An Unknown Welshman

by Jean Stubbs

  ‘My brother and I must stay our hands a while,’ said Sir William, embarrassed. ‘I do not think that we should march together — before the day of battle.’ He hurried to explain to their sudden silence. ‘The Duke of Gloucester knows not whether we be for him or against him. We think it best that he should be surprised, and for the sake of the Lord Strange — who is his hostage — we must bide our time. I swear, your grace, we shall not disappoint you. No treachery, sire, but cautious counsel.’

  Henry frowned down the words on Oxford’s lips, the disgust on Rhys’s face.

  ‘We know we have your allegiance, sir,’ he said. ‘You also have our trust.’

  ‘As Chamberlain of North Wales,’ Sir William replied, bowing, ‘I turned a blind eye on your grace’s progress there. Did I not serve your grace right well?’

  ‘You have our trust,’ Henry repeated, while his commanders exchanged glances, ‘and we are kinsmen by my mother’s marriage. Wine for these nobles!’ he ordered, and was gracious with each of them.

  ‘This gnaws my bowels!’ said Oxford, when they were alone again. ‘The Duke of Gloucester knows not whether we be for him or against him,’ he mimicked bitterly. Aye, and no more do we! For the sake of the Lord Strange we must abide our time! Why, sire, when has the life of one gentleman counted for so much? Had I seven sons, and every one of them in Richard’s hands, I should not stay my course.’

  ‘Know this of me also, sire,’ said Jasper slowly. ‘I would condemn no man wholly that perjured himself for wife or child, though I should judge him the less for it. But it is not the life of Stanley’s son that frets him and his brother, it is their own skins. And the man that will not declare himself — him I condemn.’

  Henry sighed and shifted.

  ‘We can do naught but wait, uncle. We cannot force them.’

  ‘Aye, sire, and make a showing on the field good enough to persuade the Stanleys that — for the sake of their skins — it were best to choose our side,’ said Oxford grimly.

  ‘Both heart and right are with us,’ Jasper added. ‘We but need the Lord of Hosts, and the Stanleys may sink in their own muck.’

  ‘You speak too hardly of them,’ said Henry. ‘We have no cause to fear them — and must take their word.’

  ‘But a fox is a fox,’ said Rhys ap Thomas, ‘and if he cannot discover one safe hole will find another. I fear that if we die on the field the Stanleys will yet keep their place at court, and cry “King Richard! King Richard!” But we must hope.’

  They found Lichfield as hospitable as Sir William had promised them: rode through the town, firing their guns into the air, and camped on the Friday outside its walls. But Lord Stanley was not there to greet them. He had left a message of goodwill behind him, saying that he proposed to set up camp at Atherstone.

  ‘Between Richard and ourselves,’ said Oxford, very red. ‘Aye, that I see full well. Sire, let us provision ourselves, with the help of these good people, so that we ask nothing of any Stanley, and proceed to Tamworth on the morrow. We shall not fight at Atherstone, on that we may count. But now must we move warily, for Richard’s men are in every place, and he is poised to strike us. We are close, your grace, full close.’

  ‘Then is this joyful news!’ said Henry. ‘For we shall meet in battle!’

  But there was no joy behind the words, and the old feeling of emptiness beset him. Had they marched from Lichfield with the Stanleys he would have known a light heart, now on the road to Tamworth without them he rode more and more slowly. Until, feeling no pressure on her sides, the mare took her own pace and walked as she would. Some twenty gentlemen of Henry’s retinue, not daring to break into his thoughts, slowed their own mounts to keep him company. But the army under its military leaders kept up a brisk pace which drew them far ahead. They had not broken camp before the afternoon, waiting for news; leaving receipts for oats and hay and bread and beer and meat; and re-stocking the carts; and making sure that every man had a good meal in his belly, for this might be the last before battle. So Henry came to himself when he could no longer see the last baggage animals in that violet dusk.

  ‘My friends,’ he said, reining in his desultory mare, ‘we fear that we have lost our army! Why did you not rouse us sooner?’

  ‘Sire, we feared to disturb your grace.’

  ‘Then do our thoughts beg your several pardons!’ he said frankly, ‘for they were far away from what should most concern them. We must go softly now, for the enemy is near, and may be closer than we suspect.’

