showed that he had been stripped of his knighthood, being no longer worthy of it, and was led from Newgate to Tower Hill where the executioner with his axe was waiting for him.
When his head was separated from his body it was stuck on London Bridge—a warning to all who thought they might play the traitor.
Flammock and Joseph were less fortunate. They suffered the traitor’s death. They were taken to Tyburn where they were hanged, drawn and quartered; and their limbs were displayed in various parts of the city.
This was what happened to traitors, those who in moments of folly lightly undertook to plot against the King.
Henry was satisfied. He had dealt with the matter in his usual calm way; and no one could say he had been unduly harsh.
Many a king would have slaughtered hundreds of them. But not Henry. He could always calmly decide what was best for Henry Tudor, and that was not to murder for murder’s sake. He did not want to do so for revenge even. He was rarely in a hot rage about any matter and therefore always had time to calculate which would be the most advantageous way to act.
Reluctantly he had decided on the traitor’s death for the three ringleaders. He must give no one an impression of weakness. No. He was not weak. He was stern perhaps, but just—always just.
He could congratulate himself that he had dealt very properly with the Cornish rebels.
There still remained Perkin Warbeck to haunt his days and turn pleasant dreams into nightmares.
James was growing rather tired of Perkin Warbeck. The expedition into England had shown clearly that the people were not going to flock to his banner, and James was not going to beggar himself by supporting another man’s cause—and a possible King of England at that! No, indeed not. Perkin must fight his own battles and the more thought James gave to the matter the more it seemed to him that it would be better for Perkin to fight somewhere which did not involve Scotland.
Not that James gave much thought to the matter. He was inclined to let it slide out of his mind, for he was deeply involved at this time with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was delightful, gentle, loving, passionate, outstandingly beautiful, and everything he liked best in a woman, and as he liked women better than anything else on Earth and had had great experience of them, this was saying a good deal. For the first time in his life—although he had often imagined himself to be in the condition on other occasions—James was truly in love.
The lady was Margaret Drummond daughter of John, first baron Drummond, a very able man who had been raised to the peerage for his services to Scotland some ten years before. He was a Privy Counsellor and justiciary of Scotland as well as the Constable of Stirling Castle, and his offices brought him to Court. With him came his beautiful daughter—a fact which caused the King to rejoice.
Marion Boyd, Janet Kennedy—delectable wenches both of them—could not compare with Margaret Drummond.
James paid constant visits to Stirling Castle where Margaret lived in the care of Sir John and Lady Lindsay. It had not taken him long to woo Margaret. Gentle, virginal . . . a little overwhelmed by so much royal favor, she had quickly fallen under the spell of the King. But perhaps, James thought ruefully, it would be more correct to say that he had fallen under hers. He could think of little else, so it was small wonder that whenever the name of Perkin Warbeck was spoken to him he felt a mild irritation.
He wanted nothing to come between him and his pursuit of Margaret. His thoughts were completely occupied by the possibility of seeing her. There was no reason why they should not be openly together. The whole of the Court knew of his infatuation—including Marion and Janet—and it was easier to face the whole of his Court than those two, particularly fiery Janet.
Who wanted war? Women were so much more enjoyable. And while Perkin Warbeck remained in Scotland he represented a threat. Henry had demanded that the young man be delivered to him. That, James had refused to do of course. Perkin had promised to restore Berwick to Scotland when he came to the throne, in payment for James’s hospitality. That would be good. Berwick was one of the most important Border towns. Certainly he wanted Berwick . . . and all the other concessions which Perkin had promised.
But promises! . . . What did they come to if wars had to be fought for the hope of their fulfilment?
No, he wanted no more now that he and Margaret had discovered each other.
He broached Perkin when they met at Linlithgow.
“It seems to me, my lord Duke,” he said, “that you are achieving little here. You do not wish to fight these people in the North . . . your own subjects, you say . . . men who had never heard of Richard Duke of York . . . or perhaps Henry Tudor.”
“I could not bear to see the blood of my own subjects shed,” said Perkin.
“I understand that well. So this is not the place for you. You have your friends in Ireland. I’ll tell you what I am going to do, my lord Duke. I am going to give you a ship. You can sail from Scotland to Ireland taking Katharine and the baby with you. I have no doubt that the Irish will rally to your cause. You will have more chance there than here in Scotland.”
Perkin was left in no doubt that this was James’s diplomatic way of telling him to leave and he had no alternative but to accept the offer of the ship and prepare to depart.
If Katharine was sad to leave her native land she did not show it.
“We are together,” she said. “That is all that matters.”
Perkin was apprehensive. He could no longer prevaricate and he had an idea that the easy life was over. He would have to make some attempt to wrest the crown from Henry Tudor and if he achieved it then his difficulties would begin. In his heart he knew he was unfitted to rule a country. He was frightened by the enormity of this matter, which had come about in the first place through a love of adventure, and an excitement because people noticed his royal looks.
