Henry - Book Three of the Tudor Trilogy

by Tony Riches

  Henry chose the old outpost of Guines Castle for their first meeting. On the furthest north-east border of Calais, it was close enough to be considered neutral ground. The great stone hall of the castle was being transformed from a soldiers’ barracks in preparation for the grand banquet.

  Women spread fine white linen over ancient tables, arranged around an open area, swept clean for entertainments and dancing. The air rang with the staccato sound of men on ladders hammering iron nails to support colourful tapestries and banners. Brought from Henry’s London palaces, they brightened the bare walls and gave the castle an air of grandeur.

  Wagons pulled by oxen ferried barrels of wine, fresh loaves, food and delicacies from the town. Cooks and servants worked from dawn, with blazing fires and great boiling cauldrons, preparing more than twenty courses for the feast. Musicians rehearsed with noisy drums and trumpets, their music sending fat pigeons flying from roosts in the high roof beams.

  Henry made the short journey from the town riding at the head of a grand procession, escorted by his yeomen in royal livery of red, blue and gold. The queen and her ladies were followed by the knights of his court, lords and ladies and the mayor and men of the Staple of Calais. A hundred archers commanded by the Earl of Oxford marched at the rear, a precaution to reinforce the garrison of Guisnes.

  The Duke of Burgundy lived up to his nickname of Philip the Handsome. Dressed in tight fitting velvet to show off his athletic build, he was also charming, kissing Elizabeth’s hand and flattering her in soft-spoken French. Henry felt his years as he watched his wife’s blushes at the attentions of the young duke.

  ‘Duchess Joanna remains in Flanders with my newborn son Charles, Your Grace. She would be honoured to meet you yet is unable to travel.’ He addressed Henry in accented English and shrugged his shoulders in apology.

  Elizabeth smiled at the duke’s news. ‘Please convey our congratulations, Duke Philip, and our best wishes.’

  ‘You can be sure that I will, my lady.’

  Henry noticed the duke eyeing Elizabeth’s attractive young ladies-in-waiting, as if trying to choose between them. It seemed he planned to enjoy the evening’s entertainment.

  ‘The banquet awaits, Archduke.’

  The duke took his seat next to Henry and the Chancellor, Sir Thomas Lovell, proposed a toast to peace between their nations. Servants dressed in Tudor green and white brought trenchers of freshly baked bread, dishes of roasted meat, boiled fish and jugs of fine wine.

  The duke turned to Henry. ‘Our families are soon to be joined in marriage, Your Grace.’

  ‘God willing. Have you met King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, Duke Philip?’

  ‘The marriage negotiations were conducted through their ambassadors, although I have since learnt a great deal of them through my wife, Joanna.’ He leant over and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. ‘I look forward to meeting her mother, Queen Isabella of Castile, her father King Ferdinand,’ he pulled a face, ‘less so.’

  Henry laughed. ‘They test my patience, Duke Philip, with their protracted deliberations. I must ask your opinion of what I should do if King Ferdinand does not pay the dowry due?’

  The archduke looked puzzled. ‘I am married to his daughter but would not presume to have great influence with the King of Aragon...’

  ‘I was thinking of your sister, archduke.’

  Understanding flashed in the quick-witted duke’s eyes. ‘My sister Margot married King Ferdinand’s only son and heir, Prince John of Asturias. I cannot speak ill of my dearest sister, but they say her poor husband died from their... excess.’

  ‘Excess?’ Henry wondered if the duke struggled with his English.

  The archduke gave Henry a knowing look. ‘In bed.’ He grinned. ‘Of course, she says it is a lie!’

  Henry sat back in his chair and took a drink of the sweet red wine, savouring the taste while he considered the implications. There was a possibility the young duke could inherit the wealthy kingdom of Castile through his wife, as well as Burgundy and the Low Countries.

  The duke’s sister was a few years older than Princess Catherine, yet he had hoped she might be a useful alternative if Arthur’s betrothal came to nothing.

  ‘Were there children of this marriage?’

  ‘A girl was stillborn.’ Duke Philip’s voice was softer now. ‘My sister was desolate and has returned to live with us.’

