October 23, 1497

Harry has a vision in his sleep.

October 23, 1497

Palace of Sheen, London

 

            The news comes in loudly and excitedly. I can hardly believe the fuss and preparation. My father, Henry VII rides atop his large black war horse and behind him, banners high, is the Tudor rose. He is wearing the golden crown atop his helmet and glittering armor on his breast. He rode through the gate and into the courtyard of the palace with a wave. We all stood, in a neat and beautiful line, without Arthur as usual, smiling at my father’s train of knights and lords. He had just returned from a battle against my uncle, the last true surviving York heir.

            He stepped down off his horse and onto the block, strode toward my mother, and smiled widely. “We have captured the imposter Perkin Warbeck and have defeated the rebellion in one battle,” he announced, his lips finding my mother’s cheek. “There is cause to celebrate!”

            The celebration was unlike any we had thrown. Father had all the royal family together, except Arthur who would not be invited back to court until the Christmas tide. The great hall was decorated from vault to walls with banners, roses, and candles. It sparkled as we feasted, seated above the great lords and priests of the land.

            The celebration feast lasted long, many dishes being presented and passed to court favorites and father’s war comrades. It was a delicious and lavish feast and father accepted tokens of victory and heard speeches from many who praised him for his astounding win. It wasn’t until the dancing and drinking truly started that mother ushered us all to go with her maid servant and our nanny to bed. It had been a long couple of days and I fell hazily into a deep sleep, one that I was sure would last the entire night. However, within my warm bed and in my dreams I saw something that I was sure I never should have.

            “Your majesty,” my grandmother bowed, standing in my mother and father’s prescience chamber. Mother was brushing out her long hair, the servants dismissed as my father lounged on his plush chair near the fire, drinking from his wine glass deeply. He looked at my grandmother with a wide smile and nodded, offering her the chair opposite him.

            “Lady mother,” he nodded, offering her a cup of wine from the tray next to him. She shook her head and he poured more into his own glass. “What brings you here tonight?”

            “I wanted to talk to you about your victory. You’ve not yet told me of the details,” she replied, looking over at the fireplace. “And I’ve also come to understand something to be true, though I long suspected the possibility.”

            “And your suspicions?” my mother asked, her eyes on my grandmother.

            “You know perfectly well what suspicions,” she replied, looking between the two of them. “I just want to hear you say it.”

            “Only if you tell me who truly killed my younger brother Edward,” my mother demanded, her York temper flaring.

            “Darling,” my father said, waving his hand toward her. She moved to sit next to him on the softly cushioned bench.

            “I can understand your suspicion,” my grandmother said, her sense of superiority overshadowing my mother’s fading anger. “But I do not know anything for sure.”

            “My mother communicated to you about her plan to free us, to bring my brother to the throne over Richard,” my mother said her voice steady but full of emotion. “We both know that you were communicating with Henry to bring him to the throne and with my brothers out of the way it was that much easier. I know that your deal with Buckingham would have made their murder that much more plausible. So tell me, lady mother, what is the truth?”

            “The truth, my queen, is that they both died in the tower at the hand of Buckingham,” my grandmother replied, her eyes narrowed. “As was God’s will. It was his will to call them to him and his will to bring my Henry to the throne. You should understand that by now. Even your mother did in the end.”

            “Don’t you dare speak of my mother, a former queen of England,” my mother hissed, the venom in her voice seeping out. “I have conformed to your will ever since Henry and I were married. I will not conform to you now. You will tell me what you truly know.”

            “Elizabeth,” my father said, his voice stern. “Calm yourself. We can find the truth in a civil manner.” He now turned to my grandmother, his eyes firm but sweet. “Mother, as your king I demand the truth. Confess as if it were before God. What do you know of the princes in the tower?”

            “That which I have already said,” she replied, her eyes firmly on my father. “The night that Buckingham marched on London all those years ago the great rains stalled him across the rivers in Wales. That same night he sent an assassin to London and into the tower. The tower servant, a man paid off for his silence, complied with the deed. Buckingham never confirmed it before his beheading but it was the plan I am sure he would have gone with.”

            “There,” my father said, taking another drink of wine. “Does that not satisfy, my love?”

