The Last Plantagenet

The dowager queen was no longer young. Eight years older than the king she had married, she was now launched into the span of years which women of that day seldom achieved, the fifties. Her personal maids were clever and had managed to retain some of the gilt in her hair. Her eyes were clear and expressive. Her figure was good and she was still a handsome woman. She had been suggested as a wife for the young widower King of Scotland but the plan had not matured.

  This once influential figure was greatly distressed when Henry ordered her to withdraw into the abbey of Bermondsey. She did not want to retire from active life. Twice before she had spent lengthy terms in sanctuary and she did not want to experience more of it. But Henry was adamant. After taking over all of her dower properties, he gave her a pension of 400 marks a year, and into Bermondsey she went. There were handsome apartments in the abbey for her use, but the rules laid down for her amounted almost to imprisonment. She spent the rest of her remaining years in what one historian calls “a wretched and miserable life,” dying after five years of it. Her will expressed a plaintive regret that she had nothing to leave to her daughters. The body was taken to Windsor without any ringing of bells to bid her farewell and there she was buried quietly.

  Henry gave a reason to the royal council for treating her in this summary way which provides one of the strongest reasons for believing Richard innocent. The queen mother, he declared, had broken a promise she had made to him in writing when he was an exile in France. The promise was that she would never allow her daughters to suffer the contaminations of Richard’s court. But the only excuse which had been found by Tudor apologists for her willingness to reopen normal relations with the supposed murderer of her young sons was that Richard had forced her to leave sanctuary by threats. Openly stating thus his conviction that the queen mother acted of her own free will and should be punished, Henry makes it clear there was every reason to believe the princes were still alive at the time!

  Thus does cupidity in its blindness sometimes clear the way for truth.

  2

  Starting probably in 1485, the story was circulated widely that the princes had died at the hands of their wicked uncle, but as the new king did nothing to bring the guilty to punishment, a tinge of doubt was soon noticeable in the reactions of the public. It was this uncertainty which led to the Great Impersonations. The reign of Henry VII is chiefly remembered by those who enjoy the color and excitements of history because of two youths who came forward at different times with claims to the throne.

  The first was Lambert Simnel, whose father is said to have been a pastry cook in Oxford. This boy was handsome, bright, and very likable, a perfect tool for the purpose. A young priest at the university, named Richard Symonds, saw the boy and a daring plan took possession of his mind. If the youth were trained with sufficient care, he could be passed off as a member of the Plantagenet family. He had the fair hair, the vibrant blue eye, the fine features. Accordingly, young Lambert was taken away from his father’s shop and kept in seclusion while the diligent and astute priest taught him to read and write, to become learned in the arts, and to deport himself with the graces of royalty. Young Lambert was a quick study and soon he carried himself with many of the outward marks of good birth.

  While his tuition was being carried on, Symonds sent word to the dowager Duchess Margaret of Burgundy, one of the daughters of Richard of York. She was an ardent Yorkist still and had been deeply attached to the late King Richard. Her detestation of Henry was so great that she displayed a quick interest in the priest’s story. The boy in his charge, wrote the wily priest, was the real Earl of Warwick, son of George of Clarence, and the youth being held in the Tower as Warwick was a “double” of obscure birth and weak intellect. The dowager duchess accepted the story and promised to lend her support.

  The boy was taken to Ireland where he was received literally with open arms. Some of this was due, no doubt, to the continuous desire of the Irish leaders to make trouble for the kings of England. But the boy’s manners were so gracious and his appearance so winning that the support given him was practically unanimous. He was crowned king as Edward VI in the cathedral of Christchurch in Dublin. The duchess Margaret sent funds and promises of armed support. She was as good as her word, for a contingent of German mercenaries arrived in due course. It was a small force of 2000 men but this was sufficient to touch off Irish enthusiasm, which manifested itself in enlistments. A landing was made in Lancashire, but the expected reinforcements from English sympathizers did not materialize to any extent. Henry marched north with a much larger force and a battle was fought at Stoke-on-Trent. The German mercenaries behaved bravely but the royal army had little difficulty in winning the decision. Both Simnel and the priest Symonds were taken prisoner.

