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Chapter Six: Rival Claimants

Charles Brandon, a man not hired for his intellect, looked delighted with himself. Sat atop his destrier warhorse, encased in a fluted steel suit of armour, lance in hand. He was flushed in the face and beaming at the King from other side of the spectator's stands, ready to join the lists. Brandon was a military man, a general, but today he was only playing at war for the sake of the coronation tournament. "It's an Arthurian theme, your grace. Because you're King Arthur and so was that other King Arthur. Those stories are really famous, and so are you. Do you get it?"

"I had indeed made that connection, Charles," Arthur replied, glancing around the tilt yard. The stands were already packed, the list sanded and primed. Katherine was dressed as Guinevere, in a tall henin adorned with elaborate silk ribbons. King Arthur had come as himself – which was the whole point. "Who are you supposed to be and who're you riding against?"

"Oh, me. I'm Sir Lancelot and I believe I'm riding against the Duke of York." Charles carefully lowered his lance onto the balustrade, the metal tip pointing toward Queen Katherine. "Alas, I am doomed to defeat and ignominy should I be sent into battle without the grace and favour of my beloved Queen, whose humble servant I shall ever be."

Katherine beamed, reaching for one of the embroidered silk ribbons that had been attached to her Arthurian henin.

"If you're Lancelot and the Queen is Guinevere, is this entirely appropriate? Given what happens, you know, in the legends?"

Failing to recognise Arthur's facetiousness, Charles reacted in earnest. "Oh, my. I hadn't thought of that. I meant no offence, your grace-"

"Arthur!" Katherine scolded him lightly, the smile on her face taking the sting from the rebuke. "Sir Lancelot is the pride of Albion's chivalric orders. I will suffer no slander to his noble name."

"Charles, I jest. Guinevere, please, award your knight errant his due favour."

While Katherine tied her favour to Charles' gauntlet, Arthur turned to look down the opposite end of the list. There, his brother was mounting up. Henry had always been a gifted horseman, which accounted for at least seventy percent of skill in jousting, but Arthur was still concerned. "Has Henry entered the lists before, Charles?"

"No. Your father wouldn't have heard of it, but I have given the young Duke a little basic training in the arts of the joust," Brandon replied. After a solemn pause, he added: "I have given my word that I won't just let him win."

"Of course, Charles, I wouldn't ask you to throw the competition for Henry's sake. But…"

"I'll go easy on him. I promise."

"I have half a mind to tell you to give him all you've got and knock some sense into him. Alas, for my sins, I still care deeply about him."

While Arthur had a twinge of regret over being quite so honest, Charles looked deep in thought. "He is a wilful boy. But I think your grace may be on to a solution. He needs structure and discipline. Learning the martial arts will give him that and more. Allow me to tutor him and I'll have him fit to lead your armies within a matter of months."

"Arthur, this is perfect," said Katherine.

Nor did he need to be told twice. "Charles, if you did that I would forever be in your debt. Henry has boundless energy and endless potential. If he knew how to channel it properly, he could be the leader of men he already is in his head."

"No debt, your grace, the honour is all mine."

With that, Charles touched his gauntleted hand to his brow, exposing the pink silk favour for a moment, as he bowed his head to the Queen, causing his visor to flip down over his face. Then, he was off, cantering down the list to take up position at the starting post. At the opposite end, Henry had done likewise. Both men had their lances positioned, balanced in the crooks of their arms, the steel points trained on each other's breastplates. The horses grew restive, snorting and stamping at the sand beneath their hooves. The seconds drew out and Arthur held his breath until the horn blast signalled the start of the next round.

The horses took off at a charge, kicking up clouds of sand in their wake. Arthur's knuckles turned white as he gripped the arm of his chair. He watched the lances rise and fall, the horses gathering speed as they chased the deadly collision. The competitors met in a clash of steel and splintering wood, so loud it made him wince. Henry, the smaller of the two, was thrown out of the saddle with ease. His foot got tangled in the reins, the horse dragging him along the sand for several long moments before the squires could get to the beast and calm it down.

As unhorsings went, it was as brutal as any Arthur had seen before, despite Brandon's promise.

"Well, I suppose there's only so many ways one can gently unhorse a jouster," he said, watching as Henry finally got back to his feet. The fall had been hard. Harder than he suspected even Henry had anticipated.

"Are you not competing, your grace?"

Startled by the man's voice, Arthur turned to find the Duke of Buckingham at his side. Like Brandon, he was armoured and awaiting his round. The King couldn't help but wonder how the Duke had managed to creep up on him like that while dressed head to toe in a metal suit. "Jousting isn't exactly my forte, Buckingham."

"Never mind, the physical competitions aren't for everyone."

