by Tony Riches
Henry sat back in his chair as he recalled the extravagance of the wedding banquet, the grandest ever seen in London. The Spanish delegation would return to tell King Ferdinand of celebrations, banquets and tournaments that lasted a month, long after Catherine and Arthur left for his castle in Ludlow.
He took the letter which lay opened on his desk and frowned as he held it close to read, although he already knew the contents. His son suffered with a fever and had taken to his bed in a weakened condition. He remembered how the sweating sickness could take young and old, rich or poor and prayed each morning for better news. So far this letter, now over a week old, was all he’d had.
Henry worried about his own health. He’d little appetite, despite the best efforts of his cooks to tempt him with choice dishes. He’d lost weight as a consequence and woke up in a sweat the previous night. He’d always taken to the country when he heard rumours of plague or the sweating sickness in London but feared one or the other would catch up with him in the end.
He resolved to visit Arthur in Ludlow with his own physician as soon as he could. First he must untangle the mess created by Edmund de la Pole. Grandson of Richard, Duke of York through his mother Elizabeth, Suffolk swore fealty to Henry. Despite his brother’s treachery at Stoke Field, Henry allowed Edmund to keep his loyal father’s title, although reduced it from duke to Earl of Suffolk.
Henry had taken the precaution of having agents within the Suffolk household. He’d been concerned when Edmund was reported to have sailed on a ship bound for Calais. As the last remaining York heir, there would always be the danger of a revolt.
Henry summoned the man he’d asked to help him and turned as he heard a servant knock at his door. Thomas Lovell wore a wolf fur riding cape over his tunic. He gave a look of disapproval at the monkey as he crossed to the fire to warm his frozen hands.
‘I regret to tell you Suffolk has outwitted us a second time, Your Grace. He’s reported to be in Austria at the court of Emperor Maximilian.’
‘How could he have escaped to Austria? I thought we had him watched?’ Henry heard the challenge in his voice, although he knew Sir Thomas was the bringer of bad news, not the cause of it.
‘We did, Your Grace, and we obtained copies of Suffolk’s letters, which is how we know his co-conspirators.’ His shrewd eyes narrowed as he looked at Henry. ‘Once he was in Guisnes, it was only too easy for him to make his escape through France, particularly as the captain of the garrison was sympathetic to his cause.’
‘Sir James Tyrell, Governor of Guines?’ Henry cursed at another Yorkist betraying his trust. He knew Tyrell was loyal to King Richard, and he had pardoned him against advice. Yet again, his leniency in those early days of power came back to haunt him.
‘Tyrell put up a fight when we tried to arrest him. Even with all the men we could muster in Calais, he wouldn’t surrender.’
‘Yet you have him now?’
‘We do, Your Grace. I had to promise him safe conduct.’ He smirked. ‘He had safe passage, directly to the Tower.’
Henry frowned. ‘We must begin negotiations with Emperor Maximilian right away. He’s always short of money, so I suggest we offer payment of ten thousand crowns. It would be a small enough price to see Edmund de la Pole in the Tower.’
‘I agree, Your Grace, although I would be cautious about taking Maximilian on his word. He’s not beyond taking our money and keeping Suffolk at his court.’
‘That’s a risk we must take.’ Henry gestured for Sir Thomas to be seated.
‘I’ve come from the Tower, where I’ve questioned Tyrell,’ Sir Thomas sat heavily in the chair and stretched his legs. ‘He confessed to helping Suffolk escape, Your Grace.’
Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘Was this confession extracted by torture?’
‘He’s made a pleading for the life of his son Thomas, who was also arrested and brought to the Tower.’
Henry imagined how Tyrell might have seen his opportunity when Suffolk arrived in Guines. He must have known there were agents of the king within his own garrison, yet he’d risked his life to help the last York heir.
Sir Thomas looked across at Henry and took a deep breath. ‘He has also confessed to his part in the murders of the two young princes.’
