Owen (22 page)

‘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.

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 Calais 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.

When I sit down again Jasper leans over and speaks in my ear. ‘Edmund told me he plans to have her with child tonight—if he can.’

I glance across at my eldest son, who is now drinking from a large silver goblet. ‘That is his right, I suppose, Jasper, although she is... a little young.’

‘S
he is twelve years old, half Edmund’s age.’

‘Well, she couldn’t have been more than six or seven when she first married the de la Pole boy.’

‘That marriage was never consummated, Father, and you know it.’ Jasper frowns. ‘I fear Lady Margaret is too feeble to have a child.’

‘I share your concern, Jasper—but don’t underestimate the new Countess of Richmond. She has Beaufort steel running through her veins.’ I smile as I wonder what Cardinal Henry Beaufort would have made of this marriage.

Jasper’s concern for the girl is touching, but I sense there is more to his anger. The king made Lady Margaret the ward of both my sons, so there could be a little jealousy that Edmund has secured such a prize. Edmund’s haste to risk his new wife in childbirth is no mystery to me. By common law, all Margaret’s lands and fortune pass to Edmund once she conceives a child.

‘And you, Jasper, what are your plans now?’

‘I intend to make Pembroke Castle my home. The building work has already started. You must visit and see for yourself when it is finished.’

I take another sip of red wine, appreciating the quality. ‘I will do that, Jasper. It will be good to see more of Wales—and you must come to Beaumaris, to see where your grandparents were born.’

‘Of course, although I must remain close to the king until the danger has passed.’ Jasper looks thoughtful. ‘Perhaps you will accompany me tomorrow to Greenwich?’

‘To visit the queen?’ I find I am wondering if I will see Juliette one last time.

‘Yes.’ Jasper glances up the table to where his brother is still drinking heavily. ‘I think, Father, it is time we Tudors showed our colours in this tussle between Lancaster and York.’

The long ride south to Greenwich provides an opportunity to catch up on developments in England. In Beaumaris I must rely on the occasional letter and the castle guards gossiping in the tavern for news. Jasper is one of the few people close to both the king and the Duke of York, who now governs the country through a parliament of his own supporters—and by the threat of force.

We leave Bletsoe Castle as a low sunrise turns the sky the colour of a ripe peach. My head throbs from the effects of too much rich food and wine, although the fresh morning air is already improving my mood. I am on my trusty Welsh Cob and Jasper rides at my side on his black stallion. He has an expensive fur cape over his doublet and wears his sword with the easy confidence of a man who knows how to use it.

When I asked Jasper about St Albans there were too many Beaufort servants listening at Bletsoe for us to speak freely. I look back down the road. We are followed by a dozen yeomen and a few servants of Jasper’s on a wagon with our baggage and supplies, all loyal, trusted men and far enough behind to be out of earshot.

‘So tell me what happened at St Albans, Jasper?’

My son frowns at a memory. ‘The Duke of York is an honourable man, Father. We nearly negotiated a truce with him.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘He demanded that the king surrender his advisors.’

‘Henry couldn’t allow it?’

‘It was the first time I have ever seen him angry. We knew what would happen to anyone we handed over, so we had no choice but to fight.’

‘I thought York attacked first?’

‘He did. We barricaded the roads leading into the town and were winning the day—but the Earl of Warwick took us by surprise. He sent his archers through the back gardens of the houses. Our men panicked when they were attacked from the rear and York’s men overwhelmed us before we could recover.’

‘How was Edmund Beaufort killed?’ I remember the handsome young man I had last seen in Windsor, the man who so nearly won Catherine’s hand.

‘I didn’t see—but they told me it wasn’t a fair fight. They say he was murdered by a gang of Warwick’s men as he came out of the tavern.’

‘And the king?’

Jasper has a distant look in his eyes as he recalls the events of that day. ‘I heard the bell ringing in the market square—our signal to rally round the king. Warwick’s archers were aiming at anyone near the Royal Standard and I saw good men die from a dozen arrows before they even had a chance to fight. Others threw down their swords in surrender and were cut down as they begged for mercy. Lord Clifford tried to reason with them, in the name of the king, but was dragged from his horse and hacked to death...’

‘I heard the king was hit in the neck?’

‘Thank God he was wearing his plate armour. There was a lot of blood, but it was only a flesh wound.’

‘From the sound of it you were lucky not to be wounded.’

‘I was lucky to be spared, Father. The Duke of York ordered me set free and I saw him on his knees before the king, begging his forgiveness.’

‘So it wasn’t quite the victory the Yorkist’s claim?’

‘It was, Father. They could have killed us all.’ He curses to himself. ‘They stripped the dead and despoiled their bodies, leaving them to have their eyes pecked out by the crows. They cut the throats of the wounded and ran riot, looting the town and raping any women they could find.’

I hadn’t realised how close I had been to losing my son and see from Jasper’s face that the horrors of the battle will live with him, just as my own memories of the siege of Rouen have kept me awake at nights. Now I understand why Jasper is so keen for us to visit the queen in Greenwich.

I would have thought any chance of him remaining loyal to York would have died that day at St Albans, yet I know Jasper spent many days with the duke after the battle, hoping to reconcile the opposing sides. His efforts have not been a complete waste of time, as the generous grants made by the king to my sons are the only ones not reversed by York’s parliament as the duke rewards those loyal to him and punishes those who are not.

* * *

The armed guards at the Palace of Placentia in Greenwich are vigilant and challenge us as we approach. It seems the queen is taking no risks and is expecting trouble from the Duke of York. It has taken us several days to make the journey from Bletsoe and I am weary from the long ride.