by Tony Riches
He faced Jasper. ‘You, Uncle, will command my army and raise as many as you can—regardless of the cost. Send a rider for Rhys ap Thomas to bring his Welshmen—and tell him they will be well rewarded. I’ll ride with you as soon as I’ve said farewell to Elizabeth.’ He turned to Richard Foxe. ‘We will need special commissions of array—as well as the funds to support this army.’
Foxe gave a curt bow. ‘The orders are already drafted, so I can make the arrangements right away, Your Grace.’
After they left Henry stood at the window and stared out over the tranquil countryside. Sheep grazed lush green castle lawns in bright summer sunshine. In the distance he heard the laughter of children playing and the midday bell of St Mary’s Abbey chimed, calling the monks to prayer.
He closed his eyes and said his own silent prayer for guidance. He could have no better commanders than his uncle and Oxford, who fought with such distinction at Bosworth, but the impending battle loomed like a black thundercloud over the idyllic scene. More lives would be on his conscience. After all he’d achieved in the past two years, rebels once again threatened his crown, perhaps even his life, and that of his young son.
An unseasonably chill breeze tugged at the heavy canvas of Henry’s tent, which doubled as his mobile command post. He watched as Jasper dipped a quill in ink and marked their location on a parchment map of the area with a neat cross, ten miles south of the market town of Newark in Nottinghamshire.
They had covered less ground than Henry expected, partly owing to the weight of the cannons and the need to stop in every town and village to recruit more men. The commissions of array arrived too late for many, so all able-bodied men were pressed into the king’s service and armed with whatever came to hand.
The flap covering the entrance to their tent opened to admit Henry’s guards, escorting the man they’d been waiting for. Henry felt a stab of misgiving as he recognised the red wyvern badge of Henry Clifford, his commander in the North. A bloodstained bandage covered the soldier’s right hand and pain showed in his troubled expression.
Jasper had learnt of the man’s arrival and suggested he should be questioned in front of Henry, who would remain incognito. They’d found men spoke less freely when they knew they were in the presence of the king. He gestured for the guard to leave them.
The soldier cleared his throat to speak as his anxious eyes flicked to Henry. He failed to recognise him and turned to Jasper.
‘I’ve come from Tadcaster, sir, on orders from my Lord Clifford, to warn you that rebels took us by surprise.’ He looked down at his feet. ‘The army is routed with many dead and injured.’
‘How many rebels were there?’
‘Many thousands, my lord, too many to count.’
‘Irish mercenaries?’
The soldier looked back up at Jasper. ‘They seem to be poorly equipped, my lord.’
‘Yet they are well led, for they took you by surprise?’
‘They came at night without any warning.’ The soldier frowned at the memory. ‘They must have captured or killed our sentries. The first we knew of it they were amongst us.’ He studied his boots.
‘What of Lord Clifford?’ Jasper sounded more conciliatory.
‘Retreated to defend the city of York, my lord. He sent me to warn you and ask for reinforcements.’
‘Can you make it back to York?’
‘I can, my lord.’
‘Then tell Lord Clifford the king’s orders are to hold the city at all costs. The king has raised an army to defeat these rebels, whatever their numbers.’
The man accepted the gold coin Jasper slipped into his hand, then left on his mission.
Henry rubbed his eyes, feeling the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. ‘Oxford will intercept them?’
Jasper looked thoughtful. ‘In good time. We’re still waiting to hear from Rhys ap Thomas and your stepbrother about how many men they can bring. Lovell must have learnt from last time and seems to have raised an army.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘I’ve placed Edward Woodville in command of our cavalry. I’d like to send the best of them north to get the measure of the rebels—and keep them at bay until our army can reach them on foot.’
‘You think we can rely on him?’
‘Of course.’ Jasper raised an eyebrow at the question.
‘Forgive me but I’m trying to be cautious about who we trust...’
‘Edward Woodville has been loyal to you since France and fought with great courage at Bosworth.’
Henry stared at his uncle and back at the parchment map for a moment before replying. ‘It seems we are to fight Bosworth all over again.’