‘What did he say?’ Henry’s mind raced. For sixteen years, even before Bosworth, the fate of Elizabeth’s brothers had been a mystery. He’d invested a small fortune in searches of the Tower and its grounds. He’d had sleepless nights, worrying that the next impostor might prove to actually be either Edward or Richard of York returned from exile.
‘He claims Sir Robert Brackenbury, the Constable of the Tower at the time, received orders from King Richard regarding the princes that his conscience caused him to refuse. Tyrell says he was sent to the Tower with a letter commanding Brackenbury to surrender the keys.’ He shook his head and produced a parchment note from which he read. ‘He alleges that one of the prince’s keepers, a man named Miles Forest, and Tyrell’s groom, a John Dighton, whom he calls a strong knave, smothered the princes and buried them at the stair foot.’
‘King Richard made James Tyrell a knight in reward?’
Sir Thomas shrugged. ‘This could be false witness, Your Grace, although I cannot see what Tyrell would stand to gain—and his allegations further tarnish the name of York.’
Henry scowled as he considered the consequences. ‘These men he names. Where are they now?’
‘I have my agents looking for them, Your Grace. Rest assured we will find them—and when we do they’ll be arrested and questioned.’
‘Who else knows of this, Sir Thomas?’
‘Only those who present in the Tower.’
‘You are to return to the Tower of London and have them swear to keep this silent. I’ve waited sixteen years for any clue about what happened that night. This is to be done properly, with statements sworn before God.’
‘Yes, Your Grace. I shall take care of it.’
Elizabeth stared at him in astonishment. ‘You plan to have my sister Catherine’s husband arrested?’
Her tone surprised Henry. ‘I thought I should tell you—before you hear it from your gossiping ladies. I have no choice. William Courtenay is implicated in the conspiracy to support Edmund de la Pole...’
‘By what evidence?’ Her voice challenged him.
Henry held up a calming hand. ‘He is named in correspondence obtained by Sir Thomas Lovell. It seems he dined with Suffolk and others shortly before he fled to Calais.’
‘Is it now a crime to dine with my own first cousin?’
‘He faces a serious charge of conspiracy. We have seen evidence that he supported Suffolk’s plans to raise an army and invade from his estates in the west.’ Henry shook his head. ‘I thank God we have men such as Sir Thomas Lovell to protect our interests. If Sir William is found guilty...’
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. ‘What will happen to Catherine, Henry? Do you not care about their children?’
He remembered seeing Catherine’s infant son, named Henry in his honour, with his brother and a baby sister. He cursed Edmund de la Pole’s scheming. William Courtenay served him well when he prevented Perkin Warbeck from entering Exeter.
‘You might support your sister with the children? You could bring them to one of your properties closer to London.’
‘Catherine will be beside herself with worry.’ Elizabeth wrung her hands together. ‘Can I promise her... you will not allow Sir William to be executed?’
‘You can assure your sister her husband will be well treated. He will be held in the Tower while the process of law takes its course. If he can prove his innocence...’
‘And if he cannot?’ She spoke with unexpected sharpness.
Henry frowned. He’d not expected Elizabeth to take the news so badly. ‘It’s not easy for us to accept that our own trusted family might be plotting behind our back.’
‘You talk of your trusted family, yet you don’t trust my own sisters. First you make my sister
Cecily a pauper and banish her from court, now my sister Catherine...’
‘Your sister Cecily married in secret!’ Henry regretted raising his voice, even as he said the words.
Elizabeth’s voice turned cold. ‘Cecily knew what you would say if she sought your consent. She married for love...’
‘Your sister chose her path—and should not be surprised to learn the consequences.’
‘You’ve taken her dower lands and left her with no income.’ The accusation in her voice was unmistakable now.
Henry tried to calm himself. ‘I would have found her a good husband. A wealthy noble, with prospects, not some... commoner.’
Elizabeth glowered at him. ‘You married my sister to your old uncle, Viscount Welles.’
‘John Welles was a loyal, honest man. He served me well in Brittany....’
