An Unknown Welshman

by Jean Stubbs

  Best of all the boy loved carols, both religious and secular, and listened with his yellow head slightly on one side to ‘I sing of a maid that is wakeless’ and ‘Lully, lulley, lully, lulley, the falcon hath borne my mate away.’ And Lady Ann, endeavouring to teach Yorkist sympathy to Henry, told him that King Edward had given both gold an encouragement to the musicians in his realm, and hoped to establish a fine royal choir.

  So the boy grew seven years old, protected by the might of the man who had adopted him, nourished by the grace and beauty of the lady who mothered him, and in the early spring of 1464 began his formal education. Joan Howell was relegated to the background, the Lady Ann to her solar and the upbringing of little Maud; while Lord William concentrated on Henry’s military prowess, Haseley, Dean of Warwick, on his soul, and Andreas Scotus on his learning and manners.

  ‘Trust in God, Henry,’ said the dean devoutly, ‘since He alone will never desert those who love Him.’

  ‘Trust in your sword, lad!’ cried Lord William, slapping the hilt of his own. ‘A god-fearing man is a good thing, but a bright blade is even better, for prayers alone cannot save you. No villain alive shall stay his hand for the sake of a paternoster!’

  ‘The child had better not have been born,’ said Andreas Scotus, ‘if he do not acquire learning.’

  The boy prayed devoutly, for his mother and for these his guardians and for the king that sat upon the throne. And just as assiduously he applied himself to the arts of war and to his books.

  Upon his birthday, each year, Hugh Jenkins measured him against the wall and selected a new bow.

  ‘No man shoots well unless he is brought up to it,’ said Jenkins, who had bent his bow in his master’s service all his adult life. ‘And a bowman has twice the wages of a labourer and honour beside. Now, my lord, I pray you try this one which is something larger than the last, now you are older. And keep your left hand steady and draw with your right, but press the weight of your body into the horns of the bow — for that is how we shoot, as the French learned to their cost!’

  The boy aimed and shot, and another retainer removed the arrow from its target.

  ‘Fair, my lord, very fair. We term this method “bending the bow” whereas the French say “drawing the bow”. But who won at Agincourt, my lord? And who at Harfleur? Is not bending finer than drawing?’

  ‘Aye, Master Jenkins, and I like it full well.’

  And he lingered long at the earth butts, preferring this to the rougher games of singlestick, lance-practice and quintain. Yet he tried hard with all of them, and thanked God that Joan Howell did not see his bruises. Quintain was difficult, though at first it seemed easy to charge the sandbag upon its post with a lance. But it swivelled wildly under his onslaught and clouted him from his horse. Under the eyes and laughter of the retainers he mounted again, trembling, and cantered back for another try: again and again, for weeks, until the puppet enemy fell and he drew rein victorious. But the quickness of eye and skill of hand required in fencing appealed to him, and he promised to become a fair swordsman.

  ‘Truly, my lord,’ said Hugh Jenkins, making his report to Lord Herbert, ‘your lordship’s ward is not lacking in valour, but there is no fire in him for such matters. He will do what he must and no more.’ Then seeing Lord Herbert’s disappointment he added, ‘Yet that he does with a good heart.’

  But Andreas Scotus had nothing but praise, saying that this was the aptest pupil he had ever taught. Henry stared for hours at the plan of the universe. The earth was surrounded by water and then by air and then by ether; with Sun, Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn circling round it. In the centre of the earth, forked with flames, lay Hell — which must be avoided. But outside these planets sparkled the firmament and the aqueous and immaterial heavens, and finally the Heaven of Heavens. And these he loved, for the nine choirs of angels rested there eternally and sang their praises to God. He learned astronomy, astrology, Latin and French. He read the Bible closely, preferring stories of miracles and prophecies to those of battle. He studied history, and revelled in the heroes of Greece, and he particularly liked the wooden horse of Troy and went back to it again and again.

  ‘For, Master Scotus,’ he said gravely, ‘though it had been braver to fight in the open, yet was it wiser to ride in the belly of the horse and so surprise them. For thus they took a city with less cost to themselves.’

  ‘Aye, my lord,’ said Scotus, ‘and so will you find in other matters also. For this,’ tapping his head, ‘has often conquered that!’ And he pointed to Henry’s little jewelled sword.

