by Tony Riches
Further time is taken by the need for caution, as these are dangerous times. We rest only in small villages, avoiding larger towns such as Aberystwyth, where the castle is now held by York supporters. At last the massive stone towers of Pembroke Castle appear on the skyline and I say a silent prayer of thanks that we have arrived safely. High on a rocky outcrop overlooking the estuary of the winding River Cleddau, the castle is one of the few in the country which has never been breached by invaders.
As we ride closer I see the Royal Standard flying from the top of the keep, then realise it is Jasper’s flag, with its blue border of golden martlets. I feel a surge of pride that this grand fortress, which has dominated the area since Roman times, is the home of my sons.
I look across at Bethan, who rides at my side. ‘Not far now. What do you think of Wales now, Bethan?’
‘Wales is bigger, grander—and more beautiful than I ever dreamed, Master Tudor.’
‘You have done well, Bethan. It has been a long journey, but it is good for you to see your country.’
‘I am grateful to you, sir, for allowing me the privilege.’
I smile in acknowledgement. No one would believe she only spoke Welsh when I first met her. It amuses me to see how she likes to use longer words than either of the yeomen we ride with. As we pick our way through the narrow roads leading up to the castle I decide we will stay a while in Pembroke, perhaps until the baby is born, as Lamphey Palace is only a few miles away.
The guards at the castle gatehouse tell us to wait while one goes to announce our arrival to Jasper. The guard soon returns and asks me to follow him to the chapel, while Bethan and the two yeomen are to be taken to the kitchens. As we enter the castle grounds we stop to stare in amazement at the activity within the open expanse of the inner ward, surrounded by high stone walls and overlooked by the enormous Norman keep.
Archers stand in rows and on a shouted command fire a devastating volley of arrows deep into the straw bodies of man-shaped targets lined up against the wall. Scores of men wearing sallet helmets advance in battle formation with long halberds, while elsewhere blacksmiths hammer new swords at makeshift forges.
Jasper is raising an army for the king within the privacy of the high castle walls, invisibly to the outside world. I remember my son promising Queen Margaret he would do so, yet to see so many Welshmen preparing for war is a stark reminder of the dangers the country faces.
I am led, alone, through heavy iron inner gates and see the great hall, with its new roof and freshly carved stone. My son has been busy with his improvements, although it is strange he has chosen to meet in the chapel.
A long, low ceilinged room, the chapel has a small window at the far end and is lit by a row of yellow candles. It takes me a moment to adjust to the candlelight before I see Jasper stands with Countess Margaret at his side, her belly noticeably swollen with my grandchild. Their faces are grim. It is not what I expect and I feel a terrible foreboding as I realise something has gone badly wrong.
Jasper breaks the silence. ‘Welcome, Father. It warms our hearts to see you again... but I regret I have to tell you the worst has happened.’ He places a comforting hand on Margaret’s shoulder. ‘Edmund is dead.’
I feel unsteady on my feet and slump into one of the wooden chapel pews. My first thought is Jasper must be mistaken, but Edmund would be here to welcome me and he is not. There are only the three of us in the silent chapel. I look into Jasper’s eyes for explanation, then into Margaret’s and see the truth. My eldest son is dead and he will never see his child.
‘How can he be?’ My voice is a whisper in the silent chapel.
‘He caught... an illness in Carmarthen Castle.’ Jasper’s voice is factual, drained of emotion. ‘There was nothing anyone could do.’ He glances at Margaret. ‘I am sorry, Father, that you have arrived too late.’
‘He is already buried?’ It is all too much to take in.
‘A week ago, on the first day of November in the choir of the Grey Friars Church, in Carmarthen. I have paid for a fine tomb, and for the friars to keep candles burning day and night and pray for his soul.’ He glances at Margaret, as if for permission to say more and sees her nod. ‘They told me it could be the plague, Father. We were not allowed to see him at the end, so even if you arrived earlier it would have made little difference.’
