Owen (26 page)

I shiver in the late January cold, despite my thick wool coat, as we ride through the normally peaceful market town of Llandovery. Local people line the long main street, a drovers’ road, more used to flocks of mountain sheep than marching men, to cheer us on.

Small bare-footed children shriek with delight as Nathaniel throws them coins and a man with a drum joins the march, keeping time with a loud bass beat that echoes from the timber-framed houses. A young girl waves to Jasper and blows him a kiss. I feel a surge of pride in my son, and to be riding with the king’s Welsh army.

Nathaniel stares up at the darkening sky. ‘The rain will hold, God willing.’

‘I’m glad of your faith, Nathaniel. If it rains these frozen roads will turn to mud.’ I notice many of those cheering us on are women and children. ‘Most of the men have joined our cause, which is heartening.’

‘We don’t have enough weapons—or padded jacks and sallet helmets for them all.’ Nathaniel glances back at the straggling column of men marching behind us. ‘Some are armed with butcher’s knives and scythes, whatever they can find.’

Jasper rides ahead with Sir James Butler, Earl of Wiltshire and Ormond, his second in command. ‘It’s good Sir James has brought his mercenaries. If the Yorkists expect Welsh farmers armed with pitchforks, the sight of battle-hardened men from Ireland, France and Brittany will surely put the fear of God into their cowardly hearts.’

‘I’ll be glad when we join the queen’s northern army. I heard she has a deal with the Scots to fight for us—and has mustered men of fighting age from every shire in England still loyal to the king.’

Nathaniel is no soldier, yet wears a sword and a steel breastplate, riding at my side despite Jasper’s insistence that we are both too old and should remain in Pembroke. This is personal for me now, as one of those we ride against is the man I hold responsible for Edmund’s death. Sir William Herbert surprised no one when he rejoined the Yorkist army.

Richard, Duke of York, the man who planned to usurp the king, is no more. Captured by the queen’s supporters at Wakefield, his head is rotting on a spike over the Micklegate Bar in York beside the head of Warwick’s father, Richard, Earl of Salisbury. Now Jasper’s informers have told him York’s young son, Edward, Earl of March, has sworn to avenge his father’s death and rides with his army to meet us.

We have been marching hard for eleven cold days, only stopping when darkness falls and starting again each day at dawn. The rain never comes, although our breath freezes in the air as we march through Brecon and cross the River Wye at Glasbury into Herefordshire. The light is failing when Jasper’s advance guard warns us the York army has been sighted near Mortimer’s Cross, on the old Roman road near the crossing of the River Lugg.

Jasper turns in his saddle. ‘We will camp here for the night. At first light I want you to take your archers and form a rearguard, Father.’

‘You don’t think we should try to avoid them? We should head north, under cover of darkness.’ I allow myself to hope Jasper will consider my plan. A long march through the night would be preferable to a battle against the army of York’s vengeful son.
  

‘It’s too late, Father. They must know where we are and it’s impossible to move this many men without someone seeing us. I will try to negotiate terms if we have the chance—but we have to be ready to fight.’ Jasper rides off into the gloom to warn his other commanders.

Nathaniel has been listening. ‘If they wait for us they will have chosen the best ground.’

‘We have God on our side, Nathaniel!’

I try to sound cheerful, but spend a restless night as the ground is frozen and because of a growing sense of dread. I have lost my wife, my daughter and my eldest son and feel the same stirring of fear, deep within my chest, as I sensed before we stormed the castle in Denbigh. My fear is for Jasper, who will risk his life to free the king.

In the morning we set off in silence. I ride with the rearguard, with Nathaniel to one side and my young squire Rhys to the other. Both are usually talkative, but now every man is lost in his own thoughts and vigilant for any sign of our enemy on the road ahead.

The attack begins with an ambush. As Jasper’s vanguard turns a corner they are met by a storm of arrows. Several of his men are dead or wounded before they know what has happened. An arrow strikes deep into the neck of Jasper’s horse and it rears into the air, throwing him from its back. He scrambles to his feet, drawing his sword, ready to fight. I see all this from the rearguard and shout for my archers, then both sides engage in hand-to-hand fighting, making it impossible for them to be sure of their targets.

The York men-at-arms take advantage of our confusion and hack at us with axes, maces and swords, slashing and killing without mercy. I see men throw down their weapons and run for their lives. Sir James Butler rides off, followed by many of his mercenaries. As I watch, our deserters are cut down and slaughtered like animals, their bodies thrown into the slow-flowing River Lugg. The Yorkists are in no mood for taking prisoners.

I can’t see Jasper anywhere, but as I search for his distinctive surcoat with the red, blue and gold of the royal arms amongst the melee of fighting men I see a knight, a head taller than those around him. He wears full plate armour and is killing with such ferocity he cuts a swathe through our line. Then I realise this must be York’s son Edward, avenging the death of his father.

Edward, Earl of March, could have stayed on his horse and watched the battle from a safe distance, as his army outnumbers ours by more than two to one. They are experienced, hand-picked fighting men, well-armed, with good armour, wearing the livery of York. I can see Nathaniel was right with his fateful warning. The enemy commanders had time to choose their ground well, as they drive Jasper’s men towards the river at their back.

A troop of mounted knights appear from nowhere with a thunder of hooves and surround what is left of my rearguard, cutting off any chance of escape. I still cannot see Jasper anywhere, but I did see my young squire Rhys running for his life. Nathaniel is bleeding from a wound on his arm and looks dazed. Seeing me look in his direction he shakes his head. We throw down our swords and raise our hands in surrender.

