Winter King: Henry VII and the Dawn of Tudor England (4 page)

On 3 September, Henry’s torn, bloody battle standards were carried through the suburb of Shoreditch towards London, a city still under curfew, armed patrols silhouetted against its battlemented walls. At Bishopsgate, the mayor and officials waited uncertainly in their scarlet finery to welcome with gifts of cash and gold plate the king they had unceremoniously dismissed weeks before as Richard III’s ‘rebel’.
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Of the details – Henry’s flight to France, his invasion plans – there was no mention. Nor was there any detail of his genealogy, of precisely what his claim consisted in. And so it would remain: his fugitive history was chronicled in the haziest of terms by design as much as by accident. That was how Henry wanted it. He had appeared out of nowhere – an avenging king come to claim his kingdom from Richard III, who had murdered his nephews and wrenched the true line of the Yorkist dynasty off course. After the battle, the dead king’s wrecked body had been slung over a horse, its long hair tied under its chin, then set on display at Leicester’s Franciscan friary, naked except for a piece of cheap black cloth preserving its modesty, before a perfunctory burial – ‘like a dog in a ditch’, some said.
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In the first flush of victory, the myths were already being written. ‘In the year 1485 on the 22nd day of August’, ran one poem, ‘the tusks of the Boar were blunted and the red rose, the avenger of the white, shines on us.’
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The latest contender in the cycle of violence to be raised up, Henry was now faced with a profound challenge. He had to stop the wheel while he was at its highest point, to keep himself far above the private quarrels and vendettas of nobles, the world from which he had emerged. He had to create a ‘new foundation of his crown’, one which merged his family’s name indistinguishably with the idea of royal authority. Through its power, its magnificence and its justice, his rule would need to ensure that, of all the proliferation of heraldic devices and badges that indicated which lord you followed and where your affinities lay, the red rose commanded instant loyalty and the ‘dread’ inspired by a sovereign lord who ruled indifferently over all.
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If he looked, behaved and ruled like a king, perhaps the exhausted, traumatized country of England would come to believe he was one.

At Henry’s coronation in ‘triumph and glory’ at Westminster Abbey on 30 October 1485, Lady Margaret, reunited with the son she had not seen for fourteen years, ‘wept marvellously’.
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Her tears suggested not joy, but apprehension. With a precarious claim to the throne, no large family clan and little hereditary land of his own, virtually no experience of government and heavily reliant on the doubtful allegiances of a group of Yorkists whose loyalties lay with the princess he now courted, there was little to suggest that Henry’s reign would last long, or that civil conflict would not simply mutate again. But if Henry knew little of government, his formative years had brought experience of another kind. As he set about creating a new dynasty, Henry would be haunted by the spectres of civil war, real and imagined. They would stay with him all his life and they would define his reign.

‘Blessed be god, the king the queen and all our sweet children be in good health.’

Lady Margaret Beaufort, April 1497

‘If the King should propose to change any old established rule, it would seem to every Englishman as if his life were taken away from him – but I think that the present King Henry will do away with a great many, should he live ten years longer.’

Venetian ambassador, c. 1500

In early September 1497, two Italian ambassadors left London and, accompanied by a group of English dignitaries and a heavily armed escort in the quartered white-and-green Tudor livery, headed west along the Thames Valley and into Oxfordshire. One was the secretary of the duke of Milan Ludovico Sforza, the other a special envoy from the republic of Venice. The previous June, both men had set out from Italy on the long journey north. Crossing the Alps into the lands of Maximilian, the Holy Roman Emperor, they made their ways along the broad expanse of the Rhine – the river’s toll-booths clotted with mercantile traffic and the roads, with their laden mule-trains, just as bad – through the rich trading centres of Speyer and Cologne and west, into the broad river delta of the Low Countries, northern Europe’s financial and commercial heart, the patchwork territories ruled over by Maximilian’s young, precocious son, Archduke Philip of Burgundy.
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Meeting in the teeming port-city of Antwerp, the ambassadors swapped notes.

