Owen - Book One of the Tudor Trilogy

by Tony Riches

  I tire of the self-serving politics of London and need to escape recriminations for what happened in Normandy, so now my thoughts are of Wales and the idea of finding somewhere to live out my days in peaceful retirement. Bishop Morgan once advised me that out of sight is out of mind, and I always wished to return to the island of Ynys Môn, particularly now there is little to keep me in England. Edmund and Jasper have their own lives and even Juliette now has a high position in the queen’s household and our paths rarely cross.

  I consider seeking her out to tell her my plans for the future, but by the time I see her it is the first week of May. I am with my son Edmund on a visit to see the king at the Palace of Placentia, once known as Bella Court, the grand home in Greenwich of Duke Humphrey and Lady Eleanor Cobham.

  We have come to discuss titles and marriages for both my sons, but as the eldest, it is Edmund who is at the forefront of my mind. I have not forgotten my promise to them all those years ago at Barking Abbey that they will one day be made lords, with lands and castles of their own. The king is generous to his favourites, yet needs gentle prompting as his lapses make him forgetful of his promises.

  Edmund is full of questions. ‘Why must it take so long for him to decide my title?’

  ‘Because titles pass from father to son. That’s the way of it—and how it should be. There are enough disputes over land and titles. The last thing we need is to make more enemies through yours.’

  ‘Why can’t he create a new one for me?’

  ‘He can create a new title, but you need the lands and the income from them, to make it worth a jot.’

  We turn a corner and Juliette emerges from a side-door. I feel longing and regret at the unexpected sight of her and am concerned to see she is red-eyed and distressed. She looks as if she wants to talk but remains silent when she sees Edmund at my side. I notice how she wrings her hands and realise this is something I need to know about. Telling Edmund to continue without me, I take her arm and lead her into the privacy of one of the side rooms.

  She stares at me with wide eyes. ‘Something terrible has happened, Owen.’

  ‘Is it the queen?’

  ‘It concerns Sir William de la Pole. He was always very good to me.’

  ‘Was? You mean he is dead?’ I knew Sir William was always going to take more than his share of the blame for the loss of Maine and Anjou. He was even imprisoned in the Tower until the king ordered his release. Sir William waived his right to trial by his peers to have the king’s judgement, yet I was as surprised as anyone to learn the king banished Sir William from England for five years.

  Juliette’s voice is almost a whisper. ‘The queen told me he has been murdered, trying to make his way to Burgundy. His body was discovered on the beach near Dover. She said they… cut off his head.’

  I hold her close, feeling her familiar warmth, and she clasps her hands at the back of my neck, as if she will not let me go. For a moment it is as if we are lovers again, then I realise my sons could be in danger. If this is the first sign of a revolt against the king and queen, those close to them need to take care.

  ‘Does the queen know who is behind this?’

  Juliette rests her head against my chest as she had done so often in the past, without any awkwardness or bitterness at my decision for us to part. ‘Only rumours. The news was brought to the queen by a servant of the Sheriff of Kent, who knows few of the details.’

  ‘How has she taken it?’

  ‘She is distraught. It has all come as a shock, particularly to Lady Alice.’

  I remember how pleased Sir William looked at the queen’s coronation and how he risked his own reputation to protect me after the loss of Regnéville. I release Juliette so I can look into her eyes. ‘I am truly sorry for them. Fortune’s Wheel has turned again—but who benefits most from this, I wonder?’

  ‘He had many enemies—it could have been anyone.’

  ‘I remember how Richard, Duke of York, scowled at him when we were in Rouen. He has never forgiven Sir William for the losses in France.’

  Juliette’s eyes are full of concern. ‘They say an angry crowd pursued him from London, calling him a traitor.’

  ‘These are dangerous times, Juliette. I must leave London while I still can.’

  ‘Are you finally going to Wales?’

  ‘It was always my plan, and now I’m worried about my sons.’

  ‘They are grown men now.’ She looks into my eyes. ‘Edmund reminds me so much of his mother—and Jasper of you when we first met.’

  ‘He is a true Tudor, that one. Perhaps you will help me find him a suitable wife?’