Jasper has grown into a warrior knight, with a hardness in his eyes that warns others not to underestimate him. I know how close my sons have always been and realise this lack of emotion is his way of dealing with his grief.
Margaret speaks, her voice soft in the quiet chapel. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’ Her hand moves self-consciously to her bulging belly. ‘God willing, your son will live on through our child.’
It is almost too much for me, but I must reply. Margaret is thirteen years old, yet I am looking into the eyes of a strong, confident woman and recall telling Jasper that Margaret has Beaufort steel running through her veins.
‘I am sorry for your loss, Lady Margaret. Edmund was a good son and...’ I am too choked with sadness to continue.
They realise I need time and leave me in the chapel to mourn my son. I kneel at the simple altar, which is bare except for a large silver crucifix. The last rays of the setting sun cast a golden glow through the small west-facing window as I pray for Edmund’s soul and curse William Herbert and his followers of York.
* * *
I sit at the fireside in the great hall of Pembroke Castle, warming my feet in the heat from the blazing logs. We have done all we can and now are powerless to do anything other than wait. It has been a cheerless Christmas and New Year, marked by a solemn pilgrimage to pray together at Edmund’s tomb at the church of Grey Friars in Carmarthen. I am proud to learn that a stirring elegy to the memory of my son has been written in Welsh by the eminent bard Lewis Glyn Cothi.
Now it is the end of January and snowflakes drift across the windswept inner ward as we wish for it to soon be over. Jasper has a man stationed outside Margaret’s door, ready to run to him with news, good or bad. He has also secured the services of a skilled midwife, a local woman with a reputation for healing with herbs as well as delivering children, who has sat with Margaret since the first signs. That was well before noon and it is now dark outside, but still there is no word.
Jasper paces in frustration as he no longer tries to hide his concern for Margaret. The two of them have been inseparable since Edmund’s death, praying in the chapel together, discussing news from London and walking within the castle grounds. Although Jasper is more caring than any husband, I have never seen signs of intimacy between them. I hope the day will come, but for now they have been united by concern for the unborn child.
‘What is York up to now?’ I try to occupy my son’s mind until the agonising wait is over.
‘I can’t believe he has persuaded the king to appoint Warwick as Captain of Calais!’ Jasper curses. ‘I would never have allowed it if I had been there.’ He frowns. ‘The king’s intentions are good. He tries his best to keep the peace and all they do is see it as weakness—and turn his goodwill to their own advantage.’
‘I don’t see why that’s such a bad thing. At least Warwick is well out of the way for a while.’
‘The garrison at Calais is England’s only standing army. Now Warwick has control of it—and of the Channel—and of our last possession in France. It is the perfect base for him to prepare a revolt against the king—against us, Father!’ Jasper’s voice is raised to the rafters of the great hall.
‘You can’t be in two places at once, Jasper. The king has other advisors.’
Jasper stops pacing and turns to me. ‘Before I came here I was the only one who remained loyal to the king.’
‘Because of the queen?’
Jasper nods. ‘The queen puts the interests of her son above everything else, even the best interests of the king.’
‘That’s understandable.’ I stare into the fire and remember how passionate the queen had been abou
t her family. That is the problem. Reading between the lines of my last letter from Nathaniel I know the queen has offended not only the powerful nobles but also the influential merchants who have the money to fund armies.
We are interrupted by hammering at the door and Jasper’s man appears, breathless from his sprint across the inner ward. I fear I cannot take more bad news.
‘Lady Margaret has given birth... to a healthy boy, my lord.’
Jasper hands him a silver coin. ‘Did the midwife say if Lady Margaret is well?’
The man gratefully takes the coin. ‘As well as can be expected.’ He sees Jasper’s frown. ‘Those were her words, my lord.’
I understand the midwife’s coded message and see Jasper does also. My son had been right, after all, at that wedding banquet in Bletsoe Castle which seems so long ago now. This is going to be a testing time for us all. I will always remember how Catherine looked after giving birth to our daughter, and how I saw the shadow of an early death in our newborn child’s eyes.
