First of the Tudors

‘Blessed Marie, we have discovered a den of iniquity, Edmund!’ she cried with glee. ‘Shall we join it?’

5

Jasper

The Tower of London

EDMUND AND I KNELT on the stone floor before the high altar. Our long white tunics and red cloaks represented the body and blood of Christ. Dark shadows obscured the vaulted ceiling and arched aisles of the Chapel Royal of St John the Evangelist at the top of the ancient keep in the Tower of London. The overnight vigil was observed by every candidate for knighthood, other than those dubbed on the battlefield or during a campaign. I had begun by dutifully reciting all the prayers and psalms I knew by heart, repeating them under my breath so as not to intrude on Edmund’s orisons, but as time went on and the shadows began to play tricks, my mind strayed sinfully.

I found myself thinking about why Henry’s attitude towards the stirring of the flesh was so different to mine. How was it that he abhorred the very idea of sex and even shied away from the beautiful woman he had married? Did he not feel the same lustful urges that I experienced and constantly struggled to control? From banter with my peers I knew that if the temptations of the flesh were the devil’s work then Lucifer was a busy fiend, for all the young squires in the royal household were in his grip; this thought caused me a wry smile. So why was Henry different? At thirty-one he was hardly an old man. In ten years’ time would I too have retreated into monkish chastity and arid dreams? It was not a prospect I relished.

I glanced across at Edmund, whose knees were doubtless suffering as mine were, but his eyes remained closed. I wondered if he prayed. But I did not think it could be God or the Virgin or any particular saint that was sustaining him. Perhaps like me he was considering his sins, itemizing them so that he could make a full confession in the morning. As he rarely managed to resist a weekly trip across the river to the Southwark stews I calculated that his time spent with the priest might be longer than mine; unless of course, as he often boasted, he genuinely did not consider it a sin to cross a whore’s palm with silver. Queen Marguerite had been right; although close as brothers, Edmund and I were very different.

One of the candles on the altar guttered and I was glad of the excuse to stand up in order to light a fresh candle from the failing one. I rubbed my kneecaps briskly as I stood. In the flaring of the new flame the pristine steel of our swords cut across my eyes and the gleaming crests of our shields leapt out between them, strangely close. The leopards and lilies of England and France emblazoned there, the very emblems of the royal arms, felt dream-like, but in the sudden brightness Edmund had opened his eyes and reality resumed. Mindful of the presence of the priest who sat sentinel in the choir stalls behind us we did not speak but Edmund aimed a wink at me and slightly lifted the hem of his white tunic. Hidden beneath its folds was an embroidered prayer cushion, one of those laid out for ladies who used the chapel. He had managed to sneak it past the priest and it was clear that his knees were nothing like as cold, cramped and bruised as mine. There were times when I had to admire my brother’s ability to bend the rules but on this occasion I could not help thinking that keeping vigil before an altar on the eve of knighthood, when honour and integrity should actually count for something, was not the right time to cheat the system.

Perhaps it was to escape the fierce pain that knifed up from my knees when I knelt again that repressed images leapt to the fore to tease my carnal senses: Jane Hywel’s shy smile and dancing brown eyes, along with one or two of the more voluptuous court damsels and, entirely inappropriately, Queen Marguerite. So much for my contemplation of the vows we were due to make during the knighting ceremony. But one of the vows was to respect and protect women, so I tried to reflect what that was about. Many knights of my acquaintance seemed to think it applied only to a woman of their own nationality, class and affinity and every other woman was fair game for seduction or ravishment. Personally I did not consider them untouchable, as Henry seemed to, but nor did I consider any woman fair game, as Edmund unquestionably did; not that it seemed to make him any less popular among the livelier members of the queen’s entourage. If his own boastful accounts were to be believed his charm had won him many a conquest.