  ‘My lady Ann counsels me to be good. Lord William counsels me to be brave. And you, Master Scotus, counsel me to be wise. Now which is best?’

  ‘Nay, my lord, what think you?’ Scotus replied, interested in the boy’s reaching mind.

  ‘I think it best that I be good and brave and wise, all three. But that is no easy matter, for as the one comes to my hand the others slip from it.’

  ‘And so always, my lord, for all your days. But strive for all three, and though you fall short yet you shall live well.’

  He was a silent boy, speaking little, thinking much, watching and judging and listening, and he learned the arts of diplomacy early. In company he played his part, sometimes in a manner old for his years, as though he knew he must be gracious whether he would or not. But when he was happy his manner warmed, his eyes lit, and he threw back his head and laughed so that others laughed with him.

  He observed and obeyed so well that he passed for a good child who could be led, whereas he merely bided his time. Each morning he rose with a smile for his tutor, and remembered God. Then he stretched his limbs and rubbed his body with warm linen, saw that his breeches were well brushed within and without and set them near the fire in winter for his comfort. He combed his hair with an ivory comb, coughed and spat to rid his lungs of poison, and went to his stool to void his bowels of infirmities. He washed his face, paying particular attention to its orifices, and cleaned his teeth with a bit of cloth and cold water. Then he walked in the air before mass and gave thanks to God, before breaking his fast with ale and bread and herrings.

  In custom with other boys of his years he waited on his elders at table and wished them joy of their repast, standing by Lord William with a silver basin of warm water and a towel of clean white linen, seeing that his bread was newly baked and cut fairly and that he had the choicest portion of meat. And afterwards he sat upright with the younger members of the household on his bench, and did not venture to move until his food was brought from the kitchen.

  There they ate, children and wards together, breaking off only as much bread as was needful, a little at a time, and taking care not to stuff their cheeks like apes. They wiped their mouths before drinking, and did not speak until food or drink had been swallowed, lest they sprayed drops or crumbs into each other’s faces. And though he often longed to scratch or stroke the dogs and cats that crept lovingly round his short legs and begged for morsels, he knew he must not for this was a dirty habit. Nor did he wipe his eyes or teeth on the table-cloth, knowing that the napkin was provided for this purpose. And when he had washed his hands he never spat in the bowl.

  ‘And do not lean your elbow upon the table,’ cried Andreas Scotus, a martinet for fine manners, ‘and do not dip your food in the salt cellar but take a little on your trencher and so dip. And do not sup your pottage with a loud sound.’

  The admonitions seemed endless, but he mastered them all. Within himself he was waiting for something, what he did not know, and this apparently was the road to it.

  There were five Knappan days in Pembrokeshire: the first at Burysands on Shrove Tuesday, the second at Pont Gynon on Easter Monday, the third at Llanfihangel, Penbedw, on Low Easter Day, and the fourth and fifth at St Meygans in Kemes on Ascension Day and Corpus Christi. These latter two being the most important events, Henry had been conveyed to see one of them.

  He knew, from the way his tutor had handed him over
to Hugh Jenkins, that this would be a rough game. But he also knew that Hugh would let no harm come to him, so he stood by the retainer on a little knoll and held himself carelessly so that the people might think he had watched Knappan before.

  Merchants, mercers, pedlars, taking advantage of a good crowd, had set up their stalls and booths before daybreak, and were shouting and crying their wares the moment the first onlookers appeared. And the Welsh, noted for their fairs, came prepared to drink themselves silly on wine and ale, to endanger their digestions with mutton pies, salted herrings and fritters, and to cheer their side on.

  ‘There are the men of Kemes, my lord,’ said Hugh Jenkins, pointing to a great body of men, who laughed and shouted and knotted their hands above their heads as the crowd applauded. ‘And there the men of Cardigan. Stalwart fellows, all.’

  ‘How many, Master Jenkins?’

  ‘Nay, my lord, I know not. Close on a thousand and a half, all told. There are the keepers that watch their clothes in heaps, for, look you, they must strip to the waist and take off their shoes. And they would not lose their clothes.’

  ‘Why do they strip, Master Jenkins?’

  ‘Their shirts would be in fragments, else, my lord. It is a wild game and an old one.’

