by Jean Stubbs
‘God rest his soul. He was a gentle and a goodly prince,’ said Lady Margaret, crossing herself. Then she rose and looked through the window, where England flowered. ‘But mortals should fear God,’ she continued, very pale and composed. ‘He is a just avenger, and mindful of both good and evil deeds. And such a lord is God that with a little sparkle He can kindle a great fire. He will not prolong the days of tyrants,’ she cried, and Henry saw that her eyes were full of tears. ‘Now must we keep you safe,’ she said, ‘for you, through me, are all of Lancaster.’
‘I would not leave you, madam,’ Henry whispered.
‘Nor I you, for you are all I have and all am like to have. Your birth came early and hard upon me. I shall bear no more children, but that is God’s own will. And I have thought how we could keep you in Wales. But Harlech fell and Pembroke fell, and nothing will be too far from the king’s reach nor strong enough to resist him. So I must lose you yet again, and yet I would not.’
‘Madam,’ Henry said, ‘I remember how you held me in your arms, and how we rose and fell upon the see-saw, in Pembroke.’
‘Aye, that was all they gave us, but on it we shall build, shall we not, Harry? For I cannot forget you, and I pray you will not forget me.’
The summer storm that blew in from the sea tossed the small ship cruelly. Thomas White, Mayor of Tenby, had behaved as a Welshman should. He had received Jasper Tudor and his nephew with respectful hospitality. He had hidden them in his house until the ship was ready to sail, and seen them safely aboard. As he watched the vessel slip from the harbour, with the last heir to the house of Lancaster aboard, he wished them well. He had done what must be done, and more than he safely could, out of loyalty to the red rose and the red dragon. He expected no return. But Jasper and Henry might have been pieces of bread cast on that dark water by his own hand. For in years to come Thomas White would be given the control and management of all the royal estates around Tenby. In the summer of 1471 he simply hoped that no one had noticed him, and went home to his supper.
The boy, sick at heart and stomach, retched over the ship’s side and begged to be left alone. The last three years had seen too many reversals of fortune for him to take this one easily.
The little square-rigged vessel of some two hundred tons, carrying a master, a boatswain and sixteen hands, staggered from one mountainous wave to the next. Pitching, rolling, wallowing in each trough, righting herself briefly, and bucketing again. Water spewed from her blunt prow and battered her deck.
‘Now is this a very storm of Lancaster!’ said Jasper stoically. ‘It is strange, Harry, how the weather fights for York and the mildest lamb of a sea becomes a wolf when Lancaster sets sail!’
‘I care not, uncle, if it swallow me up.’
‘You are sick, lad, and speak not from the heart but from the belly.’
‘My lord,’ said Henry, ‘though a host of good friends greeted me upon the coast of France, and conferred all honour on me; though there was no more war and no more change; I should not rid myself of this sickness. For I have learned that there is no harbour safe enough to hold me, nor friend strong enough to save me. I go to nowhere, my lord, and possess nothing. Is that not night and storm enough?’
‘Nay, Harry, Harry,’ Jasper cried, embracing the boy. ‘We’ll rise again, lad.’
But Henry huddled below in the cabin and let the ship blow where she would. He heard the timbers groan on the sea’s rack and counted his losses. Enemies who had been friends. Friends killed as enemies. Powys impaled upon an arrow in the green glade. The men of Harlech dying on the wet stones. Lord Herbert shouting ‘Run, lad!’ as he rolled captive in the armour Henry had shone for him. Welshmen slain on Saxon fields for Saxon causes. His foster-mother Lady Ann threading her life away upon a tapestry. His mother Lady Margaret touching her breast and saying, ‘So Lancaster dies, and something dies here.’
Dichotomy upon dichotomy. The civil war outwardly, and the tug of Wales and the Beauforts inwardly, divided him against himself. He remembered how, in his life, King Henry had been shuttled helplessly round the faithful strongholds of the north, offering no resistance: posted like some valuable packet between his foes and his followers for ten long years, and blessing all of them at the last. He heard the mild monarch say ‘This is truly he who shall in time possess all!’ And he felt the wonderment of being in one man’s eyes someone who was whole and of importance, and clutched the memory to him as he was blown bitterly into exile.
