by Jean Stubbs
Henry had lived so long with the prospect of betrayal that it haunted his dreams: from which he awoke thanking God for deliverance. Now the reality bore all the terrible aspects of a dream, and promised no awakening.
So they rode from the capital city of Nantes, at the mouth of the Loire, like a party of gentlemen taking delight in each other’s company. But Henry rode in the midst of them, and their good manners did not prevent their watching him closely though the watching was covered by smiles. The great mass of the château grew smaller. First the sculptured arms of Brittany, flanking the drawbridge, became part of the stone. Then he could no longer distinguish the flowers that grew by the moat. And at last only the fair towers were visible.
Farewell, Nantes, Henry thought, and farewell, château — whose Tower of the Golden Crown I shall never see finished. And farewell, cathedral, for whom I held affection, since like Penelope’s web its building never ends in completion. And farewell, port, from whose harbour sail all the sweet and sharp and savoury things of life.
Then he fell so silent that they spoke among themselves: courtly and adamant as sheathed swords.
‘This is not well, your grace,’ said Jean du Quelenc, Admiral of Brittany, gaining an audience of the duke. ‘Since when has your duchy bowed her head to England?’
‘Since England, Burgundy and France threatened her coast and borders!’ said Duke François sternly.
The admiral stood his ground.
‘We have been as a great church to the Earl of Richmond, giving him sanctuary. Is that sanctuary to be violated at the word of an English monarch? Shall not France and Burgundy smile and look sideways at us, and think secretly to themselves, “If the proud duke does thus and thus for England shall he not grant us like favours?” And what favours, your grace?’
‘The duchy shall not stand in peril for one exiled nobleman.’
‘Nay, your grace, it stands in greater peril for letting him go. It shows weakness and a want of mercy that does us much dishonour. Our enemies shall pounce upon the one, and our friends cry shame upon the other! I do beseech your grace, out of the princely qualities and virtues that rule us, to find another answer in your heart. Send some man after them, one secret of counsel and cunning in policy, that he may steal the earl away and fetch him to safety.’
Pierre Landois, Treasurer of Brittany, smoothest of courtiers, sleek and wary as a cat, reached the English party at St Malo the evening before they prepared to embark. He had brought a very small company with him and some excellent Rhennes wine, and he entreated them — out of the great friendship that Brittany bore England — to dine with him. Flattered, for the man’s tongue surpassed even the wine in sweetness, they locked Henry in his chamber and settled to a night’s carousal.
‘The Earl of Richmond does not join us?’ Landois asked, eyebrows raised.
‘The earl has fallen into a sore ague, sir, and is better abed.’
‘To England and King Edward!’ Landois cried, raising his silver cup.
‘To England and King Edward!’ they answered, tossing off the wine.
Two men from the treasurer’s modest retinue searched from room to room as the embassy drank itself under the table. And Landois smiled, and toasted each of them, and their kindred, sipping his splendid wine. As the hardest English head lifted its final cup — to the swans that sail upon the Thames — a servant brought a message for Landois.
‘I shall be with you presently,’ he said aside. ‘And now, my good lord, to the grass that grows green in the meadows!’
‘Grass — green — meadows...’
The treasurer lifted the last man’s head from a puddle of wine and saw that he was asleep. Then, cat-like, he left them to snore until morning.
There was nothing unprofessional about the way he conducted that difficult interview the following day. He had taken the precaution of placing Henry in sanctuary in St Malo, now he waited to hear what the English would say for themselves. Accusations of treachery, remonstrances about his conduct, found him unmoved.
‘My good lords, I know nothing of this,’ he said, elegant and sober in contrast to their rumpled finery and aching heads. ‘If the earl slipped away while we drank it is the fault of the embassy! Yet this much may I promise, in the name of Brittany, if he is here we shall keep him here and keep him safely. He shall not move from Nantes once we have him. And now, my lord bishop and my lords, I must return to the duke. He did but bid me grant you a fond farewell, and that I have done.’
