Owen (23 page)

We are shown in to a sumptuous room in the royal apartments of the palace and told that the queen will see us shortly. High windows flood the room with light and provide views over the extensive gardens, where a high fountain in a classic Greek style is an impressive centrepiece. It feels strange to be in what was once the home of Duke Humphrey, who brought such hardship to me and my family. The room has been expensively redecorated since I was last here. Even the tiles on the floor have been replaced with new ones, alternating with the queen’s yellow-gold marguerite emblem and the fleur-de-lis of France.

‘Why is the king not here? Surely he should be with the queen and his son?’

Jasper shrugs. ‘The Duke of York sent them all to Hertford Castle and now Henry insists on staying there.’

I can understand why. The king would remember happier times at the old castle in Hertford from when he was a boy, and I know it is in keeping with the king’s austere taste. I can also see why the queen prefers the luxury of her palace at Greenwich. Easily defended, it has the advantage of quick access to the city by river. More than thirty miles north of London, Hertford Castle may suit the king but not Queen Margaret.
  
 

An usher arrives and leads us into the queen’s private room where she waits with her ladies-in-waiting. We bow and she invites us to be seated. Although Margaret is only a year older than Jasper, the strain of the ten years since her coronation has left its mark. The beautiful young girl has grown into a strong, but bitter woman. I see she has put on a little weight since the birth of her son, but then so have I.

‘I must congratulate you, Master Tudor, on your son’s wedding.’ Margaret’s voice sounds strained.

‘Thank you, Your Highness. How is Prince Edward?’

‘He is well, considering our... situation.’

‘That is what we’ve come to discuss.’ Jasper glances at the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, who are pretending disinterest. ‘In private, if it pleases Your Highness?’

Queen Margaret dismisses her ladies-in-waiting. As they leave I note that Lady Alice is not among them, and realise I have not seen Juliette, although she is likely to be somewhere in the palace.

‘I am grateful that you take the time to visit me.’ Margaret smiles. ‘It is good to be reminded I have family here in England.’

Jasper returns her smile. ‘I have come to tell you we can no longer remain loyal to York, Your Highness. I wish to pledge my loyalty to my half-brother, the king and you, our queen.’

His words are no surprise to me, but I see they give comfort to Margaret. I recall the young girl I first met back in Rouen and the contempt of Richard, Duke of York. Jasper is right; it is time to show our colours. I know Catherine would have expected me to do what I can to protect her eldest son, his wife and their infant grandson Prince Edward.

‘We Tudors are your family, Your Highness, and you can rely on our support.’

Margaret looks pleased. ‘That means a lot to me. The king has so many enemies I no longer know who can be trusted.’

She turns to Jasper. ‘The king told me you defended him bravely at St Albans. He needs good men such as you around him now.’

‘Which is why we must bring him here from Hertford, Your Highness.’ Jasper glances at me. ‘We must raise an army to protect him from the Duke of York—and Richard, Duke of Warwick.’

Margaret tenses at the mention of Richard Neville. ‘Warwick whispers in the ears of my few remaining supporters. I fear he will not rest until my husband is dead and York is made king.’ She almost spits the words as she tries to control her anger.

Jasper seems taken back by the bitterness in her voice. ‘His father, the Earl of Salisbury, has been made Lord Chancellor by York, so parliament is now under his control. I regret I will no longer be able to attend meetings of the council in Westminster.’ He scowls. ‘York puts me in an impossible position.’

‘Your absence will be seen as a sign. They will try to take the lands Henry has granted you.’

‘Let them try.’ Jasper’s voice has a new edge. ‘I’ve been informed that one of York’s supporters, a man named William Herbert, is mustering an army to support his cause in Wales.’ He glances at me again. ‘We Tudors will make sure he fails—and build our own Welsh army to rid England of those disloyal to the king.’

‘I will pray to God every day that you succeed, Sir Jasper. Remind your men that my son, Edward, is the Prince of Wales and will one day reward those who protect his interests.’

