Reconciliation
(Or, A boy's best friend is his mother)
© Kathy H D Kingsbury, July 9, 2021
It is five years since Henry Tudor's abortive invasion of England, and Richard III is firmly on the throne.
Now Henry wants only one thing, but will King Richard grant his request? Part 3 of The Tudor Chronicles.
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August 22, 1490
Somewhere in the wilds of northern Yorkshire
For Brother Henry, today was a special day. It was the Feast of St. Ethelgitha, the holy abbess of a convent in Northumbria who died in the early years of the eighth century. He enjoyed these feast days, especially those of the lesser-known saints, as learning about these holy men and women enriched his life and gave him a chance to use the education he had received from when he was growing up.
It was also the fifth anniversary of his arrival at the Monastery of St. Edwin (another Northumbrian saint) back on August 22, 1485. To call that the most inauspicious day of his life was putting it mildly. Little more than two weeks prior, he had been Henry Tudor, heir to the House of Lancaster. He had returned from exile to reclaim the throne from the House of York and that usurper and tyrant who called himself King Richard III.
He had been 28 years old with a full life ahead of him, a life he anticipated would be filled with power and money. Lots and lots of money, as kings were always wealthy, weren't they? But he had been naïve. Some even said he was more than a little full of himself. He had been brash and cocky, eager to believe that he would be welcomed as England's savior. He had been told the people would flock to him, that they were suffering under Richard's cruel yoke. But that is not what happened.
King Richard was not despised by his people.
On the contrary, they loved him. It was only a handful of disgruntled nobles who were eager for a regime change. But Henry Tudor did not care. He would be a king. Even his mother said so; at least, that is what she had led him to believe back then. But all those dreams turned to dust when his mother, the woman who was supposed to protect and defend her only son, was seduced by this same vile Richard and had revealed all during their nights of carnal pleasure.
Even now, the thought of his mother in the throes of passion made his skin crawl. Mothers were supposed to be saintly, Madonna-like figures, not lustful women who engaged in wild abandon beneath the sheets with...with men who were not their husbands. Brother Henry crossed himself quickly, thinking he should go douse himself with cold water, to purge himself of such sinful thoughts.
But all that was in the past. He was no longer Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond. He was Brother Henry, a humble monk. The anger, hurt, and humiliation he had suffered five years ago had been drained out of him by days and nights of endless prayer and mind-numbing manual labor at this stark, isolated religious house filled with pious, elderly men. These days, he not only accepted this monastic life, he welcomed it. Here, surrounded by the austere beauty of the Yorkshire wilderness, he did not have time to think about what he had lost. All that was required of him was to focus on prayer and work, and there plenty of the latter as there were only a few lay brothers to help. Even the bitter winters and the summers that felt more like cold spring days no longer troubled him.
He also found it in himself to forgive his mother. She was a woman, after all; a daughter of Eve. She could not help herself. And as these thoughts passed through his mind, he crossed himself again and said a prayer. Even though she had been an abbess these past five years, Henry was sure it would not hurt to continue praying for her soul.
This was not the life he had planned on, but it was the one he now lived, and he had come to embrace it even if it did not always leave him happy. It was, he told himself, a reasonably good life...considering what the alternative might have been.
That is, until today.
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Abbess Margaret surprised everyone, not just her son, when she made an unannounced visit to St. Edwin's. She had not seen her son for years and worried that if she did not do so now, she might never get another chance. The Father Prior reluctantly gave his permission as women were almost never allowed within the monastery walls. They were considered to be too much of a temptation even to these holy men. But Margaret was an abbess, and a member of the noble Beaufort family; a woman with many powerful friends. So the prior agreed—but only for an hour, two at the most.
Mother and son were directed to a small guest room, away from the rest of the brethren. Unfortunately, once their initial greetings were over, the conversation devolved into bitterness. Henry did not want to admit it, but he found it still hurt that his mother had never made an attempt to see him after he had been captured.
