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

Tyburn and Tower Hill

hen Henry heard that James of Scotland had allowed the Lady Katharine Gordon to marry Perkin Warbeck he was deeply disturbed.

“This means that James really accepts the impostor!” he cried to Dudley and Empson whom he had summoned because he knew that he would have to consult them as to how to raise money for war.

That seemed inevitable now. James would never have allowed such a marriage if he had not made up his mind to help Perkin Warbeck fight for the crown of England.

“He must be mad!” said Empson. “Does he want war then?”

“He is bent on making trouble. It’s a Scottish custom,” said Henry bitterly. “It will mean raising money for an army, which is the last thing I wanted to do. It is infuriating to see money wasted in this way.”

“It will be necessary to tax the whole country,” murmured Dudley.

“We must be in readiness for war,” agreed the King.

“The Spanish emissaries have arrived in England, Sire,” Empson said. “They will have heard of this marriage. It will not please them.”

“The French will be delighted. Do you think they intend to give him their support?”

“Who can say with the French! They are involved in their affairs.”

“But I am their affair, Empson,” said the King. “If they can do anything to harm me, you may be sure they will. A curse on these pretenders! First Simnel . . . now this one. If ever I get that fellow into my hands I’ll put an end to this once and for all.”

Dudley looked at him in silence. He thought: Is that possible while the disappearance of two little Princes in the Tower remains a mystery? Will there not always be men to rise up and say, “I am Edward the Fifth;” “I am Richard Duke of York.”

Within a few days Don Pedro de Ayala arrived from the Court of Spain. He had a proposition to make. His Sovereigns wished Henry to join the Holy League for keeping the French out of Italy and if he was to be free to do this, it was rather important that he was not engaged in hostilities with Scotland.

“The Infanta Katharine is promised to my son, Arthur,” Henry pointed out. “But I hear that the Sovereigns are offering one of the Infantas to the King of Scotland as a bride. It would seem that Spain is seeking an alliance with Scotland as well as England.”

“My lord,” cried Don Pedro, “there is no intention of a marriage between Spain and Scotland. I have been instructed to lay these suggestions only before you. You yourself have a daughter. Would you consider offering the Princess Margaret as a bride to James? This would be a way of preventing hostilities between your two countries.”

Henry was silent. What he wanted more than anything was peace. And the idea of having to spend money to go to war he found completely frustrating. He did not want war. He had always seen the folly of it. England wanted a peace. That was what he prayed for, a spell when he could work for the good of the country, curb extravagance, develop trade. He wanted all Englishmen to realize that the harder they worked, the more closely they were united with one aim in view, the richer they would all be. But that aim was not war. It was peace.

Oh yes, Henry wanted peace.

He would willingly give Margaret to Scotland for it. Why not? That was what daughters were for . . . to make alliances between hostile countries and bring about peace between them. Yes, Margaret could be the bride of James the Fourth of Scotland.

But there was one other factor. Perkin Warbeck must be delivered to him.

Until that was done there could be no talk of a marriage between Margaret and James—no talk of peace.

There could no longer be reason for delay. James was ready and eager to advance on his enemies below the Border.

He sent for Perkin and told him gleefully that soon he would be crowned at Westminster, so Perkin could do nothing but feign an eagerness, while there was nothing he longed for so much as to be left to live in peace with his wife and his newly arrived daughter.

But this was what he had come for. This was the price he had to pay for all the grand living, all the splendor, all the adulation he had enjoyed for so many years and now he had become accustomed to it. But just at that time he would have given a great deal to be living with Katharine in a small house in Flanders—two humble people of whom no one outside their immediate circle had ever heard.

Katharine knew of his feelings. She shared them. She did not want a throne any more than he did and would have been perfectly content with that humble home in Flanders.

He could have wished that all this had never happened to him, that he had never gone into Lady Frampton’s service and attracted her by his good looks—but for the fact that through it he had met Katharine. More and more he was remembering those early days and there were times when he was on the point of making a confession to Katharine. He did not though; he could not bring himself to do it, even to her, and now the time had come when he must leave her and go marching into England.

“I shall send for you as soon as I am settled,” he told her.

“I know. I know.”

“What I don’t know is how I shall bear the separation.”

“You will be too busy to miss me,” she told him, “whereas I shall have to wait . . . and pray.”

“I shall need your prayers, Katharine. Pray I beg you that it shall not be long before you are beside me.”

“That is what I shall pray for.”

“I would give up everything I ever hoped to have not to leave you now.”

She nodded. She understood. Perhaps deep in her heart she knew that he had never been that little boy in the Tower of London.

James reviewed his troops and at Holyrood he made offerings to the saints and ordered that masses be sung for him and when Perkin joined him there he greeted him with pleasure.

“Now,” he said, “we shall see men flock to your banner. They have had their fill of the Tudor impostor. We will harry the Border towns and carry off spoils and see what effect this has on the Tudor. Meanwhile we will issue a proclamation in the name of Richard the Fourth, King of England and when you have thousands welcoming you . . . that will be the time to march south.”

Meanwhile they went to Haddington and across the Lammermuir to Ellem Kirk. They crossed the Border and raided several towns, but there was no response at all to the proclamation and it was very soon clear that the Englishmen of the Border were not interested in driving Henry Tudor from the throne and setting Richard of York up in his place.

James and Perkin laid siege to one or two towns. The expedition was taking on the nature of one of the Border forays of which there had been hundreds over the years, and James was getting bored. Moreover to march south without the support of the people of England for the new King would be folly.

He began to think that Perkin was not exactly a great leader of men and he would need a very big army if he were going to gain the crown. James had no intention of providing that, even though Perkin had promised him a good many concessions when and if he were successful.

James was wanting to be back in Edinburgh. He was making good progress with Janet Kennedy in spite of Archibald Douglas. It was true that he was tiring of Marion Boyd, although she had been a good mistress to him, but if she would understand his need to wander far afield, he would not mind keeping her on and visiting her occasionally. But it seemed to him that Janet would be the sort of woman who might absorb all his interest in which case it would have to be good-bye to Marion.

Who wanted a rough camp bed when he could be in a luxurious four poster with a glorious red-headed woman to comfort him? It was true Perkin had made great promises. It was very easy to make promises when one still had to gain a victory before he could redeem them; afterward the promises could be forgotten for they might not be so easy to carry out.

He went to Perkin’s camp. The young man was sunk in melancholy.

“You do not look happy, my friend,” said James. “Are you missing your warm marital bed?”

“’Tis so, my lord.”

“Ah, I miss my own bed. I tell you that.”

“I am troubled because the blood we are shedding is that of Englishmen . . . my own subjects,” said Perkin. “I cannot sleep at night for thinking of it.”

