May 5, 1497

The Cornish rebellion against Henry VII. Frightened Henry and his family, except his father and brother, are barricaded into The Tower.

May 5, 1497

The Tower of London

 

   

Mother’s visit did not go as planned. She had been with us for little over two weeks when a legion of guards came to our palace with my father’s loyal servant, and step-father, Lord Stanley. He informed us that Cornish rebels has risen up against him and that they were gathering support from the counties surrounding London. Mother was wholly frightened, having spent much of her childhood in sanctuary with her siblings. He escorted us, our nanny, our tutor, and a small number of our household to the royal rooms in the tower. Margaret, who was barely older than I, complained of sharing a room with the small princess Mary. Mother, who assured her it would not last long, encouraged her that here she could enjoy one-on-one lessons from the Queen herself. Margaret had not spent longer than a few weeks with mother since our sister Mary was born.

            “And what of Henry? He gets his own room?” she pouted, looking at her trunks of things being hauled to her and Mary’s room.

            “Henry is a boy,” she pointed, a soft smile on her face. “And besides, Harry must attend to us all as the man of our small household.”

            “Don’t complain Margaret,” I scolded her, her eyes narrowing on me. “This isn’t a holiday.”

            “He is right,” came a familiar stern voice. It was my lady grandmother. She glided into the large chamber and placed a hand on Margaret’s shoulder. “There is a rebellion and we, as the royal family, must remain steadfast and uncomplaining. I have prayed vigorously on our plight and I know that God will not fail us now.”

            “Praise be to God,” my mother added, motioning for her maid to unpack her trunk. “I am glad to see you are here, Lady Mother. I take heart in your bravery and certainty.”

            “I will always be here for my family, my royal daughter,” she smiled, crossing the room to mother and taking her shoulders and kissing her on the cheek. Mother stood almost a head taller than my grandmother and this scene was always fascinating. Margaret and I knew very well that my grandmother and mother tolerated one another. Mother had always been yielding to my grandmother, allowing her more of a say than I am sure she felt comfortable with. She always allowed grandmother the final say and in return, my mother gracefully performs her duties as the Queen of England. She was the first lady of the country and my grandmother always walked behind her.

            “Come, let us enjoy lunch and then we shall go to the chapel,” my grandmother insisted and Margaret let out a soft sigh which mother eyed her reproachfully for.

            “Come, let us go,” my mother confirmed, scooping up little Mary in her arms and leading the way from the room. My grandmother, with a knowing look to me, followed and I fell in next to her, leaving Margaret to groan and follow us.

 

            For almost a month we are held up in the tower, patchy reports coming in through Lord Stanley about my father’s progress with the rebels in Kent and Cornwall. We attend mass three times a day, eat rich but simple foods, and the tutor educates both Margaret and I in the history of our family lineage. Grandmother attends occasionally but mother is present every day.

            “As you are away Queen Elizabeth of York is the daughter of Edward IV of the York branch of the Plantagenet line of Edward III. The King, Henry VII, is the descendant of Edward III’s son John Gaunt and the house of Lancaster. The combination of these two branches of the Plantagenet line ended The War of the Roses, the name given to the cousin’s war because of the emblems of their houses. Tell me, Henry, what were these emblems?”

            “The white rose of York and the red rose of Lancaster,” I replied quickly, already covering this before the Christmas season.

            “Correct. The bloody civil war lasted for an entire two generations, taking thousands of English lives. Tell me, Margaret, how was the fighting ended.”

            “With my father’s victory at Bosworth,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

            “And?” He asked, his eyes on her.

            “By the agreement between former York Queen Elizabeth Woodville and Lady Margaret Beaufort of Lancaster. They outsmarted the villainous king Richard and bound my mother and father together in alliance to draw out support from both York and Lancaster forces for my father’s battle,” I piped exasperated by this history.

            “Correct,” the tutor only sighed, setting his book down. “Does this subject bore your highness?”

            “I have already learned of this and find it tedious,” I comment, looking toward the small glass window that overlooked the Thames. “Tell us of knights, troubadours, and battles. Tell us of the conquest of France.”

            “Not more military lessons,” Margaret whined. “Can’t I join my mother? Certainly she would rather teach me the finer points of dance or needlework?”

            “You heard what she said,” the tutor grinned. “You’ve been leaving lessons early almost every day in the guise of learning from your mother but she has informed me that all you do is refine your already mastered skills. You cannot, as a Tudor princess, be uneducated. It would be unseemly.”

            “But I am not some military leader or statesman,” she sighed, slumping in her chair. “I am a princess and must know how to manage a household and such affairs are far from the duties of a knight.”

            “You’re a Tudor,” I growl, trying to shut her up. Even if she wasn’t as flippant and spoiled she was still dim. “One day you may hold a crown of your own. Father has approached the idea of France, Spain, and Scotland. Think before you speak.”

            “I am no queen militant,” she spat back, standing. “I will be a queen on her throne with her husband. I am no warrior and life, no matter what is written of it, is no romantic and whimsical story. Get your head out of the clouds Henry. Certainly there are more appropriate subjects we will both benefit from.”

            I was about to retort when the door of my chamber swung open and in walked my grandmother. Her face was paler than usual and her eyes darted as if she were unsure. “Children,” she said, waving at the tutor. “Come, to the inner rooms of your mother’s chamber. The rebels have breached the city and are sacking the rallying the citizens behind them. Your father is on the way but we must retire to the inner rooms.”

