by Jean Stubbs
‘And the Earl of Pembroke, sir? What of him?’ Henry asked.
‘My lord, the earl gave good account of himself. But seeing all was lost he slipped away, and whither he has gone no man knows. Some say he seeks the Queen’s army, and others that he returns here by devious routes. I know not.’
‘And what of the Earl Edward of March? What of York’s son?’ demanded Captain Roberts.
‘Sir, the earl is not yet nineteen summers old, and his father that led him is dead. And yet, sir, he makes a mighty warrior. Fearless and cunning, swift and fell of purpose. And men love him, for he is comely and rides among them, and his smile is like the sun. Queen Margaret marches south for London with her Scottish forces. The Earl of March may strive to intercept her, or to join the Earl of Warwick who has King Henry in his keeping. But what they do, or where they are now, or what the outcome will be I cannot say. I did but bring you news from Mortimer’s Cross. And now I ask you leave, sir, for I am faint and my poor beast is ridden to its knees.’
‘Aye, man, and look to that wound which bleeds. Who gave it you?’
‘One that I know not, and now he is dead.’
‘Then that is well done. Come, my lord Henry, to bed. Griffith, set a double watch upon the walls. Hughes, give this man meat and ale. Everyone to his post, and hasten. If the Earl of March wins through to London it shall be Pembroke’s turn soon after.’
CHAPTER THREE
See you not the way of the wind and the rain?
See you not oaktrees buffet together?
See you not the sea stinging the land?
See you not truth in travail?
Lament, Gruffudd Ab Yr Ynad Coch, 1282, translated by Anthony Conran
Jasper did not return, though Henry prayed night and morning for his safety and his homecoming. Each time a messenger galloped into the courtyard he escaped Joan Howell, slipping like a fish from her fingers, and begged for news. But the tide ran strongly for York, and throughout a cold spring and a wet summer the figure of Edward, Earl of March, rode in triumph to the crown; and by his side fought Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, making his first king.
The cause of Lancaster fell piece by piece, though the clash at St Alban’s went to Queen Margaret and her wild Scots, and King Henry was rescued. London lay ahead of her, but the quality of her army was against her. Tales of looting and burning, the prodigal stealing of food and provisions, reports of soldiery as pitiless as beasts, had reached the capital before the queen could. The citizens took matters into their own hands, barred their gates, and thanked God for a wide ditch round their walls. Queen Margaret turned again, with her helpless king and eight-year-old prince, and sought refuge in the north from whence she had come. So London received defeated Warwick and victorious Edward, and proclaimed Edward king.
In the March of 1461 the house of Lancaster and the house of York met at Towton, a few miles outside York, and fought in a blinding snowstorm for upwards of eight hours until the queen’s forces were routed and slain in their hundreds, and she slipped into Scotland with her husband and son and a handful of the faithful.
Wales and winter delayed each message miserably, and for all his quickness and tenacity young Henry gleaned only snaps and scraps of news, which jumbled in his mind and haunted his dreams.
‘Now God be merciful,’ said Joan Howell, rocking him, ‘but I have not had one good night in the last month, Lord Henry. This is worse than when your lady mother went! You should not talk of war with the guards, for never a man among them has been further than Pembroke, so they tell monstrous lies to make them seem the braver.’
‘Captain Roberts,’ Henry sobbed, ‘Captain Roberts has, Mistress Howell.’
‘Ah, well, he has served with the earl your uncle, but he would not tell you of such things. So do not talk with the guards!’
She lit the candle by his pallet, and ordered a sullen servant to fetch her bed into the chamber.
‘Now I am here, Lord Henry, and should a hobgoblin so much as show his snout I’ll snip it off! And it was you, my lord,’ she grumbled, heaving herself on to the hard bed, ‘that said I should not fear, for you ruled Pembroke! Fine words!’
The child lay white and exhausted on his pillow, watching her.
‘But what shall I do, Mistress Howell, when King Henry comes to me in my dreams, and laughs and smiles?’
‘Tell him to go about his business,’ said Joan Howell roundly. ‘If he had looked to it earlier we should not have King Edward now!’
