The History of King Richard the Third

by Master Thomas More

Undersheriff of London

c. 1513

Edited by Gerard B. Wegemer and Travis Curtright

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King Edward of that name the Fourth, after he had lived fifty and three years, seven months, and six days, and thereof reigned two and twenty years, one month, and eight days, died at Westminster the ninth day of April, the year of our redemption, a thousand four hundred four score and three, leaving much fair issue, that is, Edward the Prince, thirteen years of age; Richard Duke of York, two years younger; Elizabeth, whose fortune and grace was after to be queen, wife unto King Henry the Seventh, and mother unto the Eighth; Cecily not so fortunate as fair; Brigette, who, representing the virtue of her whose name she bore, professed and observed a religious life in Dertford, a house of cloistered Nuns; Anne, who was after honorably married unto Thomas, then Lord Howard and after Earl of Surrey; and Katherine, who long time tossed in either fortune—sometime in wealth, often in adversity—at the last, if this be the last, for yet she lives, is by the goodness of her nephew, King Henry the Eighth, in very prosperous state, and worthy her birth and virtue.

This noble prince died at his palace of Westminster and, with great funeral honor and heaviness of his people from thence conveyed, was interred at Windsor. He was a king of such governance and behavior in time of peace (for in war each part must needs be another’s enemy) that there was never any prince of this land attaining the crown by battle so heartily beloved by the substance of the people, nor he himself so specially in any part of his life as at the time of his death.

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He was a goodly personage, and very princely to behold: of heart, courageous; politic in counsel; in adversity nothing abashed; in prosperity, rather joyful than proud; in peace, just and merciful; in war, sharp and fierce; in the field, bold and hardy, and nevertheless, no further than wisdom would, adventurous. Whose wars whosoever would well consider, he shall no less commend his wisdom when he withdrew than his manhood when he vanquished. He was of visage lovely, of body mighty, strong, and clean made; however, in his latter days with over-liberal diet [1], he became somewhat corpulent and burly, and nonetheless not uncomely; he was of youth greatly given to fleshly wantonness, from which health of body in great prosperity and fortune, without a special grace, hardly refrains. This fault not greatly grieved the people, for one man’s pleasure could not stretch and extend to the displeasure of very many, and the fault was without violence, and besides that, in his latter days, it lessened and well left.

In which time of his latter days, this realm was in quiet and prosperous estate: no fear of outward enemies, no war in hand, nor none toward, but such as no man looked for; the people toward the Prince, not in a constrained fear, but in a willing and loving obedience; among themselves, the commons in good peace. The lords whom he knew at variance, he himself in his deathbed appeased. [2] He had left all gathering of money (which is the only thing that withdraws the hearts of Englishmen from the prince), nor anything he intended to take in

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So died (as I have said) this noble king in that time during which his life was most desired. The love of his people and their entire affection toward him would have been to his noble children a marvelous fortress and sure armor (having in themselves also as many gifts of nature, as many princely virtues, as much goodly ability as their age could receive), if division and dissention of their friends had not unarmed them and left them destitute, and the execrable desire of sovereignty provoked their uncle to their destruction, who, if either kind [2] or kindness had held place, must needs have been their chief defense. For Richard, the Duke of Gloucester, by nature their uncle, by office their protector, to their father beholden, to themselves by oath and allegiance bound, all the bands broken that bind man and man together, without any respect of God or the world, unnaturally contrived to bereave them, not only their dignity, but also their lives. But because this Duke’s demeanor [3] ministers in effect all the whole

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Richard, Duke of York, a noble man and a mighty, had begun not by war but by law to challenge the crown, putting his claim into the Parliament. There his cause was either for right or favor so far forth advanced that King Henry (although he had a goodly prince [Edward, son by Margaret of Anjou]) [1] utterly rejected his own blood [2] ; the crown was by authority of Parliament [3] entailed unto the Duke of York, and his male issue in remainder, immediately after the death of King Henry. But the Duke, not enduring so long to tarry, but intending under pretext of dissension and debate arising in the realm, to reign before his time and to take upon him the rule in King Henry’s life, was with many nobles of the realm at Wakefield slain, leaving three sons—Edward, George, and Richard.

All three, as they were great states [4] of birth, so were they great and stately of stomach, greedy and ambitious of authority, and impatient of partners. Edward, revenging his father’s death, deprived King Henry and attained the crown.

George, Duke of Clarence, was a goodly noble prince, and at all points fortunate, if either his own ambition had not set him against his brother, or the envy of his enemies had not set his brother against him. For were it by the Queen and the lords of her blood, who highly maligned the King’s kindred (as women commonly, not of malice but of nature, hate them whom their husbands love), or were it a proud appetite of the Duke himself intending to be king, in any case, heinous treason was there laid to his charge, and, finally, were he faulty or were he faultless, attainted was he by Parliament and judged to the death, and thereupon hastily drowned in a butt of malmesey, whose death, King Edward (although he commanded it), when he knew it was done, piteously bewailed and sorrowfully repented.

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Richard, the third son, of whom we now treat, was in wit and courage equal with either of them, in body and prowess far under them both: little of stature, ill featured of limbs, crooked-backed, his left shoulder much higher than his right, hard-favored in appearance, and such as is in the case of lords called warlike, in other men called otherwise. He was malicious, wrathful, envious, and from before his birth, ever perverse. It is for truth reported that the Duchess his mother had so much ado in her travail to birth him that she could not be delivered of him uncut, and he came into the world with the feet forward, as men be borne outward, [1] and (as the story runs) also not untoothed. Either men of hatred reported the above for truth or else nature changed her course in his beginning—in the course of whose life many things were unnaturally committed. No unskilled captain was he in war, for which his disposition was more suited than for peace. Sundry victories had he, and sometimes overthrows, but never by fault of his own person, either of hardiness or political order. Free was he called when dispensing gifts, and somewhat above his power liberal; with large gifts he got for himself unsteadfast friendship, for which he was glad to pillage and spoil in other places, and get for himself steadfast hatred. He was close and secret, a deep dissembler, lowly of countenance, arrogant of heart, outwardly friendly where he inwardly hated, not omitting to kiss whom he thought to kill; pitiless and cruel, not for evil will always, but for ambition, and either for the surety or increase of his estate. Friend and foe was much the same; where his advantage grew, he spared no man death whose life withstood his purpose. He slew with his own hands King Henry the Sixth, being prisoner in the Tower, as men constantly say, and that without commandment or knowledge of the King, who would, undoubtedly, if he had intended such a thing, have appointed that butcherly office to some other than his own born brother.

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Some wise men also think that his plan—covertly conveyed—lacked not in helping his brother Clarence to his death, which he resisted openly, although somewhat (as men judged) more faintly than one who was heartily concerned for his welfare. And they who thus judged, they think he for a long time during King Edward’s life forethought to be king in case the King his brother (whose life he looked to, so that evil diet should shorten it) should happen to die (as indeed he did) while his children were young. And they judged that for this reason: he was glad of his brother’s death, that Duke of Clarence, whose life must needs have hindered his plans, whether the same Duke of Clarence had kept himself true to his nephew the young King, or enterprised to be king himself. But of all this point, is there no certainty, and whosoever divines upon conjectures may as well shoot too far as too short. However, this have I by credible information learned, [1] that the same night in which King Edward died, one Mistlebrook, long before morning, came in great haste to the house of one Potter, dwelling in Redcross Street without Cripplegate, and when he was with hasty rapping quickly let in, he revealed unto Potter that King Edward was departed. “By my truth man,” said Potter, “then will my master the Duke of Gloucester be king.” What cause he had so to think it is hard to say: whether he, being well disposed toward him, knew anything about such a thing the Duke had purposed, or otherwise he had any inkling thereof, for he was not ever likely to speak of it.

