“But sir, he says he’s a comte.”
It took Hertford a moment to place the French word, as the peasant had pronounced it incorrectly.
“Comte?” Hertford finally asked, placing special emphasis on his pronunciation.
“Comte Girard,” the man croaked, the effort of speaking causing a wound in his neck to bleed further.
Hertford glanced at me and I raised my eyes. The Comte Girard was known as a close friend to King Francis, one of his dearest confidants who had been with him for years as a boy. I nodded and Hertford turned to the men.
“Take him to the doctor straight away,” he ordered. “And make sure he is given the best treatment.” Both men bowed, dragging Girard down with them before departing. I moved to speak with Hertford before I realized that, behind me, Owaine was conferring with another knight.
“Your Majesty!” Owaine cried, turning to face me. “Good news. Our men have taken the French camp.”
“Excellent,” I responded. “The supplies will be needed.”
Owaine glanced back at the man, who nodded forcefully, before turning back to me.
“And there is another thing,” he ventured.
“Yes?”
“They have informed me that Queen Eleanor of Austria was in the camp with three of her ladies.”
I stared at Owaine, shocked. That Francis would have his wife here at his camp when Paris was so close. I could not fathom what thoughts had passed through his head that allowed her to join him here. Even knowing that he felt much the same toward Eleanor that I had at first felt toward Anne, I could not imagine putting a queen in such danger. I sighed.
“Prepare a flag of truce,” I ordered to Owaine. “And I will prepare a letter asking for an exchange of prisoners.”
“The Duke of Suffolk will finally be returned to us!” Owaine said cheerfully. I nodded, staring after the bleeding Frenchman that was being taken to our doctor’s tent. I knew Francis well enough to realize that his friend Girard was a much greater bargaining chip than his queen.
***
I was correct. Once Francis knew we held Girard, a quick settlement was made for the return of Charles Brandon. I included Queen Eleanor in with Girard, doubtful Francis would consider her worth a bargain. This was a king who, after being captured by the Spanish fifteen years earlier, left his two precious sons with the enemy in exchange for his own life. I could not say what he would trade for an unwanted queen.
Charles returned after the midday meal, riding into town with a French messenger, who doubtlessly held the sum of money Francis was including for the safe return of his friend. Girard, now somewhat healed, would return to Paris with Queen Eleanor and this young boy.
The men ran from their tents to see the return of their beloved duke. Charles waved to the men who cheered for him, but I could see that the movement was costing him. He had been in captivity for over nine months, and in that time had shrunk down to almost bones. As he approached and lowered slowly from his horse though, I could see that no illness clung to him. He stank to the high heavens, however.
“We are pleased to see your return!” I cried out, pulling my friend up from where he knelt before me and hugging him to me despite the smell of human excrement that hung about him.
“Thank you, your majesty,” he said, his voice hoarse. I frowned at his reserved tone, his attempt to play the courtier even now. I thought of saying something but let it go, pleased to merely have him alive.
Seeing our reconciliation, the men began to disperse and move on to their alternative activities. The siege of Paris was to begin any day now. Taking advantage of the relative privacy, I pulled Charles closer to me.
“I cannot say how – how disappointed I have been that it has taken so long for me to acquire you back,” I said, stuttering for only a moment. I peered at my friend, his eyes still hard, and tried to make him understand how often he had been on my mind.
“I am sure Your Majesty had a great many details to attend to,” he answered stiffly.
“Yes, I – yes,” I said again, before glancing around to make sure we would not be overheard. “Charles, I must tell you how sorry I am.”
This startled a reaction from him, as his gaze snapped up to meet mine. I could not remember those words having ever left my lips before, have never had a reason to apologize to anyone. I held Charles’ gaze, desperate to make him understand.
“I understand, Harry,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Harry. Something he had not called me since my brother had died and I had suddenly become the most powerful man in the kingdom. I squeezed his hand before backing away.
“Prepare yourself,” I said to Charles, a bit louder. “And come to my chambers before the evening meal. I should have word from England and we can discuss further strategy then.”
Charles nodded but stood strong, and waited until I turned toward my chambers before heading to his own tent.
***
I had hoped for a calm evening, but it was not to be. A letter from Anne was waiting for me in my chambers.
The Duke of Norfolk, in northern England, had engaged the Scots. Though the skirmish was small, it was enough for him to be slain, and for England to lose the field. I felt my heart sink as I continued to read her letter, filled with nothing but more terrible tidings.
And I regret most of all to inform Your Majesty that the Spanish have once again returned to Scotland, and joined with the Scots. Cromwell has learned that these two armies plan to march south and attempt to take York. As our options seem limited, I will travel north and ride with the men.
There was nothing left in the letter, and I let it drop to the desk, despair washing over me. Norfolk, my oldest and most trusted commander, dead in the field. No one but Anne to lead my men, not in a siege but in an actual campaign. I looked up at the portly herald announcing the arrival of Charles Brandon, and felt the smallest flicker of hope course through me. At least my affairs here would be well taken care of.
