by Jean Plaidy
“Into your service . . . but for what purpose?”
“He has an air of dignity, which is appealing. I think he might be trained for the Church.”
“Trained for the Church? My Lambert? Why he’s not . . . well . . . you don’t know it, Father, because why should you . . . but Lambert is what we say here, one groat short.”
“You mean he is different from the rest of you. I perceived that.”
The baker tapped his forehead. “A good boy, mind you . . . but well, shall we say somewhat simple.”
“Nothing that a little learning wouldn’t put right, I’d say. In any case, if you are willing I will take the boy into my household and have him taught. I am traveling to Ireland very soon and should like the boy to be one of my party. There will be little duties for him to perform but if he shows the slightest aptitude he could go far.”
The baker was bewildered. If the man had been any but a priest he would have been highly suspicious. Of course it had been known for some young apprentice to catch the eye of a nobleman and be taken into his service. Why shouldn’t this happen to Lambert?
“Send for the boy,” said the priest.
The baker hesitated.
“On second thoughts,” went on Richard, “let us discuss this matter first. Let us work out a plan. Then it can be presented to the boy and if he agrees we will go ahead.”
“Lambert will do as I say.”
“So much the better for I see that you are a wise man. You will know what is best for the boy and let me remind you this is an opportunity such as will never come his way or yours again for as long as you live. I promise this boy a good future if he is ready to learn.”
“I think if he had opportunities to learn, he would.”
“That is well. He would have a good future. He could become affluent, a comfort to his father in his old age.”
“Tell me more of this.”
“I should like to take him on trial. He will come away with me and soon we will sail for Ireland. He will be taught to read and write and speak like a gentleman. Then he will be ready to study for his profession.”
“You choose Lambert for this? Lambert who is a little . . . simple, you must understand. My other boy . . .”
“No, it is Lambert or no one.”
“I admit the boy has a way with him. I sometimes wonder how I and his mother got him. . . .”The baker laughed sheepishly. “Though she was a good-looking woman, I will say that for her. . . .”
“Well, what is the answer?”
“Lambert shall come with you.”
“Good. I will call for him this day . . . when the shop closes. Say nothing of this to anyone. There are such rumors nowadays.”
The baker swore secrecy and later that day Lambert Simnel left his father’s house in the company of Richard Simon.
Richard Simon quickly realized that he could not have chosen a better subject for his purpose. He had not been mistaken in Lambert. He had a natural dignity, a graceful deportment and, dressed in appropriate clothes, could indeed pass for a boy of high degree. Richard Simon had immediately tackled his speech, which was halting and carried the accent of the streets.
He was sure that could be remedied. It was true that Lambert was simple, but that in itself proved an advantage. He did not question very much. Simon was amazed at the calm way he accepted his transition from his father’s household to that of the priest. It was as though he thought it was the most natural thing in the world for bakers’ sons to be whisked away from their natural environment to become someone else.
He had a natural gift for mimicry and in a matter of days his speech had improved. The Earl of Lincoln had supplied Richard Simon with funds and Lambert was fitted out in a velvet coat, which reached almost to his heels and had elaborate hanging sleeves slashed to show an elegant white shirt beneath it; he had gray hose and pointed shoes and a little hat with a feather. He was delighted with his appearance and moved and walked with even greater grace so pleased was he.
Richard Simon devoted the first few days in teaching him to speak. That was the most important. He must also learn to read a little and write a little. Not much would be demanded in that respect but of course he must have some ability in these arts.
When a few days had passed, Simon was delighted with his results and the more he was with the boy the more pleased he was by his simplicity.
It would have been impossible to impress on a normal boy that he was something other than he actually was. It was different with Lambert. That which his father called simple meant that his mind was pliable.
Simon realized this as soon as he tested him.
“You were not born in a baker’s shop,” he told the boy.
Lambert opened his eyes very wide.
“No. You were born in a noble palace . . . in a castle . . . and your father was not the humble baker. He was a great duke.”
Lambert still continued to stare. Oh yes, it would not be difficult to mold him.
“The great Duke of Clarence. When you were three years old your father died. He was drowned in a butt of malmsey when he was a prisoner in the Tower.”
“The Tower.” He knew the Tower. Like other inhabitants of the capital he saw its gray walls often. It was regarded with a mixture of awe, apprehension and pride. It was one of the landmarks of London. He knew that terrible things happened there. Far away in the maze of his mind he remembered hearing something about a duke who had been drowned in a butt of malmsey.
“Yes, your father was the Duke of Clarence. Your mother was the Lady Isabel. She was the daughter of the Earl of Warwick who was known as the Kingmaker. Your mother died before your father. . . . So you see you soon became an orphan.”
He was still wide-eyed, taking it all in, not questioning what the priest told him. Priests often told of strange happenings . . . the resurrection . . . the Holy Ghost visiting the disciples . . . things such as that, and compared with them the fact that he was in truth the Earl of warwick did not seem so strange. He had his velvet coat; he wore pointed shoes. They showed that he was different.