As the long night drew on I found inappropriate matters intruding more and more. I wondered if my father felt any pangs of jealousy that his sons had found favour with the king more readily than he had himself and speculated that Henry’s bias against Owen Tudor might arise from his monk-like abhorrence of the fleshly love that had brought us into the world. I also made several important decisions concerning the nature of my household and the administration of my estates but the future of my spiritual life was regrettably still unconsidered by the time the dawn light began to filter through the stained glass. However, at least I had managed to stay awake, unlike Edmund who had twice jerked from a doze on the verge of toppling off his smuggled cushion. Fortunately for him, the sentinel priest also succumbed to slumber on his misericord, as his snoring revealed, and Edmund took the opportunity to return the cushion to its prie dieu on his way to relieve himself. I too visited the latrine shortly after and found on returning that the chapel had begun to fill with our sponsors and those members of the court who had been invited to share the ceremony of our knighting, which would begin with a solemn Mass.

While the choir sang a plangent introit we were at last invited to rise from our knees to take seats beside the altar, facing the congregation. From this viewpoint I spied our father tucked away at the back, his habitually cheerful expression replaced by one of mingled pride and awe.

King Henry and Queen Marguerite occupied a prominent position at the front of the church. Beside them was the Lord Chancellor, the venerable Archbishop of Canterbury, Cardinal John Kemp who, in due course, was to give a sermon on the responsibilities and duties of knighthood, a singular honour and one that could only have been commissioned on our behalf by King Henry himself. A significant absentee was the Duke of Somerset, for reasons that became clear as the day wore on. After the Mass we made confession and then followed the king and queen in solemn procession to the great hall. There our knighting and investiture would take place on the royal dais, with a crowd of invited courtiers gathered on the floor below.

We made our solemn vows of loyalty, honour and religious observance kneeling before the king who then officially dubbed each of us with a blow to the shoulder, requesting us to rise as Knights of the Realm and of his Household. His words were the signal for an ear-splitting fanfare of trumpets, to which we rose. As gleaming spurs, symbols of our knightly status, were attached to our shoes I felt a surging sense of duty, as if in one bound I had leapt from youth to manhood, a feeling that was immediately and doubly reinforced moments later when we were invested as earls. Richmond Herald announced our new titles, whereupon the earls of Warwick and Wiltshire stepped forward to buckle ceremonial sword-belts around our hips, and the king slid our gleaming swords of office into their scabbards. The two powerful earls, both stony-faced, then completed the ceremony by displaying the new shields painted with our crests, which were based on the royal arms and proof of our precedence over all other nobles, including them, with only the dukes our equals. The leopards and lilies of England and France brought the enormous significance of our elevation into sharp focus and receiving the shield from the hands of the king I felt tears spring to my eyes. I planted a fervent kiss of loyalty and gratitude on his coronation ring.

Heraldry is a precise science and I had chosen the golden martlet as my differencing device because it was one that had been used by previous earls of Pembroke. The martlet also signified a younger son; one who stood to inherit no estates but had achieved honour through merit and service; for that reason Edmund had also chosen it, alternated with fleurs de lys to indicate his seniority in our French mother’s second family. Heraldic limners depicted the bird as a swift without feet to signify its habit of apparently constant flight, seeming never to land, an appropriate metaphor for our quasi-royal status as brothers of the king but not contenders for the throne. Years later I was to see that this constantly airborne emblem was a personal augury, indicating a restless future of which I was, as yet, blissfully unaware.

To my consternation, as I left the king’s dais, I found my father kneeling before me and kissing my hand. ‘My lord of Pembroke, you have my undying loyalty. My sword and my bow are yours to command. How proud your mother would have been to see you ennobled at the king’s side, where you belong.’

I urged him to his feet, hastily blinking back a fresh welling of tears. ‘Do not make me weep, Father, I beg you, or King Henry will regret his action. It is strong allies he requires, not milksop weaklings!’

Owen Tudor made a derisory noise. ‘Bah! A man who weeps at triumph will also laugh off failure. What is your next move, Jasper, now that you have land and income? Marriage perhaps? Children to found a dynasty?’

