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

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.

He twirled a lock of Marion’s hair. She was pregnant. That was pleasing. He liked children; and it was comforting to know how virile he was. He had several bastards for he was a man who found feminine society irresistible, and it had been so ever since he had come to the throne as a boy of fifteen seven years ago. He wondered whether the child would be a girl or boy. He wouldn’t mind. He would be proud of a boy, but he had a greater fondness for the girls.

“Perhaps we’ll call in Damian,” he remarked.

“What to tell us?” asked Marion idly.

He touched her protrusion playfully. “A little girl or a little boy?” he said.

She took his hand and kissed it. “Let’s wait and see,” she said.

“I should like to see the fellow. He says very soon he shall be able to fly.”

Marion laughed. She did not trust the wily Abbot of Tungsland, who had leaped into favor with the King when he had declared that he possessed supernatural powers. James was intrigued. He had always listened to soothsayers—and relied on them perhaps too much.

Marion would not complain. James had been faithful in a way. That was if one did not mind his dallying now and then with other women. He could not help that. It was the nature of James. But his best-loved mistress could hold her place. None of them had ever had reason to complain of his meanness for he was very generous with those who pleased him—and beautiful Marion did that.

She had of late seen his eyes stray to Janet Kennedy. There was a beautiful woman if ever there was one. However she was the mistress of Archibald Douglas, and even James would think twice about upsetting the great earl.

Round the table several of the men had fallen asleep—they had slumped forward in their chairs, some snoring. Others sat with their women caressing them, perhaps rather too intimately for polite society. Not that James cared. They were Scots and would act in the Scottish way. The English who came to the Scottish Court were shocked by what they called the coarseness of the manners there. As for the elegant French they were amazed.

Let them be. It was Scotland for the Scots, said James.

George Gordon, Earl of Huntly was present with his eldest daughter Katharine—a very beautiful girl, James thought her. Her mother had been a daughter of James the First so there was a family connection. If he had not been so deeply involved with Marion—and Katharine was not the kind of girl with whom he could carry on a light intrigue—he might have been tempted. Perhaps it was better as it was. There was a puritanical streak about Katharine—young as she obviously was—and James had never been attracted by puritans. Connoisseur that he was, he had discovered that hot-blooded women were the most satisfactory partners.

Marion followed his gaze round the table and said: “It is different at Westminster, I’ll be bound.”

“You’re right, my love. Henry is a very virtuous man. I have never heard one whisper that he is unfaithful to his Queen.”

“Perhaps people are afraid to whisper.”

“I think not. They whisper of other things. They say that his heart beats faster when he tots up a column of figures and sees what profits he has made than it ever could in the most appealing bedchamber in the world.”

“I see he has not your tastes, James.”

“You should thank Heaven for that, Madam.”

“I do . . . I do. But you are a little afraid of Henry Tudor, are you not?”

“Dear Marion, my ancestors have been afraid of the rulers on the other side of the Border since the beginning of time. Trouble in England therefore means rejoicing in Scotland.”

“And the other way round?” suggested Marion.

“Don’t upset me, woman. I have trouble enough as you know. I wonder how many of these who call themselves my friends, snoring and eating here at my tables, fornicating or committing adultery in the rooms of my castles . . . would as lief thrust a knife in my back as kneel to me in homage.”

“You must keep them in order, my King.”

“One thing is sure: they will always follow me when I make war on the English. That is the common enemy. We can all be friends hating them, but when the English are not coming against us then forsooth we must go against each other.”

“So it is in your interests to preserve your old enemy,” said Marion lightly.

“I hear that he is in a state of panic at this time.”

“Which pleases you mightily?”

“How did you guess? His throne trembles under him, you know.”

“I know. This fellow on the Continent . . . is he really the Duke of York, Edward’s son?”

“Where is Edward’s son? Where are Edward’s sons? Two little boys in the Tower, and they disappear. Where to? Can people disappear in that way?”

“Easily if their throats are cut or they are stifled as I have heard these boys were . . . stifled by downy pillows . . . poor little mites. Did Richard do it as some say?”

