On arriving in France his first call was at the Castle of Guisnes near Calais. He knew he would receive a warm welcome there for the custodian of the castle was his old friend Sir James Tyrrell.
He was right. Tyrrell was in the courtyard as soon as he heard of his friend’s arrival. With him was his son, Thomas, of whom he was clearly proud and understandably so. Thomas was a handsome young man and it was obvious that there was a happy relationship between him and his father.
Tyrrell called to his horsekeeper, John Dighton, to give his personal attention to their guest’s stabling and Dighton, red-faced, big and broad and clearly capable, immediately set about doing his master’s bidding.
Sir James then took the Earl into the castle and sent his son to give orders that nothing should be spared in providing the utmost comfort for their guest.
Then he settled down to hear an account of the Earl’s abrupt departure. When he had explained, Suffolk reviled the King and brought up the old grievance of the King’s taking from him the major part of his inheritance, and then giving him back a portion for which he had to pay.
“Oh the King is most gracious,” said Suffolk sarcastically. “He has given me a period of time to pay him for my own estates. Did you ever hear of such conduct, James? And that the old miser should dare to behave so to a member of the House of York, angers me beyond description.”
“His treatment of you is because you are of the House of York,” said Tyrrell. “It was a sad day for us when the Tudor came and killed good King Richard.”
“I know you served him well. Rest assured that this King of ours sleeps uneasily in his bed. He is constantly on the lookout for someone to thrust a dagger into his heart or stretch out rightful hands to take the crown. You, my friend, were always loyal to our House of York.”
“King Richard’s reign was too short, alas. He was our rightful King.”
“I often wonder how much truth there was in that story of Edward’s precontract to Eleanor Butler,” went on Suffolk.
“There is one mystery which will never be solved.”
“And there is another. Those two little boys . . . Kings both of them if the story be true that the elder died before the younger. King Edward the Fifth and King Richard the Fourth. They were pleasant boys. I saw them now and then when I was young. ‘Tis a strange story. I wonder the King does not sift the matter, for if one of those little boys still lives he is indeed the true King. Henry cannot pronounce them bastards for if they are, so is his Queen—and how could the King of England marry a bastard!”
“’Tis a long-ago mystery,” said Tyrrell, staring straight ahead. “Too far back in time to be settled now.”
“But one which must haunt the King . . . unless he knows the answer.”
“It may be that he does know the answer.”
“You think he may?”
Tyrrell was silent then he said, almost as though speaking to himself, “Oh it is long ago. But you, my lord, what plans have you?”
“To rest here for a while and see how the land lies.”
“My son and I will make you welcome here for as long as you wish to stay.”
“I must not stay long. By doing so I should compromise you with the King.”
“He knows I have no plans to rise against him.”
“Then you should not be too friendly with those who have a reason for doing so.”
Tyrrell looked at Suffolk with something like wonderment.
“You, my lord . . . how?”
“Why should I not discover? It may well be that I have friends on the Continent. As for you, James, you might do well not to connect yourself too openly with me . . . until such time as it will be safe to do so.”
Tyrrell’s face hardened: “I do not fear the King,” he said.
“No, you are well away. He has been a good friend to you . . . in a manner of speaking. After all you were a strong supporter of King Richard.”
“Oh yes . . . I must say that I was forgiven my allegiance to the House of York. He made me Sheriff of Glamorgan and Morgannock and gave me the Constableship of Cardiff Castle for life with a salary of one hundred pounds a year.”
“Generous treatment for a miser. There was something behind it all. There must have been.”
“Yes,” said Tyrrell, “there must have been.”
“The Tudor always has his reasons and he is not accustomed to giving something for nothing. He must have had a great opinion of you, James. He must have thought very highly of your services. And now you have Guisnes. Almost as though he wanted you out of the country. It shows he trusts you.”
“Yes, I think he trusts me.”
“Then you should keep it that way . . . until such a moment as you decide it is no longer necessary. One must be wily when dealing with the Tudor.”
“You are right there. Have a care, my lord.”
“You may trust me to do that.”
Shortly afterward Suffolk left Guisnes. Tyrrell was relieved to see him go.
He had good reason to know how ruthless Henry Tudor could be.
It was then that Henry’s spies on the Continent brought him news that Suffolk had stayed awhile in the company of Sir James Tyrrell at Guisnes Castle. This increased Henry’s uneasiness, and he decided that Suffolk must be brought back to England and if it was not possible to persuade him to come back then it would be necessary to use force.
“I will offer him a pardon to return,” said Henry to Dudley. “I will imply that this unfortunate killing will be forgotten.”
“You think it wise, my lord?”
Henry was thoughtful. There were matters of which even Dudley knew nothing. He spoke firmly: “Yes, I think it wise. I want Suffolk in England where we can keep our eyes on him.”
When Suffolk received the King’s messengers who arrived with the pardon, he decided that his best course was to return. So far he had committed no sin against the Crown and he knew that that was what Henry really feared.
So he returned and was received by the King.
Henry studied him warily, wondering about his activities on the Continent. Enemies of the House of Tudor abounded there, but he was not unduly disturbed about Suffolk’s attempts to raise an army against him. He believed that would meet with little success. He did wonder though what Suffolk and Sir James Tyrrell had talked about when they were together.
“Well,” said Henry affably, “that matter of affray in which a man was killed . . . we will choose to forget it.”
“I am glad of that. There was nothing else I could have done. I was insulted.”
“These moments arise and in the heat of them . . . well, it is understandable.”
Suffolk thought: Cold-blooded fish. Who could imagine his ever being caught up in the heat of any passion? His eyes were a cold pale blue—how different from Edward who would have blazed out, shouted and then in a short time they would have been laughing and drinking one another’s health. A man knew where he was with Edward. With the Tudor he could never be sure.
“So you visited Tyrrell at Guisnes,” said the King quietly.
“It was the first port of call, my lord.”
“And how was the custodian of that castle?”
“In good health, I think. His son is with him—a fine upstanding young man.”
“Yes, yes. It is good to have sons. Is he content with his life there?”
“It would appear so.”
“You must have had a great deal to talk of. I know what it is when a man meets someone from home. Did he talk of England . . . of his past life here?”
“Not much. We were not together very long.”
Henry was trying to probe the thoughts of the other. Had Tyrrell said anything? Of course he hadn’t. He wouldn’t be such a fool.
He changed the subject. He did not want Suffolk to suspect he was overinterested in James Tyrrell.