They’d been riding at the marching pace of Henry’s army since dawn when he spotted a single rider approaching in the bright yellow and red of Oxford. The messenger galloped to warn Jasper.
‘The rebels are close by, my lord.’ His deep voice carried well. ‘They occupy a hilltop near the village of Stoke.’
‘In what numbers?’
‘Many thousands, sir, although there are no reports of cannon or cavalry in any numbers.’
Jasper glanced across at Henry. ‘The vanguard is ready to engage them?’
The messenger nodded. ‘Our archers have them in range, sir.’
‘Good. Kindly tell the Earl of Oxford to draw them into the field. We are ready with reinforcements and will hold back until needed—as agreed.’
‘Yes, sir!’ The messenger grinned and bowed his head to Henry then turned and galloped back the way he’d come.
Henry’s spirits rose at the news, for whatever the outcome he wished it over. Jasper reported superstitious rumours of strange lights sighted in the sky. Some thought it a good omen but others argued it must be a portent of ill-fortune.
After another sleepless night he’d risen early and thanked God as he knelt at his prayers. Reinforcements had arrived the previous day with the Stanleys and the Earl of Devon, then the Welsh army of Rhys ap Thomas marched into camp.
The sight of so many well-armed soldiers proved a boost to the morale of the men. Lovell and Lincoln might have thousands of mercenaries but Henry’s army were more than a match for them.
Early morning sunshine further lifted Henry’s mood as they marched five miles to the Earl of Oxford’s position near East Stoke. He noted the men’s faces were tense. Word of the rebel routing of Lord Clifford’s army meant few expected an easy victory.
Jasper found them a vantage-point from where the enemy standards were visible on the opposite side of an open, shallow valley. Henry waited with Jasper at his side. They’d agreed to hold back the main force until they had the measure of the rebels and would rely on Oxford to goad them into advancing.
Oxford’s archers strained as they hauled back their yew longbows and watched for his order, then let loose and darkened the sky with a storm of deadly arrows. Despite having the better ground, the rebels were unprepared for the onslaught. Men cried out in pain as sharp bodkin arrowheads pierced flimsy armour.
Henry watched as the leading rebel mercenaries fled for their lives. The fast-flowing River Trent cut off their escape to the west, so they found themselves heading back through their own ranks. Then the rebel commanders urged their men to charge forward. Jasper’s plan had worked.
He flinched at the roar of the cannons they’d dragged all the way from the royal armoury. Iron shot cut through the ranks of advancing mercenaries like a scythe through dry stalks of corn. From his vantage- point Henry guessed more than a hundred men had already fallen, yet the rebels continued undeterred, pressing forward and hacking at Oxford’s men in savage fury.
The sharp sound of a distant trumpet broke through the noise of battle and a new wave of men appeared from behind the enemy hilltop. Carrying banners Henry couldn’t identify, they looked better armed and equipped than the Irishmen, including many with crossbows and several carrying heavy handguns.
Jasper cursed. ‘Germans!’ He drew his sword. ‘Thes
e are experienced fighting men—and they’ve used the Irish to force our hand!’
They watched as more Germans poured over the hill like a swarm of angry bees, yelling so loud Henry could hear them across the battlefield. Oxford’s archers bore the brunt of the savage attack, which pressed through without slowing down. The rebels began heading towards Henry’s position and not for the first time he feared for his life.
The sun glinted on Jasper’s sword as he raised it high, the signal for Rhys ap Thomas to take his Welshmen to reinforce Oxford’s vanguard. He pointed as the long flowing banner of the black raven rose above the battlefield. ‘I pity the Germans when they meet our Welshmen!’
Henry heard the pride in his uncle’s voice. Holding up a hand as if to shade his eyes from the sun for a better view he wiped a tear from his eye. He knew the rebels brought this on themselves yet he felt overwhelmed with deep sorrow. This might be God’s will but each death added to those already on his conscience.
The grey smoke of gunpowder drifted in the air as their cannons boomed again and again. ‘Just as at Bosworth,’ He muttered. ‘yet now I’ve brought the Welsh to war against the Irish...’
