by Livi Michael
Her stomach twisted. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Why not? I am of age now. I want to go – to reclaim my kingdom – that is my right.’
What could she say? That she would not let him go on such a hopeless, doomed expedition, from which, in all likelihood, no one would return? She could not say that because Jasper had come up behind the prince. He hung back a little, but he was listening.
‘It’s not time –’
‘You always say that – but it is time. I will be fifteen soon – I will be able to rule alone!’
That was all he thought about – being king. But she could hardly blame him for that, it was her doing.
‘We will sail to Wales then invade England,’ the prince said. ‘And then I will reclaim my throne.’
The queen looked at Jasper but he was looking at the ground. ‘The time will come,’ she said, and the prince started to protest, but Jasper spoke up unexpectedly.
‘Your mother is right,’ he said. ‘I will make a preliminary excursion and, if all goes well, then you will follow with a larger force.’
The young prince looked from his uncle to his mother. His face had flushed again, but he would not argue with his uncle. He said, ‘And if it does not go well?’
‘Then you will be safe, at least,’ said Jasper. ‘Whatever happens, we must have a prince for the throne.’
The prince was not appeased. ‘I am tired of being safe,’ he said, and walked away from them both.
Again Jasper restrained her from calling him back. ‘Let him go,’ he said.
They watched him leave, bristling with unrequited ambition. His head was full of the visions she had planted there, of being king of both England and France. Then he would marry some princess of Spain or Portugal and rule there also. And inherit his grandfather’s kingdom of Sicily.
One day, in his mind, he would be king of the known world.
These were the visions that fired him, and it was necessary for him to be fired; she would not take that away from him. Yet he had never fought an actual battle. For all his expectations, he was still a fourteen-year-old boy.
Her throat felt tight, watching him. But, aware of Jasper watching her, she said, ‘It is just that he is tired of waiting.’
That much was true. They were all tired of waiting in an exile that felt like imprisonment.
‘Patience is the warrior’s friend,’ Jasper said. She gave him a sidelong glance. He would know about patience. What had his life been but a waiting game? He knew nothing of the complexities of relationships; his heart had grown lean as a husk.
But he was there, and her son loved him.
‘I hope,’ she said, turning away from him slightly because her voice was not steady, ‘I hope you will be successful – in your mission. I mean – I should not like to lose another commander.’
She still could not bring herself to say Pierre de Brézé’s name.
Jasper said nothing. When she glanced at him he was smiling, not at her but inwardly, in that way he had that seemed unrelated to anything that had just been said. It was at such moments that the queen could see what his life had become: a tangential, disconnected thing.
Certainly he was not Pierre de Brézé. He would not comfort her. ‘All roads lead to death, my lady,’ he said at last.
She was annoyed at him then for saying something so obvious and unhelpful. ‘My son will be unhappy when you go,’ she said.
‘I will speak to him,’ said Jasper, and she nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He will not listen to me.’ Which was the nearest she could come to admitting that she was losing her son, whether she let him go or not. She would not let him go this time, but the time would surely come, and soon. In the meantime she would do what she could for his uncle, because her son needed him. Turning to Jasper, she said, ‘You may take as many of my men with you as you can fit into your ships.’
And for the first time Jasper’s features set into something resembling a real smile.
My Lord of Pembroke, brother of the deposed King Henry of England, with some armed ships, has entered the country of Wales which has always been well affected towards him … There is news that when he entered he had some 4,000 English put to death, and he is devoting himself to gathering as many of his partisans there as he can … The Welshmen have taken up arms against King Edward and proclaimed Henry [VI] King …
Newsletter from Paris, 2 July 1468
One beautifully formed fiery blaze is Harlech,
Men drawing from waves of blood –
Loud the shouting, loud the blast of clarions
Scattering of men, thundering of guns,
Arrows flying in every quarter from seven thousand men …
Thus King Edward as it were with one volition
Gained possession of Bronwen’s Court.
Lewis Glyn Cothi
Lord Herbert won the castle of Harlech in Wales, a castle so strong that men said it was impossible for any man to get it … And the Lord Jasper … went into hiding.
Gregory’s Chronicle
28
Rumours and Lies
All that summer rumours flew about like birds in the wind.
Margaret’s husband had been summoned to parlia ment in May and Margaret had insisted on travelling with him, because it was not usual for him to be summoned and because she did not want to stay at home, waiting for news. So they stayed together at the Mitre in Cheapside.
It was at this parliament that King Edward made his startling announcement. He would need £60,000 to invade France.
Disturbances followed, for the king had promised to impose no more taxes. And some of the people thought it was madness to wage war with the most powerful country in Europe when you could choose to ally yourself with it, as Warwick had said. Others, however, thought that the king should reclaim the old kingdom that had once stretched as far as the Pyrenees. The deposed king, Henry, had inherited the crowns of both England and France at his birth and until King Edward had both he was only half a king.
The first part of his campaign would consist of sending an armed force to Brittany to help Duke Francis oppose his French oppressors.
