"You should know," ap Thomas replied in English. "You are a good part Welsh yourself, not to mention having been born and raised here. I must go, sire. I have come secretly only to do what I have done. You will hear soon that John Savage and I will fight for Richard—do not believe it."
"And you will hear that I intend to set Englishmen over the Welsh. Do not believe that, either." Henry smiled sweetly. "As a Welshman keeps his oath, I will make you lord lieutenant of Wales if I destroy Richard of Gloucester with your help!'
"Then we will both be content," ap Thomas growled, "for you have always wanted to be king and I have always wanted to be lord lieutenant in name as well as in fact."
"Do you believe him, Harry?" Pembroke asked after he had returned the sword and ap Thomas had mounted and ridden away.
"Of course," Henry replied. "What good would it do me not to believe him? But I will trust him when I see his forces fighting under my banner—not sooner."
The horses having been brought to shore, they rode north to Haverfordwest still without opposition. Here, in fact, Henry was greeted with shouts of approval.
"King Henry, King Henry," the crowd thundered. "Down with the bragging white boar."
Here, too, they received the news Rhys ap Thomas had warned them about and the more cheering message that Pembroke was still faithful and was sending its men to support its earl and king in their struggle. The council met in a convenient field on horseback, since there were no better seats. Henry first called for opinions and listened intently to what was said.
"It is agreed, then," he summed up, "that the north will hold by Gloucester, that the south favors me but is fearful of rising because of the bad outcome of the last rebellion, that Wales is largely mine and that the issue will be strongly influenced by the decision of the Stanleys. We must, therefore, give a show of strength and drive the Stanleys to some decision as quickly as possible. Time can only favor Gloucester. "
"We need time, too, sire," Oxford ventured. "We must have more men."
"True, but we are in no state to sit still and wait for them to come to us. We must pick them up as we move. It is the part of wisdom to cut the white boar off from the northern piglets who love him. Those of the south whom he can force to take arms will fight with scarce half a heart. Let us move north, then, but not directly across the mountains for there are not enough men there. Those of the wild tribes who wish to join us will come out of the hills to do so. Let us sleep tonight at Cardigan."
"It is garrisoned," Jasper said thoughtfully, "but not overstrong. I think, sire, it will open to us or fall, providing a decent show of strength."
Jasper was quite correct. John Morgan and Richard Griffith joined them on the road, Cardigan opened her gates without hesitation, and people lined the streets, chanting in Welsh. It was too much for Henry, but John Morgan translated:
"Jasper will breed for us a dragon.
Of the fortunate blood of Brutus is he
A bull of Anglesey to achieve.
He is the hope of our race."
"Well," Henry said in a moderate aside, "handsome I am not, but no one ever called me a dragon before."
Nonetheless, he did not fail to make use of the ideas. The tailors of Cardigan were summoned, and the famous red dragon of Cadwallader came to life again on Henry Tudor's battle banner. Owen Tudor, Jasper's father and Henry's grandfather, had claimed to be of the line of Cadwallader, the famous Welsh king who conquered and ruled England. Henry was not going to let that go to waste.
Jasper had loved Wales and served her well, and the bread he had cast upon the waters was returning. Henry, for his part, made sure that the bread did not turn bitter in the mouths of the people. The French soldiers were watched as carefully as if they had been prisoners to be sure that they committed no outrages, and Henry paid for every bite of food and drop of ale that was not offered as a free gift. For the moment he had sufficient funds, and he knew the campaign could not last long. If they conquered, he would have all England and an assortment of confiscated rich estates to replenish his coffers. If they failed, he would be dead and free of debt.
News of his moderate and thoughtful behavior outran him, as he knew it would. The next day Aberayron opened its gates as soon as the van of his army appeared, and shouts of "King Henry, Harry the king," echoed through the streets as they passed. Llanrhystyd did even more, for the people carried bread and ale and fish out to the marching men, and the maidens and women bestowed kisses freely, running along the ranks.
