by Tony Riches
A choir gave a spirited performance of a song composed in honour of the new prince at the banquet in the great hall of Greenwich Palace. Wine flowed and musicians played as the first of twenty courses was served by servants in royal livery. The cost of entertaining so many guests seemed a small price to pay for a third healthy son.
Lady Margaret sat under a cloth of estate in place of Elizabeth, who’d retired early on her physician’s advice. Anyone new to Henry’s court could be forgiven for mistaking Lady Margaret for the queen. Only fourteen years older than Henry, she looked unchanged since his coronation.
For Henry, the strain of his years on the throne and the sleepless nights had taken their toll. He knew he now looked older than his forty-two years, and that people said as much behind his back. As he watched his laughing guests he wondered how many he could count as true friends.
He relied on his mother’s advice about who to trust. Devout, well-connected and respected by the nobility, she had a shrewd talent for seeing the truth of things and always considered his best interests.
‘I was thinking my new son shall be made Duke of Somerset, in tribute to his Beaufort ancestors.’ Henry told his mother. ‘We could raise him as a scholar and champion of the arts.’
‘Your father would be honoured to see his name remembered so well. He was proud of his title of Earl of Richmond.’
‘What sort of man was my father?’ He’d never asked her before and his question made her glance at him in surprise.
‘He was part of God’s plan for you, Henry, for us. He was loyal to his king and fought for what he believed in. He was taken before his time.’ She surprised him by sounding wistful, the first time he’d heard her speak of his father with anything other than detachment.
‘My Uncle Jasper told me my father always wished to make his mark on the world—and has, through our growing family.’
Lady Margaret agreed. ‘Your uncle would never hear anything said against his brother. I am certain your father would have been most proud of you, Henry, may the good Lord rest his soul.’
Henry raised his goblet of wine in agreement and wondered if it was her way of saying she was proud of him. Like any son, her praise would mean much to him, yet he’d become accustomed to not expect it.
He found it impossible to imagine what his mother must have been like as a fourteen-year-old girl, a wealthy heiress, married to a lusty young knight. Once, when a little drunk on wine, Jasper told him everyone had known his mother was too young to bear a child.
Jasper had said there was nothing he could do to stop his brother, who knew he would secure her fortune when she bore his child. Edmund Tudor was impatient and ambitious, a deadly combination for his young mother. Henry wished his father had lived long enough to have seen the result of his short marriage.
News of yet another new pretender sped through the court in London like a flat stone skimming across a tranquil lake. By the time word reached Henry at Richmond it was already common knowledge.
There to inspect the building works, he’d been in a good mood to see such promising progress. Although the fire destroyed his own apartments and the chapel, much of the remaining structures, including Henry V’s massive tower, could be recovered without great expense.
His domed octagonal towers were already rising from the ashes under a complex network of scaffolding. The once peaceful grounds were a confusion of noise and activity. Kilns burned night and day to fire huge quantities of red bricks and men cursed as they sawed whole oak trees into massive beams. The air rang with the musical sound of stonemasons’ hammers on chisels as the carved the pale stone brought from quarries in Dorset.
Henry was not about to repeat the mistake he’d made with Lambert Simnel or Perkin Warbeck and demanded the immediate arrest of the new impostor. Named Ralph Wilford, the young shoemaker’s son claimed he was the escaped Earl of Warwick and said he’d had dreams where he’d seen visions of his coronation.
Henry summoned his old ally Sir John de Vere, who arrived with news that Wilford had already been captured.
‘We must show a firm hand this time, Your Grace.’ His gruff voice sounded uncompromising and his advice more like a command.
‘At this rate we’ll run out of space in the Tower, Sir John. I still have the Earl of Warwick there, as well as Warbeck.’
De Vere frowned. ‘I was thinking we must make an example of this latest impostor. The people need a reminder of the punishment for treason—and should see it carried out.’
