An Unknown Welshman

by Jean Stubbs

  Quicker his blood to earth than to his wedding.

  Quicker the crows were fed than we could bury him!

  And faster and faster, as his training took him over and his heart grew sick, did the wheels of memory throw off their sparks of beauty and terror, as if the soul itself were threatened in its stronghold. And were arrested in a supreme moment by shouts of Treachery! Treachery! and the long and terrible cry A Plantagenet! A Plantagenet!

  The company fell away before him, leaving him confronted by the God of War himself, a golden circlet upon his helm. And in the instant of the bright sword being held at arms-length, in the instant of the fell axe being wielded, the two men knew each other.

  Richard’s splendid armour was dented and smeared by encounters. White Surrey’s lordly trappings, torn and splattered, clung to his flanks. His mouth was bloody from a cruel bridle. And both man and stallion, beside themselves, had become one awful weapon of war.

  To Richard’s amazement, so that for a brief space he could have laughed aloud, the unknown Welshman seemed small and of no great import.

  ‘I have slain five of you today, already,’ he gasped, as White Surrey wheeled and he strained him round again. ‘I have struck giants down’ — Sir John Cheney, half as big again as Richard, unhorsed like a child in that mad charge — ‘And now I have you!’

  He raised his axe, whose flukes ran with Lancastrian blood, in both mailed hands, and brought it down with all his strength.

  Sir William Brandon, moving to shield Henry with his body, took the full force of the blow and fell with the Welsh banner beneath him. As though that fall had brought them to themselves again, the Welshmen poured in from all sides, seeing the White Boar in their midst. It was a Welshman who pulled the standard free and held it high once more.

  ‘King Henry! King Henry!’ cried Rhys Fawr ap Meredydd.

  The dragon, released, flew scarlet on its white and green, forked of tongue and tail. Triball, Richard’s own standard-bearer, his legs hacked from under him, saw the gold lions and fleur-de-lys lie trampled on the mud in which he died.

  Demented, fighting on foot and yelling for a fresh horse — the loss of White Surrey thick in his throat — Richard went down. They hewed his noble armour piece by princely piece, tore his fine clothes, and fought among themselves to be the man that killed him.

  At last the Stanleys had given orders to attack. Their cavalry poured forward, and the Cheshire bowmen sent a superb arc of arrows into the air.

  The battle had lasted two hours and was nearly over, though they were still chasing the Yorkists into Cadeby and Stoke Golding. The Tudor losses were not great, perhaps a hundred men: but the toll of Richard’s friends was greater: gentle Brackenbury, Ratcliffe, brave Norfolk, the Lord Ferrers, John Kendall his secretary, and a host of good gentlemen faithful to him. The Wars of the Roses had been won, all but a single thorn which would be plucked out later. They had cost England thirteen battles, three kings, one Prince of Wales, twelve dukes, one marquis, eighteen earls, one viscount, twenty-three barons, knights and gentlemen unnumbered, and a hundred thousand men.

  Henry’s hands shook as he removed his helm and looked about him. The dust of victory lay already in his mouth. In the quietest corner of the field the first crows were sailing in to feed.

  Someone had strapped the naked body of Richard Plantagenet upon a horse. The white limbs dangled: one shoulder a little higher than the other, one arm a little thinner and shorter than its fellow. The dark hair, streaked and tangled with blood and sweat, hung in strips over the white face. They had not even cared to close his eyes, which dimmed above the clenched teeth in final resolution. Then one rough fellow slapped the horse’s rump and sent it into a stumbling trot along the road to Leicester, the corpse upon its back jerking at every step. And the head was grazed on the stones of Bow Bridge.

  Now Henry issued his first royal proclamation, commanding his people on pain of death, that no manner of man rob or spoil no manner of commons coming from the field, but suffer them to pass home to their dwelling-places with their horse and harness.

  ‘Henry, by the grace of God, king of England and of France, Prince of Wales and Lord of Ireland...’

  Then he knelt to pray that he might rule in peace and justice those people whom God now committed and assigned to his governance.

  Lord Stanley, riding down a few stray rebels, saw a gleam of gold under a hawthorn bush, and hooked up the battered crown upon his lance.

