The Last Plantagenet

by Thomas B. Costain

  When that bold seaman returned from his discovery of the North American continent, an achievement second only to that of Christopher Columbus, Henry (who had not risked one of his newly minted shillings in the venture) did not receive him with open arms and shower him with honors and rewards. He did not even fill Cabot’s flat mariner’s cap with gold pieces. No, this outgiving prince presented the commander with the handsome sum of ten pounds, an amount often paid to old royal servants or to the faithful nurses of illegitimate children.

  Midas had the touch which turned everything to gold, but Henry had a different gift. He could make gold disappear at a touch—right into the royal pocket. The robust patrons of inns and taverns, who were benefiting by the rising prosperity to the extent of being able to afford fennel in their ale, spoke openly of Henry, nevertheless, as a nip-cheese and a begrudgemuch. Well, there is no doubt that he was niggardly, sly, and shabby.

  Henry had an ingenious mind. He could think of curious ways of achieving his ends. Some said of him that he reasoned like a corkscrew, allowing his mind to go around and around and never being direct and understandable. He had, in fact, a passion for secrecy.

  In this respect he resembled Louis XI of France, who preferred to twist and turn and burrow rather than proceed along straight lines of thought and action. Henry even resembled Louis in his choice of hats, a flat affair with a peak in front. A more important parallel was discovered after he died and left an estate of £1,800,000, the equivalent of a monstrous fortune today. And how quickly his boisterous, spendthrift son, Henry VIII, succeeded in throwing that inheritance away!

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  Henry displayed his courage by landing at Milford Haven in August 1485, with no more than 3000 French mercenaries. He was relying on two things: the loyalty of the Welsh people for one of Welsh blood and, something of more value than any number of the knaves and rapscallions he had recruited from the gaols and stews of the continent, the promises of support won by his lady mother. He chose to land at Milford Haven for the first reason, dropping on one knee when he landed to kiss the soil of Wales.

  The Welsh people did respond in some degree and by the time the forces of invasion swarmed over into the Midlands, Henry had a much more considerable following. He had received in addition the promises of support from many quarters. Richard’s system of postal intelligence seems to have broken down and it was several days before he learned of the landing. At first he was not unduly alarmed, openly deriding his antagonist as a milksop. Nor had he any inkling yet of the web which had been spun with such secrecy.

  He sent out commands to his barons to arm their retainers and join him in the defense of the realm. Although weary of the incessant uproar and bloodshed (it was estimated that 105,000 men had been killed in the Wars of the Roses), many responded at once. A much larger army than Henry could count upon followed the king when he rode on a white charger into the city of Leicester on August 20. But Richard was not easy in his mind, for from the first there was a scent of treachery in the air. He issued an urgent summons to Stanley, who had betaken himself to Lancashire earlier but who returned an excuse that he was suffering from the sweating sickness. The oldest son of Stanley had been left with Richard and had tried to make his escape. On being caught, he confessed that he and his uncle, Sir William Stanley, had been in touch with the invaders. There was also a certain aloofness about some of the lords of the north. These great barons, who lived in semi-regal style, were easily offended and not always happy to bend the knee. It will be recalled that Henry IV had found himself under the necessity of fighting Harry Hotspur, the heir of the Percies.

  No eyewitness has left an account of the Battle of Bosworth and the record of events preceding the clash are scanty, so what is told about it consists largely of conclusions drawn from such few facts as are available. It is said that Richard rose early on the morning of the battle, having spent a disturbed night, beset in his dreams by visions of all his victims (Shakespeare can be blamed for this) and seriously concerned because Stanley, who had raised an army of 5000 men in Derby and Chester, was hovering about and refusing to join him. The atmosphere in the royal camp was one of suspicion and suspense, even of dismay. It was believed that the Stanleys would go over to Henry. The Northumberland levies stood about with grounded arms and seemed reluctant to have any part in the battle. A rumor ran through the ranks that a paper had been discovered that morning attached to the flap of the Duke of Norfolk’s tent. On it were written these lines:

  Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold,

  For Dickon, thy master, is bought and sold.

  The information thus conveyed was authentic enough. Richard Plantagenet had been bought and sold. Under cover of darkness the night before, Henry had held a meeting with the Stanleys and a course of action had been decided upon.

  Richard studied the enemy lines across the plain known as Redmoors, beyond which he could see the green and white tents of the invaders and Henry’s banner with its fiery red dragon. This, he knew, would be the last battle of the long wars, whether he won or lost. A fatalistic mood seemed to have settled upon him. The loss of his wife and son still weighed heavily on his mind and he could not read in the future much promise or hope. He was willing and eager to put the issue to a sharp test, to destroy his enemy or to go down himself on the field of battle.

  The Lancastrians had the sun on their backs and seemed to have the better of the first clash. This was what Stanley had been waiting for. The Wily Fox, changing his coat for the final time, advanced with his troops and joined Henry’s right wing. It was a critical moment and Richard realized his one chance now was to strike at the enemy ranks behind which the inexperienced Henry was watching the struggle. His scouts had brought him word of Henry’s position.

