by Tony Riches
‘He must eat soon.’ Henry heard the worry in his mother’s voice and could imagine the look she gave the physician. They spoke as if he wasn’t there.
‘Has the king been able to drink?’
‘A little—but if he doesn’t have some sustenance soon...’ His mother’s words tailed off, as if to say them would tempt fate.
‘We should bleed him again, to see if he improves, my lady.’ The physician sounded as if he thought it unlikely.
‘I will visit the chapel. Be sure to summon me when he wakes?’ Again, Henry heard the note of anguish, so rare in his mother’s voice.
A fitful sleep offered the only relief from the pain in his throat. He drifted off into an elusive memory of feeling Elizabeth’s protective warmth shielding him from the harsh reality of the world. It troubled Henry that he found it harder to recall exactly how it felt to hold his wife close.
He opened his eyes in time to see the light glint on the doctor’s knife as it pierced his vein. Bright red blood spurted into the bowl. He closed his eyes again and tried to swallow. His throat burned.
An angel sang, her voice pure and clear. Henry listened. The tune sounded familiar, one of Elizabeth’s favourites. His eyes focused on his daughter, seated by his bedside with her lute. She wore a gown of cornflower blue with a white coif over her golden hair, reminding him of her mother. Radiant, as if glowing with some inner power, she smiled when she noticed he’d woken.
‘Mary...’
‘Don’t try to speak, Father.’ A flicker of worry passed over her innocent face. ‘Nod if you would like to drink?’
Henry nodded. Their roles had reversed. Now he’d become the child. He watched as Mary called for servants to bring his drink of milk. Unlike his mother she didn’t ask him to sip from the cup. Instead, she fed him with a small silver spoon, showing great patience. A little spilled from his lips and she dried it with a clean white linen cloth.
‘Thank you.’ He managed to say the words as his mother entered the room. She stood behind his daughter, her hand on Mary’s shoulder, a sign of reassurance and solidarity in their shared task.
She gestured to the servant carrying a steaming bowl and a platter of bread. ‘If you sit you might find it easier to swallow?’
Henry sat up and his mother placed cushions at his back to support him. Mary exchanged the cup of milk for the bowl and offered him a small spoonful. The lukewarm, watery soup tasted good and didn’t cause him to choke as it slid down his throat.
Mary tore a morsel of the bread and soaked it in the soup before offering it to Henry on the spoon. He somehow managed to swallow, although he felt a twinge of pain as it passed down his swollen throat, a small victory. He longed to talk, to thank them both properly, but knew he needed to rest.
Henry felt weak yet was determined to attend the May tournament in the grounds of Kennington Palace. As well as the most influential people in London, the guests included ambassadors of many foreign countries, so the tournament offered an ideal way to end the rumours and reassure his subjects.
His throne, under a cloth of gold canopy high on the royal grandstand, was padded with cushions and a physician stood ready with a soothing potion if needed. Henry’s mother sat to one side, wearing a deep crimson gown, with his daughter Princess Mary to the other.
Mary dressed as Queen of the May, in a rich green gown on a throne decorated with bright spring flowers, surrounded by servants also dressed in livery of matching green. She’d only turned eleven the previous month yet Henry noticed how his daughter turned heads with her natural grace and Woodville beauty.
Her patient care might have saved his life, or at least hastened his recovery, although she made light of it. Henry made her the lady of honour, to present the prizes for the tournament, as her sister Margaret had done in the past.
In contrast he’d refused Prince Harry’s request to take part in the jousting. Instead, Harry had to content himself with competing in the archery contest and the sport of running at the ring. Although still a great challenge and a chance to show his skill, both events lacked any element of danger. Henry’s decision created a rift between them and he’d hardly seen his son since.
Royal heralds in Tudor green and white announced the parade of competitors with a fanfare of trumpets. Henry raised a hand in acknowledgement as the knights each held up a gauntleted hand in salute. As the long procession passed he turned to his daughter.
