by David Field
On 1st August 1485, Henry’s provisional, under-sized, army of Yorkist deserters, lifelong Lancastrian supporters and French mercenaries set sail from Honfleur in Normandy. For once, Henry Tudor’s presence in the Channel did not provoke a storm, and six days later they slid up the muddy beach at Mill Bay in Pembrokeshire, just as the sun was beginning to set on the traditional Tudor heartland. Heaving a sigh of relief, Henry knelt on the home ground he had left as a frightened boy of fourteen, and as a man of twenty-eight he called upon God to ‘Judge me, Lord, and fight my cause.’ Then he stood up, turned to face the men scrambling ashore behind him and issued his first battle order.
‘Follow me, in the name of God and St. George!’
X
After reaching the English shore, Henry was passed a piece of cloth which he unfurled in the evening breeze. It was a red dragon on a field of green and white, and Jasper’s mouth opened in a smile of recognition.
‘The ancient banner of Cadwalladr!’ he shouted.
‘Indeed,’ Henry replied. ‘It was made up by a seamstress in Paris on my instruction. I hope that my memory served me correctly, since it could not be found in any book of heraldry to which I had resort.’
Jasper studied it more carefully. ‘Your memory did not play you false, nephew. And you even had the wench cut the eyelets, which leaves us only to find a flagpole on which to fly it, and a man to bear it aloft, since that is not a task befitting the heir to the throne.’
Henry surveyed the now silent ranks of men on the beach, and fixed his gaze on the tallest one he could see. He beckoned him forward. ‘Your name, good sir?’
‘Sir William Brandon, sire. I serve the Earl of Oxford.’
‘You now serve a king in all but name,’ Henry smiled back at him. ‘Should your arm be as brawny as it appears, you shall be my standard bearer.’
‘It shall be an honour, sire, and I shall preserve it with my life.’
‘Pray God it does not come to that,’ Henry replied, before looking back at Jasper. ‘It is some years since we were last in this part of the world, as I recall, and the circumstances were such that I did not have opportunity to note the details. Where are we, in truth?’
‘By my reckoning, we are somewhat south of Haverfordwest, in my own country of Pembroke,’ Jasper replied. ‘It has a castle on which once sat my pennant, and it will serve as both a place to rest the men and horses, and a means of acquiring a suitable pole for our new battle standard. Might I also suggest that we carry a second standard, that of St. George?’
‘I would deem it an honour to carry that,’ John de Vere shouted out.
Henry smiled. ‘Since a man who serves the Earl of Oxford carries the one, it is meet that the second be carried by his liege lord. The honour shall be yours, my lord.’
It was dark by the time the invasion party of less than a thousand had fully assembled on the greens surrounding Haverfordwest Castle, whose gates were opened at the first sign of the Richmond host’s approach. Grooms were sent out immediately to local merchants to acquire the necessary food and drink, and the Castle Steward ordered out such canvas tenting as was available to shield Henry’s men against the showers of rain that occasionally spattered down. The horses were pegged on long halter ropes, and by the following morning they had reduced the castle greensward to brown earth.
Two days later, they were still awaiting the men expected to rally to the call. Henry sat despondently by a window in the ancient keep tower, looking gloomily down.
‘This is your territory, Uncle — where are they all?’
‘It was my territory,’ Jasper reminded him, ‘but as you may recall, I have been absent from it for some time. Even Pembroke has passed to others who are in favour with the usurper Gloucester. Our arrival has been long anticipated, and Richard has let it be known that it will be deemed treason even to fart in our direction. But at the same time, the men in this area remain loyal to the memory of the noble Tudor who was their friend, and your father. As a result, while they will not hinder us in any way, neither can they be seen to actively assist.’
‘If they will not come to our cause,’ Henry asked, ‘why should we not simply return to France?’
‘Because,’ Jasper explained patiently, ‘in the mountains to the north are men who have no love for any English King, Yorkist or Lancastrian. They are as wild as the sheep they tend, but they may be persuaded by coin to slit throats with great eagerness, particularly if they are English throats.’