"I didn't think you wanted to see me," Abbess Margaret said, as if that was that.
And so the two of them sat across from one another, the silence deafening and the tension almost palpable.
"Do you have any idea what they put me through?" Henry finally cried out, releasing an anger he thought he had long let go of.
Margaret was surprised by the outburst. Why was her son bringing all this up after so long?
"Why, of course I do. Dickie...I mean His Grace sent me a detailed report. You got dusted up a little bit, had your favorite suit of armor nicked. I don't know why you're getting so heated."
Henry looked at her with disbelief. How could she be making so light of all this?
"It was more than a 'dusting up'," he snapped. "I was...I was humiliated!"
"Oh, you mean that business of wetting yourself?" Margaret rolled her eyes and tsked. "And here I'd thought you had outgrown that."
Henry blanched in horror at the realization that she knew everything. "Who…who told you about that? It was him, wasn't it! Your lover in that 'detailed report' he sent you. Oh my God, does the whole country know what happened that day?" He was beginning to hyperventilate.
Margaret ignored his tantrum but remained seated, smiling serenely. "You're making a much bigger deal about this than is called for."
"Mother, stop! You're not even trying to understand. I was a prisoner, bound and gagged, my...my bladder making a fool of me. And those big, hairy brutes standing over me, pointing and giggling and saying all manner of vile insults. Do you know they threatened to strip me naked, to see if I 'measured up'?" A chill ran down his spine at the memory. "Do you think that was fun? Do you think your beloved Dickie did anything to stop their horrid jibes? Well, do you?"
By this point, Henry was screaming. Tears of rage burned his eyes and blurred his vision. He was trying very hard to be a loving, forgiving son, but his mother was making it so damned difficult. The way she just sat there, so calm, was almost obscene!
Margaret sighed. When her son got into moods like this, it was like dealing with a recalcitrant child.
"Sticks and stones, Henry. Sticks and stones. Didn't I teach you better, that names can never hurt you?"
"MOTHER!"
"Well, you act as if it had been the end of the world, yet look at you now."
"Yes, look at me now," he spat out bitterly. "A lowly monk forced to live a life of poverty and chastity, hardly the life I would have chosen. Me, a descendant of Welsh, French, and English royalty."
"Yes, I know all that," she said acerbically. She wanted to roll her eyes. Where did the boy think he got that royal blood from, anyway?
"You know, a bishopric wouldn't have been so bad. Not like I'm asking to be a cardinal. Hell..." He saw the look on his mother's face as he realized his mistake. "Heck, couldn't you arrange for your good friend Dickie" – he said the name like it was poison – "to let me be an abbot, or even a prior? Haven't I already paid for my crimes? No, of course not." He threw his hands in the air in frustration. "Let's punish Henry for the rest of his life. Let him remain a poor, miserable monk whose only companions are other poor, miserable monks. Do you realize you are the only woman I've seen in more than five years?" He knew that came out wrong but he was past caring. "And why? Because I didn't send you birthday cards or Christmas presents?!"
Margaret shook her head in disappointment. By now both had risen from their chairs – Henry pacing furiously; Margaret standing and watching in shock. She walked over to him and put her hands to his face in a gesture of comfort.
"My poor, dear Henry, is that what you think this is all about, punishment? Do you still care more for worldly possessions than spiritual gifts? Have you learned nothing during your time here? This isn't about what happened five years ago, is it." It was a statement, not a question. "Tell me what this is really about."
Henry stood for several seconds, blinking back tears that threatened to fall once more. Finally he said in a quiet, sad voice, "You don't know how lonely it is up here." And slowly, he sank to his knees and wrapped his arms around his mother, holding her close as he wept silently into the folds of her skirt. When he finally spoke, there was no anger, only pain. "It's not the prayers or the work. I don't mind those. Really, I don't. It's...it's the loneliness."
He raised his head and saw o his mother's cheeks. She reached out and helped him to his feet, hugging him the way she wished she'd done more often when he had been a child. Her boy. Her beautiful boy. Her only child.