“The man who now sits on the throne is a usurper. That means he took what did not belong to him and when that is a throne all good and true men want to take from him that which he has stolen and put it back where it belongs.”
The boy nodded.
“My dear little lord, the crown belongs on your head not that of the wicked Tudor who now wears it. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded vaguely. “Well,” went on Simon, “there is no need to . . . yet. There is much to be done. We are ready now to sail for Ireland. You must work at your words. You must throw off the accent you acquired while working in the baker’s shop, where the wicked Tudor put you.”
Lambert could not remember the wicked Tudor putting him in his father’s shop. He thought he had always been there, but if the priest said he hadn’t then he supposed it was right. Priests always spoke the truth. A boy had to listen to them and obey them, otherwise he would not go to Heaven.
So before they reached Ireland, Lambert was speaking with a dignity which matched his deportment and he already believed that he had been a prisoner in the Tower of London and had been taken out by the wicked Tudor and placed in a baker’s shop.
So smoothly was everything working out that Richard Simon was certain that God was on his side. The Archbishopric of Canterbury was coming very near.
The King was disturbed. This was the most ridiculous assertion he had ever heard and yet it made him very uneasy. He had no doubt that he could quickly deal with this trouble but it was a warning to him. He was sure that throughout his life he would be beset by such annoyances.
There would always be those who sought to rebel against him for it was invariably so when one was not the direct heir to the throne. He would be the first to admit that he lacked that personal charm, charisma, aura of royalty, whatever it was which Edward the Fourth had had in abundance. Henry the Fifth, Edward the First and Edward the Third had had it.
Was it something to do with making war? It might well be. It was more than that. It was the power to make men follow. But whatever it was, he lacked it.
He prided himself on facing facts. He knew that he would be a good king . . . if the country would let him. And after a few years, here was the first rebellion.
It was a foolish assumption. The Duke of Warwick masquerading under the name of Lambert Simnel who was the son of a baker! Ah, not the son of a baker was the rumor. The son of the Duke of Clarence and daughter of the great Earl of Warwick . . . the next in line to the throne.
Nonsense. A boy of eleven or so. Moreover he was in the Tower at this moment . . . a prisoner.
Yet . . . the people who were behind this rebellion alarmed him. There was the Earl of Lincoln whom Richard the Third had named as heir to the throne; there was Margaret of Burgundy, a formidable woman with vast forces at her command; there was Francis Lovell, a former adherent of Richard the Third. Well, how could they say they had the Earl of Warwick when the real one was in the Tower . . . his prisoner?
But rumor knew how to lie. Even though he proved to them that he had the Earl of Warwick in the Tower, even though he showed the boy to the people, there would still be some to say that this Lambert Simnel was the true Earl and that the boy the King was showing to the world was some creature he had set up in his place.
His mother came to him. She knew of his trouble. She had her ear to the ground, as she said, and she was ever watchful.
“You are uneasy about this Lambert Simnel,” she said. “It is the most arrant nonsense. You have young Warwick in the Tower. How can they have the effrontery to say he is with them.”
“It’s true. I must have the young Warwick paraded through the streets.”
“That will settle the matter once and for all.”
“Nay, my dear lady, not so. There was a rumor some time ago that young Warwick had escaped. That will be believed, you will see. It will be said that the boy whom I shall parade through the streets is a substitute. I know it is nonsense . . . but there will be some to believe it. My enemies will make all they can of this.”
“They will not succeed.”
“They must not succeed. Imagine if they did. This baker’s son would be set up as the King . . . oh, only a figurehead of course . . . but Lincoln would be there to govern the country . . . and you can imagine Margaret of Burgundy dictating what should be done. Men like Lovell will support them. No, my lady Mother, it is nonsense. I grant you, and I shall overcome it, but in the meantime I like it not.”
“Who does like these disturbances? I hear it is an unknown priest who has started all this—a certain Richard Simon.”
“It is. But I daresay it is taken out of his hands now. They have dared crown this Lambert Simnel in Dublin.”
“That is impossible.”
“Alas, not so. They have support from Margaret of Burgundy and two thousand German troops with them. The Germans are good fighters.”
“And what do they propose to do?”
“You can imagine. They will land here and we shall have to do battle. I thought the Wars of the Roses were at an end.”
“They are at an end. They must be at an end. You and Elizabeth have joined up York and Lancaster. There shall be no more wars.”
“That is my fervent hope. But we must always be wary of troublemakers like this upstart priest.”
“Richard Simon . . . why he came here once!”
“Came here!”
“Why yes, to see the Dowager Queen.”
Mother and son looked at each other intently.
“So Elizabeth Woodville is concerned in this,” muttered Henry. “The Queen’s mother! It seems incredible.”
“I would believe anything of that woman. You have given her so much but she is quite ungrateful. I am sure she tries to manage everything here in the Queen’s household and because she cannot, will turn the Queen against you.”
“I have no fear that I shall not be able to influence the Queen.”
