Harriet Castor - Henry VIII: The Story of the Ruthless Tudor King

Henry VIII

The story of the ruthless Tudor king

The story of the ruthless Tudor king

HARRIET CASTOR

To Maud and Flo

First published 2010 by
A & C Black Publishers Ltd
36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY

www.acblack.com

Text copyright 2010 Harriet Castor

The right of Harriet Castor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Print ISBN 978-1-40811-323-3
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-40815-279-9

A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems without the prior permission in writing of the publishers.

It was bitterly, bone-achingly cold. But still the people had turned out had been waiting for hours, stamping their feet, jostling, arguing and joking. Inside St Pauls, the old cathedral was more packed than Smithfield on market day. Outside, crowds thronged the churchyard and the streets beyond, hanging from windows and teetering on rooftops risking their necks for a sight of royalty. It was the day of a royal wedding.

Hey, look! Theyre coming outside!

At the far side of the cathedral yard, the doors of the Bishops Palace were opening. A procession was forming, at its centre, a young couple. The sight of them drew gasps. No English brides wore veils covering their faces. But this bride was a Spanish princess, dressed in shimmering white, her face concealed by a jewelled veil that reached to her waist.

The boy was equally stunning. Tall for his age, already built like an athlete, and wearing fantastically expensive clothes and jewels, he looked magnificent, and he knew it. It was a shame he wasnt the groom, perhaps. It was a shame his job was just to escort the bride to his older brother.

Ten-year-old Henry, Duke of York, second son of the king and queen, was concentrating too hard to think of such things. He knew all eyes were on him, and he loved the attention, but he also knew he could not put a foot wrong. At a stately, dignified pace, he led the Spanish princess, Catherine of Aragon, across the yard to the cathedrals mighty west doors.

Inside, as a trumpet fanfare echoed up to the stone-vaulted roof, they mounted a flight of steps. It was like climbing onto a theatre stage a walkway had been built at head-height, which ran the entire length of the nave. At its mid-point was a platform, where Henrys older brother was waiting for his bride.

Prince Arthur was fifteen pale and slight where Henry was sturdy, serious where Henry was all golden smiles. But what he lacked in charisma, he made up for in importance. Arthur was the future King of England.

Henry stepped back as the ceremony began, and glanced upwards. Faces looked down on him from every possible vantage point. But the two faces he cared about most his parents he could not see. They were hidden behind the glazed windows of the specially built royal box.

His mother would be watching him, he knew, with her usual warm, indulgent smile. But his father Henry thought of that severe, gaunt face and shivered. His father would reserve his smiles for Arthur.

He was right. In the royal box, King Henry VII was watching his eldest son. Young Henry and his sisters, Margaret and Mary, hardly registered for him today. This was a moment of triumph for the king. His family, the Tudors, was being joined in marriage to one of the oldest and most powerful royal dynasties of Europe, the kings and queens of Spain. This would give them powerful allies and it would help secure Arthurs position as heir to the throne.

Arthur was the boy the kings dreams rested on. After his own death, a new age would dawn. The golden age of Arthur, the second great Tudor king.

The horses hooves struck sparks from the stones of the outer courtyard at Greenwich Palace as the messenger raced in. The man pulled up the reins savagely.

Where is His Grace, the king? he asked, jumping down from the saddle and flinging the reins to a groom. My message is urgent!

Escorted almost running to the palaces inner courtyard, the messenger plunged through a doorway and up the stairs to the Watching Chamber, where the royal guards stood on duty.

There were quick discussions. Then the messenger was shown through into the Presence Chamber. He bowed to the canopied throne, even though it stood empty, and spoke in low tones to one of the councillors waiting beside it.

The councillor looked stricken. He dismissed the messenger and said to his colleagues, The king must be told immediately. But who will do it?

I will, said a man, stepping forward. It was the kings confessor, a brown-robed friar.

A moment later, the friar knelt before the king. Your Grace, forgive my intrusion, he said. Those whom God blesses, God also asks to bear a heavy burden.

The king, who was in the middle of supper, froze. His eyes were cold and fearful. What do you mean, heavy burden? What has happened? Tell me!

A messenger has arrived from Ludlow, said the friar gently. Your son Prince Arthur has succumbed to his fever. He is dead.

The great howl of grief that followed echoed through the palace. Then came the sound of running feet. A servant raced to the queens apartment.

Fetch the queen! Quickly! His Grace has collapsed! He needs her

A few moments later, Queen Elizabeth reached her husbands room. She dismissed everyone else and took him in her arms like a child.

Between wracking sobs, the king spoke brokenly of his heir of the crown of all his hopes, lost.

At last, Elizabeth said, Do not despair, my dearest lord. Remember, we have another son we have Henry.

Henry! The king knew his wife had always favoured the boy, but he was no match for Arthur. Besides, he might die, too.

One life is fragile! he said. One son is not enough!

But you were your mothers only son, Elizabeth reminded him. You survived. And we are both young. We can have more children.

Later, when the king was quiet and she had given him over to the care of his servants, Elizabeth walked grimly back to her own rooms. It was only when she was in the privacy of her bedchamber, with the door closed, that she broke down.

Her younger sons rooms were in the same wing of the palace. Little Henry had heard the commotion, the hurrying feet; he had looked through his windows into the courtyard, hoping for an explanation, but had seen nothing. Now, faintly but distinctly, he could hear his mother crying. It was more than he could bear.

Let me go to her! he cried, twisting his arm out of his nurses grip. I command it, or it shall be the worse for you!

Although he was only ten, that was a threat of some force. The nurse gave way. The ladies guarding the door of Elizabeths chamber did the same.

Mama, said Henry, entering the room quietly. What is wrong?

Elizabeth looked up, her face swollen with crying. My boy My darling Poor Arthur has died. You, my sweetheart you are heir to the throne now. She gathered Henry to her and rocked him gently. One day you will be King.

The crown of England was a diadem dripping with blood. It was a prize that King Henry VII had seized violently. At the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485, his soldiers had killed the old king, Richard III. They had grabbed Richards crown and placed it on Henrys head right there on the battlefield. This was the final act in a terrifying and brutal civil war that had lasted, on and off, for more than thirty years.