Of Virtue Rare

by Linda Simon

  The merchants wanted to rise in society, and they wanted their neighbors to recognize their newly acquired status. They were intensely proud of their houses, the number of servants they employed, their carriages, and the sight of themselves passing through the streets. Even in death, they wanted to be noticed. Funerals became elaborate affairs costing grand sums. The hearse would be accompanied by dozens of blazing torches and a procession of lavishly garbed mourners.

  The new gentlemen were concerned, too, with their heirs and their place in a new society. They began to send their sons to school. By the middle of the century there were six grammar schools, under Church auspices, where able young scholars could learn Latin. Gradually, the merchants began to prefer boarding schools, and many of their offspring were educated at Winchester and Eton. The intellectual life that had once been the sole province of the tutored aristocracy, now was taken up by the new middle class.

  In 1476, an enterprising businessman returned to England from Flanders and decided to try at home a craft he had seen flourishing in Bruges. William Caxton set up the first printing press not far from Westminster Abbey and devoted his labors to the publishing of English works and translations of some popular religious and didactic tracts.

  Caxton was born in 1421 in Kent and came to London as an apprentice to a mercer in 1438. The mercer died suddenly the next year, leaving his able assistant an ample bequest of £13. The sum was enough to enable any bright young man to live comfortably for a year, and Caxton took his legacy to Bruges, where he continued his apprenticeship, and then returned to London. He was accepted into the Mercers Company, a group that held a monopoly on the cloth trade and afforded its members a high position in the merchant class.

  Again, he sailed to Bruges and there learned the art of printing, which had not yet been practiced in England. Few, in fact, had ever seen a printed book imported from the continent. But Caxton, believing that he could prosper with the new trade, set up a workshop at the sign of the Red Pale, near the chapter house of Westminster Abbey. His first book was ready in 1477.

  The work was not, as might be expected, a printed Bible, but a compendium by a nobleman, Anthony, Lord Rivers, a brother of Elizabeth Woodville. The Dictes and Sayings of the Philosophers was followed by The Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye and The Game and Playe of the Chesse. Caxton’s publishing advertisements were aimed at aspiring gentlemen. Virgil’s Eneydos, he claimed, was “not for a rude uplandish man to labour therein but only for a clerk and noble gentleman.”[103] Another volume was “not requisite for every common man to have, but to noble gentlemen that by their virtue intend to enter into the noble order of chivalry.”[104]

  He printed editions of Chaucer, Boethius, Lydgate, and John Gower. Especially with the works of Chaucer, which had been amended and elaborated since the fourteenth century, Caxton conscientiously tried to offer an accurate version of what the poet wrote, even going so far as to produce additional corrected printings if errors were pointed out to him.

  In 1485, Caxton printed a fresh version of the tales of King Arthur and his legendary knights. Its author, Thomas Malory, had composed his Morte d’Arthur during a twenty-year prison term for assault, plunder of Coombe Abbey, rape, poaching, extortion, and jailbreaking, and had died at Newgate Prison in 1471.

  But no matter. Malory’s version of the tales celebrated courtly life and chivalry, and portrayed Arthur as the paragon of chivalric virtues. For his contemporaries, Malory urged a return to those higher values lost through centuries of brutal wars. The theme of the Holy Grail was subservient to the creation of the mythical Arthur, as if Malory knew intuitively that England needed and would respond to a grand hero, sweeping out of the west, to change the world.

  *

  Though Henry Tudor had spent half his life in Wales, he was not the white knight for whom England was waiting. Of medium height, pale complexion, with a long, lean, sober face, Henry was a quiet, introspective, thoughtful man of twenty-eight, whose early vicissitudes had shaped his personality. He had learned that he could trust only a few; that he could not make grand gestures, but instead take small, calculated steps; that he must be prudent, pious, and vigilant.

  He did not know many Englishmen except the exiles who had joined him on the continent, where he had spent all of his adult life. The English did not know him, and even those who looked forward to his return saw him more as a symbol of political unity than as a person. Henry Tudor, with his vow of betrothal to Elizabeth of York, would end the Wars, ascend to the throne, and lead England, all according to his mother’s plan.

