The battle, if it could be called that, was over. While York and Salisbury had barged their way through my unsuccessful defence of the north bar, Warwick’s attack from the east side of the town had taken the king and the royal guard by surprise and I was to learn that during the brief hostilities key Lancastrian leaders had been singled out and killed by Warwick’s men, including the Duke of Somerset, the Earl of Northumberland and Lord Clifford. But to my immediate consternation I noticed that the king himself had been wounded by a Yorkist arrow, the shaft of which was still protruding from the back of his neck.
I stepped forward and offered my sword to York, and then my support to my brother. As soon as he saw me the look of fear and bewilderment left Henry’s eyes and he leaned heavily on my shoulder. ‘Ah, Jasper, it is you. I think I need the services of a surgeon.’
The duke nodded agreement. ‘Yes, Pembroke, take his grace for treatment. The monks will know where to go but my men will escort you.’ He signalled to a sturdy knight who was hovering nearby and gave him whispered instructions. Monks were already beginning to emerge nervously from the abbey with offers to assist the wounded and it was one of them who led us, unarmed and surrounded by a considerable Yorkist escort, to a tanner’s workshop, assuring us that it would have the tools necessary to remove the arrowhead without causing more damage. And God be praised, the monk was right; King Henry’s injury proved to be only a flesh wound, which was successfully treated and bandaged. The arrow had missed any vital blood vessels but I was greatly impressed by the courage and stoicism Henry displayed as the brawny tanner wielded his hefty pincers so close to a vulnerable area.
Meanwhile the Duke of York had been making hasty arrangements for dealing with the other casualties. By the time we returned to the Market Square Buckingham had been taken away for treatment and my men had been relieved of their arms and corralled together in a dejected group in one corner. York bowed punctiliously to King Henry and informed him that he and Warwick would escort him back to London. No mention was made at that time of the death of Somerset.
‘But I wish to go to Kenilworth with the queen,’ Henry protested, gripping my arm tightly as if fearful he might be wrenched away from me. ‘Tell him, Jasper – we are going to the Midlands. I do not like residing at Westminster or the Tower.’
‘The queen and the prince may go north if they wish,’ said the duke firmly, ‘but the people expect their king to be in London. We will make sure that you are comfortably accommodated, sire, have no fear.’
Henry turned beseeching eyes on me but I shook my head. There was no future in arguing at the point of a sword. And so the royal family was separated, apparently with the worthiest of motives. The king rode into London beside York, while Warwick led the procession, bearing aloft the Sword of State in hands which only hours before had sent the Duke of Somerset into the hereafter. The people who cheered them through the streets were in no doubt as to who was now in control of the kingdom.
When Henry was finally told of Somerset’s death the shock sent him into such a state of grief that he would not have been capable of ruling anyway. I wondered how Marguerite had taken the news when she heard it, far away in the Lancastrian castle-in-the-lake that was Kenilworth. She must have been distraught that she had lost both her favourite counsellors; Somerset to Warwick’s sword and Wiltshire to self-inflicted exile in Flanders, where he had chosen to take refuge rather than face York’s vengeance. The royal standard had been found propped up against a hovel in a dark alley and most of Wiltshire’s armour was dragged out of the River Ver, which ran through the town. Some monk claimed that the fleeing earl had given him a mark for his habit to use as a disguise.
As for me, the duke chose not to take offence that I had fought against him at St Albans. ‘You are the king’s brother,’ he said. ‘I hold family loyalty in high esteem.’ He went so far as to call me back to the Royal Council, even though I warned him that my prolonged absence from Pembroke would leave crown property in West Wales vulnerable to Gruffydd and his sons. This was where York’s ulterior motive showed, for his response was to favour my brother Edmund, who had not been at St Albans, and appoint him as the king’s Lieutenant in South Wales, with orders to bring Gruffydd to heel. Shuddering at the prospect of Edmund destroying all the diplomatic advances I had made with the ‘old rascal’ and his sons, I went to Henry to protest but it was immediately clear to me that my royal brother was still reeling from Somerset’s death.
