by Jean Plaidy
“It does not agree with the facts. I am the only one of King Richard’s faithful servants who has been able to live successfully during the present reign. People will say: Why was this so? It could only be that although I served Richard well I also performed a great service for King Henry.”
“The confession of a man just before death will convince them that you speak the truth.”
“How can I be sure that my son’s life will be saved?”
“The King is not a bloodthirsty man. He does not like to shed men’s blood and only does so when it is for the good of the country.”
“And mine is for the good of the country?”
“Traitors cannot be allowed to live.”
“I took no part in Suffolk’s rebellion.”
“You are judged guilty.”
“Not for this . . . for another crime of which I was only an instrument used to carry it out.”
“The death of the two young boys in the Tower doubtless saved a civil war which could have cost the country thousands of lives . . . and its prosperity. That has been avoided. And no one must be allowed again to rise in their name.”
“Ah,” said Tyrrell. “I begin to understand. When it is proved that they are dead none will rise in their name, and I can prove that they are dead by telling the truth.”
“What you consider to be the truth would not save your son.”
“It would prevent men from impersonating the Princes.”
“You know what is required. It is for you to choose.”
“I will make the confession.”
“As is desired?”
“As is desired,” said Tyrrell.
The next day Sir James Tyrrell was taken out to Tower Green and his head laid on the block. He died with the comfort of knowing that he had saved his son’s life.
The following day Thomas Tyrrell was found guilty of treason but his sentence was delayed and finally he was freed and his estates were not confiscated.
John Dighton, who had been named as one of the men who had taken an active part in that mysterious murder, was not hanged but kept in the Tower. After a while he was freed although he too was alleged to have confessed to his share in the murder of the Princes.
Nothing had been written down about the confession, but a few weeks after the death of Tyrrell the King let it be known that Sir James Tyrrell had made a confession that the Princes had been murdered in the Tower on the orders of Richard the Third and that Tyrrell and his manservants had played a part in it.
The news was gradually allowed to seep out, almost as though no great effort was made to bring it to the notice of the people.
John Dighton, who had made a lucky escape from death, was one of those chosen to circulate the story, which he did.
Lord William de la Pole and Lord William Courtenay remained the King’s prisoners; but Suffolk, the leader of the hoped-for insurrection, was merely exiled to Aix.
The King liked it to be known that he was not vindictive. It was not the will of a just king to shed blood in anger. He wanted all men to know—and this was an obvious truth—that he only did so when expediency demanded that he should. If a person was a menace to the Crown—and the Crown of course meant Henry—then it was often wiser to remove that man. He did not want revenge. He wanted peace and prosperity during his reign. It was what he strove for. He wanted a secure throne for his House and that was the best thing possible for England.
In time people began to accept the story of the death of the Princes in the Tower. They had been murdered by Richard the Third who was emerging as something of a monster. It was amazing how little interest people felt for what did not actually concern themselves. No one picked up any discrepancies in the story. No one asked for instance why that good honest man Brackenbury, who was alleged openly to have refused to help his master commit murder, should have continued to be the friend of the King whom he had admired and beside whom he died fighting at Bosworth. No one asked why Tyrrell should have been the one to lose his head when he had played no part—at the least a very small one—in Suffolk’s treason and why Suffolk should get off with exile.
Nobody cared very much. Nobody wanted risings and rebellions. The Princes were dead. Murdered by their wicked uncle. It had all happened long ago and most people who were concerned in it were dead.
Birth and Death
he Queen was feeling ill. She was pregnant and although she would not admit this to anyone she was dreading her confinement. Only those in her intimate circle must know how weak she was, and she was particularly anxious that the King should not be told.
“He has enough anxieties apart from worrying about me,” she confided to her sister, Lady Katharine Courtenay, who had troubles of her own for her husband had been in the Tower in captivity since his complicity in the Suffolk case.
“There seems to be nothing but anxieties,” agreed Katharine. “It has always been so with us. Sometimes I think it must be a great comfort to be poor and of no consequence at all.”
“I daresay the poor have their trials,” said Elizabeth. “I think I have been fortunate. I have a good husband and a fine family. They bring their sorrows though. I don’t think I shall ever get over the death of Arthur.”
“Poor boy. He was always ailing.”
“My firstborn, Katharine, and I will say to you what I would say to no one else . . . my favorite.”
“Perhaps it is a lesson to us. We should not have favorites among our children.”
“It may well be. I shall be losing Margaret soon to Scotland. Then it will be Mary.”
“You will have Henry and the children he will have. Be thankful for that, Elizabeth.”
“I am. Life did not turn out so badly for us, did it? When you think of all the twists and turns of fate it is amazing that we have come out of it all so satisfactorily. On our father’s death . . .”
