First of the Tudors

Beside me I heard Mette release a long sigh, as if she had been holding her breath. Then her familiar chuckle cut through the tension, which had begun to pervade the room. ‘Saint Nicholas be praised! We have a bride with brains and beauty and will have a shrine to the Virgin to rival any royal benefice. For such a gift the Holy Mother will surely grant this marriage happiness and fertility.’ Applause rippled from the crowd as she turned away, rolling her eyes at me and adding under her breath, ‘That piece of cloth would have bought a new bed and all the hangings – but luckily I have given them that.’

Edmund strolled over to us, bending to place cool lips on Mette’s cheek. ‘Meg does you proud, Madame Mette. Your William is a very lucky man.’

‘They are a happy pair, Edmund,’ she responded emphatically. ‘Long may they remain so!’

2

Jane

Tŷ Cerrig, Gwynedd, North Wales

THE SOUND OF THE watch-bell always caused a bustle in the house. It meant either trouble or visitors, sometimes both. The cheese-making would have to wait. I took off my apron and sent Mair the dairymaid to discover what all the clanging was about, while I sped out to the brewery to draw a jug of ale. Whoever was arriving, refreshment was bound to be required. By the time I had taken the ale to the hall and set out some cups Mair returned to tell me that three strangers on horseback were trotting up the road from the shore. Strangers were a rarity at Tŷ Cerrig.

‘What is it, Sian? What is happening?’ Face crumpled from sleep, my stepmother appeared through the heavy woollen curtain that divided the solar from the hall, although the word ‘mother’ seemed hardly appropriate for a girl who had seen only three more summers than me; that is to say, seventeen.

‘Strangers arriving,’ I said. ‘I was just going out to see.’

Her face fell. ‘Oh. Must I go and greet them?’

She was pregnant; very pregnant, her belly taut and round, only days from delivery and suffering from swollen ankles and shortness of breath. It would not be good for her to stand in the yard while men and horses milled about and dust flew.

‘No Bethan, you stay in here. Sit down and wait. Whoever it is will come inside eventually. Father will be there by now and I will go out. You can pour the ale.’

Visibly relieved, she waddled to the large wooden armchair that stood by the hearth. ‘Yes. I will do that. I will wait.’

Bethan was sweet but she was a simple soul. Her marriage to my father had taken us all by surprise the previous year, being only eight months after the sudden death of my mother, to whom he had been wed for nearly twenty years and who he had unquestionably loved and respected. But Bethan was an heiress, the only child of a neighbouring landholder. The match had been made and a contract drawn up with a view to securing both her future and ours. It was a sensible arrangement for she had known my father from childhood and trusted him and we all knew her well and understood her disability, brought about by a slow and difficult birth, which both she and her mother had only just survived.

I glanced around the hall to check that it was ready to receive guests. A peat fire smoked lazily in the hearth, beside it an iron cauldron seethed steadily, containing the evening pottage. With regret I calculated that I would have to wring the necks of a couple of chickens if guests were staying, unless they came bearing gifts.

Outside, I had to shade my eyes against the sun which still stood high in the May sky. The warning bell had brought my father Hywel and two of my brothers, Maredudd and Dai, from the sheep pens where they had been checking the month-old lambs before their spring release with the ewes onto the high moorland grazing behind the house. Sheep dogs were yapping at their heels but on curt orders from their masters they dropped to the ground, crouched and silent, as four horses clip-clopped under the farmyard gate-arch. Three of them were mounted, the fourth was a laden sumpter led by the foremost rider.

My father gave a shout of welcome and stepped forward to grab his boot. ‘Ah, glory be to Saint Dewi, it is you Owen Tudor! You are very well come to Tŷ Cerrig.’

The long-legged man who swung down from his horse immediately drew my father into a bear hug and slapped his back heartily. ‘It has been too long, Hywel, but at last I have brought my sons to meet their Welsh kin.’ He turned to the two young men who still sat their horses and switched to English. ‘Edmund, Jasper – get down and greet your cousin Hywel Fychan. You probably do not remember him but I expect he remembers you, eh Hywel?’