He cannot sleep at night because he wants his Katharine! thought James. He cannot sleep at night because he knows that Englishmen do not want King Richard the Fourth, and they will stay with Henry Tudor rather than fight. Well, it is a pleasant and human excuse and it will help to get me back to Edinburgh.

James nodded. “That is no mood in which to go to war, my friend.”

“I agree,” Perkin answered eagerly.

“Well, we have done our little foray. Perhaps we should think of returning to Edinburgh.”

Perkin felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

He was going home to Katharine and the baby.

There was murmuring throughout the country because Dudley and Empson were endeavoring to raise money for the Scottish war. The people were being asked to pay heavy taxes because a certain Perkin Warbeck was attempting to wrest the throne from Henry Tudor.

To the people of Bodmin in Cornwall this seemed a matter for kings to decide among themselves. What did it matter to them what king was on the throne? When did they ever see him? King Henry or King Richard . . . what did Cornwall care?

Lawyer Thomas Flammock felt very strongly on this issue. He went into the market square and talked to the people about it. They gathered round listening intently. There was not a man present who had not been harassed by extra taxes.

“My patience me,” grumbled the blacksmith Michael Joseph, ’tis hard enough for the likes of we to put bread in our mouths and those of our childer . . . are us going to stand by and pay like helpless fules? Don’t ’ee think we should up and do som’at about it?”

Joseph was a powerful speaker. In his forge he talked what the King would call sedition but what to the people of Bodmin seemed sound common sense.

“Where is the fighting?” asked Thomas Flammock. “It’s on the border between Scotland and England, there’s where it is. They’ve been fighting there for hundreds of years and they’ll go on fighting for a hundred more. Why should we be asked to pay for their quarrels?”

“But what do we do about it, eh, lawyer?” shouted a voice in the crowd.

“That is what I want to suggest to you,” said Flammock. “We can march to London. We can present a petition to the King and ask him to get rid of his evil advisers. If the King wants to wage war it is not for us . . . the people of Cornwall . . . who know no difference, wars or no wars . . . it is not for us to pay for it.”

The crowd cheered loudly.

“And who will go to London with this petition?” asked the man who had spoken before.

“We must all go, my friend. If one or two of us go . . . we’d not be received most likely. We’ve got to show them that we mean what we say. We must go to London in a body . . . march to London . . . show that we mean what we say: we will not pay these taxes for a fight which does not concern us.”

“We would want someone to lead us,” said the man. He pushed his way to the spot where Flammock was standing with Joseph. “Friends,” he cried, “here’s two good Cornish men. Shall we ask them to lead us to London and the King?”

There was a shout from the crowd.

“Lawyer Flammock and Blacksmith Joseph! Our leaders . . .”

There was wild enthusiasm, but Flammock lifted his hand for silence.

“I will lead you,” he said. “And you, Michael?”

“Aye,” said Michael. “I’ll come along.”

“We will lead you until we can find someone more worthy to be your leader.”

“Ain’t no one more worthy than ’ee, lawyer,” shouted a voice.

“Someone of the nobility would carry more weight. But we shall not delay. We shall set out for London. . . .Tomorrow at dawn . . . we’ll assemble here and those who can, must come with us. The more men we have the more likely we are to make our point. Is that agreed?”

There was a roar of approval in the crowd. The next morning at dawn, Flammock was amazed at the numbers who had assembled in the square. They were carrying bows and arrows and billhooks. He was a little alarmed for he had meant this to be a peaceful demonstration.

By the time they reached Taunton their numbers had grown and Flammock was a little dismayed for he had been joined by ruffians whose intent he knew was to rob and pillage. This was the last thing Flammock had had in mind, and he began to wonder whether it would not have been better to have selected, say, a dozen men, all worthies of the town of Bodmin, and with them gone to London to present the petition.

The crowd was getting out of hand. This was proved when the Provost of Taunton came out to remonstrate with them, for some of the men were overrunning the town and helping themselves from the shops.

Flammock was horrified to see the Provost lying in a pool of blood. The man was dead.

He managed to get them out of the town quickly. There he spoke to them. “That was a regrettable incident,” he said. “Now we have a man’s blood on our hands. To kill is not the purpose of this expedition. I want no more scenes like that. We have not come to rob and murder but to talk to the King about harsh taxes. There must be no more killing. God help us for we have slain a man who was doing nothing but his duty.”

At Wells they were joined by James Touchet, Lord Audley. Audley was very dissatisfied with the King. He had been in France with Henry and he felt he had not been given his dues. He was therefore feeling extremely disgruntled and when he saw the large numbers of men descending on Wells he rode out to speak with their leaders.

He found Thomas Flammock a reasonable and educated man and he agreed with him that it was insupportable that the King should demand such high taxes from people who were not in a position to pay them.

In a rather rash moment he offered to accompany them.

Seeing an opportunity of shifting responsibilities, Flammock was delighted.

“My lord,” he said, “you are a nobleman of high degree. It is for you to take over the leadership of our party.”

Audley saw the point of this.

So, with Audley at their head the Cornish rebels marched to London and on a hot June day, weary but expectant, they arrived at Deptford Strand.

Henry was furious. This was what he had always feared. A dissatisfied people no doubt fired by this impostor in Scotland now saw fit to rise against him.

The nightmare had become a reality.

His forces were concentrating in the North to deal with the Scottish threat. And now here was trouble from the West.

He hastily sent messengers to his armies on the way to the North. They must send a considerable force up to the Border it was true; but he must have forces in the South to meet the rebellious Cornishmen.

Lord Daubeney, who had only just set out for the North when the call came, turned back and made his way to Deptford Strand. The Cornishmen had become somewhat disheartened by the indifference of the people through whose towns and villages they had passed and who were clearly of the opinion that to start a rebellion would bring them more trouble than paying what was asked.

In vain did Flammock attempt to explain that it was merely a petition he had set out to take to London. He was learning that it was impossible to prevent such an undertaking assuming an uglier aspect.

He was dismayed when the King’s forces had come into contact with some of the marchers and the Cornishmen had a momentary victory, taking a few prisoners. There was one of these who was obviously of high rank and when he was questioned it was discovered that he was none other than Lord Daubeney himself—the leader of the King’s army.

Audley and Flammock conferred together.

“We must release him at once,” said Audley. “Otherwise we shall be called rebels and accused of treason. This is not a rebellion. It is a deputation to protest against the high taxation.”

Daubeney was brought in and Audley explained this to him.

Overcome with shame at being captured by rebels and guessing how this would lower his prestige with the King Daubeney hid his fury and embarrassment and pretended to understand.

He was immediately released with the other prisoners.

