Chapter Seven: King of the Pen-Pushers

Royals were not permitted to attend funerals. So Arthur agreed a compromise with himself and insisted on standing vigil for his grandmother. She lay in an open casket, her face bathed in the coloured light spilling through the windows of Westminster's Lady Chapel. The years of strife and war had fallen away, leaving her peaceful and serene in death. On the morrow, she would join her son and daughter in law in the eastern ante-chamber, where only eternity awaited her. But, for now, it was just Arthur and the ghosts to keep her company at the end of her final journey.

As he stood guard over the casket, he struggled to comprehend that his coronation had taken place in the same Cathedral just four days previously. An event of solemnity, but joy as well. A new beginning, heralded by trumpets and choirs. Now, the ancient stones of the abbey bore witness to the falling away of another piece of history. Arthur reflected on it all he knelt in prayer during the early hours, when the world was still in darkness. Now the sun was up again, so was he, as he paced between the casket and the other tomb already installed in the Lady Chapel.

His parents. Their effigies rendered faithfully in gilt bronze, the resemblance to their once living counterparts so uncanny it brought him out in goosebumps. Hesitantly, he reached out and touched his mother's cold, metallic face as footsteps echoed through the main aisle of the abbey. He did not turn to see the newcomer, lost in his thoughts and memories until the other man's voice jolted him out of his reverie.

"You were not here when she died."

Arthur snatched his hand away from the effigy as if it had burned him. He turned to find Henry watching him from the archway of the ante-chamber. There was no hostility in his tone, only sadness and he was dressed in black mourning once more. It made him look pale and washed out. "I couldn't be here, I was in Ludlow with Katherine."

"I'm not blaming you. It was just a statement of fact."

Henry knew he didn't need to blame Arthur. He knew the guilt was there already and all he had to do was mention it, and it would all come up again. Rising to the surface of Arthur's consciousness like the wreckage of a ghost ship. "When I realised the effect her death was having on our father, I tried to bring you to Ludlow, with Mary. I swear, Henry, I tried."

"Not hard enough."

"I couldn't very well abduct you."

"I never asked you to."

"Why are you here?"

"To inform you I am leaving."

Arthur pulled up sharply, momentarily at a loss for what to say. "Where will you go?"

"My estate at Pontefract."

"Even if I do recall the Council of the North, you will not be on it," Arthur explained.

"I no longer expect you to do either of those things, I know you will give me nothing."

"Henry, you are my heir. The next in line to the throne. If a roofbeam falls on my head tonight, you will be planning your coronation in the morning. Is that not enough for you?"

"The roofbeams all seem secure to me," Henry answered. "And hanging around waiting for you to die is not enough."

Arthur had a reply, but it got lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth. Sometimes, he wondered if Henry knew he wished their lives were switched. He would, if he could, spend his days being a Peer of the Realm upon whom few expectations were burdened. Being Duke of York was like being the Prince of Wales only with all responsibilities subtracted. But it was the other painful truth that gnawed at him. The one no one had acknowledged. "I know you think you should have been born first, that you would make the better king. The truth is, you're probably right."

"I didn't come to argue, Arthur, I just want to go," said Henry.

"And if I command you to stay?"

"Is that a challenge?"

Without waiting for an answer, Henry turned and walked away. Tired and drained, Arthur did not call him back. He fell into the chancel, where the choir boys normally stood, and dropped his head into his hands. It was like he had been playing a game of chess with Henry without even realising it, and it was checkmate before he could make his first conscious move.

Henry rode through the night to reach Thornbury Castle. The wind lashed at him, his horse crashed through streams and charge through stagnant ditches; he was almost thrown from the saddle twice. Exhaustion fell on him quick, night fell and the sun rose in what felt like the blink of an eye. Come what may, he was not stopping until he reached his destination. The tiny Gloucestershire village that had been home to generations of Staffords since time immemorial. He was forced to slow down as soon as he reached the market town beyond the castle walls, his patience rewarded by the reassuring sight of blacksmiths forging arrowheads and swords. It seemed preparations for the coming battles were in full swing.

Once within the castle walls, Henry fell off his horse more than dismounting it. His legs gave way almost as soon as his feet hit the ground, forcing Stafford's stable hand to catch him before he was planted arse first on the packed earth paddock. Recovering himself, he soon found himself being ushered through a tiny sallyport that led to an empty servant's hall. While he waited for the Duke, Henry caught his reflection in the widow and used the time to rub away the dirt smeared across his face. He cursed the wretched countryside as he did so.

By the time he finished, he turned to find Buckingham watching him from a nearby archway. "Good. You've made it. Come, the Earl of Surrey is already here."

"I disliked how he spoke to me at the Abbey, Buckingham," Henry complained, but still followed the older man to a stone stairwell. "I hope he's fixed his manners this time."

"Thomas Howard doesn't suffer fools gladly, York. So don't behave like one.

"But-"

"But, he's about to help make you king. Until that crown is on your head, I suggest you treat the Earl of Surrey with respect."