He was a good-looking man, this Owen, whose Welsh was fluent but tinged with a foreign lilt. However, the sons who obeyed his command to dismount were of a great deal more interest to me. At first sight they seemed of similar age but judging by the way the darker one took the lead as if by right, the redheaded son was the younger. Both tugged off their felt hats and made respectful bows and while the elder was receiving another of my father’s generous hugs, the gaze of the younger wandered in my direction. I felt an unexpected rush of pleasure as his face creased in a chip-toothed smile. I shyly returned the smile.

‘I remember two small boys who were often up to mischief,’ said my father when the greetings were done. ‘But now I see two young men who may create more.’

Owen laughed heartily. ‘You can say what you like, Hywel, because they will not understand you. I am ashamed to say they have no Welsh. I thought if I brought them here they might learn a few words and something about farming. Only one generation from the land and yet they know nothing!’

‘My boys will see to that,’ declared Hywel, beckoning them forward and switching to English so that Owen’s sons might understand. ‘This dark Welsh ram is Dai and the one with the light hair is Maredudd, my eldest son. He looks like his mother, do you not agree? Sadly she went to the angels at the start of last year.’

‘Agnes is dead?’ echoed Owen, making the sign of the cross. Clearly he had known my mother well for his expression became shadowed with regret. ‘May she rest in peace. I am very sorry to hear that.’

My father frowned fiercely. ‘Yes, it was a great loss. She gave me two daughters and three sons and then died from a fever; who knows why? I have a new wife who is about to give birth so we are praying all will be well with her. Come inside now and meet her. Her name is Bethan. Mind your head.’ He caught sight of me as he ushered his cousin towards the low door of the house. ‘Oh, this is my younger daughter Sian. The elder one is married and lives away now.’

I bobbed a curtsy as they passed me and Owen paused to smile and bow, repeating my name in his mellow voice before ducking under the lintel. The two younger men stopped and greeted me politely. The first followed immediately in his father’s footsteps but the one with the bright hair and the chip-toothed smile lingered before me. ‘Sorry, I did not catch your name. Mine is Jasper.’

Why did I have to blush? Having three brothers I was used to boys and these cousins were surely no different to them? ‘It is Sian,’ I said.

‘Shawn?’ he repeated, inaccurately. ‘Is that a Welsh name?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is. My mother was French and called me Jeanne but everyone here calls me Sian.’

He still looked a little puzzled. ‘Oh I see. So that might be Jane in English? Will you forgive me if I call you Jane?’

I found myself telling him I would; yet even as I said it I knew it was not true. My name sounded harsh and plain in English – but then he endeared himself to me once more by saying, ‘My mother was French too.’

‘Yes, mine was your mother’s companion at one time. I am sure my father will explain it all.’

He nodded and paused to gaze around him. ‘It is very beautiful here. Believe it or not it is my first close-up sight of the sea and I find it quite breathtaking, so wild and empty!’ His grin was apologetic but he turned his face to the land and went on, ‘And I like the way the stone walls make patterns on the hillsides. We rode through the mountains yesterday and they were truly awe-inspiring. I have seen nothing like them in England.’

His enthusiasm for my homeland made me garrulous in return. ‘I am so glad you think that. I do not know how long you will stay but very soon we will be moving the sheep up into the hills. We walk them to the high pastures and sleep out under the stars. Perhaps you might join us?’

Jasper shrugged. ‘My father seems to take it for granted that we will stay for a while but tell me honestly, do you have room for us?’ His gaze swept the facade of the house and he looked doubtful.

Whatever kind of accommodation this Jasper was accustomed to, his question indicated that it was much grander than the sturdy stone farmhouse before us. My grandfather Tudur Fychan had built Tŷ Cerrig in the reign of the fourth King Henry, after English soldiers had run him off his lands during Glyn Dŵr’s rebellion, when half of Wales had risen against the English occupation. On that dreadful occasion they had put his family’s timber-framed house in Ynys Môn to the torch and in due course, when my grandfather Tudur at last managed to establish a new home on land in the foothills of Yr Wyddfa, he proudly called it Tŷ Cerrig – House of Stone – to show that he had built a place that would defy the flames. But it was just two floors: the lower one was a byre and a dairy and the upper floor was where we all lived. All the outbuildings, barns, stables, brewery, kennel and latrine, were made of timber. My father Hywel came back from England with his French wife to take over the family farm when Tudur Fychan died before I was born.

