Henry was beginning to believe that his father was not always so calm and self-assured as he tried to pretend he was. Henry sensed quickly that though the people accepted his father as their king they did not like him very much. Their cheers were not spontaneous as they were for him. He always hoped when they were riding in procession that his father would notice how they smiled and waved and called for Prince Henry. He knew how to make them like him. He waved and smiled and sometimes blew kisses—which delighted them. His father had said to him afterward: “The people like you yes but it will be well for you to remember that you are not the Prince of Wales.”
“I know, my lord, that I am not. It is my brother who is he.”
“Remember it,” was all his father said.
The King was a man of few words, and those words did not always express what he was thinking. Henry liked to watch his father; his little eyes would narrow in speculation. Henry knew about Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck. He had exchanged words with Simnel about his falcon for Simnel was a good falconer and very pleased when Henry asked him questions. It was impossible to believe that he had once thought he would be king. Perkin Warbeck was different. He had paid the price of his ambitions. His head had been killed, which was the best way of treating traitors. Skelton talked about Perkin Warbeck. There was no subject about which Skelton could not be lured to talk. Skelton thought Warbeck was probably a natural son of Edward the Fourth because he was so like him.
“Your noble grandfather was in Flanders some months before the birth of Warbeck. And I can tell you this, my young lord, where Edward was there might well spring up little bastards. . . . He was a great man. Great in all ways . . . as you will be, my young bantam lord. Oh yes, I see another such as great Edward strutting there.”
It was disrespectful talk. His father would not agree with it, but Henry liked it. It was pleasant to think he was going to be like his maternal grandfather. Skelton remembered the late King when he was a man of forty and said his years had sat lightly on him. “Even the men cheered Edward,” Skelton went on. “It seems they liked him to admire their wives . . . and as his admiration was of a practical nature if you know what I mean . . .” He nudged young Henry who laughed with delight. “Then you do know what I mean!”
Skelton was a wonderful tutor, for he was a clever poet, a man of education who had studied the classics and French literature; he had translated Cicero’s Letters. That he was ribald and bawdy was accepted because of his achievements and Henry would not have changed him for anyone else. He attended to all aspects of Henry’s education and gave him not only an appreciation of the arts but of women. Sometimes he talked to the boy as though he were a man. Henry liked it. He could never bear anyone to refer to his youth.
At that time Henry was destined for the Church.
He disliked the idea but Skelton laughed at him. “A very good time can be had in the Church, my lord. Particularly for one of your rank. I swear you’ll be Archbishop of Canterbury before you are very old. Think of the power you’ll have.”
“I do not wish to go into the Church.” Henry’s eyes were narrowed. But at the same time he looked up at the sky to placate an angry god who might be listening, for what he feared more than most things was heavenly vengeance. “At least . . .” he added. “At least . . . if I can serve my country in any other way. I do not think I am suited to the Church.”
“Nor are you, my lord, but wise men fit the post to themselves not themselves to the post. And think of our illustrious Pope Alexander the Sixth . . . otherwise known to the world as Rodrigo Borgia. He manages to live a very full and varied life . . . Church or not. Don’t tell me my lord that you as an Archbishop of Canterbury cannot be as clever as the Pope of Rome.”
That was how Skelton talked—laughing, irreverent, full of anecdotes. A very exciting person to be with.
Skelton was glad he was not Arthur’s tutor. “There would be no fun with our Prince of Wales,” he said. “He is a very serious young gentleman. Not like you, my lord of York . . . ah, my lord of York, my Prince Henry, my willing pupil . . . there is a man . . . a man who was born to be king.”
Skelton should never leave him if he could help it.
Henry thought a great deal about his father and he came to the conclusion that he did not really enjoy being a king, which was strange because to Henry that seemed the ultimate achievement—that was happiness and contentment.
The King acted very strangely now and then. Henry remembered something, which had happened not very long ago, which gave him a certain insight into his father’s nature.
It had happened at the arena. The King kept a large menagerie and he was very fond of sports in which the animals took part. Young Henry believed that his father was always trying to make the people like him. He showed them how lenient he was to his enemies; they were always present at tournaments and shows in the arena. But he always looked so stern and he rarely smiled. If only he would smile, speak to some of them in a friendly way, he would have been liked so much more than he was because he forgave Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck too . . . for a very long time. If I were the King . . . Henry thought. It was a recurring observation.
But on this day in the arena the King’s lion was brought out. He was a fierce and splendid animal and when the dogs were set on him he was always the victor. His name was Rex, which meant he was the King.
On that day four mastiffs were set against him. Never had the dogs beaten Rex, but they did that day. Young Henry loved the dogs and they put up a magnificent fight against old Rex. They were battered and wounded . . . but the dogs won in the end and it was Rex who lay dying in the center of the arena.
Young Henry’s impulse had been to shout with excitement but he had caught the stern looks of his father, and his mother, who sat beside the King, was watching Henry and her look begged him to restrain his high spirits. Then he realized that the King saw something significant in this episode. The King had been set on and killed. Poor Rex was king of the animals no more.
It was a symbol. These mere dogs had set on the king of the beasts and killed him. Rex was the King. Henry saw it clearly when John Skelton pointed it out to him.
The King had left the arena in silence. People had thought it was because he had loved his lion. But it was more than that. Before sunset those four victorious mastiffs were brought out from the kennels and hanged on gibbets in the arena. Their bodies dangled there for two days so that all might see them.
It was a symbol and a warning to all would-be traitors. The mastiffs had killed the king of the beasts. Therefore they were traitors.
Henry was a little bewildered. He talked over it with Skelton.
“But it wasn’t the fault of the dogs. They were put in the arena to fight Rex,” he pointed out.
Skelton said: “One does not have to be at fault to be hanged as a traitor.”
“Then how can they help it?”
“They cannot. Young Warwick couldn’t help it, could he? He was born to what he was . . . so he was a potential traitor if another should take over the throne.”
“Warwick wanted to take my father’s place,” said Henry.
Skelton bowed low. “Ah, the noble Tudors. Bless me, I had forgot. They have a right to the throne. The rank of Lancaster! Of course. Of course. York must stand aside for the Tudors.”