With his household scattered he had been accommodated at the Bishop of London’s palace and I found him pale and timid, barely clinging to sanity. ‘Edmund’s appointment was the Duke of York’s idea, Jasper,’ he whispered. There was still a fresh scar on his neck where the arrow had so nearly severed a vital blood vessel. ‘He is very angry about our royal dignity being disparaged in Wales. I thought it best not to argue with him.’
In making my response I swapped my usual cheerful tone for what I hoped was a gently persuasive one. ‘I understand completely, my liege, but on this occasion I believe second thoughts are needed. Highly as I know you regard Edmund, I submit that he is not the man for this task. He makes no secret of the fact that he does not like the Welsh, which must seriously affect the chances of successful negotiations with the local chieftains.’
Henry frowned. ‘But he is Welsh himself and the appointment has been made public. It cannot be changed.’
I tried not to sound exasperated. ‘You are the king, Henry. If you believe an error has been made then you can cancel the appointment.’
He shook his head vehemently, as if trying to eject a buzzing insect from his ear. ‘No. No, I will not do that, Jasper. I cannot.’
Reluctantly I let the matter drop. A time was to come when I would wish that I had not.
9
Jasper
Bletsoe Castle, Bedfordshire
FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE regrettable clash of arms at St Albans, Edmund and Margaret stood before the altar in the chapel at her mother’s castle of Bletsoe in Bedfordshire. It was a cold day and the bride’s blue and silver mantle embroidered with the Beaufort portcullis swamped her small frame; a jewelled circlet secured her long dark hair. She was twelve and a half years old and dwarfed by Edmund who stood tall and magnificent and twice her age, at his physical and fashionable fittest. During our two-day ride from Westminster to Bletsoe, I had asked him why Lady Welles had agreed to the wedding while her daughter was still so young but he informed me gleefully that Margaret had more or less demanded to be married.
‘She says her prayers have been answered. I think she is somewhat in love with me.’
The look of smug satisfaction on his face stung me to anger and my right fist developed a sudden desire to make contact with his chiselled chin, which I resisted only with difficulty. ‘But you must not bed her until she is older, Edmund.’
Edmund gave a noncommittal shrug, avoiding my gaze. ‘That rather depends on Margaret. Lady Welles confides that her daughter has flowered – a rather coy euphemism I think – but it does imply that both nature and the law deem her ready for deflowering.’ He turned to face me then, delighted with his own coarse wit.
I swallowed an explosion of wrath and fought to keep my voice steady. ‘She is not though, Edmund, is she? And you know it. You only have to look at her. She is still a child. Where are the breasts? Where are the womanly curves? And apart from anything else, whatever the Church’s rule on canonical age, conception would endanger Margaret’s life and that of the child.’
At this Edmund lost his temper. ‘I have had enough of you lecturing me, Jasper! I will be responsible for my wife’s health and her wealth and I will brook no interference from you or anyone else. If you cannot contain your jealousy then I suggest you stay away from us. You insisted on coming to the wedding and now I demand your solemn oath that you will make no more mention of canonical age, consummation, conception or any other word beginning with “C”.’
My brother’s outburst made both our horses shy and when I had
controlled mine I held up my free hand in capitulation. ‘All right, Edmund, you can calm down. I have said my piece. You will hear no more from me except to ask what you might like for a wedding gift. I assume you would turn your nose up at a hogshead of Bride Ale?’
This reference to our sister’s simple wedding nearly five years before revived his sense of humour. ‘Ha! You assume right. No yeoman Bride Ale will be served at my wedding, Jas. Lord Welles keeps a well-stocked cellar and I intend to drink a number of toasts in fine wine to my sweet Margaret and several more to the fortune I shall receive as lord of her considerable estates.’
He was goading me. Edmund would receive all the income from the Somerset estates but only when they had become true man and wife. Until then we held joint custody and he would continue to share the revenue with me. Although this additional income was useful to me, not for one moment did I want him to think it was the reason I was urging him to delay consummation.