  The priest was condemned to life imprisonment and the boy was pardoned because of his tender years. He was taken into the king’s service as a scullion. This act was held up as an example of the king’s leniency, and perhaps rightly. Henry was a great believer in household system and did not hesitate to make tours of inspection himself. There may have been satisfaction for him in seeing this young impostor, who had caused him so much trouble and expense, scaling fish in a greasy jerkin and scouring dirty kettles.

  3

  He was less lenient in the case of the second impostor. This was a boy named Perkin Warbeck, who was born in the Flemish city of Tournay. Again this lad of humble birth had all the external attributes of aristocracy, seeming to all who saw him to be cast in the Plantagenet mold. By accident he found employment with English families and began to speak the English tongue. Whether he conceived the idea himself or had it implanted in his mind by his English employers, he began to fancy himself capable of playing the part of one of the missing princes. People began to say, “This is a strange youth. He is much above the station in which he lives. He is indeed a very prince.” Word of him was carried to Ireland and the Earls of Desmond and Kildare became interested in him. Finally, the ever receptive Margaret of Burgundy had him sent to her. Perhaps she was willing to make use of any tool to disturb the hated Henry; perhaps she was genuinely convinced by the boy’s intelligence and his graceful deportment. At any rate she professed to believe him to be her nephew Richard. Charles VIII of France was won over, as were the youthful Duke of Burgundy and James IV of Scotland. Maximilian, King of the Romans, became interested in the boy and was the chief contributor to an expedition which was fitted out for the invasion of England.

  The English people might be entertaining doubts, but few of them were willing to fight for another boy king, no matter how good his claim might be. A landing was attempted along the Kentish coast but without success. The masquerader and his supporters were hasty in getting aboard again and setting sail for Ireland. But the Irish people had learned their lesson from the failure of their efforts for Lambert Simnel. They turned out in cheering mobs to see this handsome young man but they showed no desire to fight for him. Perkin, therefore, left the country and sailed to Scotland.

  The Scottish king was sufficiently impressed with his princely visitor to believe his story. He arranged a marriage for him with Lady Catherine Gordon, daughter of the Earl of Huntley. It developed into a love match and, by the time the king arranged to lead an army into England, the fair Catherine had borne Warbeck two children.

  The invasion was a failure. Later a few ships were provided for him and, being a youth of stout heart, he made a landing near Whitesand Bay near Land’s End, late in the autumn of 1497. This time he took heart from the warmth of the reception he received. Henry had been taxing the people beyond the point of endurance.

  A little army gathered to support the pretender but they were unable to make a stand against the royal troops. Perkin Warbeck and his faithful wife were taken prisoner. This time the law moved with severity and dispatch. Warbeck was hanged in the Tower. But not before he had been allowed to see the young Earl of Warwick and to discuss with him the possibility of a joint escape. That unfortunate youth was misled into making some
form of confession. He was taken out at once and beheaded.

  It was at this time that the Spanish ambassador in England wrote to his master, “Not a doubtful drop of royal blood remains in the kingdom.” But he was not accurate in that statement. There was the youthful Edmund de la Pole, a nephew of the dead Richard. He had escaped to the continent and did not return until the reign of Henry VIII, who promptly sent him to the block.

  CHAPTER XI

  The Hired Historian

  1

  THERE came to England in 1501 an Italian priest and writer named Polydore Vergil. He was a nephew of Adrian de Castello, who held the post of collector of Peter’s pence in England. This was one of the plums that Vatican appointees scrambled for, because they could stay in Rome and live on the stipend while a deputy in England did all the work, on very meager pay. It was to serve as his uncle’s deputy that Polydore Vergil had been sent. On first thought it is surprising that he was willing to accept such a subordinate post. He had been publishing books with great success. Two years before he had put out at Venice his De rerum inventoribus and it had been so eagerly sought after that in a course of years 102 editions came off the presses.