‘We have no choice, Henry.’ Jasper sheathed his sword, which he’d held ready, and stared into the carnage. ‘I’m still holding Devon’s men in reserve, and Edward Woodville’s cavalry, but I pray we won’t need to commit them...’
‘Amen to that,’ agreed Henry. He turned away from the sight of men murdering each other and hung his head to pray for salvation and forgiveness.
The sun rose high overhead before the last of the rebels threw down their weapons in surrender. Against Henry’s wishes the battle-bloodied Welshmen pursued their fleeing enemy and slaughtered those trying to escape.
A weary John de Vere joined Henry and Jasper to report on the search for the leaders. Apart from a purple bruise on his cheek where his missing helmet must have taken a blow he looked in good spirits.
‘Another great victory for Lancaster, Your Grace!’
Henry forced a welcoming smile. ‘Well done, John. We owe you a debt we can never repay.’
‘The men fought well, I’ll grant you—and so did those German mercenaries!’
Jasper stepped forward. ‘Have you captured Lovell or Lincoln?’
‘Lincoln’s dead.’ John de Vere glanced back across the battlefield, where bodies were already being stripped of weapons and armour. ‘Lovell’s vanished yet again. My men are questioning the wounded and prisoners to identify more leaders,’ he gestured to his waiting guards, ‘but I have captured one of the ringleaders.’
Henry felt sympathy for the nervous young boy, who looked about ten years old. He wore an ill-fitting velvet robe with a gilded York livery collar around his neck contrived to suggest a noble appearance. A long moment passed before Henry spoke. He’d been remembering the hardships of his own life at the same age as the prisoner of the surly Welshman Sir William Herbert.
‘What’s your real name?’
The boy stared ahead, unblinking, perhaps in shock at the change in his fortune. When he spoke, his high-pitched voice showed his youth yet he had a cultured accent. ‘Simnel, Your Grace.’ He looked wary of Oxford’s guardsmen and Henry wondered if they’d treated him roughly.
‘Who told you to pretend to be the Earl of Warwick?’
The boy stared at his feet. Henry guessed he still had loyalty towards those who’d made him their figurehead. He understood. He’d only been twelve years old when they executed William Herbert after the Battle of Edgecote. For all his rough ways, Henry had grieved that the man who’d been like a father to him met such a savage fate.
‘Answer the king, boy!’ Oxford’s voice sounded stern.
Henry held up a hand. ‘We know you’ve been used by those who should know better than to mislead the people.’ He stared at the boy for a moment. ‘You are pardoned in the king’s name—and shall work in my kitchens, where we can keep an eye on you.’
Jasper smiled at the suggestion. ‘What do you say, young Simnel?’
Simnel bowed his head. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’
Henry turned to John de Vere. ‘I also grant an amnesty to the common men and mercenaries, who are to return to Ireland, Germany—or wherever they came from. Please see that they do?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’ John de Vere glanced back across at Henry’s standard, now flying high on the hilltop where the rebels had camped. ‘The leader of the German mercenaries is dead but the Irish noblemen surrendered. What do you wish us to do with them?’
Henry hesitated. Some might see pardoning rebel leaders as a sign of weakness. Worse still, they could regroup and return to fight another day.
‘The price of their freedom is an oath of allegiance, then they are free to go and tell the people of Ireland we wish for peace. The Irish are to be our allies—not our enemy.’
Crisp autumn leaves swirled in golden brown drifts in the courtyard of the Tower of London as Elizabeth prepared for her coronation. Londoners were in celebratory mood and ready for the York princess to finally become crowned queen. Dressed in a kirtle of purple velvet under a mantle of ermine, a circlet of gold shining with rare pearls and precious stones, adorned her long hair.
Elizabeth made her procession through cleaned streets decked with flowers and lined with liveried soldiers. As she passed the crowds cheered, shouting ‘God save the Queen,’ and ‘Long live the Queen!’
