by Tony Riches
At the end of February, they’d had to deal with riots in London, sparked by rumours of the murder of Edward Plantagenet in the Tower. Henry understood why people were suspicious. He’d found no evidence but believed Elizabeth’s brothers, the two princes, might have been murdered by Richard’s supporters.
The innocent Edward, though young and simple-minded, would always be a threat to peace. Henry had the boy marched through the streets to a service in St Paul’s so all could see he remained safe and well. Only a few days before, one of the Yorkist leaders, Lord Lovell, emerged from hiding to raise support for a bid to rescue young Edward. Henry sent Jasper with men to arrest the rebels and heard nothing since.
Such incidents hardened Henry’s resolve and, after covering more than twenty miles a day, they were passing the point of no return. Stopping to change from his travelling clothes into new cloth of gold and an ermine cape, Henry regretted allowing Jasper to ride ahead and prayed no harm had come to his uncle.
He felt relief to see Jasper raise a hand to greet him. His uncle waited with a small army of retainers at Tadcaster Bridge, the main crossing of the River Wharfe some ten miles from York.
‘Welcome, Your Grace!’ Jasper grinned.
Henry raised his gloved hand in acknowledgement. ‘Good to see you, Sir Jasper.’
Jasper approached and spoke so only Henry could hear. ‘I offered Lovell’s followers a pardon, which they were happy to accept.’
‘Thank God. What became of Lovell?’
‘Escaped. He’s more slippery than an eel, that one—but I have men pursuing him, all the way to France if necessary.’
Henry cursed at the prospect of another rebel slipping through his hands. ‘What’s the mood in York?’
‘They’ve prepared a reception for you. It seems you’ve not had a wasted journey.’
‘All the same, tell your men to be vigilant.’
‘Of course.’ Jasper glanced round at the clatter of approaching hooves. ‘Earl Henry Percy, with a good few men.’
Henry had already spotted the proud gold banner with its rampant blue lion. ‘I arranged for Percy to meet us here with as many as he could muster.’
‘A show of strength?’ Jasper raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not sure I trust Percy, despite your faith in him, Henry.’
‘I hope to send an important message by having so many of King Richard’s men following us into York.’
A noisy pageant followed the service of thanksgiving at York Minster. Costumed performers represented each of the previous kings named Henry and acted out their great deeds. Musicians played and the people were in good spirits, dancing and drinking in celebration. The mayor and aldermen of York were effusive with their welcome, despite nervous glances at his armed guardsmen.
Cheering crowds filled the narrow streets of York, so the procession continued on foot. Henry noted the proliferation of his adopted emblem, red and white roses, symbols of the Virgin, representing sacrifice and purity. Freshly painted over doorways, the red rose now had a white rose in the centre, the Tudor rose, the unity of Lancaster and York.
Drummers beat a staccato rhythm and trumpets blasted, echoing from the houses on either side. Women waved from open windows and many voices chorused. ‘Long live King Henry, long live King Henry!’
The attacker took them all by surprise, rushing from the crowd towards Henry with an angry cry of ‘For York!’
Henry turned at the shout in time to see a raised dagger as the man charged at him. Sunlight flashed on Jasper’s sword and the knife clattered to the cobbles. Two of Henry’s burly yeomen dragged the wounded man away to meet the fate of all traitors.
The attack was over in seconds yet to Henry it felt as if time stood still. He raised his eyes to the heavens in thanks and took a deep breath before turning to his uncle.
‘I owe you another debt.’
Jasper shook his head. ‘I happened to be the closest.’
Henry glanced around. The narrow street with high, overhanging houses made the perfect spot for the attacker. It also meant there were few witnesses. He didn’t wish his progress blighted by talk of attempted assassination.
‘We should not condemn the whole of York for the act of one man.’ He forced a smile, although he could be dead if not for Jasper’s swift action.
Jasper sheathed his sword. ‘I’ll need to double your guard. There’s no way of knowing if he acted alone.’
Henry studied the faces in the shocked crowd and wondered how many murderous assassins waited, prepared to give their lives to end his. The attack was too close, too easy. His heart pounded at the thought of what could have happened.
