The Last Plantagenets (61 page)

It seems highly improbable that the king, who was hard pressed for time to perform all the duties of his office during the brief span of his reign, would pay any attention to such purely feminine detail as what
the ladies of his court were going to wear. More likely it was a sign of affection planned by the gentle queen to show her pleasure that the princesses had come out of retirement to grace the court proceedings with their beauty and gaiety. But this quite reasonable explanation was brushed aside by Richard’s critics. It was a scheme hatched in his dark and wicked mind.

The queen died on March 16 when the sun was in eclipse. To Richard it must have seemed that nature was displaying some sympathy for his grief, which was heartfelt and excessive, but commentators see in it a proof that he had poisoned her. Immediately, the clamor of propaganda was raised against him more fiercely than ever. Had he poisoned his wife in order to get her out of the way so he could marry his young niece Elizabeth? It had been apparent to all for some time that the queen was dying from the disease which had cut down her sister, so who could think seriously that poison would be used to hasten her end?

Immediately after the funeral, Richard summoned his council for the purpose of denying the malicious story that he thought of the princess as Anne’s successor. Later he appeared before the prominent citizens of London at St. John’s Priory, Clerkenwell, and repeated his disavowal of such a purpose, protesting his innocence of “having contemplated a marriage so repugnant to the habits and ways of the English nation.”

Of all the charges made against him, this was the only one he faced in his lifetime and so had the opportunity of denying. What could he do to clear his name? He sent Princess Elizabeth to the castle of Sheriff-Hutton, in order to still the ugly assertions. If the bereaved king had been put on the stand to defend himself, one can easily believe his innocence would have been asserted in some such words as these, “My lords and honest citizens, I loved the lady, Queen Anne, every day of my life.”

Now that she was dead, he made no plans to put anyone in her place. No furtive visits were paid to Sheriff-Hutton. He did not call in the ambassadors of other countries to discuss possible matrimonial alliances. He went before the House and nominated John de la Pole as his successor. It was clear he had given up all thoughts of having a son to take his place.

It is doubtful, in fact, if these unfair charges were heard much outside the inner circle of the court, where there are always whispered undercurrents of malice and much ill-natured tattle. If the country at large had known what was being said, Richard’s conduct after Queen Anne passed away must have been completely reassuring. But in the pages of history in later centuries the charges were brought up again and again, refurbished and bolstered with labored reasoning and addled surmises.

I
T IS time that the second figure in this drama, who has been kept standing in the wings, should be called out to the center of the stage.

The word “Norman” had long since dropped from use but it seems necessary to revive it in dealing with Henry of Richmond. He was twenty-eight years of age, tall and slender like his mother. There was a hint of the Norman strain in his cold gray eyes and in the lightness of his hair which fell lankly about his brow. His nose was Norman also, unless it may have achieved its length from the Valois blood in his veins. One thing is certain: he was not a Plantagenet.

Henry saw to it that England remained at peace during his reign and so brought back prosperity to the land on a sound basis. He was a good administrator and a close student of detail. His term on the throne was not marked by constitutional advances or any effort to improve the lot of the common man. But he faced certain problems with a clearness which no other king before him had displayed. There was, for instance, the absurdity of the coinage situation. The country was submerged with small money, such as pennies and farthings, and for purposes of calculation coins of account were used. Men talked of pounds and shillings but no such coins had ever been in existence. Henry saw the folly of people accumulating huge supplies of pence and he had the courage to begin the minting of actual pounds and shillings, making the Trial of the Pyx (the weighing of new money at the mint) an important function instead of a bit of ritual.