The saturnine Earl of Warwick had followed me from the dais and overheard my father’s queries, adding his own sardonic observation as he passed by. ‘That must surely be the king’s expectation, considering his own lamentable lack of an heir.’

Warwick’s lengthy stride had carried him out of earshot before I could protest at his offensive remark, but Edmund had also overheard Owen’s questions and had his own response. ‘A dynasty is certainly my intention,’ he said, ‘and I know precisely who will suit my purpose in that regard. Already Henry has all but given her to me.’

‘Aha, and who is that?’ Owen enquired. ‘A rich widow perhaps?’

‘A widow?’ Edmund’s eyebrows knitted in distaste. ‘I think that is your territory, Father. No, I have the wardship of the Somerset heiress. Marriage to her and the income from her considerable estates will perfectly serve my purpose. Besides she is a Beaufort with direct royal descent. I shall make it clear to Henry that she pleases me.’

Already rattled by Warwick’s uncalled-for remark, I could barely disguise the further outrage I felt at my brother’s bald assumption that he would marry Margaret. ‘She is only nine years old, Edmund!’ I pointed out. ‘And I would remind you that her custody and estates are to be shared between us. You do not have sole rights in the matter.’

Edmund cocked an eyebrow at me. ‘After her yourself are you, younger brother?’

‘I have no intention of marrying a child,’ I snapped, ‘and nor should you.’

Anxious to forestall an argument, Owen tried to intercede. ‘Steady my sons! It is hardly worth coming to blows over something that will be decided by the king anyway.’

Edmund ignored him. ‘She will not be a child much longer. Besides she has older married half-sisters and in those circumstances a girl learns the facts of life very quickly.’

‘And you would know all about that I suppose!’ The biting sarcasm I had injected into this remark made Edmund flush with anger but a blast of trumpets brought an abrupt halt to our rapidly escalating quarrel. The commanding voice of the royal usher proclaimed the start of the feast. ‘By Your Leave my Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen – to your places!’ We turned on our heels, parting to take our seats at the high table.

It was at this point that the reason for the absence of the Duke of Somerset, who was after all Edmund’s godfather and might have been expected to attend, became clear. With no dukes present, as premier earls we might be seated on either side of the king and queen, while the Archbishop, as head of the Church hierarchy, was placed between the royal couple. It was a relief to find that Edmund was shown to a position on Queen Marguerite’s left, four places away from where I was seated to the right of King Henry.

During the first course, a series of fish and vegetable dishes served with sauces coloured blue and white to honour the livery colours of the House of Lancaster, I noticed that Lady Welles and her daughter had been seated only a few feet away at a reward table on the dais, among other high-ranking guests. I had observed her from afar, but as yet I had not actually met our new ward and between courses I took the opportunity to wander over to speak with her and her mother.

When her mother had introduced us I addressed her. ‘I hope you are not disappointed to have my brother and myself as your new guardians, Lady Margaret?’

Her eyes had been demurely studying the floor but now they flashed up to my face, revealing whites the colour of skimmed milk and spectacular slate-grey irises that were speckled like a peregrine’s breast. Her reply was unexpected. ‘When the king told me about the wardship he said I could choose whether I wished to stay with Suffolk or go to you. I do not think he really meant it though, because he made you both sound so admirable that it was clear he wanted me to choose you.’

‘However, Margaret kept his grace waiting,’ said Lady Welles with more than a hint of pride. ‘She asked if she could sleep on the decision, which gave her time to consult with me and the rest of her family.’

I made the girl a grave bow. ‘I am proud that your consultations led you to choose us, my lady.’

Her responding smile displayed a trace of mischief. ‘Oh it was not the consultations, my lord. I was still undecided at bedtime and so I prayed to St Nicholas, the patron saint of young girls. He sent me a dream in which I encountered a fierce dragon – and lo and behold not one but two knights rode to my rescue. After that it was easy.’

I returned her smile. ‘Do you often have such vivid dreams?’

