Pregnant at 13 With England’s Future King – The Tragic Story of Lady Margaret Beaufort

Picture this. A girl’s scream echoes through the stone corridors of Bleo Castle on a winter night in 1457 AD. The sound cuts through the howling wind like a blade through silk. In a chamber lit only by flickering candles, 13-year-old Lady Margaret Beaufort grips the bloodied sheets beneath her, her small body convulsing with pain that no child should ever endure. The midwives whisper prayers in Latin, their faces grave in the dancing shadows.

Outside, snow falls on the frozen ground of Bedfordshire. But inside this room, a future king of England is being torn from a girl barely past childhood herself. Margaret’s hair clings to her sweat-drenched face as another wave of agony crashes over her. She is dying, they think. The baby is too large, her hips too narrow. At 13, her body is not finished growing. Yet here she labors to bring forth the son who will one day sit upon the throne of England as Henry VII. The irony is lost on no one present. This child, born of such suffering, will end the bloodiest conflict in English history and found the Tudor dynasty that will reshape the world.

Before diving into these forgotten stories of survival and suffering, if you enjoy learning about the hidden truths of history, consider hitting that like button and subscribing for more content like this. And please comment below to let me know where you’re listening from. I find it incredible that we’re exploring these ancient stories together from different parts of the world, connected across time and space by our shared curiosity about the past.

The girl writhing in that bed was no ordinary noble maiden. Lady Margaret Beaufort carried within her veins the blood of kings, specifically the blood of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, fourth son of Edward III. But royal blood, as Margaret would learn throughout her extraordinary life, could be both blessing and curse. In the savage political landscape of 15th century England, where the Wars of the Roses would soon tear the realm apart, such bloodlines made you either a valuable pawn or a dangerous threat. Margaret’s path to that birthing chamber began years earlier when she was still a child playing in the gardens of Bleo Castle.

Born around May 1443 AD to John Beaufort, first Duke of Somerset and Margaret Beauchamp of Bleo, she entered a world where alliances shifted like sand and marriage was the ultimate weapon of statecraft. Her father died when she was barely a year old. Some say by his own hand after military defeats in France left him broken and disgraced. Others whispered of poison, for in those days whispers of poison followed every unexpected death of the nobility, like vultures following an army. The circumstances of John Beaufort’s death haunted Margaret’s early years. He had commanded English forces in France during the final phases of the Hundred Years’ War, watching helplessly as territory won by Henry V slipped away piece by piece. The military disasters ate at him like a cancer. When he returned to England in 1444 AD, courtiers noted his hollow eyes and trembling hands. He spoke little, ate less, and spent hours staring at nothing. On May 27th, 1444 AD, he was found dead in his chambers at Wimborne Minster. The official cause was fever, but those closest to him knew better. Whether by blade, poison, or simply the weight of failure, John Beaufort had chosen death over dishonor.

Margaret’s mother wasted no time in securing her daughter’s future. The Dowager Duchess Margaret Beauchamp understood the rules of survival in a world where women and children were only as valuable as the alliances they could cement. By the age of six, little Margaret was betrothed to John de la Pole, son of William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk. The contract bound two of England’s most powerful families in an alliance that seemed unbreakable. But politics moved faster than childhood, and when Suffolk fell from grace and was murdered while crossing the English Channel in 1450 AD, that betrothal became worthless paper. Suffolk’s crime had been negotiating the marriage of Henry VI to Margaret of Anjou and the surrender of Maine and Anjou to France. Terms that enraged the English nobility and common people alike. His death was brutal even by the standards of the time. Dragged from his ship by pirates or political enemies, he was forced to kneel on the gunwale while one of his captors struck off his head with a rusty sword requiring half a dozen clumsy blows.

The Beaufort women learned early that survival meant adaptability. Her next betrothal came swiftly to Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond, half-brother to King Henry VI through his mother’s marriage to Owen Tudor. The Tudors were Welsh upstarts with questionable legitimacy. But they had one thing that mattered more than ancient bloodlines: the king’s favor. Owen Tudor had been a court official who caught the eye of Catherine of Valois, Henry V’s widow. Their secret marriage had scandalized the nobility but produced two sons, Edmund and Jasper Tudor, whom Henry VI recognized and elevated to the peerage. In 1455 AD when Margaret was approximately 12 years old, she was married to Edmund Tudor in a ceremony that sealed political alliances with words of love she barely understood and vows that would bind her to a destiny beyond imagining. The wedding took place at Bleo Castle, the same stronghold where Margaret had spent her childhood. The great hall was decorated with tapestries depicting the deeds of her Beaufort ancestors, while the chapel where they exchanged vows contained the tomb of her grandfather, John Beaufort, Earl of Somerset.