I quickly dismissed Jasper’s doubts. ‘Oh yes, there is plenty of room at this time of year. Now that the cows are out in the fields and the byre is scrubbed clean, the boys sleep downstairs. Fresh straw makes a good pallet.’

He laughed. ‘It is probably considerably cleaner and more comfortable than some places we have lodged in during our journey.’

I gestured through the door, towards the steep ladder-stair that led to the family quarters. ‘Shall we go up? There is refreshment ready.’

He glanced back at the horses. Maredudd and Dai were walking them towards the stable.

I understood his concern for his mount. ‘You do not have to worry. The boys will see to them and bring in your saddlebags.’

He nodded. ‘I am sure they will. I was just remembering that there is a brace of hares in one of the bags. My father did some hunting while we were crossing the high moors yesterday. He is a crack shot with his bow. In this warm weather they will be ready for eating.’

I smiled happily, for this meant the chickens were reprieved and our egg supply preserved. ‘We will roast them this evening,’ I said. ‘I will see to it. You go on in and meet your hostess.’

‘I feel as if I have already met her,’ he said, gazing at me earnestly and making me blush again, ‘and I look forward to the rest of my stay, however long or short it may be.’

I went off to search for the hares with a spring in my step.

* * *

We ate outside in the soft evening light, eleven of us around the long board used for harvest feasting. Even Bethan managed to clamber down the stair and sit with us, smiling happily and saying little but looking bonny in her best blue gown, laced at its loosest. My youngest brother Evan, a cheeky dark imp of eight, had been sent to the neighbouring farm across the valley to bring Bethan’s parents, Emrys and Gwyladus, to meet the three Tudors and we all squeezed onto benches and stools, with the big wooden armchair brought down from the hall and packed with cushions for Bethan. Beyond the farmyard wall the ground sloped towards the west, giving us a fine view over the vast sweep of Tremadog Bay and, in the far distance, the dark humps of the Lleyn Peninsula, Gwynedd’s westernmost arm. As the sun dipped below the hills the sky turned from pink to ochre, gold and red, reflecting off the sea and turning the bay to a fiery crucible. Such long, stunning sunsets were infrequent here and we made the most of it, the men draining a cask of father’s treasured malmsey and talking on well after the last of the pottage had been scraped from the cauldron and the bones of the hares tossed to the dogs.

‘It is a pity that Gwyneth is no longer here with us,’ Hywel said to Owen as I brought baskets of dried fruit and bowls of cream to dip it in – a rare treat, because most of our cream was made into cheese for winter. ‘Perhaps you remember her as an infant, Owen? She was our firstborn and lived with us at Hadham when Queen Catherine was still alive. She married two years ago to a man from Ynys Môn – or do you call it Anglesey now that you are an English gentleman?’

Owen smiled, his teeth showing impressively few gaps. ‘It depends who I am with, Hywel. Did she marry a relative, another descendant of the great Ednyfed Fychan, Steward to the Prince of all Wales?’

My father’s teeth did not make such a fair showing. ‘It would be hard not to in that part of Wales, would it not? She is living in the Tudur family heartland now, taking us back where we would be still, had our fathers not supported Glyn Dŵr.’

‘Oh you are not going to start telling tales about the good old days before the great rebellion are you, my father?’ cried Maredudd, well lubricated by the wine. We were all speaking English, although some were more fluent than others in the language of our conquerors. ‘And give our guests a chance to crow about the Lancastrian victory at Shrewsbury!’

I cringed inwardly. Maredudd was the salt of the earth and as solid as a doorpost but tact was not his strong point. Fifty years ago there had been a battle at Shrewsbury in the Welsh March when the present king’s father had slain the famous knight Hotspur and put an end to a rebellion led by my father’s ancestor Owain Glyn Dŵr, who had subsequently fled to the wilderness of Yr Wyddfa.

