Conspiracy of Ravens

By Susan Fern

On a Leicestershire battlefield in 1485, the course of British history changed. One man, a minor Welsh noble, was instrumental in effecting this change, enabling the establishment of the new Tudor dynasty. This little-known historical figure was Rhys ap Thomas, who claimed descent from Urien Rheged, one of the knights of King Arthur. Born in Carmarthenshire in West Wales, he had spent his early years in Burgundy with his father, in exile, as had two other men, Henry Tudor and Richard III. The three young boys were to meet many years later on the battlefield, where the lives of all three would change forever.

This is the story, set in the turbulent period of the Wars of Roses, of Rhys ap Thomas, whose claim to fame would be ‘the man who killed Richard III’.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398450196

Susan Fern

Susan started out as an archaeologist before teaching Ancient History at University of Wales, Lampeter. It was during her time in Wales that she became interested in the character of Rhys ap Thomas. She has written many books on academic subjects including Ancient Historians and The Emperor’s Needles: Obelisks in Rome. She has recently been teaching for Oxford University in ancient languages. She now lives in Winslow and enjoys travelling, walking and visiting the theatre.

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About the Author

Susan started out as an archaeologist before teaching Ancient History at University of Wales, Lampeter. It was during her time in Wales that she became interested in the character of Rhys ap Thomas. She has written many books on academic subjects including Ancient Historians and The Emperor’s Needles: Obelisks in Rome.

She has recently been teaching for Oxford University in ancient languages. She now lives in Winslow and enjoys travelling, walking and visiting the theatre.

Dedication

To Gerald Rice, a descendant of Sr Rhys, I hope I have done justice to your great ancestor.

Copyright Information ©

Susan Fern 2023

The right of Susan Fern to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398450189 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398450196 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Acknowledgement

Dr Patricia Taylor for tirelessly reading and re-reading chapters and offering constructive criticism.

Peter and Anne Kelly, my dear friends who have been encouraging in my endeavour.

Rob Gittins, who initially encouraged my pursuit of Rhys ap Thomas.

Many friends who have been enthusiastic about the story and persuaded me to venture out into writing a novel.

Chapter 1

Darkness, August 21st, 1485

It was cold for August. Too cold. The evening air was heavy with the promise of autumn, even the campfires tentatively lifted their flamey fingers towards the damp heavens as if in supplication to the new season. Rhys walked slowly through the camp, the clammy ground yielding to his feet. He acknowledged each man, and boy, some he knew well, others not so. Each man isolated with their thoughts, warming their hands, staring into the flames, looking for signs, no one speaking. It was not every day you came to kill your king…or be killed! But there were no words of comfort to be found, so Rhys just nodded to them all and walked by, wondering why fate had led him to this place. A murky, misty fate, the three ravens on his banner, black as coal, with sharp seeing, staring eyes, they knew, they knew the fate of the heir of Urien Rheged, the noblest of Arthur’s knights, but they kept their counsel.

Rhys scanned the horizon, below them the small hamlet of Bosworth, to the north the town of Leicester, where it was believed the king was staying. ‘Oh, Richard,’ he sighed, ‘why did you doubt me? Why did you not believe that I would be loyal?’ He had not given the king any reason to doubt him, why he even declined to join the Duke of Buckingham when he raised a rebellion against him in Wales, yet still Richard did not accept Rhys’ word. Rhys had been true to the Yorkist King Edward, Richard’s brother, never once giving any sign that he was in any way treacherous, despite his family having been staunch Lancastrians.

A few hundred yards away, he saw the banner of Henry, the Tudor, the man who had challenged the king. The new Arthur, or so his henchmen proclaimed, thought Rhys. The long-lost Welsh prince come to claim his rightful crown. Rhys smiled. This was no Arthur, but a prince maybe. Rhys had no real knowledge of this man; he’d met him for the first time only a few days ago outside Shrewsbury. Somewhere from the back of his mind, he realised that he had seen him once before, but Tudor was a boy then, huddled up to his Uncle Jasper on a windswept harbour in Tenby. That seemed like an eternity ago, in other unhappy times, now here was the boy back on home soil, ready to take revenge for the wrongs committed against the Lancastrians, and the Tudors in particular.