‘You propose that we take on the armed might of Gloucester with a few shepherds?’ Henry asked in disbelief.
Jasper grinned. ‘When you were a child, and the snow fell in the forecourt of Pembroke Castle, did you ever make balls from it that you could throw?’
‘What in God’s name is your point?’ Henry demanded testily.
‘Simply this, that if one takes one of these balls made from snow, and pursues it along the ground, it grows larger by the minute, until it is almost beyond moving. By the same token, once we have what looks like a sizeable army, shepherds or not, men will be more encouraged to join it, in the belief that there is safety in numbers.’
‘Men are not snow,’ Henry grumbled, ‘even if they be as white in the hair as he who rides into the courtyard with two heavily armed henchmen.’
Jasper looked over Henry’s shoulder through the window and smiled.
‘It has been many years since I last saw him, but unless my eyes grow false as my years advance, that is Rhys ap Thomas. I wrote to him from Brittany, and he has promised to aid our cause.’
‘Send word to the Steward to have him admitted,’ Henry instructed.
Jasper chuckled. ‘If he be half the man he once was, he will admit himself.’
Less than five minutes later, their visitor stood before them, looking uncomfortable. Jasper read the look, and frowned. ‘You come to break your word, by my guess.’
‘Rhys ap Thomas breaks his word to no man,’ the older man replied, ‘but therein lies the dilemma.’
‘You have pledged yourself to Richard of Gloucester?’ Henry enquired.
‘It is worse even than that,’ the Welshman admitted. ‘I swore a solemn oath before God that I would defend these lands in the name of the rightful King. As you know, I am Richard’s lieutenant for the whole of south-west Wales, and I am duty bound to advise him of your landing.’
‘He will learn of that ere long anyway,’ Jasper observed, ‘so it may best come from you. As for your oath, this young man beside me is the rightful King.’
Rhys said something in Welsh, and looked enquiringly at Henry, who shrugged his shoulders.
‘You speak no Welsh, yet you fly the pennant of Cadwalladr from your battlement, and you expect me to support your claim to the Welsh crown?’
Henry’s eyes blazed with defiance. ‘According to my uncle, you once fought with Lancaster, as did your ancestors for many generations. I am the last of the Lancasters, and the lawful King of both England and Wales. I am also a Tudor, with bloodlines to Owen Glyndwr. Wales would be safer under my crown than that of any Yorkist.’
Rhys smiled thinly. ‘Forgive me if I offended. There is obviously the old Tudor fire in your belly, and would that I could bring my men to your battle colours. But the oath I took was before God, and I would perjure my immortal soul were I to break it.’
‘If it is a matter of keeping your peace with God,’ Jasper suggested, ‘you might wish to speak with the Bishop of Ely, who is somewhere in our train. If you are satisfied that this young man is the rightful King of England, then you keep true to the strict words of your oath by lending him your sword arm, and you break your oath if you do not.’
Rhys looked undecided. ‘Leave the salvation of my own soul to me,’ he eventually replied. ‘In the meantime, go in peace through my lands, though Richard would have my head were he to learn of it.’
‘His own head will be unsteady on his shoulders, when we are victorious,’ Jasper replied, ‘but we shall not forget your courtesy
to us when that day comes.’
Rhys bowed slightly as he left, and Jasper moved back to the window to watch his departure.
‘We shall see him again,’ he said as he turned back to Henry, ‘and when we do he will fight under the banner of Cadwalladr. If not, he would have ordered it to be lowered ere he departed.’
The next day they began a slow march through central Wales, and men came to their standards in increasing numbers. First across the peninsular to the coast at Cardigan, then along the rugged shoreline that headed north, after which they planned to turn inland for Shrewsbury. Late in the afternoon of 14th August, almost two weeks after their landing, a large group of wild-looking savages stood ahead of them, at the side of the road. Each of them was armed with either a sword or a large knife, and in one case an axe of doubtful serviceability, and they cheered as Sir William rode past them with the dragon standard, ahead of Henry and Jasper who were riding together a few yards to his rear. Jasper spoke to them in Welsh, and they cheered again, and ran back towards the rear of the column, clearly intent on joining it. They were the fifth such group to join them in the past three days, and Jasper turned smugly to Henry.
