To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York (16 page)

“That cannot be,” cried Dudley, aghast.

“Impossible!” echoed Stanley.

“I have not your trusting natures, my friends,” said the King. “There are certain people about me whom I know to be loyal . . . who have proved their loyalty . . . but beyond that.”

He was looking with approval at the three men who nodded sympathetically.

“We must be on the alert,” said Stanley. “We shall increase our vigilance and may I say, my lord, that this project of yours for Prince Henry will be an answer to these people on the Continent.”

“I thought so,” said the King.

“We will try to make it not too costly,” said Empson.

“On an occasion such as this will be, in my opinion, one should not give an impression of parsimoniousness,” Stanley said. “As a matter of fact, my lord, I have come with suggestions for the tournaments, which must necessarily follow. And the Prince will need his special garments.”

“We will discuss these matters,” said Henry, “and when we have decided we will pass over the accounts to our good friends here. . . .”

Empson and Dudley bowed their heads and, realizing that their presence was not needed while the arrangements were discussed, asked leave to retire and left the King alone with his Lord Chamberlain.

Later Henry recalled his lawyer financiers to discuss the cost of the ceremonies he was planning and when they had glanced through the suggested expenditure the subject of Perkin Warbeck arose again. Indeed it seemed one which the King found impossible to leave for long. It was clearly very much on his mind.

“The more I think of it the more certain I am that we have enemies in our midst,” he said. “It may well be that they are planning to help Perkin when he attempts to land.”

His ministers looked grave.

“If we could find out who they are . . .”

“I intend to,” said the King. “That is why I am setting spies along every road that leads to Dover. I am having all travelers searched. In this way we shall ourselves receive messages which are intended for our enemies.”

“A big task, Sire.”

“We are constantly confronted by big tasks—and this happens to be a very important one . . . for us all. The Londoners are already up in arms because of the cessation of trade with Flanders.”

Both Dudley and Empson were silent. They did not think that was a very good measure to take merely to upset Margaret of Burgundy. England herself had suffered from the loss of trade, which was the last thing the King wanted. It showed how deeply he feared this Perkin Warbeck.

“And have your spies on the Dover road discovered anything?”

“Not yet. But I am hopeful.”

He was right to be hopeful for within a short time his spies found what they were looking for. When he read the letters which were being brought from Flanders for Lord Fitzwalter he was horrified.

The letters were written by Sir Robert Clifford, a man whom he knew and whom he would have trusted. He had been with the army in France, spoke the language fluently, and had acted as an interpreter. Henry would have vouched for his loyalty. It was a terrible blow to discover that he did not know in what direction to look for his enemies.

Clifford had written: “I have been in contact with the Pretender. He is so like the late King Edward the Fourth that he must be his son. I have no doubt whatsoever that the man who is contemptuously called Perkin Warbeck by Henry Tudor is in truth Richard the Fourth.”

The letters went on to state that plans were going ahead for the invasion. It was necessary to have friends whom they could trust in England so that when the invading forces landed they would know where to look for supporters.

This was worse than Henry had feared. The correspondence revealed names in the most unexpected quarters. There was Lord Fitzwalter, a man whom he had made steward of his household during the first year of his reign and later joint steward of England with Jasper Tudor. He was deeply wounded by the perfidy of such a man. What had he wanted? More honors? Or did he genuinely believe that Perkin Warbeck was Richard of York? Who could say? The mysterious disappearance of the Princes would go on reverberating through the ages. If the truth could be told . . . No! The truth must never be told. But his concern of the moment was to bind his friends to him and to cut off his enemies for ever.

Sir Thomas Thwaites, Sir Simon Mountford . . . traitors all of them. Men close to him, men whom he had believed to be his friends! And this was not all, there were three members of the Church involved in the conspiracy—and important ones at that. The Dean of St. Paul’s himself and the Prior of Langley as well as the Provincial of the Black Friars.

He was cold with fear and rage.

He sent for his guards.

“Arrest these men,” he said.

So now he knew the extent of the conspiracy. He had been wise to intercept the messengers.

