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

The people would realize in time that a serious-minded king who sought to do what was best for the people was more worthy to rule than some little boy with pretty manners—even if he were the true son of Edward the Fourth, which this ridiculous young Perkin was most definitely not.

There was one ray of light. The French King was eager to complete the Treaty of Etaples and Henry would refuse to sign until Charles had promised that he would give no aid or shelter to pretenders to the English throne.

At least that was a small victory.

Charles signed the treaty and the result was that Perkin Warbeck with his adherents was asked—very politely—to leave France.

This Perkin did but he had already received an invitation to visit Margaret Duchess of Burgundy.

The Duchess of Burgundy, the sister of Edward the Fourth, was a forceful woman who had on the death of her husband become a very powerful one.

She was devoted to her family. Like all of them she had adored her eldest brother Edward and one of the great sorrows of her life had been the quarrel between Edward and their brother George Duke of Clarence, which had ended by Clarence’s being drowned in a butt of malmsey in the Tower. It was said to have been an accident because he had been a heavy drinker and it was assumed he had fallen into the butt during one of his bouts of drunkenness. Margaret did not know whether to believe the story or not, but she suspected George had become a menace and that Edward had removed him for that reason.

That saddened her. Families should cling together. She could not blame Edward of course, for she knew George would have been a danger to him but she did mourn him sadly. She turned her attention to developing the arts and to encouraging the printer Caxton in his works, later sending him to Edward to print books in England. She had obtained licences for the English to export oxen and sheep to Flanders and also wool free of custom duty. She had wanted friendship and trade between Flanders and England; and because of her relationship she had got it.

And then the Tudor had come. He had killed her brother Richard and that had been the end of the House of Plantagenet, which to her had been heartbreaking. To think that the noble House to which she had belonged had been set aside for that upstart Tudor was intolerable. She hated Henry Tudor. He was mean and grasping; he was the complete antithesis of her brother Edward. Edward had been generous-hearted, romantic, handsome, pleasant . . . a perfect man. And this Tudor was a miser who thought of little but hoarding money. He was slight in stature whereas Edward had been a man of bulk as he grew older, but when he had been young he had had the figure of a god. She had never seen Henry Tudor and did not want to, but she had heard many descriptions of him—pale dry skin, grayish eyes, cold as a wintry sea, and reddish-brown hair. Not a handsome man, but one who could be ruthless if crossed.

I will cross him, thought Margaret. If I had a chance I would drive him from the throne.

There was, moreover, a personal grievance for when he had seized the crown, Henry had confiscated the greater part of the dowry which Edward had bestowed on her when she married the Duke of Burgundy. It was maddening to think that what should be hers was in the hands of that man; and she made very welcome at her Court all the dissatisfied Yorkists who came from England. They all hated the Tudor monarch and were ever seeking means to overthrow him and they could be sure of finding a sympathetic listener in the Duchess of Burgundy.

Thus when Perkin Warbeck arrived she was ready for him.

She embraced him affectionately, then held him at arm’s length that she might see him better.

“My nephew,” she said. “We have often wondered what became of you. You are so like your father, I weep to look at you. I am thankful that you have come to me. It may not be long now before you have that which is your rightful due. You will find friends here who are only waiting for the opportunity to help you.”

So at the Duchess’s Court Perkin was treated as though he were indeed her nephew. He told his story of his wandering after the man selected to murder him had allowed him to go free. He talked of the Framptons who had befriended him and first made him realize that he should do something and save his country from the Tudor rule.

“That shall be done,” said the Duchess firmly. “We will raise an army. You will find that you have many to help you.”

She kept him beside her. Everywhere she went she presented him as the White Rose, Prince of England, King Richard the Fourth. She talked to him continually of her brother King Edward, of how he had lived; she told him everything she knew of that king’s family and it seemed to Perkin that the life of Richard of York was more real to him than that of Perkin Warbeck of Tournay. He began to believe he had really been in Sanctuary with his family; he could almost remember being sent to the Tower to join his brother; he could see his mother’s face distorted with grief; he could feel her tears on his face as she kissed him and gave him over to his jailers.

With Margaret he was the Duke of York. Peter Warbeck was just an identity he had assumed while he was waiting to declare himself.

Henry, watching events very closely, was getting more and more disturbed.

