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

Shipwreck

hat winter of the year 1506 was a bleak one. Katharine had suffered miserably from the cold. Her position had certainly not improved and since the death of her mother she had become an encumbrance in Spain as well as in England.

She very much feared the King; she felt that his attitude toward her was entirely cynical. He, who had professed affection for her and such delight when she had come to marry Arthur, was now grudging her the small allowance he had made her and letting her see that he very much regretted that she had ever come to England.

Life was so cruel. She was in this position through a sudden twist of fate. If Arthur had lived she might now be the happy mother of children, the future Queen. If her mother had lived none would have dared treat her in this way. She often wondered if her father had ever really cared for her at all. It seemed to her that his children had been merely the means of helping him to increase his power. She knew that was inevitable to a certain extent but when one of them was placed in a position such as she was, surely some family feeling might have been revived to help that unfortunate one.

She had pawned so many of her jewels that she was afraid they would not last much longer. The Prince of Wales would be fifteen in June. That had once been the time considered possible for his wedding.

Would it take place? If it did she would be lifted out of her misery. It must take place.

For the last year her life had gone from bad to worse. The King was displeased with her father and the alliance between them, which had begun with the marriage of Katharine and Arthur was severely strained. There were the perpetual differences about Katharine’s dowry, and both of them refusing to help her, each using the other as an excuse. So it seems that I, thought Katharine, am of no importance to either of them.

They were both acquisitive; they were both ruthless in their determination to achieve power and hold it. What did they care for a poor defenseless girl? It had been so different when Queen Isabella was alive.

In the previous year Ferdinand had remarried. Katharine had been shocked when she heard for she could not bear to think of another in her mother’s place, particularly as he had married a young girl and rumor said he doted on her. Katharine believed he had always been a little jealous of Isabella. She had been his superior in every way, mentally as well as in her possessions, but they had appeared to be fond of each other. Isabella certainly had been of him, but always she had realized his weaknesses and always he had resented her power.

Now he had a young girl, Germaine de Foix, and this fact brought anxious furrows to the brow of the King of England for Germaine de Foix was a niece of Louis the Twelfth of France, which must mean bonds of friendship between Spain and Henry’s old enemy, France.

Henry had not said definitely that there would be no marriage with the Prince of Wales. He did not want to do that. In fact to have abandoned her altogether would have meant a return of her dowry and he was not prepared to let that go out of the country. But she knew that he was sending out feelers for a possible bride for the Prince of Wales. She knew that Marguerite of Angoulême had been suggested for young Henry and her mother Louise of Savoy for the elder.

She fancied that rejection from Angoulême had been the reason for these propositions coming to nothing, and she had heard that Louise had seen a picture of the King and found it repulsive, as no doubt she did his parsimonious habits. The real reason perhaps was that she was so wrapped up in her son François, the young Duke whom she called her Caesar, that she could not bear to be parted from him; and the same applied to Marguerite.

In any case the King was still seeking a bride and there had been no further suggestions for the Prince of Wales.

Just before Christmas she begged an audience with the King and after a while this was granted.

She was amazed by his frail looks. He was thin and there was a yellowish tinge to his skin, but his eyes were sharp and shrewdlooking as ever.

“My lord,” she said, “I cannot go on as I am. I have had no new clothes for two years; my servants are not paid. I must be able to live with dignity.”

“Have you applied to your father?” he asked.

“My father says I should apply to you.”

He lifted his shoulders. “You are his daughter.”

“I am yours too. I was Arthur’s wife.”

“That was scarcely a marriage, dear lady. Your father does not behave in a seemly fashion I hear.”

She began to feel hysterical. She must have help from somewhere. She could not go on in this way. Her apartments were cold and there was no means of heating them.

She told him this; her voice was raised and she was near to tears.

The King looked shocked.

“Pray calm yourself, my lady,” he said. “I think that you forget what is due from us both.”

She had clenched her fists together, “I am desperate . . . desperate. Either help me or send me to my father.”

The King said: “For the moment you should go back to your apartments. You are overwrought. I will do something to relieve your situation.”

What he had done was to invite her to come to Court for Christmas. This had disconcerted her. How could she mingle with the fine ladies of the Court in her threadbare gowns? Yet how could she spend the money which such a visit would necessarily require?

But because it was the King’s command that she should go to Court she must do so, and when she was installed in a small apartment there one of the King’s ambassadors came to her. He came, he said, on the command of the King to discuss her difficulties. She should rejoice for the King had given the matter his consideration.

She was tremendously relieved . . . but only for a few moments. When she heard the King’s solution, she was overcome with dismay.

“My lady, the King realizes that the upkeep of Durham House is beyond your means. Therefore he offers you a home here at Court. He is dismissing the members of your household whom you will no longer need. He says it is small wonder that you cannot pay your servants. The answer is that you have far too many. He is dismissing all but five of your ladies, and he is leaving you your Master of Hall, your treasurer and your physician. Then you will have your apartments here at Court. Thus you will be in a position to live in accordance with your means.”

She was dumbfounded. He had helped her by taking away most of those who were her friends.

She was so distraught that she sent at once for her Confessor. She wanted to pray with him, to ask him to help her to bear this fresh burden, which had been put upon her by a cynical king.

He could not be found and when she sent for her physician he told her that her Spanish Confessor was one of those who had been dismissed.

So here she was at Court—even more wretched than she had been at Durham House. Her expenses might have decreased but her misery had intensified.

There was only one ray of hope at that time. On occasions she saw the Prince of Wales. He was always aware of her, she knew. Sometimes their eyes would meet and in his would be a smile, which was almost conspiratorial.

What did that mean? she wondered.

She looked for him on every occasion. She felt happier when he was there.

There was only one way she could escape from his intolerable situation. That would be through marriage with the Prince of Wales.

The King was by no means a happy man. He was still unmarried and he had one son only. True, Henry was growing into splendid manhood. He was already taller than his father, he was outstandingly handsome and with his light auburn hair and fair skin he was admired wherever he went. He took great care always to be dressed to the best advantage. He liked to show off his well-shaped legs and the sumptuous velvets and brocades of his garments were the talk of the Court.

All very well, thought the King, but I hope the boy is not going to be extravagant.

