by Tony Riches
The great yule boar, carried by four men to a fanfare of trumpets, seemed to snarl at them with gilded tusks and glittering diamonds for eyes. Henry’s kitchens excelled themselves with a nativity scene of sculpted sugar, complete with shepherds, wise men of the East and angels suspended overhead on fine silk thread.
Sir Jasper, as the elder of the Tudors, stood to propose the toast to peace and prosperity. He spoke of Christmases past, when Henry had been a child young Harry’s age, then in Brittany, where the late Duke Francis had shown them great kindness. He finally raised his goblet and dedicated the feast to the honour of her grace Lady Margaret, the king’s mother.
Later, at a midnight mass in the Royal Chapel of St Stephen, Henry knelt at the side of his mother and gave thanks to the Lord for his many blessings. He liked to make a new pledge before God with the dawn of each new year, and chose to honour the promise he’d made to himself to become a better father. His fears of losing his youngest daughter reminded him he’d become too preoccupied with matters of state.
His children were becoming strangers to him. It didn’t help that his family were dispersed over several palaces. Prince Arthur, now in his seventh year, had been hidden away with his tutors at Farnham in Hampshire. A thin-faced, serious boy, he’d hardly spoken to Henry since returning to London.
Their daughter Margaret, turned three the previous November, looked like a miniature version of Elizabeth, with a reddish tint to her golden hair and large, amber eyes, and seemed in awe of him. With little Harry, she’d been brought to Westminster from Eltham Palace. Once a hunting retreat and a favourite palace of King Henry IV, Eltham now served as the royal nursery.
Harry had the red hair of the Plantagenets and the build of his grandfather, Edward of York. Able to walk unaided much earlier than Arthur, he’d already learnt to run at every opportunity, a trial to his nursemaids. Henry was relieved that Arthur owed more to his Tudor heritage. He wondered how much work it might take to prepare his high-spirited second son for a life of devout contemplation in the church.
Elizabeth hardly ventured away from Sheen as she recuperated from the birth of their newest daughter. Little Elizabeth’s size and frailty had been a great worry to them both, yet at last she seemed to be thriving, thanks to the care and attention of her devoted wet-nurse, the likeable Lady Cecily Burbage, daughter of a neighbouring nobleman.
‘We shall mark the Twelfth Night as a family,’ Henry announced, ‘with music and singing, magic and disguisings!’
He placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. ‘I have a present for you, a fine new bow crafted from Spanish Yew. We’ll try it out at the butts tomorrow?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Father.’ He corrected his shy son. ‘You must call me father.’ Henry studied his son’s thin, pale face and glimpsed an echo of himself at the same age. ‘You are growing into a fine scholar, Arthur,’ he grinned, ‘but we must make time for merrymaking. We shall spend more time together. I will teach you how to lose your money at cards!’
‘I should like that, Father.’ Arthur smiled, the first time Henry had seen him do so since he’d returned to Westminster.
Elizabeth picked up little Harry, already escaping on sturdy legs. ‘And you, sir, shall have sugar fancies.’
Harry’s bright eyes shone with affection for his mother, although he seemed not to even recognise his father. Henry produced a silver bell on a red silk ribbon from the pocket of his doublet. The shining bell tinkled musically as he dangled it in front of his youngest son.
‘A present for you, Harry!’
Strong little fingers grabbed the ribbon and Harry started swinging the silver bell so violently Elizabeth had to take it from him. He bawled in loud protest and she called to her ladies-in-waiting.
‘Fetch the minstrels to play, if you will.’ She smiled at Henry. ‘Music seems to calm him.’
‘As it does his father. Let there be music—and fools to cheer my son!’
Servants carried steaming cups of mulled wine for Henry and Elizabeth, as well as sweet treats for the children, who were brought low chairs and velvet cushions to sit on. A colourful satin curtain pulled back as if by magic, to reveal a candlelit wooden stage, with a canopy of state supported by long wooden poles, painted in spirals of Tudor green and white.
A musician beat his drum and the king’s trumpeters blasted a discordant note as Patch the fool appeared on the stage. Dressed as a knight, with a coat of knitted woollen mail and a cooking pot on his head, he began the entertainments as master of ceremonies, mimicking the arrogant tone of Sir John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, as he read from an over-large scroll.
