An Unknown Welshman

by Jean Stubbs

  ‘Eh, Roland! Hie away, lad!’ Henry cried, flushed with pleasure as his boar-hound led all the others. ‘On, on!’

  The barking and yelping reached a crescendo, for this was no beast of flight with terrified eyes, but a quarry worthy of all their strength and bravery. Red-eyed, coarse-bristled, old and hoary in war, the wild boar plunged into a thicket and braced his back against a tree, ready to kill the mastiffs one by one.

  ‘Roland!’ Henry shouted, and the hound leaped forward before any of the others, the bells about his neck clamouring.

  He was tossed aside, yelping, and paused to get breath and lick the wound in his flank. Relays of dogs, in a fury of howls and bells, were loosed. And the company circled round them, raising their stout ashen spears that were trimmed with crimson velvet and fringed with red silk, or graven or gilded, and leathered for a firm grip.

  At bay, the beast snorted fearfully, tossing half a dozen bleeding dogs from him: some merely torn, some ripped from chest to belly, others disembowelled. The hounds drew back, momentarily daunted and were urged on again. And then Roland, recovered, arched his muscles for the leap and reached the target of the boar’s throat. Together they rolled, the boar hunting vainly for the hound’s under-belly. Then the boar came uppermost and Henry aimed his spear. It quivered in the plunging back, and twenty spears glittered after it. A porcupine now, the body reared in agony.

  ‘Roland, away, lad!’ Henry cried, and the hound dropped clear and crawled into the thicket.

  The beast gazed balefully on his tormentors, shuddered, and keeled over, red eyes glazing.

  A great shout went up, capped by the winding of horns, and each hunter came forward to snatch his weapon from the corpse and to examine his dogs. Henry passed his hands over Roland’s sides and lifted his head.

  ‘A scratch or two, my lord,’ said a retainer comfortably, ‘These are but flesh wounds. His muscles are not torn nor his bones broken.’

  Others were not so fortunate. The euphoria of the hunt was ebbing as they took toll of their favourites; preparing to bury the dead and carry home the wounded for healing. Henry smoothed Roland’s ears and spoke to him softly in encouragement, praising and condoling, then turned to his friends.

  ‘The boar fought gallantly,’ said Henry.

  The code of chivalry to an enemy, even to a wild beast, spoke through him. He reflected that life was a strange business. For, though he had pity for this dead opponent, it was not the sort of pity that would have prevented his killing him.

  To the love of venery he added the love of falconry, spending long hours listening to the falconer.

  ‘For what could be more pleasing than a properly set up falcon?’ asked Pierre Rigaud, and his little black eyes shone. ‘See, my lord, I have a young one fresh from the nest. Stand away, my lord, for she is new to man and bates when any come near her!’

  As he spoke, the falcon attempted to fly her perch, was frustrated by the jesses on her legs, and fluttered in a weird medley of bells and squawks: her yellow eyes fixed in outrage.

  ‘Tonight, my lord, I begin her training,’ said Rigaud, ‘and that is the hardest part — though not the longest. For three days and three nights I shall carry her upon my wrist,’ and he motioned the heavy leather gauntlet on his left hand. ‘For three days and nights shall my will wrestle with hers, while I stroke her crop and breast with a feather, and speak lovingly unto her. Her looks will pierce me like arrows, but I shall not return her gaze. Only speak and stroke, and speak and stroke. We shall walk up and down, we shall sit, we shall stand, while she learns to trust her human perch. The wildness of nature is her weapon. Mine is patience. Soft words, sleeplessness, and patience. I shall woo her as one woos a beloved mistress, until out of very weariness she closes her eyes. And then, at last, I may close mine. So does she learn her first lesson.’

  The falcon had settled again, striped breast quivering, striped feathers atremble on her legs, eyes alert.

  ‘I train her through her belly, and always I love her, for a falcon mishandled will choose death rather than captivity. So I court her, and smooth her, until she learns to fly to my wrist from her perch, at a call. Then to fly a greater distance, and a greater still. Each time I lengthen her creance, until she may be loosed from it entirely. And in September, my lord, she shall be yours. Upright and still, her maillolet upon her head. What sight more beautiful?’

