Jean Plaidy - To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York

“Have you spoken to him of these matters? Have you spoken to the baker?”

“My lady, I have spoken only to the Earl of Lincoln. He is convinced that this boy is the Earl of Warwick. He was most anxious that he should have your approval of this matter before proceeding. It is dangerous, he said. I know if we went to the King and laid the matter before him we should be clapped into prison and never heard of again.”

“That is very likely,” said the Queen, and Richard Simon began to breathe more easily.

“So the Earl suggested that we come to you.”

“What help does he expect to receive from me?”

“He wants your approval, my lady. He wants to know whether you would consider it wise to pursue this matter.”

“He asks me?”

“He remembers your judgment . . . when you were able to give it. He remembers how you were of such help to our great King Edward.”

“Ah.” She sighed. “There was a king. We shall never see his like again.”

“It is true, my lady, but we must make the best of what is left to us. The Earl wished to know if you thought it wise for us to take up this boy, to discover more of him. And if he did indeed prove to be the Earl of Warwick, attempt to get him to that place where he belongs.”

The Queen nodded slowly. “The House of York would be reigning again. The House of Lancaster was never good for this country.”

“My lady.” He had lifted his eyes to her face and they were full of admiration for her beauty, of course. Elizabeth Woodville had been used to such looks all her life—though they came more rarely now. She had never grown tired of them and never would. “I shall proceed with a good heart. My plan is to take the boy to Ireland.”

“The Irish were always friends of York.”

“So said my lord of Lincoln. He is on his way to Burgundy.”

To Edward’s sister Margaret, of course, the forceful Duchess. She had always been a strong adherent of the House of York and had, like all the family, idolized her magnificent brother Edward. Naturally she would want to see a member of her family, her own nephew on the throne; she hated the usurping Tudor.

“I should be kept informed,” she said.

“We shall see that you are, my lady. And you will be here in the Court. You will be able to keep an eye on what is happening here. The Earl was most anxious that he should have your approval. I think if he did not have it he would want to go no further in this dangerous matter.”

She was delighted. She would keep her eyes open. She would be watchful and any discovery she made would be passed on to the Earl of Lincoln or her sister-in-law of Burgundy.

The priest left her. She felt as though she were alive again. Something was happening and if this were successful she would be the recipient of much gratitude. Land perhaps . . . wealth . . . and above all the opportunity to show the Countess of Richmond that she was not nearly as important as she had believed herself to be and indeed must now be subservient to her archenemy Elizabeth Woodville.

The next step was to get possession of the boy. Richard Simon strolled along to the baker’s shop. Baker Simnel recognized him at once as the priest who came in now and then for his cob loaf.

“There it is, Father,” he said. “All waiting for you. Don’t stand there like a zany, Lambert. Wrap it for his lordship.”

Richard watched Lambert wrap the loaf. Then he turned to the baker.

“I would like to have a word with you. Is there somewhere where we could go in private?”

The baker looked alarmed. He immediately began to search his mind, wondering if he had said or done something which could be brought against him. The priest had seemed very interested in his shop for some time.

“Oh yes . . . yes . . .,”he said. “Come this way. Take charge of the shop, Lambert. And call me if I’m wanted.”

Richard followed him into a dark little room at the back in which were two stools. Richard took one and the baker the other.

“This is good news for you, my friend,” said the priest. “It concerns your boy.”

“Lambert? Why so, Father? What has he done?”

“He has done nothing for which he can be reproached. He is an unusual boy.”

“He’s not so bad, you know. Not as bright as some you might say but he’ll improve, I shouldn’t wonder. He is getting quite good in the shop.”

“He is amazingly handsome.”

“Oh yes, a good-looking boy. He takes after his mother. ’Tis a pity she went. . . .”

“Went?”

The baker raised his eyes. “She was took to Heaven seven years since. It was when our other boy was born.”

“So you have another son.”

“Bright he is . . . brighter than Lambert. . . . He’ll be coming along.”

“I’m glad to hear it because I am going to ask you to let me take Lambert into my service.”

“Into your service . . . but for what purpose?”

“He has an air of dignity, which is appealing. I think he might be trained for the Church.”

“Trained for the Church? My Lambert? Why he’s not . . . well . . . you don’t know it, Father, because why should you . . . but Lambert is what we say here, one groat short.”

“You mean he is different from the rest of you. I perceived that.”

The baker tapped his forehead. “A good boy, mind you . . . but well, shall we say somewhat simple.”

“Nothing that a little learning wouldn’t put right, I’d say. In any case, if you are willing I will take the boy into my household and have him taught. I am traveling to Ireland very soon and should like the boy to be one of my party. There will be little duties for him to perform but if he shows the slightest aptitude he could go far.”