He thought constantly of Sir Robert Clifford. He knew the man well, remembering him from the days in France. He was not a man whom he considered would be distinguished for his bravery, and it occurred to the King that Robert Clifford might be very useful to him. The men whose names had been revealed were not of any great importance perhaps. They were not the leaders of the conspiracy and Henry’s natural suspicions led him to believe that there might be men close to him who were working against him. They were the ones he must try to catch.

He made a decision. Could he use Robert Clifford to work for him as an informer, a counter spy? It seemed possible. He immediately sent one of his spies to Flanders in the guise of a merchant with the instructions that he was to seek out Robert Clifford, sound him, offer him a pardon, offer him money, if he would work for Henry instead of for this Pretender whose claims he must know were as spurious as those of the scullion Lambert Simnel.

Henry eagerly waited for the response. It came quickly. Robert Clifford was ready to work for Henry Tudor.

Henry was pleased. Robert Clifford should be given a free pardon—he had the King’s word for that. When it should be ripe for him to return to England he should have a grant of five hundred pounds; and there should also be a free pardon for his servant Richard Waltier who would also be expected to serve the King in this matter of revealing those who worked against him.

This was a wise move. Henry now began to realize how deeply the dissatisfaction had gone in England. He was amazed at those who were ready to listen to this preposterous claim of young Perkin and moreover dally with the possibility of betraying their crowned King.

Henry Duke of York

n the nurseries at Eltham Palace the royal children played their games and grappled with their lessons unaware of the fact that their lives could drastically change within a few days if their father’s enemies were successful.

In spite of the fact that he was the youngest and only three years old, Henry was already making his presence felt. Arthur, five years his senior, was a quiet and studious boy, rarely asserting himself and leaving his sister Margaret and young Henry to fight together for supremacy. Five-year-old Margaret was showing signs of a forceful personality, which was matched by that of three-year-old Henry who would send his bronze horse on its squeaky wheels shooting across the nursery in pursuit of any who offended him. He loved that horse for on it sat a knight with a lance and a shield and Henry had always seen himself as that knight, fearless, ready to attack his enemies, and at the same time it offered a certain comfort in the dark. Margaret had complained many times to Anne Oxenbrigge, whose task was to watch over Henry, that her brother had grazed her legs with his silly old horse.

Anne would scold Henry in a mild way, which was no real scolding. Henry knew he only had to bury his face in her skirts and look woeful and she would pick him up and cuddle him. He liked cuddling Anne; she was warm and soft with enormous bosoms from which he had sucked his milk when a baby. She had been chosen because she was young and healthy, large of hip and bosom with a red and white complexion which showed good health. Henry knew of course that she was only a nurse and that his mother was a queen, but a lady so noble that she could not be concerned with children in nurseries. But children in nurseries grew up and when they did they became important as his mother and father were.

He must wait for that day. In the meantime he had to rule the nursery. It would not have been difficult but for his rival Margaret who could scream as loud as he could, kick and cajole as effectively. He did not have to worry about Arthur. Although he was big and old he never listened to their quarrels, and never took part in any; he was always meek and anxious to do his lessons.

Anne said: “Your brother Arthur is a good boy. Now why don’t you try to be more like the Prince of Wales?”

“
I
should be Prince of Wales,” said Henry.

“Now, now, that’s silly. Arthur is older than you. It is his right.”

“It’s my right
really
. . . .”

“The pride of him!” said Anne, kissing him. “Now you try to be a good boy and don’t send that horse of yours crashing into Margaret. You hurt her badly.”

“I’m glad.”

“Now that is really wicked.”

“I
am
wicked. I want to be wicked. I am going to hurt Margaret with my horse. My knight doesn’t like her. He doesn’t like Arthur. He thinks I ought to be Prince of Wales.”

“Tut, tut!” said Anne; he heard her say afterward to one of the maids: “Our young Henry has a fine conceit of himself. I fancy he is jealous of his brother. I’m always telling him he ought to be more like him. I thank the Virgin that he is not.”

Henry was all ears. The perfidy of women! Wasn’t Anne always telling him that he should be good and quiet like Arthur, studying his lessons—and now she was thanking the Virgin that he was not! This was interesting.

