First of the Tudors

by Joanna Hickson

  The earl turned his horse to ride beside me, his distress at Lady Margaret’s snub very evident. ‘Do you think she will ever forgive me, Jane?’ he murmured. ‘I did not want wardship of Harri but the king and the queen both insisted.’

  I sympathized but did not say so. From what I had heard of Queen Marguerite’s determined grasp on power, I suspected Harri’s custody had been her idea. If he was reared far away in Pembroke, his drop of royal blood would be forgotten and the court would regard her own small boy as the uncontested heir to the succession.

  ‘Surely her resentment will pass, given time,’ Jasper persisted, his gaze fixed on Lady Margaret’s back.

  ‘I would not bank on it,’ I said, sensing the fierce anger and distress somehow radiating from her rigid shoulder blades.

  When, later in the month, I agreed to remain in charge of Harri’s nursery at Pembroke I begged Jasper not to tell Margaret until the last minute – but inevitably she guessed and demanded to be allowed to take Harri to spend Christmas at her sister Edith’s home near St David’s. She also asked Edith and Geoffrey Pole to escort her to her wedding. She now wished neither Lord Jasper nor me to attend it. Christmas at Pembroke was a melancholy feast and two days after our unhappy festivities we rode to collect Harri from his mother, before she set out for Maxstoke and her marriage.

  Perhaps Edith had talked her sister round because at least Lady Margaret’s anger towards me had softened when we met at Haverford Castle, of which Geoffrey Pole was deputy constable. He took Lord Jasper on a tour of the defences while Lady Margaret, Edith and I played with Harri and watched him eat some curds and honey to fortify him for the onward journey.

  ‘I know Henry will be safe with you, Jane,’ Margaret assured me, refusing as always to use the name Harri. ‘But I insist that you to write regular letters telling me of every new tooth and of course when he takes his first steps. Edith and I thought it might happen over Christmas but although he stands if you hold his hands he has not yet stepped out independently.’

  Her eyes misted as she contemplated missing this important milestone in her son’s life so I hastened to reassure her that I would not only write but also attempt to draw him standing freely on his feet. ‘Although I am not the most talented artist, it must be said,’ I added with a grimace. ‘When I drew Lord Jasper’s peregrine, if you remember, you thought it looked more like a pigeon.’

  I detected a moment of uncertainty at the mention of her brother-in-law, as if she was about to pass comment and thought better of it, so I took a chance. ‘He feels just as wretched as you at the separation, my lady. It is not his choice but I am certain he will be like a father to Harri. It would greatly ease his anguish if you were able to forgive him, or at least acknowledge the awkwardness of his position.’

  For an instant I thought I had made a dreadful error in taking Lord Jasper’s part. She was after all a fourteen-year-old girl, not an experienced woman, aware of the Wheel of Fortune’s erratic turns.

  At this moment Edith chose to intervene and spoke frankly, as only an older sister could. ‘Geoffrey believes Lord Jasper to be the best man ever to be granted the lordship of Pembroke and the best ambassador Wales could have in the English court. If anyone can teach a boy how to become a man of honour and worth it is he. Your Henry needs a role model to guide and advise him and, lacking his own father, his uncle is the perfect choice. It is the inevitable fate of a noblewoman to lose authority over her sons at a young age but at least you can be sure that Jasper will never let him forget who his mother is. Leave him with good grace, Margaret, and go and have more children with your new husband.’

  Harri crawled to where his mother was sitting and pulled himself up on her skirt so that he stood before her, unsteady but smiling triumphantly. She laughed and swung him up onto her knee, hugging him tightly. Then she shifted her gaze to her sister and let it rest thoughtfully on her for a moment before nodding reluctant agreement. ‘You are right, Edith. I should be grateful that it is Lord Jasper and not some total stranger that the king has chosen to be Henry’s guardian. He will never allow my son to forget me because he loves me as much as Lord Edmund did.’

  Clearly I had been wrong to think Lady Margaret too young to understand Lord Jasper’s position. Inside that gracefully inclined head resided a firm belief that God’s Will would be done – and an exceedingly sharp insight.

