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

The Princes in

the Tower

he King was weighed down with anxieties. He had lost his eldest son; the Queen was ill; but most alarming of all was the fact that his grip on the crown after seventeen years of good rule was still not firm enough to give him peace of mind.

At the heart of his insecurity was the fear that someone would arise and snatch the throne from him—someone mature, strong, able to charm the people and who was in possession of that which for all his cleverness Henry would never attain: the claim to rule by the law of hereditary accession.

There would always be whispers against him—behind his back, of course. At least none dared utter them aloud, but he was aware of them. “Bastard sprig!” “Was your grandmother really married to Owen Tudor?” “Your mother, it is true, descended from John of Gaunt—but from his bastard family of Beauforts.” And whatever case was brought forward to prove legitimization there would always be those to shake their heads and murmur against him.

So here he was after seventeen years during which he had proved he knew how to govern since he had brought his country from near bankruptcy to financial prosperity—and yet he must live constantly with this fear that someone would one day rise against him.

In public he could snap his fingers at pretenders. He could laugh at poor simple Lambert Simnel tending his falcons and Perkin Warbeck had met his just deserts. Henry hoped by his leniency to these two—and he had been lenient even to Perkin Warbeck—that he had shown the people how little importance he attached to these impostors.

But in fact he had attached the utmost importance to them—not in themselves, of course, but what they stood for.

The young Earl of Warwick was dead. It had been a wise move to get rid of him, and to execute him openly for treason. There must be no more disappearances in the Tower. There was more to be feared from mysterious disappearances, he had learned, than from open execution. No one talked of young Warwick now. The people had accepted that he had been a menace to the peace of the country. They had not been very interested in him. Poor boy, he had been a sorry figure, a prisoner for most of his life. It would have been better for him if he had never been born.

Assessing the mood of the people Henry believed that they were not eager for rebellions; they wanted peace. They were in fact more contented with his rule than they realized. They grumbled. People always grumbled. If things went well they wanted them to go better. Give them comfort and they wanted luxuries. They did not like the taxes imposed by Empson and Dudley. Did they not see the need for a solvent exchequer? Did they not understand that a bankrupt nation could not hold off its enemies? Did they realize that their growing prosperity came from the wise calculation of the King and his able ministers? They must know that trade prospered; they cared about that. Was that why they had realized it would have been bad for the country to put a foolish youth on the throne just because his father had been the brother of Edward the Fourth?

Yet both Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck had had their supporters. Lambert had been doomed to failure from the start. The idea of trying to impersonate a young man who was actually living and could be brought forth from his prison in the Tower and shown to the people was absurd. It was different with Perkin. His had been a much stronger case. For he had declared he was Richard Duke of York—the Prince who had disappeared in the Tower.

This was a lesson to all would-be pretenders. If you are going to impersonate someone let it not be one whose whereabouts are known. Choose one who has disappeared mysteriously and in this case one who, had he lived, could well be the true heir to the crown.

This struck at the heart of his acute anxieties.

Who knew when someone else would arise? At any time there could be someone with features similar to those of Edward the Fourth who would declare he was the son of that King, who would say: “I am one of the Princes who was in the Tower and who was never accounted for.”

It was not difficult for unscrupulous people to find young men who looked like Edward the Fourth for that monarch had scattered his seed far and wide. he must have left bastards in various parts of this country and others. Wherever he went he had his women, many of whom would think it an honor to bear the King’s child.

So there it was . . . the heavy shadow . . . the ghost of two little boys, who would now be young men . . . to come and haunt him and disturb his peace.

If only he could say: These boys died in the Tower. I know they died. He could not do that. He dared not answer the all-important question: How do you know?

There must be a way. He would find it.

Then the opportunity came and as soon as he realized what it could bring, he determined to seize it. It would need care; but then he was a careful man. A certain ingenuity? Oh, he would manage that.

He was careful and ingenious by nature. And there was so much at stake.

It was when the name Sir James Tyrrell was mentioned in connection with the Earl of Suffolk that the idea came to him. He was excited. It might just be possible to put an end to these fears which had haunted him ever since he had come to the throne. And if this could be done, if it were possible to work this out, he must do so. He was determined that his plan should succeed.

