Chapter Text
September 14, 1528
“We tried to tell them it was a bad idea,” Hal Percy uttered solemnly. “We begged them not to go because we knew their plot was folly. They refused to listen. They ignored us, and now they are dead.”
The tension in Alnwick castle was thick. News about the failure of Northumberland and York had arrived from London. Their fathers had left to rescue King Henry and Prince Lionel, only to discover that it had all been a trap by the wily Duke of Richmond.
The sons of Northumberland and York were crowded in the solar. Thomas and Ingelram Percy were sitting a green couch, wearing identical black scowls. Roland of York was pacing like a caged beast while Rufus was staring into the fire, a blank look upon his face. The latter two had just returned from Scotland, having heard of Berry’s death, not expecting that they would soon be mourning their father as well.
“They couldn’t have known of Tudor’s duplicity,” Thomas spat. “He deliberately baited our fathers so he could murder them without a trial.”
“Why else would he have the Duke of Buckingham and Francis Bryan waiting for them?” Roland snarled, his eyes wild with fury. “He knew if Buckingham didn’t kill our father, Bryan would do the dirty deed.”
They had been appraised by a friend at the court that it was Francis who had slew Richard of York, although the details were still sketchy at best. It was currently unknown who had killed the elder Percy.
“No!” Robert slammed his fist against the desk, nearly knocking over the ink bottle, its contents spilling onto the parchment he had written four words on. “Say what you will about Richmond and Buckingham, but Francis did not intend to kill our father.”
Roland stared at him as though he was stupid. “Come now, Rob, everyone knows how much Bryan hated our father for not acknowledging him. When Richmond started his plot, he would have jumped at the chance.”
“That is not true,” argued Robert. “You don’t know him like I do. Something must have happened to make Francis snap.” If nothing else, he was certain his older brother would never have hurt him by killing their father.
“Does it matter!” Rufus demanded, spinning around, his voice shaking with barely concealed rage. The youngest of Dickon’s sons was as muscular as his brothers, auburn hair, and a fluffy beard. “Our father is dead by a plot manufactured by Henry Tudor. We cannot let this go unanswered!”
“Amen to that!” Thomas Percy leapt up. He was not as tall as the York brothers, but he was long limbed and lean. “We shall not let the villain win. We will march against him, bring him to justice for his crimes.”
“You speak of treason,” Hal Percy observed coldly, glaring at his brother reproachfully.
“Was it treason when our great-grandfather went up against the tyranny of Margaret of Anjou?” Roland retorted. His blonde hair reached down to his neck, framing his heart-shaped, cleanshaven visage. “Was it treason when our grandfather disposed of a unworthy king and crowned himself?”
“Do you fancy yourself a kingmaker, Roland?” Robert queried coldly. “Even if what you say is true, we have no quarrel with King Henry.”
“The boy cannot rule,” Ingelram noted. “Richmond will govern in his stead. I have no doubt that we will be arrested on trumped up charges before the month is out.”
“My wife’s father, the Earl of Shrewsbury will fight for us,” Thomas remarked. “And I know several other lords who will back us.”
“We shall avenge our fathers and make sure that no Tudor can threaten us,” Rufus proclaimed.
Robert heaved a sigh, rubbing his forehead in frustration. Do you see the trouble you have caused, Father? He was aware that there was no easy way out of this. Although he knew in his heart that Francis had not killed their father intentionally, the fact that Buckingham had been chosen to spring the trap against the Duke of York proved that Tudor wanted his uncle dead. And if he was willing to go to such extremes to end his rivals then none of the Yorks or the Percys were safe.
“Leave,” he commanded. “I wish to speak to Hal alone.”
The four younger brothers did not look happy at their dismissal, but they left the room without any grumbling, perhaps knowing that their point had been made.
“Hal, write to Lady Anne Boleyn,” Robert implored. “If she still cares for you, she will speak on your behalf to her husband. You can explain that I forced you to cooperate.”
“Even if I thought Anne could convince her husband to spare me, I wouldn’t do it,” Hal said firmly, walking over to Robert, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You are my friend. I won’t lie to save my skin. Besides, we are in this together.”
“Hal, this is no time to grow a spine,” Robert admonished, half-jesting, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. He was touched by his friend’s loyalty.
Despite the dire situation, Percy laughed. “We tried to be the sensible ones, Rob. We thought we could prevent our fathers from making their mistakes. Now we must pay for their sins.”
Robert’s shoulders sagged, helplessness overwhelming him, choking the life out of him. “This is madness. Complete and utter madness. And yet, I feel we have no other alternative.”
“At least we have each other,” Hal commented with a small smile.
His friend’s lips twitched upwards before he sobered. “I think we should send Margaret, Catherine, and our children to my mother. They will be safe there.”
Hal nodded, seeing the sense in sending their wives and their offspring to Scotland, far away from the enemies who might do them harm.
With that grim thought, the two men exited the room to tell their brothers of their decision to fight.
Meanwhile in London, Henry was dealing with aftermath of his uncle’s death. It was an utter catastrophe for his faction. Something the Duke of Bedford wasted no time telling him.
“Buckingham!” Prince Thomas shouted, uncharacteristically infuriated. “Of all the men you had to take charge of our uncle’s arrest, you chose the one man in England who wanted him dead!”