The ominous shadow of another death clouded Henry’s conscience but he knew Sir John was right. It was easy enough to grant pardons and demand fines. There was a danger this could be seen as weakness. Now he must put a stop to further impostors.
‘He must have a fair trial—but if he’s found guilty of treason he is to be sentenced to death and hanged.’
‘I understand there are two of them involved, Your Grace. The other is an Augustinian priest by the name of Patrick, who aided and encouraged him.’
‘I cannot hang a priest, Sir John.’
‘Yet men might listen to a friar who seems to have nothing to gain by his treason?’
‘If the friar makes a full confession, he might plead the protection of his faith.’
‘These plotters test our faith, Your Grace, yet if we act swiftly it will send a message no one can fail to understand.’
‘I pray you are right, for all our sakes.’
‘What do you plan to do about Warwick, Your Grace? I checked on him, to be sure he was still in his cell. I must say he seems more of a simpleton than I remember.’
‘He is the cousin of the queen and means no harm, but this latest plot against us...’
De Vere scratched his beard. ‘If either Warwick or Warbeck attempt to escape we’ll be ready for them.’
‘Be sure that you are, Sir John.’ Henry gave him a knowing look.
He rode to visit Elizabeth at Eltham Palace and found her with Harry, who was writing with a large quill, his face a frown of concentration. Henry inspected his work, a Latin prayer.
‘I would never have guessed this was your hand, Harry. I must say you have more skill with a pen than I did at your age.’
Although it was true, Harry’s work was a little clumsy and lacked Arthur’s graceful line. What impressed him was how Harry made up for lack of talent with sheer determination to impress. He smiled at his son’s beam of pleasure at his encouragement.
Harry looked up at Elizabeth with admiration. ‘I have the best of tutors, my lady Mother.
‘We must reward your good efforts, Harry.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Would you like to come hunting? There are many stags in the parks. We can take the oldest—and have some fine venison for the table!’
Harry grinned. ‘Thank you, Father. I’d like to go hunting.’
Henry turned to Elizabeth. ‘You look well. Are you well enough now to come hunting with us?’
She laughed at the suggestion and shook her head. ‘It will be good for the two of you to know each other better.’
Henry glanced down at his red-haired son and realised she was right. Harry would be eight years old at the end of June, yet he still treated him like an infant, leaving him in the nursery at Eltham with his sisters and tutors. His second son was growing up fast and he’d been too busy to notice.
Once they reached the forest the gamekeeper signalled them to stop and dismount. It could take all day to find a lone stag but the keepers knew the forests well. Henry could have brought his crossbow but decided this would be his son’s day. He called for Harry’s bow and checked the tension of the bowstring.
‘A fine hunting bow, Harry. You practice every day?’
‘As you asked, Father.’
‘And you find your aim improved?’
‘A little... although I’ve never killed a deer.’
Henry handed him the bow and they followed the keeper into the trees. Harry seemed at home in the dense woodland, his eyes scanning the trees. After an
hour of tracking, the keeper raised a hand. He put a finger to his lips and pointed to the dark outline of a stag silhouetted in the late afternoon sun.
Henry stood back while the keeper beckoned Harry to approach. As Harry nocked a good broad head arrow something startled the deer. Harry drew to the head and shot. His arrow led the bounding animal by several yards as the stag reached cover.
The arrow struck, entering the muscular flank of the stag, which continued its run into the bush. As it did so the protruding arrow shaft snapped. The pursuing keeper bent and retrieved the broken piece.
‘We cannot leave it now, Your Grace.’
They followed the sound of the stag crashing through thick undergrowth, and found him lying in a sunlit woodland clearing. The keeper drew his knife, ready to end the animal’s suffering, then shook his head and sheathed it again.
‘A heart shot, Your Grace, one of the finest I ever hope to see.’
Henry turned to his beaming son in surprise. He’d not expected Harry to hit the running stag at that distance. ‘Your first kill, Harry. I could not be more proud of you.’
