by Tony Riches
Back in the relative privacy of the Palace of Westminster he lowered his voice so only Jasper could hear. ‘I am minded to reward Lady Elizabeth’s support by making her Queen Dowager.’
‘A shrewd move—particularly if I’m to marry Lady Catherine.’
‘Was Lady Catherine at St Paul’s today?’
‘I don’t know—there were so many there I’ve never seen before. England has changed a great deal while we’ve been in Brittany.’
‘We have a task ahead of us, Uncle, deciding whom we wish to have at court—and whom to watch out for.’
‘Now the people of London have seen you, we must leave Westminster until the sweating fever has passed.’
‘Delay my coronation?’
‘I don’t see we have any choice.’
‘The royal hunting lodge at Guildford Castle would serve until you’ve chosen your permanent residence.’
‘Is it far from here?’
‘Some thirty miles to the south-west.’
Henry nodded. ‘A short rest would suit us all. You must get to know your future bride, and I wish to spend time with mine.’ He sensed a frisson of anticipation as he recalled the face of Princess Elizabeth. ‘We must also make sure the Woodvilles stay safe from this sweating sickness.’
The royal hunting lodge, with a high laurel hedge and deep, stagnant moat, offered privacy and would be easy to defend against unwelcome visitors. Successive kings had allowed Guildford Castle to fall into disrepair, yet maintained the lodge as a favourite refuge. Ancient tapestries of hunting scenes and stag horns decorated the walls and grand fireplaces provided warmth in winter.
Henry had the largest of four apartments, next to a private chapel. The lodge reminded Henry of his time at Forteresse de Largoët in Brittany. For a moment he wished he could return to the peaceful château with its endless woodlands, tranquil lake, no worries and no responsibilities. Then he remembered this was his destiny, the path chosen for him, and he must thank God for his good fortune.
He watched as his servants unpacked his personal chests. He’d arrived in Wales with little more than a travelling knight could carry, but now he must live like a king. At least he had the advantage of his recent experience of the French court, where they spared no expense on clothes.
A gold badge set with a large ruby adorned his new black cap, and he wore an ermine-trimmed robe of gold brocade. Even his new leather boots had fastenings of solid silver. Henry chose not to wear a sword, although the sharp Breton dagger at his belt served him well.
At first the threat of assassination caused him to wake at the slightest noise, and his Uncle Jasper with a dozen hand-picked soldiers acted as his bodyguard. Now he had fifty liveried yeomen, chosen and commanded by the Earl of Oxford. The rest of his mercenary army paid off and long gone, more than enough of his Welsh followers remained, looking for favours.
A servant disturbed Henry’s thoughts to announce the arrival of Richard Foxe. Foxe proved astute and loyal during the last year of their exile and was now his personal secretary. As tall as Henry, equally devout, and looking older than his thirty-seven years, Foxe dressed as always in cleric’s robes. His long face and sunken, clean-shaven cheeks belied his dour sense of humour.
‘Good day, Your Grace. May God be with you.’ His voice carried warm sincerity with his soft Lincolnshire accent.
‘And with you, Master Foxe.’ Henry studied the face of his loyal friend. ‘You’ve made the arrangements?’
‘Your enemies are deemed guilty of treason, Your Grace. We’ve drafted Acts of Attainder to seize the lands of those who escaped to sanctuary.’
‘You’ve not wasted any time.’
Foxe allowed himself a rare smile. ‘A good number now profess their loyalty to you.’
‘As you predicted. And after my coronation we shall announce that any who swear fealty will be secure in their property and person.’
‘Your coronation date has been set for the thirtieth day of October.’ Foxe studied Henry with slate-grey eyes. ‘Before the first sitting of Parliament. It will show you do not need their approval.’
‘Or the hand of a York princess.’
‘Indeed. The papal dispensation for your marriage could take several months.’
‘See that it does—and in the meantime I wish the princess to visit me here. It’s time I got to know the future Queen of England.’
‘And your mother, Your Grace?’