Certainly that could be curbed while the King lived but as Henry said to Dudley and Empson, it would be intolerable if the Prince believed that when he came to the throne he could plunge into that storehouse of carefully built-up treasure and squander it.

Everyone made excuses for him. He was young yet. He had great charm and good looks; he was admired by the people. When he grew older he would realize his responsibilities.

But would he?

The King watched his son closely, curbed his exuberance, keeping him at his side. He was determined that the Prince should not yet be allowed to set up a household at Ludlow but remain at the King’s Court.

The rift with Ferdinand was growing. Henry was in fact seeking friendship with Philip, Juana’s husband, who since the death of Queen Isabella had become virtually ruler of Castile. (Juana was the Queen, but women did not count, certainly not one who was half mad and at the same time besottedly in love with her husband so that he could do anything he would with her.) When Philip’s father Maximilian died Philip would be the most powerful man in Europe. He was therefore a man to be cultivated and the deeper the rift between Henry and Ferdinand the more Henry would need Philip’s friendship to stand against the French. Moreover Ferdinand’s marriage with the niece of the King of France had made this more important than ever.

Henry’s fury with Ferdinand was increased when English merchants trading in Castile were refused the privileges they had enjoyed for some time under Isabella’s rule and were unable to do business. Consequently they returned with their cargo of cloth and did not bring back the wine and oil the country needed. Ferdinand swore that this was no fault of his. It had been his government who had refused the English merchants permission to do business. He had done his best to persuade them to allow the trade to proceed as before but they had refused. The English merchants had come to Richmond to complain to the King and they were in a very angry mood. Henry hated to see business deals frustrated; he had great difficulty in placating the merchants and although he was not to blame, people had looked to him to make the country prosperous and if he failed to do so he would be the one to answer for the failure.

Indeed he needed to court the friendship of Philip who would be only too ready to go against his father-in-law for Ferdinand was very resentful that Isabella should have declared her mad daughter Juana Queen of Castile, for that meant handing over that country to Juana’s husband Philip.

But there was one other matter which made Henry feel he needed Philip’s friendship.

At the time of the rebellion of Edmund de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk, which had given the King the opportunity to dispose of Sir James Tyrell and thus put an end to that specter, which had haunted him for a long time, the Earl had been exiled.

Perhaps it was a mistake to send people into exile. One never knew what they were plotting there. On the other hand Henry always avoided bloodshed except when he considered it absolutely necessary.

Four years had passed since Suffolk was brought to trial and during that time he had been in Aix. It was dangerous of course. But Henry had expected that and he watched the antics of his enemy very closely. At the time of Suffolk’s trial he had thought his claim to the throne was too remote to be of great importance. After all it came through his mother’s being sister to Edward the Fourth. Henry now realized that he should have been more careful and he would give a great deal to have Suffolk safely in the Tower.

He had signed a treaty with the Emperor Maximilian, father of Philip, in which Maximilian had promised he would not help English rebels, even though these rebels should claim the title of duke.

Suffolk had clearly been meant in this for he regarded himself as a duke even though his titles had been confiscated.

In spite of this Suffolk stayed at Aix for two years and when he did finally go after having been promised safe conduct, he was arrested in Gelderland and imprisoned in the Castle of Hattem. Shortly after his incarceration there, this castle had been captured by Philip; thus Suffolk had passed into the hands of the man whose friendship Henry now so ardently sought and one of the main reasons for this was Philip’s possession of Suffolk.

There were so many things in Henry’s mind. His spirits would have been considerably lifted if he could have found a bride. He missed Elizabeth more than he had thought possible. She had been so docile, never complaining, accepting his superior wisdom in all things. Having enjoyed the company of such a wife it was not surprising that he missed it and desperately longed to replace her.

The country was prospering as never before and his ministers thought it rather foolish of him to be so constantly worrying about a claimant to the throne springing up. It was due to those alarming insurrections of Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck . . . and of course the continued fears concerning the Princes in the Tower. They had colored his outlook to such an extent that there were times when they dominated all else.

But his ministers were right. He had nothing to fear. Nevertheless he would do what he could to cultivate Philip’s friendship, and he would seek a bride and remarry, which would remind himself that he was young yet. He would watch over the development of young Henry and mold him as the king he would one day be. And as for his son’s marriage, well, if an opportunity turned up he was free to take it. He kept telling himself that he was in no way bound to the marriage with Katharine of Aragon.

But the woman was an incessant nuisance. She was constantly grumbling and even now that she had free quarters at Court she went round like a messenger of doom trying to win the sympathy of those about her.

She had no money to buy clothes; she could not pay her servants; the few women who were left to her could not marry because she could not provide them with dowries; her undergarments had been mended so many times that there was nothing left of them but patches.

She was in a sorry state and worst of all she did not know whether she was the prospective Princess of Wales or not.

“We are not committed,” said the King. “Let her understand that.”

He had little thought to waste on her; he was wondering how he could best cultivate the friendship of Philip.

Then fate played into his hands.

That January the greatest storm the English ever remembered struck the island; the gale raged all through the day and night; even in London roofs blew from houses and it was unsafe to be in the streets. Among other buildings St. Paul’s Cathedral was damaged, but all this was nothing compared with the fury of the gale along the coasts.

It so happened that Philip with his wife Juana was at this time on the high seas. They were on their way to claim the crown of Castile and were making the journey by sea because the King of France would not permit them to cross his land.

So Philip had set sail from the Netherlands with his army and was in the English Channel when the full force of the storm struck his fleet. It was scattered; ships were sunk and some were washed ashore along the English coast.

With Philip was his wife Juana whom he would have preferred to be without. Philip was twenty-eight years old; he had already earned the title of Philip the Handsome and it fitted him. His long golden hair and fine features gave him the appearance of a Greek god and his large blue eyes and skin were fresh and healthy. If he was not tall, he was not short—perhaps slightly above medium height. Perhaps if he were older those perfect features might have been spoiled by marks of debauchery, but at this time, in spite of the life he led, they remained unsullied.

