Jean Plaidy - To Hold the Crown - The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York

“Skelton . . . you know something . . .”

“All I know I would tell my lord.” He put his mouth close to Henry’s ear. “The love between the royal pair increases. They are very tender . . . and much in each other’s company.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you put two loving people together . . . if they be man and wife . . . well, what would you . . . nature being what it is?”

“They must not have a child,” said Henry.

“Who says so? Great Harry. And he should be obeyed. But there are times when God turns a deaf ear even to princes. What we must pray for, my dear lord . . . is good fortune . . . and the grace of God.”

Spring was beautiful in England. It seemed particularly so after the dark days of winter; now the air had a balminess in it and the whole of nature seemed to be aware that spring was coming. Arthur showed Katharine wild daffodils when they rode out together and the mingling white of the daisies and gold of the dandelions seemed enchanting to her.

She was watchful of him, always declaring when she saw him begin to weary that she had been too long in the saddle and was tired. He was always solicitous, but he knew that she was thinking of him and he loved her for it.

They touched hands; they kissed; sometimes he would put an arm about her and hold her to him; but their endearments never went beyond that. They were watchful, Arthur remembering his father’s injunction; Katharine, aware of something she did not fully understand but fearing that it would be dangerous for Arthur, kept her emotions in check.

Perhaps it occurred to both of them that it could not last; perhaps that was why they were determined to enjoy those days to the full.

Change hit them suddenly.

One of the attendants came in to say that there was a case of sweating sickness in the town of Ludlow.

There was immediate consternation in the castle. Everyone was awaiting a summons from the King. They were sure that when the news reached him, Arthur would be removed at once.

But no message came. And then it was too late.

It was inevitable that the weakest member of the household should be the victim.

There was despair in the castle. Katharine prayed for the life of her young husband. Surely God could not be so cruel as to take him away now that they were becoming so happy together? The King would send down the finest physicians in the land. Arthur’s life must be saved.

But few survived the dreaded sweating sickness. Arthur most certainly could not.

They brought the news to her. She stared at them unbelievingly. Dead! Arthur. She could not believe it. She would not believe it.

“’Tis true, my lady,” they said. “God knows what the King will do when he hears this doleful news.”

She felt bereft, desolate. A wife and no wife . . . a virgin widow.

If only the marriage had been consummated. If only she could have had Arthur’s child. Then she would have had something to live for.

Now . . . she was alone.

The King was at Greenwich when he heard that Arthur’s Chamberlain had arrived from Ludlow and was urgently requesting to be brought to him.

Henry was seized with trembling for a terrible foreboding had come to him.

“Bring him to me with all speed,” he said, “and as soon as he comes.”

Arthur’s Chamberlain was heavy-hearted as he rode to Greenwich where the Court was in residence. He dreaded telling the King the tragic news and he decided that he would impart it first to the Council and ask their advice as to the best way of breaking it.

The Council was dismayed and after some consultation decided that it would be best for the King’s Confessor to tell him and this was arranged.

When Henry heard the discreet knock on the door he knew that it was his Confessor who stood without and, suspecting nothing, he bade him enter.

The man’s woebegone expression sent quivers of alarm running through the King’s mind and he immediately thought of Arthur.

“You have ill news,” he said.

The Confessor replied: “I have, my lord, and you are going to need all the strength that God can give you.”

“It is my son,” said the King quietly.

“It is, my lord.”

“He is sick?”

The Confessor did not answer.

“Dead!” cried the King. “Dead . . . !”He turned away. He could never bear any man to see his emotion. Why had he loved this boy who had been such a disappointment to him? All his hopes had been in Arthur although he had been frail from birth. It was a mistake to become involved with others. He had always known this and tried to avoid it. Why was Arthur the one person who had made him diverge from the path of wisdom so that he must suffer constant anxiety—as he had since the boy had been born!

Now this was the final blow.

He turned to the Confessor. “Send the Queen to me. I must be the one to break this news to her.”

“My lord, would you wish to kneel first in prayer.”

“I would wish first to see the Queen. I would not want her to hear this news from any but myself.”

The Confessor bowed and retired and returned shortly after with the Queen.

She was alarmed. She knew from Henry’s expression that something terrible had happened. He had lost something dear to him. His crown . . . his . . . son!

“What is it?” she said. “Is it . . . ?”

He nodded. “Arthur,” he said quietly. “He died of the sweating sickness.”

She covered her face with her hands. Henry was so overcome with emotion that he could not speak. She lowered her hands and looked at him and saw the anguish in his face and she knew how deeply he whose feelings were usually so well hidden was suffering and suddenly the need to comfort him was more important to her than anything else.

“Our beloved son,” she said quietly. “His health was always an anxiety. We were always expecting this. Henry . . . we have another son. Thank God for him. We have two fine daughters.”

“That is true,” said Henry. “But Arthur . . .”

“Arthur was our firstborn . . . so gentle always. Such a good boy. But he was never strong in health. In Henry we have one who will step into his shoes. We should be thankful for that.”

“I am,” he said. “We have one son left to us. . . .”

“Your mother had but one son, and look you, he is King of England, the comfort of his realm, the comfort of his Queen and his children.”

“Elizabeth, you are a good wife to me . . . a good mother to our children.”

“Subdue your grief, my lord. Remember God wills that we go on . . . even after such a bitter blow. We are young yet. Who knows we may have more princes. But we have Henry and he is a fine strong boy.”

The King was silent. “You comfort me,” he said.

And she left him for she could no longer contain her grief and when she reached her own chamber she threw herself onto her bed and gave way to it.

She had loved Arthur as much as Henry had—more tenderly, as a mother does. This was her firstborn. Her beloved child . . . loved, she must admit, beyond the others. Her grief was such that it overwhelmed her and when her women found her they were alarmed for her and sent for her physician.

He went to the King and told him that he must comfort the Queen.

So then it was Henry’s turn and he went to her and talked to her quietly of Arthur—Arthur as a child, Arthur growing up, how delighted they had been with his cleverness, how perpetually anxious for his health.

“Somehow,” he said, “I knew that it would happen . . . and now it has. Dear Elizabeth, we must be brave. We must go on. You were telling me this and now I am telling you. We have our son Henry. We will get more sons, and perhaps in time we shall cease to mourn so bitterly.”