‘I am invited to visit her tomorrow—and you shall accompany me.’ A thought occurred to Henry. ‘What of my uncle?’
‘Engaged to Lady Catherine—and not before time, if I may say, Your Grace.’
‘Good. You’ve done well, Foxe. I will reward you by restoring your appointment as Vicar of Stepney.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace, it would mean a lot to me.’
As Richard Foxe left, Henry called for his servant to bring him a fresh quill and parchment. His plans were coming together well, thanks to men like Foxe. He dipped the quill in ink and began writing a list of state appointments, starting with his commander at Bosworth, Sir John de Vere, Earl of Oxford.
Henry’s mother greeted them in a high-ceilinged room at Woking Manor, her home for the past nineteen years. A fur-trimmed, burgundy silk gown replaced her usual black dress and a glimpse of grey hair showed under her close-fitting hood.
‘Welcome, Henry, and you Master Foxe.’ She gestured for them to take a seat at the dark oak table, laden with the gleaming Beaufort silverware.
‘Good day, Lady Mother.’
‘Your stepfather asked me to convey his apologies. He is in Westminster, helping with the arrangements for your coronation.’
Henry noted the pride in her voice. ‘I will need you both to move closer to London when the sickness has passed.’
‘I have a manor house at Coldharbour, by the river in upper Thames Street. With a little work it could be a fine residence.’
Henry glanced around the sparsely furnished room. ‘I shall see to it, Mother, and would you be kind enough to find rooms there for Princess Elizabeth?’
‘I thought she was in the care of her mother?’
‘She is,’ Henry glanced at Foxe and looked back at his mother, ‘but you need time to know your future daughter-in-law, and I will be able to visit you both more often.’
Lady Margaret looked pleased at the prospect. ‘You are right. I will treat her as my own daughter.’
The red dragon of Cadwallader, last King of the Britons, flew high above the hallowed nave of Westminster Abbey alongside the flag of St George. The air carried the exotic scent of incense, burning in silver censers suspended from chains. A hundred roses of Lancaster decorated the pews, and everywhere shone gold and silver portcullis badges of the Beauforts.
Henry wore a fine silk doublet in Tudor green and white under a long velvet cloak of royal purple, trimmed with cloth of gold. Flanked by the high-mitred bishops of Exeter and Ely, he stared ahead as they made their slow procession to the throne.
His mind turned to the many people who brought him to this day. The merchant, Thomas White of Tenby, who hid him in his cellar and helped him to escape York’s army. Duke Francis of Brittany, who gave him sanctuary in exile for so many years. The young King Charles of France, who funded his invasion fleet. His Uncle Jasper, now Duke of Bedford, who carried his crown, and his stepfather, now Earl of Derby, who carried his sword of state.
A noisy crash followed by shouts of alarm marred the moment as scaffolding outside the abbey collapsed under the weight of cheering crowds. Henry thanked God when told none were injured, and took it as a good omen.
The elderly Thomas Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury, who had crowned Richard king two years before, stumbled over his words when he realised the amended order of service still referred to the former king’s supporters. Henry heard a sob break the reverent silence as his head was anointed. His mother, always so controlled, was overcome with emotion.
Henry bit his lip to focus his mind. He was d
oing God’s will. The choir sang a hymn of praise as Henry stood tall, wearing his heavy new crown. He’d defied the odds to become King of England. He’d defeated his enemies, overcome his secret doubts and made his mother proud.
Chapter Two
January 1486
Henry lay back in his sumptuous, canopied bed and reached out a hand to caress the curves of the woman sleeping at his side. Her flawless skin felt like warm silk to his touch. She murmured as he stroked her long golden hair, and opened her eyes.
He studied her perfect features, trying to read her thoughts. In his twenty-eight years he’d kept the company of men and only slept with one other woman. Their ways were still something of a mystery to him. One he planned to take great pleasure understanding.