‘Did I not promise that these men would follow me?’
‘You did. There must be some two thousand armed men to our rear.’
Jasper turned to look at Henry with proud eyes. ‘I have watched my brother’s boy become the man his father was, and more. Do not allow yourself to forget that these men have pledged their lives in your cause. Do not waste those lives by recklessly giving battle when the time is not meet. We must take London without taking to the field, while Richard is hopefully still in Yorkshire, tending to his stately gardens and patting his weakly son on the head.’
The next morning, as Henry and Jasper rode out from Machynlleth, there was a small party of armed men waiting in the roadway ahead of them. Henry ordered his standard bearer to let them past and leaned down in his saddle to greet the one who moved his horse slowly forward to come alongside his.
‘You are Henry Tudor,’ the man said.
‘This I already know,’ Henry replied jokingly, ‘but if yours was a question, then it is indeed true. I am he. And now we have that established, who might you be?’
‘Rowland Warburton. I serve Sir William Stanley, whose domains you are about to enter. Shed not a drop of blood, or it will go the worse for you.’
Jasper leaned across from his saddle. ‘Allow me, sire,’ he said to Henry as he looked haughtily at Warburton. ‘You speak to the rightful King of England as if he were a peasant poaching your deer. You serve Sir William, you say?’
‘That is correct,’ the man replied, far from subdued by Jasper’s tone.
‘And he is the brother of Earl Stanley?’
‘That is also correct.’
‘Then know you not that the man to whom you are denying lawful progress is your master’s nephew by marriage?’
‘This I knew also,’ Warburton replied, ‘which is why I am charged to guide you as far as the English border, and ensure that your men do nothing that will require my master to protect his own.’
‘Mind me not to employ you as a foreign ambassador,’ Henry said dismissively to Jasper as he treated Warburton to a reassuring smile. ‘Your master — and my uncle — does us much courtesy. Rest assured that we will shed no blood until we spy the white boar of Gloucester. In the meantime, your kindly offer to escort us to the border is much appreciated. Pray ride alongside us while we admire the beautiful countryside of which your master must be greatly fond.’
As they approached the gates of Shrewsbury, they found them closed against them. Henry sent a messenger to the north gate, and watched impatiently as he saw the man admitted, then waited some thirty minutes before he re-emerged, looking red in the face. He walked up to where Henry sat waiting on horseback, with Jasper to one side of him and Rowland Warburton on the other.
‘Well?’ Henry demanded as the messenger stared down at his own feet in the roadway.
‘I spoke with a man who claimed to be the Bailiff of Shrewsbury, sire. He told me to inform you that you will ride through his town over his belly.’
Henry snorted, while Jasper instinctively gripped his sword hilt.
Warburton addressed the messenger. ‘There are two bailiffs of Shrewsbury. Spoke you with Roger Knight or Thomas Mitton?’
‘The man with whom I spoke gave his name as Mitton, as best as I can recall.’
Warburton turned to Henry. ‘If you would permit me, I will deal with this matter as befits the envoy of the man sworn to maintain peace in this county, if I have your word that your men will pass peacefully through this town.’
‘You have that word,’ Henry assured him. ‘We will await your return.’
Warburton disappeared behind the still locked gate, and returned almost an hour later. ‘The Earl may pass through first, with two armed men to guard against any treachery. You will find the Bailiff in the main street, by the church door. Once the Earl has passed through, the others will be free to follow.’
Henry set off at a slow trot, with Jasper on one side and the Earl of Oxford on the other. Halfway through the town, as they approached the old cathedral, a large man was lying flat on his back in the roadway. Henry walked his horse up to him, and looked down. The man looked back up at him with a shamefaced grin.
‘I am Thomas Mitton. If I am to discharge my oath, you must step across my belly. But I would be much obliged if you would do me the courtesy of dismounting first.’