He drew an enormous wooden sword, which he waved at the children while bellowing a humorous song of his great bravery. In a flash of smoke, another of Henry’s fools appeared. A stocky dwarf dressed as a bright red dragon, he did his best to avoid the oversized sword, roaring and dancing around Patch as Elizabeth’s minstrels played a lively jig. Little Harry clapped his hands in delight as the unconvincing dragon fell over his own tail and tripped from the stage.
Next came another of Henry’s fools, carrying a shepherd’s crook and wearing an absurdly high, gold-painted bishop’s mitre. Disguised as the Bishop of Misrule, he proceeded to wag his finger in the air and lecture the king and his family in a stentorian voice, yet none of his words made any sense.
‘He mocks Bishop Foxe!’ Elizabeth laughed.
‘A poor resemblance,’ Henry grinned, ‘yet his manner is unmistakable.’
A troupe of Flemish jugglers amazed them with their skill, throwing heavy wooden clubs to each other and spinning them high in the air. As the last of the jugglers vaulted from the stage, Patch the fool returned and bowed to Henry and Elizabeth with exaggerated reverence to announce the finale.
The choir of Westminster Cathedral entered, all dressed in white and wearing silver wings of angels. Their caroling echoed through the palace as they sang Henry’s favourite songs, accompanied by musicians with drums and flutes.
After the children retired for the night Henry gestured to his waiting servant to bring him a box tied with a ribbon of silk. He handed it to Elizabeth.
‘I have a gift for you.’
She unfastened the ribbon and took the richly decorated volume from its box. ‘A book of hours.’ She opened it at a page showing the hours of the Virgin. The colours dazzled and the gold lettering glowed in the candlelight, as if with some magical inner fire. ‘It is a thing of great beauty. Thank you Henry, I shall treasure it.’
‘I also give my pledge to be more attentive to you, Elizabeth.’ He took her hand in his. ‘I love you... with all my heart.’
She leant forward and kissed him, regardless of the servants. ‘I love you, Henry.’
He squeezed her pale fingers, their secret sign of the bond between them. Despite threats from impostors and another difficult birth, the past year had been a good one. He was proud of his family, the new generation of Tudors, and resolved they should spend more time together.
Bishop Foxe waited with a friar who wore the long cowl and brown robes of the Augustinian order. The friar turned his tonsured head at the sound of Henry’s approaching footsteps. Henry called out to his old friend, the renowned scholar and poet, Bernard André, whom he’d not seen since the coronation.
‘You’ve done well, Master Bernard, I hear?’
‘Thanks in no small part to your generous patronage, Your Grace. I have taught at the universities of Oxford and Cambridge.’
‘Bishop Foxe tells me you are also qualified as a doctor of law?’
‘Indeed. It has taken me a good many years, yet I have secured mastership in both civil law and canon law.’
Henry placed a firm hand on the friar’s arm. ‘Well done, Master Bernard, you are an inspiration to us all. Come in and I shall explain why I’ve asked you to travel all the way from Oxford.’
He guided the friar into his privy chamber and led him to an empty chair, indicating to Richard Foxe to join t
hem.
‘We have a proposal for you, Master Bernard.’ Henry turned to Foxe. ‘Kindly explain, Bishop?’
‘The king wishes to appoint you as his poet laureate, Master Bernard, and also to seek your assistance in helping to prepare his son, Prince Arthur, for kingship. You are to become his tutor once he reaches the age of ten years.’
‘It is a great honour you do me, Your Grace. I understand Prince Arthur is a studious boy?’
Henry agreed. ‘He has been tutored well, yet I need to consider his future education. You have an excellent knowledge of the Roman and Greek classics, Master Bernard, as well as an enquiring mind. I wish my son to understand how the classics contain the lessons one needs to lead a moral and effective life.’
‘It warms my heart to hear you say such enlightened words, Your Grace.’
‘A lesson I’m determined to pass on to my son is that a king must speak and write with eloquence and clarity.’
