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

The Birth of

a Prince

here was great consternation in the Palace of Winchester on that misty September day, in the year 1486 for the Queen—who was not due to give birth to her child for another month—had started her pains.

It was extraordinary for only eight months had passed since the marriage. Everyone had been delighted by the Queen’s promise of fruitfulness, and to have given birth nine months after the marriage would have been a most welcome sign, but to do so in eight months was a little disconcerting, though no one could believe for one moment that this might mean anything but the birth of a premature child.

Queen Elizabeth was sitting quietly with her sisters, Cecilia aged seventeen and Anne who was just eleven, working on an altar cloth, which the King’s mother, of whom they were in considerable awe, had decided was an appropriate occupation for them at such a time when all the favors Heaven could grant them were needed. Even Anne knew—for it was spoken of continually—that it was of utmost importance that the Queen should give birth to a healthy boy.

The Queen and her sisters had come through difficult times and still remembered them. They had been pampered and petted by their magnificent and all-powerful father but they had also suffered privations in the Sanctuary at Westminster when they had feared for their lives. If they had learned a lesson from life it must surely be that it was fraught with insecurity and could change drastically in the space of a few days.

At last Elizabeth was married to the King and although there had been a period when they had wondered whether Henry Tudor was going to honor his pledges, they now felt comparatively safe; and if the baby who was about to be born was a healthy boy, their chances of making good marriages and living in comfort—and perhaps even of survival—would be greatly increased.

As Cecilia stitched at the hem of the Madonna’s robe in a silk thread of exquisite blue, she was wondering when her time to marry would come. She hoped her husband would be someone at the King’s Court for she did not want to have to go away from home. At one time she had thought she was going to be sent to Scotland to be the Queen of Scots but that had come to nothing in the manner of so many of these proposed marriages. As for Elizabeth herself she had once been destined for the Dauphin of France and for a long time their mother had insisted that she be addressed as Madame La Dauphine. The fact was that one never knew where one would end up. Who would have believed that Elizabeth, after the humiliation of losing the Dauphin, would, through her marriage with Henry Tudor, become Queen of England?

Although one never spoke of it now, the King should have been their brother Edward. But where was Edward? What had happened to him and their brother Richard? Some people said that both had been murdered in the Tower. It must be so for if they had not been, surely the King of England should have been either Edward the Fifth or Richard the Fourth—not Henry the Seventh.

Their mother had said: “It is a subject which it is better not to discuss. We have to be careful not to upset the Queen who is in a delicate condition.”

Still it was strange not to talk of one’s own brothers. What should one talk of? The weather? Whether Elizabeth would have a coronation when the baby was born? The christening?

“Don’t talk too much about the baby,” their mother had warned. “It might be unlucky.”

Then of what did one talk?

Cecilia was saved the trouble of searching for a suitable topic of conversation for Elizabeth suddenly turned very pale, put her hands to her stomach and said: “I believe my pains are starting. Go at once to our mother.”

Cecilia dropped her part of the altar cloth and ran while Anne sat staring at her sister in dismay.

Queen Elizabeth Woodville, the Queen Mother, was alone in her apartments at the castle. She was longing for the next month to be over that she might hold her healthy grandson in her arms.

She was certain it would be a boy. If not her daughter Elizabeth must quickly become pregnant again. She had no doubt that Elizabeth would breed well, as she herself had.

She was congratulating herself on a return to prosperity. She and her family had passed through some very difficult times, during which she believed she had come near to disaster. King Richard had never liked her; he had always deplored his brother’s marriage to a woman, as he would have said, of low quality. Naturally he had never dared say much against her when Edward was alive; and after Edward’s death Richard had preserved his loyalty to his brother. Even when she had been caught with Jane Shore in conspiring against him, he had been lenient. Now everything was changed. He was dead—slain on Bosworth Field and the new King had become her son-in-law.

She was wishing Henry’s mother was not in the castle. The Countess of Richmond with her quiet air of superiority irritated Elizabeth Woodville. It was true that Margaret Beaufort had royal blood in her veins, even though as Elizabeth often reminded herself it came from the wrong side of the blanket. Oh, everyone knew that John of Gaunt had legitimized his Beauforts but that did not alter the fact that they had begun in bastardy, and it was true that those who were unsure of their claims always asserted their rights to them most forcefully. She herself was one of those, for ever since King Edward had become so enamored of her that he had married her and raised her to such dizzy heights, she had had to make sure that everyone remembered the respect due to her.