“Why should he? He said they were bastards. But Henry has married their sister. He couldn’t marry a bastard . . . which she must have been if they were. It sounds reasonable to me. Henry takes them from the Tower in secret . . . puts them out to be murdered far from the spot. Someone takes pity on the younger boy . . . and there we have our Perkin Warbeck.”

“Reasonable,” she admitted.

“And a great anxiety to old Henry. You can picture him—trembling on his throne. There are many in Europe who are ready to rise up and help the young man fight for his crown.”

“Richard the Fourth. Would Scotland be happier under Richard the Fourth than under Henry the Seventh?”

“Scotland asks only to have an English king to fight. What his name is is of no matter. Scotland asks to harry the English King and if it can be done by making him change his name from Henry to Richard so much the better. Scotland is happiest when Englishmen are fighting against Englishmen because it saves the Scots the trouble of fighting them. I like to see my poor old enemy Henry being frightened out of his wits by this young man from Flanders.”

“Is he frightened? He seems to be holding his crown rather well.”

“Who can say, little love? He has to be continually on the alert. That has to take his mind from his money bags. And he won’t like having to spend some of those contents on war, will he?”

“James, you are malicious.”

“I am indeed where Henry is concerned . . . but kind and loving to my friends, do you not agree?”

“I would agree with that.”

“I am thankful to have your approval. I fancy I don’t have Huntly’s at this moment. He is wondering whether his daughter Katharine should be in such company.”

“My lord, I trust you will keep your eyes from Katharine. She is not for you.”

“Well I know it. Huntly need have no fears for his virtuous daughter. We must find a worthy husband for her. That I assure you is the reason why he has brought her to Court. Now what say you to sending for Damian?”

“If it so please my lord, then let it be.”

“I’ll send for him tomorrow. Now my bed calls . . . and it would seem it does for many of our friends.”

The King stood up, and the company rose with him.

He bade them all a good and safe night; then with Marion he went to his bedchamber.

Damian appeared the next day. The Abbot of Tungsland had come far since he had attracted the attention of the King and this he had done through what he proclaimed to be knowledge of the art of magic.

He was an astrologer, but there were other astrologers. Damian had special gifts. He could tell the King what was about to happen. He could tell him what to avoid. He had had some luck in those respects and James, who wanted to believe, was inclined to pass over Damian’s mistakes and remember his successes.

Marion had once said: “You help Damian when he is groping for messages and things from the unknown. You supply him with little bits of information, which help him make the right guess.”

James had been really displeased. Easy-going as he normally was he could be angry if anyone spoke disparagingly of something so near his heart as the effectiveness of the occult. Marion was quick to learn lessons. She would have to be careful; her association with James had been dangerously long and she saw the look in his eyes when they strayed to Janet Kennedy—mistress of old Bell-the-Cat though she might be. Kings were not all that averse to taking what Earls regarded as theirs; and James in his passionate pursuit of a mistress would be more determined than he had shown himself to be pursuing an enemy in war.

So Marion said no more about Damian and feigned an interest in his work, which she did not really feel, and when Damian arrived she was with the King.

“Damian . . . my good friend,” cried the King, embracing the abbot. “I am right glad to see you here.”

“My lord’s wish is his command as far as I am concerned. I am always at your service, Sire.”

“Well, have you looked at the stars of late?”

“I search them continuously.”

“On my behalf I hope.”

“My lord King is never far from my mind.”

“Well, Damian, well . . . what sex is the child my dear Marion carries so proudly? Is he the King’s son?”

Marion cried: “James! How could he be another’s!”

“Impossible, impossible dear lady. All know your fidelity to their sorrow . . . some declare I am sure. I was about to say, is he the King’s son . . . or daughter?”

This was the sort of question which Damian liked least. One could so easily . . . and so quickly . . . be proved wrong. If one predicted some things it was easy to adjust one’s meaning if the need arose, but the sex of a child—a plain yes or no—that was tricky.

He placed his hands on the girl. She was large. The manner in which she carried the child indicated it might be a boy. The last was a girl. What the King wanted to hear was that it was a boy and his reward would probably be greater if he made the King happy. It was a chance he had to take in any case so why not take the happy chance?