He had married Juana for Castile and he always said they might have lived together in reasonable harmony if she had not become so enamored of him that she could not bear him out of her sight and when they were together she could not prevent herself showing in every possible way her passionate devotion to him. As she was more than a little unbalanced, this passion for her husband—particularly in view of the life he liked to lead—assumed violent demonstrations. The incident of the cropped-haired mistress was but one. Her desire for Philip was insatiable and the stronger it grew so did his revulsion for her.

It was a very unhappy state of affairs, but on this occasion he had to endure her company for they were on their way to Castile where she would have to claim the crown of Castile.

He had often wondered whether he could put her away. That she was mad, many would be ready to admit if they dared. But surely, as admitting it was so would please him very much, they need have little fear from that. He always had to remember though that the crown came through her. She would be ready to give him all power in Castile but in exchange she would want him with her night and day.

It is too big a price to ask, he thought, even for Castile.

The marriage had been fruitful so Philip had done his duty by the woman. Their son Charles would be one of the most powerful men in Europe one day but his father would take that role before him. On the death of the Emperor, now that he had Castile as well, much of Europe would fall into Philip’s hands.

He had thought that once Juana had children he would be able to escape from her wearying passion. It was not so. She was proud of them, of course, loved them in fact, but she made it clear that all her passionate desire was still concentrated on her husband.

Of course he was attractive—one of the most desirable men in the world, and he had evidence of that for he could not remember one woman who had denied him once he made his wishes known. But Juana’s passion for him, to which her madness seemed to add a dangerous fuel, did not abate. He had begun to fear it never would.

Ever since they had left the land he had had to endure her company. Wherever he went she was after him and it was not easy to hide oneself on board a ship. He had consoled himself: soon we shall be in Castile. Soon the crown will be handed to her. He could already feel it on his head.

And now . . . this storm. Was it the end? He had been a fool to bring his army to sea. But what else could he do? He did not want to appear without it . . . and Ferdinand had no right to make treaties with the King of France, allying himself with France through that marriage with the French King’s niece. Artful old devil, thought Philip. He would probably be delighted if they perished at sea. Then he would get his hands on the baby Charles and bring him up as he thought he should be.

God forbid!

Once Juana had the crown perhaps he could put her away. Heaven knew, her conduct should not make that difficult.

But now all his plans were to come to nothing. Here he was at sea, and with every passing moment the storm was rising.

He was shouting orders to his men. They were afraid, he knew that. Only those who knew the sea could understand how terrible it could be. Philip was brought face-to-face with that knowledge and he could only fear that he had come to the end.

Someone had brought him an inflated jacket. It might be necessary to leave the ship, my lord, he was told.

“Leave the ship? I never will. Where are my other ships?”

“They are no longer with us, my lord. Some may have been lost . . . others blown to land somewhere. We are in the English Channel. Thank Heaven the English coast cannot be far away.”

Juana came rushing up to him. She was dressed in a furred robe and about her was strapped a purse.

She laughed at him and held out her arms. “We shall die together, my beloved,” she cried. “I ask nothing more.”

She would embrace him, but he threw her aside.

“This is no moment,”he said. “We have to be prepared. We may have to abandon ship.”

“Ah, for the sea’s embrace,” cried Juana. “I trow it will be a little more welcoming than yours, my cruel lord.”

“Try to be sensible,” said Philip angrily. “At such a time . . . have you no sense?”

“None at all,” she cried. “None where you are concerned, most beautiful and cruel of men.”

He had turned away. “What now?” he said to the men who, in spite of the situation, could not help gazing at Juana in astonishment. “Could we land?” asked Philip.

“We could try. If the ship will hold out long enough. . . .”

“England,” said Philip. “Well, better than a watery grave mayhap.”

Juana had flung herself at him once more and was clinging to him.

“Let us die together, sweet husband,” she cried dramatically, and again he flung her from him.

“Death!” he cried in a fury. “At least it would be escape from you.”

Then he had left her and staggered onto the deck.

Juana who had fallen, partly due to Philip’s rough treatment and partly due to the violent movement of the ship, half-raised herself and sat rocking to and fro.

“Oh my love . . . my love!” she cried. “Will you ever love me? I will stay with you forever. You will never be rid of me never . . . never.”

Her women were running round her. They were frightened out of their wits—not by her strangeness, they were accustomed to that—but at the prospect of death at sea.

The thunder roared and the lightning was terrifying.

“Philip,” screamed Juana. “Where are you, my love, my husband. Come to me. Let us die in each other’s arms.”

One of her women knelt beside her.

“You are frightened, woman,” said Juana. “You tremble. We are going to die are we not? I wonder what it is like to drown. Death comes quickly some say and in this sea surely so. I am not afraid of dying. There is only one thing in this world that I am afraid of . . . losing him . . . losing my beloved. . . .”

She looked at them . . . these women who were clustering round her. They were in greater need of comfort than she was. She spoke truthfully when she said she was not afraid. If she could be with Philip that was all she asked.

The ship was lurching violently and as Juana tried to get to her feet, she heard a voice crying out: “Land! Land. The lord be praised, it’s land.”

Philip shouted: “Can we make it?”

“We have to, my lord. This ship can’t carry us farther . . .It’s land or death in the sea.”

“Go for the land then,” said Philip.

He was thinking that he would have to throw himself on the hospitality of Henry. Was that wise? Most unwise, he thought. He would be more or less Henry’s prisoner. Here he was with only a few seamen at the mercy of one who might befriend him if it were expedient to do so.

But it was that or death by drowning, so there was only one course to take.

Juana was on her feet. She staggered on deck and stood beside Philip. She looked incongruous in her fine gown with her purse of gold strapped about her waist and her long hair flying in the wind. She was beautiful; there was no denying that and in her wildness she was like some sea goddess rather than a normal woman. Philip looked at her in momentary admiration. She had shown less fear than any of them at the prospect of drowning.

“Philip,” she cried. “We are together . . . We have come through this.”

She clasped his arm and he did not throw her off. Perhaps it was too solemn a moment and he was too relieved that land was in sight and that death was not imminent.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that we may be safe.”

As they came nearer to the land they saw that people were waiting there. In the early morning light this was a frightening sight, for some of those people carried bows and arrows and others had farming instruments which they could be intending to use as weapons. They looked menacing.

The ship had ground to a halt and some of the men were wading ashore.

