Chapter
Three
My father, King Henry VII, was a
dour man. He was frugal, so frugal in fact; that I think that he was hated by
courtiers and commoners alike. Of course, no one would ever dare to voice their
hatred of him.
Even I, his son and heir, hated
him at this time. For, he held me to him like a man holds a small pup. I was
not permitted to mix with court, and was surrounded with but a few of my
closest friends, albeit, that I loved them dearly; it was not the life I
wanted. My life was strictly supervised, and from the time I arose at cock
crow, until the moment I fell into my bed at sundown; I was surrounded by my
tutors who were intent on imparting their knowledge to me.
Oh, how I despised my father at
this time. I could not abide his face, which was long and miserable, and his
beady, almost black eyes, which gave the impression of peering into my very
soul. Such was the intensity of his gaze, that when asked to recite the skills
I had been taught, they would confound me and cause me to stutter like a small
and nervous child. Thus, he would frown, and turn away from me without a word
of praise or complaint, but I would know that he would implore my tutors to
work me harder from the next day onwards.
Likewise, my grandmother Margaret,
who was the Kings mother, would also turn from me in disgust at times such as
these. However, later she would seek me out, and berate me about my failings
until I would feel like screaming for mercy. For, the truth was, that although
I hated my father, I hated his mother the more.
It is said, that I was my
grandmother’s favourite. This, I think, is probably true. After all, I rarely
saw her even glance in both of my sisters’ directions, let alone talk to them.
However, to be her favourite was not to be petted and loved, but instead to be
bullied into the superior being, her favouritism envisaged me to be. Therefore,
her patronage was not a blessing, but almost a curse – and I despised her for
it.
However, my hatred did not only
stem from her constant berating of me, and was but only a small part of it. I
despised her, even more so, for her vile treatment of my mother before she
died. My mother was a gentle woman. She was kind, loving, and womanly, unlike
the King’s mother, who was a domineering and callous wretch. Thus, she wrenched
from my mother’s grasp, the control of the royal nurseries and any regular
close contact with my brother, sisters, and I. It was even said, albeit, that
none know that I have heard of these rumours; that the Lady Margaret played a
part in the disappearance of the two small princes in the tower. The boys were
my mother’s brothers, and the then rightful heirs to the throne. Of course, if
this is true, I have a great need to be grateful to my grandmother, for if they
had remained then I would never be King. However, I often wonder how my mother
must have pondered on these rumours. How scared, afraid and alone, she must
have felt. And above all else, how my dominant grandmother must have used the
gossip to her advantage – be it true or false allegations. The thought of my
beautiful, but weak mother, fighting and losing against a woman she was very
likely petrified of – sickens me to my gut. Thus, I will admit that there was
many a time I dreamed being King and therefore able to send my grandmother to
the block.