‘Do I take it then that a vat of wine would be more welcome?’ I said. ‘I know an excellent vintner in Tenby who imports direct from Brittany, outwitting England’s losses in France.’
‘That would be most welcome, brother. Have him deliver it to Lamphey Palace. Our fellow Privy Councillor, Bishop de la Bere, has agreed to let me use it while I am acting as the king’s Lieutenant in South Wales. He was kind enough to suggest that a newly married man needed somewhere comfortable to enjoy his new bride.’
With a sly smile he watched my jaw work hard to keep my lips sealed. The Bishop of St David’s country retreat at Lamphey was rumoured to be where members of the Welsh clergy went to forget their priestly vows of celibacy, poverty and obedience. It was a beautiful hall set deep in parkland full of game and its plentiful ponds and orchards yielded fish and fruit to tempt the most discerning palate. It also happened to be located only a few miles from Pembroke Castle. Their honeymoon playground would be right under my very nose.
I glared at him, unable to summon even a glimmer of a smile in return. ‘God has dealt you some fine cards, Edmund,’ I said. ‘But these are uneasy times; I hope the Almighty shows you how to play them wisely.’
* * *
When the wedding celebrations reached the dancing stage at Bletsoe Castle, I stood among the crowd of applauding guests watching Edmund lead his new bride onto the floor. As the minstrels struck a slow rhythm the newly married couple clasped hands and began to turn together and Margaret’s admiring gaze at her new husband sparked a conversation between two people standing behind me.
‘I trust you will look at me like that when I lead you out at our wedding next year, Edith.’ It was the voice of a young man, light and teasing in tone.
‘And I hope you will have transformed your appearance and perfected your dancing enough to induce me to do so, Geoffrey,’ came the reply, in a soft female voice.
Edmund swept his bride up into his arms and twirled her around and she laughed delightedly. I was glad to avert my gaze in order to identify the speakers, although I had already guessed that the girl was Margaret’s older half-sister, Edith St John and her companion was also known to me. Geoffrey Pole had been a squire in the king’s household at the same time as Edmund and me. He came from a well-to-do Anglo-Welsh family and I had encountered him once or twice while attending to business in West Wales, where he held minor royal offices in Haverford and Carmarthen, towns not far from Pembroke. Word at Westminster tipped him as an up and coming courtier and from their brief exchange I gathered that he was betrothed to Margaret’s sister.
When I turned, Edith had the grace to blush. ‘Oh I crave your pardon, my lord of Pembroke. I had not realized it was you, but I hope you know that I was not disparaging your brother of Richmond; rather comparing his magnificence to my betrothed’s lack of it.’
Geoffrey Pole, a tall man of perfectly acceptable but unremarkable appearance, did not seem at all offended by her veiled insult. ‘Pay no attention to Edith, my lord. Her sense of humour may be inclined to sarcasm but she is kinder than she sounds. It is terrible what jealousy can do to a maid.’
‘And what maid would not be jealous of a sister who has netted an earl when she herself can only aspire to a squire?’ I might have been embarrassed to witness this apparent slight if it had not been for the young lady’s playful sideways glance at her betrothed, which revealed more about her true feelings for him than her words.
I entered into the spirit of her mood. ‘It is not unheard of for a squire’s son to become an earl,’ I pointed out. ‘Like myself,’ I added with a bow, ‘and like my brother there on the floor, whom you call magnificent. Nor should we forget that your sister is the daughter of a duke and an heiress to boot; attributes liable to outshine the indisputable beauty of a mere knight’s daughter!’ This time my bow was aimed at Edith and with her slim full-breasted figure, high cheekbones and playful blue eyes my compliment was not misplaced.
She countered with a graceful curtsy, giving me a mischievous sideways glance. ‘At the risk of being called a loose woman, I suddenly find my interest swerving from one brother to the other! Let me return the flattery, my lord, by saying that you seem a great deal more approachable now than you did when standing supporter for your brother of Richmond in the chapel, at which time you gave a very good impression of an approaching thunderstorm.’
