by Tony Riches
‘I’ve missed you, Máiréad.’
‘I’ve missed you too, Jasper. It seems I make these great voyages to be with you yet each time you slip through my fingers in the name of duty.’ She took his hand in hers and held it tight, as if she thought he might escape.
‘My duties keep me too busy of late.’ He pulled her closer and kissed her on the lips. ‘I wish...’
She stroked his dark beard, now neatly trimmed. ‘What do you wish for?’
‘I wish we lived in simpler times, Máiréad, with none of these endless wars.’ He ran his fingers through her hair, enjoying the silky feel of it. ‘I wish you could have met my father.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘I’ve told you.’
‘Tell me again, I like to hear.’
‘He was an adventurer who risked everything for the woman he loved, my mother. He was a proud Welshman and spent all his life wishing he was back in Wales.’
‘Like you?’
Jasper smiled and gave her a playful pat. ‘Yes, like me.’
‘You told me once he was proud to be a grandfather.’
‘He was. Little Henry meant the world to him.’
‘So he would be just as proud of your son.’ She kissed him.
‘Or daughter. We could be bringing another Irishwoman into the world.’
‘Half Irish.’ She furrowed her brow as she tried to work it out. ‘One quarter French and one quarter Welsh.’
‘It’s a sign of these strange times we live in,’ Jasper smiled. ‘We are all mongrels at heart, yet still we fight.’
‘I worry for you, Jasper, when you ride off like you do. I always fear you won’t return.’
‘I’ve learned how to keep safe, even if it means people accuse me of running from a fight. There are plenty of dead heroes but you give me a good reason to return safe.’ He patted the tiny figure inside her. ‘Now there are two reasons.’
‘Do you want me to return to Scotland with the queen?’
He looked into her sad eyes, deep with mystery, and sensed she could divine his thoughts. ‘I want you here with me, but it will be too dangerous when Warwick’s army arrives.’
‘I want to stay here with you.’ She hugged him with both arms. ‘Surely this castle can keep us safe?’
‘Have you ever seen what happens in a siege?’
‘No, but I can imagine.’
‘Can you imagine what it’s like to be surrounded by ten thousand men firing great cannons day and night? Can you imagine men having to eat their own horses because they’re starving? Can you imagine—’
She gave him a kiss to silence him. ‘I will sail with the queen. Not for you but for the sake of our baby.’
Jasper replayed their last conversation in his head many times, his way of escaping the nightmare his confined world had become. At first, it offered hope, a reminder there was much to live for, a reason for all the suffering and sleepless nights. Now it pained him to remember their special times together.
He remembered the sadness in her eyes as her boat rowed steadily from the shore to the waiting fleet, how she had raised a hand and waved farewell. They made the pretence this was a temporary setback. Queen Margaret discussed with him what they would do when she returned with her new Scottish army. Even the king refused to pack his few possessions, on the grounds he would soon return.
At least he was no longer responsible for the men of the garrison at Bamburgh, as before she left, the queen appointed Sir Henry Beaufort commander. As his second-in-command, Jasper busied himself with overseeing the strengthening of the defences. Men worked all the daylight hours, robbing stone from wherever they could find it to reinforce the weakest points. He was painfully aware he had done the same at Pembroke and even in the town of Tenby, to so little effect, but the work kept his mind off the true danger of their situation.
Gabriel knocked on the door of Jasper’s room one evening, carrying a jug of ale.
‘I thought you could do with a drink, sir.’
‘Come in, Gabriel.’ Jasper gestured to the empty chair by the fire. ‘Warm yourself a little, we’ve much to discuss.’
He took two pewter cups from a shelf and watched as Gabriel filled them. He’d been so preoccupied with Queen Margaret and King Henry’s departure he had hardly spoken a word to his right-hand man, at his side since the horrors of Mortimer’s Cross. Gabriel drank deeply from his ale and stared into the flames of the fire, as if there was something he wanted to say.
‘Some of the men are... concerned, sir.’ He took another drink from his cup. ‘I fear they have no confidence in Sir Henry Beaufort and many could desert if they see their chance.’
Jasper nodded. ‘I understand why—we’ve seen what’s on the way.’ He took a sip of the cold, bitter tasting ale. ‘I fear only the harshest of winters could save us now, Gabriel.’
‘You’ve seen how much there is in the stores, sir. Do you think we can last until the spring?’
He took a deep breath. ‘In truth, I doubt it. It’s my duty to try, though. I’ve promised the queen I’ll help Sir Henry hold this castle until she can send reinforcements.’
Gabriel sat in silence for a moment. ‘I think we should let the skirmishers leave, sir. They’ve served you loyally, but we have too many men to feed, and they should go now, get out while they can.’
