13th NOVEMBER 1501

It was the birth of a new century, the dawn of a new era and the eve of the greatest royal wedding to be held in over one hundred years. King Henry Tudor was in his privy chamber, waiting to try on his wedding clothes. Pacing up and down, he confided his innermost thoughts to Denys Hughes, his Groom of the Stool.

“At last, Denys, with this marriage, I can pass on to Arthur some of the responsibilities that weigh so heavily on my shoulders.” He halted, his cast eye roaming. “It’s years since we threw Richard III’s mutilated body over a horse while I set his crown upon my head. Sixteen years, yet I still suffer from the horrors of that battle; the visceral smell of guts, the shattering clash of steel. One roll of the dice and it might have been my body lying over that horse, arse in the air for every- one to mock. That image haunts me.”

Denys poured his master a goblet of wine. “It must be t-t-terrible, sire, to be revisited by such memories after all this time. B-but those days are long gone. England is at peace and is p-p-prospering under your rule.”

The King twisted the silver goblet around in his hands. “But I still cannot rest. I can’t sleep in my bed until someone has checked it for knives sticking up that might kill me, nor eat before someone tastes my food in case it is poisoned. Sometimes I fancy that I saw a look of thanks in Richard’s eyes as he died, as if he was released from this constant fear and was thinking, ‘It’s your turn now.’”

“B-b-but you have the Yorkists under c-control these days, sire. They are all d-defeated, imprisoned or… well… dead.”

The King grunted. “If I killed all the dissenters, I would have no subjects left.”

The doors to the chamber opened and in walked the Groom of the Wardrobe. He bowed low. “Your wedding clothes, sire.”

“Excellent.”

New clothes always put the King in a jovial mood. A caut-ious man when it came to finance, Henry Tudor understood that appearance mattered. His clothes fitted, he swung from side to side to see how they moved against his body.

“The art of monarchy is illusion, Denys.”

Denys was used to these truisms. “Yes, my lord.”

“I am God’s representative on earth. I am not a man, but a symbol.”

The clothes were encrusted with jewels and pearls, so they shimmered in a celestial manner. The King was delighted. He admired himself in the venetian mirror. He had kept his figure all these years, riding out every day to do so. He smiled at himself, not a pretty sight, as his teeth were yellow, like a wolf.

“You know, Denys, a great king is like a castle: invincible. Yet all castles need a solid foundation, or they will falter, and that is the problem with Henry.”

Denys objected. “But he is just a child.”

The King turned on him; his humour gone in a flash.

“Just a child?”

“Who has m-m-much to learn, I m-mean.” Denys’s stammer returned.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Denys. Get me out of this frippery; I must go and check on Henry. Where is Arthur? I want to see him. Now!”

Denys, flustered that the King’s good mood had vanished before his eyes, signalled to a guard to fetch the prince immediately. The King never had to summon anyone twice.

Out in the courtyard below, a group of youths were fighting each other with swords of whalebone and wood. The young swordsmen, their court jackets thrown carelessly on the floor, moved back and forth, right arms forward with strong hands holding their weapons and left arms in the air behind them for balance. They lunged forward, then jumped back, hurling insults, and cursing when a blow made its mark. They fought hard, for these boys were fighting not only for their honour, but in some cases for their very positions at court, their being at the Palace of Westminster – the centre of government when the King was in residence.

Among the youths, a ten-year-old boy was pitched against a young man a few years older than him. The boy had his sleeves rolled up. His unruly hair, a shining copper colour in the low winter sun, glowed like a halo. Although he was the youngest of all those in the courtyard, the boy was tall for his age and held a presence that was engaging. His blue eyes shone, and his rosebud mouth was puckered, the grin that he normally wore overcome by concentration.

As the sword-master approached, Thomas was defending himself from a fresh onslaught from the boy. As the underdog, the young boy was determined to get past the defence of his foe. Using not only the thrusts and parries he had been taught but also pushing forward, his body seemed to take on a life of its own. Pirouetting on the ball of his foot, he spun round in a full circle before striking at his opponent from a new vantage point.

