by Tony Riches
Chapter Six
June 1462
The countryside of Flanders offered Jasper and his men little cover as they rode south, travelling fast and tracking close to the coast. It would have been an easy enough journey were it not for the westerly wind from the sea and the rain that saturated their clothes and turned the narrow roads to slippery mud. Gabriel rode in the lead as he claimed to have some knowledge of the area. He seemed to be enjoying his new responsibility and twisted in the saddle, rainwater dripping from the brim of his hat, to see the others were still close behind.
He caught Jasper’s eye and grinned. ‘I wish we were back in that leaky old ship now, my lord!’
Jasper agreed, as the rain had long since won its battle with his riding boots. It was supposed to be summer, yet the trickle of water soaking through his riding cape into his doublet felt unpleasantly cold.
‘You handled the horses well, Gabriel. I thought we would never have them ashore.’
Gabriel chuckled at the compliment. ‘Spoke to them in Irish, sir.’
‘You must remember to do the same if we meet anyone on the road.’
‘Irish mercenaries, riding to try our luck en Bretagne.’ He exaggerated his accent, throwing in the French with a flourish of his hand.
Jasper nodded in approval. They stayed away from towns and went out of their way to avoid the main roads, although even in the small villages they passed through he imagined the eyes of the local people were on him. He carried a letter from Queen Margaret but hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. Her cousin, the new King of France, would be difficult enough to deal with, without making their negotiations more complicated by involving the Duke of Burgundy.
He recalled his confident words to Máiréad, when he’d told her his lineage of the House of Valois should count for something. He’d wanted to reassure her, yet for all his life he had thought of himself as a Welshman, not French. Since he was a boy his father proudly taught him all about his Welsh ancestry. He also taught him to never take his wealth for granted, which was just as well, now it had been stolen from him.
His mother rarely spoke about her family in France, or if she had he’d been too young to remember. The years distorted his memory of her, yet he could hear her soft accent even now, singing French lullabies to him as a child. He was only five years old the night the soldiers came to their house and took her away, to the Abbey of St Saviour in Bermondsey. He had no idea he would never see her again.
Thinking of that grey dawn brought back long repressed feelings of confusion and worry. He’d been rudely woken with his brother Edmund and hurriedly dressed to the sounds of soldiers shouting orders outside. He remembered seeing the red-faced, anxious servants, running up and down stairs with bundles of clothes and such possessions as they could carry to the waiting wagons.
His father told them it would be a great adventure, and he would come for them as soon as he could. Jasper smiled to himself as he remembered how he tried his best to reassure them, despite their dire situation. He’d handed them five gold nobles each, told them to be brave boys and to always remember they were Tudors.
The soldiers took them on a long journey and placed them in the care of the Abbess of Barking, for religious education. It was no adventure, although the abbess had been kindly and treated them well, allowing them servants and even giving permission for them to practise with their bows as a reward for good behaviour.
As he rode towards Brittany, Jasper realised the nuns at the abbey taught him much that would stand him in good stead now. The strict but well-ordered routine of their devout lives instilled in him a useful self-discipline and he eventually learned to be patient. He remembered the abbess would always tell them maxima enim, patientia virtus, patience is the greatest virtue, when they asked how long it would be before their father came for them. The nuns sacrificed everything for their faith, yet still seemed content with their simple lives.
Now he understood his father had no choice in the matter, but at the time it felt they had been forgotten and abandoned. He prayed faithfully with his brother Edmund every day for his parents to return. There was no word, not even a note or a letter. Three long years passed before he saw his father again and learned his mother was dead, as well as a sister he had never seen.
They reached the border with Brittany without challenge, having made the best of daylight and stopping each night to sleep in barns and outhouses. The local farmers and villagers seemed happy to take Jasper’s silver to provide food and ale for his men, and knew better than to ask questions of the Irishmen. Jasper guessed they had seen plenty of mercenaries passing through, ready to fight for anyone with money.
