by Jean Stubbs
She had been white and calm when Sir Richard Corbet rode into Pembroke with the frightened boy behind him, and looked to their needs before Corbet mounted a fresh horse and departed secretly for his home in Shropshire. She had not moved nor wept, though the messenger wept bringing news of death, but when her husband’s last letter was put into her hands she could not open it, and asked Henry to read it to her privately.
The writing was strong and firm, doughty even in the moments before oblivion, and he had sought to comfort her. Henry held his own tears in check for her sake until he reached the last lines.
Wife, pray for me, and take the said order of widowhood that ye promised me, as ye had in my life my heart and love…
Then she broke down, crying, ‘He had no need to ask that of me. No need in all the world. For there was no man like him, nor shall be, and I am the less for his dying.’
And they mourned together, consoling each other as best they might. Though over and over again Lady Ann cried, ‘Not Warwick! Not Clarence! He had served with them faithfully for many years until this. They could have spared him, that was a goodly man and just.’
‘Nay, madam,’ said Henry, ‘they are traitors both and will behave as traitors, showing neither justice nor mercy. For the Earl of Warwick would rule England, and the Duke of Clarence will do his bidding.’
Had the situation not been so tragic they could have thought it ludicrous, for no one wanted Clarence and could not take him seriously. So Warwick, finding he could not rule without Edward, and knowing that Edward would not long be ruled by him, fled the country with his ridiculous puppet of a son-in-law and sought the advice and support of Louis XI of France. And Louis, delighted to play one side against the other, counselled the earl to befriend Queen Margaret and pledge himself to the cause of Lancaster.
A year after Banbury Field, Warwick went down on his knees at Angers before the warrior queen — who kept him on them for a full half hour — and changed his allegiance. Neither of them had reason to like or trust each other. But Queen Margaret had a son she would see crowned eventually, and Warwick had another daughter, Ann, who he would see queen. And they were each other’s only chance of restoration. So Anne Neville married Prince Edward, Warwick swore to be faithful to the house of Lancaster, and Clarence — sulky to find himself merely an ally — took the same oath.
A second expedition sailed for Devon in the summer of 1470, and marched for London before King Edward could reach his capital. The king, with his brother Richard of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and some seven thousand men, escaped by ship and sought safety in Burgundy. Edward had not even enough money to pay the captain for their passage, but the style and courage of a monarch did not desert him. He took his own furred mantle from his shoulders as token payment, saying he would reward the man better in time to come. And the master bowed and was well content, though never had he seen such a poor company under so great a personage.
‘So England once again returns to Lancaster,’ Lady Ann observed, sitting in the sun with her embroidery, while Henry read a book. ‘And my poor husband died for nothing.’
‘Nay, Madam, he died for his king,’ said Henry readily, ‘and would have died for no other.’
A secret thought burned in him which he could in no way impart to the Lady Ann, which saddened and exalted him at once, which once again gave rise to fearful dreams. If Lancaster was back then King Henry would be released and Jasper would return and claim him, and so sure of this was Henry that he redoubled his efforts to be loving with the woman who had played mother to him for so long.
On 24 June 1470 Jasper Tudor landed in North Wales and recaptured Harlech. The news ran ahead of him like the fire with which he consumed Denbigh. Two thousand ardent Welshmen rose to his standard and marched down to Pembroke where no resistance awaited him. There, with a courtesy that matched his resolution, he begged Lady Ann to release his nephew into his custody. And she, poor woman, bereft of husband and power and counsel, entertained them both and then returned to her solar at Raglan, to embroider her widowhood away. That year of mournful peace, when Pembroke seemed untouched by royal tides, had subdued the boy: grateful to be chided by his tutors for a wrong declension, in place of the heartbreak of Harlech, the turbulence of Banbury. Jasper found him pale and quiet, and was wise not to trouble him with questions, cheering him with news of King Henry’s release from the Tower.