Ten of us march, roped in a line, hands tied behind our backs. I am comforted by a rumour that Jasper has not been found amongst the dead and may have escaped with Sir Thomas Perrot of Haverfordwest. The man walking in front of me is John Throckmorton, a good man, loyal to the king and one of Jasper’s commanders. Throckmorton is bleeding from a deep cut on his forehead and frequently stumbles, as he walks barefoot because someone has relieved him of his riding boots.

‘With God’s grace we may have the chance to reason with young Edward, the new Duke of York.’ He glances back at me and spits blood on the path. ‘I served Sir Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, that should count for something.’

There is hope in John Throckmorton’s voice and I take my cue from him. ‘I trust we can, John.’ I decide not to tell him how I witnessed Edward slaughtering all in his path.

’Did you see what became of my friend Nathaniel?’

‘Yes. He was led away soon after we were captured.’ John Throckmorton glances back at the eight men roped together behind us. ‘I pray we are not the only survivors.’

I am tired after our forced march of nearly twenty miles to the market town of Hereford, and my throat feels as dry as old parchment. We are made to wait without food or water in the dark cellar of a warehouse before being led out to the market square, where a crowd of curious onlookers has gathered, despite the wintry chill.

It seems we are to have some kind of show trial. I try to think what I will need to say in my defence and recall how I won a pardon from the king that day before the council in Westminster. There is always hope.

The executioner rips the collar from my doublet and throws it to the ground, then the crowd falls silent as I am made to kneel at the block. I close my eyes and prepare myself for the blow. There will be no last-minute pardon from the king. I pray my son Jasper will live to fight another battle and uphold the name of Tudor. Still waiting for the blade to fall I say a prayer next for my grandson Henry, that he will have a long and happy life, then I say a prayer of thanks that I will soon be joining my Catherine, the beautiful love of my life.

Er clybod darfor
â
dur

Newid hoedl Owain Tudur,

Gweilio Siasbr a Harri

Ei
u
yr a’I fab, yr wyf I

Although it is said that giving up steel

Changed the life of Owen Tudor,

To keep watching out for his son and grandson

Jasper and Henry, I will.

Ieuan Gethin, Welsh Bard, 1461

I was born within three miles of Pembroke Castle and recently visited the small room where it is said the thirteen-year-old Margaret Beaufort gave birth to Henry Tudor. I also stood on the pebble beach at Mill Bay near Milford Haven, imagining how Jasper Tudor would have felt as he approached with Henry and his mercenary army to ride to Bosworth - and change the history of Britain.

These experiences made me wonder about Owen Tudor, the Welsh servant who married Queen Catherine and began this fascinating dynasty. There are many books which mention Owen Tudor, but as far as I am aware at the time of writing, this is the only one to attempt a complete exploration of his extraordinary life.

I felt a responsibility to research his story in as much detail as possible and try to sort out the myths from the facts. There are, of course, huge gaps in the historical records, which only historical fiction can help to fill. As well as there being no surviving record of Owen’s marriage, no reliable image of him exists
.

I thought it likely that Owen would have had at least one relationship before he married Catherine, as he was a handsome young man living in a household full of well educated women.
Queen Catherine had several maids
, Joanna Belknap, Joanna Courcy, Joanna Troutbeck and one called Agnes, whose surname is not known. There was also a French lady of the bedchamber named Guillemote. There is no evidence of a relationship between Owen and any of these ladies, but I decided it was possible and created the character of Juliette to represent the other women with whom he undoubtedly shared his life.

Similarly, the character of Nathaniel represents the many clerks and male servants that Owen would have befriended, lived and worked with. I also created the character of the Welsh priest, Thomas Lewis, after discovering Owen spent his time in Newgate Gaol with a servant and his chaplain.

I admit to a raised eyebrow when I realised Owen was almost sixty when he fathered a son, Dafydd Owen, with an unknown Welsh woman at Pembroke Castle. I therefore created the character of Bethan to make this possible. Apart from that, you will find that the real people and places referred to in this book are consistent with the historical facts as we currently know them.

I also had to address the often quoted stories about how Owen and Catherine met, such as Owen falling into her lap during a drunken dance. This story is based on sonnets written by Elizabethan poet Michael Drayton, more than a century later, which say ‘
Who would not judge it fortune’s greatest grace, Since he must fall, to fall in such a place
’
. Perhaps it was not meant literally, but that Owen was lucky to be in close proximity to Catherine at such a lonely time for her. Drayton’s sonnet may have been inspired by a work known as the
Chronicle of London
by William Gregory, a London skinner and mayor of the fifteenth century, who records Owen’s last words as, ‘
that head shall lie on the stock that was wont to lie on Queen Katherine’s lap.
’

Owen Tudor was buried in the chapel of the Greyfriars Church in Hereford, later pulled down after the Dissolution of the Monasteries. A plaque marks the spot of his execution in Hereford High Street, his only memorial. I would like to remember Owen, not as a victim of the Wars of the Roses, but as an adventurer, a risk-taker, a man who lived his life to the full and made his mark on the world through his descendants.

Thank you for reading as far as this. I would be grateful if you will kindly consider writing a short review on the site where you purchased my novel. It would mean a lot to me.

Tony Riches

Pembrokeshire 2015