First of the Tudors

by Joanna Hickson

  I flung up my visor, the better to see my way over the dead and wounded and the ridges and tussocks of the uneven ground and I set my course as best I could in the direction I had last seen my father but to my distress he was no longer anywhere in sight. I was discovering that there were no rules when it came to a rout. No one appeared to be taking prisoners; mere survival required deft footwork, stamina and an ability to sense when to turn and slash at an oncoming foe in order to buy enough time to sprint the next few yards, before repeating the procedure. It was only when we finally reached the camp and there was a moment to catch our breath, that I glanced around to see that a number of my close retinue had gratifyingly bunched around me, including the standard bearer who doggedly held aloft the blue and silver bordered lions and lilies that distinguished my banner.

  ‘Unhook it and stuff it in a saddlebag, lad,’ I told him hastily. ‘Identification now means death.’ With desperate urgency I raised my arm and signalled west. ‘Mount up men and head for the hills. We must ride into the sun until darkness falls and if we have not lost them by then, Heaven help us!’

  Obeying military foresight we had left our horses saddled and as I mounted I noticed that Owen’s horse was gone, along with Myfanwy’s, the only slight reassurance I could glean before oncoming Yorkist marauders were clambering over the carts we had upturned behind us, yelling obscene oaths and hurling any missiles they could find as we galloped away towards Wales.

  26

  Jane

  Pembroke Castle

  The death in battle of Sir Henry Stafford’s brother Humphrey, Duke of Buckingham, at Northampton had put paid to the tour of their Somerset estates Margaret had planned, and the longed-for reunion with her son. Her latest communication, with its terse demands, showed me for the first time the extent of her anxiety.

  To Mistress Jane Hywel, governess to Henry, Earl of Richmond at Pembroke Castle.

  It is some weeks now since I received any communication from my lord Jasper, Earl of Pembroke, and I only risk the life of my loyal courier in order to ascertain what danger to my son there exists in the present tumult. I rely on Lord Pembroke to ensure Henry’s future security and noble upbringing. I must demand that you supply by a return letter any information you may have regarding the status and whereabouts of your lord, which you should write immediately and entrust to my waiting courier.

  I pray that you will be able to reassure me of Lord Jasper’s continued good health and ability to care for and protect his nephew and ward.

  Please pass to Henry my eternal love and maternal blessing.

  Margaret, Countess of Richmond.

  Written this day, the twenty-first of January 1461, the Feast Day of St Agnes the Martyr.

  Of course I hastily penned all I knew, which was worryingly little, assured her of Harri’s health and promised I would write again as soon as I received any news myself. Although somewhat resentful of the dictatorial tone of her letter, I understood her anxiety for her son and totally shared the agony of not knowing whether Jasper was alive or dead.

  Pembroke had been eerily quiet in the days since Jasper and Owen had led their men away to war with Myfanwy among the camp followers, and if it had not been for the children needing my attention, I believe I might have spent my time on my knees in the chapel, praying for divine intervention on Jasper’s behalf. He had not said so but I knew he had been extremely nervous setting out on his first battle command. Although he was the king’s brother and recognized as the most powerful nobleman in Wales, he had little experience in the art and conduct of war and while there was no doubting his ability to wield a sword, his ability as a commander was untested.

  It was Lewys Glyn Cothi who brought the first report. He had marched out with the army, wearing one of Jasper’s old brigandines and equipped with pike and poniard. When a page came to the nursery to say that Lewys was waiting to see me my heart began to thud. ‘Is he alone?’ I asked the messenger, beckoning one of my assistants to take over the task of supervising the older children’s evening meal.

  ‘He walked in with a few companions,’ the boy replied. ‘But only he awaits you in the hall. He looks very tired.’

  That was no exaggeration. I had once encountered the bard soaked and shivering after walking from Carmarthen to Pembroke in a winter storm but I had never seen his shoulders so slumped or his face so grey as it was when I found him crouched over the hall fire.

  ‘Lewys, I pray you do not tell me Jasper is dead!’

  The words sprang from my mouth without preamble and he straightened instantly. ‘No, no, Mistress Jane, not Jasper – but Owen. Owen is dead, God take his soul.’