“Good move,” panted Thomas as he blocked the attack. “I didn’t know that you took dancing lessons.” He lunged for- ward.

The boy ducked down, twisted around a second time, and now at knee height against his opponent, he hit him on the back of his leg. Thomas cried out in pain, hopping about, much to the sword-master’s amusement. The boy was proving to be a promising student, using moves that had not been seen in the practice yard before.

“Well done, sire – an unusual method of scoring a blow, but effective,” he observed, and then continued, “Where did you learn to do that move?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t. I made it up.”

Impressive if true, thought the sword-master, nodding his head. Moments later, a door swung open on the viewing gallery above. A short trumpet blast sounded. The fighting stopped abruptly. The King had arrived, his presence felt. The youths stood panting from their exertions, waiting to be given the order to continue fighting. They looked up at the balcony where the King was leaning on the balustrade, looking down on the scene below. The King had a piercing gaze, the intensity of which bored into the very souls of all who were caught in his stare.

Only one youth had the nerve to move: the boy who had fought with such fervour just moments earlier. He gathered his wits about him, readied himself, then attacked his sparring partner with renewed vigour, coming at him from left and right. Thomas, caught unawares, fell back from the force that hit him. He lifted his sword, but the boy had taken the advantage and before he knew it, Thomas had fallen to the ground, a blunt-pointed sword at his throat.

“Do you yield, sir?” The boy looked down at his quarry with an intensity that mirrored that of the King only moments before.

Thomas laughed. “I have little choice from this angle.” The others in the courtyard also laughed, breaking the tension in the air, for they were all aware that the boy was Prince Henry, second son of the King of England.

Up in the gallery, the King turned to Prince Arthur, who was accompanying him.

“See how he behaves?” he asked. “He is an unstable force, a potential threat to your future. We must keep an eye on him and ensure his energy is harnessed before he grows too wilful.”

Prince Arthur, a slim, nervous boy with a pale complexion, listened to his father with wisdom that belied his years.

“He is a fine young man, Father. I believe he has inherited your combat skills and will use them to fight for England.”

The King grunted. “But what happens if he fights you for England, eh?”

“I… I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose I would have to kill him.”

“What? Before you have had children, a son and heir?”

Arthur began to sweat. “No, of course not. I would have to keep him in the Tower. Except his supporters might free him. Perhaps if you ordered him to train for the Church, Father… that way he would be harnessed before he got out of hand, without a weapon other than prayer.”

“Good thinking, son. “The King pulled a wry smile. Prince Arthur was relieved he had passed yet another test.

He seldom saw the King, having been brought up at Ludlow Castle on the Welsh border since he was a young child. How- ever, these rare visits to court were a test to check he had learned the necessary skills to become a monarch.

The King and Prince Arthur turned away from the scene below and headed towards a pair of oak doors that were opened on their approach by attentive guards. Before he left, Arthur glanced down at Henry and caught the look of anguish on his face. As there was nothing that he could do, Arthur followed his father to pay his respects to his grandmother, Lady Margaret, Countess of Richmond.

Studying all this from a corner of the courtyard was an engaging youth with black hair and a hungry expression. Charles, who at seventeen was two years older than Prince Arthur, watched on. He was surprised the King had ignored such an impressive show of skill by his youngest son. Most parents would congratulate their child for showing such promise – or so he assumed. Being an orphan, Charles had no experience of parental love. He watched as Prince Henry hurled his sword onto the ground before marching out of the courtyard. Charles walked over to pick up the discarded weapon and quietly followed.