“Charles,” I said, straightening to greet him. “It seems I will be riding for England this evening.”
Chapter Fourteen
May, 1542
I made the same desperate journey home that I had taken less than a year before – and because of the same proud, overly rich Spaniard. Only Emperor Charles would have these funds, backing from the Pope, and the sheer audacity to attack me a third time after now being beaten twice so badly.
By the time we boarded the ship bound for Dover the same anxiety had overtaken me. It was two weeks since receiving Anne’s letter about Norfolk and the Spanish. There had been precious little communication since then. She had neglected to mention where the Spanish army was, if Cromwell’s spies had picked up their information in Spain, Scotland, or Heaven forbid, seen the combined armies marching merrily toward York. If that was the case, I could well have already missed the battle.
I weathered the crossing of the channel as I always did, in the small hovel below deck, well away from the sea spray. In the past two years I had quickly grown tired of this journey. If Charles Brandon managed to lay siege to Paris, and even take it, I now hoped to ransom it back to Francis for peace and a tidy sum. I never wished to cross these waters ever again.
Across the room from me Owaine turned slightly green as the boat lurched, grabbed onto a post and leaned against it with his eyes closed. Only this young man and a few guards accompanied me. The rest remained behind with Charles Brandon and the Earl of Hertford to begin a siege. Both men had argued that they should accompany me, that the army should be moved to join those already fighting in England. But I had disagreed; the army would do nothing but slow me down and, if the worst was to happen in England, we could not lose the footing we now held in France. Paris could be a large bargaining chip. And while the Duke of Norfolk had been lost, I was confident that our numbers in England could well hold out against the Spanish – it was their third attack on England. How many men could they have?
***
&nb
sp; Apparently they could have a great many men.
“They have nearly twice our number,” Cromwell informed me while we were still on the dock, not even noticing when the swift wind took his cap from his head and flung it into the water. “Both King James of Scotland and Emperor Charles are leading the men, two armies moving as one. They have not yet reached York, but have crossed into English lands.”
“Have they caused damage thus far?” I asked as we hurried down the wooden steps toward the small house I would use to change my sodden clothing in before leaving for London. Even below deck, crossing the Channel was no dry matter. Behind us came Owaine, doing double duty as he protected me and carried a small case that held a change of clothes for me.
“Little,” Cromwell answered, and I took a moment to think what Cromwell would consider little damage to be. As evidenced last year, he saw the destruction of farms and livelihoods as of no matter, as long as they did not affect the larger life in London and around the court.
“Explain,” I ordered as the double wooden doors were thrown open before me. Cromwell followed behind, chewing on his lower lip.
“There has been some pillaging but no major engagements,” he finally said. “And there has been no evidence of burning land to the ground, as they did last year.”
“So they are moving to York swiftly,” I said as we were led to a small room with three terrified looking servants. The three young boys had obviously never dressed someone of high rank, but I could not be bothered with that now. Owaine pulled the clothes out then quietly began to direct the boys to do the best they could.
“It seems that way,” Cromwell agreed. “It is evident that their plan is to attack towns and cities this time and leave the countryside intact. They are evidently well supplied.”
“Or simply not planning on pillaging until after the battle,” Owaine said, joining the conversation late. I understood his meaning but did not respond.
“And the Queen?” I asked.
“She has already led a final group of 4,000 soldiers north,” Cromwell answered. “And should arrive in York on the morrow. I daresay she will have less than a week to prepare for battle.”
“Then I will have time to join her,” I concluded.
Cromwell pursed his lips as if he would argue with me but remained silent.
“Are there horses ready?” I asked, turning back toward Owaine, who had broken protocol and changed his own clothes in my presence.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said with a short bow. “We will ride with two horses for each rider, and will change horses in London, Coventry, and Nottingham.”
“Very well,” I said, aware that every moment was now precious. I strode out of the room, Cromwell scurrying to keep up with me.
“Return to London,” I ordered him. “If the army is to fail, evacuate London as Queen Anne did last year. Take as many men as can be found to the Tower of London. Remain in contact with the Duke of Suffolk. If the worst is to happen, Brandon will know how to act.”
Cromwell nodded but paled; it was treasonous for anyone to predict my death, and I had never before referred to it in front of my minister. If I were to die, I had no doubt that Cromwell would flounder. I hoped that he would have the strength to secure my son and my throne, but trusted only Charles Brandon to do this. Perhaps I should have allowed him to return after all.
We descended the steps to find four of my guards mounted and another two waiting to help me onto a stallion. I turned to Owaine with my eyes raised; some of my guard would be remaining behind.
“I felt that speed was of the essence,” was all he said before moving to his own horse. I glanced behind us, taking in the three pale-faced boys who led another half dozen horses, and the four mares that would travel with us, bearing the boys and what supplies we could manage. Nodding, I turned toward the stronger of the two guards waiting upon me and allowed them to hoist me into the saddle.
I looked down at Cromwell and pushed away the desire to repeat my orders. There should be no need to do so, but the man looked so scared, pale as if his own father were riding away to war. But I could think of no words of comfort to this minister of mine.