‘Let us go and see if the midwife has more to say?’
Jasper is already heading for the door and we hurry across the inner ward, oblivious of the cold, and up the winding stone staircase of the tower set aside for Lady Margaret’s confinement. It is not spacious, but has the advantage of being well away from the men of the garrison.
Jasper knocks, and the door to Margaret’s room opens almost immediately, as the midwife is expecting us. Margaret sits in a chair by the fireside holding her new son, who is wrapped in a white shawl. She is worryingly pale, but the gleam of triumph in her eyes tells us more than the midwife ever could.
‘I have decided to name him Henry.’ Her voice sounds weak yet content.
‘A good choice.’ I choke back emotion and beam with joy that I have lived to see a healthy grandson, a new generation to continue the name of Tudor.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Spring 1459
Soon after Henry’s birth, Jasper asks to see me in his study, a high room in a tower with views overlooking the meandering River Cleddau. I join Jasper at the open window and together we watch as a tan-sailed barge attempts to moor at the castle wharf below. The river is tidal, with strong currents. The crew seems to be struggling as the barge approaches and shout to a man on the quayside who throws them a rope. One of the crew catches it and pulls the heavy barge into the lee of the castle.
Jasper turns to me. ‘Sometimes I wish my life was as simple as theirs, Father. It would be good to let others worry about the king or whatever the Duke of York is up to.’
‘You would never be content as a bargeman, Jasper.’ I grin at the thought. ‘I expected to find contentment in Beaumaris—but felt life was passing me by. It’s in our blood, our restless quest for knowledge, learning and adventure.’
‘Your martlet device.’
‘Our martlet, Jasper—it is one thing you inherit from me.’
I sit in one of his comfortable chairs. The room is sparsely furnished, with a bare stone floor, a small hearth, two chairs and Jasper’s desk. The desk is covered in neat piles of papers, letters to be answered and a few of Jasper’s precious books. A goose-feather quill stands in a heavy bronze inkpot and an official document with a dark red seal is spread out on the desk. It looks as if Jasper was studying it and making changes when I arrived.
On one wall is a coloured parchment map of Wales. Imaginary sea monsters poke their heads from the blue-painted ocean, and the main castles feature as prominent, larger-than-life landmarks. The familiar castle at Beaumaris catches my eye and reminds me how far I have travelled from the peaceful solitude I had chosen. I have no regrets, as I am glad to spend as much time as I can with my new grandson.
I still see something of myself in Jasper, but we are quite different in character. Handsome and confident, he has been prepared well for his life as a noble. Even before the death of his brother, he was becoming the better leader of the two, with a talent for gaining the loyalty and respect of the men under his command.
‘We need to talk about Margaret—and her son.’ Jasper is serious. ‘The midwife said both Margaret and her child were close to death. After such a difficult birth... it is unlikely she will be able to have another child.’
‘That is unfortunate, Jasper—but thank God they both seem well enough now.’ I feel a sense of loss as I recall the moment at Much Hadam Palace when I first held my newborn son Edmund in my arms. ‘You are thinking little Henry needs a father?’ I had been expecting this discussion. It will need a special dispensation, but Jasper and Margaret seem a good match.
‘Lady Margaret’s mother has already chosen a husband for her, and I have agreed to arrange it.’
‘Margaret should observe twelve months of mourning before she starts planning another marriage.’ It pains me to be reminded how soon life is moving on after Edmund’s death, as if he never existed. I sit back in my chair. ‘So who is this lucky fellow?’
‘We thought to approach the Duke of Buckingham. He is proving a useful ally, helping me defend the Welsh Marches against York’s sympathisers. Margaret will marry the duke's second son, Henry Stafford.’
‘I see the sense of it. Buckingham is one of the few men left who can rival the power of York.’ I look across at Jasper. ‘Like Margaret, he is descended from the royal line, but as the second son, Henry Stafford has no fortune of his own.’
‘He won’t need it, Father. Lady Margaret’s fortune will provide for them both.’