  I felt myself swaying and he rushed forward to steady me and steer me to a chair. I shook my head to clear it and made the sign of the cross, uncertain whether it was in gratitude for Jasper’s life or prayer for his father’s death. ‘God have mercy – Owen! Was he killed in battle? How did he die? And where is Myfanwy?’

  Lewys stepped over to the buffet, poured two cups of wine from a jug, then pulled another chair close to mine. ‘Here, drink this. I will tell you everything in the right order.’

  I stared at him over the rim of the cup – it was then that I noticed he was no longer wearing the Pembroke livery of red and green in which Jasper’s retinue had marched away but his old bard’s tunic and hooded cloak.

  ‘There was a battle, as we expected,’ he began, his dark eyes studying my face intently. They were blood-shot and heavy-lidded, as if he had not slept for days. ‘Edward Mortimer lay in wait for us near his castle of Wigmore, beside the River Lugg.’ By Edward Mortimer I knew he meant Edward of York, calling him in bardic fashion after the Mortimer estates on the Welsh March, over which he had held sway since a boy. ‘We camped overnight and at dawn there was a fearful omen. We saw three suns rise in the sky and no one knew if it was a sign for good or evil. The French troops threatened to leave and all the men were unsettled, hardly ready for what was to come. I was no different. In the Yorkist lines banners were flying that were brought from the halls of Raglan, Hergerst and Tretower, in which I had often sung my poems. We were to fight friends and patrons. It was … distressing.’

  His eyes filled with tears and I felt my own begin to sting in response. ‘Civil war is an uncivilized business,’ he said, steadying himself by taking a deep gulp of wine and clearing his throat. ‘Mortimer had more men than we did but Lord Jasper had deployed well, and through the first charge we stood our ground and forced the enemy to back off. But Yorkist cannon continued to cut down our men and we saw there was no answering fire, Lord Wiltshire had simply vanished, his company of foreigners had scattered and run, even abandoning their artillery. Owen surged forward to attack Mortimer with the men he had left but it was useless and now they outnumbered us two to one. Lord Jasper was forced to call a retreat.

  ‘Within minutes it was a rout and I was running for my life, along with Lord Jasper and his retinue. Your brother Maredudd was with him. Brave Owen rallied his men to the horse lines and they began a fighting retreat towards Hereford, taking Myfanwy with them, of course.’

  Lewys paused to take a gulp of wine before continuing. ‘Lord Jasper headed west for the hills but riding was not for me, I do not ride well, as you know, I decided to rely on disguise for my protection. I had my bard’s scrip and my tunic and cloak hidden in a cart and I lay in a ditch for a few hours before seeking shelter with a fellow poet at Hay, though not for long as it put him in danger with Yorkists swarming everywhere, seeking the blood of our fleeing soldiers, boasting what they would do to Lord Jasper when they caught him – but I am sure they will not, never fear. At nightfall I made my escape from the town and headed across the mountains. It has only taken me six days to get here.’

  Six days was scarcely possible. He could hardly have rested. I jumped to my feet, calling for a servant and ordering food and ale immediately. I was shamefaced. ‘What can I have been thinking?’ I said. ‘Forgive me. I am so shocked by your news and worried for Lo
rd Jasper. And Owen? Poor gallant Owen; you say he was killed. May God have mercy on his soul.’ I made the sign of the cross and sat down again. ‘How? Was it in the rout?’

  He shook his head. ‘I am confused and horrified by his death. Passing through Brecon, near the castle garrison there, I witnessed the arrival of a Lancastrian courier and I eavesdropped as he told people the news that Owen Tudor had been executed in Hereford Market Place.’

  ‘Executed!’ I could hardly believe my ears. ‘But he was a knight banneret. As a prisoner he was worth a good ransom …’

  Lewys shrugged. ‘We will have to wait to find the truth. Revenge for York’s death, I imagine, who knows.’

  ‘Poor Myfanwy! Did you glean any news of her?’

  The bard opened his scrip-bag and pulled out a grubby scrap of paper covered with scratched and spattered writing. ‘I think I did,’ he said, strangely. ‘I transcribed a story the courier told.’ Then he read what he had written, deciphering his own scrawled words with deliberation.