“It was the only way to get Buckingham to listen,” Henry insisted, sinking down in his chair, his eyes averted. Had he not assured the incensed duke that he could lead the men to arrest York, Edward Stafford might have taken justice in his own hands. “I made him swear that he would arrest Northumberland and York, not harm them.”
“York murdered his son. Did you actually believe that he would listen?!” Thomas thundered. He waved his finger at the duke. “Or that Uncle Richard would not put up a fight? You wanted to outwit our uncle, prove yourself smarter. Instead, you have caused the biggest scandal since the Duke of Gloucester!”
Ed jumped to Richmond’s defense. “The blame for York’s death falls squarely on his own shoulders. Henry did not force him to go to the tower in an attempt to kidnap the king and his brother.”
“Everyone, from the most uneducated farmer, knows about the princes in the tower,” Thomas intoned, gritting his teeth. “You deliberately used my nephews to lure the Duke of York to the Tower of London.”
“Our uncle did not have to go for the bait,” Exeter argued. “He could have stayed away, accepted Henry’s mercy.”
“Of course, he didn’t!” Thomas bellowed, his face becoming purple in rage, infuriated by the denials. “And you knew he wouldn’t! You gambled on it like this was a game to you.”
“You have made your point, Your Highness,” Henry snapped, stamping down the rage he felt at the younger man’s insistence on lecturing him. “I admit that what happened was unfortunate, but I cannot undo it. The only question is where you stand. With us or against us?”
He knew that his uncle’s faction would use this incident to smear his name, try to usurp his position. It was one of the reasons he had wanted Uncle Dickon alive so he could not be used as a martyr.
The Duke of Bedford’s visage twisted into a sneer. “My father has named you Lord Protector until my nephew turns eighteen. I shall not deny your legal right as King Henry’s regent. However, I have no desire to support you in any way. In fact, I have no wish to remain in England to watch you continue your cock fight.”
“What do you mean?” Henry inquired, his brows knitting together in confusion.
“Charlotte has invited me to live in Austria,” Thomas explained smoothly. “I have decided to leave within the next fortnight.” It was clear he was not even planning to ask for permission. He was merely announcing his intent to leave. It was a breach of protocol, not to mention a high insult. It just showed how disgusted the prince was at this situation.
“You abandon our nephews for that bitch,” Ed snarled, his manner filled with disdain.
“Our sister may have her problems, but she has never gotten someone killed because of a lack of self-control,” retorted Bedford. He was not just referring to York’s death, but also Ritchie’s demise.
“How dare you!” Exeter took a menacing step forward, his nostrils flaring, and his hands clenched into fists.
Thomas just stared him down coldly. “What are you going to do Ed? Hit me? That won’t change the fact that our brother is dead because of you.”
Ed’s fury burned like fire, and he lashed out, catching Thomas in the jaw. The younger prince recoiled backwards, but managed to stay upright, his expression defiant with traces of revulsion.
“ENOUGH!” Henry bellowed, jumping up. “Thomas, you are free to go.”
The Duke of Bedford did not say another word. He merely spun on his heels and strode out of the chamber.
“He is a coward,” Ed spat. “He was always a spineless coward.”
Henry sighed as he collapsed back into his chair. I can’t blame him from walking away from this mess.
Exeter pivoted towards Richmond, his gaze piercing. “Don’t tell me you agree with him. He speaks nonsense.”
“Does he?” Henry challenged mildly. “There are whispers already circulating that I deliberately set our uncle up.”
“He died because he is a witless bobolyne!” Ed snarled. “He could have surrendered.”
“He did surrender,” interjected Henry. “Francis still gutted him.”
George had tried to lie to protect his cousin, insisting that the Duke of York had sought to kill him when Francis stepped in and compelled him to stand down, only for the disgruntled duke to attack him, forcing his son to defend himself. Unfortunately, Francis had confessed to what really happened, giving Henry no alternative but to arrest the knight for cutting down an unarmed man. Even though Dickon was a traitor committing treason when he died, Richmond was aware that if he let Francis off the hook, it would be spun that he had given the order.
Ed scowled. “He must have said something to deserve it. That knave was always running his mouth, angering everyone. It is not a surprise that his loose tongue finally got him killed.”
Henry didn’t reply, knowing full well what his uncle had said to Francis. The latter had told him during his confession. Francis Bryan had been so broken, filled with guilt and devastation. Quite different from the proud, uncaring man he was before
“Regardless of why it happened, it happened,” Henry noted as his blue orbs drifted towards the window. The clouds seemed to be growing darker, a storm was coming for England. “And now we must deal with the outcome.”
September 21, 1528
His cell was comfortable. His bed had soft, clean linen with a feather pillow. He had a lovely view of the Thames from a little square window---barred of course. On the windowsill, he had a few of his favorite books stacked neatly in a row. There was a small fireplace with a comfortable velvet armchair in front of it. There was a magnificent mahogany desk in the corner from which he could write and send his letters. A small table with two chairs on either side in case he had company during his mealtimes.
Even the guards were affable and talkative. Francis might have thought he was just on a vacation if it were not for the fact that he was currently under arrest for murdering his own father.
Suddenly enraged, Francis closed the book he was currently reading and threw it as hard as he could, letting it hit the wall with a loud thump.
“Sir Francis are you well?” A guard materialized outside the door, peering into the room through the bars. He seemed concerned which only increased the disgraced knight’s contempt.
