Owen (25 page)

‘Of course. I have made sure she is well provided for, Father—and we will do the same for Bethan.’

‘I plan for her to have my house in Beaumaris. Her mother is acting as my housekeeper there...’

‘I need Bethan here to care for young Henry. She is good with him—and I must return to London.’ There is an edge to Jasper’s voice now. ‘I’ve been summoned by the queen.’

‘Something’s happened?’

Jasper remains silent for a moment. ‘I fear we are on the brink of civil war.’

I have not concerned myself with developments in London. Nathaniel takes care with what he writes in his letters, in case they are intercepted, so it comes as something of a shock to hear my son’s blunt assessment. Jasper publicly blamed York for Edmund’s death when William Herbert was brought to trial, although he was speechless with rage when Herbert promised fealty to the king and was released without charge.

‘What are you going to do?’ Now I realise why Jasper has been spending so much time away from Pembroke. As we had promised the queen, he has been strengthening the loyal garrisons, ready for war with the Duke of York.

‘I’ve been given an apartment in the Palace of Westminster and am charged to protect it from attack, as well as help safeguard Prince Edward—and of course the queen herself.’

‘What about the king?’

Jasper shakes his head. ‘The king still doesn’t believe York will lift a hand against him.’

‘Even after what happened at St Albans?’

‘Apparently so. My informers tell me York is mustering an army at Ludlow Castle. The man should be charged with treason, but the king won’t hear of it.’

‘Take care in London, Jasper. Nathaniel’s last letter to me implied that the people are tiring of what they see as Queen Margaret’s... interference.’

‘Nathaniel is right. London is like a keg of powder, waiting for someone to light the fuse.’

‘And you will be right in the middle of it?’

‘I don’t have any choice... I can’t stay here and do nothing.’

‘I want to help as well, Jasper.’

‘Sorry, Father. There is nothing you can do, except remain here and keep little Henry safe while I am away.’

‘Nathaniel has the confidence of the merchants in London and will be vigilant for the first signs of a rebellion. You should have him report to you?’

Jasper nods. ‘I surely will. In the meantime you must see to the completion of the fortifications here, as we may have need of them soon. As well as York’s army, Warwick has control of Calais and my agents tell me he’s built an army of two hundred men-at-arms and at least six hundred archers. His father is doing the same at Middleham Castle in the north. They are planning to rebel against the king—and when they do we must be ready.’

  
* * *

The midwife is certain the child will come soon, so I wait alone in the low-ceilinged chapel, on my knees in prayer. I say a prayer for Bethan and our unborn child and light a candle in memory of my eldest son, for it was in this chapel I first heard of Edmund’s death. Then I light a candle in memory of Catherine, the love of my life, and another for my daughter Margaret. The three candles burn brightly in a row as I mourn the loss of them all.

I hear the door open and turn to see the boy I paid a silver coin to bring me news of Bethan.

‘The baby is born, Master Tudor.’ His young voice echoes in the empty chapel.

‘Is it a boy or a girl?’

 
‘A boy, sir.’ He glances back towards the tower where Bethan has been confined. ‘The midwife says it would be in order for you to see him now, sir, if you wish?’

‘Of course.’ I follow the boy in the near darkness, thinking how strange it is to be in this situation again.

The midwife ushers me into Bethan’s room. It is hot, as they have made a good fire to boil pans of water. Bethan is still in her bed, holding the little child tightly, as if to prevent him being taken from her. Her face is red and her hair tangled, but she is smiling and her eyes are bright when she sees me.

‘I was thinking of calling him Dafydd, after my father—and Owen after you.’

I am relieved and will happily agree to any name she wishes. ‘Is the child well?’ My question is addressed to the midwife.

‘It was a difficult birth, Master Tudor. The baby took a long time coming, but mother and baby seem well enough now.’

I thank her and sit at Bethan’s bedside admiring my newest son. Now I have one more young life to worry about. The country is on the brink of civil war and I must do whatever I can to protect my growing family.