Instead, I held his eyes for only a moment before he swept into a bow. Then we were off, heading as quickly as we could toward York.
***
It was frustrating to not canter as hard as we could to York. But there would be no faster way to kill a horse, even though we had picked up our current mounts only the day before in London. I instead listed what I knew to be true about the coming battle in an effort to calm my nerves and ignore the plodding pace we maintained.
I considered Anne to be completely alone. There would be, of course, gentlemen knights surrounding her, and Sir John Neville had remained in the north throughout the past two years, fighting his lifelong battle against the Scots. I attempted to ease my worries by recalling the long military history of his family, but it did little more than remind me of other battles I had missed.
And no matter what nobleman accompanied her, Anne would still be outmatched by King James and Emperor Charles together. I could only imagine the disaster those two terrible men could cause, Catholic and greedy, seeing England as nothing more than an opportunity for riches. I had no doubt that Charles had already agreed to let James take the throne, planning to assassinate not only me but my son as well. That thought urged me into a canter, which the horse maintained for only a quarter of a mile before Owaine called us to a halt.
“Food, Your Majesty,” he explained. “And we will change the horses.”
It seemed to me as if we did nothing but change the horses, but Owaine was correct. I allowed the men to help me from the saddle and received two slightly bruised apples from Owaine. One of the boys with us pulled my saddle from the chestnut brown horse and began to saddle the golden horse with a crooked ear for me to ride.
I finished off the first apple, in my hunger hardly noticing the taste. It had been three days since my last full meal, as we had waited for the tide in Calais. Even in London we had done nothing more than receive fresh horses and supplies; I had lowered from one saddle directly onto another.
As I started in on the second apple, I moved away from the small grassy knoll we had halted at and walked into the woods, leaning against an old oak. Two years ago I would never have received such an apple as my dinner, would not have slept on the ground as I had the night before, with little more than a wool blanket atop me. But two years ago I also could not have ridden hard between Dover and York. I would have considered a week hardly enough time to ride to London. I glanced down at my frame, still larger than the other men, but thinner than I had been in many years.
My hand wandered to my thigh, rubbing against the old wound there. Though it had swollen with the riding, it had not engorged as it had so many other times, filling with pus and rendering me immobile. It seemed the wound somehow reacted to how fit I was, to my diet as well. If I had the chance, I would speak to Doctor Butts about this and see if my ability to function at this level could be maintained if – when – peace was achieved.
For a moment I allowed myself to think on it, to consider how life could return to how it had been – Mary and Elizabeth spending time with the court, seeing my son at regular intervals. I knew that Anne would insist on a large Christmas to celebrate my family’s strength after the war. She always seemed happiest when my children were in attendance on the court. I could indulge my son Edward with a joust that autumn, given in his honor; at five he would be old enough to help Anne deliver the prizes to the best competitors.
It was then that I realized how Anne had fit seamlessly into these dreams, taking her place as my children’s stepmother as if she had always been there. As I finished off the last of the apple, I attempted to imagine a future without Anne – something I had dreamed of for so long – and found I could no longer see it.
Behind me I heard Owaine approach and I turned to face him.
“If Your Majesty is prepared?” he sai
d, raising a red eyebrow.
“As always,” I answered, and strode toward my horse, preparing to make Coventry by the morrow.
***
As we rode into the small street that made up the town of Nottingham, cries went up throughout the homes and taverns.
“It is the King! The King has come!”
A young man, no more than a boy, appeared. He was filthy, but wearing my colors.
“Your Majesty!” he cried out at once. “I have news from her Majesty.”
I glanced back at Owaine, who was frowning down at the boy.
“Well, let us not waste another minute,” I said before holding my hand up at the boy, who looked ready to shout his message from the rooftops.
“We will wait until a more private place can be found,” Owaine explained, glancing nervously at the few hundred people that had suddenly appeared to look at me. Though they all looked English, any one of them could be poor enough to report back to Charles or James.
Owaine deftly dismounted and nodded for two guards to help me down from my own horse. As a box was found to help me step down with, I watched Owaine speak to one of his men, who promptly turned toward an ale house. I smiled. Owaine had quickly learned how to best organize the men, provisions, and whatever was needed for my benefit.
It took only a moment for me to dismount and I turned toward the messenger, who had started to fidget.
“Follow,” I ordered. He fell in behind me, as did Owaine. I made quickly for the manor house up the street that would provide us with fresh horses. I waited until our hostess had shown us to a private room before turning to look at the boy. The setting sun glowed against my back, warming me in a room that had seen no proper fire for weeks.
“You can speak now,” Owaine said from his position at the door.
“Her Majesty the Queen sends word that she is at Barden Tower, west of York. Her intelligence gives word that the Emperor planned to bypass York and instead take a western route down, making better time for London. He believes the Queen still be in the south, and for your Majesty to still be in France. He does not suspect that we know his plans.”
Anne the Warrior Page 13
