I've quoted a few passages from Thomas Penn's "Winter King: The Dawn of Tudor England" and Alison Weir's "Elizabeth of York: A Tudor Queen and Her World" to provide some background about timeline, and to set the scene for each snapshot.
Thank you for reading :D :D
Pembroke Castle
Henry earl of Richmond was born on 28 January 1457 in the fortress of Pembroke Castle, a few miles away from his eventual landing-place. The plague that had ravaged southern Wales late the previous year had carried off his father, Edmund Tudor, imprisoned in a Yorkist dungeon; his mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, had just turned fourteen. The birth left her damaged. She would have no more children. (Winter King: The Dawn of Tudor England by Thomas Penn)
But the infant Henry was weak, and it was thanks only to his young mother's devoted care that he survived. He spent his earliest years with her at Pembroke Castle, under the protection of his uncle, Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke. (Elizabeth of York: A Tudor Queen and Her World by Alison Weir)
The baby was so small, as small and fragile as that other baby, the one who died soon after Jasper's mother had brought her to life, the one who carried off Catherine of Valois to an early grave alongside her daughter. Margaret herself looked half-dead, her face pale and drained of blood, her hands shaking as she insisted on holding her son in her arms, deafening her ears to the words of the doctors and the servants.
"He cannot die. He will not die. He's my boy. I won't have another."
"We must have him baptized immediately, Margaret," Jasper said gently. In case …
"Owen, for his grandfather. Owen Tudor," Jasper continued, his voice unsteady. Edmund's boy. The only thing left of his brother Edmund. If the boy should die too …
Owain Tudur, it should be, but this boy has an English mother, the earldom he inherits from his dead father is on English soil, and his fortune lies in the English court, so Owen Tudor it must be.
Margaret shook her head, with a firmness that belied her age and her weakened state. "No. Henry, after his uncle and our great king. Henry Tudor." She sounded years beyond her age too, as if the difficult birth had turned her overnight from a girl-child whose husband had taken her to bed too soon to a fierce woman bent on protecting her child.
Henry Tudor. Jasper did not have the heart to argue with Margaret. Harri Tudur. Henry, earl of Richmond. It was a good name. And god willing it would please Jasper's brothers too; the one in the grave and the one sitting on the throne.
"He will never know his father, poor child. Just like I never knew mine," Margaret whispered, kissing her son's brow.
"He has his mother," Jasper said. "And a strong and fine mother you will be too, Margaret. Don't you ever doubt it."
"And he has his uncle, too," Margaret said, eyes shining with unshed tears.
Jasper nodded. "King Henry will not forget his nephew. He will be generous to little Henry, just as he was more than generous and kind to Edmund and me, even though we are only his half-brothers."
Those Welsh bastards, some sneered at Edmund and Jasper Tudor. Lucky enough to gain the earldom of Pembroke and Richmond because their father had the foresight to fall into the king's mother's bed.
King Henry had paid no heed to the sneers and the jeers. He had brought his half-brothers to court as soon as he was old enough to take up the rein of governance himself, releasing them from their half-imprisonment in the abbey, showering them with every advantage possible, treating them as he would his true full-blooded brothers. Jasper was not likely to forget his royal brother's kindness.
"Jasper?" Margaret was calling out his name.
"Forgive me, Margaret. My mind … it wanders."
"I was saying that the king must have much in his mind with the business of England. Little Henry has another uncle closer to home, one whose protection he is sorely in need of. His Tudor uncle. His uncle Jasper."
Uncle Jasper. Jasper tried to imagine this fragile infant in Margaret's arms growing old (and strong) enough to call out for his uncle Jasper, but his imagination failed to stretch that far.
"Would you like to hold him?" Margaret asked, looking uncertain, all her fourteen years of age suddenly painfully palpable again.
Jasper smiled. "Of course. If you will let me."
Margaret handed Jasper the baby, her eyes anxious and watchful, relaxing only once little Henry was safe and snug in Jasper's arms.
"He has his father's eyes," Jasper said softly.
"Pray god it will bring him a better fate in life," Margaret replied, her voice breaking.
