An Unknown Welshman

by Jean Stubbs

  He was walking unsteadily away when a voice he had never heard called him by a name never used between them.

  ‘Pembroke!’

  He turned, and his heart leaped even as it misgave him. The red of shame had gone and left rage behind it.

  ‘I would not slay you,’ said Henry bitterly, ‘although your tongue plays traitor well enough. Your love should deal more gently with my counsel, Pembroke, and thank me that I ask your good advice. For though my friends are few as yet, my lord, I shall have more than you dreamed of. God does not call a king to reckoning and leave him without soldiers. Take care, my lord, that you are not excluded from them!’

  ‘I spoke not to a king but to a dreaming boy,’ said Jasper, choosing his words carefully: fearful that too soft a tone might bring the dreamer back again.

  ‘Then know, as of this moment, that the dream was ever royal, my lord,’ cried Henry, and was astonished to find he spoke a deeper truth than he had reckoned. ‘I am no hothead prince to put my neck in foolish jeopardy, but one that thinks of dangers so he may combat them. I said, my lord, this was a perilous business. I did not say I spurned it. And, were your wits as ready as your sword and as your tongue, you would think better of me. I know my duty, Pembroke, I would you knew your own.’

  For a few moments they faced each other in silence, and then a slow smile on Jasper’s mouth was answered by Henry’s laugh.

  ‘Now let each crave the other’s pardon, uncle,’ he said, holding out his arms. ‘We meant not what we spoke in anger.’

  ‘And yet I liked what I heard — although I shall not stir your wrath again,’ Jasper replied. ‘My tongue has met its master, sire!’

  The Duke of Brittany had begun a fresh game of diplomatic cunning with Richard III of England; and though he could not commend the manner in which the rightful heir to the throne had been supplanted, he had to admire Richard’s thoroughness and speed. Within days of his coronation, Richard sent his Ambassador Hutton to the court of Brittany with special enquiries about the Earl of Richmond. Tactfully, François II sent reply that the earl was safe in his keeping, and added that France was most interested in his person, too. Temporarily blocked, Richard replied that he would continue to pay for Henry’s close custody.

  ‘And now, Lord Henry,’ said the duke, smiling. ‘I see that our hospitality has furnished England with a new king — who will not, I am sure, forget his friends!’

  He saw that the news had given Henry new purpose and dignity, and smiled again.

  ‘Your welfare is as my own, my lord duke,’ Henry replied, ‘and I shall remember your grace’s constant goodwill towards me and my uncle.’

  ‘Then let us say fifteen ships and five thousand men. Should that not be enough, with the Duke of Buckingham’s forces and those who rise with him along the coast?’

  ‘This is most generous, your grace.’

  Jasper, re-born, flung himself into the preparations.

  ‘I had not thought so much was needed!’ said Henry, astonished by the lists of supplies and their cost.

  Maps and sea charts, food and water and candles, arms and powder: all that was necessary to keep a host of men alive and ready to land as a military force on the other side.

  In the west and south of England Henry’s supporters stood ready for the final word of command, but the men of Kent long-versed in rebellion, could not contain themselves. On 10 October, eight sorry days too soon, they struck the spark that should have united England and Wales, but, communications being so poor, the others could not follow them quickly enough. The Duke of Norfolk thrust his forces between ally and ally, and snapped up the spats and spurts of the rebellion as their standards rose.

  Buckingham marched on the appointed day from Brecon, taking Bishop Morton with him. And on the following day King Richard, receiving the news at Grafton and piecing together the whole scheme, led his army across country towards Leicester and Coventry. His royal proclamation was overflowing with bitterness, as he commanded the sheriffs of Shropshire and other counties to come to his aid. He called Buckingham the most untrue creature living, and the falsest traitor. He denounced the damnable sins and vices of the rebels, crying that they acted to the great displeasure of God, and were an evil example to all Christian people. And he commanded a thousand pounds be paid in gold and silver to any man who discovered the whereabouts of that rebel and traitor the Duke of Buckingham, and promised a knighthood with it. But he pondered the identity of the usurper with bewilderment and incredulity, requiring some refreshment of his memory, since he knew the Lady Margaret but could not place the sire.