She did not close her eyes until the child slept soundly, and was troubled in her own mind; for here they were upon the rocky coast, and nothing before them but siege or surrender. So she said her prayers, with a special one for the boy’s safety, and another for her own. The thought of rape troubled her dignity.
King Edward IV, having conquered England — though it heaved here and there with trouble — sent his faithful Welsh warrior to conquer Wales. In a dank November at the end of the troubled year, Sir William Herbert of Raglan laid siege to Pembroke by land and sea.
They had expected his coming and were as ready as a garrison could be with its best men gone to war and scattered. Barrels of gunpowder stood dry and compact in waiting; reserve stocks of silk and hempen bowstrings, well-waxed, promised the bowmen several months’ supply; eight sizes of single-barrelled heavy guns reared their blind muzzles from walls and towers. The fruits of a poor harvest were garnered; biscuit baked; stockfish, ling, salmon and herring salted; bacon preserved in bran; pipes of wine laid down; barrels of ale stored; weys of cheese stacked in coarse net; and the winter’s meat penned until it should be slaughtered.
But from the first they had known Pembroke to be a lost cause, however bravely Captain Roberts answered Sir William from the battlements. For he was no stranger upon foreign soil but a neighbouring Welshman, with supplies to hand, and the treasury of the new king behind him. The garrison looked stoutly upon the invaders, but their hearts misgave them. Sir William had in one stroke prevented help being brought by water up the Haven, and threatened them with boats of soldiery well out of reach of their largest artillery. The practical way in which pavilioners were setting up tents, the carts of scaling ladders, the wagons of ammunition and baggage and artillery, the teams of horses drawing four types of cannon, made them uneasy. Disturbed, they counted both long- and short-range guns, to batter the fortifications. Pot-guns which could lob fused bombs into the stronghold, destroying people and buildings. Field-guns, to fire grape-shot, some of them many-barrelled to spread the damage.
A heavy mist rolled in from the sea, laying a dripping mantle on both men and stones, obscuring both parties. When it had lifted Pembroke found a canvas settlement at its back, and a host of infantry silently scaling its walls at the front. They sent the latter clawing and falling back into the water with cauldrons of hot pitch, and then were distracted by cannonade from the former. Between the two they strove to survive, and as they conquered one advance the other prospered. Sir William Herbert ran at leisure through the main courses of action. He bombarded sections of the wall, to make a wide breach for his assault forces. He bombarded the inside of the stronghold. He was quite prepared to stay there until they were starved out. And at length, though this was a risky operation, he mined a wall while his sea troops diverted attention, and two hundred men-at-arms poured in over the rubble.
In the keep the boy and his nurse held each other, and shrieked in unison. But outside its walls Captain Roberts ordered his men to throw down their arms, and proffered his sword to the conqueror. For they had fought gallantly, and he hoped by this gesture to spare the lives of common folk whose only fault was one of being there. Nor was Sir William Herbert a mean enemy with a thirst for bloodshed, but a practical knight who saw no sense in destruction for destruction’s sake; moreover his king was young and merciful, and sought the people’s favour. So he accepted the sword, gave orders that any man who was guilty of rape, theft or further killing would be hanged forthwith, and brought in a little
troop of pioneers to mend the damaged fortifications. Then in the smoke and confusion he cried that King Edward wished ill to no man that would espouse the cause of York, and all could return peaceably to their former occupations. Hearing that the young Earl of Richmond was with the defenders, he commanded him to be brought forth, and sat in Jasper’s carved chair with the air of a victor.
Joan Howell curtseyed so low, and trembled so much, that Henry thought she might, with luck, fall on her backside; and he watched her narrowly. Sir William he regarded with terror, clad in his armour which was dented and scratched and from which the smell of gunpowder still issued. But he stood as tall as he could in his stained blue velvet doublet, and resolved not to cry.
‘Here is a goodly lordling!’ cried Sir William benevolently, of the small body and yellow head. ‘Why we shall have him upon a charger ere Christmas!’
He bent to swing the boy up in his steel arms, and Henry stared fearfully into the hard merry face, and hoped he would not let him fall since the stone floor was a good way off.