So this was worrying enough, because Margaret and Henry had to wonder whether, having been summoned to parliament, Henry would now be recruited to fight. But the weeks passed and no summons came. And despite taxing the people so heavily, the king showed no sign of raising an army. The wedding of his sister, however, that had caused such controversy between the king and the Earl of Warwick, was to go ahead as planned in July.
People said that Warwick would sweep down with a vast army from the north, as Queen Margaret had done eight years before. But then, unexpectedly, Warwick came to court. On the first day of July he escorted Margaret of York as far as Margate, before returning to London to try those traitors against the king who had refused to pay the tax.
But there was hardly any time to wonder about that before news came that Jasper Tudor had invaded Wales.
And Margaret surrendered herself wholly to anxiety.
Her former brother-in-law had sailed all the way from France to the Dyfi Estuary. He had marched from there to Denbigh, gathering more than 2,000 Welshmen on the way, and had burned both the castle and the town. Then he’d held trials and assizes in King Henry’s name, summarily executing those who supported King Edward. So rapid and successful was his campaign that rumour had it Queen Margaret was on her way from France to join him.
He was marching towards the Lancastrian garrison at Harlech, which for seven long years had been under siege, to free the men and invade England with them. But then King Edward ordered William Herbert to raise the biggest army he could to take Harlech. Some said the army he raised was 10,000-strong.
Two wings of it converged on Harlech from the east and south, scaling the great cliffs with pickaxes and ropes, raining arrows of fire over the walls. For one month they subjected Harlech to the bombardment of great guns and boulders, blockading it by sea so that aid could not come from I
reland. And so in one month, after seven years of resistance, Harlech surrendered to William Herbert.
No one knew where Jasper Tudor was. Margaret waited avidly for news, but only rumours came. He was dead, she heard, then taken alive, then that he had escaped dressed as a peasant, with a bale of hay on his back.
The captains of Harlech were beheaded, except for Richard Tunstall, who had made his way there after King Henry had been captured, and for three years had led the garrison against the siege. For him, unexpectedly, Herbert had procured a pardon.
News followed shortly of the names of the dead, but Jasper’s was not among them. And if he had been killed, the Yorkists would surely have proclaimed it far and wide.
But he might as well be dead. Dressed as a peasant, living as a fugitive; all his men scattered and Harlech lost. Jasper had reaped a bitter harvest that year.
She did not care; in fact, she was angry. Furious with him for putting her son’s future in jeopardy again. She had not seen her son since the visit to Raglan last year, although there had been some discussion by letter of her proposal that he should come to visit her. But her most recent letters had gone unanswered.
If Jasper had won, war would have broken out again between King Edward and Queen Margaret. But he had not won, and King Edward might decide to take retribution on Jasper’s family. He might send her son into exile or imprisonment, where he would be out of reach of the Lancastrians because he was the last link in England to the Lancastrian line.
She had sent a stream of messages to Lady Herbert expressing concern for her son’s welfare and her hopes that this recent strife would not come between them. She hoped that her son’s visit to Woking could go ahead as planned.
Nothing.
When she heard the news of Jasper’s defeat, it brought back all the old memories of Edmund, who had also been defeated by Herbert, but still she wrote again, congratulating them and suggesting that now at last her son could visit her at Woking.
Finally in September the messenger came. A youngish man, bearing Herbert’s insignia and an unlikeably cocky assurance. He came in and sat at her table without being asked, then looked up at her expectantly.
She sent her servant for refreshments in response to his unspoken demand then looked at him in some trepidation. ‘Well?’ she said.
‘My Lady Herbert sends you greetings,’ he said, ‘and her assurances that your son is quite safe.’
She sat at the table facing the messenger and clasped her hands. ‘I am most grateful,’ she said. ‘Most grateful indeed to Lady Herbert.’
‘He has been safely returned to her care,’ he said, and for no reason her heart began thumping irregularly.
‘Returned?’ she said.
‘From accompanying Lord Herbert to Harlech.’
She gripped the table with both hands. ‘He was at the siege?’
‘Along with Henry Percy and Lord Herbert’s own son. But he was kept quite safe.’
‘Safe?’ she said.
‘No harm came to him. He was surrounded by Lord Herbert’s men. And now he is safely returned.’
‘He is – so young,’ she said.
‘Not too young for a first taste of battle. I myself was only ten years old when I was first taken to the field.’
She didn’t care how old the messenger had been. ‘Anything could have happened!’
‘Lord Herbert would not allow any harm to come to him,’ the messenger said. ‘He was kept quite safe at all times.’
She was about to say that this was not her definition of safe. How safe was it possible to be among all the arrows and gunshot and fighting men? But at that moment her servant arrived with a tray of wine and cakes.
‘Please,’ she said, nodding at the tray to indicate that he should eat. ‘You must excuse me – one moment –’ and she hurried from the room to her husband’s study.
It took Henry some time to make sense of what she was saying, that her son had been taken to fight against his uncle. ‘Herbert must have wanted him as hostage – yes – in case Harlech did not surrender!’ she said.