PART TWO: KINGS’ GAMES
1471-83
So they said that these matters bee Kynges games, as it were stage playes, and for the more part plaid upon scafoldes. In which pore men be but ye lokers on. An thei yt wise be, wil meddle no farther. For they that sometyme step up and playe wt them when they cannot play their partes, they disorder the play & do themself no good.
The History of King Richard III, St Thomas More, c. 1510-18
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tout regarder, et faindre riens ne veoir;
Tout escouter, monstrant riens ne scavoir.
Look at everything, and pretend to see nothing;
Listen to everything, and do not show you understand it.
Philippe de Commines, fifteenth century
The duchy of Brittany was conscious of its personal dignity and independence. Its duke, François II, regarding himself as of the royal tradition, ruled his little realm by ‘the grace of God’ rather than the express permission of Louis XI — though he paid the French king taxes, and had received gifts from him in token of allegiance. And in this he was merely echoing the opinions of his predecessors, for the dukes of Brittany dreamed a regal dream and resisted both French and English interference. So Duke François II denied homage to the king of France, called himself sovereign seigneur, signed papers ‘by our royal and ducal power and authority’, bore a crown rather than a ducal chaplet on his coat-of-arms, minted his own coins, and obeyed the Pope’s wishes even when Louis particularly advised him to ignore them. Bretons were excused from the duty of fighting outside the duchy, and no Breton could be tried in a French court; and though they could not evade Louis’s taxes they contributed far less than any other small kingdom under his suzerainty.
Against the menace of Normandy, of Anjou, of Louis himself, Brittany had built a protective chain of fortresses. Fougères, Vitré, Dol and Combourg were the outer bastions against the Normans; backed by Montmuran, Hédé, Dinan and Rhennes. And against the ambition of France and Anjou stood Châteaubriant, Ancenis, Nantes and Redon.
From the spur of its coastline the Breton fishermen sailed out to garner the wealth of the sea, bringing back tunny to Concarneau and sardines to Douarnenée, collecting oysters from Cancale, setting lobster pots at Roscoff, and finding clams and cockles and mussels in abundance. From Nantes, at the mouth of the Loire, ships carried salt to England and Spain, and a brisk trade in sugar and spice developed. Rhennes wine was known for its sweetness but the strong fragrant white Muscadet rivalled it in popularity.
Breton peasants spoke a dialect derived from the Celts, and understood the peasant tongues of Wales and Cornwall. And this little Britain had much in common with the greater Britain, being green and moist and pleasant, mild in climate and restful to heart and eye.
Certainly the duchy had its share of malcontents, its pro-English and pro-French factions and its independent party, but the general opinion of all good Bretons was that Brittany should remain their own private property and Duke François be served as lawful ruler. Nor did the friendship of Edward IV shake its neutrality. ‘I should never be English, if it were not by force!’ said the duke severely. ‘I am not and do not wish to be English!’
The Hundred Years’ War with England had robbed France of its prosperity, leaving a heritage of mercenaries roving the country and despoiling its castles and churches. In 1435 wolves had howled in the suburbs of Paris, and grass grew between the stones of its streets. The old order of religious chivalry was dying, and in the French renaissance the Ag
e of Faith was becoming the Age of Reason. Between the nobles and the commoners a new middle class began to flourish, known as the bourgeoisie. Peasants left the land that their ancestors had tilled for centuries, and looked about them for better wages in other parts. The Church had lost much of its authority. Academic life suffered. Literature declined. Art, inspired originally by the suffering on the Cross and the humility of the Son of God, was giving way to a new ideal of man himself: man in his pride and beauty. In an attempt to establish law and order, a decree of 1439 gave only the king of France the power to raise an army. But more than thirty years later tales of rape and pillage were circulating among the people; and Thomas Basin, writing his history of Charles VII, wondered whether an army was not a menace to liberty rather than a protection. Moreover it cost a vast amount of money to maintain, and the people were taxed accordingly.
