You sent a clear message, Your Grace, that no one is beyond the reach of the law.’
‘And it has cost me. Now, Sir John, we must be sure to catch this troublesome impostor.’
There never seemed to be a good time to make a progress to the North, but Henry judged it necessary to win back the support of the great families there. In a public show of support, his mother and stepfather hosted their visit to their grand manor house at Lathom in Lancashire.
Henry accepted Sir Thomas’ offer to see the view from the roof parapet. From his high vantage-point, Henry could see the unfinished house was surrounded by a six-foot wall and a wide green moat with a high drawbridge defended by a tower.
‘You’ve built a castle here, Sir Thomas.’ Henry meant it as a joke yet felt a little envious.
‘Stone is cheap enough in the North, Your Grace, as is the labour of masons. I pay them half what it would cost in London.’
Henry appreciated his stepfather’s efforts to be civil, yet there was an edge of bitterness to his words since the death of his younger brother.
‘There will be eighteen towers,’ Sir Thomas continued, ‘and I’ve named the tall one in the middle the eagle tower.’ He saw Henry’s raised eyebrow. ‘Yes, we do have eagles here. When it’s finished you’ll be able to see for ten miles at least.’
Henry heard a muttering behind him and turned to see the earl’s fool, a grinning imbecile wearing a cap adorned with pheasant’s tail feathers. The fool spoke with such a thick Lancashire accent he couldn’t make out his words. Sir Thomas seemed to understand and cuffed the fool around the head, sending him scuttling back the way he’d come.
Only on the ride back to Sheen Palace did Henry realise what the fool had said. ‘Remember Will.’ Although a fool, he was strong enough. Henry realised the fool could have pushed him over the low parapet to his certain death. He must take more care from now on.
Elizabeth stared out of the window and smoothed the front of her gown, already expanding with her latest pregnancy. ‘I remember when she was born. So tiny, like a little mouse.’ She turned to Henry. ‘I prepared to lose her then, you know. The midwife, Alice Massey, told me...’
Henry placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘Good Alice Massey might have delivered more babies than she can count—but our baby was a fighter.’
Elizabeth studied him with sad amber eyes. ‘She was, Henry.’
‘Half Tudor, you see...’
‘And half York.’
Henry bit his lip. He had to be strong for her. He fought the dreadful feeling of regret. He should have learnt from Arthur’s lost youth. In three years, he never tried to know his little daughter Elizabeth. He’d been more interested in securing her a husband, the hand of the one-year-old Francis, to be the future French king.
He listened to his wife’s sobbing as she cried herself to sleep. He prayed for her and remembered the s
tory of Atropos, the Greek goddess of fate and destiny, who chose the mechanism of death and ended the life of mortals by cutting their thread.
Little Elizabeth’s coffin, brought on a chariot drawn by six black horses, seemed so small. One hundred poor men, all dressed in black, sat like silent crows in every spare seat, paid to pray for a princess taken before her time.
Henry commissioned a skilled engraver to write an inscription on a gilded plate so her name would never be forgotten: Here, after death, lies in this tomb a descendant of royalty, the young and noble Elizabeth, an illustrious princess. Atropos, most merciless messenger of death, snatched her away. May she inherit eternal life in Heaven!
Kneeling at Elizabeth’s new, grey marble tomb in the peace of Westminster Abbey, Henry forced himself to focus on his prayers. He’d always believed in his destiny, yet struggled to accept the loss of his little child was the will of a merciful God.
Duchess Catherine welcomed Henry to Jasper’s manor house at Thornbury in Gloucestershire. Still a beautiful woman, in a shimmering gown of scarlet satin and long, gold brocade sleeves. A large ruby flashed in the light on a thick gold chain around her neck as she greeted him with a graceful bow.
‘You do us a great honour, Your Grace, to travel here so close to Christmas.’ Her brief smile was not matched by the concern in her eyes.
