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

The Death of

a Queen

n her nunnery at Bermondsey Elizabeth Woodville heard of her daughter Cecilia’s marriage and that the King had accepted it with a philosophical shrug of the shoulders.

This meant, Elizabeth knew, that he felt secure now Arthur was progressing well. Oh why should she be kept from her grandchild! Why should she be kept here? What an end to a career of such brilliance! But looking back there had been many times like this when she had had to remain shut away from the world as the only way to preserve her life. She was tired of it. If the Queen could persuade the King to accept Cecilia’s marriage why could she not bring her mother back to Court?

The answer was simple. The first did not affect the King one whit; the second might. Henry Tudor will always take care of Henry Tudor, thought Elizabeth bitterly.

Every day she expected to hear news of Scotland. That James would agree she had no doubt. She had at one time been reckoned to be the most beautiful woman in England and beauty such as hers did not disappear; it became a little faded—a little subdued sounded better—but she was still a very beautiful woman and with the right clothes and environment could toss aside the years as though they were tennis balls.

To Scotland! She had heard the climate was dour and the manners of the people not the most gracious in the world, but it would be better than remaining here, shut away from the Court, living in a kind of disgrace and with the knowledge that the King would always be suspicious of her if she went back to Court, and she could be sure that mother of his would never be far away.

Scotland was the best she could hope for, and why should she not make a success of her new role? She was not young, but nor was the King of Scotland. She calculated that he would be just under forty. Mature, very glad no doubt to have for his wife a beautiful woman who had been a Queen of England.

She would try to forget her family here. Elizabeth who had become the Queen; Cecilia who had married Lord Wells and now, she heard, had retired with him to the country; Anne who was just thirteen and who would soon be having a husband found for her; Catherine who was but eight years old and Bridget who was a year younger and destined for a nunnery. All girls left to her and two little boys lost forever. No, she must stop herself trying to solve that mystery. It would bring no good. All this she must forget. She must put the past behind her. She must think of the new life in Scotland.

It would be entirely new . . . a new world to conquer. Her spirits were lifted considerably. She felt almost as she had that day when she, the desperately impoverished widow, mother of two boys by the dead John Grey, had gone out to Whittlebury Forest and made a name for herself in history.

Now . . . here was another chance. Queen of Scotland. The more she thought of the past, the more she considered her prospects for the future, the more she felt that her salvation was in Scotland.

She read of Scotland; she studied the history of Scotland; and what a tumultuous history it had! The Scots seemed to be more warlike than the English and one noble house was for ever at odds with another.

It would be primitive of course. The Scottish castles were as drafty as the English ones and there was a colder climate with which to contend. She would need fur cloaks and rugs; she visualized great fires roaring in the rooms of the castles; she could bring a more gracious way of life to that unruly race.

Each day she became more and more eager to leave. She knew that the delay in receiving an answer from James was probably due to the fact that he was now engaged in a war.

She would try to teach them that diplomacy worked so much more effectively than bloodshed. She would introduce a little culture into the Court. She would have friends visiting her from England.

One afternoon a visitor called at the nunnery. She was wrapped in a concealing cloak and she had two ladies with her. The Queen Mother was called down to greet the visitors and when one of them stepped forward and threw back her hood, she saw that it was no other than her daughter, the Queen.

She gave a cry of joy and ran forward to embrace her.

The young Queen was almost in tears.

“Dear mother,” she said. “I am so happy to see you. I trust you are well.”

The Queen Dowager said that she was well indeed, and would be quite fit to travel when the time came.

“Dear lady,” said the Queen, “I would speak with you alone.” She signed to her attendants to fall back, which they did, and Elizabeth Woodville took her daughter to her apartments. There she dismissed her servants and the two Queens sat down to talk.

The young Elizabeth seemed as though she did not know where to begin and her mother said: “Have you news of Cecilia?”

“Only that she is well and happy and enjoying life in the country.”

“She has been fortunate in escaping the wrath of the King. Not like her poor mother. It was a very rash and reckless thing she did.”

“But it harmed no one,” said the young Queen firmly. “Dear lady, there is news from Scotland and that is why I felt I must come to you with all speed.”

News from Scotland. James was waiting for her. How soon could she set forth? In a week. . . . Not less, she supposed.