"With my life if need be, I will protect him, Margaret. You have my word," Jasper promised. He had no notion how soon it would be before he would be forced to break that promise.
He had no notion that he would be spending the rest of his life trying to make up for that broken promise.
Raglan Castle
Edward IV, a charismatic giant of an eighteen-year-old, was crowned the first king of the house of York. For the powerful Lancastrian clans of Beaufort and Tudor, the defeat at Towton was a disaster. The child in whom their families met, the four-year-old Henry earl of Richmond, was now a wealthy prize. Torn away from his mother, his lands parcelled out among the victors, he was presented by Edward IV to a prominent Yorkist, William Herbert, and brought up among the Herbert children at the castle of Raglan in south Wales. (Winter King: The Dawn of Tudor England by Thomas Penn)
The boy spent much of the next nine years at the luxuriously appointed Raglan Castle where Herbert, although a rough and often violent man, proved a surprisingly good guardian, providing the boy with an excellent education and planning to marry him to his daughter, Maud Herbert. (Elizabeth of York: A Tudor Queen and Her World by Alison Weir)
Maud wanted a ring, so Henry fashioned one from flower petals and dried leaves. Her sisters laughed, but Maud squealed with delight and tried to kiss Henry's cheek. Henry wanted to run, but he knew he mustn't – Lord Herbert would be angry if Maud started crying because of him. So he looked down at his feet and held his breath, his face turning redder with each passing moment. Maud thought he was blushing - as Henry had hoped she would - so she turned away before her lips met his cheek, pretending to be just as shy and bashful too.
Maud used to be a lot more fun. They used to play slay the dragon, save the king, protect the maiden. Now Maud only wanted to play at being bride and groom.
It was Henry's fault; he should not have been hiding in the shrubbery trying to listen to Lord and Lady Herbert talking. But sometimes, just sometimes, they would be talking about Henry's mother. Or uncle Jasper. Henry would not miss it for the world.
No one here would talk to him about his mother and his uncle. They thought he had forgotten. You were so young. You were only four at the time. How much would a four-year-old remember? This is your home now, with us.
He remembered … a kiss. His mother's kiss, on his brow, his cheeks, his hands, too, sometimes. Uncle Jasper's kiss, always on the top of his head, and nowhere else.
He remembered his mother's screams, when the strange men came to take him away. Where was uncle Jasper?
That other time, Lord and Lady Herbert had not been talking about Henry's mother, or Henry's uncle. They were talking about a wedding. Henry's wedding. Maud's wedding. Maud had come up behind Henry, silently, and had heard everything as well. She did not look as surprised as Henry was feeling, now that he was thinking about it more carefully. But perhaps she had already been told. Maud was Lord Herbert's daughter after all, and Henry was only a … a …
What was he, truly? No one was unkind to him. No one treated him in any way less than courteously. When he wrote to his mother, under Lady Herbert's watchful gaze, he did not have to lie when he told her he was treated kindly, that his days were filled with interesting lessons and games, that he was learning and playing and eating well.
He lied when he wrote his mother that he was happy and contented. But what else could he have written, knowing that his letters to his mother were read and scrutinized by Lady Herbert before they were ever sent to the intended recipient? Knowing that the letters he received from his mother had been read by Lady Herbert beforehand, and some pages would be missing at times. Knowing that his mother had to beg and plead with Lord Herbert to be allowed a visit with her own son. Knowing that his mother would never be allowed to take Henry to the house she was living with her new husband.
Knowing all that, what else could he have done except lie?
He didn't write to uncle Jasper. No one knew where uncle Jasper was. France, Henry overheard Lord Herbert saying once. Brittany, he said later. Or was it Burgundy? Wales, Lord Herbert was complaining to Lady Herbert on one occasion. "That idiot Jasper Tudor is staging raids all over the coast. And the Welshmen are eating it up, as if he's a favourite son coming home to deliver them from evil. I am the king's representative in Wales now. Not Jasper Tudor."
Wales. Uncle Jasper was home. Henry stifled a sound deep in his throat.
I will come for you, Henry, as soon as it is safe.