Three years previously, the duke of Milan had allied himself with Charles VIII of France, hoping to harness the might of Europe’s most powerful country in the warring that had re-erupted between Italy’s city-states. As contemporaries put it, ‘he turned a lion loose in his house to catch a mouse’. Aiming to conquer the Spanish-ruled kingdom of Naples, the French army swept down the peninsula, igniting terror, pestilence – a ghastly new venereal disease called syphilis – and revolution. Desperate to halt France’s seemingly inexorable advance, Italian states and European powers had overcome their mutual antagonism to form a coalition, a Holy League brokered by the pope, Alexander VI. The English king Henry VII’s inclusion in the coalition was critical to its success, for with its own claims to the French crown, England could menace France’s exposed northern border from across the Channel. A dutiful son of the church, Henry had joined the League and France had indeed retreated. But in the face of exhortations to go further, Henry was resolute. He had invaded France once already, five years previously, and the consequences had been disastrous. He was not about to do so again.

The other members of the Holy League were not to be put off so easily. Together with a stream of other European diplomats beating a petitioning path to the English king’s door were Sforza’s secretary, Raimondo da Soncino, and the Venetian envoy Andrea Trevisano.
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They had other business, too. As one of England’s biggest trading partners, Venice sent galleys packed with wines, spices, silks and other commodities, carrying away English wool and cloth for processing and selling in its vast textile industry in return. It was keen to cement economic and political relations with this English king who, it was rumoured, was enormously rich. He was also, they had heard, in trouble. As all Europe knew, Henry had had his problems. In recent years, his reign had been menaced by a pretender to the throne, a ghost of the English civil wars, who was still at large.

On 22 July, Soncino and Trevisano reached the Flemish city of Bruges. There, amid its canals, markets and counting-houses, they stopped and waited.
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The onward journey looked precarious. Their road west to the English enclave of Calais lay through the militarized borderlands of Flanders, over which France and Burgundy had struggled for decades. As it periodically tended to be, the road was closed and reports flooded in of roaming gangs of Frenchmen, plundering and looting.

The ambassadors had also been receiving regular updates from England, dispatches sent via the letter-bags couriered from the London branches of Italian merchant-banks back to their continental headquarters. In these dispatches, rumour and counter-rumour mingled. That June, there had been an uprising against Henry VII. Twenty thousand men had marched the length of the country – from the north, perhaps, or the far southwest – on London, demanding the surrender of the king and his close counsellors, and the king had been beaten and had fled. Then again, a great battle had been fought outside the city, and the king had won. Meanwhile, there was war in the north. The king of Scotland had invaded England – or perhaps it was Henry doing the invading, his armies advancing in the other direction. Throughout the dispatches, one name was mentioned over and over again: that of Richard duke of York, the ‘White Rose’ who, many claimed, was the younger of the two princes in the Tower, the sons of the Yorkist king Edward IV, otherwise missing, presumed dead. ‘Some say’, one dispatch hedged, that the duke of York was in England, ‘but no one knew for sure’. One thing alone was certain, it continued. Catastrophe would soon befall England.
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By early August Soncino and Trevisano had made it to Calais, accompanied by a detachment of English soldiers. There they waited for the unseasonal storms to abate and for the commander of Calais to check the coast was clear of pirates, before making the short journey across the English Channel. At Dover, a royal reception awaited them: progressing through Kent, they entered London accompanied by two senior officials sent by King Henry himself, and a troop of two hundred horsemen. Days later, summoned by the king, they journeyed to Oxford, where they overnighted in the students’ colleges; then, the following morning, they made the short journey to the royal manor of Woodstock, where the king’s household was in residence for the summer.
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Approaching the house across rolling parkland well stocked with game, the ambassadors were escorted through gatehouses freshly painted with red roses, portcullises, greyhounds and rougedragons, the heraldic devices of Henry VII’s dynasty. Dismounting, they were led deep into the house, through a succession of galleries and richly decorated apartments, to a ‘small chamber’. At the far end of this room, hung with exquisite tapestry, were a cluster of advisers in their robes of estate – silks and satins of crimson and purple, trimmed with fur and ermine – among them leading members of the nobility, including six bishops, ‘lords spiritual’. In their midst stood the king.