Wintry sleet pattered against the shuttered window and he heard the sharp cough of the guard outside his door. The sweating sickness seemed to have passed yet Henry remained vigilant. He could not afford to be unwell and made a mental note to have the coughing man seen by a physician.
At last she spoke, her voice soft. ‘I fear our secret is out, Henry Tudor.’
‘Which one would that be? That you’ve bewitched the King of England?’
She laughed, her eyes sparkling with delight. ‘Your mother seems to suspect as much.’
‘My lady mother wishes to see us wed. She never misses an opportunity to remind me of my promise.’
‘She’s right.’ Elizabeth pulled back the coverlet. ‘If you delay much longer it will be too late to hide this—even under my new velvet gown.’
‘You’re with child?’ Henry heard the wonder in his voice. ‘It must be too early to tell?’
‘A woman knows these things.’ She sounded defensive. ‘My mother had twelve children. She told me she knew for certain each time.’
‘And you know?’
‘You planned this, surely?’
He raised an eyebrow at the note of admonishment in her question. ‘No. As God is my witness.’ Henry caressed her with new tenderness. ‘You think it is a son?’
‘The next King of England.’
Henry sat up, his mind a whirl of new plans. His Uncle Jasper always told him his first duty as king was to produce an heir, a son to continue the Tudor line. Jasper was one of the few people who knew Henry already had a son in Brittany. He’d advised Henry to keep it secret from his mother, who would not approve.
‘Years ago in Brittany I thought to name my first son Arthur.’
‘King Arthur...’ She sounded thoughtful. ‘I expected you would wish to name him Henry?’
Henry smiled. ‘We shall name our second son Henry.’
‘And have you already named our daughters?’
‘Margaret, after my mother, then Elizabeth, after yours.’
Elizabeth laughed and kissed him. ‘I was right—you’ve planned everything!’
‘Except for one detail. People will worry if the baby is born after eight months?’
Elizabeth pulled him close and kissed him again, this time more slowly. ‘Then we must marry as soon as we can.’
‘Richard Foxe has finally secured the papal dispensation. There is no need to delay any further.’
He kissed her and she responded to his touch. Years later Henry recalled that kiss, the moment he fell in love with Elizabeth, his beautiful York princess.
Westminster Abbey glittered with the warm glow of a thousand candles as they said their vows. Elizabeth’s gown of crimson satin rustled as she walked through the hushed guests to where Henry waited in cloth of gold and royal purple. Sapphires and emeralds woven into her hair, worn long and loose as a symbol of purity, sparkled in the light.
Archbishop Thomas Bourchier, now a frail eighty-two years old, asked the congregation to confess before God if there were any known impediments to the marriage. After a short silence he turned to Henry.
‘Do you, Henry, take Elizabeth to be your wife?’
‘I do.’ His voice echoed in the high-vaulted abbey.
The archbishop continued. ‘Do you, Elizabeth, take Henry to be your husband?’
Her reply echoed in the silence. ‘I do.’
Archbishop Bourchier asked Henry to take Elizabeth’s right hand in his and recite his vows before God and the people. Henry looked into Elizabeth’s veiled eyes. He’d taken the trouble to learn the words of the solemn, scripted ritual yet now struggled to keep his voice steady.
‘I take thee, Elizabeth, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death us depart, if holy church it will ordain, and thereto I plight thee my troth.’
Elizabeth’s reply echoed in the abbey. ‘I take thee, Henry, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to be blithe and bonair, meek and obedient, until death us depart, if holy church it will ordain, and thereto I plight thee my troth.’
Jasper passed the wedding ring to the archbishop, which he blessed and handed to Henry. He slid it over Elizabeth’s thumb.
‘In nomine Patris,’ he placed it over her index finger, ‘et Filii,’ then on her middle finger, ‘et Spiritus Sancti. With this ring I thee wed. This gold I thee give, with my body I thee worship and with this dowry I thee endow.’
The archbishop blessed their union and declared them man and wife. Henry lifted Elizabeth’s gossamer veil and kissed her. As he did so, a weight lifted from his shoulders. He’d finally united Lancaster and York and would never have to face life alone again.