A noisy fanfare of trumpeters greeted her arrival in Westminster, although by tradition Henry sat out of view. Concealed in a private pew, he watched with only his mother for company.
Lady Margaret strained to see her daughter-in-law entering the great entrance to the abbey. ‘This must be costing a fair penny, Henry?’
‘That’s what I wish the people to think.’ Henry gave her a knowing look. ‘I’ve levied heavy fines and forfeiture of estates for those who failed the test of their loyalty. The money raised has more than covered the costs of my army in the North, as well as this coronation.’
‘You will have to grant Elizabeth her own income now, as queen.’
Henry ignored the edge to his mother’s voice. ‘Richard Foxe has taken care of that. Her mother’s estates will be transferred to her, together with their income.’
‘She has little enough use for them now she has retired to Bermondsey Abbey.’
Henry stared at her as a thought occurred to him. ‘At your suggestion?’
‘Contented poverty is an honourable estate, Henry.’ Before he could reply she pointed as the precession entered the nave. ‘Your Uncle Jasper looks splendid in his new livery.’
‘I’ve appointed him Great Steward of England.’
‘You’ve rewarded loyalty well, Henry. I heard John de Vere is your new Lord Chancellor—a good choice.’
Henry agreed. ‘If not for him...’ He decided not to mar the day with black thoughts. ‘The Earl of Derby is also made Constable of England.’
Archbishop John Morton appeared, dressed as finely as any king in cloth of gold. Loyal to the Tudor cause since Brittany, he’d been made Archbishop of Canterbury, securing Henry’s grip over church and state. A choir of children, all dressed as angels, sang tunefully as Elizabeth wore the golden crown for the first time as Queen of England.
Henry gave thanks to God. He’d defended his throne with honour, surrounded himself with trusted men, and chosen the most beautiful woman in England as his queen.
Chapter Four
March 1488
Elizabeth took Henry’s arm in hers as she led him on a tour of Sheen Palace. Once part of her mother’s estate, it fronted the River Thames some nine miles upstream of the Palace of Westminster and twenty by royal barge from the palace at Greenwich.
The hammer-beamed great hall, empty of furniture, echoed when they spoke. Faded tapestries hinted at former glory and Henry shivered as the cold air made him mindful of ghosts of the past. Elizabeth wore a gold brocade cape with a fur hood over her gown, and her eyes shone with the excitem
ent as they explored dusty rooms and the maze of narrow passageways.
‘King Henry the Fifth chose Sheen as his palace,’ she pointed to the Plantagenet crest above the stone fireplace, ‘but he died during a winter siege in France before it could be finished.’
Henry laughed at her serious tone. ‘Not the best of omens, if I am to be persuaded to make this our family home?’
Her eyes sparkled. ‘I’ve happy memories of this place. My father told me Sheen once meant the basest form of shelter.’
‘And then he gifted it to your mother.’
‘She wished for a place of her own, when...’ A shadow of sadness passed over her face at the memory, then she brightened. ‘Let me show you my ideas for the gardens.’
Henry pulled his heavy fur-trimmed woollen cloak around his shoulders as she led him through a narrow doorway into the outer courtyard. The last signs of the morning’s frost glistened like diamonds on the cobble-stones and their breath froze in the air. He wished he could be inside, in front of a good log fire.
At the same time, he felt happy to indulge his wife and pleased to see her recovering, to be the girl he first met. She rarely mentioned her mother, although he knew Elizabeth visited her whenever she could. If the stories of King Edward’s many mistresses were true, they would explain why his wife lived away from his salacious court.
A tangle of thorny briars looked as if it could once be a rose garden. Early stinging nettles were reclaiming the borders, like an invading green army. Elizabeth led him through an overgrown orchard of stunted apple trees to a stone bench overlooking the river. She brushed away dead leaves and sat, gesturing for him to do the same.
Henry watched morning sunlight sparkling on the Thames. A pair of swans floated past, the only sound the gentle rippling of water. He’d become used to the bustling city downriver, with boatmen clamoring for fares. Now he found the riverside scene tranquil and calming.