by Anne Stevens
He finally reaches Sicily and, after a couple more close shaves, sails for home, on a Flemish trading ship. The captain and crew prove to be honest men, and deliver him home without further mishap.
At Tilbury, he is recognised on the wharf, and the tale of his great adventure spreads far, and wide. Henry hears of his amazing bravery, and his future is assured. Tom Wyatt becomes England’s youngest ambassador at large, and receives a stipend of thirty pounds a year. Bedford is bought back, for ten thousand pounds, and must slink off back to his estates. Henry never forgets a debt, and will have every penny back, even though it may take the rest of Bedford’s lifetime.
Thirty pounds a year will turn many men’s heads. It is enough to keep him in whores, and drink, whilst he dallies over his poems. He is a natural observer of the human condition, and can write words that melt any ladies hearts. Like many talented men, he struggles to find himself, and fritters his life away, never finding another worthy cause.
Now he is here, contemplating a raid into the deepest parts of Wales, in search of a bastard boy prince, who may already be dead. He finishes his wine, and chivvies Richard off to bed. It is gone midnight when his latch is lifted, and the innkeeper’s maid slips in, beside him. He pulls her close, and blows out the single candle, imagining that it will be better in the dark. Sometimes, he muses, even the best advice is hard to follow.
“Well, Dicken, how is the boy?” Dicken Shaw, a big Cheshire man, sits, and reaches for the flagon of ale on the table.
“The same,” he replies. “Not a word, since we took him. It’s as if he’s been struck mute with the shock of it.”
“Perhaps he has,” Owain Gruffedd says. “We gutted his servants, before his very eyes.”
“Then he lacks his father’s courage,” Dicken Shaw tells his master. “The king still jousts, at his age, and they do say he can throw any man at wrestling.”
“Yes, and who would dare unhorse the king, or wrestle him to the ground?” Owain Gruffedd says. “Does the child know we mean him no harm?”
“He shows no sign of understanding, but stares at the wall, as if it will fall down for him.” Shaw, a mercenary, who usually fights for one aristocratic lord or another, does not understand politics. He follows any cause that can fill his purse with silver, and has joined forces with the Welshman, expecting to make his fortune.
He has brought a dozen tough Cheshire crossbow archers with him, and must pay them each a penny a day. “Why don’t you tell him how things are? After all, are you not linked to the Welsh ap Tudwr clan by reason of blood?”
“My great grandfather was cousin to Owen Tudor, great grandfather of King Henry,” Gruffedd explains. It is a tenuous link, but does make him a distant relative of Henry Fitzroy, the king’s bastard son. “I’ll speak with the lad now.”
He wipes up the last drop of gravy with a piece of hard bread, and stuffs it into his mouth. The village, on the northern edge of the vast Welsh marches is secure. His family own the surrounding land, and the people are their tenants. He and his men, numbering about forty five, or fifty, are being fed and boarded well. The young prince is locked up in the best room the village’s inn can provide. Owain unlatches the door, and enters the boy’s presence.
“Your Highness,” he says, bowing low. “I am your cousin, Owain Gruffedd… at your service. My lieutenant, Dicken Shaw tells me you have not eaten, or spoken since…”
“Since you murdered everyone at the castle,” the boy says, looking up for the first time. “Greetings, cousin. Is it my turn yet?”
“God save Your Highness,” the Welshman says, affecting a shocked expression. “I seek only to preserve your life, not end it.”
“How so?” the boy asks.
“You are Prince Henry, son of the King of England.” Gruffedd bows again. “We perceived that you are in some danger, and acted, for the good of the realm.”
“Again, I ask… how so?” The boy is gaining in authority, and is beginning to suspect that he might yet live to see another dawn. “Tell me why I am here.”
“To save England, sire.” The Welshman will say what ever is needful to gain the boy’s trust. “Great people wish you dead. If your father dies, before the Boleyn slut gives him a child, you will be in line for the throne.”
“I am a bastard.”
“A royal bastard,” Owain replies. “The people of England will have a clear choice. Princess Mary, or Prince Henry. You are your father’s son, and no mistake.”