  PART FOUR: WHITE ROSE AND RED

  1485-86

  Renowned yorke the white rose gave;

  brave Lancaster the redd;

  by wedlocke both inoyned were

  to lye in one princely bed.

  White Rose & Red, Bishop Percy’s Folio MS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was conceived, not to be an epidemic disease, but to proceed from a malignity in the constitution of the air, gathered by the predispositions of the seasons

  Sir Francis Bacon, on the sweating sickness, History of King Henry VII

  He had done all that should be done: knighting eleven of his followers upon the field; ordering lists to be made of all those who had ever shown themselves to be true and loyal friends, that he might reward them. Now he permitted himself a joyful service, speeding Sir Robert Willoughby with an escort to Sheriff Hutton to tell a princess she should be queen. And he sent good tidings to his mother and to the queen dowager Elizabeth. Then rode like an emperor into Leicester, where for two days he rested; and where for two days the despoiled body of Richard was exposed at the church of Grey Friars, so that all should see he was dead.

  Refreshed and jubilant, they moved at a leisurely pace down Watling Street, and ahead of them rode the trumpeters to proclaim their coming. People ran out of houses, lined the dusty roads, crowded behind their mayor and chief citizens. And every town produced laden tables and flowing cups, until — as Jasper said at St Alban’s — a man longed for silence and a peaceful crust.

  ‘You shall have silence and peaceful crusts in plenty, good uncle,’ said Henry, accepting a posy from a small girl. ‘We beg you, sir, to give this child a groat in our name. The royal treasury shall reimburse you. Aye, uncle, you have had your turn at war and now must join us in tranquillity. For we shall set down sedition, and your sword must rust in a good cause. There shall be no wars in England under our rule, we promise you.’

  He was grinning with pleasure, but Jasper lifted his eyebrows.

  ‘Say you so?’ he remarked, with the air of one who knows better. ‘I’ll lay you a hundred gold crowns that this sword is out again in a twelvemonth for some scurvy Yorkist.’

  ‘We beg you do not call our new relations scurvy, uncle. They will be so much at court. Could you not beat them at cards or dice, and so settle your account that way?’

  ‘What say you, Oxford?’ Jasper asked, as that doughty nobleman rode up. ‘The king will have no war in his realm.’

  ‘Well, if you have, sire, we are ready for it. And I tell you now that I thought but little of our chances on Bosworth Field, against that host of Richard Plantagenet. Aye, precious little. So if we sent him running we can send others after him. But that is not why I am come. Those Frenchmen, sire...’

  ‘Oh, not our poor Frenchmen again, good Oxford, we beseech you. They fought as hard as any.’

  ‘It is not their prowess that troubles me but their health, sire. Last night a man was taken sick, and this morning he is dead. Just now two more fell, even as they marched, as though a hand had struck them down. And there are others here and there among the ranks.’

  ‘The pestilence,’ said Jasper, crossing himself.

  ‘Nay, not the pestilence, Pembroke. For that comes with a swelling in the groin or purple spots upon the body, or chokes a man as he sleeps. But this has neither swellings nor patches nor chokings. It is a sweating sickness, with much fever and griping of the bowels and a cruel malaise of the head — and it is deadly.’

  ‘What say the physicians?’
Henry asked, concerned. Oxford’s opinion of the medical profession was as low as his opinion of the French troops.

  ‘They pluck their lips and shake their heads and say all manner of wise things in Latin. But the outcome, in honest English, is that they do not know — except that the dead should be buried. They say they need to observe the sickness more closely before a remedy may be found and tried.’

  ‘Then are we all at risk?’

  ‘Sire, the physicians say this is a disease that the French brought with them, and therefore no Englishman may die of it. And so I say, sire, that we march for London and let them die if they will — or fall behind.’

  ‘Good Oxford,’ said Henry, smiling in spite of the gravity of the situation, ‘we think Almighty God forgot sweet mercy when He made you.’

  ‘Well, if He did,’ growled Oxford, ‘He gave me a double measure of sound sense. And I would they had stayed in France with their sweating sickness. At any rate they need no nursing, only burying.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘When I heard that they were sick,’ he said, ‘I thought it was jail fever!’

  And rode off, delighted by his wit.

