This town was within the domain of Margaret of York, the childless widow of the tyrannical Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, who had died in battle in 1477. The canny and politically astute Margaret was sister to the two last Yorkist kings and therefore was understandably eager for a Yorkist to again wear the crown of England.
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Whether or not she suspected Warbeck to be a fraud is not known and probably does not matter. He posed a viable and costly threat to Henry VII across the sea in England, and as such was well worth her support. The duchess therefore immediately officially recognised him as her long-lost nephew Richard, miraculously returned from the dead. She set him up accordingly, with all the sad trappings of exiled, penniless royalty: paid-for halberdiers dressed in the Yorkist livery of blue and murrey,
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an official residence in Malines and a comptroller of his meagre accounts. There was also his brand-new seal, bearing beneath the royal arms this proud inscription: ‘Secret seal of Richard IV, King of England and France and Lord of Ireland’.
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As presentation is half the battle, Margaret also carefully tutored him in the traditions and comportment of the Yorkist court. Did she really believe him to be an unfortunate victim of amnesia?
In August 1493 Warbeck had a chance to display his new-found courtly skills. He attended the funeral of the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick III
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in the Stefankirche in Vienna, where he was acknowledged as King Richard IV by Maximilian I, the new Archduke of Austria and Imperial King of the Romans, who had married Margaret’s stepdaughter.
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Back in England a rattled Henry VII railed against Duchess Margaret: ‘That stupid brazen woman … hates my own family with such bitterness … she remains bent on destroying myself and my children.’
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In a vain attempt to break her spirit, he imposed a trade embargo on Burgundy in retaliation for her support of Warbeck. Their income damaged, two angry English merchants hurled a bucket of night-soil at the pretender’s house in Antwerp in protest at his activities. The king must have been
positive in his own mind that Warbeck was an imposter, given his firm belief that the ‘Princes in the Tower’ were dead; certainly he was aware of Warbeck’s antecedents by July 1495.
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Henry probably reasoned that, imposter or not, the unwelcome reality was Warbeck’s warm reception and recognition by the European courts – and news of this was stirring black, treacherous forces in his realm.
His trade sanctions were too little, too late.
Support for ‘the king over the sea’ was growing at home and ominously, it seemed that the lethal contagion of treason was spreading even within the royal household. In January 1493, Sir John Radcliffe, First Baron Fitzwalter and the First Steward of Henry’s household, went over to the pretender. Two months later Henry VII’s step-uncle Sir William Stanley, his Lord Chamberlain, also tentatively declared for Warbeck, unwisely pledging that he ‘would not bear arms against King Edward’s son’.
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This was a humiliating setback for the king. Almost eight years earlier, Stanley’s last-minute decision with his brother Thomas (later First Earl of Derby) to support Henry Tudor was a decisive factor in the defeat of Richard III at Bosworth. It was all too clear that Henry VII had to snatch the initiative in what was becoming an increasingly serious threat to his crown.
His immediate actions to counter the menace of Perkin Warbeck seem slight, if not insignificant. But if the king was habitually cautious, he was also shrewd. Arthur was already Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester, and in 1492 the six year old was allotted the figurehead role of King’s Lieutenant – the ‘Keeper of England’ – when Henry was away in ‘remote parts’. In February the following year, the heir was granted powers to administer justice in Shropshire, Herefordshire, Gloucestershire and Worcestershire and the Welsh borders.
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The prince could also raise troops to assist the king and to enforce Henry’s laws.
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His commissioners’ enthusiasm for enforcing Arthur’s feudal rights led to a small but troubling insurrection in Meirionnydd, North Wales, in 1498.
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Henry reasoned it was now time to exploit the appeal and status of the second son. On 5 April 1493 the king made the infant Henry Lord Warden of the fourteen Cinque Ports on the south-east coast of England
and Constable of Dover Castle, that mighty fortress atop the white cliffs that guards the gates of England, facing the continent of Europe.
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It was a highly symbolic act. Not only was a royal prince now nominally in charge of the realm’s defensive front line – a deputy, Sir Edward Poynings (another of Henry VII’s loyal cronies from his exile), was the day-to-day operational commander – but the appointment was also deliberately linked with a name of famous memory. This possessed almost magical power in the history of the English monarchy: ‘Henry of Monmouth, Prince of Wales’, later King Henry V, was Lord Warden in 1409 – 12.
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Further prestigious offices followed: Earl Marshal of England and then, on 12 September 1494, his appointment as Lord Deputy of Ireland, the king’s personal representative in that unstable and disorderly island with control of the Irish government executive – although, of course, the faithful Poynings
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did all the hard work.
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Prince Arthur was the Tudor figurehead in Wales and its marches; his younger brother fulfilled that role in Ireland. Henry was firmly stamping the Tudor dynasty upon the administration of his kingdom and dominions.
A more signal honour came just over six weeks later. Henry VII created his three-year-old son Duke of York and a knight of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath. His intention was quite transparent. Here was no mere Johnny-come-lately imposter. What price the pretender’s claims when there was now a true Duke of York who was also a member of one of the most prestigious orders of chivalry of England? The king was determined to cut the ground from beneath Perkin Warbeck’s feet, so gaudily shod by Burgundian money. Ceremony, the glittering and awesome spectacle of a grand state occasion, was his chosen weapon.
