An Unknown Welshman

by Jean Stubbs

‘Their feet will blister fast enough tomorrow,’ said Jasper, tracing their route through the Prescelly Hills. ‘Thirty hard miles on mountain tracks lie between us and Nefem before nightfall.’

  ‘The greater an army the slower it moves,’ said Rhys, and Oxford nodded. ‘So, sire, if you reckon twenty miles a day it shall be near enough. And we should all meet at Cefn Digoll by the thirteenth day of August, which is the eve of Saturday.’

  ‘We should have fetched slave-drivers with us,’ said Oxford, half-serious. ‘A whip cracked about those French heels would send them forth speedily!’

  ‘We shall have Welsh heels with us, too, my lord,’ said Henry lightly. ‘We would not have them whipped! Every man must fare the same, else shall we war among ourselves. My lords,’ he said firmly, as they seemed prepared to dispute his authority, ‘we slept not at all last night, and tomorrow shall be a long day.’

  They knelt and kissed the formal hand, and bade him sleep well and soundly.

  Oxford was up before any of them cuffing his squire awake, roaring among the French tents and shouting for ale.

  ‘Wales lies before you, now, sire,’ said Rhys, as they prepared to go their separate ways. ‘Unfurl your banners that all men know who comes. I wish you God speed and a safe keeping.’

  Then he mounted Grey Fetterlocks and ordered his captains to see that every man was ready. Oxford raised one rueful arm in salute, and glared down the lines of subdued French faces. The trumpeters stood forth, and the drummers flexed their wrists, preparatory to the long march.

  ‘Now Christ Jesu keep them!’ said Rhys to himself, and gave the order to advance on Carmarthenshire.

  As the day grew older the sun climbed higher, and the tracks became rougher and steeper. Their steady tramp now ragged, they pressed and sweated on; scrambling over rocks, stumbling on heather and hussocks, treading down forests of bracken, dragging the leaden cannons and clumsy signals after them, hauling the awkward carts full of arms and provisions — whose wheels threatened to break and cascade their loads down every slope they negotiated. Philibert de Shaunde had long since given up his little leadership, and lapsed into cold courtesy while Oxford urged them mercilessly on. After fifteen cruel miles they halted.

  ‘Fall out!’ Oxford commanded his captains, and could not resist adding of the Frenchmen, ‘and fall out they will. Look how that carrion rolls upon the grass. No ale, or they will sleep like swine. God’s water is good enough for men upon a march.’

  Baskets of bread were carried round. The soldiers seized their chunks and tore them with their teeth; lay on their bellies over the dripping bunches of grass and drank the mountain water; wet their heads and faces against the heat of the day; soaked strips of cloth and bound their swollen feet. Squires grazed and watered the horses and looked to their master’s needs.

  All about them lay hills and sun and silence. Sheep cropped, and stared incuriously at the invaders. Birds swooped and called. From a crag an eagle dropped, talons outstretched, taking a prey too small and far away for them to see or hear.

  Then on again with the vast equipage jolting behind them. And at last downhill, in the cool of the evening, to Nefem, where they camped at Ragwr-llwyd and soothed their burns and blisters.

  ‘Now are they broken in,’ said Oxford, enjoying his wine, ‘and may know what to look for. Thirty miles is no mean feat, your grace.’

  ‘My lord, we think you covered sixty miles,’ said Henry, amused. ‘For we saw you riding here and there among the troops.’

  ‘Aye, sire, they know my face,’ said Oxford grimly. ‘And shall know it better ere we join battle.’

  The beacons on the hills had hailed their coming, and the gates of Cardigan were open when they approached it at noon of the following day, to be given a rapturous reception. At the tavern of The Three Mariners the landlord brought out every cask of ale and would take no payment for any. And here they were joined by Richard Griffith and John Morgan with their men. Greetings and aledrinking had taken up the time. It was Oxford’s pleasure to inform everyone that they must cover the next fourteen miles before dark — and he personally kicked three Frenchmen sober. But the winds along the coast were fresh, after the cauldron of the hills. The fumes in their heads vanished as they tramped or rode on. And in the rough carts lay new provisions of oats and hay and salt-fish, jolting from side to side and sometimes mingling their contents.