Edmund Tudor was a man in his 20s, seasoned by war and politics. Margaret was still growing out of her childhood clothes. The marriage was consummated immediately. There was no concept of waiting for physical maturity in an age when noble girls were treated as broodmares for dynastic ambitions. The wedding night was a trauma that Margaret never spoke of in later life. But the evidence of its impact would be written in her body’s permanent damage and her lifelong religious devotion that bordered on obsession.

Within months of her wedding, Margaret’s body began changing in ways that terrified her young mind. The older women around her spoke in hushed tones about her condition, their faces mixing joy for a potential heir with concern for such a young mother. Margaret’s own mother watched her daughter’s growing belly with deep anxiety. She had been 18 when Margaret was born, old enough to survive childbirth safely. At 12, soon to be 13, Margaret was attempting something that had killed countless women older and stronger than herself. But Edmund Tudor would never see his child born.

In the autumn of 1456 AD, while campaigning in Wales against Yorkist forces, he was captured at Carmarthen Castle. The circumstances of his capture and subsequent death remain murky, wrapped in the fog of civil war and political intrigue. Some accounts suggest he was taken during a surprise attack while his forces were scattered across South Wales. Others hint at betrayal from within his own ranks. Whether he died of plague in his prison or was murdered by his captors remains one of history’s unsolved mysteries. The plague explanation was convenient for his captors. Disease was common in medieval prisons, and claiming natural death avoided charges of murdering a royal half-brother. But contemporary chroniclers noted the suspicious speed of his decline and the refusal of his captives to allow physicians to attend him. What we know is that by November 1456 AD, 13-year-old Margaret was a widow, pregnant, and utterly alone in a world that was about to explode into civil war. The news of Edmund’s death reached Margaret at Lamphey Palace in Pembrokeshire where she had been staying while her husband campaigned.

The messenger arrived on a rain-soaked November evening, his horse lathered with sweat from the desperate ride across Wales. Margaret was in the palace chapel, praying for her husband’s safe return, when the messenger’s boots echoed on the stone floor behind her. She knew before he spoke that her world had shattered.

Jasper Tudor, Edmund’s younger brother, took responsibility for his pregnant sister-in-law. The decision was both chivalrous and practical. Margaret carried the potential heir to the Tudor line, the child who might continue their family’s royal connection. He brought her to his stronghold at Pembroke Castle in Wales, where the massive stone walls offered protection from the growing chaos outside. Pembroke was a fortress on the edge of the world, perched on cliffs above Milford Haven, where the Atlantic waves crashed endlessly against the rocks below. Here in this remote Welsh castle, Margaret would endure the most harrowing experience of her young life.

The journey to Pembroke in her advanced pregnancy was an ordeal in itself. Winter roads were barely passable, rutted with frozen mud and blocked by fallen trees. Margaret traveled in a horse-drawn litter, each jolt and bump sending pain through her swollen body. The journey that should have taken two days stretched to five as they navigated around flooded rivers and avoided bands of armed men whose loyalties were unknown. Pembroke Castle in winter was a harsh refuge built on a limestone outcrop above the Pembroke River. The castle dominated the landscape for miles around. Its great round keep, nearly 80 ft high, had withstood sieges and storms for three centuries. But comfort was not its purpose. Survival was. The castle’s chambers were cold and drafty, warmed only by great fireplaces that devoured wood faster than servants could supply it. Margaret’s rooms were hung with thick tapestries to block the wind that whistled through every crack in the ancient stones. The winter of 1456 to 1457 AD was particularly brutal. Ice formed on the inside of the castle windows, and the sea wind howled through every crack in the ancient stones. Margaret, her belly swollen with child, could barely walk the length of her chamber without exhausting herself.