Philip heard one shout, “This is the Archduke of Austria and King of Castile, with his Duchess and Queen. We beg for refuge.”

There was a chorus of “Come ashore.”

We must, thought Philip wryly. There is nothing else we can do.

It was not long before, with Juana beside him, he was standing on dry land.

One man had put himself in front of the crowd and it was clear that he was a person of some authority.

“I am Sir John Trenchard,”he said. “Squire of these lands. I welcome you ashore.”

“Thank you,” said Philip. “Tell me where we are?”

“You have landed at Melcombe Regis . . . you just missed Weymouth. All along the coast your ships have been watched. There’ll not be many which have escaped the storm I fear, my lord Archduke. I thank God that you are safe. My house and household will be at your service and I doubt not you would wish to come with me right away.”

“There is nothing I should desire more,” said Philip.

“Then let us go. We are close by. You can have food and shelter at least.”

The manor house was warm and cozy after the rigors of the night and Philip could not feel anything but relief and an overpowering joy that his life had been saved. The savory smells of roasting meat filled the hall and he gave himself up to the pleasure of taking advantage of the comforts his host had to offer.

Lady Trenchard was giving urgent orders in the kitchens and throughout the household, while her husband dispatched a messenger to Windsor that the King might know without delay what an important visitor Sir John had in his house.

The King received the news with an excitement so intense that for once he felt unable to hide it. Philip in England! Shipwrecked! At his mercy in a way. Fortune could not have been more favorable.

The weather was bad; the heavy rain was causing floods all over the country and although the violent wind had abated a little it was still wreaking damage throughout the land.

Henry blessed the storm. Nothing could have worked more favorably for him. Philip must be accorded a royal welcome, he said. He should be met and brought to the Court where Henry would devise such hospitality which would astonish all those who were aware of his reluctance to spend money. He was sure Dudley and Empson would agree with him that this was one of those occasions when it was necessary to spend.

He sent for young Henry.

The Prince had a faintly resentful look in his eyes. The King knew what that meant. He would soon be fifteen years of age and he resented being kept so closely under his father’s surveillance.

Often the King had impressed on his son how much depended on him, what great responsibilities would be his, and it was then that he grew faintly uneasy because he saw that faraway look in the boy’s eyes, which meant that he was seeing the time when he would be king and imagining what he would do when his father was no longer there to restrain him.

“Be thankful, my lord, for the Prince’s good health and looks and his popularity with the people,” said his ministers.

“I am,” replied the King, “but sometimes I think it would be better if he were a little more like his brother Arthur was.”

“The Prince will be strong, my lord. Have no fear of that.”

And he sighed and supposed they were right. He knew that some of those who wished him well believed that he looked for trouble; he was never at ease and was always expecting disaster. Well, that was so; but then it was due to the way in which he had come to the crown.

Now he looked at his son.

“You have heard the news doubtless. The Archduke Philip has been shipwrecked on our shores. He is at Melcombe Regis with his wife.”

“Yes,” said Henry. “I have heard it. Philip and Katharine’s sister.”

The King frowned. He would have to pay a little more respect to Katharine now that her sister and brother-in-law were here, he supposed. But he was faintly irritated that his son should mention her.

“You are always saying that you are not allowed to take a big enough part in important matters. Well, my son, here is your chance. Philip must be welcomed to our shores. Quite clearly I cannot go to meet him. I do not want to treat him as though he is a conqueror, do I? But I wish to show him honor. I intend to make this visit memorable . . . for myself as well as for him. So I shall send you, my son, to welcome him. You will go at the head of a party and greet him in my name.”

Henry’s eyes sparkled. How he loves taking a prominent part! thought the King. How different from Arthur!

“You will treat Philip with every respect. You will welcome him warmly. You will tell him of our pleasure in his coming. Now go and prepare to leave. I will see you before you set out and will prime you in what you will have to say to our visitor.”

Henry said: “Yes, my lord.”

He was all impatience to be gone, thinking: What shall I wear? What shall I say? Philip of Austria . . . son of Maximilian . . . one of the most important men in Europe, one whose friendship his father was eager to cultivate. He would excel. He would show everyone how he would handle delicate matters. . . .

“You may go now,” said the King. “I will see you before you leave.”

Henry was off, calling to Charles Brandon, Mountjoy . . . all his friends.

An important mission entrusted to him at last!

In her apartments Katharine heard the news. Her sufferings had not diminished since she came to Court. In fact she thought that they had become more humiliating; for here she must live close to the rich and observe that the humblest squire was more comfortably situated than she was. It was amazing how quickly servants realized the contempt of their masters and lost no time in reflecting it. True she and her attendants were served food from the King’s kitchens but it was always cold when it reached them and was obviously those scraps which were considered unfit for the royal table.

She was eating scarcely anything. Pride forbade her. Moreover she found that her appetite had diminished; she was in such a state of perpetual anxiety. Her father did not reply to her entreaties and she knew it was no use appealing to King Henry.

All her hopes were centered on the Prince of Wales for he always had a kindly smile for her when they saw each other. It was a little patronizing perhaps, and in it there was an assumption of scuperiority but there was something protective in his smile and Katharine was in sore need of protection.

Therefore when the news reached her that her sister and brother-in-law were in the country wild hope seized her. It was years since she had seen Juana but to see her again would be wonderful. She could talk to her. She would make her understand what her position here was like. Juana was important now: Queen of Castile. Juana could help her.

This could be deliverance.

It was in a state of hopeful expectation that she awaited the arrival of her sister and brother-in-law.

A place of meeting had been arranged. It was to be at Winchester. Richard Fox, Bishop of Winchester had already been warned that when Philip arrived he was to be treated to the very best and most lavish hospitality. Philip was to be made to feel that there was no suggestion whatsoever of his being a prisoner. He was an honored guest.

Philip had arrived at Winchester feeling rather pleased with the turn of events. He had heard by now that not all his ships had been lost. Many of them had been able to get into port and although damaged could be refitted and made seaworthy. In the meantime he was in England, about to meet the wily King; he was very much looking forward to that encounter.

Moreover he was feeling particularly pleased because he had left Juana behind him at Wolverton Manor in Dorset whither they had traveled from Melcombe Regis and where they were—since it was the wish of the King—entertained with as much splendor as it was possible to muster.