‘Who is the knight riding behind your brother in black armour?’
‘Charles Brandon, Father, he rides as the challenger. Do you not recognise him?’ She giggled at her own joke, as Brandon could hardly be better disguised.
Henry recalled Charles Brandon’s father, Sir William Brandon, who’d been his standard-bearer at the Battle of Bosworth. In a cruel twist of fate, Sir William was one of the few men slain by King Richard. He could have defended himself but stood his ground to hold Henry’s standard high before the fatal blow.
Sir William’s only surviving son had been in Henry’s household since he was a boy. Handsome and quick to learn, he’d become a good companion for Harry, one of the few now permitted to lodge with him in Richmond Palace.
‘Charles Brandon has become an experienced jouster by all accounts.’ Henry’s brow furrowed in a frown as he searched the field for Prince Harry. ‘I trust your brother will learn to understand why I couldn’t let him compete in the joust.’
‘I doubt it, Father.’ Mary placed her white-gloved hand on Henry’s arm. ‘I can tell you Harry and Charles practised in secret for this tournament for many weeks.’
‘I cannot allow him to joust, Mary. The tiltyard is a dangerous place. I’ve seen good men maimed and even killed.’
‘You need not worry for Harry, Father.’ She smiled. ‘Harry and Charles both have great skill with a lance.’
Henry heard the pride in her voice and wondered if it was for her brother or for young Charles Brandon. Although Brandon was twice Mary’s age, she spoke most highly of him. He hoped she would be so enamoured of Charles of Ghent, Ferdinand’s seven-year-old son and heir.
As he watched the cheering crowds he wondered if it was time he relaxed his control over Harry. Some part of him wished his son to become a warrior king but in his heart he feared the consequences. Henry turned to his mother.
‘I refused Harry’s request to ride in the joust, for his own safety. Do you think I was right to do so?’
‘Of course you are right, Henry. If he were killed or severely wounded, what hope would there be for the succession, for the future of the Tudors?’
Henry cursed his dilemma. He’d done everything he could to protect Harry at the cost of their relationship. Harry had not visited him once when he’d been on his sickbed and had become surly and remote. Henry knew his mother was right yet his decision to stop him riding only made this worse.
Another cheer from the crowd meant the combats were about to begin with an archery contest. Drummers beating taborins led a parade of archers from all over the country, chosen to compete for the honour to shoot at targets before the king. Henry’s poor eyesight meant he could no longer take part, although it cheered him to know Prince Harry made it to the final rounds.
Shooting from twenty paces, arrows swooshed through the air as the archers all fired at the targets. On command of the master archer, they moved back three paces before firing a second time. Henry appreciated the practiced ease with which Prince Harry handled the powerful longbow, drawing it with no effort.
His son stared up at the grandstand to make sure they were watching. Henry had encouraged him to use a bow as soon as he was able to, and paid for the finest tutors, yet Harry had a natural ability. He also had a strong competitive instinct, which may have come from his Tudor grandfather but was more likely from his Plantagenet bloodline.
The crowd cheered and applauded as the winner was announced and came forward for his prize. It was not Harry, although he’d come a close second. Princess Mary presented the purse of gold to the handsome young arc
her, who beamed with pride at the honour and bowed to Henry.
Next came the tourneying on foot, where knights fought with great broadswords and maces. The jarring sound of steel blades clanging against armour took Henry’s mind back to the horrific slaughter in his name at Bosworth Field. He was glad Harry was not taking part, as one of the knights was felled by a savage blow to his helmet and lay still until carried off by his stewards.
Before the jousting Prince Harry gave a demonstration of riding at the ring. With his black destrier caparisoned in the royal colours of red, blue and gold, he raised his lance high in the air and thundered towards the suspended ring. In a show of well-rehearsed bravado, he lowered the heavy lance at the last moment, spearing the ring with apparent ease.
At last, the Master of the Joust announced the main event, a combat with lances on horseback. A number of competitors met in pairs. The first two failed to score as their wavering lances didn’t even make contact.