So it was with Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, and now that her son had become King this set her somewhat above the mother of the Queen, though, mused Elizabeth, none could doubt that the young Queen, as daughter of the late King Edward the Fourth, had more right to the crown than Henry Tudor who had won it by conquest rather than inheritance.

It was not a matter to brood on, for Henry now had the crown firmly in his grasp and he had fulfilled his contract to unite the houses of York and Lancaster, which he had done when he married Edward the Fourth’s eldest daughter.

Such times we live through! the Queen Mother often thought sadly, dreaming of the days of her glory when an ardent young King had first seen her in Whittlebury Forest and pursued her with such fervent devotion that he had lifted her from her humble position and made her his Queen.

While he had lived she had been secure as Queen of England, surrounded by her family whom she had made prosperous; but alas he had died suddenly at the age of forty-four although he had seemed in almost perfect health up to that time. Then had come the greatest blow of all—the shattering declaration that Edward had been married to Eleanor Butler who was alive at the time when he had gone through a ceremony with Elizabeth—thus making her marriage no marriage at all and her children illegitimate.

And her dear little boys—young Edward, who had briefly been Edward the Fifth, and the little Duke of York . . . where were they now? It seemed they had vanished into obscurity. There had been rumors that their uncle, Richard the Third, had murdered them in the Tower. But why should he find that necessary? He had declared them illegitimate. Why should he have needed to murder them? Whatever had happened to them, they were lost to her . . . her little darlings. She mourned them deeply for although she might be a vain and selfish woman she was a good mother and had loved all her children dearly. There was mystery everywhere. She remembered long dreary days, cold sleepless nights in Westminster Sanctuary when she had not known from one day to the next what would become of her and her family.

Richard had not been unkind after a while. There had even been talk of his marrying young Elizabeth. It was not serious of course. How could an uncle marry his niece? However, young Elizabeth was destined to be the savior of her family, now Henry, the new King, had married her. This meant that he did not consider her illegitimate . . . and yet if she were not, the young Princes also were not, and if they were alive . . . what right had Henry to the throne?

It was too complicated, too frightening to brood on. So she must put the past behind her. She must say: We have come so far and we are now as safe as any can be in this dangerous changing world. My daughter is the Queen of England. My little boys are lost to me forever. It might be true that Richard had murdered them in the Tower as one rumor had had it, yet why he should since they had been proclaimed illegitimate, she could never understand.

There was too much mystery; there had been too much misery; now they were moving forward into brighter times. She must forget the past.

If this child were a boy, contentment would settle on the country. The new dynasty of the Tudors would be accepted and the child would be the vital link which bound the Houses of York and Lancaster together and settled their differences forever.

What was most important now was to care for the young Queen and to bring this all-important child into the world. There was a whole month to wait and waiting was so irksome.

Cecilia had rushed into the room. She was about to reprove her daughter, reminding her that she must remember that she was not only the sister of the reigning Queen but also the daughter of great King Edward who was still mourned with such affection by his subjects. . . .

But this was no time for a lecture on deportment. Cecilia was breathless.

“My lady . . . come quickly . . . it is my sister. . . . She is in pain.”

The Queen Mother felt fear grip her.

“No . . . It cannot be. . . .”

She was out of the room running as fast as she could to her daughter’s apartment.

One look at Elizabeth was enough. “Send for the midwife!” she cried.

Then with the help of her women she took the Queen to the lying-in apartments, which by good fortune had already been prepared for her.

When Margaret Countess of Richmond heard that the Queen’s confinement had begun she went at once to the lying-in apartments. She had prepared them herself, so she knew that everything was in readiness and exactly as it should be.

Let there be no misunderstanding. This was the most important occasion the country had known since the crowning of the new King.

On the orders of the King’s mother, the lying-in chamber, which she had graciously allowed the young mother-to-be to choose herself, was hung with rich arras that was draped even over the ceiling. It hung at the windows, shutting out the light. This was fitting for a royal birth, said the Countess, and as the King accepted her word in all such matters, so must it be. Only women should be with the Queen at the time of the birth and the Countess had appointed members of her own sex even to such posts as butler and pages, positions usually occupied by men.