Juana had protested. She wished to accompany him. She did not want to let him out of her sight. But he had been adamant. The shipwreck had affected her more than she realized. She was distraught. She was overwrought. She was in a weak state. He feared for her health.

She had watched him through narrowed eyes and he had been forced to threaten her. If she did not agree to stay and rest he would have her put away. She suffered from periodic madness and the whole world knew it. He would have no difficulty in making people believe that her violence had become so dangerous to others that she must be put under restraint.

That threat could calm her better than anything, for although she was the Queen of Castile, Philip was more powerful and every member of her household would agree with him that she suffered from bouts of madness.

He soothed her; he was gentle with her; he spent the night with her—which could soften her more than anything; and in the morning he was able to leave alone for Winchester having warned her attendants that she was to have a long rest before setting out to make the journey to Windsor.

Savoring his freedom from the cloying devotion of his wife he was in excellent form, ready to enjoy the adventure; and when he heard that the Prince of Wales was on his way to meet him in the king’s name he was greatly amused. The boy was not quite fifteen, full of life, straining at the leash. Philip looked forward to an entertaining encounter.

Young Henry meanwhile was rehearsing what he would say to Philip. Philip was handsome and therefore vain, he presumed. Philip was important to his father; therefore he must treat him with the utmost respect. At the same time he must let the Archduke know that he was of no small importance himself: Prince of Wales, king-to-be, someone to be reckoned with for the future.

They met at the Bishop’s Palace and stood face-to-face smiling at each other. The speeches Henry had rehearsed were forgotten. He said: “Why, my lord Archduke, you are indeed as handsome as they say.”

Philip was amused. “My lord Prince,” he said, “I see you have heard tales of me similar to those I have heard of you. And I will say with you . . . they do not lie. You are all that I heard of you though I’ll confess I did believe it was largely flattery.”

There could not have been a better beginning. Philip knew exactly how to please the boy and he set out with all his considerable charm to do so.

As for young Henry he was delighted; he felt he was making a supreme success of his first diplomatic mission.

Before they sat down to the lavish banquet the Bishop’s servants had prepared they were the best of friends. Philip had explained that he had left Juana behind to recuperate after the fearful ordeal at sea. Henry wanted to hear about the shipwreck and listened entranced to Philip’s account.

It was dramatic. Henry could see the young man—who was already a hero to him—giving orders on the deck.

“We believed our last moment had come. I prayed then to God. I went on my knees and asked for my life to be spared. I believe—but you may think I am wrong—that I have work to do here on Earth and the time has not yet come for me to leave it.”

Henry protested that he did not think the Archduke was wrong at all and God must have realized that.

“I swore to the Virgin Mary that I would make two pilgrimages if she would intercede for me. I promised her I would go to her churches of Montserrat and Guadalupe and there do homage to her if she would but plead with God to save my life.”

“And she did,” said Henry, his eyes glistening with religious fervor. Knights were the more to be admired if they combined piety with bravery.

“From that moment the wind dropped. The rain abated so that we could see the outline of the English coast,” went on Philip.

It was not quite true but Philip could not resist dramatizing the story for such an entranced listener.

“Heaven intervened,” said Henry piously.

“That is so, my Prince. We came ashore although I must confess that the inhabitants looked a little fierce at first.”

“They should be punished for it,” said Henry, his little mouth hardening.

“Nay, nay. They were protecting the shores of their country. How were they to know that I was a friend? I could have been an invader. Do not blame your good people, my lord Prince. Rather thank them. They would guard your island well. And the best gift a ruler can have from his people is loyalty.”

“I think the people will be loyal to me.”

Philip laid his hand on the boy’s arm. “You have the makings of a great ruler. That is clearer to me than is this goblet of wine.”

How Henry glowed! How he admired the Archduke! He was so good-looking, so charming, and Henry was glad to know although he himself was not yet fifteen and could be expected to put on a few more inches, he was already as tall as Philip.

He asked about Juana. Philip explained that she was suffering from exhaustion and that he had insisted that she remain behind for a while and take the journey to Windsor more slowly.

Henry said: “I look forward to meeting the lady Katharine’s sister.”

“Ah . . . indeed yes.”

Henry shut his lips firmly together. He had been warned by his father not to speak of Katharine. These were her close relations and the subject of her treatment in England could be a dangerous one.

Henry wondered fleetingly what the King intended to do about Katharine; but he was too involved with this fascinating companion to let her intrude into the conversation. Besides she was a forbidden subject. But the very fact of that made him feel he wanted to talk of her.

“Your wife has brought you great possessions,” said Henry; and it occurred to him that if Katharine had been the elder she could have brought Castile to him. He was sure then there would not have been all this uncertainty about his marriage.

At length they retired for the night for they were to leave early next morning. By that time the excellent camaraderie between them was noted by all around them.

It was as though the Archduke of Austria and the Prince of Wales had been friends all their lives and none would have guessed that they had met for the first time only the day before.

It was a pleasant journey. They were both young and healthy enough not to be disturbed by the wintry weather and as they approached Windsor they perceived King Henry with a magnificently attired entourage riding toward them.

King Henry, regal in purple velvet, made a striking contrast to the black-clad Archduke and his rather somber attendants. The King swept off his cap and was glad that he had taken the precaution of wearing a hood with the cap on top so that it could be removed leaving his ears covered, for the icy wind was penetrating and he was plagued by many rheumatic aches and pains these days.

“It is too cold to linger here,” he said to Philip, “but I would say to you that I rejoice to see you. You are as welcome as my son here. He, I and my whole kingdom are at your service.”

Philip replied that he was deeply moved by such a touching welcome and taking his place between the King and the Prince of Wales he rode with them toward the castle.

From a window Katharine was watching. She had hoped to be there in the great hall to greet her sister and her husband but it had not been suggested that she should, so fearing a rebuff she had remained in her apartments.

But I shall see Juana, she told herself. Something must come of that.

She looked from the window. She saw the three men. But where was Juana? She was terribly afraid. Why was it that people always whispered about her sister? She knew Juana was wild. She had always been so. Only their mother had known how to deal with her. But there were times when Juana had been a loving sister, kind and even gentle, always ready to listen to other people’s problems.

