“Son, whoever you are, before you try to tell me what is wrong, let us go to my chamber and take a cup of wine together. It will restore your strength.”
When they arrived at the prior’s cell at the end of the cloistered walk, Richard collapsed onto the pallet bed as they entered. Above the bed hung a vibrant painting of the Passion, and a crucifix. A small window gave light, and a hatch in the wall allowed delivery of food. Richard’s labored breathing filled the room, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to stop shivering, embarrassed not to be able to catch his breath. The prior placed a blanket around his shoulders and passed him a cup of wine. Richard’s hand shook so violently that he had difficulty holding it. He used both hands to try and steady the cup.
“Fetch some bread, and if we have any meat, bring that also,” the prior told the young monk. “We do not eat meat unless we are ill,” he apologized, rising to his feet. “Meanwhile, I shall leave you to rest.”
“Nay—” Richard cried, clutching at him and nearly falling from the bed in his panic. “Pray, do not leave me—no one must know I’m here—do not tell anyone—do not go!” His eyes darted anxiously to the door.
Prior Ralph was shocked into pity as a new thought occurred to him. Was the young man not of sound mind? The prior knew little about the outside world, but he had difficulty believing it was truly as dangerous and menacing a place as this lad believed. Yet, if his presence lent the boy solace, what was the harm in remaining with him? The prior sat back down in the only chair in the room, suspending judgment until he could fathom the truth of the matter.
And so they remained quietly together in the little cell while Richard drank his wine. When two monks entered, bearing food, he exhaled with relief. He tore into the meal as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Indeed, the simple repast of sliced cucumber, cheese, and nuts, with thick barley bread and cabbage soup, tasted incredibly delicious to him. The prior watched, his curiosity growing about this handsome young lad with the graceful bearing who had evidently fallen on desperate times.
With his hunger staunched, Richard sighed tremulously. “I am grateful to you, Prior Ralph, for your great kindness to me.”
“Would you care to tell me what is troubling you, my son?”
Richard dropped his head into his hands. “’Tis a long tale and I know not where to begin.”
“I have patience, and we have time. Why not begin at the beginning?”
Richard swallowed hard. “The beginning . . . aye . . . the beginning—” He wiped his face with his hand, and met the prior’s eyes.
“I was born at Shrewsbury on August 17, 1473. I believe you knew my father, and perhaps my mother also. Prior John Ingilby certainly knew her. He was an executor of her will when she died in ’92.”
“Who were your parents?”
“King Edward IV, and the queen, Elizabeth Woodville.”
The prior stared at him, mouth agape. “You are the false prince?”
“That is what Henry VII would have you believe.”
“What are you saying?”
“Look at me and tell me you do not see my father. That you do not see my mother.”
The prior scrutinized him for a long moment. He’d met King Edward once, but it was long ago. The monk, Brother Oswin, high in years, might be called upon to verify a resemblance, however, for in his youth he had known King Edward. As to the Woodville queen, Brother Ralph remembered her very well indeed. Who could forget her? Time had erased much of her beauty when he’d seen her at Bermondsey toward the end of her life. She’d been confined there for plotting in the ’87 rebellion. Strangely, it was her mouth that he remembered most vividly. The upward tilt at its corners gave her face the appearance of a permanent smile though she had been in pain and near death. He had wondered about that at the time, and it was the reason he recalled it now, for it was thus with this young man. Despite his lamentable predicament, there hovered about his lips the shadow of a smile. And what of his strange left eye that drooped and held a glassy look? He searched his memory. As he recalled, two Plantagenet kings been marked by the same fault. As to that cleft in his chin, his uncle, King Richard III, had it, too. Could so many marks of Plantagenet royalty be combined in a false prince?
Perhaps.
“You bear a strong resemblance to those you claim as your forbears, but that alone is not sufficient. What proof can you offer me that you are indeed King Edward’s son?”