Her body, still that of a child in many ways, struggled under the burden it carried. The castle’s physician, a learned man who had studied at the universities of Oxford and Paris, examined her with growing alarm. Her hips were too narrow, he confided to Jasper Tudor. The child was positioned badly. Birth would be dangerous, perhaps fatal. Dr. Lewis Caerleon was a man who had delivered children to queens and peasants alike. He had studied the ancient texts of Hippocrates and Galen, attended lectures by the greatest medical minds of his generation, and accumulated 40 years of experience in the healing arts. But as he examined the pregnant child in his care, all his learning seemed inadequate. Margaret’s pelvis had not fully developed. She was still growing herself. The baby within her womb was large, positioned wrong, and showed signs of distress. He confided his fears to Jasper Tudor during a private meeting in the castle solar. Snow swirled outside the arrowslit windows as the two men discussed Margaret’s fate in whispers. Caerleon was blunt. He had seen this situation before, and it rarely ended well for mother or child. They could attempt to turn the baby, but that might kill both patients immediately. They could try to wait, hoping nature would correct the position, but delay increased the risk of the child’s death and Margaret’s exhaustion. Or they could attempt a Caesarean birth, a procedure that was almost invariably fatal to the mother.

Jasper Tudor, barely 25 himself, faced the terrible burden of deciding his sister-in-law’s fate. If Margaret died, the Tudor line would end with him, a younger son with no legitimate heirs of his own. If she lived but lost the child, the same result would follow. The political implications weighed heavily, but so did personal affection. He had grown fond of the brave, intelligent girl who had faced widowhood with such dignity.

As Margaret’s pregnancy progressed through the dark winter months, she displayed a maturity that belied her years; she spent her time learning everything she could about politics and statecraft, understanding instinctively that knowledge would be her greatest weapon in the struggles ahead. Jasper Tudor, impressed by her intelligence and determination, became her tutor in the arts of survival. He taught her to read people’s faces, to hear the unspoken messages behind diplomatic language, to understand the complex web of alliances and enmities that governed noble society. Margaret also threw herself into religious study with an intensity that worried her attendants. She spent hours in the castle chapel, praying before the altar until her knees were raw and bleeding. She memorized Latin prayers, studied theological texts, and developed the deep personal relationship with God that would sustain her through decades of political struggle. Some historians suggest that her extreme religiosity began as a coping mechanism for the trauma of child marriage and impending motherhood, a way to impose meaning on suffering that otherwise seemed senseless.

The castle’s priest, Father Meredith, became another important figure in Margaret’s education, a Welshman who had been educated at Cambridge before taking holy orders. He understood both the classical learning of the universities and the practical politics of survival in a violent world. He taught Margaret that God often worked through human agency, that prayer without action was empty, but action guided by prayer could move mountains.

On that January night in 1457 AD, Margaret’s labor began with pains that doubled her over. She had been walking the castle battlements, taking the exercise that Dr. Caerleon insisted was necessary for her health. When the first contraction struck, the pain was unlike anything she had experienced, a crushing, tearing sensation that seemed to split her body in half. She collapsed against the stone ramparts, gasping, while her attending ladies rushed to help her back to her chambers. The midwives, experienced women who had delivered countless babies, exchanged glances heavy with meaning. They had seen this before: a child trying to give birth to a child, nature pushed beyond its limits by human ambition and political necessity. They prepared their instruments and said their prayers, knowing that before dawn, one or both of their patients might be dead.

Dame Gwen ffordd, a head midwife, was a woman who had been delivering babies for 30 years. She had learned her craft from her own mother and grandmother, inheriting secrets passed down through generations of Welsh women. She knew herbs that could ease pain, techniques for turning breech babies, and prayers that seem to give strength to laboring mothers. But as she examined Margaret, her weathered face grew grave. The other midwives prepared their instruments with grim efficiency. There were knives for cutting the birth cord, but also for procedures too horrible to contemplate. There were hooks and forceps for extracting dead children, potions to strengthen weak mothers, and holy relics to call upon divine intervention. The chamber filled with the smoke of burning herbs: lavender for calming, rosemary for strength, and other plants whose properties were known only to the women who tended births and deaths. For 18 hours Margaret labored in agony that defied description, her screams echoed off the stone walls until a voice gave out entirely, leaving only gasping animal sounds of suffering.