He paused, smiling, ‘For your own sakes,’ he added, ‘I regret that the earl escaped. Ah me! In vino veritas, they say. And yet in too much wine may be found not the truth but a fuddled head!’
King Edward received the news with more philosophy than anyone had hoped, and came to an understanding with Duke François. He bade Brittany keep Henry very close, and so that all should remember that Henry Tudor was English property the English king would pay for his expenses out of the Richmond estates.
CHAPTER TEN
King Edward: Now am I seated as my soul delights,
Having my country’s peace and brothers’ loves
Henry VI, Part III, Scene VII, William Shakespeare
Shortly before Jasper and Henry had sought refuge with him, the Duke of Brittany had married the daughter of Count Gaston IV of Foix, to give his duchy the heir she needed. In 1477, after six years of deferred hopes the child arrived, but was a daughter. Still, when one is born safely others may follow. The little duchess, magnificently robed, was christened with pomp and splendour — though not with that degree of rejoicing that would have attended a little duke. They named her Anne and found that she possessed a royal will of her own, and was healthy in spite of a lame foot. There were to be no more children.
In the meantime only Jasper, having nothing to lose, found possible good fortune in the child’s sex. For when the girl came of age, and perhaps ruler of Brittany, she would need a strong husband — and here was Henry Tudor, lacking nothing but a rich wife with a rich estate.
‘You could do worse, lad,’ he observed, as they played backgammon.
Henry’s smile was rueful.
‘Aye, and I wait a dozen years or more, uncle!’
‘Patience!’ counselled Jasper, contemplating a move. ‘Patience, Harry! The little duchess grows apace.’
‘And has great purpose, uncle. Today I came upon her with her nurse in the gardens, and she used me as a horse for above an hour. “Come, my lady!” said the nurse, for she saw that the horse was weary. “Come, mistress, for you must rest!” The child has the will of a man and her noble father’s frown. “Nay,” she said, “I shall not!” Gently I strove to unwind her arms from about my neck. Less gently the nurse strove also. The Duchess Anne became a very limpet! In the end I galloped her to her chamber and said it was the stable and she should dismount. Whereupon she let me go and thanked me heartily, promising she should see me on another day. Uncle, I love her very well. I hope to love none better, save my own children. And yet I fear me I shall be too old when she is old enough to wed.’
‘But she shall need a husband to defend her, and I have heard that the duke’s physicians look for no more heirs. Consider the heiress of Burgundy, Harry. Between her father dying in the January of last year and her pretty Maximilian wedding her in the August, she lost Boulogne and the greater part of Picardy and Artois to Louis. And that flickering fellow Maximilian — a fool in the field if ever I knew of one! — promises to lose her more. You would do better by the little duchess, with this sword at your command also, than did the lovely Max by the Duchess Mary!’
‘Well, we shall see, uncle. But I would not have a wife that ruled instead of me, and Brittany would be hers. Do you see me playing the meek husband at court? No, mark my words she will take some mincing lad that does as she says — or else some powerful prince that will bring lands as well as hands in wedlock. And I have nothing.’
‘You have your life and youth, and much may be made of both. King Edward is conte
nt to forget you, for he has trouble enough at home. The queen breeds bravely — five daughters and three sons in fourteen years — but she has time to spare for her family, and the Woodvilles and Greys stand high at court, though not well-loved. And the treachery of Clarence hurt him besides. Nor has Louis forgotten him, though they say he is ill and fears death.’
Clarence’s bids for power had been more of a nuisance than a danger, but they mounted, bursting out here and there in ill-considered plans and plots. He had attempted, through his sister Margaret of Burgundy, to win the hand of Duchess Mary; and confided in Louis what he would do when the Netherlands were in his grasp — which Louis obligingly passed on to Edward, thus ruining Clarence’s chances. Then he had toyed with the notion of marrying the sister of James III of Scotland, and making a dash for the throne with the help of England’s old enemy. He had long since lost his brother Richard’s esteem by quarrelling over the Neville inheritance and trying to prevent his marriage with Ann Neville, widow of Prince Edward Lancaster. In a bout of sulky distrust he cried that he was in danger of being poisoned at court, and so stayed away from London. He had been implicated in the West Country rising, under the Lancastrian Earl of Oxford in 1474, urged on by Louis. He had hanged people privately, without proper trial, on the suspicion that they poisoned his wife Isabel Neville and her infant son — whereas she died in childbirth, and the infant died soon after.