But now to return to the course of this history, were it that the Duke of Gloucester had of old planned this conclusion, or was now at first thereunto moved and put in hope by the occasion of the tender age of the young princes his nephews (as opportunity and likelihood of success put a man in courage of what he never intended), certain is it that he contrived their destruction with the usurpation of the regal dignity upon himself. And forasmuch as he well

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King Edward in his life, although this dissension between his friends somewhat irked him, yet in his good health he somewhat the less regarded it because he thought whatsoever business should fall between them, he should always be able to rule both parties. But in his last sickness, when he perceived his natural strength so sore enfeebled that he despaired all recovery, then he, considering the youth of his children, suspecting nothing less than what would happen, and well foreseeing that many harms might grow by family debates while the youth of his children lacked discretion of themselves, and good counsel of their friends—because either party should counsel for their own advantage and by pleasant advice win themselves favor, rather than by profitable advertisement do the children good—he called some of them before him who were at variance, and especially, the Lord Marquis Dorset, the Queen’s son by her first husband, and Richard [2] the Lord Hastings, a noble man, then lord chamberlain, against whom the Queen specially grudged for that great favor the King showed him, and also because she thought him secretly familiar with the King in wanton company. Her kindred also bore him dislike, as well for that the King had made him Captain of Calais (which office the Lord Rivers, brother to the Queen, claimed because of the King’s former

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When these lords with diverse others of both parties were come into his presence, the King, lifting up himself and propped up with pillows, as it is reported, after this fashion said unto them:

“My lords, my dear kinsmen and allies, in what plight I lie, you see, and I feel. By which, the less while I expect to live with you, the more deeply am I moved to care in what case I leave you, for such as I leave you, such be my children like to find you. That if they should (God forbid) find you at variance, might by chance fall themselves at war before their discretion would serve to set you at peace. You see their youth, of which I reckon the only security to rest in your concord. For it suffices not that all you love them, if each of you hate the other. If they were men, your faithfulness by chance would suffice. But childhood must be maintained by men’s authority, and slippery youth supported with elder counsel, which neither they can have unless you give it, nor can you give it if you do not agree. For where each labors to break what the other makes, and for hatred of each other’s person impugns each other’s counsel, it must needs be long before any good conclusion go forward. And also while either party labors to be chief, flattery shall have more place than plain and faithful advice, of which must needs ensue the evil bringing up of the Prince, whose mind in tender youth infected shall readily fall to mischief and riot, and draw down with this noble realm to ruin—unless grace turn him to wisdom, which if God send, then they who by evil means before pleased him best shall after fall furthest out of favor, so that ever at length evil plans drive to nothing and good plain ways prosper.

“Great variance has there long been between you, not always for great causes. Sometimes a thing right well intended, our misconstruction turns unto worse, or a small displeasure done us, either our own

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“Such a pestilent serpent is ambition and desire of vainglory and sovereignty that among those whom he once enters, he creeps forth so far till with division and variance he turns all to mischief: First, longing to be next to the best; afterward, equal with the best; and at last, chief and above the best. For immoderate appetite of worship—and therefore debate and dissension—has caused what loss, what sorrow, what trouble within these few years in this realm, I pray God as well forget as we well remember. Such things, if I could as well have foreseen as I have with my more pain than pleasure experienced, by God’s blessed Lady (that was ever his oath), I would never have won the courtesy of men’s knees with the loss of so many heads. [1]

“But since things passed cannot be brought back, much ought we the more beware by what occasion we have taken so great hurt before, that we soon afterwards fall not in that occasion again. Now be those griefs past, and all is (God be thanked) quiet, and likely right

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“Wherefore in these last words that ever I look to speak with you, I exhort you and require you all, for the love that I have ever bore to you, for the love that our Lord bears to us all, from this time forward, all griefs forgotten, each of you love the other. Which I verily trust you will, if you anything earthly regard—either God or your King, affinity or kindred, this realm, your own country, or your own surety.”

And therewithal, the King, no longer enduring to sit up, laid himself down on his right side, his face toward them, and none was there present that could refrain from weeping. But the lords, encouraging him with as good words as they could and answering for the time as they thought to stand with his pleasure, there in his presence (as by their words appeared), each forgave the other and joined their hands together, when (as it after appeared by their deeds) their hearts were far asunder.

As soon as the King was departed, that noble Prince his son drew toward London, who at the time of his father’s death kept household at Ludlow in Wales. [2] Such country, being far off from the law and recourse to justice, was begun to be far out of good will and had grown up wild with robbers and thieves walking at liberty uncorrected. And for this reason the Prince was, in the life of his father, sent thither, to the end that the authority of his presence should restrain evilly disposed persons from the boldness of their former outrages. [3] To the governance and ordering of this young Prince, at his sending thither, was there appointed Sir Anthony Woodville, Lord

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This plan that the Queen not unwisely devised whereby her blood might from the beginning be rooted in the Prince’s favor, the Duke of Gloucester turned unto their destruction, and upon that ground set the foundation of all his unhappy building. For whomsoever he perceived either at variance with them or bearing favor to himself, he revealed to them, some by mouth, some by writing and secret messengers, that it was neither reasonable nor in any way to be suffered that the young King, their master and kinsman, should be in the hands and custody of his mother’s kindred, sequestered from their company and attendance, because everyone owed the Prince service as faithful as they, and because many of them were of a far more honorable part of kin than his mother’s side. “Their blood,” said he, “saving the King’s pleasure, was fully unsuitable to be matched with his own, which was now to be removed from the King—and therefore the less noble men to be left about him—is,” said he, “neither honorable to his Majesty nor to us, and also to his Grace no surety to have the mightiest of his friends away from him, and unto us no little jeopardy to suffer our well-proved evil willers to grow overgreat in authority with the youthful Prince, who is light of belief and easily persuaded.

“You remember, I trust, King Edward himself, although he was a man of age and of discretion, yet was he in many things ruled by the Queen’s faction more than stood either with his honor or our profit, or to the advantage of any man else, except only the immoderate advancement of the Queen’s family, which group either sorer thirsted after their own well being, or our woe, it were hard I suppose to guess. And if some folks’ friendship had not held better place with

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With these words and writings and such others, the Duke of Gloucester soon set afire them that were of themselves easy to kindle, and especially two, Edward [1] Duke of Buckingham and Richard [2] Lord Hastings (the chamberlain), both men of honor and of great power: the one by long succession from his ancestry, the other by his office [3] and the King’s favor. These two, not bearing each to the other so much love as hatred both unto the Queen’s part, on this point accorded together with the Duke of Gloucester: that they would utterly remove from the King’s company all his mother’s friends, under the name of their enemies. With this concluded, the Duke of Gloucester, understanding that the lords who were about the King intended to bring him up to his coronation, accompanied with such power of their friends that it should be hard for him to bring his purpose to pass without the gathering and great assembling of people and in manner of open war, the end of which he knew to be dubious, and with the King being on their side, his part should have the

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The Queen, being in this way persuaded, such word sent unto her son and unto her brother, being about the King; and besides that, the Duke of Gloucester himself and other chief lords of his company wrote unto the King so reverently and to the Queen’s friends there so lovingly that they, nothing earthly mistrusting, brought the King up in great haste, not in good speed, with a sober company. [1]

Now when the King on his way to London had gone from Northampton, then these Dukes of Gloucester and Buckingham came thither. But the Lord Rivers, the King’s uncle, remained behind, intending on the morrow to follow the King, and be with him at Stony Stratford, eleven miles thence, early before he departed. So was there

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But when the Lord Rivers understood the gates closed and the ways on every side beset, neither his servants nor himself allowed to go out, perceiving well so great a thing without his knowledge was not begun for nothing, comparing this manner present with this last night’s cheer, in so few hours so great a change he marvelously disliked. However, since he could not get away—and keep himself close, he would not do so lest he should seem to hide himself for some secret fear of his own fault, whereof he saw no such fault in himself—he determined, upon the surety of his own conscience, to go boldly to them and inquire what this matter might mean. Whom, as soon as they saw, they began to quarrel with him and say that he intended to set distance between the King and them and to bring

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And as soon as they came in his presence, they alighted down with all their company about them. To whom the Duke of Buckingham said, “Go before, gentlemen and yeomen, keep your rooms.” And thus in a goodly array, they came to the King and, on their knees in very humble fashion, assuaged his Grace, who received them in very joyous and amiable manner, nothing earthly knowing nor mistrusting as yet. But even by and by, in his presence, they picked a quarrel with the Lord Richard Grey, the King’s other brother by his mother, [1] saying that he, with the Lord Marquis [2] his brother and the Lord Rivers his uncle, had planned to rule the King and the realm, and to set variance among the lords, and to subdue and destroy the noble blood of the realm. Toward the accomplishing whereof, they said that the Lord Marquis had entered into the Tower of London, and thence taken out the King’s treasure, and sent men to the sea. All of which things, these dukes knew well, were done for good purposes and necessary ones by the whole council at London, except that they must say something.

Unto which words, the King answered, “What my brother marquis has done I cannot say. But in good faith I dare well answer for mine uncle Rivers and my brother here, that they be innocent of any such matters.”