The toddler was confronted with a seemingly impossible test of infant nerve and stamina. He was to be at the centre of an unintelligible and interminable series of elaborate rituals, full of strange sounds and vibrant colours, and amid a host of strangers, all in the unfamiliar and intimidating surroundings of Westminster. We can only guess at the problems of coaching the little boy at Eltham in preparation for his ordeal during the twenty-seven days between 2 October 1494, when the
writs for attending the initial ceremony of creating Henry a Knight of the Bath were issued by the royal household at Woodstock, Oxfordshire,
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and the date Henry was scheduled to make his triumphant entry into the City of London as a curtain-raiser. What tears and tantrums there must have been as hour after hour he was patiently taught his oath of fealty and indeed, the most risky part – how to stand still and silent for long periods without betraying boredom or his pressing need for a pisspot.
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The fun of trying on his coronet and robes and playing with his tiny sword surely alleviated the tedium of this training, but the ladies of his nursery probably frequently despaired of his performance on the day and must have shown considerable perseverance.
On 27 October, Henry VII travelled downriver from his Palace of Sheen to Westminster, together with the queen and his mother. Two days later he sent messengers to Eltham to summon little Henry to the ceremonies. At three that afternoon, the toddler rode a mighty warhorse through London, surrounded by representatives of the nobility. His horsemanship impressed the mayor, aldermen and members of the livery companies as the cavalcade clattered through the cobbled streets and on to Westminster.
The following day – Thursday 30 October – the child had his first taste of the ceremonial of being invested as a Knight of the Bath. At a small dinner
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in the king’s chamber at Westminster, he took part in the formalities of serving the king the main meal of the day. Happily, his was an easy task. Others tasted the food, brought in the dishes, poured the wine – Henry was involved in the simpler ritual of washing his royal father’s hands before and after the meal. Henry, Tenth Baron Clifford, held the heavy silver basin as John Bourchier, Third Lord Fitzwarren, poured in the warmed perfumed water. The king rinsed his fingers and his son bashfully offered him a white damask towel with which to dry his hands. The task done, the smiling father returned the towel to his little son, who respectfully bobbed his head and gingerly backed away, no doubt seeking instant reassurance on his performance and advice about what to do next.
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His tribulations were far from over. Henry now had to undergo the rituals of his knighthood, which involved bathing in a wooden tub in
the draughty king’s chamber before a long vigil during the dark, silent hours. This barrel was ‘royally dressed’ with linen and covered with thick mantles and carpets against the cold of the late October evening. Twenty-two other knights were being created that night, all with their own barrels lined up in rows in the Parliament Chamber, with the exception of the Lords Harrington
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and Fitzwarren who had theirs in the queen’s closet. Unlike their young fellow postulant knight, the others would have their ‘beards shaved and the heads rounded’ – their hair trimmed. All now had to be spiritually cleansed.
After the naked Henry clambered awkwardly into the warm bath, John de Vere, Earl of Oxford and Great Chamberlain of England, stepped forward. Kneeling down, he read out the so-called ‘advertisement’ to the child – the formal creed or way of life that must be pursued by a new knight:
Be ye strong in the faith of Holy Church, (steadfast and abiding in word, [a] manly protector unto Holy Church) and widows, and maidens oppressed relieve, as right commands.
Give ye to each one his own, with all thy mind, above all things love and dread God and above all other earthly things love the King the sovereign lord, him, and his right defend unto thy power, and before all worldly things put him in worship …
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This was pure gobbledygook to a child aged just three: only years later would he grasp the full import of these stentorian words concerning a subject’s allegiance, loyalty and faithfulness to the wearer of the crown of England.
Then, out of the gloom appeared his father, his lean, fine-featured face lit by the bright golden candlelight. The king dipped his hand into the bathwater and with his finger made the sign of the cross on his son’s right shoulder. He then bent down and kissed the mark. After a few reassuring words to the toddler, Henry VII departed to fulfil the same ritual for all the other knights, accompanied by Oxford.
The child was taken out of the bath by his ‘governors’, put into an adjacent bed and gently dried. But there was no respite or slumber for the little boy. He was dressed in the coarse robes of a pious
anchorite and conducted in procession, the footfalls echoing through the silence of the labyrinthine Palace of Westminster, to St Stephen’s Chapel
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to pray. Like the others, Henry must have been given a gold coin – a noble, worth 6s 8d (33 pence) – to hand over to the Sergeant of the Royal Confectionary in return for a spiced cake to nibble and wine to sip, as tradition dictated. There in the flickering light of the chapel with its colourful wall paintings in gold, vermillion and blue and the central images of the Adoration of the Magi below the east window, the knights kept vigil on their knees. Each one then confessed to one of the thirteen chaplains or canons attached to the chapel, received absolution and finally all heard a short Mass. They were then allowed to return to their cold beds for the few hours left before dawn.
It would have seemed like a dream (or a nightmare) to such a small child. It is beyond belief that Henry stayed awake through those hours of cold, cheerless vigil unless there was an attendant alongside him to ensure that he did so, by means of a gentle, respectful prod at the appropriate moment. In the event, he enjoyed only a short nap before being woken by de Vere, the sixteen-year-old Algernon Percy, Fifth Earl of Northumberland,
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and Henry Bourchier, Second Earl of Essex, a member of the king’s Privy Council. They hurriedly dressed him in his shirt and robes.
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Two by two, the new knights rode into Westminster Hall, led by Henry. A contemporary account describes the scene in that ancient raftered building:
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The Lord William Courtenay bore the Lord Henry’s sword and spurs, the pommel [of the sword] upward and when he … alighted from his horse, Sir William Sandys [carried] him to the king’s presence.
There, the Earl of Oxford took the sword and spurs and presented the right spur to the king [who] commanded the Duke of Buckingham to put it at the right heel of Lord Henry and likewise the left spur to the Marquis of Dorset.
And then the king girded his sword about him and after dubbed him knight in manner accustomed, then set him upon the table.
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