An Unknown Welshman

by Jean Stubbs

  In his tent Henry conferred with his commanders. They had doffed their little ovens of armour and sat, by his express courtesy, in the coolness of their shirts. So far they had advanced unchecked, but this would not continue for much longer, and Richard’s movements could only be calculated roughly by means of supposition and the scraps of news brought by their scouts. Oxford’s long forefinger rested on the city of Nottingham.

  ‘The Duke of Gloucester lies here, sire — or did when we landed seven days since. Yet has he eyes and ears in every place, and must know of our landing even now.’

  ‘Not from any in my territory, my lord,’ said Rhys ap Thomas proudly.

  ‘Sir Rhys,’ said Henry politely, ‘we know you to be the Lord of West Wales. Yet let us suppose that even one pair of eyes saw our meeting in the Dale, or one pair of ears heard on it. How long would it take a man, riding hard in fine weather, and having his way to make through your territory, to reach Nottingham?’

  ‘Four days.’

  ‘Then does the Duke of Gloucester know of our coming.’

  ‘Norfolk holds the south coast,’ said Oxford, ‘and must be summoned from there before the duke can move to meet us. And he has London to raise. Take it that, even now, they march to Nottingham, they cannot intercept us ere — Friday.’

  ‘How long before a pair of Shrewsbury legs mounts a horse and clacks news of our presence here?’ Henry enquired.

  ‘No time at all, sire, for we have soldiers posted at all points about the town. And our coming surprised them or they had been more ready!’

  ‘With letters from Sir William Stanley,’ said Jasper, ‘Shrewsbury should be ours, and then no tongues will tell tales!’

  Henry sat back in the carved chair, which travelled on a cart until he needed it.

  ‘If I were Richard of Gloucester,’ he said slowly, taking on that role, ‘what should I do?’

  They waited respectfully.

  ‘I should judge,’ said Henry, thinking matters out, ‘that the force that landed, being but a small one, was not of great account in its present state. Therefore it must needs collect more troops, which would slow its progress. Then should I discount the Welsh support. No, good Sir Rhys, I speak not of yourself but of Wales as Richard sees it: a barren country peopled by poor barbarians. As Richard of Gloucester, I look upon the Welsh as hinds to be herded at will. As Richard I know nothing of their hearts, and have long forgotten that their cries for freedom rise not from petty ills but from their roots. So would I reckon that this little force of Henry Tudor’s, this motley troop of French and exiled English, might pluck a few wild natives here, a sack of oats there, and slowly cover little distances.

  ‘As Richard, I should summon all my forces, select the flower of my army, send messages to all my followers — with bribes and threats and sweet words — and sit at Nottingham until the axe was great enough to crush the nutshell. Perhaps I would hunt a little, so that my people see I think but poorly of this intruder. My lords, we have marched more than a hundred miles and thirty, and marched hard with good guides to lead us. For all that Richard knows we are even yet wandering in the wilds of Wales.’

  ‘Sire,’ said Jasper, and the title sounded oddly on his tongue, for he had called Henry ‘lad’ and ‘Harry’ as long as both could remember, ‘the Duke of Gloucester is valiant and cunning in war. The troops he marshals are mighty in number and great in prowess. Well-armed, well-fed, and fighting on their native soil. Do not discount him easily.’

  ‘I do not discount his cunning nor his might, good uncle,’ said Henry quietly, ‘but I say that some of his men have divided hearts and may hang back, or may join us. The heart is much, my lord. Take away the hot hearts of my Welshmen and what have you? The sawdust figures that swing at quintain!’

  Rhys and Jasper and the Welsh chieftains were with him, but Oxford never dabbled in mysteries and saw the campaign with a soldier’s eye.

  ‘By your leave I shall speak out, sire,’ he said firmly. Henry inclined his head. ‘The Duke of Gloucester has ten thousand men at least. The Yorkshire men are with him to the end. There is Norfolk, the White Lion both in badge and spirit, and his son Surrey, with their East Anglian contingents. Then Northumberland will bring his borderers — wild men and hardy. There will be others, too, but on these he can count. Now we have but four thousand seasoned troops — I say nothing of the peasants with their pitchforks, they will fight as best they may, but that best is no match for Richard’s soldiers. Sir Walter Hungerford and Sir Thomas Bourchier should join us — captains of consequence. But they bring only hundreds, your grace. Richard commands thousands.’

