by Tony Riches
‘I wish I’d listened to you, Gabriel. Word reached me from Warwick when I was in Hereford. We’ve lost valuable time and lives could depend on it.’ He saw from Gabriel’s expression there was more bad news. ‘What is it?’
‘Queen Margaret has landed in the west, sir, at Weymouth in Dorset.’
Jasper looked at him in amazement. ‘I hoped she would remain safe in France. Are you certain of this?’
‘I am, sir. I saw the men of Sir Edmund Beaufort on their way to greet her.’
‘Have something to eat and get your head down, Gabriel. We’ll march at first light—and well done, I’m glad to have you back.’
Jasper knew what he must do. His first loyalty was to the queen and her son. Warwick would have to wait in the north, while he took his Welsh army to the west. He made one last visit to see the boys and remembered what his father told him, and his brother Edmund, when they seemed to face overwhelming odds.
‘Be brave, boys, and remember you are Tudors.’
U
When they finally reached the queen’s army outside the market town of Dorchester, Jasper learned she had travelled to nearby Cerne Abbey with Sir Edmund Beaufort. He left the main body of his army and rode to the old abbey with his personal guard, to find her in the abbey guest house with a grave looking Sir Edmund.
‘I thank God you are safe, Sir Jasper. Have you heard the news?’
‘That York has taken London? I came as soon as I heard you were here.’
Queen Margaret shook her head. ‘We have received worse news, Sir Jasper.’ She turned to Edmund Beaufort to explain.
‘I regret to tell you Warwick has been killed. His army was routed this morning at Barnet.’
‘Are you sure he hasn’t escaped?’ Jasper found the news hard to believe.
‘He is dead, Sir Jasper.’ Queen Margaret’s voice was cold.
Jasper sat heavily in a chair as he considered the implications. ‘He sent for me, asked me to bring as many men as I could muster. If I had, Warwick might have lived. We might have beaten York.’
‘And your stripped body might have been on display with Warwick’s in St Paul’s.’ She answered sharply, her face set hard. ‘We must deal with York without the Earl of Warwick, before he takes too firm a hold on the country.’
Sir Edmund sounded doubtful. ‘It will not be easy to draw York out of London.’
Jasper turned to the queen. ‘He will come for you. I found you easily enough, Your Highness, and if I can, so will York, and when he does we must be ready.’
‘We need more men. We have my Frenchmen, as well as the men Sir Edmund has brought, and we are raising more from Devon and Dorset.’
‘The men I’ve brought are only enough to ensure your safety, Your Highness, not to take on York. I have some four thousand men on their way to Chepstow from North Wales, including more than a thousand archers.’
‘Then you must go to them, Sir Jasper. We will meet you once Prince Edward returns.’
‘Where is Prince Edward, Your Highness?’
‘He is helping to muster more men for our cause.’ She sounded unconcerned.
‘It would be better if he were with you, where we can ensure his safety.’
‘He is a man now, Sir Jasper. One day he will be king, so I must let him learn to act as one.’
Chapter Seventeen
April 1471
Jasper marched his army back to the old Norman castle at Chepstow, the southernmost of a chain of fortresses built along the Welsh border, high on cliffs overlooking the River Wye. From the battlements they would have plenty of notice of anyone approaching and could control the old wooden bridge, the only river crossing for miles.
A strategic site since Roman times, the castle had a massive open courtyard within the high walls, and had been added to by each generation, as needs and fashions changed. Chepstow served well as a barracks, and he ordered his men to take a well-earned rest while they waited for the reinforcements from the north of Wales.
Days passed without any news, then a week. The worst thing about the waiting for Jasper was the feeling of powerlessness. He wished he had stayed with Queen Margaret and her son. His experience of mustering troops would have been invaluable and he worried about the reception young Prince Edward was probably receiving in the rural villages of Devon and Dorset.
