by David Field
‘Yet you plot against Henry?’
‘Not against Henry directly, madam. Against the whore alone.’
‘And why she?’
‘Because it was her vile tongue, at a time when Henry was lusting after her maidenhead, that blamed the Cardinal for the refusal of the Pope to grant the annulment of his marriage to Queen Katherine.’
‘An annulment which you succeeded in securing?’
‘No, madam, which Henry himself succeeded in securing when he threw the Pope out of the English Church. It was then a simple matter of granting himself his own annulment, as the new head of “the Church of England”, as it is now to be known.’
‘But in the eyes of God that was no annulment, surely?’ the Countess argued.
‘That is a matter for the theologians, madam. I am a mere common lawyer.’
‘A far from common lawyer, if rumour be correct. But for all your skills, you could not break Sir Thomas More, whose eyes to the very end were raised to the true Church.’
‘His eyes when I last saw them,’ Cromwell replied with a slight shudder, ‘were facing the ground below the scaffold, along with the rest of his head.’
‘Is it true that his daughter has his head preserved?’
‘So it is said. Now, the boy? He has been amusing himself with your kitchen staff ever since we arrived, and I do not wish him to form the belief that such is his natural level in life.’
‘What do you wish me to tell him?’
‘With all due respect, I propose that I be the one to tell him, and that you simply confirm it.’
‘And how do you propose to use him, once he is thus advised?’
‘As my messenger, in due course. I have noted, of late, that amidst the levity and lewd utterances of the ladies attending on the Queen, there has crept in a note of contempt for His Majesty. Most recently, when I enter the Queen’s Audience Chamber, it falls quiet and that idiot boy Smeaton is commanded to pluck more wildly at his instrument to mask the fact that no-one is talking. It is high time that I replaced my own ears in the royal presence with those of another, and a handsome young courtier will be best placed to join in their ribaldry, perhaps persuading one of the Queen’s Ladies to be more forthcoming while throwing up her skirts in a side chamber, and bringing me back intelligence that I may convey to the King through the mouths of others.’
‘Not your own mouth?’
‘Much though I would wish it so, therein lies a danger. The King is like one of those cushions on yon bench over there — he bears the mark of the last person who sat on him. It is possible for Henry to be persuaded, by the first sycophant through his door, that the Thames rises in Buckinghamshire, and then be converted to the belief that it does so in Oxfordshire by the next to attend upon him. He then blames the first courtier for leading him astray.’
‘The moral of this amusing anecdote?’
‘That King Henry has a mind like a weathervane in March. It blows first this way, then another. Should I be the one to convey to him tidings that his wife is capable of conversation heard only in the lowest whorehouse, he will not be best pleased, and he will go in search of more comforting counsel. To the man who assures him that Queen Anne is worthy of sainthood he will give a purse, while ordering the death of he who claimed otherwise. But if he hears the same from several of his chosen arse-lickers in harmony with the main tune, he will believe it. I, Thomas Cromwell, do not wish to be the one who goes to the scaffold.’
‘So once the boy — young man, rather — brings you the gossip, you will pass it to others to deliver?’
‘Precisely. But before that may happen, Richard Ashton must be grown into a courtier. And that must be your task.’
‘He is but a rough country boy at present, say you?’
‘Little better, I fear. He has received an average education, and his manners are those of a well-established country squire, but at Court he would at present resemble an abbot in a brothel.’
‘Not so unlikely a spectacle, since Henry became our gatekeeper to God,’ Margaret observed sourly. ‘But I fear that I am of late so long absent from Court that what I can teach him will be out of fashion.’
‘Teach him merely how to bow, and not to scratch his arse in the royal presence, and leave the finer points to me,’ Cromwell said. ‘I can leave him with you for a month, then I need him back at Austin Friars. Should you run out of things to teach him, you might consider sending him to Beaulieu.’
‘Where George Boleyn can teach him how to bend over with his hose at his ankles?’ Margaret chortled back. ‘Bring him in without delay, and let us see what we can make of him.’