She knew that Elizabeth Woodville would have liked to countermand her orders; but she dared not. The King had no great liking for his mother-in-law, and the woman knew that she remained at Court on sufferance, because he could not ignore his wife’s mother; even so she would have to understand that she must fall in completely with his wishes if she were to retain her place at Court, and that meant those of his mother also.

The Countess of Richmond was a very determined woman. She had been a beauty in her youth—not such a dazzling one as Elizabeth Woodville, but nevertheless a woman of striking good looks. Her features were regular, serene and so stern that they could be called frigid. She was a woman who kept her own counsel, but there was one thing which was certain—and that was her complete devotion to her son.

She had been not quite fourteen years old when Henry had been born, already a widow for her husband Edmund Tudor had died in the November before his son was born the following January. The bewildered mother had been glad to retire to Pembroke Castle where her brother-in-law Jasper offered her a home. It was Jasper who became the guardian of the young baby and who had brought him through many dangers to his present position.

The Tudors were staunch Lancastrians and Margaret had watched the progress of the Wars of the Roses with alternate fear and hope. The deaths of Henry the Sixth and his son had made the way clear for Henry. How she had hoped and prayed for his success and naturally she had not been above a little scheming too; and at last her seemingly hopeless dream had become a reality. Her Henry—whose claim to the throne even she had to admit was a trifle flimsy—had landed at Milford Haven and from there marched to Bosworth Field where he had had the good fortune to put an end to the reign of the Plantagenets and begin that of the Tudors.

It was dramatic; it was the fortunes of war; and Margaret had played her part in it. Henry did not forget that and he deferred to her. She was glad of that. He was a serious young man, her Henry; she was convinced that he would make a good king. Of course he would. He would always be ready to listen to his mother.

Critically she looked now at that other mother. She had never approved of Elizabeth Woodville and had always thought King Edward must have been wanting in judgment when he married her. Of course everyone knew that he had been a lecher. All the more reason to wonder at his actions in marrying the woman. Still, it was all long ago and Edward and his Queen had given the country the present Queen, a charming girl who would do her duty and would not prove too difficult to handle, Margaret was sure. Moreover the girl, with Henry, had united the Houses of Lancaster and York thereby silencing those fierce Yorkists who might want to drive Lancastrian Henry from the throne. It had all worked out as well as could be hoped, thought Margaret.

But Elizabeth Woodville would have to realize that the King’s mother was in charge of the King’s household, and as the most important part of it at this time was the lying-in chamber, Margaret would be in absolute control.

“It is well,” she said, “that we came to Winchester early as it is the King’s wish that the child should be born here.”

“I should have preferred Windsor,” commented Elizabeth Woodville.

“It is of course the King’s wish that must prevail in these matters. Great King Arthur built this castle.”

“Is said to have built it,” interrupted Elizabeth.

“King Arthur is an ancestor of the King.”

“Oh my dear Countess, there are so many who claim they have descended from Arthur.”

“That may be but the King has in fact. He always had a great admiration for King Arthur. When he was a boy he was constantly reading of his deeds and those of his knights; and when he knew he was about to become a father he said, ‘I wish my son to be born in Arthur’s castle.’ That is why the Queen is here.”

“We hope it will be a son. One can never be sure.”

“Your daughter will be fertile, I have no doubt. You yourself have been.”

Elizabeth smiled complacently. She felt superior to the Countess in that respect. For although Margaret might have had three husbands she had produced only one child. True, that child had become King of England, but so had Elizabeth’s tragic little Edward the Fifth—if only for a few months before he retired into mysterious obscurity.

“There should be some light in the lying-in chamber,” she said.

“One window has not been fully covered. That will give her all the light she needs,” retorted the Countess.

Elizabeth was irritated. When she considered the number of times she had given birth she would have thought she knew more about it than the King’s mother.

“When I think of my little son . . . born in Sanctuary . . .”

“I know, but the King’s son will soon be born in Winchester Castle and that is what we must concern ourselves with.”

“My lady, is it not unlucky to talk of the sex of the child with such certainty?”

“I do not think so. I feel sure it is a boy the Queen carries. A little boy . . . who is so impatient to be born that he cannot wait his full time.”

“I trust Elizabeth will be all right. I do not like premature births. I almost wish that it was not premature . . . that . . .”

The Countess regarded her with horror. “Do you mean that you would have the King forestall his marriage vows . . . ?You cannot mean . . . ?”

“Oh no . . . no . . . I am sure he would never do that. But if the baby comes before its time, will it not be a little . . . delicate?”