            “I know it was not on your command,” my mother said, kissing my father’s cheek. “But surely the one to gain the most from my brother’s deaths would have been Lady Margaret.”

            “You accuse me of the murder of two innocent boys?” my grandmother replied, her eyes wide and her expression aghast with horror.

“They were far from innocent,” my mother retorted, her eyes narrowed on my grandmother. “They were the sons of Edward IV, King of England and the rightful heirs to his throne. With them out of the way your son, the last Lancastrian heir and my husband, could finally take the throne and throw down Richard. You needed the York support to overthrow Richard and you couldn’t get it without the lack of a York heir.”

“So you’re outright accusing me of the murder of the former princes?” my grandmother repeats, her outrage and anger rising.

“You hide behind God, lady mother, and it makes you seem humble and holy but I have known you much of my life,” my mother replies, a hand gently squeezing my father’s shoulder as she stood. “And I know you would do anything to see your son in his rightful place. I ask you this as a woman to her mother, as a dutiful daughter. Did you give the order, or the idea, to Buckingham?”

My grandmother’s face remained unassuming and then she sighed softly, her face looking haggard and grim. “My daughter, who has born my grandchildren without complaint, I confess to you as a mother,” she began softly, the sincerity and seriousness resonating within the room. “I did not give Buckingham the idea nor did I order the murder of your brothers.” My mother regarded her, raising her chin as she spoke. “It is true that with them out of the way my son could come to the throne more easily but I would not condemn mine or my son’s soul to Hell for any earthly advantage.”

A long silence stood between them in which both my mother and grandmother regarded each other closely. Mother’s eyes drifted from her face and down to the crucifix around her neck. Her eyes didn’t portray her real thoughts, no matter what they were. It was stunning when she smiled and, unexpectedly, moved around my father. She knelt down before grandmother with a somber and repentant gaze and placed her hands gently in her lap. “I will trust your word my lady mother,” she said, her head bowed as my grandmother placed a withered palm on her loose golden hair.

“I bless you my child,” she replied nobly, grandmother’s hand leaving her hair to tilt her chin up to look at her. “And I ask for your forgiveness. I know we have been harsh to one another in the past and that I have never truly allowed myself to trust you. I will make you a promise, here and now, to always be gracious and kind to you. I will pray to God for guidance and I will ask only that you to look upon me kindly.”

“I will do so,” my mother assured, smiling widely at her, a twinkle in her blue-gray eyes. “And I want to thank you for bringing me the love of my life and by him, the beautiful children both born and lost.”

“Would you two thank each other for the air you breathe or the food you consume? Come! Let this unpleasantness pass and the celebrations continue!” my father said, standing from his chair. “Let us be content in the security of the Tudor dynasty.”

“What of the rebellion?” my grandmother asks as my mother rises from her knees before her. “Of Warbeck and his forces? I only know that they were defeated but in what manner?”

“I will tell you what I know,” my father offers, his eyes on my mother as she nods. “The pretender is dead and the country is at peace once more. Let us hope we can keep it that way for the Tudor dynasty that we have started.” My father drains what is left in his goblet before offering his hand to my mother. She takes it and moves with him across the chamber, his arms going around her waist as if he were to dance and then she laughs, her eyes alight again.

            “And the rumor?” my grandmother asks, her eyes back on the fire. “I’ve heard some interesting proposals but I would much rather hear the truth from my own son.”

            My father simply grinned, inclining his head and letting go of my mother’s hand. It was a scene that I could not forget even if I wanted to. Both my father and mother stood still, their backs straight and their eyes fixed on my grandmother. Father’s chin lifted and with a great sigh he nodded, winking at my mother as she stood nobly next to him. “Very well,” he conceded. “The rumors were true. This Warbeck is, in fact, Richard Duke of York, son of Edward IV and brother to the queen.”

            The quiet between the three of them was intense and after a few minutes of awkward silence my grandmother spoke, the scene fading as she did.

            “And you intend to keep him alive, imprisoned?”

            “As far as the people and nobles are concerned, he is a pretender,” my father replied, his face fading and the dream I was having darkening. “But to us, he is family and will enjoy a restricted but comfortable life in the tower.”

Author's Note

Probably some grammar problems but I would just like to know what the audience makes of the journey so far? Of the young prince's life.