He spoke quickly, and Jasper could see Gabriel felt unhappy to be suggesting such a thing, after all they had been through together, yet he had a point. They had more men than necessary to hold the castle, a luxury they could no longer afford.
‘You are right, as ever.’ Jasper drained his cup and made his decision. ‘I will speak to the men in the morning,’ he looked across at Gabriel, ‘and you? Do you wish to go with them, while you can?’
‘I’ll stay with you, sir, until the Scottish army arrives.’ He refilled their empty cups.’
‘I’ll drink to that. If anyone can persuade the Scots to send an army, Queen Margaret can. In the meantime, we must plan for how we can stretch out the remaining supplies.’
After Gabriel left Jasper walked up to the battlements and faced the bitter easterly wind that whipped the waves into towering breakers. The freezing air drained the warmth from his bones and he shivered as he recalled saying they needed a hard winter. It seemed his wish would be granted.
He was about to return to his room when a flicker of light below the horizon caught his eye, coming from Holy Island, a mile offshore. For a second he thought it might be Warwick’s army, using the sacred island as a base. He watched and saw the light flicker again and grow brighter, then vanish. It could be pilgrims or the monks who spent their lives there but something about the loneliness of the tiny light bothered him.
Chapter Nine
December 1462
Jasper woke with someone roughly shaking him, dazzling him with a lantern so bright he couldn’t see their face. The man talked excitedly, his words not making sense. The light stung Jasper’s eyes and he rubbed them, trying to gather his wits, still drowsy from lack of sleep.
‘What is it? What’s going on?’ He heard the annoyance in his raised voice.
‘They’re here, sir.’ The man pointed a grubby finger towards the door. ‘I’ve been sent to tell you, sir, told to wake you like you ordered.’
He studied the thin-faced man holding the swinging lantern and recognised him as one of the guards keeping watch. Alert in an instant, he understood the waiting was over. Warwick’s army had arrived at last and their battle for survival would begin.
‘How many? Where are they?’ He reached for his boots and pulled them on, knowing all their lives depended on the answer.
The guard’s wide eyes revealed the panic of a man who has seen a vision of his own death and knows nothing he does can prevent it. Jasper recalled the same look in the eyes of men as he tried to defend the king in the carnage of St Albans and later at the massacre of his army at Mortimer’s Cross.
‘There’s hundreds of them, sir.’ H
e shook his head. ‘No, thousands, too many...’ He took a step back, towards the open door and beckoned with his free hand. ‘Come and see, my lord,’ his voice sounded urgent, ‘they have us surrounded!’
Jasper pulled on the padded jack he wore for protection against arrows and strapped on his sword out of habit. Although of little use to him in a siege, the familiar weight of the sword at his belt gave him confidence he didn’t feel in his heart. He glanced at his armour, neatly piled in the corner of his room, and chose only his open-faced sallet helmet, which he put on without fastening the leather chin strap.
He heard the noise made by Warwick’s army even as he climbed the stone steps to the high battlement and looked out. The rising sun cast long shadows in the early dawn and light sparkled on a heavy frost, making the scene in front of him look surreal. The guard had not exaggerated. Thousands of men filled the familiar open fields in front of the castle, swarming over every patch of ground like busy wood ants, already digging defences, shouting orders and hammering wooden stakes with mallets.
He had taken the precaution of ordering men to cut down the trees and demolish the outbuildings that might offer their enemy cover, but it made no difference. The sheer scale of Warwick’s forces seemed overwhelming. They were also closer than he’d expected. Even as he watched he saw his crossbowmen had them within range, already picking their targets.
A sharp yell of pain rang out as a lucky shot from a crossbow struck one of Warwick’s men in the back. Jasper watched as they withdrew, dragging the wounded soldier with them, to a cheer and shouted insults from the men high on the battlements. A small victory in what would become a one-sided battle. He had imagined this moment many times over the previous weeks, yet now they seemed woefully unprepared.
He sent men to rouse Henry Beaufort with a message to meet him in the great hall without delay. Their commander soon arrived and ordered his servant to begin fastening his armour while he listened to Jasper’s assessment. A deafening boom sounded as the first of the cannons began pounding the castle walls. Sir Henry flinched as heavy chunks of plaster fell from the ceiling of the grand hall, crashing to the tiled floor.
‘By God! Warwick should have sent a herald before opening fire, I would expect him to at least offer us the chance of an honourable surrender.’
Jasper glowered at him. ‘You forget your duty to the king, Sir Henry.’ His stern voice echoed from the roof of the great hall and his hand fell to the hilt of his sword. ‘We will not surrender. Not yet, at least.’