Had that really been uncle Jasper, speaking to Henry before leaving Pembroke? Was it memory he was recalling, or merely wishful thinking on his part? How soon would it be safe? He was now ten; it had been six years since they had all been at Pembroke Castle together. How much longer? How much longer would he have to wait?
"The Tudors do not lack deep Welsh roots. Owen Tudor –"
Lady Herbert was swiftly interrupted by her husband. "Owen Tudor left Wales as a boy, and never looked back once he managed to lie and charm his way into that poor lonely widow's bed. The keeper of the Queen's wardrobe, I ask you. More like the stripper of the Queen's gown," he sneered.
"William! Your language. The children might hear you," Lady Herbert chastised her husband. "And what if Henry hears you speaking derisively of his grandfather?"
"Well, perhaps it is time Henry Tudor learns the truth about his Tudor heritage."
London
In October 1470, Edward IV was forced to flee to the continent, to the Burgundian Netherlands, and the helpless Henry VI was brought out of his place of incarceration in the Tower of London. To the young Henry of Richmond, his uncle's brief, inglorious second coming was memorable. Taken to London, he was reunited briefly with the mother he had not seen for years, before returning to south Wales, this time in the company of his Tudor uncle Jasper. (Winter King: The Dawn of Tudor England by Thomas Penn)
"You came for me, like you said you would. Is it really safe now, uncle?"
Henry had remembered. He had remembered Jasper's promise, a promise made long ago by a desperate man about to flee his own castle. About to abandon another promise he had made to Margaret Beaufort when Henry Tudor was born - to protect her son with his life.
"I have to run, Margaret. They will kill me as surely as they murdered my poor father. Your husband will keep you and Henry safe. Even that York pretender calling himself king would not dare touch the wife and stepson of Henry Stafford, the son of Duke of Buckingham."
"My husband fought for our good King Henry as well. What makes you so certain Edward would be more merciful towards him?"
Jasper was certain because he knew that Stafford, and his father the duke, would quickly make their peace with Edward of York, would declare their loyalty and plead for pardon in return for being allowed to keep their lands and their titles. That was not a possibility Jasper himself was willing to consider. His brother Henry was the only king, the true Lancastrian king, and he would not make peace with Edward of York, or any York, while King Henry still lived.
Jasper had to run for his life, but he had to flee England for his brother Henry's sake as well. He had spent the years in exile plotting, planning and scheming alongside Margaret of Anjou, marshalling men and armies to take back the throne for his brother, her husband.
Stafford got his pardon from Edward of York, but he did not manage to keep his wife's son from being taken away from her, from being raised by strangers, strangers who were by staunch Yorkists at that.
Jasper had chosen one Henry over another. He had chosen his brother over his nephew. But now King Henry was back on the throne, and little Henry was back with him once more, and pray god he would not have to choose between them ever again.
Except the boy was not so little anymore. The top of his head now reached Jasper's shoulder, and Jasper would no longer have to kneel to kiss Henry's hair.
"Uncle?"
Jasper returned to the present. "It is safe now, Henry. Our glorious King Henry is on the throne once more, and he will return to you your land and your title."
"And yours too? Is Pembroke yours once more? Can we go home now?"
Home. Henry wanted to go home.
That the boy should still think of Pembroke as his home, when he had lived with the Herberts longer than he ever lived at Pembroke with his mother and his uncle, touched Jasper more than he would ever admit to anyone.
Jasper tousled the boy's hair. "Soon, Henry. Soon. But first you must be presented to the king. And there is someone else you must meet. Someone very special. Someone who has been waiting –"
He saw her then, dismounting her horse. Margaret. Little Margaret, as Jasper had called her when Edmund first brought her home. She had not grown much taller since then, but this was a grown woman now, not the girl Jasper remembered, or the passionate, devoted young mother he had cherished in his memory. Her mouth had grown hard, and her eyes were like pools of despair where happiness could never hope to reside.
He had let her down. He had promised to protect her son, and he had let her down.
Here he is, Margaret. Our Henry. Safe and sound after all, thank the lord, despite my broken promise.