‘I have a son but two years older than this sprig. Do you play draughts or backgammon yet, my lord Henry? Or chess? He has lost his tongue. Perchance my bombard shook it out!’
And he laughed so long that his arms quivered, and Henry quivered in them.
‘He is but a child, noble lord,’ Joan Howell ventured to say fearfully, ‘and much afraid.’
So Sir William set him gently down again, and felt the boy’s limbs and pronounced them not as sturdy as he could wish. Then he called the nurse forward to report on his health, which she did to such length and to so little purpose that presently Sir William dismissed them both. But later he came to their quarters, while Henry was saying his prayers into Joan’s skirts, and told them kindly that they had nothing to fear from himself or the king.
‘We do not make war on women and children, Mistress Howell, so do not fill the child’s head with bloody tales. He shall be cared for since he has no guardian. Meanwhile, Lord Henry, you shall be as safe with me as with your uncle Pembroke. Sleep sound, lad, and grow great.’
Sir William Herbert had stood on King Edward’s right hand that February morning when three suns burst upon the heavens, and his services were being well rewarded. For the successful capture of Pembroke the king elevated him to the title of Lord Herbert. He gave him Pembroke too, but not the earldom, and he listened with interest to the proposal that Lord Herbert should buy the wardship of Henry, Earl of Richmond. One thousand pounds was the price for this noble puppy and his marriage prospects, but the boy’s own care was considered, and he remained at Pembroke with Joan Howell to become a part of the Herbert family.
Though holding reservations about young William, the child took instantly to Herbert’s wife, Lady Ann, for she reminded him a little of his mother with her gentle voice and fine clothes. So he ascended cautiously to her lap, and listened round-eyed as she told her sturdy son this was his brother; counselling the frowning lad to treat Lord Henry tenderly, since he was weaker; saying they were one family and should be loving with each other. Then she made them join childish hands and swear friendship, which they did: Henry timidly and William reluctantly. And she kissed them both and bade them run away and play.
Lord Herbert’s approach was somewhat different from his wife’s. On the following day he lifted Henry on to the smallest horse in the stables and personally walked him over the green sward, leaving instructions with his retainer Hugh Jenkins to give the boy riding lessons daily. And in the afternoon, since it was too wet and foggy for sport, he sent for Henry and ordered out Jasper’s massive ivory chess-board, with pieces and pawns so huge that the child could scarcely close his hands about them.
‘This is a lord’s game, Harry, for it teaches both wit and guile, and should you wish to rise in the world you must know something of each. They tell me you begin to play a little, so shall we play together — and I shall not be hard on you, Harry.’
The child’s grey eyes watched his, fascinated, between the massive pieces, each so intricately carved that their faces bore distinct characteristics of their own.
‘There is a new king on the throne of England, Harry, Edward IV is his name. He is young and well-favoured, bold and hardy in the field, a goodly personage. He should reign long, and he wishes you no ill, Harry — though your uncle Jasper Tudor fought him, and has lost his title and his lands in consequence.
‘So learn to sit a horse and wield a sword, and then you shall defend King Edward when you are a man. And learn your lessons, Harry, that you might be wise enough to serve him. Why, God knows, with a strong king and a long peace you may yet be Treasurer of England — and a good Yorkist to boot, for all your inheritance.’
Still the child’s eyes stared and he remained silent, torn between awe and incomprehension.
‘Play, Harry,’ said Lord William, moving his pawn to king’s third, and smiling as the child copied him. ‘Play and fear not!’ Moving to king’s fourth.
They boy bent such an old look on the board that Lord William laughed outright, and shook his head as he drank his wine. For a minute or so Henry considered the possibility of doing likewise, then changed his mind and summoned Robin Ddu from the hearth, pointing imperiously to his king’s knight. Gravely the bard bowed, placing the carved warrior under the direction of that lordly little finger to threaten Herbert’s pawn.
‘What, Harry? Do you challenge me at the outset, lad?’
The child ducked his yellow head up and down and laughed suddenly, showing small white teeth.
‘We have a man of valour here, dark Robin!’