  ‘Sire, were it not best that we stayed circumspectly at the next village? Not with pomp, or proclamation of what you are, but as a party of gentlemen that have lost their way?’

  ‘Then am I Henry Tudor once again,’ said Henry ruefully. ‘Use me as one of you, speak in a familiar fashion — and talk of hunting that they might think we pursue nothing richer than game.’

  They attracted no more attention than fine clothes usually did, and wrapping themselves in their cloaks they dozed on the floor of The Three Tuns. But Henry, closing his eyes so they might think he slept, spent the early hours of Saturday morning marshalling and dismissing arguments.

  Once the Stanleys were persuaded to Richard’s side they would betray all and any that had assisted Henry. Besides the nobles with him, or coming to him, the Welsh nation as a whole would probably suffer a punishment similar to that inflicted on them after the fall of Owain Glyndwr. And then there was his mother Lady Margaret, excused once but never twice, and with her Beaufort inheritance already willed by Richard to his heir John de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk. He bore no affection for the Woodvilles and Greys, who had flickered this way and that, but he minded that Elizabeth of York would be affected. For Stanley could put her up as an instigator of rebellion. And what would become of her he could not guess — at best the humiliation of a husband far inferior in station, and close to Richard’s heart. In setting her at his side as future queen he had offered her all or nothing.

  Surprised by the misery of this purely personal consideration, when thousands of lives and the Welsh nation demanded his first thoughts, he reviewed what he knew of Elizabeth. Her courage and dignity were great, but he cared that she mended her dresses frugally; that she had put her trust in him, and sent him a letter and a rich ring and what money she could. He hoped that her loyal gentleman, Humphrey Brereton, had excused Henry’s necessary delay in replying to her, with splendid words. It seemed hard that a girl should wait for weeks, when she gave a cry from the heart that should have been answered straightway. But he was longer and better versed in adversity than she, and knew that love and chivalry must wait on gold and equipment.

  She shall have all honour when I am king, he thought.

  He had been told many times that she was beautiful, and wished he might see how near report came to reality. Then he remembered Humphrey Brereton’s outburst, and the long tale of his perilous ride from house to house; bearing news that could have racked and hanged and disembowelled him, and set his body in quarters on the city walls. And he knew that no man risks his life, for no more than a sweet thanks and a little money, without good cause. So she was beautiful.

  He thought of the lady on the tapestry in his bedchamber at Nantes, and her image formed in his mind. The pale gentle face and flower eyes, the tongues of silver-gilt hair. Silver-gilt hair. Every sweet thought brought a sour one in its wake. The queen-dowager had had silver-gilt hair, and was even now consolidating her position at court; while her slipper son Dorset lay in custody in France. Well, she too must be treated with all honour — and good sense. As a king he could not afford to let Dame Elizabeth make mischief. As a man he could hardly hope to win the affection of his wife by imprisoning her mother. So he must make her welcome, treat her as a former queen, and in good time persuade her to a pleasant monastery with a generous pension, from which place of retirement she should join the court on state occasions. He would see that her daughters got good portions and noble husbands. He would ransom Dorset and watch him clos
ely — now there was another waverer, bent only on his own preferment. Which brought him back to the Stanleys. Could he trust them? And if not, then how should he win the field? And if he won the field despite them, how should he deal with them afterward? Could one treat one’s mother’s husband and his brother as heinous traitors? Oh, one could — but at what cost? Lancashire and Cheshire brewing fresh treachery out of revenge, his subjects crying that he was no better than Richard?

  So the night passed slowly and in much heaviness, and as soon as the first grey light appeared they paid their reckoning and were galloping for Tamworth. But with daylight came new counsel.

  ‘My friends,’ said Henry, ‘it would seem ill to tell our army that we lost them in the train of our thoughts. What trust shall they have in us, who lose them when we should lead them? Let us rather say that we left them not by grievous error but by wise design — to seek a message from our secret allies. Which lie I shall make truth this very day, and ride with your good selves as escort to Atherstone, where the Lord Stanley abides.’

  A chorus of approval greeted this suggestion and they rode on in better spirits, seeing that he looked always two moves ahead.