  ‘It may abate,’ said Henry, disturbed. ‘I would not that we entered London with it.’

  Within the walls of London the palaces of the lords spiritual and the lords temporal stood among their gardens and orchards. Upon the waters of the Thames, fresh for twenty miles below the port, ships of many nations rode at anchor. Westminster, home of Parliament and the Law Courts, was still a separate town, though linked to its capital by a noble line of houses along the Strand. But the city was spreading beyond its square mile, branching out as far as Holborn and Charing Cross, to Old Street and Bishopsgate and Aldgate, and creeping along the riverbank into the open country beyond. And in all ways London thrived.

  If you sought luxury then the goldsmiths and silversmiths were famed as far as Venice. Established companies of Vintners, Grocers, Mercers, Skinners, Haberdashers, Fishmongers, Cloth-makers and Merchant Tailors made sure that all bodily needs were supplied — and the supplies of a required standard. There was a granary in Leadenhall, woollen cloths in Bakewell Hall, and a Stocks Market in the city centre. And the parish of St. Martin-le-grand was busy with shoe-makers and pouch-makers.

  If you were sick or aged or beggarly the ancient hospitals of St Thomas in Southwark, or St Bartholomew in West Smithfield, or St Mary Spital beyond Bishopsgate, or St Thomas of Cheapside, or St. Katharine by Thames-side, or St Anthony in Threadneedle Street would take you in.

  White Friars, Blackfriars, Greyfriars, Austin friars, nuns of the Order of St Clare and St Benedictine would pray for your soul. And, lest you thought too little upon the last end, frescoes of the Dance of Death adorned the cloisters of St Paul’s.

  The mayor and aldermen of London had long since charged and commanded every freeman of the city, who had a house in the open streets, to hang out a lantern from his door or window at the hour of seven of the bell at night. (The candle therein to be made of a certain weight, that it might burn and consume the night away.) Also, they strictly charged and commanded that for the honesty of their city, no manner of person should lay or suffer to be laid any dung, rubbish or other noisome thing in the open streets and lanes — upon a fine of fourpence. Scold’s bridles, ducking stools, stocks, blocks and gallows took care of other offenders; and above all of them loomed the Tower. No leper had been allowed within the gates for fully fifteen years. And still London stank and was riddled with diseases, and badly lit, and acquainted with all evils of mind and body.

  But the heads of the merchants were abuzz with future profit, for a monarch and his retinue must be royally clad, and there was a coronation and a wedding to come. Crimson and purple cloth of gold at eight pounds a yard for the king, and white cloth of gold at thirty three shillings and fourpence for his henchmen. The purple velvet lining for the royal robe would be forty shillings, and from Oxford’s crimson velvet at thirty shillings and his crimson satin at sixteen shillings to the robes of the king confessor (humble in russet cloth for thirteen shillings and fourpence) they worked the prices out. And then, God save us, there were trimmings of ermine and miniver; a river of sarcenet and woollen cloth; fringes and tassles of gold silk; ostrich feathers for caps. And ceremonial swords — each a marvel of craftsmanship, engraving, scrolling and embossing — and rich saddles and richer horse trappings. Velvet for red roses and red dragons. The orders flowed in, scratched upon parchment with quills, spelled in any way that happened to suit their fancy.

  Henry rode into his capital on the third day of September, and the heat made odours rise that were best buried in a pomander. His bay horse picked its way delicately through the filthy streets and the stinking press of loyal crowds. Garbage rotted in heaps, courted by flies and blue-bottles, rooted by dogs and cats. Frogs squatted and croaked in cess pools. Rich and poor alike harboured three types of body louse, and nightly endured the torment of bed bugs. Each time the rushes were scraped from the floor, matted with spittle and relics of past suppers, someone caught a fever.

  So Henry inhaled his pomander as often as good manners allowed, and was received into his splendid and malodorous city with thanksgiving. They had been expecting to greet King Richard in triumph, so the basis of the reception was already laid. Mayor and aldermen met him at Shoreditch clad in scarlet, with the dignity of an accompanying sword-bearer and sergeants, and all their servants dressed in tawny medley. Prominent citizens wore bright murrey, and four hundred and thirty-five persons escorted Henry to St Paul’s where he would present his three standards. The blind poet Bernard Andre sang his Latin sapphics in honour of the occasion, a heartfelt Te Deum was chanted, and when all was over the king retired to his temporary lodgings in the bishop of London’s house.

