by Tony Riches
Their captain addresses me again. ‘Are you Owen Tudor, formerly of the royal household?’
‘I am.’ There didn’t seem to be any point in denying it.
‘You are summoned by the messengers of the council to appear before the king.’ He glances at the armed soldiers to each side of him, as if to warn them to be ready for trouble. ‘My orders are to bring you to the Palace of Westminster.’
I sense the young captain is unsure of his ground. ‘Are those the king’s orders, Captain?’
‘They are the orders of the Duke of Gloucester, who acts in the name of the king.’
I know there is no chance of escape. ‘I will come with you if I have the word of the Duke of Gloucester that I can explain myself to the king.’
‘The duke is in London.’ The captain seems confused as to how he can grant my request.
‘I will ride with you to London and then you must secure the duke’s word—in writing.’
The captain seems relieved to have a way out and leads me back towards London while his men follow behind. As we approach Westminster I am increasingly concerned about walking into a trap. The king will be of age on the sixth of December, after which time the duke will no longer be able to act in his name. In the meantime, I have to find a way to force Duke Humphrey to provide me with his surety of safe conduct.
The solution appears before me as we approach the towering Palace of Westminster. My guards are tired from the long ride and their captain rides a little way ahead. As we pass a water-filled horse trough I slip from the saddle while my horse drinks his fill. I unbuckle my precious saddlebags and run with them until my lungs are burning in my chest. I can hear men shouting behind me as I dart into the servants’ passage and through into the sanctuary of Westminster Abbey.
Seeking sanctuary is not a simple matter, as the right to grant sanctuary is at the discretion of the abbot. I do my best to explain my situation to one of the older monks, who listens carefully, then asks me to be seated while the matter is considered. After an agonising wait I am granted an audience with the Abbot of Westminster.
Abbot Richard Harweden is simply dressed in black Benedictine robes, although around his neck he wears a crucifix on a heavy gold chain which belies his humble appearance. He listens impassively while I repeat my story, interrupting only when I say how my youngest son died in the abbey infirmary during childbirth.
‘Your son lives. He will become a postulant when he is of age. Until that time he is being raised as a member of our community of St Benedict.’
‘I was led to believe he was dead?’ The news is almost too difficult to comprehend.
‘I regret you were misinformed. The queen dowager was not in any condition to care for him and gave her consent for your son to join our order.’
Now I see why Catherine had been so insistent and feel a stab of regret at how I had been so quick to doubt her. ‘I didn’t know.’ A thought occurs to me. ‘Is he here now?’
Abbot Harweden inclines his head. ‘He is not, although he will return here when he is older.’
‘I would like to see him, Your Grace, when it is possible.’
The abbot studies me appraisingly. ‘I will grant you sanctuary while you wait for the letter of safe conduct, Master Tudor. May God be with you.’
‘And with you, Your Grace.’
I find my way to the scriptorium, where rows of monks copy Latin texts. One of them agrees to let me write a message to Nathaniel, and I briefly explain that I am safe but Fortune's Wheel has turned against me. I give the monk a silver groat in return for his promise to deliver it to Nathaniel at Bermondsey Abbey. Then all I can do is wait and pray.
I soon begin to tire of the austere life in sanctuary and risk a visit to a nearby tavern. Although I wear a hooded cape I am recognised in the street by a man of the king’s guard, who tries to arrest me. I escape down an alleyway and run to Westminster Abbey as fast as I can, lucky to reach my sanctuary before the guard can catch me, but it is a reminder of the dangers London now holds for me.
A week later Nathaniel and Thomas visit with news that Catherine is to be buried here in the abbey. I realise I will be able to be present at the service after all, although I decide to take the precaution of cutting my hair short and shaving my beard, dressing in the plain robes of a monk to reduce the chances of being recognised again. I watch Catherine’s funeral from a distance with the other postulate monks and no one gives me a second glance. Even the monks seem to have forgotten the reason for my being with them.