He must take some action. It was no use asking Margaret of Burgundy to give up this ridiculous charade. She wanted him off the throne, he had always known that; and what could suit her better than to set up her own puppet?

He could bring trouble to Flanders, and against his better judgment he decided to do so. He forbade all contact between England and Flanders and expelled all Flemings from England.

It was a mistake and enraged the people of London. Riots were narrowly averted but it taught Henry how easily the people could be persuaded to rise against him and that any one of these pretenders with no claim to the throne whatsoever could ruin himself and the country.

“It is no use shrugging aside this Perkin,” he said to his Lord Chamberlain Sir William Stanley. “He is more dangerous than Lambert Simnel. It is all very well to talk slightingly of Perkin as we did of the scullion now in the kitchens, but they make trouble, these petty adventurers.”

“Indeed it is so, my lord,” said Stanley, “but this fellow is a nobody and most people know this.”

“My good Stanley, you give the people credit for too much good sense. There are people who will support a cause however flimsy because they take a delight in discord. One is never quite sure where trouble will come from next.”

“Sire, you are firm on the throne now. It would take a mighty force to shift you.”

The King smiled at Stanley. He wished he had his confidence. Good Stanley. He owed a great deal to him and had recently made him a Knight of the Garter. He doubted whether but for Stanley he would be where he was today. Stanley was in a way a member of the family, for his brother had married the Countess of Richmond thereby becoming Henry’s stepfather. It was Stanley who at Bosworth Field had deserted Richard the Third and brought his men over to Henry’s side at a vital moment. One could say he had helped put Henry on the throne and Henry liked to have such men about him, being haunted as he was by the fear of assassination or the rising of those who would try to take the crown from him.

They were joined by Empson and Dudley, who were so good at thinking up taxes which could be legitimately imposed on the people and thus adding to treasury funds.

They were smiling. They had brought him good news of large sums of money which had recently been added to the exchequer. But the King could not be weaned from his melancholy mood.

“It is no use amassing wealth and creating a prosperous country if all our efforts are to be squandered in wars to suppress pretenders.”

“No one can really believe that Perkin Warbeck is the Duke of York,” said Empson.

“We know that, my friend,” replied Henry, “and my enemies on the Continent know it as well as we do, but it suits them to set him up, to provide him with that which he needs to come against me. I have a suspicion that he is not without friends in this country.”

“That cannot be,” cried Dudley, aghast.

“Impossible!” echoed Stanley.

“I have not your trusting natures, my friends,” said the King. “There are certain people about me whom I know to be loyal . . . who have proved their loyalty . . . but beyond that.”

He was looking with approval at the three men who nodded sympathetically.

“We must be on the alert,” said Stanley. “We shall increase our vigilance and may I say, my lord, that this project of yours for Prince Henry will be an answer to these people on the Continent.”

“I thought so,” said the King.

“We will try to make it not too costly,” said Empson.

“On an occasion such as this will be, in my opinion, one should not give an impression of parsimoniousness,” Stanley said. “As a matter of fact, my lord, I have come with suggestions for the tournaments, which must necessarily follow. And the Prince will need his special garments.”

“We will discuss these matters,” said Henry, “and when we have decided we will pass over the accounts to our good friends here. . . .”

Empson and Dudley bowed their heads and, realizing that their presence was not needed while the arrangements were discussed, asked leave to retire and left the King alone with his Lord Chamberlain.

Later Henry recalled his lawyer financiers to discuss the cost of the ceremonies he was planning and when they had glanced through the suggested expenditure the subject of Perkin Warbeck arose again. Indeed it seemed one which the King found impossible to leave for long. It was clearly very much on his mind.

“The more I think of it the more certain I am that we have enemies in our midst,” he said. “It may well be that they are planning to help Perkin when he attempts to land.”

His ministers looked grave.

“If we could find out who they are . . .”

“I intend to,” said the King. “That is why I am setting spies along every road that leads to Dover. I am having all travelers searched. In this way we shall ourselves receive messages which are intended for our enemies.”

“A big task, Sire.”

“We are constantly confronted by big tasks—and this happens to be a very important one . . . for us all. The Londoners are already up in arms because of the cessation of trade with Flanders.”

Both Dudley and Empson were silent. They did not think that was a very good measure to take merely to upset Margaret of Burgundy. England herself had suffered from the loss of trade, which was the last thing the King wanted. It showed how deeply he feared this Perkin Warbeck.