“I think I can say with certainty that the child my lady carries is a boy . . . and your son, my lord.”

“Bless you, Damian. That’s good hearing, eh, Marion?”

“The best, my lord.”

“And will he grow up to be a good boy to his father?”

“He will,” said Marion. “I shall see to that.”

“There, Damian, you have a rival. The lady is looking into the future and finding the answer before you do.”

“The lady will indeed do all she says. I can confirm that.”

“What a pair of comforters I have! Now tell me of my old enemy below the Border. What trials can you search out for him, Damian?”

“He is beset by them. His eldest boy is sickly.”

“Is he going to die?”

“Not yet . . . but later . . .”

“Ah, there’s another though. A sprightly little fellow by all accounts . . . recently made Duke of York by his doting father.”

“To show, my lord, that there should be but one Duke of York.”

“Well, there is, eh? The other is the true King of England.”

Perkin Warbeck. Here was dangerous ground for Damian. He was always very well informed of affairs so that he knew exactly what was happening. That enabled him to give a considered judgment and once again he had been lucky in being right more often than wrong.

He had the gift of making his prophecies vague. That was the secret. A good sorcerer couched his words in clever obscurity so that when a certain thing happened people said, “Oh that was what Damian meant!”

It was very helpful.

He said now: “A visitor will come to your shores, my lord.”

The King was alert. Was he expecting someone? wondered Damian. It was always wise to say a visitor was coming because visitors came so often to a king. Damian knew that the French were eager to see Perkin Warbeck harry the King of England and that Margaret of Burgundy was helping him, and he knew that the Irish had helped in the past. It was very likely that some messenger would come to Scotland from one of these sources. So it was safe to mention a visitor.

“And how could I receive this visitor?”

“Receive him well. Listen to what he has to say. He will ask your help. Give it.”

That was wise. It was always good to listen and people usually came in supplication. It was never a bad thing to give help when it was asked. This was easy. It was the direct questions such as the sex of a child that made him uneasy.

The Abbot joined the courtiers at the dinner table that day. They all fired questions at him, which amused the King.

And while they were at the meal one of the servants came running into the hall; his face was red and he was almost inarticulate in his desire to impart his startling news.

“A fleet of ships has been sighted off the coast of Scotland, my lord. They are saying it is Perkin Warbeck who comes to you.”

The King rose excitedly. Warbeck! The man who was claiming the English throne. It would be very amusing—and perhaps profitable—to have the man under his roof.

He looked at Damian who was smiling with satisfaction.

“Blessings on you, Damian, here is your visitor. Why the words were scarcely out of your mouth. . . .”

“I did not know that he would be here so soon, my lord,” said Damian modestly.

“You excel yourself, Damian; now I have only to wait for the birth of my son.” He turned to the company. “I think we should prepare to greet our guest,” he said.

James received Perkin Warbeck at Stirling Castle. Perkin had lived as a royal personage for four years and having been schooled in the part by none other than the Duchess of Burgundy, he had come to believe that he was the son of Edward the Fourth. So many times he had told the story of his being handed over to a man who was too soft-hearted to murder him and had set him free to roam the world for a few years before disclosing his identity that he believed it.

To converse with grace, to accept the homage due to his assumed rank, to behave with the manner of a courtier—this was all second nature to him.

Some of the noblemen of the Scottish Court were ready to laugh at his dandified manners because his gracious and graceful behavior made them feel uncouth.

When he had the throne of England, he told James, he would remember those who had helped in his need. He had made many friends during this period of waiting and they could rest assured he would not forget them.

James said he was welcome and offered him a residence and one thousand two hundred pounds a year. Damian had said he should make his visitor welcome and this was surely that visitor.

Letters arrived from Ireland from Lord Desmond telling James that the Irish would support Richard the Fourth and drive the usurping Tudor from the throne. Moreover James took a fancy to Perkin. The young man talked well and seemed in no great hurry to go to make war into England. He was quite content to dally at the Court; he danced well, sang well; indeed he was a gracious courtier and James could well imagine how concerned the Tudor must be below the Border. The last place he would want his enemy to be was plotting with that other ever-present adversary. Moreover it would be easier to march into England over the Border than it ever could be by sea from the Continent. That was a hazardous matter but to creep over the Border, to plant the flag on English soil—that had been done many times and would be done again.