“Yea, my Liege,” said the Duke of Buckingham, “they have kept their dealing in these matters far from the knowledge of your good

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And forthwith they arrested the Lord Richard and Sir Thomas Vaughan, knight, in the King’s presence, and brought the King and all back unto Northampton, where they took again further counsel. And there they sent away from the King whomever it pleased them, and set new servants about him, such as liked them better than him. At which dealing he wept and was nothing content, but it remedied not. And at dinner the Duke of Gloucester sent a dish from his own table to the Lord Rivers, praying him to be of good cheer, all should be well enough. And he thanked the Duke, and prayed the messenger to bear it to his nephew, the Lord Richard, with the same message for his comfort, who he thought had more need of comfort, as one to whom such adversity was foreign. But for himself, he had been all his days used to a life therewith, and therefore could bear it the better. But for all this comfortable courtesy of the Duke of Gloucester, he sent the Lord Rivers and the Lord Richard with Sir Thomas Vaughan into the north country to different places to prison and, afterwards, all to Pomfrait, where they were, in conclusion, beheaded.

In this way the Duke of Gloucester took upon himself the order and governance of the young king, whom, with much honor and humble reverence, he conveyed upward toward the city.

But as soon as the tidings of this matter came hastily to the Queen, a little before the midnight following, and that in the sorest way, that the King her son was taken; her brother, her son, and her other friends arrested, and sent to no man knew where, to be done with God knows what. With such tidings, the Queen, in great fright and heaviness, bewailing her child’s ruin, her friends’ mischance, and her own misfortune, damning the time that ever she spoke in opposition to the gathering of power about the King, got herself in all haste possible, with her younger son and her daughters, out of the Palace of Westminster in which she then lay, and into the sanctuary, lodging

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Now came there in one messenger likewise, not long after midnight, from the Lord Chamberlain unto the Archbishop of York, then Chancellor of England, to his place not far from Westminster. And he showed the servants he had tidings of so great importance that his master gave him charge not to tolerate their master’s rest; they denied not to wake him, nor he to admit this messenger into his bedside, from whom he heard that these dukes were gone back with the King’s Grace from Stony Stratford unto Northampton.

“Notwithstanding, sir,” said he, “my Lord sends your Lordship word that there is no fear, for he assures you that all shall be well.”

“I assure him,” said the Archbishop, “be it as well as it will, it will never be so well as we have seen it.” And thereupon, by and by, after the messenger departed, he caused in all the haste all his servants to be called up, and so with his own household about him, and every man armed, he took the Great Seal [1] with him, and came yet before day unto the Queen. About whom he found much heaviness, rumble, haste and business, carriage and conveyance of her stuff into sanctuary—chests, coffers, packs, bundles, trusses, all on men’s backs, no man unoccupied; some loading, some going, some discharging, some coming for more, some breaking down the walls to bring in the shortest way, and some yet drew to them that helped to carry the wrong way.

The Queen herself sat alone, down on the rushes, all desolate and dismayed, whom the Archbishop comforted in the best manner he could, showing her that he trusted the matter was nothing so sore as she took it for, and that he was put in good hope, and out of fear, by the message sent him from the Lord Chamberlain.

“Ah, he is worthy of woe,” said she, “for he is one of them that labors to destroy me and my blood.”

“Madam,” said he, “be you of good cheer. For I assure you if they

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By which time he might in his chamber window, see all the Thames full of boats of the Duke of Gloucester’s servants, watching that no man should go to sanctuary, nor none could pass unsearched. Then was there great commotion and murmur as well in other places about—especially in the city; the people all over were diversely speculating upon this dealing. And some lords, knights, and gentlemen, either for favor of the Queen, or for fear of themselves, assembled in sundry companies, and went by companies in armor, and many also, for that they reckoned this conduct attempted, not so specially against the other lords, as against the King himself in the disturbance of his coronation.

But then, by and by, the lords assembled together at London. To ward which meeting, the Archbishop of York, fearing that it would be ascribed (as it was indeed) to his overmuch lightness that he so suddenly had yielded up the Great Seal to the Queen—to whom the custody thereof nothing pertained without special commandment of the King—secretly sent for the Seal again and brought it with him after the customary manner. And at this meeting, the Lord Hastings, whose loyalty toward the King no man doubted nor needed to doubt, persuaded the lords to believe that the Duke of Gloucester was sure and fastly faithful to his Prince and that the Lord Rivers and Lord Richard with the other knights were, for matters attempted by them against the Dukes of Gloucester and Buckingham, put under arrest for the dukes’ safety not for the King’s jeopardy and that they were

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With these arguments [1] of the Lord Hastings—part of which he believed; part, he knew the contrary—these commotions were somewhat appeased, but especially because the Dukes of Gloucester and Buckingham were so near, and came so quickly on with the King, in none other manner, with none other voice or semblance, than to his coronation, causing the story to be blown about that those lords and knights who were taken had contrived the destruction of the Dukes of Gloucester and Buckingham and of other noble blood of the realm, to the end that they themselves would alone manage and govern the King at their pleasure. And for the false proof thereof, some of the dukes’ servants rode with the carts of the stuff that were taken (among such stuff, no marvel, but that some of it were armor, which, at the breaking up of that household, must needs either be brought away or cast away), and they showed it unto the people all the way as they went: “Lo, here be the barrels of armor that these traitors had privately conveyed in their carriage to destroy the noble lords withal.” This device, although it made the matter to wise men more unlikely, who well perceived that, if the intenders meant war, they would rather

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When the King approached near to the city, Edmund Shaa, goldsmith then mayor, with William White and John Mathew, sheriffs, and all the other aldermen in scarlet, with five hundred horse of the citizens in violet, received him reverently at Hornsey, and riding from thence, accompanied him in to the city, which he entered the fourth day of May, the first and last year of his reign.

But the Duke of Gloucester bore himself in open sight so reverently to the Prince, with all semblance of lowliness, that from the great obloquy in which he was so late before, he was suddenly fallen in so great trust, that at the Council next assembled, he was the only man chosen and thought most suitable to be Protector of the King and his realm, so that—were it destiny or were it folly—the lamb was given to the wolf to keep. At which Council also the Archbishop of York, Chancellor of England, who had delivered up the Great Seal to the Queen, was thereof greatly reproved, and the Seal taken from him and delivered to Doctor Russell, Bishop of Lincoln, a wise man and good and of much experience, and one of the best learned men undoubtedly that England had in his time. Diverse lords and knights were appointed unto diverse offices. The Lord Chamberlain and some others kept still their offices that they had before.

Now all was such that the Protector so sore thirsted for the finishing of what he had begun—though he thought every day a year till it were achieved—yet he dared no further attempt as long as he had but half his prey in hand, well knowing that if he deposed the one brother, all the realm would fall to the other, if he either remained in sanctuary or should by chance be shortly conveyed farther away to his liberty.

Wherefore straight away at the next meeting of the lords at the Council, he proposed unto them that it was a heinous deed of the

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“The prosperity whereof stands,” said he, “not all in keeping from enemies or ill viands, [1] but partly also in recreation and moderate pleasure, which he cannot in this tender youth take in the company of elder persons, but in the familiar conversation of those who be neither far under nor far above his age, and nevertheless of state appropriate to accompany his noble majesty. Wherefore with whom rather than with his own brother? And if any man think this consideration light (which I think no man thinks who loves the King), let him consider that sometimes without small things, greater cannot stand. And verily it redounds greatly to the dishonor both of the King’s Highness and of all us that have been about his Grace, to have it run in every man’s mouth, not in this realm only, but also in other lands (as evil words walk far), that the King’s brother should be glad to keep sanctuary. For every man will suppose that no man will so do for nothing. And such evil opinion, once fastened in men’s hearts, hard it is to wrest out, and may grow to more grief than any man here can divine.

“Wherefore I think it were not worst to send unto the Queen for the redress of this matter some honorable trusty man, such as both values the King’s welfare and the honor of his Council, and is also in favor and credible with her. For all which considerations, none seems to me more suitable than our reverent father here present, my Lord Cardinal, [2] who may in this matter do most good of any man, if it please him to take the pain. Which I doubt not of his goodness he

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“And if she be perchance so obstinate, and so precisely set upon her own will that neither his wise and faithful instruction can move her, nor any man’s reason content her, then shall we, by mine advice, by the King’s authority, fetch him out of that prison, and bring him to his noble presence, in whose continual company he shall be so well cherished and so honorably treated that all the world shall to our honor, and her reproach, perceive that it was only malice, audacity, or folly, that caused her to keep him there. This is my mind in this matter for this time, except any of your lordships anything perceive to the contrary. For never shall I by God’s grace so wed myself to mine own will, but that I shall be ready to change it upon your better advice.”