But where was Juana now?

There was a scratching at her door and a young girl came in. This was the Princess Mary—the King’s youngest daughter who was some ten years old. Mary had become very beautiful—perhaps the most beautiful of all the King’s children. That beauty had come down through the House of York and with it a vitality, which had shown itself in Henry, Margaret and Mary.

Mary was tenderhearted, more affectionate than her sister Margaret had been and she had shown friendship for Katharine for whom she was vaguely sorry—mainly because she never had any new clothes and she was in some sort of disgrace it seemed to Mary—disgrace which was not of her own making.

Now Mary was very excited. “They’re here,” she cried. “There is to be a grand banquet. I am to go. I have my father’s permission. I shall play the lute and the clavichord and everyone will say how clever I am. Perhaps I shall dance. Perhaps Henry will dance with me.”

Mary was silent. She had been tactless again. She shouldn’t have mentioned Henry because Katharine wanted to marry him and she was not sure that he wanted to marry her and there was a lot of fuss about some dowry, which upset Katharine a great deal.

“I was hoping to see my sister,” said Katharine. “She is not with the party?”

“Oh, Queen Juana . . .” Mary was just about to say Mad Juana and remembered in time that she was Katharine’s sister. “She is staying behind . . . She has to rest. . . .”

Mary’s voice trailed off. Then she was at the window.

“They look very dull,” she said, “except my father . . . and Henry of course . . .”

Katharine was thinking: What if I am invited to the banquet? Is my ruby brooch big enough to hide the darn in my velvet gown?

But she was not thinking very seriously about what she would wear. The one thought which kept hammering in her mind was: Where is Juana?

The King led his guest into the castle. As they walked he congratculated the Archduke on his escape and assured him of his own delight in the outcome.

“I have long desired to talk with you, my lord Archduke, and now fate in this rather churlish way has gratified my desire.”

Philip replied as graciously. He could only rejoice in his shipwreck since it had brought about this happy meeting.

The state apartments of the castle were magnificent and Philip admired them. Then Philip was conducted to the most splendid apartment of them all, hung with cloth of gold and crimson velvet, and as it was lavishly decorated with Tudor roses Philip realized that the King was giving up the royal bedchamber to him.

It had been the custom of kings during the ages when they wished to show especial honor that they gave up this most intimate of their apartments. In medieval times often the guest had been expected to share the King’s bed. Later this custom had been altered a little and now it was customary to relieve the guest from sharing and offer only the bedchamber.

But it was indeed the ultimate honor and Philip was delighted.

The King had realized that it would not be possible to exclude Katharine from the celebrations; but the fact that her sister Juana had been left behind to follow later was an indication that he need not worry too much about the treatment the Princess had received in England.

With his usual shrewdness he had summed up Philip. Ambitious, wily to an extent, luxury loving, something of a libertine, a young man whom it should not be difficult for such as himself to handle, and he intended to get the most advantage from the visit.

Young Henry had already succumbed to the visitor’s charm. There had been no need to warn him to flatter the young man; he was doing that unconsciously. The King thought uneasily: there is a similarity between them. Will Henry be like Philip when he comes to the throne?

But that was a long way ahead, the King hoped, although his rheumatism was dreadfully painful particularly in such inclement weather as this. But he had time ahead of him; if he could get a wife he would feel renewed.

Katharine received the message. She was to appear at the banquet.

Her hopes were raised by Henry’s changed attitude toward her when she was presented to her brother-in-law; Philip embraced her and those hopes soared. She wondered when she would have an opportunity to talk to him.

She was grateful that she still had some jewels out of pawn and she had managed to keep one black velvet dress in moderately good condition. When she was dressed in it and put on her jewels she believed she successfully hid her poverty.

Henry proudly presented his daughter Mary to the Archduke, and even his expression softened a little at the sight of the delightful creature. He could not help being proud of his children. The urge was strong in him to get more. Perhaps he could talk to Philip about a bride. Philip’s sister Margaret’s name had been mentioned before. Perhaps he could get the matter settled quickly for it would be an ideal match.

He was affable to Katharine, calling her his daughter, which all about him noticed and they wondered whether this was an indication that there was still a possibility of her marriage with the Prince of Wales or whether it was merely done for Philip’s benefit.

So the banquet began and conversation flowed with the utmost affability between Philip and his attendants and the King and the Prince of Wales and all those nobles who were fully aware of the King’s desire for friendship with the visitor.

The Princess Mary enchanted the company with her lute and clavichord as she had said she would; and she danced to the admiration of all. The King suggested that Katharine dance one of her Spanish dances and that one of her ladies should accompany her in the dance.

It was like those pleasant days of long ago for Katharine when she was treated according to her rank.

Mary had come to her after the dance and taking her hand led her to the dais at the end of the hall on which the royal party were seated. The King made no objection but included her in the smile he bestowed on his daughter.

Young Henry smiled at her, almost possessively and perhaps with real love. She was happier than she had been for a long time.

She sat beside Philip and her heart beat fast with hope. He was smiling at her in a rather vague way as though his thoughts were elsewhere.

“I was dismayed not to see my sister,” she said.

His voice was cold. “She was indisposed after such an ordeal. I was concerned for her health and insisted that she rest before making the journey.”

It sounded as though he cared very much for Juana, and Katharine warmed toward him.

“I shall look forward to seeing her. I doubt not she will join us soon.”

“It will be so, doubtless,” he said.

She thought: if I could speak to him in secret. If I could ask him to convey a message to my father . . . one which the King might not know of. Perhaps he could bring me some relief. If my father knew how short of money I am kept . . .

She would try. But how to speak to him alone? In the dance, perhaps?

“My lord Archduke,” she said quietly, “I should be greatly honored if you and I could dance together.”

He turned to her; his eyes were cold. “My lady, I am but a plain sailor. You would not have me dance with you!”

There was a brief silence. Katharine felt the blood rush into her face. It was an insult—and deliberately given.

The silence on the dais was brief. The Prince of Wales looked dismayed. He felt protective toward Katharine; on the other hand he was completely fascinated by his new friend. Katharine should not have asked him to dance; she should have waited for Philip to ask her. Henry preferred to forget the incident.