It had not been difficult for Edmund de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk to convince himself that he had a greater claim to the throne than Henry Tudor. He was the second son of John de la Pole, second Duke of Suffolk, and Elizabeth the sister of Edward the Fourth; and from his mother came his claim. Edmund had been twenty-one years old when his father had died and he should have succeeded to the title then because his elder brother, John, had been killed at the battle of Stoke where he had been fighting with Lambert Simnel’s army. However, John had been attainted and his goods and title confiscated by the King. Edmund had become the King’s ward at that time but later Henry had given the title back to Edmund and an agreement as to the family estates had been arrived at, which proved Henry’s grasping nature and his determination to squeeze out every penny he could whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Consequently only a portion of the de la Pole estates were returned and in exchange for these the King demanded a payment of five thousand pounds. Edmund was appalled but the King had stated, with an air of gracious leniency, that the sum could be paid annually over a number of years.

Although Suffolk returned to Court and was present at certain ceremonies, the King’s treatment of him continued to rankle. Henry believed that the young man had had a sharp lesson and would think twice before following in his brother’s footsteps, which he must see had led to his early death and the loss of prestige and property. His claim to the throne—flimsy though it was—caused the King to watch him with some concern, but it seemed that Suffolk had realized that his best hope of living comfortably was to be a loyal subject; he was with the army which had marched to Blackheath and dispersed the rebellious Cornishmen. Henry was pleased; perhaps he had nothing to fear from the young man; but of course he would remain watchful.

Then an unfortuante incident occurred. Suffolk had been involved in a quarrel and in the heat of passion had drawn his sword and run his adversary through the heart.

This was murder and Henry was not going to allow crimes of that nature to go unpunished.

Suffolk was enraged. It had been a fair fight, he insisted. Moreover he was royal; he did not expect to be treated as an ordinary person.

“The King has robbed me of much of my estate,” he said, “and in doing so forgets I am of the royal House of York. Would he indict me in the King’s Bench like some ordinary felon?”

“Murder is a felony,” was the King’s answer to that, “and those who commit it cannot be excused because of their royal blood.”

“Henry does not like those of us of the House of York who might be said to have more claim to the throne than an upstart Welshman,” was Suffolk’s impetuous retort.

His friends warned him of talking too freely but Suffolk was recalling the loss of the large portion of his estates and he was feeling reckless.

It was inevitable that some of his words should reach the King’s ear. A dangerous man, thought Henry. One who should be guarded against not so much because of his temper but because of his connection with the House of York.

Here was the old bogy rising once more. Lambert Simnel . . . and away in the distance the shadowy figures of two small boys in the Tower.

He brooded over Suffolk; he asked certain questions about his movements.

Suffolk had his friends, and they advised him to get away for a while until the affair of the killing blew over and as Suffolk had no intention of standing trial, in early August when the weather was calm he crossed the Channel without fuss, determined the King should not be aware of his departure until he was well away.

On arriving in France his first call was at the Castle of Guisnes near Calais. He knew he would receive a warm welcome there for the custodian of the castle was his old friend Sir James Tyrrell.

He was right. Tyrrell was in the courtyard as soon as he heard of his friend’s arrival. With him was his son, Thomas, of whom he was clearly proud and understandably so. Thomas was a handsome young man and it was obvious that there was a happy relationship between him and his father.

Tyrrell called to his horsekeeper, John Dighton, to give his personal attention to their guest’s stabling and Dighton, red-faced, big and broad and clearly capable, immediately set about doing his master’s bidding.

Sir James then took the Earl into the castle and sent his son to give orders that nothing should be spared in providing the utmost comfort for their guest.

Then he settled down to hear an account of the Earl’s abrupt departure. When he had explained, Suffolk reviled the King and brought up the old grievance of the King’s taking from him the major part of his inheritance, and then giving him back a portion for which he had to pay.

“Oh the King is most gracious,” said Suffolk sarcastically. “He has given me a period of time to pay him for my own estates. Did you ever hear of such conduct, James? And that the old miser should dare to behave so to a member of the House of York, angers me beyond description.”