I murdered my father, you idiot, he snarled silently. Of course, I am not well. He got up from his chair and retrieved the book, not even bothering to dignify the question with a response.
The guard cleared his throat. “You have a visitor.”
Francis stiffened, his stomach lurching as his thoughts raced. Could it be? Had Robert…? No. The knight shook his head, clearing it of such foolish notions. Robert must hate me now. He would not want anything to do with me.
“If it is a priest, tell him to pray for a different sinner,” Francis said sardonically as he returned the book back to its’ place on the windowsill.
“It is your mother,” the guard announced.
The knight inhaled sharply. His sisters had told him that their mother had fainted upon hearing of his arrest, hitting her head off a table on her way to the floor. It had caused her to be bedridden for several days.
“Send her in,” he commanded.
The guard nodded, his keys jingling as he grabbed the one to unlock the cell door. It opened with a click and minutes later, Margaret Bryan was ushered inside. Her black velvet dress empathized her pale and gaunt features.
“Oh, my poor boy!” Margaret cried as she swept up to him, embracing him fiercely. “This is all my fault.”
“It is not your doing, Mother,” argued Francis, knowing why she was blaming herself. “He had five bastards. He acknowledged four of them, but not me. Never me.”
Fresh tears sprung to his mother’s eyes. “Your father and I were the ones who insisted that you shouldn’t know.”
How could I not know? Francis wondered as he led his mother over to the bed so they could sit together. Save for the darker hair, I was his very image.
As they sat down, the condemned man swallowed thickly, trying to choose the words. “Mother, the Duke of York is not a man who does something selflessly. If he wanted to be a part of my life, neither you nor father could have stopped him.”
“I know, but he was young and impressionable when we were together,” Margaret admitted. “He had not met his wife. Perhaps if we had not insisted, he would have not…”
“Ignored me,” Francis supplied. His mother nodded. “Mother, you don’t know what is was like. How much it hurt knowing I was the only child he wanted nothing to do with. Watching him dote on my half-siblings while not sparing a thought for me. He had almost forty years----God! Forty years and it still hurts! I am pathetic!”
“No, baby, no. You are not pathetic.” Margaret wrapped her arms around her son as he struggled to compose himself, tears dripping down his cheeks, wetting his beard.
“All I ever wanted was to hear him call me his son,” Francis continued as he crumbled in his mother’s embrace. “The one time he did actually acknowledge that he was my father was to manipulate me.”
Margaret buried her face in his shoulder, both of them shaking with silent sobs.
“Or at least that is how I felt in the moment,” he continued, remembering the look of desperation and guilt on his father’s visage that twisted into shock and despair when Francis’s sword cut through his skin like a butcher’s knife sliced apart the meat of a hart. “I wanted him to feel the pain he caused me, to understand how much he hurt me. But I didn’t want him dead. I didn’t, I swear.”
“I believe you,” soothed Margaret, kissing his head. “I believe you.” She could not fathom her son killing his father. The idea that her precious boy could be a murderer was laughable to her…at least it had been.
As much as she wished she could pretend that this was some horrible nightmare, she knew that her son had murdered the man who had sired him, doomed to be condemned by the public.
I shall beg the regent to pardon Francis, she vowed inwardly as she cupped his face, wiping away his tears. I won’t let them kill my precious boy. Dickon had been very special to her, but her son would always come first.
Mother and son separated when they heard the clearing of a throat. The guard had returned.
“Letter for you, my lord,” he explained, extending his hand out. “I thought you might want to see it.”
Francis’ brow knitted together, bewildered by the grey-haired man’s remark. However, once he saw the handwriting on the envelope. He leapt up and rushed to the guard, snatching the missive from him, greedily tearing it open, digesting the contents hungrily.
Bryan’s vision blurred as he read the four words on the parchment. Four simple words that tore him apart and stitched him back up.
I love you, brother. It was Robert’s loopy handwriting. His half-brother, the only child of his father who had known or cared about Francis’ existence. The one he had pushed away for something that was not his fault.
Robert did not hate him. Francis had murdered their father, and his little brother had forgiven him. He couldn’t believe it. He had always known that Robert had a heart of gold, going out of his way to protect others even when he was just a child himself. So filled with compassion and kindness. But he was certain that murdering their father would be something even Robert couldn’t pardon.
Once again, Robert proved to be a better man than he ever could be. Better than their father ever was.
Bryan collapsed to the ground, sobbing in relief and guilt. “I killed him. I killed him. I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
His mother kneeled at his side, embracing him again, whispering comforting words in his ears as she rocked him back and forth. For a moment it was if he was just a little boy, unaware of the harsh realities.
September 30, 1528
The air in Whitehall was frigid, and not just because of the bitterly cold wind that was currently blowing outside the walls. It wasn’t just the dreadful weather, it was the utterly abysmal state they were in. The cloud of death and gloom lingered in the halls, suffocating all who remained.
First the sweat had ravaged their fair country, killing thousands, including their beloved king. This meant that their new monarch was an eight-year-old boy whose heirs were his four-year-old brother and his childless uncles. Then the entire debacle of the Duke of York had happened, and England was once again headed towards civil war.
My father is rolling in his grave, Henry bemoaned as he walked down the empty corridors, half expecting to run into his father’s spirit who rose from the dead just to scold his son.
