Prince Henry was now ten years old, and more resentful than ever because he had not been born the eldest. It was small consolation that when he and Arthur rode together he was the one people cheered and he knew their eyes were on him. When he remarked with a certain modesty—he thought—that he could not understand why the people stared so: was there anything wrong with him? his sister Margaret who had a very sharp tongue, retorted: “Yes, a great deal.”
Mary would snuggle close to him and say that it was because he was so much prettier than Arthur, which was what he wanted to hear—though he would have preferred handsome to pretty. He must tell Mary that boys were not pretty.
Mary was very ready to learn. She admired him and thought he was the most wonderful person at Court. Margaret, who did not share their sister’s views, said that Henry had too great a conceit of himself.
He and Margaret were not good friends; Henry never liked people who were critical of him—except perhaps his tutor John Skelton who was constantly laughing at something in a way which was not exactly complimentary. Henry did not know why he bore John Skelton no resentment—perhaps it was because he amused him and wrote such witty poems. But no one else must criticize him—except of course his father whom he could not prevent doing so and whose cold looks were a continual criticism. Henry had known from his early days that his father was one of the few people who preferred Arthur. It was because Arthur was the eldest, the Prince of Wales, the King-to-be. The odd thing was that Arthur didn’t seem to be greatly impressed with his superiority.
It was late summer when they rode into Richmond Palace. Henry never passed under the gateway without remembering that day just before Christmas three years before when Shene Palace had been burned down. It had been nine o’clock at night. He had been in the nursery apartments he shared with Margaret and Mary when he had been roused from his pallet by his sister Margaret shouting to him. Leaping out of bed, he had smelt the strong acrid smell of smoke and immediately the children had been surrounded by excited men and women and were marshaled together and taken to their parents. The fire had started in the royal apartments; the rushes were aflame in a very short time and before anything could be done to save the palace it was burning fiercely. Beds, hangings and tapestries were destroyed on that night. The King had been desolate, thinking of all the valuable things which had been lost, but everyone was safe, which was a consolation; and his father had immediately ordered that a new palace should be built on the ruins of the old. Thus old Shene had become Richmond Palace, always a favorite of them all because of its nearness to London—that most exciting city—and the view from the front, of the River Thames. Henry liked its long line of buildings with their towers both circular and octagonal topped by turrets, though Skelton said that the chimneys looked like pears turned upside down. It was his father’s favorite residence, perhaps for the reason that he had rechristened it Richmond after one of the titles he had had before he became King. So they were there very often.
Henry was beginning to believe that his father was not always so calm and self-assured as he tried to pretend he was. Henry sensed quickly that though the people accepted his father as their king they did not like him very much. Their cheers were not spontaneous as they were for him. He always hoped when they were riding in procession that his father would notice how they smiled and waved and called for Prince Henry. He knew how to make them like him. He waved and smiled and sometimes blew kisses—which delighted them. His father had said to him afterward: “The people like you yes but it will be well for you to remember that you are not the Prince of Wales.”
“I know, my lord, that I am not. It is my brother who is he.”
“Remember it,” was all his father said.
The King was a man of few words, and those words did not always express what he was thinking. Henry liked to watch his father; his little eyes would narrow in speculation. Henry knew about Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck. He had exchanged words with Simnel about his falcon for Simnel was a good falconer and very pleased when Henry asked him questions. It was impossible to believe that he had once thought he would be king. Perkin Warbeck was different. He had paid the price of his ambitions. His head had been killed, which was the best way of treating traitors. Skelton talked about Perkin Warbeck. There was no subject about which Skelton could not be lured to talk. Skelton thought Warbeck was probably a natural son of Edward the Fourth because he was so like him.
“Your noble grandfather was in Flanders some months before the birth of Warbeck. And I can tell you this, my young lord, where Edward was there might well spring up little bastards. . . . He was a great man. Great in all ways . . . as you will be, my young bantam lord. Oh yes, I see another such as great Edward strutting there.”
It was disrespectful talk. His father would not agree with it, but Henry liked it. It was pleasant to think he was going to be like his maternal grandfather. Skelton remembered the late King when he was a man of forty and said his years had sat lightly on him. “Even the men cheered Edward,” Skelton went on. “It seems they liked him to admire their wives . . . and as his admiration was of a practical nature if you know what I mean . . .” He nudged young Henry who laughed with delight. “Then you do know what I mean!”
Skelton was a wonderful tutor, for he was a clever poet, a man of education who had studied the classics and French literature; he had translated Cicero’s Letters. That he was ribald and bawdy was accepted because of his achievements and Henry would not have changed him for anyone else. He attended to all aspects of Henry’s education and gave him not only an appreciation of the arts but of women. Sometimes he talked to the boy as though he were a man. Henry liked it. He could never bear anyone to refer to his youth.
At that time Henry was destined for the Church.
He disliked the idea but Skelton laughed at him. “A very good time can be had in the Church, my lord. Particularly for one of your rank. I swear you’ll be Archbishop of Canterbury before you are very old. Think of the power you’ll have.”
“I do not wish to go into the Church.” Henry’s eyes were narrowed. But at the same time he looked up at the sky to placate an angry god who might be listening, for what he feared more than most things was heavenly vengeance. “At least . . .” he added. “At least . . . if I can serve my country in any other way. I do not think I am suited to the Church.”
“Nor are you, my lord, but wise men fit the post to themselves not themselves to the post. And think of our illustrious Pope Alexander the Sixth . . . otherwise known to the world as Rodrigo Borgia. He manages to live a very full and varied life . . . Church or not. Don’t tell me my lord that you as an Archbishop of Canterbury cannot be as clever as the Pope of Rome.”
That was how Skelton talked—laughing, irreverent, full of anecdotes. A very exciting person to be with.
Skelton was glad he was not Arthur’s tutor. “There would be no fun with our Prince of Wales,” he said. “He is a very serious young gentleman. Not like you, my lord of York . . . ah, my lord of York, my Prince Henry, my willing pupil . . . there is a man . . . a man who was born to be king.”
Skelton should never leave him if he could help it.
Henry thought a great deal about his father and he came to the conclusion that he did not really enjoy being a
