Henry - Book Three of the Tudor Trilogy

by Tony Riches

  Queen Isabella’s death was not completely unexpected. She’d been waning for some three years, since the death of her only son. Henry could identify with that and wished he’d taken the trouble to know her better. By all accounts she was a shrewd woman and could have encouraged her husband’s scheming.

  ‘We have to think about what is best for you, Harry. Her mother’s death means Catherine is no longer a true princess, other than as your brother’s widow.’

  Harry stopped his pacing and turned to him in surprise. ‘Does her father not inherit his wife’s titles?’

  ‘That would normally be the case, but Queen Isabella’s titles in Castile are inherited by her daughter, Joanna, who is of course Catherine’s sister—and wife of Duke Philip of Burgundy.’

  Harry scowled as he tried to understand the politics. ‘So why must I protest against the marriage? I wish to marry her.’

  Henry raised an eyebrow. He’d encouraged his son to be forthright but he often overstepped the mark, as if testing him. Part of the problem was he’d grown up surrounded by servants and women, with tutors who were clerics and academics.

  ‘Our advisors, Bishop Foxe and others, suggest a repudiation of your marriage will strengthen our hand in the dowry negotiations.’

  ‘And when the remainder of the dowry is paid, then I will marry Princess Catherine?’

  ‘In good time, once we have the papal dispensation.’

  ‘My tutors told me the Borgia pope is dead, thought to have been poisoned?’ There was a boyish note of relish in his tone at the thought.

  ‘They are right, although the pope was over seventy and in poor health. Whatever the cause of his death, we understand he sent a messenger with the dispensation to Queen Isabella on her deathbed, although we have not had sight of it. In truth, I expect it might be some time before they attend to our request.’

  ‘What is to become of Princess Catherine in the meantime, Father?’

  ‘The princess must wait, like us, for events to take their course.’

  ‘Am I permitted to visit her?’

  ‘Of course. I understand she likes to hunt with hawks—perhaps you could escort her to the forests at Eltham?’

  ‘I should like to, Father.’

  ‘Now if you’ll come with me, you must make your renouncement.’

  He led Harry to a poorly-lit room where Bishop Foxe waited with Lord Daubeney and the witnesses, James Read, the notary, and Henry’s cleric, who held out a quill for Harry to sign the parchment.

  Harry took the quill but challenged Henry before signing the document. ‘Will Princess Catherine not be distressed when she learns of this, Father?’

  ‘She will understand.’ It troubled him that it suited his purposes for Catherine to react badly to the news. He was certain her Spanish entourage would waste no time in alerting King Ferdinand to the situation.

  He watched as his son signed with a flourish. ‘Now you must read it, aloud, in front of these witnesses.’

  Harry picked up the parchment and studied it for a moment. He began reading, his voice, already deepening in the low-ceilinged room, sounding a little self-conscious.

  ‘Being under age I was married to the Princess Catherine, yet now coming of age, I do not confirm that marriage...’ He gave Henry a questioning glance. ‘I retract and annul it, and will not proceed with it but intend to break it off, which I do freely and without compulsion.’

  Henry ignored Harry’s scowl and prayed it was not too late to build an understanding with his son. He could have allowed the marriage to proceed, as he had half the dowry and the rest would follow. At the same time, he had to listen to Bishop Foxe, who always took the long view.

  He resolved to confide in Harry next time they were in private together. He’d told no one yet, but it might be best for Princess Catherine to return to Spain with her entourage. He could try to find a better match for his son, as whoever he chose would one day be Queen of England.

  Sir Thomas Lovell cursed as he read the letter from Edmund de la Pole. The Earl of Suffolk had written to Henry from his exile requesting safe conduct for his return to England. He also wished for his confiscated lands to be returned.

  ‘It seems things have not gone well for him, Your Grace!’ Sir Thomas sounded pleased with the news.

  Henry agreed. ‘I confess to some satisfaction to know he is imprisoned in Hattem Castle by the Duke of Guelders—although I’d expect to be the last person he’d ask to intervene.’