“It is sometimes so, but Elizabeth is a healthy girl. I doubt not that if he should be born weakly we shall soon have him strong.”

“Well, she is young. This will be the forerunner of many it is to be hoped.”

Thus the two women talked while they waited to hear the first cry of the child. Elizabeth Woodville was hiding her apprehension. Her daughter had suffered recently from the ague and she was more worried than she would admit because the birth was premature. If Elizabeth died . . . No, she would not think of that. She had had too much bad luck with her beloved children. Elizabeth would survive. Elizabeth was the hope of the House of York. If she died, and the child with her, would the conflict begin again? The Yorkists would be ready to drive the Lancastrian from the throne. She knew that in some circles Henry was referred to as “the impostor” and it was only this marriage with the daughter of the House of York which made him acceptable. Once the child was born—and pray God it should be a boy—that alone would seal the pact.

“Elizabeth, my darling daughter,” she prayed, “live . . . live and give us a healthy boy . . . for the sake of the country, for the sake of us all.”

The Countess of Richmond was less confident than she appeared to be. Premature births were dangerous and it could not possibly be anything else but a premature birth. Elizabeth would never have taken a lover and Henry would never have forestalled his marriage vows. No . . . no . . . the child was coming a month before it was due. It had happened before. The main thing was that it should live and that Elizabeth should go on to give more children to the country. This conflict between York and Lancaster had to end. For thirty years—on and off—those wars had persisted. The strength of King Edward the Fourth had held them at bay but it had been seen how easily they had broken out when he had died. And now . . . Lancaster was in the ascendancy but the Yorkists were content because though the King was a Lancastrian the Queen was of the house of York. An ideal settlement, but it must stay firm. The Queen must remain the Queen and there must be a child.

It had all seemed hopeful until the Queen began to give birth prematurely.

If she died, thought the Countess, and if the child died . . . what then?

She had been watching Cecilia. The girl was comely—all Edward the Fourth’s daughters were beauties, with that magnificent golden hair inherited from the mother. It was hardly likely that they could be other than handsome with parents who had been generally proclaimed as the best-looking man and woman in the country.

If Elizabeth died could Henry marry Cecilia . . . ? It would be tricky but it had always been the Countess’s custom to be prepared for all eventualities.

Meanwhile the Queen was awaiting the birth of the child. The pains were intermittent now. She felt very ill and wondered if she were going to die. She had been unprepared when the evidence of the child’s imminent arrival became apparent and she was very alarmed. It could not be yet. It was not due for another month. They had brought her to this darkened chamber and she longed for more light, but it was against royal etiquette, her mother-in-law had said—and it was the Countess who made the rules in this household.

The King deferred to the Countess and Elizabeth must defer to the King. She was not sure whether she loved her husband. He was not what she had imagined him to be. When the marriage had been suggested she had thought of him as a hero of romance. He was coming to protect her from her Uncle Richard—not that she had ever been greatly in fear of her uncle. She remembered his visiting her father when he was alive and what affection there had been between the two of them, though Uncle Richard had been quite different from her big jovial exuberant father. Quiet, retiring, speaking very little, being intensely serious—that was Uncle Richard. Yet Anne Neville had loved him; and Anne had been a good friend to her.

The truth was that she was in awe of her husband. He had shown her affection and stressed that he was delighted with his marriage, but there was something she did not understand about him, something withdrawn . . . aloof. Behind those eyes were secrets she would never discover. Perhaps, she thought, it was better that she did not.

She was overanxious that she should produce a healthy boy because that was her duty. It seemed, looking back on her life, that it was what she had been born for. All her life she had been buffeted, it seemed, from this one to that. . . . First one marriage was important . . . then another. At one time she had been offered to the son of Margaret of Anjou. That came to nothing because he was affianced to Anne Neville when Anne’s father, the Kingmaker Earl of Warwick, turned his coat and went over to Margaret of Anjou, deserting his old friend and ally Elizabeth’s father. Later she was destined for the Dauphin of France. What a grand opinion she had had of herself then. So had her mother, who had insisted that she be called Madame La Dauphine throughout the Court.

Then of course the King of France had decided to give his son to another bride and that, it was said, so shattered Edward the Fourth that it was one of the causes of his death. And eventually here she was . . . Queen of England.

At least that side of her life was settled. She would like to live quietly now . . . at peace . . . with many children to occupy her days. That was what she wanted and for once it coincided with most other people’s wishes for her, so perhaps there was a chance of its coming to pass.