  He hesitated, and Henry flushed.

  ‘You reckon poorly, my lord,’ he said stiffly. ‘What of Lord Stanley, my mother’s husband, and his brother, Sir William?’

  ‘The Cheshire bowmen are renowned, sire, and their skill and numbers would turn the scale. I do not say they will not, but the Lord Stanley was ever a cautious man and will wait to see how we fare. We must look for signs of favour from them. The first will be the letters to Shrewsbury. If they should not come then we may sit like fowls in the pot, to be taken.’

  ‘Sir William has not hindered our advance, my lord.’

  ‘He has not helped it neither,’ said Oxford frankly. Continuing, ‘The second sign, your grace, will be your meeting with both Stanleys at Stafford or Lichfield. The third and last, and one of greatest import — upon the field, wherever that may be. Until then all is mere sawing of the air!’

  They pondered in silence on the Stanleys. But Henry, though his anxiety was as sharp as theirs, was the first to smile.

  ‘Then, my lords,’ he said, ‘we may be certain of London, in any event. For if we win we march to it in triumph, and if we do not our heads shall decorate its Tower!’

  ‘Some hundreds will lie upon the field first, your grace,’ said Rhys, smiling in his turn.

  Their thoughts had taken another and a happier direction.

  ‘We have all England to gain,’ said Oxford, ‘and I shall see that not a single Frenchman lays his bones upon the field without he takes two Yorkists with him.’

  There was a chorus then. ‘And my men, sire!’ ‘And mine, sir!’ ‘And mine!’

  ‘And mine, my liege lord,’ cried a voice from the tent flap.

  ‘Good Shropshire men and true, to the number of eight hundred!’

  Sir Richard Corbet knelt before him, his helm beneath his arm, his face streaked with sweat and dust from the march.

  ‘Welcome, good Sir Richard,’ cried Henry, holding out both hands. ‘We have not seen you in some sixteen years, and we swear you have not altered by so much as a hair!’

  ‘There are grey ones, here and there, sire,’ said Sir Richard, ‘but I pray that both grey and brown may grow white in your service.’

  ‘Wine for Sir Richard! Come, sit by us, sire. You shall see a change in us. For we were not thirteen, and a frightened boy, when you swung us upon your horse and rode from Banbury Field.’

  ‘I should have known you anywhere, your grace. True, you were shorter by a foot, but resolute and hardy withal — and with a smile, even as now, that would win a friend or shame an enemy. I rejoice to see you, sire. And now,’ returning to his business, ‘how stand we, my liege lord? Shrewsbury town is locked and barred like a box of frightened geese. They wound their horns as we passed, and fired a cannon. Though I fear they harmed themselves more than us, for the shot flew wide and the gun seemed to smoke on their side of the wall more than ours. They had best stick to marketing.’

  ‘Nay, my lord, we would not have them hurt,’ said Henry kindly. ‘We await letters from Sir William. Until then, sir, we may rest ourselves. Your supper will be a splendid one. Are we to have shields of brawn in armour, uncle?’ he asked Jasper seriously.

  ‘I fear not, sire, like the pike in Latimer sauce they have all been eaten!’

  ‘And the mutton royal, richly garnished? And the perch in jelly dipped? And the tart poleyn?’

&
nbsp; Oxford looked bewildered from uncle to nephew, but though their faces were as solemn as priests their eyes twinkled.

  ‘Likewise, your grace. Also the roast peacock, and the castles of jelly in temple-wise made, and the baked quinces, and the sturgeon with fresh fennel.’

  ‘Not even a single subtlety, with writing of ballads?’ Henry asked with a frown.

  ‘I regret, sire, not even one miserable subtlety. The butler is fled, and the panterers have lost their knives and spoons!’

  Sir Richard Corbet roared with laughter and slapped his thigh, and Oxford’s face relaxed.

  ‘The only dancing girls may be found in the French tents, your grace!’ he growled, and was rewarded by a shout of merriment from them all.

  ‘Then, Sir Richard, we must partake of a fowl roast over an open fire,’ cried Henry, smiling, ‘and old bread and a hard piece of cheese! But we have noble wine enough to drown it.’