  His return to his army was hailed with relief. His explanation soothed them. But he had eaten and was upon his horse again before the army began to collect itself for departure. To his commanders alone he entrusted the reason for his going, though Oxford was fearful for him — thinking he might be captured on the way, or taken there with treachery.

  ‘My lord Oxford,’ said Henry in quiet rebuke, ‘do you snatch every brave deed for yourself? What king are we that starts at every shadow and will not risk ourself? We tell you we shall fetch good news from Atherstone, and so we pray you lead our army north of there and we shall meet at Orton on the hill.’

  Then he was off, taking comfort in action, and greater comfort still in his reception. For both Stanleys came forward and bent the knee and greeted him loyally; but Henry, with a gesture even more gracious, then knelt to the Lord Stanley and called him father and asked his blessing.

  ‘Stand up, my dear son,’ said Lord Stanley, touched. ‘You have my blessing, and your mother’s blessing by me. Thrice welcome, gentle prince!’

  ‘What news of the Lord Strange, our brother, whose welfare is at our heart always?’ Henry asked.

  ‘My son attempted to make his escape,’ said Stanley slowly, ‘but was recaptured by Duke Richard’s men.’ He hesitated, and spoke heavily. ‘And I am told, by those that watch and listen for me, that my son — in fear of his life — confessed that Sir John Savage and ourselves had made treasonable compact with your grace. My son is a brave and honourable gentleman,’ he added with difficulty, ‘but the Duke Richard has means to persuade even the bravest.’

  ‘This is ill news indeed, both for ourself and you,’ said Henry gravely.

  ‘It changes nothing,’ said Stanley, though he was troubled. ‘And yet must we dissimulate a little longer, sire. Duke Richard will hope to the last that we may be persuaded to his side. In our turn, we would not endanger Lord Strange’s life sooner than we must.’

  Henry’s heart misgave him. For who could tell which was the foxer, and which the foxed? And all hung upon the Stanleys.

  Still, he smiled and seemed confident, riding out to meet the famous bowmen of England in their white and scarlet livery.

  Then he swept off his fine cap, crying, ‘Cheshire and Lancashire, welcome unto us!’

  Their shouts rang strong and true. And as evening began to fall two Yorkist captains rode into Atherstone with their men tramping behind them. Sir Walter Hungerford and Sir Thomas Bourchier, summoned from London by Richard, had parted from Sir Robert Brackenbury at Stony Stratford, leaving him to carry news of their treachery. There were more to come. On the Sunday morning Sir John Savage, Sir Brian Sanford and Sir Simon Digby joined them; and all escorted Henry back to his army.

  ‘This is no rabble, either, sire!’ said Oxford appreciatively, still sore at the recollection of Henry’s motley from Harfleur. ‘For these are proper soldiers and well-armed.’

  ‘Good Oxford,’ said Henry pleasantly, ‘I pray you let my Frenchmen be. Their leader is a noble gentleman. They will fight when they must. As to their manner — it is the custom to pay many sweet compliments in France, but they can be as hot as any in a quarrel.’

  Then he walked among them, and wherever he went he was received gladly.

  Their ‘eyes and ears’ as Jasper called them, rode in with messages: solitary men in the fire of youth or the seasoned caution of middle-age. Richard had left Nottingham on the Friday, and since then the news had mounted steadily.

  ‘The duke’s army can be seen for miles along the road, and the duke himself rides proudly, with frowning countenance, upon a marvellous white courser. And he wears a crown upon his helm that all might know him.’

  ‘Norfolk and Surrey are with him, and the East Anglian men.’

  ‘Northumberland is coming with his wild borderers, and York is sending a stout troop.’

  ‘The army took fully an hour, from first man to last, to leave the city of Nottingham, and another hour to enter Leicester. They march four abreast, in two divisions, and wings of horsemen range on every side, and the force numbers six thousand even without Northumberland’s troops.’

  ‘Leicester greeted the duke with a loud salute from the city guns. His own bed was carried into their finest hostelry — The Blue Boar. Some say there are three hundred gold crowns hidden in the mattress.’

  ‘I discount the crowns,’ said Oxford drily, ‘unless they are for his funeral, and much do I resent The Blue Boar’s hospitality. For that is my crest.’

  Now, on this Sunday afternoon, 21 August 1485, they waited until a messenger galloped in on his lathered horse.