‘No. That is why I knew it was the right thing to do. The dragon is the symbol of St Margaret.’

‘It was very obliging of both saints to come to your aid,’ I said. ‘I will remember to thank them in my prayers.’

A fresh blast of trumpets announced the arrival of the next course and I hastened to ask for the honour of being her partner when the dancing commenced.

Her curtsy was graceful and dignified. ‘If my mother permits it.’

Lady Welles did so and we all returned to our places at table as roasted boar and swan were carried shoulder-high into the hall. King Henry refused wine and sipped at his usual cup of small ale looking weary as he ate achingly slowly and in silence. I waited for his page to bring him water to wash his hands before broaching the subject uppermost in my mind.

‘May I ask your grace if it is your eventual intention to make a marriage between Edmund or me and Lady Margaret Beaufort?’

It took several moments for his distant gaze to focus and I wondered where his thoughts had been. ‘Actually I have sent a letter to Rome asking for the Holy Father’s opinion on the matter,’ he said. ‘Like me, Lady Margaret is a great-grandchild of King Edward the Third and carries a line of succession to the throne. She could pass her claim to any son she may have, so much care must be taken in the matter of her marriage.’

‘The Beaufort claim is very tenuous though, is it not, my liege? Your royal grandfather confirmed the legitimacy of his Beaufort half siblings but an Act of Parliament barred them from the succession did it not? Surely the York claim is stronger? But of course none of this will be of any consequence when you and the queen have a son.’

Henry’s brows knitted at the mention of the York claim and his frown deepened further when I referred to the possibility of a royal heir. ‘I am glad your tutors taught you the law and history of England so well, Jasper, but Margaret Beaufort is young yet. Let us leave consideration of her marriage until the pope makes his ruling.’

This was not exactly what I wanted to hear but at least there would be no immediate betrothal. I would be able to enjoy dancing with Margaret, knowing that if Edmund were to press the king on an imminent marriage he would get nowhere.

As I followed the steps of a stately gavotte, I found it hard to take my eyes off my partner’s slender form. Even in the rather severe grey gown they had dressed her in that day she still managed to remind me of a graceful falcon gliding between tall trees as she wound her way between the other dancers in the set. The more I saw of Margaret Beaufort the more she resembled the Honoured Lady of Arthurian chivalry and the more I saw her as a potential wife, one day. There seemed to emanate from her a noble grace, which entirely outshone the lush temptations offered by other ladies on the floor.

* * *

A few days later we had each received a written summons to attend the Royal Council. ‘I cannot contemplate sitting around a table with a bunch of greybeards discussing the king’s finances,’ Edmund grumbled. ‘I must look to my own affairs and that means inspecting the meagre estates as yet granted to me. I will leave tomorrow for Leicestershire, as planned.’

‘It is our first summons from the king, Edmund – an honour. He will expect us to attend.’ Despite my warning I understood his wish to visit his new estates. I, too, wanted to go to Wales but a series of disputes over lordships connected to the Pembroke earldom were hampering my possession of many of its manors. I had to wait for the Council to settle these.

‘You have business there anyway, Jas, so you can keep me up to date with what happens and make my excuses. There is no need for us both to go.’ Edmund flashed one of his disarming smiles, slapped me on the back and departed, leaving me irritated but resigned.

As it turned out the retrieval of the Pembroke lands was achieved without difficulty and no comment was made about Edmund’s absence. He returned in time to take his seat with the Lords and hear the petition read in which the king publicly proclaimed us as his brothers, although since we were related through our mother and bore only French royal blood, we were barred from any succession to the English throne. Once passed, the same Act of Parliament also established that our earldoms were not just for life but could be inherited by our legitimate male heirs. I should have been a proud and happy man, had it not been for Edmund’s muttered remark after hearing the Act read.

‘Well, if a son of mine can inherit my earldom of Richmond, it surely follows that he can also inherit his mother’s titles and honours, including any line of succession she may have to the English throne.’