The sharp memory of the man raising his dagger troubled Henry as their progress continued south-west towards Bristol. Since the moment of his coronation he’d been certain this was God’s plan, his destiny. The attack served as a warning—a reminder of his mortal vulnerability. He’d won the crown by ancient right of conquest and must fight to retain it.
The rider galloped straight for Jasper and spoke in an urgent tone, too low for Henry to hear. His uncle glanced across and Henry sensed the familiar frustration as he recognised the appraising look.
‘What is it?’ Henry heard the challenge in his voice.
Jasper turned in his saddle. ‘Yorkist Rebels. Our men pursued their leaders but they’ve found sanctuary in a church near Abingdon.’
‘Lovell’s men?’
‘Humphrey and Thomas Stafford. They planned to take advantage of your absence to raise an army against us.’ Jasper gave a wry smile. ‘They failed. It seems we’re winning more support every day, Henry. You were right about the need for this progress.’
Henry agreed. ‘It is the only way—but we must deal with these rebels.’
‘There’s nothing we can do about the Stafford brothers, for now at least.’
‘We can’t let them escape?’
‘I’ll order a watch kept over them. They can’t stay in a church forever—and when they come out we’ll be waiting for them.’
Henry struggled to control a surge of anger at Humphrey and Thomas Stafford’s disloyalty. ‘They must swear fealty—or face the consequences!’
‘You wish to violate their right of sanctuary?’
‘I do. Send men you can rely on.’
Jasper studied him before replying. ‘Your grandfather used the right of sanctuary...’
‘My grandfather wasn’t plotting treason against the king!’ Henry heard the edge to his voice and managed a smile. ‘I will sleep more soundly knowing these rebels are in the Tower, not turning people against us.’
Henry knelt in prayer in the Venerable Chapel of Winchester Cathedral, his refuge during Elizabeth’s confinement. Glad of the privacy of the small chapel, with its richly carved and coloured screen, he found the tranquil atmosphere helped him think.
He thanked God his first year as king could be counted as a success. Astute appointments of many of King Edward’s former advisors meant he could rely on the support of Parliament and the church. He’d avoided rewarding nobles without good reason and reduced their power in the land.
He prayed for the fragile peace to continue. Yorkist rebels were silenced by the execution of Sir Humphrey Stafford at Tyburn for treason. He’d pardoned Stafford’s younger brother Thomas and hoped the rebels would understand his message. He continued to worry about the threat of insurrection. Lovell had yet to be captured and was thought to be raising an army in Flanders.
Richard Foxe appeased the troublesome Scots yet Henry kept his northern borders guarded. He planned to reward Foxe’s loyalty by appointing him as Bishop of Exeter and Keeper of the Privy Seal. The income would make him a wealthy man, although Henry wondered what Foxe would do with the money, as he lived a simple life and still dressed as a cleric.
Henry prayed for the safe delivery of his child, the focus of his life. He worried about Elizabeth, so pale and tired as she reached full term. Her physician tried to set Henry’s mind at rest but he’d read concer
n in the old man’s eyes.
After his prayers Henry lit a candle in memory of the father he never knew and made his way to his chambers. He liked the slower pace of life in Winchester, the ancient capital of Alfred the Great, King of Wessex and the mythical King Arthur, chosen as the birthplace of the son he prayed for.
Richard Foxe greeted him as he entered. His dour secretary now had the duty of keeping watch over Elizabeth, confined at St Swithun’s Priory in Winchester Close.
‘How is my wife today?’
‘She slept well, Your Grace, and took a little broth.’ Foxe hesitated as he chose his words. ‘Your mother overheard the Queen Dowager accusing her of interfering.’
‘She confronted her?’
‘No—but Lady Elizabeth has endured great hardship with much fortitude, Your Grace. After the child is born, she might retreat to an abbey?’
‘My mother asked you to propose this?’ He took Foxe’s silence for confirmation. ‘Elizabeth wished to have her mother in attendance. I was happy to agree.’ Henry recalled Jasper’s stories. ‘My grandmother was cared for in Bermondsey Abbey. It’s close enough for Elizabeth to visit her mother...’
