What Did You Do To My Mother?
(Or, Henry learns a bitter lesson)
© Kathy H D Kingsbury, July 4, 2021
Henry Tudor arrives at Mill Bay, Wales with his invasion force,
only to discover that all his plans have gone awry and learns a bitter lesson.
Part 2 of The Tudor Chronicles.
-0-0-0-
August 7, 1485
Mill Bay, Wales
The battle was a complete success, if battle is what you wanted to call it. Actually it was little more than a glorified skirmish, an absolute rout with only a handful of casualties, and those were mostly among the invaders. Thanks to the information Lady Stanley had provided, King Richard was able to have his army set up an ambush, catching the would-be conquerors off guard with scarcely an arrow loosed or a gun fired.
As Henry Tudor and his uncle set foot on the beach, the young man knelt to give thanks. It had been a rough voyage, to which his stomach could well attest. It was only when he looked up did he discover that they were not alone, that they were surrounded by angry soldiers sporting the king's white boar badge. That these men were spoiling for a fight was obvious by the fierce expressions on their faces and the weapons they brandished as they dared Tudor and his men to do something. Anything!
Though he was in harness and had been trained in knightly skills, practice against imaginary foes was never the same as facing the real thing, and Henry knew immediately that he was out of his league. His idea of conducting a battle was to allow those men skilled in military matters to take the lead while he remained safely in the background, protected by his bodyguard and offering encouragement from behind.
Wasn't there an old saying about discretion being the better part of valor? Unfortunately, neither discretion nor valor played a part in this fiasco, and before he could utter a word of protest, he found himself bundled off to meet his fate.
Henry was roughly divested of his expensive armor. I'll never see that again, he thought ruefully, remembering how excited he'd been when his uncle presented it to him prior to embarking on their grand adventure. Left wearing only his gambeson and underclothing, his wrists were bound tightly behind his back, the rough fibers of the rope biting into his flesh, and a foul-tasting piece of cloth was shoved into his mouth. Feeling like a pig trussed up for the slaughter, he was hauled to the king's pavilion and forced to his knees to face a victorious Richard.
Henry wasn't sure what to make of this, as he had been certain he would be facing immediate execution. Isn't that what was usually done to those who rebelled against a king and lost? So finding himself in Richard's tent wasn't quite what he expected, unless there was to be some sort of mock trial before his execution. Yes, that would no doubt please the tyrant who pretended he was such an upholder of Law and Justice. Hah! If only he could speak and demand that he be treated with at least a modicum of respect for his noble rank—he was the Earl of Richmond, after all!—but the damned gag was making sure that wasn't going to happen. Besides, he was pretty sure Richard would not bother with such niceties. He probably only wanted to gloat.
For a while the king said nothing. Instead he stood, admittedly looking smug, as he glared at the pretender squirming in front of him. So this was the terrible Henry Tudor, the bête noire that had been plaguing him since almost the first day of his reign. Fine, let him stew in his own juices for a while, he thought contemptuously, enjoying his foe's discomfiture more than he probably should. At last, he called for one of his squires to bring him a chair so he could sit while conducting this interview, and for another to bring him some wine. Questioning prisoners could be hard work!
"Do you want something to drink?" Richard asked, sitting back and slowly savoring his wine while the hint of a wicked grin played at the corners of his mouth.
Henry struggled futilely against his bonds, and was rewarded with a strong blow to the small of his back for his efforts. Whatever words he tried to say came out as a series of muffled grunts and groans. Damned gag!
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that." The king turned to one of the heavily-armed guards who were standing around the kneeling prisoner. They were taking no chances with this one! "You can remove the gag. I think our guest was trying to say that he was thirsty."
Henry gasped as he caught his breath. He was tempted to tell the bastard where he could shove his wine, but his mouth was so dry and he was so damned thirsty he didn't dare risk the offer being withdrawn. His hands, however, remained bound, so it was one of the guards who shoved a cup to his mouth. The man was none too gentle about it, either, grabbing a fistful of hair and viciously yanking Henry's head back with one hand as he poured the contents of the cup into the prisoner's open mouth with the other. Henry coughed and choked as most of the liquid dribbling down his chin and onto his chest. Was this to be his fate? Was he to be subjected to death by drowning? At least he managed to swallow enough to quench his thirst.
Richard rose from his chair and walked ominously toward the prisoner. "Now, Master Tudor, you have a choice to make. You can face the executioner's axe – and I assure you, that is the choice I would prefer you make – or you can spend your remaining time on earth in a monastery, dedicating your miserable life to God while you atone for your many sins such as trying to do away with your anointed king. And if you're particularly nice about it, I'll make sure castration is not part of your punishment."
Henry swallowed hard. "Don't...don't I at least get a trial?"
"This is your trial," Richard spat with a snarl.
Henry didn't want to die (who did?)...but a monk? And castration? Who castrated monks these days anyway? He tried to remain calm in spite of the terror gripping him. He was a Tudor, descended from Welsh kings of old. He glanced around, hoping to see his Uncle Jasper, hoping to gain some strength from him, but he was nowhere to be seen. He gulped. Probably already lost his head, he thought mournfully. No matter. He would make his uncle proud. He would show bravery in the face of death. He would show these scoundrels what a real man was made of, but in the end it was no use. Though the spirit was willing, the flesh failed him badly and the next thing he knew, he felt a warm wetness between his legs. Even worse, his captors saw this, too, and broke out in gales of laughter and ribald jokes at his expense.