“Perhaps my education,” Richard said. “I was raised a prince. I can speak, read, and write Latin, am fluent in French, Flemish, Portuguese, Italian, and the German tongues. I have studied the classics, and can recite to you from Ovid, Virgil, Aristotle, and Plato. I have met the pope and conversed with him about theology and philosophy. I can do so with you, if you wish . . . All the crowned heads of Europe, including Charles of France, and Isabella and Ferdinand of Spain, have accepted me as King Edward’s son, and I was proclaimed King Richard IV in Vienna . . . See here, I have a silver penny that was minted in my image on that occasion—”
Richard dug deep in his breast pocket for the coin that Catherine had given him as a good-luck piece, and handed it to the prior. Brother Ralph turned it over in his hands as he examined it.
“King Richard gave me a letter of identity bearing his royal seal when I left England on the eve of the battle of Bosworth. That was handed over to my aunt, the Duchess of Burgundy, and I do not have it in my possession. As for any other documents, I have none. But I ask you, Prior Ralph, if I were a false prince, would King James and the Earl of Huntly have allowed me to wed royalty? Would the Holy Roman Emperor have offered to abdicate his claims to the English throne and pay an enormous royal ransom he can ill afford merely to get me back? If I were a ‘feigned boy,’ would King Henry not have put me to work in the kitchen, like Lambert Simnell? If he didn’t fear my royal blood and see me as a threat, why did he take away my son and unman me by denying me the right to sleep with my lawfully wedded wife? Why does he fear a second generation from me? Why am I a threat to him when I have disgraced myself by—by—” Even after all these months, Richard had difficulty putting his shame into words. “By abandoning my men at Taunton? I am no threat to him, for no man will ever follow me again in battle, so why does he not release me and take Maximilian’s gold and send me back to Burgundy? Freedom is all I want now—not the throne, not anything more—except my wife and child! I tell you why he doesn’t release me—because he wants what is mine—my throne, and my wife—aye, Prior Ralph, my wife, too! My wife who is a princess of Scotland, and for whom he lusts most wickedly. Would she love me if I were a boatman’s son? He lures me into an escape so that he is not bound by the pardon of life he gave at Beaulieu. He wants me dead—he wants me dead! O Prior, why—if not because he knows I am the true prince of England and the son of my father, King Edward IV, and he a usurper while I breathe?”
Richard dropped his head into his hands and sobbed. The prior watched him with soft eyes. The young man had made a persuasive argument. He sighed inwardly. Man’s world was indeed a dangerous place. He had always known it, and yet not known it—not like this. This young man’s predicament was so terrible, it bordered on Hell.
At last, Richard wiped the tears from his eyes. He fell to his knees and seized the old man’s blue-veined hands in his own. “Help me, Prior Ralph! I want to live—I know not why when life has taken so much from me, but I want to live—I pray you, in God’s name, help me!”
The prior did not speak for a long moment. Gently, he said, “I am instanced lamentably by your piteous motions. But I know not what I can do, my son. I cannot help you to escape, for to do so would be to disobey King Henry’s commandment and risk great punishment. What would become of my thirty charges? Many have been here since their tender years. They are aged now. They know no other life. I must think of them, too . . . Let me pray over this. Maybe God will send me an answer. Meanwhile, I will show you to your room, such as it is, for we have no guest quarters.”
The tiny c
ell at the end of the cloisters looked much like the prior’s room. It had a bed, a crucifix, and a small window that let out onto a private walled garden. A jug of wine and a cup had been set on a small table.
“Is there anything I can have sent to ease your discomfort?”
“A lute—or any instrument—if music is allowed—”
“I have never heard music here, but I saw an old lute somewhere, so it must be allowed. But only after vespers, and before matin prayers, my son. I shall have it brought to you.”
Prior Ralph locked Richard into the cell and sent a monk brother to find the lute. He proceeded along the cloister to Brother Oswin’s cell, for he had need to consult with the old man. The boy—prince, more likely than not—had touched his heart, and he hoped to find a way to help him. As he related the matter to Brother Oswin, there floated over the cloisters the most beautiful, melodious music he had ever heard.
