As the meeting disintegrated and York departed in red-faced fury, his parting words to me were delivered with unwarranted spite. ‘Well, you tried, young Pembroke, but you would do better watching your own back. While you played nursemaid to your witless half-brother, your full flesh and blood was plotting to cut you out. Next time you see Richmond, ask him where he has been. I guarantee you will not like the answer.’
Later that day I was still seething over the sneering laugh that had punctuated York’s parting jibe, when my brother Edmund burst into the Westminster Palace armoury where Maredudd was helping me into the old hauberk I wore for my daily arms practice. ‘Ah, here you are, Jas! God’s greetings, brother. You may offer your congratulations to a married man – well, as good as married anyway.’
My already low spirits plummeted further and I stared at him, speechless. He cackled – there is no other word for it. ‘Ha ha! Do not tell me you still harboured hopes for Margaret yourself? She was always meant for the eldest you know. We make the perfect combination – I am handsome and royal and she is rich and willing. Well, why wouldn’t she be? Willing, I mean.’ He spread his arms wide to display his undeniable charms.
‘Perhaps because she has good taste.’ My voice grated from my constricted throat. Edmund was right. I had harboured high hopes for Margaret, had even broached the subject again with Henry before his malady took hold but he had given no hint that he had already granted the marriage to Edmund.
My brother shrugged. ‘I will allow your sour grapes because I understand that you are a bad loser but there will be another rich bride for you, Jas.’
I raged inwardly. As if riches were the only reason for coveting Margaret! At this juncture my thoughts were of a murderous intent.
‘How about Elizabeth of York?’ he added. ‘You can be sure that her father will endow her well. Or the Earl of Warwick’s little sister, Katherine? There are plenty more like Margaret Beaufort.’
I had turned away, hiding my dejection in the rattle of chainmail as Maredudd hauled the hauberk over my head. Edmund was wrong; the delicate and graceful Margaret Beaufort could not be outshone in my estimation and definitely not by a daughter of York. In hindsight, I had put Margaret on a pedestal and allowed myself to see her as my perfect honoured lady and me as her gentle knight. I had been captivated by her elfin charm and her engaging manner but I think I can truthfully state that my thoughts had been entirely chaste. She was too young to be the subject of lustful urges but pure fascination has an equally strong pull and in Margaret’s case I doubted if I would ever be entirely free of it.
After my mauling at the Royal Council and Edmund’s devastating betrothal my instinct was to get away. It was a long ride to Pembroke, across half of England and the widest part of Wales but I took with me only a small troop of mounted retainers. I wanted nothing like the long column of guards and courtiers, cooks, clerks and house-carls, such as accompanied the king on his interminable progresses. Long-suffering Henry bore the tedium of these cavalcades with saintly forbearance but I insisted that my tight-knit retinue covered at least thirty-five miles a day and preferably forty, depending on the terrain and the weather conditions. However, having crossed the Severn by ferry below Chepstow, we rested two nights at my nearby castle of Caldicot so that I could meet the constable and inspect its demesne and defences.
Caldicot manor had been part of our mother’s dower lands so King Henry had thought it fitting to add it to my lordships, but until this visit I had not realized what superb hunting was offered by its extensive parkland and made a mental note to come back at a convenient time and take advantage of it. On the other hand the castle itself was a disappointment. It had been built to monitor the river traffic on the lower Severn and to enforce Norman rule in the area and as such it was a very basic fortification consisting of a moated curtain wall around a large bailey, a ramshackle old keep, a gatehouse and a random trio of defensive towers, all of which were in a state of neglect. I deduced that it could probably just about withstand a siege and provide a refuge for local farmers and their stock but its domestic arrangements offered little comfort for any noble companions I might wish to invite for the excellent hunting and wildfowling. I resolved to have plans drawn up for improvements.
From Caldicot we took the high route through the Black Mountains, avoiding Glamorgan in the southernmost part of Wales, where I knew trouble was brewing. The pugnacious Earl of Warwick was in violent conflict with one of his Lancastrian cousins over the lordship of Abergavenny and was also disputing possession of Cardiff Castle with the Duke of Somerset. I had already learned at court that where Warwick disputed mastery it was best not to venture, unless you had a troop of lawyers at your side and an army at your back. Moreover there was a convenient string of lordships and manors belonging to Welsh gentry located in the green rolling hills further north, where comfortable accommodation might be obtained and useful connections made. I was eager to introduce myself as the new Earl of Pembroke and to seek their counsel and advice.
As it transpired, although the servants in each house we visited hosted us generously, only one of the landholders was in residence, but my meeting with Gruffydd ap Nicholas at Dinefŵr Castle was a fruitful and fortuitous one. When I was at Tŷ Cerrig, Hywel had described this powerful clan leader as a warmongering old rascal with questionable morals and no respect for authority and I found this to be true in many respects; he was ageing and boisterous, with a bald pate, a grizzled beard and a loud voice. However, even on this first brief encounter we somehow established a rapport that made nothing of the forty-year difference in our ages and the fact that his English was badly mauled by the loss of his front teeth in a skirmish. My foolish attempt at Welsh almost prompted an apoplexy on his part but after a few false starts I managed to get the hang of his lisping English.
‘I have sons of about your age, Lord Jasper,’ he told me jovially. ‘Thomas and Owain, and there is never a cross word between us – as long as they do exactly as I tell them!’ His laugh was like the crackling of a log fire, cheerful and warming, but the steely glint in his grey eyes revealed his iron will. I was to learn that arguing was the sport he and his sons relished most and quickly came to the conclusion that I would prefer to stand beside him rather than confront him on a battlefield.
‘I have heard that you are a patron of the arts,’ I remarked early in our meeting, ‘and that you hold festivals here at Dinefŵr.’
I had found his favourite subject. ‘Yes indeed, in the spring we held an eisteddfod; at least that is what the bards called it. There was singing and music and poetry; performers came from all over Wales. It lasted two weeks and they ate and drank me out of all supplies, but it was worth it for the entertainment and the comradeship. They held a competition to see who could deliver the best praise poem and there was even one to you, Jasper Tudor!’ His laugh boomed out again. ‘It was soon after you had been made Earl of Pembroke and I suppose the bard thought it topical. It was not strictly a praise poem but then he knew next to nothing about you – ha, ha!’
I was astonished. ‘I would like the name of the man who did that!’ Maredudd had told me of the Welsh tradition of poets declaiming long and effusive eulogies to their chosen heroes and had mentioned one in particular. ‘Do you know of a poet called Lewys Glyn Cothi?’ I asked Gruffydd on impulse.
His face creased into smiles once again. ‘Do I know him? Of course I know him and a spirited declaimer he is. What is more he is here. He often calls in when he hears I am at Dinefŵr. He has gone off somewhere just now, probably gambling or wenching, but he will be back at dinnertime. He always is. How did you hear of him?’
‘My Welsh squire told me about him. Was he the one who delivered the rather lacklustre praise poem about me?’
Gruffydd cogitated, stroking his beard. ‘Now I come to think of it, I believe he was. What a coincidence! Shall we ask him to sing it for his supper tonight?’
The prospect of this clearly delighted him but I quailed at the idea of hearing an inaccurate list of my imagined attributes aimed at me in a language I did not understand. ‘I do not think so, thank you, but I would like to meet