"I...I..." Henry sputtered, his face burning crimson. He desperately wanted to make some witty retort, some stinging rebuke, but the words would not come. Instead, he mind was filled a bewilderment of thoughts. How could this have happened? How did everything get so fouled up? The plans, the plots, everything had been worked out with such detail and precision. But now, instead of wearing a crown, he was a pathetic prisoner who had just wet himself.
"Well, Master Tudor, which shall it be? Give me your answer."
Richard's voice snapped Henry's thoughts back to the present. Outside the pavilion, someone was sharpening a blade. Oh God, this was all too real!
"A...a monk?" he squealed.
Richard scowled. "Is that how you address your anointed king?"
Henry added meekly, "Your Grace?"
"Better. Yes. As for giving you a choice, that's your mother's idea. If it was up to me..." Richard made a throat slitter gesture.
Henry blanched. His mother? What could this possibly mean? Then it dawned on him. His mother must have been arrested and was even now in the clutches of these vile Yorkists, subjected to God only knows what kind of mistreatment. His mind filled with horrific images dredged up by his over-active imagination. Had she been tortured? Had she been...despoiled, subjected to that fate worse than death? Had these filthy, lecherous beasts placed their coarse hands on her virginal (okay, almost virginal) body? He struggled, trying to get to his feet. If it was his fate to die here, he would overcome his fear and at least die like a man.
"You...you...MONSTER!" he screamed before a sharp blow to the head sent him sprawling on the ground face first, where he was greeted with a mouth full of dirt. And that's when reality set in and he knew that further resistance was futile and bravado was useless. His beloved mother, the woman who had sacrificed so much for him, cruelly abused by these fiends in defense of her son. It was a thought so horrid, so ghastly, that it made him physically ill. Lying on the ground, he curled into a ball and didn't even try to prevent the tears from streaming down his face as he sobbed his heart out.
"You monster," he whimpered. "What did you do to my mother?"
Richard chuckled. "Nothing she didn't want didn't want me to do," he replied, a smile breaking out as he remembered the passionate nights he and Margaret had shared. "You know, this is all your fault."
Henry managed to raise his head slightly, his tear-stained face gazing pitifully up at his tormentor. "What do you mean?"
By now it was obvious to all in the king's tent that Henry Tudor was a broken man. For a few moments, Richard almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But that feeling passed as quickly as it came.
"Maybe if you'd treated your mother better, she wouldn't have come to me, sharing all your plans."
What new hell was this? Henry thought matters couldn't get any worse...and now this gut punch? Betrayed by his own mother? King Richard might just as well have slit him open and pulled his entrails out, and Henry could not have felt any worse than he did now.
"My mother...? Why?"
"She's very unhappy with how you have treated her, how you have taken her for granted all these years. In fact, she called you a little shit."
Henry was beyond being stunned. "She...she said that?" he hiccuped through his sobs.
Richard nodded. "She did ask one thing of me. It seems that in spite of your boorish treatment of her, your lady mother still loves you and asked me to spare your life...if possible."
"B-b-but as a m-m-monk?" Henry found himself stuttering as his stomach clenched and he feared he would embarrass himself even further by being sick. "C-c-couldn't you j-just l-lock me away in the T-t-tower or s-s-something?"
"As I said, it's your mother's idea. Actually, she suggested you be placed in a monastery where the monks are required to take a vow of silence, but I won't go that far. I'll simply see to it that you're safely tucked away far to the north, in one of those remote, isolated monasteries where the nearest habitation is many miles away, where even the summer weather can be cold and harsh. Where the brothers are loyal to their king and will make sure you never miss sending your mother another birthday card."
"I...I didn't realize she felt that way," Henry said meekly, the sobs finally drying up, for which Richard was relieved. It was embarrassing to watch a grown man blubber the way Tudor had.
"So which will it be, Master Tudor – the axe or monastic vows? Make up your mind. Now!"
"I...I'll go to the monastery," he said plaintively, at which point his body sagged dejectedly as he resigned himself to his fate.
Richard leaned over and grinned as he gave Henry a congratulatory slap on the back. "Good choice." Then under his breath added, "At least now I won't have to explain to your mother why you were executed."
The guards hoisted the slumping Henry to his feet, grumbling at the dead weight. As he was escorted away, he didn't even notice the taunts directed at him. "Don't worry, Your Grace," said the captain of the guards. "We'll take good care of him." And to Henry, "We're going to take you to a nice, secure place until all the arrangements are made to take you north."
The young man stumbled more than once, barely able to stand after all he had just been through, but his captors took no pity on him. Besides, no one had touched him other than a couple slaps to teach the young pup some manners. The men smiled with pride at what their king had done, taking a brash, cocky young man and turning him into this puling, quivering mess without ever laying a hand on him. A mama's boy, they called him derisively.
"Oh, and clean the lad up, will you?" the king called to them on their way out. "I'd hate to have the monks see that he'd pissed his pants."
The End
Did you like what you read? Then won't you leave some feedback? And if you want to know what happens next, go the the story "Reconciliation" - Part III in The Tudor Chronicles.