III
After Cromwell had deposited his charge, the Countess sank into her favourite chair and made the sign of the Cross as she stared in disbelief at a bewildered Richard.
‘God preserve us — you are the living image of your grandfather!’
‘So my grandmother tells me,’ Richard confirmed. ‘Is this something of which I should be proud?’
‘You do not know who your grandfather was?’ Margaret asked.
Richard shook his head in frustration.
Cromwell looked across at Margaret with eyebrows raised in enquiry, and she nodded.
‘Tell the poor boy without further delay, Master Cromwell. But keep it brief.’
Cromwell led Richard to another of the chairs around the large table and pushed him gently into it before taking the chair next to his, leaving the Countess on her own on the other side. Then he looked into Richard’s eyes. ‘What history have you learned?’
‘I know of Julius Caesar, and the Emperor Constantine, and Charlemagne the Great, and…’
‘English history,’ Cromwell insisted.
‘The Battle of Hastings? The Roman conquest? The Black Death?’
‘The Princes in the Tower?’ Cromwell asked.
‘Yes,’ Richard replied eagerly. ‘They were murdered by King Richard, who ruled England before the first Henry won his crown in battle.’
From across the table came an angry snort from Margaret Pole, and Cromwell smiled. ‘Your tutor must have been a Lancastrian. And it’s time that you learned the truth.’
‘It’s time everyone learned the truth,’ Margaret added with considerable feeling.
‘What has this to do with my grandfather?’ Richard asked.
‘Have patience, and learn the true history,’ Cromwell replied as he shook his head in disbelief. ‘I cannot believe that our modern youth are still fed the same lies. But then again, there can be very few of us left who know the truth, and even I only know it because of what the Cardinal told me.’
‘You can blame Thomas More for that,’ Margaret reminded him sourly.
Cromwell shot her a disapproving glance. ‘Let’s not dwell on that.’ He turned back to Richard and continued, ‘Some years ago, the king known as Henry IV of England died, leaving two sons. The first was the older of the two, and his heir, and he was known as Edward, Prince of Wales. He was twelve years old, and was lodged in the Tower of London, ahead of his coronation, by his uncle, Duke Richard of Gloucester. He grew lonely, and asked for the company of his younger brother, Richard, Duke of York, who was nine. Then both boys disappeared.’
‘But one of them was due to be crowned King?’ Richard reminded him.
Cromwell nodded. ‘He was never crowned, and neither was his younger brother, who would have inherited the crown had aught befallen the older boy. By the time it was concluded that the two boys had been murdered, the crown had been claimed by the man who had originally consigned them to the Tower, Duke Richard of Gloucester, who became Richard III of England.’
‘And the present King’s father won the crown from him in battle, just as I said,’ Richard replied.
‘He did indeed. But do you not wish to know what happened to the two missing princes?’
‘They were not murdered by Richard?’
‘No — I said that this was the conclusion reached at the time. But one of them surv
ived.’
‘Then why did he not become king?’
‘That is a question you may well ask yourself in a few more moments. I must digress for a moment. For some years I was in the employ of Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, Lord Chancellor of England, and Papal Legate to England. He enjoyed a long and varied career in the service of England, and one of his first positions was as chaplain to the Deputy Governor of Calais. The Cardinal of whom I speak had occasion to confide in me that one day, while in the service of Calais, he was called upon to give the last rites and dying unction to a soldier in the garrison at Guines. He was an old man, and wished to make confession. He gave his name as John Dighton, and he confessed to the Cardinal that he had been present when the princes were removed from the Tower.’
‘They were not murdered, then?’