  “A battle-ax!” demanded the king.

  Followed by a small mounted group of his most faithful men, the young king (he was only thirty-two years old) charged headlong into the enemy lines. Swinging his ax, he bore down and killed Brandon, Henry’s standard-bearer. Before him now loomed the gigantic figure of Sir John Cheney. A single blow unhorsed that powerful knight. Richard’s right arm seemed strong enough to cut his way clear through to where his opponent stood. On his left arm, his “weerish, withered arm,” he bore his heavy shield and with it also he controlled the wild course of his maddened steed.

  It was a magnificient effort and almost brought the two leaders face to face. But the king’s handful had thinned behind him. He stood alone at the last and fought singlehanded against the Lancastrians who now swarmed about him. His armor broken, his ax limp with his weariness, he went down under the blows of his enemies.

  Nothing in history excells this mad exploit for sheer daring, although it brings to mind another piece of spectacular bravery. A century before, the Black Douglas threw the casket containing the heart of Robert the Bruce into the ranks of the Moors and then cut his way singlehanded into their ranks, to fall at last under the blows of their infidel swords.

  Richard’s crown, retrieved from a clump of bushes, it is said, was placed on Henry’s head before he rode out across Redmoors to direct the pursuit of the royal army.

  The Wars of the Roses had come to an end and a new family of kings and queens would succeed the Plantagenets.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Some Curious Measures and Omissions

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  THE princess Elizabeth was nearly twenty years old and, as might have been expected in the child of such surpassingly handsome parents, she was a great beauty. It is clear from her portraits that she was rather tall but that her figure was mature and pleasing. She had her mother’s golden hair and large blue eyes. Her cheeks had the slightest tendency to plumpness and showed the pink of perfect health.

  Ever since reaching an age of understanding, she had known of the ambitious plans being made for her future. No matrimonial alliance was too good for her. She would sit on a throne beside a king and wear a golden circlet on her lovely hair. Because of breaches in international r
elations, it had finally narrowed down; her one chance to become a queen was to be Queen of England, and so she must marry Henry of Richmond. She heard reports of his manly attractions and of the shining light of his intelligence, and her maidenly fancy had been caught. Watching developments closely, it seemed to her that Richard’s death at Bosworth made it certain that the desired match would now be brought about. She was, therefore, relieved and pleased when Henry summoned her at once to London from Sheriff-Hutton. Her young cousin, the youthful Earl of Warwick, had been living there and was to travel with her.

  Henry surprised the nation by riding to London from Bosworth in a covered chariot, a type of vehicle which has crept into the records in connection with the travels of great ladies. If an evidence of modesty, this was not wise, for the people of England wanted to see the man who had made himself their king. If due to a sense of the need for protection, it may have been sensible, for feelings still ran high. At any rate he had a safe, if slow, journey but arrived in London before the princess, going into residence at first in the palace of the Bishop of London and transacting his affairs at the Tower. When Elizabeth and the cloudy-witted earl arrived, she was sent to Westminster where her mother was in residence. The unfortunate youth vanished into the closed and mysterious life of the grim Tower, to emerge therefrom only once in the balance of his sad life, when he was taken out and paraded on horseback through the streets of London to prove that Lambert Simnel, who claimed to be the real earl, was an impostor.

  If Henry met the fair Elizabeth at this time, there is no report of it. Perhaps this would be due to the prevalence in London of the sweating sickness, which had been brought into England by his French mercenaries. Perhaps he was in the throes of ceaseless activities. One of his first acts was to organize a personal bodyguard. Then he had many vexed matters of business to transact with Parliament.

  These were anxious moments for Elizabeth, who did not want to see another crown whisked out of the reach of her willing hands. She and her mother heard he was to be crowned on October 30 and their faces clouded with bewilderment and anxiety when there was no hint of a marriage. Their worry deepened when he had Elizabeth declared the Duchess of York and claimed the throne in his own right “to be, rest, and abide in his own person.” To make matters worse, there were rumors in London which came quickly and unerringly to their disturbed ears. Henry, it was said, was considering other possible matches. A princess of Brittany was mentioned and also Lady Katherine Herbert. Henry knew each of these ladies and had been favorably impressed.

  The situation finally took a more favorable turn in the second week of December. Information reached the queen mother which sent her with much hurried rustling of her rich violet and fur-trimmed skirts along the drafty halls from her apartments in the palace to the handsome corner suite, hanging with tapestries and the costliest of furnishings, where the princess (the position of mother and daughter having been reversed) abided in considerable state. In happy whispers she told her daughter that Parliament in full meeting the next day would petition Henry to observe his promise and take her as his wife and consort. The queen mother knew how potent the voice of the House could be. Henry’s purse was as flat as his hat and he was desperately in need of the financial supplies which only Parliament could supply. Would he dare disregard such a demand from the members? The queen mother thought not.

  The approaching Yuletide season, which had promised so little, assumed a brighter tinge for Elizabeth. The crown seemed within her reach after all. She probably gave no thought to the brave gaiety at Christmas the year before when she had been happy enough and rather excited to dance in the gown which was identical with that of the queen—gentle Queen Anne who had died a few months after.