“His treatment of you is because you are of the House of York,” said Tyrrell. “It was a sad day for us when the Tudor came and killed good King Richard.”

“I know you served him well. Rest assured that this King of ours sleeps uneasily in his bed. He is constantly on the lookout for someone to thrust a dagger into his heart or stretch out rightful hands to take the crown. You, my friend, were always loyal to our House of York.”

“King Richard’s reign was too short, alas. He was our rightful King.”

“I often wonder how much truth there was in that story of Edward’s precontract to Eleanor Butler,” went on Suffolk.

“There is one mystery which will never be solved.”

“And there is another. Those two little boys . . . Kings both of them if the story be true that the elder died before the younger. King Edward the Fifth and King Richard the Fourth. They were pleasant boys. I saw them now and then when I was young. ‘Tis a strange story. I wonder the King does not sift the matter, for if one of those little boys still lives he is indeed the true King. Henry cannot pronounce them bastards for if they are, so is his Queen—and how could the King of England marry a bastard!”

“’Tis a long-ago mystery,” said Tyrrell, staring straight ahead. “Too far back in time to be settled now.”

“But one which must haunt the King . . . unless he knows the answer.”

“It may be that he does know the answer.”

“You think he may?”

Tyrrell was silent then he said, almost as though speaking to himself, “Oh it is long ago. But you, my lord, what plans have you?”

“To rest here for a while and see how the land lies.”

“My son and I will make you welcome here for as long as you wish to stay.”

“I must not stay long. By doing so I should compromise you with the King.”

“He knows I have no plans to rise against him.”

“Then you should not be too friendly with those who have a reason for doing so.”

Tyrrell looked at Suffolk with something like wonderment.

“You, my lord . . . how?”

“Why should I not discover? It may well be that I have friends on the Continent. As for you, James, you might do well not to connect yourself too openly with me . . . until such time as it will be safe to do so.”

Tyrrell’s face hardened: “I do not fear the King,” he said.

“No, you are well away. He has been a good friend to you . . . in a manner of speaking. After all you were a strong supporter of King Richard.”

“Oh yes . . . I must say that I was forgiven my allegiance to the House of York. He made me Sheriff of Glamorgan and Morgannock and gave me the Constableship of Cardiff Castle for life with a salary of one hundred pounds a year.”

“Generous treatment for a miser. There was something behind it all. There must have been.”

“Yes,” said Tyrrell, “there must have been.”

“The Tudor always has his reasons and he is not accustomed to giving something for nothing. He must have had a great opinion of you, James. He must have thought very highly of your services. And now you have Guisnes. Almost as though he wanted you out of the country. It shows he trusts you.”

“Yes, I think he trusts me.”

“Then you should keep it that way . . . until such a moment as you decide it is no longer necessary. One must be wily when dealing with the Tudor.”

“You are right there. Have a care, my lord.”

“You may trust me to do that.”

Shortly afterward Suffolk left Guisnes. Tyrrell was relieved to see him go.

He had good reason to know how ruthless Henry Tudor could be.

It was then that Henry’s spies on the Continent brought him news that Suffolk had stayed awhile in the company of Sir James Tyrrell at Guisnes Castle. This increased Henry’s uneasiness, and he decided that Suffolk must be brought back to England and if it was not possible to persuade him to come back then it would be necessary to use force.

“I will offer him a pardon to return,” said Henry to Dudley. “I will imply that this unfortunate killing will be forgotten.”

“You think it wise, my lord?”

Henry was thoughtful. There were matters of which even Dudley knew nothing. He spoke firmly: “Yes, I think it wise. I want Suffolk in England where we can keep our eyes on him.”

When Suffolk received the King’s messengers who arrived with the pardon, he decided that his best course was to return. So far he had committed no sin against the Crown and he knew that that was what Henry really feared.

So he returned and was received by the King.

Henry studied him warily, wondering about his activities on the Continent. Enemies of the House of Tudor abounded there, but he was not unduly disturbed about Suffolk’s attempts to raise an army against him. He believed that would meet with little success. He did wonder though what Suffolk and Sir James Tyrrell had talked about when they were together.