I wear my sword and burnished plate armour and sit astride my fine black warhorse. My sword has survived all my adventures and is the same one given to me by Catherine. My armour and horse are also gifts, along with grants of lands and a hundred pounds a year, from my grateful king. My son has raised an army from the loyal men of Wales, from Pembrokeshire, Carmarthenshire and Cardiganshire, as well as those from North Wales who have rallied to the cause.

The silhouette of Denbigh Castle crowns a steep rocky hill as the sun sets above the town, providing its Yorkist defenders with commanding views of the round-backed hills of Clwyd. The king has made Jasper Governor of Denbigh and ordered him to prevent the Duke of York’s return from Ireland through Wales. I have command of the archers, good Welshmen whose lives now depend on my judgement.

Duke Richard of York licks his wounds in Ireland; the Earl of Warwick has fled back to Calais and anyone daring to support the Yorkist cause is declared guilty of treason. Everyone knows this, it seems, except for the men holding out in the castle on the hill. They have been under siege for more than a month, yet they are defiant and seem determined to hold their fortress for York, whatever the cost.

Jasper rides to my right, wearing a surcoat embroidered with the red, blue and gold of the royal arms to show his rank. At his side is his deputy at Denbigh, Roger Puleston, a resourceful and loyal supporter of Edmund’s before becoming Jasper’s right-hand man.
 
Puleston’s grandmother was Owain Glyndur's younger sister, Lowry, and he is related by marriage to the Tudors of Ynys Môn.

‘It’s time to end this. I have the king’s authority to pardon any who surrender—and to execute any who don’t.’ Jasper has become hardened by relentless campaigning. It is clear from the way he says the words that he will do whatever is needed to protect the king and prevent another York rebellion.

I am tired and lean back in my saddle. I am sixty years old now and feel the ache in my bones. I shade my eyes from the bright evening sun and peer up at the castle in frustration. ‘You mean to use heavy cannons?’ I still remember the damage done by Nathaniel’s cannon in Normandy. ‘It will take time, but once the walls are breached, we have a chance.’

‘The castle is no use to us in ruins.’

‘Then what are we going to do?’

‘A diversion at the gatehouse should keep them occupied while my men scale the wall at the rear—under covering fire from your archers.’ Jasper sounds uncompromising.

‘The wall is too high to scale, Jasper. Owain Glyndur attacked this castle in fourteen hundred with your grandfather at his side.’ I glance across at my son. ‘He failed.’

Jasper is silent for a moment. ‘We must try, Father.’

Roger Puleston answers. ‘The postern gate at the rear of the castle has a drawbridge and is overlooked by a tower, but it could be breached with enough men if we launch a diversion at the main gate.’

I am unconvinced. ‘We could find ourselves trapped by a portcullis, with archers firing down on us.’

‘I’m sure we will—but if the portcullis is raised we could jam it in position before they bring it down.’ Puleston looks pleased with himself. ‘I also have the firebombs prepared for
Y Ddraig
—that should make our diversion convincing.’

I had been watching them haul the towering wooden siege engine they call
Y Ddraig
,
the Dragon
,
into place. Based on the French trebuchet, its giant catapult is designed to fling a missile high into the air and has a range of several hundred yards. Now Puleston plans to use it to throw his dangerous firebombs made from sulphur and pitch, mixed with iron nails and whatever else his men can lay their hands on.

‘That decides it. We will attack the postern tower.’ Jasper reins in his horse and puts his gauntleted hand on Roger Puleston’s shoulder. ‘You will lead the diversionary assault on the gatehouse. I want to use the cover of darkness—and have your men make as much noise as they can.’ Jasper turns his horse and rides off to inform his commanders of our plan.