Rhys had shadowed him on his march from Pembrokeshire, where the would-be king had been born and to where he had now returned with his motley army of thieves and murderers, let out from the French prisons to fight in a land they did not know, for a man they had never heard of, for their freedom and for spoils. Hardly any Welshman had rallied to his call, tired no doubt of fighting lost causes. It did not bode well. Rhys had had no thoughts of joining this uprising, no thoughts at all, but Richard the king had demanded that Rhys give up his only son, three-year-old Gruffydd, as a hostage to demonstrate his loyalty…then news came. Richard had seemingly disposed of his young nephews in the tower; they had not been seen since their incarceration, since Richard had usurped the crown. The Duke of Buckingham had spread the story, and he surely must be believed. Richard had not produced the boys to quell the rumour, so what could anyone think, save to believe that this must be true? Not only did Buckingham spread the rumour but had rebelled against Richard from his estate in Brecknock (a rebellion incidentally Rhys had not joined).

Although there was no love lost between himself and Buckingham, for he was a man clearly not to be trusted, nonetheless Buckingham WAS the king’s right-hand man, so why would he lie about such a terrible event? Rhys found this story hard to believe at first, but then they were a bloody lot, these Plantagenets. True, Richard had taken the crown from his nephew, the young Prince Edward, so unless he planned to hand it back when the boy was old enough to rule in his own right, then yes, it would not do for the boy or his younger brother to live and raise a rebellion against him. Despite this, Richard had asked Rhys to trust him. Rhys, who had demonstrated his loyalty to the crown time and time again. Rhys refused to hand over his son; the boy was too young, too much could happen to him on a perilous journey to London, wrenched away from his mother. Clearly, the young were not treated kindly for if Richard could not care for and protect his own nephews a stranger’s son would fare equally badly? So, Rhys waited for the inevitable repercussions that refusing a king brings.

Before Richard had a chance to act, Tudor’s landing roused him into action, and so mercifully Rhys was spared the loss of his son as hostage. However, Rhys knew he would now have to choose and choose quickly, so he shadowed the Welshman as he journeyed up through Pembrokeshire from his landing point in Milford Haven and progressed up along the Cardiganshire coast. Rhys knew he had to make a choice, but first, he needed to understand this Tudor, to see if he was fighting for some good reason other than for his own selfish ambitions, like all those before who stained the earth red with the blood of honest men. Either way, with Richard or against him, Rhys had decided he would meet his end nobly on a field of battle, like the knights of Arthur, like his ancestor Rheged and prayed that he would choose the right way if not the winning side.

Henry Tudor was a few years younger than Rhys, like him he had never fought a battle, like him he was a Welshman, like him he had been in France as an exile and like him had grown up in the shadow of the civil wars that had continually been disgorged on Welshmen and Englishmen alike. Neither man had lived through peaceful times; there was much that bound them together but much that separated them. Tudor was born from royal stock and could trace his lineage back through his mother to John of Gaunt; Rhys came from less noble lineage, yet his family had supported the Lancastrian claims. Unlike Rhys, Henry was slight of build; he stood a head shorter, definitely not a warrior, but there was a wiliness about him for someone of his age, someone who had spent his life in exile. Yes, Henry was a clever man; he would manipulate and calculate his way through the maze of deceits and betrayals and emerge unblemished, untainted, unforgiving. It was there in his grey winter eyes. Unlike Rhys, he had never known a real home, with father and mother and siblings. Perhaps that is what made him distant, seemingly unloving and unmoveable. Are we the product of our birth, thought Rhys, or do we make ourselves?

When he had met Tudor just outside Shrewsbury, he had promised Rhys a high position in the land, should he become king, but this was of little interest to Rhys; what did concern him was the plight of his country and countrymen, what would Henry DO for them? However, the likelihood of success became dimmer as time passed; Richard’s army numbered 8,000 men, all trained in battle, led by lords of the realm who had fought in the civil strife and more besides. Richard himself was a fierce warrior despite his afflictions; he had been his brother’s right-hand man and had been credited with slaying the Lancastrian Prince Edward at Tewkesbury, finally sealing his brother’s claim to the throne. Neither Rhys nor Henry had ever experienced a real battle. The only training Rhys had was on the makeshift fields of Burgundy where he had learned the art of warfare, but learning was not the same as doing. As for Tudor, he had spent most of his life in exile in France, no doubt he had learned, as Rhys had, the art of warfare, but he relied on others to do the fighting.

Rhys had 3,000 men drawn from his estates in west Wales; he had trained them, made them battle ready, initially to serve the king, Richard’s brother Edward, should the need arise, and in these times, there was always a need; he had waited silently but not for rebellion, not against his liege lord, this had not been Rhys’ plan. Other than Rhys’ men, there were the murderous scum from France, plus a few hundred others that had taken up the call from the northern areas of Wales. Everything hinged on whether Lord Stanley, Henry’s stepfather, would join him, so far he had prevaricated about whose side he was on and knowing his reputation (for he changed allegiances many times during the course of the wars); it seemed likely that he would wait to see which way the battle went before he made a move. In fairness, Richard did hold Stanley’s son as a hostage and Rhys could well understand his dilemma, but then this was about choice, and Stanley was not a man for choosing any cause above his own.