But Daubeney was not going to allow this insult to pass. He immediately planned to attack the Cornishmen and this he did, taking them by surprise at Blackheath. They, with their arrows and billhooks, were no match for the King’s trained soldiers and the battle was over almost before it had begun and Daubeney had the satisfaction of taking the rebel leaders, Audley, Flammock and Michael Joseph, alive.

So that little flurry was over, thought Henry; he could be grateful for that. He wondered how best to act. He wanted to show the people his leniency and on the other hand he must make them realize that no one could rise against him with impunity.

The Cornishmen themselves—the humble artisans from Bodmin—should have a free pardon. They could go back to their remote town and talk of the benevolence of the King.

The leaders should not get off so freely. Men like Flammock and Joseph were dangerous. Moreover, but for them this disturbing affair would not have taken place.

The people must be shown that the Flammocks and Josephs among them were dangerous men to follow. This time, because the King was merciful they had been forgiven and had escaped the punishment they deserved—but it must not happen again.

Audley was considered the chief offender. It was men such as he who were the real danger. He forgot his position in the country when he placed himself at the head of a rabble and he must pay the penalty. He was brought before the King and condemned to death. As he was a nobleman he should be beheaded and not suffer the barbarous penalty which befell low-born traitors, but he must be shamed first. He was put into a paper coat, which showed that he had been stripped of his knighthood, being no longer worthy of it, and was led from Newgate to Tower Hill where the executioner with his axe was waiting for him.

When his head was separated from his body it was stuck on London Bridge—a warning to all who thought they might play the traitor.

Flammock and Joseph were less fortunate. They suffered the traitor’s death. They were taken to Tyburn where they were hanged, drawn and quartered; and their limbs were displayed in various parts of the city.

This was what happened to traitors, those who in moments of folly lightly undertook to plot against the King.

Henry was satisfied. He had dealt with the matter in his usual calm way; and no one could say he had been unduly harsh.

Many a king would have slaughtered hundreds of them. But not Henry. He could always calmly decide what was best for Henry Tudor, and that was not to murder for murder’s sake. He did not want to do so for revenge even. He was rarely in a hot rage about any matter and therefore always had time to calculate which would be the most advantageous way to act.

Reluctantly he had decided on the traitor’s death for the three ringleaders. He must give no one an impression of weakness. No. He was not weak. He was stern perhaps, but just—always just.

He could congratulate himself that he had dealt very properly with the Cornish rebels.

There still remained Perkin Warbeck to haunt his days and turn pleasant dreams into nightmares.

James was growing rather tired of Perkin Warbeck. The expedition into England had shown clearly that the people were not going to flock to his banner, and James was not going to beggar himself by supporting another man’s cause—and a possible King of England at that! No, indeed not. Perkin must fight his own battles and the more thought James gave to the matter the more it seemed to him that it would be better for Perkin to fight somewhere which did not involve Scotland.

Not that James gave much thought to the matter. He was inclined to let it slide out of his mind, for he was deeply involved at this time with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was delightful, gentle, loving, passionate, outstandingly beautiful, and everything he liked best in a woman, and as he liked women better than anything else on Earth and had had great experience of them, this was saying a good deal. For the first time in his life—although he had often imagined himself to be in the condition on other occasions—James was truly in love.

The lady was Margaret Drummond daughter of John, first baron Drummond, a very able man who had been raised to the peerage for his services to Scotland some ten years before. He was a Privy Counsellor and justiciary of Scotland as well as the Constable of Stirling Castle, and his offices brought him to Court. With him came his beautiful daughter—a fact which caused the King to rejoice.

Marion Boyd, Janet Kennedy—delectable wenches both of them—could not compare with Margaret Drummond.

James paid constant visits to Stirling Castle where Margaret lived in the care of Sir John and Lady Lindsay. It had not taken him long to woo Margaret. Gentle, virginal . . . a little overwhelmed by so much royal favor, she had quickly fallen under the spell of the King. But perhaps, James thought ruefully, it would be more correct to say that he had fallen under hers. He could think of little else, so it was small wonder that whenever the name of Perkin Warbeck was spoken to him he felt a mild irritation.

He wanted nothing to come between him and his pursuit of Margaret. His thoughts were completely occupied by the possibility of seeing her. There was no reason why they should not be openly together. The whole of the Court knew of his infatuation—including Marion and Janet—and it was easier to face the whole of his Court than those two, particularly fiery Janet.

Who wanted war? Women were so much more enjoyable. And while Perkin Warbeck remained in Scotland he represented a threat. Henry had demanded that the young man be delivered to him. That, James had refused to do of course. Perkin had promised to restore Berwick to Scotland when he came to the throne, in payment for James’s hospitality. That would be good. Berwick was one of the most important Border towns. Certainly he wanted Berwick . . . and all the other concessions which Perkin had promised.

But promises! . . . What did they come to if wars had to be fought for the hope of their fulfilment?

No, he wanted no more now that he and Margaret had discovered each other.

He broached Perkin when they met at Linlithgow.

“It seems to me, my lord Duke,” he said, “that you are achieving little here. You do not wish to fight these people in the North . . . your own subjects, you say . . . men who had never heard of Richard Duke of York . . . or perhaps Henry Tudor.”

“I could not bear to see the blood of my own subjects shed,” said Perkin.

“I understand that well. So this is not the place for you. You have your friends in Ireland. I’ll tell you what I am going to do, my lord Duke. I am going to give you a ship. You can sail from Scotland to Ireland taking Katharine and the baby with you. I have no doubt that the Irish will rally to your cause. You will have more chance there than here in Scotland.”

Perkin was left in no doubt that this was James’s diplomatic way of telling him to leave and he had no alternative but to accept the offer of the ship and prepare to depart.

If Katharine was sad to leave her native land she did not show it.

“We are together,” she said. “That is all that matters.”

Perkin was apprehensive. He could no longer prevaricate and he had an idea that the easy life was over. He would have to make some attempt to wrest the crown from Henry Tudor and if he achieved it then his difficulties would begin. In his heart he knew he was unfitted to rule a country. He was frightened by the enormity of this matter, which had come about in the first place through a love of adventure, and an excitement because people noticed his royal looks.

Still it had led him to Katharine, for if all this had not happened he could never have met her.

As he stood on the deck watching the coastline of Ireland grow nearer he could echo her words: “We are together.”

Lord Desmond was dismayed. Life did not stand still, he pointed out, and in spite of the rebellions Henry Tudor still had a firm grip on the crown. People were beginning to like his rule apart from one thing—the exorbitant taxation, and they blamed Empson and Dudley for that. Those two were the most unpopular men in the country and the fact that they did not regard Henry himself entirely responsible was an indication of how he was beginning to be accepted as a good king.