“Elizabeth is a good creature, I grant you. I have no complaint of her. She will be a docile wife and she admires you and is of course grateful because of what you have brought her. But I have never liked Elizabeth Woodville, an upstart from the beginning. I should like to see her removed from Court.”
“If she is involved in the slightest way with this affair of the baker’s son then she shall most certainly be removed from Court.”
“My son, leave this to me. I shall discover and when I do I shall ask for the privilege of dealing with the woman. You know you can trust me.”
“I never was more certain of anything,” answered the King. “I leave the matter of the Dowager Queen in your hands.”
The Countess found the Dowager Queen in her apartments surrounded by her women. One of them was reading while the rest of them worked on a piece of tapestry.
The Countess said: “I wish to speak with the Queen Dowager alone.”
The women immediately arose and, bowing, began to retire.
“Wait,” said Elizabeth in her most imperious manner. “I feel sure that what the Countess has to say to me can be said before you.”
“I do not think you would relish that, my lady,” said the Countess grimly, and Elizabeth felt a shiver of apprehension. She knew that preparations were going ahead on the Continent, that Lambert Simnel had been crowned in Dublin, that Margaret of Burgundy had decided to support the boy whom she called the son of her beloved brother Clarence, and that Lincoln had succeeded in getting an army of Germans together to fight the Tudor. It was satisfactory progress, but all the same she hoped that Henry had not discovered too much for he might resort to all kinds of drastic conduct if he knew how far this plot had gone against him.
She did not stop the women’s leaving and when they had gone she said with a strong resentment in her voice: “Countess, it is my place to give orders to my servants.”
“I am of the opinion that they might not be your servants much longer.”
“I do not understand. Are you suggesting that you will choose my attendants for me?”
“I am suggesting that you may not be here at Court much longer.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I am sure my daughter, the Queen, would not wish me to leave her.”
“I think she will when she knows what you have been doing.”
“You had better explain, Countess.”
“On the contrary it is you who should explain. Of what did the priest Richard Simon speak to you when he came on the instructions of the Earl of Lincoln to visit you?”
Elizabeth turned pale. So they knew. It was inevitable. The King would have his spies everywhere. Did it matter? He would soon know when the troops landed.
Elizabeth decided to be brazen. She was the mother of the Queen, so they would not dare harm her.
The Countess was saying: “It is no use denying that Simon came here. He is now in Ireland with that foolish baker’s boy whom they have had the temerity to crown in Dublin.”
“You mean the Earl of Warwick.”
“You know the Earl of Warwick is in the Tower.”
“I know he was there, poor child. Put there as my own sons were because of their claim to the throne.”
“You speak treason, Elizabeth Woodville.”
“I speak truth, Margaret Beaufort.”
“The King and I have a way of dealing with traitors.”
“I know you have a way of dealing with those whose claim to the throne is greater than that of the Tudor.”
Elizabeth felt reckless now, which was rare with her. But she believed Henry Tudor was no fighter and there were many in the country who resented him; they had accepted him because they wanted an end to the war, but no one could say that his claim to the throne was very strong.
Now was the time to take sides.
“You admit that you are involved in this nonsensical conspiracy?”
“I admit that the priest came here. I admit that I know the Earl of Warwick escaped from
the prison in which your son had put him—poor child, little more than a baby and his only fault being that he had a greater claim to the throne than Henry Tudor.”
“You go too far, Elizabeth Woodville.”
“Well, what is it to be? The Tower? Do you think the Queen will allow that? And what do you think the people will say when they hear that the Queen’s Mother is sent to prison merely for saying the Tudor has a very shaky claim to the throne? If you imprison people for saying that, you will have the whole country in captivity.”
“Silence,” cried the Countess. “You are to leave for the nunnery at Bermondsey without delay.”
“A nunnery! I am not ready for that.”
“You will have a choice. It is the nunnery or the Tower. If you go to the nunnery it can be said that you go for your health’s sake. The King and I give you this chance.”
“You and the King do not wish the country to know that I believe the boy Lambert to be the true Earl.”
“That matter will soon be settled. Prepare to leave for the nunnery.”
“I will see my daughter first.”
The Countess lifted her shoulders.
“You must be ready to leave before the end of the day.”
When she was alone Elizabeth felt deflated. The victory was theirs, but she was sure it was a temporary one. Power was in their hands now. It was true they could have sent her to the Tower and she was not so popular with the people that they would greatly care what became of her.
To be sent to the Tower, put in a dark cheerless cell—those places of doom in which a prisoner spent long days and nights, to be forgotten and remembered only when he or she was no longer there and none could be sure how that prisoner had died and none cared.
My little boys, where are you? she wondered. Do your ghosts roam the Tower by night?
And what of the Earl of Warwick? Had he really escaped? Had he gone the way of the little Princes? Who could say?
The Queen came to her. She looked disturbed. So the Countess had told her what was planned.
She went to her daughter and took her in her arms but the Queen was somewhat aloof. The Dowager Queen had never been demonstrative . . . not like King Edward, and it was not possible to become so just when the moment demanded it. It would be so easily detected as forced.