I ride back to the encampment which has become my home. Our base was only meant to be temporary, but now the grass has turned to hard packed earth under the constant trampling of heavy boots. Inside my cramped canvas tent I have only what I brought with me from Pembroke: a travelling bed, rolled up out of the way each morning, two woollen blankets, a linen undershirt and my leather saddlebags.

The place has a homely smell of soup and wood smoke and my squire, a young Welsh boy named Rhys, is having difficulty with our makeshift stove. A cooking pot is precariously supported over the fire by an arrangement of stout branches. Rhys stops what he is doing as I dismount and he takes my horse by the bridle, returning to help unbuckle my armour.

‘Will you have a bowl of cawl, sir?’

‘Thank you Rhys.’ I tire of cawl, but it is all we have.

‘Did you manage to find any meat to put in it?’

‘Sorry, sir. I will try for a rabbit again tomorrow.’

I can’t complain, for this is life under siege and we must live off whatever we can forage. Jasper is right. It is time to take decisive action, as I now wish we had never travelled to Denbigh. I should be back in the safety of Pembroke Castle, with my grandson Henry and my youngest son Dafydd Owen. Instead, we risk our lives besieging an impenetrable fortress and cannot return until it is taken. I dismiss the ghosts of the siege of Rouen from my mind and remember I once promised I would never again complain about my food.

I scan the battlements at the top of the castle wall in the dim light of a waxing moon, looking for any sign of movement. Rhys woke me early, as my archers had to find good vantage points before the main attack. They seem in good spirits, glad to be taking action after so many weeks of waiting and watching. Several of them sit behind heavy mantlets, black-painted, portable shields made from iron plates on a wicker frame to provide some protection from the castle’s defenders.

Progress is slow because we must remain silent to prevent the castle sentries raising the alarm. Several of Jasper’s men carry heavy logs, ready to block the postern portcullis gate. The idea sounded straightforward enough when Roger Puleston suggested it the previous day. Now the plan seems impossibly reckless and the castle walls have many arrow slits through which death could come at any moment.

Rhys hands me my iron sallet helmet. It is heavy and uncomfortable to wear, despite the cotton padding fitted inside, but now I am glad to put it on. I wait while he tightens the leather straps on my armour then I see the signal from the sergeant-at-arms. My men are ready now and all we can do is wait.

I say a silent prayer not for myself but for Jasper. I have little confidence in our chances of success, and if our attack fails it will be difficult for Jasper to escape to safety. Too late, I wish I had said more to my son, then the shuddering boom of a cannon sounds on the opposite side of the fortress. The diversionary attack has started and the hairs prickle on the back of my neck as I sense the real danger we now face.

The first of Roger Puleston’s firebombs makes a flaming arc in the night sky with unnatural slowness, like a sulphurous, man-made comet, before descending out of sight behind the castle walls. I remember the damage done by a few burning arrows in Normandy and am glad not to be on the receiving end of
Y Ddraig
.
 

‘Ready men!’ I look at the tense faces of the archers to each side of me and shout to them as loud as I dare. ‘Hold your fire until my command and choose your targets well!’

Jasper appears from the dark cover of the trees, followed by his hand-picked soldiers, who cross silently to the postern gate. As they pass I hear one of my men call. ‘God be with the House of Lancaster!’

Urged on by Jasper, they disappear from view into the dark entrance of the postern gate. I wait for the shout of alarm, but none comes. It seems their plan is working, as more men make their way up the steep, rocky bank and enter the castle.

More brightly blazing firebombs curve through the sky and cannons flash and roar as Roger Puleston’s men press the frontal attack but I worry now that Jasper has been trapped within the outer defences. I strain to hear raised voices and the clang of steel as a battle rages inside the castle.

An arrow stabs deep into the ground a few yards in front of me and a second embeds itself in the tree a few feet to my left with a dull thud. The defending archers have spotted us in the trees and are finding the range. It is impossible to tell in the darkness where they are firing from or how many men are shooting at us. One of the archers near me calls out as an arrow strikes him in the chest. He wears the thick padded coat the men call a ‘jack’ and is able to pull it out with his hand, but it is a close thing.

