by Tony Riches
‘You must go, Elizabeth, now.’
She glanced around at the bustling servants, still folding and packing her satin gowns. ‘How long do we have?’
‘The rebels have already reached Farnham—there is no time to lose.’
‘Arthur is at Farnham!’
He placed a calming hand on her arm. ‘I sent men to move him to the castle at Ludlow. I should have told you but it’s all happened so fast. I have your escort waiting to take you and your ladies to Eltham. Take the children to my mother’s house at Coldharbour. She’s waiting there and you’ll be safe within the city walls.’ He placed his helmet on the table and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Please stay there until you hear from me.’
‘What are you planning to do?’ Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed with concern. ‘Where are you going, Henry?’
‘I wish I could stay with you—but I must do what I can to rouse men to guard London. I’ve sent for Baron Daubeney with his twenty-five thousand men—but until he arrives we must cover every entrance to the city.’
She kissed him. ‘Take care. I shall pray for your safe return.’
He embraced her and returned her kiss, not caring about the servants. ‘God speed, Elizabeth—and tell the children not to worry. We’ll put an end to this soon enough.’
Sir John de Vere appeared in the doorway in his full battle armour. ‘The men are ready to leave, Your Grace.’
Henry grabbed his helmet and gave her one last look before following the earl. As he stepped out into the bright June sunshine he wondered if he would ever see her again.
Henry rubbed his eyes and realised he hadn’t slept for two days. Spurred on by stories of looting, the men of London turned out in force to help defend their property. He was beginning to believe the city would be safe from the rebels when John de Vere returned with worrying news.
‘Our scouts report the rebels have reached Blackheath, armed and in great numbers. They are led by one of our own commanders, Baron Audley.’
‘Why would Audley throw in his lot with the Cornishmen?’
De Vere shrugged. ‘Word is they plan to storm the Tower of London.’ He hesitated and lowered his gruff voice. ‘It seems they believe they’ll find you there, Your Grace.’
‘Blackheath is less than two hour’s march from here. We must prepare the men.’
De Vere agreed. ‘We’re as ready as we can be.’ He peered into the evening sky. ‘It will soon be dark. I doubt they’ll come at night, so you should try to rest, Your Grace.’
Henry’s instinct troubled him. The rebels had marched three hundred miles from Cornwall to Blackheath unopposed. It shocked him to know how vulnerable he’d become and knew he must deal with traitors such as Baron Audley.
‘Is there any word yet of Baron Daubeney.’
‘It’s a long march down from the border, Your Grace. We can’t depend on them arriving in time.’
Henry regretted his decision to send his army to the border with Scotland at such a critical time. He looked up at the men on the walls. Shopkeepers and landlords, they were armed with whatever they could find. They might hold off the Cornishmen for a while. He decided to take de Vere’s advice and try to get some sleep while he could.
The queen’s message was short. She’d decided to take the children to the Tower for safety and waited there with his mother. Henry cursed. At least Baron Daubeney had arrived. His men now guarded the walls and gates at Lambeth where the rebels were soon expected to arrive. He decided to join him there.
He arrived to find Baron Daubeney studying an old parchment map of Blackheath. The baron looked up at the sound of Henry’s footsteps. ‘Good day, Your Grace. I plan a raid to capture the rebel leaders,’ he grinned, ‘and cut off the head of the snake.’
‘You’ve done well to bring your men to London in good time, Sir Giles. Now we can put an end to this.’ He studied the ranks of well-trained soldiers. ‘We need more than a raid. I want you to take as many men as you can spare. Oxford’s men will surround the rebels while you... distract them.’
Over a thousand men died in the battle of Blackheath. The fighting became savage yet brief, the Cornishmen no match for Henry’s trained soldiers. After their surrender the rest received the king’s pardon and were sent home.
Henry watched as the dead were loaded like sides of beef onto wagons, for burial in mass graves. Mostly young men, they dressed in poor clothes and had been armed with tin mining picks and farming tools. He understood their resentment of a tax to pay for war with Scotland, yet they threatened the lives of his family.
