Rebellion (30 page)

The king leaned back, at last releasing her
from his gaze. ‘As to that,' he said, ‘his estates and titles are safe as long as he
remains in Herbert's care. Until he marries.'

‘As long as he marries Herbert's daughter,'
Margaret put in swiftly.

The king said that in that case they would
be safe in perpetuity. ‘Or as long as I reign,' he added and they were both quick to
assure him that they hoped he would reign in perpetuity.

‘Yet – things change,' Margaret said. ‘And
if they were to change, I would not want my son's future to be so – tied.'

The king looked at her. ‘You have a
different betrothal in mind?' he said, and she said that of course she had not – it was
not her place. Yet if something were to happen to the Herberts, then her son's assets
were such that more than one person might benefit from them.

The king waited. She took a light, rapid
breath. ‘Whoever was to marry my son would secure an alliance with the House of
Lancaster. And end all potential for future strife.' She looked fully
into the king's eyes.

She could see him making a series of rapid
reappraisals: of her, of the situation regarding her son, and the fact that he had two
infant daughters. Finally he said, ‘Such a possibility should not be overlooked,
although for now your son is safe in Lord Herbert's care. And we have to hope that
nothing happens to Lord Herbert, who is one of our greatest supporters.'

Henry and Margaret heartily agreed,
fervently assuring the king that the Herberts were constantly in their prayers, along
with the king himself.

And the talk passed easily, lightly, to
other things. But through the remaining hours of feasting she was frequently aware of
the king's measuring gaze upon her. And also of a small but growing jubilation, that she
had said what she wanted to say and the king had received it well. And Henry had
supported her, had made it all possible, even though he had not wanted the king's visit.
So despite what she had previously thought about prayer, it seemed for once that God had
responded, and had been unexpectedly receptive to her requests. What now could prevent
her from seeing her son?

In the summer season [of 1469] a
whirlwind came down from the north in the form of a mighty insurrection of the
commons of that part of the country. They complained that they were grievously
oppressed with taxes and annual tributes by the favourites of the king and queen.
Having appointed one Robin of Redesdale to act as captain over them the rebels
proceeded to march, about 60,000 in number … to London.

Crowland Chronicle

Robin of Redesdale rose in rebellion
and many associated with him … and immediately after another rose in
rebellion, named Robin of Holderness, with his accomplices …

Brief Latin Chronicle

The Duke of Clarence and the Earl of
Warwick came from Calais with a large force and went to meet this captain as they
were all at one.

Newsletter from London, August 1469

And against them arose, by the king's
commandment, Lord Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, with 43,000 Welshmen, the best in Wales
… and Robin of Redesdale came upon the Welshmen in a plain beyond Banbury
…

Warkworth's Chronicle

And a sharp battle took place which
lasted about eleven hours.

Newsletter from London, August 1469

Later, though there was not much later to be
had – less than forty hours between the end of the battle and his execution – William
Herbert wondered if he could have acted differently; broken the field earlier, perhaps,
and fled? Or surrendered, and tried to do a deal. His army was outnumbered after all, he
could see that even as he stood on the top of Waldron Hill, facing the enemy on the
opposing hill. And the Earl of Devon's archers had not arrived. Was it madness, heroism
or a certain bloody-minded adherence to principle that made him lead his men in a
downward charge straight into the arrows of the enemy? First dozens then hundreds of men
lay strewn across the hillside, struck through with arrows, the shafts of them quivering
in the wind.

With hindsight, that barbed gift, it seemed
like madness. Or the mad recklessness of despair that was known to overtake men in
battle. At any rate, he and his brother had led the charge downhill and into the river,
continuing on foot when their horses were struck down.

But without archers they couldn't pass
through the dense wall of foot soldiers.

Furious combat had ensued. They had wielded
their poleaxes with the savagery that came when hope was extinguished.

In all the confusion he remembered a single
moment clearly. He had looked round and seen the earth breaking up. That was
what it looked like through his visor and the sweat in his eyes; the
earth and the river were falling apart and sliding away. It took him a moment to realize
it was the crush of soldiers attempting to flee. In places they were so densely packed
that the dead, impaled on the spears of their enemies, were borne along upright in the
crush.

So many men had fallen in the river that
others were trampling across them dry-shod. And they were all covered in mud so that it
seemed as though the earth itself had risen up and was moving. A landslide of men.