‘Yet far enough for Lady Margaret’s peace of mind.’
Urgent knocking woke Henry from a troubled sleep. He immediately guessed the reason as he opened the door to see Richard Foxe with Thomas Swan, page of Elizabeth’s chamber, water dripping from his hat and cloak. There was only one reason he’d be out in the rain at such a late hour.
‘The baby?’ He hardly dared to ask.
‘Congratulations, Your Grace.’ Foxe gave him a rare smile. ‘You have a healthy son.’
Henry felt a weight lifted from him yet sensed Foxe held something back.
‘And my wife?’
‘She asks for you, Your Grace.’
Henry dressed in a hurry and followed Foxe and the page. In his haste he’d neglected to wear his cape. Rain soon soaked his doublet through to his undershirt, the cold shock helping to calm his mind as they made their way through the dark alleyway to the priory.
In keeping with tradition he’d been excluded from Elizabeth’s confinement, yet he’d spared no expense. Fine silks and linens, brocade and cloth of gold, sweet-scented perfumes and precious rose oils ensured her comfort.
Elizabeth’s shy young maidservant bowed to Henry and announced his arrival as he entered and removed his dripping hat. Elizabeth sat up in her bed, supported by silk cushions and surrounded by her sisters. Flickering candlelight reflected from the pale whiteness of her glistening brow. Her golden hair flowed over her shoulders and she cradled a tiny bundle.
For a second Henry felt like an intruder in her private sanctum, then she smiled at him in greeting.
‘We have a son, Henry.’
‘It is... a miracle.’ His voice choked with emotion. His prayers had been answered and he sensed his life would never be the same again.
Henry’s mother stepped from the shadows and placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘We give thanks to God he is a healthy boy.’
Henry wiped a tear of happiness from his eye. ‘My son, Arthur Tudor.’
Chapter Three
June 1487
Henry smiled as he studied his cards, a promising hand. The king of diamonds, ten of clubs and six of spades. He glanced at Elizabeth. As always, her face offered no clues. He’d played endless games of one-and-thirty during his long exile in Brittany, gambling for small silver coins with his guards.
Now he played for gold ryals, bearing the proud image of Elizabeth’s father and his emblem of the shining sun. He made a mental note to have gold coins of his own minted with the scene of his grand coronation, a permanent reminder for those with short memories.
He’d taught Elizabeth to play and their card games brought them closer as she recovered her health. She’d burned with fever after Arthur’s birth and tested his faith as he prepared to lose her. His prayers were answered at Michaelmas, nine days later, when the fever broke.
Elizabeth still suffered from dizzy spells and although she made light of it, Henry knew her illness sapped her energy. He thanked God for sparing her and for his healthy son. Young Arthur now thrived in the care of his nursemaids and the formidable Lady Governess of the Nursery.
By the feast of All Hallows, Henry judged Elizabeth to be well enough and finally acted on advice to move his court to Kenilworth Castle in Warwickshire. He enjoyed hunting stags in the four-thousand-acre deer parks and felt safe within the privacy of the great moated Pleasance.
Elizabeth fanned her playing cards as she made her decision. Discarding a seven of hearts, she dropped it next to the pack on the velvet covered table between them. Henry noted the briefest frown of displeasure as she took the top card.
‘My ladies tell me London is full of rumours...’ she glanced across at Henry, ‘that young Edward Plantagenet has escaped to Dublin.’
‘An impostor!’ Henry raised his voice in irritation. ‘Edward’s safe in the Tower.’ He discarded the six of spades and picked up the eight of diamonds from the top of the pack.
‘You’ll have to show him again—for the people to believe the truth?’ Elizabeth laid down the four of clubs and picked up the next card.
Henry cursed inwardly as he exchanged his eight of diamonds for the three of spades. ‘I’m more concerned with rumours of a rebel army gathering in Ireland. Now I have to pay men to watch the coast.’ He glanced up at her. ‘What will it take to end these Yorkist revolts?’
‘My grandfather became Lord of Ireland. He had the measure of the Irish and won their trust, then my father had their loyalty...’