  At Llwyn Dafydd, on their fourth night in Wales, the army camped in their usual fashion. But Henry and his noblemen were entertained by Dafydd ab Ifan in his house, and ate hens boiled with bacon, yellow as cowslips, from a tablecloth, and slept between good linen sheets.

  On the Thursday they marched twenty-six sweating miles to Machynlleth, and again the commanders enjoyed civil hospitality at Mathafarn, while their soldiers compared the state of their feet. They were in milder country now: a place of woods and waterfalls, of flowering valleys and rush-clad streams and green hills. And it was pleasant to sit by the camp-fires and sing nostalgic songs, and roast a newly-captured rabbit or a poached fish. Oxford still haunted the French, but his curses were becoming fewer as they strove not to displease him. His crest of the Blue Boar had caught their ribald fancy, and they coined a coarser nickname. By their own fires, the little Welsh contingent produced harpists, and prepared to celebrate in a more poetic fashion. The Bretons, comprehending and translating to their fellow mercenaries, were tickled by portentous references to wizards and prophecies.

  ‘For,’ as one of them said, ‘what is life, my friends, but food and wine and women and war?’

  Practical to the core of their Gallic hearts, they agreed with him. But the sounds swelled into the summer evening with a peculiar ecstasy.

  ‘A highway was made to the northy in dignity — Earl with the golden cuirass, of handsome hearing... A conqueror like Dyfn thou shalt win. Bendigedfran, the warrior, was less than thou ... Great ruler of land and sea.’

  Silent, the French listened, captured in spite of themselves.

  ‘Iorweth is in thy goodly arms — offspring of Princes, thou of the many feasts. Thy wine to the minstrels, and the green gowns, and bread in stacks before the brave ... Peacock of Tudor Bull of Anglesey ...’

  The rapt dark faces brooded over the flames, pondering the legend, finding in the heart of the fire an answer to a savage past.

  On Friday they followed the River Dovey as far as Mallwyd, and struck across Montgomeryshire by Pen-y-bont and Neuadd to Dolardoun in the parish of Castle Caerinion.

  The march had taken its toll, and Henry borrowed a fresh horse and gave a receipt for payment.

  The beacons fired in Pembroke spread their message like fire itself. To the north and east and west of Wales the hills flared news of the coming. And from the chieftain in his stronghold to the shepherd on the mountains, Wales rose to his standard. Men who had been taught to wield no other weapon could carry a pitchfork, or take an axe from the wall or a scythe from the shed, or pick up a bill-hook. They came from the valleys, the fields, the mines: with a little money in their belts if they had some, and a little food if they had not. Old men who would be left behind in the long march, young men following a dream, boys with their fathers, middle-aged farmers seeking a last adventure. He who had been promised would lead them.

  As far as Henry could see on the Long Mountain stood rank upon rank of Welshmen, with the uchelwyr, their chieftains, at their head. Richard ap Howell of Mostyn with sixteen hundred Flintshire colliers. The men of Arfon under their High Sheriff. William ap Gruffydd of Penrhyn. Rhys of Bodychan. Ap Meredith of Yspytty. They had driven cattle enough to feed the entire army, and the beasts grazed quietly after their trek, watched by lads of eleven and twelve who would taste war for the first time. Here was Sir Walter Herbert, striding forward to bend the knee and renew an old acquaintance. There were the Vaughans and the Gams, and Arnold Butler and Sir Thomas Perrot of Haroldson and Sir John Wogan of Wistern Castle. And, nobler than any present, Rhys ap Thomas leading his two thousand: as fresh and d
isciplined now as they had been at the Dale.

  And something which had been growing in him since he kissed the Welsh soil, casting out calculation and suspicion and that darkness which was his shadow, came to flower. The legend wrapped him, raised him, bore him far out and beyond himself. In its sun he rode before them, catching their throats into a shout of joy and homage. He did not care that the tears stood in his eyes, seeing that they, too, wept for exaltation.

  But Oxford, cast in a sterner mould, looked somewhat askance upon the scythes and pitchforks, though there were bows too, and spears enough to comfort any warrior with their bronze and burnished heads.

  ‘Well, Pembroke!’ he said drily. ‘If they cannot fight I dare swear they may kick and strangle!’

