An Unknown Welshman

by Jean Stubbs

  ‘I mark your meaning,’ said Buckingham, brightening.

  ‘And now, your grace,’ said Morton, refreshed, ‘let us play queen with queen to get us a rightful king. The Lady Margaret and Queen Elizabeth shall make the match. There is a Reginald Bray of Lancashire, steward to Lady Margaret that would make a trusty messenger. Have I your leave to write to him, bidding him come to Brecon?’

  ‘You have my leave, lord bishop, to do as you will!’

  ‘Even to return to my own Isle of Ely, my lord?’ Morton asked slyly.

  ‘How can I let you go and keep this head on my shoulders, my lord?’ Buckingham cried in desperation, for once more he had initiated a plot, only to find himself cast in a secondary role.

  ‘Your head, your grace, is of no use except it be part of your living body. I shall lean upon your counsel and your mercy.’

  ‘I hope I have done right,’ Buckingham muttered, feeling that he had been pledged somewhat faster and further than he intended.

  Morton judged that he needed a little gracious bullying.

  ‘You have this night made reparation to the house of Lancaster,’ he said sternly. ‘You have shown me how one of royal blood leaps to a king’s solution, while we that build upon our little wits toil far behind. Speak not of right, your grace, when right is your inheritance.’

  ‘Well, you have helped me to it,’ said Buckingham, glad to patronize.

  The blackened teeth showed in a grin, the venerable head wagged from side to side in protest.

  ‘The tutor does not thank the pupil,’ said Morton smoothly. ‘Have I your leave to bid your grace goodnight?’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  And when King Richard of this hard tell

  a mightye Ost he sent

  against the duke of Buckingham,

  his purpose to prevent.

  Buckingham Betrayed by Banister, Bishop Percy’s Folio MS.

  Reginald Bray made all haste to Brecon, and though he was a brave gentleman he crossed himself several times as he rode back to Lancashire, knowing the message he carried was treason.

  Dr Lewis, the Welsh physician who attended Lady Margaret, made the long journey from Lancashire to London, where he was received by the queen-dowager at Westminster with great cordiality. If anyone had wondered at the connection between the noble ladies it could have been explained away, since they were both of an age when women suffer strange humours, and Dr Lewis was well-known for his skills in these and other matters among people of rank. So he returned to Lord Stanley’s household with a token of the queen-dowager’s esteem upon his finger, and a gracious answer to Lady Margaret.

  ‘The queen bids me tell you, my lady, that my visit has lightened her grace’s burden. That you and she are in the same case with regard to this matter. And the knowledge that you share the same troubles, and seek to bring them to a right end, casts a light upon all that formerly seemed dark to her.’

  ‘Did the queen obtain relief from the syrup you commended her?’

  ‘Aye, my lady, and she pronounced it the true and proper medicine for such pains as she has suffered.’

  Left to herself Lady Margaret knelt at her prie-dieu in gratitude. Having consulted God she then consulted her own fine mind, sorting and sifting until her part of the scheme was clear to her. Her husband, she judged, would help her provided he appeared to know nothing of the matter. If the outcome was good he would be there. If it were not then she would not be alive to see him wriggle out of it, and prosper. Buckingham could move nowhere but forward, and Morton could take care of himself. Jasper would give his life, and cost King Richard a high price for it. The Duke of Brittany had always been helpful and well-disposed to Henry. And in France their prospects were brighter, for Louis XI had died in the August and the court was in the same position as England had been under the young king. The former Dauphin, now Charles XIII, was too youthful to reign without advisers, and with the powerful Madame de Beaujeu as regent might look more favourably on the cause of Lancaster.

  Lastly, and most fondly, she thought of her son, and prayed that she knew him better than he knew himself. For the difference between a landless exile and the king of England would demand a strength of purpose so far unasked of him. She knew he could endure stoically, that he valued moral rather than physical courage, that he was in all outward aspects fit to be a sovereign. She sensed that his ambition was greater than he realized, reading in all his letters a craving for power and freedom, a resentment that he had so far been denied the status that he felt was due to him. But she could not guess at his capacity for gambling. He would risk himself, of that she was sure, but had he the necessary fibre to risk a horde of others faithful to him? His devoutness would carry him a long way, if he could be made certain that the cause was godly. His mystical side would take him further, if it could be aroused. And she resolved to write to Jasper, too, and warn him that an open mind and fair dealing in such an enterprise must prove fatal. To gain a crown asked for more than a good heart and a steady purpose.

