by Tony Riches
His predecessors chose this place with good reason. The deep, wide moat made it easy to defend and the old stone jetty provided good access to Westminster. The buildings needed work and the grounds had become a wilderness, yet he could see the potential.
‘I like it here.’ He reached across and took her white-gloved hand in his. ‘We shall make Sheen into a palace fit for a royal family.’
Elizabeth squeezed his hand in agreement. ‘I would like that.’ She gave him a conspiratorial look. ‘This is my most secret place. A sanctuary.’
Henry stared into her bright amber eyes. ‘You spent many months in sanctuary... yet you’ve never spoken of it?’
‘At first I didn’t understand the danger we were in.’ She stared, wide-eyed into the far distance as she remembered. ‘My mother made a game of it, said it would be a great adventure. Years later she told me my father abandoned us and she thought our enemies might murder us all.’
‘That’s why she took you to the sanctuary of Westminster Abbey.’
‘With my sisters—and she gave birth there to my brother Edward.’
Henry held the silence, intrigued to learn more of her past. Elizabeth’s mother showed great courage in adversity but the experience left its mark on her. He began to understand why she seemed so distrusting of his mother’s motives, or his own, for that matter.
‘The abbey monks protected us.’ Elizabeth looked into his eyes. ‘We should reward them for their kindness.’
‘And the others who helped you.’
‘In truth we saw little of anyone. A few loyal friends brought us food. My mother taught us to read from her book of hours. I later learnt we were there for almost six months but it felt like more like six years.’
‘And when you could leave the sanctuary of the abbey your father promised you to the Dauphin of France?’
‘Not right away. I must have been seven or eight by then.’
‘Old enough to understand...’ Henry felt an irrational surge of jealousy at the idea.
‘They began preparing me to become Queen of France. My father did his best to coach me, although I wonder if he had any idea.’
‘I heard you were his favourite?’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Edward had always been his favourite. His heir...’ She flashed him a strange look and Henry wondered if he might be about to learn what she believed happened to her brothers. ‘Those were... difficult times when my father died.’
‘Your mother took you back to the abbey?’
‘For our own safety.’ Her eyes misted at the memory.
‘She didn’t trust your uncle, King Richard?’
She remained silent for a moment, watching a busy robin foraging in the grass, then looked at him. ‘He declared her marriage invalid—and all us children illegitimate.’
Henry heard the edge to her voice. He recalled rumours he’d heard in France that she’d been in love with King Richard and dismissed them. It seemed impossible after the way he’d treated her family. He found it easier to believe Richard desired her for his new queen to replace Anne Neville, although he’d also heard he had planned to marry her off to the King of Portugal.
He watched her face. ‘How did he persuade your mother to come out of sanctuary?’ He sounded indifferent to her answer, although he held his breath.
‘First he tried threats and placed armed guards on every entrance to prevent our escape. Then he made a promise to ensure our safety.’
‘Your mother believed him, after all that had happened?’ Henry resisted the temptation to refer to the fate of her brothers.
‘He swore an oath on the Gospels before the Great Council. We had no choice other than to trust him.’
Their conversation echoed in Henry’s thoughts many times after he returned to Westminster, where the towering spire of the old abbey dominated the skyline. As agreed with Elizabeth, he’d privately granted a generous sum to Abbot John Esteney, who’d given her sanctuary, to pray for lasting peace.
Now Richard Foxe spread out the master builder’s new plans for Sheen Palace and its grounds. As well as new tennis courts, the drawings included a tiltyard for jousting tournaments, complete with a fine grandstand for spectators. He’d learnt the value of outward display from the French. As well as becoming their family home, Sheen would serve as a place to entertain and impress foreign nobles.
‘Elizabeth wishes to retain as much of the interior as possible,’ Henry studied a list of proposed improvements to the great hall, ‘which should reduce the cost.’
Foxe produced an itemised list of the builder’s estimate. ‘I took the liberty of anticipating this, Your Grace. It seems only proper these expenses are met from income from the queen’s estates, transferred from her lady mother.’