  ‘An unknown Welshman!’ he said at last, ‘whose father I never knew, nor him personally saw!’

  Officers of the Crown, alerted in Breconshire, were marching after Buckingham through the Forest of Dean. Sir Humphrey Stafford had broken down the bridge of the Severn ahead of him. He waited on one side, and the Vaughans waited on the other, promised the plunder of Brecon. And then nature herself, Yorkist as ever, took a hand in the duke’s destruction. From the mountains poured a mighty deluge, known afterwards as Buckingham’s Great Water. The devastation toppled houses, drowned honest folk in their beds, and cattle in the fields. Trapped, Buckingham turned back for Weobley. But his power had always been that of the autocrat rather than the father-protector, and the Welsh under his rule held no love for him. The violence of the king’s proclamation, the terror of the waters which seemed to come from an outraged heaven, sent his forces scattering back to the hills from whence they had been raised. Alone, Buckingham sought out one man in Shropshire who owed him much, and begged a hiding-place.

  Ralph Bannister had been in the duke’s service from childhood: base by birth and nature. Constant gratitude can be a bitter bread to chew, and a master fallen from his high estate the cause for silent pleasure.

  ‘Christ’s curse on me and mine, my lord,’ said Bannister obsequiously, looking out his oldest clothes, ‘if ever I prove false to you. Your grace is welcome under my poor roof, and though it cost me my life I shall keep you safe.’

  Helping him into the leather jacket, offering the leather breeches and coarse stockings, putting away the velvet and silk.

  ‘This hat has twenty holes in it, my lord,’ he said in pretended sorrow, ‘but with this upon your grace’s noble head and the hedging bill on your grace’s back, no man would take you for a lord!’

  It was meat and ale to him to see Buckingham’s big body in these clumsy garments. It was payment to put the hedging bill in those well-kept hands, and picture them grown as rough and calloused as his own. But the sourer his thoughts the more gracious his tongue became. And while the duke was making the best of a poor supper Bannister sent word to Master Mitton, Bailiff of Shrewsbury town, that he had the rebel safe.

  He was not man enough to stand there when the Herald at Arms arrived with a troop of soldiers. But he heard Buckingham’s accusations of falseness and treachery, and heard the struggle as the duke set his pride and strength against too great odds. And he thought of the knighthood and the reward that awaited him. He was not destined to enjoy either. Richard, seeing what manner of man he dealt with, spoke bitterly of traitors who sought to rise by the misfortunes of those who had honoured them with their patronage. Cast into prison, Bannister reflected bitterly that there was one rule for the rich and another for the lowly. It was a thought which must have occurred to many a commoner in England and Wales, as they took up arms again and again.

  Two courses were yet open to Buckingham and he tried them both. First he gave a full confession of the rebellion, with details of everyone involved and the plan of campaign, hoping for a pardon. The confession was accepted, the pardon was not offered. Then, thinking to stab Richard to the heart, he begged a private interview. This was refused.

  On All Soul’s Day, Sunday 2 November 1483, Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, Constable of all England, and of all royal castles in five western counties, Chief Justice and Chamberlain of North and South Wales, was execute
d in Salisbury market place.

  The storm that divided Buckingham from his supporters swept across the Channel, scattering Henry’s ships like so many corks; driving all but two of them back upon the coasts of Normandy and Brittany.

  They battled against the gale, ignorant of the failed rebellion. The risings in half a dozen counties were brutally put down, and when they sailed into the mouth of Poole Harbour armed soldiers were waiting for them to land. Something about them roused Henry’s innate caution and Jasper’s intuition. Hoisting sail again they turned and headed for Plymouth, where more armed men called greetings and bade them welcome.

  ‘I know not why,’ said Jasper, ‘but I think it menacing. And we have but two ships and cannot fight them if they be enemies. I have slipped so often through those Yorkist fingers that I can smell them leagues away. We’ll sail for home, lad, and fight again.’

