“He will land in Wales,” Tyrell had assured him, “his uncle’s agents have been at work for years, sowing seeds of discord in the minds of the Welsh. They believe Richmond to be a descendent of their native princes, a Messiah who will come to deliver them from slavery.”
Richard had taken due precautions against an attack from Wales, placing Sir James Tyrell in charge of the defences in Glamorgan, and warning the Stanleys to be ready to raise their tenants on the Welsh March when the time came. Rhys ap Thomas, his principal lieutenant in South-West Wales, was ordered to do likewise.
Rhys was not to be trusted, in Richard’s view. He was a Welshman, and vulnerable to Richmond’s self-serving propaganda. To ensure his fidelity, Richard commanded him to send his son Gruffydd to Nottingham as a hostage.
So far, Rhys had failed to comply. Richard would have punished the man for his obduracy, but at present he needed him.
Richard also demanded a hostage of Lord Stanley before allowing the proud and arrogant nobleman to depart to his estates. Stanley obeyed, and gave over his son, Lord Strange, as a surety for his good faith. If Stanley played him false, off went Strange’s head.
Hostage-taking and threats. This was how Richard commanded the loyalty of his great lords. He despised himself for it, but what else could one do with such knaves? If they would not serve him of their own free will, he would whip them into obedience. The moment of crisis was near, and Richard had no choice but to put his faith in men whose loyalties were uncertain.
“Leave us,” he ordered. Stillington and the herald quietly withdrew and left him in the cool darkness of the hall of Nottingham Castle.
It was a hot summer, bringing with it the threat of the sweating sickness. Richard was glad to be out of London, where disease always thrived. Save for the guards on the door, who didn’t count, he was alone at last.
Alone, and isolated. He was a man without close family, now his wife and son were dead. Anne, his beloved Anne, had died of consumption during the spring. The death of their son Edward weakened her, poor creature, and nothing Richard could say or do restored her spirits afterwards.
He gave an involuntary shudder. The day Anne breathed her last, there had been an eclipse of the sun. The people took it as an omen, sent by God to warn of their King’s fall from heavenly grace.
Richard put on a brave show in public, but privately he shared this view. God had deserted him, for reasons it was not difficult to decipher.
…Prince Edward and Richard of York now sleep forever under the stair…
No. He would not listen to the treacherous inner voice. Richard’s guilt was just a faint echo now, brushing against the back of his thoughts. He had been born and raised in a hard world, ruled by violence and sudden twists of fortune. Those who dwelled for too long on their mistakes may as well cut their own throats.
It was indulgent, but he allowed himself a moment to trawl through the distant past. There wasn’t much joy in it. One of his earliest memories, as a child of eight, was of being informed of the death of his father and brother in battle, slaughtered by the Lancastrians at Wakefield.
He was in London at the time, with his other siblings at the house of Sir John Paston the Elder. Their oldest brother, the future King Edward, visited them daily. It was Edward who brought Richard the news of their father’s death, and spared not the grim details.
“They have cut off our father’s head, my brother,” said Edward, “and mounted it on the gates of York, with a paper crown.”
Richard was too shocked to cry, else Edward might have struck him. Even then, the older boy was hard as steel.
Thoughts of Edward cast Richard into a familiar pit of sorrow. He had loved his oldest sibling with a fierce devotion, admired him, looked up to him, even been a little frightened of him.
Edward the Fourth was the true sun of York. In contrast, I am the dim afterglow.
Richard swept aside his doubts. If he allowed them, they would eat away at him like a cancer. He was the King, the rightful King of England! All he had done, he had done for the good of the realm.
All I have done…
He could do no more. England was ready. Other than despatching commissions of array all over the country, ordering all loyal and able-bodied men to be ready to muster at an hour’s notice, he had taken pains to secure early intelligence of Richmond’s landing. As well as employing spies, this meant reviving the postal system, whereby riders were stationed at regular intervals along the main roads and highways. Wherever the pretender chose to land his pathetic little army, Richard would soon know about it.