Henry plastered a smile on his face as he entered the Richmond apartments, not wanting to let Anne know how distraught he was. She had been through enough already, there was no need to add to her sorrow.
He should not have worried for the minute he arrived at the spacious drawing room, the sound of happy squeals reached his eyes. He threw open the doors and found his wife jumping up and down with her sister.
“That is so romantic,” Anne gushed.
Mary Boleyn, having been made a widow when her husband died of the sweat in June, was the picture of happiness. She was dressed in a gown of blue silk, her blond hair was netted prettily underneath a jeweled French hood.
“He even offered to let me bring little Edward and Catherine with us,” Mary was saying, beaming as she twirled around with her sister. She suddenly caught sight of Henry and backed away, her cheeks becoming pink in embarrassment. “Your Grace, forgive me, but in my haze of happiness, I did not see you there.” She dipped shallowly, still holding onto her sister’s hand.
“There is nothing to apologize for,” Henry affirmed as he strode up to the two ladies, unable to continue to be gloomy in the face of their unbridled delight. “Tell me what is the name of the man who is stealing you away.”
At once Mary’s smile dropped and Anne’s glowing visage twisted in alarm. The duke furrowed his brow, his gaze bouncing between them, wondering what he said that had upset them.
“Prince Thomas,” Mary uttered, perplexed. “Did he not ask for permission?”
As Thomas was a member of the royal family especially one who was fourth in line for the throne, he was required to ask the king, or in this case, the king’s regent’s consent to marry a bride of his choosing. To not do was a huge breech of protocol; it was almost treasonous.
Henry quickly reassured his sister-in-law, “Yes. I remember now. A few months ago, he mentioned that he hoped to ask for your hand.” He prayed that Thomas would not contradict his statement. This situation was bad enough without having to deal with more infighting.
“And you didn’t tell me!” Anne demanded incredulously.
Her husband bowed his head bashfully. “Forgive me, my love, but with everything that has been happening, it completely slipped my mind.” He then gave Mary a hug. “Let me extend my warmest congratulations, Lady Mary. Although I shall be sad to see you and your wonderful children go, I at least know that you are in good hands.”
“You are too kind,” Mary giggled. “I must go tell mother and father the great news.” With that she bid them goodbye and departed.
She was barely out the door when Anne turned to Henry with a piercing gaze. “He didn’t ask for permission, did he?”
He nodded in confirmation, letting out a heavy sigh. “He did not.”
Immediately the Duchess of Richmond grew angry. “Who does he think he is! You are the Lord Protector of England. To marry without your leave is testament to treason! Additionally, it undermines your authority.”
“Not if no one finds out about it,” Henry protested. “As far as everyone will be concerned. I gave him permission privately.”
Anne stared at him in shock, surprised that her husband was not as outraged as she was. “You mean to let him get away with this insult.”
Henry’s cocked an eyebrow. “Do you wish for me to ruin your sister’s happiness by arresting her future husband?”
At once Anne softened. “No, of course not. I just am appalled by the disrespect the Duke of Bedford is showing you.” She scrutinized him, trying to figure out the reason why he wasn’t equally angered. He was not a man who let slights go unanswered. “You are blaming yourself for the York disaster, aren’t you?”
“Well, why shouldn’t I? Everyone else is,” Henry snapped. “Bedford thinks it is my fault. Everyone in my late uncle’s faction thinks I deliberately set him up to die. Not to mention, my mother refuses to speak to me or look at me.”
“Your mother is simply upset over her brother’s death,” Anne contradicted. “I am certain her anger will blow over. She is not a woman to hold grudges.”
Henry grunted, rubbing his cheek as he remembered the sting of his mother’s ring when she slapped him. After Richard of York’s death, Elizabeth had packed up and left for Wales, not even bothering to tell her son that she told him what his actions would lead to.
His mother’s coldness had hurt him far more than any insult Bedford could give him.
“My love, you couldn’t have known what would happen,” insisted Anne as she went over to embrace him.
“That is the point. I should have been prepared, instead of arrogantly believing I could control people like they were pieces on a chess board,” opined Henry. “Now England has another war coming.”
“We don’t know that,” Anne insisted. “Perhaps we can talk to the Yorks and the Percys. Convince them it is just a terrible tragedy that spiraled out of control.”
Henry shook his head, doubting that peace would be achieved. Even now there were whispers that the sons of the Duke of York and the Earl of Northumberland were calling their vessels and allies.
He placed his head in his hands. My father must be rolling over in his grave. The Cousin War has started again, another cycle of revenge.”
“It’s not your fault, sweetheart, you did all you could,” Anne murmured soothingly.
“And yet it was not enough,” Henry said bitterly. “England cannot keep going through this. How many more civil wars until we are completely destroyed?”
They were interrupted by the doors been thrown open and a steward ran in. “Your Grace, you are needed.”
Henry groaned. “I’ll be there in a moment,” he replied as he moved towards the door. He paused briefly. “My mother once said that paranoia would be the cause of my uncle’s death. But it wasn’t. It was me.”
“You didn’t kill him,” his wife protested, sweeping up to him, stroking his cheek.
“No but I was the reason he went there in the first place,” Henry argued sadly. His kissed Anne’s lips chastely before departing the room.
Henry had been in the council chambers many times before, both as advisor and as regent. However, this was the first time he had ever entered the room with a feeling of dread and despair.
