Henry laughed as he often did at Skelton. But he would not repeat quite a lot of what Skelton said because he knew that if he did he would his lose his tutor and who knew—his tutor might lose his head. But he did know, through Skelton’s innuendos, that his father was very much afraid that someone would rise up and take the throne from him.
There was another occasion when the King had one of his best falcons killed. This amazed young Henry. He loved his own falcons and he could not understand why the very best one of all should be destroyed.
The falcon had matched itself with an eagle, he was told. And it had bettered the eagle. All knew that the eagle was the king of the birds as the lion was the king of the beasts.
The King had said: “It is not meet for any subject to offer such wrong to his lord and superior.”
Henry was bewildered. He came to Skelton for explanation.
“It’s a parable, my lord. Your noble father is fond of parables. That is because he sees himself as our god. He wishes it to be remembered that he will brook no traitors. Any who threaten his throne will go the way of the mastiffs and the falcon. Poor innocent creatures who must be so sadly used in order that the King’s human subjects be provided with a lesson.”
“I would never destroy my best falcon,” said Henry.
“Let us hope, dear lord, that if you should attain the throne you would never find it necessary to teach us all such a lesson.”
“I should just wait until I had real traitors and then cut off their heads.”
“Ah, if my Prince ever came to the throne then the heads would begin to roll, would they?”
“Traitors’ heads would.”
“And traitors would be any who opposed my lord’s will. Ah, but such talk is treason . . . to our lord the King and to the Prince of Wales. I must take care or I shall find myself hanging beside the mastiffs.”
“I would prevent that, good Skelton,” said Henry.
Skelton laughed and coming close to Henry whispered in his ear: “Ah, but my lord Prince, you are not the King . . . yet.”
“You say yet . . . good Skelton as though . . . as though . . .”
Skelton laughed. “Life is full of chances,” he said. “You are at the moment second in line. . . .”
“Skelton, have you been seeing the soothsayers and wise men?”
Skelton shook his head. “The wisdom comes from inside this head, my lord. And it tells me that . . . there is a chance . . . Of course when our Prince of Wales has sons . . . then, my lord of York, your chances fade with the birth of each one.”
“Arthur is not very strong. Do you think he will be able to do that which is necessary to get children.”
Skelton looked slyly at his pupil. “There is only one, my lord, who can answer that question.”
“Who? Where is he? Find him . . .”
“I do not have to. He is here with us now.”
“Whisper his name.”
Skelton put his lips to the ear of the Prince and said: “Father Time.”
Henry was irritated and slunk away in a temper, cross even with Skelton.
Now he looked from the windows—a dull and misty October day. He liked the spring—the lovely season when the world refreshed from the winter started to burgeon again. The spring, the hot summer . . . journeys into the country to be cheered by the people, to let them see what a fine son their King had got for them. “Alas,” he imagined them saying. “He should have been the firstborn.”
He ran an impatient finger along the ledge of the window seat. It was decorated with roses. Tudor roses they called them. It was roses everywhere. Red roses the most prominent of course because the red rose of Lancaster was slightly superior to the white rose of York. They were entwined now; and he liked to remember the white rose. His glorious grandfather had proudly worn it. He was the one who impressed Henry—not the obscure Tudors. In the gardens some of the roses lingered on as though loath to go. In the summer they made a colorful display. He liked to run across the grass past the statues to the end of the garden where that building, which was called The Houses of Pleasure, was situated.
There it was possible to play games at which he was beginning to excel. He had real mastery at tennis and he loved the game. Arthur would never play with him. But he played with others and he almost invariably won. Sometimes he wondered whether they allowed him to because he could be rather angry if they didn’t. He never said so but he tried not to play with the winner again. Skelton noticed—Skelton noticed everything.
“It is all very well to hate to be beaten. Natural, right and proper but to show you hate it . . . now that is quite another matter.”
There were times when he wished Skelton were not so perceptive. Sometimes they played chess together.
“Now, my lord Duke,” Skelton had once said, “how is your mood this day? May I beat you? Or would your temper not stand it?”
“Skelton you rogue,” he said, “the better man will win.”
“Oh that is how you wish it, is it? Very well. I just wished to know whether I was to consider my lord Duke’s skill or his temper.”
He saw too much, knew too much. There were times when he felt he would have rid himself of the man if he could. But he knew he never would. Skelton was too clever, too entertaining.
He would like to play a game of tennis and he was in no mood to be beaten, so he selected one of his squires who had not the skill to beat him even if he did not know it was impolitic to do so.
“Come,” he said. “I would to the tennis court. We can get a game before it is dark.”
So they went and while they were playing a barge drew up at the river bank. Henry dropped his racquet and ran to see what this meant.
“What news?” he cried. “What news?”
“I must see the King,” said the messenger.
“I am the Duke of York,” said Henry.
“My lord.” The man bowed. “I must see the King with all speed.”
Henry was sullen. His squire was watching. He had thought the messenger would be so impressed by meeting the son of the King that he would immediately tell his business. But it was not so.
One of the King’s attendants had seen the messenger approaching and came hurrying out.
“I have news for the King,” said the messenger.
“Come this way.”
Henry followed. The King, aware of the arrival of the messenger, was already in the hall. The man approached him and fell on to his knees.
“Your Grace. The Infanta of Spain is in England. She has arrived at Plymouth.”
“Good news! Good news!” said the King. “We must thank God for her safe arrival.”
He noticed his son standing there but gave him no greeting.
Then he said: “I will go to tell the Queen this good news.” And to the messenger: “Go to the kitchens where you will be refreshed.”
Henry looked after his father as he left the hall.
He felt angry and frustrated. Arthur would be summoned. This was his bride.
Oh why did I have to be the second son? he thought, with more bitterness than usual. He wanted a bride. He wanted a marriage. It was true he was only ten—but he was so advanced for his age.
It was maddening, frustrating. He would have suited the occasion so much better than pallid Arthur.
He was excited when a short while after he was summoned to his father’s apartment.
When he arrived his mother was already there.
He went forward and bowed as he had been taught to do. He noticed his mother’s eyes on him with a certain pride and satisfaction which pleased him.
“Henry,” said the King, “there are going to be some splendid celebrations. This marriage with Spain is very dear to my heart and to that of your mother.”
The Queen nodded in agreement. She would always agree with her husband.
“Your brother Arthur is a very fortunate young man,” said the King.