Owen’s brow creased alarmingly. ‘Why would my sons crow about a disaster that befell their father’s godfather?’ he cried, flushed and perhaps also a little excited by the rich malmsey. ‘Glyn Dŵr was a great man and a learned one. Not a man to be denigrated in my hearing.’

Edmund selected a dried plum, unperturbed. ‘I fear I know nothing of all that,’ he told Maredudd, dipping the fruit in cream as he spoke. ‘Our tutors taught us only ancient history.’

‘And poetry,’ added Jasper in an apologetic tone. ‘Now if you were to ask us to recite some Virgil one of us might oblige.’ He looked pointedly at Edmund but his brother ignored him, chewing contentedly on his plum, perceiving no need for a tactful change of subject. Jasper clearly did and turned to me to provide it. ‘What were you telling me, cousin Jane, about walking the sheep to the high pasture?’

Before I could answer Maredudd spoke up from the fire, on which he was heaping more windfall branches gathered from the nearby woods. ‘We were hoping to start out tomorrow but perhaps you have changed your mind now, Father?’

Hywel glanced across at him and frowned. ‘No, I have not. We need to start tomorrow to be back in time for Bethan’s baby. We cannot leave any later.’

‘Surely Bethan is not going with you!’ exclaimed Edmund, clearly alarmed at the thought.

I hid a smile behind my hand and my father roared with laughter, while Edmund reddened with chagrin. ‘No, no!’ Hywel exclaimed. ‘Of course not! Do you think we are Irish gypsies to birth our cubs in the bracken? Gwyladus and Emrys will stay here with Bethan and we will not be away more than two or three days. The babe is not due for a sennight yet.’

I glanced at Bethan then, realized she was drooping in her chair and decided I should take her in before she fell asleep. When I stood up I was surprised to see Jasper follow suit.

‘I will light your way, Jane,’ he said, reaching for a lantern.

In the end we had to half carry Bethan between us, so sleepy had she become, and I decided it would be best to move one of the pallets from the byre and lay her down on the floor of the dairy, thinking that if she needed to relieve herself in the night, as she often did in her present condition, she could simply wander outside to the latrine. When I had finished making her comfortable and she had fallen into a deep sleep I found Jasper waiting for me on one of the stone benches built against the front wall of the house, the lantern at his feet casting his honest, open face into mysterious shade. The moon had risen, spreading its pale light across the open expanse of the yard and turning the shadows inky black.

He patted the bench beside him. ‘Please sit with me a while, Jane. Our fathers talk too much of times gone by. I would like to learn about your life here and now. I think Bethan cannot be much help in the house. She seems a little – simple, or am I being unkind?’

I bit my lip. We did not like to discuss Bethan’s condition with strangers but although he had no Welsh and clearly knew nothing of our ways, I discerned a warm heart in Jasper, which gave me confidence in his discretion. After all, however many times removed, we were cousins – family.

I sat down, careful to leave a respectable distance between us. In the moonlight he looked younger, more like one of my brothers than an esquire of the king’s household, which I now knew him to be. ‘No, you are not unkind, sir; you are perceptive. Bethan is simple but she loves my father and shares his bed willingly. It is not her fault that she has no great domestic skills. She cannot cook or make bread or cheese, although she can churn butter if you stop her at the right moment. She cannot recognize one herb from another or remember their properties and she cannot tell a mark from a groat. But when she is not great with child she can weed the vegetable garden, milk the cows and goats, feed the poultry and collect the eggs; she loves to tend the orphaned lambs and calves and if I set it up for her she can turn a spindle for hours.’ I gave him a cheerful smile. ‘So you see she is far from helpless, and there is also Mair who is our dairymaid, who lives in the village by the shore and fetches and carries and makes the pottage.’

The sound of the stream that ran fast-flowing through the wooded vale beside the house filled the silence between us agreeably. The vale and the stone-walled fields surrounding the policies were all bathed in milky moonlight. ‘Our grandfather chose well when he built here,’ I told him. ‘The stream gives us milling-power and clean water, we have wool for weaving, grain to make bread and ale, and fat for lamps and soap. The sheep give us fleeces to sell to the monks, we have fish in the sea, meat on the hoof and crops in the fields. Between us we make most things we need and I keep the accounts and the recipes. Our household works quite well. You will see if you stay a while.’