‘Gladly,’ Henry chuckled, as he jumped from his horse, and stepped over the ample gut with some difficulty. The horse was led round the side of the prostrate form by Jasper, still on his own mount, and as Henry climbed back into the saddle, he looked back down at Thomas Mitton. ‘My thanks. When I am King, Shrewsbury shall have a charter to reward this day’s courtesy. May my men now progress through the town?’
‘They may indeed, sire,’ Mitton replied. ‘And God speed your enterprise.’
They had just cleared Shrewsbury, on the road to Stafford, when standard bearer William Brandon raised his hand for them all to stop, and pointed towards a wooded hill up to their right.
‘A large body of armed men approaches, sire,’ he warned them. ‘Do we stand and fight?’
‘No,’ replied Jasper with a shout of delight, ‘we stand and cheer. Those are the battle colours of Rhys ap Thomas!’
Their army had all but doubled overnight, and was now slightly short of five thousand. It was a mixed assembly of lifelong Lancastrians, disaffected Yorkists, wild Welsh hillsmen, fulltime soldiers from the hastily re-summoned army of the returned Earl of Oxford, the armed retinue of Rhys ap Thomas, and hired French mercenaries. They filled Stafford to overflowing, and it was decided to halt the progress for a day or so, in order to rest the men and horses. They had no way of knowing when — or if — they would encounter the royal forces on their way to London, and it was important that they be fresh for battle, should that be demanded of them.
They awoke the following morning to discover that Warburton had left their company at the inn that they had established as their temporary base. Fearing that they were about to be betrayed, Henry ordered that a watch be mounted on the town walls, and shortly after an indifferent breakfast of cold meats washed down with small beer, he heard a challenge from the north postern, as Warburton clattered back into town with a tall man riding alongside him. Henry turned to see Jasper at his elbow, gnawing on a chicken leg, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
‘Prepare to meet another uncle,’ he told Henry as he stepped back deferentially into the shadow of the inn doorway.
The tall man dismounted and walked up to Henry.
‘My man tells me that you are Henry Tudor, but I would have known that from your likeness to your mother, my sister-in-law. I am Sir William Stanley.’
Henry bowed slightly. ‘My uncle, I salute you. I also thank you for safe passage through your lands, and for the good offices of your man Warbu
rton, who is well worth whatever you pay him.’
‘Where lies your brother?’ came Jasper’s voice from the shadows, ‘and does he ride for Tudor or for Gloucester?’
Henry winced visibly, and began to apologise for his uncle’s abruptness, but Sir William waved his words aside.
‘You, sir, must be the other uncle, the one who has seen Henry through so many hazards, and who is little short of a living saint, according to your sister-in-law. I was forewarned that you might be lacking in Courtly manners.’
‘We are also lacking in fighting men,’ Jasper reminded him, ‘and I see none in your company. I can only ask again whether the good name of Stanley is to be added to this noble cause that we pursue.’
Sir William frowned, and addressed Henry. ‘The matter is a delicate one. Richard is now in Nottingham, on his way south. He has learned of your unhindered progress through Wales, and believes that you intend to march direct on London. Somewhere between here and there, he will intercept you with an army somewhat larger than yours appears to be. But already he demands to know how — and why — you have been allowed to progress so far without challenge from either myself or my older brother, the Earl Stanley. As you may know, I am the Chamberlain of Chester and North Wales, and it is through my forbearance that you have made it thus far. My brother is encamped with his army at Lichfield, from where he may march either to Nottingham to join the King, as he is commanded to do, or await your further progress south, and join with you at Atherstone.’
‘Tell my stepfather that were he to join his force with mine, we should be assured of victory,’ Henry urged him.
Sir William shook his head. ‘Mind, I said that the matter was a delicate one. Richard holds my nephew George, Lord Strange, my brother’s natural son, as hostage to his loyalty, and has him in his retinue, chained inside a bullock cart wherever he progresses, in order that he may have him instantly executed, as he has sworn to do if my brother does not join him without further delay. I am, however, instructed to advise you that because of the natural love and affection that my brother has for your mother, he will not take any step against your life.’