I find it convenient to escape from my grief into the strict Benedictine routine. Waking at midnight, the monks leave their beds in the dormitory for Matins followed by Lauds, before returning to sleep until daybreak, when Prime is sung. After a light breakfast of bread and watery ale, I join in the chantry masses for the souls of those who are buried in Westminster Abbey. Each day I pray for Catherine’s soul. Sometimes tears run down my face as I listen to the poignant singing of the masses and think of her. I miss my wife and pray that our sons Edmund and Jasper are safe and well. I also pray for the soul of a baby daughter I never had the chance to know.
At nine the first mass is celebrated at the high altar in the presbytery, followed by prayers and what are called announcements, where duties and penances are assigned. I help with my share of the cleaning and polishing, a small price to pay for my food and lodgings, although both are frugal and I notice my ribs are beginning to show after the poor monastic diet.
Shortly before noon the bell rings for dinner and I join the monks to wash in the laver, where there is clean water and towels to dry our hands. After dinner the afternoon is marked by the services of none at two o'clock and vespers at four, each taking about half an hour. After a light, plain meal, followed by the singing of compline, I retire to sleep.
* * *
December dawns and the day of the king’s sixteenth birthday finally arrives. I request an audience with the king to explain my situation. After an anxious wait I receive word that he has agreed but our meeting is to be in front of the royal council, which includes Duke Humphrey as well as Cardinal Beaufort. I know that both, as advisors to the king, will take the opportunity to poison young Harry’s mind against me, but I have no option now and my only wish is to be allowed to continue on my way to Wales.
I stand before the great council dressed in a plain black doublet and wearing my fine sword and dagger for the first time since I sought sanctuary. It feels strange after living for so long as a monk but I wear them as a reminder to those who would sit in judgment of me that I have been granted the rights of an Englishman.
King Henry sits between his senior advisors, stony-faced Duke Humphrey to the left and Cardinal Beaufort, in scarlet robes, to his right. Henry looks pale and the gold coronet he wears seems heavy on his head. He stares impassively at me without any sign of recognition, confirming my fear it will not be easy to persuade him my intentions were honourable.
Duke Humphrey speaks first. ‘Owen Tudor... you are called here to account for your conduct as a member of the late queen dowager’s household.’ His voice is cold. ‘It is your right to make a statement before the council makes its judgement on you.’
I address the king. ‘I am, Your Highness, your loyal liege man.’ I glance at the duke, then at Cardinal Beaufort. ‘Whatever anyone has told you, I swear I have always served and protected the late Queen Catherine, your mother, with honesty, loyalty and integrity.’
My words echo from the ceiling of the great council chamber. Duke Humphrey leans across and speaks to the king in a low voice I can’t hear, although I see how Henry nods in understanding. The other members of the council, bishops and nobles, seem to regard me with new interest following my statement.
Cardinal Beaufort gives me a dispassionate stare. ‘If you are as innocent and loyal as you claim, Tudor...’ He pauses for effect. ‘Why is it you felt the need to seek sanctuary with the monks of Westminster Abbey?’
I am prepared for the question. �
��The Duke of Gloucester’s men came to the late Bishop Morgan’s house to arrest me, Your Grace.’ I turn to Duke Humphrey now. ‘Queen Catherine told his men she wished for me to accompany her to the Abbey of St Saviour, which I did. After her death, I decided to return to my homeland and was arrested again and brought to London, where I sought sanctuary only until the king reached his majority.’
The conviction in my answer seems to silence any further questioners, so I take the opportunity to address the king again.
‘Your Highness, I humbly ask you to grant me your consent to return to Wales, where I will live out my life.’
The young king speaks for the first time. ‘You are the father of my half-brothers, Tudor. If it is your wish to leave England...’
Duke Humphrey leans forward. ‘The matter is to be debated by the council, Your Highness.’