PART TWO

The Tudor Earls

1453–1459

6

Jane

Tŷ Cerrig, Gwynedd, North Wales

SINCE OUR PATHS HAD last crossed, Jasper Tudor’s life had been transformed – and so had he. When I hurried nervously from the house to confront the troop of armed and mounted men approaching the farmstead up the track from the shore I failed to recognize him, at first. I should have been prepared since I knew from the songs the bards sang around the local farms and lordships that the cousins who had slept on the straw in our byre two summers ago had now been declared the king’s closest kin and created the foremost earls in the land. Nevertheless, when Jasper rode under the gate-arch, bareheaded but wearing gleaming armour, on a warhorse trapped in blue and silver and leading an entourage in what looked like royal livery, my jaw dropped.

He did not wait for a man to run and hold his horse but flung his steel-clad leg over the pommel and jumped from the saddle with eager assurance. ‘Jane! It is Jane is it not? You have grown taller and even lovelier than when we last met.’ He bent over my hand before raising his head and pressing his lips briefly to mine. It was a common enough greeting between family members but I must have looked shaken because he stepped back at once with an apologetic expression. ‘Oh, have I offended you? I crave your pardon. I thought we parted friends. And we are cousins are we not?’

I saw with an inner smile of relief that, earl or not, his cheeks had flushed. An inability to hide his blushes was one of the things I had liked about him, and the way he cocked his head enquiringly to one side instantly recalled the unpretentious young man I had known. I gave a little laugh and shrugged. ‘Distant cousins, yes – and no, you have not offended me. We heard you had become Earl of Pembroke but did not expect a visit this far from your earldom. Welcome back to Tŷ Cerrig, my lord.’ Remembering my manners I dropped a low curtsy.

He urged me to rise, his colour deepening. ‘I am still not used to ceremony,’ he confessed. ‘I came to see my cousin Hywel on a matter of business but it is an added bonus to find that you are still here, Jane. I thought you might be married and away by now.’

Not knowing how to respond to this remark I averted my eyes and cleared my throat. ‘My father and brothers are in the fields but I have sent word and they should be here directly.’ Seeing the dozen or so men still mounted behind him and awaiting orders I added, ‘Will your retinue take refreshment? We have bread and ale and water for the horses.’

‘Thank you yes, they will be glad of that, but fear not, they have no need of lodging. They will find it in the town.’ He signalled them to dismount. I noticed that most wore mail-armour under their livery and swords on their belts, while the remaining few were obviously servants, armed only with small blades. Their horses were damp with sweat and it looked like they had been moving fast, as if through potentially hostile territory.

‘They may be welcome trade at the Abermaw inns but there are always empty barns on the farm at this time of year,’ I said. ‘We would not turn them away.’

A lad came forward to hold his master’s horse. ‘There are water troughs over yonder,’ Jasper told him, pointing towards the stable block. ‘And tell the captain to send a couple of men up to the house to collect refreshments.’ The youth touched his forehead in acknowledgement and led the horse away but Jasper called after him. ‘And bring my saddlebags to me.’

‘I will, my lord.’

By now Bethan had emerged cautiously with Nesta. The little girl was clutching her mother’s skirts, scared by the sight of so many horses and men, but Bethan was smiling and nodding, delighted in her simple way to see Jasper again. ‘Give you good day Jasper,’ she said with a little bob.

He strode forward and sent her into a flurry by kissing her hand. ‘Bethan, looking as beautiful as ever and blessed again I see.’ His sharp eyes had noticed her swollen belly. ‘God protect you, and the little one.’ He squatted down and ruffled Nesta’s curly mop of bronze hair. She stared solemnly back at him, her dark eyes enormous. ‘Oh you are a brave girl,’ he said, smiling. ‘Most children I speak to immediately start yelling.’ He glanced up at me. ‘So this is the newborn babe you brought into the world the last time I was here?’

‘Well, the midwife helped a little,’ I said, ‘and Bethan helped a lot, obviously!’