But not yet. They would wait until the time was ripe. Let them have help from overseas. Let the Tudor fret in his bed at night . . . just a little longer.

In the meantime Perkin had noticed beautiful Katharine Gordon. That was interesting. A lovely girl—cousin of the King, Huntly’s daughter. Perkin looked high . . . that was if he were only plain Perkin. Of course, if he were indeed the true King of England it would be an excellent match for Katharine Gordon.

Marion’s child was born. It was a son and so Damian had scored again.

Marion was delighted and so was James. He said the child should be called Stewart after his father. Alexander Stewart. None could doubt with a name like that that he was a true Scotsman.

Damian was clever, Marion agreed, crowing over her little son. He had been right about the child and the visitor.

“And he said that I was to welcome him,” said James. “None can say I have failed as a host. And did you notice, Marion, that our gallant gentleman is casting eyes on Katharine Gordon?”

Marion had noticed. She was ever watchful of Katharine Gordon.

“It would not surprise me,” said James, “if he should ask for her hand.”

“You’ll grant it?”

“Huntly will have to be asked. But if he is indeed the true King of England he should have a bride with royal blood.”

“So you’ll give your consent.”

“I might . . . when it’s asked. I wonder what the Tudor will have to say about his rival’s marrying into Scotland.”

“For that my dear, we must wait and see,” commented Marion.

“And you, my very dear, are as usual right,” said James. He was laughing. He was glad Perkin had come to Scotland. Perhaps soon they would make warfare over the Border. It would be pleasant to see the Tudor ousted and a beautiful Scottish lassie on the throne of England.

Perkin Warbeck was in love.

She was a very beautiful girl, this Katharine Gordon, daughter of the great Earl of Huntly and cousin of the King himself.

She was gracious to him. After all he was an honored guest at the King’s Court. They called him the Duke of York . . . heir to the throne of England . . . more than that, rightful King of that country. He had come a long way from the Warbeck home in Flanders. Fleetingly he thought of John and Katharine Warbeck whom he had believed to be his parents before he learned the fantastic story. What would they have said if they could see their son—or so-called son—now, honored guest in all the courts of Europe, awaiting the moment when he should regain his throne.

He did not want to think too much of those early days in Flanders; they had been put away in some quiet recess in his mind—not to be disturbed, to be left there until they crumbled away into forgetfulness. Especially now he must not remember. What would these people say—the King, and the Earl of Huntly—if they thought a humble Flanders adventurer was asking for the hand of Katharine Gordon.

And Katharine herself? The manner in which she returned his glances, the flush which came to her cheeks at the soft pressure of his hand was enough to tell him with a girl like Katharine. She was not like so many women at James’s Court. To tell the truth its crudity after the elegance of the Court of Burgundy had shocked him. The women were bold and brazen and the men openly coarse. That did not appeal to Perkin. He was immediately attracted to Katharine because she was different from so many of the others.

He contrived to be near her when possible, to talk to her, to attempt to assess what her feelings would be if he were to ask for her hand. The Huntlys were powerful noblemen; they lived close to the King. But the King had shown him the utmost friendship ever since he had arrived in Scotland. He could but try. It would be strange if having done so much for ambition he should falter in love.

In the dining hall of Stirling Castle he contrived to seat himself beside her. From the end of the table he was aware of James watching him and he could swear there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. If he was against a match between them would he allow them to be so much in each other’s company? The Earl of Huntly was present also and he showed no objection.

Beside the King was his mistress Marion Boyd—very sure of herself now that she had a son as well as a daughter and both without doubt the King’s.

Perkin deplored such conduct. The King should marry and settle down and make his Court respectable. If he must have mistresses he should have them in private. Perkin had heard there were negotiations for marriage going on between him and Spain. This showed something of the devious natures of the Spanish Sovereigns for there were similar diplomatic missions in progress between them and Henry Tudor for the same purpose. It was clear that Isabella and Ferdinand were playing one off against the other.