The fact was that Desmond did not want to have anything to do with the rebellion. He could see that Henry’s calm wisdom would inevitably make him the victor.

He said: “The Irish are an unpredictable people. They sway one way and then another. There has been a rebellion in Cornwall. Now that is where you would find your supporters.”

“Henry suppressed that rebellion.”

“Because it was just a rabble. Audley was there to give it some standing, but they were not trained soldiers. No. It would have been different if they had been. After all, they captured Daubeney in the first place. Think what they could have done if they had had some backing. No, the West Country is your hope, my lord. You should go there and raise an army.”

It was quite clear that Desmond did not want to be involved.

Scotland had rejected Perkin, and now Ireland. So there was nothing for it but to take ship to Cornwall.

There his spirits rose.

From the moment he landed at Whitesand Bay Perkin was warmly welcomed and he rode in triumph to Bodmin where memories of the recent march to London were still vivid.

“Good Flammock,” they said. “His parts exposed all over London! And him always such a modest man. That they could do such a thing to Lawyer Flammock is past belief.”

“And don’t ’ee forget Joseph. There’s none could shoe a horse like that ’un . . . And to think of ’ee . . . Oh it be past thinking of.”

They were smarting from the humiliation levied on those two worthy men.

“But the rest of ’em just came back. Don’t ’ee do it again . . . that’s all they did say.”

“Well, stands to reason, they couldn’t do to us all what they did to good Flammock and Joseph.”

“I’d think not. Cornwall wouldn’t stand for that.”

“Aye, and ’e do know it, King or not. He couldn’t treat us Cornish like that.”

And now here was the handsome young man.

“Reckon he could show old Tudor a thing or two. . . .”

“He could and all . . . if he had Cornishmen to back him.”

Perkin’s spirits rose.

“This is different from our reception in Ireland,” he said.

The Mayor proclaimed him in the square as “Our King Richard the Fourth.”

The Cornishmen were with him. They were going to have a king of their own choosing and it was going to be this handsome young man, and his beautiful wife who should reign beside him.

“I shall win this time,” said Perkin, trying to bring enthusiasm into his smile.

“I shall be nearby,” said Katharine.

Perkin shook his head. “I want you to be safe . . . you and the baby.”

She shook her head but he would not listen.

Men were flocking to his banner. They all wanted to go and fight the Tudor. It was an adventure and if all went well they would have put a new king on the throne and if it did not . . . well, they would just come back as their friends had done when they had followed Flammock and Joseph to London.

Three thousand men had rallied to his banner. This was success. He believed that when he was on the march with such a following more men would fall in behind him.

“I must go,” he told Katharine. She was in tears. Perhaps she who loved him knew that, good husband that he was, he was no leader of men. But it was true, he did seem inspired. If it should happen that he gained the throne she must stand with him, reign as his queen. She fervently wished that it could be happily settled and that they could go away and live in obscurity and leave Henry Tudor his throne.

“They tell me that you will be safest on St. Michael’s Mount,” he told her.

“It will be so far from you.”

“I shall not rest happy unless I know you are in a place of safety.”

“Do you think I can rest happy anywhere until you are back with me?”

He kissed her fondly. “It will not be long,” he promised her.

But she did not believe him. Sadly they parted—she going westward with her child, he marching on to Exeter.

It was true that men fell in with his army. They liked the look of him. He was so handsome; he had the Plantagenet look; he had the appearance of a king—more so than Henry who never smiled and whom they said had aged twenty years since he took the throne.

It was not so easy as he marched on. Exeter stood out against him, so he had to put the town under siege. But he was no soldier. He could only be strong when he faced the weak. As soon as he heard that the Earl of Devonshire with other noblemen of Devon were on the march against him, knowing he could not stand a chance facing a professional army, he gave orders to retreat and fell back to Taunton. There worse news awaited him: Lord Daubeney had reached Glastonbury and was marching onward.

“We cannot stand against him,” he said. “We have not the experience to face a professional army. There is nothing for it but to get away.”

“What will the men say?” he was asked.

He was frightened as he knew he would be. This was not what he wanted. He wanted people to say, “Here is Richard the Fourth. Let us make him our king.” But to fight for the crown . . . he could not do it. He did not want to fight. All he wanted now was to go back in peace to Katharine.

He could not take his army with him. They would never get away, so he selected sixty of his men and together they left Taunton. But even sixty horsemen found the going difficult. People came out in alarm to watch them, and there was not enough food in the inns for sixty.

Perkin said: “This will never do. We shall be captured at once if we go about in such numbers.”

He selected three men from the sixty and said to them: “When night falls, we will steal away. It will be easy for four of us to make our escape. It is impossible with sixty.”

So the four of them slipped away in the darkness and in due course they arrived at Beaulieu in Hampshire where they found an empty house and there took refuge.

What Perkin wanted to do was lie low until the hue and cry had died down, then make his way back to St. Michael’s Mount, get a ship and take Katharine and the baby, where . . . ? Perhaps they could go to Flanders. Perhaps he could find John and Katharine Warbeck, those parents whom he had denied. Then perhaps they could all live happily together again.

He wanted no crown. He just wanted to live in peace with Katharine.

He lay on the floor, his companions beside him.

Perhaps he should leave them . . . slip away. He could disguise himself as a pedlar . . . work his way back to the Mount. He and Katharine could hide themselves away until they found a ship to Flanders. . . .

Not yet. It was unsafe as yet. He must be careful to preserve his life because Katharine needed him.

Somewhere in the darkness he heard a sound. He raised himself.

Was it the sound of distant horses’ hooves? Perhaps. Some traveler out late.

He lay down and thought of Katharine. Yes, he would find his way back to her. They must hide themselves and plan to get away.

She would agree. Her wish was the same as his—that they should be together.

Again that sound . . . nearer now . . . Perhaps . . . He looked at his sleeping companions. Should he rouse them? No. It was only a traveler in the night.

And then . . . the noise was nearer. Not one horseman but many. He stood up. His companions were awake now. They went to a window.

“We are surrounded,” said Perkin.

There was nothing to do but to surrender. Perkin and his companions were taken back to Taunton by the King’s guards, and for the first time Perkin came face-to-face with the man whose right to the throne he had challenged, the Tudor himself. So Henry had thought the matter of sufficient importance to see his captive in person.

At first Perkin thought: Why, he is an old man! He seemed so to Perkin. Old and gray. He was in truth forty years of age but looked ten years older. Slight with graying hair, light blue-gray eyes and a pale complexion. But there was a certain strength about him and it was impossible to be in his presence without being aware of it.