Chastened, Henry fell silent as he followed Stafford up the narrow stairs and through another door. This one led into a huge hall covered in fine oak panelling, wide bay windows took up almost the entirety of the exterior wall and both ends boasted huge fireplaces to ward off the winter chills. It was as fine as any palace, he thought. The Stafford coat of arms dominated the wall above the dais, where the Duke and his family took their meals and hosted feasts. Below, trestle tables had been arranged in perfectly aligned rows, but were most empty now.

Only one was occupied. Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, was contemplating the bottom of an empty wine glass when Henry slid onto the bench opposite him. He looked up, greeting his future king with a curt nod.

"Is Harry Courtenay here?" Henry asked of no one in particular.

Howard looked up, turning left and right and then under the table. "Doesn't look like he's here, does it?"

Remembering the mild admonishment he'd received not five minutes earlier, Henry forced himself to smile. Inwardly, he made note of just how much he disliked Howard's treatment of him.

"Courtenay gave us his backing," said Buckingham. "He's too young to be involved in the battle itself. He's what … thirteen if he's a day. Give it a year or two, and he can join our whatever campaigns we see fit."

"France," said Howard. "I'll not have a man sit the English throne unless he intends to take back our territories in France. Can you see Arthur doing that, eh? Was Agincourt taken by signing bits of paper?"

"Quite, Surrey, that's why we have Henry here today," Stafford interjected before Howard could go off about the French.

However, Henry found himself warming to the Earl. "I can assure you, when I am King, France will be first on my agenda."

"But first we must make you King," Stafford reminded him. He broke off to pour wine for them all, a sign that they were getting down to business. "I have two thousand men at my command. Three hundred of which will be mounted cavalry, the rest infantrymen. I can arm and equip them myself, out of my own pocket."

Henry knew full well he would be paying that back, if all went well. "And in return?"

"An alliance," replied Buckingham. "I'm making you king, you give me a Queen. My daughter's hand in marriage."

"Lady Eleanor?" Henry couldn't quite believe his luck. "I'll gladly make her my Queen."

"I want my Dukedom, Norfolk had been ours for generations before your father stripped it away," Surrey cut in. "Richard was our King. The Howards are loyal to their kings. My father said to me if the crown was set upon the head of a Barbary ape, he'd follow that ape into battle and ask no questions. Richard was no different."

"What? Richard was no different to a Barbary ape?"

"He might as well have been for all the difference he made," Surrey said, downing his wine. When he spoke again, it was to change the subject. "My brother in law is out in Europe asking about potential brides for you."

"Thomas Boleyn?"

"The very same. He's taking his daughter to Austria, a skinny little black-eyed girl she is. They seem to think she's something special. Anyway, I can call him off for you. It'll save any diplomatic embarrassments in case he actually succeeds. The last thing any new king needs is a furious ambassador snapping at his heels over a spurned Princess."

"Thank you, my lord," said Henry. "And men?"

"I can match his grace's numbers. Four thousand should be plenty to take London. But only I command my men."

"I also have a proposal for you, Thomas," said Buckingham. "My older daughter, Lady Elizabeth. You can meet her, if you wish, but I believe she will make a fine Duchess for you."

Surrey seemed agreeable, but Henry was getting impatient for the plans. Taking London, a walled city with sturdy, heavily guarded gates, seemed impossible. But Buckingham smiled, leaning back in his chair as he addressed them both. "Raiding parties and stealth, my lords. We will utilise both. We send in small raiding parties to harry the outlying villages, beyond the city gates. This should be enough to lure out the royal army. When they come out, we pounce on them with the cavalry charge."

Henry shrugged. "The gates will be locked. How do we get in?"

"My daughter, your future Queen, has a place in Princess Mary's household," he explained. "She can open the gates from within. Your father kept a set of keys in his privy chamber. You think Arthur still has them?"

Henry had seen his father with those keys more times than he could count. "Yes, they're in a strong box in the bedchamber. If Eleanor has access to the royal apartments, she will be able to get into Arthur's rooms unchallenged."

"You think the raiding party trick will work, your grace?" Howard asked, pouring himself more wine. "If not, we're looking at a siege and none of us wants that."

Stafford seemed unconcerned. "We'll force them out, like rats from a burning barn."

Meanwhile, Henry was contemplative. He was considering Eleanor, still in London. "Tell my bride to wait by Bishopsgate, assuming that is our attacking point. She and I will take our city together."

Arthur stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes. The coronation was done, the tournaments over and the wreckage of the celebrations had been cleared away. All that filled the void they left was the actual job of being king. Thus far, it involved paperwork, ledgers, delicately worded letters to his fellow kings in distant countries and, best of all, rounding up MPs to reconvene parliament. All of it involved him being confined to a study adjacent to the privy chambers he shared with Katherine and Princess Mary. As he worked, he could hear their high voices chatting, singing and laughing as he tried to decipher the columns of numbers and measurements in the indices of his books. If he was lucky, he got to flick the beads back and forth on his abacus.