“Interesting,” murmured Brother Oswin softly. “I recall that the little prince, Richard of York, had a beautiful voice and a fondness for music, especially the lute. He played it well . . . even as a boy.”
Prior Ralph found his answer in the night. Locking Richard into his cell again, he left to see King Henry after prime, taking a lay brother with him. They rode to London on mules, for that was the creature that had borne the Lord Himself, and arrived at the Tower well before the hour of sext to find the river lined with barges checking the small boats that sailed past them, and stopping many for search and close examination. Throngs of men-at-arms crowded the wharf and messengers galloped in and out of the raised portcullis of the Tower. Something was afoot, and it struck him as strange that, otherworldly as he was, he should be numbered among the few to know what that was, and the only one to be able to provide the king with his heart’s desire.
Two guards blocked his path as he rode into the gateway with his companion. “Your business?” one demanded roughly.
“I am Brother Ralph Tracy, prior of the Carthusian monastery at Shene. I come to see the king on a matter of utmost urgency.”
“What matter?” The guard eyed him suspiciously as he cast his gaze over his white garb. He knew the order as one that lived on its knees, groveling like beasts by day and night, performing no useful work and achieving nothing.
“That is for the king’s ears alone, my son.”
“Wait there,” the man commanded, indicating the outer ward. He disappeared into the fortress.
The great paved courtyard was as noisy and full of confusion as the streets and the river. Horsemen galloped in and out with purposeful expressions, and hard-faced men-at-arms strode to and fro, their eyes watchful.
Prior Ralph trotted his mule to a quiet corner where they could be out of the fray. He and his companion dismounted and gave their reins over to a stable urchin. When the constable of the Tower appeared to escort them to the king, they wove their way through the bustling inner courtyard to the White Tower. It had been many years since Prior Ralph had visited the fortress, and it seemed to him that the complex had grown even larger in the meanwhile.
In his bedchamber, King Henry waited for the prior’s arrival. The Carthusians didn’t leave their abode but once a year, and that at Yuletime, to bring him a gift. This visit, therefore, was most unusual, and he suspected the reason for it. He prayed that the prior was bringing him the news he desperately craved—that York was apprehended. For three nights he had not slept since he’d learned that the Pretender had conjured an escape past the hundreds of guards he’d set over the city and along the roads.
“Prior Ralph,” said Henry pleasantly, when the prior was ushered in and the door was closed behind him. “We thank you for the tablet of imagery you sent us. We have much enjoyed the sacred paintings in our private meditations.”
“Sire, you are kind, and I am gratified to hear that we have been able—albeit humbly—to give pleasure,” said the prior, cupping his hands together and giving a slight bow.
“So what brings you to the Tower?”
“Sire, you know that for us, as Carthusians, the soul has almost escaped the prison of the body, and it is our practice to dwell only on the beauty of the kingdom to come.”
“’Tis what we most admire about your order, Prior Ralph.”
“For us, our privations are a release.”
“Indeed,” said Henry, wishing he would get to the heart of the matter. Did he, or did he not, have the Pretender?
“We feel we are all royal in that we are the children of a king, and that king is God.”
Henry waited.
“One such child of God has come unto us, but he believes himself the son of another king. An earthly king . . . King Edward.”
Gladness exploded in Henry’s breast and a smile burst across his gaunt face. So joyful was he that he forgot to be still, and he both moved and spoke in the same moment. “You have the false prince, Perkin Warbeck!”
“He claims to be the true prince, my Liege.”
“And you know that he lies, do you not?”
“He may well dissemble, yet I cannot be certain of it.”
Henry’s face darkened. “Are you telling me that you believe this feigned boy to speak the truth?”
If the prior were afraid of death, he would have cringed at this change in his royal master, but he feared only the wrath of God. “I believe he may speak truth, for he bears a marked resemblance to those he claims as his parents—King Edward and Queen Elizabeth Woodville.”
Henry did not break his silence for a long moment. At length, he said, “Clarify that for me, if you will.”
“There are those among us Carthusians who knew the late king and his queen—God assoil their souls—and they have remarked upon the similarities.”