  ‘Master Scotus said it was descended from the Trojans, but that he much misliked it.’

  ‘Aye. Well.’ He did not wish to appear disrespectful to a scholar. ‘Master Scotus is a learned man,’ he said.

  The boy looked sharply up into his face, reading what he had not said, and smiled to himself.

  ‘Think you that I shall mislike it, Master Jenkins?’

  ‘Nay, my lord, I know not. I pray not. For living is a rough business and you will have your fortune to seek. What is a broken head or a lame leg to a soldier? Master Scotus has nought to fight but his Latin!’

  ‘You do him wrong,’ said Henry courteously, but coolly enough to remind him that they should not discuss his tutor behind his back. ‘To conquer Latin is no little matter. Tell me, Master Jenkins, where is the Knappan ball?’

  ‘In the hands of that gentleman who is calling the sides together, my lord. Yonder.’

  ‘Is it of wood or metal, Master Jenkins?’

  ‘Of yew, my lord, and made small enough that a man might hold it easily in his palm. And yet he does not hold it easily for it is boiled in tallow so that it slips. Mark how he takes it tenderly in his palms, like a trapped bird. Now he speaks, and when he has done speaking he will throw it into the air.’

  A hush had descended on the early afternoon as the people, standing well away from the contestants, waited for the game to begin.

  ‘Why are those horsemen bearing cudgels, Master Jenkins?’ whispered Henry, tugging at his sleeve.

  ‘To belabour those on foot who hold the Knappan ball, that they might deliver it up, my lord.’

  The cudgels, carved from holly tree wood, were three and a half feet long, cruelly knobbed, and thick in proportion. Henry looked at the bare heads and bodies of the men who were to play on foot, and winced out of sympathy.

  ‘Nay, my lord,’ said Jenkins, noticing that he shrank, and deploring the fact, ‘this is fair play. For if the man delivers up the Knappan and holds his hands above his head and cries Heddwch! Heddwch! — meaning Peace! Peace! — then they forbear.’

  ‘And if he does not cry Peace! Master Jenkins, what then?’

  ‘Then has he a broken pate for his pains, my lord.’

  The little dark shining Knappan flew into the air, accompanied by a great shout from the crowd. And in an instant it was lost as six or seven hundred men surged forward in an effort to find it. A Kemes man, on foot, caught and threw it in the direction of St Meygans. As he straightened up, a Cardigan horseman swung at him with the cudgel and sent him, streaming blood, to the ground.

  ‘Master Jenkins,’ said Henry uncertainly, ‘that gentleman had thrown the ball before he was cudgelled, so did not have time or cause to cry Heddwch!’

  ‘No, my lord. Well, that is the way of it,’ said Jenkins, unperturbed. ‘Perchance his cudgellor had a private grudge against him.’

  ‘And now I do not see the gentleman that was hurt so grievously.’

  Jenkins would have preferred to keep his eye on the Knappan ball, the possession of which was wreaking havoc on all who momentarily held it. But out of deference he glanced at the side lines, and saw that the man had jostled his way to safety and was even now, head roughly bound with a strip of cloth, jostling his way back into the fray.

  ‘There, my lord. It was but a scratch.’

  Horses whinnied and stamped, naked bodies wrestled and fought. Cries of Cadw Ol — support the back of the game — rose above the yells of laughter, the crack of cudgels, the thud of hooves. From time to time the Knappan spurted towards the Kemes or Cardigan side, and the mob swayed and struggled after it. Then the pace grew faster, and the Cardigan men were away.

  ‘Come, my lord, we must follow them,’ cried Jenkins, and he swung the boy up on his shoulders and trotted forward.

  ‘How far — must we — go — Master Jenkins?’

  ‘Why — two miles or more — either side of the — starting point — my lord. Until it is safe — with the Kemes men — or the Cardigan men.’

  ‘And how long — will that — be, Master Jenkins?’

  ‘Three or four — hours, my lord. Until — one side can — go no further.’

  Henry saw bloody heads, swollen eyes, broken noses, bruised chests and backs, but few of the men withdrew — except for a breathing space or a bandage.

  ‘Llyw! Llyw!’

  ‘They call for the man to throw, my lord!’