For a moment I was taken aback, concerned that I should have given myself away to this sharp-eyed observer, but Geoffrey came to my rescue with a cheerful man-to-man comment. ‘He looked as any man is bound to do when witnessing his brother’s descent into matrimony. I hope my brother will show similar fellow-feeling when we stand before the priest, my sweeting.’ He planted a gentle kiss on his betrothed’s hand. ‘But I think it is time we claimed some of the limelight for ourselves by joining the bridal couple in the dance. That is a sister’s obligation is it not? I hope you will excuse us, Lord Jasper, temporarily at least.’ I watched them make their way onto the floor and reflected how much more appropriate this pairing of equals seemed than the one my brother had just made.
A break in the dancing brought my first opportunity to converse with the bride, while Edmund was occupied with her mother. In the warm crush of bodies in Bletsoe’s crowded great hall Margaret had discarded her fur-lined mantle to reveal a gown of gold satin figured with a pattern of marguerites and trimmed with seed pearls, a clever double play on her name. Her hair swung down her back, long and free in the tradition of maiden brides and a pearl collar clasped her smooth neck. She presented the perfect image of a duke’s daughter.
‘I hear you are to start your married life in the Bishop’s Palace at Lamphey, Lady Margaret,’ I began. ‘I have been there and it is truly a green and pleasant place set among lakes and trees. I am sure you will find much to delight you.’
Margaret regarded me solemnly. ‘It is kind of Bishop de la Bere to lend it to us but I believe he does not go there himself, or even to Wales, surprisingly. I suppose as Almoner to the king he is much involved in Council affairs.’ I detected a note of disapproval in her young voice at the notion of such an absentee shepherd of his flock.
‘Yes, the king is very conscientious about his charitable responsibilities,’ I said. ‘The bishop is kept very busy.’ She was such a serious little soul. I supposed that marriage for a girl of any age was a serious matter and for one of only twelve, however well she disguised it, must surely be a daunting prospect. ‘Lamphey is a secluded palace and I am sure Lord Edmund will be much taken up with official business. I hope you will not be lonely. Will you take some ladies with you, to keep you company?’
‘Master Pole, my sister Edith’s betrothed, has arranged some companions to attend me and Edith herself will stay with us until after Christmas. My lord Edmund says the apartments at Lamphey are particularly comfortable. Also I am told that Wales is a land of music so I think we shall be cheerful and I will not be short of books, for there is a fine library. But thank you for your concern.’
‘If I may, I will visit you when I return to
Wales. It is a pleasant ride from Lamphey to Pembroke and I hope you will also consider visiting me.’
Her smile was like a flame bursting from a dampened fire. ‘I will certainly do so, thank you. We are brother and sister now are we not? I hope we can be friends.’ She gestured at the cleared floor, where wedding guests were gathering for another dance. ‘I come from a large family and we are used to many merry celebrations. My lord Edmund says he hopes God will grant us many children.’ She shot me a sideways glance and her grey eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘I told him he should not make me blush.’
I took a deep breath to steady my heartbeat. She had showed me a flirtatious side that I had not suspected. She might have been young but she was not ignorant and she would be conscious of her duty to supply a Richmond dynasty. I could only pray it would be later rather than sooner. How I wished she had told him he should not make her rush.
I extended my hand and returned her smile. ‘I look forward to sharing some of those merry celebrations. And now, would you honour your new brother with the next dance, my lady of Richmond?’
10
Jasper
Pembroke Castle & Lamphey Palace
‘IF YOU ARE RIDING to Caldicot, my lord, you might assess the situation at Carmarthen on the way.’ Geoffrey Pole made this suggestion as we passed under the inner gate at Pembroke Castle and set out across the wide expanse of the outer court. Geoffrey and I were the same age and as a result of his Easter wedding to Margaret’s half-sister Edith we were now brothers-in-law and he was a frequent visitor and valued adviser. I appreciated his unassuming nature and quick wit and found his local connections very useful.
First of the Tudors Page 10