Nightly the meek monarch rode through Henry’s dreams. Now with his legs strapped beneath his horse, as he had been when the Yorkists captured him at Clitheroe five years before. Now as he was after his long incarceration: frail of body, weak of mind, and none too cleanly of person. Sometimes the boy confused him with the figure of Christ, and the dinner at Waddington Hall where the king was betrayed by a false monk, became the Last Supper with Judas lingering in the shadows. And the present cheers of the London populace were ominously blended into those of the crowd who hailed the Son of God with psalms as he rode upon an ass. And then the broken body hung from the cross, and the boy woke with a cry and prayed and slept uneasily again. For he knew King Henry was a good man, and saw his soul shine through his gentle face, and heard him say mildly he was very glad, and knew he would offer no resistance to friend or enemy but be crucified by both.
And though England welcomed its Lancastrian monarch with honest affection, though Warwick was a powerful warrior and a great man, though King Edward hid helpless in Burgundy, and Louis XI befriended the present regime, Queen Margaret still waited for the furore to died down. Herself she would have trusted in the vanguard of Warwick’s army. Her beloved son she dared not risk. Her love stole her courage and kept her in France, and this was to prove her undoing. But in England her adherents were jubilant.
‘Now to London,’ said Jasper as autumn came upon them. ‘And there we shall set your inheritance and mine in order.’ Adaptable though he tried to be and must be, Henry could not forget changing hands and sides four times in eight years.
‘For how long, my lord?’ he asked, with a formal bitterness that amazed his uncle.
‘Why, Harry, my brother the king is on the throne. And if he make not old bones he has a son that shall rule after him. Aye, and a queen with the spirit of a man that shall help to keep him there.’
‘Shall King Henry make you Earl of Pembroke again, now that the Lord Herbert is dead?’
‘I dare hope so, Harry — and give me back my estate.’
‘And shall King Henry make me Earl of Richmond?’
‘That is more troublesome,’ said Jasper slowly, ‘for the Duke of Clarence bears that title, and he has sworn allegiance to Lancaster, and he and his heirs shall reign if the line fails.’
‘My lord,’ said Henry coldly, ‘did not the Duke of Clarence betray King Edward, his own brother?’
‘Aye, but he has helped King Henry, lad, and a king should not forget his friends.’
‘So he who played traitor to his own blood shall be Earl of Richmond and heir to the throne, and have all honour beside?’
‘Harry!’ Jasper cautioned sharply. ‘Beware lest you speak treason!’
‘Nay, my lord, my lips are fast shut. I would only that you knew my mind. Treason is treason when it fails, and treason is great honour if it gain a crown. I mark you very well, my lord. I shall be silent.’
Jasper glanced at the boy, who stared straight before him in pale self-possession.
‘Even I, a lowly person, remember my friends, my lord,’ Henry continued obstinately, ‘only they be both of York and Lancaster, for it seems that men change sides which puzzles me sorely.’
Jasper was a plain soldier and unable to marshal his arguments to such excellent effect. But since he knew that the boy would rather be whipped than yield, in this mood, he turned to the affection that lay between them.
‘It is even as you say lad; but that is war. And my allegiance has not altered by so much as a hair. King Henry’s mother and mine were one great lady. I did not change and shall not, Harry. He showed me and yo
ur father much kindness, and raised us to a good estate when we had none.’
The boy looked at him quickly and quickly away again, too proud to succumb so easily.
‘I do not care for war, my lord,’ he said coolly, taking it into his uncle’s camp.
‘It is a harsh and bloody business,’ Jasper replied, wandering this new maze. For he had never served, nor cared to serve, nor been trained to serve anything but with his sword.
‘It is a foolish and a wasteful one.’
This point of view had never struck Jasper, except in a purely personal fashion when he saw a good friend fall or a good cause founder.
‘Yet wars must be fought, lad, to gain a lasting peace.’
‘My lord, England and Wales have known no peace for over a hundred years.’
Lord Herbert would have smacked his yellow head at the first sign of rebellion, but Jasper controlled himself and administered one rebuke.
‘Watch your tongue, Harry! Remember that you ride to greet the king in seemly and honourable fashion.’
So they rode into London: the uncle bewildered, the nephew lacking his smile. Moreover, Henry thought the streets particularly dirty, and said so, ignoring the splendour of the capital city. And the thought of meeting the monarch who had haunted his dreams, infrequently but terribly, over the last nine years, made his limbs tremble.