“Well?” she prompted, for her daughter seemed to find it difficult to proceed.

“James is dead, my lady. He was killed in battle.”

“God has indeed deserted me.”

“Oh my dear mother, did you so long to go to Scotland?”

“Who does not wish to escape from prison?”

“But you have your comforts here.”

“I lack freedom, my daughter.”

“It will not always be so.”

“Have you spoken to the King?”

“He believes that it is for your own good to be here.”

“Henry believes what is for his good is always so for that of other people.”

“You must not talk thus of the King. You will want to hear of the sad end of the King of Scotland?”

“Slain in a battle, you say?”

“Yes . . . in a way. There was a revolt of the feudal houses.”

“There were always revolts.”

“I fear so. There were powerful men in this one . . . Angus, Huntly, Glamis. . . . They met the King’s forces and defeated him. He was in retreat with a few of his followers and went to a well for water. While they were there a woman came with her bucket and James could not resist saying to her: ‘This morning I was your King.’ He told her that he was wounded and wanted to confess his sins to a priest. He begged her to find one and send the man to him, and she promised to do this. But what she did was to inform the townsfolk that the King was at the well and wanted a priest. There were some of the enemy forces in the town and one of these disguised himself as a priest. James was waiting at the well when the bogus minister arrived. The King fell on his knees and entreated the priest to shrive him, whereupon the man drew his sword and saying, ‘I will give you short shrift’ slew the King. That is the story, my lady.”

“So I have lost my King,” said Elizabeth Woodville.

“Dear lady, do not be so sad. You never knew him.”

“He was to be my salvation.”

“Oh come, dear mother. If you truly repent of what you did I am sure the King will forgive you. You are happy here. Why you live as luxuriously as you would at Court. It may be that in time the King will find another noble husband for you. But it will not be Scotland now.”

“Adieu Scotland,” said the Queen Mother slowly. “Adieu my King whom I never knew.”

She looked about her apartments.

“I have a feeling that I shall end my days here,” she said.

The King was feeling a little melancholy. He had just received the members of the embassy he had sent to Spain; they had been cheerful, optimistic, certain that their efforts would bear fruit, but Henry had never been one to deceive himself. He knew that whatever compliments had been paid and promises hinted at, nothing had really been achieved. He knew the reason why and it was that reason which he found so disturbing.

Arthur was at the very heart of his safety. He had thought himself the luckiest man in England when he had defeated Richard at Bosworth—or at least his armies had. Henry himself was no great general. His strength lay in his ability to govern rather than wield a sword—which men of good sense should know was more important for a king. They did not seem to, though—and if the time came for him to protect his kingdom he would need to shine on battlefields as well as in council chambers. That was what he dreaded.

He was never sure from one moment to the next whether someone might leap out to kill him. Every rustle of a curtain set him wondering; every time there was a knock on his door he wondered who would enter. It would get better when he felt more secure on his throne. It must be thus with all those who are not strictly in the line of succession.

The Lambert Simnel affair had worried him far more than he would admit. Not because it had had much hope of success—not because the baker’s boy could have been anything but an impostor—but because it showed how easily these rebellions could arise and how many people—even with only the flimsiest causes—would rise to support them.

And now here was the embassy from Spain. If it had brought back results—a signed agreement . . . something like that, he would have had an indication that he was accepted as a King of England, likely to remain firm on his throne. But it was not so. The embassy had come back empty handed.

The fact was that Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain had a family—one son and four daughters; and the youngest of these daughters was Katherine who was a year older than Arthur. Henry believed fervently in alliance between powerful countries, and a marriage of the children of the rulers was the best safeguard for peace. It had seemed to him that if Ferdinand and Isabella would give their daughter Katharine in marriage to his son Arthur, it would show the world that the monarchs of Spain believed in the stability of the King of England. Moreover Spain and England would be powerful allies against the King of France. This might appeal to Ferdinand and Isabella; it was the fact on which he had pinned his hopes. But he knew that the sovereigns would not want to form an alliance with a king whose grip on his crown was far from steady.

So he had listened to his ambassadors newly returned from Medina del Campo with gloomy attention and nothing they could say of the lavish Spanish hospitality, the gifts they had brought back with them, could dispel his melancholy.

