Sacrifice (22 page)

   “Go, then,” he said, “and raise the fighting men of Wales for us.”

   Henry returned to Dale, where he knighted a number of his followers before sitting down to a frugal supper.

   Many of his English followers, including Edward Courtenay, John Cheney and Edward Poynings, were among those knighted, and grateful for the honour. Only one of those chosen, Martin Bolton, refused it.

   “I don’t deserve knighthood, sire,” he said, “and must beg to be excused.”

   Henry was a trifle annoyed. “How so? You think us unworthy to knight you?”

   “No, sire. King Matthias of Hungary once offered to tap me on the shoulder with his sword, but I wouldn’t have it, even from him. I will accept no honours or titles until I have done something to warrant them.”

   His attitude was strange, practically unique among the ambitious, power-hungry men who had fled to Henry’s court, but Henry let it go. He was tired, and in no mood to force gifts on a man who didn’t want them.
  

   His army set out early the next morning, marched swiftly from Dale towards Haverfordwest, and then followed the coastline of Cardigan Bay to Machynlleth. A few Welshmen came to offer their swords, though nowhere near as many as Henry would have liked. One of his uncle’s old retainers, Arnold Butler, rode from Pembroke with a couple of dozen archers. William ap Griffith and John Morgan, a minor country squire and a clergyman, brought their pages and as many servants as could bear arms.

   “Kitchen boys and broken-down old servants,” Henry remarked sadly to his uncle, “what a mighty host is this.”

   Pembroke was undaunted. “Take heart, nephew,” he said, “we have yet to reach North Wales. There is the real heartland of your support. The men of the north will flock to your banner. I am certain of it.”

   Henry looked at him with gratitude and admiration. His uncle was a rock, battered by ceaseless tides, but unconquerable. Never, despite a long life of failure and disappointment, had Pembroke admitted defeat.

   Matters improved when they turned east from Machynlleth and reached Welshpool. Here, at last, some Welsh lords of real power and substance arrived to join Henry’s cause. William Gruffudd came with a force of billmen and archers from Gwynedd, Richard ap Hywel with a similar force from the north-east, and troops from Hiraethog, led by their lord, a gigantic knight named Sir Rhys ap Maredudd, or Rhys Fawr after his tremendous size.

   Apart from the gentry and their soldiers, there was some support from the native people. Supplies poured in to help feed the growing army, herds of fat stock, oxen and sheep and cows, driven by local farmers.

   Henry was encouraged, but also bore in mind those who failed to join him.

   “Nothing from the Vaughans,” he said, “and no word as yet from the Lord Rhys. We fear he has played us false.”

   “The Vaughans have always been staunch Yorkists,” replied Pembroke, “others will hang back, supporting neither us or the usurper, until they see how the dice fall. It is always the same in war. Most men are reluctant to risk all they have, lives and homes and families, unless forced to.”

   He had nothing to say on the Lord Rhys, and Henry’s fears returned. They grew as the army marched further east, towards Shrewsbury and the English border.

   His scouts spotted Rhys’ banners advancing north from Newtown. Fearing an attack, Henry mustered all his available forces in battle array, outside the walls of Welshpool, and there waited in trepidation.

   “God grant we don’t have to fight a battle on Welsh soil,” he said, nervously fiddling with his reins. It was a baking August day, and he felt hot and uncomfortable inside his armour. In their haste to arm him, his squires had drawn some of the straps too tight, and he was having difficulty breathing. 

   The moment of crisis passed. Lord Rhys appeared at the head of five hundred mounted knights and men-at-arms, with no hostile intent. As at Dale, he knelt in the mud at Henry’s feet and swore loyalty.

   “All these men are yours, my liege,” he said, spreading a hand to indicate his soldiers, “I hoped to raise more, but time pressed.”