‘The Humanist moral philosophy, Your Grace. A modern king must engage in civic life and persuade others to be virtuous.’
‘I take it you accept my proposition, Master Bernard?’
‘Gladly, Your Grace.’
Richard Foxe saw Henry’s nod for him to continue. ‘There is another matter we wish to discuss. His Grace also wishes to commission you to write a book—a history of the life of Henry Tudor.’
Foxe glanced across at Henry. ‘There are conditions. The king requires this work to be kept secret, and for you to prepare your account without... embellishment. The book is to be a gift for Prince Arthur, when he comes of age.’
Friar Bernard remained silent for a moment as he considered the implications. ‘I am most grateful to accept this commission, Your Grace, although I profess not to know much of the events of your life before Bishop Foxe first introduced me to you in Brittany.’
‘My uncle, Sir Jasper, will be happy to tell you about his father, my grandfather, and the circumstances of my birth. My lady the king’s mother can also be taken into our confidence about this work.’ Henry spoke to himself. ‘Even I do not know the extent of her involvement in events leading up to our victory at Bosworth.’
Friar Bernard clasped his hands across his broad chest, then turned sightless eyes to Henry. ‘I trust, Your Grace, there is no particular... urgency for this commission?’
Henry looked across at them both and fought back emotion. He bit his lip to focus his mind. ‘Last year, the queen’s lady mother passed away. She was aged fifty-five—and before that in good enough health.’ He took a deep breath. ‘My own mother is now fifty years old, Master Bernard.’
‘I understand, Your Grace.’
‘You are no doubt aware there are also those who plot against us. I shall keep this fragile peace, with the grace of God—but write your story, Master Bernard, for who can know how it will end?’
Henry was uncertain about what to make of Sir Robert Clifford. A handsome but impoverished knight, he’d been with a group of men arrested for plotting against the crown and now imprisoned in the Tower. Tired of continued rumour and speculation about the pretender to his throne, Henry decided he must question Clifford in person.
Sir Robert had been overheard claiming to have actually met the troublesome impostor in Burgundy. In all the time since Henry first became aware of the rumours, this was the closest he’d come to his elusive adversary. To his annoyance, Clifford remained tight-lipped and seemed prepared to take his secrets to the grave.
Henry chose not to tell Sir Robert he’d spent most of June and July back at Kenilworth Castle, preparing for a rumoured invasion from the pretender’s supporters. The attack never came but caused him sleepless nights and the expense of maintaining his army ready to move at one day’s notice to ensure his safety.
He ordered the removal of the iron manacles on Clifford’s wrists and shackles chaining his ankles. He knew there were ways of extracting the information but he needed more than a confession. Henry wanted a way to capture the pretender and put an end to his damaging escapades.
‘For a man so keen on talking, you have little enough to say to your king?’ He leant forward in his chair. ‘Tell me how and where you met the impostor.’
Clifford hesitated, glanced once at Henry, then cast his eyes back to the tiled floor as he spoke at last. ‘It was at the court of Margaret of Burgundy, Your Grace.’ His voice sounded well-educated yet dispirited, as if he’d lost all hope.
Henry raised an eyebrow. He’d recently imposed a total ban on trade with Burgundy in the hope that Margaret would hand over the pretender. It came as little surprise that men such as Sir Robert Clifford seemed happy enough to ignore his commands.
‘What took you there?’ Henry tried to control his annoyance. He needed Clifford to continue talking.
‘I travel to all the foreign courts...’
‘My agents think you were in Burgundy to plot with the impostor against us.’
‘I was not, Your Grace.’
‘And the Duchess of Burgundy introduced you to the impostor?’
‘I understood he was nephew to the duchess...’ He studied Henry as if making a judgement. ‘Only later I realised he was...’ Clifford stopped as he chose his words. ‘The one calling himself the Duke of York.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘I...’ Clifford stared down at his shoes. ‘He may be an impostor, yet he is convincing, Your Grace.’
Henry studied the man. It was not the first time he’d heard the pretender described as convincing and probably not the last. Bishop Foxe had a theory that Margaret of Burgundy could be schooling the boy in details of the York family and their court. If true, this made him a greater threat than young Lambert Simnel, now slaving in Henry’s kitchens, ever was.