Ritchie used to say I would swagger, the duke reminisced. Walked into the room like I owned it. I think I have downgraded to a shuffle like an old feeble man.
“I take it that the rumors are no mere whispers,” Henry guessed as he moved to the head of the table, glancing at the grim faces of the counselors in turn. He had made sure that every member of the council was on his side, or in the case of Bedford and Norfolk neutral. Well, Norfolk anyway.
“The traitorous dogs have called their allies,” Oxford spat. “There can be no doubt what their intention is.”
“They cannot be so foolish to start fighting so close to winter,” Norfolk opined. “They shall wait for spring, they must.”
“We cannot be so sure,” Charles commented. “Say what you will about their fathers and their brothers, but Robert of York and Henry Percy are not so hotblooded to act impulsively. If they are mounting their armies now, they might feel cornered. And you don’t need to be a hunter to know a cornered animal fights for its life.”
“If anything, knowing that winter will soon be upon us, he might decide to attack as soon as possible,” added Archbishop Warham.
Henry’s azure orbs flickered to Prince Thomas, noting his aggravated stance and the fact that he had not said a word. “Your Highness, I am surprised you are still here. I thought you would be off on your honeymoon.” Despite his earlier words to Anne, he couldn’t help but feel chaffed at the blatant disrespect the younger man was showing. Although he would not scold the prince in front of people, he settled for a thinly veiled rebuke to express his displeasure.
The Duke of Bedford’s expression was perfectly controlled as he met Henry’s gaze defiantly. “I shall be leaving for Austria within the month with my future wife. We shall marry once her mourning period is complete.”
Ed slammed his fist on the table, causing some papers to fall off and some of the men to start at the noise. “The Earl of Nottingham and his fellow scum are rousing rabble for a rebellion, and you abandon your nephews! Christ’s blood, our parents would be tossing in their graves to have such a coward for a son!”
Thomas rolled his neck, fixing his brother with a look that could freeze fire. His tone was deceptively bland. “Rebellion? Was our great-grandfather a rebel when he fought against a corrupt regent?”
“Is that an accusation?” Henry growled, fury filling him. He made mistakes, that was true. But everything he did it was for the king, his best friend’s son.
Bedford hesitated for the briefest of moments. “No. However, I have no wish to get caught up in a civil war unless the earl chooses to become a usurper. Furthermore, I have decided to resign from the council effective immediately.”
“Your resignation is accepted,” Richmond bit out, waving his hand dismissively. “May God watch over you.”
Prince Thomas bowed shallowly before spinning on his heel and exiting the chambers, letting the door close with a slam.
“You let him off too easy,” protested Exeter. “If I were regent----”
“But you are not!” Henry bellowed, tired of this constant undermining of his authority. “I am the Lord Protector of England!” He let that hang in the air for a few minutes while he composed himself.
He cleared his throat. “My lords, my father was a wise man. He saw little sense in fighting and always did his best to bring peace and prosperity to my uncle’s country. It behooves me that I have undone what he has accomplished. However, I shall not waste my time apologizing for it. Instead, I ask you to fight beside me so we can end this war before England has to suffer another twenty years of it.”
“We stand beside you, Your Grace,” Norfolk declared, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “After all the last time the Howards bet against a Tudor supporting a boy king, we lost.”
“I shall always follow you,” Charles assured him with a smirk. Henry could practically hear him adding, “Even if you are an idiot.”
It was a moment filled with hope and solidarity. A truly touching feeling…. that was promptly ruined by the Duke of Exter.
“It is folly and stupidity,” Ed groused. “I have had enough of this nonsense. The Cousins War. Two branches of the same house brought down by their pride and entitlement. Enough is enough! No more Lancasters. No more Yorks. We are of house Plantagenet. It is time we started acting like it!”
If only it was that simple, Richmond lamented inwardly. “Gentlemen, if it is war they want. It is war they shall have. We must do as they are doing. Rally the troops and pray that they will wait for spring.”
October 3, 1528
“Lady Anne, welcome,” Dowager Queen Katherine greeted warmly as the other lady was ushered into the drawing room. Despite her husband’s death, the Spanish woman remained in her old apartments. The new king would not have a queen of his own for a decade at least if not longer so no one felt the need to oust the dowager yet.
Anne Boleyn bobbed a curtsy twice, making sure to include the king’s mother. She tried not to feel so nervous. After all, she had interacted with both women before. But they had been brief conversations at a feast.
“Majesty, I am most grateful for your invitation.” Anne waited for the queen dowager to indicate that she could be seated before settling herself on the chair next to Lady Jane Seymore.
The table they were currently surrounding had an assortment of goodies for the mid-afternoon meal: warm pastries, fresh fruit, and scrumptious meat pie. In the center of the platters was a jug of sparkling scarlet wine with jeweled goblets surrounding it.
“Enough to make your mouth water, isn’t it, Anne?” Lady Jane teased in a low voice.
“That wouldn’t be very lady like,” Anne huffed with faux haughtiness as she grabbed a pasty as quickly as she could without seeming rude.
“Please dig in,” Katherine commanded with a fond smile. “There is plenty for all of us. I am glad to have a meal with friends during this troubled time.”
Anne could see Jane partially brimming with delight at being referred to as a friend by the dowager queen.