Lady Margaret was expecting a visit from her son, the King. She sat on an ornately carved oak chair with a back that was almost as rigid as her own. The chair was small, for Lady Margaret was a small woman, but it was covered in gold leaf and so looked like a throne. Lady Margaret had spent a lifetime plotting to crown her son as King and she had succeeded. It had taken her two marriages, many alliances and at least one heinous crime. The result, however, was that her son was now King of England and the promise she had sworn on her first husband’s grave had been kept.

Upon his arrival, the King gave his mother a respectful nod of the head and Arthur knelt, ready to receive her blessing by way of a bony hand on his scalp.

Lady Margaret spoke. “Have you taken Arthur on an instructive tour this morning?”

“I have indeed,” replied the King. “His observations have been mature and intelligent. I think he should return to Ludlow Castle as soon as the wedding is over, so that he and Princess Katherine can rule over their own court. He exe- cutes his duties perfectly.”

“Do you honestly think it is time for them to live together?” Lady Margaret sniffed. “I am not convinced that they should live as man and wife after the wedding. I hardly believe that the two of them are capable of —”

“Lady Grandmother.” Prince Arthur’s voice trembled as he rose to his feet. “We are quite ready to make the journey to our lands, I can assure you.”

Lady Margaret was not convinced. “Well, go ahead then, but I don’t expect miracles.”

Arthur felt his face turn red with embarrassment. How- ever, this was a subject that Lady Margaret was qualified to speak on with authority. Married at the age of twelve, she had fallen pregnant immediately and suffered a horrendous ordeal when giving birth to her son. The experience had left her barren and no other child was ever destined to form within her body. This made her cherish her only child even more. He was her treasure, her darling, her life.

“Well, we will just have to see how they get on once the ceremony is over,” replied the King. “I am sure that Arthur here will rise to the occasion.”

“Henry, sometimes you shock me with your soldier’s talk,” Lady Margaret admonished.

Arthur blushed and looked down at his shoes, his heart pounding.

Outside, a cloud was hanging over the head of Prince Henry, who was up on the palace battlements, overlooking the roof- scape of London with its many towers and flags. This was his favourite place when he wanted time on his own. I can accept Father liking Arthur more than me, but not ignoring me in front of the other boys like that.

A bird’s nest, tucked up against a chimney breast with two smooth, round eggs in it, caught the prince’s attention and he picked up an egg. It was warm to the touch. Henry threw the egg as hard as he could into the void beyond the wall.

Down in the garden below, Charles was wandering around looking for Henry. He still held the sword, his excuse for approaching the prince. He had been waiting for an opport- unity to introduce himself to one of the princes, be it Arthur or Henry. Charles noted the pain in Henry’s reaction when he was ignored by his father. He had something that might appeal to the prince and knew that a distraction from what was making him sad would be welcome.

As Charles carried on searching, a pigeon’s egg landed only a few feet from where he was walking. Looking up, Charles decided to go up to the battlements and see if the prince was there. Climbing the stairs that led to the roof, he found the prince sitting hunched up against the base of a tall chimney stack. Henry turned around upon hearing the stairway door opening.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Charles Brandon, sire. I have brought you your sword.”

“Oh.” Prince Henry looked at the sword with disinterest. “Thank you.”

He took the sword and let it fall to his side.

“Oh… and I thought I might come up to have lunch with my friend, Jasper,” Charles said, trying to interest the prince. “Are you hungry?”

“I am,” Prince Henry acknowledged. “But where is your friend?”

Charles looked down, opened a leather pouch tied to his waist and put his hand in, only to withdraw it while carefully holding a dark-brown mouse with a white tip to its tail. “He is here, see?”

Prince Henry’s eyes widened. “Is that him?”

“Yes, this is Jasper. Would you like to hold him?” Charles took Prince Henry’s hand, opened it and gently placed Jasper on his palm.

Charles was delighted to hear the boy giggle as the mouse tickled his hand. He pulled out a piece of bread and cheese wrapped up in cloth from within his jacket. Breaking off some small crumbs he put them in the palm of Henry’s hand and the little mouse began to nibble.

“Here, have some yourself.”