Henry knew the reason. He asked the question that had urged him on for the past three days, despite biting winter winds and icy roads. ‘How is my uncle?’
She avoided his gaze. ‘His physicians fear...’ She seemed to struggle to say the words. ‘They tell me he won’t last the week. I sent the charlatans away, their daily bleedings and foul potions made my husband worse.’
‘I left as soon as I received your letter.’ He waited while Jasper’s elderly servant took Henry’s damp cloak and gloves. ‘I am grateful to you, Lady Catherine.’
He warmed himself at the stone hearth, where a log fire crackled and spat glowing embers. His fingers tingled as the feeling returned. He’d feared the worst. There was only one reason his uncle’s wife would write. The journey west was long and cold, yet he’d not hesitated to come.
A buxom servant brought mulled ale hot from the kitchens. Henry took a grateful sip and glanced across at Catherine. Only a year younger than himself, Lady Catherine looked more like Jasper’s daughter than his wife. Her waist had grown thicker under her gown, the legacy of four children by her first husband, the ill-fated Duke of Buckingham. The darkness under her eyes spoke of the strain she must now be under.
‘I imagine my uncle complains at being kept in bed?’
‘I’ve done what I can for him, Your Grace.’
Henry heard the coolness in her voice and remembered her marriage was not a love-match. Elizabeth was right. He’d offered her to Jasper like a trophy of war. He knew his uncle would always treat her with kindness, yet could not expect her to thank him for it.
‘May I see him now?’
‘Of course, Your Grace. He knows you are here and will be glad to see you.’
Henry sensed a resignation to her voice and realised his uncle’s poor health must be difficult for her. He finished his cup of mulled ale then followed Catherine into a dark hallway and up a flight of creaking wooden stairs.
He recalled Jasper telling him he wished he could live by the sea in Tenby and walk down to the harbour in the evenings. The journey to London from the far west of Wales was too long for him, so he’d settled in Gloucestershire, half way between London and his beloved castle at Pembroke.
Jasper sat up in his bed, propped up on velvet cushions. He grinned as he recognised Henry in the doorway. ‘You made it here despite the snow!’ he coughed, a dry, rasping sound, then reached out a hand in welcome.
Henry shook his hand. ‘Good to see you Uncle. It would take more than a little snow to keep me away!’ Last time they met he’d joked at how his uncle’s once iron-hard muscles were turning to fat, yet now his hand felt thin and frail.
‘I was sorry to hear about your daughter...’
Henry sat in a chair at the side of Jasper’s bed and realised he’d not seen him since before little Elizabeth’s death. He would have liked to visit Thornbury more often but there had been too much to do, and Jasper was no longer fit enough to travel to London.
‘Thank you, it has been a... difficult time for us all.’ Henry fought the emotions welling up inside. ‘You know we are expecting another child? Elizabeth thinks it might be another girl.’
‘Well done, Henry.’ Jasper’s voice sounded weak but his eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Your father would have been proud.’
‘My father was ambitious.’
Jasper nodded. ‘I remember how happy Edmund was the day he married your mother, one of the wealthiest heiresses in England.’ He stopped to gather his breath. ‘You know her grandfather was the eldest son of John of Gaunt and gained the confiscated estates of Owain Glyndur?’
Henry forced a smile. He’d heard the stories many times, yet Jasper never tired of reminding him. His mother rarely spoke of his father, so the picture of him in Henry’s mind had been formed from his uncle’s memories.
‘He wanted to make his mark on the world, and has—through you.’ Jasper sounded wistful, ‘Edmund would have been pleased to know his son has become so great a king.’
‘I wish I could have known him, Uncle, yet you’ve been more than a father to me.’ Henry looked into Jasper’s dark eyes. ‘I could not have done it without you.’
‘Who can know?’ Jasper smiled. ‘You do well enough without my help.’
Henry shook his head. ‘I’ve missed your good advice, Uncle. It is hard, being king—harder than I ever imagined when we were in Brittany.’