When the Protector had spoken, all the Council affirmed that the motion was good and reasonable, and to the King and the Duke his brother, honorable, and a thing that should cease great murmur in the realm, if the mother might be by good means induced to deliver him. Such a thing the Archbishop of Canterbury, whom they all agreed also to be thereto most appropriate, took upon himself to move her, and therein to give his uttermost best effort. However, if she could be in no way entreated with her good will to deliver him, then thought he and such others as were of the clergy present that it were not in any way to be attempted to take him out against her will. For it would be a thing that should turn to the great grudge of all men, and high displeasure of God, if the privilege of the holy place should now be broken, which had so many years been kept, and which both kings

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“And therefore,” said the Archbishop of Canterbury, “God forbid that any man should for any earthly enterprise break the immunity and liberty of that sacred sanctuary that has been the safeguard of so many a good man’s life. And I trust,” said he, “with God’s grace, we shall not need it. But for any manner need, I would not we should do it. I trust that she shall be with reason contented, and all things in good manner obtained. And if it happen that I bring it not so to pass, yet shall I toward it so far forth do my best, that you shall all well perceive that no lack of my dutiful efforts, but the mother’s dread and womanish fear, shall be the impediment.”

“Womanish fear, nay womanish perversity,” said the Duke of Buckingham. “For I dare take it upon my soul, she well knows she needs no such thing to fear, either for her son or for herself. For as for her, here is no man that will be at war with women. Would God some of the men of her kin were women too, and then should all be soon at rest. However, there is none of her kin the less loved for that they be her kin, but for their own evil deserving. And nevertheless, if we loved neither her nor her kin, yet were there no cause to think that we should hate the King’s noble brother, to whose Grace we ourself be of kin. Whose honor, if she as much desired as our dishonor and as much regard took to his well being as to her own will, she would be as loath to suffer him from the King as any of us be. “For if she have any wit (as would God she had as good will as she

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“Now then, if she refuse in the deliverance of him, to follow the counsel of them whose wisdom she knows, whose truth she well trusts, it is easy to perceive that perversity hinders her, and not fear. But go to, suppose that she fear (as who may let her to fear her own shadow), the more she fears to deliver him, the more ought we fear to leave him in her hands. For if she cast such fond doubts that she fear his hurt, then will she fear that he shall be fetched thence. For she will soon think that if men were set (which God forbid) upon so great a mischief, the sanctuary would little impede them, for good men might, as I think, without sin somewhat less regard it than they do.

“Now then, if she doubt lest he might be fetched from her, is it not likely enough that she shall send him somewhere out of the realm? Verily, I look for none other. And I doubt not but she now thinks with great exertion on it, even as we consider the hindrance of sanctuary. And if she might happen to bring that to pass (as it were no great accomplishment, we letting her alone), all the world would say that we were a wise sort of counselors about a King—we that let his brother be cast away under our noses. And therefore I assure you faithfully for my mind, I will rather defy her plans, fetch him away, than leave him there, till her perversity or fond fear convey him away. “And yet will I break no sanctuary therefore. For verily since the privileges of that place and other like have been of long continued, I am not he that would be about to break them. And in good faith if they were now to begin, I would not be he that should be about to

25

“Then look me now how few sanctuary men there be whom any favorable necessity compelled to go thither. And then see on the other side what a sort there be commonly therein, of them whom willful prodigality has brought to nought. What a rabble of thieves, murderers, and malicious, heinous traitors, and that in two places specially: the one at the elbow of the city, the other in the very bowels. [1] I dare well avow it. Weigh the good that they do with the hurt that comes of them, and you shall find it much better to lack both, than have both. And this I say, although they were not abused as they now be, and so long have been, that I fear me ever they will be while men be afraid to set their hands to the amendment: as though God and Saint Peter were the patrons of ungracious living.

“Now prodigals riot and run in debt upon the boldness of these places; yea, and rich men run thither with poor men’s goods; there they build, there they spend and bid their creditors go whistle them. Men’s wives run thither with their husbands’ money, and say they dare not abide with their husbands for beating. Thieves bring thither their

26

“A sanctuary serves always to defend the body of that man that stands in danger abroad, not of great hurt only, but also of lawful hurt. For against unlawful harms, never pope nor king intended to privilege any one place. For that privilege has every place. Know you any man any place wherein it is lawful for one man to do another wrong? That no man unlawfully take hurt, that liberty, the King, the law, and very nature forbid in every place and make to that regard for every man a sanctuary every place. But where a man is by lawful means in peril, there needs he the protection of some special privilege, which is the only ground and cause of all sanctuaries. From which necessity this noble prince is far. His love to his King, nature and kindred prove, whose innocence to all the world his tender youth proves. And so sanctuary as for him, neither none he needs, nor also none can have.

“Men come not to sanctuary as they come to baptism, to require it by their godfathers. He must ask it himself that must have it. And what reason—since no man has cause to have it but whose conscience of his own fault makes him feign need to require it—what

27

And that diversity of the clergy that were present, whether they said it for his pleasure or, as they thought, agreed plainly that by the law of God and of the church the goods of a sanctuary man should be delivered in payment of his debts, and stolen goods to the owner, and only liberty reserved him to get his living with the labor of his hands.

“Verily,” said the Duke, “I think you say very truth. And what if a man’s wife will take sanctuary because she wishes to run from her husband? I would think if she can allege none other cause, he may lawfully—without any displeasure to Saint Peter—take her out of Saint Peter’s church by the arm. And if nobody may be taken out of sanctuary that says he will abide there, then if a child will take sanctuary because he fears to go to school, his master must let him alone. And as simple as that example is, yet is there less reason in our case than in that. For therein, though it be a childish fear, yet is there at the leastwise some fear. And herein is there none at all. And verily I have often heard of sanctuary men. But I never heard before of sanctuary children. And therefore, as for the conclusion of my mind, whosoever may have deserved to need it, if they think it for their safety, let them keep it. But he can be no sanctuary man that neither has wisdom to desire it nor malice to deserve it, whose life or liberty can by no lawful process stand in jeopardy. And he that takes one out of sanctuary

28

When the Duke had done, the laymen entire and a good part of the clergy also, thinking no earthly hurt was meant toward the young babe, agreed in effect that, if he were not delivered, he should be fetched. However, they all thought it best, in the avoiding of all manner of rumor, that the Lord Cardinal should first attempt to get him with her good will. And thereupon all the Council came unto the Star Chamber at Westminster. And the Lord Cardinal, leaving the Protector with the Council in the Star Chamber, departed into the sanctuary to the Queen with diverse other lords with him—were it for the respect of his honor, or that she should by presence of so many perceive that this errand was not one man’s mind, or were it for that the Protector intended not in this matter to trust any one man alone, or else, if she finally were determined to keep him, some of that company had perhaps secret instruction immediately, despite her mind, to take him and to leave her no chance to take him away, which she was likely to plan after this matter was revealed to her, if her time would in any way serve her.

When the Queen and these lords were come together in presence, the Lord Cardinal showed unto her that it was thought by the Protector and the whole Council that her keeping of the King’s brother in that place was the thing which highly sounded, not only to the great rumor of the people and their obloquy, but also to the unbearable grief and displeasure of the King’s royal majesty; to whose Grace it were as singular comfort to have his natural brother in company, as it was to both their dishonor and all theirs and hers also, to suffer him in sanctuary—as though the one brother stood in danger and peril of the other. And he showed her that the Council therefore had sent him unto her to require her the delivery of him that he might be brought unto the King’s presence at his liberty, out of that place that they reckoned as a prison. And there should he be treated according to his

29

“My lord,” said the Queen, “I say not nay, but that it were very appropriate that this gentleman whom you require were in the company of the King his brother. And in good faith I think it were as great advantage to them both, as for yet a while, to be in the custody of their mother, the tender age considered of the elder of them both, but especially the younger, who besides his infancy that also needs good looking to, has awhile been so sore diseased, vexed with sickness, and is so newly rather a little amended than well recovered, that I dare put no earthly person in trust with his keeping but myself alone, considering, that there is, as physicians say, and as we also find, double the peril in the relapse that was in the first sickness, with which disease—nature being forelabored, forewearied and weakened—grows the less able to bear out a new excess of the illness. And although there might be found another who would by chance do their best unto him, yet is there none that either knows better how to order him than I that so long have kept him; or is more tenderly like to cherish him than his own mother that bore him.”

“No man denies, good Madam,” said the Cardinal, “but that your Grace were of all folk most necessary about your children, and so would all the Council not only be content but also glad that you were,

30

“Not very well content,” said the Queen, “and yet the case is not like: for the one was then in health, and the other is now sick. In which case I marvel greatly that my Lord Protector is so desirous to have him in his keeping, where if the child in his sickness miscarried by nature, yet might he run into slander and suspicion of fraud. And where they call it a thing so sore against my child’s honor and theirs also that he abides in this place, it is all their honors there to suffer him abide where no man doubts he shall be best kept. And that is here, while I am here, which as yet I intend not to come forth and jeopardize myself after the fashion of my other friends, who, would God, were here in surety with me rather than I were there in jeopardy with them.”

