by David Field
‘Numbers, certainly,’ Henry replied guardedly, as he chewed nauseously on a piece of chicken that had been stuffed with God knew what and tried to swill away its taste with a mouthful of small beer. ‘I have no gift for anything else, I am told, and certainly not what my tutor calls the geometry of Euclid, whatever that may be.’
‘Numbers will be sufficient,’ Herbert conceded. ‘The Steward’s eyes are failing him and of late his management of the estate accounts has been careless. Perhaps you might earn your keep by assisting him — it will also help to fill those hours in which you seem to dream idly around the place.’
Two days later, Henry was introduced to the intriguing world of estate accounts and found that his aptitude for numbers was greater than his doubting tutor had given him credit for. It was simply a matter of ensuring that the totals in the right-hand column, which recorded all the estate outlays, did not exceed those on the left, which represented the sums of money with which the Steward was periodically, if grudgingly, entrusted by Herbert. Sometimes there was some left over at the end of a week and the Steward showed Henry how it could be ‘carried over’ to the next page and set off against future expenditure.
While Henry sat happily learning how to balance an account book, affairs of State were taking another violent turn in the north. His first inkling that his mother’s predictions might be coming true was in late June. He looked up from where he was seated at the table in the Steward’s pantry, assisting with the weekly balance, when the door was flung open and there stood William Herbert, dressed for a lengthy journey. By his side was a facially-scarred, shifty-looking man with weapons of various descriptions hanging from the belt of his stained tunic.
‘This is Thomas Gwynne,’ Herbert announced. ‘I have to leave urgently on the King’s business and in my absence Thomas has instructions to ensure that you do not venture beyond the castle walls. Should you do so, he has orders direct from the Earl of Warwick to slit your throat.’
For the next two months, Henry took care not to venture beyond the castle gates, content to take the summer air in the main entrance yard, while always aware of a malevolent pair of eyes glaring down at him from an upper floor whichever way he turned. On one occasion he gave Gwynne a cheeky wave, but the grimace he received in return made him unwilling to repeat the experience.
Henry learned from a letter from his mother that his regular jailor, William Herbert, had journeyed north to meet up with the King at Nottingham, ahead of marching out to confront the rebels led by Sir William Conyers. King Edward had been falsely advised by Warwick that the rebels lacked numbers and had therefore taken only a small force with him; by the time that he learned his mistake, Warwick had taken advantage of his absence from London to raise his own army, which marched north to annihilate the royal army at Edgecote Moor in Oxfordshire. At the first sight of the livery on the battle armour of Warwick’s forces, Edward’s troops fled from the field and William Herbert was captured and beheaded the following day.
Warwick had marched triumphantly back to London and ordered that Henry VI be released from the Tower and replaced on his throne, while his messengers were sent across the Channel to advise Queen Margaret that it was safe to come home. The opportunity was also taken to blame the Woodvilles for what had happened and a month later the head of the family, Earl Rivers, father of the now deposed Queen Elizabeth, and her brother John, were beheaded for treason at Kenilworth, after a trial that contained more show than evidence. Elizabeth herself fled to the sanctuary of Westminster Abbey with the royal children, while her husband — the deposed King Edward — was fleeing across the Channel.
Henry was pacing the castle yard one day in August when a troop of mounted knights in full armour clattered in and formed a circle around him. Believing that he had somehow strayed too far in his daily exercise, he looked fearfully up at the windows of the Great Hall, but the menacing visage of Thomas Gwynne had disappeared from sight. Several of the armed knights dismounted and disappeared into the castle, from which shouts and screams suddenly erupted. One of the knights reappeared carrying a gory bundle by its hair; Henry recognised the face of Thomas Gwynne on the severed and still dripping head, and all but fainted.
As he slid towards the ground he was grabbed by the arm and a welcome and familiar face grinned down at him.
‘Now then, boy — you need a stronger stomach than that if you are to fulfil your family’s destiny.’