Jasper also felt cut off from the outside world by the high castle walls and the fast-flowing River Wye. He posted guards at the bridge to question travellers and sent Gabriel into the taverns in the town of Chepstow to see what he could learn. So far no one brought him any new information, although as he feared, word of York’s victory was already spreading far and wide.
He climbed the narrow, lichen covered steps of the high north tower and scanned the far horizon for his reinforcements. With a jolt he realised word of York’s victory could have already reached the men of North Wales. They might have already turned back, or worse, joined York’s army. The scrape of a boot on stone made him look round to see Gabriel had sought him out, a frown of concern instead of his usually cheerful expression.
‘No word of the reinforcements yet, sir?’
‘I regret there isn’t, Gabriel, although it’s too early to lose hope, as it’s a long march here from North Wales.’
‘You should know some of the men think our cause is lost and we should leave while we still can.’
Gabriel’s words were no surprise to Jasper, as he had felt the same sullen mood which descended over them all, like ominous black clouds before a storm, following the news of Warwick’s defeat. Despite his worries about deserters he gathered the men together and told them what had happened. They seemed to respect his honesty and there seemed little point in keeping bad news from them, as the rumours would spread soon enough.
‘I understand how they feel, and I won’t give them false hope, but we’re going to need every man for the battle ahead. You’ve seen Queen Margaret’s army.’
‘All I saw was a few hundred French mercenaries, and Sir Edmund Beaufort’s foot soldiers looked like beaten men.’
‘They are poorly led,’ Jasper shook his head, ‘and if the truth were known, Edmund Beaufort fled from London to join the queen when a better man might have held the city against York.’
‘He lost his nerve?’
‘A good many of his best men defected to join York.’
‘That’s when Warwick’s luck ran out, sir.’
‘I never liked Sir Richard Neville, or his brothers, but I believed we could find a way to work together. If we had marched directly to him...’ Jasper felt the sting of conscience, not only for the Earl of Warwick, but also for their cause, and the king, held prisoner once more.
‘We were not to know, sir. We rode south to protect the queen.’
‘You’re right—there’s nothing to be gained by worrying about what might have been.’
‘I’ll talk to the men, sir.’ Gabriel patted the hilt of his fine sword. ‘We’re not beaten yet.’
Jasper watched him go and wondered if the loyal Irishman was right. The stakes had never been higher, as York would no longer be so generous with pardons for those who fought against him. Jasper had not told the men, but no quarter had been given at Barnet, even for the common soldiers. The only survivors of the battle were those who had been able to flee the field, and even they were being hunted down, as would all who rode under the banner of Lancaster.
He shared a meal of stale rye bread and salted pottage with his men, washed down with a tankard of watery ale, then retired to a restless sleep. In his troubled dreams he saw Warwick’s sightless eyes, as he lay dead in St Paul’s Cathedral where so recently they gave thanks to God. He saw the entire congregation turn to face him with accusing, deathly white stares, while Bishop George Neville’s strident sermon accused him of being a coward, no better than Edmund Beaufort.
He woke to the sound of sharp hammering on his door and pulled it open to see the captain of the castle guard. A good-humoured local man,
with an impressive grey beard, the captain had served under William Herbert and the Earl of Norfolk before him but now swore loyalty to Lancaster. Jasper had made a judgement to trust the experienced captain and his men of the Chepstow garrison, for as Gabriel observed, it was not their fault they had found themselves on the losing side.
‘You have a visitor, my lord. A clergyman, Bishop John Hunden, of Llandaff. He’s asked to see you.’
‘What in God’s name does a bishop want with me at this hour?’ Jasper heard the irritation in his voice. He grunted as he pulled on his riding boots.
‘He wishes to talk to you about a most urgent matter and asked me to wake you. He is waiting in the constable’s tower, my lord.’
Jasper was already strapping on his sword. ‘Let us go and see what is so important, Captain.’
Bishop Hunden stood as Jasper entered. A dark woollen coat covered his long, cleric’s robes and grey stubble sprouted on his chin. Jasper knew Bishop Hunden, who had been a friend of his father and owned a house in Tenby. Forthright and influential, like many of the clergy, the bishop had to walk a tightrope of loyalty to both Lancaster and York.
