aged twenty years since he took the throne.
It was not so easy as he marched on. Exeter stood out against him, so he had to put the town under siege. But he was no soldier. He could only be strong when he faced the weak. As soon as he heard that the Earl of Devonshire with other noblemen of Devon were on the march against him, knowing he could not stand a chance facing a professional army, he gave orders to retreat and fell back to Taunton. There worse news awaited him: Lord Daubeney had reached Glastonbury and was marching onward.
“We cannot stand against him,” he said. “We have not the experience to face a professional army. There is nothing for it but to get away.”
“What will the men say?” he was asked.
He was frightened as he knew he would be. This was not what he wanted. He wanted people to say, “Here is Richard the Fourth. Let us make him our king.” But to fight for the crown . . . he could not do it. He did not want to fight. All he wanted now was to go back in peace to Katharine.
He could not take his army with him. They would never get away, so he selected sixty of his men and together they left Taunton. But even sixty horsemen found the going difficult. People came out in alarm to watch them, and there was not enough food in the inns for sixty.
Perkin said: “This will never do. We shall be captured at once if we go about in such numbers.”
He selected three men from the sixty and said to them: “When night falls, we will steal away. It will be easy for four of us to make our escape. It is impossible with sixty.”
So the four of them slipped away in the darkness and in due course they arrived at Beaulieu in Hampshire where they found an empty house and there took refuge.
What Perkin wanted to do was lie low until the hue and cry had died down, then make his way back to St. Michael’s Mount, get a ship and take Katharine and the baby, where . . . ? Perhaps they could go to Flanders. Perhaps he could find John and Katharine Warbeck, those parents whom he had denied. Then perhaps they could all live happily together again.
He wanted no crown. He just wanted to live in peace with Katharine.
He lay on the floor, his companions beside him.
Perhaps he should leave them . . . slip away. He could disguise himself as a pedlar . . . work his way back to the Mount. He and Katharine could hide themselves away until they found a ship to Flanders. . . .
Not yet. It was unsafe as yet. He must be careful to preserve his life because Katharine needed him.
Somewhere in the darkness he heard a sound. He raised himself.
Was it the sound of distant horses’ hooves? Perhaps. Some traveler out late.
He lay down and thought of Katharine. Yes, he would find his way back to her. They must hide themselves and plan to get away.
She would agree. Her wish was the same as his—that they should be together.
Again that sound . . . nearer now . . . Perhaps . . . He looked at his sleeping companions. Should he rouse them? No. It was only a traveler in the night.
And then . . . the noise was nearer. Not one horseman but many. He stood up. His companions were awake now. They went to a window.
“We are surrounded,” said Perkin.
There was nothing to do but to surrender. Perkin and his companions were taken back to Taunton by the King’s guards, and for the first time Perkin came face-to-face with the man whose right to the throne he had challenged, the Tudor himself. So Henry had thought the matter of sufficient importance to see his captive in person.
At first Perkin thought: Why, he is an old man! He seemed so to Perkin. Old and gray. He was in truth forty years of age but looked ten years older. Slight with graying hair, light blue-gray eyes and a pale complexion. But there was a certain strength about him and it was impossible to be in his presence without being aware of it.
Perkin was overawed by the pale, ageing man. If he had shown anger he would have been less afraid of him. It was the calmness of the Tudor which unnerved him, the almost blank expression which nevertheless suggested that it was merely a mask to hide his thoughts, which he was determined to keep to himself.
“You are Perkin Warbeck,” said the King.
Perkin started to say: “I am King Richard the Fourth. . . .I was taken from the Tower. . . .”
“Nonsense,” said Henry Tudor. “I know who you are. You are Perkin Warbeck, son of John Warbeck, customs man of Tournay in Flanders.”
Perkin drew himself up to his full height. He must remember what he had learned from Lady Frampton and the Duchess of Burgundy . . . from Lord Desmond. He wished that he could forget that house in Flanders, but somehow with this stern cold-faced man looking at him so penetratingly as though he could read his thoughts he found it difficult.
Henry said: “I have sent for your wife, Perkin. We knew she was at St. Michael’s Mount.”
“No . . . I beg of you . . . Donot harm her. She is not to blame.”
“We know that. She has been deceived as others have. Do not disturb yourself. I am not a monster. I do not harm innocent women.”
Perkin was immensely relieved. Henry was observant. He cares for her more than for his aspirations, he thought. A sentimental fellow. He will not be difficult to handle.
“Now, Perkin,” he said. “You have caused us a great deal of trouble, but I know you are just the tool of certain men . . . enemies of my country. I know you are a foolish young man from a humble family in Flanders and have been used by these people. I am not a cruel man. I have a reputation for being lenient . . . a lover of justice. I do