Perkin was overawed by the pale, ageing man. If he had shown anger he would have been less afraid of him. It was the calmness of the Tudor which unnerved him, the almost blank expression which nevertheless suggested that it was merely a mask to hide his thoughts, which he was determined to keep to himself.

“You are Perkin Warbeck,” said the King.

Perkin started to say: “I am King Richard the Fourth. . . .I was taken from the Tower. . . .”

“Nonsense,” said Henry Tudor. “I know who you are. You are Perkin Warbeck, son of John Warbeck, customs man of Tournay in Flanders.”

Perkin drew himself up to his full height. He must remember what he had learned from Lady Frampton and the Duchess of Burgundy . . . from Lord Desmond. He wished that he could forget that house in Flanders, but somehow with this stern cold-faced man looking at him so penetratingly as though he could read his thoughts he found it difficult.

Henry said: “I have sent for your wife, Perkin. We knew she was at St. Michael’s Mount.”

“No . . . I beg of you . . . Donot harm her. She is not to blame.”

“We know that. She has been deceived as others have. Do not disturb yourself. I am not a monster. I do not harm innocent women.”

Perkin was immensely relieved. Henry was observant. He cares for her more than for his aspirations, he thought. A sentimental fellow. He will not be difficult to handle.

“Now, Perkin,” he said. “You have caused us a great deal of trouble, but I know you are just the tool of certain men . . . enemies of my country. I know you are a foolish young man from a humble family in Flanders and have been used by these people. I am not a cruel man. I have a reputation for being lenient . . . a lover of justice. I do not blame you so much as those who have used you. I shall not harm your wife. I know she is a highly born lady. I shall have her sent to my Queen where she will be accorded the honor due to her rank.”

Perkin put his hands to his face. He was weeping with relief.

“Oh I thank you, my lord, I thank you with all my heart. She has done no harm. She believed . . . with the rest . . .”

Henry smiled. It was going to be very easy to get a confession from this boy. He was glad. He hated the clumsy work of torturers, and the information they got was always suspect.

“So,” he went on gently, “you can rest assured your wife and child will be well treated. Now as for you . . . well, you have offended us greatly. This nonsense about your identity. You know full well who you are and it is not Richard of York. That’s so. Is it not?”

Perkin was silent.

“Oh come. Do not be foolish anymore. I tell you your wife is safe. You must be grateful for that. Are you?”

Perkin nodded dumbly.

“I understand. I have heard of your devotion. You see, I hear a great deal about you, Perkin. There was another like you who set himself up: Lambert Simnel. He has worked well in my kitchens. I have just promoted him to become one of my falconers. He is a good servant . . . very grateful to his King for having spared his life. Poor simple boy. He knows he deserved to lose it . . . as you do, Perkin, as you do. But I do not propose to put you in my kitchens. All I ask you to do is to make a full confession. If you do this, I shall spare your life. I have sent for your wife. You must confess in her presence. And if you do that I shall send you to the Tower of London where you will be my prisoner for a while, but I have no doubt that if you behave with propriety . . . well, I am not a vindictive man and it might well be that in due course . . . you could join your wife . . . if she still wants to be the wife of a Flemish adventurer after she thought she had a royal Duke of York.”

Perkin could not speak. He had not imagined it would be like this at all.

Henry rose. “I will give you a little while to think. And when your wife arrives you shall make your first confession . . . to her.”

Perkin was taken to Exeter where Henry had gone and it wasn’t long before he was summoned to the King’s presence.

As soon as he entered the chamber he saw Katharine.

He gave a cry of joy and would have rushed to her but he was restrained by guards. Eagerly he studied her. She was not harmed in any way. She looked at him in a bewildered fashion as though she was seeing him afresh. He could not bear that.

“Katharine . . .” his lips formed the words and she smiled at him.

“Husband . . .” she whispered, and he knew that she loved him still.

The King said. “Give the Lady Katharine Gordon a chair, and place it here beside me.”

This was done and Katharine sat down.

“Now, my lady,” said Henry, “your husband wants to tell you who in truth he is. He will explain everything. I thought it right that you should know and hear it from his own lips. Proceed, Perkin.”

He tried to speak but he could only look at her. He wanted her to run to him; he wanted to put his arms about her; but she only sat there looking at him with those beautiful appealing eyes begging him to speak.

He had to tell the truth and it all came back so vividly now.

“My father is John Warbeck. We lived in Tournay. He was a controller of customs.”

She stared at him disbelievingly. He should never have lied to her. He should have explained everything before they married. But at that time he had for long periods believed it was true that he was Richard Duke of York. That story of being with his brother in the Tower, of being handed over to the man who could not murder him had seemed far more real than his father’s house in Tournay.

But he must go on. He must preserve his life. He must try to make Katharine understand. He could not bear to see her look at him like that.

He went on: “I was put into several houses. I served there in various capacities . . . in exchange I was given some education. Then the Framptons came to Flanders. They had been supporters of the House of York and they had to leave when King Henry came. They saw my resemblance to the Duke of York and they convinced me that I was one of the Princes who disappeared in the Tower. I passed from one household to another. . . .I went to the French Court and the Court of Bordeaux. . . .I was learning all the time. . . .You know the rest. I passed myself off as Richard Duke of York, second son of Edward the Fourth . . . and therefore since Edward the Fifth was dead, heir to the throne.”

The King was watching Katharine closely during this confession. He said: “You see, my lady, how you have been deceived like so many others.”

Still she was silent, looking at Perkin with disbelief in her eyes.

“My lady, you shall go to the Queen. I have asked her to care for you and treat you as a sister. You will understand I cannot free your husband. I shall not treat him harshly for I see full well that he has been the tool of others. Now he will go to London and you shall go to the Queen. I will leave you for ten minutes to take your farewells of each other and to say what you wish to.”

With those words Henry rose and walked slowly out of the chamber.

Perkin rushed to Katharine. He knelt at her feet and buried his face in her skirts. For a few seconds she did nothing; then he felt her fingers in his hair and he lifted his face to hers.

“Is it true?” she asked. “Is it something they have made you say under threat?”

He shook his head. “It is true . . . alas. Lady Katharine Gordon has married the son of a customs official.”

“I married you,” she said.

He had risen and taken her into his arms and they clung together for a moment.

“Oh . . . my love . . . what will they do to you?” she asked.

Joy flooded over him. In that moment he did not care. All that mattered was that she cared.

“They say the King is lenient. . . .”

She thought of the stories she had heard of Flammock and Michael Joseph. What had they done? Not nearly so much as her husband. He had raised a revolt, headed an army, called himself the true king.