As he stood, shaken and appalled, he was
surrounded suddenly, and as suddenly disarmed.

And still he stood there, amazed.

Alone now in his guarded room, William
Herbert shook the head he was shortly to lose. The bards would sing about the battle, of
course; doubtless they had already started. But he had not wanted to be the subject of
those pain-filled elegies. He did not want to be remembered for the slaughter of so many
Welsh.

It was a disaster, the greatest disaster
that the Welsh nation had seen since the loss of Owain Glyndwr. But could it have been
avoided? He could not have anticipated betrayal, not just by the Earl of Devon, but by
what he had come to consider his fortune. The expectation that he would succeed, and
rise.

He had risen, of course, in the service of a
king who placed more faith in men of ability than in the blood royal or in nationality.
He was the first Welshman to be made a peer of England. In his own country he was as
good as king.

Now he would suffer the fate of those who
rise.

Hubris, then; that other variety of madness.
He had been mad enough to believe that his fortune was the will of God, that it would
protect him while he had faith.

There, on the battlefield, he had witnessed
the collapse of his faith. And he had been disarmed and captured.

But in all fairness he could not say that
his faith was the same
thing as overweening pride. It would be equally
true to say that he had done what he had to do
because he could not do anything
else.
Given all the considerations of time, place and circumstances.

These were questions that even now, at the
end of his life, he could not answer.

He had not slept since being taken into
captivity, nor had he been allowed to wash or change his clothes. He could feel the
sensation of grit behind his eyelids and an odd effect as though his mind had somehow
broken free of the confines of his skull and was reaching towards some final wisdom. But
until the axe fell it was still tethered by the shackles of his thoughts.

He had sent three messages to the Earl of
Warwick, requesting mercy, not for himself, but for his son and his brother, who were so
much younger and who had fought with great courage for their king. He knew better than
to ask for himself. And when no message was returned he knew it was pointless to ask for
any mercy from the earl, who was by nature a predator.

So now there was just one more letter to
write, to his wife. He thought of her with a bitter tenderness that was almost beyond
endurance; her wide smile, that blue gaze that suggested to him always something just
beyond his reach.

Even when he moved inside her he knew he
could not possess her; she was her own country, at once familiar and unknown.

Before he left they had fallen out quite
bitterly, over some woman who had borne his child. And afterwards he had pressed her to
say that, if he died and did not come back to her, she would not marry again, she would
take a vow of perpetual chastity. He had persisted, making her weep, which was not a
common occurrence. She hadn't wanted to say those words, but for some reason he'd been
unable to let it go.

In the end she had made the promise, and he
would remind her of that now.

He sat at the table and picked up the
quill.

He apologized for leaving her and said that
above all he regretted
they would not live out their lives among the
mountains. He hoped she would forgive him for that, and that she would live out the rest
of her life in peace and joy. Then he stopped momentarily; he could feel his breath
rasping in his throat. And his eyes were watering although he did not feel as if he was
weeping. It was as though they were weeping on their own.

After a moment he pressed his quill down
again.

Pray for me and take the said order
that ye promised me, as ye had in life my heart and love.

Letter from William Lord Herbert to Anne Devereux, Lady Herbert, 27 July
1469

Then he put down his quill and stared
out of the window at the sky.

He had been on pilgrimage, in fact, when all
the trouble started, an irony which was not lost on him. He had visited the shrine of
Edmund the martyr, whom he honoured in memory of his own brother Edmund, and then to the
shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham. Ostensibly this was to give thanks for the birth of
his third daughter, Cecily, who had been born in March; actually it was to pray for a
son. His wife had come to him with two fine sons, well grown, but since then she'd had
only daughters. The proclamation of the new baby's arrival said that the king and all
his nobles rejoiced exceedingly at her birth. But how much more rejoicing would there
have been at a son?

Surely it was not too much to expect a
son?

The people expected it.

A son would do so much to assuage the unrest
among his people, the uprisings and protests, the rumours that his entire reign was
unjustified and unjustifiable; the slanders against his queen.

So he'd gone on pilgrimage, travelling on
many of the roads that the people said could not be travelled because of violence and
lawlessness. They were compelled to stay in, they said, especially at night. But he,
their king, had travelled them, taking his time. And at each place he came to he lit
candles and made offerings and prayed, for the good of his kingdom and for himself as
king.