Margaret gasped when she saw Jasper. "I didn't think I would ever see you again. I thought – I thought – I thought that you would die, in France or Brittany or wherever, and I would not even know. That no one would even bother to tell me, for why would they? I was only your brother's widow." She started to sob, but then caught sight of her son. "Henry," she called out his name, as if in a prayer.
Henry glanced at his uncle for a brief, brief moment. Jasper smiled and nodded. The boy made his way towards his mother, slowly at first, but his feet moving faster as he came closer to her. Margaret stood still as if in a trance, as if not believing her own eyes, as if afraid her son would vanish if she moved even a finger length.
"Mother."
Margaret's gloved hands were cradling Henry's face, touching, searching, caressing. "Henry. My boy. My dearest, dearest boy." Her tears were falling freely now, her sobs clearly audible.
"We are safe, Mother. Uncle Jasper said it is safe now," Henry said, earnest and solemn, as serious as a grown man twice his age.
Margaret quickly dried her tears. "It is never truly safe, Henry. We must always be vigilant. Always," she said, forceful and emphatic. She was looking at her son, but Jasper knew her words were meant for him as well.
Brittany
Six months later Edward IV returned to England. Henry VI himself, reincarcerated in the Tower, was murdered. The house of Lancaster had been all but exterminated. That September [1471], Jasper and the fourteen-year-old Henry fled Pembroke Castle, where they had been holed up against the Yorkist armies, across the sea to the traditional Lancastrian refuge of France. Storms took them west, to the north-western tip of mainland Europe, the embattled duchy of Brittany. Amid rumours of English and French agents and plots, of kidnap and murder, Henry was transferred from fortress to fortress, never settled, always ready to move at a moment's notice. (Winter King: The Dawn of Tudor England by Thomas Penn)
His mother wrote that King Edward had been blessed with another son. Richard, this one was called. Another York prince for the throne. With the death of King Henry and his son Prince Edward, Henry Tudor was the Lancastrian heir, but the throne was slipping further and further away from his grasp.
"If you have two younger brothers, would you name your son after the youngest? I wonder how the Duke of Clarence felt about that?" Henry asked his uncle, batting away another thrust of Jasper's sword.
"George is too busy gorging on your Richmond land and your Richmond title to care, I'm sure," Jasper replied, his sword successfully touching Henry's neck this time. "Pay attention, Henry! This is not a game we're playing," Jasper scolded his nephew, his face scowling. "Your life will depend on it."
"Ahh … but I am paying attention, uncle. My sword needs only a single thrust to slice through your gut. I bet I could do it faster than you could behead me," Henry replied.
"Is that so?" Jasper was smiling, a welcome sight to Henry. His uncle had not been smiling much since King Henry's death. "Murdered in his bed by the York brothers," Jasper had exclaimed, when he heard the news. Jasper had wept too, wept soundlessly in the dark when he thought Henry was not likely to be watching. The sight of his uncle weeping was one of the most disconcerting sights Henry had ever witnessed in his life.
Look after your uncle, for he has no one, and you have him, Henry's mother had written in one of her letters.
You have me, uncle. Your Henry.
"This is no kind of life for a young man, Henry. I'm sorry," Jasper said, his voice full of regret, the last time they had to flee to another town, with King Edward's men in hot pursuit behind them.
This was no kind of life for a not-so-young man too, Henry knew, a man who had eschewed wife and children of his own, all for the sake of a nephew he had to protect.
A life spent in exile, always looking around with suspicion, always watching their backs, always ready to run to the next unknown destination. And yet, despite everything, they had carved within their own enclosed world a semblance of normalcy, or the closest thing to it anyway. A young man and his father - strangers who did not know Henry and Jasper might come to think upon seeing the two men travelling together, or watching Jasper teaching Henry how to fight, how to influence other men, how to woo a woman.
"We will only be truly safe when a Lancaster sits on the throne. And you are that Lancaster, Henry. This is your burden to carry now."
And you are carrying it with me, uncle.
