“If he stays secure on the throne,” said Jasper, “there will be a high place for you at Court, my boy.”
But poor mad Henry did not stay secure on the throne and it was not long before the mighty Edward returned to claim the crown and hold it with such firmness of purpose which, combined with the will of the people who had always loved him, showed quite clearly that York would be triumphant as long as the magnificent Edward was there to make it so.
Edward was shrewd. He did not like the thought of that boy being nurtured in Wales.
“It is clear that we are unsafe here,” said Uncle Jasper.
So they had left intending to go to France but a strong wind had blown them onto the coast of Brittany where they were cordially received by the Duke, Francis the Second.
It became obvious that it had been a wise action when Edward asked the Duke of Brittany to deliver young Henry Tudor to him. “I do not intend to make him a prisoner,” Edward had declared. “I would like to arrange a match for him with one of my daughters.”
Jasper had laughed aloud at that and decided they would stay in Brittany until what he called a more healthy climate prevailed in England.
Henry had often thought that one of the saddest things that could happen to a man or woman was to be an exile from his or her own country. Pray God it never happened to him again.
He would not be here this day if it were not for John Morton. What a good friend he had been—one who was ready to work for a cause and place his life in jeopardy! He had come through some difficult times, had John Morton. In spite of his Lancastrian leanings he had managed to win the confidence of Edward the King. What fools some men—even great men—were. Both Edward and Richard, whom he was ready to concede were wise in many ways, had been fools. They never seemed to doubt the loyalty of those about them; it appeared to be good enough for a man to profess friendship, for these Kings to accept his word. King Henry the Seventh would never be caught like that. He would trust no one who had not proved his worth—even then not too deply. His mother he would trust with his life; and Morton, yes, but not even him completely. He would always remember Richard’s trust in Stanley. How could he have been such a fool! That act of folly had lost him his crown—or contributed to it.
So Edward had trusted Morton and made him an executor of his will, and as Bishop of Ely Morton had been in a strong position when Edward died. Yet Richard had suspected him. Had he not been arrested at that famous council meeting in the Tower when Hastings had lost his head? But what had Richard done? Put the Bishop in the care of Buckingham. How could Richard have trusted Buckingham as long as he did!
The more he looked back to the past the more he saw that a king must be wary; he must be suspicious of all and he must not weaken in his vigil and his purpose and those who stood between him and the throne must in due course be eliminated. Not only for the sake of Henry Tudor but for the peace and prosperity of the land.
Be watchful then even of good friends like Morton who had once saved his life. He would never forget it; he would reward Morton; but he would be watchful of all men.
Yes, even Morton, though it was he who had sent warning to him when Richard was planning to capture him in Brittany, and so enabled him to escape to France in time. He owed his life to Morton. From Buckingham’s care Morton had escaped to Ely and from there to Flanders where he had joined Henry with plans for the landing, for the conquest which should give Henry the Kingdom.
And now here he was . . . married to Elizabeth, heiress of York, awaiting the birth of his son.
Who knew, at this moment the child might have arrived.
He spurred his horse and rode with all speed to Winchester.
The Queen lay back exhausted and triumphant. It was over. She had heard the cry of her child, and the Countess of Richmond was at her bedside holding the infant.
“A boy!” she cried. “Healthy enough . . . though small, as to be expected coming a month too soon.”
“A boy,” said the Queen, holding out her arms.
“Just for a few moments, my dear,” said the Countess. “You must not tire yourself. We are going to get you well as soon as we can. That would be the King’s command.”
“Where is the King?”
“He will be here soon. I long to see his face when he hears we have our boy.”
The Queen could see her mother standing there and she smiled at her.
“Dearest lady,” she said.
The Queen Mother was on her knees at the bedside. “We have our boy, my dearest,” she said. “A darling little boy. We must call him Edward after your father. And let us pray that he shall be such another as his grandfather.”
The Queen nodded and looked down at the child. But her mother-in-law was already taking him away.
“The Queen should have the baby for a while,” said Elizabeth Woodville. “He will be such a comfort to her.”
“The Queen is comforted indeed by the knowledge that she has a son. She is exhausted now and it is best for her to sleep.”
The Countess signed to the nurse. “Take the child now.” As the nurse did so she said, “I hear sounds of arrival. The King is here.”
She hurried out of the chamber and went to greet him. She wanted to be the first to tell him.
There he was, eager and apprehensive. She bowed. She never forgot the homage due to the King. Elizabeth Woodville had said that at every possible moment she reminded herself and everyone that he was the King and was warning all not to forget it.
He was looking at her expectantly.
“All is well,” she said. “We have our child. . . .” She could not resist holding back the vital information, perhaps because she felt that a few moments of anxiety would make the news more joyful.
“Healthy,” she said, “strong, perfect in every way,” still prolonging the suspense. Then she let it out. “A boy. My son, we have our boy.”
He was overcome with joy and relief.
“And all is well with him?”
“He is small . . . being a child of eight months. But we shall soon remedy that.”
“A boy,” he said. “We shall call him Arthur.”
“A fitting name. The Queen’s mother has already suggested Edward.”
The King shook his head. Edward? Never Edward. To remind everyone of that great handsome king whom they loved even more now that he was dead than they had when he was alive, although they had been fond of him even then! Edward, to remind them of that little Prince who had disappeared in the Tower!!
Never.
“I must see the boy,” he said.
“Come.”
She led him up to the lying-in chamber. To her annoyance the Queen had the baby in her arms. The Woodville woman must have countermanded her orders as soon as she went down to greet the King. She would have to do something about that, but this was not the moment.
The King went to the bed and looked with wonder at the child.
The Queen was smiling at him. He smiled at her.
“I am happy,” he said.
“It is wonderful,” answered the Queen quietly. “I dared not hope for so much joy.”
“We have our boy . . . our first boy. Now you must recover quickly.”
It was almost as though he were saying, we should have another soon, so don’t waste time recovering.
His eyes were cold. She, who had grown up in a warmly loving family where displays of affection were commonplace, was repelled by her husband’s coldness. Even at such a time he was in complete control of his emotions. He was delighted that she had come safely through and they had a son, but was that because it would have been extremely awkward if she had died; and of course a son and a living Yorkist wife were what he needed to make his position very secure.
She said: “Is he not beautiful? He has a look of my father.”
The King shook his head. How could that red-faced wrinkled creature look in the least like the magnificent Edward.