He knew he must be strong and ordered the captured leaders to be taken to the Tower, to be hanged, then disembowelled and their bodies quartered. Their heads would be placed on pikes on London Bridge, a grim warning. Baron Audley would be shown the king’s mercy and beheaded at Tower Hill.
Henry felt little joy as he led the victory march to Westminster, riding his black destrier and wearing his diamond studded sallet helmet with the visor raised. Elizabeth, their children and his mother joined him for a service of thanksgiving in St Paul’s Cathedral.
The portly ambassador, Rodrigo de Puebla, presented his bad news with as much tact as he could. ‘King Ferdinand is concerned that the man who calls himself Richard of York prepares for war in Scotland, Your Grace.’
Henry struggled to control his annoyance. ‘How many times must we go through this... nonsense?’
De Puebla took a deep breath. ‘I appreciate your situation, Your Grace...’
‘Do you?’ Henry interrupted. ‘Is your master only going to be satisfied when I have Warbeck’s head on a pike with the other traitors?’
The Spaniard looked at his shoes.
Henry calmed his voice. ‘I have a message for your master. I wish the princess to come to England in two years when she reaches the age of fourteen.’ He managed a smile. ‘In the meantime I will deal with the impostor who has troubled this country for long enough. I shall also arrange for the formal betrothal of my son to Princess Catherine once I receive his positive reply.’
De Puebla bowed. ‘I will convey this to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, Your Grace, and wish you good luck with this man Perkin Warbeck.’
Henry watched him leave. He’d decided not to tell the ambassador Warbeck had landed in Cornwall and was already marching on Exeter. There would be time enough to do that.
The report had come through a week before and this time Henry was ready. With defeat still fresh in their memories, he’d expected the Cornishmen to turn their backs on Warbeck. Instead, they had declared him King Richard IV in return for promises to cut taxes, and some six hundred men marched with him to Exeter.
The sight of Henry’s army was enough to send Warbeck running to the sanctuary of Beaulieu Abbey in Hampshire, where he was captured. Now he would come face to face with his adversary, Henry knew he must decide what to do with him.
The thought that troubled him most was that Elizabeth would recognise him as her younger brother. Such a thing could be a spark to the gunpowder of the Yorkist threat, enough to throw the volatile country into chaos.
Warbeck finally knelt before him, dressed in the fine clothes of a noble. His hands were tied behind his back with a length of cord and he’d lost his cap. His face showed dark bruises where he’d been dragged from his sanctuary on Henry’s orders, yet it was the look in his eyes that surprised Henry most.
Over the years, Warbeck had become his nemesis. Henry expected defiance, perhaps even to see hatred on the face of his enemy. Instead, the pretender looked up at him with humility, no doubt knowing his life was in Henry’s hands.
‘I wish to confess, Your Grace, that I am an impostor.’ He stared at Henry with wide eyes. ‘I throw myself on your benevolent mercy.’
Henry shook his head. ‘You are a traitor.’
‘My name is Piers Osbeck, Your Grace.’ He spoke with little trace of an accent. ‘I was given the name Perkin Warbeck by the Bretons I sailed with.’ He looked up at Henry. ‘
I was born in Tournai.’
‘You will make a full confession—in writing?’
‘I will, Your Grace.’
‘Then you shall do so, and we will have a copy nailed to every church door in England and Wales.’ Henry studied the man kneeling before him for a moment. ‘Have you nothing else to say?’
‘I ask a great favour of you, Your Grace. Not for myself. My wife is left in Cornwall in sanctuary at St Michael's Mount. I pray you can show her mercy, for she had no choice in coming here from Scotland. She is innocent and I am concerned for her safety now.’
‘I understand your wife is a cousin of King James?’
Warbeck nodded. ‘Her name is Lady Katheryn Gordon.’
With Elizabeth accompanying his mother on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Walsingham Priory in the North, Henry remained at lodgings in Exeter. He was glad of the diversion when he heard Lady Katheryn had arrived from Cornwall.
