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To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York - Jean Plaidy
- Дата:26.06.2024
- Категория: Разная литература / Прочее
- Название: To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York
- Автор: Jean Plaidy
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Аудиокнига "To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York" от Jean Plaidy
👑 В аудиокниге "To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York" вы окунетесь в захватывающий рассказ о короле Генрихе VII и Елизавете из Йорка. Эта история о любви, интригах и борьбе за власть перенесет вас в средневековую Англию, где каждый шаг королей и их наследников был пропитан политическими заговорами и семейными интригами.
🏰 Главный герой книги, король Генрих VII, стремится удержать корону и укрепить свою династию Тюдоров. Его жена, принцесса Елизавета из Йорка, становится для него опорой и союзницей в борьбе за власть. Их история полна испытаний, но их любовь и верность друг другу помогают преодолеть все трудности.
🎧 Автор аудиокниги, Jean Plaidy, виртуозно воссоздает атмосферу средневековой Англии, оживляя исторические факты и персонажей. Ее книги погружают слушателей в мир старинных замков, дворцовых интриг и рыцарских турниров.
📚 Jean Plaidy - псевдоним популярной британской писательницы Элинор Бёртон, которая специализировалась на исторических романах. Ее произведения пользуются огромной популярностью у любителей истории и романтики.
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He twirled a lock of Marion’s hair. She was pregnant. That was pleasing. He liked children; and it was comforting to know how virile he was. He had several bastards for he was a man who found feminine society irresistible, and it had been so ever since he had come to the throne as a boy of fifteen seven years ago. He wondered whether the child would be a girl or boy. He wouldn’t mind. He would be proud of a boy, but he had a greater fondness for the girls.
“Perhaps we’ll call in Damian,” he remarked.
“What to tell us?” asked Marion idly.
He touched her protrusion playfully. “A little girl or a little boy?” he said.
She took his hand and kissed it. “Let’s wait and see,” she said.
“I should like to see the fellow. He says very soon he shall be able to fly.”
Marion laughed. She did not trust the wily Abbot of Tungsland, who had leaped into favor with the King when he had declared that he possessed supernatural powers. James was intrigued. He had always listened to soothsayers—and relied on them perhaps too much.
Marion would not complain. James had been faithful in a way. That was if one did not mind his dallying now and then with other women. He could not help that. It was the nature of James. But his best-loved mistress could hold her place. None of them had ever had reason to complain of his meanness for he was very generous with those who pleased him—and beautiful Marion did that.
She had of late seen his eyes stray to Janet Kennedy. There was a beautiful woman if ever there was one. However she was the mistress of Archibald Douglas, and even James would think twice about upsetting the great earl.
Round the table several of the men had fallen asleep—they had slumped forward in their chairs, some snoring. Others sat with their women caressing them, perhaps rather too intimately for polite society. Not that James cared. They were Scots and would act in the Scottish way. The English who came to the Scottish Court were shocked by what they called the coarseness of the manners there. As for the elegant French they were amazed.
Let them be. It was Scotland for the Scots, said James.
George Gordon, Earl of Huntly was present with his eldest daughter Katharine—a very beautiful girl, James thought her. Her mother had been a daughter of James the First so there was a family connection. If he had not been so deeply involved with Marion—and Katharine was not the kind of girl with whom he could carry on a light intrigue—he might have been tempted. Perhaps it was better as it was. There was a puritanical streak about Katharine—young as she obviously was—and James had never been attracted by puritans. Connoisseur that he was, he had discovered that hot-blooded women were the most satisfactory partners.
Marion followed his gaze round the table and said: “It is different at Westminster, I’ll be bound.”
“You’re right, my love. Henry is a very virtuous man. I have never heard one whisper that he is unfaithful to his Queen.”
“Perhaps people are afraid to whisper.”
“I think not. They whisper of other things. They say that his heart beats faster when he tots up a column of figures and sees what profits he has made than it ever could in the most appealing bedchamber in the world.”
“I see he has not your tastes, James.”
“You should thank Heaven for that, Madam.”
“I do . . . I do. But you are a little afraid of Henry Tudor, are you not?”
“Dear Marion, my ancestors have been afraid of the rulers on the other side of the Border since the beginning of time. Trouble in England therefore means rejoicing in Scotland.”
“And the other way round?” suggested Marion.
“Don’t upset me, woman. I have trouble enough as you know. I wonder how many of these who call themselves my friends, snoring and eating here at my tables, fornicating or committing adultery in the rooms of my castles . . . would as lief thrust a knife in my back as kneel to me in homage.”
“You must keep them in order, my King.”
