To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York - Jean Plaidy

He was glad when the tumbling and antics of the fool ceased and he could go to the nurseries. Anne was there waiting. He ran to her and caught her by the knees.

“Anne, Anne, I’m going to be Duke of York!”

He was picked up, held in the strong arms. He buried his face into her large soft breasts.

“Well, well,” she said, “you’ll have to mind your manners, won’t you?”

She was laughing. He said: “Are you glad, Anne? Are you pleased?”

She was silent for a while. Then she said: “No . . . I expect I want you to stay my baby. . . .”

Then he put his head down on her breast again and clung to her. He was comforted.

It was a golden October day when they came to prepare him for the great event. He was dressed in velvet with a cap on his abundant reddish hair, and they put a heavy gold chain round his neck; his cheeks were even rosier than usual, for he was very excited.

His riding master had had some qualms. He was very young to ride, but it was believed he was proficient enough to manage a small quiet horse; and the people would of course be delighted with him. The King had said that this was the time to show them that there was one Duke of York and one only and he was the son of Henry Tudor here in London and not a lying impostor skulking on the Continent.

So young Henry came riding into London where the Mayor, the aldermen and dignitaries from the city companies were all waiting to greet him. The people had crowded into the streets and when they saw this beautiful little boy sitting so confidently on his horse and returning their greetings with such royal gravity they roared their applause.

At Westminster the King was waiting to receive his son and when he saw him he congratulated himself on this move. Few could have done more for him than this beautiful child at this dangerous moment when the news from the Continent was growing more and more grim and it was certain that people in England were concerned in the conspiracy. A glow of affection showed in his eyes but young Henry was too concerned with his own role to notice it.

He had been drilled constantly for the last week so that he should not fail to do what was expected of him and he was thoroughly enjoying it all. This was his day. And although Arthur might be the Prince of Wales, the most important son of the King at this time was Henry.

His first task was to join in the ceremony of washing the King’s hands. It had been decided that he should be the one who stood by with the towel. But he must kneel when offering it and he was a little unsteady. However the King smiled at him and he believed he had performed that duty with grace. Now he could sit down and eat—being very careful how he did so—and even at such a time his appetite did not fail him.

Afterward he was taken away to a small room where he was stripped of his clothes and placed in a warm herb-scented bath. This he knew was the ceremony of purification, which all knights had to undergo.

He sat in the bath and listened to the injunctions which were read out by Lord Oxford, explaining to him what knighthood demanded. He must remain faithful to the Church; he must protect widows and maidens; and above all he must love the King and serve him with all his heart.

The King put his hand in the water and making the sign of the cross on young Henry’s body, kissed the spot.

Then the boy was taken from his bath and dressed in a robe made of coarse stuff which irritated his skin. He was then allowed to go to his apartments although the rest of the knights who had joined in the ceremony would spend the night praying in the chapel.

He was glad to cast off the coarse garment and delighted when the following day they dressed him in silken clothes, which in comparison seemed deliciously soft. In the chapel the knights were waiting to conduct him to the Star Chamber where one of them, Sir William Sandes, lifted him and carried him to the King’s Hall where the King was waiting.

The King then commanded two of the most noble peers in the land to put the spurs on the little boy’s feet, so the Duke of Buckingham fixed the right one and the Marquis of Dorset the left, while the King himself put on the boy’s sword. There he was equipped like a knight—though a diminutive one, but he felt very proud.

The King kissed him and said: “Be a good knight, my son.” Then he picked him up and put him on a table and as he stood there with his newly acquired sword and spurs everyone cheered.

He was now a Knight of the Bath.

But it was the greater title which the King wished to bestow on him and the following day there was another ceremony.

This was far more impressive because the King wore his robes of state and his crown and he himself wrapped young Henry in the velvet cloak of deep crimson edged with miniver and put on his coronet and sword.

He was now the Duke of York.

After that it was rather disappointing because although there were tournaments and entertainments to celebrate his elevation, the adults seemed to have forgotten that he was the center of it all and now that he had actually gone through his performance he was once more regarded as a little boy. It was true he was allowed to sit in the royal box and watch the knights tilt against each other, but Margaret and Arthur were there too; and when the prizes were distributed to the successful knights it was not he who awarded them but Margaret.