The midwives worked frantically, their hands slick with blood as they tried to save both mother and child. Dame Gwen used every technique in her considerable arsenal: massage, positioning changes, herbal remedies, and constant encouragement whispered in Margaret’s ear. Jasper Tudor paced the corridors outside, his boots clicking against the stone flags, knowing that the future of the Lancastrian cause might die in that chamber. He could hear Margaret’s screams through the heavy oak door, each one cutting through him like a blade. Servants hurried past with basins of hot water and armloads of clean linen, their faces reflecting the gravity of the situation. Father Meredith knelt in the chapel, praying without ceasing for the young woman whose life hung by the thinnest of threads.

As dawn approached, Margaret’s strength began to fail. She had been in labor for nearly a full day. Her young body pushed far beyond its limits. Dr. Caerleon, summoned from his uneasy sleep, examined her, and spoke in urgent whispers with Dame Gwen. The baby was alive, but in distress, its heartbeat irregular and weak. Margaret was bleeding internally, her pulse thready, and her skin pale as parchment. The decision was made to attempt manual extraction, a dangerous procedure that might save the child at the cost of the mother’s life. Dame Gwen had performed the technique before, but never on someone so young and small. She positioned Margaret carefully, praying silently to St. Margaret of Antioch, patron saint of childbirth. As she prepared to reach inside the young woman’s body and guide the baby into the world, when the baby finally emerged, torn from Margaret’s body in a process that nearly killed her, the midwives held their breath. The infant was pale, barely breathing, covered in blood and birthing fluid. For a terrifying moment, the chamber was silent except for Margaret’s labored breathing, and the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Then Dame Gwen cleared the baby’s mouth and throat, and the sound that changed everything filled the air. A thin, angry wail that announced the arrival of Henry Tudor, future king of England.

Margaret, barely conscious, her young body shattered by the ordeal, heard her son’s first cry through a haze of pain and exhaustion. She tried to reach for him, but her arms would not obey her mind’s commands. Dame Gwen placed the baby on Margaret’s chest for a brief moment, the traditional first meeting between mother and child, before rushing him to the fire to be cleaned and swaddled. Margaret’s eyes followed the infant with desperate intensity, memorizing every detail of his tiny face.

The damage to Margaret’s body was severe and permanent. Dr. Caerleon, examining her in the days following the birth, found extensive tearing and internal injuries that would never fully heal. The physician spoke in whispers of torn flesh and damaged organs, of blood loss that had nearly proved fatal. She would never bear another child. This single traumatic birth had ended her childbearing years before they had properly begun. At 13, she was effectively barren. Her reproductive life sacrificed on the altar of dynastic politics.

The physical recovery was agonizingly slow. For weeks, Margaret hovered between life and death, racked by fever and infection. Dr. Caerleon applied every remedy in his considerable arsenal: bloodletting to balance her humors, herbal poultices to fight infection, and strong wines fortified with medicinal herbs to restore her strength. Dame Gwen never left her side, spooning broth between Margaret’s cracked lips and monitoring every change in her condition. Margaret’s psychological recovery proved even more complex. The trauma of her experience manifested in nightmares that left her screaming and crying in the small hours of the night. She developed an intense fear of physical contact, flinching away from even the gentlest touch of her attendants. Her relationship with her newborn son became complicated by the association between his presence and her pain. She loved him desperately, but could barely tolerate holding him without being overwhelmed by memories of his violent birth.

But if Margaret Beaufort’s body was broken, her spirit remained unshattered. As she recovered slowly in the months following Henry’s birth, she began to display the iron will and calculating intelligence that would make her one of the most powerful women in English history. She understood, even in her weakened state, that her son represented the future of the Lancastrian cause. She also understood that a landless widow with a baby son needed protection in a world sliding toward chaos.

The Wars of the Roses were erupting around them with increasing violence. In 1455 AD, the first Battle of St Albans had announced that England would settle its dynastic disputes with sword and axe rather than negotiation. The White Rose of York faced the Red Rose of Lancaster in a conflict that would consume the nobility of England for three decades. Richard, Duke of York, claimed the throne based on his descent from Edward III’s second son, while the Lancastrians held it through their descent from Edward III’s fourth son, John of Gaunt. Margaret, holder of Lancastrian blood through her Beaufort lineage, was now automatically aligned with a cause that was losing ground rapidly. The Lancastrian king, Henry VI, was widely regarded as weak, possibly insane, and certainly incapable of effective rule. His queen, Margaret of Anjou, was more capable but also more hated—a foreign woman who was blamed for England’s military disasters in France and the kingdom’s slide towards civil war.