‘Not by that point. But at some stage the older of the two, the heir apparent to the throne of England, the boy named Edward, was killed by Dighton’s companion, a man named James Tyrrell. Some years later Tyrrell confessed under torture, on the orders of Henry Tudor to having killed both boys, though, in my experience, a man under torture will confess to having gone to it with his own grandmother, should that be what is required of him by the torturer. The confirmation that both boys were dead suited what King Henry VII wanted to hear, and that was deemed to be the end of the matter. But the Cardinal sought admission to Tyrrell’s chamber the night before his execution, to hear his confession, during which Tyrell confirmed what Dighton had already told the Cardinal.’
‘That only one boy had been murdered?’ Richard asked.
‘Correct. Dighton was paid to take the younger boy, still alive, across to Calais, where he — Dighton — was richly rewarded, and lived out the rest of his days as a hired sword in the English garrison at Guines.’
‘Rewarded by whom?’ the Countess asked.
Cromwell opted to reply with a question of his own. ‘That depends, does it not, upon who employed Tyrrell and Dighton in the first place?’
‘It is popularly believed that it was my uncle,’ Margaret muttered. ‘I hope that you are about to reveal otherwise.’
‘Your uncle?’ Richard repeated, open-mouthed.
‘My uncle was Richard of Gloucester,’ the old lady replied proudly.
Richard’s mouth remained open as Cromwell continued.
‘You are correct that Richard of Gloucester has long been accused of the murder of both princes. In fact, only one of them died, and Gloucester was no more guilty of those disappearances than you or I, even though he stood to gain from them by being given a clear path to the throne.’
‘But if not Richard, then who?’ Richard asked.
Cromwell smiled his conspiratorial smile, and again answered with a question of his own. ‘Who else might have benefitted, at that time, from a clear path to the throne?’
Richard knitted his brows as he sought for the answer out loud. ‘All the sons of Richard of York were dead. There was the royal widow Elizabeth Woodville, and the royal princesses.’
‘And to whom was one of those royal princesses already spoken for in marriage?’ Cromwell prompted him, as his face lit up in realisation.
‘Henry Tudor!’
Cromwell nodded.
‘This is a serious accusation,’ Richard replied uneasily. ‘How can you be certain of your ground for making it?’
‘The confession of Dighton once again,’ Cromwell told him. ‘He was feed by Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. And Buckingham was Henry Tudor’s half-brother, through Margaret Beaufort. He was executed after his own uprising failed, while Richmond himself was still in France, raising his army, and Margaret Beaufort was fanning the flames of rebellion.
‘The Cardinal took with him to his grave the certain knowledge that the princes were removed from the Tower, and one of them killed, if not on the direct order of Margaret Beaufort, the current King’s grandmother, at least with her money. The entire Tudor line that has followed has depended upon that information being kept from public knowledge.’
‘But why was the younger boy allowed to live?’ Richard asked.
‘I believe that he was a hostage to fortune,’ Cromwell explained. ‘Buckingham was jealous of the preference that his mother Margaret Beaufort afforded to Henry Tudor, which is why his own rebellion was staged too early — ahead of Henry’s plan to invade with his mercenary army. But Buckingham had it in mind that if Henry became King, he — Buckingham — would use the existence of the surviving boy, who had been taken to live with a family in Antwerp, either to secure a powerful position of his own alongside the throne, or use it to topple Henry from power. But of course he was able to do neither, since he was executed by Richard of Gloucester, and very few people remained who knew of the boy’s existence.’
‘So what happened to the boy?’ Richard asked, suddenly alert with expectation.
Cromwell smiled. ‘I see by your face that you anticipate the next part of the tale. When no further news came from England of what the family in Antwerp — a family named “Warbeck” in our tongue — was to do with the boy, he was raised by them as one of their own. They seem to have forgotten who he really was, and he never knew until he was apprenticed to a silk merchant who travelled to Ireland, where the likeness of the boy to Edward Plantagenet — the dead Edward IV — was noted by some nobles who had no love for the Tudors who were seeking to strip them of their independence. He was crowned by them as “Richard IV of England”, and then travelled to Scotland, where he fell in love with the daughter of the Earl of Huntly.’
‘Huntly?’ Richard echoed.