“Well,” said Henry affably, “that matter of affray in which a man was killed . . . we will choose to forget it.”

“I am glad of that. There was nothing else I could have done. I was insulted.”

“These moments arise and in the heat of them . . . well, it is understandable.”

Suffolk thought: Cold-blooded fish. Who could imagine his ever being caught up in the heat of any passion? His eyes were a cold pale blue—how different from Edward who would have blazed out, shouted and then in a short time they would have been laughing and drinking one another’s health. A man knew where he was with Edward. With the Tudor he could never be sure.

“So you visited Tyrrell at Guisnes,” said the King quietly.

“It was the first port of call, my lord.”

“And how was the custodian of that castle?”

“In good health, I think. His son is with him—a fine upstanding young man.”

“Yes, yes. It is good to have sons. Is he content with his life there?”

“It would appear so.”

“You must have had a great deal to talk of. I know what it is when a man meets someone from home. Did he talk of England . . . of his past life here?”

“Not much. We were not together very long.”

Henry was trying to probe the thoughts of the other. Had Tyrrell said anything? Of course he hadn’t. He wouldn’t be such a fool.

He changed the subject. He did not want Suffolk to suspect he was overinterested in James Tyrrell.

He brought the meeting to a close. It was significant now that the rift between Henry and Suffolk was over, but with each a little wary of the other.

That had happened just before the young Duke of Warwick was brought to the block and beheaded. Shortly before Perkin Warbeck paid the penalty for his recklessness.

After Warwick’s execution Suffolk became uneasy. Warwick had died because of his claim to the throne. His, Suffolk’s, was not so strong but it existed; and he had already shown his antipathy to Henry Tudor.

He thought it might be wise to slip out of the country again with his friends. In secret he had discussed his dissatisfaction with the Tudor rule and it had been suggested to him that the Emperor Maximilian would delight in the discomfiture of the English King and it seemed feasible that he might be ready to help in his downfall.

Suffolk thought: Why should not I be the one to bring about this happy result? I am of the House of York. Ours is the true reigning house.

Moreover Henry Tudor might be a good administrator but he was no soldier. He might know how to fill the exchequer by taking those goods and lands which belonged to others but he would not find it easy to raise an army of inspired men, to be that leader whom people admired and followed without question.

It was not long before the Earl of Suffolk was at the Court of Maximilian where to his great delight he was received as an honored guest and listened to most sympathetically.

This was not quite the same as providing an army, which was what Suffolk had hoped for, and although Maximilian would like to see Henry discomfited, when it came to providing the necessary arms and men that was another matter.

Maximilian sighed and prevaricated. It would be most difficult for him to do anything at the moment. Then he had an idea. He would invite the Count of Hardeck to meet the Earl.

“There is a man who loves causes . . . if they appeal to him,” said Maximilian. “He will be sympathetic to you, I am sure, and if that sympathy goes deep enough . . . well, Hardeck is a man with the means.”

Hardeck was young and enthusiastic. He listened to Suffolk’s account of how Henry had robbed him of his estates, and how England was groaning under the taxes imposed by Dudley and Empson; he was appalled by the subjugation of the noble House of York and that the Queen was not given her true rights and must always be subjected to the will of Lancaster.

The young Count would lend Suffolk twenty thousand gulden and this could be paid back with interest when Suffolk had achieved his goal.

“You should return to England,” Maximilian advised the Earl. “Find out how many men will be ready to stand with you. Find out whether if you raise an army the Tudor could stand against you.”

Suffolk decided he would do so. Hardeck would be repaid, he promised him, and his payment would be double that which he had lent; and as surety Hardeck’s son should go with Suffolk to England.

This was success such as Suffolk had scarcely dared hope for. Hardeck had come in at the right moment when Maximilian was slipping away.

So, with his friends, he came to England.

Had he been wiser he would have known that Henry would not be ignorant of what was going on. The King did in fact know every twist and turn of the negotiations with Maximilian and was amused at Suffolk’s temerity and naivety in imagining that the Emperor would involve himself in such a hopeless cause. On the other hand Suffolk had found support and that must not be lightly shrugged aside.