‘Send her to me. I shall see what this Scottish woman has to say before I decide what to do with her.’
Bishop Foxe still hoped to negotiate a new peace treaty with King James. If the Scottish king cared for his cousin at all, it could do no harm to treat her as a victim of Warbeck’s intrigues, although Henry was in no hurry to return her.
He looked up from his book as there was a knock at his door. His servant announced his visitor but Henry knew at once this must be Lady Katheryn. Slender and elegant, her sapphire blue eyes held his for a moment longer than they should.
She offered him a demure bow. ‘I throw myself on your good mercy, Your Grace.’
Her voice had a soft Scottish accent, which Henry found unexpectedly attractive. No one told him Lady Katheryn was a great beauty. He’d planned to ask if she had called herself Duchess of York. He’d thought to summon Warbeck and force him to repeat his full confession before her. Instead he found himself lost for words.
‘You are in mourning?’
Lady Katheryn looked down at her plain black gown. ‘I lost a child, my little son... may he find peace in Heaven.’
‘I’m sorry... I didn’t know.’
‘Now I am to lose my errant husband.’ She stated it as a fact yet Henry heard a note of hope in her voice.
‘I’ve not decided your husband’s fate. Although, I’ve learnt he is a foreigner, which means our laws of treason...’
He stopped talking as he noticed a tear run down her cheek. The last thing he had expected was to feel protective towards her, yet Lady Katheryn enchanted him with her youthful honesty. He wished he could offer her some comfort.
‘You might show my husband mercy, Your Grace?’
Her pleading eyes touched some primitive emotion deep inside him. In an instant Henry understood why kings could ruin their reputation through infidelity. He fought to focus on his words, as he had when he first fell in love with the beautiful girl in Brittany so long ago.
‘I shall consider my conscience, Lady Katheryn.’ He offered her a smile, feeling a strange regret for the age difference between them, his thinning hair and poor teeth. ‘Meanwhile you will become lady-in-waiting to my wife—the queen.’
His reward was a look of such gratitude and promise that he found himself unable to sleep that night. Before, it had been the threat of Warbeck, come to take his throne. Now it was his desire for Lady Katheryn, the wife of his enemy, who had come to steal his heart.
Henry struggled with the wording of a reply to a letter from King Ferdinand in his study. He dipped his pen and began to write when his thoughts were interrupted by raised voices, followed by a shout. Someone ran down the corridor outside his room then one of his guards banged open the door.
‘Fire!’ He shouted. ‘Your Grace, the palace is on fire!’
‘Where?’
The guard glanced behind into the outer room. ‘I don’t know. Your Grace, there’s smoke—I thought to warn you...’
Henry knew the ancient timbers of the old palace would burn like dry kindling and prayed it wasn’t already too late. Then the enormity of the danger they were in struck him. Their whole family were at Sheen for Christmas, including his mother and her household, as well as many lords and their ladies, members of his court.
‘Come with me, we must rouse the queen!’
His guard was right. The distinctive smell of burning wood reached him as he stepped into the narrow corridor. The chapel bell began to ring, not the calm call to prayer but as a warning. He heard shouts and banging doors as more people were being warned.
His first thought was for Elizabeth. He dashed down the dark passageway that linked their private apartments and reached Elizabeth’s room. She was still in her bed sleeping, despite the commotion.
‘Wake up!’ He shook her and pulled back the coverlet. ‘There’s a fire—we must save the children!’
Elizabeth looked confused as he led her to the door and coughed as she breathed the bitter tasting smoke. Holding the hem of her nightgown over her face, she followed Henry barefoot into the corridor, still looking dazed.
‘You must get out, Elizabeth.’ He glanced at the guards waiting to help them. ‘Save yourself—I’ll check the nursery, then make sure my mother is safe.’
‘I must come with you—to save the children?’ She was anxious now, looking down the smoky corridor.
‘It’s too dangerous, Elizabeth. Go and wait for me!’
