February 21, 1499

A new Tudor son is born and Henry expands his mind

February 21, 1499

Windsor Palace, London

 

            I am no longer the youngest boy. After a joyous summer together, and sending Arthur back to Wales in the fall, winter came. Mother, before the summer was over and we left Leeds in August, announced that she was pregnant once again. Father was beyond happy, calling for a week of feasting and games before returning to London to announce the good news to the court.

            The celebrations for Christmas were joyous and loud, the palace at Sheen coming back to life in new form, something I was quite sure would have taken longer. Richmond was taking shape and father was quite proud of the construction project when the workers went home for Christmas and New Year. However, on a cold frosty day in the middle of February, my younger brother Edmund was born. Mother and father lovingly named him after my father’s father, Edmund Tudor and grandmother was awash with happiness. Finally, the Tudor’s had their secure line of succession.

            With three boys in his pocket, father could rest easier knowing he had the lineage to pass on the crown but mother, it seemed, had been struggling with this pregnancy. The earlier ones, myself and my siblings who passed and still lived, weren’t easy but this pregnancy was difficult for her. She, being in her mid-thirties now, went into confinement earlier than expected and as if by God’s hand, made it through the birthing in less than six hours.

            When I was finally granted an audience, a painstaking three hours after Edmund’s birth had been announced, I rushed into the room, my mother propped in bed on her pillows. Her face was pale but her cheeks were flushed as she cradled the little bundle in her arms. When she spotted me she smiled, nodding for me to come a little closer. I moved to the edge of her bed and she grinned, lowering her elbow so I could look into the wrinkly pink face of my little brother, Edmund.

            I was instantly stunned when I saw his rosy cheeks and pale blonde hair. His eyes were closed but the second I reached out to touch his tiny fingers, they opened. I was caught by the deep blueness of them, the steel gray that framed the bright sky blue. It was amazing and when his tiny fist wrapped around my finger, I could feel his spirit, his soul, resonating with mine. I was positive mother felt it because she sobbed happily, my eyes wide at the site of this new royal baby.

            “He is enchanting,” I whispered, the maids around me cooing at how cute the scene was. “Truly beautiful is my little brother Edmund.”

            “Edmund Tudor, Duke of Somerset,” she smiled at me, kissing the swaddling babe’s forehead. “Your father has already named him and declared him. Is he not precious?”

            “My brother,” I said, smiling down at his little face, his blue eyes opening and closing as he drifts off into sleep. “I will protect you my baby brother and be by your side. We, like the brothers York, will rise high together and throw down our enemies and anyone who stands against Tudor.”

            “Careful,” my mother whispered, looking about at the ladies who were giggling and smiling at my bold but squeaky words. “Vows are heard by all my son.” She then winked, kissing my cheek. “The goddess will see the history repeated if it is summoned,” she breathed in my ear as she pulled away, her eyes intense as we both sit there, staring down at little Edmund.

            “Blessed be the blood of the goddess,” I heard her whisper over him before leaning back on her pillow, his soft pink body wiggling in her arms for comfort.

            “May I stay in here mother, just tonight?” I asked, my eyes not leaving my brother’s face. “I can sleep on a bench or at the foot of the bed.”

            “Would you not be more comfortable in your own chamber?” she asked, eyeing me.

            “I would but I want to be close by,” I admit, unsure why I feel such a need. “I don’t want to leave my brother just yet.”

            “Then you may stay,” she said, a flash in her eye that I was sure was for me. I knew, as well as she, that the goddess was speaking through me, recommending that I stay here with them overnight. For what, I couldn’t guess but when I woke in the morning Edmund was happily cooing and eating as mother sat on her pillows, eating some food that had been brought from the kitchens. When she spotted me staring at her she smiled, offering me a piece of warm bread. I took it, sitting up at the edge of her bed, and looking about.

            “He slept soundly?” I asked, seeing him latch on to his wet-nurse and suckle hungrily.