The baker was bewildered. If the man had been any but a priest he would have been highly suspicious. Of course it had been known for some young apprentice to catch the eye of a nobleman and be taken into his service. Why shouldn’t this happen to Lambert?

“Send for the boy,” said the priest.

The baker hesitated.

“On second thoughts,” went on Richard, “let us discuss this matter first. Let us work out a plan. Then it can be presented to the boy and if he agrees we will go ahead.”

“Lambert will do as I say.”

“So much the better for I see that you are a wise man. You will know what is best for the boy and let me remind you this is an opportunity such as will never come his way or yours again for as long as you live. I promise this boy a good future if he is ready to learn.”

“I think if he had opportunities to learn, he would.”

“That is well. He would have a good future. He could become affluent, a comfort to his father in his old age.”

“Tell me more of this.”

“I should like to take him on trial. He will come away with me and soon we will sail for Ireland. He will be taught to read and write and speak like a gentleman. Then he will be ready to study for his profession.”

“You choose Lambert for this? Lambert who is a little . . . simple, you must understand. My other boy . . .”

“No, it is Lambert or no one.”

“I admit the boy has a way with him. I sometimes wonder how I and his mother got him. . . .”The baker laughed sheepishly. “Though she was a good-looking woman, I will say that for her. . . .”

“Well, what is the answer?”

“Lambert shall come with you.”

“Good. I will call for him this day . . . when the shop closes. Say nothing of this to anyone. There are such rumors nowadays.”

The baker swore secrecy and later that day Lambert Simnel left his father’s house in the company of Richard Simon.

Richard Simon quickly realized that he could not have chosen a better subject for his purpose. He had not been mistaken in Lambert. He had a natural dignity, a graceful deportment and, dressed in appropriate clothes, could indeed pass for a boy of high degree. Richard Simon had immediately tackled his speech, which was halting and carried the accent of the streets.

He was sure that could be remedied. It was true that Lambert was simple, but that in itself proved an advantage. He did not question very much. Simon was amazed at the calm way he accepted his transition from his father’s household to that of the priest. It was as though he thought it was the most natural thing in the world for bakers’ sons to be whisked away from their natural environment to become someone else.

He had a natural gift for mimicry and in a matter of days his speech had improved. The Earl of Lincoln had supplied Richard Simon with funds and Lambert was fitted out in a velvet coat, which reached almost to his heels and had elaborate hanging sleeves slashed to show an elegant white shirt beneath it; he had gray hose and pointed shoes and a little hat with a feather. He was delighted with his appearance and moved and walked with even greater grace so pleased was he.

Richard Simon devoted the first few days in teaching him to speak. That was the most important. He must also learn to read a little and write a little. Not much would be demanded in that respect but of course he must have some ability in these arts.

When a few days had passed, Simon was delighted with his results and the more he was with the boy the more pleased he was by his simplicity.

It would have been impossible to impress on a normal boy that he was something other than he actually was. It was different with Lambert. That which his father called simple meant that his mind was pliable.

Simon realized this as soon as he tested him.

“You were not born in a baker’s shop,” he told the boy.

Lambert opened his eyes very wide.

“No. You were born in a noble palace . . . in a castle . . . and your father was not the humble baker. He was a great duke.”

Lambert still continued to stare. Oh yes, it would not be difficult to mold him.

“The great Duke of Clarence. When you were three years old your father died. He was drowned in a butt of malmsey when he was a prisoner in the Tower.”

“The Tower.” He knew the Tower. Like other inhabitants of the capital he saw its gray walls often. It was regarded with a mixture of awe, apprehension and pride. It was one of the landmarks of London. He knew that terrible things happened there. Far away in the maze of his mind he remembered hearing something about a duke who had been drowned in a butt of malmsey.

“Yes, your father was the Duke of Clarence. Your mother was the Lady Isabel. She was the daughter of the Earl of Warwick who was known as the Kingmaker. Your mother died before your father. . . . So you see you soon became an orphan.”

He was still wide-eyed, taking it all in, not questioning what the priest told him. Priests often told of strange happenings . . . the resurrection . . . the Holy Ghost visiting the disciples . . . things such as that, and compared with them the fact that he was in truth the Earl of warwick did not seem so strange. He had his velvet coat; he wore pointed shoes. They showed that he was different.

“The man who now sits on the throne is a usurper. That means he took what did not belong to him and when that is a throne all good and true men want to take from him that which he has stolen and put it back where it belongs.”

The boy nodded.

“My dear little lord, the crown belongs on your head not that of the wicked Tudor who now wears it. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded vaguely. “Well,” went on Simon, “there is no need to . . . yet. There is much to be done. We are ready now to sail for Ireland. You must work at your words. You must throw off the accent you acquired while working in the baker’s shop, where the wicked Tudor put you.”