And because of this he had plotted against the King. Had he? He had not known that. He had merely wanted to be free.
The Earl of Oxford visited him. “Yes,” he said, “you wanted to be free so that you could take the crown.”
The young man looked puzzled. “I wanted to be free,” he said.
“You have been here a long time.”
“I came when I was ten years old. I am now twenty-four. More than half my life I have been King Henry’s prisoner.”
“Oh . . . not a prisoner,” said the Earl of Oxford. “You were put here for your protection.”
“Did I need it for so long?”
“The King thought so. And because your father was the Duke of Clarence you thought you had more right to the throne than he had.”
“I had more right to the throne.”
The poor innocent boy. He did not realize that he was signing his own death warrant. It was so easy to trick him . . . this innocent. How could he be otherwise, having spent so many years shut away from the world?
“I have come here to help you,” said the Constable of England. “It would be better for you if you confessed that you know you have more right to the throne than the King and you wanted to depose him.”
“I have more right to the throne. . . .”began the boy.
“Ah, that is what I said. Confess your guilt and the King will doubtless forgive you as he did Perkin Warbeck.”
“Oh, he is free then?”
“He is not free now. I was referring to what happened when he was captured and brought to the King. The King was lenient to him and at first forgave him . . . but he tried to get away and only then did the King put him into the Tower. Confess to your guilt and the King may well be lenient with you.”
The young Earl was persuaded and the Constable went in triumph to the King.
“He should be tried and condemned at once. Warbeck too.”
“They will both be found guilty,” commanded the King. “Warbeck is unimportant. He has been proved to be a fraud. But I have had enough of the ungrateful fellow and he could have a following and one can’t be found guilty and pay the penalty without the other.”
So Perkin and the Earl of Warwick were tried, found guilty of treason, and both condemned to death.
The King did not wish to take revenge on either of these traitors. They were young and foolish, he said; but they had made trouble and for the good of the country this time he intended to act. He had been lenient before; but he had been answered by ingratitude.
Perkin Warbeck should be taken to Tyburn and hanged; the Earl of Warwick should be beheaded on Tower Hill.
In their cells in the Tower the two men awaited the death sentence.
Perkin was resigned. He would never see Katharine again. He wondered what her life would be like without him. It was true that they had been separated for some time while he was imprisoned. But there had always been hope.
This was the end then—all those grandiose schemes were to end up at Tyburn.
There was no hope now. Waiting for them to come and take him he wondered if there was some point where he could have altered the course which had led him to this day. He did not know and it did not matter now.
The people had crowded into the streets to see his last moments. It was a holiday for the spectators. He heard their shouts as he was drawn along. He did not care that they jeered at him, that they had come to witness his last humiliation.
As they put the rope about his neck he was murmuring Katharine’s name; and he hoped that she would recover from the desolation he knew this day would bring her. He was praying that she might find some happiness after he had gone.
This was the end then. He, Perkin Warbeck had coem to the end of the road.
At Tower Hill there was another spectacle. The young Earl walked out of the Tower and felt the cool air on his face; the mist was on the river; it was a bleak November day. But it was a great experience to walk out from those gray walls. He wondered what his life would have been like if he had been at liberty for those fourteen years he had spent in prison.
But the time had come for him to lay his head on the block. He did so . . . feeling almost indifferent. Why should he regret leaving a life of which he knew so little?
One swift stroke and it was over.
They brought the news to the King: Warwick is dead.
Henry nodded. Now he was sure the negotiations with Spain would be delayed no longer. He had removed the only claimant he had to fear.
The Spanish Princess
Prince Henry was now ten years old, and more resentful than ever because he had not been born the eldest. It was small consolation that when he and Arthur rode together he was the one people cheered and he knew their eyes were on him. When he remarked with a certain modesty—he thought—that he could not understand why the people stared so: was there anything wrong with him? his sister Margaret who had a very sharp tongue, retorted: “Yes, a great deal.”
Mary would snuggle close to him and say that it was because he was so much prettier than Arthur, which was what he wanted to hear—though he would have preferred handsome to pretty. He must tell Mary that boys were not pretty.
Mary was very ready to learn. She admired him and thought he was the most wonderful person at Court. Margaret, who did not share their sister’s views, said that Henry had too great a conceit of himself.
He and Margaret were not good friends; Henry never liked people who were critical of him—except perhaps his tutor John Skelton who was constantly laughing at something in a way which was not exactly complimentary. Henry did not know why he bore John Skelton no resentment—perhaps it was because he amused him and wrote such witty poems. But no one else must criticize him—except of course his father whom he could not prevent doing so and whose cold looks were a continual criticism. Henry had known from his early days that his father was one of the few people who preferred Arthur. It was because Arthur was the eldest, the Prince of Wales, the King-to-be. The odd thing was that Arthur didn’t seem to be greatly impressed with his superiority.
It was late summer when they rode into Richmond Palace. Henry never passed under the gateway without remembering that day just before Christmas three years before when Shene Palace had been burned down. It had been nine o’clock at night. He had been in the nursery apartments he shared with Margaret and Mary when he had been roused from his pallet by his sister Margaret shouting to him. Leaping out of bed, he had smelt the strong acrid smell of smoke and immediately the children had been surrounded by excited men and women and were marshaled together and taken to their parents. The fire had started in the royal apartments; the rushes were aflame in a very short time and before anything could be done to save the palace it was burning fiercely. Beds, hangings and tapestries were destroyed on that night. The King had been desolate, thinking of all the valuable things which had been lost, but everyone was safe, which was a consolation; and his father had immediately ordered that a new palace should be built on the ruins of the old. Thus old Shene had become Richmond Palace, always a favorite of them all because of its nearness to London—that most exciting city—and the view from the front, of the River Thames. Henry liked its long line of buildings with their towers both circular and octagonal topped by turrets, though Skelton said that the chimneys looked like pears turned upside down. It was his father’s favorite residence, perhaps for the reason that he had rechristened it Richmond after one of the titles he had had before he became King. So they were there very often.