It was because of such forward steps as these that history began to speak of him as an enlightened monarch. Some waxed enthusiastic enough to call him the Solomon of England. At the same time it can be
said that no King of England acquired unpopularity with the people as quickly as he did. He was disliked personally. The common people saw early that he was devious and acquisitive to an almost unbelievable degree. If only one thing remained in the public mind about the reign of the first Tudor, it would be, of course, the story of Morton’s Fork. The second choice for this honor might be his habit of repaying expensive receptions in his honor with heavy fines, based on some never used statute or an old sumptuary law. Then there was his caution in organizing the first permanent king’s guard (how the expense of it must have irked him!) and in having a secret room constructed near his bedchamber at Windsor Castle, the knowledge of which was shared only with his valet and the builder. Finally there was the story of John Cabot.

When that bold seaman returned from his discovery of the North American continent, an achievement second only to that of Christopher Columbus, Henry (who had not risked one of his newly minted shillings in the venture) did not receive him with open arms and shower him with honors and rewards. He did not even fill Cabot’s flat mariner’s cap with gold pieces. No, this outgiving prince presented the commander with the handsome sum of ten pounds, an amount often paid to old royal servants or to the faithful nurses of illegitimate children.

Midas had the touch which turned everything to gold, but Henry had a different gift. He could make gold disappear at a touch—right into the royal pocket. The robust patrons of inns and taverns, who were benefiting by the rising prosperity to the extent of being able to afford fennel in their ale, spoke openly of Henry, nevertheless, as a nip-cheese and a begrudgemuch. Well, there is no doubt that he was niggardly, sly, and shabby.

Henry had an ingenious mind. He could think of curious ways of achieving his ends. Some said of him that he reasoned like a corkscrew, allowing his mind to go around and around and never being direct and understandable. He had, in fact, a passion for secrecy.

In this respect he resembled Louis XI of France, who preferred to twist and turn and burrow rather than proceed along straight lines of thought and action. Henry even resembled Louis in his choice of hats, a flat affair with a peak in front. A more important parallel was discovered after he died and left an estate of £1,800,000, the equivalent of a monstrous fortune today. And how quickly his boisterous, spendthrift son, Henry VIII, succeeded in throwing that inheritance away!

Henry displayed his courage by landing at Milford Haven in August 1485, with no more than 3000 French mercenaries. He was relying on two things: the loyalty of the Welsh people for one of Welsh blood and, something of more value than any number of the knaves and rapscallions he had recruited from the gaols and stews of the continent, the promises of support won by his lady mother. He chose to land at Milford Haven for the first reason, dropping on one knee when he landed to kiss the soil of Wales.

The Welsh people did respond in some degree and by the time the forces of invasion swarmed over into the Midlands, Henry had a much more considerable following. He had received in addition the promises of support from many quarters. Richard’s system of postal intelligence seems to have broken down and it was several days before he learned of the landing. At first he was not unduly alarmed, openly deriding his antagonist as a milksop. Nor had he any inkling yet of the web which had been spun with such secrecy.

He sent out commands to his barons to arm their retainers and join him in the defense of the realm. Although weary of the incessant uproar and bloodshed (it was estimated that 105,000 men had been killed in the Wars of the Roses), many responded at once. A much larger army than Henry could count upon followed the king when he rode on a white charger into the city of Leicester on August 20. But Richard was not easy in his mind, for from the first there was a scent of treachery in the air. He issued an urgent summons to Stanley, who had betaken himself to Lancashire earlier but who returned an excuse that he was suffering from the sweating sickness. The oldest son of Stanley had been left with Richard and had tried to make his escape. On being caught, he confessed that he and his uncle, Sir William Stanley, had been in touch with the invaders. There was also a certain aloofness about some of the lords of the north. These great barons, who lived in semi-regal style, were easily offended and not always happy to bend the knee. It will be recalled that Henry IV had found himself under the necessity of fighting Harry Hotspur, the heir of the Percies.