  ‘Suffolk has few enough options, Your Grace, to be making such demands.’

  ‘He also asks to be restored to our favour, as if his disloyalty is to be rewarded!’

  Sir Thomas grunted. ‘These things are rarely what they seem. Do you think his hosts have put him up to this?’

  ‘I do. Archduke Philip of Burgundy and Maximilian agreed to offer him no sanctuary—in return for my ten thousand pounds. Having him imprisoned allows them to appear to be keeping their word.’ He smiled at his old friend. ‘We are at peace with France, for now at least, and the Spanish would not wish to compromise Princess Catherine’s marriage.’

  ‘But we must not forget he is a Plantagenet...’

  ‘No one would say Suffolk has a claim to the throne?’ Henry felt the old stab of misgiving return. It seemed that whenever he began to feel secure, something like this happened to remind him of the fragile hold he had on his crown.

  Sir Thomas shrugged. ‘We must not underestimate our enemies, for that is what they are. Our agents report that Suffolk borrowed a fortune in his efforts to raise support for an invasion.’

  Henry cursed. ‘I suppose he thinks if I could do it...’

  ‘We’ve tracked down as many of Suffolk’s supporters and relations as we can find. It gave me no pleasure, Your Grace, but many are arrested and imprisoned.’

  ‘How many?’ Henry had been too preoccupied with his grief to worry at the time.

  ‘Last year more than fifty were attainted.’

  ‘I had no idea there were so many. I trust you’ve not been over zealous in your work, Sir Thomas?’

  ‘There are no doubt more we have yet to uncover. You cannot afford to show leniency to Suffolk, Your Grace.’

  ‘I do not intend to—but what do you suggest?’

  ‘We must ensure he doesn’t slip through our fingers again. I suggest we negotiate with Archduke Philip and this Duke of Guelders.’ He gave Henry a knowing look. ‘We might have to trick him into returning here—then he must be locked up in the Tower.’

  ‘I shall leave it to your conscience, Sir Thomas, but keep me informed?’

  ‘Of course, Your Grace. You may rely on it.’

  Henry’s mother became a widow yet again at the end of July. He found her in her chapel, holding a vigil for her late husband, who died in his beloved Lancashire and was buried in the family tomb at Lathom.

  He waited until she finished praying then laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘I grieve for the loss of another of those who proved so loyal when I first came to the throne.’

  His mother nodded. ‘His passing serves as a reminder of our own mortality, Henry. I have paid for masses to be said for his soul. He was a good man—and will be missed.’

  Henry agreed. ‘He was the last of the great Lancastrians, one of a kind.’

  ‘Yet he found it within his heart to be loyal to York when it suited him.’ His mother allowed a rare smile. ‘He fought on both sides but also built alliances.’

  ‘I owe him a debt. We would not have found victory at Bosworth without him.’

  ‘I thought he would be executed by King Richard. Those were dark times, Henry. It seemed I would lose everything, including my husband, yet he was spared, by God’s grace.’

  He took a taper and lit a candle for Sir Thomas Stanley, Earl of Derby, and prayed to the Holy Virgin that he had finally found peace.

  Henry worked in his study in Westminster Palace, going through the pile of chamber accounts which had built up there. Lady Katheryn had become inva
luable to him now, as she read out each page in her soft Scottish voice. He would then dictate any notes and he would initial the entry.

  Katheryn soon learnt to spot items that needed checking and already knew more about his finances than she should. She’d also shown a talent for helping with his correspondence. Unlike his previous clerks, she often helped with ideas and suggestions for the wording of his replies.

  It amused him to think his courtiers no doubt suspected they were having an affair, spending so much time alone together. In truth, she cared for him more like a mother than a wife. She worried about him eating properly and consigned his pet monkey to the menagerie at the Tower.

  He knew his mother would disapprove. Even Elizabeth had less influence over matters of state and had never been allowed to see the court accounts. Henry knew he could rely on Lady Katheryn to keep her contributions confidential, along with the growing number of secrets they shared.