Henry tutted as he checked the totals, although he approved Richard Foxe’s advice. The costs far exceeded his expectations, yet Elizabeth would enjoy the distraction of overseeing the work herself. Taking his quill, he dipped it in the silver inkpot and inscribed his initials. He’d seen how men would take advantage of his generosity and ordered the Treasury only to make payments he had authorised.
Foxe gathered up the plans and tied them with a scarlet ribbon. ‘There is another matter, Your Grace. I refer to the... predicament of your benefactor, Duke Francis of Brittany.’
Henry sighed at the reminder. ‘His ambassador still waits for our reply?’
‘He does, Your Grace, and I understand his instruction is not to return to Brittany until he has secured it.’
‘We are well aware of the ambitions of Madame la Grande.’ Henry recalled his first meeting with Anne, Regent of France until her brother Charles would come of age. He’d always suspected her support for his cause and now guessed she might be in league with Margaret of Burgundy.
He looked out of the leaded-glass window at the bustling city below. ‘The French will no doubt invade Brittany whatever we choose to do.’ He knew Richard Foxe deserved an answer yet he worried about the downfall of Brittany, a land with so many memories.
‘I owe my life to good Duke Francis.’ Henry made a decision. ‘I am meeting my Uncle Jasper in Southampton to view the Venetian galleys—he will know what to do.’
‘There is also the letter from King James of Scotland, Your Grace.’
‘I’ve not forgotten—but we cannot afford the expense of sending an army all the way to Scotland. He must learn to control his rebellious lords.’
‘My understanding, Your Grace, is that King James is currently raising his own army.’
‘You are suggesting we do nothing?’
‘The rebels support the kings’ young heir, James, Duke of Rothsay. I have drafted a letter for your consideration, supporting the efforts of the Archbishop of St Andrews, who hopes to reconcile the king with his son.’
‘Keep me informed. I for my part shall pray we can avoid war with these troublesome Scots, whatever the outcome.’
‘We have reliable informers in both camps, Your Grace.’
Henry returned to the window and studied the narrow streets below. ‘Tell me, Foxe, what is your opinion of Rodrigo de Puebla?’
‘He seems an honest enough man, for a diplomat... although King Ferdinand of Aragon will have chosen him with good reason.’
Henry turned sharply. ‘Can he be trusted—or is he a spy, sent to worm his way into our confidence and learn our weakness?’
Foxe returned Henry’s stare with his usual unblinking coolness. ‘He confided he’d been sent to report to his master on the suitability of your son, Your Grace.’
Henry began to pace the room as he thought. He stopped and turned to Foxe. ‘Do you know what he has reported?’
‘I understand he offered a most positive account, although... I also learnt he has yet to receive any payment from Spain since his arrival last year. We provide his accommodation, yet how he survives if this is true is something of a mystery.’ Foxe raised an eyebrow. ‘As for whether he can be trusted, Your Grace, that remains to be seen.’
‘So you are suggesting his co-operation, if not his trust, might be bought?’
‘Without question, Your Grace. May I ask what you have in mind?’
‘We need an alliance with Spain. It’s time to begin negotiations with King Ferdinand.’ Henry smiled. ‘You are to secure the services of ambassador de Puebla to ensure the betrothal of King Ferdinand’s daughter, Catalina, with a dowry of.... shall we say two hundred thousand gold crowns?’
Cheering crowds called out ‘God save the King!’ and ‘God save the Queen!’ and threw flowers as the grand procession made its way to the Chapel of St George in Windsor. Henry decreed a special celebratory feast in honour of St George’s Day. Blessed by warm spring sunshine, it proved the perfect time to display his court in all its finery.
Henry rode in the lead on his favourite white charger, caparisoned with cloth of gold, preceded by heralds and followed by standard-bearers carrying his royal standards alongside the flag of St George.