‘There is no time to lose, Your Highness. Every day this York parliament grows stronger by gifts of lands that rightfully belong to the Crown.’

I sit back in my favourite chair and smile as I reread Edmund’s letter. The words are those of my eldest son, yet the hand is almost as perfect as Nathaniel’s monkish script. The clue is in the frequent thanks to God. The letter has been written by Edmund’s wife, Countess Margaret. I can picture Edmund dictating to her, while Margaret does her best to improve his sentiments.

I call Bethan and her mother. ‘Come quickly, I have an announcement to make!’

Bethan looks intrigued and her mother stands drying her hands on a linen cloth. Little enough has happened in Beaumaris since my arrival and I am keen to share my good news.
‘I am going to become a grandfather!’ I wave the letter in the air as proof of my claim. ‘My son Edmund is to become a father.’

Bethan laughs. ‘I’d like to be the first to congratulate you, sir.’ Her English is almost perfect now.

Her mother has practical concerns. ‘You’ll be travelling to see them when the baby is born, Master Tudor?’ She still speaks only in Welsh, despite my efforts to teach her some useful words and phrases.

‘I will. They are living in South Wales, in Lamphey Palace, one of the residences of the Bishop of St David’s.’

Bethan looks wistful. ‘Would you consider... letting me come with you, when you travel to see them sir?’

Her request surprises me. ‘We will see, Bethan, we will see.’

Her mother gives Bethan a warning glance to stop her embarrassing me further.
Bethan has told me how she longs to see more of the world, and she listened in fascination as I repeated Jasper’s account of the battle of St Albans, gasping as I told her the York soldiers cut the throats of prisoners. Sometimes I am persuaded to tell her stories of my life in France when I was her age. Once I even described for her how Catherine’s sword saved me from being taken prisoner by the Admiral of France
.

After they have gone I remember Jasper’s grim warning that Margaret is too young and frail to have a child. I know to my cost that childbirth is dangerous enough for a fully grown woman. Edmund’s wife is still no more than thirteen years old and when I last saw her she looked like she would snap like a twig in a breeze.

I already have enough to worry about with my sons, as Jasper remains at the side of the king in Greenwich. His last letter was little more than a note, explaining that Edmund has gone to South Wales at the request of the Duke of York to establish royal authority. The whole idea seems odd, as although Jasper has his castle in Pembroke, Edmund has no particular interests in Wales.

My sons play a dangerous game, still seeming to support Duke Richard while secretly strengthening the position of the king. Jasper’s note had been written so it would do them no harm if it fell into the hands of York sympathisers. I am reassured by news that the king has regained control of parliament, but I wonder how long Henry can preside over such an uneasy peace.

* * *

The yeomen arrive in the late evening and sit at my kitchen table devouring bowls of cawl as they do their best to answer my questions. I recognise them as Jasper’s trusted men, who had travelled with us to Greenwich the day after Edmund’s wedding at Bletsoe Castle. They brought a letter from Jasper and as I broke the dark wax seal I knew it must be something serious to justify them travelling all the way from London.

It still came as a shock when I read Jasper’s news. Edmund had been arrested by William Herbert and supporters of the Duke of York and imprisoned in the dungeons of Carmarthen Castle. Jasper was able to use his influence to have him released, but it had been a close thing and marks the beginning of a dangerous time for us all.

‘Tell me again, everything you know?’ Their story is confusing, as it is part fact and, I suspect, part speculation.

One of the yeomen finishes his cawl and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. ‘We heard Sir Edmund was doing well, sir.’ He holds up his empty tankard as a sign to Bethan that more ale would be welcome. ‘He took back the castle in Carmarthen for the king.’

The second yeoman drains his tankard. ‘Word has it that Sir William Herbert surprised him with an army of experienced men. Sir Edmund had no choice but to surrender.’

‘I know of Sir William Herbert. He is York’s man. Is he still in Carmarthen Castle?’