  ‘Before he takes after his father?’

  ‘Am I really so bad?’

  She answers by kissing me, surprising me for the first time in many years.

  * * *

  The town of Beaumaris feels tranquil, a different world from the noise and dirt of London’s crowded, muddy streets. I have a pension from the king of forty pounds a year, more than enough to live comfortably and buy a fine, stone-built house with a slate roof and three acres of good land. My new house is conveniently close to the church of St Marys and St Nicholas, and a short distance from the seafront and the shallow, drying harbour.

  On the evening of my second day in Beaumaris I take a walk to see the towering sandstone walls of Beaumaris Castle, with its wide green moat, which dominates the town. The first King Edward ordered his soldiers to evict the entire population of the village of Llanfaes by force so he could build his castle on their land. I curse the English for their contempt for the people of Wales and am not sorry the arrogant king died painfully of the flux, like King Henry V.

  I find a tavern in a side-street near the castle, where the helpful landlord recommends a local widow as my cook and housekeeper. With her daughter Bethan, who cleans and serves, I find I soon have my own household. They speak Welsh as their first language and I struggle to understand them or to make my wishes properly understood, although I am learning the language again.

  Bethan is an attractive young woman, with dark hair and enquiring eyes, reminding me of how my daughter could have been if God had allowed her to live. Bright and quick-witted, with a lively sense of humour, she offers to improve my Welsh in return for my help teaching her English. She is a fast learner, if a little forward for her age, and I am grateful for her help.

  The people of the town are friendly enough and I guard my anonymity well, as there are dangers for me even here, so far from London. On another visit to the tavern I strike up conversation with a soldier from the castle who tells me the Duke of York recently passed through Beaumaris on his return from his post as Lieutenant of Ireland, and is thought to be raising an army to challenge the king.

  ‘The duke was furious,’ the soldier takes a drink from his tankard, enjoying his tale, ‘the constable, Sir William Bulkeley, denied him supplies and access to the castle, you see?’ He waits for me to respond.

  I sip my ale and pretend disinterest, but the talkative soldier does not appear to notice. He is already a little unsteady on his feet, having drunk several tankards of the strong ale.

  ‘Men loyal to the king tried to detain him in Bangor! They say the duke has sworn to seek out and punish those who lost our lands in France.’ He looks as if he expects me to agree.

  This is not what I wish to hear so close to the sanctuary I chose to escape from such things. The Duke of York is rich enough to raise a sizeable army and is a man who can win popular support for his challenge for the crown. I worry that word of the surrender of Regnéville could make me a target for those who resent my favours from the king. Even in Beaumaris it seems there are men who would prefer to see York on the throne.

  I pour the soldier a fresh tankard of ale from my jug and change the subject. ‘Am I right in thinking Lady Eleanor Cobham is imprisoned in the castle?’

  ‘She is.’ The soldier lowers his voice. ‘Lady Eleanor is teaching me to read—and write my name.’

  I hear the pride
in his voice and remember the strikingly beautiful young wife of Duke Humphrey. She is about the same age as me, so must also be nearing fifty years old now. I barely survived twelve months in prison, so it is hard to imagine what life must be like for Lady Eleanor after ten years, particularly now her husband is dead.

  ‘Is she allowed visitors?’ I am not sure I wish to see her but am intrigued all the same.

  The soldier shakes his head. ‘Our orders are not to allow anyone to see her, other than the priest—and the constable’s wife.’

  I take a silver groat from my pocket. ‘Would you ask her if there is anything she needs?’

  The soldier pockets the coin. ‘I surely will, sir.’

  The next day I ride out on the road to Llangefni to visit the village of Penmynydd, the place of my birth. It is little more than a row of alms-houses and farmsteads, although there is a church at the crossroads. I tie my horse’s bridle to the gatepost and enter.

  The church of St Credifael is small, with a steeply pitched roof, which makes it feel spacious and welcoming. I find an alabaster tomb and decipher the inscription. It belongs to my uncle, Gronw Fychan ap Tudur and his wife Myfanwy. At last I have found my family and returned home. I kneel alone at the altar and pray, first for the safety of my sons, then for the souls of my wife and daughter, Margaret, named in memory of my mother.