  The falcon bated desperately.

  ‘Come now, my love, my heart, my rose. Come my own,’ said Rigaud, his voice changing as he spoke to her. ‘A fine September morning shall be yours. You shall go forth from the château upon the earl’s wrist, as lovely as any lady in the cavalcade. You shall be carried to green places, where the crane and the mallard hide, and the lapwing and the heron. The hood shall be loosed from your head and the joys of the hunt unfolded before you. You shall course like an arrow from the bow, in search of your prey. Shall swoop and sink your talons into feather and fur and flesh, and so crouch until the earl comes unto you, praising your prowess with sweet words. O, fairer than fair. O lady, whose price is above all the wages that this poor falconer shall earn all his days. Who speaks to you now? It is your Rigaud, is it not? O you who are lovelier than any.’

  Many times that night and the following nights, Henry woke and thought of Rigaud in his sleepless quest. He imagined the falconer, deep-chested, heavy-limbed and swarthy; his face innocent of any water but the rain. He pictured the dark eyes, reddened for lack of rest, the coarse caressing fingers. He heard the rough voice soften as it addressed the bird, and marvelled at the terrible patience of his courtship.

  The wet days of autumn drove him to the chess-board, where his good humour and smiling mouth disguised concentration and cunning. Once, playing with young Hubert — whose pride was greater than his common-sense — he narrowly missed serious injury. Hubert, finding himself unaccountably checkmated, aimed the massive board at Henry’s head. Instantly, the young man guarded himself with his arm, and received a blow that pierced his velvet sleeve and cut the flesh beneath. Courtiers and servants surrounded them, in a chorus of alarm and reproach; and found Hubert red-cheeked and afraid, and Henry white and controlled. The duke came in person to make sure his hostage had suffered no harm.

  ‘The earl will not die,’ said the physician cheerfully, binding Henry’s arm, ‘but I dare swear he will carry the mark of this quarrel all his days! Had you not guarded yourself so swiftly, my lord, your head would have taken the force of the blow — then had it been another matter. Such a one, perchance, as when Chariot the son of Charlemagne broke Beaudonnet’s skull!’

  ‘Who and what is this villain?’ cried the duke, outraged. ‘Take him out and whip him soundly!’

  ‘Nay, I pray your grace,’ said Henry wearily. ‘It was the work of a moment and shall not happen again.’

  ‘Take him out and whip him!’ the duke ordered, incensed. ‘He shall learn better manners. What is his name? Whose son is he? I shall remember him. Wine for the Earl of Richmond! He looks palely.’

  ‘Sit down, Harry,’ said Jasper, as the court returned to its amusements. ‘That lad’s shoulders shall smart sharper than your arm!’

  ‘And I have made an enemy, uncle,’ said Henry ruefully, ‘which is not well. An exile needs all the friends he can muster. I have enemies enough in England without one to plague me in Brittany!’

  ‘Lad, if God be plagued by fools and villains why should you escape? Learn from him how an enemy can be contained and outwitted. It will keep you in fair practice. Besides, the lad has more of temper than of malice in him.’

  ‘And is unwise,’ said Henry, considering his uncle’s statement. ‘For if he lose his temper over a game how shall he fare in war? A hot head may end in a cold corpse, so Lord Herbert always said. And this is one like to run heedlessly into danger. Moreover he has angered the duke, and may be hindered at court. So take it for all in all,’ Henry wound up philosophically, nursing his aching arm, ‘I had rather he lost his temper than I lost mine!�
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  Jasper patted his shoulder.

  ‘You were swift to defend yourself, Harry. Drink your wine and warm your blood, lad.’

  ‘I learned swiftness at Banbury Field, my lord,’ said Henry smiling. ‘It takes but one battle to sharpen the wits wondrously. Squires must endure much to serve. I held Lord Herbert’s horse before battle was joined, and shone his armour for him.’

  ‘He was a goodly Welshman and a great warrior,’ said Jasper generously, ‘and ever mindful of you, Harry.’

  ‘The Lady Ann was loving, also.’