Jasper tried to clear his head of unpleasant, troubling dreams. ‘Good morning, Your Grace. What brings you to Chepstow at such an hour?’
Bishop Hunden studied Jasper with concern in his deep-set eyes and spoke in a soft Welsh accent.
‘I regret having to wake you so early, Sir Jasper, but I’ve come to warn you that you and your men are in grave danger by remaining here.’
‘York is on his way?’
Bishop Hunden shook his head. ‘There has been a great battle in Gloucestershire. I understand her highness Queen Margaret has been captured by York’s soldiers and is being taken to London as we speak.’
Jasper felt a surge of guilt. ‘Are you certain of this, Bishop? I was with her recently at Cerne, but she sent me here to wait for reinforcements.’ A sudden and worrying thought occurred to him. ‘Do you know if her son is safe?’
‘I regret to tell you he died in the battle.’ The Bishop made the sign of the cross. ‘He is with God.’
‘They killed the young prince?’ Jasper’s eyes blazed with anger. York had won and the House of Lancaster was finished. He formed a fist with his hand and clung to one last hope—this was yet another rumour, spread deliberately by York’s spies to demoralise Lancastrian supporters.
‘How did you come by this information, Bishop?’
‘I visited the Abbot of Gloucester, who was told by the Prior of Tewkesbury that he saw the body of Prince Edward with his own eyes. There is no mistake, Sir Jasper, the prince is dead.’
Jasper struggled to come to terms with the loss, his mind a whirl of consequences. Now there was no heir, no more House of Lancaster after King Henry. He should have stayed with the queen, protected her or even persuaded her to travel with her son to Chepstow. If he had, the boy would still be alive. The guilt weighed heavily on his conscience and he felt his heart harden as he struggled to compose himself and fend off the overwhelming sense of loss.
‘You said we are in grave danger here in Chepstow?’
‘Sir Roger Vaughan of Tretower has been sent with his men to arrest you.’ Bishop Hunden regarded him with sadness in his eyes. ‘Your father was a good man, Jasper Tudor, as are you. I felt obliged to come here and warn you to leave while you can.’
Jasper placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder, realising he must have ridden through the night at some personal risk to himself. ‘I will forever be in your debt, Your Grace.’
‘May God be with you, Sir Jasper, and keep you safe.’ He made the sign of the cross.
‘You must also leave, Bishop. Return to Llandaff and one day, God willing, I will come and find you there.’
After the bishop had gone Jasper called for the captain and told him the bad news.
‘Sir Roger Vaughan knows this castle well, my lord, he is well aware of its weaknesses.’
Jasper knew the previous owner of the old castle had been William Herbert, who had done little to improve the defences. Chepstow castle had stood the test of time and had the oldest twin-towered gatehouse in the country, but there was no moat or defensible keep, as the original builders relied on the natural boundary of the River Wye to deter attackers.
‘We don’t have much time to prepare for a siege, Captain. Post your archers on the battlements with all the arrows we can find. I don’t want a single man to cross the bridge. There is still no news of the men from North Wales?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘It could mean nothing—but I pray they have not been intercepted by York’s army.’
‘I have a suggestion, my lord. I am known to Sir Roger Vaughan from when he visited Lord Herbert here.’
‘What do you have in mind, Captain?’
‘We could choose to fight them, barricade the bridges and trust in your reinforcements arriving in time. The way I see it, my lord, is we could let them cross the river and come into the town.’
‘Ambush them?’
‘If you keep your men out of sight, with only the men of the garrison to show themselves. I could tell them you had word and fled the country by boat from Bristol.’
Jasper hesitated, then realised the captain’s plan could work. Vaughan would be unsurprised to learn they had fled or that the garrison at Chepstow had turned for York once more. This time he would use the Yorkist’s complacency against them and rely on the element of surprise.
