Henry - Book Three of the Tudor Trilogy

by Tony Riches

  ‘I am surprised at your tolerance. Lady Catherine should be in mourning.’ She spoke as if to herself.

  Henry turned back to his work. He doubted Jasper would have wished his wife to mourn him for too long. He imagined his uncle would have laughed to know she married a man younger than herself so promptly. He wished her well and would have given the marriage his blessing.

  His mother still wore her mourning dress for Jasper. He knew she prayed for a week after his funeral at Keynsham Abbey, long into the night. He’d sometimes wondered how close the two of them had been at the time of his birth in Pembroke Castle. He asked Jasper once. He’d deflected the question, like a swordsman parrying a blow, as if there might be something he wished to hide.

  Henry glanced at his mother, who had returned to studying her book. He could ask her now but decided it was too late for her answer to be of any consequence. Some things are best left unspoken.

  He returned to the letter from Bishop Foxe, who was in Scotland to negotiate a betrothal between Henry’s daughter Margaret and King James. Henry read the letter aloud to his mother for her opinion, something he’d rarely done with Elizabeth.

  His mother listened until he finished and then shook her head. ‘I confess I never was in favour of this scheme, Henry. How old is your young daughter now?’

  ‘Princess Margaret was six years old last September. I appreciate your reservations, Mother, but these things take time.’

  ‘Well, now King James supports the impostor, will you order Bishop Foxe to return?’

  ‘We have all the more reason for him to persist with his discussions. If there is any chance of persuading King James to hand over Warbeck, we must take it.’

  Henry found he was thinking aloud. An alliance with James of Scotland could solve all his problems. In the meantime, Richard Foxe was taking the opportunity to learn what he could of the intentions of the Scots.

  ‘Bishop Foxe advises you that Warbeck is married now—to a Scottish lady, a cousin of King James.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘That suggests he either thinks the impostor tells the truth or could be turned to his advantage.’

  ‘The good bishop has known King James of Scotland since he was a boy. What do we have to lose by trying?’

  ‘A daughter.’

  ‘She would become the Queen of Scots and begin to work for peace.’ Henry doubted the words even as he said them, yet he found these debates with his mother helped focus his thoughts. ‘We have a truce with France, Sir Edward Poynings has brought the Irish lords into line, and Bishop Foxe has a deal with Philip of Burgundy. Only the Scots now threaten our peace.’

  He pointed with his quill to the chamber accounts, piled up on his desk. ‘In truth, Mother, we cannot afford a war if the Scots choose to invade with Warbeck. Even with all the fines we’ve been imposing, we’d have to raise new taxes—and risk more dissent in the North.’

  His mother returned to the study of her book. Henry understood. She had offered her opinion and considered their discussion to be ended.

  Henry studied parchment maps of the Atlantic Ocean spread out by the bearded Viennese adventurer, John Cabot and his sons. Intrigued by tales of fortunes in trade to be made in distant lands, he’d agreed to give them an audience. He’d also asked his trusted chancellor, Sir Thomas Lovell to the meeting.

  Sir Thomas stroked his beard as he considered the possibilities. ‘You have a suitable ship in Bristol?’

  John Cabot produced another parchment. ‘We do, sir, a fast and able ship, the Matthew, of fifty tons, with a crew of eighteen men.’ He glanced at his sons. ‘I am a master mariner—and my sons have spent their lives at sea.’ He spoke in a deep voice in a curious West Country accent, although his first language was Italian. ‘This is our list of supplies, enough to last our crew twelve months.’

  ‘What do you seek from us?’ Henry was cautious not to reveal the poor state of his finances.

  ‘We ask for royal patronage, Your Grace. Bristol merchants will invest if we have the king’s warrant.’

  ‘And what do you expect to discover?’ Sir Thomas still sounded unsure.

  ‘Little is known of these lands, sir.’ He pointed to the western Atlantic on the parchment map. ‘I was in the spice trade, following the ancient routes, and heard stories of fabulous wealth in Asia.’

  Henry smiled, ‘I have also heard of mysterious people across the sea. You could secure us trading rights?’