‘I suspect that it works because you toil from dawn to dusk, Jane. And where and when did you get an education, which you clearly have?’

‘That was due to my mother. She spent her girlhood in a convent and taught us all to read and write and reckon. I am trying to ensure that Evan learns now but it is not easy, especially at this time of year when he is needed on the land. In winter it is easier to keep him at his letters. Our mother intended him for the priesthood but I cannot imagine that happening now. He is bright but not at all bookish.’ I knew I was talking too much but the words just seemed to spill out of me.

Jasper screwed up his face and shook his head in exasperation. ‘I feel I should remember your mother. Her name was Agnes was it not? But tragically I cannot even picture my own. Edmund says he can but if so he does not describe her very well. He makes her sound like a royal doll, which I am sure she was not.’

I felt a stab of pity for him. My memories of my mother were so vivid that sometimes when I was quietly sewing I felt she was sitting at my shoulder. ‘My mother always spoke of yours as an angel. There is no doubt that she was beautiful, whereas mine was like me – I think homely is the word.’

Jasper gave a derisive snort. ‘In my vocabulary homely is a polite word for ugly – and that you are not, Jane! I would say that comely is the proper word – or pretty – certainly attractive! With sweeping eyelashes like yours how could you be anything else?’

I dropped my head, hoping the white glare of moonlight would disguise the sudden colour that rushed to my cheeks. Compliments did not flow freely in our family and my reaction to Jasper’s was involuntary and regrettably rather gauche. ‘Not beautiful anyway,’ I muttered, clenching my hands together in my lap.

He made another dismissive noise. ‘Huh! I do not think beauty always begets beauty, Jane. Look at Edmund and me for instance. He has our father’s bronze good looks, whereas I am blessed with ginger hair and ruddy cheeks. My mother called me Jasper after the dark-red bloodstone in her ring and I imagine she thought the name, like the gemstone, would bring me luck. A younger son always needs luck, does he not?’

With his fresh, freckled complexion and brilliant blue eyes, which even the moon’s glare could not bleach, I wanted to say that he appeared more than comely to me but shyness prevented it. Instead I said, ‘You remember that much about her anyway.’

‘No, I do not remember that; Mette told me.’

‘Who is Mette?’

‘A very bright and forthright lady who knew both our mothers well. She is an old lady now but in some ways you remind me of her.’

Regrettably I have a mercurial temperament and abruptly my mood changed from shyness to indignation. ‘I remind you of a blunt old lady? Well, thank you indeed, sir!’ I stood up and made him a sudden curtsy. ‘Please excuse me, it is time I chased Evan to bed.’

I knew I was being rude to a guest but I could not help myself and left him frowning. Moments later I heard footsteps behind me; his voice in my ear sounded contrite. ‘I said bright, not blunt, Jane! And Mette is probably the woman I admire most in the world.’

It was not until later, curled up sleepless on my pallet by the hearth, that I appreciated the compliment hidden in Jasper’s words.

3

Jasper

The Royal Progress; Westminster & Greenwich

SWEET JANE’S BONNY FEATURES were to become a recurring image in my mind throughout the year that followed, particularly those long, sweeping eyelashes shading her deep brown-velvet eyes. Certain memories made particularly vivid returns. In blessedly balmy weather we had shared the rustic delights of shepherding Hywel’s flock of sheep up to the high pastures and the picture of Jane, in a straw hat and long boots, with her skirts tucked up and a shepherd’s crook in her hand, made frequent visitations in my quieter moments. Later, on our return to Tŷ Cerrig, I had witnessed her handling the birth of Bethan’s baby, when she chased all the men out of the house and set about supervising the midwife, cheering the mother and reassuring the grandmother, all with seemingly unruffled efficiency. And meanwhile I managed to pick up a few words of Welsh, at least enough to identify a mab from a merch, which is to say a boy from a girl. I had little experience of females of any age but the sight of this smiling fourteen-year-old merch emerging from the front door of the farmhouse to present her father with his newborn daughter remained with me for months, inspiring comparison with church images of the Madonna and Child.