“He will send me to the Tower,” he said. “But he has hinted that in time I might be free.” He took her face in his hands. He said: “Katharine, I don’t think I wanted to go on with it . . . after I found you. But if I had never started it I should never have met you. Marriage between us would have been an impossibility . . . but once I had you . . . and the baby . . . I just wanted to go back . . . back into obscurity . . . to Tournay . . . in a little house . . .”

She said: “I know.”

“And what will you do?”

“It has been decided for me. I must go to the Queen.”

“Katharine . . . in time . . .”

She said: “Let us pray it will be soon.”

“Oh God bless you. You are even more wonderful than I ever thought you could be.”

“I did not love a crown,” she said. “I loved you.”

“And you still do?”

“I do not change,” she told him. “I think perhaps I knew. . . .I could never see you as King of England and myself as Queen. . . .I shall pray that the King frees you. . . .”

“And then, Katharine?”

“We shall go away . . . right away . . . where no one knows us.”

“You will want that?”

“There will be the two of us . . . the three of us . . . Perhaps more children. We will make a home for ourselves . . . and over that will hang no shadows . . . no fears of going to war . . . no crowns, which have to be won.”

“Oh Katharine . . . it’s strange but I feel happier than I have for a long time.”

The guards had come. It was time for Perkin to go to London and for the Lady Katharine to be taken to the Queen.

Henry was not quite as lenient as he had first implied he would be. He did not feel vindictive toward Perkin, but he wanted everyone to know the extent of his folly.

Therefore Perkin must ride through the streets of London that the citizens might come out of their houses to look at the man who had tried to be their king. Some of them threw mud at him. He was crestfallen and humiliated.

“King Richard,” they called after him derisively.

After that he was lodged in the Tower.

Several weeks passed and one day a man in the green and white livery of the King’s household came to him and told him he was free to leave his prison providing that he went immediately to the King’s Court where he would remain for a while under surveillance.

His spirits rose. He was on the way to freedom. He was sure that after a while he would be able to go to Katharine.

He came to Court. The King watched him with amusement and so did others. “The man who would be king!” they said. Well, they had to admit that he had a certain grace, his manners and speech were impeccable. He had clearly had some very good tutors.

Desperately he tried to get news of Katharine. She was with the Queen whose health was not of the best, which meant that she spent a great deal of time away from the King’s Court. She had given birth to a daughter the previous year. Little Mary was a strong and healthy baby; but the following year Edmund had been born and by all accounts he was sickly. The Queen’s health was a matter of concern to the King and he allowed her to live in a certain obscurity provided she showed herself from time to time to let the people know that their royal marriage was a felicitous one. They had two daughters and a son Henry who were all pictures of health and enough to delight the hearts of any parents. If Arthur and Edmund were not as healthy as they might be, that was sad, but as their nurses said, they would grow out of it. There had been the death of little Elizabeth but Henry felt secure in his family. Therefore he was pleased with his Queen and as long as she continued to add to their brood she could live as she wished.

This made it impossible for Perkin to see Katharine unless he left the King’s Court or she came to it from the Queen’s. But although the Queen treated her as a sister, she was still her attendant and it was obvious that Henry did not want the husband and wife to meet. It may have been that he feared they might plot, or people seeing the handsome pair together might think they would well grace a throne.

However they did not meet and there came a time when Perkin could endure this state of affairs no longer.

He was going to see Katharine, no matter what the consequences.

It was folly of course. He was too closely watched, and he had not gone very far when he realized that he was being followed.

He rode with all speed to the monastery at Syon and there sought refuge but the King’s men were immediately on his trail.

He must give himself up, he was told. It was the only way he could hope to save his life after this. He had been treated well by the King and he had broken his solemn word never to leave the castle or palace where he was in the King’s custody, and he had done so.

“There is no help for it,” said the King. “The man is not to be trusted. Take him to the Tower. I have no wish to harm him. He is a foolish fellow . . . a little brighter than Lambert Simnel but still a fool. Let him stay in the Tower until I decide what we shall do with him.”

The King did decide. Perkin had tried to escape. For what purpose? To attempt to rally men to a cause that was so absurd it was lost before it started?

No. The people must realize what Perkin stood for, and the best way to treat him was to humiliate him. Let the people laugh at Perkin. The more they jeered the less dangerous he became.

“Let him be placed in the stocks by Westminster Hall,” said the King. “There he shall repeat his confession of fraud. I want the people to know that off by heart. Then let him do the same in Chepeside. We will have his confession printed and circulated throughout the country. When this is done I think we shall have clipped his wings.”

So Perkin suffered the humiliation of the people’s ridicule.

After that he was taken back to the Tower.

He felt desperate. He was sure Henry would never give him the opportunity to escape again.

Henry was not seriously concerned with Perkin Warbeck for it had been so easy to prove him to be the impostor he so obviously was; but that did not mean this matter gave him no uneasiness. Even Lambert Simnel had done that, and the reason was, of course, that these men were products of a shaky throne. Henry was a strong king; he was a born administrator and men would learn in time that this was what a country needed. He could make England great, if he could but be allowed to reign in peace. These impostors might well go on springing up and the reason was of course that so many English resented his kingship simply because they did not believe in his claim to the throne.

He himself knew that the sons of Edward the Fourth were dead. If only he could make this known to the people it would help a lot—but not of course if they must also know the manner of their dying. It was better to let Richard the Third bear the blame for that. Alas, there was so much evidence against the theory of Richard’s removing them, that the matter must be wrapped in mystery. The fact remained that they were dead. But there was one still living who had a greater claim than Henry—and that was Edward, Earl of Warwick whom he had kept in the Tower ever since he had come to the throne.

It had not been so difficult in the beginning but that was fourteen years ago when the young Earl had been but ten years old. To take the boy into his care as he called it seemed a reasonable thing to do and if that care was a prison in the Tower no one dared to protest. The boy had no close relations; he was too young to attract ambitious men. He was easy prey.

But now the Earl was twenty-four years of age and there must be many who remembered that he was in fact heir to the throne. His father, the brother of Edward the Fourth, had been judged a traitor and met his death ignobly in a butt of malmsey, but that did not mean his son was not next in line of succession.

Henry had long been uneasy about that young man. And when he received dispatches from Spain his thoughts turned even more urgently toward him.

Henry desperately wanted alliance with Spain. Since the Sovereigns had married, since they had turned the Moors out of Spain, and joined Castile and Aragon they had become very powerful indeed.

If Henry could bring about that alliance between Arthur and their daughter Katharine he would be very happy. He would feel much safer on the throne; he would have friends to stand with him against France and all those who might come against him. He must get the marriage solemnized as soon as possible.

But as he read these dispatches, cordial as they were, he was shrewd enough to read between the lines.