It was noon before men carrying Vaughan’s banner of a golden lion were sighted by Jasper’s scouts. His men were ready, having chosen hiding places within the castle and outbuildings, where they waited for the trumpeter’s signal. Jasper told them the truth, holding nothing back, as all their lives depended on how well the captain’s plan worked.
He chose a high vantage-point with a clear view of the bridge over the River Wye and the trumpeter at his side, ready to sound the alert. He expected Sir Roger Vaughan to stop with his men out of range on the far side of the bridge. He was wrong, as they continued marching he counted a dozen riders and some seventy soldiers.
The men approached the castle gatehouse with contempt for any danger from Jasper’s men who could be within. He heard the shouted exchange, and the captain’s voice inviting them in. Vaughan questioned the captain, then the clatter of hooves echoed in the castle yard as the riders entered then dismounted and allowed their horses to be led to the stables.
It seemed the plan was working, as he heard voices discussing something, but not raised, as Vaughan was led to the constable’s tower. Jasper held his breath as he waited. Their plan was for Roger Vaughan to be seized and disarmed as he passed through the narrow entrance to the constable’s room. He heard a shout, then a curse and silence.
Then he saw the signal he was waiting for, a white cloth waved from the constable’s window, and he nodded to the trumpeter, who gave a long blast to alert the hiding men. Sir Roger Vaughan’s men outnumbered them, but were surrounded by archers, bows at the ready, appearing from their well-chosen hiding places.
‘We have your commander!’ Jasper bellowed from the high battlements, his stern voice echoing across the castle courtyard. ‘Throw down your weapons!’
The tired soldiers glanced at each other, then there was the clang of a sword being dropped to the ground, followed by the clatter of another, then another. More of Jasper’s men emerged with halberds and drawn swords to round up their prisoners.
‘You can go. Go back into Wales, return home to your families!’
Jasper tried to contain the anger in his voice at these soldiers, whose only crime was to follow the wrong man. Without Vaughan to lead them they were simply Welshmen again. Some might make their way back to York’s army, on its way to London, and tell of what happened in Chepstow but Jasper doubted it, and even if they did he would be long gone before anything could be done about it.
Sir Roger Vaughan was a different matter. Jasper watched the last of his men leave, many he
ading back into Wales, a few trying to cross back over the bridge, only to be turned back again by the guards posted there. He needed a little time. Not long, but long enough to do what he had to do.
Vaughan glowered at him, his anger barely contained. ‘You are a traitor, Tudor. A coward and a traitor.’ He struggled free of the men holding his arms and stepped forward.
Jasper stared into the dark, scornful eyes of the man who was said to have murdered his father. He had to be sure. Such things could not rest on hearsay and rumour.
‘Tell me what happened after Mortimer’s Cross.’ He kept his voice calm and saw the puzzlement on his enemy’s face.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Was it you who marched my father to Hereford?’
‘We spared the men but your father was their commander. I sent men to look for you, Tudor, but you ran like the coward you are.’ Vaughan spat the words out, his contempt evident.
Jasper’s fingernails dug into the palms of his hands as he fought to control his anger. Painful memories returned. His father pleading with him to head north, to march on through the night, away from the danger of ambush by York. He remembered the shock of hearing what happened to his father, and the guilt that haunted him ever since.
‘Did you order my father’s execution?’
Vaughan looked to the ground. ‘We needed to make an example of them. Only ten were executed, the rest were pardoned.’
‘I heard the River Lugg ran red with the blood of our countrymen, good men. Loyal to King Henry, the true king, chosen by God.’
Vaughan looked up at him, uncertainty in his eyes. ‘I ask you to spare me, sir.’
‘Would you have spared me, if we had been caught by your men?’
Vaughan didn’t reply but his silence told Jasper what he already knew.
‘I will offer you, sir, the same courtesy you allowed my father.’
If he let Vaughan go the man would not rest until he had his revenge and killed every one of them. Here, at last, was his father’s murderer. William Herbert might have given the order but it was Roger Vaughan of Tretower who carried it out.