Henry flung his arms around the man and yelled out in sheer pleasure, ‘Uncle Jasper! Where did you come from?’
‘France, most recently,’ his uncle replied. ‘But it is now a matter of where we are both going. Prepare your trunks for travel, my boy — you are to be presented at Court.’
III
Henry shuffled and squirmed in his new boots, while his mother fussily brushed the shoulders of his new blue coat-hardie to remove the dry scalp flakes from his thin light auburn hair. His uncle Jasper smiled and nodded to the courtiers gathered at the entrance door to the Painted Chamber, awaiting the summons to enter. It was late November and roaring fires had been lit in the antechamber, where lords and ladies either sweated in their finery or sought sanctuary from the heat in the far corners, while listening intently for the doors to be opened.
‘Remember, when we enter, to bow the knee no less than five paces from the throne, keep your eyes on the floor and speak not until you are addressed. Even then, your head must remain down,’ his mother advised Henry for the fifth time.
‘The boy will acquit himself well, as befits a Tudor,’ Jasper assured her. ‘And the King will be more concerned for his loyalty than his Courtly manners.’
‘Even so,’ Margaret countered, ‘there will be those who seek to portray him as a Welsh country oaf with no nobility of breeding.’
‘His father was as clumsy as an ox that pulls the plough,’ Jasper reminded her, ‘yet King Henry loved him well enough, for his constant heart and undoubted courage. This is the court of Henry of Lancaster, not some simpering perfumed boudoir of the Dauphin.’
While they had been discussing him like some prize heifer in a county show, Henry had been gazing, awe-stricken, at the splendid crowd that filled the antechamber. Henry VI had been back in residence for several months, but held few audiences at this time, being more concerned to take up the reins of government and enjoy time with the family with which he had only lately been reunited. As far as Henry’s gaze extended, the antechamber was a riot of fashionable colours and styles, the men in scarlet, silver and blue, their womenfolk in silk, damask and satin gowns in pastel shades of green, yellow and orange. Henry had never before seen women with their hair covered by such elaborate headgear; they called them ‘hennins’ and the long conical shapes allowed the women to hide their locks completely within them, giving a deep look to their foreheads accentuated by the severely plucked eyebrows that were also in fashion. Many of the Court ladies had a colourful veil hanging down the back of the hennin in a rich fabric that either matched or set off the flowing gowns that they accompanied.
As Henry’s gaze swept the company, he became aware of a younger man who, he realised with a start, looked like an older version of himself. He was around twenty years of age and he was dressed all in black. He appeared to be slouching where he stood, across the antechamber from Henry, and fixing him with a scowl. But it was his face that fascinated Henry; it was aquiline, like his own, and somewhat sallow of skin. The hair that showed beneath his bonnet was darker than Henry’s, but it was thin and almost lifeless. The eyes appeared to be as ‘beady’ as Henry’s own and the overall effect was like looking at a portrait of how he himself would look when he reached manhood.
He tugged at his uncle’s elbow. ‘That man across from the main fireplace — the one dressed all in black — who is he?’
Jasper looked in the direction indicated and frowned. ‘That is Dickon of York — the younger brother of the recently deposed Edward, and also brother of Clarence, who even now is in the presence, along wi
th Warwick as usual.’
‘He was scowling at me, as if I had done him a disservice.’
Jasper chuckled. ‘You did him your greatest disservice by not dying at birth. Should Edward return, then die young, leaving no heir alive, it is only Clarence that stands between Dickon and the throne. But should Henry of Lancaster and his queen remain in power and have no further issue, as now seems likely, then after the young Prince of Wales you would be the strongest claimant to the Lancaster inheritance.’
‘That is surely a great number of “ifs”,’ Henry pointed out.
‘We live in marvellous times,’ Jasper reminded him. ‘Who would have expected Henry to be returned to power? And he would not have been, had not Edward fallen foul of Warwick. Be in no doubt that England is ruled by neither York nor Lancaster, but by Richard Neville in all but name. When we go into the presence, be sure to cause him no offence.’