The Sovereigns were uncertain about the alliance. They did not want to see their daughter married to a deposed king. They were very uneasy. Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck might be impostors but they would never have arisen if the throne had been secure; and while there was this uncertainty others might rise against the King of England and perhaps be more successful.

There was only one person who had a true claim, and that was the captive Earl of Warwick. If he could be disposed of, thought Henry, there would be no real claimant to come before me.

The matter tormented him, disturbing his dreams, presenting itself at all hours of the day; making him furtive, watchful of those about him. Every time a man entered his presence Henry found himself wondering whether that man carried a concealed dagger.

He could have had the Earl murdered. He could have drowned him in a butt of malmsey, had him suffocated in his sleep. It was not as though he had to catch the Earl. He was there in the Tower, the King’s prisoner. It shouldn’t be difficult.

But Henry was eager to have the approval of his subjects. He did not hope for their love; he knew well enough that he was not the type to inspire that. But he wanted them to see him as a just—if stern—king, as a man who was determined to make England great. They knew this in their hearts even though they were continually grumbling about the high taxes which had been imposed during his reign. They blamed Dudley and Empson more for this than they did Henry, which was unreasonable for they were only carrying out the King’s commands. The royal exchequer was growing. England was becoming rich. He had brought this about in fourteen years, pulling the country away from bankruptcy, making her prosperous.

But he did not want to be known as a murderer of those who stood in his way. At times a certain guilt came over him but he could remind himself that he had done what he had, not only for his own good, although he had to admit this was part of it, but for the good of England. The kingship of minors invariably meant disaster. It was better to remove minors than by letting them live risk the lives of thousands. That was how he had reasoned and he had always been able to convince himself that he had good sense on his side.

What was done was done. His immediate problem was the Earl of Warwick.

While the Earl lived—a perpetual threat with a greater right to the crown than Henry himself—there could be trouble, and Isabella and Ferdinand would not wish their daughter to make an alliance with a Prince who might never reach the throne.

He had to be rid of Warwick . . . and soon. But how?

Then suddenly an idea struck him.

Perkin Warbeck was in the Tower. Perkin Warbeck was longing to be with his wife, and it was certain that if he was not reunited with her soon, he would make an attempt to reach her and plot to escape.

Suppose Warbeck and the Earl of Warwick occupied cells close to each other—two prisoners of the King, one with a spurious claim to the throne, the other with a real one? They should have something in common.

It was a chance.

Henry sent for the Constable of the Tower.

He said: “I wish Perkin Warbeck to be moved. Place him close to the Earl of Warwick, and let both young men know that they are near to each other. It might provide some comfort for them. Who are your most trustworthy guards? I should like to see them . . . not yet, not yet. In due course . . .”

Henry was smiling. He would not hurry the matter. The whole point was that everything should appear to have happened naturally.

Perkin was getting desperate. He began to feel that he would never get out of this place. He had had no news from Katharine. He did not know that the King had given instructions that no letters from his wife were to be delivered to him. Henry wanted him to get desperate and Henry was succeeding.

His guards were friendly. They lingered often in his cell and talked to him; they had made his life more tolerable than it might have been; his food was good and well served and he believed this was due to the guards.

But sometimes he was in acute despair.

“If only I could get out,” he would say. “I’d go away. I’d leave England. I should never want to see this place again.”

The two guards were sympathetic.

“Well, there is the poor Earl just there.” The guards pointed vaguely at the wall. “He’s been here for nigh on fourteen years. Think of that!”

“For what reason?”

One of the guards lifted his shoulders and coming a step closer whispered: “For no reason but that he is the son of his father.”

“Oh . . . of the Duke of Clarence, you mean?”

“Died in this same place . . . Drowned in a butt of malmsey . . . helped himself . . . or others helped him to too much wine.”

Perkin shivered. “And his son has been here ever since the King came to the throne?”

The guards were becoming very confidential. “Well, he’s got a right, hasn’t he?”

“A right?”

One of them made a circle around his head and winked. “Wouldn’t do for him to be around having more right to it . . . some say. Well, it stands to reason. . . .He has to be kept away . . . under lock and key, don’t he?”

Perkin was thoughtful. Only a short distance from him was a young man who had a real claim to the throne. He had made no attempt to rise against the Tudor . . . and yet here he was . . . condemned to be a prisoner all his life maybe.

All his life! Perkin grew cold at that thought. Was that what was intended for him?

“You and the Earl,” said the guard . . .“you’d have a lot in common wouldn’t you? If you liked to write a note to him . . . I’d see he got it.”

“What should I write to him about?”

The guard shrugged his shoulders. “That’s for you. I thought two young men . . . here . . . so near and can’t see each other. I reckon the Earl would like to get a note from you . . . and you’d like to get one from him.”

Perkin shook his head.

The guard went out. His fellow guard was waiting for him.

“He don’t take to the idea,” he said. “He’ll need a bit of working on.”

But Perkin did take to the idea. He thought about the lonely Earl and he felt that if he could pour out his thoughts on paper it would relieve his feelings considerably. He would like to tell someone who could understand, how he had been drawn into posing as the son of a king and how he might so easily have become a king if his luck had gone the other way. It was not that he wanted to be a king; all he asked now was to rejoin his wife and child. That was all he asked but the King would not grant it and kept them apart. If Katharine could come and live with him in the Tower he was sure she would.

He asked the guard for paper and a pen to write. He should have been suspicious of the alacrity with which it was produced.

The Earl was equally glad to enliven his days in correspondence with his fellow prisoner. He told Perkin that he had heard something of him. News came now and then to the prisoners in the Tower—snippets of it . . . and then long silences so that one never really got the real story. Perkin told him what had happened to him and the Earl was eager to know more. Poor young man, he had been so long in the Tower that he knew very little of the outside world.

Perkin wrote of the freedom he longed to obtain, of Katharine waiting for him. All his thoughts were of freeing himself and getting away. . . . Escape from this fearful place, he wrote. Freedom. That is what I crave for.

The Earl craved for it too. “Am I to spend all my life a prisoner?” he wrote.

The guards who read the letters and gave them to the constable who showed them to the King before they were passed on to the intended recipient, said: “We are getting somewhere.”

“They were right. In time the two young men began to write about means of escape. How could they achieve it? “The guards are friendly,” wrote Perkin. “I have an idea that they would help us. There must be many prisoners in the Tower—many of them guiltless. It might be possible to get them to help us . . . It would be freedom for them as well as for us.”

The Earl was inclined to leave the planning to Perkin who had had adventures in various places, who had actually gone into battle. What could a young man who had been a prisoner since he was ten, know of these matters?