What the ambassadors noted first was his stillness, standing, fingertips resting lightly on the gilt chair beside him. As they approached, bowing and scraping, the details came into focus. Spare, high-cheekboned, with dark hair faintly greying around the temples, Henry VII was dressed in a long violet, gold-lined cloak and, around his neck, a collar comprising four rows of ‘great pearls’ and many other jewels. On his head he wore a black felt cap studded with a pear-shaped pearl which, said Soncino fascinatedly, ‘seemed to me something most rich’. As the ambassadors delivered their diplomatic orations, carefully turned in the most fashionable Ciceronian Latin, the king’s eyes, small, blue and penetrating, remained fixed on them.
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Only when they had finished did Henry stir. Turning aside to a small group of counsellors, he conferred with them intently. A man then stepped forward to give a Latin speech in reply: the king’s wizened éminence grise, instantly recognizable in his scarlet robes – the chancellor and archbishop of Canterbury, Cardinal John Morton. Also by the king’s side was Prince Arthur, his first-born son and heir. Soncino studied him keenly: this was the boy in whom the future of the English dynasty lay and who was due to marry Catherine, daughter of the Spanish monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella – a sweetener, they hoped, which would induce Henry to ally with them in war against France. The betrothal ceremony, the heart of a new Anglo-Spanish treaty, had been performed only the previous month. With Catherine, aged twelve, still in Spain, the corpulent Spanish ambassador Rodrigo de Puebla had stood in for her. Prince Arthur himself was a year younger but, thought Soncino, tall for his age and of ‘singular beauty and grace’. While his father spoke little, the prince was eloquent, ‘very ready’ in speaking Latin in front of the assembled dignitaries – ‘a distinguished son-in-law’ for the Catholic monarchs, Soncino opined.
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Following the exchange of orations and diplomatic compliments, the ambassadors kissed the hands of Henry and the prince. After dining in state – with ‘four lords’, said Trevisano, impressed – they were led further into the house, to a smaller, more private room for a confidential chat with the king, servants hovering discreetly in the background. The king talked with deliberation in clear, fluent French, fully in control. As the conversation progressed, the ambassadors, who had come to brief him on Italian affairs, were astonished. He seemed to know all the news even before they had told him: indeed, Soncino reported to his master Sforza that Henry spoke about him as if with the knowledge of an old, familiar friend – except that the two had never met. The ambassadors concurred that the king was wise, ‘gracious’ and ‘grave’ with a ‘wonderful presence’, everything a king should be. ‘He evidently has’, Soncino concluded, ‘a most quiet spirit.’

Before their departure, the ambassadors had time to pay their respects to the queen, Elizabeth. They found her in a small hall, surrounded by ladies and gentlewomen, dressed in cloth-of-gold that offset her mass of strawberry-blonde hair – ‘a handsome woman’, Trevisano remarked. At her side were the king’s mother Lady Margaret Beaufort, a diminutive, sharp-eyed presence, and a six-year-old boy. That Henry and Elizabeth’s second son merited barely a footnote in the ambassadors’ dispatches was hardly surprising. After all, they could hardly have foreseen the events that would eventually lead him to the English throne.

The Italians were whisked away back to Oxford, where they were ‘lavishly entertained’ at the king’s personal command, and then to London, to await the court’s return later that autumn. The whole visit had gone smoothly, and the ambassadors had been flattered, charmed and impressed. The only sign that anything was untoward was the uncharacteristic brevity of their visit to Woodstock.

In fact, the rumours heard by the ambassadors had been true. Fourteen ninety-seven was proving a terrible year for Henry VII. Two months before, thousands of Cornishmen, in protest against swingeing taxation and corrupt officialdom, had swarmed through southern England and had almost reached London’s gates, before being defeated at Blackheath. Now, Henry was preparing for what he hoped would be the endgame to another, far more protracted episode. Massing in the grounds at Woodstock, out of sight of the ambassadors’ diplomatic visit, were thousands of troops, men and materiel. Throughout his summer hunting and hawking, Henry had been waiting for this spectre to make his rumoured appearance, and indeed, a week after the ambassadors had returned to London, news arrived from the far southwest. A ship bearing the youth who claimed to be Richard duke of York had landed in Cornwall, and he was now marching towards Henry to claim his throne. It was twelve years, almost to the day, since Henry had won his kingdom, and he had barely had a moment’s peace.
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