Now Archbishop Henry Chichele speaks. ‘The king does not need the consent of council in this matter, unless he wishes it.’
I remember Archbishop Chichele had been a favourite advisor to Henry’s father and is the leading expert on legal procedures of the council. It is one of the first opportunities for the young king to exercise his royal prerogative. He has undoubtedly been warned by his guardian, Cardinal Beaufort, of the consequences of allowing Duke Humphrey to control him after he reached his majority.
In a confident young voice, the king orders me to be released, a free man. I cannot miss the glower of annoyance on Duke Humphrey’s face and recall the words of Sir Richard Beauchamp. I know from now on I had better watch my back, for I am free but I have made a dangerous enemy.
I am pleased and surprised to find Nathaniel and Thomas waiting for me outside the council chamber, dressed in riding clothes as if for a long journey. ‘How did you know I would be released?’
Nathaniel looks serious. ‘We didn’t—but we should never have let you travel alone, so we want to come with you this time.’
‘You will ride with me to Wales?’
Thomas nods. ‘I’ve served my time at the abbey and miss my homeland. I will see if I can find a parish closer to my home in need of a priest.’
‘I will be glad of your company.’ I glance towards the doorway. ‘We must leave before they change their minds.’
Nathaniel has brought me a sturdy horse to replace the Welsh Cob I had to abandon in the street. I run an approving hand over its flank and tie on the saddlebags I’d recovered from my sanctuary in Westminster. Nathaniel and Thomas have divided the rest of my fortune between their saddlebags and each carries a heavy purse of gold and silver hidden under their clothing.
They ride each side of me as we head out of the dirt and noise of the city into the open countryside. The muddy road has frozen hard overnight and puddles glisten with thin ice. The harsh, rattling call of a magpie breaks the silence, sounding to me like an ill omen. I pull my thick felt hat over my ears to protect them from the frost and shiver, despite my warm woollen cloak.
Nathaniel notices me looking over my shoulder. ‘You think we’re being followed?’
‘I hope we are not—but I wouldn’t put it past Duke Humphrey to take the law into his own hands. The only way to stay safe is to ride as far from London as we can.’
‘What about Edmund and Jasper?’
‘They are safe in the care of the Abbess of Barking. I will have to wait a little before I can visit them.’ I pray it is true that my sons are now with Katherine de la Pole. ‘Have you had any reply to the letters I sent?’
Nathaniel shakes his head. ‘No. Perhaps the duke refused them permission to reply?’
‘I expect you are right. I shall take some small comfort from the fact my letters were not returned.’
Thomas is concerned as he listens to our exchange. ‘Will we be safe when we reach the Welsh border?’
‘Not really, Thomas. The king said I was a free man, yet I expect they’ve already come up with reasons to arrest me again.’
‘You have the king’s pardon!’
I take one last glance behind us before answering. ‘I sensed we were being followed—and we are.’
This time a group of riders can clearly be seen approaching. They ride too fast for ordinary travellers and even from a distance I can tell they are trained soldiers, riding in pairs with one man leading in the front. Winter sunshine flashes from polished breastplates and now we can see they carry long halberds, the weapon of the king’s men.
Nathaniel turns in his saddle. ‘Should we try to make a run for it?’
‘There’s no point now they’ve seen us. Let’s find out what they want.’
We wait until the soldiers reach us and I count twenty men, noting they do not wear the duke’s livery. Their commander, a well-dressed man a little older than me, rides up and studies the three of us with a scowl of distaste. He wears his sword ready for use and everything about him suggests years of military experience.
‘You cost a good captain his job, Tudor, by escaping last time.’ He frowns. ‘I am not going to allow you to do it a second time, by God!’
‘And you are, sir?’
‘Lord Beaumont, acting in the name of the king.’
‘I have the king’s permission to travel to Wales, my lord.’