How self-satisfied she was when the knights came up one by one and knelt to her. She could not resist glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Henry was watching. It was as though she said: “I know you went riding through the city and everyone cheered you, but watch me now. They are all kneeling to me.”

It was irritating and he scowled at her, but try as she might she could not take from him the memory of all those people smiling at him and cheering him and so obviously thinking how important he was.

He wanted that adulation to go on and he grew more and more sorry that he had not been born the eldest. He was sure the people would have preferred him to Arthur.

How could fate have been so blind?

It was just after Christmas when Sir Robert Clifford arrived in England and called on the King at the Palace of the Tower where he had taken up residence at that time.

As soon as he knew that he had arrived Henry received him.

The man bowed low.

“So,” said the King, “you have returned.”

“My lord, I can do no more in your service. I am of the opinion that the conspirators have become aware of my actions and I have news of one near to you who is a traitor and I believed that I had something to say to you which could not be trusted to paper.”

“I see,” said the King. “Go on.”

“I would remind you, Sire, of your promise to me.”

“Yes, yes, a free pardon. It is yours.”

“And five hundred pounds for my services.”

“It shall be yours. Tell me of this traitor.”

“I fear you will be inclined to disbelieve me for it concerns one very close to you . . . even related.”

The King tapped his fingers impatiently, but still Sir Robert hesitated, whether to give his revelation more momentum or whether he feared the King’s wrath over what he was about to reveal, Henry was not sure.

“Come, come, Clifford. Speak up.”

“My lord, Sir William Stanley is in league with Perkin Warbeck.”

“Stanley! Impossible.”

“I feared you would feel so, my lord. But it is the truth. I have evidence. Letters in his handwriting. He is ready to offer his help to the impostor when he lands in England.”

Henry was silent. He would not believe it. Not William Stanley . . . brother of his father-in-law! Heaven preserve him, how deep had this thing gone! He had scarcely had a night’s sound sleep since he had heard the name of Perkin Warbeck.

“Allow me, Sire,” said Clifford. “I can give you irrefutable evidence and knowing that you would find it difficult to believe in this man’s perfidy I have brought you that evidence.”

The King held out his hand.

He stared down at the paper. Stanley’s writing. Stanley’s treason! There could be no doubt of it.

He felt sick with disgust and anger. Had he not seen it with his own eyes he would never have believed it. Stanley! What would his mother say? What would his stepfather say? This was terrible. This was treachery of the worst kind.

“My lord, you believe me now?”

“I believe you, Sir Robert. You have done good work. It is a pity that you were ready to betray me in the beginning.”

“A mistake, Sire, for which I crave the pardon which you have already granted me. I realized my mistake and I wished to rectify my errors . . . which I am sure with your love of truth and justice you will readily agree that I have done.”

For five hundred pounds and a free pardon! How uneasy is he who is a king! Must it always be so? Must those whom he most trusts betray him?

“You have done well,” he said. “You shall be paid your five hundred pounds. Leave these papers with me . . . You may go to my treasurer and take an order from me for your five hundred pounds, which shall be paid to you at once. Then you may go.”

“Thank you, my lord. It has been my pleasure to serve you.”

“Go now,” said the King coldly.

He sat silent for a few seconds. Somewhere in this very palace Sir William Stanley would be preparing for the evening’s entertainment, little guessing that his perfidy was revealed. Henry was glad that he had come to the Tower. Stanley could be taken to his cell without undue fuss.

He sent for the guards.

“Arrest Sir William Stanley,” he said, “and have him conducted to a dungeon. Make sure that he is well guarded.”

The men-at-arms were astounded. They hesitated, wondering if they had heard correctly.

The King said, and his voice was very cold: “Those are my orders. Sir William Stanley is to be conducted without delay to a dungeon. He is under close arrest.”

The men bowed and went out. Henry sat for a few moments staring into space, his face creased into lines of desperate unhappiness.

The King signed to the jailer to open the door of the cell. He went in. Stanley turned sharply and let out a cry when he saw who his visitor was. He went onto his knees and tried to take the King’s hand.