  ‘I had sooner face an armoured knight in his pride than a bill-hook in the hands of an ardent Welshman!’ said Jasper soberly. ‘You misjudge us sorely, my lord. These are here to give their lives if need be. No man may offer more.’

  Not a quarter of those present either saw or heard their king address them, but the myth had run ahead of him. They did not need the man when his praises could be sung over the camp-fires. He was among them, and that was enough. Whole oxen were roasted that night on Cefn Digoll, and the glow was seen for miles about as though night were broad day.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A worthy sight it was to see,

  How the Welshmen rose wholly with him

  And shogged him to Shrewsbury.

  The Rose of England, Bishop Percy’s Folio MS.

  Fair Shrewsbury, like all other towns, had enough to do to take care of itself without being troubled by the quarrels of princes. Or so it thought, on a hot August Monday of 1485, when the morning sun promised to become an afternoon’s torment, and its bridge was down, its gates open like a mouth taking a breath of air. The watchman on the stout tower looking towards the blue mountains of Wales must have been asleep already. The people jostled and chattered and bought and sold within, and the labourers toiled without. And all were going about their rightful business, asking no more than that they might be left in peace.

  Only those near the Welsh gate noted the herald in white and green, who rode into their midst and demanded to speak to Master Mitton the bailiff. And fewer still saw the bailiff read the letter and lose some of his colour as he pondered its contents.

  ‘Where is this — noble gentleman — sir?’ he said at last, as the messenger accepted a draught of ale with thanks.

  ‘King Henry has camped with his forces on Bicton Heath, sir, where he awaits your answer.’

  Master Mitton thought of all that might happen to Shrewsbury if he let the invader in, and all that might happen if he did not. He decided on the latter.

  ‘Sir, inform your lord that I know no king but him that sits upon the throne. And by his command do I guard this town.’

  The messenger finished his ale, made his bow, leaped upon his horse and spurred across the bridge: as cheerful in his departure as at his arrival. Master Mitton turned from white to red as the need for haste possessed him. An army, by Our Lady, and camped but three miles off!

  In minutes the bells were ringing all over Shrewsbury, followed by the watchman on the tower winding his horn for dear life. The hustle of a Monday morning became bedlam. Burghers drew wadded coats of mail from the chests where they lay in safe-keeping; reached for their bows and swords and knives. A dozen temporary watchmen ran for the walls, furnished with more brass horns on leather baldrics, which they wound as they sprinted. People hurried for safety; women and children seeking the sanctity of the church. The town cannons were drawn into position and enthusiastic but amateur gunners appointed to supervise their firing. Meat and drink and chattels and armour were crammed into the town hall. A hubbub of peasants and cattle from the suburbs poured, panic-stricken, into the market square. Two felons were released from the stocks. And even as they were about to draw up the bridge a little fellow, who had been letting the sheep look after themselves, scuttled across driving his woolly charges before him, the collie barking at his heels.

  ‘Sir!’ he shouted to Master Mitton, breathless with excitement and terror, ‘Sir, there is a great host marching from Bicton Heath!’

  ‘Then why did no man see them sooner?’ the bailiff demanded of heaven.

  ‘Sir, sir, I thought it was the sun shining on the heath,’ said the boy, ‘and then I saw it was the light of their spears!’

  ‘How many, boy? How many?’

  ‘Sir,’ said the child, making the most of a glorious moment in a dull life, attempting a good round sum to impress everybody, ‘close on twenty thousand!’

  The bailiff was in no mood to haggle over numbers. He fetched the lad a cuff that sent him into the sheep, who received him with perplexity.

  ‘And sir,’ said the boy, heaving two fat wethers away from him, ‘knights in armour, sir! And tents like daisies in a field! And marching for Shrewsbury, sir!’ he shouted, and ran for safety.

  ‘Now must this have been the light we saw on Saturday!’ groaned Master Mitton. ‘And the priest telling us it was the Angels of God watching over Shrewsbury since we had mended the church roof! Christ have mercy upon us all!’ He saw that his citizens lacked his leadership, and caught at one or two of them as they ran past, crying, ‘Have no fear good people! We shall withstand the tyrant. Pull up that drawbridge in heaven’s name!’ he roared, as they strained at the iron wheel. ‘Let down the portcullis! Make fast the gates!’