"I can't make any promises," she said as she stroked his hair, feeling the fuzz where his tonsure was beginning to grow out. "But I'll see if I can talk to His Grace. If I can promise him that you are truly repentant, that you will never again even think of making claim to anything, maybe he will recall you from this place. Maybe have you reassigned to an establishment closer to London."
"And we'd be able to see each other, at least occasionally?" He looked at her expectantly. "And I won't renounce my vows. I promise! You see, I actually like the monastic life. At least, most of the time."
The look on Henry's face was all she needed to know that her son had suffered enough. She took her hand and wiped away his tears. "Be patient, my son. These things do not happen overnight."
"Yes, I can be patient, Mother. And perhaps, in the meantime, you can write to me now and then? To let me know how things are progressing? If the king wants me to sign any documents, to assure him of my loyalty, I'll do so and gladly."
A discreet knock on the door informed mother and son that their time together was over. All too soon Abbess Margaret would be heading south and home.
As they made their farewells, Henry knelt at his mother's feet. "Will you give me your blessing, Mother?"
So she placed her hands upon his head and said the words, then added, "Remember. Be patient, my son."
"I will."
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"You want me to what?" blurted Richard. He'd had no idea why Abbess Margaret requested to see him. He thought she was going to ask for a gift for her convent or something along those lines. Not this.
Margaret let out an exasperated sigh. "You heard me. My son would like to come home."
Richard fussed and fumed as he paced the room.
"I know you're not a vindictive person, Dickie. What is the purpose of keeping him up there? To teach him a lesson? Well, he's learned that. Look, send for him and talk to him yourself. You'll see."
Richard took a deep breath, then blew it out. "I'm probably going to regret this, but all right. I'll send for him. I'll talk to him. But no one is to know that he is coming, and he comes under heavy guard. I'll not risk the peace of my kingdom for him."
"That's all I ask, my Yorkshire stallion," she said, the barest hint of a seductive look peeking through her wimple and veil.
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The trip south was sheer joy for Brother Henry. He didn't even care about the armed escort. In fact, he welcomed them. True, some were a bit on the surly side, especially at first, but they were new faces and he went out of his way to thank them profusely for their good work at protecting him, and even started conversations with them about the most mundane things. By the end of the trip a cordial relationship had developed between them and Brother Henry was sorry to see them go. Soon, however, there were other matters demanding his attention.
Once in London, he was taken to Westminster Abbey. He knew he was under house arrest, but that didn't bother him. He gladly accepted his quarters – a stark and somber monastic cell – and didn't give a fig when he heard the door locked after Vespers, not to be unlocked again until Prime. And during the day, he was always accompanied by a dour-faced monk (Old Sour Puss, as Brother Henry playfully called him behind his back) who barely spoke a word and apparently never smiled. None of that mattered, though, as his heart was filled with joy as he looked forward to the day he would be summoned to appear before the king; hopeful that his long banishment was about to come to an end.
And then it came after almost two weeks of waiting. The summons. Old Sour Puss unlocked his cell door one morning and, of all things, actually spoke. "Your lady mother, the Abbess Margaret, has come to escort you to His Grace, King Richard."
Brother Henry followed Old Sour Puss to a guest room, where his mother sat, looking as saintly as ever. When her son entered the room, she rose and smiled. "You are looking good, Henry. You are well?"
He nodded. Suddenly his mouth was dry, and he felt awkward and more than a little nervous. "I am well, Mother."
Margaret looked over at Old Sour Puss. "Thank you," she said, using that imperious Beaufort tone of hers to indicate to the other monk that he should leave the room. Now. Then to her son, "His Grace has agreed to see you, but has made no promises. Truth is he's still not sure he can trust you."
"I understand. I tried to usurp his throne. If I were in his place, I don't know that I would trust me, either."
"Then tell him that. Be honest. Dickie appreciates honesty above all."
"I shall, Mother, but before we go...will you join me in prayer?"
