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

Birth and Death

he Queen was feeling ill. She was pregnant and although she would not admit this to anyone she was dreading her confinement. Only those in her intimate circle must know how weak she was, and she was particularly anxious that the King should not be told.

“He has enough anxieties apart from worrying about me,” she confided to her sister, Lady Katharine Courtenay, who had troubles of her own for her husband had been in the Tower in captivity since his complicity in the Suffolk case.

“There seems to be nothing but anxieties,” agreed Katharine. “It has always been so with us. Sometimes I think it must be a great comfort to be poor and of no consequence at all.”

“I daresay the poor have their trials,” said Elizabeth. “I think I have been fortunate. I have a good husband and a fine family. They bring their sorrows though. I don’t think I shall ever get over the death of Arthur.”

“Poor boy. He was always ailing.”

“My firstborn, Katharine, and I will say to you what I would say to no one else . . . my favorite.”

“Perhaps it is a lesson to us. We should not have favorites among our children.”

“It may well be. I shall be losing Margaret soon to Scotland. Then it will be Mary.”

“You will have Henry and the children he will have. Be thankful for that, Elizabeth.”

“I am. Life did not turn out so badly for us, did it? When you think of all the twists and turns of fate it is amazing that we have come out of it all so satisfactorily. On our father’s death . . .”

Katharine laid a hand over her sister’s. “Let us not brood on it. It is so long ago. Here we are now. You are the Queen, you have a kind husband and children of whom you can be proud. It would be hard to find three more handsome and lively children than your Henry, Margaret and Mary.”

“I agree. I agree. I trust the new one will be a son. It is what the King wants. I know we have Henry and he is strong and healthy, but ever since the death of Arthur the King has had this fear.”

“Henry is too fearful. I suppose it is inevitable that he should worry about the succession when . . . but no matter. I wonder what will happen to the Spanish Princess now. Poor child. It has been a tragedy for her. I believe she was very fond of Arthur.”

“Who would not be fond of Arthur? He was such a gentle person. Oh it is cruel . . . cruel . . . to take him from us.”

“Hush sister. You must not upset yourself. Remember the child.”

Remember the child. Elizabeth had been remembering the child all through her married life it seemed. No sooner was one pregnancy over than there must be another. It was necessary to fill the nurseries and when children died it was a great tragedy. She had lost little Edmund and Elizabeth . . . but that Arthur should be taken from her was the greatest tragedy of her life. Arthur who had grown to matcurity, who had been a husband though in name only.

She was thinking of that other Katharine, the little Princess from Spain, and she was filled with pity.

While the sisters were talking the King arrived at Richmond. There was the usual flurry of excitement which his presence engendered and when he made his way to the Queen’s apartments Elizabeth wondered what had brought him to her at this time of day. It must be something of importance, she was sure.

He came to her apartments and Lady Courtenay bowed as he entered and looked askance at the Queen who glanced at the King. He nodded and Lady Katharine slipped away.

“It is rare that I see you at such an hour,” said the Queen. “I trust all is well.”

“I am a little concerned. It is about the Spanish Princess. I think you could be of help in a . . . somewhat delicate matter.”

The Queen waited.

“I believe you have sent an invitation to her to visit you here?”

“I thought it the best. Poor child, she must be feeling desolate.”

“Poor child indeed. And I know you will do everything possible to cheer her up.”

“I shall try. I have had a litter made for her by my tailor and I thought that Croydon Palace would be a good residence for her. She will be most unhappy if she stays on at Ludlow.”

“So you will soon see her.”

“In a day or so I believe. As soon as she has made the journey.”

The King was thoughtful. “It has thrown so much into confusion. . . .The position of the Princess here . . .”

“Yes, I suppose Ferdinand and Isabella will expect her to go back to Spain now.”

“That is what I want to avoid. If they take her back they will want her dowry, too.”

“I see.”

“I have no mind to part with so much.”

The Queen was about to interject when she thought better of it. It was unwise to argue about money and possessions with Henry; he had a great reverence for them and regarded them with the utmost seriousness.

“I have been turning over in my mind . . . and discussing the matter with my ministers. There is a way to keep the dowry in the country.”

She looked at him questioningly. Was he going to suggest keeping it now that it was in his hands? Surely he could not be so unscrupulous.

But of course that was not it. Henry would always have a clever reason why things should be as he wanted them to be.

“We must keep Katharine in the country. There is one way of doing this and that is to marry her to Henry.”

“Henry? But that is surely not possible?”

“Why not?” asked the King with a coldness in his voice, which she had rarely heard. That was because she questioned his actions so infrequently.

“Well,” she stammered. “He is five years younger.”

“Five years younger? What has that to do with the matter? I have never yet known a matter of five years prevent a marriage which will bring great good to all parties.”

“She was married to Henry’s brother. It would not be considered legal.”