‘You were overheard saying you believe him to be Richard, Duke of York. What do you say to that?’
Clifford hesitated. Henry wished to make an example of such men, a warning of the perils of disloyalty to the crown, yet there was something about Sir Robert Clifford that set him apart.
‘I confess that I’d been drinking, Your Grace, and the wine loosened my tongue. In truth, I regret the day I ever set eyes on the... impostor.’
‘You were knighted for your bravery at the Battle of Stoke Field, risking your life to defend us against Yorkist rebels.’ Henry stared at Clifford. ‘Now you face charges of conspiracy and await the gallows for your treason, yet you don’t seem afraid of the fate that awaits you.’
Clifford looked forlorn. ‘I beg the King’s gracious mercy to forgive a moment of foolishness.’
Henry sat back in his chair. ‘Foolishness? You are right. This foolish business has cost a great deal—to learn this troublesome lad is the son of a Flemish boatman. His true name is thought to be Perkin Warbeck.’
He fixed his eyes on Clifford’s to see his reaction to the news. ‘We believe his deception came about by accident. A Breton wool merchant named Pierre Jean Meno took him to Cork. Warbeck dressed as a nobleman and the Irish mistook him for the Earl of Warwick, escaped from the Tower.’
Clifford looked surprised. ‘I thought...’
Henry shook his head. ‘We’d have released young Warwick from the Tower by now if the Yorkists were not so keen to replace me with him.’ He stared at Clifford. ‘You must understand that Margaret of Burgundy has good reason to recognise this impostor as Richard of York. She hopes to profit from it at our expense, as it seems the lad has promised much not in his gift. You told my men you make a living as a merchant adventurer?’
Clifford nodded, ‘I’ve had to make my own way in the world, Your Grace, as a third son I have no inheritance.’
‘Well, I have need of someone with your knowledge, Sir Robert, although your life might depend on your ability to show discretion.’
Clifford regained his composure a little. ‘You may rely on my loyalty, Your Grace.’
‘I pray that’s true, Sir Robert. We suspect that someone paid you to travel to Burgundy to make contact with Perk
in Warbeck. We wish to know the name of that person.’
Clifford seemed to make a decision. ‘It was... Sir William Stanley.’
Henry sat back in shock, his mind reeling. ‘My kinsman, the Lord Chamberlain?’
‘You will have him arrested?’
‘Not yet, Sir Robert. First, you will gather evidence of his disloyalty. I must be certain of my facts before arresting the brother of my stepfather.’
‘I understand, Your Grace.’
‘You must return to Burgundy and learn what you can about Warbeck’s intentions.’ Henry studied his face. ‘Do you think you could win his confidence?’
‘I do, Your Grace.’ Clifford brightened and stood straighter.
‘We will meet your expenses—and if you are able to assist with his capture, you’ll be well rewarded.’
Clifford bowed to Henry. ‘I thank you, Your Grace.’
‘I understand one of those arrested with you is your wife’s father.’ Henry saw Clifford’s despairing nod. ‘I shall show mercy to your co-conspirators, including your father-in-law, and free them from the Tower with the same warning that we give to you. If you ever conspire against us again, you will be taken to Tyburn and hanged.’
Chapter Ten
July 1494
Henry ran a calming hand over the smooth withers of the fine Welsh mountain pony, a birthday gift for Harry. ‘There now, my beauty.’
Elizabeth glanced at the young groom holding the bridle, although she looked at Henry as she spoke. ‘You’ve checked the girth is tight enough?’
Henry gave the fine new saddle a tug. ‘I have—and I’ve adjusted the stirrups long, as it’s his first ride.’
She turned to Harry, waiting with his sister Margaret. ‘Take care now Harry, be sure to listen to your Father?’
‘Yes, Mother.’ He didn’t take his eyes off the pony.
Henry lifted his son onto the saddle. ‘Now place your feet in the stirrups, like this... and try to keep your heels in line with your ears.’ He grinned as he passed Harry the rein. ‘You sit with a good straight back, Harry. That’s good—but try not to lean forward.’