“Why, Madam,” said another lord, “know you anything why they should be in jeopardy?”

“Nay, verily, Sir,” said she, “nor why they should be in prison neither, as they now be. But it is, I trust, no great marvel, though I fear lest those that have not omitted to put them in duress without falsity will omit as little to procure their destruction without cause.” The Cardinal made a countenance to the other lord that he should harp no more upon that string. And then said he to the Queen that he

31

“Whereby should I trust that?” said the Queen. “In that I am guiltless? As though they were guilty. In that I am with their enemies better beloved than they? When they hate them for my sake. In that I am so near of kin to the King? And how far be they away, if that would help, as God send grace it hurt not. And therefore as for me, I purpose not as yet to depart hence. And as for this gentleman my son, I mind that he shall be where I am till I see further. For I assure you, because I see some men so greedy without any substantial cause to have him, this makes me much the more further from delivering him.”

“Truly, madam,” said he, “and the further that you be to deliver him, the further be other men to suffer you to keep him, lest your causeless fear might cause you farther to convey him. And many be there that think that he can have no privilege in this place, who neither can have will to ask it, nor malice to deserve it. And therefore they reckon no privilege broken, though they fetch him out, which, if you finally refuse to deliver him, I verily think they will (so much dread has my Lord, his uncle, for the tender love he bears him), lest your Grace should by chance send him away.”

“Ah, sir,” said the Queen, “has the Protector so tender zeal to him that he fears nothing but lest he should escape him? Thinks he that I would send him hence, which neither is in the plight to send out, and in what place could I reckon him sure, if he be not sure in this the sanctuary, whereof there was never tyrant yet so devilish that dared presume to break. And, I trust God, the most holy Saint Peter—the guardian of this sanctuary—is as strong now to withstand his adversaries as ever he was.

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“But the child cannot require the privilege—who told him so? He shall hear him ask it, if he will. However, this is a gay matter: Suppose he could not ask it; suppose he would not ask it; suppose he would ask to go out. If I say he shall not, if I ask the privilege but for myself, I say he that against my will takes out him, breaks the sanctuary. Serves this liberty for my person only, or for my goods too? You may not hence take my horse from me, and may you take my child from me? He is also my ward, for as my learned Council shows me, since he has nothing by descent held by knight’s service, [2] the law makes his mother his guardian. Then may no man, I suppose, take my ward from me out of sanctuary, without the breech of the sanctuary. And if my privilege could not serve him, nor he ask it for himself, yet since the law commits to me the custody of him, I may require it for him—unless the law give a child a guardian only for his goods and his lands, discharging him of the care and safekeeping of his body, for which

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“And if examples be sufficient to obtain privilege for my child, I need not far to seek. For in this place in which we now be (and which is now in question whether my child may take benefit of it) mine other son, now King, was born and kept in his cradle and preserved to a more prosperous fortune, which I pray God long to continue. And as all you know, this is not the first time that I have taken sanctuary, for when my lord, my husband, was banished and thrust out of his kingdom, I fled hither being great with child, and here I bore the Prince. And when my lord, my husband, returned safe again and had the victory, then went I hence to welcome him home, and from hence I brought my babe the Prince unto his father, when he first took him in his arms. And I pray God that my son’s palace may be as great safeguard to him now reigning, as this place was sometime to the King’s enemy. In which place I intend to keep his brother.

“Wherefore here intend I to keep him because man’s law serves the guardian to keep the infant. The law of nature wills the mother keep her child. God’s law privileges the sanctuary, and the sanctuary my son, since I fear to put him in the Protector’s hands that has his brother already; and if both princes failed, the Protector were inheritor to the crown. The cause of my fear has no man to do but examine. And yet fear I no further than the law fears, which, as learned men tell me, forbids every man the custody of them by whose death he may inherit less land than a kingdom. I can no more, but whosoever he be that breaks this holy sanctuary, I pray God shortly send him need of sanctuary, when he may not come to it. For taken out of sanctuary would I not my mortal enemy were.”

The Lord Cardinal, perceiving that the Queen grew ever longer the further off and also that she began to kindle and chafe and speak sore, biting words against the Protector, and such as he neither believed

34

The Queen with these words stood a good while in a great study. And forasmuch to her seemed the Cardinal more ready to depart than some of the remnant, and the Protector himself ready at hand, so that she verily thought she could not keep him there, but that he should immediately be taken thence; and to convey him elsewhere, neither had she time to serve her, nor place determined, nor persons appointed, all things unready because this message came on her so suddenly, nothing less expecting than to have him fetched out of sanctuary, which she thought to be now beset in such places about that he could not be conveyed out untaken, and partly as she thought it might fortune her fear to be false, and so well she knew it was either needless or without remedy to resist; wherefore, if she should needs go from him, she thought it best to deliver him. And over that, of the Cardinal’s faith she nothing doubted, nor of some other lords neither, whom she there saw, which as she feared lest they might be deceived, so was she well assured they would not be corrupted. Then thought she it should yet make them the more warily to look to him and the more circumspect to see to his safety, if she with her own

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“My Lord,” said she, “and all my lords, I neither am so unwise to mistrust your wits, nor so suspicious to mistrust your truths. Of which thing I purpose to make you such a proof that, if either of both lacked in you, might turn both me to great sorrow, the realm to much harm, and you to great reproach. For, lo, here is,” said she, “this gentleman, whom I doubt not but I could here keep safe if I would, whatsoever any man say. And I doubt not also but there be some abroad, so deadly enemies unto my blood, that if they knew where any of it lay in their own body, they would let it out.

“We have also had experience that the desire of a kingdom knows no kindred. The brother has been the brother’s bane. And may the nephews be sure of their uncle? Each of these children is the other’s defense while they be asunder, and each of their lives lies in the other’s body. Keep one safe and both be sure, and nothing for them both more perilous than to be both in one place. For what wise merchant ventures all his goods in one ship?

“All this notwithstanding, here I deliver him and his brother in him—to keep into your hands—of whom I shall ask them both before God and the world. Faithful you be, that know I well, and I know well you be wise. Power and strength to keep him, if you wish, neither lack you of yourself, nor can lack help in this cause. And if you cannot elsewhere, then may you leave him here. But only one thing I beseech you for the trust that his father put in you ever, and for trust that I put in you now, that as far as you think that I fear too much, be you well wary that you fear not as far too little.” And therewithal she said unto the child: “Farewell, my own sweet son. God send you good keeping. Let me kiss you once yet before you go, for God knows when we shall kiss together again.” And therewith she kissed him, and blessed him, turned her back and wept

36

When the Lord Cardinal and these other lords with him had received this young duke, they brought him into the Star Chamber where the Protector took him in his arms and kissed him with these words:

“Now welcome, my Lord, even with all my very heart.” And he said in that of likelihood as he thought. Thereupon forthwith they brought him to the King, his brother, into the Bishop’s Palace at Paul’s, and from thence through the city honorably into the Tower, out of which after that day they never came abroad.

When the Protector had both the children in his hands, he opened himself more boldly, both to certain other men, and also chiefly to the Duke of Buckingham, although I know that many thought that this Duke was privy to all the Protector’s counsel, even from the beginning.

And some of the Protector’s friends said that the Duke was the first mover of the Protector to this matter, sending a private messenger unto him, straight after King Edward’s death. But others again, who knew better the subtle cunning of the Protector, deny that he ever opened his enterprise to the Duke until he had brought to pass the things before rehearsed. But when he had imprisoned the Queen’s kinsfolks and gotten both her sons into his own hands, then he opened the rest of his purpose with less fear to them whom he thought meet for the matter, and specially to the Duke, who being won to his purpose, he thought his strength more than half increased.