  Since none but himself knew the identity of the army, which might well have been that of some Welsh chieftain making a swift bid for market-day, they continued to screech and shout and arm and provision themselves in ignorance. But Master Mitton remembered that this was the usurper whom King Richard had denounced but two months since. Comforted to think that he had made the right answer, he called a general meeting in the market-place and stood on the top step of the market-cross.

  ‘Good people of Shrewsbury!’ he cried, ‘In zeal and hearty favour of King Richard we are called upon to resist a heinous traitor! An unknown Welshman of bastard stock, with his band of cut-throats and outrageous damnable villains. One that purposes to overthrow our lawful sovereign, and bring the realm to bloody strife!’

  They understood this and shouted, throwing up their caps.

  ‘This captain, Henry Tudor, with a mighty army, is camped on Bicton Heath. Good folk, stand firm. We are provisioned and well-armed. King Richard will deliver us! God will watch over us — did we not mend the church roof? And Shrewsbury yields to none!’

  The host was moving purposefully forward: soldiers, supporters and boys now numbered some six thousand. And the lads of the town pointed out different pennants and standards, the archers with bows the height of themselves, the shimmering armour from which the sun struck lightning.

  ‘And cannons, Dick,’ whispered one boy, nudging his younger brother. ‘They have cannons!’ Trundling on sleds, black mouths gaping.

  ‘And hand-guns!’ Sophisticated weapons, with a hole in one end of the iron tube through which the powder was fired, a touch-hole at one side with a small pan beneath to hold the powder, and a cover for the pan to turn it off and on by means of a pivot.

  They marvelled at the spangled feathers on the helmets, at the knee and elbow pieces intricately wrought into fan-shapes, at the elaborate war-shields.

  Master Mitton had recovered his dignity, and now waited until the intruders should be within hailing distance. Cowering below him, the people heard the tread of many feet, the steady trot and plod of hooves, the jingle of harnesses, the rumble of carts. Then all sounds ceased, and Shrewsbury was bathed in sunlight and silence.

  The bailiff stood up where all could see him: a stout and rosy man of simple heart. He did not like his duty at the moment, but knew it must be done.

  The same herald rode forward, enjoying his task.

  ‘Sir, King Henry bids you unbar the gates!’

  ‘I know no king but Richard, the third of that name!’ ca
lled Mitton sturdily, looking round for the pretender. ‘And at these gates shall no man enter!’

  A little flurry in the vanguard caught his attention. The herald bowed and backed his horse unobtrusively away, where it cropped the grass peaceably. And a slim knight in silver-blue armour, with a gold cuirass, cantered forward, visor lifted so that the bailiff glimpsed a pair of grey eyes and a strong nose and mouth.

  ‘Sir!’ Henry cried across the water, ‘we bid the good folk of Shrewsbury to have no fear of us! We mean them no hurt. We march to meet the Duke of Gloucester, whose hand has spilled the blood of his dear nephews.’

  His faith in himself and his self-appointed title was absolute. The royal ‘we’ came naturally from his lips.

  ‘Wherefore we pray you, sir bailiff, to let us in, to provision our army, and to give us troops in token of your good faith. Which service shall be remembered in King Henry’s name!’

  ‘My lord,’ said Master Mitton, impressed, but following his line of duty, ‘King Richard has our allegiance, and though you blast our walls you shall not enter!’

  A tall, dark-visaged nobleman bearing the crest of the Blue Boar rode forward, and from his gestures the bailiff guessed that he commended violence. But the young knight shook his head until the plumes swayed, and then spoke again, holding his restless horse in check.

  ‘Sir, the town of Shrewsbury is under our protection. We shall not harm her nor her people. And, since you do not take our word, Sir William Stanley, Chamberlain of North Wales, shall persuade you otherwise. Await his messenger, therefore, while we return to camp.’

  He signalled the host to withdraw, and the unwieldy mass re-formed and marched away in good order. A sense of anti-climax settled on the town as they watched the cannons trundle off. They had been ready and valiant, and must remain so for a day and a night. At the moment nothing else could be done. So Master Mitton ordered the offenders to be put back in the stocks; the stall-holders began to assemble their wares and heave the wooden booths upright; and the boys — bitterly disappointed — scrambled down from the walls to have their heads smacked.