‘But surely my obeisance is due to His Majesty?’
‘Your mother was correct,’ Jasper replied. ‘You have much to learn about affairs of State.’
The doors to the Painted Chamber swung open and the crowd in the antechamber fell silent as a herald in royal livery called out, ‘Henry, Earl of Richmond, the Dowager Countess of Richmond and the Earl of Pembroke.’
The room they were shown into was long and thin, decorated like none Henry had ever seen in his life before. The ceiling was a bright blue, giving the impression that the entire room was open to the sky, except that it was embossed at precise intervals with royal shields. The left-hand wall was one huge mural depicting an ancient castle in its own grounds, while the window arches to the right were resplendent with richly-painted images of former monarchs. The floor was a blue and gold mosaic under Henry’s boots as they walked slowly but firmly towards the small throne at the far end. It was high-backed, but not raised on a dais as Henry had expected. The King sat, slightly slumped, his right leg slightly in advance of his left, dressed in a velvet robe of rich purple with fur trimmings. On his head sat the crown of State and in his hand a vellum scroll that he was examining closely as the party approached.
Standing to his right and slightly ahead of him was a tall man with a stern face and a fierce black beard that was in need of a barber. Henry took him to be the all-powerful Earl of Warwick. Henry was so busily engaged in ensuring that he did not approach too closely to the King before kneeling that he hardly noticed the pale young man seated on a bench before the final window on the right, who must — he realised with hindsight — have been the Duke of Clarence.
Henry knelt as previously instructed and there was a soft chuckle from the somewhat fleshy face of the man on the throne.
‘When a Tudor kneels to pay homage the nation must indeed be secure. Since I have met the Earl of Pembroke many times in the past I may safely conclude that you, young man, are Henry of Richmond.’
‘Yes, your Highness,’ Henry replied to the floor, wishing that his voice were naturally stronger.
‘You may raise your head, young Richmond, and be proud of who your father was, and how he loyally served the cause of Lancaster before the storms of family dissent descended upon this realm.’
Henry looked up into a pair of kindly-looking, if slightly vacant, eyes. The King was smiling, so that must surely be a good sign. Then he looked slightly behind Henry and spoke again.
‘Margaret Beaufort, Margaret Tudor, and now Margaret Stafford, you may all take a seat.’
Henry couldn’t help a chuckle escaping his lips, then looked back up in horror in case the King had taken offence at his appreciation of the royal wit. But the King smiled back reassuringly and told him, ‘During those sad days when my Queen and I were parted, the Dowager Countess of Richmond was a constant comfort to Margaret of Anjou. Welcome back to Court, Countess.’
‘Your Highness does me great honour by allowing me to present my son,’ Margaret replied quietly but firmly. ‘As for her Highness the Queen, it was both a privilege and a pleasure to know her friendship, which we may hopefully resume without further interruption.’
Henry winced, in the belief that his mother might have gone too far to say such in the presence of the very man who had kept them apart. The Earl of Warwick had clearly picked up the same insinuation and looked across haughtily at where she had taken a seat, as invited, on one of the empty padded benches in a window arch.
‘Those interruptions were due in large part to her Highness’s choice to travel so widely out of the kingdom,’ Warwick explained unctuously, ‘but I, too, rejoice to see such kindred souls reunited in the flesh. Yet how shall we best employ the young earl, your Highness?’
The King looked puzzled for a moment, then transferred his gaze from Henry’s mother to Henry himself.
‘What say you, young Tudor? You look too puny of frame to be employed in my armies. Are you perhaps a lawyer, or a scholar, who may be employed for the benefit of the realm?’
Henry swallowed hard. ‘In truth, your Highness, I am no scholar, and your Highness is correct to doubt that my weak arm could be usefully employed in wielding a sword. I have one ability of which I am aware and that is in the calculation of figures, particularly those that are financial.’
‘Excellent!’ the King enthused. ‘My lord of Warwick, could you see to it that the Earl of Richmond is allocated a post in the Treasury?’