  In 1485 it seemed that Margaret Beaufort’s dream would be realized. Anne of Beaujeu finally decided in favor of supporting Henry, and gave him funds, a few ships, and several thousand men, at least a third of whom were French criminals. On Monday, August 1, he sailed from France toward England.

  Henry had already written to some potential supporters, advising them of plans that his mother, John Morton, and Reginald Bray had carefully worked out. In Wales, John ab Meredith, a cousin of Owen Tudor’s; Rhys ab Thomas; Thomas Stanley and his brother William; and Gilbert Talbot were all expecting his arrival. Bray had collected from the insurgent commanders a large sum of money to pay soldiers.

  Just before sunset on Sunday, August 7, Henry and his motley troops landed at Milford Haven, the farthest extremity of South Wales. As he stepped on the land he had not seen for fourteen years, he knelt and kissed the shore. Then he led his army to Dale Castle, across the bay from his childhood home at Pembroke, easily overtook Dale, and spent the night there.

  At dawn the next morning, with the village still shrouded in fog, Henry Tudor began his march. The army of Frenchmen, Bretons, and Welsh moved northward to Haverfordwest, reaching the crossroads town before noon. Then they headed over some thirty miles of difficult mountain paths, across the Prescelly Hills, into the parish of Nevern. Henry found no opposition from the Welshmen, who watched incredulously as yet another army pushed its way through their fields, but neither did he inspire any to drop their hoes and join his troops. On Tuesday, August 9, he marched through Cardigan and stopped for refreshment at an inn, the Three Mariners, before continuing along the coast to Llwynn Dafydd. He stayed there as a guest of Dafydd ab Ifan, whom he later rewarded with a drinking horn. On Wednesday, he stopped with Einon ab Dafydd Llwyd. On Thursday, at Mathafarn, he was said to have paused to consult a prophet and poet, Dafydd Llwyd ab Llywelyn. Dafydd’s optimistic reading of the future came not from extraterrestrial influences but from the shrewd thinking of his wife, who told him to foresee victory so that if Henry became king, they should be rewarded; if he were defeated, she reasoned, they would not hear from him again.

  Perhaps Henry believed Dafydd’s prophecy the following day, when Rhys ab Thomas, whose allegiance had never been totally sure, agreed to support him. He brought with him the aid, too, of William ab Gruffydd and Richard ab Howell, and he arranged for herds of cattle to meet the army at Long Mountain so that the soldiers would be provided with victuals for their march ahead.

  But as strong as Henry’s support seemed, it lacked the outward demonstration of commitment by one man who had yet to communicate with Henry and whose aid was vital: his stepfather, Thomas Stanley.

  Stanley’s position was delicate. In July, when he decided to move supporters to Wales, he knew he would have to do so without arousing the king’s suspicion. He told Richard that he was going to visit his estates in Lancashire. Richard did not fully believe him. He ordered him to leave his son, George, Lord Strange, as hostage; only then could he move freely. Richard, with George, then installed himself at Nottingham, nearly in the center of the country, where he could receive word on events wherever they occurred.

  Some few years previously, during a conflict with Scotland, Edward IV had initiated a system of relaying dispatches to and from his troops. He stationed men on horseback at twenty-mile intervals along strategic roads. It was possible, then, for messages to travel a hundred miles a day, a swiftness hith
erto unknown. Richard used that same postal system as he nervously awaited news. Stanley knew that any apparent defection from the king would be known quickly and would cost his son his life. Only Stanley’s complete faith in his wife’s plan allowed him to gamble for such high stakes. Lord Strange, understanding the risk involved, willingly stood as hostage while the rebellion unfolded, even when it seemed that his own execution would be inevitable.

  By August 11, Richard had been informed that Henry had landed. But still he did not know the extent of his opponent’s support in Wales, and believed that the powerful Welsh magnates would not allow Henry to pass unopposed. He counted on retaliation from Rhys ab Thomas, or even William Stanley, to stop Henry, and was shocked to learn that Henry had left Wales stronger and bolder than he had entered.