  ‘The Duke of Gloucester led his army over Bow Bridge to Elmesthorpe, nine miles out of Leicester, this morning. And the greater part of his forces is encamped at Stapleton, in some fields known as the Bradshaws.’

  They consulted the map for the last time.

  ‘So he tarries at Stapleton,’ said Oxford, ‘in an excellent position either to fall upon us, if we attempt to march down Watling Street, or to block a possible advance on Leicester. What says your grace? Do we meet him or flee him?’

  The answer was implicit in his tone. Oxford had run long and far enough.

  ‘Where should we meet him?’ Henry asked, for the map seemed more hindrance than help.

  ‘Now let us ask our good John Hardwick, that knows this country well, sire, and he can lead us there.’

  ‘Your grace,’ said Hardwick, bowing, ‘north-east of Atherstone is an old trackway called Fenn Lane, that runs through Fenny Drayton to a nook of the river near Shenton Mill — by the name of White Moors.’

  ‘And what is the best vantage point?’ Oxford interposed. ‘Where may we survey the Duke’s army?’

  ‘From Ambien Hill, my lord — so called from the old English ana beame, meaning one tree...’

  ‘A pox on your tree!’ said Oxford testily. ‘May Duke Richard hang from it! Where is this hill?’

  ‘One mile from White Moors, my lord, rising some four hundred feet. This is barren country, my lord, and there is a treacherous marsh on the banks of the Sence stream — which it were best to avoid.’

  ‘We must use it for our defence, your grace,’ said Oxford, ‘at least it lies between ourselves and Stapleton,’ as Hardwick drew a little map of his own to make matters clear. ‘And if Duke Richard hears, as he must, that we advance to White Moors, he will march north to Sutton Cheney.’ Henry looked round on his commanders. One by one they nodded their heads.

  ‘Strike camp!’ Henry ordered.

  They doused the fires, folded up the mushroom field of tents, made ready themselves and their arms, harnessed the horses to the heavy carts and guns, and marched.

  Henry’s smile was absent, his long face grave. Unanimated, it bore the stamp of exile, older than his twenty-eight years, plain as a priest�
��s. The lines between nose and mouth were strongly marked now, the mouth set and sad, the eyes without light. He was in the grip of an old melancholy, born of deferred hope. But Jasper’s grey cropped head was erect, Rhys’s dark eyes brilliant with the prospect of battle, and Oxford smiled grimly as he rode, mailed fist doubled arrogantly on one hip.

  Then the northern Welsh, out of the bowels of captivity, struck up Gwyr Harlech, at first very softly so that it was no more than a rumble in their throats; and then, as words and feelings mounted, louder and louder still.

  ‘Seventeen years since,’ said Jasper, ‘and newer than yesterday!’

  A faint flush on Henry’s cheeks, a sheen in his eyes, betrayed him. He was there with them again; hearing the challenge of David ap Einion; shrinking at the cannonade; darting between tooth and stone tooth of the battlements. He straightened in his saddle and held up his head and smiled at Jasper.

  More than half the army did not comprehend the words, but the spirit could be in no doubt. The song ended in a great shout, and then cheer upon cheer rose from every rank.

  ‘The Welsh are ready to fight!’ Henry observed with pride.

  ‘They should save their breath for marching, your grace,’ Oxford grumbled.

  They camped for the night on the plain of White Moors; somewhat dashed to find the Stanleys between themselves and Ambien Hill, and the royal army near enough on its far side to take advantage of it before they could. But that was one of the hazards of war.

  ‘Well, it will be a fine day, sire,’ Oxford said cheerfully, ‘and that is better than cutting a man into the mud with the rain streaming from your helm. Or fighting with hands so cold that you know not whether it is your fingers or the hilt — and snow in the eyes, and a black light that knows not friend from foe. There lie the Stanleys, your grace, betwixt the two armies that it may be seen they fight for either side, or neither, as the case may be. Christ save us! They make me out a very babe for strategy. I shall not lose my sleep for them, yet I should rest easier, sire, if I could read their minds, for good or ill. And there, your grace, beyond us, the Duke of Gloucester lies on Harper’s Hill.’ His regret for their position was obvious, but he added, ‘And yet the marsh protects us, and a wood beyond that — or had he cut us down on Fenn Lane.’