Isabella and Ferdinand would not commit themselves to an alliance between Arthur and Katharine because they were not convinced that Arthur’s father would be able to keep his hold on the throne.

“Let us face the facts,” he said to John Dudley. “We have wasted the money we have spent on this embassy.”

Dudley was not sure of that.

“At the moment,” he said, “they are unsure. They will have heard of the Lambert Simnel affair and it has shaken them.”

“To think this could have come about through that baker’s boy!”

“It is not exactly through him, Sire. It is the fact that Margaret of Burgundy supported him . . . among others . . . and the indication that there are people who are ready to rise against you.”

The King nodded gloomily. “As I say, we need never have wasted the money.”

“It may not have been wasted. We have sown a seed. It may well be that later, when they see you have come to stay, they will change their minds. The children are so young yet and therefore marriage could not take place for several years. So much can happen in even a short time. And, Sire, we are going to show them that in spite of Lambert Simnel and any like him, King Henry the Seventh is here to stay.”

“You are right, of course, my lord. But it is a disappointment. I should have liked Arthur to be betrothed to Spain.”

“It will come, Sire. Wait. Let us be watchful and patient. Let us be ready for these troubles when they arise. Lambert Simnel has done us no real harm. You have shown the people that you can quell a rebellion, and it was a master stroke to send the boy to the kitchens. We need patience. Let us not be unduly troubled by the evasiveness of the Spaniards. The money has not really been wasted. The idea is sown in their minds. What we have to show them is that your throne is secure. Then we shall have them suing us for the marriage.”

Henry knew Dudley was right. With luck he would succeed. The result of his careful policies would soon be evident; and if he could get another son he would feel very confident in the future.

In the late spring there was good news. His efforts with the Queen were rewarded. Elizabeth was once more pregnant.

At the end of October Elizabeth the Queen went into retirement in the Palace of Westminster to prepare for the birth of her child. It was not due for another month but in view of Arthur’s early arrival it had been thought wise for the Queen to be prepared.

Margaret Countess of Richmond had arranged the household as she had for the birth of Arthur, and this time she was not harassed by the presence of Dowager Queen Elizabeth Woodville who, to the Countess’s great satisfaction, was still confined at Bermondsey.

The Countess had made a list of all her requirements.

“There must be two cradles,” she had told Elizabeth, “the cradle of state decorated with cloth of gold and ermine and that other in which the baby will sleep.”

Elizabeth listened contentedly. She was delighted to have her mother-in-law to rely on; and as she never questioned any of the Countess’s requirements there was perfect amity between them.

“We must have a good wet nurse . . . that is most important—a strong healthy young woman and her food shall be considered most carefully so that she can give the baby all due nourishment. Then we need a dry nurse, sewers, panterers and rockers of course.”

“As with Arthur,” said the Queen.

“Exactly so. Oh my dear Elizabeth, if this proves to be a boy I shall be overjoyed. Now I have arranged for a physician to be in attendance with the wet nurse at all her meals. That is most important for the health of the child.”

“How good you are.”

“I long to see you with a family of children . . . boys and some girls . . . for girls have their important parts to play in affairs of state.”

“I do agree.”

“I have my eyes on a good woman. She will give birth at the same time as you do. She is a respectable woman and this is not her first child. She has remarkably good health and has reared other children most satisfactorily. Her name is Alice Davy. The day-nurse will be Alice Bywimble. She is a good woman and I have two very good rockers. I have prevailed upon the King to pay them three pounds six shillings and eightpence a year. He thought it a great deal of money for such people but I have impressed on him the need to pay these people more than they would get in an ordinary household to make them realize the importance of serving a royal child.”

“And did he agree?” asked the Queen, wondering for a moment whether she would have to take sides with the King against her mother-in-law and thinking how awkward that would be.

“Oh I brought him round to my point of view,” said the Countess complacently, implying that she could always do that—even with the King.

Elizabeth was relieved. She reached out a hand and took that of the Countess.

“My lady, I thank you. I am so grateful to have you here to take care of these matters.”