The matter was broken unto the Duke by subtle folks, and such as were masters of their craft in the handling of such wicked devices, who declared unto him that the young king was offended with him for his kinsfolks’ sakes, and that if he were ever able, he would revenge them, who would prick him forward thereunto if they escaped (for the Queen’s family would remember their imprisonment). Or else if his kinsfolk were put to death, without doubt the young

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Then it was agreed that the Protector should have the Duke’s aid to make him king, and that the Protector’s only lawful son should marry the Duke’s daughter, and that the Protector should grant him the quiet possession of the Earldom of Hertford, which he claimed as his inheritance and could never obtain it in King Edward’s time. Besides these requests of the Duke, the Protector of his own mind promised him a great quantity of the King’s treasure and of his household stuff. And when they were thus at a point between themselves, they went about to prepare for the coronation of the young king as they would have it seem. And that they might turn both the eyes and minds of men from perceiving their plans, the lords, being sent for

38

But the Protector and the Duke, after that, once they had set the Lord Cardinal, the Archbishop of York (then Lord Chancellor), the bishop of Ely, [1] Lord Stanley, and Lord Hastings (then Lord Chamberlain) with many other noble men to commune and devise about the coronation in one place, as fast were they in another place contriving the contrary, and to make the Protector king. To which council, although there were admittedly very few, and they very secret, yet began there, here and there about, some manner of muttering among the people, as though all should not long be well, though they neither knew what they feared nor wherefore: Were it that before such great things, men’s hearts of a secret instinct of nature misgives them, as the sea without wind swells of itself sometime before a tempest; or were it that some one man haply somewhat perceiving, filled many men with suspicion, though he showed few men what he knew. However, somewhat the dealing itself made men to muse on the matter, though the council was closed. For little by little all folk withdrew from the Tower and drew to Crosby’s Place in Bishopsgate Street where the Protector kept his household. The Protector had the people appealing to him; the King was in manner alone. While some for their business made suit to them that had the doing, some were by their friends secretly warned that it might haply turn them to no good to be too much attendant about the King without the Protector’s appointment, who removed also many of the Prince’s old servants from him, and set new ones about him. Thus many things coming together—partly by chance, partly by purpose—caused at length not only common people who wave with the wind, but also wise men and some lords as well, to mark the matter and muse thereon, so far forth that the Lord Stanley, who was afterwards Earl of Darby, wisely mistrusted it and said unto the Lord Hastings that he much disliked these two several councils.

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“For while we,” said he, “talk of one matter in the one place, little know we whereof they talk in the other place.”

“My Lord,” said the Lord Hastings, “on my life, never doubt you. For while one man is there who is never thence, never can there be things once minded that should sound amiss toward me, but it should be in mine ears before it were well out of their mouths.”

This meant he by Catesby, who was of his near secret counsel and whom he very familiarly used, and in his most weighty matters put no man in so special trust, reckoning himself to no man so dear, since he well knew there was no man to him so much beholden as was this Catesby, who was a man well learned in the laws of this land, and by the special favor of the Lord Chamberlain in good authority and much rule bore in all the county of Leicester where the Lord Chamberlain’s power chiefly lay. [1] But surely great pity was it that he had not had either more truth or less wit. For his dissimulation alone kept all that mischief up. If the Lord Hastings had not put so special trust in Catesby, the Lord Stanley and he had departed with diverse other lords and broken all the dance, [2] for [3] many ill signs that he saw, which he now construed all to the best, so surely thought he there could be none harm toward him in that council intended where Catesby was. And of truth the Protector and the Duke of Buckingham made very good semblance unto the Lord Hastings and kept him much in company. And undoubtedly the Protector loved him well and loath was to have lost him, saving for fear lest his life should have quelled their purpose. For which cause he moved Catesby to prove with some words cast out afar off, whether he could think it possible to win the Lord Hastings to their part. But Catesby, whether he tried him or questioned him not, reported unto them that he found him so fast and heard him speak so terrible words that he dared no further say. And of truth the Lord Chamberlain, with great trust, showed unto Catesby the mistrust that others began to have in the matter.

40

Whereupon soon after, that is to wit, on the Friday, the thirteenth day of June, many lords assembled in the Tower, and there sat in Council, devising the honorable solemnity of the King’s coronation, of which the time appointed so near approached that the pageants and subtleties were in making day and night at Westminster, and much victual killed therefore that afterwards was cast away. These lords so sitting together speaking of this matter, the Protector came in among them, first about nine of the clock, saluting them courteously, and excusing himself that he had been from them so long, saying merrily that he had been asleep that day. And after a little talking with them, he said unto the Bishop of Ely: “My Lord, you have very good strawberries at your garden in Holborn, I require you, let us have a mess of them.”

“Gladly, my Lord,” said he. “Would God I had some better thing as ready to your pleasure as that.” And therewith in all the haste he sent his servant for a mess of strawberries.

The Protector set the lords fast in talking, and thereupon praying them to spare him for a little while, departed thence. And soon after one hour, between ten and eleven, he returned into the chamber among them, all changed with a wonderful sour, angry countenance, knitting the brows, frowning and frothing and gnawing on his lips, and so sat him down in his place, all the lords much dismayed and sore marveling of this manner of sudden change, and what thing should him ail. Then when he had sat still awhile, thus he began: “What were they

41

At this question, all the lords sat astonished, musing much by whom this question should be meant, of which every man knew himself clear. Then the Lord Chamberlain, as he that for the love between them thought he might be boldest with him, answered and said that they were worthy to be punished as heinous traitors, whosoever they were. And all the others affirmed the same.

“That is,” said he, “yonder sorceress, my brother’s wife, and others with her,” meaning the Queen.

At these words many of the other lords were greatly abashed that favored her. But the Lord Hastings was in his mind better content that it was caused by her than by any other whom he loved better; although his heart somewhat grudged that he was not before made of counsel in this matter, as he was of the taking of her kindred and of their putting to death, which were by his assent before devised to be beheaded at Pomfret this selfsame day, in which he was not aware that it was by others devised that he himself should the same day be beheaded at London.

Then said the Protector: “You shall all see in what way that sorceress and that other witch of her counsel, Shore’s wife, with their affinity, have by their sorcery and witchcraft wasted my body.” And therewith, he plucked up his doublet sleeve to his elbow upon his left arm, where he showed a shriveled, withered and small arm—as if it were ever otherwise. And thereupon every man’s mind sore misgave them, well perceiving that this matter was but a quarrel, for well they knew that the Queen was too wise to go about any such folly. And also if she would, yet would she of all folk least make Shore’s wife of council, whom of all women she most hated, as that concubine whom the King her husband had most loved. And also no man was there present

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Nevertheless the Lord Chamberlain (which from the death of King Edward kept Shore’s wife, on whom he somewhat doted in the King’s life, he saving his affection, as it is said, during that time and resisting her out of reverence toward his King, or else of a certain kind of fidelity to his friend) answered and said: “Certainly, my Lord, if they have so heinously done, they be worthy heinous punishment.”

“What?!” said the Protector. “Thou serve me, I know, with ‘ifs’ and with ‘ands.’ I tell thee they have so done, and that I will make good on thy body, traitor.” And therewith as in a great anger, he clapped his fist upon the table a great rap. At which token given, one cried treason outside the chamber. Therewith a door slammed, and in come there rushing men in armor, as many as the chamber might hold. And at once the Protector said to the Lord Hastings: “I arrest thee, traitor.”

“What me, my Lord?” said he.

“Yea, thee, traitor,” said the Protector.

And another [1] let fly at the Lord Stanley, who shrunk at the stroke and fell under the table, or else his head had been cleft to the teeth; for as shortly as he shrank, yet ran the blood about his ears. Then were they all quickly bestowed in diverse chambers, except the Lord Chamberlain, whom the Protector bade speed and shrive [2] him at once, “for by Saint Paul,” said he, “I will not to dinner till I see thy head off.” It remedied him not to ask why, but heavily he took a priest at random and made a short confession, for a longer one would not be suffered, the Protector made so much haste to dinner, which he might not go to till this were done for the saving of his oath. So was he brought forth into the green beside the chapel within the Tower, and his head laid down upon a long log of timber, and there stricken off, and afterward his body with the head interred at Windsor beside the body of King Edward, both of whose souls our Lord

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“Ay, good Lord,” said the Lord Hastings to this messenger, “leans my Lord thy master so much to such trifles and has such faith in dreams, which either his own fear fancies or do rise in the night’s rest by reason of his day thoughts? Tell him it is plain witchcraft to believe in such dreams, which, if they were tokens of things to come, why thinks he not that we might be as likely to make them true by our going if we were caught and brought back (as friends fail those who flee), for then had the boar a cause likely to slash us with his tusks, as folk that fled for some falsehood; wherefore, either is there no peril, nor none there is indeed; or if any be, it is rather in going than abiding. And if we must fall in peril one way or other, yet had I rather that men should see it were by other men’s falsehood than think it were either our own fault or faint heart. And therefore go to thy master, man, and commend me to him, and pray him be merry and have no fear, for I assure him I am as sure of the man that he knows of, as I am of my own hand.”

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“God send grace, sir,” said the messenger, and went his way.

Certain is it also, that in the riding toward the Tower, the same morning in which he was beheaded, his horse twice or thrice stumbled with him almost to the falling, which thing, although each man knows well daily happens to them to whom no such mischance is aimed, yet has it been of an old rite and custom observed as a token oftentimes notably foregoing some great misfortune.