No eyewitness has left an account of the Battle of Bosworth and the record of events preceding the clash are scanty, so what is told about it consists largely of conclusions drawn from such few facts as are available. It is said that Richard rose early on the morning of the battle, having spent a disturbed night, beset in his dreams by visions of all his victims (Shakespeare can be blamed for this) and seriously concerned because
Stanley, who had raised an army of 5000 men in Derby and Chester, was hovering about and refusing to join him. The atmosphere in the royal camp was one of suspicion and suspense, even of dismay. It was believed that the Stanleys would go over to Henry. The Northumberland levies stood about with grounded arms and seemed reluctant to have any part in the battle. A rumor ran through the ranks that a paper had been discovered that morning attached to the flap of the Duke of Norfolk’s tent. On it were written these lines:

The information thus conveyed was authentic enough. Richard Plantagenet had been bought and sold. Under cover of darkness the night before, Henry had held a meeting with the Stanleys and a course of action had been decided upon.

Richard studied the enemy lines across the plain known as Redmoors, beyond which he could see the green and white tents of the invaders and Henry’s banner with its fiery red dragon. This, he knew, would be the last battle of the long wars, whether he won or lost. A fatalistic mood seemed to have settled upon him. The loss of his wife and son still weighed heavily on his mind and he could not read in the future much promise or hope. He was willing and eager to put the issue to a sharp test, to destroy his enemy or to go down himself on the field of battle.

The Lancastrians had the sun on their backs and seemed to have the better of the first clash. This was what Stanley had been waiting for. The Wily Fox, changing his coat for the final time, advanced with his troops and joined Henry’s right wing. It was a critical moment and Richard realized his one chance now was to strike at the enemy ranks behind which the inexperienced Henry was watching the struggle. His scouts had brought him word of Henry’s position.

“A battle-ax!” demanded the king.

Followed by a small mounted group of his most faithful men, the young king (he was only thirty-two years old) charged headlong into the enemy lines. Swinging his ax, he bore down and killed Brandon, Henry’s standard-bearer. Before him now loomed the gigantic figure of Sir John Cheney. A single blow unhorsed that powerful knight. Richard’s right arm seemed strong enough to cut his way clear through to where his opponent stood. On his left arm, his “weerish, withered arm,” he bore his heavy shield and with it also he controlled the wild course of his maddened steed.

It was a magnificient effort and almost brought the two leaders face to face. But the king’s handful had thinned behind him. He stood alone at the last and fought singlehanded against the Lancastrians who now swarmed about him. His armor broken, his ax limp with his weariness, he went down under the blows of his enemies.

Nothing in history excells this mad exploit for sheer daring, although it brings to mind another piece of spectacular bravery. A century before, the Black Douglas threw the casket containing the heart of Robert the Bruce into the ranks of the Moors and then cut his way singlehanded into their ranks, to fall at last under the blows of their infidel swords.

Richard’s crown, retrieved from a clump of bushes, it is said, was placed on Henry’s head before he rode out across Redmoors to direct the pursuit of the royal army.

The Wars of the Roses had come to an end and a new family of kings and queens would succeed the Plantagenets.

T
HE princess Elizabeth was nearly twenty years old and, as might have been expected in the child of such surpassingly handsome parents, she was a great beauty. It is clear from her portraits that she was rather tall but that her figure was mature and pleasing. She had her mother’s golden hair and large blue eyes. Her cheeks had the slightest tendency to plumpness and showed the pink of perfect health.

Ever since reaching an age of understanding, she had known of the ambitious plans being made for her future. No matrimonial alliance was too good for her. She would sit on a throne beside a king and wear a golden circlet on her lovely hair. Because of breaches in international relations, it had finally narrowed down; her one chance to become a queen was to be Queen of England, and so she must marry Henry of Richmond. She heard reports of his manly attractions and of the shining light of his intelligence, and her maidenly fancy had been caught. Watching developments closely, it seemed to her that Richard’s death at Bosworth made it certain that the desired match would now be brought about. She was, therefore, relieved and pleased when Henry summoned her at once to London from Sheriff-Hutton. Her young cousin, the youthful Earl of Warwick, had been living there and was to travel with her.