by Anne Stevens
“Your Majesty is well?” Cromwell is first to the king’s side, and tries to take his elbow. “Let me help you, sire.”
“You want to help me?” Henry says. His eyes are crossed, and he can hardly form the words. “Then do away with the queen for me, and let me have my Anne!”
Cromwell sees his chance. There are papers to be signed by the king, that he might query. Now is the time, before reason returns. He beckons to Rafe Sadler.
“Rafe, run and fetch my satchel. There is work to do.” The young man understands, and runs off. Norfolk and Chapuys arrive, and fuss about the king. “His Majesty is well,” Cromwell says, holding them back. “He wants nothing, but a few minutes to himself. I suggest you look to poor Suffolk.”
Charles Brandon is coming round. He climbs to his feet, and touches the cut on his forehead. A small price, he thinks, for the pleasure of knocking Henry’s head into his shoulders. They are friends, of course, but what is friendship worth when one can have the other killed on a whim?
“A good fight, Charles,” Henry says, drawing Suffolk close to him. “Tomorrow we ride on Paris, and finish the job. Now, let us find the pick of these French girls, and take our pleasure.”
“Henry,” Suffolk says, taking by the shoulders, “we are in England.”
“Oh, did we fly?” the king replies. “Did Master Cromwell work his magic and bring us hence? I so enjoy … father? Don’t scold me so. What have I done now?”
“Fetch Dr. Theophrasus, at once,” Thomas Cromwell says. A vague king is one thing, but an addled, or even a dead, one will ruin England for ever.
11 The Shadow of Death
They will come soon. Will Draper keeps still, fearing to disturb his carefully arranged camouflage, and grips the hilt of his sword. To his right, Tom Wyatt is mumbling a final few words from his own place of concealment. Will strains to listen.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” the poet mutters. “I will fear no evil: for thou art ever with me; thy rod, and thy staff, they comfort me.” Those who can hear find the words terribly apt, for truly, they are in the valley of death, and each man wonders what his fate shall be.
Gwen ap Hwyll cannot hear the fervently recited psalm. Instead, she touches the small, carved, wooden cross at her throat, and says a short prayer for herself, and the beautiful young man who she has just found. Mush is, like her, an outcast from his people, and they have much in common. Now, they will fight together, and live, or die together.
From his higher vantage point, the olive skinned young man can see beyond the head of the valley, and sees the enemy’s approach. There are about fifty men, on horseback, but they look like a great host, bristling with pikes, swords and spears. It promises to be a brutal, and bloody encounter. Once more, he wishes that Gwen will see sense, and ride away to safety.
Owain Gruffedd gives a sigh of relief. For the last few hours, they have been riding through thick woodland, and a prey to any bandits desperate enough to attack them. A few outlaws had been spotted by the scouts, but had offered no threat.
Now he was near his goal. Beyond the next valley, and a couple of miles on, is a village, where he has ordered his men to gather. In a few days, he will have enough of an army to march on Herford, where he expects to meet up with the second son of the Marquis of Dorset, and Sir Arthur Plantagenet.
The two men, well down the list of family inheritance, have been stirring up the dissident yeomanry of Dorset and Cornwall. The Welshman’s agents report that they can muster almost twelve thousand men. With his own fifteen thousand Welshmen, he will have enough of an army to march on Worcester, then swing south, and take London.
Though he has not had word from Montagu yet, he knows that Henry is dead, and the throne there to take. King James will sweep down into Northumberland, overcoming Harry Percy, and the Clifford’s, who rule Cumberland. Norfolk will be on the march, and London left untended. The moment his troops appear at the city gates, Montagu’s agents will set to work, having them opened.
“Are we there yet?” the boy whines. Gruffedd is getting sick of him, and wishes nothing more than to get him on the throne. Once there, he can be controlled by Montagu, and he can get on with ruling Wales, as agreed.
“Soon. Once through this valley, and we can rest, and replenish our supplies.”
“I see we are still only fifty men, Sir Owain.” The boy is good at baiting the Welshman. He keeps giving him titles he does not own, or is rude to the point where he should be slapped down. “It is a puny army to storm London with.”
