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

That he, William Stanley, should have come to this was hard to believe. He had brought disgrace on his brother but the Countess would protect her husband from the King’s wrath against the family. Perhaps Henry was not the man to visit the sins of one man on another just because they happened to be brothers. Henry was a just man. He was not revengeful. He would eliminate people—coldbloodedly as some thought, but that would only be because he felt it necessary to do so. Any violent deed which he condoned would not be done in hot blood or vengeance. It would be because it was expedient to do it.

It was no use asking for clemency, for Henry would reason that it would be unwise to grant it. Sir William Stanley was a traitor and the King must give a lesson to all would-be traitors.

Henry was more concerned about Stanley than he cared to admit. There must always be men who worked against a leader, he supposed, because men were envious by nature, and if a man was up, there would always be those who wanted to bring him down, for no other reason than that he was up . . . and perhaps they thought they had more right to be where he was. That he accepted. But not the treachery of close friends—men whom he had trusted. This was the blow.

He was shut in with his melancholy. To whom could he talk of these depressions which obsessed him? Not to his mother—she was too close and she would be particularly disturbed because the criminal was her husband’s brother. No, he could not distress her more by revealing his grief to her. To Elizabeth the Queen? No. He never talked to Elizabeth. She knew him as a kind and gentle husband but he had never shared a state secret with her and he had never talked to her of the affairs of the country. Arthur was a child. He wished his children were older. How comforting it would have been to discuss this matter with a son. Arthur was grave and serious. He had high hopes of Arthur . . . but as yet a boy of eight.

The King felt desperately alone.

It was not only Sir William Stanley who had been exposed as a traitor. There were many more. It was disturbing that there should be others but Stanley was the one on whom he brooded.

Not one of them must be spared. There must be public executions. The people must be made fully aware of the dreaded fate in store for traitors.

People crowded the streets. Executions were like public holidays. Crowds massed outside Newgate to watch the prisoners brought out and taken to the place of execution. Those of higher rank were taken from the Tower but the place was of little importance to the condemned. They were all to meet the same fate.

Henry spared one or two of them at the last minute, just as they were preparing themselves for the axe. This created drama, as the King intended it should. A messenger would arrive at the last moment and there would be an announcement from the scaffold that the King had decided on a reprieve for this particular criminal because he considered he had been led astray by evil counselors. The reprieved man would go back to prison where in due course he might earn his liberty.

This made the executions almost like a play. At every one of them the people waited expectantly for an announcement. It was obvious in the faces of the condemned that they too were waiting.

There would be a hush in the crowd and a watchfulness for the messenger waving the King’s pardon. Though it came rarely the expectation was always there; and when the axe finally descended there would be a deep sigh from the crowd.

Henry decided that he could not submit Sir William Stanley to the indignity of the traitor’s death and at the last moment the sentence was changed to beheading, so on a bleak February day Sir William was brought out of the Tower to Tower Green and there in the presence of a large crowd he laid his head on the block and paid the penalty for his treachery to the King.

The city was now adorned with the heads of traitors, but the King did not want to disgrace the Stanley family in this way, so he decreed that William Stanley’s head should be buried with his body at Sion on the Thames.

Young Prince Henry, Duke of York, knew that something was happening and he was frustrated because no one told him what it was.

Margaret pretended to know but he was not sure that she did. Arthur of course knew, but would not talk of it. It was maddening.

And following so soon after his elevation particularly so, for Henry had realized during that ceremony that he was, if only a child, a very important one and he wanted everyone around him to remember it.

It was all very well for Anne Oxenbrigge to call him her baby. There were times when he wanted to be just that but even she must remember that he was also the Duke of York and although he might like to cuddle up against her warm and cozy bosom, he was still a very important boy, only slightly less so than Arthur.

“Where is Sir William Stanley?” he asked Margaret.

He had seen a great deal of Sir William before that splendid ceremony when he had been the center of attraction. He wanted Sir William to bring him some more silken garments and to arrange more pageants in his honor.

“You are not to know,” retorted Margaret. “You are too young.”

“I am the Duke of York,” he told her proudly.

“You are not four years old yet.”

“I will be in June.”

“But it is not yet June and you are only three. Fancy being only three!”

Henry was furious. He hated Margaret. If I were the King, he thought looking at her venomously through narrowed eyes . . . What would he do to Margaret? Send her to the Tower.

Arthur was kind. He asked him. His elder brother hesitated.

“It’s of no moment,” said Arthur gently. “I hear you have a new spinning top. Does it go well?”

“I whip it hard,” said Henry with satisfaction.

“You must show me.”

“First I want to know where Sir William Stanley is.”

Arthur thought: He will have to know sometime. There was no point in keeping it secret.

He said: “He is dead. His head was cut off because he was a traitor.”

Henry’s little eyes opened wide, and the color rushed into his cheeks. He was trying to visualize Sir William Stanley without his head.

“There is a wicked man on the Continent who says he is the Duke of York.”

“I am the Duke of York.”

“Yes, this is a spurious one.”

Arthur used long words, forgetting that others couldn’t understand them, because Arthur was supposed to be very clever with his books, and Henry was not going to admit that he didn’t know what spurious was. It was clear that it was something wicked.

“What about him?” asked Henry eagerly.

“He wants to take the crown from our father.”

“Why?”

“To wear it, of course. Oh you are too young. . . .”

“No, no Arthur. I am growing up more every day. I wish I was older. I wish I were older than you.”

“Then you’d be Prince of Wales, brother.”

“You wouldn’t like that.”

Arthur hesitated again. He was always hesitant, weighing everything up before he answered. “I shouldn’t mind,” he said slowly. “In fact perhaps I might be rather glad.”

A wild excitement possessed Henry. Arthur didn’t want to be Prince of Wales. Perhaps they could change places. He cried: “I’ll be it for you.”

That made Arthur laugh. “Thank you, little brother, but it is not possible.”

Little brother! He had betrayed his youth again. It was maddening.

“Tell me about Sir William,” he said.

It‘s merely that he was corresponding with Perkin Warbeck who pretends he is our uncle who disappeared in the Tower, and if he was alive would be King.”

“King? Then our father . . .”

“Oh you have a lot to learn, Henry.”

Henry was bewildered, raging against his youth and inexperience.

He was going to find out though and if it was ever possible, he was going to change places with Arthur.

Whenever they rode out from Eltham to join their parents at Westminster or Shene he saw heads on poles. They fascinated him.

“Whose heads are they?” he wanted to know.

The heads of traitors, he was told.

That was the right way to treat traitors. Their heads should be cut off and put on poles for everyone to see. The thought of someone taking his father’s crown away frightened and angered him, for if his father were no longer King, Arthur would not be Prince of Wales—then how could Henry Duke of York change places with him when the time came?

There was more talk of Perkin Warbeck that summer, for the young man had taken an action which implied that he was very determined in his attempt to get possession of the throne.

News spread throughout the country that a fleet of ships led by the Pretender had appeared off the port of Deal.

The people of that town crowded onto the beaches to watch them, fearing that war was inevitable and that they were in the front line. And where were the King’s forces and how long would it take them to reach the coast?

Some of the spirited members of the community of Sandwich, a town a little way along the coast, gathered together a fighting force. After all the executions which had taken place not so long ago they were not going to be accused of conspiring with the invaders.

Coming in close to land Perkin saw the hostile crowds assembled there and decided that he would not risk all of his troops. It would be difficult to land and he could see that while this operation was in progress he could be attacked and lose many of his men and much equipment.

He decided therefore to land a few men who could persuade the people that they came to deliver them from one who had no right to the throne while he, the true King, Richard the Fourth, was preparing to come and be their good lord.

But the people were not to be persuaded. The Mayor of Sandwich was there to meet them as they attempted to land. “We want none of you Pretenders here,” he declared. “We’re content with what we have and that’s an end to fighting. We’re not having that on our soil.”

Perkin’s troops realized that they were at a disadvantage and many of them rowed back to the ships. The others who had landed were immediately taken prisoner and their equipment captured.

When Henry heard what had happened he was delighted with his good people of Sandwich and Deal. They had taken over a hundred and sixty prisoners to send him, and the rest of the invading force at sea decided to give up the attempt, for the time at least, and make other plans for landing which might have a chance of success.

The people of Sandwich excitedly tied up their prisoners and sent them on to London in carts where they were received into the Tower and immediately sentenced to hanging. That the country might realize what happened to men who indulged in such actions against the King, they were publicly hanged in the coastal areas and from London to as far as Norfolk.

It was unfortunate that Perkin was not among them, but he had sailed on to Ireland.

Am I never to be free of this Perkin Warbeck? wondered the King. It was four years since he had first heard that name and it had haunted him ever since.

When would it end? Perhaps more important still, where would it end?

That September a sad event took place in the royal nurseries. The little Princess Elizabeth died. Young Henry had never taken much interest in her. She was a year or so younger than he was and that made her quite a baby. She was delicate and had to be specially taken care of, which to one in his robust health seemed a little contemptible.

The Queen came to Eltham—beautiful and remote. She was clearly very distressed by the state of her little daughter’s health. Henry wondered why, because she saw very little of her. It was Anne Oxenbrigge who made such a fuss, going about with red eyes and turning away every now and then to choke back her sobs.

Death! He knew it happened to traitors. He had seen their heads on poles. He used to count them when he rode through the streets from Eltham to Westminster or Shene. But that death should come to the royal nursery, that was different.

There were physicians everywhere. His father and his mother were in the nursery together. The rest of the children were sent out. They waited in an ante room; and then Arthur was called in.

“She is dying,” said Margaret. “We shall have no sister now.”

“I have one,” said Henry.

“I haven’t,” she said. “But I have two brothers. You only have one.”

“I don’t want two brothers.”

“You’re only a baby yet.”

How she liked to taunt him with that. It was because she knew it was what he hated more than anything.

“I don’t want any sisters either,” said Henry ominously.

“And I only want one brother . . . dear Arthur who is the nicest brother. I don’t want a silly baby brother. . . .”

Henry flew at her. He already showed signs of possessing a quick temper, which alarmed Anne Oxenbrigge.

It was Anne who came in now.

“For shame!” she said. “Fighting when your little sister is dying. What do you think the King and Queen would say to that?”

“They won’t know,” said Margaret slyly.

“God will,” Anne reminded her.

Both children were silent, contemplating the awfulness of God’s watching them.

“So,” went on Anne, having made her point, “you should be very careful.”

They were subdued. Henry whispered a prayer: “I didn’t mean it, God. It wasn’t my fault. It was Margaret. You know what a silly girl she is.”

He had made up his mind that he was always going to do what God would like, for he had heard it said that a king needed good allies and Henry had reasoned that God was the best ally any man could have.

The Queen had come out of the nursery. She came to the children and embraced them solemnly. They knew what that meant. Then Arthur came out with the King, and the King said very quietly: “My children, you have no sister Elizabeth now. She has gone to live with God and His angels.”

Elizabeth was buried in the new chapel her father had built in Westminster Abbey.

The Scottish Court

n the great hall of Stirling Castle the Scottish King was seated at the table, his favorite mistress Marion Boyd beside him. Everyone was drowsy as was invariably the case after they had feasted well. Several of the highest nobles in the land were present, among them Lennox, Huntly, Bothwell and Ramsay . . . all friends now, thought James, until they decide to revolt against me. What a crowd! He could not trust them any further than this hall. The only one he could really rely on was Marion—and perhaps her father Archibald Boyd of Bonshaw . . . solely because of his association with Marion of course.

James was cynical. How could he be otherwise? His countrymen must be the most quarrelsome in the world—with the exception of the Irish who might be said to be even worse; and another thing they had in common was perpetual hatred of the English. No matter what truces they made, no matter how many treaties were signed, how often they exchanged the kiss of peace, the antipathy was always there. It was as natural as breathing. The people below the Border were regarded as enemies by every Scotsman living above it.