  ‘And friends and loyal subjects to share it, sire. And your realm beneath your feet.’

  ‘Aye, and that is best of all. Now would I speak with your men, so that they may know whom they serve.’

  He made his rounds conscientiously in different parts of the camp, each evening, and a cheer rose from every company as he walked among them. His smile and words brought warmth to each group over the fires, and left warmth behind it. His assumption of kingship made them the surer of his cause. His ease made him one of them. His dignity set him apart. And greater than he, his legend passed ahead of him. He heard it in the songs that were sung like litanies. Star of Owen. Peacock of Tudor. Bull of Anglesey.

  With the close of evening came the letters from Sir William Stanley, bidding Shrewsbury open its gates, and their relief was further lightened by the messenger’s tale of their delivery.

  ‘An’ we live all, sire!’ said Rowland Warburton, grinning. ‘They would not let me in — though I cried out from whom I came, and pointed to my livery. And there would I be yet, but that I was fain to thrust the papers on an arrow head and fire it over the wall. Where it was greeted first by cries of treason, and then in silence, and at last with hearty good will. And Shrewsbury awaits your grace.’

  At dawn they dressed themselves in full array, struck camp, and marched again to the town — where Master Mitton met them, surrounded by his municipal officers and important burghers. One small point troubled the bailiff, even as he made his deepest obeisance, and Rhys ap Thomas smiled grimly as he heard it. For Master Mitton, like Sir Rhys, had given King Richard his solemn oath that only over his body would any usurper pass.

  ‘Then must the bailiff stretch himself upon the ground, or stand beneath a bridge as I did at the Dale,’ said Rhys, ‘and let your horse ride over him, sire. When he is fully and most honourably absolved from his oath.’

  Somewhat gingerly the stout man lay in the dust, regretting his best clothes.

  ‘Fear not, Master Mitton, ’said Henry kindly. ‘She will never so much as graze you with an hoof!’

  Nor did the mare touch him: ears pricked, eyes starting, as she stepped delicately over the mound of the bailiff’s belly.

  ‘Now, Master Mitton,’ said Henry amiably, as the man dusted himself down, ‘what offence have we made you that you kept us out of our town?’

  ‘My lord, I knew no king but Richard that was crowned in London.’

  ‘And what will you say when we have put King Richard down?’

  ‘Why then, I’ll be as true to you, my lord, after I am sworn. I am not a man to take an oath lightly, as you have seen. I’ll hold Shrewsbury in safe keeping for you thereafter.’

  ‘Were it not a great pity that such a man as this should die, my lord?’ Henry asked, turning to Oxford whose hand was on his sword. ‘He shall not be harmed in any case. We freely pardon you, Master Mitton. And now let us see how Shrewsbury receives us!’

  It received them with homely pageantry: decorating its doors with green boughs, strewing flowers and sweet herbs beneath their feet. Many of the sheep that had been driven into the town for safety now rotated slowly on spits for the feast. And Henry worshipped at mass, giving thanks to God for his present triumph, before he marched to England.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  When Yorke and Lancaster made warre

  within this famous land,

  the lives of all our Noble men

  did in great danger stand.

  White Rose & Red, Bishop Percy’s Folio MS.

  Freshly provisioned, their horses fed and rested, and a contingent of Shrewsbury men swelling their ranks, they set off for Newport on the Wednesday morning. They made the twenty-mile march at a swinging pace, seasoned by the Welsh trek, rested by their recent delay, and camped on Forton Heath. The tide was beginning to rise higher, come in faster, now, and their spirits rose with it. Moreover they stood on English soil, and the Welsh in particular took heart from this.

  ‘You are fighting Richard of Gloucester, sire,’ said Oxford, grinning, ‘but these wild chieftains of yours have come to fight the Saxons!’

  ‘Aye, my lord, but if we fight beneath one standard what matter?’

  ‘I shall feel easier, nonetheless, for a few hundred English soldiers.’

  ‘We shall have them shortly, by God’s good grace. And tonight we sleep at Fortune House, by the express desire of Hugh Forton — now does this seem a splendid omen!’