‘He is, sir—last time we heard.’ The yeoman waits as Bethan refills his tankard. ‘That’s why Sir Jasper has gone to Pembroke Castle and asks us to escort you there, if you will sir.’

‘Of course. It is a long ride, so get some sleep and we’ll leave at first light.’

I find I am unable to take my own advice, as I am kept awake by troubled thoughts. York has showed his hand and
Fortune's Wheel
has turned again. York is capable of overthrowing King Henry and I wonder what will become of my sons if there is a revolt. I look forward to seeing them both again and finally fall asleep with a new resolve. My life has lacked purpose on the peaceful island of Ynys Môn and now I have a new one.

I will fight to my last breath, risk everything I have, to make the country a safer place for my new grandchild, because if I don’t we are lost. If that means taking on the powerful Duke of York and his self-aggrandising accomplices the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury, then so be it.

Bethan wakes me with a firm knock on my door and I realise I have overslept, although that is no bad thing. I am growing old and we have a long journey ahead. I remember agreeing she can ride with us. There are dangers, but we have two yeomen as escort and I am glad to have her company. Our journey will take us the length of Wales, so it is a rare opportunity for her to see more of the country. Bethan is already dressed in her riding clothes and her hair is tied back under a headscarf, reminding me a little of Juliette when I first met her.

‘The yeomen are ready when you are, Master Tudor.’ Her voice is cheerful and her eyes shine with anticipation.

‘Thank you, Bethan. Has your mother packed something for us on the journey?’

‘Mother has baked fresh loaves and wrapped a fine ham in muslin—and filled leather flasks with ale.’

‘Good. Tell the men I’ll soon be ready, if you will.’

After she leaves I dress in a warm doublet and riding breeches, with my cape to keep me dry if the weather changes. Peering from my small window I try to read the clouds. The late autumn sunshine is encouraging, but shrieking seagulls are heading inland and dark clouds gather on the far horizon.
 
For once I refuse to see this as a bad omen for our journey as I am on the way to see my sons.

It takes us almost two weeks to reach Pembroke in South Wales. The weather remains fair, so we could have made better progress, but I decided to take the narrow, twisting pass through the mountains of Snowdonia. Although there is nothing there to mark the events of my youth, we stop at the foot of the highest mountain in Wales in memory of the men who fought so bravely for our country.

Further time is taken by the need for caution, as these are dangerous times. We rest only in small villages, avoiding larger towns such as Aberystwyth, where the castle is now held by York supporters. At last the massive stone towers of Pembroke Castle appear on the skyline and I say a silent prayer of thanks that we have arrived safely. High on a rocky outcrop overlooking the estuary of the winding River Cleddau, the castle is one of the few in the country which has never been breached by invaders.

As we ride closer I see the Royal Standard flying from the top of the keep, then realise it is Jasper’s flag, with its blue border of golden martlets. I feel a surge of pride that this grand fortress, which has dominated the area since Roman times, is the home of my sons.

I look across at Bethan, who rides at my side. ‘Not far now. What do you think of Wales now, Bethan?’

‘Wales is bigger, grander—and more beautiful than I ever dreamed, Master Tudor.’

‘You have done well, Bethan. It has been a long journey, but it is good for you to see your country.’

‘I am grateful to you, sir, for allowing me the privilege.’

I smile in acknowledgement. No one would believe she only spoke Welsh when I first met her. It amuses me to see how she likes to use longer words than either of the yeomen we ride with. As we pick our way through the narrow roads leading up to the castle I decide we will stay a while in Pembroke, perhaps until the baby is born, as Lamphey Palace is only a few miles away.

The guards at the castle gatehouse tell us to wait while one goes to announce our arrival to Jasper. The guard soon returns and asks me to follow him to the chapel, while Bethan and the two yeomen are to be taken to the kitchens. As we enter the castle grounds we stop to stare in amazement at the activity within the open expanse of the inner ward, surrounded by high stone walls and overlooked by the enormous Norman keep.