“Yes, I have his looks,” the boy says. “Though Mary is my sister, older than I, and born in wedlock. I cannot succeed.”
“You will, sire,” Owain Gruffedd declares. “We will make it so, even if it means the blood of thousands. If Henry dies, Boleyn will be thrown aside, if childless. Should she already have born a male child, her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk will assume the regency, and hold the south.”
“Tom Howard is a strong enemy,” the lad replies, grinning at the Welshman. “He is kind to me, and wants me to marry his daughter. Besides, you have what… fifty men, against his twenty or even thirty thousand. Send me home, and flee, Master Gruffedd, for cousin or not, your head will be on Traitor’s Gate before the month is out.”
“My people on Anglesey are ready to rise, sire,” he explains to the boy. “Six thousand yeomen; the toughest men in the world, and the outlawed bands of Snowdonia will add another two or three thousand to the number.”
“Then my godfather, Charles Brandon will raise his own arms. He boasts ten thousand mounted troopers, at the drop of a hat.”
“My Lord Suffolk is a poor general, and will dither about, wasting precious time. You forget Harry Percy, sire. He is not long a duke, and is feeling his way. My agents say he wishes nothing more than the return of lands, taken by Henry, and given to Suffolk. In the event of civil unrest, he will march into those parts of the north, and give battle to Charles Brandon. The king’s brother - in - law will have to march north, leaving Norfolk in London.”
“You talk a fine fight, Master Welshman. Now, you ask me to trust you, whilst you invade an entire realm with eight thousand foot soldiers?”
“We have made a treaty with certain nobles in the South West,” Gruffedd admits. “The Cornishmen number ten thousand, as do the men of Devon and Dorset. Together with those lords who wish reconciliation with Rome, we can put over fifty thousand men in the field. Every one of them are sworn to your cause, sire.”
“It seems I have no choice,” the boy replies. “though there are two things that stick in my mind, and I must have truthful answers, if you want my approval. Will you tell me true, sir?”
“I will,” Owain Gruffedd says. He is a man of strong character, and knows he can sway most men, even a prince, to his way of thinking. “Ask, and I shall tell you what I know.”
“Firstly, I must point out that neither My Lord Suffolk, nor the Duke of Norfolk, will move a single man north, if they fear civil war is about to erupt. Harry Percy is not sufficient enough a threat to dangle before them.”
“You are, indeed, your father’s son, Prince Harry” the Welshman replies. “The threat will not come from Lord Percy. He is, as you say, an empty shell of a man. It will come from an entirely different quarter.”
“I see,” the boy says, and furrows his brow, as if in the deepest thought. “Then you must mean the Scots. King James is young, and also looking to enlarge his kingdom.”
“He has a claim, through his mother, who is your father’s other sister, Margaret.” The Welshman has a good political mind, and knows where all the pieces of the game lie. “When the time comes, you will promise him land, down as far as Berwick, and he will invade. Norfolk and Suffolk will move north to stop him.”
“Leaving London open for you to take,” The boy says.
“For you, sire.” The Welshman sees the prince has a ready grasp of the situation, as though he has been well briefed by shrewd political men. “Hold London, and you hold England. If the great dukes turn to fight us, the Scots, and Har
ry Percy will fall on them.”
“I understand.” The young prince stands, and crosses to the window. He looks out through the slats, as if surveying his kingdom to be. “Now, my second question, Master Gruffedd.”
“Yes, sire?”
“Forgive what must sound like the rudeness of a child, but how comes it that a single man of low birth can contrive all of this?”
“I don’t understand,” Gruffedd replies, evasively.
“Then let me speak plainly, sir. Why would Percy, let alone my cousin James of Scotland, ever plot with a man of your middling standing? You speak of your agents, as if you were a great lord. Who is your master?”
“You are right, sire. I was a fool to try and hide it from you,” Gruffedd admits. It is of no real consequence, as the boy must know all soon enough. “I serve one of the greatest in the land. He wishes to support your claim to the throne.”