  Lord Strange, after intensive questioning, finally confessed that both he and his uncle had contrived to help Henry by procuring support for him throughout Wales and England. He insisted, though, that his father knew nothing of the project, and offered to write to him requesting his return. Richard summoned Stanley back, threatening to execute his son if he did not immediately obey. Stanley had no reason to believe that Richard would not act on his threat, but he knew also that the time had come for boldness. He sent back word that he was ill and could not move.

  Meanwhile, Richard had begun to organize his own troops and, putting off the execution of Lord Strange, left Nottingham for Leicester. By Sunday evening, August 21, the king’s men and the usurper’s troops were assembled on a plain some two miles south of Market Bosworth.

  The opposing sides camped in uneasy silence, awaiting confrontation at daybreak. If Henry’s foreign army did not know why they were fighting, and so could not be fully trusted, neither could the king’s mercenaries. On the door of the duke of Norfolk’s tent, under cover of darkness, a disgruntled soldier had written:

  Jack of Norfolk, be not bold,

  For Dickon, thy master, is bought and sold.[105]

  But even if Richard had realized that he was already overcome, he could not have withdrawn or surrendered. A balladeer captured his spirit in lines penned after the fighting had ended:

  “Nay, give me my battle-axe in my hand, and the crown of England on my helm so high,

  For by Him that made both sea and land, King of England this day I will die.

  One foot I will never flee, whilst the breath is my heart within!”

  As he said so did it be. If he lost his life he died a king.[106]

  A barrage of arrows began the attack, which soon turned to hand-to-hand combat. Though Richard had the larger force, Henry’s men were well commanded and were amply fortified by the retinue brought — at the last moment — by his stepfather. Richard was moved to attack Henry, though he was surrounded by soldiers, and managed to slay William Brandon, the standard bearer, before he himself was cut down by a charge from William Stanley. The crown that Richard had worn into battle was hurled from his head in the struggle and landed in a hawthorn bush. Thomas Stanley retrieved it and placed it on the head of the victor. The king was dead. A new king reigned.

  “Would you say that this was fortune?” Philippe de Comines asked in his memoirs. “No, no it was the judgement of God …”[107] “The realme of England hath this speciall grace above all other realmes and dominions, that in civill wars the people is not distroied, the townes be nor burned nor razed, but the lot of fortune falleth upon the soldiers, especially the gentlemen whom the people envy to too beyond reason: for nothing is perfect in this world.”[108] The last battle in the long Wars had been fought, and England had survived.

  IX - A Cheerful Strain

  IMMEDIATELY, Henry issued a victory proclamation by circular letter, ensuring safe conduct to those who had fought at Bosworth and informing his subjects of the death of their former king.

  Henry, by the grace of God King of England and of France, Prince of Wales and lord of Ireland, strictly chargeth and commandeth, upon pain of death: that no manner of man rob nor spoil no manner of commons coming from the field, but suffer them to pass home … and moreover, that no manner of man take upon him to … pick no quarrels for old or for new matters, but keep the peace, upon pain of hanging …

  And moreover, the King ascertaineth you that Richard, Duke of Gloucester, late called King Richard, was slain … and brought dead off the field into the town of Leicester, and there laid openly, that every man might see and look upon him …[109]

  Heralds read the letter throughout England, and many felt relief, even joy. The boar, Richard’s badge, was removed from signs and torn from livery. The bloody body of the king, naked to gaping eyes, was proof again that the wheel of fortune had turned.

  … Now is the ffierce ffeeld foughten & ended,

  & the white bore there lyeth slaine;

  & the young Egle is preserved,

  & come to his nest againe.

  but now this garden fflourishes ffreshly & gay,

  with ffragrant fflowers comely of hew;

  & gardeners itt doth maintaine;

  I hope they will prove just & true.

  our King, he is the rose so redd,

  that now does flourish ffresh and gay.

  Confound his floes, Lord, wee beseeche,

  & love his grace both night & day![110]

  Dafydd Llwyn Llywelyn ab Gruffydd celebrated the victory:

  King Harry hath fought, and bravely done,

  Our friend the golden crown hath won.