He gestured to his guards, who led Elizabeth away, while another two followed him to the nursery. They entered to find the room deserted. Abandoned beds were already wreathed in smoke. His daughter Margaret’s favourite doll lay on the floor as if dropped in haste. He hoped the children had been taken to safety by their nursemaids and tried to make their own escape.
‘I pray to God they are safe...’ Henry heard the desperation in his voice. ‘We have to check my lady mother’s room.’
One of the guards pointed to the far door leading to the back stairs. ‘We must go, Your Grace, the flames are spreading fast. There’s nothing we can do here!’
‘No!’ He shouted above the noise, which became a low roar, punctuated with bangs and sharp crashes as the fire took hold. ‘I have to be certain my mother is safe.’
The guards followed him further down the narrow smoke-filled corridors. Acrid fumes began filling his lungs and stinging his eyes. He could feel the heat prickling his skin. Their path ahead was blocked. Flames took hold of the old wooden panelling and there was no way past. If his mother remained in her room, they were too late to save her.
Henry’s eyes filled with tears as he imagined his mother trapped in her burning room. A burly guard took his arm and guided him towards the stairway. He could hardly breathe and found it impossible to see where he was going. As he fumbled his way with his hands, the thick smoke made him cough and retch. The crash of a collapsing roof was followed by a distant scream.
‘Who is there?’ He yelled out at the top of his voice and stopped to listen for a reply. All he could hear was the crackle of the raging fire and crashes as more of the roof collapsed.
‘Hurry, Your Grace!’ There was a note of panic in the guardsman’s voice.
Henry needed no urging now as he dashed between the flames and smelt his own hair singeing. One of his guards kicked with his heavy boot and the door burst open.
The shock of the freezing December air hit Henry as he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. He looked around for his family and recognised his steward approaching through the gloom. He gritted his teeth as he prepared himself for the worst news.
‘The queen is safe, Your Grace, she is with your children.’ His steward pointed. ‘They’ve all been taken to the manor house.’
‘Thank God... and my lady mother?’
‘Your mother is also with the queen now. She was at her prayers in the chapel, Your Grace.’
Henry flinched as he heard another thunderous crash. The main supporting beams must have burnt through. An enormous section of the roof collapsed into the flames with a shower of sparks. Burning embers drifted
on the still air like evil, glowing snowflakes, threatening to cause more fires wherever they landed.
He shivered in the cold night air, despite the heat from the blazing palace, as he realised how close he’d come to being trapped inside. He accepted the offer of a heavy wool cape and pulled it around his shoulders. For the first time he realised he had blisters on both his hands and his skin was blackened with soot.
Henry wanted to be with his family, to see for himself they were all safe, yet couldn’t take his eyes from the flames. Lords and ladies stood side by side with soldiers and serving-girls, many with soot smeared faces. The ground was littered with heaps of property salvaged in the flight from the fire. Precious gilt and silver plate glinted through a mound of priceless, smouldering tapestries.
‘Are all the staff accounted for?’
The commander of his yeomen stepped forward. ‘As far as we can tell, Your Grace, there are many with burns but no casualties.’
‘I pray to God you are right, Commander.’
Henry watched as men carried water from the green moat in whatever they could find. A bucketful splashed with a sharp hiss on the nearest flames. It looked a hopeless task, yet they could not stand by and watch while the grand old building burnt to the ground.
He stared in disbelief at the ruins of his palace, until that night his family home. Dazzling orange flames now lit up the night sky. The fire reached the private chapel, where his mother had prayed an hour before. He knew there would be nothing left by morning.
He thought of his valuable papers, letters and reports—all taken by the flames. His study had shelves of rare books, collected over a lifetime. Elizabeth’s precious jewels and treasured gowns were all now consumed by fire.
A movement in the darkness nearby caught Henry’s eye. He was exhausted and emotional but there was no mistaking the distinctive square-jawed profile. Perkin Warbeck, under house arrest at Sheen Palace to be near his wife, gazed up at the inferno. The flames roared and lit up the young man’s face. Henry thought he saw a look of triumph.