She smiled, and Henry realized that even at her age, his mother was still a very attractive woman.
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Richard had originally thought to see Brother Henry in one of the formal audience chambers with any number of august lords on hand. He thought to awe the little prick with his majesty, but in the end he opted on a private meeting. Anyone, even someone perfectly innocent of any wrongdoing, could be cowed by such a public reception, but a private one would tell him more about the man. In the end, there would be only four people in the room – Richard, Lord Lovell, Abbess Margaret, and Brother Henry. Margaret and Francis were there to be witnesses only; they would not take part in any discussion.
"I've got a bad feeling about this. Are you sure this is a good idea?" Lovell asked.
"Trust me," said Richard with a wink.
Lovell wandered off to take his seat, muttering something about the last time someone said "Trust me."
A few minutes later, Brother Henry was brought to the room by an armed escort who remained at the door – just in case. He immediately bent the knee to Richard, reverently kissing the ring on the hand the king held out to him.
"Why should I change your living conditions?" Richard asked abruptly, not giving Henry permission to rise or to take a seat. He heard Margaret whisper something under her breath that sounded like, "Oh come on, now," to which Richard just shrugged his shoulders.
Brother Henry had to take a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. "You have every right to distrust me, Your Grace," he said, keeping his eyes respectfully downcast, "but I have changed. I have learned the error of my ways and swear before God and all His Holy Saints that I will never, ever raise my hand against you or yours. I only want to serve God and Your Grace to the best of my abilities and to be allowed to join a monastery closer to home, closer to my lady mother."
The man sounded sincere. He looked sincere. But was he? Richard needed to prod the monk, needed to see how he would respond. Margaret had asked him to not mention certain things from the past. He's very sensitive about...you know. But Richard wasn't about to make a promise he might not be able to keep. We'll see, was all he said.
"The last time we met, my men roughed you up a bit. Do you remember? Look at me when you answer. Don't keep looking at the floor. And dammit, man, stand up."
Brother Henry scrambled to his feet and forced himself to look Richard in the eye. "Yes, I remember, Your Grace." His face reddened at the memory. "I...I embarrassed myself that day."
"Yes, you did. But that's all in the past. We had a good laugh over it, though, didn't we? Oh, maybe you didn't but the rest of us who were there did. But no hard feelings, right?" Richard kept pushing, ignoring Margaret staring daggers at him.
Brother Henry fought the urge to look away in shame. Would he never be allowed to live down what happened that day? "I remember it well, Your Grace. And...and I deserved it."
Richard cocked an eyebrow. "You agree that you deserved such treatment?"
"Yes, Your Grace. I was a traitor. I rebelled against God's anointed king. Any punishment you chose to mete out upon me was fully deserved. All I can say in my defense is that I had been misled, and had listened to the counsel of evil men. But I have learned from those painful lessons." And then he surprised Richard by falling to his knees. "Please, Your Grace, you have shown mercy to so many, can you not show mercy to me? I ask for nothing more than to be reassigned to a monastery so as to be nearer my mother."
"Where you can plot again?"
"No!" cried the monk in horror.
"If not to plot against me, then why do you want to be reassigned?"
"Because I am only human and I am ashamed to say that I am lonely at St. Edwin's. I miss the sound of other voices, of seeing new faces. The brothers up there, good men of God though they are, are dour and taciturn. Forgive me, Your Grace; I know I sound vain and shallow."
The king noted with satisfaction that there was no guile in the man's eyes or in his voice. "No," said Richard thoughtfully. "No, you don't. You sound...human."
"Then, may I..." Henry spoke up hopefully, only to be quieted as the king held up his hand.
"Don't go celebrating just yet, monk. I haven't made up my mind. Go back to the abbey and spend your time in prayer. I'll let you know my decision in a few days."
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Five years later
King Richard and Abbess Margaret were strolling through the palace gardens, enjoying the birdsongs that serenaded them on this beautiful summer afternoon. Over the past few years, it was not unusual for Margaret or her son to be seen at court, where both were always welcome.