Nausea rose in her at the image of her son being strung up before the castle walls, having his throat cut by one of Herbert’s men.
‘You do not know that,’ her husband said.
‘Why else would he be there?’
‘To give him experience of battle?’
‘But he is just a child!’
‘And he is safe. You have heard that at least.’
‘Safe!’ she said. ‘Herbert would have sacrificed him – without a thought –’ She could not continue. ‘I will go to them,’ she said.
‘No,’ said her husband.
‘They cannot use my son as their shield without consulting me – but of course they would not consult me – they know I would never allow it!’ Her voice rose and she lifted her hands to the side of her head as if to contain the awfulness of her thoughts.
‘You cannot go to them,’ her husband said.
‘Then I will write.’
‘No.’
‘I will write to the king.’
‘Listen to me,’ her husband said. Gently he took her hands away from her head and pressed her into a seat. ‘You cannot write to the king now. He will be in no mood to grant any favours to Jasper Tudor’s sister-in-law. For all he knows you aided the invasion.’
‘I did not!’
‘He doesn’t know that. You don’t want to attract his attention right now. Who knows what may follow.’
She tried to get up, but he held her hands.
‘But what can I do?’ she said.
‘Do nothing – say nothing. Your son’s inheritance and title are probably safe as long as Herbert still wants to marry him to his daughter.’
She was silent. That was another aspect of her son’s situation she had planned to challenge. Before all this.
‘Is the messenger still here?’ her husband asked. She nodded.
‘Go back to him. Thank him for his news. Pass on your gratitude. Say that you are grateful indeed to them for taking such good care of your son.’
Tears welled in her eyes but she did not cry. After a moment Henry released her hands.
The messenger had finished the cakes and there was a broad scattering of crumbs across the table. He rose, wiping his moustache as she entered.
She repeated what her husband had told her to say. Her lips felt as though they were hardly moving. Then, unable to help herself, she added, ‘Tell Lady Herbert that I am grateful for her reassurance, but I would like to see my son myself – at her earliest convenience.’
The messenger moved his head slightly, expressing doubt. ‘My lord and lady are extremely busy at the moment,’ he said, ‘with the new earldom.’
She looked at him.
‘Pembroke,’ he said, as if she should have known. ‘King Edward has taken it from the old lord, Jasper, and given it to my master.’
She managed to smile. ‘Then more congratulations are due,’ she said. He bowed, then stood waiting until she realized she had not given him any money. She took some silver from her purse. Then at last he was gone, and she was able to sit down at the table and moan aloud.
But her husband was right. There was nothing to be done except to lie low, and return to the prosecution of their case in Kendal, which involved the Earl of Warwick and his supporters, the Parrs.
Margaret had inherited two thirds of the lordship of Kendal from her father. After his suicide, this portion had reverted to the crown. In 1453 the king had granted it to Edmund Tudor, so that Margaret could inherit it in the case of his death. And she should have inherited it, but Warwick was claiming that the inheritance was void, because Edmund had been posthumously attainted. All his estates should have reverted to the crown. Now the earl, who owned the other part of the lordship of Kendal, wanted to create a barony there and give the whole estate to his liegemen, the Parrs.
Margaret could not ignore this, of course, because it meant that both she and her son would l
ose their inheritance. So they had consulted lawyers, investigated all the old deeds, going back more than a hundred years. And they had challenged Warwick’s claim that Edmund had been attainted – in fact, only Jasper had been attainted after Towton.
They had been advised to submit their case to the Court of Exchequer, where it would wait until the king had time, in this eventful year, to consider it. And the timing could hardly be worse now, after Jasper’s invasion of Wales. Even so, they had assembled the documents – deeds, writs, bonds, titles to estates, claims and counter-claims – and sent them off. And fortune took an unexpected turn in their favour, as a new rumour rocked the land. The Earl of Warwick had obtained a papal dispensation for his daughter to marry the Duke of Clarence.
The king at once dispatched his own emissary to Rome to prevent this. Edward was furious with his brother, with the Earl of Warwick and with the earl’s brother, the Archbishop of York, who, as it was well known, aspired to the office of cardinal. He confiscated several of the lands of the Archbishop of York, granting many of them to his own brother-in-law, Lord Scales, and insisted that the office of cardinal be given to the Archbishop of Canterbury instead.
And the proposed invasion of France was put off until the spring, while this business was settled.
Perversely, the people were not happy about this. Rumours spread that no invasion had ever been intended. The money collected from the tax had all been used up, they said, on the wedding of the king’s sister to Duke Charles of Burgundy.
And then a series of Lancastrian plots were discovered that autumn. Many people were arrested and interrogated, including the Earl of Oxford, who was married to Warwick’s sister.
It seemed to Margaret that, despite what her husband had said, there was a good reason for her to write to the king after all.
‘I think we should invite him to visit,’ she said.
Henry looked at her over his spectacles.
‘He has given us this beautiful home,’ she said, ‘and we have not invited him yet.’
Henry put his documents to one side. ‘The king,’ he said, ‘has other matters on his mind.’
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘And he needs to know that we support him in them.’