"I'll be in the archery contest, later on." Drawing a bow was about as physical as his father let him be, but Arthur wasn't about to tell Stafford that. Still, he seemed to get the gist of it.

"Like I said, the real tournaments aren't for everyone."

"Quite," Arthur replied, curtly. "I know my limits, Buckingham. Everyone should know their limits, don't you think?"

The Duke's eyes narrowed, peering at Arthur through his open visor. He looked like a turtle retreating into its shell. The Duke had always unnerved him, especially when he was a child in the older man's shadow. A matter not helped by others continually warning him to be cautious of the Duke's power.

"Limits are there to be pushed, your grace," Buckingham eventually replied. "Otherwise, we never better ourselves."

"Speaking of limits and bettering ourselves, is that your daughter I keep seeing in the company of my brother?"

"I believe York and Lady Eleanor have struck up a friendship, your grace."

"Unstrike it," Arthur bluntly stated. "I want no scandal around my brother while marriage negotiations for him are in progress."

"My daughter is chaste and godly-"

"And found alone in my brother's bedchamber late at night," Arthur cut in. "If you think to make her his Duchess, I am telling you it will never happen."

"It never entered my mind to make Eleanor a Duchess, your grace, certainly not York's Duchess" replied Edward, through gritted teeth. "I will be sure to speak with her."

"Appreciated."

Stafford bowed as best he could in a suit of armour, and Arthur allowed himself a wry smile. The sun was shining, the Arthurian tournament was a roaring success and an overbearing aristocrat had been put back in his place. It was only Katherine who seemingly did not share his sense of triumph. She covered his hand with her own, squeezing it firmly. That was her silent signal for when she thought he had done something stupid, but didn't want to shame him by saying so in front of others.

"I think you should tread carefully with Buckingham, Arthur."

Arthur swallowed, finding his throat dry and constricted. His earlier confidence dissipating already. "Do you remember when we stayed overnight at Stony Stratford, and you told me I need to stand up for myself? That's all I'm doing now."

"I also meant you should pick your battles wisely."

Arthur sighed heavily. "Men like Stafford, they're the ones who always thought I'd never even make it to the throne in the first place. They think I don't know what they say about me, Kate, but I've always known. Sometimes, I think you might even have agreed with them."

"Now you are talking the fool, Arthur," she chided him. "Forget them all, enjoy the tournament. We have another feast tonight."

Buckingham's footsteps were heavy on the flagstones. No longer a young man, the jousting had left him aching despite having unhorsed Charles Brandon easily, but he did not break his pace. His blood was up and he wasn't slowing down until he reached his apartments, a feat made easier by the fact that Richmond was near empty. Everyone else and their servants and hangers on were still at the jousts, leaving him free to huff and puff through the passageways and galleries.

When he reached his apartments he shouldered his way through the door and paused on the threshold, scanning the room for any sign of life. "Eleanor!"

The sound of his voice brought her hurrying from her room. "Father."

"The King knows you've been going to Henry's room alone."

"That Priest saw us, I told you. But he didn't hear anything important."

That was true, he reasoned, calming somewhat. But he was still agitated, and paced the drawing room floor. Pausing by the open fireplace, he glared into the empty grate. "Arthur threatened me. He warned me against making you Henry's duchess."

"What did you say to that?"

"That I have no intention of making you Henry's Duchess."

Silence. Eleanor knew of the plans, but not when they were supposed to be happening. So now she looked perplexed, like the rug had been pulled from under her. A little surprised, but not disappointed. "Then what?"

"I'm going to make you his Queen. The sooner the better."

Eleanor barely flinched. She had always been the most stoic of his children, the one who held her nerve and knew when to play her hand. From the moment she turned six, he knew she had a great destiny before her and now he knew the shape that destiny would take. Even now that she had been fully brought into the circle, she pondered what he'd told her with an inscrutable expression. She wasn't like other girls who'd just been told they were to be Queen. She was thinking it through, weighing up every possibility. Just as he had taught her.

"I assume you wish to be the power behind Henry's throne," she surmised. "But will he be pliable? Do you think you will be able to control him?"

"If I make Henry king, he will owe me everything. He may need the occasional reminder that what is made can be unmade, but he will fall into line."

Eleanor's eyes narrowed, a half-smile brightened her countenance as comprehension dawned on her. "Naturally, I will bear Henry sons. And, if we find ourselves in the unfortunate position of having to 'unmake' him, then…"

"Then the plan will be complete."

He could exert his own claim to the throne. It was stronger than the current incumbent, the scion of a Welsh servant. But this was so neat and clean, tying up the Tudors and the Staffords in one neat bundle. No rival claimants that had plagued King Henry, no leftovers of the last dynasty to complicate matters. Even the Courtenays could be brought under control. But, before he could get carried away, he wanted final assurances from his daughter.