Their destination, the Château de Clisson, grand fortress residence of Francis, Duke of Brittany, perched over a tributary of the River Loire, the Sèvre Nantaise. Dominated by a massive keep, the duke’s château was defended by a wide, green moat and from the highest tower flew the black and white ermine flag of Brittany.
Jasper led his men across the narrow stone bridge to the high gatehouse and announced himself to the liveried guards in French. After a short wait, the duke appeared in a doublet embroidered with a rampant lion. Well built, handsome and clean-shaven, he studied them appraisingly.
Jasper realised he must look more like the soldier of fortune he pretended to be than an earl and garter knight. Mud from the road spattered his plain clothes and boots and he hadn’t washed or slept properly for a week. Only his fine sword with its engraved silver hilt offered any clue to his true identity.
He eyed the armed guards flanking the duke and saw they were ready to act. One word from Duke Frances and he could face long imprisonment for ransom, or worse. He had decided to take risks for Lancaster and now it could be time for him to pay the price.
‘Sir Jasper Tudor? Son of Queen Catherine, of the House of Valois?’ The duke spoke in French, his voice cultured, with little trace of the accent of the region yet questioning, as if he doubted the truth of Jasper’s claim.
‘At your service, Duke Francis.’
‘Come. I am intrigued to understand what has brought you to Clisson.’ He gestured to the guards, who stood aside to let Jasper and his men pass.
They followed him through the gatehouse into a courtyard paved with cobblestones. A magnificent bronze cannon pointed malevolently towards the entrance and Jasper noted it stood ready for use if the château ever came under attack. The heavy iron-studded doors of the gatehouse slammed shut behind them and Gabriel gave him a cautionary glance as he took the reins of his horse.
Jasper followed the duke across the courtyard to one of the towers and up a flight of stone steps into a high-ceilinged room. Swords and shields, some with the patina of great age, decorated the curved stone walls. In a recessed niche stood an old stone sculpture with the unmistakable features of the duke, although Jasper realised it must be one of his ancestors.
Duke Francis waited for his guards to close the door. ‘What brings you to Brittany?’ There was a challenge in his voice and he stared, unsmiling, as he waited for an answer.
‘I come as the ambassador of Queen Margaret of England.’
‘The deposed queen?’
‘The rightful queen of King Henry, my half-brother.’
‘Daughter of the King of Naples, and cousin of Louis, King of France.’ The duke scowled in contempt.
Jasper took a deep breath and fought back the tension as he realised it would not be easy to win over the suspicious duke. ‘I will be direct with you, my lord. These are difficult times for the House of Lancaster...’
‘I cannot help you.’ The duke interrupted, shaking his head.
‘We could have met the Duke of Burgundy, yet we chose to offer our hand of friendship to Brittany.’
‘And what would you have me do?’
‘We suspect Burgundy could side with York, and with King Louis, we both know anything is possible, yet Brittany has fought to remain independent.’ He watched the duke’s reaction. ‘We would ask you to p
rovide us with men and ships, but most of all we value your knowledge of King Louis, his strengths—and his weaknesses.’
‘King Louis is only interested in himself.’
‘Queen Margaret hopes King Louis will fund our cause.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘In return for Calais?’
‘The English will never forgive Queen Margaret if she surrenders Calais,’ the duke paced the room as he thought aloud, ‘yet you are right. It would be a great coup for Louis, although of course, Calais is not within your gift. Is it not held by men who are loyal to York?’
‘With your help, Duke Francis, we shall dangle this carrot in front of the King of France.’
‘Don’t underestimate King Louis, he’s no fool.’ The duke’s voice echoed in the sparsely furnished room.
‘Queen Margaret will sign a treaty, promising Calais once King Henry is restored to the throne.’
‘And what does Brittany gain in return for helping you?’
‘An alliance between the House of Lancaster and the House of Montfort.’
Jasper recognised the weary messenger who arrived from Scotland as one of the Irishmen left behind as the queen’s personal guard. The man’s clothes bore the dirt of his long, exhausting journey and he brought news that the queen had sailed from Kircudbright on the western coast of Scotland.