Of course, this did not help to raise the spirits of Rhys or his men, goodness knows how Tudor felt; however, it was too late to go back; this moment was all that was left; tomorrow would be different, lives would change…or end, but no one would be who he was at this moment. Past, present, future, all are one, only the moment counts, only the beat of the heart tells you this is the moment you will not have again. Rhys walked slowly to his tent, deep in contemplation about the forthcoming events and the meaning of it all.

His young squire Gwilym had been busy, lighting a fire, preparing food, polishing Rhys’ armour and settling down his horse for night. His youthful hands trembling with fear, excitement and anticipation of what was to come.

‘Here, my lord, come and eat, warm yourself,’ Gwilym said, full of enthusiasm as only the very young can display at such a time. For Gwilym, a young farm boy from Rhys’ estates in Llandeilo, whom he had taken under his wing, this was an adventure; never had he travelled so far, seen so many new sights, and the prospect of knightly glory on the battlefield that lay ahead only fuelled his sense of being alive. In this moment. Rhys remembered the trembling frame of the boy when he had been dragged before him for misdemeanours. Rhys had shown mercy and given him a job as a stable boy in the hope he would mend his ways. He had proved worthy; now Rhys looked at him with a heavy heart and thought, Is this what I saved you for? Nevertheless, Rhys smiled, he too had once been filled with this kind of zeal, but that was before, before a wife and a child, before his responsibilities to his people, before he was forced to choose between his liege lord and an unknown Welsh exile.

‘Away to bed, boy, otherwise you’ll be too tired to saddle my horse in the morning,’ Rhys said attempting some kind of jollity on this solemn eve.

‘Do you think we will be victorious, my lord?’ Gwilym asked anxiously.

‘We are outnumbered, at least three to one, and we don’t know if Lord Stanley will join us or Richard, so it seems that we have no other course but to fight as best we can and pray…’

‘The men at Agincourt were outnumbered; I remember my grandfather telling us about his grandfather, a long bowman, who was there; they had a great victory. It could be the same for us,’ Gwilym answered full of hope.

‘This is not Agincourt,’ Rhys replied sharply, ‘and I want you to promise that you will remain here. If the battle goes badly for us, ride, ride with all haste back home, tell the news, so they can prepare for what will come.’

‘I’m no coward; I will fight alongside you, and if I die, then at least it will be an honourable death,’ Gwilym boasted proudly.

‘That’s an order,’ snapped Rhys. ‘There is little honour in this fight, boy, just necessity. Now away ’til the morning.’

Gwilym sulkily moved away from the fire without a word. Rhys felt some empathy for the boy, but he knew that he did not want to be responsible for his death or worse. Rhys called out. ‘I have seen men who have lost arms, legs, sometimes both, no longer able to work, begging for scraps to stay alive, and they are the lucky ones. No, there is no honour to be gained from battles such as these, especially for the ordinary man; no one remembers their names or their deeds however brave. All those hundreds who died at Towton in that futile conflict, who remembers? No, they fought for others to have that right of honour and remembrance,’ said Rhys to Gwilym. Gwilym, head bowed, walked away to his humble pallet to sleep, perhaps more fitfully now after what Rhys had said.

Richard, should he be victorious, which seemed highly likely, would exact his revenge on all those who had chosen to ride with Henry. Rhys shuddered and felt a sickening knot in his stomach; his wife, child and all those who served him back in Wales would suffer, perhaps more so than he himself; everything he had tried to do to improve the lot of the ordinary man would be undone on one damp and cold day.

The campfire crackled and spluttered; Rhys stared into the flames, warming his hands, looking for signs, looking deep into the fiery heart of the night. His eyes felt heavy; he had eaten sparingly, but then he always did, now sleep beckoned, so he dropped down onto his pallet and began a long journey into the past, into the fate that had brought him here, to this field on a cold, too cold, August night.

Chapter 2

Rewind, September, 1464

It was cold on the morning that thirteen-year-old Rhys left his homeland with his father to travel to Burgundy to the court of Philip the Good. It was not clear to Rhys why they left so hurriedly. There had been an uprising, at Dryslwyn, against the Yorkist forces; one of the ringleaders was Philip Mansel from Oxwich in Gower who was married to his Aunt Mary, the sister of Thomas, his father. Another uprising took place at Carreg Cennen, which had been besieged. Rhys’ father and his two elder brothers, Morgan and Henry, had been involved. The first uprising may have been part of the feud that existed between Rhys’ grandfather and Henry ap Gwilym of Court Henri, located nearby, for both Thomas and Henry farmed the castle and borough of Dryslwyn, so there were often disputes of one kind or another.