Archers stand in rows and on a shouted command fire a devastating volley of arrows deep into the straw bodies of man-shaped targets lined up against the wall. Scores of men wearing sallet helmets advance in battle formation with long halberds, while elsewhere blacksmiths hammer new swords at makeshift forges.

Jasper is raising an army for the king within the privacy of the high castle walls, invisibly to the outside world. I remember my son promising Queen Margaret he would do so, yet to see so many Welshmen preparing for war is a stark reminder of the dangers the country faces.

I am led, alone, through heavy iron inner gates and see the great hall, with its new roof and freshly carved stone. My son has been busy with his improvements, although it is strange he has chosen to meet in the chapel.

A long, low ceilinged room, the chapel has a small window at the far end and is lit by a row of yellow candles. It takes me a moment to adjust to the candlelight before I see Jasper stands with Countess Margaret at his side, her belly noticeably swollen with my grandchild. Their faces are grim. It is not what I expect and I feel a terrible foreboding as I realise something has gone badly wrong.

Jasper breaks the silence. ‘Welcome, Father. It warms our hearts to see you again... but I regret I have to tell you the worst has happened.’ He places a comforting hand on Margaret’s shoulder. ‘Edmund is dead.’

I feel unsteady on my feet and slump into one of the wooden chapel pews. My first thought is Jasper must be mistaken, but Edmund would be here to welcome me and he is not. There are only the three of us in the silent chapel. I look into Jasper’s eyes for explanation, then into Margaret’s and see the truth. My eldest son is dead and he will never see his child.

‘How can he be?’ My voice is a whisper in the silent chapel.

‘He caught... an illness in Carmarthen Castle.’ Jasper’s voice is factual, drained of emotion. ‘There was nothing anyone could do.’ He glances at Margaret. ‘I am sorry, Father, that you have arrived too late.’

‘He is already buried?’ It is all too much to take in.

‘A week ago, on the first day of November in the choir of the Grey Friars Church, in Carmarthen. I have paid for a fine tomb, and for the friars to keep candles burning day and night and pray for his soul.’ He glances at Margaret, as if for permission to say more and sees her nod. ‘They told me it could be the plague, Father. We were not allowed to see him at the end, so even if you arrived earlier it would have made little difference.’

Jasper has grown into a warrior knight, with a hardness in his eyes that warns others not to underestimate him. I know how close my sons have always been and realise this lack of emotion is his way of dealing with his grief.

Margaret speaks, her voice soft in the quiet chapel. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’ Her hand moves self-consciously to her bulging belly. ‘God willing, your son will live on through our child.’

It is almost too much for me, but I must reply. Margaret is thirteen years old, yet I am looking into the eyes of a strong, confident woman and recall telling Jasper that Margaret has Beaufort steel running through her veins.

‘I am sorry for
your
loss, Lady Margaret. Edmund was a good son and...’ I am too choked with sadness to continue.

They realise I need time and leave me in the chapel to mourn my son. I kneel at the simple altar, which is bare except for a large silver crucifix. The last rays of the setting sun cast a golden glow through the small west-facing window as I pray for Edmund’s soul and curse William Herbert and his followers of York.

  
* * *

I sit at the fireside in the great hall of Pembroke Castle, warming my feet in the heat from the blazing logs. We have done all we can and now are powerless to do anything other than wait. It has been a cheerless Christmas and New Year, marked by a solemn pilgrimage to pray together at Edmund’s tomb at the church of Grey Friars in Carmarthen. I am proud to learn that a stirring elegy to the memory of my son has been written in Welsh by the eminent bard Lewis Glyn Cothi.

Now it is the end of January and snowflakes drift across the windswept inner ward as we wish for it to soon be over. Jasper has a man stationed outside Margaret’s door, ready to run to him with news, good or bad. He has also secured the services of a skilled midwife, a local woman with a reputation for healing with herbs as well as delivering children, who has sat with Margaret since the first signs. That was well before noon and it is now dark outside, but still there is no word.