  ‘I know,’ said Henry. ‘My nurse used to speak to me in Welsh.’

  Jenkins hands tightened momentarily on the boy’s legs, and Henry knew that he was pleased.

  ‘And others cry Câd! Câd! my lord.’

  ‘It means Fight! Fight!’

  ‘Aye, my lord. Aye, my good lord. You do not mislike Knappan, my lord?’

  ‘No-o,’ said Henry slowly, ‘though when I am a man I shall not play unless I must. But they laugh and make merry for the most part. And yet I dislike foul play and I see something of that.’

  Jenkins lifted him down, since the contestants were in a solid scrum and the Knappan somewhere beneath them.

  ‘But that is the way of it, my lord,’ he said, accepting good and evil alike in the interests of the game.

  The boy thought for a while, frowning, and then nodded.

  ‘I would go a little way further, if it please you, Master Jenkins,’ said Henry wistfully, reining in his horse. ‘To the top of Cwm Cerwyn, if it please you. These gentlemen will wait a little for us.’

  ‘We must lodge before dark, my lord, and this is a wild place.’ He saw the look on the boy’s face and capitulated, for the lad had watched the Knappan game through to the end and murmured at nothing. ‘Come then, my lord. The company will doubtless wait a while. To the top of Cwm Cerwyn! And there shall you see the seven fairest cantreds in Wales.’

  The boy slipped from his horse and stared all about him.

  On one side, on this evening, lay the coast of North Devon, and on the other the pudding-purple strongholds of North Wales. He saw the twin rivers of East and West Cleddau meet in the port of Haverford West. He saw the river Teifi surging past the dark rocks of Cilgerran, and the modest streams of Gwaun and Syvynvy glide shyly. He saw Pen Cemmaes Head, pitted like a sponge with caverns, hammered into fantasy by the Atlantic rollers. And each river was sheltered by a wooded valley, and above each valley a castle rose like a watcher over warm hills and gentle dales, over rough heather and bleak moorland.

  ‘It is not the same colour up here as it seems from below, Master Jenkins.’

  ‘No, my lord. For when we look a long way off all seems grey and blue in the distance. And yet it is brown and green and gold at close hand.’

  The wind blew suddenly and whipped Henry’s cap off, and the boy laughed and clapp
ed his hands, watching it circle smaller and smaller with its brave feather acting as a wing.

  ‘I am king of Cwm Cerwyn!’ he shouted, liberated.

  ‘Aye, my lord. We are all kings for a moment in such places. And yet, down there, where we must presently seek your cap, we shall be but men again. Come, my lord, else will it be Thursday before we reach Pembroke, and the Countess will fear for your safety and Lord Herbert sauce my supper with hard words.’

  The boy turned as they began to lead the horses down, and said, ‘Today we are Welshmen, Master Jenkins.’

  He had meant the words simply as a courtesy and was astonished at the change in the man’s face. Suddenly the air was fire between them. Then Jenkins put on his common mien again and said they must hasten; but they had shared something in that moment that neither would forget.

  ‘Well, Harry,’ said Lord Herbert, over their game of chess that Friday, ‘It seems that Master Jenkins reports well on your prowess — though he says you do not relish bloody heads. Tell me, what should I give you? What should best please you?’

  The boy had grown well for his ten years, though he was slender still and his health had yet to be watched, but he was long past needing help in moving his knights. Lips tightly compressed as he surveyed the board, he gave the impression of an old mind in a young body. No one in Pembroke had ever slighted him, and Lord Herbert seriously contemplated a marriage between Henry and his daughter Maud, but the boy felt his position keenly. King Edward had granted the county, honour and lordship of Richmond first to his younger brother Richard of Gloucester in the summer after the fall of Pembroke — and then one month later transferred the gift to the older George of Clarence. Whichever royal duke possessed it mattered not, only that Henry knew he was but Henry Tudor, Earl of Nowhere, and beholden to Lord Herbert. His mother, silenced by her Lancastrian inheritance and her Lancastrian husband, in a Yorkist realm, dared lay no claim on him. His uncle Jasper was an exile without voice or possessions. And yet within him, nourished by his nurse and the prophecies of Robin Ddu, lay a sense of destiny. But the dream was vague and reality hard, so between the two of them he had learned to watch and listen and hold his tongue.