Henry grew tired and struggled to see into the far distance, so relied on Mary to tell him it was the final contest, between a Burgundian knight in blue-enameled plate armour and the challenger, Charles Brandon. Resplendent in black armour, Brandon raised his lance in the air to show he was ready at the far end of the tourney.
The crowd jostled for the best view and shouted as they began to place bets on who would win, although all knew it would be a close match. At the signal from the tournament master both horses lurched into a charge and closed in front of Henry’s royal grandstand. Henry held his breath and felt a sense of foreboding as they began the charge. Hooves pounded, raising clouds of dust from the hard packed ground. The crowd gasped as Brandon’s lance shattered against his rival’s shoulder and cheered as a section of the lance broke off and spun in the air before thumping to the ground.
The Burgundian knight toppled back in the saddle. For a moment it looked as if he would recover, then he fell with a crash to the ground and lay still. Henry stared down from his high vantage-point. His mother was right. If Harry had suffered a serious injury he would never forgive himself. Whatever the cost of protecting Harry, it was the price he had to pay.
Princess Catherine wore a new gown of shimmering blue silk and a hood decorated with pearls for her meeting with Henry. After many refusals due to his poor health, he’d decided he should summon her and listen to her complaints. She looked well enough to Henry, despite another bout of her recurring illness.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, Your Grace.’ Catherine spoke in French and curtseyed yet failed to conceal the resentment in her words.
Henry waved towards the empty chair. ‘I regret I have been... indisposed.’ He replied in French. ‘I understand there are matters you wish to discuss?’
Catherine nodded. ‘I’ve not been able to learn what is to become of me.’ She began her habit of speaking too fast, her Spanish accent returning. ‘I am betrothed to Prince Harry yet he also refuses to see me for more than four months now, although I know he is here at Richmond. I write to him many times, asking for a reply to my letters...’
Henry held up a hand to silence her. ‘It is not any slight to you, Princess Catherine. I had a condition that made it difficult to talk. I was able to see no one.’
She bowed her head. ‘I am sorry... I felt as if I’d been forgotten.’ She looked up at Henry. ‘It has been a difficult time for us all, Your Grace.’
‘You know your father has not paid the remaining portion of your dowry, as promised when we agreed your betrothal to Prince Harry?’
Princess Catherine stared at the toes of her blue silk slippers. ‘I understand, Your Grace, and have written several times, begging for the matter to be resolved.’
Henry nodded. ‘I proposed part payment in diamonds and gold plate but have received nothing since your marriage to Prince Arthur.’ His voice wavered at the memory and he struggled to compose himself.
‘A hundred thousand crowns is a great deal of money...’ She sounded as if she finally understood their shared dilemma.
‘I shall be honest with you, Princess Catherine. I have decided to break your engagement to my son.’
‘You cannot. We are united before God, betrothed in the eyes of the church!’ Her voice was raised and her eyes flared with anger.
Henry ignored her outburst and took a deep breath as he tried to remain calm. ‘Prince Harry has been advised to repudiate the betrothal and free himself of obligation, which is why he’s not been able to discuss a date for your marriage.’
‘What is to become of me, Your Grace?’ Her tone changed completely now.
‘You might take the matter into your own hands by becoming Spain’s Ambassador to England?’ Henry watched for her reaction. Doctor Puebla was now too unwell to continue as ambassador and had to be carried in a litter. At their last meeting he revealed Ferdinand had suggested Catherine as his replacement, although she’d yet to respond to the offer.
She gave him a questioning look. ‘There are already several ambassadors yet none have resolved this...’
Henry interrupted. ‘Our hope is that you might have more success in persuading your father of his obligations.’
‘And if I cannot?’
‘Have faith, Catherine.’
‘My faith is not the problem. I pray every day for an end to this waiting, Your Grace.’ Again, the note of reproach sounded in her voice.