  They had not spoken of the Herberts since they left England: Henry out of delicacy, Jasper because he realized that the boy’s loyalties tore both ways. But the shock of the blow had loosened Henry’s tongue.

  ‘I pray for the welfare of his soul, and for her contentment, each night,’ he said quietly. ‘I learned much from them both and they would have made me their son. I do not love my mother or my uncle the less for loving them.’

  ‘I have ever counselled you to remember your friends, Harry. Nor would I bid you turn your heart from them that helped you.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Henry, gently ironical, ‘had you met with Lord Herbert in battle you would have killed him!’

  ‘Aye, lest he kill me.’

  ‘I find life a puzzling business at best, my lord,’ said Henry slowly. ‘Passed between York and Lancaster. Shipped abroad from one country to another. And when a quarrel jars me my mind grows dark, my heart beats over-quickly. Then I see enemies behind every arras, mockery in friendship.’

  Jasper was troubled, sensing old griefs and unable to help them. He reflected that the lad had known much adversity, but no more than he had suffered himself — and yet he could take each day as it came, and forget the black ones, and look forward to a lighter. And he wondered whether that old malady, carried by Queen Catherine of Valois from her father, had passed over him and blighted his nephew. For he recognized a withdrawal and a shrinking from vicissitudes that had characterized the onset of King Henry’s illnesses.

  ‘If I were king,’ said Henry, ‘I should see that I was rich, and that men thought me richer even than I was. I should trust few — but them with all my heart — and suspect many. I should not waste my land with war but keep a thrifty peace, and behind that peace I should watch secretly and patiently. I should have eyes and ears in every corner of my kingdom so that no man could over-reach me. And I should rule as I play chess, smiling and betraying nothing and keeping ever three and four moves ahead.’

  ‘And take a crack on the head with the chess-board for your pains!’ said Jasper, pushing him playfully.

  The smile was coming slowly back.

  ‘I pray you, my lord, remember that I took the crack not on my head but on my arm, and you did praise my swiftness!’

  ‘Get to bed until supper, lad. The board has addled your wits, nonetheless! Secret and patient — you would make a dark prince, Harry!’

  ‘I should not make one such as men love,’ said Henry soberly, ‘but any fool may be loved. And yet they should respect me, and be trustful in my keeping, and I should leave them richer than when I had come.’

  Jasper was tickled by this fancy and laughed aloud.

  ‘I’ll teach you statesmanship, lad,’ he cried. ‘I tell you that it is well to be cunning when once upon the throne, yet no prince reaches that throne but by inheritance or love or force of arms. The common people, and nobles also, love to love their monarch. Shall they follow a penny-pinching chess-player through mud and blood? Cling to your dreams, Harry, but remember this — it is the heart that catches fire, not the head. Cold Lancaster spoke through you just now, let him not have the last word. When these dark calculating shadows crowd upon you send them flocking with the hosts of Llewelyn. Have you forgotten, lad? There is a host in Rhosfair, there is drinking, there are golden bells … there is my Lord Llewelyn, and tall warriors follow him. A thousand, a host in green and white!’

  They were both smiling. Then Jasper pushed him gently towards the stairs.

  At the foot the two young men met: Hubert subdued by the stripes on his back and Henry by the pain in his arm. They looked shamefacedly at each other, then clasped hands and ascended in amicable silence.

  CHAPTER NINE

  To trust in the world brings grief,

  Life is a brief illusion.

  I loved a slender young girl,

  And she died, the fair maiden.

  Lament for Gwen, Dafydd Nanmor, fifteenth century, translated by Joseph P. Clancy

  Only the written word connected him now with England, and Wales was as silent as Lord Herbert’s tomb in Tintern Abbey. Subject to the vicissitudes of journeys over land and sea, letters passed constantly between Henry and his mother; the phrases of concern and esteem linking beloved strangers.

  Madam, my most entirely well-beloved lady and mother, I recommend me unto you in the most humble and lowly-wise that I can, beseeching you of your continual and daily blessings.

  My own sweet and most dear son and all my worldly joy, with my most hearty loving blessings I pray Almighty God to give you long and good and prosperous life...