‘You see where this is leading, young man?’
‘The boy of whom you speak. He was my ... my...?’
‘Your grandfather. You even bear his true name of Richard, and you are the rightful Duke of York by descent.’
‘And you are the living image of my Uncle Edward,’ Margaret added, almost in veneration.
‘If the older boy was killed, am I not the rightful King of England?’ Richard asked.
Cromwell smiled kindly across at him. ‘That would depend upon many factors, but given a tail wind in your favour, you are correct.’
‘What happened to the boy? My grandfather? According to my grandmother he was executed for treason.’
‘That much is true. He made the fatal error of landing in England with a pathetically small army, in the belief that the people would rally to his cause, as they had done to Henry Tudor, who by then had lost his popularity with the people, due to his heavy taxation of them. The boy was captured and put on show, allowed briefly to live in Courtly splendour as a pathetic pretender called “Perkin Warbeck” — his name from his Antwerp days — and then executed in punishment for an escape bid that he was tricked into by one of Henry’s more devious ministers.’
‘Did Henry Tudor know that Perkin was really the lost Prince?’ Richard asked.
Cromwell shrugged his shoulders. ‘That we do not know, but his queen, Elizabeth, never resiled from her belief that he was her younger brother, and she took his wife — Richard’s grandmother — under her wing as a lady-in-waiting to her. But of course the Cardinal knew the truth, and it weighed heavily on his conscience when circumstances required him to assist the now King Henry to take his place on the throne when Henry Tudor died. The Cardinal was hounded to his death on the urging of Queen Anne, for different reasons, but we cannot be sure that it did not also suit the present King Henry when the Cardinal died, taking his secret with him.’
‘Such a tale of treachery makes my own family seem normal by comparison,’ Richard observed, ‘but what is it that you seek of me? To lead another rebellion, and finish up on Tower Hill like my grandfather?’
‘Do you currently command ten thousand men?’ Cromwell asked sarcastically.
‘Of course not, and neither am I trained to fight with sword or lance,’ Richard replied with resignation. ‘I cannot even joust.’
‘Neither may Henry, thanks to his wife,’ Cromwell grinned back
at him, ‘and therein lies your opportunity for revenge.’
‘How?’
‘The King grows cold towards the Queen, who senses her own sunset, and becomes more shrewish in consequence. She gives the outward appearance of confidence, and she bullies her ladies and other attendants as she ever did, hoping upon hope that the child currently hosted by her belly will be a boy. If she gives Henry a son, her arse may remain securely on the throne. The Tudors must have a male heir to continue their ill-gotten line, and we must ensure that this does not come about.’
‘Why is it “we”?’ Richard asked suspiciously. ‘What interest have you in this matter?’
Cromwell’s face darkened in reply. ‘I am base-born, the son of a brawling Putney innkeeper, and could not have expected to rise to my current position in life were it not for the kindliness of another who was also base-born. I refer of course to Thomas Wolsey, whose father was a butcher, but who rose by sheer ability to be the second most powerful man in the England of his day. He took me into his service, and here I am today. But the Cardinal made many enemies among the old families. They conspired to bring down this commoner who outran them all in wits and oratory, and they took their chances when they arose. One in particular, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, saw his opportunity when his Boleyn nieces returned from France. King Henry bedded the first without difficulty — the older girl, Mary. Then when Anne held out for her honour, Henry saw a need to rid himself of the then Queen, Katherine.’
‘God rest her blessed soul,’ Margaret muttered as she crossed herself again.
‘What has this to do with the Cardinal?’ Richard persisted, as Cromwell appeared to look at the far wall for his next words.
‘The Cardinal and Norfolk were old enemies, from their boyhood days in Suffolk. Anne was anxious for the old Queen to be put aside in favour of her, while Norfolk was chafing at the bit to see Wolsey humbled. Their interests were joined in the matter of the removal of Katherine, and Henry looked to the Cardinal to bring this about.’