  When the time came to bid farewell and mount up, I stood ready to move forward and take Harri from his mother’s arms. But instead of giving him to me she kissed her infant son firmly on his lips and told him gently, ‘Now go to your Uncle Jasper, Henry, and be a good boy.’ As she passed him over she smiled bravely but I could see tears welling in her eyes. ‘Take care of him, my lord.’ Her voice broke on the words. I could not see Lord Jasper’s expression but I watched Lady Margaret go on tiptoe to kiss him too. It was a kiss of forgiveness. ‘Remember, he is my beloved son.’

  ‘I will never let him forget it,’ he said.

  18

  Jasper

  London & Pembroke Castle

  THE KING WAS BACK in London. I was crammed among a crowd of crimson-robed peers at the foot of the altar steps of St Paul’s Church, where King Henry sat, crowned in state on a gilded throne, lost in the purple folds of his ermine-trimmed mantle. Five hundred candles lit the cold, cavernous setting, but the atmosphere in the chancel was oppressive and my companions as tense as the strings on a gittern. Beside the king stood the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Durham, propped on their ornate croziers, the gold thread glittering on their lavishly embroidered copes and mitres. Fumes belching from censors swung by over-enthusiastic acolytes hung in clouds around us as one by one, willingly or unwillingly, dukes, earls and barons queued to make their vows of peace before God and king.

  In the two months since King Henry had summoned his leading nobles to a Great Council at Westminster the city had become a cauldron of contention. Anticipating conflict, leading lords had come accompanied by huge private armies and antagonism between the two main affinities had festered so fast and so violently that an edict was issued, ordering supporters of York to reside within the city walls and supporters of Lancaster to stay without. Armed royal guards had been placed at the gates to keep the two sides apart.

  Principally, the Lancastrians accused the Yorkists of murder by the assassination of prominent Lancastrian peers during the confrontation in St Albans three years previously. After weeks of argument the Archbishop of Canterbury had managed to negotiate an agreement, which involved the payment of vast sums by the Yorkist leaders in compensation to the embittered Lancastrian heirs of the dead. But no one really supposed that, even if it was paid, money alone would assuage the vengeful anger of the young Duke of Somerset, the Earl of Northumberland and their hot-headed ally Lord Clifford, who had all lost their fathers. No one that is except the king, who genuinely believed that the service of reconciliation at St Paul’s would mark an end to animosity and herald a new era of goodwill. After making their vows, leading members of the two warring affinities were to walk hand in hand through the streets to reassure the citizens that peace had been restored among the great and powerful of the realm.

  Hiding my misgivings, I had spent an awkward morning closeted with my brother and Queen Marguerite, trying to decide on the order of this procession. ‘You and the queen will lead it of course, my liege,’ I proposed.

  But Marguerite disagreed. ‘I think the king should lead it alone. It was he who instigated the peace council and he who managed to persuade the lords to agree terms.’ She placed her hand admiringly over her husband’s arm. ‘I will never know how you succeeded, my lord, especially as far as the Duke of York is concerned.’

  Henry appeared gratified by her praise. ‘I prayed and the Almighty heard my prayers,’ he declared. ‘And the Archbishop had a lot to do with it. But you know I do not like to walk alone, my dear. I need my queen at my side.’

  She was sympathetic but adamant. ‘Yes, my dearest lord, bu
t on this occasion I think you must be brave. If you walk alone in the van it will be clear to the people that their king understands their longing for peace and is entirely responsible for controlling his barons. You must receive the gratitude of your people. Besides, I believe it is my penance to walk hand in hand with Richard of York who, as you know, I consider a treasonous thug and a threat to your throne.’

  ‘Is everyone to walk with their arch enemy then?’ I asked in surprise. ‘Is that wise, or even possible? Surely we cannot ask the Duke of Somerset to walk with the Earl of Warwick? The man who killed his father at St Albans? He will never agree.’

  Marguerite drew herself up, jaw jutting. ‘If I can walk with York, young Somerset can walk with Warwick. Heaven knows I mourned his father’s death as much as anyone but it was Richard of York who led an army against the king. By taking his hand I will be forgiving his treason, the gravest of all crimes. Whereas Somerset will only be forgiving an act of war.’