‘It shall be done, Highness,’ Warwick assured him, with a slight sneer in Henry’s direction.
‘And what of you, Earl Pembroke?’ the King asked Jasper. ‘Seek you a position at Court, like all those who form such a long line outside?’
‘I seek nothing but that which your Highness has need of me for,’ Jasper replied diplomatically, ‘but unlike my nephew, I would be of no use in the Treasury. The Chancery, perhaps, since I have recently returned from France, where I might be of value to the nation in diplomatic discourse with King Louis.’
‘We have emissaries enough,’ Warwick chimed in, ‘however, we may soon have need of a new Constable of the Tower. Our current one has of late been lax in matters regarding communications between prisoners and those that would conspire towards their escape.’
Henry felt a chill run up his spine at this veiled reference to his mother’s recent communications between the previously imprisoned King and his exiled wife. Warwick had been the man behind the entire business and was now seeking the downfall of the man who had made it all possible whilst in his pay. He was indeed the most treacherous of devils, Henry realised, and not even the King had the courage to point out that the Constable whose downfall Warwick was seeking was the very man who had been instrumental in his restoration.
‘I have no desire to be a gaoler, your Highness,’ Henry heard his uncle reply from somewhere behind him, ‘and perhaps I might be better employed ensuring that your western borders are free from those who would threaten our new-found peace.’
Henry saw Warwick’s face freeze in a cold smile as the King agreed that he was happy to have a Tudor earl keeping down any rebellious Welshmen and hinted that Jasper might also be of future service in the northern counties. Then they were excused and returned to the antechamber, where Jasper congratulated Henry on his performance in his very first audience and muttered darkly about the treacherous duplicity of which Warwick was clearly capable. He was joined in this by Henry’s mother, who seemed paler in the face than she had been before the audience.
‘That poor man was too terrified of Warwick not to accept his money. By this means did he help to organise the restoration of Henry to his throne and now the helpless wretch is to be dismissed for a betrayal of his office that Warwick himself brought about. There are rats feeding on the corpses of the dead that have more conscience than that dreadful abomination of a human being.’
They left the Palace together and as Jasper and his mother continued to mutter between themselves, Henry was conscious of the piercing dark eyes of Richard of York following him out.
IV
Henry sat at his desk in the room assi
gned to the Under-Secretary to the Lord High Treasurer, wondering why he could not make the figures balance. He rubbed his eyes, which had grown blurred in the flickering candlelight as he sought to reconcile the numbers that had begun dancing on the vellum before him. As he squinted to clear his vision, he finally realised where the discrepancy lay between the sums collected and the sums sent to the vault. A licence fee had been entered into the accounts but not transferred to the King’s vaults.
Henry sat deep in thought before rolling up the vellum and taking it to the Treasurer, Henry Bouchier, Earl of Essex, in his spacious suite of rooms in Westminster Palace.
The Earl seemed unmoved by what Henry had to tell him.
‘Where is the error or the malignancy, if the sums due be properly accounted for to his Highness?’
‘My point entirely,’ Henry argued. ‘The sum due in licence fee was not committed to the vault.’
‘But it remains accounted for.’
‘Where? Should the roll continue to show that his Highness has been underpaid by some two hundred pounds, those responsible for the roll may be accused of treason by way of dishonesty in the nation’s accounts.’
‘You may rest assured, Richmond, that no-one will report the loss to his Highness, since the cause to which it has gone is a more powerful one even than the maintenance of the crown.’
‘There is no power higher than that of the sovereign,’ Henry began to protest, before a horrible suspicion began to form in his mind. ‘Unless, perhaps... ’
Essex fixed him with a stern look. ‘You would be as well not to complete what you were about to allege. Simply initial the roll and let us hear no more about it.’
‘But if I initial the roll, I become the person who has kept two hundred pounds which were due to the royal vault. And if I am taken up on a count of treason, the only person who I can name in my innocence occupies such a high position of influence in this nation that it is almost treason in itself to besmirch his name.’