If the Spanish Sovereigns would aid him, with the help of Margaret of Burgundy and perhaps the King of France, he could be certain of achieving his goal.

There were times when he wondered whether that was really what he wanted. He tried to see himself as a king and could not quite manage it, for he knew there was more to governing a kingdom than riding through the streets in purple and gold and smiling at the people while one acknowledged their cheers. He had managed the speech and the manner very well, but he was not quite sure how he would emerge from the other. In the meantime this dalliance was very pleasant particularly now he had met Katharine.

He turned to her and said: “You must forgive me for staring at you.”

“Were you?” she asked.

He smiled. “Ah, you are so accustomed to people’s gazing that you do not notice. In truth they cannot keep their eyes from you, for they all admire you as I do.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “You are kind to say so.”

“I say only what I feel. If you but knew what I feel for you . . . well, I hardly know what you would say.”

“If I knew, you might have an opportunity of finding out.”

She was smiling at him, encouragingly surely, but if he asked her to marry him and she refused . . . that would be the end. He wanted to go to James and say, “The Lady Katharine Gordon and I love each other, I beg you to give your consent to our marriage for that reason.” But what if she didn’t? He realized that he was afraid. That was why he did not want events to go further. He wanted to stay just as he was . . . pretender to the throne . . . accepted by important people talking constantly of the day he would be a king. He did not want to think beyond that. The future yawned before him like a dark pit and he was afraid to step into it lest he should fall into darkness. At the moment he was happy in the sunshine. He wanted to remain there.

He prevaricated as he did so often.

“You look so serenely beautiful; you are so young and when the sun shines on your hair it is like gold. I never thought to see such a perfect being.”

“I fear you do not see very clearly if you consider me perfect. I am far from that.”

“You have everything. Your family is a great one, you are rich, you are beautiful, above all you are good. I have been your slave . . . from the moment I saw you.”

“Have you?” she replied smiling. “I did not know.”

“You mock me.”

“In truth no,” she said. “How could I mock one who pays me the sort of compliments which anyone would want to hear?”

“I would speak seriously to you,” he said, “if I dared.”

“I did not expect you to be a fearful man, my lord Duke.”

“In one respect . . . yes . . . where you are concerned.”

“Afraid of me! Oh no that is not possible.”

“Katharine, you must know my feeling for you. Ever since I set eyes on you I have thought of little else.”

“You should be thinking of regaining your crown.”

“I could regain it I know . . . if I could but have this dearest wish of all granted me.”

“And you ask me to grant it?”

“You are the only one who can. I know I have to regain my crown. I know my future is insecure. . . .Perhaps I should not have asked you until I have that in my grasp. . . .”

“You do me an injustice,” she said, “if you think that I would say no if there was no crown and say yes if there was one.”

“Then you know of what I speak.”

“My lord, you are taking such a long time to say it that I must say it for you since you are meandering back and forth from the point in such a manner that you leave me no alternative but to guess.”

“Katharine . . .”

“Duke Richard, ask me . . . if that is what you want.”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I cannot believe it.”

“Of course you know full well . . .”

“I know now that I am the happiest man on earth.”

“You will have to get the King’s permission.”

“And that of your father.”

“The one would follow the other.”

“I feel James will be sympathetic toward lovers.”

“I feel that too.”

“Oh Katharine, I would we were alone that I might kiss your lips.”

“You will speak to the King?”

“At the first opportunity, which I shall now seek. Katharine, you will be the Queen of England.”

“I hope there will not be a lot of fighting. I would rather stay here . . . at James’s Court all our days. Perhaps we could escape often to the country . . . and be by ourselves.”

“I cannot wait to speak to him.”

“He is in a good mood now. He is pleased with Marion but I believe he is glancing far too frequently at Janet Kennedy, but speak to him soon . . . speak to him tonight.”

“I will.”

He did. The opportunity occurred that very night.

The company was dancing, and James who had drunk a great deal of wine seemed drowsy. Perkin went to him and asked permission to sit beside him, which was readily given.

“Sire,” he said, “I want to speak to you of a matter which is very important to me. May I do so?”