“Delicate,” whispered Anne. “Takes after his mother.”

“Don’t suppose he’ll make old bones.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me at all. It’s a good thing we have young Henry.”

“There’s a sturdy little fellow for you. They say he takes after his grandfather King Edward. I never saw him but I hear he was big and tall and more handsome than anyone ever before.”

“I reckon that’s about right and young Henry will be such another. It’s a pity he wasn’t born first. . . .What a king he would have made!”

“Well . . . who knows . . . ?”

“Hush! We shouldn’t talk like this. The Queen would think we were illwishing her eldest.”

“God forbid. He’s a dear boy.”

“Easier to manage than young Henry I can tell you.”

“Ah well, he’s a boy to be proud of . . . though a handful.”

The “handful” went off brooding on what he had heard. A resentment had started to grow in his heart. It was rather unkind of God not to have made him the eldest—more than unkind, foolish, for it was clear that he would have made a much better king than Arthur.

He was growing fast and he was a big child. He was secretly delighted to realize that he was catching up on Arthur. Arthur was a little thin and weedy; Henry was sturdy rather than plump; he had a cherubic face with a pink and white complexion, whereas Arthur’s face was thinnish and rather pale; Henry’s reddish hair was thick and plentiful, Arthur’s was inclined to be less vital. Margaret was very like Henry. Vociferous and demanding, there was bustle surrounding her always and she was constantly in some argument with the nurses because she wanted to do something which was forbidden.

Henry felt the nursery would have been a happier place without Margaret—without Arthur too for that matter. He would have liked a nursery where he was the eldest and perhaps one or two brothers and sisters who looked up to him as though he were already a king.

He liked to leave the Palace, which he had done on one or two occasions when he had been to see his parents at Westminster. He had ridden on his palfry—led by a squire—and the people had liked him. They had cheered him wildly—him more than the others he was sure—and he had smiled at them and waved and he fancied his father had been rather pleased with him. He thought it was a shame that they had to come back to Eltham; it was a pleasant palace but away from everything that was especially exciting. Although it was only eight miles from London it was shut away. He felt when he was crossing the drawbridge over the very deep moat that he was leaving the exciting world behind. The walls were so high, the archway so lofty, he felt shut in by all those gray stones and he longed to be older that he might go to Court and hear the people cheer him.

He sat at table with his brother and sister.

Arthur was constantly told: “Now you must eat that, my lord. You’ll never grow into a big strong boy if you don’t.”

No need to tell Henry. He could always eat all the beef or mutton which was put before him; he always asked for his pewter tankard to be refilled with the ale which they were given to drink. They never had water; it could be dangerous. He liked good spiced meat far better than that salt fish they had on Fridays and in fact he disliked Fridays because of the fish, for food meant a great deal to him.

Meals were quite a ceremony. They were presided over by squires well suited to the task, for princes must be taught to conduct themselves in a seemly fashion at the table and not fall on the food like ravenous wolves. They must not show too great an interest in the food—because that was what the needy would do. They must wash their hands both before and after a meal; they must eat with a knife gracefully and use the correct fingers for holding the food. Even the washing of hands was a ceremony, for one of the carvers would bring the bowl, then kneel and pour water over Henry’s hands while another servant stood by with a towel to dry them.

The most difficult part was to show indifference to the food. That was something Henry could not feel for he was invariably ravenously hungry.

It was September about three months after Henry’s third birthday when messengers arrived at the Palace. They came to announce that in a few days the King and Queen would be visiting Eltham.

The household was in a twitter of excitement, which was mainly apprehension. They were all very much in awe of the King, for although he rarely spoke to any of them, if he noticed anything of which he disapproved there would be a complaint and the fact that it would not be made in the hearing of the one to blame made it worse because there was no chance of answering the charge.

The Queen was a beautiful, gentle lady, but it was the King who counted.

Henry was at the nursery window with Arthur and Margaret when the cavalcade rode into the great courtyard. He saw the magnificently caparisoned horses and the servants of the King in their green and white livery mingling with those of the Queen’s purple and blue. It was exciting. Henry jumped up and down in his glee.