  ‘We would hope to, Your Grace. I believe the route to Asia could be shorter from the north than along the trade winds, although the adventure is through discovery.’

  ‘You will bear the whole costs and pay the king one-fifth of any profits?’ Sir Thomas had a duty as chancellor to protect Henry’s interests.

  Cabot grinned. ‘We will, sir—and claim new lands for the King of England.’

  Henry saw Sir Thomas’ nod of approval. It seemed there was little enough to lose in the venture. ‘We shall grant you letters patent, Master Cabot. You and your sons will sail under the English flag to seek out and discover lands unknown to Christians.’

  After they had gone, Sir Thomas turned to Henry. ‘An interesting fellow, I wish him well.’

  Henry agreed. ‘He was recommended to me by an Augustinian friar. His real name is Giovanni Caboto and what he says is true. The Italian merchants of London will finance his voyage.’

  ‘So we have nothing to lose, Your Grace?’

  ‘And everything to gain, Sir Thomas. There is a whole world beyond these shores. Who knows what he might find?’

  Henry held his newest child in his arms. A daughter, she had entered the world without fuss or cause for concern. Her swaddling robes were loosened, freeing her arms. He laughed as a tiny hand reached for his nose.

  The tragic death of their daughter Elizabeth meant he’d prepared himself for the loss of another. Only now did he realise they’d not even discussed names or planned the christening. He breathed a great sigh of relief and thanked God to see both the baby and Elizabeth in good health.

  ‘What shall we name her?’

  Elizabeth looked up from her bed. ‘I was thinking—we could name her Mary, after my beloved younger sister, who died when she was only fourteen.’

  ‘Mary Tudor... a good name,’ Henry smiled in approval, ‘and she is a good size.’

  ‘I thank the Lord for his grace. There has been enough sadness in our household.’ She smiled as she watched the two of them together. ‘Our little Mary shall mark the start of spring. A new season is beginning for our growing family.’

  Henry handed the baby to her young nursemaid, Mistress Annie Skearn, telling her he needed a private moment with his wife. He sat on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed. Taking her pale hand in his, he gave her thin fingers a gentle squeeze.

  ‘Our physician says you are to remain in bed for a few weeks until you regain your strength.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Each of our children seems to take something from you.’

  ‘I’m tired, Henry, although...’ She hesitated.

  ‘What is it, Elizabeth?’

  ‘I need to rest before we have another child.’ She watched for his reaction. ‘You know what I’m saying?’

  Henry understood and kissed her hand. ‘I agree to abstinence until you feel well enough.’ He saw she still had a look of concern. ‘What troubles you?’

  ‘I was thinking of my mother. You know how many children she had?’

  Henry shrugged. ‘Too many to count?’

  Elizabeth laughed for the first time since her daughter’s death. ‘My mother had twelve children. She was forty-three when my youngest sister Bridget was born.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘My mother warned me, when I was expecting Arthur, of the consequences of not meeting your needs.’

  Henry recalled the stories of her father’s many mistresses. The rumours even reached him in Brittany, such was the late king’s indiscretion. He understood. ‘You need have no concern, Elizabeth.’

  ‘It would only be until I feel strong again.’ />
  He smiled at her. ‘A small price to pay to see your health restored.’

  Henry pretended dismay as Elizabeth took his black knight, left undefended. He’d arranged for the chess board to be placed on a special table that she could use while remaining in her bed. As well as helping the time pass more easily for her, he was determined to spend more time in Elizabeth’s company.

  The tuneful song of a blackbird drifted in the fresh spring air through the unshuttered window as Henry moved his bishop to take one of Elizabeth’s pawns. A small victory, and he laughed at her frown of annoyance. A skilled player, she usually won their games.

  ‘I have some good news about our son’s betrothal.’

  Elizabeth moved her queen to protect it. ‘I was beginning to wonder if we shall ever see Arthur’s Spanish Princess.’

  ‘Well, Rodrigo de Puebla believes we will, and soon. It seems they’ve tired of using the pretender as an excuse for delay.’ Henry moved his remaining knight, threatening Elizabeth’s bishop. ‘King Ferdinand needs this alliance more than we do.’