Charles offered Henry a bigger piece of bread and cheese, which the prince chewed on as he studied the mouse. The mouse washed his paws without a care in the world.

A conversation sparked and, after a while, Charles asked the prince about the move he had used, twisting around on the ball of his foot when fighting.

“Oh, I do that from time to time. It catches people uaawares.”

“Where did you learn such a move?” enquired Charles.

“I don’t know. I think I made it up. When I am fighting, my body sometimes does things naturally. It’s like it has already learned the moves.”

Charles was an excellent swordsman himself and recognised talent. “You have a true instinct as a warrior, sire. I would lis- ten to it if I were you and you will soon win every fight you enter.”

Prince Henry grinned, dimples appearing on his cheeks. “Are you a warrior?”

“I am training to become a knight, if that’s what you mean,” explained Charles. “I am entering my first tournament this week in celebration of the royal wedding.”

“Well, I will look out for you, Charles. But I must go now, or I will be missed.”

“Take the mouse with you, if you like,” offered Charles. “Can I? Oh, thank you.” Henry’s eyes shone. “But how shall I get him back to you?”

“There is no need. Just let him go and he will come and find me.

Prince Henry looked surprised. “Can he do that?”

“Of course he can.” Charles ruffled the prince’s hair, a gesture new to Henry, but welcome. “Just let him go. But in the meantime, take this box and keep him in there. He might need a bigger box at night. Oh, and don’t forget to feed him.” Untying the pouch from around his waist where it was held with a thin belt, Charles handed it to Henry, who popped

the mouse gently inside and fixed it around his own waist. “I must go. Bye for now, Charles.” Henry wanted to find hi sisters to show them the mouse. “And thank you, once again.” Off skipped the prince, down the stairs as happy as could be. Charles watched him go. His ploy had worked: Henry was happy, and Charles was happy too, for he had made friends with a prince at last.

Prince Henry ran all the way back to the Royal Nursery. He wanted to show the mouse to Princess Margot, his sister, for she loved animals. Margot’s real name was Margaret, but it had become Margot when Henry was a baby and could not pronounce her full name. Now everyone called her Margot, although Prince Henry sometimes called her Maggot.

Prince Henry burst into the room to find Margot and their baby sister, Mary, dressed up in an assortment of clothes: Margot as a bride with a veil, a long gown and high plat- formed shoes known as chopines; little Mary wearing a white chemise and a black floppy hat, with a tartan blanket tied around her waist. Princess Mary was a delightful six-year-old with long auburn hair, sapphire button eyes and a snub nose. Princess Margot was similar in colouring, but a slight differ- ence here and there made her less striking.

“Oh, hello, Henry, you have arrived just in time for my wedding,” said Margot with authority. “You can be the King of Scotland and Mary can be the bishop.”1

“But I want to be the princess,” cried little Mary.

Henry was disinterested in being the Scots king; he just wanted to show them his mouse. “Look what I’ve got,” he said, opening the pouch.

“Oh, how wonderful,” Margot exclaimed as Mary squealed in surprise and hid behind her sister. “Where did you get it?” She stepped forward, wobbling on her chopines, all decorum forgotten.

“He was given to me by a knight. He is called Jasper, Sir Jasper, and he has come to stay for a few days. Would you like to hold him?”

The siblings crowded around and begged for turns in hold- ing the little brown creature. They played with him for a while before Margot announced,“We are going to need somewhere for him to live.”

Looking around, Henry spotted the dressing-up box. It was a massive oak chest with big black handles. “Come on, let’s empty the dressing-up box out; it can become his home.” Margot rushed to help him turn the chest on its side to empty it of its contents. The children spent the rest of their evening making a home for their new friend. It was as they were leaving the nursery that Henry noticed two rolled-up scrolls protruding from the pile of court jackets, ladies’ dresses

and other items that had fallen from the box.

“What are these?” he wondered, pulling them out of the pile of clothes.