“One thing is sure: they will always follow me when I make war on the English. That is the common enemy. We can all be friends hating them, but when the English are not coming against us then forsooth we must go against each other.”
“So it is in your interests to preserve your old enemy,” said Marion lightly.
“I hear that he is in a state of panic at this time.”
“Which pleases you mightily?”
“How did you guess? His throne trembles under him, you know.”
“I know. This fellow on the Continent . . . is he really the Duke of York, Edward’s son?”
“Where is Edward’s son? Where are Edward’s sons? Two little boys in the Tower, and they disappear. Where to? Can people disappear in that way?”
“Easily if their throats are cut or they are stifled as I have heard these boys were . . . stifled by downy pillows . . . poor little mites. Did Richard do it as some say?”
“Why should he? He said they were bastards. But Henry has married their sister. He couldn’t marry a bastard . . . which she must have been if they were. It sounds reasonable to me. Henry takes them from the Tower in secret . . . puts them out to be murdered far from the spot. Someone takes pity on the younger boy . . . and there we have our Perkin Warbeck.”
“Reasonable,” she admitted.
“And a great anxiety to old Henry. You can picture him—trembling on his throne. There are many in Europe who are ready to rise up and help the young man fight for his crown.”
“Richard the Fourth. Would Scotland be happier under Richard the Fourth than under Henry the Seventh?”
“Scotland asks only to have an English king to fight. What his name is is of no matter. Scotland asks to harry the English King and if it can be done by making him change his name from Henry to Richard so much the better. Scotland is happiest when Englishmen are fighting against Englishmen because it saves the Scots the trouble of fighting them. I like to see my poor old enemy Henry being frightened out of his wits by this young man from Flanders.”
“Is he frightened? He seems to be holding his crown rather well.”
“Who can say, little love? He has to be continually on the alert. That has to take his mind from his money bags. And he won’t like having to spend some of those contents on war, will he?”
“James, you are malicious.”
“I am indeed where Henry is concerned . . . but kind and loving to my friends, do you not agree?”
“I would agree with that.”
“I am thankful to have your approval. I fancy I don’t have Huntly’s at this moment. He is wondering whether his daughter Katharine should be in such company.”
“My lord, I trust you will keep your eyes from Katharine. She is not for you.”
“Well I know it. Huntly need have no fears for his virtuous daughter. We must find a worthy husband for her. That I assure you is the reason why he has brought her to Court. Now what say you to sending for Damian?”
“If it so please my lord, then let it be.”
“I’ll send for him tomorrow. Now my bed calls . . . and it would seem it does for many of our friends.”
The King stood up, and the company rose with him.
He bade them all a good and safe night; then with Marion he went to his bedchamber.
Damian appeared the next day. The Abbot of Tungsland had come far since he had attracted the attention of the King and this he had done through what he proclaimed to be knowledge of the art of magic.
He was an astrologer, but there were other astrologers. Damian had special gifts. He could tell the King what was about to happen. He could tell him what to avoid. He had had some luck in those respects and James, who wanted to believe, was inclined to pass over Damian’s mistakes and remember his successes.
Marion had once said: “You help Damian when he is groping for messages and things from the unknown. You supply him with little bits of information, which help him make the right guess.”
James had been really displeased. Easy-going as he normally was he could be angry if anyone spoke disparagingly of something so near his heart as the effectiveness of the occult. Marion was quick to learn lessons. She would have to be careful; her association with James had been dangerously long and she saw the look in his eyes when they strayed to Janet Kennedy—mistress of old Bell-the-Cat though she might be. Kings were not all that averse to taking what Earls regarded as theirs; and James in his passionate pursuit of a mistress would be more determined than he had shown himself to be pursuing an enemy in war.
So Marion said no more about Damian and feigned an interest in his work, which she did not really feel, and when Damian arrived she was with the King.
“Damian . . . my good friend,” cried the King, embracing the abbot. “I am right glad to see you here.”
“My lord’s wish is his command as far as I am concerned. I am always at your service, Sire.”
“Well, have you looked at the stars of late?”
“I search them continuously.”
“On my behalf I hope.”
“My lord King is never far from my mind.”
“Well, Damian, well . . . what sex is the child my dear Marion carries so proudly? Is he the King’s son?”
Marion cried: “James! How could he be another’s!”
“Impossible, impossible dear lady. All know your fidelity to their sorrow . . . some declare I am sure. I was about to say, is he the King’s son . . . or daughter?”
This was the sort of question which Damian liked least. One could so easily . . . and so quickly . . . be proved wrong. If one predicted some things it was easy to adjust one’s meaning if the need arose, but the sex of a child—a plain yes or no—that was tricky.