Katharine laid a hand over her sister’s. “Let us not brood on it. It is so long ago. Here we are now. You are the Queen, you have a kind husband and children of whom you can be proud. It would be hard to find three more handsome and lively children than your Henry, Margaret and Mary.”
“I agree. I agree. I trust the new one will be a son. It is what the King wants. I know we have Henry and he is strong and healthy, but ever since the death of Arthur the King has had this fear.”
“Henry is too fearful. I suppose it is inevitable that he should worry about the succession when . . . but no matter. I wonder what will happen to the Spanish Princess now. Poor child. It has been a tragedy for her. I believe she was very fond of Arthur.”
“Who would not be fond of Arthur? He was such a gentle person. Oh it is cruel . . . cruel . . . to take him from us.”
“Hush sister. You must not upset yourself. Remember the child.”
Remember the child. Elizabeth had been remembering the child all through her married life it seemed. No sooner was one pregnancy over than there must be another. It was necessary to fill the nurseries and when children died it was a great tragedy. She had lost little Edmund and Elizabeth . . . but that Arthur should be taken from her was the greatest tragedy of her life. Arthur who had grown to matcurity, who had been a husband though in name only.
She was thinking of that other Katharine, the little Princess from Spain, and she was filled with pity.
While the sisters were talking the King arrived at Richmond. There was the usual flurry of excitement which his presence engendered and when he made his way to the Queen’s apartments Elizabeth wondered what had brought him to her at this time of day. It must be something of importance, she was sure.
He came to her apartments and Lady Courtenay bowed as he entered and looked askance at the Queen who glanced at the King. He nodded and Lady Katharine slipped away.
“It is rare that I see you at such an hour,” said the Queen. “I trust all is well.”
“I am a little concerned. It is about the Spanish Princess. I think you could be of help in a . . . somewhat delicate matter.”<
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The Queen waited.
“I believe you have sent an invitation to her to visit you here?”
“I thought it the best. Poor child, she must be feeling desolate.”
“Poor child indeed. And I know you will do everything possible to cheer her up.”
“I shall try. I have had a litter made for her by my tailor and I thought that Croydon Palace would be a good residence for her. She will be most unhappy if she stays on at Ludlow.”
“So you will soon see her.”
“In a day or so I believe. As soon as she has made the journey.”
The King was thoughtful. “It has thrown so much into confusion. . . .The position of the Princess here . . .”
“Yes, I suppose Ferdinand and Isabella will expect her to go back to Spain now.”
“That is what I want to avoid. If they take her back they will want her dowry, too.”
“I see.”
“I have no mind to part with so much.”
The Queen was about to interject when she thought better of it. It was unwise to argue about money and possessions with Henry; he had a great reverence for them and regarded them with the utmost seriousness.
“I have been turning over in my mind . . . and discussing the matter with my ministers. There is a way to keep the dowry in the country.”
She looked at him questioningly. Was he going to suggest keeping it now that it was in his hands? Surely he could not be so unscrupulous.
But of course that was not it. Henry would always have a clever reason why things should be as he wanted them to be.
“We must keep Katharine in the country. There is one way of doing this and that is to marry her to Henry.”
“Henry? But that is surely not possible?”
“Why not?” asked the King with a coldness in his voice, which she had rarely heard. That was because she questioned his actions so infrequently.
“Well,” she stammered. “He is five years younger.”
“Five years younger? What has that to do with the matter? I have never yet known a matter of five years prevent a marriage which will bring great good to all parties.”
“She was married to Henry’s brother. It would not be considered legal.”
“A dispensation would settle that.”
“And you think the Pope would give it?”
“The Pope will do what seems best for him. You may depend upon that.”
“But is it not against the laws of the Church for a woman to marry her husband’s brother?”
“If the marriage was not consummated I see no reason that this should be so.”
“But the marriage was very likely consummated. They were two young people . . . together . . . fond of each other.”
“I think it most unlikely that it was consummated. I gave orders that it should not be and Arthur would never disobey me.”
The Queen realized that the King was faintly irritated because she showed signs of disagreeing with him. She was amazed that she had done so, though mildly; perhaps it was because the idea was repugnant to her and she felt sorry for the young Princess who was being bandied from the dead brother to the living one.
“What is the delicate matter you wish me to do?”
“Find out from Katharine’s own lips whether or not the marriage was consummated.”
“And if it were not?”
“Then, as I see it, there is no obstacle to the marriage of Katharine and Henry. You will ask her this question and if the answer is no, then we may go ahead with negotiations.”
“And if it has been?”
“Then we will keep the matter to ourselves. I shall consider what can best be done.”
“I see you are determined that she shall have Henry.”
“I see no other way of keeping her dowry in the country,” said the King with a wry smile.
Katharine was indeed in an unhappy state. She was feeling quite bewildered. It seemed strange that a short while before she had been the wife of the heir to the throne, queen-to-be and now she was a widow . . . a stranger in a strange country and she did not know what would become of her.