Edward had borne with him as patiently as he could, but when Clarence spread rumours that the queen was practising witchcraft, and followed it by raising a minor rebellion in Huntingdon and Cambridge, the king brought him to trial for treason.
People say that the queen’s family, remembering the execution of the queen’s father and brother on Banbury Field, by order of Clarence and Warwick, would have him done away likewise. But the king sent the duke to the Tower and would do nothing, though no one spoke for his brother and all spoke against him. [Lady Margaret had written at the end of February 1478.] And so Clarence, caught between brotherly love on the one side and queenly hatred on the other, met with an unlucky accident. On 18 February a cask of vintage wine from Malvasia, in the East of Morea, was brought into the Tower for the duke’s pleasure. It is said that he drank himself into a stupor and so fell into the cask and was drowned. But others say that some waited until he snored and then held him by the heels with his face down in the wine.
‘Aye, there’s your Yorkist!’ Jasper cried. ‘If they cannot kill Lancastrians they kill each other.’
The king is much grieved by this, [the letter ended] and often says at court, ‘O unhappy brother, for whose deliverance no man asked!’ And though the Duke of Gloucester did not love him he swears he will avenge his death.
‘Well, that is one Yorkist the less,’ said Jasper with some satisfaction. ‘And whiten his memory though they will, he was a scurvy villain!’
Henry smiled to himself, reading through the letter yet again, finding his uncle’s furious championship of Lancaster as comforting as his mother’s more statesmanlike approach.
‘So here we languish in this ducal backwater,’ Jasper continued, ‘and I grow older and the duke hangs back from war as though it was the pestilence. I keep my sword in practice, Harry, and hope for better times. Harry, you know I wish you well, lad, and yet it was a breath of life when they tried to fetch you into England. I felt an old tide of blood rise in me that has not risen for seven long years.’
‘Now it is my turn to counsel patience,’ said Henry, putting away his letter, ‘and if war beckons then I challenge you to a contest of archery, and we shall see who bends the best bow!’
‘But it is not the same,’ Jasper grumbled. ‘And England and France stand still and nothing changes.’
The changes were subtle and slow, but they came nevertheless. In the March of 1481 Louis was stricken with apoplexy, a happy event which Duke François heard of during his supper. Immediately he gave a toast to the French king’s health. His wording was courtly to the point of ambiguity, but they knew very well what he meant, and raised their cups with some satisfaction, hoping that even now the old tyrant was strangling on his last breath. And straightway the duke disregarded his oath of allegiance, since Louis was in no position to enforce it.
A little private sorrow the following year brought greater changes to Lady Margaret’s life. Her husband Henry Stafford died, and though the marriage had never been one of passion and was childless she mourned him, for they had lived in mutual respect and affection for over twenty years and she was no longer young. Though Henry hardly knew his stepfather their relationship had been warm and courteous, and in his will Henry Stafford bequeathed him a trapper of four new horse harnesses of velvet. Politically-minded Jasper found opportunity even in this mild grief.
‘The Lady Margaret must wed again,’ he said, sending his condolences. ‘Perchance a man in the king’s favour this time. For he may rule many years yet, and we should do well to have a friend at court!’
In the November of 1482 Lady Margaret married Lord Thomas Stanley and her choice seemed as ambiguous as the man himself.
‘Now is he for York or Lancaster?’ Jasper mused. ‘King Henry of sacred memory knighted him in 1460, but he was married to a Neville, and joined his brother-in-law Warwick at Banbury Field. And yet, though he fought against King Edward at that time, the king made him Steward of the Household the year after, where he is held in great esteem. And now he marries an heir of Lancaster.’