‘And my younger sister was presented as his reward, just as my aunt Catherine was given to your Uncle Jasper.’
‘Catherine was made a duchess...’
‘He was thirty years older than her!’
Her words were like a slap in the face. Elizabeth had never raised her voice at him before and Henry could take no more. He stormed from the room without so much as a reply. Whatever he said would only widen the rift between them.
In later years Henry would remember exactly how he received the dreadful news on the morning his life changed. Alone in his chambers at Greenwich Palace, he woke to a cautious knocking on his door and opened it to see the sombre face of the Observant Friar who served as his priest confessor.
‘What brings you here so early in the morning, Father?’ He gestured for the elderly friar to enter.
The friar bowed to him. ‘If we receive good things by the hand of God, should we not also receive misfortune?’
‘You must forgive me.’ Henry frowned. ‘I don’t understand?’
His priest confessor handed him a folded letter and watched as he broke the dark wax seal. Henry struggled to read the handwriting and took it to the window to make the most of the early light. As he began to read, his legs grew weak and he sat down on his bed, letting the letter fall to the floor. Everything he’d worked for all his life unravelled in that moment.
The letter was from Sir Richard Pole, Henry’s capable administrator of the Welsh Marches, based in Ludlow Castle. He’d kept the preamble brief and stated the facts in his usual businesslike, blunt manner. Henry sat in a stunned silence then stared up at the friar with tear filled eyes.
‘Bring the queen to me, if you will, Father. Do not tell her your purpose, only that she must come at once.’
The priest slipped back out through the door and returned a short time later. Elizabeth wore a woollen shawl over her cotton shift. A plain lace coif looked as if it had been pinned over her plaited golden hair in haste and he guessed, like him, she’d been woken from her sleep.
She seemed to have a mother’s intuition the moment she took in the shock on Henry’s face and the letter, still lying on the floor. Henry waited until the priest closed the door and led her to the bed, then sat next to her. He took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze as he tried to form the words.
‘Our precious son Arthur is dead, and his Spanish princess is dying.’
Elizabeth stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief. She reached to pick the discarded letter from the floor. After reading it she folded it with great care and held it closed, as if the truth it contained could somehow be denied. She sat for a moment in silence as she thought through the consequences.
‘Be strong for your noble person, for your realm. Be strong for me, Henry.’ She brushed a tear from his face. ‘Your good lady mother had no more children but you, and God by his grace has preserved and brought you to where you are.’
Henry stared into her bright amber eyes. They seemed to glow with a new strength he’d not seen before. Overwhelmed with love for her, he tried to focus on her words. He pictured Arthur, perhaps calling out for him as the sweating fever took hold. He’d been too busy dealing with plotters to visit his son. He knew he must be strong.
Elizabeth spoke softly. ‘God has left us one fair prince—and two fair princesses.’ She held his hand in hers. ‘We are still young, Henry. Be strong for me?’
He pulled her close and found comfort in the warmth of her body as he tried to fight the despair breaking his heart.
A violent storm soaked the funeral procession as it made its slow journey to the ancient Benedictine Abbey at Worcester. Sir Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey and Lord High Treasurer, representing the king, struggled to calm his startled horse as another thunderbolt crashed in a leaden sky.
The people of Worcester who braved the heavy rain bowed their heads as a hundred black-garbed mourners trudged past. Some looked in awe at the ornate wagon as it splashed through muddy puddles, hauled by a team of oxen. Carrying the cloth of gold draped coffin, for many it would be their first and only sight of the Prince of Wales.
Grim-faced lords and knights rode behind, led by a dark knight carrying the standard of the black raven. Prince Arthur’s friend and ally, the Welsh lord Sir Gruffydd ap Rhys, was the eldest son of Sir Rhys ap Thomas, thought to have delivered the blow which felled King Richard at Bosworth Field.
In keeping with royal tradition, Henry withdrew into private mourning for his son, spending many hours praying alone in his chapel. His only contact with the world was through Bishop Foxe, who relayed to him every detail of the funeral.