It was not really Suffolk with whom he was concerned. Suffolk was a fool and could easily be dealt with. As soon as he stepped on English soil he was arrested on a charge of plotting treason and in a short time he was lodged in the Tower. With him were arrested his brother Lord William de la Pole and Lord William Courtenay, another Yorkist who had married one of the daughters of Edward the Fourth.

That attempted revolt was stifled almost before it had begun and the King had cause for gratification.

But the idea which had come to him when he had heard Suffolk had called at Guisnes Castle was still with him. It had obsessed him and he saw a way of bringing about that satisfaction which he had long sought.

He sent for Sir Richard Guildford, his master of ordnance, and with him came Richard Hatton a man whom he had reason to trust.

“I want you to bring Sir James Tyrrell and his son and his master of horse John Dighton to England,” he said. “It will be necessary to practice a little deception because I want them to come willingly.”

“Your orders shall be carried out, my lord,” promised Guildford.

“As soon as they are safely in the country, they are all three to be immediately lodged in the Tower. It may be necessary to tell Tyrrell that I wish to speak with him on a matter which is too secret to be imparted to anyone. I think that will bring him without delay. Let it appear that I am indeed his friend and wish to reward him, and make sure that he brings with him his horsekeeper and his son, who is at present in residence in the castle.”

The men departed and Henry, trying to curb his impatience, eagerly awaited their arrival.

Tyrrell was wary. Suffolk had been arrested. He was glad he had not been involved in that. Suffolk was hot-headed, impulsive, not the man who should attempt to pit his wits against shrewd Henry Tudor. His planned insurrection had been doomed to failure before it had begun. How wise he had been to keep clear of that! It was a pity that Suffolk had visited him—but his stay had been brief and he could prove that nothing treasonable had happened between them.

When he wakened one morning to find the castle surrounded, he was horrified. It could mean only one thing. He was about to be arrested and the only reason could be implication with Suffolk. When he saw the Calais garrison were stationed outside the castle, his first thought was that he would hold out. He had the necessary stores, men and arms to withstand a long siege and he would do so until he knew why his castle was being besieged.

He did not have to wait long. A messenger came to tell him that Sir Thomas Lovell, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, was aboard the ship, which lay at anchor, and he wished to have a private word with Sir James Tyrrell. He came from the King and he was in fact commanding Sir James to come to meet him.

It was no use asking the messenger for what purpose, but he had brought with him a safe conduct.

Tyrrell guessed that the King had discovered what Suffolk was doing and that he was going to be accused of complicity. He sent for his son.

“Thomas,” he said, “this messenger comes from Sir Thomas Lovell, who wishes to have speech with me.”

“You should not go, Father. You should not leave the castle.”

“I shall, my son. I have safe conduct and while I am gone I leave you in charge of the castle. Hold the siege and take no orders that do not come from me. Do you understand?”

Thomas said he did.

So Sir James left with the messenger and went aboard to meet Sir Thomas Lovell.

As soon as he was ushered into his presence he knew he had been foolish to come, for Lovell lost no time in accusing Tyrrell, in the name of the King, of high treason.

“This is monstrous,” said Tyrrell. “I am entirely guiltless.”

“It will be necessary for you to return to England with me.”

“I was promised safe conduct. I am not afraid of answering my accuser but I shall go back to the castle to put my affairs in order there. Then I will return to England to answer these false charges.”

“You will at once send a message to your son. The castle is to be surrendered without delay.”

“I shall send no such message.”

“I think you will, Sir James. If you do not you will be promptly thrown into the sea.”

“On whose orders?”

“From one who must not be disobeyed.”

“You mean . . . the King?”

“I did not say that. I have orders to take you back to England. . . . I was not told whether you were to be alive or dead . . . only to bring you at any cost.”

“Let me go back to the castle. Let me make ready to leave.”

Lovell shook his head. “The castle is to surrender. You will send a message to your son.”

He signed to two strong men who came forward at once and seized Tyrrell.

“Are you prepared to sign that order? The sea is rough today. Accoutred as you are you would have little chance of surviving.”

They really mean it, thought Tyrrell. What is behind all this? Why did not the King send me a simple command to return? I should have done so. I have nothing to fear from him. Or . . . have I? No, he could not. He would not dare. What I could tell . . .