I think about this for a moment. ‘Where will they live?’
‘Margaret owns a manor house in Lincolnshire. She told me she would consider moving there once she is remarried.’
I feel saddened, as Lincolnshire is a long way from Beaumaris, more than two hundred miles, and even further from Pembroke. There will be little opportunity for me to visit my only grandson.
Jasper seems to notice my concern. ‘There is a risk we could lose the Richmond estates, so I’ve requested that the king makes me little Henry’s legal guardian—and that he should receive his education here in Pembroke.’
I notice the glint in Jasper’s eye. He has cleverly found a way to keep his late brother’s son and me safely in Pembroke Castle, as well as protect Edmund’s legacy. I was right to think he had plans for Margaret, but they have proved to be quite different from those I was expecting. Now I know Jasper will not rest until Margaret agrees to his plan.
* * *
‘It feels good to breathe fresh sea air again!’
Bethan pulls off her headscarf and lets the breeze flow through her hair as we reach the seashore. It is a bright spring morning and we have ridden ten miles east from Pembroke Castle along the ancient ridgeway to the coastal town of Tenby. I am officially here to check the progress with the town defences, although I am glad to see the waves rolling onto the long sandy beach.
A surprising turn of events has led to me spending much of my time with little Henry. Now an intelligent child of two years old, my grandson has his mother’s Beaufort determination, as well as her frailty. After Margaret married Henry Stafford and moved to Lincolnshire Bethan has proved to be an ideal nursery maid for my grandson.
I had expected Bethan to want to return to her mother in Beaumaris by now, but she seems to be enjoying our new life in Pembroke. She is good company for me when Jasper is away on business, as he so often is these days, as she is always full of questions and keeps me active with our regular exploration of the local areas.
Our horses’ hooves dig deeply into the sand as we canter along the deserted beach. Seagulls call overhead in the light sea breeze and in the distance we see the island of Caldey, home to a Benedictine Priory. We ride up a steep hill up into the town, which bustles with activity. It is market day and people have travelled from miles around. The numerous taverns are doing good business, and market stalls line the long narrow street leading down to the harbour.
We leave our horses at a stable and I visit my favourite tavern while Bethan goes to see the market st
alls. I find a sunlit table by the window where I can watch people coming and going, and thank the landlord, who brings me a jug of frothy, bitter tasting ale.
Conversation drifts across from other men drinking nearby. Although some speak in the local Welsh dialect, most of the talk is in English. I overhear an argument break out when one of the men drunkenly calls Prince Edward the bastard son of a French whore. Others accuse him of being a Yorkist and eject him into the street. I drain my tankard and leave in search of Bethan, who I find at a dressmaker’s stall.
She holds one of the dresses up for me to see. ‘What do you think, Master Tudor?’
I smile at her youthful enthusiasm. She has been well paid but there is little to spend her money on in Pembroke. ‘Too plain for you, Bethan,’ I suggest. ‘You should choose something with bright colours?’
The stallholder, a kindly looking woman, is listening and produces a dress in emerald green. ‘You may try this one on, my lady, if you wish.’
Bethan laughs at the dressmaker’s mistake, but I am not surprised. She has learnt a great deal from Lady Margaret during the year they were together. Her voice sounds almost cultured now and she has more natural grace than some of the noble ladies I have known. She disappears behind the stall and soon emerges wearing the dress, which seems a good fit, accentuating her shapely curves.
I look at her appraisingly. ‘That’s perfect. You can pass for a lady anywhere now, Bethan.’
She buys the emerald green dress, as well as a woollen shawl to keep out the evening chill. ‘I shall keep it for special occasions!’
We continue down the hill to the harbour and the smell of fresh fish fills the air. As we turn the corner we see the little harbour is alive with activity. The fleet has returned and men are unloading wicker baskets overflowing with fish. They use long ropes to haul their catch from the holds of the boats high up onto the stone quay, where the merchants of the town are already haggling for the best price.