  ‘There must be fire,’ she said to herself, ruminating. ‘There must be a great fire — and we shall light it in him.’

  On 24 September 1483 the Duke of Buckingham composed a letter to Henry Tudor, formerly Earl of Richmond, in terms both respectful and firm, as became the commander of a rising. He bade Henry, in the name of England, to release the country of a grievous tyrant and take upon himself the crown. On St Luke’s Day, 18 October, Buckingham wrote, the supporters of the red rose of Lancaster would take up arms all over the south and west in Henry’s cause. In Kent and Surrey, in Wiltshire, Devon and Cornwall they would raise his standard. While in Wales Buckingham himself would march against the forces of York.

  Lady Margaret, meanwhile, hesitating between a priest she had lately taken into her service — Christopher Urswick by name — and Hugh Conway, esquire chose the latter as a bearer of more dignity. And sent him with a letter to her son. But lest Conway be apprehended by Richard’s men, yet another messenger, one Thomas Ramme, crossed the Channel from Dover to Calais while Conway sailed from Plymouth. Morton’s instinct for political matters was sound. No one had thought seriously that Lancaster would invest its fortunes in an unknown exile, dependent upon the Duke François for his very existence. So the two messengers arrived at the court of Brittany quite safely, within a short time of each other, and asked to be taken into the presence of the Earl of Richmond.

  Besides the importance of their tidings they bore a very natural curiosity as to the merits and appearance of this young man, in whom their own lives and futures rested. So, when they were told that the earl was at the butts, they followed with as much speed as decorum allowed. They permitted themselves a lift of the eyebrows, a covert closing of the lids, over the mincing lad who preceded them. For he tossed his long silken hair like a girl, and his tight little buttocks under the brief jerkin seemed to invite their attention.

  ‘Pray God, sir, that the earl be not as this one, or he will fetch all England down — throne, crown, court and all!’ said Thomas Ramme, with a grimace.

  Hugh Conway nodded, but added that these were a decadent people, always at odds among themselves, and any Englishman was worth three foreigners. Which comforted them both immensely. They waited at a respectful distance for the summons.

  The young man who turned to hear the page’s request was of no great stature, a little above middle height, but straight-limbed and of noble bearing. Being heated by the sport he had removed his velvet doublet, unbuttoned the embroidered cuffs of his thin white shirt, and rolled the sleeves above the elbow. Now, as the page waited for his reply, he fitted another arrow into his bow, took careful aim, and shot. A small group of gentlemen about him applauded his accuracy.

  ‘By the Lord,’ said Thomas Ramme, ‘he shoots in the English fashion, for all that he has been twelve years at a Breton court. Do you mind how he presses the weight of his body into the horns of his bow?’

  ‘Aye, and strikes the target fairly! Here comes Mistress
Page, wagging his hips like a whore!’

  The boy dropped his eyelids as he bade them follow him, then looked up through his thick fair lashes and smiled brilliantly. They thanked him, grinning broadly, and were conducted into the earl’s presence with a sulky toss of the head.

  He had laid aside his bow and was pulling on his dark-blue doublet.

  ‘I ask your pardon, gentlemen,’ he said easily, ‘but I am not accustomed to two messengers from England! Else had I asked you to wait while I made myself more seemly. You come from my lady mother?’

  They knelt, proffering the letters, and observed his face without seeming to watch, while he read them. It was a face young in age and old in policy, grave as a priest’s as he digested the news. A long face with a strong nose, a fine mouth and clear grey eyes. A face neither plain nor handsome, framed by dark-gold hair. His expression did not change as he read, but he drew one quick short breath as he finished.

  He detected a note of condescension in Buckingham’s letter, for all that it promised aid and comfort and friends. But his mother had spoken from both heart and head: addressing him as her own sweet and most dear prince; charging him not to neglect so good an occasion offered, but with all speed to settle his mind how to return to England, and counselling him to land in Wales. Then she asked God to bless him.

