On the coast, ships still waited for nails and beams and sails, with sailors falling foul of local magistrates so that some of them ended up swinging for petty crimes. The torrent of gold and silver from Paris dried to a complete stop. Even the regular stipend they had received for years came to an end and there was nothing Jasper or Henry could do about it.
Jasper doubted the new king even knew their names. He had always found Louis pleasant company, and for the first time, both Henry and Jasper appreciated how difficult it was to gain an audience with a king if he, or more likely his courtiers, were not willing. As the months passed, the Tudors had to sell every item of value just to eat. More letters went out from Jasper by messenger to Calais, to be carried to
Wales and London. He hated to beg, but the alternative was to starve. Jasper had one or two friends left in Wales, but the Stanleys were the best hope in lean times. As a reward for service, Sir William Stanley had been made Lord Chief Justice in Wales. He sent news and occasionally a purse of silver at the request of his older brother. Lord Thomas Stanley seemed to want to please his wife, Margaret, and her exiled son. Henry’s mother sent a pouch of her own when she dared to, though she thought she was watched. She had kept her place at court, but King Richard had spies all around, just making reports and notes, gathered in at the Tower.
Jasper and Henry survived – and if their meals were spartan and their clothes were no longer in fashion, both had known and endured worse. At least talk cost nothing. Their little community of English and Welsh had grown to a couple of hundred and they could laugh and talk the evenings away. Some of them had taken work in Rennes, settling into the life.
Along the coast, they were still able to see the broken ribs of warships driven in upon the shore. Of the eighteen, nine had reached safe harbour and Jasper and Henry had shown their visitors the sight, walking along the cliffs every few days to watch men clambering about them, busy with tools. One by one the great ships had vanished, just as soon as they were fit enough to limp away under sail.
An entire year passed in royal disapproval before a smart young herald appeared at the door of the Tudor house. Jasper Tudor felt his heart give a great thump as he caught sight of the man in brushed cloth and embroidered gold, wearing a panel of fleurs-de-lis. Jasper ushered him in and took the scroll he was given. He unrolled it and peered at tight black lettering without spaces of any kind, filling one side to another. Jasper heard himself breathing as he nodded and
used the tip of a finger to trace along a line so as not to lose his thread of understanding.
‘Yes … oh, good boy …’ he said. For the first time, he heard that King Richard had lost both his heir and then his wife, a few months later. The throne of England was vulnerable and it seemed someone in the French royal court had recalled two Tudor men waiting on just such an opportunity. In growing delight, Jasper read permission to draw on royal funds once more. He could take it to any moneylender and empty the man’s coffers. His hand began to tremble and he heard a rattle of cartwheels on the cobbles outside, making him look up. He rushed to the cottage door and looked down the hill.
The road from the east was filled with carts and marching men. The fourteen-year-old King Charles of France had decided to act. Jasper turned to his nephew in astonishment.
‘It says two thousand men, well trained and armed. These are just the first of them.’
‘We’ll need many more than that,’ his nephew said. ‘I’ll start in Wales then.’
‘Where in Wales?’ Jasper asked him. It was a strange thing to look to his nephew in a new light. Henry’s claim was so weak that it would never have stood the light of day in a good year. Yet there had been no good years since Tewkesbury. Henry’s mother was Margaret Beaufort and four generations before, John of Gaunt and the house of Lancaster appeared in the family line. It would do.
Jasper looked up as he remembered the little woman he had taken from Pembroke all those years before. After all the pain and grief she had known, Margaret was happily married to Lord Stanley – and she had kept an eye on her son all his life, waiting and hoping for the perfect moment. There had been a dozen houses with better claims than the Tudors,
but then they had not survived the slaughter of thirty years of war. Henry Tudor was the last of the house of Lancaster who might yet claim the throne of England. It was a thought to conjure with, a thought to make a man stand in awe.
The advisers to the French king certainly thought there was a chance. Over in England, Richard Plantagenet was weaker than he had ever been, his line broken. If he could be brought to the field before he fathered another heir, the crown could be taken from his hands, from his
head
. It was a chance, a wild and desperate gamble. It would almost certainly cost them their lives. Yet they would go anyway. They would risk it all. Jasper grinned at his brother’s son, knowing only too well what he would say.