Now this that follows was no warning, but an enemy’s scorn. The same morning before he were up, came a knight unto him, as it were of courtesy to accompany him to the Council, but of truth sent by the Protector to haste him thitherward, with whom he was of secret confederacy in that purpose, a mean man at that time, and now of great authority. [1] This knight, when it happened that the Lord Chamberlain by the way to stay his horse and talk awhile with a priest whom he met in the Tower Street, revealed his tale and said merrily to him: “What, my Lord, I pray you, come on; whereto talk you so long with that priest? You have no need of a priest yet.” And therewith he laughed upon him, as though he would say, “You shall have soon.” But so little knew the other what he meant, and so little mistrusted, that he was never merrier nor never so full of good hope in his life, which is the very thing often seen a sign of change. But I shall rather let anything pass me than the vain security of a man’s mind so near his death.

Upon the very Tower wharf so near the place where his head was off so soon after, there met he with one Hastings, a messenger of his own name. And of their meeting in that place, he was put in remembrance of another time, in which it had happened to them before, to meet in like manner together in the same place. At which other time the Lord Chamberlain had been accused unto King Edward by the Lord Rivers, the Queen’s brother, in such a way that he was for the while (but it lasted not long) far fallen into the King’s indignation, and

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And therefore he said: “Ah, Hastings [the messenger], art you remembered when I met thee here once with a heavy heart?”

“Yea, my Lord,” said he, “that remember I well, and thanks be God they got no good, nor you none harm thereby.”

“Thou would say so,” said he, “if thou knew as much as I know, which few know else as yet, and more shall shortly.” By that meant he the lords of the Queen’s kindred that were taken before and should that day be beheaded at Pomfret, which he well knew, but was nothing aware that the axe hang over his own head. “In faith, man,” said he, “I was never so sorry, nor never stood in so great dread in my life, as I did when thou and I met here. And lo how the world is turned; now stand mine enemies in that danger (as thou may by chance hear more hereafter) and I never in my life so merry, nor never in so great safety.”

O good God, the blindness of our mortal nature: when he most feared, he was in good surety; when he reckoned himself most sure, he lost his life, and that within two hours after. Thus ended this honorable man, a good knight and a gentle one, of great authority with his prince, [1] of living somewhat dissolute, plain and open to his enemy, and secret to his friend, easy to beguile, as he that of good heart and courage forestudied no perils; a loving man and passing well beloved; very faithful, and trusty enough, trusting too much. Now flew the fame of this lord’s death swiftly through the city, and so forth further about like a wind in every man’s ear. But the Protector, immediately after dinner, intending to set some color [2] upon the matter, sent in all the haste for many substantial men out of the city into the Tower. And at their coming, he himself with the Duke

These words much moved the Protector, who else, as every man may know, would never of likelihood have inclined thereunto. But when he saw there was none other way, but either he must take it or else he and his both must go from it, he said unto the lords and commons: “Since we perceive well that all the realm is so set—whereof we be very sorry they will not suffer in any way King Edward’s line to govern them, whom no earthly man can govern against their wills—and because we also perceive well that no man is there to whom the crown can by so just title appertain as to ourself as very right heir, lawfully begotten of the body of our most dear father, Richard, late Duke of York—to which title is now joined your election, the nobles and commons of this realm, which we of all titles possible take for most effectual—we be content and agree favorably to incline to your petition and request, and according to the same, here we take upon us the royal estate, preeminence, and kingdom of the two noble realms, England and France: the one from this day forward by us and our heirs to rule, govern and defend; the other, by God’s grace and your good help, to get again and subdue and establish forever in due obedience unto this realm of England—the advancement [1] —whereof we never ask of God longer to live than we intend to procure.”

With this there was a great shout, crying, “Richard! King Richard!” And then the lords [2] went up to the King (for so was he from that time called) and the people departed, talking diversely of the matter, every man as his fancy gave him.

But much they talked and marveled of the manner [3] of this dealing, that the matter was on both parts made so strange, as though neither had ever communed thereof with the other before, when that they

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The next day the Protector with a great train went to Westminster Hall and there, when he had placed himself in the court of the King’s Bench, declared to the audience that he would take upon him the crown in that place there, where the king himself sits and ministers the law, because he considered that it was the chiefest duty of a king to minister the laws. Then, with as pleasant an oration as he could, he went about to win unto him the nobles, the merchants, the artificers, and, in conclusion, all kinds of men, but specially the lawyers of this realm. And finally, to the intent that no man should hate him for fear, and that his deceitful clemency might get him the good will of the people, when he had declared the disadvantages of discord and the

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When he had begun his reign, the twenty-sixth day of June, after this mockish election, then was he crowned on the sixth day of July. And that solemnity was furnished for the most part with the self same provision that was appointed for the coronation of his nephew.

Now fell their mischief thick. And as the thing evilly got is never well kept, through all the time of his reign there never ceased cruel death and slaughter, till his own destruction ended it. But as he finished his time with the best death and the most righteous, that is to say, his own, so began he with the most piteous and wicked: I mean the lamentable murder of his innocent nephews—the young King and his tender brother, whose death and final misfortune has nevertheless so far come in question that some remain yet in doubt whether they were in his days destroyed or not. Not only because Perkin Warbeck—by many folk’s malice, and more folk’s folly, so long a time spoiling the world—was reputed and taken for the younger of those two, among princes as well as among the poorer people, but also because all things were in late days so covertly managed, one thing pretended and another meant, that there was nothing so plain and openly proved; but yet for the common custom of close and

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But in the meantime, for this present matter, I shall rehearse you the sorrowful end of those babes, not after every way that I have heard, but after that way I have so heard by such men, and by such means, as I think it were hard but it should be true.

King Richard, after his coronation, taking his way to Gloucester to visit in his new honor the town of which he bore the name of his old, devised, as he rode, to fulfill that thing which he before had intended. And forasmuch as his mind misgave him that, his nephews living, men would not reckon he could have right to the realm, he thought, therefore, without delay to be rid of them, as though the killing of his kinsmen could amend his cause and make him a kindly king.

Whereupon he sent one John Green, whom he specially trusted, unto Sir Robert Brakenbery, Constable of the Tower, with a letter and credentials also, that the same Sir Robert should in any way put the two children to death. This John Green did his errand unto Brakenbery, kneeling before a statue of Our Lady in the Tower, who plainly answered that he would never put them to death, even if he had to die, with which answer John Green, returning, recounted the same to King Richard at Warwick, still on his way.

Wherewith he took such displeasure and thought, that the same night, he said unto a secret page of his: “Ah, whom shall a man trust? Those that I have brought up myself, those that I had thought would most surely serve me, even those fail me and at my commandment will do nothing for me.”

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“Sir,” said his page, “there lies one outside in your bedchambers who, I dare well say, to do your Grace pleasure, the thing were right hard that he would refuse,” meaning by this Sir James Tyrell, who was a man of right goodly personage and for nature’s gifts, worthy to have served a much better prince, if he had well served God and by grace obtained as much truth and good will as he had strength and wit.

The man had a high heart and sore longed upward, not rising yet so fast as he had hoped, being hindered and kept under by the means of Sir Richard Radcliff and Sir William Catesby, who, longing for no more partners of the Prince’s favor, and namely, none for him, whose pride they knew would bear no peer, kept him by secret plans out of all secret trust. Which thing this page well had marked and known. Because this occasion offered very special friendship with the King, the page took this time to put him forward and, by such a way, do him such good that all the enemies he had, except the devil, could never have done him so much harm.

For upon this page’s words King Richard arose (for this communication had he sitting on the stool, [1] an appropriate court for such a council) and came out into the bedchambers, where he found in bed Sir James and Sir Thomas Tyrell, of person alike and brethren of blood, but nothing of kin in qualities. Then said the King merrily to them: “What, sirs, be you in bed so soon?” and calling up Sir James, revealed to him secretly his mind in this mischievous matter, in which he found him nothing unfriendly.

Wherefore on the morrow, he sent him to Brakenbury with a letter, by which he was commanded to deliver Sir James all the keys of the Tower for one night, to the end he might there accomplish the King’s pleasure in such thing as he had given him commandment. After which letter was delivered and the keys received, Sir James appointed the next night to destroy them, devising before and preparing the means.

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For Sir James Tyrell devised that they should be murdered in their beds. To the execution whereof, he appointed Miles Forest, one of the four that kept them, a fellow hardened in murder before that time. To him he joined one John Dighton, his own housekeeper, a big, broad, square strong knave. Then all the others being removed from them, this Miles Forest and John Dighton about midnight (the innocent children lying in their beds) came into the chamber, and suddenly lapped them up among the bedclothes—so bewrapped them and entangled them, keeping down by force the featherbed and pillows hard unto their mouths, that within a while, smothered and stifled, their breath failing, they gave up to God their innocent souls into the joys of heaven, leaving to the tormentors their bodies dead in the bed.