“Let me have a look.”

Margot tried to grab a scroll and caught the faded red ribbon that tied it. It slipped off the parchment, which un- furled. Henry was about to admonish his sister when he was distracted by some small, neat writing that appeared to be in a foreign language.

“I will ask Master Skelton to translate it,” Henry announced and rolled the scrolls back up together. He took them to his room and there he folded them inside the prayer roll that he kept in a chest at the end of his bed.

Down in the lower levels of the palace, a dubious duo walked along the corridors with familiar ease. The first strode purposefully, his walking stick under his arm, while the other trailed behind, a black box held to his chest. They reached a turn in the dark passage and the first man pushed a latch with the end of his stick. With a faint click, a door opened, and light flooded in from beyond.

In her private chamber, Lady Margaret had been waiting for the secret door built into the oak panelling that lined her chamber to open. Hearing the telltale click of the latch, she turned to greet the men, her chin lifted in the air. The men entered and bowed: the first, who was rotund, with more of a stiff nod, as if his midriff prevented him from bending; the other, slim and angular, folding into his legs with ease, like a pocketknife.

Thaddeus Fiddle and Nicholas Grope had been in Lady Margaret’s service for decades. Always dressed in unassuming robes, they had the art of blending into any scene, be it at court, in an inn or a bordello. Grope was near bald, with a long wisp of black hair combed and flattened onto the crown of his head to make up for the lack of covering. His walking stick concealed a weapon: he had gouged out a few inches down through the heart of the stick and fitted a sharp gutting knife there, one that could be pulled out quickly, ready for use. The stick sported a few notches carved into it over the decades. Fiddle, his subordinate in all matters, was baby-faced, sinewy and lean. He carried no weapon, for his body was all he needed. Practiced in the art of hand-to-hand combat learned in his youth as a sailor, he could break a man’s neck with a twist or stun him with a well-placed blow to the head. “Well? Have you got it?” Lady Margaret’s voice cracked.

“We have, Your Ladyship,” answered Grope. “The key you furnished us with worked well and we dressed as monks in case anyone challenged us. But there was no need. It was a long night, but we found what you sought. We returned by boat as the chest is cumbersome.”

Taking his cue, Fiddle set the solid black box on the table. It was embossed with iron metalwork and had a ruby- encrusted padlock on it in the shape of a heart, although some of the rubies were missing. Seeing that Lady Margaret had noticed this, Fiddle touched the small, hard stones that were secreted in his pocket with sly satisfaction.

Lady Margaret reached out for the box, but Grope put his hand out to stop her.The old woman faltered and looked him in the eye, a moment of hesitation that brought a smile to the man’s lips. Opening a strongbox that sat on her desk, Lady Margaret picked up two silver coins, which she placed into his other, outstretched, hand. Grope, one hand possessively on the box, kept his palm open. Lady Margaret sniffed but handed him two shiny gold coins.

“There, that should do you.”

Grope released the box, allowing the woman to snatch it.

Lady Margaret stretched to her full height, still having to look up at the two men. She spoke to Grope directly.

“For your next assignment, go to Ludlow Castle. Find employment there. I want to know if there is any intimacy between the prince and princess once they are married. Are they performing? Is there a child in the offing? Send Fiddle to me with a report.” She waved her hand. “You may go now.”

“Thank you, Your Ladyship.”

With money in their pockets, the two men bowed and left. “What’s in the box?” Fiddle asked his colleague once they

were safely out of the woman’s chamber.

“Never you mind, Fiddle, some things are best left alone. Especially things that have been removed from their rightful place. Things with links to the Other Side.”

Fiddle shivered. Unsure as to what Grope was referring, he thought twice about the stones secreted in his pocket. They had suddenly taken on a force full of spiritual malevolence. He surreptitiously scooped up the rubies and deposited them on the floor as they walked, whistling as he went to cover any sound of their falling to the ground, in the hope that Grope would not notice.

***