            “All night,” she responded, watching me. “Go, get my son his breakfast,” she turned to the other maid in the room, who bowed and left swiftly. Only the wet-nurse, Edmund, mother, and I remained. Mother motioned for me to come closer, to let me taste something on her plate but when she popped the boiled egg in my mouth she whispered into my ear.

            “Did you see something about Edmund?”

            “No,” I assured, smiling back at her with a mouth full of egg. “No, I just wanted to be near him. That is all.”

            She looked puzzled for a moment and her eyes softened, her mind obviously wandering to what that could mean. She then shrugged, offered me a piece of warm ham, and took a drink from her goblet of wine. She winced when I sprang up from the bed.

            “I’m sorry,” I said, bowing. “I didn’t mean to…”

            “No, it’s quite alright,” she said, shaking her head. “The pains of birth. Be thankful you never have to endure it my son.”

            Just then the maid came back in with a covered tray and sat it down on the table near the fire. I straightened my messy hair and lopsided jerkin and then sat down in front of the tray. On it were sausages, ham, eggs, bread, fruit pies, candied fruits, and a heaping tankard of milk. I began eating from the plate hungrily, the maid pouring milk from the tankard into a cup for me. My mother and I enjoyed our meal, occasionally talking about the what the weather had been like during her confinement. For the dead of winter, she didn’t expect much but when I told her of the frozen river and the skaters on the river she laughed and nodded.

            It was after we were done eating, and mother insisted on getting dressed, that I left her bedchamber. I didn’t want to go far so I waited patiently, Bible in hand as I read to myself in her prescience chamber. It was when a page swung the door open and my father entered that I stood up and bowed low.

            “Still here Harry?” my father asked, a smile on his face. “The servants said you’d spent the night in your mother’s rooms. I remember when you were a toddler… you’d try and sneak away to your mother every chance you got. Tell me, how is my queen and son this morning?”

            “Both well,” I nodded. “Eating healthily and enjoying one another’s company.”

            “Good good,” he said, glancing toward the closed door of her bedchamber.

            “Mother is changing,” I say, bowing. “I was hoping to spend some more time with her today, if you would permit it?”

            “Of course,” he nodded. “Your grandmother has been on me about allowing you to enjoy more sport than prayer but at the birth of your new baby brother, I think it only fair you be present.”

            “Thank you,” I said, bowing lower. Just then, the door to chamber opened and sitting on her newly made bed again, dressed in fine furs and silks, was my mother, her arms around baby Edmund as he slept in her arms. My father and I both bowed to her and entered, spending more time than be both cared to admit. It was only after mass did we realize we’d been there nearly two hours, watching Edmund sleep, wake, eat, and cry. Mother enjoyed our company and when grandmother and Margaret came strolling in, bowing before my mother and father, I dismissed myself, moving around them to the entrance of the room.

            It was a magnificent sight though. My father, sitting next to my mother with an arm around her back and a hand caressing his new son’s cheek. My mother, pink faced and smiling down at her new son also took my grandmother’s hand, leaning over the opposite side to see her new grandson, a Tudor prince. Margaret, who had crawled from the end of the bed up to my mother’s knees sat watching, entranced by baby Edmund just like I had been.

            It was a truly beautiful site and if the court painter had been there, I’d have ordered him to quickly sketch the scene and frame it for all to remember. However, I made my way out of the chamber and down the gallery toward my own rooms. I needed to change out of my linens, use the stool chamber, and get down to business. Mother had promised me new lessons and I did have them. Along with Latin and French, which I had practically mastered, I also had Spanish and Greek. Mother hired the best tutor she could find, a lawyer and philosopher from London named Thomas More. He would come to the palace three times a week to teach me for two hours the Greek texts of Homer and Plato, of Aristotle and Ptolemy.

            Today was no different. As soon as I had washed, changed, and ate my fill I grabbed my copy of The Iliad by Homer and strolled down the gallery, making my way to the small annex where our lessons were held. There were many shelves of books and scrolls and in the room sat a single wooden desk, one chair on either side. More was dressed in his typical black and silver, his simple white feathered cap on his head. He took it off, bowed to me, and opened his copy of the text.