Her great hope was that she would go home. They would make another match for her, of course, but at least for a while she would be with her mother. She did not want another match. She had realized how lucky she had been to come to Arthur who was so kind and whom she had grown to love during the short time they had been together.
The Queen had been kind to her, too. She had written to her and said she must not stay at Ludlow. There would be too many memories there and it would be better for her to take up her residence in an entirely new place.
“I am having the Palace of Croydon prepared for you,” wrote the Queen, “and my tailor John Cope is making a litter which will convey you to Croydon. It will be a most suitable vehicle of conveyance for it will be made of black velvet and black cloth and trimmed with black valances.”
It sounded funereal but of course she was in deep and bitter mourning.
The Queen was right; she did feel a little better in Croydon but as her grief for the loss of Arthur lifted a little, her apprehension regarding her own future increased.
At first few people came to Croydon. This was the period of her mourning; but one day she received a letter from the Queen at Richmond asking that she come to see her.
“I myself am somewhat indisposed,” wrote the Queen. “It is for this reason that I ask you to come to me.”
In her litter of black velvet Katharine set out from Croydon and when she arrived at Richmond was warmly embraced by the Queen.
“My dear dear child!” cried the Queen. “You look so sad. Let us mingle our tears. I believe he was as dear to you as he was to me.”
Katharine bowed her head and the Queen held the young girl in her arms.
“He loved you dearly,” went on the Queen. “I was so happy to see you together because it was clear to me that you would be just the wife he needed. He was so gentle . . . so modest . . . and that is rare in those of his rank.”
Katharine said: “He was all that I looked for in a husband.”
“And your union so brief. Oh, it is a cruel world we live in. But we have to go on whatever our sorrow. You have a happy future before you, my child.”
“I long to see my mother,” said Katharine. “My lady, can you tell me when I may expect to go to her?”
The Queen was silent. Then she took Katharine’s hands. “You love her dearly, I know.”
Katharine nodded silently.
“There will be another marriage for you.”
“Oh no . . . not, not yet . . . perhaps never.”
“You are the daughter of a great King and Queen, and there will be those to seek your hand. There will certainly be another marriage for you. You have had one marriage and are so young to be a widow. Forgive my asking this question, my dear, but was that a true marriage?
Katharine stared at her mother-in-law uncomprehendingly.
“Well,” the Queen stumbled on, “when two people marry, the Church tells us that one of the main reasons for doing so is for the procreation of children. Is there any hope that you . . . might be bearing Arthur’s child?”
“Oh no . . . no . . . ,” cried Katharine. “That would be impossible.”
“Impossible because you and Arthur . . . did not consummate the marriage?”
“It would be quite impossible,” said Katharine.
“I see. You were both so young . . . and he was not well . . . and the King had feared for his health and that was why he was against the consummation of the marriage. You understand that, Katharine?”
“I understand.”
“And so it is impossible for there to be a child of the marriage because it was not consummated.”
Katharine nodded.
“Thank you, my dear. I hope you do not want to leave us.”
“You have been so kind to me . . . in particular you, my lady.”
“My dear daughter, I want to go on
being kind to you for as long as we both shall live.”
“I shall go back to Spain. I am sure my parents will send for me . . . soon.”
The Queen hesitated. She was taking a good deal on herself but she felt rebellious, which was rare with her. She was sorry for this young girl who had been sent to England away from her friends and now was being bartered so blatantly, passed from one brother to another for the sake of the thousands of crowns which made up her dowry.
She said: “The King and I have grown very fond of you since you have been among us.”
Katharine did not believe for one moment that the King had grown fond of her. It was hard to imagine his being fond of anyone.
“We should be very sorry to see you go,” went on the Queen. “And there is one other among us. No doubt you have noticed the warm regard of our son Henry.”
Alarm showed itself in Katharine’s eyes. She half guessed what was coming. Oh no. She could not bear it. She wanted to go home to her mother. She had been reconciled to Arthur because he was kind and gentle and life had been so much happier with him than she had dared hope it would be. But to be passed over to his brother . . . that young boy . . . She had been a little older than Arthur even. Oh, how desperately she wanted to go home.
“The King would give his consent to a match between you and our son Henry.”
“Henry is but a boy.”
“Boys grow up. He is old for his age. He could marry at sixteen . . . fifteen perhaps.”
“I do not think my parents would agree,” said Katharine.
“There could, of course, be no match without their agreement,” the Queen answered. She laid a hand on Katharine’s arm. “Say nothing of this. I told you because I thought you should know what is in the King’s mind.”
The two looked at each other for a few moments and then Elizabeth opened her arms and Katharine went to her. They stood for a few moments in a close embrace.
It was only a few days later when the King sent for her. He greeted her with a show of affection, which was rare with him, and it was obvious that he was very pleased about something.