Her solution was marriage again. In 1458 AD, barely recovered from Henry’s birth, she married Sir Henry Stafford, younger son of the Duke of Buckingham. The wedding was a quiet affair, nothing like the pageantry that had accompanied her marriage to Edmund Tudor. Margaret was still weak, still grieving, and her new husband was a stranger chosen for political utility rather than personal affection. Stafford was a Yorkist sympathizer, but more importantly, he was a pragmatist who understood that protecting Margaret meant protecting valuable Beaufort estates and bloodlines. For Margaret, the marriage represented safety for herself and her son, even if it meant sharing a bed with a man whose political loyalties opposed her own deepest convictions. The arrangement was more business partnership than romantic union—a practical solution to practical problems.

The marriage contract negotiated by Margaret’s mother and Stafford’s father was extraordinarily detailed, reflecting the complex political situation. Margaret would retain control of her Beaufort estates, ensuring her son’s inheritance remained intact. Stafford would provide military protection and political cover for the family’s Lancastrian sympathies. Most importantly, young Henry Tudor would remain under Jasper Tudor’s guardianship in Wales, a provision that probably saved his life.

The marriage to Stafford lasted 14 years through some of the bloodiest conflicts in English history. Margaret watched from the sidelines as the fortunes of war swept back and forth across England. Kings rose and fell with stunning rapidity: Henry VI deposed, Edward IV crowned, Henry VI restored, Edward IV triumphant again. Each change in the crown brought new dangers for those with questionable loyalties or valuable bloodlines. Margaret learned to navigate these treacherous waters with increasing skill. She cultivated relationships with women from both sides of the conflict, understanding that female networks often proved more durable than male alliances. She corresponded regularly with Elizabeth Woodville, Edward IV’s queen, while maintaining secret communications with Margaret of Anjou in her French exile. These relationships required extraordinary diplomatic skill. A single misplaced word could bring charges of treason.

Throughout these turbulent years, Margaret’s son, Henry, remained in Wales under the guardianship of Jasper Tudor. The arrangement was practical but heartbreaking for Margaret. She saw her only child perhaps once or twice a year, and then only under carefully negotiated conditions. Henry grew from infant to boy to young man as a stranger to his own mother, raised in the Welsh hills by his uncle, while she maneuvered through the treacherous currents of English court politics. The separation was necessary but agonizing. Margaret poured her frustrated maternal instincts into letters, carefully coded messages that could pass through enemy lines without revealing dangerous information. She sent gifts when possible: books, clothes, small tokens that might remind Henry of the mother he barely knew. But mostly she existed in a state of constant anxiety, never knowing if her son was safe, healthy, or even alive.

Henry’s education in Wales was comprehensive and practical. Jasper Tudor ensured his nephew learned not just the usual noble accomplishments—riding, swordsmanship, music, and dance—but also the harder skills of survival. Henry learned to speak Welsh fluently, to understand the rhythms of rural life, and to command the loyalty of men who owed him nothing but respect. These lessons would prove invaluable when he finally returned to claim his throne. Margaret’s own education continued through her marriage to Stafford. She learned to manage vast estates, to read financial accounts, and to understand the complex web of obligations that bound medieval society together. She studied law, history, and theology with the intensity of a university scholar. Her library grew to become one of the finest private collections in England, filled with works in Latin, French, and English on subjects ranging from military strategy to mystical theology.

In 1461 AD, everything changed again. Edward IV won a decisive victory at the Battle of Towton, the bloodiest engagement ever fought on English soil. An estimated 50,000 men met on a snow-covered field in Yorkshire on Palm Sunday, March 29th, 1461 AD. By evening nearly half of them were dead. The Lancastrian cause lay in ruins, its leadership scattered or dead. Henry VI fled to Scotland while Margaret of Anjou sailed for France with her young son Edward of Westminster. The aftermath of Towton created a new and dangerous situation for Margaret. Her Lancastrian blood made her automatically suspect in Edward IV’s eyes, but her marriage to Stafford provided some protection. More dangerously, her infant son in Wales represented a potential rallying point for Lancastrian resistance. Edward IV had already demonstrated his willingness to execute enemies. Would he extend that policy to children? Margaret spent sleepless nights wondering if soldiers would come for Henry, if she would wake one morning to news that her son was dead. She developed an elaborate intelligence network, paying servants and merchants for news from Wales, bribing clerks for copies of royal correspondence, doing everything possible to stay ahead of potential threats. The constant vigilance was exhausting, but it kept her son alive.