Perhaps she was wrong to be afraid of her cold-eyed husband. Perhaps she felt so because having lived close to a father like Edward the Fourth, she had expected to have a husband like him—full of good humor, full of laughter, handsome, dressed extravagantly, charming everyone with his smiles and well-chosen words. She remembered an occasion when the Lord of Grauthuse visited the Court and her father wished to do honor to him. There had been a great many entertainments and at one of the balls her father had led her out onto the floor and danced with her. She must have looked tiny beside his great bulk, but how exalted she had felt—particularly when the dance was over and he had lifted her up before them all and kissed her. That must have been one of the happiest moments in her life. She remembered her mother, so beautiful that she seemed like a being from another world, looking on at the scene and smiling benignly—oh yes indeed, the happiest little girl in all the Court . . . in all the world perhaps. But one quickly learned that happiness was a fleeting moment . . . here . . . and gone . . . but it did leave something behind . . . a memory to bring out now and then and glory in.

Now, lying in her bed in this darkened room with so many people about her, listening to the whispering voices, waiting for the next bout of pain, events from the past would keep coming into her mind.

She was thinking of her young brother Edward’s birth, which had taken place on a dark November day in the Sanctuary at Westminster where she with her mother and her sisters were sheltering from their enemies. She would never forget the exultation when it was learned that the new baby was a boy. Her mother had said: “This is the best news the King could have. Now he will regain his throne.” She remembered the little boy’s baptism in that grim place. There was no royal ceremony then, and yet that little boy was the King’s son, the heir to the throne.

Little Edward, she thought. Where are you now? Where is my brother Richard? Little Edward, true King of England, what happened to you?

One must not think of the boys, her mother had said. They must have died. . . . It is the only explanation.

Of course it was the only explanation, for if they lived and were not illegitimate as her Uncle Richard had proclaimed them to be, then Henry had no right to the throne and she was not the true Queen. And he must declare them legitimate for how could the King of England marry a bastard, for she must be one if her brothers were.

One certainly must not think of such things, particularly when one was about to bring a child into the world.

But the thoughts would keep intruding . . . terrible thoughts. There had been a rumor when her aunt, Queen Anne, wife of Uncle Richard was near to death that she, Elizabeth, and the King had conspired together to poison her. It was monstrous. It was absurd. Her Uncle Richard had never shown anything but devotion toward his wife and never never had she, Elizabeth, considered marriage to him. Her own uncle! It was criminal. And all for the sake of being Queen of England!

He must have felt the same horror for when the Queen died he sent her away from Court, and she had been more or less a prisoner at his castle of Sheriff Hutton in the North because he knew that there had been a secret betrothal to Henry Tudor.

That was her life—buffeted from one situation to another. Never was she consulted as to her wishes. They would do with her as best suited them. Received at Court one day, petted and pampered; and the next, banished to exile in what was more or less a prison.

At Sheriff Hutton she had been very much in the company of her cousin Edward, Earl of Warwick, who was the son of the Duke of Clarence—that brother of her father’s who had died in the Tower of London by drowning in a butt of malmsey. Poor Edward, his lot had been very sad. He had been only three years old when his father had died; his mother was already dead and poor little orphan that he was he was happy for a while in the care of his aunt Anne, then Duchess of Gloucester soon to be Queen of England. There had been a time, after the death of King Richard’s son, when Richard had thought to make young Edward his heir but the boy had continued at Sheriff Hutton, so that when Elizabeth had come there, she had found him already installed and a friendship grew up between them.

There they had been together at the time of the fateful battle of Bosworth, which was to change the lives of so many, among them the two who were virtually prisoners at Sheriff Hutton.

Elizabeth had come to Court to marry the new King; and the young Earl of Warwick for no other reason than he was a threat to the new King’s position was brought to London and lodged in the Tower.

Elizabeth was concerned for him; she would have liked to visit him, to ask her husband—or her husband’s mother—for what reason her young cousin Edward was confined in the Tower. What had he done—apart from being the son of the Duke of Clarence who might be said to have claim to the throne?

When she had broached the subject with Henry, that cold veiled look, which she was beginning to know so well, had come into his eyes.

“He is best there,” he had said with a note of finality in his voice.

As the Countess of Richmond had said: “The King will know how best to act.”