King Henry was in meek and cheerful mood, washing his hands before he supped with his nobles.
‘Rise, my brother,’ he commanded Jasper, nodding and smiling. ‘We thank you for your loyal services.’
And he dried his fingers carefully, pursing his lips over the task, and caught sight of Henry’s grey eyes fixed on him in awe and uncertainty.
‘Who is this pretty lad?’
‘My nephew, Henry Tudor, sire. His mother was the Lady Margaret Beaufort, and once your ward.’
‘Come hither, Harry Tudor, and speak to one that loves his country next to his God, and has been more sorrow to her than joy.’
The automatic chorus of reassurance passed over him unheard, for he knew the truth, and the boy knelt before him and no longer wondered at the tales of the hair shirt. There was great strength in the weak-chinned face, the strength of the saint, and great dignity without arrogance.
‘Tell me, Harry Tudor,’ said the king ruefully, for those he met were well-schooled in reply and he was weary of courtesies, ‘do you learn the arts of war?’
The boy looked at him and found understanding in the mild blue eyes.
‘Aye, sire. I learn them of necessity, and yet I do not love them so well as the arts of peace.’
The gentle smile became one triumphant smile.
‘Why then, you and I are of one mind. For,’ and he leaned forward and whispered, ‘we do not like war, Harry Tudor! No, Harry, we do not. They make us go into battle in our armour, but we do not raise our hand against any Christian man — nor like to see their holy bodies quartered and their heads upon a pole. And you are so minded? Well, that is good. That is good. Grow quickly, Harry Tudor, and come you to court, and we shall talk of peace and godliness.’
He clapped his hands and laughed childishly, bringing forth Henry’s smile which had been absent since he left Pembroke. Then he leaned forward again, wise with the wisdom of fools.
‘Nay, Harry, come not to court, for it is full and rotten with corruption, lad!’
All Henry’s breeding and compassion rose to the occasion.
‘While your grace rules at court it cannot be corrupt, sire.’
The King’s mouth dropped and hung open foolishly. He searched the boy’s face for empty compliment and found only reverence.
‘Now truly this is he who shall in time possess all!’ he cried to those about him.
Few had heard the conversation. Most thought the king was rambling again. But some remembered, and later transformed the words into a prophecy.
‘Pray to God,’ he counselled the boy, ‘not merely when they bid you but at all times. Care not over-greatly for dignity and honours, your state of life or the rich pomp of the world. But when aught offends God then must you care and mourn and grieve over that, Harry. For He created us and knows well what to do with us according to His most compassionate and pitiful will. He shall receive the prayers of His most unworthy servants and deal with them in mercy and truth. And pray for me, also, that needs prayers more than any man.’
They were restive, waiting to go in to the banquet, and he patted the boy’s shoulder and went submissively to his meal.
Edward IV arrived from exile at the old port of Ravenspur in the mouth of the Humber on 15 March 1471, saying that he had returned only to claim his heritage of the Dukedom of York. So through York he trotted with a few gentlemen, crying allegiance to King Henry. But outside the city his army waited for him, ready to march to the Midlands where Edward would sound out Warwick and declare himself the anointed king. Warwick, saddled with the royal Lancasters, could hardly change sides again, but Clarence had no such inhibitions. The brothers met with smiles and professions of goodwill — though Clarence’s treason would not be forgotten — and reached London two days ahead of Warwick and his troops. Had Queen Margaret been in England the situation would have turned out differently, but she was struggling against the Channel storms. And while she battled with nature, Warwick and Edward battled at Barnet on 14 April, between four and seven in the morning of Easter Sunday. Again the weather declared against the Lancastrians, this time with a fog, during which the Lancastrian Earl of Oxford’s banner of a star with streams was mistaken for the Yorkist emblem of a blazing sun, and a volley of arrows came from their allies. Cries of ‘Treachery!’ broke the lines. Warwick fell, so did his brother the Marquess Montague, and when Queen Margaret and her son landed it was to hear news of a Yorkist victory.
