LITMIR.BIZ

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      The clash of forces in the town confines was bloody and confused. Having decided there was no room for cavalry in the narrow streets my troops were all on foot, while York and Salisbury’s retinues were mostly still mounted, giving them an initial advantage. Although my vanguard tried bravely to bring down the enemy’s horses we were forced off the main highway and back into the narrow lanes. Wiltshire’s soldiers, without their commander, soon melted away into the shadows but I called together my own men and led them through backstreets and alleyways in order to bring support to Buckingham and the king in the Market Square, which seemed the only thing I could do. Although I knew there had been several casualties I prayed we were not leaving any dead behind us, only to find when we got there we were too late. Buckingham had been felled and was lying wounded on the cobbles with blood seeping from under his helmet and King Henry and his bodyguard were surrounded. Both the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of York were there already in force. Clearly we had no option but to lay down our arms. There was no sign of Wiltshire or the royal standard.

      The battle, if it could be called that, was over. While York and Salisbury had barged their way through my unsuccessful defence of the north bar, Warwick’s attack from the east side of the town had taken the king and the royal guard by surprise and I was to learn that during the brief hostilities key Lancastrian leaders had been singled out and killed by Warwick’s men, including the Duke of Somerset, the Earl of Northumberland and Lord Clifford. But to my immediate consternation I noticed that the king himself had been wounded by a Yorkist arrow, the shaft of which was still protruding from the back of his neck.

      I stepped forward and offered my sword to York, and then my support to my brother. As soon as he saw me the look of fear and bewilderment left Henry’s eyes and he leaned heavily on my shoulder. ‘Ah, Jasper, it is you. I think I need the services of a surgeon.’

      The duke nodded agreement. ‘Yes, Pembroke, take his grace for treatment. The monks will know where to go but my men will escort you.’ He signalled to a sturdy knight who was hovering nearby and gave him whispered instructions. Monks were already beginning to emerge nervously from the abbey with offers to assist the wounded and it was one of them who led us, unarmed and surrounded by a considerable Yorkist escort, to a tanner’s workshop, assuring us that it would have the tools necessary to remove the arrowhead without causing more damage. And God be praised, the monk was right; King Henry’s injury proved to be only a flesh wound, which was successfully treated and bandaged. The arrow had missed any vital blood vessels but I was greatly impressed by the courage and stoicism Henry displayed as the brawny tanner wielded his hefty pincers so close to a vulnerable area.

      Meanwhile the Duke of York had been making hasty arrangements for dealing with the other casualties. By the time we returned to the Market Square Buckingham had been taken away for treatment and my men had been relieved of their arms and corralled together in a dejected group in one corner. York bowed punctiliously to King Henry and informed him that he and Warwick would escort him back to London. No mention was made at that time of the death of Somerset.

      ‘But I wish to go to Kenilworth with the queen,’ Henry protested, gripping my arm tightly as if fearful he might be wrenched away from me. ‘Tell him, Jasper – we are going to the Midlands. I do not like residing at Westminster or the Tower.’

      ‘The queen and the prince may go north if they wish,’ said the duke firmly, ‘but the people expect their king to be in London. We will make sure that you are comfortably accommodated, sire, have no fear.’

      Henry turned beseeching eyes on me but I shook my head. There was no future in arguing at the point of a sword. And so the royal family was separated, apparently with the worthiest of motives. The king rode into London beside York, while Warwick led the procession, bearing aloft the Sword of State in hands which only hours before had sent the Duke of Somerset into the hereafter. The people who cheered them through the streets were in no doubt as to who was now in control of the kingdom.

      When Henry was finally told of Somerset’s death the shock sent him into such a state of grief that he would not have been capable of ruling anyway. I wondered how Marguerite had taken the news when she heard it, far away in the Lancastrian castle-in-the-lake that was Kenilworth. She must have been distraught that she had lost both her favourite counsellors; Somerset to Warwick’s sword and Wiltshire to self-inflicted exile in Flanders, where he had chosen to take refuge rather than face York’s vengeance. The royal standard had been found propped up against a hovel in a dark alley and most of Wiltshire’s armour was dragged out of the River Ver, which ran through the town. Some monk claimed that the fleeing earl had given him a mark for his habit to use as a disguise.

      As for me, the duke chose not to take offence that I had fought against him at St Albans. ‘You are the king’s brother,’ he said. ‘I hold family loyalty in high esteem.’ He went so far as to call me back to the Royal Council, even though I warned him that my prolonged absence from Pembroke would leave crown property in West Wales vulnerable to Gruffydd and his sons. This was where York’s ulterior motive showed, for his response was to favour my brother Edmund, who had not been at St Albans, and appoint him as the king’s Lieutenant in South Wales, with orders to bring Gruffydd to heel. Shuddering at the prospect of Edmund destroying all the diplomatic advances I had made with the ‘old rascal’ and his sons, I went to Henry to protest but it was immediately clear to me that my royal brother was still reeling from Somerset’s death.

      With his household scattered he had been accommodated at the Bishop of London’s palace and I found him pale and timid, barely clinging to sanity. ‘Edmund’s appointment was the Duke of York’s idea, Jasper,’ he whispered. There was still a fresh scar on his neck where the arrow had so nearly severed a vital blood vessel. ‘He is very angry about our royal dignity being disparaged in Wales. I thought it best not to argue with him.’

      In making my response I swapped my usual cheerful tone for what I hoped was a gently persuasive one. ‘I understand completely, my liege, but on this occasion I believe second thoughts are needed. Highly as I know you regard Edmund, I submit that he is not the man for this task. He makes no secret of the fact that he does not like the Welsh, which must seriously affect the chances of successful negotiations with the local chieftains.’

      Henry frowned. ‘But he is Welsh himself and the appointment has been made public. It cannot be changed.’

      I tried not to sound exasperated. ‘You are the king, Henry. If you believe an error has been made then you can cancel the appointment.’

      He shook his head vehemently, as if trying to eject a buzzing insect from his ear. ‘No. No, I will not do that, Jasper. I cannot.’

      Reluctantly I let the matter drop. A time was to come when I would wish that I had not.

       9

       Jasper

      Bletsoe Castle, Bedfordshire

      FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE regrettable clash of arms at St Albans, Edmund and Margaret stood before the altar in the chapel at her mother’s castle of Bletsoe in Bedfordshire. It was a cold day and the bride’s blue and silver mantle embroidered with the Beaufort portcullis swamped her small frame; a jewelled circlet secured her long dark hair. She was twelve and a half years old and dwarfed by Edmund who stood tall and magnificent and twice her age, at his physical and fashionable fittest. During our two-day ride from Westminster to Bletsoe, I had asked him why Lady Welles had agreed to the wedding while her daughter was still so young but he informed me gleefully that Margaret had more or less demanded to be married.

      ‘She says her prayers have been answered. I think she is somewhat in love with me.’

      The look of smug satisfaction on his face stung me to anger and

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