of St Gregory while beams of sunshine beckoned us outdoors to the joust or the hunting field.
Henry’s cousin and chief counsellor Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, joined the Progress for its final days during a stay at Reading Abbey. We shared our brother’s evening ale as usual and on this occasion so did the duke, a man well known to us. We had good cause to pay him full attention. As a young man, with less status and influence than he commanded now, Edmund Beaufort had proposed marriage to our mother, the dowager Queen Catherine, but the royal council had vetoed the match. Subsequently he had discovered her clandestine marriage to Owen Tudor but agreed to keep it secret and stand godfather to their first son who was named Edmund in his honour. Ever since then he had proved a staunch friend to us and so his presence that evening was highly significant.
The abbot had surrendered his Great Chamber to royal occupation; a huge vaulted and panelled room in which even King Henry’s substantial travelling bedstead looked like a campaign cot. All the doors and windows were closed and the heat of the summer day lingered stiflingly beyond the dusk so that I longed to loosen my collar and open the front of my doublet, under which my shirt clung to me, damp with sweat. The duke and the king sat in carved oak armchairs in front of the empty hearth, two cushioned stools placed before them.
After we had been invited to sit in the king’s presence it was the duke who spoke first. ‘His grace is grateful for the company you have both afforded him during this Royal Progress. He is much comforted by the unflinching loyalty of his two brothers, to him and to his queen, and he has decided that the time has come to show you his favour.’
At this point King Henry lifted his hand to indicate that he wished to speak and Somerset fell silent. Edmund and I exchanged glances and I spied a gleam in my brother’s eye, which resonated with the increased beat of my heart.
‘My lord of Somerset is right,’ the king began. ‘Lately we have felt the grave responsibilities of monarchy weighing heavily on our shoulders and although we can share some of this with our queen and our loyal officials and councillors, it has occurred to us that you, our beloved brothers, who share our royal blood and show us so clearly the love and loyalty which naturally bind us, should be brought within our close circle and raised to a rank which reflects your true status. Therefore it is our desire and intent to create you, Edmund, Earl of Richmond and you, Jasper, Earl of Pembroke. It is our hope that the necessary arrangements can be made for these honours to be conferred by Christmas so you may be ceremonially installed on the Feast of the Epiphany, when gifts are presented in celebration of those brought by the Magi to the newborn Christ. This will be my gift to you.’
At the end of his speech Henry held out his hands, psalter-width apart and smiled expectantly at us, whereupon both Edmund and I sank to our knees before him. Exerting his seniority as usual, Edmund placed his hands between those of the king and spoke the time-honoured oath of fealty, which every nobleman learned by heart.
‘Sire, I am your liegeman in life and limb and truth and earthly honours, cleaving to you above all men, so help me God and the Holy Dame.’
King Henry leaned forward to accept Edmund’s kiss on his cheek and then turned to me, his hands once more outstretched. I felt them encompass mine, his palms surprisingly dry on my sweat-slicked fingers. The same oath left my lips in a voice that shook with emotion. As I moved to give my brother the kiss of fealty I caught the unmistakable odour of incense clinging to his clothes, pungent evidence of the hours he spent daily, praying in church or shrine.
He rose, obliging us to follow suit and his broad smile was unfamiliar but warm. ‘I feel God’s benison descending to salute our brotherly union,’ he said. ‘I will let his grace of Somerset explain the details of your advancement but I hope you will not neglect to give thanks to our Lord and His Holy Mother for their bountiful blessing; and now I will retire to the abbot’s chapel to seek God’s guidance on tomorrow’s assizes. I am told there may be hanging matters involved. I wish you both good night.’
In the absence of a chamberlain, I strode to the door to open it for him, making the guards on the other side jump in surprise and bring their halberds hastily to vertical in salute. As Henry walked out he already looked lost in his own thoughts, his head bowed over clasped hands, like a monk making his way to the midnight Office. As I closed the door Edmund came up behind me and flung his arm around my shoulders.
‘How is it with you, my lord of Pembroke?’ he cried with undisguised glee. ‘Now we are truly brothers to the king!’
I returned his embrace with equal enthusiasm but a stern Somerset stepped forward, urging caution. ‘Not yet, not yet, young sirs!’ He waved an admonitory finger, his grey beard jutting forcefully. ‘His grace bid me warn you to keep this news to yourselves until the formal announcement is made at court. There are legal documents to prepare and land grants to be drawn up. These will take time but meanwhile you can give thought to your crests and coats of arms. The heralds will be made aware of your impending ennoblement and you can also begin to order your robes and livery from the royal tailor. All are used to keeping such secrets. The king plans to make the announcement at Christmas and belt on your swords at the Tower of London on the Feast of Epiphany, as he told you. Meanwhile I offer you both my hearty good wishes and look forward to welcoming you to the ranks of England’s mighty earls.’
* * *
On our return to Westminster Palace we found we had been allocated quarters close to the king’s private apartments, a move that fuelled a spate of court gossip, whether Henry and Somerset liked it or not. Our new chambers were light and airy, boasting elaborate furnishings and casement windows overlooking the Thames, diamond-glazed instead of merely shuttered. Each had a separate guardrobe with a latrine draining into a moat washed clean by each high tide, a welcome privilege, indicative of very high status. Between these chambers lay an anteroom where attendants and visitors might await admittance. The apartments were on the same floor as those of the king, but the sweeping stone staircase was reserved for his use and we accessed our rooms by a narrower and steeper spiral stair. Queen Marguerite and her ladies were housed in a separate wing of the palace, linked to the king’s apartments by a private gallery, where handpicked and trusted members of the royal guard kept discreet watch, despite little sign that it was a path well trodden.
Behind the closed doors of our new chambers Edmund and I were fitted for our coronets and mantles of state. We had been granted funds to extend our wardrobes and for once I was grateful for Edmund’s familiarity with fabrics and fashions, being woefully ignorant on such matters myself. However, King Henry planned a joust in our honour following our installation, and then the boot – or more accurately in this case the sabaton – would be on the other foot, for it was I and not Edmund who knew the best agents from whom to commission new armour, having made a study of the latest developments in military design. Until this time, as yeoman squires of the king’s household, we had been provided with standard ready-made body-defences and so for me it was a proud day when I stood in a hot, noisy workshop off Cheapside to be measured for my first custom-fitted attire.
Edmund was less enthusiastic. ‘What can it matter whether I have the latest hinges on my helmet’s visor,’ he demanded, ‘as long as I can readily open and close it? My chief concern is the shape of the sabatons. The style of a noble knight is judged by how much of his foot extends through the stirrups when he leans back to aim the lance. I definitely want sabatons with the longest possible points.’
The kneeling armourer paused in the act of measuring Edmund’s calves for greaves. ‘As an earl you are permitted to wear them twice the length of your foot but I must warn you, my lord, that if the points are too long, the foot will not readily be released in the event of a fall from the saddle,’ he cautioned. ‘It is a dangerous fashion.’
‘So fashion can prove deadly if you are dragged by a galloping charger, Edmund,’