“A claim I did not have, until you thrust it upon me.”
“That is naïve talk, Prince Harry,” the Welshman says. “The moment your father acknowledged you, six years ago, your fate was decided. Henry knows he must have a male heir for England’s throne, and has made his intentions clear. Should he die, sooner rather than later, he means you to rule. My master is the only man in England who can make his dream into a reality.”
“Fine words, but of whom do you speak?” The prince is growing annoyed, and wants the truth.
“The Baron Montagu.”
“What?” the boy says. “Milord Montagu is my benefactor?”
“The same, sire.”
“Henry de la Pole has heady ambitions.”
“He styles himself as Harry Pole, sire. The ‘de la’ ties him too well to the old Plantagenet cause. He is a very close friend of your father.”
“Is he here?”
“No, he must stay close to the king … in case something befalls His Majesty.”
“Do you mean foul play?” the boy asks.
“I mean any accident, sire,” the Welshman responds, sharply. “The king still rides in the tourney, and goes hawking, and hunting every day. Accidents do happen.”
“I pray to God that my father is kept safe.”
“As do we all, sire, but precautions must be taken.” Owain Gruffedd taps his hand against the knife hanging at his side. “You must be protected, until the crown is safely on your head.”
“I can scarcely believe what I hear,” the boy says, shaking his head. “If the king dies… and if Mary dies… I am to be king. I think Baron Montagu is playing long odds, sir.”
“My master is a clever man,” Gruffedd replies. “He is friend to all, and thus escapes suspicion. Henry will think it is James of Scotland who has you, and Norfolk will suspect Harry Percy.”
“What of Thomas Cromwell?” the boy asks. “I met him the other day, and he seems to be a most capable privy councillor.”
“He is of no importance,” Gruffedd says, dismissively. “Baron Montagu knows he is close to the king, and is taking measures.”
“Measures?”
“Of course, sire. Cromwell might cause a little upset, so he is to be … nullified.”
“You mean killed.”
“You catch on well, sire.” Gruffedd nods his head. “Before tomorrow evening, he will be a dead man.”
“I see, and what of me?”
“I will protect you.”
“Fine words, but I am locked in, and unarmed, sir!”
The Welshman nods his understanding. He takes the wicked looking knife from his belt, and hands it, hilt first to the boy.
“A token, sire. Soon, you will have armour, and your own bejewelled sword by your side. From this moment on, your door will remain unlocked.”
The boy takes the knife, and places it under his pillow. Then he asks to speak with the men. Owain Gruffedd is not sure, but surrenders with good grace.
“Men,” the boy says to the gathering. “I know your hearts are in the right place, and that you will remain loyal, to the end.”
“God Save His Highness,” Dicken shouts, and the room dissolves into a roar of approval, and the beating of tankards on tables. They have money in their purses, and free ale when ever they want it. Their loyalty to the bastard prince is assured.
“My Lord, we are undone!” The Earl of Surrey spurs his horse forward, to meet with the troop of men galloping towards them. Richard Rich curses, and follows. The youth reigns in beside the first rider. “Father. There is betrayal waiting ahead. We must flee to our nearest stronghold, and hide away!”
Tom Howard, 3rd Duke of Norfolk, leans in his saddle, and gives his son a resounding slap across the face. The earl tumbles to the ground, and begins to sob about being murdered in his sleep.
“Why, you arse kissing little coward, I‘ll do the happy deed myself,” Norfolk hisses. “Are the goblins after you?” He looks up as Richard Rich arrives, reigning in his mount. “You, Master Rich, I know you for a more sober sort of fellow; what is this mongrel whelp, of a sway backed whore, gibbering on about?”
Richard Rich executes as neat a bow as he can on horseback, and begs to be heard in private. He has a message from Thomas Cromwell. “For your ears alone, My Lord Norfolk,” he urges. His son, plainly terrified for his own life is still crying, and cowering on the hard ground.
“Then we are well met,” Norfolk says. “I was to visit the coast, but decided to turn back, and spend a few days in London.” He trots off to one side, and beckons Rich to his side. “Well?”