“There are twenty five thousand men coming, sire,” the Welshman tells him, for the hundredth time. Once the north is in uproar, and we are on the march, the Earls of Warwick, and of Worcester will run to join us. London will be ringed by sixty thousand men, all eager to put a male Tudor on the throne.”
“Yes, yes,” the boy says. “Though, had you not slaughtered my people, and kidnapped me in Yorkshire, I would be in a soft bed now, playing the part of a pampered son.”
“A bastard son,” Gruffedd snaps. “Think on, sire. What will little Princess Mary do to you, once she is on the throne?”
“My sister loves me.”
“Her advisors will tell her to have your royal throat slit, Your Highness.” Gruffedd kicks his horse into motion. “Four men to the fore. Come, my fine Welshmen, let us ride on, to glory. And you, little princeling, if you value your life, stay close by my side!”
The four advance guard ride into the valley at a slow trot, and come to a halt just before they reach some scrub, and bushes, half closing the throughway off. The senior man gives the slopes a quick look, and sees nothing but rocks, and trees. That is Wales, he thinks. All mountains and bloody trees. He raises a gloved hand, and motions the rest of the troop to come forward.
Owain Gruffedd spurs his mount on, and they ride into the valley, four, or five abreast, and ten or twelve deep. The rear men slow their horses, as they see an extraordinary sight. On the wooded slope to their right, a beautiful, near naked girl, is wondering towards them. She stops, as if seeing them for the first time, turns, and flees back into the trees.
Eight of the rearguard spur their horses up the slope, eager to trap the girl, and claim her, before the rest want to share her favours amongst fifty. Behind, the column slows, as they realise their comrades have broken rank. It is at that moment that Richard Cromwell heaves on the clever lever, and fulcrum, he has made out of logs. A huge boulder, and dozens of smaller, head sized ones, set off rolling, and cascade down the slope, onto the back of the halted column.
The huge boulder crashes into the tightly packed riders, killing two outright, and scattering a dozen more. The following landslide unhorses another three or four, and two more men are struck, mortally, by rocks. It is the work of but a second, and then, Richard is up, sword in hand, charging down at them. A great, enraged giant, intent on bloody murder.
Gwen dodges to one side, as one of her pursuers tries to sweep her up, and Mush swiftly throws a knife from behind a nearby tree. The man is hit in the throat, and tumbles backwards from his horse. Barnaby Fowler steps out of cover, and slashes a second rider across the thigh, as he gallops past. The man screams, and slips out of the saddle.
The others are wheeling about, with the intention of rejoining their comrades. One is caught by a low hanging branch and is knocked backwards from his mount. Mush is on him, drawing a second knife across his throat. Barnaby Fowler stands, facing a fourth rider, who tries to run him down. He jumps aside, and thrusts upwards, even as the Welshman sweeps his sword downwards.
Barnaby’s sword tip goes deeply into the man’s side, but his own blade catches Fowler’s shoulder, and rips flesh, before he tumbles to the forest floor.
As Richard Cromwell plunges down, yelling, on the rearguard, Hans Holbein, jumps up, almost beside him, and attacks the nearest man, with an double edged axe in one hand, and a sharp dagger in the other. The man, a wary old soldier, kicks his horse in the flank, and it m
oves, to shield him. Hans swings, and chops into the horses shoulder instead. It rears up, unseating its rider, and all hell is breaking loose. Richard barrels into the nearest man, grabs his boot, and levers him out of the saddle.
Another tries to level his pike, but Cromwell’s nephew grips it, and pulls. The man, caught off balance, is forced to release his grip, or risk being unseated. Richard drops his sword, and taking the pike in two hands, begins to swing it about, like an axe. A horse is slashed, and shies away. The rider slips from the saddle, and unsheathes his sword.
Richard Cromwell sees, and lunges forward, driving the first two feet of the long pike through the man’s chest. He tries to shake the dead man free, but has to drop his weapon. A Welshman moves in, sword raised, and is hoisted above Cromwell’s head. He brings him down across his knee, and the man’s spine snaps.
Owain Gruffedd takes a moment to realise it is an organised attack, and starts barking orders. The way ahead seems clear, and he urges his men to ride out of the ambush. At that moment, Sir Jeremy Herbert stands, raises his hunting crossbow, and looses off a steel tipped quarrel. At such a short distance, he cannot miss. The bolt strikes the man to Gruffedd’s left, high in the throat, and he falls back, dead.