  That same day Humphrey Cotes swore allegiance to King Henry; and here, too, they were joined by Sir Gilbert Talbot and five hundred tall men, dependants of the Earl of Shrewsbury — which delighted Oxford. On the Thursday they marched for Stafford, where Sir William Stanley waited with a small retinue, having left his soldiers a little way behind. Henry greeted him graciously, showing none of the anxiety he felt, though Oxford listened to every word distrustfully. Sir William, new to the myth and the man, addressed Henry courteously, but as the Earl of Richmond.

  ‘King Richard had news of your landing some days since, my lord,’ he said gravely, ‘and his messengers live in their saddles. He has them posted at intervals of twenty miles along the roads, so that they may travel fresh and speedily. And he made much ado that your progress, even upon these borders I guard for him, was so swift. He fears treachery, and has feared it for some time past. And shortly before you landed, my lord, he ordered my brother the Lord Stanley to return to court or send his son Lord Strange. Since my brother judged it meet to stay he sent his son in his stead. And now King Richard demands that my brother attend him, on the instant.’

  ‘What answer did my father Lord Stanley make, sir?’ Henry asked, disturbed.

  ‘He replied that he was sick, my lord. But he fears for the life of the Lord Strange.’

  ‘And so might I, even now, fear for the life of my son!’ said Rhys ap Thomas contemptuously. ‘Had I sent him as the Duke of Gloucester bade me. But I made him answer “No!” and so it rested.’

  Sir William Stanley turned a distressed, irresolute face upon the Welshman.

  ‘In the fastness of your strongholds, Sir Rhys, you might play fox as long as it please you. Those close to the king’s person and high in the realm of England have little choice!’

  ‘Fox, say you?’ cried Rhys ap Thomas in deeper contempt. ‘I have declared myself even at the Dale for King Henry! I wait not, sirrah, until the game is won ere I swivel forth my allegiance. Nor do I call a bloody tyrant “king” and name the rightful monarch “my lord”, Sir William!’

  ‘I crave your grace’s pardon, I had forgot myself,’ said Sir William hurriedly, turning an angry face on Rhys as he spoke. ‘Welcome, my sovereign King Henry!’ the formula came readily from his tongue, though its grace could not surmount his evident uneasiness. ‘Challenge your heritage and the land that is your own, and shall be yours. And remember, when you are king, those that are for you now. Our swords are yours, sire.’

  ‘We are full glad of you,’ said Henry simply. ‘Through the help of my father Lord Stanley, and you, we trust in England to continue king.’ Then seeing his commanders’ s
tormy expressions he added lightly, ‘Peace, my lords, we know that all your hearts are brave and your swords loyal to us. Pray put a rein upon your tongues also. The house divided against itself shall never stand — and that England has learned most cruelly, with bloody civil strife. All shall be well.’

  But the news gnawed him. He was uncertain of the Stanleys, whose support had been of the passive variety, with much spoken and little done. Nevertheless they conferred together, using all the knowledge Sir William could give them.

  ‘The Lord Stanley will meet you at Lichfield, sire,’ said Sir William, finding it on the map. ‘Some sixteen miles hence. He has prepared the town for your coming and waits there with his men. The king — the Duke of Gloucester — lies at Nottingham, drawing his forces into one great army. There he will stay until those from London join him, and he judges the time ripe for assault.’

  ‘Have I your grace’s leave to speak?’ Oxford asked. ‘Sir William, think you that the Duke of Gloucester, so wise in war, may let us march well into the Midlands down Watling Street — and catch us between London and himself?’

  ‘Nay, that I know not. Had you come as you were, with little forces, he could have snapped you up, even as you say. But with such as Sir Gilbert Talbot joining you, and other good gentlemen, and rumours of yet more, I think he dare not. For if you gather on the way to London as you have gathered thus far, he risks those coming to your standards that might have come to his.’

  ‘It will take him but a day to march from Nottingham to Leicester,’ said Oxford judiciously. ‘The Lord Stanley lies at Lichfield, which we shall reach tomorrow. Now if the Duke of Gloucester marches at the same time he may strike down through Leicester and intercept us — here!’

  He drew a wide circle round Atherstone with his finger. ‘The Lord Stanley and your good self, Sir William,’ Oxford continued, feeling his way, ‘with three thousand archers and three thousand cavalry, and our good soldiers and our good rabble, shall be there in force to meet him.’