The King had been very much aware of it. It told him a good deal. Philip had escaped from Juana; he had treated Katharine as though he regarded her as of little importance.

That was revealing. Then he need not be too careful of her either and he was glad of that. He had been a little uneasy about what the sisters might discuss if they were together. He believed now that there would be no protest from Philip if he sent Katharine away. But perhaps he should allow her the briefest encounter with her sister.

On the following day the Princess Mary came to Katharine’s apartments. She was pouting slightly and Katharine wondered what had offended her, for she was inclined to be spoiled at the Court—like her brother and elder sister Margaret, she was fond of her own way. Now something had upset her and clearly she had come to tell Katharine about it.

Soon it came out. “I am to leave for Richmond at the end of the week.”

“Oh . . . but you love Richmond.”

“I love Richmond, but not when there is all this entertainment going on at Windsor. The Archduke will be here and there will be balls and banquets and all sorts of exciting things going on and I shall not be here to enjoy them.” She looked quickly at Katharine. “And,” she added, “nor will you.”

Katharine looked at her in amazement.

“Because,” went on Mary, “you are to come with me. We are to leave together . . . for Richmond.”

“But who has said this?”

“It is my father’s wish that we should go.”

“But . . . my sister will be coming . . .”

“I know. But we are to go. Perhaps your sister will come to Richmond to see you.”

“She will come here . . . and I shall not be here to see her. Oh, it is so unfair. Why is everything done to hurt me?”

Mary came to Katharine and put her arm round her.

“I don’t want to go to Richmond either,” she said.

Katharine looked at the beautiful little pouting face. No, Mary did not want to miss the balls and banquets. But I shall not see my sister, thought Katharine.

Then a horrible suspicion came to her that it had been planned because the King did not wish her to see her sister. He would know how bitterly she would complain. Had she not on many occasions brought her sorry condition to his ears? Not that he had listened.

Oh, life was cruel. It could not be that now she was going to be denied a meeting with Juana.

A few days passed in the most lavish revelry and still Juana did not come. Philip’s servants had certainly respected his wishes that Juana’s journey to join him should be a very slow one. She did not arrive until the day before Katharine and Mary were to leave for Richmond.

Fortune is a little on my side at last, thought Katharine. At least I shall see her.

With great joy she greeted her sister.

They looked at each other for some time in astonishment. They had both changed a good deal since they had last met. Katharine noticed the wildness in Juana’s eyes. She had seen it before but now it was more marked. Her sister had aged considerably. Of course she would change; she had been a young girl when she had left home to marry Philip.

Juana saw a new Katharine too. Was this Catalina, the rather quiet little sister who had always been so terrified of the future which would take her away from her mother’s side? Poor sad little widow! She really did look as though she were in mourning.

“We must be together . . . we must talk,” said Katharine. “There is so much I have to say to you. You will be going to Castile.”

“Yes,” said Juana. “We are going to claim the crown which is now mine.”

“You are Queen of Castile, Juana, as our mother was. It is hard to imagine anyone in her place.”

“Our father has replaced her in his bed,” said Juana with a laugh. “They say his new wife is young and beautiful and he is rather a doting husband.”

Katharine shivered.

“I wish him joy of her,” cried Juana. “I have the crown. He cannot take that.”

“Juana, when you see our father I want you to speak to him for me.”

“What think you of Philip?” said Juana. “Did you ever see a man so handsome?”

“He is certainly very good-looking. You see, Juana, I have no state here. They say I am to marry the Prince of Wales. We have gone through a ceremony . . . but shall I? What does our father say of this matter?”

“He has said nothing as far as I know.”

“But . . . I am his daughter.”

“I think he is not pleased that I have the crown. He always wanted it, you know. He married our mother for it. But I have it now . . . and I have Philip. Philip loves me . . . because I have the crown of Castile.” She caught Katharine’s arm and held it tightly. “If I did not have the crown of Castile he would cast me off tomorrow.”

“Oh no. . . .”

“Yes, yes,” cried Juana. The wildness in her eyes was very evident. “Oh he is so beautiful, Katharine. He is the most beautiful creature on Earth. You have no idea. What have you known of men such as he is? Your Arthur . . . what sort of man was he?”

“He was good and kind,” said Katharine quickly; she was becoming alarmed by this wildness in Juana. She always had been. When they were in the royal nurseries in their childhood their mother would come when the attacks started. She was always able to soothe Juana.

“I am not to be lightly set aside,” said Juana. Then she began to tell Katharine how she had cut off Philip’s mistress’s golden hair. She began laughing immoderately. “I shaved her head. You should have seen her when we had finished with her. We bound her hand and foot. Her shrieks were such as would have led anyone to believe we were cutting off her head instead of her hair. She looked so odd . . . when we’d finished. We shaved it all off. Oh, it was so funny. . . .”

“Juana, Juana, do not laugh so loudly. Juana, be calm. I want to talk to you. I want you to speak to our father . . . I want him to know how I live here. I cannot go on like this . . . He must do something. Help me, Juana. Help me.”

A dreamy expression had come into Juana’s eyes. “He will not escape me,” she said. “He cannot, can he? Not while I have the crown of Castile. He threatened me. Oh little Catalina, you have no idea . . . he would put me away . . . if he could. He will try to . . . but I won’t let him. I am the Queen of Castile. I . . . I . . . I . . .”

Katharine closed her eyes; she did not want to look at her sister. She knew that it was hopeless to look for help from her. Perhaps it was as well that the next day she would be leaving for Richmond.

The King was relieved to see Katharine depart. He did not think there was much danger to be expected from her but he was a cacutious man and he did not take risks. Philip was clearly not inclined to listen to her complaints and as for her sister she was not in a state to. Still it was as well not to have her at Court. She was an embarrassment in any case; and her clothes were decidedly shabby. He did not want unpleasant questions raised.

There were other things to discuss. He did not see why Philip should not make some definite matrimonial arrangements for him before he left. Philip had a rich sister Margaret. Her name had been mentioned before but there had been the usual prevarications. Then there was another matter. Even more important. He would not really feel at ease until Edmund de la Pole was safe in the Tower. It was alarming to have him wandering about on the Continent. One could never be sure who would rally to his cause if he attempted to get back and claim the throne.