“A dispensation would settle that.”

“And you think the Pope would give it?”

“The Pope will do what seems best for him. You may depend upon that.”

“But is it not against the laws of the Church for a woman to marry her husband’s brother?”

“If the marriage was not consummated I see no reason that this should be so.”

“But the marriage was very likely consummated. They were two young people . . . together . . . fond of each other.”

“I think it most unlikely that it was consummated. I gave orders that it should not be and Arthur would never disobey me.”

The Queen realized that the King was faintly irritated because she showed signs of disagreeing with him. She was amazed that she had done so, though mildly; perhaps it was because the idea was repugnant to her and she felt sorry for the young Princess who was being bandied from the dead brother to the living one.

“What is the delicate matter you wish me to do?”

“Find out from Katharine’s own lips whether or not the marriage was consummated.”

“And if it were not?”

“Then, as I see it, there is no obstacle to the marriage of Katharine and Henry. You will ask her this question and if the answer is no, then we may go ahead with negotiations.”

“And if it has been?”

“Then we will keep the matter to ourselves. I shall consider what can best be done.”

“I see you are determined that she shall have Henry.”

“I see no other way of keeping her dowry in the country,” said the King with a wry smile.

Katharine was indeed in an unhappy state. She was feeling quite bewildered. It seemed strange that a short while before she had been the wife of the heir to the throne, queen-to-be and now she was a widow . . . a stranger in a strange country and she did not know what would become of her.

Her great hope was that she would go home. They would make another match for her, of course, but at least for a while she would be with her mother. She did not want another match. She had realized how lucky she had been to come to Arthur who was so kind and whom she had grown to love during the short time they had been together.

The Queen had been kind to her, too. She had written to her and said she must not stay at Ludlow. There would be too many memories there and it would be better for her to take up her residence in an entirely new place.

“I am having the Palace of Croydon prepared for you,” wrote the Queen, “and my tailor John Cope is making a litter which will convey you to Croydon. It will be a most suitable vehicle of conveyance for it will be made of black velvet and black cloth and trimmed with black valances.”

It sounded funereal but of course she was in deep and bitter mourning.

The Queen was right; she did feel a little better in Croydon but as her grief for the loss of Arthur lifted a little, her apprehension regarding her own future increased.

At first few people came to Croydon. This was the period of her mourning; but one day she received a letter from the Queen at Richmond asking that she come to see her.

“I myself am somewhat indisposed,” wrote the Queen. “It is for this reason that I ask you to come to me.”

In her litter of black velvet Katharine set out from Croydon and when she arrived at Richmond was warmly embraced by the Queen.

“My dear dear child!” cried the Queen. “You look so sad. Let us mingle our tears. I believe he was as dear to you as he was to me.”

Katharine bowed her head and the Queen held the young girl in her arms.

“He loved you dearly,” went on the Queen. “I was so happy to see you together because it was clear to me that you would be just the wife he needed. He was so gentle . . . so modest . . . and that is rare in those of his rank.”

Katharine said: “He was all that I looked for in a husband.”

“And your union so brief. Oh, it is a cruel world we live in. But we have to go on whatever our sorrow. You have a happy future before you, my child.”

“I long to see my mother,” said Katharine. “My lady, can you tell me when I may expect to go to her?”

The Queen was silent. Then she took Katharine’s hands. “You love her dearly, I know.”

Katharine nodded silently.

“There will be another marriage for you.”

“Oh no . . . not, not yet . . . perhaps never.”

“You are the daughter of a great King and Queen, and there will be those to seek your hand. There will certainly be another marriage for you. You have had one marriage and are so young to be a widow. Forgive my asking this question, my dear, but was that a true marriage?

Katharine stared at her mother-in-law uncomprehendingly.

“Well,” the Queen stumbled on, “when two people marry, the Church tells us that one of the main reasons for doing so is for the procreation of children. Is there any hope that you . . . might be bearing Arthur’s child?”

“Oh no . . . no . . . ,” cried Katharine. “That would be impossible.”

“Impossible because you and Arthur . . . did not consummate the marriage?”

“It would be quite impossible,” said Katharine.

“I see. You were both so young . . . and he was not well . . . and the King had feared for his health and that was why he was against the consummation of the marriage. You understand that, Katharine?”

“I understand.”

“And so it is impossible for there to be a child of the marriage because it was not consummated.”

Katharine nodded.

“Thank you, my dear. I hope you do not want to leave us.”

“You have been so kind to me . . . in particular you, my lady.”

“My dear daughter, I want to go on being kind to you for as long as we both shall live.”

“I shall go back to Spain. I am sure my parents will send for me . . . soon.”

The Queen hesitated. She was taking a good deal on herself but she felt rebellious, which was rare with her. She was sorry for this young girl who had been sent to England away from her friends and now was being bartered so blatantly, passed from one brother to another for the sake of the thousands of crowns which made up her dowry.