            I didn’t need telling twice. I jumped up, striding past my grandmother who was trying to comfort an already tearful Margaret and up the stairs. I wound up two flights, through a hall, and into my mother’s prescience chamber. She was already standing there, Mary in her arms, her eyes out the open window. I could hear banging and shouting voices rumbling in the distance.

            “Mother,” I said, coming across the room to her. “Let us retire to the inner rooms.” Her eyes snapped down to me and with a solemn smile, she nodded. I lead the way through her prescience chamber, into her bedchamber, and to a small, narrow staircase leading up to the floor above. It was a small room, already prepared with three soft cots, a table, two benches, two chairs and a small but stoked fireplace. There was no window and the room became more cramped as my grandmother, our nanny, a maid, and Margaret entered.

            I quickly took the chair closest to the fire, pulling a book from the small box near the foot of the cot, and opened it. My mother sat on the cot comfortably with Mary, the nanny perching herself close by on the patchwork of straw and linen that was her bed on the floor. My grandmother took the chair opposite of me and pulled out her small Bible from her pocket. Margaret didn’t look pleased and ordered the maid to sit with her and play cards.

            Mother, whose face was pleasant, hummed to Mary and watched over us but her slate blue eyes betrayed her worry. She’d lived through this before and the memories of her family’s confinement must be swarming her mind. At that moment she looked up at me and I blushed slightly. She replied with a soft smile and a wink and I looked down at the pages of my book, reading long into the afternoon.

            We stayed like this, confined to the interior chamber all day and night, the distant noise of guns, cannons, shouts, and horses echoed up to us from across the river. It was early in the morning when a loud bang and clattering shook us from our bed. The chamber was dark, the embers of the fire low. Before I could sit up properly in my bed my Grandmother, who slept in the same bed as Margaret, was over to my bedside, scooping me with uncanny strength into my mother’s bed. My mother’s arms went around me and Margaret slid in next to us, our arms around each other in huddled panic.

            It could have been anyone. The rebels coming to take the heads of the royal family, looters and opportunists, or, as we all hoped, it was my father’s forces to check on our welfare. We heard no familiar voice, not even the constable of the tower who watched over our wellbeing. I could feel my heart beat faster and faster, my breaths shallow as the noise became louder. We heard another slamming noise and then multiple footsteps in the prescience chamber below. The door to our hideaway, which was locked, would not restrain a band of soldiers or looters for long.

            “No,” my grandmother whispered, her arms around Margaret and my mother tightening. “This is not God’s will, the end of the Tudor line.”

            There were footsteps coming through the bedchamber and then up the stairs. My mother’s hand on my arm and on my grandmother’s forearm tightened as the footsteps halted on the stairs. Then, as if it were a pleasant visit, a knock echoed on the door. My mother and grandmother exchanged looks and with the bravest of certainty, my mother handed Mary to my grandmother and stood from the cot, striding to the door.

            “Who calls on the royal family so early in the day?” she demanded, halting as the door loomed over her.

            “It is I,” came the commanding but familiar voice from the other side of the door. “King Henry VII of the royal house Tudor. I demand entrance.”

            Before he could speak another word my mother unbolted the door and swung it open, the copper and gray haired king standing before his loving and obedient queen. She bowed lowly and then, before she could speak to him he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her lips gently. My grandmother rose from the cot, holding Mary in her arms and taking Margaret’s hand. I stood, my eyes surprisingly stained with tears. I bowed low as my father turned to us in the dim light of the chamber. One of the soldiers, the familiar Lord Stanley, came into the room behind my father with a torch that made shadows dance on the wall.

            My father slowly inspected each of us and then released my mother, strode over to my grandmother, and kneeled for her blessing.

            “Lady mother,” he said, smiling up at her with little Mary in her arms. “Knowing you were here protecting my family gave me strength and courage. It also warmed me to know that once again, God was on my side.”

            “You are blessed my son,” she smiled, placing her free hand on his head. “And as is your family.”

            He rose slowly from his knee, looked over my sister Margaret and then his eyes fell on me. “Ah, young Henry,” he said, his hand going to my shoulder. “I see you were ready to defend your family as well.” His eyes were firmly on the small dagger on my belt which I had, unconsciously drawn when my mother had stridden toward the door.

            “It is my duty as a Tudor,” I replied, bowing low.

            “Come,” he offered, turning back to my mother. “I have defeated the rebels, restored London to order, and have brought the royal carriage to take my family home with me.” He strode over to my mother’s side, offered his arm and after ordering that our things are to follow and for us to be cloaked, he escorted us all down the winding set of stairs and into the courtyard.

            The trip back to the palace of Greenwich was slow and along the way we could see burning fires, smoking pyres, and hear the clanking of the soldiers as they patrolled and calmed the masses of injured and lost. At one point, our carriage was stopped before a bridge where a cart had blocked the path. It was not long before my grandmother pulled the curtains over the windows. The cart, as I glimpsed, was laden with bleeding and battered corpses.

            “The cost of war and rebellion,” my grandmother offered, her hand going to my shoulder as she sat next to me. She then leaned down and whispered, as if our lesson those months ago had just concluded. “The cost of a wandering flock.”

Author's Note

Did it pick up the pace this chapter? How about the character? Are you more invested in him and his world? Perhaps there is not enough detail and too much dialog?