  But further consideration makes it clear that the lot of an author was not a happy one from a financial standpoint. It was about this time that a ruling was made in Paris, allowing booksellers to keep for themselves no more than two per cent of the price of a book. (Yes, gentle reader, the percentage is higher today.) The author’s share, no doubt, was small also; even, dread thought, he and the bookseller had to share! Clearly it was the need for a regular income, no matter how small, which induced the talented Vergil to undertake the prosaic task of gathering in the pennies which each family had to provide for the Holy Father at Rome. At first he could not have enjoyed it very much. His uncle in Rome, waxing fat and wheezy, without a doubt, did not allow him more than a bare subsistence. And nothing was done immediately to get him a church appointment in England. It took some little time for pressure from Rome to obtain for him the living of Church Langton in Leicestershire.

  In 1505 there was a turn in his fortunes. The king sent for him and made the suggestion that he write a history of England. The financial support which went with the offer must have been large enough to free him of all worries. Henry, in fact, must have wanted him quite badly, for it is clear that Master Vergil was well looked after, so well that he was able to devote himself from that time forward to the preparation of the history. The responsibility of collecting Peter’s pence still rested on his shoulders but it is likely he found someone, an Englishman, to perform the duties. The deputy of a deputy for a Roman absentee beneficiary! Could anything be less lucrative?

  Vergil ceased to be a starveling churchman whose gift for putting words down on paper had paid him so badly. It is on record that he presented hangings for the choir of Wells Cathedral with his own arms stamped on them, a laurel tree supported by two crocodiles. He had become a man of property.

  Historians have never made the mistake of underestimating Henry VII, not even those who like him little. He was above everything a longdistance planner. Nothing is more indicative of this than the steps he took to be sure of the verdict of time and of favorable notice on the pages of history. He knew what Morton had written in his book, or the nature of the notes he had supplied to More, whichever explanation of the much discussed History is accepted. No doubt they had gone over the story piecemeal. They had discussed all the ingenious inventions which were sprinkled through Morton’s version: the secret page, the dark happenings when the assassins invaded the Tower in such numbers, the unnamed priest who hid the bodies and died so conveniently soon after. But this was not enough. Corroborative evidence was required to have the story accepted in history, to assure a continuance of public belief. Another version, clearly, was needed, one which would follow much the same line of narrative. And who could do it better than this young Italian whose romanticized writings were proving so agreeable to readers?

  Polydore Vergil’s part in shaping the records of English history has always been under suspicion. It has seemed that he allowed a lively gift for invention to color the events of which he told. He is often mentioned among those who have sponsored certain of the best anecdotes, sometimes as the sole authority. Take as an example that recherché story of the naming of the Order of the Garter: how the beautiful Countess of Salisbury lost her garter at a royal ball and how Edward III, who was said to be an ardent admirer of hers, picked it up and said, “Honi soit qui mal y pense” (Evil to him who evil thinks). Certainly the words were adopted by the Order, which ties the anecdote into a neat bundle and makes it one of the little gems that even the most sober historian feels called upon to relate, though with due warning of its apocryphal character. Of this story it is said, “First published by Polydore Vergil, a stranger to the affairs of England.”

  A disturbing thought arises out of these considerations. Could it be that other anecdotes, for which he is given at least partial credit, are equally suspect? Has some of the liveliest color in English history been applied by the pen of this not too scrupulous Italian romancer?