“My dear, dear daughter, you cannot be happier than I. You know what my son means to me . . . apart from the fact that he is the King and ruler of us all, and I will say this—that although you come from a house which has for so long been the enemy of my own, there is none I would rather see my son married to than you.”

Elizabeth was deeply moved.

It was so easy to remain in loving friendship with her mother-in-law. All she asked was agreement in everything she did and as she was a very wise woman, this worked out ideally for Elizabeth.

The days began to pass at Westminster. It was quite clear that the new baby was not going to make a premature appearance, but arrived on the night of the twenty-ninth of November of that year 1489, which was exactly the time it was due.

The child was rather disappointingly a girl. But a strong healthy girl—more lusty than Arthur had been.

The Queen requested that she should be called after the King’s mother to whom she owed so much, and the King was most graciously pleased to agree.

So in due course the Princes Margaret joined her brother Arthur in the royal nurseries.

It was pleasant to retire to Greenwich. There she would stay until the birth of the child, for Elizabeth was once again in what people who do not have to endure it call a happy condition.

The nursery now contained Arthur who was five years old and Margaret nearly two. Arthur was a gentle, serious child, already showing an interest in his books. Perhaps this was because he was a little delicate. The King watched him anxiously. He was afraid something might happen to Arthur who was more than a son to him; he was one of the chief reasons why the people wanted him to remain King.

Minors were a menace. That had been the lesson of the ages. What the people always wanted was a strong king who had a son or sons in his youth so that by the time he died there would be someone strong to take his place.

“How I do hope this one will be a boy,” prayed Elizabeth.

Margaret was already showing herself to be a somewhat forceful little creature. She wanted her own way all the time and invariably got it, for she had grown out of the childish way of screaming for it and employed more devious methods to cajole the guardians of the nursery. The only person of whom Margaret seemed to feel some awe was her grandmother the Countess of Richmond, for the child was shrewd enough to recognize that there was a lady to be obeyed, and although she avoided having to comply whenever she could, she did know when it would be expedient to do so.

Elizabeth prayed that Arthur’s health might be improved and Margaret’s temper controlled and contemplated what the new one would be like.

She enjoyed being at Greenwich—less important of course than Winchester, the birthplace of Arthur, or Westminster, that of Margaret. But this one after all was but a third child.

There was a peace here among the green fields with the river meandering through them. She was not surprised that the Romans had called it Grenovicum when they had seen it and later the Saxons had named it Grenawic—the Green Town. It had been a royal residence since the days of Edward Longshanks and it had become increasingly popular ever since. Henry had enlarged the Palace and because the river was encroaching had added a brick wall along the waterfront. The tower in the Park had been started years ago and not finished until Henry had it completed. He was now talking about building a monastery for the Grey Friars who lived in the district. It seemed strange that Henry should consider spending money on such things for he was usually so careful and hated to see it, as he always said, “wasted.” But this was different. This was adding to the wealth of the country. He said: “It is important that we preserve our buildings.”

She was glad. It was lovely to see the old Palace as it should be. The people at Greenwich were pleased too and they were delighted that she had come here for her accouchement.

It was hot that June; she found the room stifling but of course it had to be closed in. These were the orders of the Countess of Richmond who said they must always comply with Court etiquette.

“Leave everything to me,” said the Countess. “All you have to do, my dear, is produce a healthy boy.”

“Pray God I do,” she replied fervently.

In London the sweating sickness was plaguing the people and the King had been very anxious that she come quickly to the cooler, fresher air of Greenwich, so here in this Palace with the tall mullioned windows and the lovely shade of terracotta in the tiled floors, she felt comfortable and secure. All she had to do was stay in her apartments with her women around her and wait.

It was comforting to know that the Countess of Richmond was at hand.

Oh God, she continued to pray, let this one be a boy.

And on a hot June day her prayers were answered.

Her child was born; strong, lusty, informing the castle of his arrival within a few minutes of his birth by his piercing cry.

The King came to Greenwich. This was a happy day. The new baby was of the desired sex and he seemed as healthy as his sister Margaret was proving to be. Another addition to the nursery and a boy! It was something to thank God for.

His birth was, of course, not of the same importance as Arthur’s, but he was the son of the King, and although while Arthur lived he would be of secondary importance it was always wise to have some boys in reserve.