Knights of the Garter in their colourful livery followed, including Sir Jasper Tudor and Henry’s stepfather, Sir Thomas Stanley. Behind them rode the queen and Henry’s mother in a gilded carriage drawn by six white horses. Henry provided them both with matching gowns of the Order of the Garter trimmed with brocade of gold and had never been more proud of them.
His concern that Elizabeth might resent his mother’s constant presence in their household seemed unfounded. They now chose to spend much time in each other’s company and his mother often stayed overnight in her own suite of rooms at Sheen Palace as well as at Windsor Castle.
In place of marching guardsmen, who now lined their entire route, twenty-one of Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting in gowns of crimson velvet rode on white palfreys, decorated with bright ribbons and bells. The musical tinkling of bells competed with fanfares of trumpets and the clatter of hooves on the paved road, creating a celebratory atmosphere.
A thanksgiving banquet in the great hall of Windsor Castle followed the service, where Elizabeth’s uncle, Sir Edward Woodville and Henry’s uncle, Viscount John Welles, were both rewarded for their loyal service by being made Knights of the Garter.
Henry sat between his mother and Elizabeth as they were entertained by tumblers, who formed a human tower the height of four men. Minstrels playing lutes accompanied a choir of young girls dressed in colourful gowns and singing songs composed for the occasion.
Servants carried platters of venison and the centrepiece of a golden hind, surrounded by lifelike wildfowl. Wine and ale flowed and Henry applauded the performance of a fire-eater, who sent great plumes of flame high into the air.
Henry’s mother caught his attention. ‘You should say a few words, make a speech of thanks?’
Feeling in good spirits, Henry had the hall called to order and rose to propose a toast. ‘My lords and ladies...’ he paused to survey their familiar faces. ‘It warms my heart to see so many good loyal people here today. I give thanks to God we now enjoy peace and prosperity in this land.’ He raised his silver goblet in the air and proposed a toast. ‘To our patron saint, St George!’
A hundred deep voices echoed his words and his mother nodded in approval. Word of this would spread far and wide. The people wanted a strong and chivalrous king, as well as a devout one, and he would not disappoint them.
Henry tasted the salt in the bracing sea air as he inspected the bustling dockside at Southampton with Jasper. Men shouted orders in several languages as ships were loaded with cargo. Others climbed high in the rigging to prepare sails, oblivious to their royal observers. As they watched, a basket of silvery fish spilled its contents over the quayside to a roar of curses from the foreman.
Jasper pointed out a high-masted ship being loaded with bales of wool. ‘A Genoese galley. Designed for use in calmer waters, the lateen sails make the most of light winds. They carry great loads yet are light enough to be rowed when becalmed.’
Henry shaded his eyes from the spring sunshine and realised the row of holes above the waterline were for fifty long oars. The design reminded him of his gilded royal barge and a thought occurred to him.
‘We need new ships to control the Channel. We should learn from the Venetians.’
Jasper studied the lines of the Venetian ship. ‘If we built them well, galleys could be used for trade all the way to the Mediterranean yet carry an army if needed.’
He led Henry further down the dockside to where a handsome caravel waited for favourable winds. Henry studied the lines and could see she’d been recently built, with fresh paint and bronze swivel guns mounted fore and aft. He looked up at the top of the mast and recognised the flag of Portugal.
‘Even the Portuguese have better ships than our tired old cogs.’ He turned to Jasper. ‘I shall commission new ships to be built without delay.’
Jasper grinned. ‘You remember your first crossing to France?’
Henry laughed at the memory. ‘I feared we’d be wrecked on the rocks and drowned. We have come a long way since then.’ He looked back at the caravel. ‘My new ship will be the greatest ever to sail from Southampton and I’ll spare no expense in her equipping.’
‘You must call her Regent —and your mother shall have the honour of launching her.’
‘I like it.’ He looked out towards the horizon. ‘Command of the seas will set us apart—and if there is to be war in France, we must be prepared.’
Jasper’s smiling face became serious. ‘You plan to support Duke Francis?’