“Be still, Henry,” admonished Margaret. “You are behaving like a stable boy.”

Henry‘s little blue eyes narrowed. He would have liked to send his bronze horse and knight rushing straight at her. But this was not the time for retaliation so he merely scowled at her, which did not bother her in the least and she laughed at him saying, “Now you look really ugly!”

As though he ever did! As though he ever could! How often had he heard the servants say he was the image of his grandfather Edward and
he
had been one of the most handsome men in England.

Anne Oxenbrigge was running into the nursery casting an anxious eye over them all. Arthur’s tutor was there with other attendants and servants because now was the time for the children to go down and greet their parents.

Arthur led them into the great hall.

They knew what they had to do. They must bow to the King and Queen and wait until they were spoken to.

The King was a disappointment to Henry. He did not look like a king. Henry would have liked to see his father in purple velvet and ermine with a golden crown on his head.

When I am King . . . he thought . . . and then with a guilty look at Arthur . . .
if
I am King I shall always look splendid. My father might be just a squire or a lord . . . out for a day’s hunting. The Queen was beautiful though—like a picture, rather remote, with her plump rather expressionless face and a certain longing in her eyes, which the children did not understand.

The King watched them to make sure they behaved in the correct manner and when the first ceremony of greeting was over they were all a little more comfortable.

Refreshment was immediately brought for the party and Arthur served the King and then the Queen with wine and cakes. The Queen kept Margaret and Henry with her . . . one on either side, and Henry thought how beautiful she was and was proud of her. He kept comparing her with Anne Oxenbrigge. Anne was by no means as beautiful . . . but somehow he would hate them to send Anne away whereas when the Queen went he would not mind so very much after the first day or so, and then he would only mind because it meant that all the excitement of a royal visit was over.

The Queen asked questions about what they did. Margaret tried to talk all the time but Henry was not having that. There was quite a little babble about the Queen, which was different from what was happening with the King and Arthur who seemed to find it difficult to keep their conversation going.

Finally that ceremony was over and the King and Queen went to their apartments while the children returned to the nurseries, there to wait the next summons, which would be for dinner; as they would take this with their royal parents their mentors hoped they would remember all they had been taught about the washing of hands and the correct method of eating.

Arthur was given precedence of course; he it was who held the basin while the King’s hands were washed; then he sat beside the King and there was more of that uneasy talk. Poor Arthur, he was wishing that the ordeal was over.

They were all glad when the tumblers who traveled with the King and performed for his entertainment were brought in. The King’s stern face relaxed into a smile as he watched them and young Henry was so excited he leaped up and tried to imitate them, which caused a great deal of amusement and even made the King laugh aloud.

Then there was the King’s fool called Patch who said a lot of things to make them all laugh and was really quite disrespectful to the King, which Henry could not understand until he learned afterward that this was a special privilege for fools whom nobody took seriously.

If I were a king, he thought, I wouldn’t allow anyone to speak disrespectfully of me, fool or no.

Ever since he had overheard that conversation he was thinking more and more of what he would do if he were king.

He was surprised when the King told him to come and sit beside him. His father studied him very carefully.

“You may have been wondering why the Queen and I have come to Eltham.”

“To see me . . . and Arthur and Margaret.”

“Yes, that is so. But there is a rather special reason and it concerns you, my son.”

Henry’s eyes were bright with excitement; his little mouth turned up in a smile.

“I am going to honor you, Henry. I am going to give you a title. You must be worthy of it.”

“I will, my lord,” said Henry firmly.

“I believe you will. You are going to be the Duke of York.”

“Couldn’t I be Prince of Wales?”

“What do you mean? Arthur is the Prince of Wales.”

“He doesn’t like being Prince of Wales very much. I should . . .”

The King’s smile was a little wintry. “You must not say such things. There is a Prince of Wales and he will remain Prince of Wales until he becomes the King. You will have to understand these matters. You will be Duke of York, which is next in rank and honor to the Prince of Wales.”