  She held a letter for him to see. ‘From Doctor de Puebla, ambassador to Spain, regarding the niece of King Ferdinand, Joanna of Naples.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘He confirms she is still unmarried. He also adds that King Ferdinand has remarried, to Germaine de Foix, the seventeen-year-old niece of the French king.’

  Henry twisted in his chair to see her better. ‘Ferdinand is hoping for a new male heir to the crown of Castile—and now has an alliance with France.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ve observed the proper time of mourning now—perhaps it’s time I sought a wife.’

  ‘Do you know they say you were planning to take Princess Catherine for yourself?’

  Henry laughed at the thought.

  ‘It was true?’ She didn’t share his amusement.

  ‘My mother told me I was out of my mind. Perhaps I was, although it always was King Ferdinand’s ambition for his daughter to be Queen of England.’

  ‘Why would you choose this... Joanna?’

  ‘Is that jealousy I hear?’ He was surprised to see the colour rise to her cheeks.

  ‘I am curious.’

  ‘The suggestion came from Queen Isabela shortly before she died. I have her letter somewhere. Her niece Joanna is a wealthy widow.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  Henry did a quick calculation on his fingers. ‘Twenty-seven now. I’ve never seen a portrait and de Puebla is a great flatterer, so whatever he says about her...’

  ‘You must send an envoy, someone like Bishop Foxe, whose opinion you can trust.’

  ‘You are right, Katheryn, although I cannot say the good bishop is much of an expert on the fairer sex.’ He chuckled at the thought and rang for his servant.

  Since Elizabeth’s day, he valued his privacy more and instructed his servants to wait out of sight until he summoned them with a bell. Another change was he now drank wine while he was working and often shared it with Katheryn.

  The young serving-girl curtseyed. ‘Yes, Your Grace?’

  ‘Bring the good wine, if you will—and two goblets.’

  As she scuttled away he gave Katheryn a meaningful look. ‘You know why I must remarry?’

  Her reply was interrupted by the serving-girl returning with a carafe of red wine and two silver goblets. He watched in silence as she filled them and waited until she left and closed the door behind her.

  Katheryn moved closer to Henry to reach for her drink. ‘There is no better way to strengthen your alliances.’

  ‘That’s true enough, although sometimes I believe God’s plan has a part in it.’ Henry tasted the sweet wine, feeling it soothing his throat. She was so close he could feel her warmth. ‘My mother made the match with Elizabeth to win over the Yorkists.’

  ‘Yet you fell in love with her,’ Katheryn’s eyes never left his face as she sipped from her goblet, ‘the daughter of your enemy?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘I never thought of her father as my enemy. He promised to treat me well if I returned from exile.’

  ‘But you didn’t trust him—and came with an army!’

  ‘They tried to trick me into boarding a ship—who knows what would have become of me after King Edward died...’

  ‘You managed to escape.’

  ‘Yes, but nothing so heroic as it might sound. I pretended to be too ill to sail, then ran off as if my life depended on it.’

  She laughed and refilled their goblets from the carafe.

  ‘So... what will you look for in a wife?’

  Henry took another deep drink as he thought. It seemed impossible that any wife could ever match Elizabeth. For a moment he struggled with the deep sense of loss. He should have involved her more, confided in her, as he did so easily with Katheryn.

  ‘She would have to be young enough to bear me another son.’ He smiled. ‘It would be easier for me if she was pretty.’

  Katheryn gave him a look of mock disapproval. ‘I thought this was to be a political marriage?’

  ‘She would have to come from a noble family, although if she is wealthy...’ He took another drink.

  ‘We shall have to draw up a list of questions for your envoy to Naples.’

  Henry laughed at the thought. ‘I thank you for being so understanding, Lady Katheryn.’

  She raised her goblet in pretend formality. ‘A toast, Your Grace. To the perfect marriage.’

  He raised his goblet in reply and smiled at the mischief twinkling in her eyes. ‘To marriage, whatever destiny provides.’

  ‘You sound doubtful?’