  * * *

  My peaceful retirement feels more like a lonely exile, so I am cheered when a sealed letter is delivered by a merchant on his way from London to Ireland. Nathaniel has been busy building his fortune amongst the mercers and haberdashers and has lodgings in Westcheap, near London Bridge.

  I walk down to the seafront and look across the River Menai at the brooding mountains of mainland Wales, wondering what is happening in far-away London. I still worry for my sons. Edmund spends most of his time in Westminster and I have not heard from Jasper. Sitting on the old stone sea wall I take the letter from my pocket and break open the seal, smiling as I see Nathaniel’s neat hand.

  He writes of a mob gathering to the south of the city, as many as five thousand, including disaffected soldiers and sailors returned from the wars in France and Burgundy. Royal forces sent to disperse them at Sevenoaks were defeated by the rebels and from Wiltshire there is news of the murder of William Ayscough, Bishop of Salisbury. The king's personal confessor was dragged from his chapel and hacked to death because he advised the king that marital relations are sinful.

  As far as Nathaniel is aware the king and queen have left London for their own safety. The rebels soon took over the city and their leader, a man who goes by the name of Jack Cade, carried out mock trials, accusing the king’s supporters of corruption. The head of Baron Saye, the Lord High Treasurer, was paraded through the streets on a pike and there were several days of drunken looting before the rebels are driven back over London Bridge and routed.

  Nathaniel makes no mention of Edmund or Jasper, which I hope is a good thing. I fold the letter and return it to the pocket in my doublet, then continue walking along the shoreline. I search for a round, flat stone amongst the many on the beach and find one that fits comfortably into the palm of my hand. I pitch it into the sea, spinning it with a flick of my wrist as I used to as a boy. The stone hits the water and skips into the air, still spinning, three times before it disappears into the grey-green waves. I have done what I can for my sons. Now they must live their own lives.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Autumn 1455

  I take the arm of my son’s new bride and escort her up the aisle of the Saxon church of St Mary the Virgin, which serves Bletsoe Castle in Bedfordshire. I cannot help wondering if she is the perfect choice for Edmund, as everyone seems to believe. Her childlike body seems frail and her skin is ghostly pale. I notice her wrists are as small as Catherine’s were when I first met her. That is where the resemblance ends. Margaret is as pious as any nun and already better educated than most men. Her sharp young eyes seem to read my thoughts and judge me in an instant.

  Margaret is a Beaufort. She is also one of the wealthiest heiresses in England. Her grandfather, Sir John Beaufort, the first Earl of Somerset, was the eldest son of John of Gaunt, made Constable of England and given the confiscated estates of Owain Glyndur by King Henry V. This is Lady Margaret’s second marriage, for she was married first to the son of the ill-fated Sir William de la Pole. The annulment of that marriage was approved by the king, who made Margaret the ward of Edmund and Jasper. Now Edmund will inherit her fortune and her royal lineage.

  Edmund would be next in line for the throne if the queen had not given birth to a healthy son, Prince Edward, two years before. It saddens me to learn the king’s lapses have grown more frequent. His physicians had declared him an imbecile, as for more than a year he didn’t acknowledge his son or even recognise the queen. Some say the prince is a gift from God. Others say it is a miracle the king managed to produce an heir at all. King Henry’s enemies mischievously ask who the real father is—and the king has a good many enemies now.

  At the end of May the Duke of York showed his hand. With Sir Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, and the earl’s father, the Duke of Buckingham, he led an army against the king, who was barricaded into the town of St Albans. King Henry was wounded in the neck by an arrow and Jasper narrowly escaped with his life as he fought to protect him. Sir Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, Margaret Beaufort’s uncle, was slain in the battle and York is now acting as Protector of the Realm. The king is now effectively his prisoner and the queen and Prince Edward dare not leave their sanctuary in Greenwich.