She said: “The King and I have grown very fond of you since you have been among us.”

Katharine did not believe for one moment that the King had grown fond of her. It was hard to imagine his being fond of anyone.

“We should be very sorry to see you go,” went on the Queen. “And there is one other among us. No doubt you have noticed the warm regard of our son Henry.”

Alarm showed itself in Katharine’s eyes. She half guessed what was coming. Oh no. She could not bear it. She wanted to go home to her mother. She had been reconciled to Arthur because he was kind and gentle and life had been so much happier with him than she had dared hope it would be. But to be passed over to his brother . . . that young boy . . . She had been a little older than Arthur even. Oh, how desperately she wanted to go home.

“The King would give his consent to a match between you and our son Henry.”

“Henry is but a boy.”

“Boys grow up. He is old for his age. He could marry at sixteen . . . fifteen perhaps.”

“I do not think my parents would agree,” said Katharine.

“There could, of course, be no match without their agreement,” the Queen answered. She laid a hand on Katharine’s arm. “Say nothing of this. I told you because I thought you should know what is in the King’s mind.”

The two looked at each other for a few moments and then Elizabeth opened her arms and Katharine went to her. They stood for a few moments in a close embrace.

It was only a few days later when the King sent for her. He greeted her with a show of affection, which was rare with him, and it was obvious that he was very pleased about something.

“My dear daughter,” he said. “I have good news for you. I have heard from your parents.”

Her face lighted up. They were going to send for her. They would never agree to her marrying young Henry. It was wrong according to the laws of the Church and none could uphold the Church more strongly than her mother. Henry was her brother-in-law. That was the important fact, not that he was five years younger than she was. That meant nothing to them.

The King’s next words dashed her hopes. “They agree to a marriage between you and Prince Henry.”

“But . . . that is . . . impossible. I was his brother’s wife.”

“No, my dear child, the marriage was not consummated. That makes all the difference. All we need is a dispensation from the Pope. And we can rest assured that if I wish it and if your parents wish it there will be no obstacles to that.”

“I . . . I . . . I do not wish . . .”

“I know your feelings. You have so shortly become a widow. You loved Arthur. My dear child, you know nothing of marriage. That will come . . . in due course. You will be betrothed to Henry and when he is of an age to marry the ceremony shall take place. You will be the Queen of England one day.”

“Does Henry know of this?”

“He does and he is overjoyed.”

“He is too young. . . .”

“Nay, he understands well. He was, to confess it, a little jealous of his brother’s good fortune.”

The King’s face was twisted into a smile as he tried to look jovial. Katharine thought it was as though his features resented being distorted into such unusual lines.

“It will be a long time . . . yet,” said Katharine faintly.

“Ah, time passes quickly. It gives me great pleasure to convey to you this excellent news.”

He rubbed his hands together and his eyes glinted.

He is seeing one hundred thousand crowns which have already been paid to him and is congratulating himself that he will not have to part with them, thought Katharine. And he is seeing the hundred thousand coming to me when I marry Henry.

The King put his lips to her cheek and she was dismissed.

In her apartment she called for writing materials.

She wanted to write to her mother but she could not do this. Everything she wrote would be seen by both her parents and she knew her father would be angry if she pleaded with her mother and excluded him.

Nevertheless, she must relieve her feelings in some way.

“I have no inclination for a second marriage in England. . . .”

Her mother would understand that that was a cry for help.

Then she thought of the rules of obedience which had always been adhered to; one must never think of oneself but of the good of the country. If her parents wished it she would have to take Henry. Perhaps they could be happy together; he had always shown an interest in her. She would have to be resigned to her fate if it were her parents’ wish that she should accept what they planned for her.

She added: “I know that my tastes and conveniences cannot be considered, and you will in all things act as is best.”

When she had written and dispatched the letter she lay down on her bed and staring dry-eyed before her murmured: “Please dearest mother, send for me. Dear God, let me go home.”

It was late January when the Queen in the company of her ladies was rowed from Richmond to the Tower where she had decided her child should be born.

Her sister Katharine was very anxious about her for Elizabeth had had such a difficult pregnancy and was scarcely strong enough for the ordeal before her.

People stood about on the river bank to watch the Queen’s barge and to give a cheer for the poor lady who looked as though she would give birth at any moment.

The chamber in the Tower had been prepared and to this the Queen went immediately. Her women gathered about her helping her to bed and making sure of her comforts. Lady Courtenay sat by her bed, ever watchful of her sister and wondering about her husband who was incarcerated in this very Tower. She had been anxious ever since the execution of Sir James Tyrrell who had had very little to do with the planned rising. She wondered why Suffolk and her husband had got off so lightly. It was no use asking Elizabeth. The Queen knew so little of the King’s affairs, which Katharine Courtenay believed were very devious indeed.