  ‘If any man will fight for us, uncle!’

  ‘There is a time for battle,’ Jasper observed philosophically, ‘and a time to run away. So let us run, lad, before King Richard’s fleet is after us!’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Twice have I promised you this,

  A journey, a fair promise,

  And man should not he backward

  If he can, to keep his word.

  The Court of Owain Glyndwr at Syearth, Iolo Goch, fourteenth century

  But something had begun that could not be stayed by temporary misfortune. The Duke of Brittany had shown his hand, and Breton goods and ships were seized in English ports. Unable to play the friendly neutral any longer, he guarded his coasts and prepared to receive his guests again. And the French court, seeing an opportunity to flout Richard, gave Henry a passport from Normandy into Brittany, and intimated that they were willing to help him in other ways.

  Buckingham and St Leger were dead, and many others — including poor Thomas Ramme, who had carried one of Henry’s letters. But the Marquis of Dorset, the dowager-queen Elizabeth’s son, had escaped; so had the Courtenays and Christopher Urswick and Lord Wells. They came across the Channel, singly or in little groups, to form a small court of Lancaster: Sir Giles Daubeney, Sir John Bourchier, Sir Robert Willoughby, Sir Thomas Arundel, Sir John Cheyney and his two brothers, Sir William Berkeley and his brother Thomas, Sir Richard Edgecombe, Edward Pynings, and a host of gentlemen: Lancastrians and former Yorkists. And awaiting them was Sir Edward Woodville, who had once commanded the English fleet.

  By the end of November, Henry had borrowed a further ten thousand crowns from the Duke of Brittany at Paimpol, and given him a receipt for it. Whether either of them expected it to be honoured was uncertain, but both of them hoped, since they had now pushed too far forward to go back. The news of Buckingham’s execution brought the refugees to a council in Rhennes, where Henry swore to make another invasion as soon as the time seemed propitious and the money available.

  The failed rebellion, created out of wild enthusiasm and carried out with zest, had taught him calculation. He had accepted that the houses of York and Lancaster must be cemented. Now he realized that England must be conquered through Wales, where Tudor roots lay deep. And he must be seen as the heir of Lancaster, however slender his connections were.

  On Christmas Day 1483 his followers trooped into Rhennes Cathedral to pledge allegiance to each other and to the man who would reign over them, God willing. The snow lay thickly underfoot, and the flaring braziers and torches in the sombre building gave little warmth. The nobles wrapped their furred mantles about them, and their breath smoked on the icy air.

  They had no circlet to put upon his head, but he seemed regal enough without one. And though his height was not great he stood with dignity, and committed himself wholly. He gave his oath to unite the white rose with the red, to marry Elizabeth of York and make her his queen as soon as the crown was his. He pledged himself to rule with justice and mercy, to bring peace to a torn realm and make it prosperous. He swore to lead them to victory or die upon the field.

  His voice had lost its pleasant timbre and rang back, harsh and stern, from the stone walls and pillars. Without the smile his face seemed plain and pale and sombre, but strong too. And though he was no warrior, like John of Gaunt, like Richard of Gloucester, there was a stubborn courage in him that gave them confidence.

  They have proclaimed him king, willed him to be king though they did not know him, hoped he could be king though they had no proof of his ability. Now in the moment of allegiance he became a king. One by one they paid homage, and knelt before a man who had taken upon himself the mystery of kingship. The earl was gone, resolved into a figurehead. Sure and safe as children under protection, they kissed the long jewelled hand, and bowed their heads before the long formal face. And Jasper of Pembroke, his nephew lost to him, acknowledged the image with them.