The problem was the expense. Employing so many agents and spies was ruinously expensive, and Richard’s finances were stretched to breaking point. He would have preferred to maintain a fleet in the Channel, to intercept and even destroy Richmond’s fleet en route, but the cost made it impossible.
No matter. This Richmond had made a thorough nuisance of himself, and deserved to die by Richard’s hand. The wretch didn’t have any true royal blood in his veins. His claim to the throne derived from his mother, that old harridan Margaret Beaufort, herself descended from bastard stock.
The Lancastrians were truly desperate to choose such a man for their leader. This would be their last gamble. Old fools like Jasper Tudor and John de Vere – how Richard regretted his escape from Hammes! – had outlived their time. They should have died on the field of Barnet or Tewkesbury, instead of limping on to plague England with bone-headed treasons.
“I will slay them all,” said Richard.
His words were swallowed up by the shadows. Ugly shadows, dancing in the corners of the hall by candlelight. They were all around him, faceless demons, hungry for a taste of his soul.
He was condemned to stew for over two more weeks. Finally, on the eleventh of August, a messenger clattered through the castle gate with the news Richard longed to hear.
The pretender had landed.
Chapter 21
Mill Bay, Milford Haven, West Wales, 7thAugust 1485
A blood-red sun sank below the western sea as the invasion fleet landed at Mill Bay, a secluded little beach and cove, at the mouth of the Milford Haven waterway.
The landing was achieved swiftly, and without fuss. Henry was first ashore, a symbolic gesture meant to inspire his troops, and careful to keep his footing when he climbed over the side of the longboat into the waist-deep surf.
“Remember the Conqueror,” murmured Pembroke as he helped him over the side.
Henry needed no reminder. Every child knew the story of William the Conqueror slipping and falling flat on his face on the beach at Pevensey. It was the worst of omens, but he had the presence of mind to leap up and shout ‘See! England is desperate to embrace me for her master!”
The Conqueror had landed his army on the south coast of England, proudly unfurled his banners and dared the native English to come and attack him. By contrast, Henry crept into the country like a thief, and chosen to land on this remote spot in the west to avoid detection by Richard’s agents.
There were other good reasons for landing here. Henry had been born at Pembroke Castle, just on the northern side of the haven, and his slender chances of victory depended on attracting the Welsh gentry and their troops to his banner.
Symbolic gestures were everything. When all the troops were ashore, along with their beasts and gear, Henry stood beside his uncle while two French esquires planted his banner in the wet sand. It displayed a rearing red dragon against a green and white field, the symbol of Cadwalader, an ancient British king.
“Get on with it,” muttered Henry through chattering teeth, “Wales has got no warmer since I left it. Oh, allez, allez!”
The banner kept threatening to fall over, so the squires held it fast while Henry’s herald made formal claim to the Island of Britain.
“Know that I, Henry Tudor, of the true blood of Ednyfed Fychan, heir to Arthur, Y Mab Darogan,” the herald roared, his voice echoing across the little beach, “rightful King of
England, Lord of Ireland and Prince of Wales, have come to claim my inheritance and liberate the realm from a base usurper, bloody-handed tyrant and shameless homicide.”
The grand words meant little to the majority of Henry’s motley troops, most of whom spoke no English. They stood in ranks and listened in polite silence, though at least Henry’s English followers raised a cheer.
Henry thought the brief ceremony an embarrassment, and turned his mind to more practical matters.
“Dale Castle lies just to the north, over the headland,” he said as he and his officers studied a map of Wales spread out on the sand, “we shall spend the night there before marching on to Haverfordwest.”
“Dale might be held by Richard’s men,” pointed out Oxford.
“We know the risks,” Henry replied sharply. This whole venture was a risk, a desperate gamble, with his life as the stake.
His teeth still chattered, and not just with cold. The whole affair had seemed so plausible in France. He would land in Wales, the home of his forefathers, proclaim himself Y Mab Darogan– The Son of Prophecy – and attract thousands of loyal Welshmen to his cause before meeting Richard Plantagenet on the battlefield.