  ‘Owen Tudur’s head was stuck on the market cross for the crowd to mock. But when a madwoman climbed up to take it down they all fell silent. She wept and crooned as she wiped the blood from the face and kissed the lips of the dead man and placed his head on the steps of the cross. Then she set it about with lighted candles and began to sing. People who had muttered that she should be arrested became quiet because her voice rang out clear and beautiful and the song was a psalm. A breeze stirred the candle-flames and moved through the silver hair on the severed head so that it seemed to float above the steps.’

  By the time he finished, tears were pouring down my cheeks. ‘Oh, Myfanwy!’ I whispered. ‘What happened to her, Lewys, do you know?’

  He hung his head, perhaps attempting to hide his own tears from me. ‘I know nothing more, Mistress Jane. But I think I would have heard if she had been taken or harmed. She will come back to Pembroke somehow, to her son, that is what I believe.’

  ‘If she is mad with grief, who knows? We can only hope.’ I wiped my tears on my sleeve. ‘You are the first to return, Lewys. Will Lord Jasper come back here, do you think?’

  ‘For certain.’ The bard nodded emphatically. ‘He will come back to you and to his children.’

  I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to calm the thudding in my head. ‘I pray you are right but I would not want him to risk it if the Yorkists are hot on his heels. If they cut off Owen’s head, why should they not take Jasper’s as well?’

  Lewys made no comment but his silence acknowledged the truth of my words. Then servants arrived with the food and he fell on it like a starving animal, causing me to wonder how Jasper and his retinue were faring in the winter wilderness of the mountains.

  27

  Jasper

  Tŷ Cerrig, Gwynedd

  BEFORE WE REACHED GWYNEDD we learned from a well-informed driver of a mule-train that Edward of York had turned to march east at double speed to meet a fresh challenge, recalling his troops from our pursuit, for it seemed that our cause might not be entirely lost.

  Queen Marguerite had made a successful rendezvous with the Duke of Somerset and together they had marched their armies towards London, prompting the Earl of Warwick to bring King Henry out of the Tower to confront them, doubtless hoping that the queen’s men would baulk at attacking the king’s person, although that had not stopped them at St Albans six years before. Ironically this confrontation also occurred near St Albans but this time Warwick had been caught with his guns facing in the wrong direction, forcing him under fire to abandon the battle and hasten west with his army to meet Edward of York. In doing so he inadvertently left King Henry behind, who sat calmly waiting under a tree for his queen to collect him. Although I was heartily relieved to hear that my brother was once more with his family and not languishing alone in the Tower, I could not help laughing when I heard this story, imagining Edward’s anger. The king he thought he had dethroned was once more at large with an army and I greatly enjoyed the thought of Warwick’s embarrassment at losing him.

  Not that I had any right to crow. My own defeat at the hands of young Edward of York rankled bitterly, mainly because I should have known better than to trust the craven Wiltshire and cursed my failure of judgement for relying on him to take any form of command. From Gwynedd I sent word of our safety to Pembroke, and of my intention to make a tour of the castles I still controlled in North Wales, to check their defences and reinforce their garrisons from my retinue if necessary. But before tackling this task we made a detour through Abermaw and trotted up the road from the seashore to call in at Tŷ Cerrig.

  Instead of the usual winter bustle around the farmyard there was an unnatural silence, a complete and uncanny absence of activity. As we passed through the gate I noticed with alarm that a sinister laurel wreath hung over the farmhouse door, an indication that someone had died. Maredudd’s urgent hammering on the door brought his brother Dai to meet us. He was now a grown man with a full beard, wearing a black jacket over his working tunic and an expression that was far from welcoming.

  ‘If you have come here to hide from the Yorkists you have come to the wrong house,’ he growled, fixing his eyes on Maredudd. ‘We are in mourning here for our father, killed by your men at the battle in the March.’

  ‘Hywel is dead? Fighting with the Yorkists?’ I made the sign of the cross, astonished by the circumstances of this tragedy.