In the second dispute, the Yorkist forces had been successful in routing his brothers at Carreg Cennen, wishing to deny them a focal point for resistance in the area. However, this had proven to be no easy task, for the local population was divided in its loyalties and the execution of justice totally disorganised. Thomas, no doubt, like many other Lancastrians, had decided to escape and await better times. So, he had decided to take his youngest son, Rhys, with him.

The road to Tenby, where they would get a ship to carry them across the channel, was muddy and difficult, especially as there were many bandits lurking along the way. The wild West wind his cloak tighter to match the tightening in his stomach. He had never travelled so far from home before. He trusted his father implicitly and knew that he would never let anything happen to him, but sometimes fate intervenes, and the best of intentions can be ransomed in an instant.

Rhys’ father reined in his horse and turned around. ‘There it is, Rhys, Tenby! Soon be there, boy; some hot food and drink and a good night’s rest then we’re off,’ he said, full of optimism.

Rhys looked to where his father pointed and saw the small harbour town ahead, surrounded by the massive stone walls that had been built by his grandfather to protect the town. The narrow streets were cobbled and quite slippery in the wet, but it afforded Rhys an opportunity to become familiar with the place. A few people wandered around, mainly trades folk, but the town seemed oddly quiet for that time of day. Perhaps it was the weather that kept them all indoors? Rhys prayed that this was not a trap to lure his father into Yorkist hands! In these times, one never knew who would give you away, family, friends; it paid to keep your plans to yourself. His anxiety was mounting.

‘Are these the walls that grandfather built?’ said Rhys trying to take his mind off any forthcoming possible trap.

‘Yes, and splendid they are. You see, boy, this family has great renown because of old Gruffydd,’ replied Thomas, puffed up with pride. Both of them silently remembered Gruffydd, killed three years earlier at the battle of Mortimer’s Cross, along with Owain Tudor, another grandfather of another exile. Gruffydd was as wild as the country in which he lived but canny and had succeeded in taking much from their English overlords, so much that now the family was one of the most important of the local gentry in South Wales. Like the walls surrounding Tenby, Gruffydd had surrounded his family with financial gain.

They made their way through the increasing rain down Bridge Street, where the rich merchants lived, their wares on show in the shops that fronted their houses, spices and herbs and salt, all manner of exotic goods. Rhys’ eyes widened at such magnificence, to the Rose Tavern, an appropriate name considering the times, but the rose that was etched on the tavern board was neither red nor white, not Lancastrian or Yorkist. A wise decision on someone’s part, thought young Rhys. The tavern was warm, and it appeared fairly salubrious for such an establishment situated in a harbour town. Most of the customers sat playing dice or staring into the warming fire that burned with gusto. They sat and ordered food and ale, and before long, they were joined by a fearsome-looking man, shabbily dressed, with a long scar that ran the whole length of the right side of his face, his right hand was replaced by a rather nasty looking hook. His rotting teeth and foul breath made him appear like some creature from hell to the impressionable young boy.

‘Rhys, this is captain Powell, and it is his ship we will be taking.’ The man gruffly acknowledged Rhys, giving him an icy stare that made the hairs on the back of Rhys’ neck rise as well as his anxiety.

‘There’ll be no sailing today,’ he boomed, ‘the weather is too rough, and my vessel is not good in storms, see. Don’t want the young lad drowning, do we now?’ He laughed and looked at Rhys sensing the terror in him, but not for one minute believing it was anything to do with his fearsome appearance. ‘Tomorrow should be fine, so we’ll leave at ten o’clock, be there on time. I’ve no mind to wait around; there are Yorkist forces heading this way, and I’ve no wish to get caught up with them; I got cargo see,’ he whispered and tapped the side of his nose.

Thomas shook his hand, the one that did not support the hook. ‘Take a drink before you go, captain?’

‘Thank you, sir, much as I’d like to, but I need to get back to my ship, last minute things to do see’ – he winked – ‘but there’s a little matter of money, up front, look you, as we agreed.’

Thomas handed him a purse, which he swept up with the lethal hook as deftly as a man who was not so encumbered. ‘You’ll get the rest when we set foot in France…as we agreed,’ Thomas said.

Captain Powell grunted then smiled; his rotten teeth were black, yellow and razor sharp as if they had been filed down; he opened the purse and counted the coins; he seemed satisfied and shook Thomas’s hand. ‘Tomorrow at ten,’ he said gruffly and cast another withering look at Rhys who tried not to stare back; he dreaded being on the ship with this formidable man and wondered if they would be kidnapped and ransomed at best, at worst hooked, devoured and taken to hell.

When he left,