  
Henry’s thoughts now turned to
Lord Stanley, his mother’s husband, and Stanley’s brother Sir William. The army had swelled to some five thousand men, but Richard could raise at least double that number. Only the Stanleys, as magnates of immense power and influence in the north-west of England and the March, could supply Henry with the extra troops he needed.

   If Henry didn’t receive all the support he bargained on, at least there was little in the way of resistance. Shrewsbury closed its gates to his army for a single night, but this proved a token gesture, and the gates were opened at dawn.

   Before reaching Shrewsbury, Henry took the opportunity to write to his mother, Lord Stanley and Sir Gilbert Talbot, a knight on the English side of the border who had sent secret letters of friendship and support to Henry in France.

   Replies from his mother and her husband awaited him at Shrewsbury, in the form of hopeful letters and several wagons loaded with armour, weapons and barrels full of money.

   “Arms and funds,” said Henry as he read through the correspondence, “useful, but Stanley won’t commit himself any further. Mark this phrase, uncle. He will be ready to do his duty, if you please, when the time is convenient.”

   He threw the letter on the floor. “When the time is convenient! When, pray, will that be? After Richard has reduced my army to so much chopped liver, and I am a hunted fugitive again?”

   Pembroke bent down, wincing at the crackle in his joints, and picked up the letter. “Thomas Stanley was ever a careful creature,” he said, “which is why he still lives, while the heads of so many of his peers decorate pikes. Look, he says here that Richard has taken his son hostage. He must be wary, else Lord Strange’s head is forfeit.”

   “I know,” Henry said irritably, “I read it. The usurper is bluffing. He would not dare make an enemy of the Stanleys. Of all the great lords of England, he can only rely on Norfolk.”

   This was one of Henry’s great hopes. True, Richard was able to call on more men, but the usurper was said to be unpopular everywhere except in the north. There was a fair chance his soldiers might prove disloyal, and abandon him on the field even if they obeyed his summons.

   Besides Norfolk, Richard’s other important ally was Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland. Henry’s mind briefly turned to him. Percy was the latest scion of a spectacularly unlucky family. His father had been killed in battle at Towton, and his grandfather at Saint Albans. Both died fighting for the Lancastrians. Might the current earl remember old loyalties, and turn against his master at the crucial moment?

   Ifs and maybes. Henry loathed uncertainties, and always did everything in his power to balance the odds in his favour. Currently he was a rank outsider, and could do little to effect the outcome except pray.

   The odds improved a little when he moved on to Newport, to find five hundred men led by Sir Gilbert Talbot waiting to join him. These were the first Englishmen to join him since he landed, and Talbot was a worthy man to have on his side: a descendent of Lord Talbot, a famous soldier who covered himself in glory in the French wars.

   Still there was no word from the Stanleys. Henry pressed on towards Stafford, half-expecting Richard’s host to appear on the horizon at any moment. His enemy was based at Nottingham, and apparently content to stay there, allowing Henry to enter English territory unopposed.

   A lone messenger came galloping from the woods to the south. He wore no livery, but soon revealed his master.

   “Sir William Stanley will meet you near Tamworth, Majesty,” he said, “though not inside the town. He insists on a private parley.”

   Once again, Henry was forced to gamble against his will and instincts. “How many men does he have with him?” he demanded.

   “Only a small retinue. My lord recommends you bring no more than ten men for an escort. The country is alive with Richard’s spies. They may spot anything larger.”

   In the event Henry took twenty. He chose Martin Bolton for their captain. As one who fought for pay rather than promises, refused a knighthood and seemed to harbour a genuine hatred for Yorkists, Henry felt he could at least trust this man with some confidence. 

   “Stay close to me during the parley, Bolton,” he instructed, “Sir William Stanley is about as trustworthy as a snake, and looks ever to his own profit. Richard would reward him handsomely for putting a knife in my back.”

   The weather had steadily grown worse since they marched into England. Henry took it for a bad omen, and was in poor spirits when he rode out of his camp, into the gloom and damp of the Staffordshire hills.