As Henry led her by the hand back down the knave to the tuneful music of Elizabeth’s minstrels, he had his first look at the congregation. Jasper sat next to his wife, the new Duchess of Bedford, with the Dowager Queen Elizabeth. He glimpsed a satisfied expression on the face of his new mother-in-law before her usual composure returned.
His mother, dressed in her finery, sat with Earl Stanley, who’d stood in for Elizabeth’s father. Once a favourite of King Edward, who made him Steward of the King's Household, Stanley had known Elizabeth since she was five years old.
They emerged through the great doorway to rousing cheers from crowds, which waited despite a bitter January wind. The sound lifted Henry’s heart. He’d worried about how to win the affection of the people. Now he wondered if the cheers were for him or his York queen.
Henry had little appetite for the royal banquet, prepared regardless of expense. A pair of gilded swans formed the centrepiece, their long necks entwined in the shape of a heart. It seemed a good idea when Oxford suggested it yet now the display looked extravagant. He noted that the servants who carried it wore York murrey and blue and resolved to order new livery of Tudor green and white.
Jasper raised a shining silver goblet and grinned as he leaned across to congratulate them. ‘To many happy and peaceful years.’
Henry stared into Elizabeth’s bright amber eyes for a moment as he raised his own goblet in response. ‘And to my beautiful new wife.’
Jasper smiled. ‘Your grandfather would have been so proud to see what you’ve achieved.’
‘I couldn’t have done it without you, Uncle.’
Elizabeth raised her goblet. ‘We both owe you a great debt, Sir Jasper.’
‘If that’s true, I am repaid in full by the sight of the two of you as husband and wife.’
At dusk the sky lit up with celebratory bonfires and fireworks, never seen before by the people of London. Great explosions thundered and echoed across the fast-flowing River Thames as rockets soared high into the air. Like bright comets, they flared and burst in a dazzling celebration of the union of Lancaster and York.
Henry shuddered as he recalled the thunder of cannons at Bosworth and the inhuman screams of maimed soldiers. He said a silent prayer he would never resort to war again. As he watched the fireworks he knew, despite his hard won peace treaty, he still faced the risk of invasion from the Scots. He frowned at the thought of using his scarce resourc
es to defend the North.
As fireworks boomed and crackled in a cascade of stars, Henry worried about news rebel Yorkists were preparing to return from sanctuary. He glanced to either side to ensure his ever-present Yeomen of the Guard were in place. He’d been generous with pardons and lenient with the Yorkist lords and prayed they would not give him cause to regret it.
A plan formed in his mind as another rocket flashed high across the night sky, its luminous path reflected in the dark swirling waters of the Thames. He should make a royal progress to York to win over the people of the North.
The plan had its dangers, yet was his duty as king. He would trust in his faith although he worried for his new wife and unborn child. Elizabeth must wait in the safety of Greenwich Palace and pray for his safe return. He hoped Yorkist rebels would treat their former princess with respect if he did not.
Elizabeth seemed unaware of the dark thoughts troubling him. ‘Now we are married, I must ask you a great favour.’
He guessed she’d been waiting for this moment. ‘What do you wish for?’
‘You restored my mother’s status as Queen Dowager, yet she has no income. She’s sold most of her jewels...’
Relieved she asked for so little he took her hand in his. ‘I will grant all that is due to her as your father’s widow.’
Elizabeth squeezed his hand in thanks and looked as if she might ask for something else. Another firework boomed in the night sky overhead and the moment passed. He knew he must soon decide about her coronation and decided to speak to his mother.
Henry set off on his progress, his mood lifted by the bright March sunshine and cheering well-wishers. Jasper rode at his side and the Earl of Oxford carried their flowing banner of the red dragon and cross of St George. Henry’s liveried yeomen followed with the knights and retainers of his household. Ten gold-painted wagons laden with servants and supplies, hauled by straining oxen, completed the grand procession.