‘I planned to seek your advice, Uncle. We might not be here now if not for the good duke, yet I’ve no desire to risk war.’ He lowered his voice so only Jasper could hear. ‘In truth we cannot afford to raise such an army, even if we had the ships.’
‘I knew as much. And you would have to forbid anyone such as Edward Woodville taking his cavalry to protect Duke Francis?’
Henry looked into his uncle’s dark eyes. ‘Of course. I would have to forbid it.’
Richard Foxe’s lined face looked graver than ever as he arrived to bring Henry bad news. ‘I regret to inform you King James of Scotland has died in battle, Your Grace.’
‘You are certain he hasn’t escaped?’
‘I understand the rebels made sure of it and already proclaim his son king.’
Henry shook his head. His foray to the south coast had improved his mood and allowed him to forget the trouble in the North. By all accounts King James had been a good, devout man, trying to do his best against impossible odds—not unlike himself.
‘He reached out to us for help. We failed him.’
‘We had no choice, Your Grace.’
‘We must learn from this, Richard. There but for the grace of God...’
‘Even if we had wished to support King James, the Treasury could not fund an army in time.’ Foxe hesitated. ‘Perhaps it is time to talk to Parliament about raising taxes?’
Henry groaned at the thought. ‘At the risk of destroying my fragile support in the North?’
‘The world must not learn of our vulnerability, Your Grace. If you wish to ask Parliament to raise new taxes, make no secret of the reason.’
Once again, Richard Foxe surprised him. Henry thought for a moment. ‘You are right. Instead of one ship, I will commission an entire fleet. Instead of wasting money on mercenaries, I’ll order every fit and able man to learn to use a bow, shoot straight and true.’ He liked the idea. ‘England has the means to pay for a new army and it shall do so.’
Henry prayed alone at dawn in the Chapel of St George at Windsor Castle. He prayed for forgiveness and for the good, loyal friends he had lost. A single, battle-weary survivor managed to return to England with his story of Edward Woodville’s doomed venture to Brittany.
Henry recalled Edward’s unswerving support for him during those long years in exile and his courage at Bosworth. His leadership and cavalry had carried the balance at the Battle of Stoke. The notion that Edward Woodville could be killed never entered Henry’s mind. He’d seemed invincible, a true chivalric knight.
Whether brave or foolhardy, Edward Woodville took on the might of the French army with a few hundred bowmen and paid the price. The only man to escape told of Edward’s small army being massacred by the French without mercy. The news spread like wildfire through England, hardening the resolve of Parliament to raise taxes for an invasion of France.
He lit a votive candle in memory of Elizabeth’s loyal uncle, who could have been king, the last of his kind. While his taper still flickered in the still air of the chapel Henry lit a second candle for his old friend Duke Francis of Brittany. A tear ran down his face as he remembered the duke’s great kindness.
As a boy, he’d looked up in awe at the powerful ruler of Brittany. He learnt much from observing good Duke Francis. The duke always honoured his word, despite many opportunities to profit from their protective custody. He provided five ships at his own expense to support their invasion of England, including his own flagship, and asked nothing in return. Henry would always regret how poorly he’d returned the favour.
The short and bloody battle for Brittany forced the ailing duke to concede the hand of his only daughter, Anna, now eleven, to Charles of France. He’d lived only long enough to know the humiliation of his beloved Brittany before succumbing to his long illness, a defeated man.
Chapter Five
April 1489
Reaching out with slender fingers, the latest gift from the King of Spain munched at the succulent grape as if it were an apple. Less than a foot high, with a long, thick tail, the monkey had brown fur except for a cap of black. It fixed Henry with a pleading stare and held out a hand for more.
He offered another grape, which it took and began to suck at the sweet juice. ‘Do you think it has too-knowing eyes?’ Henry smiled. ‘I feel it can read our thoughts.’
Elizabeth spoke in a hushed tone, as if frightened of alarming it. ‘Does it have a name?’
‘I thought to call him Rodrigo,’ Henry laughed at her surprised expression, ‘after our esteemed ambassador. I wonder if this little monkey has also been sent to spy on us?’