Princess Catherine, married for less than four months, also by tradition stayed away and remained fighting the fever in her sickbed. Elizabeth collapsed and remained in her chambers, unable to face the world.
Chapter Nineteen
February 1503
Henry’s mother told him the child, with typical Tudor impatience, had begun to arrive on Candlemas Day, a week too early. Elizabeth would never have chosen for the birth to be in the royal apartments of the Tower of London. In the depths of such a hard winter the rooms were always cold and damp, despite log fires kept burning by an army of servants.
Worse than the bone numbing cold was the atmosphere of sadness which hung over the Tower. Once a place of refuge for Elizabeth, it had always been a prison, haunted by ghosts. It was where her sister’s husband languished in a cell, waiting for his fate to be decided. Others had been imprisoned so long they were forgotten by the world.
In the middle of the night they would be woken by the angry roars of leopards and lions, gifts from far away kings. It was no place to give birth to a prince, yet Elizabeth’s physicians ordered that she was not to be moved, as to do so could risk the child’s life and hers.
Lady Margaret did her best to ensure every detail of Elizabeth’s confinement followed her ordinances, set out sixteen years before. The number and colours of silk cushions and even the size of coverlets were checked and noted.
Mistress Alice Massey, who served Elizabeth so well delivering her children in the past, was summoned. Two midwives took turns to watch over her all day and through each night. On Lady Margaret’s instructions, Elizabeth’s priest confessor slept in a nearby room, to be ready if needed.
Five times each day Lady Margaret said prayers for her in the Chapel of St Peter, built within the Tower walls by King Henry the third. As well as praying for Elizabeth, she knelt before the altar and prayed that her son’s faith would be restored. Although he was still in mourning, she worried he’d lost more than his son. His mother prayed the new child would mean new hope, a new beginning.
His mother’s messenger, an intelligent novice priest named Nicholas Aughton, found Henry already awake. He’d been unable to sleep, expecting news at any time. In no time he was dressed in his warmest coat and ready to leave, despite the early hour.
‘How is the queen?’
‘Lady Margaret requested that you are to come as soon as you are able to, Your Grace.’
‘Does the child live?’ Henry held his breath.
‘I cannot say, Your Grace.’ His eyes avoided
Henry’s.
‘Tell me what you know!’ Henry’s impatience gave an edge to his voice, although he knew his mother would not have silenced her messenger without good reason.
Nicholas Aughton bowed to Henry’s command. ‘The child lives, Your Grace. The queen was sleeping when I left the Tower.’
Henry suspected Aughton knew more than he was saying. ‘We’ll take the royal barge and you shall see what else you can recall.’
The foul smelling river, an open sewer, offered the fastest way to reach the Tower, although the powerful tide would be against them for most of the way. Henry urged his sixteen strong oarsmen to row faster. The blades of their long oars splashed as they cut through the dark water, a rhythmic pulse as they battled against the outgoing flow. The helmsman began barking out the stroke and shouting words of encouragement in his deep London accent.
Henry said a silent prayer for Elizabeth and his new child. He glanced at the stony faced Nicholas Aughton, standing in the bows. It seemed his mother had shared little with her trusted messenger. It was unusual for her to summon him at such an hour and he feared Elizabeth must have suffered more than usual.
Arthur’s death had changed them and fractured their already fragile relationship. They were both still mourning his loss and although she told him to be strong, Elizabeth became withdrawn, rarely even speaking to him.
He knew she blamed him for keeping Arthur and his young wife in the damp castle at Ludlow. He’d discovered that Elizabeth now kept her sister Catherine and her children, paying their expenses from her own purse. She’d also conspired with his mother to provide for her sister Cecily, although she never spoke of it.
Then, without even telling him, she’d gone on a progress, riding long distances despite being heavy with child. He’d finally tracked her down and joined her but instead of welcoming his company, it seemed she resented it. Now he prayed it wasn’t too late to make amends. He had taken her for granted and the five miles from Westminster Palace never seemed so long.