   They rode in silence for a couple of miles, led by Stanley’s envoy. He guided them through desolate countryside, barren hills and fields with the lights of the occasional house visible in the mist, until they reached a stretch of woodland.

   “Christ save us,” muttered Henry as they rode slowly through the damp trees, “does Stanley have to be quite so secretive? Richard cannot have spies lurking behind every tree.”

   “It is best to be cautious, sire,” the envoy replied politely. Henry agreed. He glanced significantly at Bolton, who urged his horse a little closer and kept a tight grip on his sword.

   They eventually found Sir William Stanley and his retinue in the heart of the wood. Stanley, a tall, thin man with buttery yellow hair and a face that put Henry in mind of a sheep,stood under the shelter of a giant oak.

   Henry made a swift head-count of his men. Just seven, armed retainers wearing Stanley’s badge of three golden stag’s heads on a blue bend. They looked glum, and soaked through, and not obviously inclined to assassinate anyone.

   He relaxed slightly. Stanley strode forward, offered his hand, and remembered at the last moment to kneel and bow his head.

   “Majesty,” he said. 

   “Sir William,” replied Henry, “we are glad to meet you at last, but why here, in this benighted forest, and not Tamworth?”

   “Impossible, sire. Richard keeps a close watch on my movements, and those of my brother. One misstep, and my nephew would lose his head.”

   Stanley’s watery blue eyes were guileless. Was he speaking truth, or was this all part of some elaborate ruse? He and his brother had always looked to their own interests first and foremost.

   Henry decided not to argue. He needed this man, and could not risk offending him.

   “How many men have you raised?” he asked.

   “Three thousand. My brother has a similar number.”

   Six thousand! More than enough to weigh the scales against Richard.

   “When will you bring them over to us?” 

   “Not yet, sire. When the time is right.”

   Henry’s eyes narrowed. He knew all about the Stanley brothers. They had played this trick before. At Blore Heath, almost a quarter of a century ago, Lord Stanley had kept his men out of the battle until the issue was almost decided. They were like a pair of carrion birds, circling battlefields until it was safe to descend and feed on the dead.

   Henry could have screamed at the man, but held his temper. “Why, then, did you ask for this meeting?”

   “My brother wished me to send you further assurances of his friendship and support,” Stanley replied blandly, “and to ask Your Majesty to confirm your oath to marry Elizabeth of York, once the usurper is defeated.”

   Henry could scarce believe his ears. “Confirm our oath?” he said, “the solemn oath we took in Vannes Cathedral, on Christmas Day, before a gathering of lords and prelates?”

   The other man had the grace to look embarrassed. “Forgive me, sire, but neither I nor my brother were present at Vannes on that day. There have been rumours – false rumours, I am sure, lies spread by your enemies – that the oath was not sworn in earnest.”

Henry drew in a sharp breath. “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth, “you may inform Lord Stanley that we do intend to wed Elizabeth of York, and thus unite the splintered Houses of Lancaster and York.”

Stanley nodded. “My thanks, Majesty. I will convey your answer to my brother. He will meet with you before battle is joined.”

   They parted on courteous terms. Quietly seething, Henry rode back through the woods with his escort.

  
The accursed man spoke to me as though he was an equal! His brother had the effrontery to ask – no, demand – if I intended to keep my word!

 
Despite his anger, h
e appreciated the problem.The Stanleys knew how important they had become. There lay the root of their arrogance. Henry knew a sharp cure for it. Once he was king, he would keep these high lords on a short leash. Seize or raze their castles, take away their private armies, encumber them with bonds and debts. England had suffered quite enough from the pretensions of its nobility.

   “Majesty,” Martin Bolton’s voice cut into his thoughts, “I don’t recognise this path.”

   Henry stopped and looked around. Night was coming down with terrifying speed, plunging all into shadow. Rain pattered through the canopy of the woods, but otherwise all was eerily silent.

   “Damn these trees,” he muttered, “they all look the same.”