“Troubled time indeed,” Leonor remarked as she sipped her glass of wine. “Lady Champernowne has told that my children have taken to sleeping in the same bed, for nightmares seems to haunt them constantly.”
An awkward silence fell over the table, the ladies each thinking of the fight that was brewing. They feared that it would mark the bloody return of the Cousins War.
“At least your boys are too young to participate in battle,” Katherine said softly, shifting in her seat, a tiny crease in her brow. “My dearest John feels that he must regain his honor by fighting for his nephew.” Even her youngest, William, was determined to participate even if he only could, as a bishop, bless the soldiers and perform their last rites if they became grievously injured.
Her boys were still in their late teens, and they were determined to prove themselves as true men of York. Thankfully, her daughters would be safe in Navarre, fostered by their older half-sister.
“I thank the heavens that Hal is only nine,” Anne commented, pausing to nibble at her pastry, her stomach doing flip flops. “I fear he already has dreams of defending his father’s good name on the battlefield.”
It scared her to hear her little stepson speak like thus, wanting to crush those who dared to revolt against his father’s authority, slandering his good name. He was innocent, unaware of the true horrors war would bring.
The thought of that precious blue-eyed boy, dirty and bloody, breaks my heart, Anne bemoaned. Her stepson meant so much to her especially when the physician had revealed that since her illness and miscarriage, she might not ever carry another healthy baby to term.
Henry had assured her that he was not unhappy with their dearest Bess being their only child. And while Anne was as well, it still caused her to dote on her stepson more, trying to fill the void her miscarried son had left her.
“My brother, Thomas, is acting like this the best thing that could ever happen,” Jane recalled, her manner uncharacteristically annoyed. “He acts as he were some dashing knight about to win glory like the tales of old.”
Katherine let out a heavy sigh. “It has been a generation, almost two since England has been involved in a war. It is not surprising that the youth have no idea what the true experience of it is like. They romanticize the fighting for they have yet to see a man die before their eyes.”
“Nor have they have they done the deed themselves,” Leonor added softly. “Some are as green as grass.”
A suffocating silence engulfed the ladies, each drawn into their own dark musing. Anne soon became sick of it, feeling that they had come here to get their minds off the miserable war. A change of subject was needed.
“Your Highness, I must thank you for your kindness in your offer to make Elizabeth one of Princess Jaquetta’s companions,” Anne professed, praying that this would work, and they would talk of happier things.
Leonor smiled at her, a true one that she always had when speaking of her four joys. “I thought it was prudent as the Lady Elizabeth is only a year younger.” Since the children’s household had yet to be split up, the royal companions would more likely grow up together with the king and his siblings.
“It is an honor,” Anne declared.
“Ned has been dropping hints that one of his sons will make a fine companion for Prince Lionel,” Jane divulged with a small giggle. She then paled, fearing that she had given the wrong impression. “Not that I would dream of making such a request.”
“I shall consider it,” Leonor promised, reaching under the table to give her friend’s hand a pat. She wasn’t sure she could have made it through the years without her faithful companion.
“John is going to France for his wedding in the spring,” Katherine announced. “I am hoping that my daughters will be able to attend.”
Soon the conversation turned to Prince John’s future nuptials, with all four making a conscious effort to avoid talking about the brewing civil war. Nothing like the sunny topic of new happiness to chase away the dark clouds of future despair.
“His last words were to absolve you from blame in the Duke of York's death,” Charles reported solemnly.
Henry closed his eyes momentarily, making the cross sign. “May God have mercy on his soul.”
It was a sad business all around. Regardless of the circumstances, Francis Bryan had confessed to murder (even if York was a traitor and it was justly deserved). He had killed a prince of blood who was unarmed and surrendering. There could be no other punishment aside from execution. Although it was in Henry’s power to pardon Francis, he could not afford to do so least it turned public opinion against him.
I have sacrificed Francis for my own ends, he lamented sadly. And even that will not stop the civil war that is coming.
“Was it a clean death at least?” Richmond asked. The two men were walking down the hallowed halls of Greenwich. It felt that the castle was draped in black, still mourning their dead monarch. Only now it wasn’t so much of their grief of the late, great, King Edward, but of the peace that had ended abruptly after his demise.
“Just one stroke, took off his head,” Charles assured. He had newly been made the Duke of Suffolk, a title he would have celebrated and relished, had it not come on the heels of such great tragedy.
“Good.” Henry let out a sigh of relief. At least Francis did not suffer. He was thankful for small mercies.
“Is it true?” Suffolk questioned. He needed not to elaborate for the news had spread through London quickly. Everyone from the sailors to the innkeepers knew of the proclamation that had come from the North.
“Yes. It seems you were right about cornered animals,” Henry remarked grimly, recalling the conversation they had a fortnight ago. “The Earl of Nottingham has decried me a traitor. He calls all the good lords of England to rise up against me. He has not declared himself king.”
“Not yet at least,” Charles commented dryly.
As the descendant of a younger prince, Nottingham had a lesser claim to the throne, and uncles he could find reason why Edward’s two marriages were invalid and their sons bastards, he would have no alternative but to claim the crown through conquest. And even that would be tricky as they would have to contend with several of King Henry’s royal aunts and uncles, leaders of powerful kingdoms on the continent who might choose to get involved.
“I suspect he will move now, in hopes to end this before Christmastide,” Henry speculated, tugging at his chain of office as if it chafed him. “He certainly will want to attack before the winter frost gets worse.”