            “Good morning my prince,” he said, his youthful face and long nose lowered in reverence. “Congratulations on the healthy birth of your brother, Prince Edmund.”

            “Thank you Thomas,” I said, waving at him. He stood straight now, some of his dark locks falling from under his hat over his temple. “Father will be arranging banquets and a tournament no doubt but today, I think we can proceed as usual.”

            “Very well,” he said, nodding at me. “Tell me, did you finish the passages I assigned?”

            “I did,” I nodded, looking at the Greek text scrawled before me. “Tell me. Thomas, what make you of Hector’s decision to face Achilles? Surely it would have been wiser to remain within the walls, to better serve his people?”

            “Would it?” Thomas questioned, looking down at the text. “Would it have served his people if the greatest warrior in Troy denied the challenge from the Greek champion?”

            “In the long run,” I said, flipping to the next page. “Hector loses the great battle and now all that stands between the Greeks and victory are the great walls of Troy.”

            “Unbreakable walls,” Thomas nodded. “Tell me, would you have done things differently, my prince?”

            “I would have stayed within the walls,” I said, looking up at him. “It was Achilles own stubbornness, and vanity, that withheld him from battle. It was the bravery he instilled in his cousin that lead to the unfortunate slaughter at Hector’s hands. It was entirely Achilles fault. Hector should have remained within the walls.”

            “But what does this tell us, prince? What does this part of the epic tell us about humanity, about the human heart?”

            I ponder this a moment and, to my astonishment, Thomas does not stop me nor correct my reply. “It tells us that the decisions we make affect others. It shows that the wheel of fortune continuously spins and that it is not only fate that determines the future. Hector knew what was to come of him the moment he saw the face of the young Patrocles. He knew that this would stir Achilles to action once more and that he, Hector, must endure his entire wrath.”

            “Powerful observation highness,” he nods. “But what about humanity? What does this say about the most human capacity to love?”

            “That it is powerful,” I offered, looking from Thomas to the window of the small room. “It is able to shape the fate of millions like it did in Troy. If not for Achilles love of his cousin, Hector surely would have lived and Troy would not have fallen.”

            “So you’ve read ahead?” Thomas smirked. “What think you of Odysseus’ great deception?”

            “It was masterful, playing on the traditions and expectations of the culture around them,” I nodded. “Odysseus is a great leader, tempered and wise. Nothing like the war-like Agamemnon or the religious King Priam.”

            “Would it stun you know that the remaining members of the royal house escaped Troy and, in time, founded the great Roman republic?” asked Thomas, a grin on his face. “Does that not strike you as fate, my prince?”

            “It strikes me as a perfectly placed lie,” I grinned. “For what else would give a city, once a province of Greece, more validity than the heritage of a great monarchy?”

            “You have a skeptical mind, my prince,” More said, bowing slightly. “Perhaps we have more in common that I realized.”

            “You have a humanist’s mind,” I said, referring to his great friend Erasmus who, when the snows melted, would travel from Paris to London to learn Greek and further his studies in theology and humanism.

            “I have,” he assured, bowing low. “But great prince, we are off topic. Tell me, since you have finished the book, what lesson you took from Homer’s great epic?”

            “Many lessons were learned,” I say, nodding to him. “The great Roman writer Virgil and Marcus Aurelius modelled their works after the great poet. It is no wonder that Homer is considered the father of literature, of poetry.” I paused now flipping through the small book’s pages.

            “Why so much grief for me?” I recited, the words from the book jumping out at me. “No man will hurl me down to death, against my fate. And fate? No one alive has ever escaped it, neither brave man nor coward I tell you- it’s born with us the day we are brought into this world.”

            “Very good,” Thomas said, clapping his hands together. “And what can we take from this, my prince? What fundamental truth does Homer offer us?”