  The bards resume a cheerful strain;

  For the good of the world little R. was slain.[111]

  English and Welsh bards came forth in a profusion of verse to commemorate both the battle and the romantic union of the white rose and the red.

  As Henry rode south from Bosworth, his new subjects thronged to greet him. Cries of “King Henry! King Henry!” echoed across the countryside. In London, the mayor and aldermen staged a lavish welcome. They were dressed in purple velvet, and had called out the citizens to follow Henry’s procession to St. Paul’s. Henry’s standards floated ceremoniously above the victors. On one, he displayed the red dragon of Wales, evoking not only his birthplace and ancestry, but the prophecy that Cadwalader, a valiant prince, would one day return and lead his people to victory.

  After prayers and a Te Deum at the cathedral, the king celebrated, along with the whole of London. Plays, feasts, games, and music filled the ensuing days. The new king was particularly fond of music and would always include minstrels in his entourage to alleviate the tedium of the long and uncomfortable journey. And he was fond, too, of games: chess, backgammon, cards and dice, even tennis. He would give drama, especially mumming, an appreciative audience at banquets and court festivities.

  One of the most delightful victory ballads survives in various versions. In “The Most Pleasant Song of the Lady Bessie,” Humphrey Brereton, a servant of Margaret Beaufort’s husband, Thomas Stanley, chronicles, not always factually, the plot to depose Richard, but makes Elizabeth of York, “littel Bessie,” instrumental in bringing to England her dearly beloved “Earle Richmonde that prynce gaye …” After hundreds of lines, the two are united when Bessie welcomes Henry back to London.

  Greate solas yt was to see,

  I tell you, maysters, without lett,

  When the Reade Rowse of mekyll [great] price,

  And yonge Bessie togeder were mett.

  A byshoppe them maryed with a rynge,

  The two bloodes of highe renowne;

  Bessie said, nowe may we singe,

  We two bloodes are made at one.[112]

  Elizabeth of York was released from the Tower of London after Henry entered the city, but the forthcoming marriage was entered into cautiously. Henry was intent on making a smooth and sure accession to the throne, with no help from the Yorkists. He knew that his hereditary claim to the crown rested on controversial ground. Though the Beauforts had been legitimated by Richard II, some could still point to a clause, inserted later, that barred the family from royal pretens
ions. Henry decided to take the throne by acclamation and an act of Parliament.

  Margaret Beaufort exulted in the cheers that followed her son to Westminster on October 29, 1485. The procession was no less than magnificent. Henry wore a doublet of cloth of gold and satin in green and white, the Tudor colors. Over it was draped a long gown of purple velvet, trimmed with ermine, laced and tasseled with gold. His charger was covered in trappings of cloth of gold, and a gold canopy was held above him, supported at each corner by four knights. Seven horsemen, wearing crimson and gold, followed; henchmen and footmen wore the Tudor colors. Heralds and trumpeters, glittering in their gilt costumes, streamed through the streets. London burst forth with the red rose on buildings, walls, and gates. The crowned portcullis, from the Beaufort badge, appeared on pennants and banners. Finally Archbishop Bourchier, assisted by Bishop John Morton, anointed and crowned Henry VII.

  No one was more joyful about the advent of the new king than Margaret Beaufort. Finally, at forty-four, she had realized her only dream: to see her son claim his rightful inheritance. Henry’s return, his triumph, was the pinnacle of her life. She saw in him not only the culmination of the Beaufort line, but the beginning of a new dynasty for England, one that would reign without the taint of war and dissension. What Margaret of Anjou had attempted to do in decades of bloodshed, Margaret Beaufort had achieved by nearly fifteen years of delicate diplomacy and one swift battle.

  *

  The fifteenth century was often a deeply pessimistic one, and fortune’s fickleness seemed a hazard to everyone. The highly placed could fall into shame; the lowborn could plummet into abject poverty. As poets plied the theme, a turn of fortune’s wheel meant eventual tragedy for those whose station seemed enviable and secure. Never did the wheel seem to turn for the better.

  Thys warlde ys varyabyll,