In 1469 AD, Henry Stafford was wounded fighting for Edward IV at the Battle of Edgecote. The injury, a deep gash in his thigh that became infected, left him partially disabled and increasingly bitter about his service to the Yorkist cause. He had risked his life for Edward IV and received little recognition or reward. The disappointment ate at him, making him receptive to Margaret’s subtle influence. Margaret nursed her injured husband through months of painful recovery, using the time to gradually shift his political loyalties. She never directly advocated for the Lancastrian cause. That would have been too dangerous. Instead, she planted seeds of doubt about Edward IV’s competence, shared stories of Yorkist corruption and incompetence, and gradually convinced Stafford that his service had been inadequately rewarded. The process required extraordinary psychological skill. Margaret had to overcome years of Yorkist loyalty, personal gratitude for Edward IV’s mercy, and Stafford’s natural caution. She did it through patience, repetition, and careful manipulation of his wounded pride. By 1470 AD, when the Earl of Warwick began his rebellion against Edward IV, Stafford was ready to switch sides.

In 1470 AD, the political kaleidoscope shifted again. Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the powerful noble known as the Kingmaker, fell out with Edward IV and allied himself with Margaret of Anjou to restore Henry VI to the throne. The alliance was bizarre. Warwick had originally put Edward IV on the throne and fought against Henry VI for years, but politics made for strange bedfellows, and Warwick’s wounded pride overcame his previous loyalties. Margaret watched these developments with intense interest and growing hope. If Henry VI could be restored, if the Lancastrian cause could triumph, then perhaps her son could return from Welsh exile. She began to reach out carefully to other Lancastrian sympathizers, testing the waters for a potential uprising. The communications were extraordinarily dangerous. Discovery would mean death for everyone involved.

The restoration of Henry VI in October 1470 AD seemed like a miracle to Margaret. Edward IV fled to Burgundy, his brother Richard of Gloucester at his side, while Henry VI was led from the Tower of London and formally restored to his throne. The poor mad king seemed bewildered by the turn of events, unsure how he had gone from prisoner to monarch overnight. Margaret attended his restoration ceremony at Westminster, seeing for herself how feeble and confused the Lancastrian king had become. But the restoration proved short-lived. Edward IV returned from exile in March 1471 AD with Burgundian support and a small army of hardened mercenaries. He moved quickly, gathering support from nobles who had grown tired of the chaos and uncertainty. The decisive confrontation came at Barnet on April 14, 1471 AD, where Warwick was killed in the fighting. Two weeks later at Tewkesbury on May 4th, 1471 AD, the Lancastrian cause died forever.

In 1471 AD, everything changed. The Battle of Tewkesbury saw the final defeat of the Lancastrian cause and the death of Edward, Prince of Wales, the last direct heir to Henry VI’s throne. The prince died in the fighting, though some accounts suggest he was murdered after being captured. His death, combined with the mysterious disappearance of Henry VI himself shortly afterward, ended the direct Lancastrian line.

Suddenly, Margaret’s teenage son became the most viable claimant to the Lancastrian succession, and therefore one of the most dangerous people in England. His claim was complicated and distant, tracing through the Beaufort line, and complicated by questions about legitimacy that had been raised generations earlier. But in the absence of any direct Lancastrian heirs, Henry Tudor’s claim began to look increasingly significant to those who opposed Yorkist rule. Jasper Tudor, recognizing the immediate threat to Henry’s life, made a desperate decision. He would take the boy into exile rather than risk capture and almost certain execution. The decision was heartbreaking, but necessary. Staying in Wales meant death, but exile meant abandoning everything and everyone Henry had ever known. On a storm-lashed night in September 1471 AD, 14-year-old Henry Tudor boarded a ship at Tenby and sailed into 14 years of exile in Brittany. The departure was hurried and dangerous. Yorkist forces were closing in on the last Lancastrian strongholds in Wales. Henry and Jasper h