But it is wrong . . . wrong . . . she thought . . . to imprison him just because . . .

She tried not to think beyond that, but the thoughts would persist: Just because he has a greater claim to the throne than Henry Tudor. . . . After the sons of Edward the Fourth there is the son of his brother George Duke of Clarence. . . . But where are the sons of Edward the Fourth? Where are my little brothers Edward and Richard?

It was amazing how her thoughts came back and back to that question.

But the pains were starting again, and there was nothing else she could think of.

The King was out hunting when he heard the disturbing news that the child was on the point of being born. He was alarmed. It was too soon. Not only must this child be a boy, he must live. He was sure that if this could come about he would be secure upon the throne.

It meant everything to him. He believed he had all the gifts necessary to kingship. He believed he knew what England needed to make her a great country and he could bring this about. He hated war, which he was sure brought little profit to any concerned in it. He had seen what the Hundred Years War and the Wars of the Roses had done to England. He wanted peace. He wanted trade. Edward the Fourth had seen the virtue of that and it was obvious that the country has prospered under him. He wanted to encourage the arts for he felt they enriched a nation; he wanted to accumulate wealth, for if the coffers of the exchequer were fuller a country lost its vulnerability and the money could be used to encourage commerce and exploration, which would result in new markets; he could enrich the country through architecture and learning; the taxes enforced on the people should be used for its prosperity, not squandered on useless wars and other futile extravagances.

He knew what the country wanted and he knew he could give it. He knew too that he had reached the throne through good luck. The battle of Bosworth might so easily have gone the other way and probably would have done so but for the defection of his father-in-law’s brother, Sir William Stanley. Then he had his mother to thank for so much. She should always be near him . . . cherished, revered. Well, here he was and here he intended to stay; but he must never forget that his position could not be firm, coming down through bastardy as it did. Many would say that his grandfather Owen Tudor had never been married to Katherine of Valois and therefore their children were bastards—part royal bastards though they might be. Then even his mother, daughter of John Beaufort, first Earl of Somerset, and his sole heir, descended from John of Gaunt, could not be completely free from the taint of bastardy. He would have been the first to admit that his claim to the throne was a very flimsy one, which was the reason why he must be very careful and ever watchful that those who might be said to have a greater claim were in no position to rise against him.

He was uneasy about Edward, Earl of Warwick, but he was safely in the Tower and there he must remain. It was fortunate that the only legitimate son of Richard the Third had died. The Yorkists would say that Elizabeth of York was the heiress to the throne. Well, she was his wife. That had been the only possible marriage for him and he had to thank his good fortune that he had been able to bring it about. Elizabeth not only had a claim to the throne but she was also a good wife. His mother had said: “She will bring you great joy and little trouble.” That was what he needed. So he had his gentle Elizabeth, the legitimate daughter of Edward the Fourth, who had already shown that she could be fertile.

There was the core of his anxieties. If she were legitimate then so were her brothers.

He did not want to think of those boys who had been lodged in the Tower. He kept telling himself that he need not worry anymore about them. Richard had been a fool to remove them from the public eye after those rumors of their death. He had made one or two mistakes in his lifetime—the thoughtful Richard. Trusting the Stanleys was one—that had cost him his crown; and removing the Princes into obscurity had lost him his reputation.

“I am not by nature a cruel man,” mused the King. “I am not a natural murderer. But sometimes what would seem to be evil deeds are necessary for the good of many. Then surely they cease to be evil. And what are the lives of two little boys compared with the prosperity, well-being and lives maybe of an entire kingdom?”

He must put unpleasant thoughts behind him. That would be easy enough if it were not for the constant fear that ghosts could arise from the past to confront a man when he least expected them; and if that man were a king, the results could be disastrous. But it was folly to see trouble where it had not yet raised its head. Time enough for that when the moment of danger arose.

There was one big threat to the throne and that could come through Clarence’s son. Henry’s enemies might decide to strike at him and use the boy as a figurehead. There would always be those to remember that Henry was a Lancastrian and the Earl of Warwick a Yorkist heir to the throne—providing the young sons of Edward the Fourth were truly no more. But unless it was absolutely necessary the boy must not die yet. There must not be too many deaths.

These were uneasy thoughts, but a king’s thoughts were often uneasy, and he had always been prepared for that. Life had never been smooth. How many times had he believed his to be at an end? And how grateful he should be now that he had a chance to reach his destiny!