Planning made the days pass pleasantly. Perkin had a grand plan for seizing the Tower, they would get the guards to help. Warwick must not forget he was the true heir to the throne. He had the right to command. Perkin was only a humble citizen, but he would admit he had experience.

They grew excited. They drew plans. It was all in the mind. Both of them knew what they wrote about would be impossible to put into action.

But it was far more serious than they realized and they were to pay dearly for their diversion.

One day the guards came into Perkin’s cell. He looked up eagerly thinking they might have brought him a communication from the Earl.

The guards looked different; they were no longer smiling conspiratorially, no longer asking for the latest communication to the Earl of Warwick.

“Perkin Warbeck,” said the senior of the guards. “You are to be tried at Westminster on the sixteenth day of November.”

“Tried! But I have already been judged.”

“This is another matter. You will be tried with the Earl of Warwick for treason.”

Perkin did not understand.

“Plotting against the King’s person. Plotting to take possession of the Tower.”

“You mean . . .”

“You won’t get away with this one, I can tell you. It’s all there . . . in the letters.”

“My letters to the Earl . . .”

“And his to you . . . You’re in trouble, you and the noble Earl.”

Perkin understood then. This had been their plan. The friendly guards were the sinister spies of the Tudor King and he was in trouble . . . moreover he had involved the Earl of Warwick with him.

Henry was gratified. His ruse had worked. Perkin was of no importance to him, but the Earl of Warwick had fallen into his hands.

The two men had written to each other of escaping from prison. It would not be easy to condemn Warwick to death for that. People would say, for what reason was he in prison? Wasn’t it the most natural thing in the world that he should plan to escape?

That would not do.

He consulted with Lord Oxford who was the High Constable of England. The Constable knew what his wishes were and why. It was imperative that the match with Spain be made without much more delay. If the matter was allowed to drift the Spanish Sovereigns might well betroth their daughter to someone else.

“It would seem,” said the King, “that the Earl of Warwick was not planning merely to escape. His idea was to gather an army about him. That is quite clear.”

It was not. But the Constable knew that the King was commanding him to make it clear.

Henry was right. Oxford saw that. While the Earl lived there would be no peace in the kingdom. At any moment someone would arise and use him as a figurehead. There must be peace. What was the life of a young prince compared with the terrible revenge of war? It was the good of the country against an innocent young man.

“It must be made clear,” said Oxford.

Henry nodded.

The Earl was bewildered to find himself in the midst of so much excitement. Up to now he had spent his days in the quietness of his prison. He knew little of the world. Vaguely he remembered life at Middleham with the Duchess of Gloucester who had afterward become Queen Anne. She had been kind to him—she had been his mother’s sister and she used to talk to him about her childhood when she and Isabel his mother were together at Middleham with Richard whom she married and George whom Isabel had married. “They were brothers,” she had said, “we were sisters . . . daughters of Warwick the Kingmaker who married the sons of the Duke of York.” It had all been very interesting. Then she had died and King Richard had been killed at Bosworth and that was when life changed completely and he became a prisoner in the Tower. For what reason he had never been quite sure. Now he was beginning to understand. It was because his father was the brother of King Edward and King Richard and because King Edward’s two sons had disappeared in the Tower and Richard’s son had died and there was only himself left.

And because of this he had plotted against the King. Had he? He had not known that. He had merely wanted to be free.

The Earl of Oxford visited him. “Yes,” he said, “you wanted to be free so that you could take the crown.”

The young man looked puzzled. “I wanted to be free,” he said.

“You have been here a long time.”

“I came when I was ten years old. I am now twenty-four. More than half my life I have been King Henry’s prisoner.”

“Oh . . . not a prisoner,” said the Earl of Oxford. “You were put here for your protection.”

“Did I need it for so long?”

“The King thought so. And because your father was the Duke of Clarence you thought you had more right to the throne than he had.”

“I had more right to the throne.”

The poor innocent boy. He did not realize that he was signing his own death warrant. It was so easy to trick him . . . this innocent. How could he be otherwise, having spent so many years shut away from the world?

“I have come here to help you,” said the Constable of England. “It would be better for you if you confessed that you know you have more right to the throne than the King and you wanted to depose him.”

“I have more right to the throne. . . .”began the boy.

“Ah, that is what I said. Confess your guilt and the King will doubtless forgive you as he did Perkin Warbeck.”

“Oh, he is free then?”

“He is not free now. I was referring to what happened when he was captured and brought to the King. The King was lenient to him and at first forgave him . . . but he tried to get away and only then did the King put him into the Tower. Confess to your guilt and the King may well be lenient with you.”

The young Earl was persuaded and the Constable went in triumph to the King.

“He should be tried and condemned at once. Warbeck too.”

“They will both be found guilty,” commanded the King. “Warbeck is unimportant. He has been proved to be a fraud. But I have had enough of the ungrateful fellow and he could have a following and one can’t be found guilty and pay the penalty without the other.”

So Perkin and the Earl of Warwick were tried, found guilty of treason, and both condemned to death.

The King did not wish to take revenge on either of these traitors. They were young and foolish, he said; but they had made trouble and for the good of the country this time he intended to act. He had been lenient before; but he had been answered by ingratitude.

Perkin Warbeck should be taken to Tyburn and hanged; the Earl of Warwick should be beheaded on Tower Hill.

In their cells in the Tower the two men awaited the death sentence.

Perkin was resigned. He would never see Katharine again. He wondered what her life would be like without him. It was true that they had been separated for some time while he was imprisoned. But there had always been hope.

This was the end then—all those grandiose schemes were to end up at Tyburn.

There was no hope now. Waiting for them to come and take him he wondered if there was some point where he could have altered the course which had led him to this day. He did not know and it did not matter now.

The people had crowded into the streets to see his last moments. It was a holiday for the spectators. He heard their shouts as he was drawn along. He did not care that they jeered at him, that they had come to witness his last humiliation.

As they put the rope about his neck he was murmuring Katharine’s name; and he hoped that she would recover from the desolation he knew this day would bring her. He was praying that she might find some happiness after he had gone.

This was the end then. He, Perkin Warbeck had coem to the end of the road.

At Tower Hill there was another spectacle. The young Earl walked out of the Tower and felt the cool air on his face; the mist was on the river; it was a bleak November day. But it was a great experience to walk out from those gray walls. He wondered what his life would have been like if he had been at liberty for those fourteen years he had spent in prison.

But the time had come for him to lay his head on the block. He did so . . . feeling almost indifferent. Why should he regret leaving a life of which he knew so little?

One swift stroke and it was over.

They brought the news to the King: Warwick is dead.

Henry nodded. Now he was sure the negotiations with Spain would be delayed no longer. He had removed the only claimant he had to fear.