A heaven-sent opportunity had brought Philip to these shores. He would not have been Henry Tudor if he had not made the most of that good fortune.

First of all he must make Philip his friend. Young, good-looking, susceptible to flattery, it should not be difficult. Young Henry was very useful. The two of them went hawking and hunting the wild boar together; they seemed to understand each other very well. The Prince of Wales had grown up in the last few months. Fifteen this year. A little young for marriage perhaps, but it might be that he and Philip could discuss the boy’s marriage. After all Philip was not on the best of terms with Ferdinand even though he was his father-in-law; and he certainly showed no sympathy for Katharine. There were numerous possibilities and the King decided to try them all.

First he was going to bestow on the Archduke the greatest honor he possibly could. He was going to create him a Knight of the Garter.

Philip was enchanted, and ready to discuss all that Henry wished and proved himself to be very ready to concede the King’s requests.

He would be delighted, he said, for Henry to have his sister Margaret Archduchess of Savoy and he believed she would be overjoyed to come to England.

“I am sure that Maximilian would never allow his daughter to come without a dowry.”

“My father would insist on giving her a dowry worthy of her rank.”

Henry’s eyes gleamed. He could not resist tentatively suggesting a figure.

“Somewhere in the region of thirty thousand crowns,” he murmured.

Philip did not flinch. It seemed to him a likely figure, he said.

Oh yes, surely such a guest was worthy of the Garter.

In St. George’s Chapel the ceremony took place and young Henry had the honor of fastening the insignia about Philip’s leg; and the friendship was sealed more firmly when the marriage contract between Henry and the Archduchess Margaret was signed.

It had indeed been a memorable visit.

But there was one question which Philip evaded; and that was the return of the Earl of Suffolk.

It was a matter he would have to discuss with the Emperor, he said.

“Oh my lord,” laughed Henry, “it is you who would have the last word, eh?”

Philip hated to admit that this was not so.

“It is for you to say,” went on Henry. “We know that your word is law. Suffolk is a traitor. I would have him here under lock and key.”

Philip appeared to consider and a vague look came into his eyes. At length, he said lightly, “I have no doubt, my lord, that you could persuade Suffolk to return.”

“I’ll swear he would wish to come back. To be exiled from one’s country . . . unable to return . . .” Henry paused significantly. “Well, you are here now . . . held by the bonds of friendship and you can well imagine how you would feel if for some reason you could not return to your country.”

Philip was alert immediately. He had long realized that Henry was a sly old fox. Was there a hint behind that bland expression? What did all this friendship mean? Philip had never had any great illusions about it. He had been delighted by his reception because he had known that it meant Henry regarded him as a great power in Europe. But he could change. Philip saw himself held here for ransom. How much would his father be prepared to pay to rescue him? A great deal no doubt, and Henry had a reputation for loving money more than he loved most things.

Philip appeared to consider. He said slowly: “Well, I have no doubt that something could be done about that. Suffolk was my father’s guest. He found it hard to refuse him refuge . . . but I have no doubt whatsoever . . .”

“It would be pleasant to have this little matter settled once and for all. I always did abhor a traitor.”

Which, thought Philip, is exactly what King Richard would have called you.

But that was long ago. Henry had the power to hold him here and Philip was counting on leaving England very soon. His ships were made ready. The pleasant interlude was coming to an end and now the Tudor was beginning to show himself other than the kindly host.

What did Suffolk matter? Let him take his chance. Philip could feel cold with fear at the prospect of being a prisoner here.

He had given way to the marriage, although he could imagine his sister would probably refuse her aging suitor. What did that matter; he had said he would arrange the settlement. He could do no more than that. And now Suffolk.

“I’ll swear,” he said, “that if you would promise to spare his life he would not try to escape when we told him he was no longer welcome.”

Henry smiled. He did not wish publicly to execute Suffolk. He wanted the man here in England under lock and key. To have him a prisoner in the Tower would do very well to begin with.

“I’ll strike a bargain,” said Henry. “I will promise to spare his life. But I want him here.”

“I am sure that could be arranged,” said Philip.

“My good friend, I knew I could rely on you.”

Philip said the friendship must grow stronger between them and he was happy to say that he and the Prince of Wales had been on the best of terms from the very beginning of their acquaintance. It would grieve him greatly to leave these friendly shores but Henry would understand a man in his position could not neglect his duty however strong the temptation to do so.

With the coming of the better weather Philip made his preparations to depart; Henry had given him a written promise that Suffolk’s life should be spared, and Philip sent emissaries on ahead to deal with the matter.

At the end of March Suffolk returned to England and Henry had him paraded through the streets of London on his way to the Tower. He wanted to impress on the people that it was folly to attempt to revolt against a strong king.

When Suffolk was safe in the Tower he sent for the Prince of Wales and talked to him alone.

“Another enemy safe under lock and key,” he said, “or as safe as lock and key can be.”

“Only when a man has lost his head can he cease to be a menace,” said young Henry, his lips tightly pursed. He was always deeply concerned about anyone who had attempted to take the crown.

“I have given my promise that he shall live,” said the King. “Philip insisted.”

“I suppose he had promised safe conduct to Suffolk.”

Henry was simple in a way, thought the King. He was unaware as yet of the deviousness of men. He had set Philip up as a hero and that meant that he could not suspect him of acting dishonorably in any way. It was a pleasant trait in some respects and he would learn and grow out of it. At the moment it was endearing and perhaps should be allowed to persist . . . for a while. Let the boy learn his own bitter lessons.

“I gave him my promise,” said the King. “My promise . . . but you have made no promises.”

The Prince was a little puzzled. The King hated to refer to his own death but there were times when it was necessary and when it must be impressed on young Henry that one day he would take over the reins of government.

“It is never wise to leave those living who imagine they have a claim to the throne—especially when they are related to a royal house as Suffolk is.”

“You mean . . .”

“I have given my promise. You have not given yours. . . . If it should be a matter for you to decide . . . Henry, my son, try to rid yourself of any who can make a nuisance of themselves and so obstruct the path to good government.”

Henry nodded slowly. What his father was saying was: when I am dead and you are King get rid of Suffolk . . . and anyone who through royal blood thinks he or she has a claim to the thone.