            “That you cannot escape what is destined to be,” I said, remembering my mother’s words and the face of that dark angel in the mirror. “You cannot run from who you are.”

            “Precisely!” he said, smiling wide. He then grabbed a book from his leather bag on the desk, offering for me to read the cover. “It is his second work, following the journey of Odysseus home from Troy to Ithaca.”

            The book was titled The Odyssey, and I opened it quickly, scanning the words. “I will purchase myself a copy,” I insisted, handing the old book back to Thomas. “If we do not already possess one somewhere within the library.”

            “I don’t think you will,” he smiles. “It is a famous work but newly translated and rewritten. A man in London sells copies of the original Greek text, bound and dispersed from Paris. If it please your majesty, I’d like to purchase a copy for you in honor of the birth of prince Edmund.”

            I only nodded, bowing my head to Thomas in thanks. “Now, how goes your writing, my Prince? When your mother came to me she insisted that you had a pension for learning, for history, philosophy, and theology. What think you of the happenings in Rome and Italy?”

            “You mean the Borgia Pope?” I asked, glancing about to make sure the door was locked. This was something Thomas and I did every lesson. After mastering the text or the central idea of the text, we spoke of current events in Italy, of the tumultuous reign of this Spanish Pope whose own son was rumored to be murdered by his elder brother, Cardinal Cesare Borgia.

            “Yes, it is rumored that Cesare was in France just this past spring to sanction the divorce of Louis XII from his wife. In exchange, the French king,” Thomas snarled, his distaste for the French evident. “Has gifted Cesare the duchy of Valentinois, military support, and a marriage to a princess of Navarre.”

            “Valentino becomes a Duke and soon, a prince,” I comment, thinking of the rising hostilities in Italy.

            “Exactly,” More comments, looking toward the door. “Louis has already married Anne of Brittany and it seems that the Pope has married his daughter, Lucrezia, to the Duke of Bisceglie, natural son of Alfonso II of Naples.”

            “He’s playing for power this Spanish Pope,” I smile, looking up at Thomas. “Tell me, what news of Cesare? What does he intend to do now?”

            “It is known that he waged war on the Romagna this past summer,” Thomas shrugs. “There are a number of things he could do but the question is what will he do?”

            “I think it obvious,” I shrug, looking through the first page of The Odyssey. “I think he will use his father’s recent alliance with France, and with Venice backing them with their navy, Duke Valentino will sweep through Italy this summer, conquering Milan for France and the Romagna for himself.”

            “You speak blasphemy,” Thomas uttered, aghast at my suggestion. “The Romagna is made up of independent lordships that answer to the descendant of St. Peter and no one else. You could not legally subjugate the entirety of it under one temporal master. He tried last summer and failed. He would not dare tempt God again.”

            “It is what will happen,” I nod. “Of what you have told me about Cesare Borgia, I believe one thing. He is a great military mind and fierce ruler. He will subjugate Italy one duchy and dukedom at a time until the entirety of that boot is seemingly under the Pope’s control. He will then forge a dynasty of Italian kings, starting with Cesare himself; you will see Thomas. Like his namesake, Cesare will forever alter the face of Italy.”

            Thomas was quiet for a moment and then as if to make light the situation he laughed, waving his hand in the air. “Your majesty does consort with God if he knows so much at such a young age,” he grins. “Your wisdom as overshadowed this young lawyer’s wit.”

            “And what of DaVinci? I heard he still resides in Milan. What will happen to his great works?” I asked, the idea of such divine creations and inventions smashed under the heal of French troops making me sick.

            “I know not,” Thomas sighed, looking out the window. “Perhaps he will be untouched, perhaps he will escape, if he is smart, or perhaps he will die. It is hard to say.”

            “I would like to see his masterpiece,” I confess, thinking of the newly finished, and rumored genius, of The Last Supper. This masterpiece was painted on the refectory wall of the Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan and is rumored to be a truly holy representation.