He was seized with a fit of shivering. He seemed to see Henry Tudor’s cold eyes staring at him.

He said: “I will sign the order for the surrender of the castle. Only my signature will satisfy my son.”

Lovell smiled and bowed his head.

He summoned a messenger. “Take this order at once to the castle. Thomas Tyrrell and John Dighton are to join us here on the ship without delay.”

“My son knows nothing of . . . of anything you may be accusing me of.”

“We have our orders,” smiled Lovell. “And we intend to obey them to the letter.”

In a very short time Thomas Tyrrell and John Dighton joined Sir James on the ship.

Before he reached England Tyrrell knew that he had been a fool to leave the castle. If he had not done so he would be there now . . . defending it against the Calais garrison. He had been tricked. He should never have obeyed the summons to see Lovell. And now what? He knew he was going to be accused with Suffolk. He had committed no treason. It was true that Suffolk had visited him but they had not even talked of treason. If he had a fair trial he could prove this. Suffolk would exonerate him for Suffolk was a man of honor even though he was impulsive and hotheaded.

We shall be all right, thought Tyrrell. We must for we have done nothing.

His great concern was for his son Thomas. Thomas was completely innocent. It was wicked to have dragged him into this. Whatever happened, Thomas must not be made to suffer.

It was spring but there was a chill in the air. He was closely guarded and with him Thomas and John Dighton. They were taken to London and when he saw the great gray edifice ahead of him and realized that it was to be his destination he was filled with cold horror.

He was the King’s prisoner. What could they prove against him? Nothing. He deluded himself. The King’s men could always prove what they wanted to and something told him that there was more in this accusation than he had at first thought.

He was right. The trial had been quick. They had judged him, and with Thomas and Dighton he had been found guilty. The case was that Suffolk had sought aid to come against the King, he had received certain monies, he had planned rebellion, and Sir James Tyrrell had been his accomplice.

Where was Suffolk? He heard that he had been arrested and accused at Paul’s Cross as a traitor with William de la Pole and William Courtenay. They were in confinement somewhere. He did not know where.

But he, Tyrrell, had been condemned to death. It was strange that Suffolk and his accomplices had not been sentenced, yet James Tyrrell who had played no part in the rebellion and whose only sin was that he had received an old friend who called on him, should be condemned to death.

The next day he was to be taken out to Tower Green and there he would suffer the fate of traitors. He should be grateful that it was to be the axe and not that worse fate which was reserved for some.

It was dusk when the door of his cell was opened. No word was said but a figure heavily cloaked came into his cell and stood watching him.

The door of the cell was shut behind him and the two of them were alone.

A shiver ran down Tyrrell’s spine. He thought it was the angel of death already come for him.

Then a voice said: “James Tyrrell, you are to die tomorrow.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“No matter. You are to die and your son with you.”

“I am innocent of what I am accused. I may have committed crimes in my life but I had no part in Suffolk’s plan. As for my son he is completely innocent of anything that could be brought against him. He is wrongfully accused. . . .”

“He will meet his death tomorrow . . . unless you save him.”

“Save him. How?”

“It is not impossible.”

“Have you come to help him?”

“I will make a bargain with you. You can save your son’s life.”

“How? How?”

“It is easy. You cannot save your own life. That would be too difficult to achieve but you can save your son’s.”

“Only a pardon from the King could do that.”

“I could get that pardon.”

“Who are you?”

“Shall we say that I come from one who can pardon your son.”

Tyrrell was silent. His heart was beating wildly. It could not be . . . But perhaps it was.

“What . . . what should I have to do?”

“To confess to something . . . something that happened a few years ago.”

Tyrrell was silent. He felt his hair beginning to rise on his scalp; it seemed to him that the walls of his cell were closing in on him. Whenever he passed this place he had felt uneasy and it was ever since . . .

But that was long ago. That was another man’s crime. Could he be blamed for seeing that it was carried out? He had had to do so. So much depended on it . . . his future . . . his family . . . his beloved son . . .

“What is wanted is a confession from you, James Tyrrell.”