  ‘She has had a full life for one so young,’ Henry drained his goblet and mentally crossed the archduke’s sister from his list. ‘Please tell her we wish her better fortune in the future?’

  ‘Of course, Your Grace.’

  Henry glanced at the musicians, assembled and ready to accompany the dancing. ‘My wife’s ladies would be honoured to partner you, Duke Philip.’

  The duke chose the most beautiful of all Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting as his dancing partner. Lady Katheryn Gordon looked even more enchanting than usual in a tightly laced emerald green gown that complemented her slender figure. Henry guessed Duke Philip was already whispering his compliments. He felt an irrational jealousy to see them dancing together.

  They sailed against the wind on the voyage home, in heavy, ashen seas. By the time the lights of Dover came into view Elizabeth and several of her ladies had taken to their pallet beds with seasickness. Henry counted their visit to Calais a success and had secured a promise from the young archduke to visit England with his wife.

  He’d also been pleased to receive a delegation of ambassadors from King Louis, who presented him with a gift of fifty thousand francs. As well as covering the costs of his visit to Calais, the payment was welcome proof of French goodwill towards England.

  Amongst the messages waiting when they docked was one from the chaplain to his old friend Archbishop John Morton. The note explained that the bishop, now eighty years old, had suffered a palsy from which he was not expected to recover. Canterbury was on their route and at twenty miles a convenient stopping point. Henry decided to pay his respects to the man who helped plan the invasion from Brittany and officiated at their wedding.

  Bishop Morton lay on an ornate carved bed with silk coverlets, in a dark, shuttered room lit by a single beeswax church candle. Henry detected the faint, sweet scent of precious incense and noted the deathly pallor of his old friend’s face. The archbishop’s voice wheezed as he spoke.

  ‘God bless you, Your Grace. These physicians had me believe I might not see you again... yet here you are.’

  Henry gestured for the bishop’s attendants to leave. ‘We owe you a debt, Bishop.’ He moved a chair to the archbishop’s bedside and sat in silence as he remembered. ‘When you were in exile, you provided a letter of introduction to Duchess Anne, then Regent of France, who granted me and my men safe-conducts.’

  ‘A small enough favour... for such a great reward...’

  ‘You also gave me a small fortune to help raise my mercenary army. I don’t recall that I ever repaid you.’

  John Morton raised a withered, bony hand with some effort. ‘You have repaid me a thousand times...’ His rheumy eyes seemed to struggle to focus on Henry’s face. ‘You granted my tenure of this wonderful cathedral...’ He struggled for his breath. ‘I am also a cardinal of the holy mother church, my lifelong ambition.’

  He closed his eyes. Henry watched the silk covering the archbishop’s frail chest. It continued to rise and fall yet he knew the effort of their short conversation had exhausted his loyal friend. He placed his hands together and said a prayer for John Morton’s soul.

  His instinct told him something was wrong as soon as he returned to his temporary lodgings in the bishop’s palace. His household servants, with eyes cast to the ground, stepped from his view. The yeomen guards, always ready with a polite nod, looked straight ahead as he passed.

  A deep misgiving began to stir in his chest as he wondered in what way the world had changed. He’d been alone with the dying archbishop for less than an hour. He heard women’s voices, loud sobbing, followed by a wail of an
guish. Elizabeth.

  Rushing through the dark hallway to her rooms, he found her surrounded by weeping ladies-in-waiting. As soon as he entered they vanished in a wordless rustle of silks. Elizabeth sat on her bed, her hair unpinned in disarray, shoulders heaving as she cried.

  She looked up at him with reddened eyes. ‘Our son...’ She couldn’t continue and stared at him with an uncomprehending look of despair.

  His mind raced with the awful possibilities. Something might have happened to Harry, who’d always been a little too adventurous. Not Arthur, safe in Ludlow Castle, always so careful, watched over by his doting tutors. He sat next to her and took her hand.

  ‘It is little Edmund?’

  She nodded, a fresh tear falling down her cheek.

  Henry knew he must be strong for her. He pictured the noisy infant at the christening, bawling so loud they’d had to halt the ceremony to calm him. He recalled the pride in his mother’s face and wondered if she knew. He’d had three healthy sons. Now he only had two, the world seemed a bleaker place.