“And have your spies on the Dover road discovered anything?”

“Not yet. But I am hopeful.”

He was right to be hopeful for within a short time his spies found what they were looking for. When he read the letters which were being brought from Flanders for Lord Fitzwalter he was horrified.

The letters were written by Sir Robert Clifford, a man whom he knew and whom he would have trusted. He had been with the army in France, spoke the language fluently, and had acted as an interpreter. Henry would have vouched for his loyalty. It was a terrible blow to discover that he did not know in what direction to look for his enemies.

Clifford had written: “I have been in contact with the Pretender. He is so like the late King Edward the Fourth that he must be his son. I have no doubt whatsoever that the man who is contemptuously called Perkin Warbeck by Henry Tudor is in truth Richard the Fourth.”

The letters went on to state that plans were going ahead for the invasion. It was necessary to have friends whom they could trust in England so that when the invading forces landed they would know where to look for supporters.

This was worse than Henry had feared. The correspondence revealed names in the most unexpected quarters. There was Lord Fitzwalter, a man whom he had made steward of his household during the first year of his reign and later joint steward of England with Jasper Tudor. He was deeply wounded by the perfidy of such a man. What had he wanted? More honors? Or did he genuinely believe that Perkin Warbeck was Richard of York? Who could say? The mysterious disappearance of the Princes would go on reverberating through the ages. If the truth could be told . . . No! The truth must never be told. But his concern of the moment was to bind his friends to him and to cut off his enemies for ever.

Sir Thomas Thwaites, Sir Simon Mountford . . . traitors all of them. Men close to him, men whom he had believed to be his friends! And this was not all, there were three members of the Church involved in the conspiracy—and important ones at that. The Dean of St. Paul’s himself and the Prior of Langley as well as the Provincial of the Black Friars.

He was cold with fear and rage.

He sent for his guards.

“Arrest these men,” he said.

So now he knew the extent of the conspiracy. He had been wise to intercept the messengers.

He thought constantly of Sir Robert Clifford. He knew the man well, remembering him from the days in France. He was not a man whom he considered would be distinguished for his bravery, and it occurred to the King that Robert Clifford might be very useful to him. The men whose names had been revealed were not of any great importance perhaps. They were not the leaders of the conspiracy and Henry’s natural suspicions led him to believe that there might be men close to him who were working against him. They were the ones he must try to catch.

He made a decision. Could he use Robert Clifford to work for him as an informer, a counter spy? It seemed possible. He immediately sent one of his spies to Flanders in the guise of a merchant with the instructions that he was to seek out Robert Clifford, sound him, offer him a pardon, offer him money, if he would work for Henry instead of for this Pretender whose claims he must know were as spurious as those of the scullion Lambert Simnel.

Henry eagerly waited for the response. It came quickly. Robert Clifford was ready to work for Henry Tudor.

Henry was pleased. Robert Clifford should be given a free pardon—he had the King’s word for that. When it should be ripe for him to return to England he should have a grant of five hundred pounds; and there should also be a free pardon for his servant Richard Waltier who would also be expected to serve the King in this matter of revealing those who worked against him.

This was a wise move. Henry now began to realize how deeply the dissatisfaction had gone in England. He was amazed at those who were ready to listen to this preposterous claim of young Perkin and moreover dally with the possibility of betraying their crowned King.

Henry Duke of York

n the nurseries at Eltham Palace the royal children played their games and grappled with their lessons unaware of the fact that their lives could drastically change within a few days if their father’s enemies were successful.

In spite of the fact that he was the youngest and only three years old, Henry was already making his presence felt. Arthur, five years his senior, was a quiet and studious boy, rarely asserting himself and leaving his sister Margaret and young Henry to fight together for supremacy. Five-year-old Margaret was showing signs of a forceful personality, which was matched by that of three-year-old Henry who would send his bronze horse on its squeaky wheels shooting across the nursery in pursuit of any who offended him. He loved that horse for on it sat a knight with a lance and a shield and Henry had always seen himself as that knight, fearless, ready to attack his enemies, and at the same time it offered a certain comfort in the dark. Margaret had complained many times to Anne Oxenbrigge, whose task was to watch over Henry, that her brother had grazed her legs with his silly old horse.