  The huge candle in its silver sconce had burned four hours of the night away, and still Henry lay awake, watching the flame eat into the figure scored in its wax. His transformation awed him, and was reflected in the finer chamber placed at his disposal. Carpets on the floor, white silk hangings on the walls, and a good bed of down beneath his body. Lawn sheets kept the faint roughness of fustian from his flesh, and the counterpane was furred with ermine. Curtains of white sarcenet and a canopy of cloth of gold shielded his bed from the winter draughts. Now a guard stood outside the heavy door. And if the log fire needed mending, or he fancied a last cup of mulled wine, some sleepy page would attend him. For he was king in name and had named a queen. And across the dark waters of the Channel a realm awaited him.

  The pawns had all been played, and early in 1484 the pieces came forward. Richard’s Act of Titulus Regius, pronouncing his brother’s children to be bastards, was matched by the condemnation of the Chancellor of France, who deplored the princes’ deaths. Bishop Morton, having escaped from Weobley to Ely, now slipped from the fastness of his Fens and arrived in Flanders: a busy spider in the web of cloaked riders and secret letters, with Christopher Urswick at his side. In England, Richard persuaded the queen-dowager and her daughters to leave sanctuary and put up a front of friendship at court. In France and Brittany, the death of Richard’s only son and heir caused a buzz of speculation — one less to threaten Henry’s claim. And still it was not time. News came slowly, anyway. Hampered by the perils of treason, watched at the ports and along the wretched bog-and-stone roads, Henry’s messengers collected the loyalties of Wales and England, the seasoned calculations of Bishop Morton in Holland, and the rumours at all courts, little by little.

  Henry Tudor had much to do and more to discover, but Richard III’s greatest problem was centred in one man. If Henry died the rebellion died with him. Open communication was at an end between Brittany and England, so an underground approach was necessary. An offer to the Duke François, of the Richmond revenues in exchange for Henry Tudor’s person, had been proudly rejected. But the duke now lay ill with a disorder of the mind, and his minister Pierre Landois held temporary power. Richard collected all the information he needed about Landois from Bishop Stillington, who had headed the tricked embassy in 1475. He formed a picture of a cunning politician who might well be bribed. But the roads and seas were no kinder to an English than to a French rider, and Bishop Morton had time to smell treachery in the wind.

  At Vannes, the earlier capital of Brittany, Henry received Christopher Urswick at an unseasonable hour of the night: spattered with mud, from the first rains of September. The duchy was unsafe and Henry’s life imperilled.

  The fears that had sent him into an ague, nine years before, no longer beset him. Coolly, he ordered Urswick to beg a safe passport from Charles VIII and return with it as quickly as possible, while he made ready to depart. He dared tell no more but those closest to him, and he and Jasper pored over a map of byways between Brittany and France, planning a route and means of escape.

  ‘Duke Françoise recovers from his sickness here,’ said Jasper, pointing to a town on the confines of the duchy. ‘So shall I ride, with our leading fri
ends, to wish him well again. Then, two days after us, you follow another route with four attendants. We must leave the others of your court behind us, five hundred loyal gentlemen, so that Landois suspects nothing. He will be watching, but he must watch all of us. The rest you know, Harry. And we meet at Angers.’

  In the two days that remained to him, Henry hunted; fighting his suspicions with his spear so that he might sleep soundly at night. Then a small cavalry of five set out: a humble thing that one might hardly notice, except that the earl was outstanding in his splendid clothes. They rode in a leisurely fashion past the washing-place in the town, where for centuries the linen had been cleansed and whitened on the smooth stones, and away from the grey walls and bastions of the castle, laughing and talking among themselves. Henry turned just once to see the cathedral, whose spire and dome shone like silver in the morning sun. They kept their easy pace for a few more miles, before entering a wood, and when they came out again the earl was still conspicuous among the others. But the face beneath the feathered cap was not Henry’s, and one page seemed nobler than he had been.

  Now they left the main road, studying a map at intervals, taking a maze of little lanes and bridle-paths that led circuitously to the border. They galloped when they could, trotted when they could not, never drawing rein until they crossed the frontier. An hour behind them, the horsemen of Pierre Landois rode and enquired and rode again.

  The Duke of Brittany, recovering, raged at this slight upon his duchy’s honour, and sent for Sir Edward Woodville — who knew rather less than he did.