  From Sheriff Hutton came Elizabeth of York, to be united with her mother and delivered into her care until the wedding. And with her travelled poor Edward Warwick, Clarence’s son, to be taken to the Tower for the duration of his life. His sweet and vacant smile, his mild countenance and timid good manners commanded mercy. But his claim to the throne commanded vigilance, and though Henry’s conscience troubled him he signed the order of imprisonment — bidding them look after him kindly and well.

  And now, from having no property but his clothes and no friend but his uncle, Henry Tudor had been raised to a kingdom full of subjects, a host of noble companions, and three women who depended on his loving kindness.

  He received his mother first, lifting her to her feet and kissing her with reverence. The years of his absence had changed her from a handsome woman to an ascetic one; glancing from her pale, strong-boned face to the crafty eyes of Lord Stanley he wondered again at that marriage.

  Then in a mixture of graciousness and curiosity — with the curiosity well-masked — he received the queen dowager Elizabeth. She looked proudly all about her, as though she would live down her uncertain past in that moment. And to her, since it appeared she needed kindness most, he spoke with smiling consideration, promising reparation for her sufferings. She thanked him in a gentler tone than she had meant to, and presented her eldest daughter.

  The movement through the crowd told him how much the marriage meant to England. Someone with a simple heart or a politic head had decreed Elizabeth of York wear no jewels but her gold cross, and be dressed in white as became a virgin. So unreal did she seem, an emblem of beauty and purity, that he kissed her cold fingers without a tremor. Then he noticed the pleasant anguish on Humphrey Brereton’s face, the kindness of his mother’s smile, Jasper’s covert grin of admiration, and looked at her again.

  One silver-gilt lock strayed over her shoulder as she curtseyed, and the dowager queen leaned forward and stroked it into place, anxious that he should find no blemish in her daughter.

  ‘This lady is the chiefest jewel in our crown,’ said Henry warmly, ‘and all our troubles but a little matter that led us to her.’

  The girl murmured her obedience and glanced in shy recognition at the ric
h ring on his finger.

  ‘We bear this token of our love, madam, as proudly as ever knight bore his lady’s favour,’ said Henry, and the murmur of those round him was appreciative.

  The courtly phrases brought both smile and colour to Elizabeth’s face. She retreated on another curtsey, to join her mother.

  ‘You spoke the lady very fair, sire,’ Jasper observed, as everyone departed.

  ‘It was no hardship, uncle.’

  ‘Why, so I thought. I have no love for Yorkists,’ as though this were a revelation to them both, ‘and yet that lady may command my services, if she be so minded. Why do you smile, sire?’

  ‘That a brave Lancastrian, after thirty grievous years of strife, should proffer his sword to York without a protest.’

  Kingship was a chest of treasure and of toys in one. Henry delved into it, fascinated, and the harder he worked the more he found to do. By his side, studious, abstemious, devoted, the Lady Margaret employed herself in the over-seeing of his establishments. There was a palace at Westminster, at Greenwich and at Sheen, and a castle at Windsor to be ordered. Stables of horses, leashes of greyhounds, flights of falcons. The repairs of barges and payments of bargemen, who ferried the royal party to and fro upon the Thomas. There were chairs and litters and chariots and their rich furnishings. There was every household article, from a cauldron to a carpet, and every article of wardrobe to be checked. Physicians, surgeons, apothecaries, minstrels, priests, fools, ladies and gentlemen in waiting, cooks and scullions, servitors and retainers must be paid. There were offerings to be made, annuities to be awarded, gifts to be bestowed. From the royal cellars full of fine wines, to the royal roofs that should be mended, he and she sifted every item.

  Shoes for the footmen at sixpence the pair, wages for workmen at sixpence a day, two shillings a month for the board wages of a jester, sixpence for the messenger who carried letters between London and Greenwich, beer for the staff at two shillings and eight pence the barrel. They laboured happily, immersed in their various tasks, and Lady Margaret noted that when he was tired or in need of privacy he came to her chamber and sat and watched her sew.