She was not a woman to turn tail. Furthermore her seventeen-year-old Prince Edward was mettlesome, and ripe for revenge as well as power, like his mother. Together they conferred with the earls of Somerset and Devon and contacted Jasper Tudor, while young Henry was sent to his mother for safe-keeping. The Lady Margaret’s husband, Henry Stafford, welcomed the boy amiably, but to Henry himself all living seemed to be a perpetual and painful reconstruction of broken pieces. He had remembered his mother as a pair of young arms, and a childish face. Now as he knelt before this handsome woman with her strong bones and long chin, saw her assured gestures and glimpsed a mind both learned and shrewd in politics, the girl was lost to him. And she on her part found a serious lad of fourteen years, scarred by war and insecurity.
It was Pembroke and Mortimer’s Cross all over again: waiting for news that came late and dreadfully, piecing information together and consulting a map that hindered more than it helped. On paper Queen Margaret’s intentions seemed sound enough. She planned to raise England from Dorset to Lancashire, to bring Wales to her side under Jasper, and then in one vast army to advance upon the capital. At first all was well. Bristol welcomed her with troops and guns and they marched smartly up the Vale of Berkeley, only to find the gates of Gloucester barred against them at ten o’clock at night. Unrested, unrefreshed, they marched again for the next possible crossing of the Severn at Tewkesbury, to join the Welsh army. But here, at four in the morning, the foot soldiers could not go on and they were forced to pitch a temporary camp.
‘But King Edward was there, madam,’ said the messenger, ‘with his brother Duke Richard of Gloucester. Aye, and the Duke of Clarence, but it is Gloucester that is the warrior. God knows how hard and swiftly they must have marched to reach them! Queen Margaret took refuge in the abbey. Her son is slain, madam, and so are your kinsmen — Lord John of Somerset and the Duke of Somerset, Edmund Beaufort. And many other noble gentlemen. All slain most piteously. They say that Prince Edward cried on Clarence to save him. They say that Clarence slew him, others that Richard Gloucester slew him. I know not, only that he is dead and the queen like one that is dead — for very grief, poor lady.’
‘And what of King Henry
?’
‘I know not, madam.’
‘Then must we wait,’ said Lady Margaret, and ordered him refreshment. She sat with her hands in her lap like some carved image, and Henry sat with her and sensed another dream from that Welsh one in which he had lived so long.
‘My son,’ she said at length, ‘we are the heirs of Lancaster, you and I, if they should slay the king — and they will slay him.’
‘Why, madam? He would not hurt them.’
‘They will slay him because he is the king. His kingship hurts them. The cause of Lancaster hurts them. With King Henry dead they have nothing to fear from a woman and a boy, and so Lancaster dies and something dies here,’ and she touched her breast. ‘It is always so when a great house founders. Gaunt and Bolingbroke and Henry V, the proud Beauforts and all their line, reduced to the wife of Henry Stafford and a landless boy. Oh, they will slay him, and if they are so pitiless we must keep you safe, too.’
‘I am but Harry Tudor, madam.’
‘We must keep you safe,’ she repeated.
The news came bitterly through May, and images marched in Henry’s head and disturbed his sleep. King Edward taking his baby son in his arms and giving thanks for his delivery, while Queen Margaret rode captive through the streets of London, looking neither to right nor to left. King Henry, brought yet again from the Bishop’s Palace to find his world reversed, holding out his arms in humble confidence to King Edward. Henry heard again that light and friendly voice, so unsuited to a monarch in its childishness and simplicity.
‘My cousin of York, you are very welcome. I know that in your hands my life will not be in danger.’
‘Madam, King Henry is dead!’ said the messenger very low, ‘I grieve to tell you, madam, but the king is dead. They say it is of melancholy, for the loss of his son.’
‘They say what they would have us believe, and we do not. What else have you heard?’
‘Madam, they say that between eleven and twelve o’clock of the night, on the twenty-first day of May, while London rejoiced with the Yorkist victory, he was dying peaceably in the Tower. But when they carried him through the city to show the populace, his body bled. It bled upon St Paul’s pavement and upon the pavement at Blackfriars. So that they hurried it on to a boat and sailed it up the Thames for burial — at Chertsey. Some say, madam, that the back of his head was crushed as from a heavy blow.’
