“We should call him Edward,” said Elizabeth Woodville. “It is a good name for the son of a king.”
“No, he is to be Arthur,” replied Henry. “He is born in Arthur’s Castle. I am descended from Arthur. That is what my son shall be called. Arthur.”
“That,” said the Countess, “is just what I thought. Come, little Arthur. Your mother must rest.”
With a triumphant look at the Dowager Queen, the Countess took the child from his mother’s arms and handed him to the nurse.
It was all very satisfactory. They had their son. The country would rejoice and Elizabeth Woodville and her daughter had learned yet again that they must obey the wishes and commands of the King and his mother.
The Baker’s Boy
He had ingenuity and imagination; he had courage . . . everything a man needed to rise; but as the years passed and he could not take that first step he was becoming more bitter and disillusioned every day.
In fact he was getting desperate. If good fortune would not come to him, he must go out to find it. There he was—personable and clever. He often thought he would have made a good Archbishop of Canterbury. There were some people who had the looks of distinction even though they were set in humble circumstances.
Take the young boy in the baker’s shop for instance. He moved with a natural dignity. He fascinated Richard Simon. How did a boy like that come to be working in a baker’s shop? That boy would have looked quite at home in the house of a nobleman.
He called in at the dwelling of a fellow priest and they sat together over a flagon of wine in a room which was darkened because the only light that came in came through the leaded windows. His own house might have been a replica of this one. It was a roof, a shelter, little more.
They talked of the country’s affairs, of the new King, of the marriage of York and Lancaster, of the newly born Prince.
“It looks as if fortune is smiling on King Henry,” said Richard Simon’s companion.
“Some are lucky. Look how he came to England. He defeated King Richard. Then he married King Edward’s daughter and within eight months—eight, mark you—he has a child and that child a boy. Does that look like fortune smiling on him? Why, Providence even cut short the time of waiting and made his son in eight months instead of the customary nine.”
Richard Simon’s lips curled with bitterness. There was nothing he would like better than to see the luck of Henry the Seventh change drastically. He would like to see him brought low . . . lose everything he had gained. Not that he cared which king was on the throne. He just hated the successful because he was a failure.
His companion admitted that it certainly seemed as though God were smiling on King Henry. “He is a man to wipe away all obstacles,” he said.
Richard Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Like King Richard . . . the little Princes . . .”
“King Richard was slain in fair combat and it was Richard who disposed of the Princes in the Tower. They were killed long ago.”
“It was rumor. Why should Richard kill them? They were no threat to him. And if they were bastards as Richard would have it, does that not make the Queen herself one since she came out of the same stable.”
“You talk rashly, Richard my friend.”
“I speak as I find. I wonder what happened to those boys. . . .”
“There is a tale going round that they escaped from the Tower and are living somewhere. . . in obscurity.”
“Yes . . . I had heard that. . . .” Richard narrowed his eyes. “It could be true. They must be somewhere. . . . I remember that story about King Richard’s wife, the Lady Anne Neville. . . . Clarence wanted to get rid of her and wasn’t she working in a kitchen somewhere? She, a high-bred lady, a kitchen maid. That was a story you’d scarce believe.”
“Yes it was true enough. It was well known at the time so my father told me.”
“So you see, there’s no end to what can be done.”
Richard Simon rose and said he had business to attend to. He went back to the baker’s shop. The boy was serving a customer. He might be listening to a petitioner, thought Richard Simon. He has all the grace of royalty.
He went into the shop. The baker came out rubbing his hands, smiling at the priest.
He had come for a cob loaf, he said.
“Lambert,” called the baker. “Get a cob for the gentleman.”
He watched Lambert. How gracefully the boy moved, how delicately he took the loaf and wrapped it. There was a diffidence about him and great dignity.
“Thank you, my boy,” said Richard.
Lambert inclined his head. Where did he learn such manners? Richard wanted to linger, to ask questions. He could scarcely say to the baker, How did you come to sire such a boy as this?
“I hear your bread is of the best,” he said to the baker.
The baker was smiling broadly; he rubbed his hands together. “You’re not the first who has heard that, Father. I’ve a reputation hereabouts. Have you ever tried my simnel cakes?”
“No, I have not.”
“Then you must. Then you must.” The baker leaned forward smiling broadly. “I’m so noted for them that they’ve called me after them.”
“Oh . . . what do you mean?” Listening to the father’s chatter he was still watching the boy.
“I’m known as Baker Simnel. That’s after my cakes, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would indeed. And your boy is a great help to you, I’m sure.”
“Oh he’s young yet . . . coming up for eleven. Still he’ll be useful when he’s a year or so older.”
One couldn’t spend the whole afternoon chatting over one cob loaf. Reluctantly Richard Simon left the shop.
He walked thoughtfully to his lodging.
The boy haunted him. What if it were really true that the Princes had not been murdered after all, that they had escaped . . . or perhaps been taken away and hidden somewhere . . . and where would be the best place to hide a prince? Where it would be least expected to find him. Clarence had made Anne Neville a kitchen maid. She might never have been found but for the determination of King Richard. Just suppose that boy Lambert Simnel was either King Edward the Fifth or the Duke of York. And suppose he, Richard Simon, humble priest, had found him. Suppose he restored him to the throne. The luck of King Henry the Seventh would change then would it not, and so would that of Richard Simon.
It had become an obsession. He went to the baker’s shop whenever he could, where he engaged young Lambert in conversation. The boy did not speak like a royal prince—as soon as he opened his mouth it was apparent that he was a baker’s son. But speech was something that could be changed. How long could he have been with the baker? Three years? A boy could change a great deal in that time. He was on the point of questioning the baker, but that would have been folly. There was no doubt that the baker would have been paid well to take the boy, but he would never admit that he had; moreover, and perhaps this was the real reason for his hesitation, the baker might call him mad and prove without a single doubt that the boy Lambert was his. The dream would be shattered. Richard Simon could not bear the thought of that. He had been happier since wild schemes had been chasing each other round in his head than he had for a long time. Perhaps he only half believed them. It did not matter. They were there; they were balm to his bitterness. He saw himself being graciously received by the King whom he had restored to the throne. Whether it was Edward the Fifth or Richard the Fourth he was not sure. That did not matter. The King was there; the upstart Henry the Seventh was deposed.