"For now, this is enough talk. Are you prepared to do this? Are you prepared to do as I say and keep your nerve?"

She nodded. "Yes, father. Unfailingly."

Gratified, Edward kissed her cheek. "Be careful when you visit Henry from now on. I want Arthur to believe I've punished you for your indiscretions and now you're keeping your distance."

"You had better do it then?"

"What?"

"Punish me. Do it. Just slap me. Hard, so it leaves a visible mark."

Understandably taken aback, he realised his jaw was flapping open. "Ellie, no. Just tell them I did. Look sad, let your lip tremble and tell them I scolded you."

"Father, trust me as I trust you," she persisted. "The King will be convinced, the heat will be off Henry and, more importantly, you. It might even satisfy that priest."

Edward faltered. He raised his hand and lowered it again, losing his nerve. He would have to kill a king, possibly two for the sake of his notional grandson. All much worse than slapping a woman. But she was his daughter; his favourite. "God forgive me," he murmured and swung his open palm hard, the resounding slap echoing around the apartments.

Eleanor yelped, clutching her cheek as she was almost thrown sideways. His ring had caught her cheek, breaking the skin, leaving it bright red with inflammation. Her breath was ragged, her eyes watering badly from the sting. Edward felt sick, but when she looked at him, she smiled. She rose to her feet, drew a deep breath and ran for the door, flinging it open before bolting into the gallery beyond. Edward could only watch, deep in confusion.

The laughter of Katherine's ladies echoed down the gallery as they made their way to the royal apartments, the Queen among them. They had watched all the jousts, admired all the handsome knights and bestowed all their favours on the bright young things flocking to the tourney yard. Princess Mary's voice rang out over the din: "Maria, did you see the way Sir William Willoughby looked at you? It was a glance of longing and love, I assure you."

"What do you know about longing and love?"

"Perhaps not as much as some, but I know it when I see it."

Katherine stifled a laugh. "I am married eight years almost, ladies, I say make the most of that longing and love while it lasts."

She drew ahead of the women as they fell to giggles and gossip. But as she rounded a corner, she raised her hand to stop them in their tracks. She thought she heard something. Suddenly concerned, the smile died on her face as she rounded the corner, where the sounds clearer. Sobbing. Someone was crying nearby. A moment later, Princess Mary had drawn level with her. "Who is that?"

Katherine failed to recognise her, at first. The girl sat sobbing, doubled over with her face buried in the folds of her fine blue, silk gown. But when she looked up at the women's approach, Katherine pieced the clues together, and gasped at the livid red mark that marred one side of her face. "Lady Stafford?"

"F-forgive me, your grace. I couldn't think where else to go and I thought you would be out at the tournament and not due back for hours, maybe even after the feast…" the words spilled out of her in a torrent, but soon petered out as the sobs took over again.

It was Princess Mary who rushed over first to comfort her. Katherine only delayed as she recalled Arthur upbraiding the Duke on his daughter's behaviour. No doubt, she thought, the humiliation had caused him to lash out at the girl in such a way. She hurried over to the girl, sitting beside her in the window embrasure and taking her hand. But it was to Maria she spoke. "Fetch some strong wine, please. Lady Stafford looks like she needs it."

Eleanor lifted her head at the sound of her name, revealing the small cut on her cheekbone. "Your father did this?"

The girl nodded. "I'm in such trouble, my Queen."

Katherine reached for a ribbon, pulling the ridiculous henin off her head in the process. Dabbing the ribbon on her tongue to wet it, she used it to gently wipe the trickle of dried blood from the girl's cheek. "I think I know what this is about."

"The Duke of York." Eleanor had composed herself enough to speak clearly. "I know I shouldn't have let myself fall in love with him, your grace. But he looked so lost and alone after the death of his father that I had to comfort him. And …"

"One thing led to another," Katherine finished the sentence for her.

Mary frowned. "You're not... you know?"

Katherine froze, imagining the worst. Even if she was pregnant, it would not be the end of the world. A nunnery for the mother, a good family for the bastard child – lands and a title, if Arthur was generous. All the same, she breathed a sigh of relief when Eleanor shook her head.

"I am not with child, I swear. And I swear I will not dishonour my father again but I don't know if he will accept me after my disgrace."

"I told Arthur not to upbraid the Duke in public," Katherine said, huffing indignantly. Admittedly, she had not thought the incident would end like this. With a young girl struck so badly she was severely marked and all but cast out of her family. Women were always so easily ruined, all for Henry's moral incontinence which only served to anger Katherine further. "Mary, do you have a place in your household for Lady Stafford?"

