“I always enjoy coming here,” Mathews said. “This building has seen so much of our history. Imagine. These walls, that ceiling, all stood during the time of Elizabeth I. She, herself, came to this spot. Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night was first performed right here. That impresses me. Does it you?”
“Depends on whether it will allow me to keep my job.”
Mathews smiled. “Something extraordinary is happening, Miss Richards.”
She maintained a stiff face.
“May I tell you a story?”
PRINCE HENRY ENTERED THE PRIVY CHAMBER AT RICHMOND PALACE. He’d been summoned from Westminster by his father, King Henry VII, and told to come at once. Not an unusual request, considering the odd relationship they’d forged over the past seven years, ever since his brother, Arthur, died and he became heir to the throne. There’d been many summonses, most to either instill or extract a lesson. His father was desperate to know that his kingdom would be safe in the hands of his second son.
The king lay upon a cloth of scarlet and gold, amid pillows, cushions, and bolsters. Tonsured clerics, physicians, and courtesans surrounded the canopy on three sides. The sight shocked him. He’d known of previous illnesses. First a throat infection, then rheumatic fever, chronic fatigue, loss of appetite, and bouts of depression. But he’d not been informed of this latest affliction, one that appeared quite serious.
A confessor stood near the foot of the bed, administering last rites, anointing the bare feet with holy oil. A crucifix was brought close to his father’s lips, which was kissed, then he heard the raspy voice that had so many times chastised him.
“With all his might and power, I call on the Lord for a merciful death.”
He stared at the crafty and calculating man who’d ruled England for twenty-three years. Henry VII had not inherited his crown. Instead, he’d won it on the battlefield, defeating the despicable Richard III at Bosworth Field, ending the time of the Yorks and Lancasters, and creating a new dynasty.
The Tudors.
His father motioned for him to approach. “Death is an enemy who cannot be bought off or deceived. No money or treachery has any effect. For me, finally, death has presented itself.”
He did not know what to say. Experience had taught him that silence worked best. He was the second son, the Duke of York, never intended to be king. That duty was for his older brother, Arthur, his romantic name an effort to further legitimize the Tudor claim to the English throne. Every privilege had been extended to Arthur, including a marriage to the stately Katherine of Aragon, part of a treaty with Spain that solidified England’s growing European position. But Arthur died five months into the marriage, barely sixteen years old, and much had changed in the ensuing seven years.
The Borgia pope Alexander was dead. Pius III lasted only twenty-six days in Peter’s chair. Julius II, boasting that he owned the Sacred College of Cardinals, had been elected God’s vicar. Such a man would listen to reason and, the day after Christmas 1503, at the request of Henry VII, the pope issued a bull of dispensation against the incest of Katherine of Aragon marrying her dead husband’s brother.
So he and Katherine had been betrothed.
But no marriage occurred.
Instead, the dying king in the bed before him had used its possibility as bait with Spain and the Holy Roman Empire, dangling it to obtain more.
“We must speak,” his father said. The throat rattled with each word, lungs gasping for breath. “Your mother, whom I will soon see, held you in great esteem.”
And he’d adored Elizabeth of York. As he was the second son, his mother had actually raised him, teaching him to read and write and think. A beautiful, gentle woman, she died six years ago, not quite a year after her eldest, Arthur. He’d often wondered if any woman would ever measure up to her perfection.
“I loved your mother more than anyone on this earth,” his father said. “Many may not believe that. But it is true.”
Henry’s ears always stayed with his feet—on the ground. He listened to the everyday talk and knew that his father—firm, frigid, hard, tight-hearted and tight-handed—was not popular. His father considered England his, as he alone had won it on the battlefield. The nation owed him. And he’d amassed massive revenues from his many estates, most confiscated from those who’d initially opposed him. He understood the value of extortion and the benefit of benevolences from those who could afford to pay for the privileges they enjoyed—thanks to him.
“We are Christians, my son, and we must have consciences even more tender than the Holy Father himself. Remember that.”
More lessons? He was eighteen years old—tall, stocky, powerful of limb and chest, a man in every way—and tired of being taught. He was a scholar, a poet, a musician. He knew how to choose and use men of ability, and he surrounded himself with those of great intellect. He never shied from pleasure and never neglected his work or duties. He was unafraid of failure.
He once desired to be a priest.
Now he would be king.
He’d sensed the recent air of tension and repentance throughout the palace—death was always a time of royal contrition. There’d be a releasing of prisoners, alms distributed, masses paid for souls. The chancery office at Westminster would fill with people willing to pay for a final pardon. Forgiving times—in more ways than one.
“Blast you hard-hearted brat,” his father suddenly said. “Do you hear me?”
He trembled at his rage, a familiar reflex, and returned his attention to the bed. “I hear you.”
“All of you be gone,” his father commanded.
And those around the bed fled the chamber.
Only father and son remained.
“There is a secret you must know,” his father said. “Something about which I have never spoken to you.”
A faraway look crossed his father’s face.
“You shall inherit from me a kingdom rich in wealth and bounty. But I learned long ago never to place my trust entirely with others. You must do likewise. Let others believe you trust them, but trust only yourself. I have amassed a separate wealth, rightfully belonging only to Tudor blood.”
Indeed?