His good friend John Morton, Bishop of Ely, had assured him that God had chosen him. Morton should have the Archbishopric of Canterbury. He deserved it, and Henry was going to bestow it on him next month. He owed his life to Morton and that was something he would never forget. He promised himself that he would be ruthless toward his enemies, but every man who had shown friendship to him should have his gratitude.

His Uncle Jasper and Morton were the best friends he had ever had—not counting his mother, of course, but complete devotion was something which came naturally from a mother . . . perhaps an uncle too. Morton though—without ties of blood—had been his greatest friend.

He did, however, owe a great deal to his uncle Jasper Tudor. Jasper had been true to the Lancastrian cause even when its fortunes were at their very lowest. His mother had told him how very alarmed she was to be left alone with a young baby and she could not imagine what might have befallen them but for his uncle Jasper.

“I remember the day he came to me,” she had told her son. “He embraced me. He told me that he looked upon you as a sacred charge. The Tudors always stood together and as you had lost your father he was going to do for you all that a father should. I never forgot that. And he did, Henry. He carried out his word. Never forget what you owe to your uncle Jasper.”

No, he would never forget Jasper. As soon as he had come to power he had created him Duke of Bedford and made him a Privy Councillor; he had restored the earldom of Pembroke to him and made him Chief Justice of South Wales. No, he would never forget Jasper.

His education had been supervised by his uncle who had provided him with the best tutors.

“We have a boy here,” Jasper had said, “who loves learning. It would be a sin not to let him have the best.”

His mother had fully agreed with these sentiments, so he had become immersed in his lessons, particularly stories about the Kings Arthur and Cadwallader whom he claimed as his ancestors. He had quickly become aware of the uncertainty of life, for his uncle Jasper was constantly engaged in battles as the war raged, with the Lancastrians victorious one day and the Yorkists the next. After one heavy defeat, when Henry was only five years old, Jasper had been obliged to fly to Scotland; the boy had been taken from Pembroke Castle to the fortress of Harlech where he had remained in Lancastrian hands until he was nine years old.

That had been a terrifying time. Henry hated war. He would do so all his life. He was not going to be one of those warrior kings like Henry the Fifth and the First and Third Edwards who, it seemed to him, sought to make war when it was not necessary to do so and when it would have been so much better for them and their countries to have lived in peace. He could not say the same of his family’s arch enemy, Edward the Fourth, for he had fought only when war was forced upon him, when he had to make it or risk losing his crown. Henry could understand that a crown was something well worth fighting for.

When he was nine years old William Herbert had come and taken the castle of Harlech for the Yorkists—and young Henry with it. Then Henry had a new guardian and he was amazed that he could quickly grow fond of the Herberts, particularly Lady Herbert who treated him as he had never been treated before—as a child. Oddly enough he enjoyed that. She scolded him and looked to his comforts and was as affectionate toward him as though he were her own son. Lord Herbert had been given the title of Earl of Pembroke for this had been taken away from Jasper. Henry and young Maud Herbert did their lessons together, rode together, quarreled together and in truth found each other’s company very agreeable. Lady Herbert watching, thought that one day they might enter into an even closer relationship. Then there had been a new development in the war. Fortunes had been reversed. The newly created Earl of Pembroke was killed in battle, the Lancastrians were restored to power, Edward the Fourth fled the country, and Uncle Jasper returned.

That had been a very important time in young Henry’s life because he was taken to London and there presented to King Henry the Sixth, his father’s half-brother, who welcomed him warmly, complimenting him on his handsome looks and musing in his somewhat absentminded way that it might well be that in time a crown would grace that head.

That was when young Henry first began thinking of the possibility of becoming a king. He had noticed the deference bestowed on the King; he was delighted to hear that he was related to him; he went back to Wales and read more and more of Arthur and Cadwallader. He was one of them. He could one day be a king.

Uncle Jasper had been full of high hopes at that time. The King was gracious to his Tudor kinsmen. It was clear that he had been impressed—as far as his addled mind could let him be—and had been struck by the looks and learning of young Henry.

“If he stays secure on the throne,” said Jasper, “there will be a high place for you at Court, my boy.”

But poor mad Henry did not stay secure on the throne and it was not long before the mighty Edward returned to claim the crown and hold it with such firmness of purpose which, combined with the will of the people who had always loved him, showed quite clearly that York would be triumphant as long as the magnificent Edward was there to make it so.