When Brother Henry had come to be a member of the Westminster Abbey community, it was mainly so the king could keep an eye on the young man. Many times, Richard made surprise visits to the abbey, trying to catch his former enemy breaking his promise. But the monk never did, and over time the king began engaging the young man in conversation and found Brother Henry's opinions well thought out and worth considering. Eventually, he found himself seeking the monk's advice more and more often.
"I don't know if I ever thanked you properly," said Margaret, looking all prim and proper as befit the abbess of one of England's wealthiest religious houses. She was, after all, a Beaufort for whom nothing but the best would do.
"For what?"
She nodded to where Brother Henry was sitting with Queen Joanna on one of the ornate garden benches, their heads bent in quiet discussion. "For showing compassion to my son. He was never a bad person, just misguided. As was I at one time."
"You were right to have me recall him from the north. He's a scholarly, pious man, a welcome member of my court. And the queen appreciates having someone who will not only discuss religion with her, but who is able to help her with the finer points of the English language."
Margaret chuckled. "That must be tricky for someone raised speaking Portuguese."
"She catches on quickly," Richard said proudly. "She is very intelligent."
"I can't tell you how much joy it gives me to see him so happy and content. With that one act of mercy you have become the most popular king the land has known. Even long-time Lancastrians have been won over by your magnanimous gesture of taking a former adversary and turning him into one of your closest advisors."
"Brother Henry has earned that position," said Richard, feeling almost fatherly toward the man who was only five years younger than he, "and his advice is always sound."
They continued their stroll, two old friends who didn't mind the occasional lapse into companionable silence.
"It's probably just as well he didn't become king, though," said Richard.
Margaret saw the twinkle in his blue eyes that told her he was in a playful mood. Okay, she thought, I'll bite. "And why is that, Dickie?"
"Well, he's not exactly good looking."
"Whereas you are?" She couldn't stop the peal of laughter that broke out.
Richard feigned offence. "Forgive me, dear lady, but look at him. That pinched face."
"From those years in the Yorkshire wilderness."
"The stooped shoulders."
"From all the reading he does."
"And that wonky eye of his that seems to wander off on its own from time to time!"
"Only when he's over tired. And he got that from his father, not from me. All right, I'll give you that he's not as handsome as you are, my Yorkshire stallion," she said, batting him playfully on the arm. "But he's still a good boy."
"Did he tell you that I offered him a bishopric, an office commensurate to his lofty position as one of my most trusted advisors, and he turned it down?"
"He did what?"
"That's right. He turned it down. And do you know the reason he gave me? 'I am happy to remain a humble monk and serving my king in that capacity.' It's true. That's what he said."
Margaret beamed with motherly pride. "I told you he's a good boy."
The End
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Author's Notes
This series of stories started off as a humorous one-shot about what it might have been like if Richard III and Margaret Beaufort had an affair ("How Margaret Beaufort Helped Avert the Battle of Bosworth").
After writing that, I realized I wanted to poke a little fun at Henry Tudor. So I wrote a follow-up telling what happened to poor Henry once all his plans went awry ("What Did You Do to My Mother?")
And then, I began feeling sorry for my version of Henry (okay, just a little) and decided to give him a somewhat happier ending than the one I left him with at the end of part two. But not at the expense of Richard! That became "Reconciliation." I ended up putting all three together under the title The Tudor Chronicles.
And that "wonky eye" Dickie refers to? Well, I gave Henry Tudor a floating eye. Whenever I look at some of Henry Tudor's portraits, one eye looks like it is gazing in a slightly different direction than the other. It could be nothing more than an error on the part of the artist. On the other hand, some portraits of Richard III from the same period show a similar "wonky" eye, so maybe it's a Plantagenet trait that Henry inherited through his mother. Whatever the reason for it, I thought I'd use it as a character trait for my version of the man who, in real life, became Henry VII.