  My son turns to watch as we approach. Edmund has changed since the king made him the Earl of Richmond, with generous grants of lands and income. His once gold-blond hair is darker now and his blue eyes shine with ambition. Jasper was made Earl of Pembroke, a good Welsh title previously held by none other than Duke Humphrey. Both my sons are now recognised by parliament as the king’s legitimate brothers, a mixed blessing, given his situation.

  I leave Lady Margaret at the altar and take my seat on the hard pew next to Jasper, who has travelled to Bletsoe from Wales to witness the ceremony. Jasper is every inch a nobleman now, with a fine doublet of dark green velvet and a heavy gold chain around his neck. I try not to favour one son over the other, but I am particularly proud of Jasper for the way he tries to reconcile the warring factions of Lancaster and York at parliament, with no thanks from either.

  We watch as Edmund and Margaret repeat their wedding vows. Edmund’s well-educated voice echoes in the high-vaulted church, yet sounds slightly rushed, as if he wishes the whole business soon over. Margaret sounds softer, surprisingly mature and confident, and her words carry conviction. She told me Saint Nicholas came to her in a vision as she prayed for guidance, telling her she should take Edmund as her husband. I thought that was just as well, for she had no choice in the matter once the king made his decision.

  My mind wanders to my own wedding day, so long ago and in such different circumstances. I remember waiting for someone to stop the ceremony and arrest me, but no one came and now I am witnessing my own son’s wedding. This is no love match though. I see a calculating satisfaction in my son’s eyes as he estimates the net worth of his new inheritance.

  Bletsoe Castle is a fine, fortified manor house, now part of Edmund’s new life. The birthplace of Margaret Beaufort, it is protected by a moat some fifty feet wide and has a spacious banqueting hall. The high arched roof is a grand construction of carved oak beams and the gaudy, painted shields of generations of Beaufort ancestors decorate the walls. Long trestle tables are set with white linen for the wedding guests, mostly of the extended Beaufort family, few of whom I recognise.

  Edmund and Margaret sit at the top table like a king and queen. On one side is Margaret’s stern, uncompromising mother, Baroness Margaret of Bletsoe and her third husband, Baron Lionel de Welles, sits with me, with Jasper to my other side. In our brief introduction I learn the baron has travelled from his post as Deputy Captain of C
alais for his step-daughter’s wedding. He is easily diverted by talk of piracy in the Channel and sea conditions on the crossing.

  A brash fanfare of trumpets announces the serving of the first course. This is civet of hare, which Jasper explains is made from a whole hare, marinated and cooked with red wine and juniper berries, then ‘jugged’ in a tall jug standing in cold water. I wonder how they manage to find and catch enough hares for so many guests, then remember that such things are easily achieved if you have a vast fortune.

  A small army of silent servants in blue and white Beaufort livery clear our platters as soon as they are empty and the second course is served. Sweet gilded sugar plums and shiny red pomegranate seeds from Spain decorate enormous pies, each hiding under its pastry crust the meat of roe deer, gosling, capons and pigeons, all covered with bright yellow saffron and flavoured with spices.

  Even now, after more than thirty years, the exotic scent of cloves takes me back to my first night with Juliette at Windsor. I still carry the yellowing square of linen embroidered with a now fading red dragon. My maid, Bethan, discovered it when cleaning my doublet in Beaumaris and I told her I carry it for good luck, although the question in her eyes suggests she is not convinced.

  I have had enough rich food by the time the third course is served and decline the offer of roasted piglet, laid out on the table as if it is sleeping. Instead I choose sturgeon cooked in parsley and vinegar and covered with powdered ginger. Jasper has a dish of herons, covered with egg yolks and sprinkled with spices. The wedding couple are presented with a whole wild boar, with gold leaf covering its curving tusks.

  Edmund seems to be enjoying the feast and throws morsels to his hunting dogs, which prowl under the tables of the wedding guests like hungry wolves. After a final course of plums stewed in rose-water, it is time for me to stand and make my speech of thanks to the assembled guests and dignitaries. I keep it short, thanking God that I have been spared long enough to see my eldest son married, and propose a toast to the happy couple. I am not used to eating or drinking so much and secretly wish I am back in the restful sanctuary of Beaumaris.