‘Her Highness chose to sail through the Irish Sea to avoid York’s ships in the English Channel, my lord. She plans to make landfall at Saint-Nazaire.’
‘How long ago was this?’ Jasper’s relief was overtaken by a sense of foreboding.
‘Two weeks, my lord.’
‘And the king? What of King Henry?’
‘For all I know he is well, my lord.’
A thought occurred to Jasper. ‘Why is there no letter from the queen?’
‘The queen did send a letter to you, my lord. The man carrying it was captured and executed for treason.’
Jasper cursed. He rewarded the messenger with silver and visited the duke’s gaudily decorated chapel. The lifelike, blue-robed figure of the Virgin Mary, surrounded by gilded cherubs and angels watched as he kneeled before the altar and prayed for the queen’s safe passage, then lit votive candles in memory of his mother and father and his brother Edmund, taken before their time.
Duke Francis considered Jasper’s offer of an alliance for more than a week without agreeing to a loan, then they found common ground by chance. Jasper watched the duke’s men practising archery at the butts in the courtyard and offered to demonstrate the skills of his Irish skirmishers, hand-picked by Gabriel to accompany them to Brittany. A target was set up and, on Jasper’s signal, his men galloped into the courtyard, the hooves of their horses clattering on the cobblestones. They fired their crossbows from horseback with deadly effect before turning and riding off in a heartbeat, leaving the château strangely quiet.
The duke crossed to the target and tugged one of the bolts bristling from it, examining the sharply barbed point. ‘Skirmishers?’ He smiled at Jasper for the first time, holding up the short crossbow bolt. ‘Your men are assassins, Sir Jasper.’
‘The days of chivalry are over, Duke Francis.’ Jasper returned a wry smile, glad to at last find a way to engage the duke. ‘I learned to strike and be gone. My men are few in number yet worth ten times as many.’
‘They are Irishmen, though? Mercenaries?’
‘You are right, but I’ve found them loyal enough.’
Duke Francis nodded curtly. ‘I will agree to your alliance, Sir Jasper, and I will cover Queen Margaret’s expenses while she is here, but we must be clear this loan is to be repaid in full.’
‘As soon as we’ve defeated York.’
‘Yet it would seem your cause is already lost?’
Jasper refused to acknowledge the truth of the duke’s frank words. ‘My duty is to restore the rightful king and I will do whatever it takes.’
‘I respect your loyalty to the House of Lancaster, Sir Jasper, but let us suppose King Louis agrees to finance your war. How many men will you need to overthrow Edward of York, now he has made himself king?’
The duke’s words echoed in Jasper’s mind as he waited for the queen to arrive. He found himself recalling the frail, absent-minded King Henry he’d last seen at Linlithgow Palace. Although familiar with the king’s lapses, it seemed impossible to imagine he could ever rule the country again. Their best hope now rested with the queen and their arrogant son, Prince Edward.
After sharing the messenger’s news with the duke, Jasper took lodgings overlooking the old fishing harbour at Saint-Nazaire, at the mouth of the River Loire. The queen’s ship was overdue, although Jasper told himself it was too early to worry. There were many reasons for delay on the long voyage from the west of Scotland.
Each morning he woke at first light and took his walk along the harbour, always keeping a hopeful eye on the horizon. He learned how the rise and fall of the tides ruled the lives of the fishermen of Saint-Nazaire. They would sit on the old granite wall mending their nets and baiting crab pots with foul-smelling fish heads until water filled the harbour, then set off in an assortment of small boats to earn a living from the sea.
Some days they returned with baskets of long-legged spider crabs and aggressive black Breton lobsters. Other times Jasper watched them unload their catches of glittering sardines and anchovies, which spilled over the quayside as a feast for flocks of noisy seagulls. The fishermen seemed suspicious of him at first, but soon began sharing tales of battles with the giant tuna which they caught in the summer season, as well as less welcome stories of sudden and deadly storms.