  She pondered for a moment, then moved her queen. ‘Checkmate, I believe.’

  Henry studied the board, looking for a way out. ‘A king, beaten by a queen.’ He smiled, glad to see the colour restored to her face at last. ‘I expect we’ll soon hear King Ferdinand has agreed to pay the dowry.’

  ‘Should we not be more concerned to see his daughter, if she is to be the future Queen of England?’

  ‘Of course, although we must make sure there is enough money for her upkeep—until she is married.’

  He watched as Elizabeth replaced the chess pieces in their correct squares, ready for another game. It was an encouraging sign of her recovery, as before she’d been too tired to manage more than one game of chess.

  Henry hid a pawn in each hand and held them out for her to choose. ‘I think you are well enough to join me on a summer progress to the West Country?’

  ‘I should like that, Henry.’ Elizabeth brightened as again she chose white, her lucky colour. ‘We should take the older children.’

  Leaving Sheen in bright May sunshine, they stopped at Eltham and Greenwich to collect Arthur, Harry and Margaret before setting out on the long ride to Chertsey in Surrey. One of the oldest market towns in England, it seemed the entire population turned out to welcome the royal cavalcade.

  Garlands of flowers decorated the narrow streets and fresh rushes paved the way for the royal family. Arthur, who would become ten in September, led with Henry on their black chargers. Elizabeth, Harry and Princess Margaret followed in a carriage drawn by two pairs of white horses.

  One hundred members of the Royal Guard rode with them, with as many servants, Elizabeth’s ladies and several knights of the realm. Behind them followed wagons laden with beds and tapestries, clothing and the king’s plate, all the essentials of the Tudor court in progress.

  Henry peered up at the great stained-glass window of Chertsey Abbey. The crucifixion scene took on a surreal glow as it reflected the sunshine behind. It chilled him to know the body of King Henry VI had lain in state in the nave not far from where he sat, after his murder by Yorkist assassins.

  He glanced to his side and could see young Arthur listening attentively to the sermon, yet he noticed his son Harry seemed bored. Not for the first time Henry doubted if his younger son should be prepared for a life in the church. He’d already shown a great interest in ships. Henry wondered if his younger son would one day command the royal fleet.

  After the service, Henry lit a candle for his daughter Elizabeth and another for Jasper. As he watched the flames flicker in the coolness of the abbey he prayed to the Holy Virgin for their souls. He’d not had time to see much of either of them in their last year of life and vowed to not make the same mistake again.

  The Regent strained at her mooring ropes at the dockside in Southampton, Henry’s colourful standard flying in a warm summer breeze. Sailors shouted to each other from high on the yard-arms while others coaxed nervous horses up a narrow gangplank. Henry placed a hand on the shoulders of each of his sons as they watched.

  ‘Your first sea voyage—mark this moment boys, as it will be the first of many.’

  Henry stared out to sea. The wind blew in their favour, although he could see white foam cresting on the waves further out. He’d never been to the Isle of Wight before and thought it would be good for his sons to experience the short crossing on his flagship. Now he hoped it might not be too much of an adventure.

  He remembered his first time, at the age of fourteen, braving rough seas and gales with his Uncle Jasper. They’d escaped York’s men by sailing from Tenby at night. Their little ship was blown off course and in danger of being swamped by towering waves higher than the mast. He’d feared they would drown but their captain found shelter in the lee of the island of Jersey.

  As they boarded to a fanfare of trumpets he raised a hand to the crowds who’d come to see them off. A voice shouted ‘God save the King!’ and the crowd gave arousing cheer.

  At last the heavy mooring ropes were cast off and the Regent headed out into the choppy waters of the Solent. The deck tilted as the mainsail filled, causing young Arthur to stumble.

  ‘One hand for the ship, Arthur!’ Henry shouted as his son made his way across the deck.

  Arthur grabbed the rail at his side. ‘I thought to take some air, Father.’