"Yes, and she would be welcome to join me."

Eleanor burst into tears again, her bloodshot eyes welling and spilling easily. "T-thank you, my lady. I don't deserve this kindness."

Maria emerged from the privy chamber bearing the requested wine. Katherine pressed a cup into the girl's trembling hands.

"I'll speak to the King; he will smooth things over with your father," Katherine assured her. "I will not let that boy ruin you, understand? We will make this right and pretend it never happened."

Mary and Maria quickly agreed. Any woman could be ruined at any time, for any reason. But not if they all watched each other's backs.

Lady Margaret Beaufort leaned on the arm of Harry Courtenay as she made her way along the dais. Elderly and still suffering the sorrow of her only child's death, her back was bent and her body thinner than ever. Up close, Arthur noticed that even her normally sharp eyes looked dull and sunken. All the same, his concern was outweighed by his happiness at seeing her. He got up from his own place at the head of the table to help her to her seat, right next to his.

Most of the dishes had already been passed from the high table and redistributed to the lower tables. But the centrepiece, an elaborate peacock pie, was still there. A little soup too, if she was not in the mood for anything heavy. Alas, it seemed she was in the mood for neither. "Yours was England's first coronation without any bloodshed in over one hundred years. Did you know that?"

"I do now," he replied. "That can only be a good omen, grandmama."

Katherine slid a helping of the peacock pie in front of her. But the old Countess only looked at it, picked at a little of the crust before sipping her wine instead. Arthur's realisation that she was dying invoked in him a profound sorrow. A sadness that had not been there for his father. Perhaps, he thought, the grief he should have felt had been held in reserve for her. This elderly relic from a bygone age, that had lived through and survived so much.

There was so much he wanted to ask her, so much of her life he wanted to know. Only now he realised he had run out of time. He made no demands of her and contented himself in covering her tiny, claw like hands with his own. "You succeeded."

"By the grace of god, I hope I have."

"What men spent decades slaughtering each other on battlefields for, you achieved with the stroke of a pen and a clever alliance. Peace. I'll try and look after it for you."

The Countess raised her head, a weak smile on her face and, for just a moment, she seemed like her old self. However, her strength soon flagged and her neck bent once more. All the while, Harry Courtenay was desperately trying to catch Arthur's attention. He was aware of the boy at the edge of his vision, clearing his throat and trying to catch his eye, bouncing on his heels. Unable to ignore him any longer, and confident Katherine would take care of his grandmother, Arthur rose and put an arm around the boy's shoulders.

"I'm sorry Harry, I was talking to my grandmother. Is everything all right?"

A guard opened the hall's side door for them, admitting them to a small ante-chamber used for little more than storage. Old banners, including the Welsh dragon of his father's Bosworth campaign, were hanging limp from worm-eaten poles. A white rose of York was gathering dust and mould on a damp window ledge; a rusted sword lay abandoned in a dark corner. Despite the smell of neglect, the ante-chamber afforded the cousins privacy and Harry looked like he needed privacy. He glanced up at Arthur through large blue eyes, misting with emotion, teeth troubling his lower lip.

"My father has died, your grace."

Arthur drew the boy into a hug, kissing the top of his head. "I'm so very sorry, Harry; he was a fine man. I'll write to Aunt Catherine, of course, but please pass on to my condolences to her when you see her again. If she's up to it, it would be an honour to have her at court. I would love to speak to her about my mother."

It seemed to Arthur that there was so little of his family left now. Especially those who had truly known his parents. His mother, whom he had adored and who had died so suddenly. Harry, however, seemed even more disconcerted than he had been before they walked into the room. He pulled away from Arthur, suppressing a shudder. "My mother and I wish to live quietly, your grace, without any trouble."

Dismayed, Arthur reasoned to himself that he should have expected this. "I know what my father did to yours, Harry. And I deeply regret it. I pray this isn't going to cause animosity between us."

"No, none your grace!" Harry retorted, looking startled. "I just need you to know, I'm not involved in any of it. None of it is my doing."

Arthur was second guessing himself again, so opted for a lighter touch. "Yes, I used to say things like that at your age. Usually when I was actually up to my neck in it and trying to avoid getting my arse whipped."

The light touch didn't work. Harry reached for the door, making his excuses to leave, like an animal bolting a trap. Something had him spooked, but Arthur couldn't guess at what if it wasn't the bad blood between their now dead fathers. Before he could leave, Arthur managed to call him back. "You will stay at court, Harry. I'll have your letters patent drawn up in the morning. You're Marquis of Exeter now."

The new Marquis of Exeter replied with a jerky nod and almost fell through the door. It was all rather peculiar. But then, Arthur supposed, grief was rather like that.

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