First of the Tudors

‘Women are strange creatures are they not?’ my royal brother mused, nursing his cup fondly in both hands, as if anxious not to let it out of his sight. ‘Their conversation is all of material matters; who should marry whom, how great will be the dower, of which fabric shall a gown be made. They have little concern for their souls and much for their bodies. Marguerite is no different. I find I cannot bear to use her body in the necessary way to bring about a child when she responds the way she does, with such enthusiasm. Why can I not just take her quietly and discreetly and then return to my prayers?’ He stared deeply into the dark wine, pondering his next words. ‘When I was your age I knew nothing of such things. In truth I know little now and wish to know less. I told your tutors not to let you become corrupted by loose women and feckless companions. They are the ruin of many a young man. I hope you are keeping yourself pure and unsullied, Jasper.’

I stared at him, hearing a maudlin tone in his voice and wondering if he ever really enjoyed himself. I felt a twinge of irritation, combined with a surge of affection for this intelligent yet strangely innocent man who seemed to have become old before his time and who, as a result, had never truly experienced human love. How could he be our mother’s son, the child of a woman who had refused to submit to the restraints imposed on her and had secretly loved and married the man of her choice, a lowly Welsh squire? Our mother had craved happiness and fulfilment, and she had also greatly loved the children who were the result of this reckless passion. I had disappointingly little memory of her face but I vividly recalled her fragrance and the warmth of her embrace. It was a tragedy that this cold and pious Henry could not remember the joy of his mother’s love. It would be so much the better for Queen Marguerite if he did.

‘But achieving the honour of fatherhood, Henry, implies no impurity. Perhaps if you were to try to please your wife a little more often you would find that her enthusiasm is a measure of her sense of duty,’ I suggested, suddenly careless of whether I angered him or not. ‘I know I look forward to finding such a wife myself in due course. Surely every man does.’

The maudlin tone persisted in Henry. ‘But how would I do that, Jasper? Please my wife I mean?’ His pale, greenish-blue eyes pleaded across the hearth, like those of a trembling hound.

It was probably the wine talking but I said the first thing that came into my head, brother to brother. ‘Put God to the back of your mind for an hour or so, Henry, and concentrate on her. You are a man after all. And she is beautiful, you know.’

There was a scratching on the door and it suddenly opened to allow the entrance of the queen, escorted by Edmund. Henry and I both jumped as if caught in some act of petty larceny and Marguerite’s gaze went immediately from the cup in her husband’s hands to my expression of startled guilt. Her delighted smile caused Henry’s jaw to drop in amazement.

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

5 (#ulink_53236091-b86e-5486-8829-115039fe7712)

Jasper (#ulink_53236091-b86e-5486-8829-115039fe7712)

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.’