  ‘Marguerite is right,’ insisted King Henry. ‘We must show a united front to our people. As St Matthew wrote in his gospel, “A kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation”.’

  ‘So the order of precedence is to be suspended is it?’ I persisted. ‘Because if the Earl of Warwick is to walk hand in hand with the Duke of Somerset, he will have to go ahead of the dukes of Buckingham, Exeter and Norfolk in the procession.’

  Henry and Marguerite exchanged enquiring glances then nodded in unison. ‘Yes,’ said the queen. ‘Peace must prevail over precedence.’

  There seemed no point in further argument. ‘So be it, but I would not like to be the one to explain that to the dukes.’

  I detected a hint of malice in her smiling response. ‘Well that is a pity, Jasper, because I believe you are the one best placed to do so, since you will be ceding your pre-eminence among the earls to Warwick. To soften the blow you can stress that it is only for this one, exceptional occasion.’

  One did not refuse a royal command and Queen Marguerite had made plenty of these lately without any reference to the king. I cast a quizzical look at Henry for confirmation but he ignored it.

  ‘Tomorrow is the Feast of the Annunciation,’ he said, making the sign of the Cross. ‘The day that Love was conceived. We shall call our reconciliation “Loveday”.’

  Whatever he had chosen to call it, I could feel little love emanating from the column of disgruntled courtiers who followed the king down the nave of St Paul’s. King Henry may have been radiating joy as he led his ‘Loveday’ parade but behind his back the forced smiles of his fulminating barons gave little indication of a sudden blossoming of brotherly love.

  As we spilled out into the gloomy churchyard at the top of Ludgate Hill, canopied by a heavy blanket of dark clouds, I had a sudden vision of the wide, clear skies over Pembroke Castle and Jane Hywel striding out in her purposeful way across the Outer Court towards the herb garden. When I blinked the image faded but I was left wishing I were there, in Jane’s congenial company, rather than setting off towards Temple Bar feigning happiness among a column of noblemen who were probably as fervent as I in wishing that they were somewhere else. The muted cheers of the crowd indicated that they, too, had little faith in the message of Loveday.

  The king and queen departed from London as soon as possible and I was glad of the excuse to join their escort to Berkhamsted Castle. ‘Stay faithful, Jasper,’ Queen Marguerite urged me as I took my farewell the next day. ‘I am worried about the king’s health. He is heading for another breakdown; I know the signs. So I am taking him back to Kenilworth.’

  Bending over her be-ringed hand, I thought she looked magnificent but also alarming. I wanted to warn her to be careful not to further alienate the Duke of York but thought better of it. It was too late. She knew as well as I did that Richard of York had been totally unimpressed with the ‘Loveday’ attempt at reconciliation. He had taken his six hundred retainers back to Ludlow where he would be nursing his resentment and keeping close contact with his allies. And working in the king’s name, Marguerite would be doing the same at Kenilworth. Her next words confirmed my conclusions that peace between York and Lancaster was a vain hope. She had embraced the Lancastrian cause and would do all she could to advance those lords who did the same.

  ‘Steer your Welsh chieftains away from York, Jasper, and I will see that they receive their reward. We need those sturdy soldiers to fight for the crown when the time comes. And come it will, of that there is no doubt. Henry refuses to see the danger but I will make sure we are ready to secure the throne for my son and I will rely on you to bring Wales to its prince’s aid. Will you do that, Jasper?’

  I looked into her dark, almost black eyes, burning now with zeal, and thanked God I had resisted her suggestive hinting when she had thought she might never conceive a child with the king. Yorkist propaganda still questioned the paternity of her son, Prince Édouard, but at least it named others as his sire and not me. Yet I could not help admiring Marguerite’s strength of character. York might scorn the weakness of my timorous half-brother but in the queen he faced a fearsome adversary.

  ‘My loyalty to the king is undying,’ I said, dropping to my knee. ‘And it extends to his wife and son. I am his to command – and yours, my lady – and always will be while I live, as God is my witness.’