“We come from Austin Friars, My Lord,” Rich explains. “I was told to search you out, and deliver an accurate account of what has happened.”
“My son is far more feared for his own life,” the Duke of Norfolk sneers. “The little shit will lie to save his own worthless hide. What does Cromwell say?”
“He says that I must tell you this: The cat is showing his claws. He says you will know what is meant, and come to him at once.”
Norfolk nods his understanding. He is no friend of the king’s play fellows, and has scant regard for Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. Nor does he care for Henry Pole who, he remarks often, toys with the king like a cat with a mouse. The message is understood. Baron Montagu is making a move against the crown, and Cromwell needs Norfolk’s help.
“Then that is what I shall do,” Norfolk says. “The greatest lord in England, dancing to the tune of a damned blacksmith’s son. I have but thirty men with me, Master Rich. Will they be enough?”
“If Montagu tries to take London, you will need five hundred, just to hold the gates,” Rich replies.
“Then I must ride for Austin Friars. How far off am I?”
“Twenty miles, sir,” Rich tells him, aware that in helping the duke now, he is laying up favours for a time to come. “You cannot ride through the night. Camp, sir, and set off at dawn.”
“Wise words.” Norfolk reaches to his belt, and Rich thinks he is to be rewarded, on the spot. Instead the duke produces a piece of parchment, bearing his wax seal. “Take this, and my worthless heir, and ride on to Framlingham Castle. Ride through the night, and you will be there by sunrise. Show my seal to the steward, Jack Mowberry, and bid him send my mounted archers to me. Then he must raise the nearest yeomanry, and march to London. A thousand men will be enough to hold the city, if we are in time.”
“There is more, My Lord,” Richard Rich says. Surrey is back on his feet now, and snivelling. A servant hands him a kerchief, to wipe away his shameful tears.
“Hel’s teeth,” Norfolk curses. “Don’t dither, man. Spit it out, all of a lump.”
“Harry Fitzroy is in Montagu’s hands,” Rich says. “It seems that Sheriff Hutton Castle has been put to the sword.”
“Then God help the boy,” the Duke of Norfolk growls. “For he is dead, whatever happens. Be he against Pole, he dies, and be he for the man… he dies.”
7 The Assassins
Once out of the bustling market town of Hereford, Will Draper and his half dozen men, are in low, hilly land,
dotted with stands of trees, and small, fortified farmsteads. The border Welsh must eke out a living raising sheep and goats, or turn to banditry. The pickings are slim, and most of the population survive by stealing from one another.
The band of riders are watched from every hilltop, by desperate men, who sense a rich prize, but one that is too well armed for them to pluck alone. Instead, word is sent on to the next outlaw camp, warning them to be ready. Realising that they hunt better in a pack, the lone wolves start to join forces, in an alliance of footpads, robbers, and outlaws, strong enough to overwhelm the English intruders.
On the afternoon of their first day in Wales, a gang of thirty hardened ruffians are waiting for them. Will Draper can smell trouble brewing, and waits, wondering from which quarter they will strike. As they approach a thicker forested part of the marches, he warns his friends to be on their guard.
“They will be mostly on foot,” he says. “Once in amongst the trees, they will rush us, and try to hamstring the horses. Do not dismount. Ride hard at them, and use your swords to good effect. If we can cut a few down, they will melt away.”
“What if one of us goes down?” Sir Jeremy asks. “They might have longbows.”
“Leave him. By the time we can rally, he will be dead, and stripped of all he possesses,” Will asserts. “Though it will not come to that, my friends. These people are poor, desperate folk, who do not possess a yew bow amongst them. Fight fast, and hard, and the day will be ours.”
As it happens, Will’s brave words of encouragement are not needed. From the valley to their right, a column of mounted men appear, a great lord’s pennant fluttering at their head. It is a well armed troop of twenty men escorting a much hated tax collector on his rounds. They exchange pleasantries with the troop’s leader, and agree to join forces, at least until the next village.