The King was therefore pleased and although the festivities in honor of the child would not compare with those which had announced the birth of the heir to the throne they should be commensurate with his rank of second son to the King.

It was decided that the boy should be baptized only a few days after his birth, which was always a wise procedure, for so many healthy-seeming children died suddenly for no apparent reason. Bishop Fox came to Greenwich expressly to perform the ceremony and the Church of the Observants there had been specially decorated. The King had ordered that the font be brought from Canterbury for the occasion and there were carpets on the floor—a very special luxury and a wonder to those who beheld them and who were accustomed to seeing rushes there.

The little boy was discreetly divested of his garments and carried to the font into which he would be dipped, and all present marveled at the size of the baby and remarked that he was perfect in every way.

Bishop Fox proclaimed to all those present that he named the boy Henry.

Henry. It was a good name—his father’s name.

Only the child was indifferent and in spite of his extreme youth he appeared to look on at the scene with calm aloofness.

After being wrapped in a white garment he was taken from the church back to the Palace, with the musicians marching before him playing their trumpets and drums, to the Queen’s presence chamber where Henry and Elizabeth—who had not attended the ceremony in the church—were waiting to receive the procession.

The child was carried to the Queen, who took him into her arms and murmured a blessing. Then the King took the child and did the same.

All those present looked on smiling.

“Long live Prince Henry,” murmured the Countess of Richmond and the cry was taken up throughout the chamber.

Life had not gone smoothly for the Queen Dowager since she had lost the King of Scotland. She had suddenly realized that her days of power were over. It was scarcely likely that the King would find another husband for her now. She could not reconcile herself to spending the rest of her life in a convent. Yet it seemed that that was the intention of the King and his overbearing mother; and if it was their wish it would be very difficult for her to evade it.

She spent most of the days in dreaming of the past. It is a sorry state of affairs when a woman who once enslaved a king has come to this, she thought.

She was not so very old. It was true that she would not see fifty again, but she was still beautiful and she had always been mindful of her outstanding beauty and had sought to preserve it. If she were fifty-five years of age she certainly did not look it. And yet of late she had begun to feel it. She experienced unaccountable little aches and pains, an inability to breathe easily, the odd little pain here and there.

Age! How tiresome it was. If only she were young as she had been when she had gone into Whittlebury Forest. But she must stop brooding on the past. But could she when the past had been so thrilling, so exciting, so adventuresome . . . and now . . . what was she? A queen still, mother of a queen . . . but a queen who had become the tool of a cold stern man who was quite immune to the charms and wisdom of his mother-in-law.

Of course it is that woman, she thought. Surely the mother of the Queen carries as much weight as the mother of the King . . . or should do when the Queen had far more right to the throne than the King had, who in fact had acquired it largely through his marriage with the daughter of Elizabeth Woodville.

It was old ground and perhaps she shouldn’t go over it perpetcually. And yet how could she help it? What was there to do in her nunnery except relive the glories of the past?

One morning when she awoke she began to cough and during the day found great difficulty in breathing. Her attendants propped her up with cushions and that eased her a little but by nightfall she felt very weak.

She thought: Is this the end then? Is this how death comes?

She thought of Edward the King who had been so strong and well one day and then had had that fit of apoplexy, which she was sure had been brought on by the shock of hearing that the King of France had broken his treaty with him, and their daughter was not to be Madame La Dauphine after all. But he had recovered from that and seemed well . . . but soon afterward quite suddenly he had died after catching a cold when he was out fishing.

It was better if death came swiftly. Who wanted to outlive one’s power? Certainly no one who had enjoyed so much as Elizabeth Woodville. But the thought of death was sobering when one brooded on all the sins one had committed, all the things one should have done and those which had been left undone.

A woman has to live . . . to fight her way through, particularly if she has after much success been visited by adversity.

But she had outlived her power . . . and her wealth. She had very little left for herself after having supported her girls. It would have been different if her son had come to the throne . . . little Edward the Fifth. Little son, what happened to you there in the Tower? What dark secret is hidden from me? You were the delight of our lives when you were born in Sanctuary, your father overseas, striving to come back and claim his throne. You were delicate. I know you suffered some pain. I was glad you had your brother Richard with you in the Tower. You wanted him to be with you so much. Yet if I had not let him go to you . . . perhaps he would be with us now.