  She had no hope of seeing him again, and he had been reared in a country that was not her own, and now lived in another just as foreign to her. But he was of her flesh and of her heritage and she strove to keep those links alive; writing now of little daily happenings, now of the broader field of politics, and every letter breathed her trust in destiny and in God. She was a woman who could have been a queen and found herself the wife of a lesser nobleman; a woman farsighted and deep thinking, whose household cares were not enough for her; a woman who happened to represent a party which was no longer in power, and seemed to be in a permanent eclipse. Above all she was a woman who loved England and desired her son to love it also, though he had never known it and was unlikely to discover it.

  The pages came alive to Henry as he read them, descriptions woven with personal stories and sharp vignettes of the great men in King Edward’s court. England was her passion and Europe her chess-board. Like the commander of a vast army she marshalled her facts, drew conclusions, often guessed cleverly ahead to the next move. And yet in none of this was a tutor who lectured him but a loving friend who counselled and took counsel with him. The political tidings he shared with Jasper, but the rest he kept to himself; never calling on his scrivener to write for him since he felt these matters lay between him and her alone. Much of what she said could be accounted treasonable, so they chose their messengers carefully and paid them well.

  The storm that had blown them on the shores of Brittany was a fortuitous one: a landing in France might have been a different affair. Louis XI not only practised treachery but loved practising it; not only loved the treachery itself but the idea of himself as an arch-villain. So that the greatest praise in his ears was the suspicion and disquiet of other crowned and ducal rulers. Louis could have used the exiles as a weapon against England, as needles of discontent and possible rebellion, betraying them the moment they were no longer useful. But in the firm neutrality of Brittany they were a political something, to be watched and cared for judiciously.

  The first feelers crossed the Channel when King Edward had had time to review the situation. He sent a courteous letter to the Duke of Brittany desiring him to release the former Earl of Richmond into his custody. He pointed out that though he had taken possession of the Richmond estate that was a mere formality, indeed a royal right since Henry Tudor had not come of age. He reminded the duke that Henry had lived honourably and safely under Yorkist rule for almost a decade, that he was not regarded as a traitor nor was his life in danger. He said that the Lady Margaret enjoyed security in England and the benefits of her high estate, undisturbed by him. And finally, to show his good faith, he was prepared to offer honourable reinstatement to Henry Tudor and the hand of one of his younger daughters in marriage. Would not this arrangement please both sides?

  Henry’s counsellors were divided. From
his mother he received a plea to consider the offer, since the house of York had never been stronger and King Edward possessed two young sons, two brothers and two nephews — so securing the throne for his line. But Jasper, whose head was not worth the pole on which they would impale it, and whose life was dedicated to Lancaster, had doubts.

  ‘Nay lad. I am too old in war and policy, and I tell you what I told your mother. No man would give a groat or an archer at this time for Harry Tudor, and yet he is in danger enough to raise a bidding even now. And though rebellion calls for armies and for gold, and though the people of England neither know you nor ask for you, yet are you safer here.’

  ‘But if the king of England married me to his daughter I should be safe, uncle. For why should he kill his daughter’s husband? And my mother says that he is subtle in policy and would rather bind those of Lancaster to him than risk them at his throat.’

  ‘Your lady mother is a woman, Harry, and would have her son at home. I know not but the king means right well by you. It may be so. I know not but that his mercy and promises will play him false. An accident might befall you, lad — you would not be the first! King Henry met with such an accident. And as for marrying a princess ... why, you might die of a melancholy fever the moment that your feet touched English soil. We should stay in Brittany.’

  So the duke declined with equal courtesy, since his guests were unwilling to leave him. Edward expressed his regrets and seemed not unduly disturbed. He could raise the matter again, and again: concerned, amicable, persistent.

  The confinement was not unpleasant but Henry felt his position keenly. His clothes, his education, his pastimes and his companions, were those that any young man of rank and quality might expect and enjoy. Yet he had the sensation of being discreetly watched, of being kept unobtrusively close. There was nothing he could do about it, except to take advantage of what was offered and try to forget what was being withheld. And so life continued until 1475 when he reached the age of eighteen.