“What . . . must I confess?”

“You know, do you not? Cast your mind back . . . Remember Dighton . . . Miles Forrest . . . remember that night . . . two little boys . . . innocent young boys whose existence could have started a civil war. They had to go. You realized that. You helped them to it, Tyrrell. What you have to do is tell the story. Make a confession. It is what you would wish to do, is it not? You are shortly to leave this world. Can you go to your Maker with that sin on your conscience?”

“Who are you?” said Tyrrell again. There was no answer and he went on: “I do not hold myself guilty . . . completely . . . not as guilty as he who instigated the crime. I arranged for it to be carried out. But the heaviest guilt does not rest with me. It is that one to whose advantage it was to have those two boys removed.”

“You did what you did for gain, Tyrrell.”

“My gain was not to be compared with that of another.”

“Was it not? It was your whole life. You did not want to live as an outcast, Tyrrell. You wanted your share of the good things that are given to faithful servants. You are guilty, Tyrrell, as guilty as any man . . . as guilty as Forrest or Dighton . . . You would have to confess your guilt.”

“The King would not wish that.”

“The King does wish it.”

Tyrrell caught his breath. Could it indeed be the one he thought it was who stood before him wrapped in concealment?

“The life of your son, Tyrrell. His estates will be restored to him. He will go on living . . . His only sorrow will be that his father lost his head because he had played the traitor. Will you do this for your son?”

“How can I be sure?”

“You cannot be entirely sure. But you can be sure of one thing. If you do not your son will surely die with you.”

For a few moments there was silence in the cell. Tyrrell was thinking, I will do it. What harm can it do me? It is well that people should know.

He said: “I will do it. For my son’s life I will do it.”

“That is good. Tell me the story as it happened. Make your confession now. Shall I prompt your memory? It was in the summer of the year 1483. . . .”

“No . . . no . . . much later.”

“Let us say it was in the summer of 1483. Richard of Gloucester knew that he must kill his nephews to make the crown secure for himself.”

“The crown was secure. He had proclaimed them bastards.”

“We are going to make our confession, Tyrrell, if we are going to save your son. In that summer Richard of Gloucester sent a certain John Greene to the Tower with a note for the Constable, Sir Robert Brackenbury, with the order that he should put the Princes to death. Sir Robert was an honest man who refused to do it. Richard was furiously angry. ‘Whom can a man trust?’ he cried and one of his pages answered: ‘I know, Sire, one whom you can trust.’ And he gave him your name.”

“This is false.”

“Remember your son’s life is in danger. You were a very ambitious young man at that time. You were jealous of the favor Catesby and Ratcliffe enjoyed from the King. You were eager to curry favor with Richard who ordered Brackenbury to give you the keys of the Tower for one night. So you, a nameless page before that time, sprang into favor because you were ready to do the King’s bidding after Brackenbury refused.”

“I am a sinner,” said Tyrrell. “I would be counted a murderer, but this is not true. I was no nameless page. I was a trusted servant of the King. I had received my knighthood at Tewkesbury in 1471. I was the King’s Master of Henchman and Horse. I will confess . . . but I must confess the truth.”

“You will make the confession you are told to make.”

“But this is foolish. It does not carry conviction. Do you say King Richard sent a note to Brackenbury ordering him to murder the Princes and that he refused? If that were true how could Richard have allowed him to live after such a thing? Brackenbury was an honest man. No one ever denied that. Yet he remained Richard’s friend. He died beside him at Bosworth Field.”

“We are not concerned with Brackenbury’s death. Only with your confession.”

“You would have me say that which is false.”

“Did you arrange for the murder of the Princes in the Tower?”

“I did.”

“And did your henchmen Miles Forrest and John Dighton perform the deed?”

“They did.”

“And were the Princes smothered in their beds?”

Tyrrell put his hands over his face. “Their deaths were quick,” he said. “Poor innocent children, they knew nothing of what was happening. The felt no pain. They had to die. Their deaths may have saved the lives of thousands.”

“True.”There was a certain warmth now in the cold voice of the stranger. “It was necessary. A hideous deed but out of evil good can come. It had to be, Tyrrell, it had to be. Now you arranged for their deaths, did you not?”