‘Pembroke, Uncle,’ Henry Tudor said. ‘I would like to go home.’
The ships eased away from the coast of Brittany in full summer, over a hot and sullen August night. The Tudors had agreed that much with the king’s men and the Duke of Brittany. There would be no repeat of the previous disaster, sailing into the teeth of an autumn storm. With time on their side, they’d waited for calm seas, clear skies and a good moon to light the way. There was always the chance of encountering an English warship or even a customs boat or two, out on the deep to watch for smugglers. Those were the risks, though if a captain of any such craft saw their fleet, he would surely turn tail and run for home.
With the sea unthreatening and gentle, they slipped across. The warships backed sails though there was so little breeze they were practically becalmed. They anchored out on the shining water, coming one by one in order, right up to the quays of the port to unload men and cannon and horses, then moving away, back to the open water.
French soldiers set foot for the first time on Welsh soil, at Milford Haven, standing in tense groups while their force increased. There had been a scuffle with some local men at first, with one or two left to go cold on the cobblestones. At least one boy had gone yelling for help, racing into the hills. Before the last ship disgorged its soldiers, there was a bonfire on a local crag, with another springing into life a mile away.
The villages of that coast had known raiders and slavers since before the time of Rome. By the time the sun showed,
they were gone like shadows into the thick forests, with bows and axes to protect their women and children. They knew only too well that raiders took what they could carry and left the rest burning.
It was not the same with the soldiers the Tudors had brought to Wales. They set up an armed boundary and patrolled it. In full view on the docks, they used blocks and tackle to assemble wheeled carts, lowering cannons on to them with a few smashed fingers and a deal of swearing. Scout riders galloped away in all directions, summoning those who had not forgotten the Tudors.
Pembroke Castle lay just a few miles away, closer than it had been in a dozen years. Jasper could feel it there as he raised his head to face the dawn. The woodland and roadsides of Brittany and Paris never smelled quite the same as the home he remembered. Just standing in that spot brought a thousand memories back, from his father’s smile to swimming a freezing lake in the Brecknock mountains – or the ‘Break Necks’ as his father, Owen, had called them.
His old haunts were calling to him, tugging him away from the sea. Jasper had spent about as much of his life in France as he had in Wales, but he knew where home was. Home was the great grey stone fortress that had never been breached, where he had once been earl. He prayed that one day he might yet enter Pembroke once more as its lord. Stranger things had happened in the history of the world, he thought. One of them had happened that very night, with an army ready to march through Wales in support of his nephew – to challenge the last Plantagenet.
Around Jasper, English and a few Welsh voices murmured amidst the French. Those who had come out to join them in Brittany had not been left behind. They had landed with the
rest and as he watched, one or two of them dipped down and picked up a tuft of grass or a few small stones, just to hold. There was a love there that was difficult to describe to anyone who did not feel it. He smiled to himself, touching a smooth stone in his pocket that had once been part of Pembroke’s walls. He understood well enough.
Strangest of all was seeing his nephew walking amongst them. Henry Tudor wore a set of fine armour that had been the personal gift of the new French king. It covered every inch of the young man, but allowed a perfect range of movement. He had worn it endlessly since it had arrived from Paris, understanding that he needed to be able to move freely and to build the strength to run and fight. In such things, Henry followed his uncle’s advice without question, accepting his experience. For the rest, there was a part of him that could never be persuaded or rushed into action. If Jasper overstepped, he would see his nephew tilt his head and consider, then reject his advice. It could be infuriating, that coldness, but by Henry’s age, Jasper had been an earl with battle experience. It worried him that Henry had never seen arrows fly in anger, not once.