Thus far there was no sign of native support. Henry hadn’t really expected to find his countrymen massed on the beach, cheering and waving banners, but even so the deserted headland made him nervous.
Henry pulled himself together. This was to no time to fall prey to nerves. He had come this far, and must play the game to the bitter end.
“Philibert,” he said, turning to the brawny figure of Philibert de Chandeé, captain of his French mercenaries, “if Dale is held by the enemy, your men will have the task of storming the walls. The castle must be in our hands by tonight, do you understand? We have no leisure for a siege.”
“Yes, Majesty,” replied the Frenchman, “it shall be done, never fear.”
His air of calm confidence was encouraging, and some of Henry’s fear left him as he rode at the head of his troops, up the hill beyond the bay and over the bleak headland. The red dragon of Cadwalader flew over his head, and seemed to come to life as it rippled in the breeze.
Dale Castle was a small place, but strong, and presented difficulties to any attacker. Henry’s heart lifted when he saw the gates stood open, and a small band of horsemen outside.
“Three black ravens, divided by a chevron,” said Pembroke, peering at the device on their banners, “Rhys ap Thomas’ men.”
Henry took in a deep breath. This was the vital moment. If Rhys ap Thomas, Richard’s principal lieutenant in Wales, chose to stay loyal to his master, then Henry’s invasion was doomed. Lord Rhys could raise enough troops inside Wales to crush his little army before it got anywhere near the English border.
He fought to keep his voice steady. “Uncle,” he said, “take a few men, and go and talk with them.”
Pembroke forward at the head of twenty mounted archers, and spoke briefly with the captain of the men outside the gate.
He returned, his pleasantly battered face creased into a smile. “The Lord Rhys is camped on the road leading beyond Dale,” he said, “and will meet us at Mullock Bridge, over the River Gann.”
“Why there?” Henry replied, mystified.
“He wishes to make a gesture. Perhaps he listens to his bards too often, but it is a pretty thought, all the same. The castle is yours to dispose of.”
Henry ordered de Chandeé to seize and occupy the castle, while he moved on to meet the Lord Rhys.
“How many men does he have with him?” he asked Pembroke.
“No more than two hundred, the captain assured me.”
“Then we shall take four hundred for an escort. Just in case the Lord Rhys has any designs on our person.”
Mullock Bridge was a wide stone bridge, built over the fast-flowing waters of the Gann, some two miles from Dale. The purplish clouds of evening were flooding across the sky by the time Henry rode within sight of the bridge.
“There are his men,” he said, with a nod at the band of knights and billmen gathered at the far end of his bridge, “but where is their master?”
“Let me go forward with a few archers, sire,” offered one of his escort, “I will array them along the banks of the river. If the Welsh attempt any treachery, we’ll shoot them down.”
Henry glanced at the speaker, a big, coarse-featured mercenary who spoke English with the hint of a foreign accent. Henry swiftly rifled through a list of names and faces in his head.
Martin Bolton. That was it. A sell-sword who had brought a few score mercenaries out of Austria to join Henry’s army. Their services did not come cheap. Henry resented the high cost of their wages, while appreciating their worth as hardened fighters. As an Englishman, their captain should have offered his sword cheaply to the rightful King of England. Better still, for no wage at all.
When the time comes, Henry thought, this one shall learn the true value of loyalty.
“Master Bolton,” he said, “your idea is sound. Take fifty archers. We entrust our safety to you.”
He waited until Bolton had gone forward, and then rode to the bridge with just six men-at-arms for an escort. The rest he left under the command of his uncle, with orders to advance at once if anything looked amiss.
A knight in full armour clanked across the bridge on foot to meet Henry when the latter halted at the far end.
“Greetings to Your Majesty,” the knight cried in a strong Welsh accent, “I am honoured to be the first Welshman to welcome you to these shores.”
“We thank you,” Henry replied warily, “what is your name?”