Rennes Cathedral
Henry's pact with the exiles was sealed in the cathedral at the Breton capital of Rennes on Christmas Day 1483: they pledging their allegiance to him as king, he swearing to marry Elizabeth of York. (Winter King: The Dawn of Tudor England by Thomas Penn)
The cathedral was almost empty, the men leaving quickly as soon as the pact was sealed. Henry looked dazed, trying to catch his uncle's eyes, a feat made almost impossible by Jasper's insistence on turning his gaze downward, towards his feet.
"You are not pleased," Henry said, still trying to catch Jasper's eyes. "Why are you not pleased, uncle?"
Jasper lifted his head and stared into Henry's confused eyes. He forced a smile onto his face. "Of course I am pleased. This is the culmination of everything we have worked for. Everything you, your mother and I have been planning and striving so hard to achieve, all these years."
The price they had to pay was simple – Henry married to a York. Not just any York, but Edward of York's eldest daughter.
Margaret did not harbour any doubt. "This is our chance, our only chance perhaps," she had written Jasper. "We must not fail to seize it."
Then again, it was not Margaret's father who was beheaded by Edward of York, not Margaret's brother who was murdered in his bed by the York brothers. Margaret would have found the joining of York and Lancaster a less revolting thought than he did, Jasper suspected.
"They will not support my claim to the throne without Elizabeth as my queen," Henry was saying.
"Then you shall make her your queen," Jasper replied, still trying to smile.
"Richard calls me 'that Welsh bastard.' How am I a bastard? My mother and father were married, in the eyes of the church as well as the law."
"You are not the bastard. Your father was, or so they claim. As am I."
"But there was a marriage. A secret marriage. You told me so yourself, uncle."
Jasper sighed. "Some would not acknowledge it, even after the late King Henry declared us his legitimate uterine brothers. It does not matter, Henry. Your claim to the throne does not rest on your Tudor heritage. It is from your mother and her Beaufort bloodline that you derive your claim, a direct line to John of Gaunt and the late King Edward the Third."
"And there is the taint of illegitimacy with the Beaufort as well, Richard's supporters are saying."
Jasper took hold of Henry's shoulders. "Listen to me, Henry. When you win the throne, you will have won it by defeating Richard in battle. That is your strongest claim to the throne, and the only thing that truly matters. Everything else can be considered, finessed and deliberated after the fact."
Winchester Castle
Henry, it seems, always knew the child would be a son. Invoking the mythical British king from whom both Lancaster and York had liked to trace their descent – the prophet Merlin, no less, had described King Arthur as the fruit of the union of a red king and a white queen – Henry would call his son Arthur, and he would be born in Winchester, the legendary seat of Camelot. (Winter King: The Dawn of Tudor England by Thomas Penn)
"Is it safe now? I have my heir. The Tudor heir."
"Edward had two sons," Jasper reminded Henry. And neither son was sitting on the throne now; those were the words that need not be spoken between them, the meaning being altogether too clear. "Richard had an heir, and the boy died before his father," Jasper continued.
Henry was weary. Weary of still having to constantly watch his back, still having to cast his eyes with suspicion towards almost everything and everyone, still having to be eternally vigilant to every danger chasing him. "Will it ever be safe?"
The look on his uncle's face broke Henry's heart. "I don't know, Henry. Once I thought … well, I was naïve, once. If I had misled you in any way, please know that it was never a deliberate attempt to deceive you. I was deceiving myself as well."
"You have never deceived me. You have never been anything less than exemplary towards me. Everything I have, everything that I am, I owe to you and my mother."
Jasper turned his face away, pretending to be distracted by the sight of passing servants, while Henry suddenly busied himself with a loose thread on his cloak. An eternity seemed to pass, and still the Tudor men stayed silent, avoiding each other's gaze.
Jasper laughed, finally breaking the silence. "You would have thought one of us had accidentally declared eternal love for the other, seeing how embarrassed and tongue-tied we were. Like a Tudor, eh, Henry?"
Henry smiled. "Like a Tudor, uncle."
"Your Arthur is a lucky boy. He has his father to welcome his birth. You didn't."
"I had you instead."
"And you will have me, as long as I live."