  ‘You will be weary, gentlemen,’ said Henry. ‘Rest and refresh yourselves for a space while I compose my answers. Then shall you summarily return to England that these matters may speedily be set afoot.’

  They murmured their thanks and obedience, making low bows. But he could not contain his joy as coolly as he wished, and as they began to withdraw he stopped them.

  Wales he knew, but England was a dream as foreign to him as Brittany had been a dozen years ago. He tried to remember the little he had seen of it, on his one journey to London, but it eluded him: as great a stranger as the bride they offered.

  ‘I pray you, sirs,’ he said, and a tremor in his voice touched them closely, ‘how does the kingdom seem?’

  It was Hugh Conway who surmised that he did not speak of politics.

  ‘Why, my lord,’ he replied gently, ‘the realm is green and fair. The swans ride upon the Thames right royally, and the air is sweeter than wine.’

  ‘I thank you, sir,’ said Henry Tudor, ‘for both that news and this.’

  They glanced back once, seeing that his companions waited curiously for him to speak to them. Still he stood there, the blue doublet pulled carelessly over the fine shirt, that was bordered with lace and rich in blue needlework on high collar and narrow cuffs. The letters from England were grasped like fortune in both hands.

  It was as though something long expected had happened, and yet as though the news were indeed wholly new and bewildering. The exile, the adventurer in him, who had answered the messengers at once and ordered their refreshment and an immediate return, was only one self. Beneath him lay a cautious, thinking man; and beneath that a superstitious one, who recognized an omen; and beneath him a mystical one, who followed an inner Holy Grail; and beneath that, darker and deeper waters which he could only commend to God. So Henry stood, with the letters in his hands, and could not speak.

  The tableau was broken by Jasper, who touched his arm, alarmed by his stillness.

  ‘How does the Lady Margaret?’ he asked. ‘For your face is as pale as her pages.’

  Henry gave him the letters and walked a little way off, ashamed that he was trembling with excitement and fear, and stood with his back to all of them.

  ‘The Earl of Richmond has had noble tidings,’ he heard Jasper say, ‘and he would be alone with me a while. You shall hear presently, my good lords, but for the moment I crave your courtesy and beg you take your leave.’

  Then Jasper was beside him, grinning with triumph, stepping over a dozen years of exile.

  ‘A kingdom, Harry!’ cried Jasper, exultant. ‘By God’s Blessed Lady, lad, a kingdom for the asking! Why, by your countenance I thought your gracious mother lay dying. What, lad, no smiles? No shouts of joy? Have you lost at dice, then, or been thrown from your horse?’

  ‘I find the news too deep for merriment,’ said Henry with difficulty.

  ‘You have accepted, though, Henry?’ Jasper asked, his face falling lest some curious point of honour had caused his nephew to refuse.

  His expression brought Henry’s sense of humour back, and Jasper laughed and struck his hands together, relieved.

  ‘I have not lost my wits, sir,’ said Henry, smiling. ‘You would think me a very fool and I said no! But I must sit down awhile. Where is that butt? It shall lend my back some strength.’

  And he sat down with the comfort of the target behind him, and closed his eyes.

  ‘Now would the dreamer in me like to die,’ he said quietly to himself, ‘for then he dies in sight of a fair promise.’

  ‘Harry, Harry! I never dreamed a crown for you, Harry, and yet it is a princely dream, and the awakening shall be better,’ Jasper cried. ‘What poxy talk is this of dying? Die a dreamer? Nay, lad, die fighting if you must — or nobler still, fight to some purpose and win all!’ He suddenly realized the full extent of the messages. ‘Why, Harry, they even have a princess praying for you — on her fair knees this instant, I swear it, asking God for victory and two crowns. Could any man want more?’

  ‘I know you too well, uncle, to believe that any princess weighs upon your thoughts. Had you been St George you would have fought the dragon valiantly — and forgot to untie the lady after!’

  Jasper roared and slapped his thigh, then looked slyly at his nephew.

  ‘Yet were you always sighing after that wench on the tapestry, Harry — and ever loved a light-haired lass above a dark one. Your present lady’s husband must welcome her back into his arms, for you have no need of her! Elizabeth of York, they say, is like to silver for her beauty — as handsome as both father and mother put together.’