White doves fluttered from the dovecote of Tickenhall Palace, Prince Arthur’s residence in Bewdley, Worcestershire. Henry walked with his son in the wooded grounds and explained the betrothal ceremony.
‘It is important you are betrothed in the eyes of God, Arthur, even though your wedding will not take place for another two years.’ He smiled. ‘Our alliance with Spain makes us stronger—and means the new King of France will respect our treaty. You are only twelve years old, yet you already hold the key to the longest peace with the French anyone can remember.’
‘I have been writing to the Princess Caterina, Father, with the help of my Latin tutors, as she cannot yet speak English.’
‘Your mastery of Latin is good enough to write such letters?’
Arthur gave him a shy glance that reminded Henry of Elizabeth. ‘I do not know how to proclaim my love for her...’
‘I must speak to your tutors. You are too young to be proclaiming love,’ Henry laughed at the idea, ‘although you will be blessed if you find love with this princess.’
‘I can learn to love Princess Catalina, Father, God willing.’
For the first time Henry heard the note of confidence in his son’s voice and had a glimpse of the man Arthur might become. They shared the same tall, lean build, which Jasper told him came from his noble Valois heritage. Arthur also had Elizabeth’s amber eyes and her Plantagenet blood, yet he was a Tudor.
‘You must call her Princess Catherine, Princess of Wales, from now on, Arthur. I will tell ambassador Puebla to make sure she is taught to speak our language before your wedding day.’ He smiled at his son. ‘She has plenty of time.’
They arrived back at the palace, where the Spanish ambassador waited with the priest and witnesses. Rodrigo de Puebla sweated under a black hat and a brocade robe with a thick leather belt emphasising his considerable girth.
‘You make a poor substitute for a beautiful princess, Ambassador!’
De Puebla grinned at Henry’s joke. ‘It is a great honour for me to represent her Highness, Your Grace.’
‘Well, we are grateful to you, Ambassador, for your part in making this betrothal possible.’ Henry patted the portly Spaniard on the back. ‘I’ll confess there were times when I doubted this day would come.’
‘I have reassured King Ferdinand, as you requested, that the throne of England has never been more secure.’
‘And he has agreed to pay the dowry?’
‘This betrothal will make certain of it, Your Grace.’
‘Then we must proceed—without delay.’
Elizabeth had not been well enough to travel for the Easter pilgrimage, so, once again, his mother took her place. Accompanied by her chaplain and confessor John Fisher, Lady Margaret insisted on visiting every shrine and chapel on their route. This slowed their pace and meant several stops to complete the sixty-mile journey from her manor at Coldharbour.
The annual pilgrimage to Canterbury was a time away from the demands of Parliament and court, a chance to restore his faith. Henry enjoyed the anonymity of mingling with other pilgrims and dressed in simple clothes, preferring not to be recognised, although his yeomen were never far behind.
He found himself riding alongside his mother’s confessor, a stern yet articulate and well-educated cleric. ‘My mother speaks well of you, Master Fisher. I must congratulate you on your achievements as Proctor of Cambridge.’
‘Thank you. It is a great honour to serve Lady Margaret,’ Fisher spoke with the blunt Yorkshire accent of his birth, ‘and to accompany Your Grace to the shrine of Saint Thomas. His life was an inspiration.’
Henry nodded. ‘I cannot imagine my Mother has a great deal to occupy the services of a priest confessor.’
John Fisher glanced across at Henry as if making a judgement. ‘We all find our faith tested, Your Grace, and the most devout find the test the greatest.’
‘I’ll agree with you, Master Fisher.’ He understood why his mother had chosen Fisher as her chaplain.
They rode in silence for a mile or so then Henry turned in the saddle. ‘What do you say of the martyrdom of Thomas Becket?’
Fisher thought for a moment before replying. ‘Like Archbishop John Morton, I understand as chancellor Thomas Becket enforced the king's taxes, including from the church—until he became archbishop. He was made a martyr for arguing the church was above the state.’