Henry cleared his throat. ‘I also need to ask you about the rumours regarding your confessor.’
‘Friar Diego Fernández is without question the best confessor any woman in my position could have.’ Her reply sounded defensive. ‘I mean, with respect to his devout life as well as his holy doctrine and proficiency in letters.’
Henry wished he’d thought to have his mother present before raising such a delicate issue. ‘Is it true that this friar makes you kneel before him?’
Catherine’s eyes flashed with defiance. ‘It is the custom. My mother knelt at confession.’
Henry shook his head. ‘You are an English princess now. You should learn to speak English—and it is not the English custom to show such deference to your confessor.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘I do not recall approving the engagement of this Spanish friar?’
‘I am free to choose my own confessor, Your Grace. He serves me faithfully, giving me good advice and a good example. He asks for nothing—and nothing grieves me more than that my poverty does not permit me to reward him as he deserves.’
‘I am told he is... unsuitable. It is said he is arrogant, with a high opinion of himself and a low opinion of women.’ He studied her face. ‘I am concerned because I promised to treat you as my own daughter.’
‘De Puebla has been poisoning your mind against my loyal confessor, who has warned me about the ambassador’s disloyalty to Spain.’ Her strong Spanish accent returned.
Henry frowned but kept his voice calm. ‘It was not from Rodrigo de Puebla, but it has come to my attention that staff of your own household say your confessor has such a hold over you that you obey him in everything.’
‘Lies!’
He glared at her. ‘You must take care, Princess Catherine, not to provide the gossipers at court with opportunity.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
May 1508
Henry worried about his health as he waited with his mother to receive yet another senior envoy from Spain. In February he’d suffered with swelling and tenderness in his joints, which his doctors told him was gout. They prescribed a potion of smelly boar’s grease but it did little to alleviate the pain.
His vision had diminished still further, despite daily use of the lotion purported to make bright his sight. He also worried about the recurring soreness in his throat. His physicians warned his recovery might be temporary. They were reluctant to say as much but he knew he might be too weakened to survive another attack of the quinsy. The problem was he had no idea how he could avoid it.
He viewed the world differently as a consequence of his poor health and awarene
ss of his own mortality. He’d become more devout, never missing mass and paying for prayers to be said. He’d also abandoned thoughts of remarriage or fathering another son and heir. Instead he planned to put his remaining energy into ensuring his children married well.
The new envoy, Commander Gutierre de Fuensalida, was a Knight of the Order of Santiago and Mayor of Granada. Tanned and well built, he wore a wide-brimmed hat and a scarlet cape trimmed with gold braid. His good English suggested an excellent education yet he lacked the flattering charm of his predecessors.
Fuensalida bowed and studied Henry with a soldier’s eye, as if noting his weaknesses. ‘King Ferdinand asks me to convey his most sincere best wishes, Your Grace.’
Henry glanced at his mother, who had cautioned him to remain civil towards their guest. ‘You’re a military man...’ There was still a slight rasp to his voice. ‘May we speak frankly?’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’
‘You should know I’ve grown tired of promises from King Ferdinand. When does he intend to pay the balance of the dowry?’
‘King Ferdinand asked me to see that the princess is in good health and to reassure you of his good intentions, Your Grace.’
‘I need more than good intentions, Commander Fuensalida. Have you met with Princess Catherine?’
‘I have, Your Grace, and am concerned to find her illness has returned.’
Henry’s mother replied. ‘Princess Catherine has a cold. She will recover soon enough, with God’s grace.’
Fuensalida frowned at Lady Margaret’s intervention and continued to address Henry. ‘I will do what I can to progress payment of the remaining dowry, Your Grace, but I need you to confirm your intention for her to marry your son, Prince Henry.’
Henry heard the hint of a threat. He looked at the commander. The man’s grey hair and lined face suggested he must be close to sixty, yet he appeared as fit as a much younger man. Unlike other envoys from Spain he had an arrogance Henry found unsettling.