  Henry put his arms around Elizabeth and held her tight while she sobbed. Fighting to control his own tears, he couldn’t find any words to comfort her. Their kingdom, which seemed secure at last, now proved to be built on sand.

  An endless line of marching men, dressed in black, carried burning torches ahead of the funeral procession, a slow-moving blaze of light that could be seen for miles. Sir Edward Stafford rode a black charger, escorting a fine chariot drawn by six horses, all caparisoned in black. Behind rode the mourners in pairs. Lords and ladies of Henry’s court, bishops and priests, making the twenty-mile journey south to Westminster.

  The men of the guilds and trades lined the streets, with the aldermen and Mayor of London, to greet the sad procession. At the abbey a crowd watched in reverent silence as Henry and Elizabeth arrived in deep blue mourning robes.

  Four yeomen carried the small coffin, wrapped in white damask adorned with a red velvet cross. In keeping with tradition, an effigy of Prince Edmund Tudor, wearing a gold circlet, served to remind the mourners how he was in life.

  Henry remained impassive until he spotted the little figure of his youngest son. The well-intended sculptor made it too lifelike, with knowing eyes which seemed to follow Henry with an inhuman gaze of unblinking accusation. He realised, yet again, he’d neglected his youngest child and now it was too late to make amends.

  As he knelt in prayer in the stillness of the echoing abbey he struggled to keep his mind on the words of the service. If this was God’s true purpose, it could only serve as the harshest of reminders not to take a single life, however young, for granted.

  Henry found diversion from the air of misery which hung over his court by ordering the partial demolition of his palace at Greenwich. His mother, still in mourning for Edmund, was aghast.

  ‘The work at the new Palace of Richmond is yet to be completed. Now you begin this?’

  They watched as men climbed the rickety wooden scaffolding with the same agility as Henry’s pet monkey. The once grand facade already looked a ruin, and the fine gardens were lost under an encampment of masons and labourers.

  ‘It was Elizabeth’s idea, as we’ve outgrown the old palace, but this location suits us well.’ He pointed to the Thames, where black-painted sailing barges queued to unload bricks and materials. ‘I shall make the main entrance opposite Queen Margaret’s pier, with great windows of glass to make the best of the river views.’

  His mother glanced back towards the old Norman church, scene of so many christenings. ‘A covered gallery would reward the convent of the observant friars?’

  Henry agreed. ‘I have spoken to the prior. I plan to build a new chapel, as the present one is too small for our needs. I was thinking of commissioning a stained-glass window over the altar to celebrate our family.’

  His mother studied his face for a moment. ‘You should have another child, Henry, and soon, for the sake of Elizabeth. I know how the loss of Edmund has affected you both.’

  ‘I wish it were so simple, lady Mother. Elizabeth has become a recluse. I’ve hardly seen her...’

  ‘Well, you would do well to listen to your mother. Another child will occupy her well,’ she waved a gloved hand at the palace, ‘as this work occupies you.’

  Henry usually looked forward to the irreverence and disguisings of All Hallows Day at Richmond Palace, yet was in no mood for a banquet. He’d received word of the death of his old friend Bishop John Morton, his trusted advisor and Lord Chancellor.

  Although he’d been expecting it, the news saddened him. Another of those who’d sailed with his intrepid invasion fleet, another of his inner circle, was now gone. Whoever he chose as the new Archbishop of Canterbury could never fill John Morton’s shoes.

  As he picked at his food, he realised he was lonely. His mother had invited Elizabeth to celebrate All Saints Day with her at Collyweston, her manor in Northamptonshire. Sir John de Vere had returned to Calais and Bishop Richard Foxe had resumed his negotiations in Scotland.

  Henry glanced along the cluttered table at the young nobles and ladies laughing and drinking at his expense. Without realising, he’d surrounded himself with a new generation, the sons and daughters of the favoured members of his court, and at forty-three, he was starting to feel his age.