In her heart she admitted that she had let him go for the sake of her freedom. It was an ultimatum they had delivered to her. Suppose she had held Richard back? Would he have been King now? Never. The Tudor would have come just the same and taken the throne.

If Edward were living today what would he think? The first thing he would do would be to take up arms and drive the Tudor from the throne. He would see the red rose trampled in the dust, the white triumphant.

But the white rose lived on in Henry’s wife, the present Queen. That was the irony of it. Lancaster and York reigning side by side—but it was only token power for York. It was Lancaster through Henry Tudor who wielded the real power.

The pain in her chest was growing worse.

“I should like to see my daughters,” she said.

Cecilia was the first to come. She knelt by the bed, alarmed to see the beautiful face so pale and sunken.

“Dear mother,” she said, “you must get well.”

“I feel I never shall again, my child,” said Elizabeth. “This is the end. Do not look so sad. We all have to go sometime and I have had a good life. Where is the Queen?”

“She has taken to her lying-in chamber. Her time is very near.”

“She does her duty by the Tudor. I hear young Henry flourishes.”

“Indeed, yes. He and Margaret are fine healthy children. I wish I could say the same for Arthur.”

“I never believed in that closed-in room, but the Countess insisted.”

“Margaret and Henry were born in the same conditions,” Cecilia gently reminded her. “Dear lady, should you not rest?”

“There is a long rest ahead of me. Cecilia, I am glad you are provided for. Is Lord Wells a good husband?”

“The best of husbands.”

“Then you are fortunate. And you lack for nothing, I believe. He is very rich.”

“We are very comfortable and happy, my lady.”

“I wish the others had been a little older so that I could see them settled.”

“Elizabeth will provide for them.”

“She must when I can no longer do so. I have very little to leave, Cecilia. You find me in dire poverty. I have been growing poorer and poorer.”

“But our father left you well provided for, did he not?”

“When York lost to Lancaster . . . I lost much of what he left to me. Your father’s personal property is in the hands of your grandmother. Cecily of York is one of the most avaricious old women I ever heard of.”

“Think not of money now, dear mother. Rest your voice.”

The Queen Dowager smiled and nodded. “Sit by my bed, dear child,” she said. “Hold my hand. I loved you all dearly . . . far more than I ever showed you.”

“We were so happy when we were children, dear mother. You and our father were like a god and goddess to us. We thought you perfect.”

“Neither of us was that, dear child, but whatever else we were we were loving parents.”

Seventeen-year-old Anne arrived next with her sisters Catherine and Bridget the youngest who had come from her convent at Dart-ford to be at her mother’s bedside. Anne was a source of anxiety to the Queen Dowager because she was seventeen years old, ripe for marriage. Who would look after her now? Elizabeth the Queen must do that. Catherine was eleven; there was time yet for her. Bridget was the only one whose future was assured for she was preparing herself to take the veil.

Elizabeth looked at them through misty eyes. Her beloved children. Was it only eleven years ago that Edward had been alive and they had rejoiced at the birth of this daughter?

She held out her hands to them. The younger girls looked at her with alarmed dismay. They had never seen her like this before, poor children, thought Cecilia. She looks so ill. I really believe this is the end.

“Bless you, dear daughters,” said the Queen Dowager. “I think I shall be gone before Whitsuntide.”

“Where shall you go?” asked Catherine.

“To Heaven, I hope, sweet child.”

Then the little girls began to weep and Bridget knelt down by the bed and prayed as she had seen the nuns do.

“Good-bye, my dear ones. Remember this. No parents ever loved their children more than the King and I loved you. Sad events have fallen upon us but we must make the best of them. . . .Your sister, the Queen, will care for you.”

Catherine said: “Dear mother, I think I should send for the priest.”

On the following day Elizabeth Woodville died.

It was Whit Sunday when the Queen Dowager’s body was taken along the river to Windsor.

There was a very simple funeral. Only the priest of the college received the coffin, and some Yorkists who had come out to see the end of great Edward’s Queen murmured together that such a hearse was like those used for the common people.