  One thing seems clear enough: he did not have to invent the legend of Richard Plantagenet and the princes. Morton had already supplied whatever inventiveness went into it. The latter, being much less subtle and much more willing to make use of any hasty bit of improvisation, had not been as expert as Master Vergil would have proven himself. But Morton was first in the field and what was required of Vergil was to strengthen the story with the power of repetition and by following the heavy-footed prints already provided by the churchman. His selection for the task was a late development, coming at a time when Henry was carrying the wrinkles of a deep worry on his face and was becoming concerned with what the future might say of him. It would take years for Vergil to complete his commission, but Henry had always kept an eye on the future. He would be content to have placed on his grave the tributes of Vergil’s pen. Which is what happened; for Henry died in 1509 and the first volumes of the history were not printed until 1534. They were published in Basel and were dedicated, ironically as it seems, to Henry VIII!

  What rewards did Vergil reap? It is recorded that on one occasion he offered financial assistance to Erasmus. But the real test of his prosperity was supplied when he made one of his last trips back to Rome. He traveled “with six horses and six servants!” The servants, no doubt, were in livery of his favorite color of green with the slavering crocodiles stitched on their sleeves. Quite, in fact, like a fat rich abbot returning home from town.

  The most serious charge alleged against Vergil is that he destroyed documents before returning permanently to Rome. According to one writer, Caius, “Vergil committed to the flames as many of our ancient manuscript volumes as would have filled a waggon, that the faults of his own work might pass undiscovered.” A French authority, La Poplinière, declares that Vergil caused all histories to be burned which by the king’s authority and the assistance of his friends he could possibly come by.” A third, Gale, says he shipped manuscripts to Rome and that the vessel on which they went sailed from Rochester Bridge. If all this is true, there might be another explanation for the destruction of the source material, that Vergil burned some of it so a lack of sources for his stories could be explained.

  It is further alleged that Vergil borrowed manuscripts from Oxford and did not send them back. The university authorities were properly indignant and refused to send him more. He, accordingly, secured a mandate from the king for the use of anything else he needed. Presumably, the university had to give in. It is stated also that he borrowed from other libraries and was equally remiss about returning the material.

  None of these charges can be either proven or dismissed at this late date. But one fact seems to be established: that Vergil fell under the suspicions of his contemporaries.

  CHAPTER XII

  The Bones in the Tower

  1

  IN THE month of July in the year 1674, when
Charles II was King of England, some workmen were engaged in rebuilding the stone stairs which led from the royal chapel of St. John in the White Tower. This was one of the most beautiful of the chapels built by the Normans, but the walls were thirteen feet thick and the steps which led down to the river front had been planned to resist the endless passage of time. In consequence the workmen had to apply their tools with right good will. When they finally broke through at a point where the stairs led to the royal apartments, they found some bones under the masonry. The workmen, having small concern with history, threw them out carelessly on a pile of rubbish. The news spread rapidly, however, and it was believed that the bones must be those of the two princes. They were gathered up, together with much other material, including the remains of chickens, rabbits, sheep, and pigs, some rusty nails, and a few pieces of sandstone. By order of the king, they were sealed in an urn designed by Sir Christopher Wren in the Henry VII Chapel in Westminster.

  More than 200 years elapsed before interest in the case of Historical Opinion versus Richard III developed to such a high pitch that it was believed the urn should be opened. This was done on July 6, 1933, and the bones were turned over to Professor William Wright, dean of London Hospital. The latter began an examination with the co-operation of Dr. George Northcroft, ex-president of the British Dental Association. They completed their work in five days and the bones were then gathered together again, wrapped in fine lawn, and replaced in the urn, The urn carries an inscription in Latin which translates as follows:

  Here lie the relics of Edward Fifth, King of England and Richard, Duke of York, who, being confined in the Tower, and then stifled with pillows, were privately and meanly buried, by order of their perfidious uncle, Richard, the usurper. Their bones, long inquired after and wished for, after laying 191 years in the rubbish of the stairs (i.e. those lately leading to the Chapel of the white Tower), were, on the 17th of July, 1674, by undoubted proofs, discovered, being buried deep in that place. Charles II, pitying their unhappy fate, ordered these unfortunate Princes to be laid among the relics of their predecessors, in the year 1678, and the thirtieth of his reign.