He placed his hands on the girl. She was large. The manner in which she carried the child indicated it might be a boy. The last was a girl. What the King wanted to hear was that it was a boy and his reward would probably be greater if he made the King happy. It was a chance he had to take in any case so why not take the happy chance?
“I think I can say with certainty that the child my lady carries is a boy . . . and your son, my lord.”
“Bless you, Damian. That’s good hearing, eh, Marion?”
“The best, my lord.”
“And will he grow up to be a good boy to his father?”
“He will,” said Marion. “I shall see to that.”
“There, Damian, you have a rival. The lady is looking into the future and finding the answer before you do.”
“The lady will indeed do all she says. I can confirm that.”
“What a pair of comforters I have! Now tell me of my old enemy below the Border. What trials can you search out for him, Damian?”
“He is beset by them. His eldest boy is sickly.”
“Is he going to die?”
“Not yet . . . but later . . .”
“Ah, there’s another though. A sprightly little fellow by all accounts . . . recently made Duke of York by his doting father.”
“To show, my lord, that there should be but one Duke of York.”
“Well, there is, eh? The other is the true King of England.”
Perkin Warbeck. Here was dangerous ground for Damian. He was always very well informed of affairs so that he knew exactly what was happening. That enabled him to give a considered judgment and once again he had been lucky in being right more often than wrong.
He had the gift of making his prophecies vague. That was the secret. A good sorcerer couched his words in clever obscurity so that when a certain thing happened people said, “Oh that was what Damian meant!”
It was very helpful.
He said now: “A visitor will come to your shores, my lord.”
The King was alert. Was he expecting someone? wondered Damian. It was always wise to say a visitor was coming because visitors came so often to a king. Damian knew that the French were eager to see Perkin Warbeck harry the King of England and that Margaret of Burgundy was helping him, and he knew that the Irish had helped in the past. It was very likely that some messenger would come to Scotland from one of these sources. So it was safe to mention a visitor.
“And how could I receive this visitor?”
“Receive him well. Listen to what he has to say. He will ask your help. Give it.”
That was wise. It was always good to listen and people usually came in supplication. It was never a bad thing to give help when it was asked. This was easy. It was the direct questions such as the sex of a child that made him uneasy.
The Abbot joined the courtiers at the dinner table that day. They all fired questions at him, which amused the King.
And while they were at the meal one of the servants came running into the hall; his face was red and he was almost inarticulate in his desire to impart his startling news.
“A fleet of ships has been sighted off the coast of Scotland, my lord. They are saying it is Perkin Warbeck who comes to you.”
The King rose excitedly. Warbeck! The man who was claiming the English throne. It would be very amusing—and perhaps profitable—to have the man under his roof.
He looked at Damian who was smiling with satisfaction.
“Blessings on you, Damian, here is your visitor. Why the words were scarcely out of your mouth. . . .”
“I did not know that he would be here so soon, my lord,” said Damian modestly.
“You excel yourself, Damian; now I have only to wait for the birth of my son.” He turned to the company. “I think we should prepare to greet our guest,” he said.
James received Perkin Warbeck at Stirling Castle. Perkin had lived as a royal personage for four years and having been schooled in the part by none other than the Duchess of Burgundy, he had come to believe that he was the son of Edward the Fourth. So many times he had told the story of his being handed over to a man who was too soft-hearted to murder him and had set him free to roam the world for a few years before disclosing his identity that he believed it.
To converse with grace, to accept the homage due to his assumed rank, to behave with the manner of a courtier—this was all second nature to him.
Some of the noblemen of the Scottish Court were ready to laugh at his dandified manners because his gracious and graceful behavior made them feel uncouth.
When he had the throne of England, he told James, he would remember those who had helped in his need. He had made many friends during this period of waiting and they could rest assured he would not forget them.
James said he was welcome and offered him a residence and one thousand two hundred pounds a year. Damian had said he should make his visitor welcome and this was surely that visitor.
Letters arrived from Ireland from Lord Desmond telling James that the Irish would support Richard the Fourth and drive the usurping Tudor from the throne. Moreover James took a fancy to Perkin. The young man talked well and seemed in no great hurry to go to make war into England. He was quite content to dally at the Court; he danced well, sang well; indeed he was a gracious courtier and James could well imagine how concerned the Tudor must be below the Border. The last place he would want his enemy to be was plotting with that other ever-present adversary. Moreover it would be easier to march into England over the Border than it ever could be by sea from the Continent. That was a hazardous matter but to creep over the Border, to plant the flag on English soil—that had been done many times and would be done again.
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