“My lord . . . Sire . . . I do not understand.”

“Get up, Stanley,” said the King. “Alas, I understand all too well.”

“My lord, I pray you tell me of what I am accused.”

“Of treachery, Stanley.”

“Treachery? I . . . Your faithful servant . . .”

“My unfaithful servant, alas. Have done with pretense. I know that you have been in correspondence with the impostor Perkin Warbeck. I have seen your letters. . . .”

Stanley’s shocked silence would have proclaimed his guilt if that had been necessary. It certainly was not. Henry had no doubt of it. It had been made quite clear to him.

“My lord . . . I thought . . . to discover more of this man . . .”

An old excuse! It never worked. He was going to say: I was pretending to be with the other side in your service. I wanted to find out what they were planning so that I could present my findings to you.

“It is useless, Stanley, I know all. Do you imagine that while you have your friends over there I have none? My good servants were working for me, Stanley, while my unfaithful ones were working against me. I could not believe it at first. You . . . Stanley . . . Your brother my own stepfather. My mother will be quite distressed. I should think your brother will be ashamed.”

Stanley covered his face with his hands. “As I am, my lord . . . as I am. . . .”

“Perhaps I should have suspected you. You were ever a turncoat.”

Stanley spoke with some spirit. “Ah, my lord, you owe something to that. Have you forgotten Bosworth Field?”

“I do not forget, Stanley, that you started out with Richard and when the battle turned against him you changed sides.”

“And decided the day for you, my lord.”

“There could be something in that. But one should never trust a turncoat. So now you are ready to give your services to Perkin. Has he promised to pay you well? I rewarded you did I not? Did I not acknowledge my debt to you? You were my Lord Chamberlain, Knight of the Garter. Did I not give you estates in Wales? And yet, and yet . . .”

Stanley was silent.

The King looked at him steadily. “I just wondered why, Stanley. You must have been promised a great deal. I know your love of possessions. I have heard that you have many treasures stored away in Holt Castle. Alas, Stanley, you cannot take them with you.”

“My lord . . .”

“You shall be tried, Stanley. Never fear—it shall be a fair and just trial. And if you are found guilty . . . as it would seem you cannot fail to be . . . you will pay the penalty demanded of traitors. Goodnight, Stanley. I think you should begin to make your peace with God.”

The King went out. A terrible melancholy possessed him. He felt that he would never trust anyone again.

Sir William Stanley was brought before his peers in Westminster Hall, where he was accused of falsely plotting the death and destruction of King Henry the Seventh and attempting to overthrow the kingdom.

In vain did he protest his innocence. He had been maligned, he insisted; his enemies had trumped up evidence against him; but even he knew that none would believe him. He had been a fool. He had gambled too far. He had always been an adventurer. As a Yorkist during the reign of Edward the Fourth he had enjoyed many favors; he had professed friendship for Richard the Third but when he had seen an opportunity of finding favor with Henry he had blatantly deserted Richard and as it happened swung the battle in Henry’s favor. He had often congratulated himself on going over at precisely the right moment. Henry had been grateful, had rewarded him. But perhaps Stanley was adventurous by nature; perhaps the thought of this young man on the Continent had fired his imagination. It was possible that he was one of the Princes in the Tower, for the question of what had happened to those Princes had never been satisfactorily answered.

However, whatever motives had led him to this, he was here and he had come to the end. He knew now there would be no adventures, no more plots and counter plots.

He must now say it is over, and prepare himself for his fate.

“Guilty of treason” was the verdict and he was condemned to the traitor’s death.

The traitor’s death! It was the most barbarous act which could befall a man. To be dragged through the streets on a hurdle, to be hanged, cut down before death put a merciful end to suffering, cut open and one’s entrails burned until one could endure no more.

Every man dreaded it. To be a traitor men needed the utmost courage and yet . . . so many of them were ready to risk this terrible death for something they believed in.

Did Stanley believe in Perkin Warbeck? Not in his heart. He knew Warbeck was another Lambert Simnel but more polished, more prepared. He had the other to draw on for a lesson.