The last Plantagenet king

originally published in The Historical Times in 2023 

The story of the princes in the tower has gripped public imagination for more than half a millennium, but did both princes survive, and did the eldest, Edward V, end his life incognito and disfigured in the backwaters of Devon in south-west England?

Imagine it: you’re twelve-years-old, the eldest son of King Edward IV of England, and your dad suddenly dies immediately making you king in his place. This is all pretty cool, but somewhat overwhelming. Then your Uncle Richard has a word with your mum about a distant cousin named Henry Tudor who’s of illegitimate royal lineage and massing forces in Brittany with the intent of taking the crown from your head. You’re shoved into a carriage and ferried down hundreds of miles of country tracks to a remote place called Coldridge in the lands of your adult half-brother, Thomas Grey in rural Devon. You’re told to keep your head down because there’s grownup stuff happening and your Uncle Richard will be king instead of you.

‘But I became Edward V as soon as Papa died.’

They hush you. ‘It’s all very dangerous and, well sorry young chap, but you’re only twelve-years-old and your mum’s agreed we’re all safer if your uncle Richard is made king.’

They ride away leaving you in the middle of nowhere with a dour man, called Robert Markenfield, whom Uncle Richard sent from York to guard over you. You want to see Uncle Thomas Grey, but he's in France. It’s dreary in the countryside and you miss court life.

Two long years later, thundering hooves break the dullness and an exhausted rider imparts terrible news: Uncle Richard has been killed by Henry Tudor’s army. As messengers gallop to and fro, the emerging picture is simultaneously bleak and exhilarating. Your sister, Elizabeth is going to marry the usurper, but many people won’t accept him as their king. Your mum wants you to lead their rebellion, and, finally, Uncle Thomas Grey rides in. You’re whisked to the north Devon coast where a waiting ship sails you to a cheering crowd in Ireland. They crown you in Dublin on 27th May 1487. Finally, at the age of 14, your rightful sovereignty is acknowledged.

You sail back to England where more supporters cheer you and place you at the head of a vast army marching to depose the Tudor usurper. Your long-suppressed dreams of supremacy crackle at your fingertips.

You meet the usurper’s forces at East Stoke in Nottinghamshire on 16th June. You expect this to be your moment of glory, but it’s more a nightmare of Hell. There’s men shouting and screaming everywhere; flashing blades; thundering horses; and so much blood. You’re captured by an enemy knight, Sir Robert Bellingham. Uncle Thomas is confined to the Tower of London and Tudor proclaims that “[the lad] that his rebelles called King Edwarde” is really called John and now works in his kitchens. 

You bite back bile from Tudor’s stinking lies about you, but you’re crippled from the disastrous battle. Knowing your impotence and, likely at the behest of your sister (Tudor’s wife), you’ve been exiled back to Coldridge in Devon. You have to pretend to be called John because they’ll murder you if you reveal your true identity. They’re scared more rebels will use you as their figurehead, despite your disfigurement.

No one will let you see a mirror. You will yourself to eat and drink despite the agonising mess of your face that your teeth poke through when your mouth is closed. All the while, fire rages inside you. It’s you, not Tudor, who is the rightful king.

You’re overjoyed when your only brother, Richard arrives. You’ve not seen him, or any of your close family, since you were sent to Coldridge two years ago. But, once the happiness of your reunion subsides, your brother’s words make you vomit on the floor. Your mum’s now backing him, your younger brother, to stand against the usurper as the rightful king. She’s given up on you.

The world, of a sudden, is a pitiless arena that favours only the healthy, lucky few. Not even your own blood will now acknowledge you as Edward V, God’s anointed king. Your heart’s torn in two between family loyalty and the ingrained kingship that you know is yours. You kiss your younger brother’s cheeks formally when he departs to unseat the Tudor usurper, silently cursing your own body for its crippled uselessness. 

When news of your brother’s defeat reaches the Coldridge backwater your consigned to, you don’t know what to think. You hear that he’s well-cared for under Tudor yoke, and seated at your sister’s side, but with everyone pretending he’s Perkin Warbeck. Just as you must claim the name of Lambert Simnel. How it irks! 

The next news is borne on darker wings: Perkin Warbeck was found in a ditch, battered, bloody and dead. As you scrabble your thoughts to process the likelihood of your brother’s murder at the hands of Tudor, the messenger informs you that the gracious and most benevolent King Henry Tudor is pleased to grant you Stewardship of Royal Coldridge Deer Park in recognition of your quiet loyalty.

I’ve lain in my Coldridge tomb for five hundred years, ever hoping that the clues I left will be deciphered. I was forced to call myself John, and later writers named me Lambert Simnel (I don’t know where that came from).