Jean Plaidy (23 page)

He decided therefore to land a few men who could persuade the people that they came to deliver them from one who had no right to the throne while he, the true King, Richard the Fourth, was preparing to come and be their good lord.

But the people were not to be persuaded. The Mayor of Sandwich was there to meet them as they attempted to land. “We want none of you Pretenders here,” he declared. “We’re content with what we have and that’s an end to fighting. We’re not having that on our soil.”

Perkin’s troops realized that they were at a disadvantage and many of them rowed back to the ships. The others who had landed were immediately taken prisoner and their equipment captured.

When Henry heard what had happened he was delighted with his good people of Sandwich and Deal. They had taken over a hundred and sixty prisoners to send him, and the rest of the invading force at sea decided to give up the attempt, for the time at least, and make other plans for landing which might have a chance of success.

The people of Sandwich excitedly tied up their prisoners and sent them on to London in carts where they were received into the Tower and immediately sentenced to hanging. That the country might realize what happened to men who indulged in such actions against the King, they were publicly hanged in the coastal areas and from London to as far as Norfolk.

It was unfortunate that Perkin was not among them, but he had sailed on to Ireland.

Am I never to be free of this Perkin Warbeck? wondered the King. It was four years since he had first heard that name and it had haunted him ever since.

When would it end? Perhaps more important still, where would it end?

That September a sad event took place in the royal nurseries. The little Princess Elizabeth died. Young Henry had never taken much interest in her. She was a year or so younger than he was and that made her quite a baby. She was delicate and had to be specially taken care of, which to one in his robust health seemed a little contemptible.

The Queen came to Eltham—beautiful and remote. She was clearly very distressed by the state of her little daughter’s health. Henry wondered why, because she saw very little of her. It was Anne Oxenbrigge who made such a fuss, going about with red eyes and turning away every now and then to choke back her sobs.

Death! He knew it happened to traitors. He had seen their heads on poles. He used to count them when he rode through the streets from Eltham to Westminster or Shene. But that death should come to the royal nursery, that was different.

There were physicians everywhere. His father and his mother were in the nursery together. The rest of the children were sent out. They waited in an ante room; and then Arthur was called in.

“She is dying,” said Margaret. “We shall have no sister now.”

“I have one,” said Henry.

“I haven’t,” she said. “But I have two brothers. You only have one.”

“I don’t want two brothers.”

“You’re only a baby yet.”

How she liked to taunt him with that. It was because she knew it was what he hated more than anything.

“I don’t want any sisters either,” said Henry ominously.

“And I only want one brother … dear Arthur who is the nicest brother. I don’t want a silly baby brother… .”

Henry flew at her. He already showed signs of possessing a quick temper, which alarmed Anne Oxenbrigge.

It was Anne who came in now.

“For shame!” she said. “Fighting when your little sister is dying. What do you think the King and Queen would say to that?”

“They won’t know,” said Margaret slyly.

“God will,” Anne reminded her.

Both children were silent, contemplating the awfulness of God’s watching them.

“So,” went on Anne, having made her point, “you should be very careful.”

They were subdued. Henry whispered a prayer: “I didn’t mean it, God. It wasn’t my fault. It was Margaret. You know what a silly girl she is.”

He had made up his mind that he was always going to do what God would like, for he had heard it said that a king needed good allies and Henry had reasoned that God was the best ally any man could have.

The Queen had come out of the nursery. She came to the children and embraced them solemnly. They knew what that meant. Then Arthur came out with the King, and the King said very quietly: “My children, you have no sister Elizabeth now. She has gone to live with God and His angels.”

Elizabeth was buried in the new chapel her father had built in Westminster Abbey.

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.”