It was very pleasant for her to have such an attentive audience and she was only too glad to speak of the past because the present seemed so hopeless.
“If only,” she was fond of saying, “by some stroke of good fortune, we could drive the usurping Tudor from the throne.”
Peter asked a great many questions about the late King Edward to whom he bore such a resemblance.
“I suppose,” said Lady Frampton, “the King was in Flanders at some time. I’d be ready to swear, Peter, that he was interested in some Flemish maid and that you were the result.”
“My mother is a very virtuous wife.”
“I know . . . I know. But sometimes those whom we believe to be our parents are not. You understand what I mean, Peter? Suppose the lady you think of as your mother was asked to care for a child . . . a child who came rather mysteriously into the world. Suppose that child was the result of a liaison between some persons who dared not divulge their identity.”
If it was an absurd supposition, Lady Frampton refused to accept the fact. Edward had many bastards but he had never made any secret of the fact. He had no one to answer to and even his Queen had been aware of his activities in that field and knew she must turn a blind eye to them.
Still, it was interesting to talk and the boy was very pleased at the prospect of having a king for a father. He wanted to know about the sons Edward had had by the Queen and why they didn’t rise up and take the throne away from this obnoxious Tudor.
“They disappeared. . . .It is most mysterious for none so far as I have heard have an answer to the question. Richard the Third declared the children illegitimate. The two boys were put into the Tower of London. They have never been seen since.”
“Did King Richard murder them?”
Lady Frampton was indignant. “Richard was a good Yorkist king—brother of Edward. He would never murder his own nephews. It was the Tudor. You see while they lived they were a menace to him. The elder of the boys was Edward the Fifth; his younger brother was Duke of York. And if Edward died there was still Richard of York to come before this Tudor.”
“So he kept them imprisoned in the Tower.”
“Yes . . . and no one knows what became of them.”
“If they were alive would they not show themselves?”
“It may be that they will one day.”
“And I look like them, you say, my lady?”
“Very much so. They had long blond hair . . . just like yours. And a certain bearing . . .”
Peter was very proud. He was very careful of the way he looked, the way he walked; he studied noblemen and imitated them.
Lady Frampton remarked to Sir Edward that the boy grew more royal-looking every day.
When the Framptons left for Portugal Peter went with them. He had a great desire to see the world. Lady Frampton’s talk of his resemblance to the Princes had set ambition growing in him and he had a feeling that he might become the center of great events. He dreamed about himself and there were times when his dreams seemed more real than his everyday life.
He had not been long in Lisbon when he made the acquaintance of a knight called Peter Varz de Cogna—a somewhat battle-scarred gentleman who had lost an eye and who seemed to young Peter one of the most interesting people he had ever met. The Knight too noticed the royal looks of young Warbeck and he talked to him a great deal about the recent uprising headed by Lambert Simnel.
“It is clear that the Tudor is uneasy on the throne of England,” he said. “And it is not to be wondered at considering he has very little right to it.”
Peter liked to hear how Lambert Simnel the baker’s son had been taken from his father’s shop by the priest Richard Simon and had come within a short distance of taking the throne of England.
“A baker’s son!” cried Peter, aghast. “How did he manage to pass himself off for the Earl of Warwick?”
“He had such good looks . . . and a manner of carrying himself. They say he looked the part and when they had taught him to speak . . . as an earl would speak—well, it might have been an earl himself.”
“And now he is just a scullion.”
“Some would say he has been lucky.”
“Of course he might have succeeded. And if he had . . . ?”
“He could not succeed because the real Earl of Warwick lives and is the King’s prisoner in the Tower.”
“Because,” said Peter, “he has a greater claim to the throne than the Tudor. I find it of great interest.”
“I’m not surprised. With looks such as yours you might be one of the sons of Edward yourself.”
“Would it not be strange if I were?”
“It is said that he had children all over the place. He was that kind of man.”
“I should like to go to England.”
“You would have to learn the language.”
“I do speak a little. It seems to come naturally to me and Lady Frampton has taught me a good deal.”
“You should go to Ireland first.”
“Why Ireland?”
“They have always supported the Yorkists. They would like the look of you. They would think the young Edward the Fifth or his brother of York had come back to life.”
It was not long after this that a Breton merchant came to Lisbon and stayed awhile at the house of Peter Varz. He was, he told them, on his way to Ireland where he would do business. At the mention of Ireland, Peter Warbeck’s eyes sparkled.
“It is a country I long to see,” he said.
Peter was thoughtful. Could it be possible? He did not see why not. Peter Varz would not stand in his way. He told him of his great desire to see Ireland and the Breton merchant replied that there was no difficulty about that. He was sailing for Ireland shortly and there would be a place for Peter Warbeck on his ship.
It seemed to the young man that there was some Divine purpose in all this. First he had been endowed with these marvelous looks; secondly he had met the Framptons; and now here he was on his way to Ireland.
The Breton merchant was proud of the interest his protégé aroused.
“They say he is one of the sons of Edward the Fourth,” he told people; and it was not long before Peter was invited to call on Lord Desmond.
Lord Desmond was an influential Irish peer and the Irish had always believed that they could expect better treatment from the Yorkists than from the Lancastrians. They wanted home rule and there had once been a hint from a Duke of York that he believed this might be brought about. That it would never be granted by Henry the Seventh they were certain. It might be another matter if there was a Yorkist king on the throne of England, and they would like to see this come about.
They had supported Lambert Simnel although it must have been clear that he was an impostor, but Lambert had managed to make trouble for the English and that was what the Irish liked to do beyond anything.
The Earl of Desmond was delighted by Peter Warbeck.
“Why, you have the Yorkist look. I could easily believe you are one of Edward’s sons. Tell me about yourself. From whence do you come?”
“I was in Tournay with people whom I had always believed to be my parents.”
“And they were not . . . ?”
Peter passed a hand across his brow. Lord Desmond noticed how graceful were his gestures.
“It is a little hazy . . . I remember being in a prison . . . with my brother . . . There was some trouble. . . .I cannot remember . . . although sometimes flashes of it come back to me.”
Lord Desmond was excited.
“I should like you to stay here for a while. There are people whom I would like to meet you.”
Peter felt a sense of mingling excitement and apprehension. He knew that he had stepped over the dividing line between fantasy and reality.
It was Lord Desmond and the Irish peers who had changed him. He had been through a great experience, he told himself. It was natural that he should feel as he did. The past was beginning to emerge and it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell the difference between what had actually happened and what he wanted to have happened.