  Maredudd flung the reins of his horse at one of the other mounted men. His face was suffused with anger. ‘Father died in support of the Yorkists you say? Even though he has been taking money from Lord Jasper for five years? I cannot believe it. When did he lose his mind?’

  Dai’s fists clenched, as if he was on the verge of using them. ‘As far as I am concerned he was in perfectly sound mind. If you come here expecting to receive the fatted calf it is you who are mad, because there is nothing here for you.’

  I swung down from the saddle and stepped between the two brothers, worried that fists might begin to fly. ‘Where is Hywel’s body, Dai? Every son has a right to pay his respects to his father. Have you brought him home from the battlefield?’ I kept my voice quiet and measured, hoping to prevent violence exploding.

  ‘Of course we brought him home,’ the young man snarled. ‘His guts were spilling out and we buried him quickly in the churchyard on the shore. You can go down there if you want to spit on his grave, Lord Jasper.’ His stress on the title spoke eloquently, along with the sneer in his voice. ‘You wasted your guilt-gold here.’

  ‘Not entirely.’ This quiet comment came from a sturdy youth with cropped brown hair who had appeared in the house entrance and who I barely recognized as Evan, the youngest member of Hywel’s first family. I remembered him best as the eight-year-old boy who had never seemed to stop running when we first came to Tŷ Cerrig with Owen. Now he had his father’s lean face and the body of an archer, with wide muscular shoulders and slim hips, on which his knife-belt sat low over a black sheepskin jerkin. ‘I will give you God’s greeting, Lord Jasper, even if Dai my brother will not.’ He made a small bow in my direction before moving towards Maredudd, arms open. ‘And a welcome to you, big brother, who are now head of the family.’

  Mixed feelings of relief and distress showed on my squire’s face as he returned Evan’s embrace, realizing that his family’s loyalties had become dangerously split.

  ‘We will not come in if it is awkward,’ he said, hands resting on his younger brother’s shoulders. ‘But tell me the situation. Where is Bethan?’

  Evan shook his head sadly. ‘She died before Christmas, along with her infant son. Her mother looks after the girls, poor little orphans.’ He turned to me and pointed to a new tower which had been added to one end of the farmhouse. ‘As you see, my lord, your gold has been put to good use. There was scant room for the family before that was built.’

  ‘It was raised by the sweat of men, not by the charity of Lancaster.’ Dai folded his arms across his chest belligerently, his brow still
balefully knitted.

  I could not help a note of indignation creeping into my response. ‘I owe my allegiance to my royal brother,’ I told him. ‘To the crown, not to the House of Lancaster, of which I am not a member; just as you are not members of the House of York.’

  Dai shrugged. ‘If we must have an English king, I support the man more up the task. And so I bid you farewell, Jasper Tudor. There is no welcome for you here.’

  ‘On the contrary, it would seem you are outvoted, Dai,’ Maredudd retorted, gesturing towards the open door. ‘My house is at your disposal, my lord. We will find refreshment and then I will go and kneel at my father’s grave. But I do not expect you to do the same.’

  I gave him a rueful smile. ‘He was my father’s cousin. I will come with you. My father would wish it.’

  ‘Is he not also dead?’ Dai’s words fell on my ears like a cannon-shot.

  I shot him a piercing glance. ‘What do you know that I do not?’ I demanded.

  His grin was ghastly to behold. ‘He was beheaded. Executed as a traitor in Hereford Market Place.’

  By his grim pleasure in telling me I knew he was not lying. A surge of uncontrollable anger sent my hand to my sword hilt. Only Maredudd’s gasp and his arm across my chest stopped me drawing it from its sheath.

  Through a red mist I heard Maredudd ask, ‘How do you know this, Dai? It cannot be true. Sir Owen was no traitor. He was fighting for his king.’

  ‘A monk from the Leominster priory told me: Owen Tudor was captured by the Vaughans a mile from the battlefield and taken to Hereford. They said he was executed in retaliation for the deaths of Edward of York’s father and brother at Wakefield.’

  ‘They were killed in battle!’ I protested. ‘Vaughans – which Vaughans?’ I asked.

  ‘Roger Vaughan of Tretower and his men the monk said it was.’