Thus the days passed in a haze of paper, ink and dust. High summer arrived, bringing with it hot and sultry days where the women migrated to the gardens with their little dogs and bountiful picnics to share beneath the boughs of trees in full bloom. Arthur enjoyed taking a break from running the kingdom to watch what they were doing, more than a little envious as he returned to his bookkeeping. Only the frequent knocks on his door brought relief from the monotony of it all. And, on that afternoon, his caller was Father Thomas Wolsey.

"What's my brother done now?" Arthur asked, pushing his books aside. "Last I heard he was headed for Pontefract."

"Nothing, that I know of," replied Wolsey, taking the seat opposite Arthur's desk. "But the Duke of York's is a silence that I am starting to find ominous, your grace. Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but I couldn't, in all conscience, continue keeping my worries to myself."

Arthur sighed heavily, buried his face in his hands as if that might make it all go away. Alas, it did not. "It's been three weeks since I saw him last. I let him go thinking the time and space to clear his mind would calm him, help him see things differently."

"Charles Brandon hasn't seen or heard from him, either."

"I don't think poor Brandon even got a chance to arrange one lesson with Henry." Arthur still thought it had been a good idea. He felt many a good idea had been lost by the wayside since he became king, but there was little he could do about it now. "I think it is the burden of a king's younger brother to think he should be the one to do the job, or feel slightly aggrieved at the birth order. And Henry would be better in many respects. The people would love him; he would love the people in return. He can throw a party, sit a horse and knock a knight out of the saddle in the lists – all the things people admire in a gallant king. But he would be truly terrible at all of this-" Arthur broke off, gesturing to his mountain of paperwork. "If he and I could learn to work together, we could be great. He could be the about face and I would be content to do the leg work in the background. But Henry doesn't see things like that. Compromise seems lost on him."

Wolsey listened patiently, regarding Arthur kindly and without judgement; just letting him talk like few others did. Even in Henry's absence, he thought he might find other odd jobs for the Priest to do. Arthur simply liked him. Even more endearing, Wolsey made an effort and asked: "Bring him back, your grace. Send out a company of your own guards and drag him back to London, if need be. Before this spirals any further, before you become completely estranged. Explain to him this partnership: he as the glamour and the glittering front and you-"

"The administrator."

"The majestic administrator, your grace."

Arthur laughed drily. "I know what I am, Father Wolsey. King of the Pen Pushers."

Wolsey remained straight-faced and contemplative. "There's far worse types of King you could be, your grace."

There was one thing they did agree on. That Henry needed to be brought home, kicking and screaming if need be. "I'll make a statement. Henry likes statements. A company of two-hundred will be sent out to Pontefract Castle this afternoon."

Katherine shivered against the gust of cold air that greeted her as she pushed open the door to the Queen's private chapel. It had been sealed since the death of the last Queen and the air was heavy with dust and neglect. Settling her candle down on a nearby table, she braved the cold to venture further inside. The windows were still shuttered leaving the guttering candle as her only source of light. A bed sheet had been draped over the alter, the large crucifix tenting the linen. Carefully, she removed it to reveal what lay beneath.

The altar was oak and intricately carved, polished to a high shine. The crucifix solid gold, inset with gems and precious stones; the opulence of their holy church writ small. Cast in darkness, it was difficult to fully see, but she knelt before it anyway. She closed her eyes and prayed. She prayed for her husband and the trials he faced, she prayed for her father in Spain and she prayed for a baby, for Arthur's seed to quicken and fill her vacant womb. She prayed for a son, to being peace and stability to their crown and security for the future succession. She prayed for England, a country that stood just a fragile heartbeat away from civil war. She even prayed for their enemies, that they might return to the path of righteousness and set aside their quarrels. Somewhere among that number, she might even have prayed for herself.

Beyond the shuttered windows, dawn broke and the church bells tolled. Somewhere overhead, the muffled thumps of running footsteps intruded further on her time of contemplation. She shut the noise out, only fer her efforts to be rendered futile by the sounds of raised voices, muffled by distance. It was dawn, the time at which the palace normally slowly stirred into life. But this was exploding into life and she disliked it. More bells joined the clangour, the hurried footsteps now entering her private rooms, calling her name.

Unable to ignore the clamour any longer, she rose to her feet again. Already braced for the bad news, she hastened to her bedchamber where Princess Mary was already awaiting her.

"There's been attacks in the northern districts," she said, breathless and pink faced. "We don't know who's doing it or where they came from. But they're setting fire to people's houses."

Catherine reeled. The districts to the north, beyond the city walls, were the poorest of London's citizens. Those furthest from the hub, whose homes were wattle and daub and who relied on their few cattle to make a living. But there was nothing she could do while still in her night shift. "Where's Maria, tell her to help me dress. Get Eleanor to help you, Mary, we must all get out there."

Mary didn't argue and ran from the room, quickly replaced by Maria de Salinas. Alone together, they lapsed into their native Spanish. "Catalina, what is happening?"

Still in ignorance, Katherine found she had few assurances to give.

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