“We shall be prepared for them,” Charles affirmed, knowing that they had already begun getting their troops. “Have we received word from the Dorsets yet?”
“Not the good kind. It seems that the Marquess of Dorset is backing Nottingham’s rebellion,” Richmond divulged, frowned. It was grating that the son of his loyal half-uncle had chosen to fight alongside the rebels as it certainly gave them legitimacy that he could not afford to let them have.
“That explains why he has suddenly rejected my offer to have my Frances marry his son,” Suffolk uttered, clicking his tongue. “His father would be rolling around in his grave if he knew what foolishness his son was up to.”
“In truth I suspect they were becoming disgruntled with my family ever since Warwick’s death,” Henry opined. The second Marquess of Dorset had been adamant that his brother-in-law had not be guilty of the crimes of which he was accused. Although he did not outwardly join the Duke of York’s faction, it was clear that he was holding a grudge.
Charles opened his mouth to speak, but they were interrupted by a man dressed in the king’s livery. “My Lord Richmond, His Majesty wishes to speak to you.”
Henry and Charles exchanged a look and a nod before they departed, going off in different directions.
“Why was I not informed!” King Henry the Seventh was a boy of almost nine. As he grew older his mother’s features of a strong jaw and high cheekbones became more pronounced, but those green eyes belonged to Ritchie, shinning like twin emeralds. He was dressed smartly in a crimson doublet with an ermine furred cloak over it.
The Duke of Richmond’s blue orbs darted around the private audience chamber that had once belonged to his late uncle. The young boy had clearly left his mother in change of decorations as the room had a distinct Flemish/Austrian style indictive of the Hapsburg. One of the new touches was a portrait of King Edward, Prince Ritchie, and King Henry when the latter was still a prince and the former two were still alive.
“How is it that I am the ruler of England and yet I am the last to know of a rebellion against me?” The king was now pacing around the dais, clearly overcome with his emotions, unable to keep himself composed as he was taught. “Did you think it was not important enough for my ears? Or did you think you could keep me deaf and blind to the troubles in my realm?”
Henry swallowed, choosing his words carefully. He knew from experience that the worst thing he could do was to talk down to the boy. “The Earl of Nottingham leads his men against me. He has no quarrel with you, Your Majesty.”
The almost patronizing expression on King Henry’s face was so much like Ritchie that it made Richmond’s heart ache. “You are the Lord Protector of England, head of my government. You are an extension of myself. That means your enemies are mine. Furthermore, do not act as if this rebellion doesn’t have everything to do with me.”
Richmond’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Majesty?”
“I am a child,” King Henry noted, his gaze darting up to the portrait of himself, his father, and his grandfather. “A mere child who cannot rule, giving my lords free reign to overthrow my government at the slightest whim. If it were not for my age and my inexperience, none of this would have happened.”
Henry Tudor beheld the son of his best friend, his mind drifting to another boy-king, who had the whole world on his shoulders, who believed that it was somehow his fault that the ambitious relatives of his father chose to fight against him.
I often wondered what it had been that had made my father bend his knee to a boy, he mused. What did he see in that twelve-year-old boy that was worthy of his support?
Whatever it was, the Duke of Richmond had idolized his father, seeing him as a true knight, protecting the innocent, fighting for justice. It was everything he inspired to be. And now he felt it was his turn to do the same.
Schooling his features into an impassive mask, the duke lowered himself until he was on one knee. The young king turned around, confusion shining on his visage.
Richmond spoke in a clear voice, “Forty years ago, my father made his vow of loyalty to your grandfather, pledging that he would see the stolen crown back on the head of the rightful King of England.”
He took a deep breath, bowing his head. “I, Henry Tudor, second Duke of Richmond, now make the same vow. I swear to defend you against your enemies. I swear to make things right. I swear to protect your realm until the time comes that you are able to rule in your own name.”
King Henry’s eyes welled up with tears and he dashed down the steps of the dais, hurling himself at the startled duke who barely had enough time to open his arms, steading his body so they didn’t go tumbling to the floor.
“Thank you,” the boy murmured as he buried his face in Richmond’s doublet.
There was nothing more to say as the duke embraced him, trying to keep his own tears from spilling.
I made a mess, but I shall be damned before I left it affect him, Richmond vowed determinedly as he rubbed circles in the boy’s back.
October 11, 1528
Henry could feel the bitter cold as his men marched through East Stoke, Nottinghamshire. It seemed that the winter weather had decided to come early this year. At least it was not windy or worse raining.
He glanced up at the sky, searching for dark clouds that would single a storm coming. That’s when he saw them. The enemy army was assembled in a block on the brow of Rampire Hill. The banner of the white rose stood tall before them.
“No one is to make a move yet,” Henry ordered, signaling for his guard to wave the flag of parley.
Several minutes passed then three horse riders began to make their way down the hill. Henry nodded at Ed who followed him as they met the riders halfway. As they got close, he recognized the Earl of Nottingham, his brother Roland, and Hal Percy.
“Tudor.” Nottingham’s manner was polite and detached. Although his use of Henry’s surname made it all too clear his true thoughts on the duke. He directed his next words to Ed, gesturing to his banner which had the inverse of the Tudor rose being held by a phoenix. “Cousin, have you decided to abandon the house of York.”