Was this the way in which King Henry honored the House of York? What was all this talk of the roses entwining—the uniting of white and red—when a Yorkist queen was buried with no more ceremony than the humblest merchant?

On the following Tuesday the daughters of Elizabeth Woodville—Catherine, Anne and Bridget—came to Windsor. Cecilia was at the time unwell but her husband Lord Wells came in her stead.

The burial itself was performed with as little expense as possible. Even black clothes had not been provided for those who had been engaged to sing the dirges and they appeared in their working garments. This was unheard of for a royal personage—and a queen at that.

There was a great deal of murmuring. “The Queen should have provided proper mourning for her mother,” said many.

“The Queen has no power and the King is a miser.”

But at least she was buried where she would have wished to be—in St. George’s Chapel beside her husband King Edward the Fourth.

Henry was relieved. He had always been uneasy concerning his mother-in-law. He had never trusted her and in his suspicious mind he saw the possibilities of her being at the center of an intrigue to drive him from the throne. The animosity between Elizabeth Woodville and the Countess of Richmond had been more than feminine bickering. The Countess had seen danger in the woman, for like her son’s, her own life had prepared her to look for trouble.

But now Elizabeth Woodville was dead; the Queen was delivered of another child—a girl, Elizabeth, this time and delicate like Arthur. The King was thankful that he had the robust Henry and Margaret to show they could get healthy children. Four was a goodly number and the Queen was still young, and if a little delicate that did not seem to impair her ability to bear children.

He fancied too that on the continent they were beginning to regard him as a formidable figure in world politics. The King of France had just shown a healthy respect for him; and he was delighted because he was going to be spared the necessity of going to war.

He had been drawn into an agreement with the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian, and Isabella and Ferdinand. He was particcularly eager to have the friendship of the Spanish monarchs because he saw through an alliance with them a bulwark against the perennial enemy, the French, and he was still hoping for a marriage between their daughter Katharine and his own Arthur. He hated war, seeing it as senseless and costly, but he had come to the point where he had found it impossible to back out.

Dudley and Empson had said that it would be necessary to raise the money from the people. It was a strange and sobering fact that while the people were reluctant to pay taxes in order to increase industry they were ready to do so to go to war, and there had been many a squire who had sold part of his estates in order to equip himself for war. Why? Did he think the spoils he would bring back would compensate him, or was it just the lust for conflict? War was no good to anyone, was Henry’s theory; and he could not understand why when this had been so well proved through the ages, men still wanted to indulge in it.

But because it had been impossible to evade it he had landed an army in France and laid siege to Boulogne, and although this had not proved outstandingly successful as the town was very well fortified, the French King sued for peace—offering to pay Henry’s expenses and a sum of money if he would retire from the field.

The acquisition of money had always been a pleasure to Henry and to get it without the loss of men or equipment seemed to him a heaven-sent opportunity.

There were people to murmur against it, for operations like this, while so profitable to the leaders, were scarcely so to those who had sold part of their estates to enable them to join the expedition and then returned empty-handed.

However Henry was delighted. He accepted the offer, made peace and came back to England.

It was while he was congratulating himself with those devoted and efficient statesmen Dudley and Empson, that he received news which shattered his peace.

A young man had presented himself to the peers of Ireland with the story that he was Richard Duke of York, second son of King Edward the Fourth whose disappearance with his brother had caused such speculation some years before.

His brother—who was in truth Edward the Fifth—declared this young man, had been murdered. But he, the second son, had escaped. He had called himself Peter Warbeck and had remained in obscurity until the time was opportune for him to take the throne.

He was now gathering together an army—he had the support of some influential people including the Duchess of Burgundy—and was coming to take the throne from the usurper Henry Tudor who now occupied it.

Henry’s peace of mind had completely deserted him. Here was another of them. It was lies . . . lies. None knew that better than he did.

Richard of York—the second of the Princes in the Tower—was dead, he knew that. But how could he explain to the country why he was so sure?

And was this another Lambert Simnel? No . . . indeed not. Lambert Simnel had been doomed to failure from the first.

Something told Henry that this was a far more serious matter, and he knew that his enemies would be preparing to strike at him.

He had constantly to look about him for where the blows would come.

He had not thought that it could be through one of the little Princes in the Tower.