  ‘I have said it before, Jasper, you are the king’s gauntlet,’ the queen said, placing her hand on my shoulder. ‘He needs you like he needs me. We will never betray his trust, you and I.’

  * * *

  With a profound sense of release I took the high road to Pembroke, accompanied as always by Maredudd and a handful of men at arms. I held to my belief that moving fast and with few men was safer than being surrounded by a large retinue and in fine weather we made good time, crossing the River Severn at Gloucester less than three days later. However, we did not cease watching our backs until we had put the castle of Raglan well behind us. Since Edmund’s death I would never trust William Herbert of Raglan.

  As we drew nearer to my own estates I felt for the first time a sense of going home. I had not set foot in Pembrokeshire until four years ago but now I realized it had acquired that status in my mind. ‘Home’, where a man could rely on the warmth of a hearth and a friendly welcome. I had sworn lifelong loyalty to my brother King Henry but that did not make his palaces places where I felt comfortable or even secure. The royal court simmered with schemes and conspiracies; jealousy and rivalry thrived and honour fought hard to survive. I could understand why Henry sought refuge whenever possible in churches and abbeys, peaceful havens of prayer and contemplation, where God was a constant presence, but I did not seek that kind of solace. I wanted human friendship and the comfort of knowing I could trust my companions. I glanced across at Maredudd and understood that in him I had found these things and perhaps even more in his sister Jane. As Harri’s nurse and a valued member of my household, she was part of what made Pembroke my home. But then, all at once, a sudden recall of her kiss in the mews sent a rush of blood to my cheeks.

  My experience of females had mostly involved the more adventurous young ladies of the court, some of whom were rather obviously keen to draw a new earl into their net. But, unlike my brother Edmund, I stopped short at harmless flirting, to avoid any and all complications. I discovered after his death that he had not confined his sexual exploits to the Southwark stews. His accounts revealed that he had been obliged to pay substantial sums to daughters of minor gentry, who had been hastily married off to others, to disguise the results of his philandering. This was not information I would ever wish to reach Margaret’s ears, but it was no wonder that his debts had mounted beyond control.

  Jane had only kissed me once – other than a kiss in greeting as friends do – but that had been enough to tell me that she was nothing like those eager court fillies with ulterior motives. At first I had considered my response to her kiss no more than an automatic reaction, a stirring of the blood, but then what had she said to me? ‘I have loved
you since you first came to Tŷ Cerrig.’ And what had I said in reply? I could not remember my exact words but I recalled their gist with a sense of regret that churned inside me. I had flatly rejected her. Gabbled something about honour and keeping the king’s faith and she had gone quiet; had been quiet ever since. Yet she was still there in my life, still caring for little Harri, as if nothing had happened. I wondered, did she still love me or did she see me as the fool I was beginning to regard myself?

  We reached Pembroke at dusk. Long shadows stretched out from the lofty castle walls to meet us as we crossed the bridge over the river and rode up the hill to the barbican. There were guards at the gate and on the battlements but the Outer Ward was quiet, the rest of the garrison and household no doubt in the Great Hall, filling their bellies. Maredudd drew rein outside the entrance to the new mansion.

  ‘Shall I take your horse, my lord?’ he asked, breaking into my thoughts. ‘No doubt you will be wanting to visit your nephew before bedtime.’

  I had forgotten that sunset signalled the end of the day for an infant such as Harri. ‘Yes, thank you, Maredudd. And tell the steward I will take supper here, not in the hall. You are welcome to join me if you will.’

  Maredudd grinned as he took my courser’s rein. ‘Thank you, my lord. I will see that the kitchen sends enough food. I expect you are as hungry as I am.’

  Actually, my appetite seemed to have vanished as I climbed the mansion steps for the first time since Margaret’s departure; I pictured the domestic scene awaiting me, little Harri playing with his toys on the hearth, Jane sitting nearby, her sewing on her lap, and my eager anticipation mounted with me. I entered the solar to find the scene confronting me not dissimilar to my fantasy, except that while Harri was playing on the hearthrug, Jane was sitting at a table and she was not alone. Seated beside her, their heads close together over a manuscript, was the poet Lewys Glyn Cothi and something about the intimacy of their position rang alarm bells in my head.