We must hold our position, although my men have yet to fire a single arrow, as without a target I have to tell them to hold their fire. Then I spot movement at the postern gate. At first I think Jasper’s men have been beaten back, then realise they are Yorkist men of the castle garrison, escaping. Many are armed and some begin to aim crossbows at my men.

‘Fire as you will!’ The need for caution is gone now and I shout at the top of my voice.

A volley of arrows flash through the air, felling several of the fleeing men, then the others stop running down the steep embankment and throw down their weapons, raising their arms in surrender. The battle is over, for us at least. I see our arrow shafts sticking from the twisted bodies of the fallen and feel sad so many good men had to die.

Our victorious army makes its long journey home through the mountains of Snowdonia, leaving Roger Puleston and the men of North Wales at our new stronghold in Denbigh. Many of Jasper’s men have served double the forty days they agreed under the commission of array. They are glad to return to their families, carrying booty looted in the king’s name from the Yorkist Mortimers.

Jasper was wounded in the battle, but is well enough to ride at my side. He has said little about the fighting inside the castle, but I know it was hard won, as it took two days to bury the dead. Many men on both sides suffered wounds which may never heal. As we approach the castle at Harlech, our first stop, a young boy rides out to meet us.

‘I have a message from the queen for Sir Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke.’

Jasper turns to the boy. ‘I am Jasper Tudor—and who might you be?’

‘John Coombe of Annesbury, sir.’

‘Why does the queen send a boy with her message?’

The boy looks unsure how much he should say. ‘The king has been captured by York’s army at Northampton, my lord, and the queen requires you to take her and his highness Prince Edward into safety.’

Jasper frowns. ‘Where is the queen now?’

‘In hiding, sir. She was robbed by her servant and the others ran off.’ He glances over his shoulder in the direction of Harlech. ‘There is only me left now, sir. She sent me to find you.’

‘Take me to her.’

Jasper turns to me. ‘After we have rested the horses I will escort the queen and Prince Edward with my men back to Denbigh Castle. She will be safer there than here in Harlech. You must return to Pembroke and help rebuild our army there. It seems we are truly at war now, Father.’

When I arrive at Pembroke Castle I am welcomed by Bethan, who leads young Henry, now four years old, by one hand and little Dafydd now aged two, with the other. My squire Rhys takes care of my horse and Bethan serves me a jug of ale and a trencher of fresh bread with a thick slice of ham in the great hall.

Little Henry wants to know what I have brought back for him, and I give him a buckler, a small round hand-shield taken from the Yorkist garrison. Henry is pleased with his gift and runs around the hall showing it to the servants like a trophy, which it is. Seeing it again reminds me of the great price that was paid for it.

‘You have a visitor, Owen.’ Bethan glances behind her. ‘A friend has travelled here with news from London.’

Nathaniel steps into the room, dressed in a dark velvet doublet and wearing a gold chain around his neck. His hair is now silver-grey and he has put on a little weight, but his eyes are as sharp as ever.

‘Good to see you again, Owen.’

‘And you, Nathaniel. Have they thrown you out of London?’

‘I left in something of a hurry, true enough. You’ve heard the news?’

‘I’ve been travelling from North Wales for the past week. What’s happened?’

‘York’s son, Edward, came to London with the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury at the head of an army of thousands. Any supporters of the king are considered fair game now and the looting has run out of control. This is the safest place I could think of.’

‘You are welcome to stay here for as long as you wish.’ I embrace my friend warmly. ‘I’ll be grateful of your help, as the men who fought with us in North Wales have all dispersed. We need to draw up a roll of all who can fight and make sure they are trained and equipped. I wish it was different, Nathaniel, but we must prepare an army to set the king free and put an end to this rebellion by the Duke of York and his supporters.’

  
* * *