Both towns yielded some men, also, but Henry was playing the genial monarch with a none-too-light heart. He rode bareheaded and smiling, the sun glinting from his polished armor and his golden hair. He called greetings in Welsh and praised and promised in the people's own tongue.
Not for nearly a thousand years had the Welsh heard their own language on the lips of a king of England; the news spread, as did the tale of the red dragon of Cadwallader, and the bards sang the ancient prophecies of a Welsh ruler on the English throne in each village. Before the end of the day, the fierce hillmen, fighters without match although their individualistic behavior often defeated them, began to trickle down to swell Henry's forces.
Pembroke took the hillmen under his wing, knowing all too well their strengths and weaknesses and knowing, also, that they would only respond to commands—when they responded to them at all—in their own tongue. It was good; every man helped and the very sight of the Welsh hillmen would spread terror in an opposing force, but it was not enough. Neither sight nor news of ap Thomas had come to Henry, and without him and Savage the only large, trained fighting force in Wales was out of the Tudor's grasp.
Still, not a weapon or a voice had been raised against them until they came to Aberystwyth. Here the garrison was strong, for Wales, and the gates were closed. Henry donned his helmet and watched Jasper and Oxford deploy their forces with a sinking heart. If he had to fight Welshmen with Welshmen—if they were delayed in cutting off the northern levies from Richard—they were lost.
No blow was struck, however. The gates burst open and the garrison streamed out, unarmed, shouting:
"Richmond, sprung from British race,
From out this land the boar will chase."
They had turned on their officers, these Welsh troops, when Cadwallader's dragon came into view, and they came to offer their service to their "own" king. Henry offered his hands to kisses, received a trembling deputation of townsfolk bearing gifts and offers of free quartering for his men with kingly graciousness. The troops rested, but Henry and his council labored through the night.
Pembroke, Oxford, Poynings, and Brandon argued tactics and planned and replanned with Shaunde the disposition of their scanty forces. They would be at Shrewsbury in two days at this rate, and if Sir Gilbert Talbot chose to fight, they had to win. Edgecombe pored over accounts, reckoning every loaf and fish that had been offered and squeezing the largest measure of ale out of every penny. Guildford examined every stronghold; begged, borrowed, and bought carts; routed out men to lash the small cannon taken from each fortified town to the best of these; marked the cannon and tried to find the gun crews that had worked them, to keep them with their own familiar pieces; tested gunpowder and searched for ammunition.
Henry wrote letters—letters of high tone, headed "By the King," ordering various people who had promised support to meet him to free his "loving and true subjects" from "the odious tyrant, Richard, late duke of Gloucester, usurper of our said right . . . as ye will avoid our grievous displeasure and answer it at your peril." The letters were not conciliatory in the least. They did not beg, they ordered. Henry intended to win or die, and if he won he intended to be a king, not a puppet at the mercy of his nobles.
They marched again at dawn. Talybont opened to them, but Machynlleth was shut tight behind its walls. Henry hesitated; they could go round the town without danger, for time was important. It was also important not to show weakness. A word to Brandon, who rode so close wherever Henry went that t
heir horses seemed tethered together, brought the council galloping up.
"I can reduce it in an hour," Guildford said scornfully, glancing at his cannons.
"Let us do so," Oxford snapped. "It will be an object lesson to others."
"The Welsh carry grudges for a long time," Pembroke muttered. "Shall I parley with them first?"
Brandon suddenly laughed aloud. "No time. You had better form your battle. Look."
Henry's face set into the icy calm that covered his fear. From the north came a small army, not as large as his own but apparently well drilled, carrying the banners of Merioneth, Caernarvon and Denbigh. Pembroke, Oxford, and Shaunde fled toward their various contingents, roaring orders. Guildford rode to his beloved guns; Brandon and Poynings with the rest of the council drew up around Henry. But the North Wales army halted, and the leaders rode forward alone—and as they rode they dipped their banners in salute.
"King Henry," the voices came across the field. "King of Wales and king of England! Long live King Henry."