Gabriel ensured lookouts kept a vigil night and day to alert them of the first sign of the queen, and two weeks passed before they sighted a ship flying the brightly coloured Royal Standard. The early dawn sunrise warmed the air as Jasper waited on the quayside. The ever-present gulls wheeled and shrieked in grey skies and the horses of the carriage he’d ordered whinnied impatiently as they stood ready.
The ship was smaller than he expected, a two-masted merchantman, the sailors already reefing the sails as it approached the shallows of the old fishing harbour. The heavy iron anchor plunged with a splash into the water fifty yards from the shore and the crew waved and called out to the men on the quayside. Gabriel stood by with a longboat and, at a nod from Jasper, set off at a brisk pace towards the ship, his oarsmen straining in unison against the incoming tide.
It seemed an eternity before the boat began its return journey and finally moored to a rusting iron ring at the stone steps, which Gabriel had scraped clear of the slippery green seaweed. Jasper watched as Queen Margaret and her ladies made their way towards him. Although pale and tired, the queen raised a gloved hand in welcome when she saw him, clearly relieved to be safely back on land.
He smiled as he recognised the familiar figure of Máiréad among the servants accompanying the queen. Her long dark hair was tied back under a linen coif and her once fine dress creased and stained from her long journey. He found himself thinking she should be safe in Ireland, yet felt glad of her company now, as there was no knowing how long they would need to stay.
‘Welcome to Brittany, Your Highness.’ He bowed and took the queen’s arm to lead her to the waiting carriage.
Queen Margaret forced a smile. ‘It is good to be back on dry land, Sir Jasper.’
‘How was your voyage, Your Highness?’
‘We owe our lives to the captain,’ Queen Margaret glanced back to the ship, now sitting peacefully at anchor, ‘and thank the Lord our prayers are rewarded.’
Jasper helped the queen climb into the carriage. ‘First we will visit the Château de Clisson, where Duke Francis has agreed for you to be his guest.’
‘He has agreed to an alliance?’
‘He has, Your Highness, and also to a loan. The duke is an honourable man, and a valued supporter of our cause in these difficult times.’
Later, as Jasper lay in the darkness with Máiréad he admitted
the truth. ‘I feared the duke would throw us in his dungeons. He is a deeply suspicious man and didn’t take kindly to my request for money.’
She sat up in his bed, a look of concern on her face. ‘How did you persuade him to help the queen?’
‘Your countrymen won him over, not me. They’ve been training the duke’s men the skirmishing skills they learned in Ireland. They do well, despite their poor command of the language.’
Máiréad lay back beside him. ‘I’ve missed you, Jasper.’
‘And I’ve missed you,’ he put his arm around her, enjoying her warmth, ‘although I’ve thought of you every day, and worried when I heard you were sailing the long way round.’
‘The voyage was a difficult one, Jasper,’ she pulled him closer, ‘we were nearly forced to seek refuge in Ireland—I would have been tempted to jump ship!’
‘I like the sea, but it can be hard,’ he agreed, ‘once all we had to eat were old biscuits riddled with worms.’
‘Well, we made it here. I had grown tired of Scotland, so now I’m looking forward to seeing Brittany.’
‘I forgot to ask after the king,’ Jasper stroked her hair, letting it run through his fingers like silk. ‘How is he?’
‘I must tell you... King Henry is unwell. They found him unconscious in the chapel and thought him dead.’
‘Yet he’s recovered now?’
‘The queen ordered him to be fed by force.’
Jasper pondered the consequences of her news. ‘Who watches over the king now?’
‘A bishop. His name is John Kennedy,’ Máiréad put her arm around Jasper to reassure him, ‘a good man, and they say he understands the king’s condition.’
Jasper recalled the queen telling him Bishop Kennedy was one of the few men in Scotland she felt she could trust. At the same time, he secretly doubted it. The bishop’s first loyalty would always be to Queen Mary, as her advisor and deputy in the regency, not to Queen Margaret or King Henry. Now the king could be in danger, not only from York but also from his hostess, the Queen Regent of Scotland, who had much to gain by betraying his trust.