The court at Brittany, like the court at Paris, was obsessed by status and appearances, by the fine distinctions between one nobleman and another, by shades of magnificence in clothing and possessions, and by that most delicate and difficult of problems — seating at table. Above the court reigned François, nobler and prouder than any: living to the hilt of his wealth and dispensing charity with a free hand. A true renaissance prince, he played patron; and architects, artists, musicians, jewellers, gold- and silversmiths, and humble monks illuminating divine manuscripts, thanked him on bended knee. While to all royal exiles he extended the hospitality and security of his protection.
So when Jasper of Pembroke and his young nephew Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, were washed up on his shores, he greeted them graciously. Jasper was no stranger to him, and besides he had de Valois blood in his veins and was acknowledged half-brother of the late King Henry. The duke did not entirely comprehend the lineage of Owen Tudor, but accepted it as ancient and honourable among the Welsh.
But on the lad who stood straight and tall before him in 1471, even after the terrors of flight and storm, he bent an even kindlier gaze. The blood of Edward the Confessor ran, though diluted, in those young veins. And Jasper was wily enough to remind him of the line of Lancaster — though seeming merely to explain the reason for their exile. The shadow of great John of Gaunt rose in the court of Brittany, and of the lovely Katharine Swynford, and of their children — named Beaufort because they were born at that Château. The Lady Margaret was drawn in, formerly a king’s ward, now married into the house of Stafford, descendants of Edward III’s youngest son, Thomas of Woodstock. Finally, lost in a hail of noble names, the duke waved his hand to ward off further revelations, and commanded the boy to come nearer, speaking in the French tongue.
And when Henry paid tribute to his coaching, in a speech as pretty and well-turned as it was pure and fluent, the duke smiled again, and nodded to Jasper that this was very well. But the gentility of his unexpected guests was not the only reason for harbouring them. They were valuable hostages, and he dared swear that Louis would love to use them in his own game against Edward IV of England. And though Edward had regained his throne and found a baby prince waiting for him, and could doubtless expect more sons from such a fertile wife, still England had hardly been a safe place for any king. And, if the fortunes of Lancaster should chance to rise again, it would have been politic to cherish this sprig of the great house. Even if it should not, the duke knew how to behave towards those of princely stock who had fallen on hard times. Jasper was a seasoned warrior, and the lad promised to be something more. Royally, he extended them his protection.
The boy had said his prayers and lay under the coverlet staring at the tapestry on the opposite wall, arms folded beneath his head. With the resilience of the young he was already savouring his new surroundings. As the door opened he sat up, ready for anything from a casual acquaintance to an assassin. But it was his uncle, smiling and at ease in fine clothes lent by his host. The contrast between Jasper’s plain cropped head and the foppish velvets amused the boy, but his countenance remained grave and respectful. But, he wished some companion of his own age were with him, so that they could laugh together afterwards.
‘Well, Harry?’ said Jasper softly, sitting by the bed. ‘Safe and sound, lad?’
‘Aye, my lord. Thanks to your wit and the cunning of Master Thomas White of Tenby.’ He thought back, anxious to forget no one. ‘And many other good Welshmen that proved faithful.’
‘Remember them, Harry. And reward them if it should ever lie in your power. Never forget your friends, for ill fortune shows who they may be. But fortunes change, lad. Fortunes change.’ He looked about him. The duke had provided a chamber for the heir of Lancaster that was considerably finer than he could have expected at home. Indeed, at home he would still have been tumbled together with other boys of his age, and lucky to call a rough pallet his own. ‘They live soft, here, lad!’ said Jasper, accepting the fact.
He turned to more serious matters.