‘Sometimes we must be guided by our destiny, Henry.’ He coughed again, his face showing the pain as his chest heaved. He sat in silence for a moment, recovering his breath. ‘Queen Charlotte of France once told me... whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time.’
‘I wish to tell you a great secret, Henry, while there is time....’
Henry placed his hand on his uncle’s shoulder and spoke softly. ‘I can’t believe there is anything you need to confess to me, Uncle. I’ve never known a better man than you.’
Jasper peered up at him. ‘I killed a man once, Henry.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘His name was Roger Vaughan, a fellow Welshman. I captured him at Chepstow castle. When he asked for mercy I said I’d offer him the same courtesy he allowed my father. I took my sword and cut off his head.’
The great effort of saying the words seemed to take the spirit from him. Henry knew the Vaughan family bore a grudge against Jasper yet never understood why, until now.
‘We were at war, Uncle. I carry the burden of many deaths on my conscience.’
Jasper recovered his breath. ‘I took his life out of vengeance, Henry. He executed your grandfather. William Herbert might have given the order but it was Roger Vaughan of Tretower who carried it out.
‘I forgive you, Uncle. We shall pay to have prayers said for Roger Vaughan.’
‘Thank you, Henry, it would mean a lot to me.’
‘You’ve always known my great secret, that I never wished to become king.’
‘You told me as much back in France before we even had an army.’ His voice sounded weaker now, as each breath became a greater effort.
‘You told me a king doesn’t have to fight in wars, that if I were king, I could end wars, bring peace to this country...’
‘I could not be more proud of you, Henry.’ His voice became a whisper. ‘Pray for me.’
Henry’s eyes filled with tears.
Chapter Twelve
March 1496
The deep sense of loss of his loyal uncle hung over Henry like an ominous cloud, darkening his mood. The long, freezing winter finally gave way to spring, yet the cold still lingered in his bones. He suffered with his bad teeth and could not recall when he’d last had a good night’s slee
p.
He worried about his dwindling finances and needed to raise more taxes to maintain his hard pressed army. The new dockyard in Portsmouth was ready yet he had no money to build new ships. He’d taken to gambling to pass the time and take his mind off Perkin Warbeck, but lost a small fortune at cards and dice.
Henry missed his Uncle Jasper. He missed his wife, shut away in her rooms to give birth to their fifth child. It should be a time of great anticipation, yet he feared the worst. Elizabeth grieved for the loss of their daughter and looked like a pale ghost when he saw her for the last time.
One consequence of his uncle’s death was that his mother forgot their differences over the execution of William Stanley. She moved to Sheen Palace with an entourage of servants. His mother had come to care for Elizabeth and promised to remain until after the baby was born.
She liked to keep him company while he checked through his chamber accounts, although unlike Elizabeth, she preferred her books to needlework. She also liked to discuss matters of state and would distract him from his work with her questions.
‘I understand your Uncle Jasper’s will allows only that his wife will have such dues as shall be thought to appertain by law and conscience.’ There was a note of satisfaction in her voice.
Henry glanced up from checking the lists of expenses. Although he’d spoken once of having fathered two daughters in Wales, his Uncle Jasper left no legitimate heir. He’d shown great generosity in providing for his household servants with a year’s wages, yet he hadn’t made his wife an executor of his will or left her anything specific.
‘You’ve never approved of the Woodville family, Mother, but Lady Catherine cared for my uncle as well as anyone could.’ He laid down his quill and turned to face her. ‘As for his will, he divided his fortune between us and benevolences to the church.’
‘Your uncle was right to limit her inheritance. Has she not already remarried a young courtier?’
Henry raised an eyebrow. ‘I am sure you know, Mother, this courtier comes from a good Lancastrian family—and is a man with excellent prospects.’ He frowned, ‘It was done in haste, I grant you, and without our consent.’