‘I believe he was murdered by knights who misunderstood the wishes of their king, who faced a dilemma over what to do about him. Do you believe he was martyred, if it was through a misunderstanding?’
‘He was a man of conscience, Your Grace.’
‘My physician, Master Parron, holds the view that the life of one man can be weighed against the many who might suffer if he lives.’
‘You are thinking of the present dilemma of the pretender in the Tower? The country waits to see the fate of Master Perkin Warbeck, and the Earl of Warwick.’
‘And you, Master Fisher—do you have an opinion about what should be done with those who confess to treason against the crown?’
‘Every life is sacred, Your Grace. Trust in the Lord, and he will guide your way.’
When Henry finally stood alone before the shrine of St Thomas, he recalled John Fisher’s words and wondered if there was such a thing as a miracle.
Sit John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, presided over the trial of Perkin Warbeck in a crowded Westminster Hall. He listened as the list of charges were read out by the clerk of the court. Warbeck was accused of bribing his guards and attempting to escape, with the assistance of an Irishman named John Water, Mayor of the city of Cork.
De Vere eyed Warbeck for a moment. ‘Do you have anything to say in your defence?’
Warbeck remained silent, staring at the floor. Chained and ragged, with bruises on his face, he was hardly recognisable.
Sir John de Vere ordered him to read out his confession then sentenced both him and John Water, as well as two of the hapless guards, to be taken to Tyburn and hanged.
Edward, Earl of Warwick, was next to be tried as a co-conspirator. He seemed to not understand the sentence and raised a hand to the curious onlookers as he was also led away to be executed before a jeering crowd at Tower Hill.
Henry paid twelve pounds for the burial of the last of the male Plantagenet line. Elizabeth said nothing about the death of her cousin, although he’d heard she cried when she heard the news.
Later, Henry attended a mass in Westminster Abbey and lit a candle for the twenty-four-year-old earl. As he watched the single yellow flame brighten, he doubted young Edward had known the consequences of Warbeck’s daring plot.
As an afterthought he lit a second candle for the man from Tournai who called himself Perkin Warbeck. He placed his hands together and prayed. He didn’t move until both candles burned down to the end of their short wicks, flickered once and were extinguished.
Cha
pter Sixteen
April 1500
Henry felt relieved when Elizabeth agreed to sail with him to Calais to meet Archduke Philip of Burgundy. As well as an encouraging sign of her improving health, she would be good company. He’d also worried about the increasing number of deaths from the plague in London and prayed the pestilence would be over before they returned in two months.
As he watched the royal standards on the towers of Dover Castle vanish into the early morning mists, Elizabeth joined him on deck. Dressed in a warm fur hood and cape against the freshening breeze, she reached for the ship’s rail with one gloved hand and took his arm to steady herself with the other.
‘I shall miss our children, Henry, although I look forward to seeing Calais. I’ve heard so many stories.’
‘The Channel crossing makes it feel much further yet Calais is half as far from London as York.’ He studied the grey-green waves with an experienced sailor’s eye. ‘We’re fortunate, as the seas look calm enough.’
She pulled him closer. ‘We are not in danger there, from the French?’
Henry smiled her question. His old adversary, King Charles, died without an heir when he struck his head on a lintel. The threat now was from the new King of France, his cousin Louis XII. Five years younger than Henry, Louis had wasted no time in marrying Charles’ widow, Anne of Brittany.
‘Calais has our largest standing army—and King Louis campaigns far away with his army in Italy,’ he reassured her. ‘He shows more interest in seizing Milan than Calais. I pray for peace with France and will welcome King Louis when the time is right. In the meantime, I aim to make the Duke of Burgundy an important ally. His wife Duchess Joanna is sister to Princess Catherine, so we will soon be related by our son’s marriage, God willing.’
‘Will the duchess accompany him to Calais?’
‘I doubt it, although if she does you would have the chance to learn something of our son’s betrothed.’