Lord Beaumont doesn’t answer. He nods to his waiting men, who take my sword and dagger, then my precious saddlebags. Nathaniel begins to protest but I shake my head to silence him, as there are too many soldiers. I know what will happen to my silver and gilt cups and plates but I still have my purse, hidden inside my doublet. Even if we have the chance to escape I am certain I will lose all the valuables I have managed to bring from Hatfield.
Last time I had been allowed to keep my sword, as I wasn’t officially under arrest. This is different. My sword and dagger are my most precious possessions and I wonder if it is worth trying to protest that the king’s wishes are being so blatantly ignored.
I study Lord Beaumont, trying to judge his resolve. ‘What’s the meaning of this, my lord?’
‘I am instructed by the council to take you to Newgate, where you will be held pending trial.’
‘What trial, my lord? I have been acquitted by the order of the king himself. My travelling companions are innocent of any crime, so why are they also being detained by your men?’
Lord Beaumont scowls. ‘Follow me.’ He turns and leads us back the way they came. ‘You will ride with us—and if you try anything you will be dragged behind a horse. Do you understand?’
I look across at Nathaniel and Thomas. We understand.
Chapter Fourteen
Winter of 1438
The worst thing about Newgate Gaol is the foul odour permeating the old stones of the building. I taste the taint of death and despair with every breath. The gaol is run by private gaolers known as ‘keepers’, cruel men, hardened by their work and keen to profit from their charges in any way they can. The other inmates range from those awaiting trial to the most hardened criminals in London, condemned to hang on the gallows at Tyburn.
The shouts and demonic howls of other inmates echo down narrow, dark corridors, keeping me awake at night. One of my neighbours seems to have lost his mind and bangs his empty food dish against the iron grill of his door, loudly protesting his innocence for hours at a time. Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! The man stops for a moment and I hold my breath, waiting for the racket to continue. It invariably does, at all hours of the day and night. I know it will drive me mad, but there is no point in complaining as no one cares.
My cell is ten feet square with a small, north-facing window, too high to see through, yet the source of freezing drafts on cold winter nights. Alone, with only a straw mattress and an old iron bucket, I draw comfort from the thought that my friends have probably been released and are doing what they can to have me released.
There is nothing for me to do other than reflect on the sad turn events have taken. I try to take stock of my life and thank God I have two strong and healthy sons, who give me all I need to live for. I miss them
and pray they are old enough not to have their minds turned against me. I miss my Catherine and force an image of her frail body from my mind, trying instead to recall her youthful beauty at our first meeting.
I must presume all my possessions are now stolen or confiscated by Lord Beaumont’s men. All I have to show for thirty-eight years is what I managed to hide from the cursory search when I was arrested. I peer through the small holes in the door grill, trying to see down the corridor. A brown rat scuttles busily alongside the wall and out of my limited field of view. There is no sign of my keepers.
Two of them share responsibility for the corridor where my cell is located. They both insist on being called ‘master’, although there the similarity ends. Master Griffin, the eldest, is surly and rarely speaks unless he has to. He has the dull, dead eyes of a man who has resigned himself to a miserable existence and carries an iron-studded truncheon. I am certain the old keeper would not hesitate to use it if I give him the opportunity.
Master Briggs cannot be more different. He enjoys scheming and taunts his charges with threats and promises he has no intention of keeping. I try to keep on good terms with them both, as my life could depend on it. I once saw Griffin spit in one of the other prisoner’s food and know he is capable of worse. At least Master Briggs sometimes brings me a cold eel pie or scrap of ham in return for an extortive payment to supplement my diet of grainy pottage.
I remember one other thing of value I still have and search for the secret pocket where it is hidden. The square of white linen is faded now, creased where it is folded over. I smooth it out and feel a surge of painful memory as I study the red dragon, so carefully sewn. It has failed as my good-luck charm but I hold the square of fabric to my face and feel an unexpected longing for Juliette. She truly loved me yet I turned my back on her for Catherine. I wonder if she is married now or ever thinks of me.