“Such as?”
“They are in the lineaments of the young man’s face. He has King Edward’s jaw and nose, and the queen’s mouth. He has King Richard’s cleft chin, and the drooping eye that marked his forbears, Edward I and Henry III.”
Henry slammed a fist down on the table beside him so hard that he could not speak for the pain that shot through him. When he had recovered, he stared at the monk, taking his time and rubbing his jaw. In a steely tone, he said, “Are you aware, Prior Ralph, that some might construe your words as treason?”
“Indeed, I am. But I must impart what is in my heart.”
“Welladay, now that you have done so, you may deliver him up to us.”
“That, Sire, I can only do on one condition.”
Henry stared at the old man and his hand balled into a fist at his side. He clenched and unclenched it, as if he would strike the old monk. Prior Ralph saw the motion, but did not flinch.
“What is the condition you demand?” Henry hissed.
“Sire, the affairs of this world are of no concern to us. Only life and death matter to us, for God gives life and takes it in His own time.”
“And your point is?”
“We cannot deliver the young man up to you except on promise of pardon for life.”
“By God’s Bloody Nails! How dare you? After the favor I have shown you—” He turned away, fighting for composure. He swung back on the priest. “And if I refuse, what will you do? Help him to escape?”
“Nay, Sire. We shall enter him into the custody of an eminent cleric.”
“Cardinal Morton?”
“The Bishop of Cambrai. When he comes to England from Burgundy in September.”
“You do that, and I’ll smash your monastery into dust! I’ll obliterate your order! I’ll—” He broke off. He had forgotten himself and used the personal “I” instead of the formal “we,” and what could he threaten them with anyway when they didn’t fear death or the torture of their body, or privation? Death would take them to God; torture would bring them closer to the earthly suffering Christ; and privation they already knew, for they deprived themselves.
Henry saw that the old man was looking at him strangely, and he struggled to regain his royal composure. These people cou
ldn’t be reasoned with, and they couldn’t be threatened; they valued nothing except their faith, and their faith made them immune to fear.
“We cannot grant your demand,” Henry said more calmly, “but we urge you to consider the consequences of defying your king.”
“Sire, you are our earthly master. We have no desire to defy you, but our obedience is to a higher King, one that is also your King, Sire. We wish to deliver the young man up to you. We ask only for his life.”
“You ask too much!”
“Sire, consider what you ask. God does not condone killing. The giving and taking of life belongs only to Him. If this young man is the true prince as he claims, you would be committing regicide by taking his life, a sin that God Himself may find difficult to pardon. For your own soul, I beseech you to show mercy to this child of God.”
“I have shown him mercy—I have been kind! But he is the devil on my back—I must be rid of him!”
“Better to bear a single devil on the back than to have a hundred devils invade your body, Sire. To have them take you by the throat and tear out your soul from your innards, and to do this over and over for all eternity. Better one devil on the back, Sire, than to be cast out by God into darkness and oblivion, and the monstrous Hell of the damned.”
Henry sank into a chair. He felt drained. He put a hand to his brow. He had to have the Pretender back, whatever the cost. Once he had him back, he would find a way to deal with him. But first, he had to have him back.
Henry dropped his hand with a sigh. “Very well. Deliver him to me, and he shall have grant of his life.” He rubbed his eyes and turned his gaze to the window. A line from the Greek Euripides echoed in his mind: What glory can compare to this; to hold thy hand victorious over the heads of those you hate? And he smiled.
Ringed by the king’s men, Prior Ralph rode back to the monastery, his heart sore, burdened by sorrow. He should have been relieved that he had secured mercy for the young man, yet he felt naught but grief and a dreadful heaviness. The king’s rage had revealed what lay in his heart, and what Prior Ralph had seen in his eyes he would not forget for as long as he lived. In his wrath, the king had taken on the look of a wild man. For a fleeting second Prior Ralph had glimpsed madness in those narrowed, cruel eyes—and something else. Something he could not put his finger on—a flash—a glint—of something vile . . .
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