Edward was shrewd. He did not like the thought of that boy being nurtured in Wales.

“It is clear that we are unsafe here,” said Uncle Jasper.

So they had left intending to go to France but a strong wind had blown them onto the coast of Brittany where they were cordially received by the Duke, Francis the Second.

It became obvious that it had been a wise action when Edward asked the Duke of Brittany to deliver young Henry Tudor to him. “I do not intend to make him a prisoner,” Edward had declared. “I would like to arrange a match for him with one of my daughters.”

Jasper had laughed aloud at that and decided they would stay in Brittany until what he called a more healthy climate prevailed in England.

Henry had often thought that one of the saddest things that could happen to a man or woman was to be an exile from his or her own country. Pray God it never happened to him again.

He would not be here this day if it were not for John Morton. What a good friend he had been—one who was ready to work for a cause and place his life in jeopardy! He had come through some difficult times, had John Morton. In spite of his Lancastrian leanings he had managed to win the confidence of Edward the King. What fools some men—even great men—were. Both Edward and Richard, whom he was ready to concede were wise in many ways, had been fools. They never seemed to doubt the loyalty of those about them; it appeared to be good enough for a man to profess friendship, for these Kings to accept his word. King Henry the Seventh would never be caught like that. He would trust no one who had not proved his worth—even then not too deply. His mother he would trust with his life; and Morton, yes, but not even him completely. He would always remember Richard’s trust in Stanley. How could he have been such a fool! That act of folly had lost him his crown—or contributed to it.

So Edward had trusted Morton and made him an executor of his will, and as Bishop of Ely Morton had been in a strong position when Edward died. Yet Richard had suspected him. Had he not been arrested at that famous council meeting in the Tower when Hastings had lost his head? But what had Richard done? Put the Bishop in the care of Buckingham. How could Richard have trusted Buckingham as long as he did!

The more he looked back to the past the more he saw that a king must be wary; he must be suspicious of all and he must not weaken in his vigil and his purpose and those who stood between him and the throne must in due course be eliminated. Not only for the sake of Henry Tudor but for the peace and prosperity of the land.

Be watchful then even of good friends like Morton who had once saved his life. He would never forget it; he would reward Morton; but he would be watchful of all men.

Yes, even Morton, though it was he who had sent warning to him when Richard was planning to capture him in Brittany, and so enabled him to escape to France in time. He owed his life to Morton. From Buckingham’s care Morton had escaped to Ely and from there to Flanders where he had joined Henry with plans for the landing, for the conquest which should give Henry the Kingdom.

And now here he was . . . married to Elizabeth, heiress of York, awaiting the birth of his son.

Who knew, at this moment the child might have arrived.

He spurred his horse and rode with all speed to Winchester.

The Queen lay back exhausted and triumphant. It was over. She had heard the cry of her child, and the Countess of Richmond was at her bedside holding the infant.

“A boy!” she cried. “Healthy enough . . . though small, as to be expected coming a month too soon.”

“A boy,” said the Queen, holding out her arms.

“Just for a few moments, my dear,” said the Countess. “You must not tire yourself. We are going to get you well as soon as we can. That would be the King’s command.”

“Where is the King?”

“He will be here soon. I long to see his face when he hears we have our boy.”

The Queen could see her mother standing there and she smiled at her.

“Dearest lady,” she said.

The Queen Mother was on her knees at the bedside. “We have our boy, my dearest,” she said. “A darling little boy. We must call him Edward after your father. And let us pray that he shall be such another as his grandfather.”

The Queen nodded and looked down at the child. But her mother-in-law was already taking him away.

“The Queen should have the baby for a while,” said Elizabeth Woodville. “He will be such a comfort to her.”

“The Queen is comforted indeed by the knowledge that she has a son. She is exhausted now and it is best for her to sleep.”

The Countess signed to the nurse. “Take the child now.” As the nurse did so she said, “I hear sounds of arrival. The King is here.”

She hurried out of the chamber and went to greet him. She wanted to be the first to tell him.

There he was, eager and apprehensive. She bowed. She never forgot the homage due to the King. Elizabeth Woodville had said that at every possible moment she reminded herself and everyone that he was the King and was warning all not to forget it.

He was looking at her expectantly.

“All is well,” she said. “We have our child. . . .” She could not resist holding back the vital information, perhaps because she felt that a few moments of anxiety would make the news more joyful.

“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.