February had come, bleak and bitterly cold when the Queen’s pains started and on Candlemas Day, the second of that month, the child was born.

Katharine Courtenay felt sad when she saw that the child was a girl. Dear Elizabeth, she had so longed for a boy. Perhaps if there had been a boy, Katharine thought, there could have been a rest from this incessant childbearing, which was undoubtedly having dire effects on the Queen’s health.

The child was sound but a little frail. As she held the baby in her arms she heard the Queen’s voice calling her.

She went to the bed. “A dear little girl, Elizabeth,” she said.

Elizabeth closed her eyes for one despairing moment. Then she opened them and she was smiling.

“She is . . . healthy?”

“Yes,” said Katharine, and put the child in her arms.

After a while she took the baby from its mother who fell into a sleep of exhaustion. This time next year, thought Katharine, we shall doubtless be in a similar situation. Will it go on and on until they get a boy? And how will Elizabeth endure it? She won’t admit it but she is less strong after each confinement.

The midwife was looking anxious.

“Why are you worried?” asked Katharine.

“The Queen is not strong enough,” said the midwife. “This should be the last.”

“I will talk to her.”

“Someone should talk to the King.”

Why not? thought Katharine. He had a son and now three daughters. That must be enough.

When the Queen was rested Katharine sat at her bedside and they talked together.

“She is a beautiful child, I hear,” said the Queen. “They would not deceive me, would they?”

“Why should they? You have three other beautiful children, sister.”

“Arthur was weak and they kept that from me for several days.”

“You brood too much on Arthur. You have Henry. You could not have a son who was more full of strength and vitality.”

“It is true. You have been a great comfort to me, Katharine, and I know you have troubles of your own. I am going to call this little one Katharine . . . after you.”

“Then I am honored, dear sister.”

As Katharine bent over the bed and kissed the Queen, she was a little startled by the clammy coldness of her skin.

Within a week the Queen was dead. Her passing was not only a matter of great sorrow but of amazement. She had appeared to recover from the ordeal of childbirth and it was not until six days later that the fatal symptoms appeared.

When Katharine Courtenay had found her in a terrifyingly weak state she had sent a messenger at once to the King and when Henry arrived he was horrified. He had sent with all speed for his physician, who believing that the Queen was on the way to recovery, had left the Tower for his home in Gravesend.

The news of the deterioration of the Queen’s health spread rapidly as Dr. Hallyswurth came hurrying through the night with the help of guides and torches to speed his coming, and people were already in the streets whispering of the mortal sickness which had come to the Queen.

She died on the eleventh of February, nine days after the birth of the child. It was her own birthday and she was thirty-eight years old.

In all the churches in the city the bells were tolling.

Crowds watched while spices, sweet wine-gums and balms with ells of Holland cloth were taken into the Tower and they knew that these things were for the dismal purpose of embalming the Queen.

From her apartments she was taken to the chapel in the Tower and there she lay in state for twelve days after which her body was put in a velvet carriage and taken to Westminster. An effigy in robes of state and crown was put in a chair on the coffin and it was said that this bore a startling resemblance to the Queen at her most beautiful. It was a day of great mourning.

The King was genuinely stricken with grief. Although he knew that Elizabeth had been in ill health for some time he had not expected her to die. She had recovered from the birth of the child and everyone had believed she would soon leave her bed. It was a bitter blow; but being Henry he was immediately facing the grim fact that now he had no wife and only one son to follow him. Margaret was already the Queen of Scotland. He needed children. And Elizabeth who was to have provided them was dead.

The Prince of Wales was equally bewildered. He had loved his mother. She had been very beautiful and he was susceptible to beauty. That she should have died so suddenly was disturbing. He felt bereft. He had not loved her as he had Anne Oxenbrigge, but now he was growing up he was becoming very much aware of his royal dignity and he would not admit that a nursemaid had been so very important to him. His mother had seemed remote but good and beautiful and she had been the daughter of a king. As a Tudor he attached great importance to that. And now she was dead.

He was twelve years old now and he was going to be betrothed. He looked at the Spanish Princess. She was wary and did not meet his eyes.

Poor Katharine, she must admire him very much. Well, she was pretty, and he had envied Arthur. It was strange how everything that he had envied was now coming to him.

Katharine looked very sad. She was realizing that if her parents decided she must stay here she had just lost one who would have been a good friend to her.

Henry was looking at her, smiling faintly.

She returned the smile. She would have to please him, she supposed. If she did not, what would happen to her?

She looked about her. Here was genuine sorrow. Even the King looked older and more gray. As for the Lady Courtenay, she was quite distraught as she with the Queen’s sisters laid their palls on the coffin.

What will become of us all? wondered Katharine. She will not be here to see.

A few days later the child Katharine, who had cost the Queen her life, was stricken with a grievous illness and within a short time she was dead.