The lookouts on the walls of the town could not fail to see the captains dismount, doff their helms and offer their swords on bended knees. The gates opened; the captain of the garrison rode out unhelmed and disarmed. He begged for mercy, claiming his fear of Sir Gilbert Talbot as the reason for his resistance.
"We would not have fought if you stormed the town, sire," he said, "but when you moved on, we would have been at Talbot's mercy if we yielded without a show of fight. We are so close to Shrewsbury … so close. The townspeople were afraid."
Henry was mild and gracious to him and to the deputation of townsfolk that followed. He assured them—with far more conviction than he felt himself—that Talbot was his man and would do them no harm. "But resistance to your rightful king must be punished," he said, smiling to take the sting from the words. "Do you quarter and feed my men as your token of yielding."
His hands were kissed with passionate fervor. The force he had now could have razed the town and looted it bare; yet the Tudor had asked no more than any king had a right to expect, nothing compared with what a conqueror might take. Blessings were cried out as he passed through the streets; merchants came with free offerings of goods and money—only a tithe of what he could have demanded and received had he threatened, but Henry knew that even more glowing reports of his mercy and justice would spread.
With each gain of strength, that reputation would be more important to him. If ap Thomas and Savage joined him, if Talbot chose not to fight, if the Stanleys deserted their master—then he would beat Richard. And if he beat Richard, only this reputation for justice and mercy would keep the country quiet for the months he would need to consolidate his victory and seize the reins of government in a sure grip.
If—if—Henry rubbed his smarting eyes and forced himself to eat another mouthful of the excellent meal provided for him. Where was ap Thomas? Where was Savage? What were the Stanleys doing? Where, oh, God, where was his mother? Even she had not replied to his letter, and he was sick with fear for her. Had Richard seized her? Would he murder her out of spite against her son? Out of vindictive cruelty so that Henry could not savor his victory even if he won? He broke the food up in his plate, scattered some on the floor, threw some from the window, thanking God for the custom that permitted a king to dine alone if he desired. It would never do for anyone to know that the future king was too terrified to eat.
Too frightened to eat and too tired to sleep, Henry discovered later when at last he crawled into bed. For the past two nights he had been too busy to snatch more than a few hours' rest. Now that there was nothing left for him to do but wait, he could not take advantage of it. He could not even ease his tension by summoning someone to talk to. The mask of calm confidence was the strength that his entire party fed on; it must remain in place. Henry finally slept, but he woke in the morning with a splitting head and a feverish feeling.
Let the army march slowly ahead, he thought. I will overtake them easily on horseback when I feel better. The immediate lessening of the pounding in his head made him smile wryly. Harry, he muttered to himself, to use your body as a weapon against others is reasonable; to let it play tricks on yourself is foolish.
A call brought John Cheney and Robert Willoughby with water for washing. Henry permitted himself to be thoroughly scrubbed, since he did not know when he would have another chance, and then to be dressed and armed. Breakfast he waved away except for the ale, which he drank thirstily. It was a torment to mount and ride, and Henry was half-furious, half-worried. If it was really his own cowardice that was making him feel sick, should not the sensation pass now that he was ignoring it? What should he do if he really fell ill? At least that answer was simple. He must do just as he was doing, ill or not.
The hours passed in a daze of pain and unease, from which Henry shook himself to be as charming and gracious as ever to the chief man of the tiny village of Caerwys. They forded the Severn, which was hardly more than a stream at this point, and turned to Newtown. Henry tried to think whether it would be better to travel quickly through the mountains and take Shrewsbury by surprise, even if the army was tired, or whether they should camp and rest in Wales, where they were relatively safe, and come fresh to Shrewsbury, even though the city had more warning of their arrival. The problem seemed insoluble, and Henry's consciousness that he could have decided in five minutes if he was less fearful only served to confuse him further.
Jasper pulled his horse up beside his nephew's. "The fore riders tell me there is a large force camped around Newtown. Do we fight or try to go round?"