Henry Beaufort put a calming hand on Jasper’s shoulder. ‘I promise you it sticks in my gullet to pretend allegiance to York—but it could buy us time until the queen returns with a new army.’ He adjusted a buckle on his breastplate. ‘What do we have to lose by talking?’
A second cannon thundered in reply, then a third, making the ground vibrate under their feet. Jasper cursed Beaufort for his disloyalty as he tried to decide what to say. He couldn’t believe the siege had hardly begun yet already Henry Beaufort talked of surrender.
‘I fear this is more than a siege, Henry. Warwick must know he’s been robbed of his prize now the king and queen have sailed to safety.’ He flinched as yet another cannon boomed. ‘It’s Edward of York that army outside follows, not his dog. If York is ill, we may not need to wait until the spring. Warwick might be skilled at turning people’s heads from their duty to King Henry but he is a poor commander. He should have won the day in St Albans last year, yet we outflanked him and drove his army from the field.’
‘What are you thinking—that Edward might die?’ Henry Beaufort appeared unconvinced. ‘What can we do? Fire a few arrows?’ He began to sound exasperated. ‘Even if we kill a hundred of Warwick’s men, he has thousands ready to take their place.’
‘Don’t you see Warwick’s plan? He intends to prove himself worthy by wiping out the last Lancastrians in the north—and taking our castles for himself.’
Henry Beaufort buckled his sword belt. ‘We will hold this castle for as long as we can—’
Another deep, thunderous boom interrupted his words, followed immediately by the crash of a cannonball and shouts of alarm. From the direction of the noises the target must be the massive wooden doors of the castle gatehouse, constructed long before the use of heavy cannons. It seemed as if Warwick had been listening and this was his reply.
They endured weeks of relentless bombardment, which shook even the thick walls of Bamburgh Castle and sent deadly fragments of stone and wooden splinters into the air. Even when the cannon fire ceased, Warwick’s archers launched a hail of arrows, fired high over the walls. Jasper inspected one of the fallen arrows and noted how the tip was soiled, an old trick to ensure the wound became infected.
With no apothecary or herbs to treat the wounded, the burial parties kept busy digging makeshift graves within the castle ward, eventually resorting to a communal pit where the dead were thrown. Without lime to cover the bodies the unmistakable stink of death soon drifted in the air despite the winter chill, an unhealthy reminder of their fallen comrades
Their attackers seemed unconcerned about their encampment being within range of his bowmen, so at midnight Jasper’s archers lining the battlements lit their pitch covered arrowheads from braziers and fired into the darkness. Some tied parchment from the castle records to the shafts, filled with precious gunpowder. Jasper watched as the burning arrows curved in a great arc through the night sky, falling well inside the sleeping enemy camp.
The effect was like thrusting a stick into a nest of hornets. Shouts of alarm were followed by explosions as flames reached the gunpowder. A screaming man ran from a burning tent and a panicking horse bolted, trampling men under its hooves. Poorly aimed arrows fired back fell short, as for once the cruelly freezing winter winds blew in Jasper’s favour. He wondered if Warwick would be somewhere in the chaos he’d created but doubted it. Henry Beaufort had been right, for his archers and crossbowmen barely made an impression on the well-equipped and provisioned enemy force.
All the same Jasper understood the value of another small victory for the morale of his men. He allowed them to celebrate by slaughtering the last two horses, although the rich meat was soon gone before all his men had their share and Jasper saw none of it. Instead he set an example by insisting he had only the same strict rations as his men and felt the same pangs of hunger from his meagre diet.
Gabriel looked concerned as Jasper entered the storeroom, once piled high with supplies but now cavernous and empty, their voices echoing. Even allowing for the deserters they still had more than three hundred hungry men to feed. Jasper counted the remaining sacks of grain used to thicken their greasy pottage and shook his head.
‘How long will it last?’
‘A week, sir, two if we reduce the rations even further.’
It was even worse than Jasper feared. ‘We must, Gabriel, right away.’ He saw the strain of the siege was starting to tell on even the tough Irishman. ‘I don’t want the men to learn we’re out of food, at least until they have to.’
‘The well is still good, sir,’ Gabriel forced a weak smile, ‘at least we won’t go thirsty.’
‘Thank God. I’ve heard a man can last for three weeks without food but only three days without water.’ Jasper tried to smile back but the truth of his words prevented it.
He left Gabriel and continued on his circuit of the castle, checking on the guards and offering them such encouragement as he could, despite the biting December North Sea winds and freezing rain, which sapped a man’s spirit and made the castle feel bleak and damp. