Jean Plaidy - To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York
“Healthy,” she said, “strong, perfect in every way,” still prolonging the suspense. Then she let it out. “A boy. My son, we have our boy.”
He was overcome with joy and relief.
“And all is well with him?”
“He is small . . . being a child of eight months. But we shall soon remedy that.”
“A boy,” he said. “We shall call him Arthur.”
“A fitting name. The Queen’s mother has already suggested Edward.”
The King shook his head. Edward? Never Edward. To remind everyone of that great handsome king whom they loved even more now that he was dead than they had when he was alive, although they had been fond of him even then! Edward, to remind them of that little Prince who had disappeared in the Tower!!
Never.
“I must see the boy,” he said.
“Come.”
She led him up to the lying-in chamber. To her annoyance the Queen had the baby in her arms. The Woodville woman must have countermanded her orders as soon as she went down to greet the King. She would have to do something about that, but this was not the moment.
The King went to the bed and looked with wonder at the child.
The Queen was smiling at him. He smiled at her.
“I am happy,” he said.
“It is wonderful,” answered the Queen quietly. “I dared not hope for so much joy.”
“We have our boy . . . our first boy. Now you must recover quickly.”
It was almost as though he were saying, we should have another soon, so don’t waste time recovering.
His eyes were cold. She, who had grown up in a warmly loving family where displays of affection were commonplace, was repelled by her husband’s coldness. Even at such a time he was in complete control of his emotions. He was delighted that she had come safely through and they had a son, but was that because it would have been extremely awkward if she had died; and of course a son and a living Yorkist wife were what he needed to make his position very secure.
She said: “Is he not beautiful? He has a look of my father.”
The King shook his head. How could that red-faced wrinkled creature look in the least like the magnificent Edward.
“We should call him Edward,” said Elizabeth Woodville. “It is a good name for the son of a king.”
“No, he is to be Arthur,” replied Henry. “He is born in Arthur’s Castle. I am descended from Arthur. That is what my son shall be called. Arthur.”
“That,” said the Countess, “is just what I thought. Come, little Arthur. Your mother must rest.”
With a triumphant look at the Dowager Queen, the Countess took the child from his mother’s arms and handed him to the nurse.
It was all very satisfactory. They had their son. The country would rejoice and Elizabeth Woodville and her daughter had learned yet again that they must obey the wishes and commands of the King and his mother.
The Baker’s Boy
aking his way through the streets of Oxford Richard Simon had often paused by the baker’s shop to watch the graceful young boy helping his father there. Richard Simon, humble priest, disgruntled, inwardly complaining with much bitterness of the ill luck which had been his, often wondered what he could do to better his position. In the beginning he had had grand dreams. So many priests rose to greatness. One needed influence of course; that, or some great stroke of good fortune, and if only he could find it there was no end to what could happen to him. Bishoprics might come within his grasp and once he had got onto the first rung of the ladder to fame he would rise, he knew it.
He had ingenuity and imagination; he had courage . . . everything a man needed to rise; but as the years passed and he could not take that first step he was becoming more bitter and disillusioned every day.
In fact he was getting desperate. If good fortune would not come to him, he must go out to find it. There he was—personable and clever. He often thought he would have made a good Archbishop of Canterbury. There were some people who had the looks of distinction even though they were set in humble circumstances.
Take the young boy in the baker’s shop for instance. He moved with a natural dignity. He fascinated Richard Simon. How did a boy like that come to be working in a baker’s shop? That boy would have looked quite at home in the house of a nobleman.
He called in at the dwelling of a fellow priest and they sat together over a flagon of wine in a room which was darkened because the only light that came in came through the leaded windows. His own house might have been a replica of this one. It was a roof, a shelter, little more.
They talked of the country’s affairs, of the new King, of the marriage of York and Lancaster, of the newly born Prince.
“It looks as if fortune is smiling on King Henry,” said Richard Simon’s companion.
“Some are lucky. Look how he came to England. He defeated King Richard. Then he married King Edward’s daughter and within eight months—eight, mark you—he has a child and that child a boy. Does that look like fortune smiling on him? Why, Providence even cut short the time of waiting and made his son in eight months instead of the customary nine.”
Richard Simon’s lips curled with bitterness. There was nothing he would like better than to see the luck of Henry the Seventh change drastically. He would like to see him brought low . . . lose everything he had gained. Not that he cared which king was on the throne. He just hated the successful because he was a failure.
His companion admitted that it certainly seemed as though God were smiling on King Henry. “He is a man to wipe away all obstacles,” he said.
Richard Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Like King Richard . . . the little Princes . . .”
“King Richard was slain in fair combat and it was Richard who disposed of the Princes in the Tower. They were killed long ago.”
“It was rumor. Why should Richard kill them? They were no threat to him. And if they were bastards as Richard would have it, does that not make the Queen herself one since she came out of the same stable.”
“You talk rashly, Richard my friend.”
“I speak as I find. I wonder what happened to those boys. . . .”
“There is a tale going round that they escaped from the Tower and are living somewhere. . . in obscurity.”
“Yes . . . I had heard that. . . .” Richard narrowed his eyes. “It could be true. They must be somewhere. . . . I remember that story about King Richard’s wife, the Lady Anne Neville. . . . Clarence wanted to get rid of her and wasn’t she working in a kitchen somewhere? She, a high-bred lady, a kitchen maid. That was a story you’d scarce believe.”
“Yes it was true enough. It was well known at the time so my father told me.”
“So you see, there’s no end to what can be done.”
Richard Simon rose and said he had business to attend to. He went back to the baker’s shop. The boy was serving a customer. He might be listening to a petitioner, thought Richard Simon. He has all the grace of royalty.
He went into the shop. The baker came out rubbing his hands, smiling at the priest.
He had come for a cob loaf, he said.
“Lambert,” called the baker. “Get a cob for the gentleman.”
He watched Lambert. How gracefully the boy moved, how delicately he took the loaf and wrapped it. There was a diffidence about him and great dignity.
“Thank you, my boy,” said Richard.
Lambert inclined his head. Where did he learn such manners? Richard wanted to linger, to ask questions. He could scarcely say to the baker, How did you come to sire such a boy as this?
“I hear your bread is of the best,” he said to the baker.
The baker was smiling broadly; he rubbed his hands together. “You’re not the first who has heard that, Father. I’ve a reputation hereabouts. Have you ever tried my simnel cakes?”
“No, I have not.”
“Then you must. Then you must.” The baker leaned forward smiling broadly. “I’m so noted for them that they’ve called me after them.”
“Oh . . . what do you mean?” Listening to the father’s chatter he was still watching the boy.
“I’m known as Baker Simnel. That’s after my cakes, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would indeed. And your boy is a great help to you, I’m sure.”
“Oh he’s young yet . . . coming up for eleven. Still he’ll be useful when he’s a year or so older.”
One couldn’t spend the whole afternoon chatting over one cob loaf. Reluctantly Richard Simon left the shop.
He walked thoughtfully to his lodging.
The boy haunted him. What if it were really true that the Princes had not been murdered after all, that they had escaped . . . or perhaps been taken away and hidden somewhere . . . and where would be the best place to hide a prince? Where it would be least expected to find him. Clarence had made Anne Neville a kitchen maid. She might never have been found but for the determination of King Richard. Just suppose that boy Lambert Simnel was either King Edward the Fifth or the Duke of York. And suppose he, Richard Simon, humble priest, had found him. Suppose he restored him to the throne. The luck of King Henry the Seventh would change then would it not, and so would that of Richard Simon.
It had become an obsession. He went to the baker’s shop whenever he could, where he engaged young Lambert in conversation. The boy did not speak like a royal prince—as soon as he opened his mouth it was apparent that he was a baker’s son. But speech was something that could be changed. How long could he have been with the baker? Three years? A boy could change a great deal in that time. He was on the point of questioning the baker, but that would have been folly. There was no doubt that the baker would have been paid well to take the boy, but he would never admit that he had; moreover, and perhaps this was the real reason for his hesitation, the baker might call him mad and prove without a single doubt that the boy Lambert was his. The dream would be shattered. Richard Simon could not bear the thought of that. He had been happier since wild schemes had been chasing each other round in his head than he had for a long time. Perhaps he only half believed them. It did not matter. They were there; they were balm to his bitterness. He saw himself being graciously received by the King whom he had restored to the throne. Whether it was Edward the Fifth or Richard the Fourth he was not sure. That did not matter. The King was there; the upstart Henry the Seventh was deposed.
“I owe it all to my newly appointed Archbishop of Canterbury,” he heard the new King saying.
“What I did, my lord, was what any of your loyal subjects would have done had God favored them with the good fortune to see the truth.”
He saw himself riding into Canterbury, the Archbishop who had saved the throne for the rightful king and rid the country of the impostor.
But these were only dreams—pleasant to indulge in for a while, but insubstantial. There must be some action some time.
He visited his friend frequently and often he was on the point of telling him of his discovery, but he refrained from doing so. He was afraid of bringing his theories into the light of day because he greatly feared they would immediately evaporate.
Instead he talked of events of the days of great Edward and the accession of Richard.
“The Tudor has a very flimsy claim to the throne,” he insisted.
His friend always looked furtively over his shoulder when he talked like that. He was a timid man. “It is of little concern to us,” he said. “What difference does it make to the life of a humble priest what king is on the throne?”
“I like to see justice done,” said Richard piously.
“We all do as long as it doesn’t do us any harm. We know it could have worked so differently. As you say, Richard might not have died at Bosworth. He might have lived to have sons. Or there might have been others to come to the throne. There’s young Edward of Warwick and his sister Margaret. They are children, I know. But there is John de la Pole, the Earl of Lincoln. They say that Richard made him the heir to the throne . . . in case he didn’t get children of his own . . . on account of the Earl of Warwick’s being but a boy.”
“The King has young Warwick under lock and key in the Tower, which shows he’s afraid of him. What has this young boy done . . . a boy of ten years or so, to deserve imprisonment? Why he’s as innocent as . . . as . . .”
A vision of the young Lambert Simnel came into his mind. He must be about the same age as the imprisoned Earl of Warwick.
“I wonder,” he went on, “why some of them don’t rise up and, er . . . do something about it.”
“Oh, Henry Tudor is safe on the throne, particularly now he’s married Elizabeth of York . . . uniting the houses . . . and as they’ve got a son . . . young Arthur . . . well, he’s safe enough now.”
“But I reckon some people feel angry about it. I reckon there’s the Earl of Lincoln for one. . . .”
He was excited. He wanted to get away to think. He had to be practical. What hope had a poor unknown priest of bringing about a rebellion? Why hadn’t he seen before that he needed help? He was reluctant to share the glory but on the other hand shared glory was better than no glory at all.
Suppose he went to the Earl of Lincoln. Would the mighty Earl receive a humble priest? But perhaps he would want to see a priest who believed he had made a great discovery.
And then it seemed to him that he had a sign from Heaven.
It was his friend who imparted the news to him. He had been wondering how he could find the Earl of Lincoln when his fellow priest said: “Have you heard the latest news? They say that the young Earl of Warwick has escaped from the Tower.”
Richard’s heart began to hammer against his side. Escaped from the Tower! When? It could have been some time ago because such news took a long time to get around.
The young Earl of Warwick was aged about ten. He must look rather like the boy in the baker’s shop.
Now he must act. This had decided him.
It was not easy to get an audience with the great Earl of Lincoln but when Richard Simon eventually succeeded in doing so what he had to say received the Earl’s full attention.
John de la Pole was about twenty-three years old. He deeply resented what he called the usurpation of the Tudor. In his view Richard the Third had been the undoubted King and he believed that the children of Edward the Fourth were illegitimate, which made the Earl of Warwick the heir to the throne. Nobody wanted a child king; nothing was worse for the stability of the country; therefore the Earl of Lincoln himself was the one who should be wearing the crown. His mother had been Elizabeth, sister to Edward the Fourth, and therefore he considered his claim indisputable. Richard the Third had thought so too for he had named him his heir.
“I was struck by the looks of this boy called Lambert Simnel as soon as I perceived him,” said Richard. “He quite clearly did not begin his life in a baker’s shop.”
“But you do not know what the Earl of Warwick looks like.”
“That is true, my lord, and my first thoughts were that here was one of the Princes . . . son of Edward the Fourth.”