“I did.”

“Tell the story as it happened. We disagree on but a few details. Never mind. They can be put right. It happened earlier than you say.”

“I know when it happened. I am perfectly clear about that.”

“You are being recalcitrant and there is very little time left for us. It is a matter of whether you want to save your son’s life.”

“I see that the guilt is to be shifted to King Richard.”

“The guilt was King Richard’s. He had taken the crown . . . usurped it from his nephews.”

“He believed them to be bastards.”

“Oh come. They were a threat nevertheless and he decided to remove them. It was as we have said. Brackenbury refused and you took over the Tower for a night. Forrest and Dighton obeyed your orders. The children were stifled and buried under a stairway in the Tower.”

“It does not agree with the facts. I am the only one of King Richard’s faithful servants who has been able to live successfully during the present reign. People will say: Why was this so? It could only be that although I served Richard well I also performed a great service for King Henry.”

“The confession of a man just before death will convince them that you speak the truth.”

“How can I be sure that my son’s life will be saved?”

“The King is not a bloodthirsty man. He does not like to shed men’s blood and only does so when it is for the good of the country.”

“And mine is for the good of the country?”

“Traitors cannot be allowed to live.”

“I took no part in Suffolk’s rebellion.”

“You are judged guilty.”

“Not for this . . . for another crime of which I was only an instrument used to carry it out.”

“The death of the two young boys in the Tower doubtless saved a civil war which could have cost the country thousands of lives . . . and its prosperity. That has been avoided. And no one must be allowed again to rise in their name.”

“Ah,” said Tyrrell. “I begin to understand. When it is proved that they are dead none will rise in their name, and I can prove that they are dead by telling the truth.”

“What you consider to be the truth would not save your son.”

“It would prevent men from impersonating the Princes.”

“You know what is required. It is for you to choose.”

“I will make the confession.”

“As is desired?”

“As is desired,” said Tyrrell.

The next day Sir James Tyrrell was taken out to Tower Green and his head laid on the block. He died with the comfort of knowing that he had saved his son’s life.

The following day Thomas Tyrrell was found guilty of treason but his sentence was delayed and finally he was freed and his estates were not confiscated.

John Dighton, who had been named as one of the men who had taken an active part in that mysterious murder, was not hanged but kept in the Tower. After a while he was freed although he too was alleged to have confessed to his share in the murder of the Princes.

Nothing had been written down about the confession, but a few weeks after the death of Tyrrell the King let it be known that Sir James Tyrrell had made a confession that the Princes had been murdered in the Tower on the orders of Richard the Third and that Tyrrell and his manservants had played a part in it.

The news was gradually allowed to seep out, almost as though no great effort was made to bring it to the notice of the people.

John Dighton, who had made a lucky escape from death, was one of those chosen to circulate the story, which he did.

Lord William de la Pole and Lord William Courtenay remained the King’s prisoners; but Suffolk, the leader of the hoped-for insurrection, was merely exiled to Aix.

The King liked it to be known that he was not vindictive. It was not the will of a just king to shed blood in anger. He wanted all men to know—and this was an obvious truth—that he only did so when expediency demanded that he should. If a person was a menace to the Crown—and the Crown of course meant Henry—then it was often wiser to remove that man. He did not want revenge. He wanted peace and prosperity during his reign. It was what he strove for. He wanted a secure throne for his House and that was the best thing possible for England.

In time people began to accept the story of the death of the Princes in the Tower. They had been murdered by Richard the Third who was emerging as something of a monster. It was amazing how little interest people felt for what did not actually concern themselves. No one picked up any discrepancies in the story. No one asked for instance why that good honest man Brackenbury, who was alleged openly to have refused to help his master commit murder, should have continued to be the friend of the King whom he had admired and beside whom he died fighting at Bosworth. No one asked why Tyrrell should have been the one to lose his head when he had played no part—at the least a very small one—in Suffolk’s treason and why Suffolk should get off with exile.

Nobody cared very much. Nobody wanted risings and rebellions. The Princes were dead. Murdered by their wicked uncle. It had all happened long ago and most people who were concerned in it were dead.