‘Now the duke holds Brittany in a mailed fist, though he is courteous and smiling. He is a proud and noble man that rules royally and well. And he lives as a seigneur should; for if a man is king, Harry, he must show himself a king.’ The vision of his half-brother came to mind. ‘It is not well that a sovereign should behave as a monk, be his soul ever so pure. A king’s virtues are between himself and God, but his people must see him as paramount. Now, Harry, the Court of Brittany is strict in etiquette. I have known a strange nobleman come unexpectedly to supper, and everyone save the duke rise and flutter and clack like pigeons — lest he be placed too high or too low! Dignity is all, here. And though a man be about to part with his head yet will they speak him fair, wrapping every word in a compliment so that one would think they knighted him! So watch all and say nothing, Harry. And listen well, and do not seem to show that you have heard. It behoves wanderers, and those who live on noble bounty, to give thanks kneeling for gifts both small and great. Remember that.’
‘Aye, my lord!’ The familiar sensation of being worthier than the position in which he found himself beset him. ‘Uncle,’ he said, ‘what is to become of us now?’
‘Nay lad, I know not. Watch and wait, and when opportunity comes — grasp it with both hands. The wheel of fortune turns always. Kings die. We shall see. And remember this also, we have not fled for nothing. Ours are powerful enemies, and no man with powerful enemies is without power. We shall see, Harry, we shall see.’
He saw the boy’s eyes wander again to the tapestry on the wall, and walked over to discover the fascination.
The arras, nearly twelve feet long and nine feet broad, depicted six maidens in a field of flowers. Three were dancing, one combed another’s head with a golden comb, but the sixth sat between the two groups, crowned by a chaplet of flowers. Her hair, as befitted a virgin, hung long and silver-fair. Her little dog sat by her, lolling a pink tongue. But as though she had been captured and disturbed in an instant of time, she was looking out: eyes wide and blue and gentle, mouth curved in a half-smile. Flowers covered every available inch of the tapestry, exquisitely wrought, minute and accurate in every detail: rose-red campions, pale wood anemones, ragged-robin and lady’s slippers, pink clover, yellow and purple loose-strife, fool’s parsley and ox-eye daisies, spear plume thistles and hare-bells. Birds pecked or sang. A harmless grass snake with jewelled eyes paused in the moment of uncoiling.
‘So this is where your thoughts wander, Harry,’ said Jasper wryly, ‘while your poor uncle tries to make a politician of you! Well, well, your time will come, lad. You’ll have maidens enough — but not in marriage yet. We must find a princess for you, Harry, that shall bring power and riches. Keep yourself for her.’
The boy hesitated, afraid to seem forward or frivolous, but the virgin with her crown of blossom had taken his heart.
‘Will she be fair, uncle?’ he asked hopefully.
‘All princesses are fair, lad!’ said Jasper, brushing the question aside. ‘But this one, I dare swear, reminds me of your lady mother when first I knew her. And your mother, Harry, is more than fair. S
he is able of wit and great of courage. A pity she has not the power she could wield right well.’
‘Would you not have a princess also, uncle?’ the boy dared ask.
Jasper laughed, and Henry loved the way he threw back his cropped head.
‘Nay lad, I am a plain soldier. I was not fashioned for a lady’s bower but for the field. War is my bride.’ He understood the silent question between them. ‘And you are son enough for me, Harry. And now a good night, and God bless you, lad.’
Long after he had gone the boy stared at the arras, until his eyes closed and her face glimmered white and sweet behind his lids.
The seasons unfolded and turned as he grew into young manhood. Brittany was mild and lovely after the grandeur of Wales. He held his own with his noble contemporaries, youngsters who hoped eventually for the honour of knighthood: fencing skilfully with the sword, practising with the lance, playing the rougher game of singlestick, perfecting his archery. And because he was nothing except in himself he tried harder than any. At seventeen, Duke François gave him the horse and hounds he longed for.
He called the horse Caprice. She courted him and coquetted with her hooves as he mounted her. His favourite mastiff was Roland, a splendid beast with great shoulder muscles and strong legs.
Galloping through the deep forests and green glades, past streams rich in reeds and irises, they hunted the hart, the grey wolf, and the ferocious boar, to the winding of horns.