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  Henry may have carried in his mind certain reservations when he faced Parliament the following day, December 10. But he was shrewd to a degree and he understood one thing very clearly. The wishes of the House were conveyed to him in the form of a petition, but there was a latent suggestion of an exchange. “Fulfill your promise to unite the two great warring families by marrying Elizabeth of York and so ensure the peace of the realm,” was the implication, “and we will grant you the tunnage and poundage for life which you ask of us.” When they rose and faced him, he bowed his head.

  “I am willing so to do,” he said.

  Parliament was prorogued until January 27, and on January 18 in Westminster the new king took the heiress of York as his wife. The people celebrated the event with “dancing, songs and banquets throughout all London.”

  As the king had already been crowned, it was neccessary for the queen to have a coronation separately. It seems to have been her first public appearance, and the streets were thick with cheering people. Elizabeth was dressed in a kirtle of white cloth of gold and a mantle edged with ermine and fastened with a cordon of lace and rich tassels of gold. Above the “caul of pipes” that she wore on her hair was the circlet of gold which attested to her new rank. It was to be expected that she would be beautiful in a truly resplendent way. Did she not unite in her person the two most resplendent of family lines, the Plantagenets and the Woodvilles?

  It does not seem to have been in any sense a love match, but there is no proof of the assertion often made that Henry was cold to his wife and the direct opposite of a uxorious husband. Henry was cold to everyone. His was a withdrawn nature, secretive in all things. And his lovely young queen was a real Plantagenet in two respects. She was wildly extravagant and generous to a fault. To borrow a modern phrase, she made the money fly! Most of it was expended on others, particularly her younger sisters. Henry was continuously under the necessity of straightening out her finances and paying off her debts. And this irked him in every atom of his parsimonious self.

  Henry did not confide in those about him. “His mother,” wrote Francis Bacon a century later, “he reverenced much but listened to little.” The queen, according to the same source, could do nothing with him. He never rushed into a decision but always thought things out in a silence which none dared invade. Being a believer in system, he kept a notebook with him and entered everything in it: what he had spent, what he had decided, who was to be punished and who rewarded, his private opinions of people and events. This was well known and all the officials of the state and all the nobles and servants at court walked in fear of what the well-thumbed book contained. One day, through some unusual lapse, he left the book carelessly about and someone saw that it fell into the hands of the pet household monkey. The result was that the pages were torn to pieces and scattered about the royal domain, which added less than nothing to the feeling of affection for the little pet.

  Mention of the mischievous monkey suggests that the way he treated the animals in the royal menagerie was an indication of the strangeness of this man’s inner thoughts. One day four English mastiffs were pitted against a lion for the entertainment of the court. They fought so grandly that they got the better of the lion, who was in the king’s mind a symbol of royal authority. He had the four hanged as traitors! This, of course, was one of his methods of letting everyone know his feelings about any infringement of his rights, any doubt of his omnipotence.

  This story must be authentic because it has been cited by a number of writers who incline to the fulsome in praise of him.

  Elizabeth had been radiant in her health as well as in appearance, but she died early of the trouble which sent most women of the Middle Ages to their graves, excessive childbearing. She brought seven children into the world, two sons and five daughters. When she died in 1503, in her thirty-seventh year, she was survived by one son and two daughters. Her first-born, Prince Arthur, who married Catherine of Aragon, died in his youth, leaving the healthy, burly son Henry to succeed to the throne. The surviving daughters were Margaret, who married the King of Scotland and lived a tumultuous life, and pretty dark-eyed Mary, who married Charles XII of France in his last and senile year. Mary is one of the best remembered of English princesses.

  He
nry was properly grieved at the early demise of his fair consort, so it may have been that they were not seriously incompatible.

  In the early months of his reign Henry passed through Parliament some unusual measures. First he demanded the repeal of Titulus Regius, stipulating that it was not to be read before the House and that all copies in existence were to be destroyed! This may have been due to a deep repugnance for the act and a desire to expunge it from the memories of men. But everyone in England knew what it contained, and a monarch’s personal feelings should not be allowed to create a gap in national records. The repeal may have been an indication that he knew the princes were dead and that now they could safely be declared legitimate, as his wife was the third in line.

  The next measure which provides a glimpse into the unusual workings of his mind was a bill of attainder against the dead Richard and all men who had fought for him at Bosworth. This would make it legal for him to confiscate their properties and scoop everything into his own empty pockets. The weak point in the scheme was that these men had fought for the crowned king of the realm and so were not guilty of treason. Henry saw a way around that difficulty. He dated his reign from the day before the battle!

  It happened that some sharp parliamentary eye detected the error while the attainder was under discussion in the House. The date was corrected and the copy was sent to the king with the change made. Henry undoubtedly lapsed into one of his deep silences, his pale eyes blazing with inner fire as he realized that he could not now confiscate to his own use any of these fat and profitable acres and the honors that went with them.