James smiled and nodded. “Though I’ll take a guess first. It concerns a lady.”

“You are so shrewd, Sire.”

“Where ladies are concerned, yes. And the Lady Katharine is a beauty. I grant you that.”

“We love each other, Sire.”

“Love indeed! A beautiful emotion. Nothing like it. What do you wish, my lord Duke? You can’t make a mistress of a girl like Katharine. Huntly has her at Court to find a husband for her.”

“That is what I want to be, my lord.”

“Ah, marriage to Huntly’s daughter. Well if you are going to be King of England that will be an honor which even Huntly can’t refuse.”

“It is your consent I am asking for.”

“You have it, my lord Duke. I will speak to her father. I will point out to him the advantages of such a match for his daughter.”

“You have earned my endless gratitude. But you had that already. I cannot tell you what your kind acceptance of me at your Court has meant to me. And now . . . and now . . .”

“There, my lord Duke. That is enough. I wish to help you. I see no reason at all why the fair Katharine should not be yours and I shall see that Huntly feels the same. What of the lady herself?”

“She loves me . . . even as I love her.”

“That is charming. That is delightful. I like to see people around me happy. Now, my lord Duke, you have deserted her too long. Let me see you lead her into the dance.”

When he and Marion were alone that night in the royal bedchamber James was overcome by mirth.

“This is a fine state of affairs,” he said. “This is going to set the Tudor ranting . . . if he ever rants. I doubt he does. He is a very self-contained man who never shows his anger. But just think what he will say when he hears that Perkin Warbeck is marrying Lady Katharine Gordon . . . my cousin . . . I can tell you this is going to madden him.”

“It pleases you,” said Marion.

“My dear, have you only just learned that what infuriates Henry Tudor is most certain to give me the utmost pleasure?”

“I hope it works out well . . . for the Lady Katharine,” said Marion.

So they were married and because of the rank of the bride and the expectations of Perkin they were given a royal wedding. James took a gleeful delight in behaving as though Katharine Gordon was marrying into the royal family. She was royal herself. “A fitting bride,” said James, “for the future King of England.” He was maliciously wondering what was happening below the Border.

The bride and the groom gave little thought to anything but each other, and as the weeks sped by their happiness grew for they were more in love every day. Katharine was all that he had believed her to be—gentle yet strong; modest yet proud of her family and of him; pliant and yet firm; fun loving and yet she could be serious. These were the happiest days of Perkin’s life and he wanted them to go on for ever. The thought of leaving Katharine to go and fight for his throne horrified him. In his heart he did not really want the throne. He wanted to live in peace with Katharine for the rest of his life.

She admitted that she wanted the same. It was amazing how they thought as one person.

He realized during those weeks of marriage that he had never really wanted a throne. It was people around him who had selected him because of his appearance and his natural grace to fill a role for which they sought a character to fit.

He began to see that he had been used.

But he dismissed that flash of understanding. He could not bear to examine it. He had become adept at pushing aside the truth and supplanting it by a picture of his making—or perhaps that of those around him.

All he knew now was that he wanted to go on like this. He wanted to make his home here in Scotland, to go on living under the protection of the King and the powerful family into which he had married, but into the halcyon contentment of those days there crept the fear that they must be transient. At any time the call would come. They would raise an army for him and send him to gain that to which they said he had a right.

“I don’t want the crown,” he said to Katharine. “I just want to stay here with you.”

She held him tightly against her. “If only it could be,” she said.

“Do you want to be Queen of England?”

She shook her head. “Not if it means your going away, risking your life. No . . . Let us hope we can stay here. Why should we not?”

He shook his head. “They will never allow it. Oh, I wish . . .”

What did he wish? That he had never left the home of John Warbeck? But if he had not he would never have met Katharine. Anything was worth that.

But it brought him back to where he had started. Here he was . . . blissfully happy, except when he remembered, then living each day in terror that suddenly the call would come.

Katharine added to his bliss when she told him that there would be a child. He wanted to weep with happiness . . . but it was a happiness quickly tinged with fear.

When the call came, there would be even more to leave . . . and perhaps lose.