Jasper shook his head in bemusement to see how Henry had grown into his authority. Ever since the remnants of Buckingham’s rebellion had found their way to him, they’d made a crude court, pinning their hopes to the last Tudor, as if he had been born to command. They looked to Henry as a young King Arthur and some of the Welsh had even taken to calling him the ‘
Mab Darogan
’: the Man of Destiny from the old tales, the one who would conquer the white dragon and restore the red. It could not have been a coincidence that the house of York bore a white rose. The house of Lancaster had a dozen badges and symbols, with a swan featuring most
prominently. Yet the red rose was there too – and more importantly, Henry’s ancestors had carried the red dragon on a battle banner. Jasper could only stand in wonder at the perfection of it. Would an uncle know if his nephew was the
Mab Darogan
? He saw the way the men looked to Henry, and of course, the young man never faltered, never made himself a fool or spoke too loudly or in drink. His peculiar coldness served him well, so that he seemed something more, rather than something less, at least to men looking for a leader.
His uncle watched from the side and wore both pride and grief when he thought of what Owen Tudor would have said, lost so many years. The old man would have beamed at them both to see them back. He would have said he’d known all along that his line would save Wales.
It had been too great a risk to let anyone know they were coming, or so Henry had said. It would mean days lost as word spread and their friends and supporters heard they had come. The delay would be difficult to endure after so long, but it was better than finding a vast English army waiting for them as they landed.
Jasper tried not to stare as his nephew spoke a few words to half of the men standing in small groups on those docks. When he moved on to the next, they turned to follow him with their eyes in the pale morning. Perhaps it was just that he carried the last, desperate hopes of those families.
Though he would never have said so, Jasper suspected the young man lacked the subtle shades of understanding that might undermine his confidence. In some ways, his nephew was extraordinarily quick, yet there were parts of him that were still almost childlike, obstinate in his refusal to see the world as it was.
Henry Tudor had accepted that others would follow him. He’d understood he had a tenuous claim that might just carry
him as far as a battle, with the throne as the stake. Beyond that, he seemed to think no more on the matter. As far as Jasper could tell, his nephew had grown into authority because he saw no possibility of an order being refused or his cause denied. Men sensed no doubt or indecision in him because there truly was none. Jasper wasn’t sure whether to admire this peculiarity or to find his nephew’s confidence terrifying.
They faced a king who had known success in battle at Barnet and Tewkesbury and in putting down Buckingham’s rebellion. No one who had landed at Milford Haven thought they would have an easy time of it. The days were long and sultry, with the scent of pollen on the air, but they would be met by a cold and implacable enemy, with nothing left to lose.
As the sun climbed, the last of the ships returned to sea, leaving two thousand men and a dozen cannon to be rolled along the roads. The men breathed a little faster as they shuffled and stood, gathering anything they had laid down while they waited. Jasper saw his nephew speak to a herald and the man raised a horn to his lips, blowing a single note that echoed back across them all. Men-at-arms raised the banner poles embroidered over months in Brittany, tugging loose the ties that would allow them to unfurl, then swishing them back and forth until they opened out to their full length. The
Ddraig Goch
, or red dragon, swirled above them all. With it opened up the red rose of Lancaster and the portcullis and chains of Beaufort, but the dragon was the symbol that had men crossing themselves and bowing their heads in prayer. They were few, but they would stand.
In the early afternoon, the scouts came back in to report a force of soldiers and archers barring the road ahead. Henry
and Jasper came to the front and brought their horses alongside to talk in low voices. The messengers had reported the colours of Rhys ap Thomas, a warlike soldier who had pledged to the house of York, so it was said. It was also true that he had exchanged letters with the Tudor men over the previous year, but the real test would come only when he either knelt or took up arms against them. Jasper had the sinking feeling that for such a grim warrior in his prime, the moment would be one of true decision. It did not matter what had been said before or what promises had been made. Only when Rhys ap Thomas looked at Henry Tudor and made his choice would they know. Jasper gripped the hilt of his sword and wondered if he would see blood that day.
They could not appear weak, that was clear enough. The news went back to be ready for attack or ambush and then they went forward in good array along two narrow roads the scouts said would bring them up against the Thomas force.