‘Aye, my lord,’ said Robin, smiling thinly, ‘for though he has not the knowledge to win yet will he try full well. And when his wit is grown to manhood some shall find him worth a reckoning.’
Lord Herbert looked stern, since the bard had been warned that his visit might be suddenly curtailed unless he changed his Lancastrian tune.
‘It is well for you, Robin, that I am as good a Welshman as I am a Yorkist, else should your impudence earn you a whipping! Now, Harry, is your bard to play for you?’
‘Nay, my lord,’ said Henry, his chin lengthening. ‘I play for myself. Yet must he lift the knights, for though I can push the others the knights jump.’
Lord Herbert slapped his knees and declared this was a witty earl indeed.
‘Give the lad a piece of green ginger, Robin,’ he cried in high good humour, ‘for he has a stout heart. And say nothing of the ginger to the women, Harry, else they will cry out upon me that I spoiled your stomach!’
CHAPTER FOUR
As I lay, skilled in hiding,
Sleeping in a secret place,
I saw as day was breaking
A dream on the brow of dawn.
The Dream, Dafydd ap Gwilym, translated by Joseph P. Clancy, fourteenth century.
There could be none more different, Henry thought, than Lord Herbert and his Lady Ann: the one war-like and hard-headed, the other soft-spoken and loving. And yet they needed one another, for his harsh world protected her gentle one, and her mild counsel soothed his ruffling spirit. He treated her like a queen, lowering his great voice and making his stride shorter as he visited her in the solar, surrounded by her women. And she, sweet-toned, with a little flush upon her cheeks, would ask him how he did and whether she should mull a cup of wine with her own hands. And he would bend a bewildered gaze upon the tapestry that flowered beneath her fingers, for this was a cushion for his chair and she had made a manly hunting scene.
‘Now is this a very hawk!’ he cried, his blunt head shaking from side to side in admiration. ‘A proper hawk, my lady.’ And he surveyed the worsted bird with pride.
The women fluttered in his presence, drawing apart that husband and wife should enjoy a private conversation, whispering and smiling among themselves. But Henry stayed by her skirts, squatting on the carpet and pretending to master his alphabet, for she would not let him go to his tutors in ignorance. And he marvelled how Lord Herb
ert minimized an approaching campaign or retailed a past one; careful of a woman’s sensibilities, so that one thought war was men’s play, rich in colour, noble with fine names, and bloodless withal. And Lady Ann, who had nursed her husband’s soldiers and bound wounds almost as terrible to see as to bear, inclined to his courtesy and accepted his reports. Only, when he had gone far afield, she sat for hours at her window, the sewing in her lap, and watched and prayed for his return.
Henry crept closer to her than to any except his girl mother, and she told him what the shape of a cloud meant on a winter’s day, and the meaning of a bee-swarm on the branch of a dead tree, and that one crow foretold a perilous journey but that two brought good luck. She was wise in healing, too: counselling sheep’s dung flavoured with nutmeg as a medicine for the measles and the smallpox, both of which were great scourges. When Henry had the toothache she personally drove an iron nail into an oak tree, on which was engraved Alga-Sabaoth-Anthanatos, so that the ache should not return. He did not like to tell her that it plagued him until Joan Howell drew out the tooth with a silk thread and let the new one grow in its place. And when her baby daughter, Maud, wept at night she dropped a hot cinder into a little water to quieten her; and brought the seventh son of a forester in to lay his hands on young William when he suffered from the whooping cough, and the boy got better.
At Christmas time they placed holly in the castle, to bring success and security in the coming year: a relic of the druids’ gift of evergreens. At Twelfth Night a vast cake was baked and divided into portions for the Virgin Mary and her Son. And they celebrated each festival with music, from the rippling harp with its ninety-eight strings, to the tabrwydd — that little drum which gave timing and percussion to the others. There were bagpipes, too, and the reed-type pibgorn with seven holes: the one wailing sorrowfully, the other pure and thin as a bird’s song; and the corn buelin fashioned from the horn of an ox, on which the man blew bravely; and the plaintive viol, which had displaced the pear-shaped rebec with its three clamorous strings.