  Henry nodded. ‘I must confess my conscience is still troubled. I should have treated Elizabeth better. I didn’t realise until it was too late.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Katheryn placed her hand on his arm. ‘I spent much time with her, towards the end, and can tell you she bore you no ill feeling.’

  He found her touch comforting. ‘I should dedicate what remains of this life to preparing the way for my son.’

  She smiled. ‘Harry is grown into a fine young man now.’

  ‘But do you think he has what it takes to be king?’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  March 1506

  Henry’s court was at Windsor Castle when savage gales hit London. The brass eagle weather-vane from the highest spire of St Paul’s Cathedral toppled with a crash into the churchyard. The more superstitious of his courtiers were agreeing this was a bad omen when a messenger arrived with news of another consequence of the storm.

  The fleet of Archduke Philip had been caught in the tempest and sought refuge near Weymouth. It seemed to Henry that providence had brought the duke to him. As well as securing a stronger alliance, he hoped to negotiate the return of the exiled Edmund de la Pole. If necessary, he planned to hold Duke Philip hostage until he agreed terms.

  Henry rode out to welcome him with Prince Harry riding at his side. He wore his new scarlet riding coat and was followed by five earls and a dozen armed knights with several hundred retainers, so they appeared like an advancing army.

  The duke appeared exhausted from his journey, with several day’s growth of beard, but in good spirits as they met. ‘Good day, Your Grace!’ Duke Philip held up a hand in greeting. He studied Henry’s entourage waiting on horses behind him. ‘You seem to have brought half your household, Your Grace.’

  Henry smiled. ‘I understand you sailed with an army of several thousand German mercenaries?’

  The duke grinned with disarming charm. ‘And I have left them, guarding my ships.’

  ‘We give thanks God chose to bring you safely to our shores, Archduke Philip.’

  ‘We were on our way to Spain in some of the worst seas I’ve ever encountered.’ The duke shook his head at the memory. ‘The storm raged for days. I lost three of my ships and the rest were taking on water. I thank God I was spared.’

  Henry escorted the duke to Windsor and invited him into the warmth of his chamber, where a crackling log fire kept the unseasonable chill at bay. Magnificent tapestries of hunting scenes decorated the walls. Tall glazed windows flooded the room with light an
d provided views across the deer park.

  He waited as the duke was served a cup of hot mulled wine. When they last met, he fitted his nickname of ‘Philip the handsome’ well. He’d even charmed Elizabeth, as well as her ladies. Duke Philip was still an impressive figure but had put on weight with fine food and easy living.

  Henry already knew the reason the duke risked the long sea voyage without waiting for the storms to pass. He’d braved the Atlantic tempests because he wished to be crowned King of Castile. He couldn’t wait to claim his wife’s inheritance and had to act before his father-in-law turned the Castilians against him.

  ‘Did your lady wife sail with you, Duke Philip?’

  ‘She insisted on it,’ the duke gave Henry a meaningful look, ‘although after the storms I expect she might have regretted her decision.’

  ‘We must bring her here to Windsor. I will have her sister Catherine sent for and we shall have a banquet in their honour.’

  The duke hesitated before replying. ‘I must confess that my wife is not well, Your Grace, which is why she remains in the west.’

  Henry took a step backwards despite himself. Harry was with him at Windsor Castle. He lived in constant fear of his son falling ill. Although the duke looked well enough, he knew how easily he could lose a healthy son.

  ‘Not a fever, I trust?’

  The duke shook his head. ‘She is strong enough to fight off a fever.’ He glanced around to see if they could be overheard and his tone became conspiratorial. ‘Since the loss of her mother she has been afflicted by a madness. Sometimes she seems as she always was—then she becomes... a mad woman.’ He frowned. ‘I regret she might have to be placed in a nunnery for her own protection.’

  Henry heard the coldness in the duke’s voice. ‘I am sorry to hear that, Duke Philip.’

  The duke nodded. ‘It has been difficult for us both, although with God’s grace we will find a way.

  ‘I shall still have her brought here. I wish to honour the Queen of Castile.’