‘A man of political ambition,’ Henry offered. ‘There are many such about the king. For Bishop Morton changed his allegiance, though he went into exile with Queen Margaret, and he has much power at court. And Chief Justice Fortescue, in the same case, did likewise — and so was able to write his book De Laudibus Legum Anglie, which my mother sent me. It has a Yorkist flavour to please the king, and yet it is a fine book that any monarch might read and profit by.’
‘I should not like Lord Stanley on my side in battle, nonetheless,’ said Jasper resolutely. ‘For I should not know whether he was with or against me, and that is the truth!’
‘I doubt not my mother’s judgement, and Lord Stanley is close to the king. And in any case the thing is done and we must abide by it.’
‘I tell you, Harry, this is a wily fox,’ said Jasper, unconvinced, and he tapped the letter.
But his opinion had not been sought, and he turned his attention to other matters for Burgundy was in turmoil and this seemed closer to him than his sister-in-law’s marriage.
The Duchess of Burgundy had fallen from her horse and was killed, leaving her feckless husband Maximilian to the attentions of the ailing Louis. Failing or not, the French king had a few cards to play before he left the table he had disrupted so lovingly and so long. He began by denying Maximilian the custody of his own children, and then contracted a match between his son, the Dauphin Charles, and Maximilian’s daughter. Her stupendous dowry of the duchy and county of Burgundy, Artois, and a great deal else was to be administered meanwhile by the Dauphin. Louis had waited eighteen years to settle that ancient score of his wife’s jilted sister, Bona of Savoy, and now he could strike at Edward through his eldest daughter. Regretfully, he cancelled the betrothal of Elizabeth of York to the Dauphin.
Edward, still heavy from the death of his second daughter Mary that same year, within weeks of her fifteenth birthday, now suffered for Elizabeth in a different way. His rage at the dishonour done to himself and her simmered down to a calculating coldness. He began secretly to prepare for war with France, stock-piling arms in various parts of England, while Louis made ready to attack him through Flanders.
Hidden in his château, and guarded as though death itself could be denied an entrance, Louis grasped at earthly trophies even yet. Queen Margaret, widow of Henry VI, had died in August, and the French king demanded that all her dogs be sent to him forthwith.
‘For she has made me her heir,’ he wrote, ‘and this is all I shall get. I pray you not to keep any back, for you would cause me a ter
rible great displeasure!’
Gasping in his cushioned chair, watching the little animals gambol, eyes hooded and mouth pursed, he entered on the last months of his life.
On 9 April 1483 the ruined hulk which had been Edward IV lay on a hill of pillows. He who had been known as a goodly personage and princely to behold was now grotesque with fat, but his courage and political cunning were left him, and he sought to make a peace within his family that would ensure the peace of England for his son.
At one side of his bed stood his queen’s relatives, on the other his friend Lord Hastings and the old nobility. And presiding over all was Bishop Morton preparing to send a royal soul to heaven and make sure of his own position on earth: a feat of dexterity at which he was an undoubted master.
The king gestured to the attendants to raise him higher, and to collect the assembled company at his right side so that he might see them. His heir Prince Edward, now at the Castle of Ludlow, was twelve years old; his second son Prince Richard hardly ten; a third son, George, had died in 1479. For these two young princes he begged a truce from both parties, warning them that if they split into factions during a child’s reign all of them might perish. He wished that his brother Richard had been there, and prayed that Hastings and the queen might not quarrel before he came. And, rousing himself with difficulty to reach them through their grief, he spoke of ambition as a pestilent serpent, and the desire for vainglory and sovereignty as turning all things to mischief. He bade them, for the love that God bore to all men, to love each other; and trusted that they would for their own surety, and that of the boy who must be sheltered as he learned to rule them.
They wept bitterly and joined hands to show him that they heard and understood. But he feared for them, and for the boy, even as his eyes closed.
‘King Edward is dead,’ said Henry, in quiet disbelief, ‘The Duke of Gloucester is Protector and has taken the young king in his custody, and the queen is in sanctuary with her son Dorset and Prince Richard and her daughters.’