Will Draper and Tom Wyatt wait, until the charge to safety begins, before standing, and brandishing their swords. Gruffedd, grabs Fitzroy’s bridle, and pulls them both to one side, but the two men behind, plough onwards. Both Draper and Wyatt move at the last moment, and thrust. Two blades go in, up under the armpit, and two men fall back.
Draper is a professional soldier. He waits for his man to hit the ground, and finishes him with blow from his dagger. Wyatt is already moving forward, when his man staggers up, sword in hand, and thrusts, from behind. Sir Jeremy sees the danger, and throws himself at the poet. Wyatt feels the shove, and staggers sideways, letting his comrade take the thrust in the chest.
Draper runs at the man, knocks his sword aside, and delivers the killing blow. Sir Jeremy is on his knees, holding his breast, as if trying to keep the life force inside him, then topples over, dead. His moment of glory saves Tom Wyatt. The poet is distraught, and runs at the nearest horseman. He slashes and cuts, but the man fends him off with his pike.
Gruffedd is back near the fatal rock fall, drawing his men to him. He must see how he fares, how strong the enemy are, and then make his plans. Most of his men have dismounted, realising that they are at a disadvantage in the narrow valley. They have fought battles before, and done murder for Owain Gruffedd, and know how to fight, shoulder to shoulder.
The Welshmen are rallied around their leader, and lick their wounds, waiting for his next orders. The ambush is a success for Will draper’s side, and a disaster for the Welsh. Fourteen are either dead, or badly wounded, and half of the horses are either hurt, or driven off. It is going to be a battle on foot, man to man. The Welsh are battle hardened, and know what it means to lock horns, and either win, or die.
Owain Gruffedd cannot retreat. One step back, and everything will be lost. His grand army will melt away, and the bastard prince will never get to be king. He watches, waiting for the enemy to advance, and show its numbers.
“He’s dead, Tom,” Will Draper says, pulling his friend away from Jeremy Herbert’s lifeless body.
“He died to save me.”
“It happens.” Will Draper knows how men behave in the heat of battle. “Come, there is one last fight to be had. See? See how they have gathered. How many, do you reckon?”
“About thirty five,” Richard Cromwell says, relieving one of the dead Welshmen of his purse. “Waste not, want not. They are ready for a scrap, Will. What now?”
“Mush, put Gwen on a horse, and send her on her way,” Will says. “In a few moments they will realise we are only six men, and advance on us.”
“She will not leave me.”
“Then go with her,” Tom Wyatt tells him. He might as well tell the wind to stop blowing. Mush has killed, and proven his manhood, but he will not step back. “Very well, let her stay. Such devotion is rare, my friend.”
“Then let us get to it,” Richard says. He goes, and stands by Barnaby Fowler, who has a piece of cloth tied around his wounded shoulder. “Stay by me, Barnaby, we will fight as one.”
“Will they charge us?” Hans Holbein asks. He is yet to kill a Welshman, but his sudden attack unseated a couple, and drove them back on themselves. He is almost as large as Richard Cromwell, and lacks only the killer instinct of the Englishman.
“Not directly,” Will advises. They have pikestaffs, which Gruffedd will place at the centre. It will keep us beyond striking distance. He will have crossbows too. I think he will come on at us, slowly, loosing bolts, and trying to make us run. At close quarters, we must find a way to get past the pikes.”
“Then we have only three dozen men to kill, and the day is ours,” Mush finishes, and laughs. “Herbert had a crossbow. It must be about somewhere. We can return bolts with them at least. Then, up close, throwing knives will thin out the pike men.”
“It’s as good a plan as any,” Will Draper says. He is going to die, but does not mind. It is his job. One day, every soldier must meet his match. The one regret is that he cannot kiss his dear Miriam goodbye.
Owain Gruffedd gives a sigh of relief. His men count only six or seven at the head of the valley. The odds are with him, not against. He snaps out orders, forming his men up, exactly as Will Draper fears. The long pikes, when held out, and closely massed, are impenetrable. Even a battle hardened warhorse shies away from the razor sharp points.