            “What a marvel it would be to behold,” Thomas sighs, his eyes on the clouds outside the window as the snow fell. I knew Thomas for a very religious man, a true Catholic at heart and that he believed, more than anyone, that God was represented here, on earth, by the descendant of Saint Peter. He had a wondrous reverence for the divine and holy, for Italy and her masters of arts and philosophy.

            “Tell me more of the world Thomas,” I say, pulling his attention from his Tuscan thoughts.

            “Of what in particular?” he asks, looking back at me with a smile.

            “Tell me of this new continent, these lands to the west,” I smile. “Surely a man such as you has an opinion on such a monumental discovery.”

            “Hardly a discovery,” Thomas smirks. “I believe that these lands have been there for years, longer than we know.” He lowers his voice now, looking about. “I’ve read that the great Nordic culture had spread there as long as a thousand years ago. That the great sea-warriors discovered it and a northwest passage to a great inland sea.”

            “Where do you hear this?” I asked, wholly entranced.

            “Old texts here in England and in Paris,” he nods. “My friend Erasmus of Rotterdam has done some work on this, just for the sake of conversation. We’ve been communicating our discoveries and between us, we’ve found multiple ancient French and Latin texts describing great raiders from the north spreading across the ocean and to the west long ago.”

            “The same raiders who once plagued the British Isles?” I ask, thinking of the old stories of Viking savagery and raids.

            “Yes, those originating from Denmark, Sweden, and Norway,” he smiled. “The very same my lord. We believe them to have been there long ago.”

            “But surely the discovery of the new continent by Columbus is fascinating as well? And what of this De Gama? They say he has discovered a way around the continent of Africa, to lands covered in lush forest and wild beasts. What say you of that?”

            “It is fascinating to hear of the story,” he admits. “Just last year he left Europe and is bound for the Cape. It is rumored that he has made it and stopped on the eastern coast of Africa.”

            “And then where did he go?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

            “He is determined to be the first European to sail to India,” Thomas remarks. “He has sailed there and will surely sail on to China and the lands of Marco Polo.”

            “Such freedom,” I say, smiling wide. “What a glorious adventure.”

            “It is also said that Columbus, on his third voyage last summer discovered a great continent in the south west, covered in jungle and full of large rivers and native tribes.”

            “Cabot left Bristol last year and hasn’t been heard from since,” I comment, thinking of the British explorer my father sanctioned.

            “It is truly sad,” Thomas remarks. “But the vast lands in the west are to be claimed by Spain. With all their resources, Spain will dominate Europe.”

            “And with the marriage of my brother to their princess, our relations will improve and perhaps our own expansion could occur,” I suggest with a grin. “After all, my father, King Ferdinand, and King Louis are all smart and ambitious monarchs. Who’s to say we could not conquer the world?”

            “You speak of a treaty, of an agreement, which has never before been attempted,” Thomas remarks, thinking on it. “A treaty between the three great powers in Europe would stabilize economy and stimulate trade but it would also create a rivalry unlike any other.”

            “A rivalry for land,” I grin. “For I hear the new continent is vast and untamed.”

            Thomas and I spoke long into the afternoon and before either of us realized it, our ideas spread into possibilities. We talked of a grand society anchored in the new world, where a vast port and beautiful cities stood to bring European culture to such a wild land. We spoke of potential alliances, interesting scenarios of a Papal monarchy and what the world would be like if European monarchs conquered it all. We spoke of the spread of Christianity and the possibility of an entire world united behind one faith. We called it a utopian society but naturally, there were flaws. Before long it was all an elaborate scheme to create such a society away from poverty and sin, somewhere that everyone could be content. It was only when my page knocked on the door and entered did I realize that the clock has struck two.

            “Oh,” I said, standing up quickly. Thomas bowed to me as I did and so did the page.

            “My lord, your requested for lunch,” he said. “Your lady grandmother has been waiting.”

            “Thank you,” I said, nodding at Thomas and dashing down the gallery. It was not wise to keep my grandmother waiting.

 

Author's Note

Concept still interesting? How about this maturing Harry?