For Jasper, it was one of the hardest miles he had ever ridden. From the vantage point of horseback, he could see before the marchers that a great force lay ahead of them, across the road and stretching over the fields. There were certainly hundreds of men in mail, carrying axes and hammers and a great host of pikes. The fields and hedges could have hidden a thousand of them. At the head sat a bare-armed and burly figure with a great mass of red hair, tied into a braid. The man wore a tunic and mail rather than full armour, though there was no question who led those men as he gazed balefully along the road. Rhys ap Thomas was the captain charged with keeping that coast safe from any invasion. He had been trusted by the York king to respond with utter
savagery against anyone landing. The bonfires had been lit to summon him, no other. And he had come.
‘Show no fear to this man,’ Jasper murmured to his nephew. Henry looked curiously at him.
‘Why would I show fear?’ he said. His uncle clenched his jaw, unable to explain the danger then, as close as they were. He had tucked a relic from Brittany into his shirt, a tiny flask containing the blood of a saint. He wished he could have reached it then, to pray that Henry would not say the wrong thing to a man like Captain Rhys ap Thomas.
As they reined in, Jasper saw the Welsh captain was larger than he had realized across the shoulders, a great door of a man whose gaze was fixed on the red dragon flying a little way behind them.
‘That is a grand claim, my lords,’ Rhys called to them, indicating the swirling banner. It was a good start, if he would allow them their titles. The earldoms of both Pembroke and Richmond had been denied and attainted over previous years. Yet the greeting seemed unaffected and natural.
Jasper cleared his throat to reply and Henry turned to look at him, saying nothing. It was a reminder that he had agreed to keep silence unless it was to head off disaster. There could not be two red dragons, two men of destiny. Jasper knew that and had accepted it. It was still hard.
When Henry was sure his uncle would not speak, he turned back to the man watching so closely.
‘Who are you to block my path?’ Henry said clearly.
‘I am Rhys ap Thomas, son of Thomas ap Gruffyd ap Nicolas,’ he said, in the manner of those parts, naming his forebears. ‘This coast is under my authority, see? When you land here, you must answer to me.’
‘I am Henry Tudor, son of Edmund Tudor, son of Owen.’
‘And you sit under the red dragon.’
‘I am a descendant of Cadwallader; it is my right.’
The two men faced each other with identical frowns. Neither seemed to have expected the meeting to go the way it had. Jasper fidgeted, but he had promised to be still and he kept his word.
Rhys ap Thomas shook his head.
‘I do not think you are the Son of Prophecy. I’m sorry. Perhaps you are of the line, but I do not see greatness in you.’
Henry Tudor kicked his mount closer by a step. All the men tensed as he came within arm’s reach of the captain. Rhys ap Thomas made a great show of sitting relaxed with his hands on the reins, but there was strain around his eyes even so.
‘I do not depend on what you see in me,’ Henry said. His voice was low, but his uncle could hear nothing else around them. The birdsong and noise of other men seemed to have vanished and he listened in cold fear as his nephew went on.
‘Perhaps you thought to test me, Rhys ap Thomas. I am not interested. You bar my way – and I have business beyond, with King Richard of York. It is my belief that you took a solemn oath to him, so hear this from me: if you thought you might walk with me, my answer is no. I will not have an oath-breaker. If you thought you would keep your oath, draw your sword and I will see you broken on the road. Either way, I do
not depend
on what you see in me.’
‘I … don’t …’ the captain began. Henry talked over him, his voice growing louder with every beat.
‘And I stand under the
Ddraig Goch
because I am the last of Lancaster, the
red
rose. I am the red – and I go to take the field against the white rose of York, the
white dragon
, Captain
Thomas! Now, what is it to be? Will you break your oath, or will you give up your life?’
‘I cannot break my oath,’ Rhys ap Thomas said. He had gone pale and Jasper wondered whether it was from anger or fear. Some of the best men he had known were those for whom their word was something rarely given, but then given unto death. It could not be broken lightly, at the cost of their soul. Seeing Rhys ap Thomas was one of those, Jasper despaired. They could have used his men.
‘I swore I would not allow an enemy to enter Wales but over my body,’ Rhys ap Thomas said, ashen. ‘Will you choose a champion, my lord? Or face me yourself?’