"Fight," Henry replied without hesitation. "It is one thing to leave a small town garrison undefeated behind you. It is another to leave an army there." Jasper nodded his agreement. "And," Henry continued, "send Shaunde and the French round to meet the southern road and come up behind. But bid him remember the lesson of Machynlleth and hold his attack until he hears the fighting joined. We do not wish to fall upon our friends with weapons."
"You think they are friends?"
"I do." Henry thought nothing of the sort. He was depressed, certain now the venture would fail, and sick with terror; but he dared not expose his insecurity. "Nonetheless, form your battle. We must not fall into any trap, and it can do us no harm if our allies know us to be both ready and cautious."
"Thank God for your cool head, Harry," Jasper said. "I would have sent the hillmen to attack without warning. If they are friends, that would have set the fat in the fire."
"No surprise tactics," Henry snapped. "We are not here to attack our own people without provocation. Until Richard of Gloucester is in the force opposed to us, we will fight only for passage to where we must go or to defend ourselves."
Shaunde left with his detachment and the others waited. Worn out by pain and anxiety, Henry dropped asleep, and all who saw him marveled at his cool confidence. If the Tudor who had the most to lose was so sure, what had they to fear? The word spread through the force, and men laughed and nudged each other and spoke of the good time coming when the white boar should be driven from the land and his ravages ceased; but they spoke softly or at a distance from Henry. One does not wake a sleeping king except for urgent news.
CHAPTER 8
So it was that when Henry's prediction proved true and the force camped around Newtown was identified as Rhys ap Thomas's army, Rhys himself found his monarch quietly asleep with his head on William Brandon's thigh. It made a most excellent impression, as did Henry's reaction when Jasper bent over him and said softly, "Sire, they are here."
Henry opened his eyes and smiled with the relief that certainty, even of death itself, will bring after long tension. "Very well, uncle, let's have at them."
"What, sire," Rhys laughed, "have things been so easy that you will fall upon your own supporters only for the sport of a battle?"
"Rhys!" Henry exclaimed, leaping up and clapping him heartily on the shoulder. "Nay. I told my men we would find no enemies in Wales, but they are so suspicious they
nearly convinced me to launch a surprise attack upon you. Uncle, will you send to Shaunde and bid him encamp with his men. I sent him round behind you, you know," Henry said guilelessly. It would do Rhys ap Thomas no harm to know his king was not a fool.
"Had us surrounded, did you? Even though you thought us friends?"
"It does no harm to be sure—even with friends. Is Savage with you?"
"No." Rhys shook his head. "But do not fear him. I parted from him only yesterday, and he is surely your man. I have fair news, sire. Richard has not yet moved to arm himself. Either he does not know that you are here, or he is so sure Savage and I will stop you that he takes no heed of the news."
"But if Talbot chooses to defend Shrewsbury, we will need every man."
Rhys shrugged. "There is a mixture of evils and uncertainties here. Savage, as you know, is Lord Stanley's nephew, as Talbot is his brother-in-law. Savage does not wish to join you before Talbot does—and he says Talbot will—for fear of alarming Gloucester too soon. As long as the white boar trusts the Stanley clan to hold the marches against you, he will not move himself."
To Henry it was so weak an excuse that it sounded like the knell of doom. That Rhys plainly believed what he said was little comfort. Savage would join Talbot and together they would make a stand against him. To voice his fears, however, might make Rhys turn tail. The Tudor contented himself with flattering the Welshman judiciously and setting Edgecombe to watch his every move. They camped at Newtown that night, planning how best to integrate their diverse troops and their move against Shrewsbury, and in the forenoon of August 11 they arrived before the gates of that city.
The great gates were closed, the stone walls blank. But neither cannonball nor arrow was loosed at them, and Henry forbade attack. The day passed. On the next day, Sir Walter Herbert, kinsman of the Lord Herbert who had been Henry's jailor and another of the men Gloucester had counted upon to defend Wales, brought his men to swell the Tudor's forces. On August 13, a messenger came galloping from the west. He made no effort to avoid Henry's army and was taken and brought before the Tudor, where he identified himself as Sir Gilbert Talbot's man.
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