  ‘Feeling seasick?’ He studied his son’s pale face under his wide-brimmed black hat. Tall for his age, his thin frame was hidden by a rich fur cape, despite the summer warmth. ‘Keep your eyes on the horizon, that will help.’ He grinned. ‘It’s a short crossing, ten miles, we’ll soon be back on dry land.’

  Henry glanced across the deck where Harry was being shown the guns by the captain and clearly enjoying the short voyage. Arthur was more interested to learn more about Sir Edward Woodville’s brave but ill-fated foray to save Brittany.

  ‘I ordered your uncle not to go but he was an adventurer, Arthur.’ He pointed to the outline of the island dominating the horizon. ‘I made him Lord of the Isle of Wight. It wasn’t enough for him. He travelled to Spain to fight the Moors and was knocked unconscious in a fight. His front teeth were smashed, but he thought it a badge of honour. He wanted to make a name for himself, so he’d sailed to Brittany in secret with his army. They didn’t stand a chance against the French.’

  He looked down at his son. ‘Learn from your uncle’s mistakes, Arthur. He could have been waiting to welcome us now—and not buried in an unmarked grave, God rest him.’

  The great hall of Carisbrooke Castle echoed to the sound of music and laughter at the banquet in Henry’s honour. Seated at the top table with Elizabeth to one side and Arthur to the other, Henry applauded the choir of local women. He turned to Arthur.

  ‘Are you not pleased you came with us?’

  ‘Yes, Father. My first time at sea was an experience I’ll remember.’

  Henry picked at a plate of small birds. He’d hardly eaten any of the dozens of courses as his tooth ached, although he kept the dull pain a secret. As he watched a group of travelling mummers acting out their play he wondered what was going on in London.

  ‘How can you be certain this was Warbeck?’

  Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmorland, seemed sure. ‘That’s what they say, Your Grace. The villagers, whose cottages were burnt, said the attackers carried the banner of York. Their leader rode a fine horse and commanded well over a hundred armed men.’

  ‘They could have been local raiders?’

  ‘We’re well used to the Scots, trying their luck over the border—this was different. They tried to persuade the local men to join them—and burnt their houses when they refused.’

  ‘You can see how my instinct was to doubt it, Sir Ralph. It seemed unlikely Warbeck would bother looting a few cottages, yet now I see what happened.’ He began to pace the room, his hands clasped behind his back as he thought. The boy who’d kept him awake at night had now become a man, with
a Scottish army, paid for by King James.

  Henry wished Warbeck had the nerve to ride into York and proclaim himself king. Then, at least, they would have a fighting chance of capturing him. Instead, all they had were a few terrified villagers as witnesses to his crimes.

  ‘How did you let him escape?’ Henry heard the challenge in his voice.

  ‘The border stretches for a hundred miles, Your Grace. We don’t have enough men to cover it all.’

  An idea occurred to Henry as he listened to Sir Ralph’s excuses. He would call a meeting of Parliament and use this outrageous invasion to justify a new tax. Sir Giles Daubeney had been recalled from Calais to become the new Lord Chancellor in place of William Stanley.

  The new taxes would pay for an army of twenty-five thousand men, and Baron Daubeney, who’d fought with distinction at Bosworth, would march them to the border. Next time Perkin Warbeck dared to cross, they would be ready for him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  June 1497

  Elizabeth shouted to her ladies to hurry. Servants dashed from room to room, carrying clothes and boxes. More soldiers arrived to reinforce the guard, their weapons clattering as they marched. Sheen Palace was no longer safe and none of them knew if rebels could arrive at any moment.

  The new taxes to pay for war with Scotland ignited embers of unrest. Not the smouldering remnants of York loyalty in the North but in the dry tinder of the poverty-stricken far west of Cornwall. Rumours spread of between ten and twenty thousand men marching on London, with more joining in every town and village.

  Henry burst into Elizabeth’s apartment wearing a sword at his belt with a silver breastplate strapped over his doublet. He carried his gleaming sallet helmet, bejewelled at Elizabeth’s suggestion so his men would know him as their king. He surveyed the scene and turned to his wife.