Four of his men have crossbows. Not light hunting bows, but heavy, slow to wind, weapons, better suited to siege warfare. Their yard long shafts are designed to punch through the thickest armour, and will rip through an un-armoured man, like a housemaid’s knife through warm butter.
“Stay close, Prince Harry Fitzroy,” he says to the boy. “This will take but a moment, and we will be on our way. These men are sent to stop us, but they are numbered just a few. It smacks to me of desperation. Perhaps they are Norfolk’s men, or from Thomas Cromwell. Both men know their heads will be forfeit, the moment we reach London.”
“A pity, sir,” the boy says. “Are you so intent on taking Cromwell’s head. He has ever been good to me.”
“You are too soft, Fitzroy,” Owain Gruffedd replies. “Now, stay close to me, and we will be done with this.”
“Aye, I will, Master Owain. Is it not ever thus? Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer?”
“Sir, they wish to parley.” Dicken Shaw shouts. “What will you have us do?”
“This is a chance not to miss,” Harry Fitzroy says, quickly. “Let them send us a man, so we may discover why they are here.”
“It is of no matter.”
“I say it is,” Lord Harry Fitzroy replies. “We might learn something to our advantage.”
“Very well. Dicken, have one of them approach, but not too close. I have seen what they can do with a throwing knife.”
It is Will Draper who comes. He approaches, hoping to get close enough to deliver a killing blow against Gruffedd, but he is thwarted. They hold him at pike’s length, and the Welshman is wearing a breastplate, and a full metal helmet. He is also shielded by several big Welshmen.
“I come to offer you terms,” Will shouts to his enemy.
“Terms?” The thirty odd Welshmen laugh, as one. The man and his few friends offer terms of surrender, to them? Owain Gruffedd smiles. He realises that it is a last effort to get to him, and it must fail. The man is twenty paces away, and on the points of two pikes. If he even moves to draw a knife, he will be run through and through.
“State your terms,” the Welshman says.
“Surrender your leader, and the bastard son of King Henry to us, and the rest may leave here, free men. Refuse, and you will all die. There are a thousand of Norfolk’s men, but one hour’s ride from here.”
“Then why not retreat, and join them, sir?” Owain Gruffedd rep
lies.
“We are sworn to kill you, Master Gruffedd.”
“Not today, my friend,” the Welshman replies. “Today, I will sup in Hereford, and in three days, I will be sitting at the right hand of the new king, in Whitehall Palace.
Will Draper shrugs. It is his last card, and it is useless. There is no way to get close to his man, or strike a final blow. He must return to his comrades, and fight his last battle.
“Now, hear my terms,” Owain Gruffedd calls out. “Run away, as fast as you can, and don’t dare stop until you are in France, little man, for it is my avowed intent to put Harry Fitzroy on the throne of England. Run, or fight, there is no other choice.”
“There is another course,” the boy says. Owain Gruffedd hears the words, but does not have time to turn his head. The point of the dagger goes into the hollow behind his right ear, and drives up, into the brain. For a moment, he stays upright, then he slowly topples over.
“Sweet God!” Dicken Shaw cries as his master’s body crashes to the ground.
“There, it is done,” the boy says. “You, Dicken Shaw, it is my royal command that you take these men away from here. Have them return home, and keep the king’s peace, henceforth. I will return to London, with these men.”
“But sire!” Dickin Shaw is confused. The prince cannot be disobeyed, but he has just murdered Owain Gruffedd.
“Go!” the boy yells. “Or be forever outlawed. The choice is yours, fellow.”
“To horse, men,” the mercenary says. “This, it seems, is not our day. Long live the Prince of Wales.”
The Welshmen disperse, almost in a state of shock. The dream of a great, new Wales has died with Owain Gruffedd. Will Draper waits until the last of them has cantered from the valley, then turns to the boy.
“I thank you,” he says, “now, please tell me, what the hell just happened here?”
The boy walks back with Will, to the rest of them, and explains. They are as confused as the Welshmen, and don’t quite know where to start fathoming the strange business out. Tom Wyatt and Hans Holbein are simply happy to still be alive, and Richard, always slower on the uptake, will need a night to digest what he now knows. Rather than rescue Harry Fitzroy, Duke of Somerset, they have found young John Adamson.