  ‘The lady is a king’s daughter, pure and pious and meet to be queen,’ said Henry, embarrassed. ‘I shall not quarrel with their choice of her.’

  ‘Cold loins breed not hot princes!’ Jasper cried, enjoying his joke.

  ‘Nor love-sick lads win wars,’ Henry answered, turning the conversation to his uncle’s interests. ‘I am no warrior, uncle, and love not war as you do. And King Richard is a noble soldier.’

  ‘You hold your own right well,’ said Jasper, jealous for his prowess, ‘and will yield to no man.’

  ‘I do as I am taught,’ said Henry ruefully, ‘and that is not enough. There was a man once, at Pembroke, Hugh Jenkins they called him, that said I did what I must and with a good heart — but that I had no stomach for it. Yet must I find a stomach, uncle. I cannot ask men’s lives without I lead them bravely.’

  He rose, and brushed the soil from his clothes abstractedly, while Jasper pondered.

  ‘If Richard were a butt,’ Henry continued, slapping the sturdy mound of earth, ‘I should transfix him straight. But will he stand still while I aim? And were he a boar in truth as well as emblem, then should I hunt him. But will he not show more cunning than a beast? Nay, he is a man and thinks like a man, and is a goodly warrior. And so I am at loss to know how to conquer him.’

  ‘Now shall I teach you kingship!’ cried Jasper sternly, scrambling up beside him. ‘Look well upon me, Henry Tudor. Do you see this scar?’ And he pointed to the faint white line beneath his grey cropped hair. ‘The man that marked me lies beneath the ground. He was a soldier, too, but did my thoughts betray my hand? Love is your weakness, Harry, and though heaven may welcome it the world will not. This is no game of chess, lad, where King Richard sits on one side of the board and you on the other, playing with smiles and courtesy. The crown is either yours or his, you may not share it. And know him well, he will not stay his hand for you. You see him over-sweetly. He does not see you likewise.

  ‘Usurper, he will call you! And you call him Murderer, for that is what he is! Bastard, he will name you — and you name him T
yrant. He will not say This is a better man! — and serve you faithfully. He will reach for his sword! And by God he knows right well how to wield it, and has men in the Tower that will make you cry out if he captures you. And that head shall make grimaces on the pole, to frighten little children in their dreams, dying on a long shout for mercy!

  ‘I’ll teach you how I teach my men-at-arms. The truths of war are different from the truths of peace. Men are either for you or against you. Now will you live or die!’

  He drew his sword from the scabbard so rapidly that it was no more than a flash, and drove it deep into the grass.

  ‘There lies King Richard!’ he shouted. ‘Do not call him brother. Aye, though he holds his wife tenderly and loves his sickly son. Think not of him as a man. He is your mortal enemy!’

  He withdrew the blade and plunged it again in the earth.

  ‘He does not pray to God as you do. He is the devil's spawn!’

  The blade glittered and was thrust again.

  ‘He is no noble lord, but a foul traitor!’

  Glittering and stabbing.

  ‘His blood does not run red, but black with bile and hatred. His cause is not just. He is the murderer of his brother’s children. He lay two years in his mother’s womb, and came forth as other men go from this world — feet first. The midwives shrieked as they did fetch him out, for his hair grew to his shoulders and in his infant gums teeth bared at them. And he is hunch-backed, foul and deadly — and a heinous villain.’ Driving deeper in the earth. ‘Now do you mark your enemy, my lord?’

  The colour was high in Henry’s cheeks, but he made no answer. Breathing heavily from his exertions, Jasper paused and looked at him, and there was something like contempt on his face. He wrested his sword with difficulty from its target, and sheathed it.

  ‘Tell them you have no stomach for the fight,’ he said tiredly. ‘Let England want for lack of one man’s courage. Let York and Lancaster claw for the crown. Aye, and York fight York, and Lancaster tear Lancaster, turn and turn about in bloody tournament. Until all fail, and France divide the spoils. For here is no prince of valour, called by Almighty God to great estate, but a faint heart and a fickle gentleman — that would wait on charity until providence grew sick and spewed him forth like vomit!’