‘There is my problem.’ Henry interrupted. ‘The Irish provide sanctuary to those who plot against me—against us, against our son Arthur...’
‘Have faith, Henry.’ Her voice softened. ‘We have a truce with France and there is peace in the North...’
‘A fragile peace. The King of Scotland has no control over his rebel lords—yet you are right. I lay awake at nights, worried I might lose you—or young Arthur. I must remember to place my trust in God.’
Elizabeth smiled as she tapped twice on the table and waited while he laid down the worthless three of spades. She looked up at him again, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Arthur grows stronger every day. He’s a true Tudor, always seeking attention!’
Henry laughed. ‘I’d still be hidden from the world in Brittany, if not for my uncle’s ambition.’ He picked up the knave of diamonds. A total of thirty and a possible match for Elizabeth’s hand, if not a winning score.
She revealed her cards with a satisfied smile. ‘Ace and two queens. One-and-thirty!’
‘Another game?’ He eyed the golden coins as they disappeared into her purse, forgetting his new wealth for a moment. He’d no wish to return to his troublesome court papers. They spent little enough time together without his mother or hers listening to their every word.
She shook her head and gathered up her cards, absent-mindedly shuffling them in her slender, gold-ringed fingers. ‘It’s time to visit Arthur. Will you accompany me?’
A knock on the door interrupted his answer. Richard Foxe entered and addressed Henry.
‘The Earl of Bedford is here, Your Grace, with the Earl of Oxford. They say it is most urgent.’
Henry’s deep sense of misgiving ruined his good spirits. His heavy chair scraped on the tiled floor as he stood. ‘It seems I have matters of state to attend to, Elizabeth. I shall come with you next time.’
‘I should like to know what troubles your uncle before I leave.’
‘Of course.’ He placed an affectionate hand on her shoulder. ‘I will see you off when you are ready.’
Jasper’s expression looked grave as Henry and Foxe entered the room where he waited with John de Vere. The pungent aroma of horse sweat told Henry they’d been riding hard and he noted the dust of the road on their cloaks. Jasper wore his sword and his breastplate emblazoned with the fleur-de-lis. Henry recalled the artisan-crafted ar
mour had been a gift from the young French king. He hadn’t seen his uncle wearing it since their victory at Bosworth.
‘An invasion is underway.’ Jasper glanced at John. ‘A rebel army has landed at Furness and marches for York. We must raise as many men as we can muster, as we’ve no idea of their strength.’
Henry gestured for them to be seated. ‘We knew a rebellion was coming—but I prayed to God we could avoid a battle.’
John de Vere answered. ‘If we act now it could be a short enough fight, Your Grace. We have to stamp out this... insurrection—before others join them and it turns to civil war.’
‘He’s right, Henry.’ Jasper looked older, with deeper shadows under his eyes and hair turning grey where it showed under his cap. ‘There is no time to waste on diplomacy.’
Richard Foxe narrowed his eyes. ‘Once we have them, you can show the king’s mercy to all but the leaders, Your Grace.’
Henry scowled. ‘Who is behind this treason?’
Jasper spoke for them. ‘That scoundrel Francis Lovell—and John de la Pole, with mercenaries paid for by Margaret of Burgundy.’
‘I wish we’d caught Lovell when we had the chance,’ Henry studied his uncle’s lined face, ‘although I suspect there is more to it this time?’
‘Our agents say the boy pretending to be Edward Plantagenet bears a likeness and has been crowned by the Irish.’ Jasper shook his head. ‘I doubt he even knows what it means—but he’s being used to rally Yorkist support.’
Henry cursed with exasperation. ‘We’ll prove the boy’s an impostor by parading Edward through the streets of London!’
‘By then it might be too late, Your Grace.’ Oxford scowled. ‘More than two thousand rebels have already landed, with God knows how many more to follow.’ He glanced at Jasper for confirmation. ‘We cannot afford to let them reach York...’
Henry glanced from one to the other. ‘I’m appointing you, John, as commander of the vanguard. You shall have the pick of our best men and do what you can to stop the rebel advance.’ He smiled. ‘If their mercenaries are anything like those we had at Bosworth they will not welcome the attention of your archers.’