The Duke of Exeter beheld him as if he were dirt on his shoes. “Hardly. I am merely declaring that this bickering has gotten out of hand. At the end of the day, we are all Plantagenets and it is high time we remember that.”
“Wise words,” Robert of York commented as his brother scoffed beside him. Hal Percy was shifting nervously in his saddle. “You have asked for parley, Tudor so I shall let you dictate your terms first.”
“If you surrender, I shall return your titles and lands to your heirs once you have been executed for treason,” Henry offered. He prayed that they would see it for what it was. Regardless of their motives, they were rebelling against the crown, and anything less than death as punishment would be an open invitation for more discontents to rise up against his authority.
Roland of York threw back his head and let out a belly laugh. “I will say this much, Tudor, you certainly have a sense of honor. As pathetic as you are.”
Robert threw a warning glance at his brother before turning back to the two men in front of him. “I am afraid we must reject your generous offer, even if I didn’t think your word was worth as much as salt would be to a man dying of thirst. The only terms I am willing to list to is your unconditional surrender. You have committed too many crimes for me to accept anything else.”
Henry bristled, his blood boiling. And what of your father’s crimes? He snarled inwardly. Aloud he merely thundered, “I am going to give you once chance to stand down. Do so and I promise you no harm will come to your family."
"I trust you not, Tudor," Robert’s eyes were cold as ice. "You lie as easily as you breathe. You killed my father, and I shall not let you do the same to my loved ones."
Ed bellowed, "Your father was a traitor, and you are as well for rebelling against my nephew."
“The only traitor I see is the one who stands next to a murderer and protects him from receiving his just punishment,” Roland countered, spitting in Exeter’s direction.
Henry had to seize Ed’s arm before he could grab his sword and strike his cousin down. “Not under a banner of peace,” he hissed in the other man’s ear. He then nodded to Robert. “In that case we have nothing more to say to each other.”
“You took my father from me. You took my brothers from me,” Robert snarled. It took Henry a moment to realize the earl was referring to both Berry and Francis. “I will see you in hell for it, Tudor.”
He turned his horse around as did his companions. They began to ride away, only for Henry to be unable to resist one final insult. “While I am there, I shall say hello to your father.”
Robert did not react, but his younger brother certainly did. With a wordless scream, he charged at Henry and Ed like he was at a joust, ignoring Robert’s calls for him to come back.
Deciding that this was the official end to the peace talks, Henry signaled for his archers to begin shooting, having given orders for them to prepare least things got sticky. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Ed rushing forward, his own sword drawn.
“For King Henry!” Richmond bellowed as the two armies began racing towards each other. “For the true King of England!”
As the Earl of Nottingham’s forces thundered down the hill, they were assaulted by a volley of arrows. Henry threw himself into the throng of the fight, trying to find Robert of York so he could end this once and for all.
“Henry!” Suffolk carved a bloody line in the combatants to reach his friend’s side. “Why can’t you two ever stay out of trouble?”
“It is not in our nature,” Henry replied coyly. “Have you seen Ed?”
“I saw him slay Roland of York, but Henry Percy knocked him off of his horse, so I don’t know if he is alive or dead,” Charles confessed.
Henry nodded, his gaze searching for Robert or Ed. It was too much of a frenzy for him to properly make out friend or foe. Luckily, there was little chance of a retreat as the River Trent surrounded the hill on both sides.
“Tudor!” Robert seemed to materialize from nowhere, covered in blood that did not seem to be his. There was a wild look in his eyes, a far cry from the calm and collected man he had been earlier. “You shall not take another brother from me!”
He urged his destrier into a gallop, his actions similar to his brother, just charging with blind rage. Charles and Henry exchanged a look before they simultaneously used their swords to piece his mount’s sides, causing Robert to go tumbling to the ground, thankfully he managed to avoid being crushed by his steed.
Henry jumped off his own horse and placed his sword at the other man’s throat. His instants were to cut his head off here and now, but this endless cycle of revenge had to stop.
“I never meant for your father to die,” Henry whispered, loud enough for the other man to hear him. As he talked, he became aware of Charles rushing forwards to stop some soldiers from coming to Nottingham’s aid. “Yield so we can end this.”
“It will not end,” Robert snarled. “Not while you live. In one fell swoop you have taken everything from me. My father. My brothers. Hal jumped in front of an arrow to protect me. Everyone is dead! Their blood is on your hands!”
Henry opened his mouth to refute those words when suddenly Robert moved, quicker than deer, he thrust his hand in Richmond’s face, striking him in the eye. It took Henry a moment to realize that Robert was holding a dagger he had somehow missed.
He stumbled backwards, confused but what had just happened, his sword slipping past his fingers. As his vision blurred in a mixture of red and black, he could have sworn he saw Ritchie and Jasper, both watching him with sorrow.
He tried to walk towards them only to suddenly fall to his knees. He glanced down and saw blood dripping down his armor. Robert was at his side, a bloody blade in his hands. He raised the sword above his head, and then in an instance, he was lying by Henry’s side, an arrow in his neck.
The Duke of Richmond struggled to remain conscious, but everything was going dark. He looked back towards his brothers, only to see Elizabeth of York instead. She was gazing at him with tears in her eyes.
Mother, I’m sorry. You were right. Mother, please forgive me, he begged as the ground came up to meet him. The last thing he saw was hooves and then boots as someone grabbed him, screaming his name.