Which after that the wretches perceived, first by the struggling with the pains of death, and after long lying still, to be thoroughly dead, they laid their bodies naked out upon the bed, and fetched Sir James to see them. Who, upon the sight of them, caused those murderers to bury them at the stair-foot, suitably deep in the ground, under a great heap of stones.

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Then rode Sir James in great haste to King Richard and showed him all the manner of the murder, who gave him great thanks and, as some say, there made him knight. But he allowed not, as I have heard, the burying in so vile a corner, saying that he would have them buried in a better place because they were a king’s sons. Lo, the honorable nature of a king! Whereupon they say that a priest of Sir Robert Brakenbury took up the bodies again and secretly buried them in a place that only he knew and that, by the occasion of his death, could never since come to light.

Very truth is it, and well known, that at such time as Sir James Tyrell was in the Tower—for treason committed against the most famous prince, King Henry the Seventh—both Dighton and he were examined and confessed the murder in manner above written, but to where the bodies were removed, they could nothing tell. And thus, as I have learned of them that much knew and little cause had to lie, were these two noble princes—these innocent, tender children, born of most royal blood, brought up in great wealth, likely long to live, to reign, and rule in the realm—by traitorous tyranny taken, deprived of their estate, swiftly shut up in prison, and privately slain and murdered, their bodies cast God knows where by the cruel ambition of their unnatural uncle and his merciless tormentors.

Such things on every part well pondered, God never gave this world a more notable example, either in what insecurity stands this worldly state, or what mischief works the proud enterprise of a high heart, or finally, what wretched end ensues from such pitiless cruelty. For, first, to begin with the ministers: Miles Forest at Saint Martin’s piecemeal rotted away; Dighton, indeed, walks on alive in good possibility to be hanged before he die; but Sir James Tyrell died at Tower Hill, beheaded for treason. King Richard himself, as you shall hereafter hear, slain in the field, hacked and hewed of his enemies’ hands, dragged on horseback dead, his hair spitefully torn and tugged like a

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And yet all the meanwhile King Richard spent in much pain and trouble outward; much fear, anguish, and sorrow within. For I have heard by credible report from such as were secret within his chambers that, after this abominable deed done, he never had quiet in his mind—he never thought himself safe.

Where he went abroad, his eyes whirled about; his body, secretly defended; his hand, ever on his dagger; his countenance and manner, like one always ready to strike again. He took ill rest at nights, lay long waking and musing, sore wearied with care and watch, rather slumbered than slept, troubled with fearful dreams—suddenly at times he would start up, leap out of his bed, and run about the chamber; so was his restless heart continually tossed and tumbled with the troubling impression and stormy remembrance of his abominable deed. Now had he outward no long time in rest.

For hereupon, soon after, began the conspiracy, or rather good confederation, between the Duke of Buckingham and many other gentlemen against him. The occasion whereupon the King and the Duke fell out is by different folk, different ways presented. This duke, as I have for certain been informed, as soon as the Duke of Gloucester, upon the death of King Edward, came to York and there had solemn funeral service for King Edward, sent thither, in the most secret way he could, one Percival, his trusty servant, who came to John Ward, a chamber-man of like secret trust with the Duke of Gloucester, desiring that in the most close and covert manner he might be admitted to the presence and speech of his master. And the Duke of Gloucester, informed of his desire, caused him in the dead of the night, after all other folk left, to be brought unto him in his secret chamber, where Percival, after his master’s recommendation, showed him what his master had secretly sent him to show him that in this

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From whence, as soon as the Duke came home, he so lightly turned from him and so highly conspired against him that a man would marvel whereof the change grew.

And surely the occasion of their variance is of different men differently reported. Some I have heard say that the Duke—a little before the coronation, among other things—required of the Protector the Duke of Hereford’s lands, to which he pretended himself just inheritor. And forasmuch as the title that he claimed by inheritance was somewhat interlaced with the title to the crown by the line of King Henry VI, before deprived, the Protector conceived such indignation that he rejected the Duke’s request with many spiteful and threatening words, which so wounded his heart with hatred and mistrust that he never after could endure to look aright on King Richard, but ever feared his own life, so far forth that when the Protector rode through London toward his coronation, he feigned himself sick because he would not ride with him. And the other, taking it in evil part, sent him word to rise and come ride, or he would make him be carried. Whereupon he rode on with evil will and, that notwithstanding, on the morrow rose from the feast feigning himself sick, and

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But surely some right from those days’ secrets deny this; and many right wise men think it unlikely (the deep dissimulating nature of both those men considered, and what need in that green world the Protector had of the Duke, and in what peril the Duke stood if he fell once in suspicion of the tyrant) that either the Protector would give the Duke occasion of displeasure, or the Duke the Protector occasion of mistrust. And men in fact think that, if King Richard had any such opinion conceived of the Duke, he would never have suffered him to escape his hands.

Very truth it is, the Duke was a high-minded man and could ill bear the glory of another, so that I have heard of some who said they saw it that the Duke, at such time as the crown was first set upon the Protector’s head, his eye could not abide the sight thereof, but turned his head another way. But men say that he was, of truth, not well at ease, and that to King Richard was both well known and not ill taken, nor any demand of the Duke’s discourteously rejected, but he with great gifts and high promises both, in most loving trusty manner departed at Gloucester. But soon after his coming home to Brecknock, [1] having there in his custody by the commandment of King Richard, Doctor Morton, Bishop of Ely, who as you heard before was taken in the Council at the Tower, growing familiar with him, whose wisdom deceived his pride—to his own deliverance and the Duke’s destruction.

The Bishop was a man of great natural wit, very well learned, and honorable in behavior, lacking no wise ways to win favor. He had been loyal to the part of King Henry while that part was in wealth,

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This man, therefore, as I was about to tell you, by long and often alternate proof, as well from prosperity as adverse fortune, had gotten by great experience, the very mother and mistress of wisdom, a deep insight in political, worldly drifts.

Whereby, perceiving now this Duke glad to come with him, he fed him with fair words and many pleasant praises. And perceiving by the process of their communications the Duke’s pride now and then to let slip a little outburst of envy toward the glory of the King, and thereby feeling him easy to fall out if the matter were well handled, he craftily sought the ways to prick him forward, taking always the occasion

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For when the Duke first began to praise and boast of the King and show how much profit the realm should take by his reign, my Lord Morton answered, “Surely, my Lord, folly it were for me to lie, for if I would swear the contrary, your Lordship would not, I know, believe it, but that, if the world would have gone as I would have wished, King Henry’s son had had the crown and not King Edward. But after God had ordered him to lose it, and King Edward to reign, I was never so mad that I would with a dead man strive against the living. So was I to King Edward faithful chaplain, and glad would have been that his child had succeeded him. However, if the secret judgment of God has otherwise provided, I propose not to spurn against a spur, nor labor to set up what God pulls down. And as for the late Protector and now King. . . .” And even there he left off, saying that he had already meddled too much with the world and would from that day meddle with his book and his beads alone, and no further.

Then longed the Duke sore to hear what he would have said because he ended with the King and there so suddenly stopped, and so exhorted him familiarly between them to be so bold to say whatsoever he thought, whereof he faithfully promised there should never come hurt and perchance more good than he would know, and that he himself intended to use his faithful, secret advice and counsel; this counsel, he said, was the only cause for which he procured of the King to have him in his custody, where he might reckon himself at home, or else had he been put in the hands of them with whom he should not have found the like favor.

The Bishop right humbly thanked him and said, “In good faith, my Lord, I love not much to talk much of princes, as things not all out of peril even though the word be without fault—forasmuch as it

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“‘What, fool!’ said the fox. ‘Thou may abide well enough; the lion meant not thee, for it is no horn that is on your head.’

“‘No, marry,’ said he. ‘That know I well enough. But what if he call it a horn? Where am I then?’”

The Duke laughed merrily at the tale, and said, “My Lord, I warrant you, neither the lion nor the boar [1] shall find any problem with anything here spoken, for it shall never come near their ear.”

“In good faith, Sir,” said the Bishop, “if it did, the thing that I was about to say, taken as well as before God as I meant it, could deserve but thanks. And yet taken as I know it would, might happen to turn me to little good and you to less.”

Then longed the Duke yet much more to know what it was. Whereupon the Bishop said: “In good faith, my Lord, as for the late Protector, since he is now King in possession, I propose not to dispute his title. But for the welfare of this realm, whereof his Grace has now the governance and whereof I am myself one poor member, I was about to wish that to those good abilities, whereof he has already right many, little needing my praise, it might yet have pleased God for the better store to have given him some of such other excellent virtues suitable for the rule of a realm, as our Lord has planted in the person of your Grace.”