“Sir Hywel ap Gruffydd.”
Henry risked a smile. “We are glad to meet you, Sir Hywel, but we came here to meet the Lord Rhys. Where is he?”
The knight smiled, and jabbed his thumb downward. “Look under the bridge, Your Majesty.”
Wondering if he was the object of some tasteless jest, Henry looked down. He spotted a man lying on his back near the foot of the furthest arch of the bridge, half-submerged in water and slime.
“What in God’s name…?” he began, but Sir Hywel was ready with an answer.
“The Lord Rhys swore an oath to Richard Plantagenet,” he said, “that he would not let Your Majesty pass into Wales, unless it was over his belly. Now you may ride over the bridge with my lord under it, and the oath will remain unbroken.”
Henry scratched his head. Fear and suspicion still raged in his breast, but some of the tension drained away. If the Lord Rhys meant to kill or capture him, he had chosen a very convoluted method.
“We hope your lord does not catch cold easily,” he remarked, and urged his horse onto the bridge.
Once the charade was done, the Lord Rhys emerged, soiled and wet through, and knelt before Henry.
“I am Your Majesty’s true servant,” he declared, “and willingly place all my power at your command.”
“We are glad of it,” replied Henry, gesturing at him to rise, “though your power seems little enough. A mere two hundred men, my lord? We had counted on many more.”
“There was no time to raise a host, sire.I only received word of your landing a few hours ago. Permit me to march east, gather men from my estates, and turn north to join with Your Majesty again before you cross the border.”
Henry didn’t like the sound of it. Rhys could well be playing a double game, and had come to make this pretty show of loyalty as a way of buying time. If Henry let him go, he might raise an army to block the road into England.
There was no help for it. He could hardly hold the man against his will. Henry would simply have to trust him.
“Go, then,” he said, “and raise the fighting men of Wales for us.”
Henry returned to Dale, where he knighted a number of his followers before sitting down to a frugal supper.
Many of his English followers, including Edward Courtenay, John Cheney and Edward Poynings, were among those knighted, and grateful for the honour. Only one of those chosen
, Martin Bolton, refused it.
“I don’t deserve knighthood, sire,” he said, “and must beg to be excused.”
Henry was a trifle annoyed. “How so? You think us unworthy to knight you?”
“No, sire. King Matthias of Hungary once offered to tap me on the shoulder with his sword, but I wouldn’t have it, even from him. I will accept no honours or titles until I have done something to warrant them.”
His attitude was strange, practically unique among the ambitious, power-hungry men who had fled to Henry’s court, but Henry let it go. He was tired, and in no mood to force gifts on a man who didn’t want them.
His army set out early the next morning, marched swiftly from Dale towards Haverfordwest, and then followed the coastline of Cardigan Bay to Machynlleth. A few Welshmen came to offer their swords, though nowhere near as many as Henry would have liked. One of his uncle’s old retainers, Arnold Butler, rode from Pembroke with a couple of dozen archers. William ap Griffith and John Morgan, a minor country squire and a clergyman, brought their pages and as many servants as could bear arms.
“Kitchen boys and broken-down old servants,” Henry remarked sadly to his uncle, “what a mighty host is this.”
Pembroke was undaunted. “Take heart, nephew,” he said, “we have yet to reach North Wales. There is the real heartland of your support. The men of the north will flock to your banner. I am certain of it.”
Henry looked at him with gratitude and admiration. His uncle was a rock, battered by ceaseless tides, but unconquerable. Never, despite a long life of failure and disappointment, had Pembroke admitted defeat.
Matters improved when they turned east from Machynlleth and reached Welshpool. Here, at last, some Welsh lords of real power and substance arrived to join Henry’s cause. William Gruffudd came with a force of billmen and archers from Gwynedd, Richard ap Hywel with a similar force from the north-east, and troops from Hiraethog, led by their lord, a gigantic knight named Sir Rhys ap Maredudd, or Rhys Fawr after his tremendous size.
Sacrifice Page 16