  He held up his goblet for it to be refilled with wine and took a deep drink as the musicians struck up a lively dance. His courtiers had taken up the pagan theme of Samhain with their usual enthusiasm, dressing in colourful costumes, disguised as woodland fairies and spirits of the harvest.

  One of the masked dancers caught his eye. She seemed familiar despite her disguise, then she was gone, hidden from his view. He watched as the dance brought her close again, until he could reach out and touch her.

  Now he recognised her. Lady Katheryn Gordon. Elizabeth kept her close yet tonight she was here, dancing before him, dressed in a satin gown which flattered her slender figure. She wore a veil of gossamer as her disguise but he knew, in an unexpected frisson of arousal, it was Katheryn.

  A servant refilled his goblet and he could feel the strong wine beginning to take effect. He remembered the first time he’d been entranced by the look of latent promise in her eyes. Despite his poor mood, he found improper thoughts swirling in his head.

  He slept alone now. It would be easy enough to dismiss the guard outside his door on some pretext. He’d never been unfaithful to Elizabeth, except in his thoughts about the beautiful Scottish lady who now danced before him.

  His personal physician, Thomas Linacre, had presented him with his translation of the New Testament from the Greek. He’d read of the seductive temptress Salome, who so entranced the king as she danced he offered her whatever she asked for, even up to half his kingdom.

  The dance finished and their eyes met. Henry hardly realised he’d been staring at her. He’d not spoken to Katheryn Gordon since her husband’s execution. It might have been the drink. Perhaps his eyesight failed him or her veiled eyes played tricks on his imagination.

  In an instant he realised how easily she could have her revenge. He glanced at the bitter tasting goblet of wine in his hand. It would be easy for her to poison him and no one would suspect. She’d wormed her way into his wife’s inner circle and had privileged access to his children.

  His dark thoughts answered questions that lurked at the back of his mind. She’d bewitched him into showing her husband, his enemy, great favour. After his death, she could have returned to Scotland. He’d been glad she chose to remain at his court but now he wondered if he’d been too trusting.

  The moment passed as the fiddle player struck up a lively tune. A handsome young courtier took her by the hand and led her back to the dancing. As Henry watched her pass from one partner in a complicated dance he’d never seen before. Then he understood what he’d seen in Katheryn Gordon’s eyes. Worse than anger or even fear, she’d given him a look of pity.

  Chapter Seventeen

  August 150
1

  Henry tried to conceal his distrust of the flamboyant, self-important Don Pedro de Ayala, King Ferdinand’s new ambassador. He knew from Bishop Foxe that Don Pedro had spent the past few years as ambassador in Scotland at the court of King James, although he now lived in a splendid London mansion.

  It was rumoured he’d become close to Perkin Warbeck during his time in Scotland, yet he insisted he’d been instrumental in persuading King James to deport the impostor. Don Pedro also assisted Foxe to negotiate a seven-year truce with the Scots and would no doubt prove useful in discussions for Henry’s daughter Margaret.

  To show good faith and get the measure of the man, Henry invited the ambassador to come hunting in the forests of Eltham. As well as proving a skilled huntsman, he discovered the ambassador shared his passion for gambling at cards and dice. Although Henry continued to lose more often than he won, he found Don Pedro an engaging partner.

  Summoned to explain the delay in the arrival of Princess Catherine, the ambassador arrived late for their meeting and seemed unapologetic, offering no explanation. To Henry’s further annoyance he seemed to know little more about the arrival of Princess Catherine than he’d already learnt from his old ally, Don Pedro’s rival, Rodrigo de Puebla.

  The two men could hardly be more different, as the rotund de Puebla was a self-made man from common stock, who’d worked his way up by his wits. Don Pedro was from a noble family in Toledo. Well-connected and persuasive, he enjoyed fine living and presented Henry with gifts of silks and Spanish velvet.

  ‘I was informed the princess left the port of Corunna in May of this year.’ Henry failed to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘That was three months ago and there is still no word of when she might arrive in England.’

  Don Pedro shook his head with exaggerated sympathy. ‘There was a terrible storm in the Bay of Biscay, Your Grace.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I understand the princess was most alarmed when her ship began taking on water. She feared she might drown so her ships returned to Spain for her safety.’