At last Perkin Warbeck ran away, and took refuge in another sanctuary
near Richmond in Surrey. From this he was again persuaded to deliver
himself up; and, being conveyed to London, he stood in the stocks for a
whole day, outside Westminster Hall, and there read a paper purporting
to be his full confession, and relating his history as the King’s
agents had originally described it. He was then shut up in the Tower
again, in the company of the Earl of Warwick, who had now been there
for fourteen years: ever since his removal out of Yorkshire, except
when the King had had him at Court, and had shown him to the people, to
prove the imposture of the Baker’s boy. It is but too probable, when we
consider the crafty character of Henry the Seventh, that these two were
brought together for a cruel purpose. A plot was soon discovered
between them and the keepers, to murder the Governor, get possession of
the keys, and proclaim Perkin Warbeck as King Richard the Fourth. That
there was some such plot, is likely; that they were tempted into it, is
at least as likely; that the unfortunate Earl of Warwick—last male of
the Plantagenet line—was too unused to the world, and too ignorant and
simple to know much about it, whatever it was, is perfectly certain;
and that it was the King’s interest to get rid of him, is no less so.
He was beheaded on Tower Hill, and Perkin Warbeck was hanged at Tyburn.
Such was the end of the pretended Duke of York, whose shadowy history
was made more shadowy—and ever will be—by the mystery and craft of the
King. If he had turned his great natural advantages to a more honest
account, he might have lived a happy and respected life, even in those
days. But he died upon a gallows at Tyburn, leaving the Scottish lady,
who had loved him so well, kindly protected at the Queen’s Court. After
some time she forgot her old loves and troubles, as many people do with
Time’s merciful assistance, and married a Welsh gentleman. Her second
husband, Sir Matthew Cradoc, more honest and more happy than her first,
lies beside her in a tomb in the old church of Swansea.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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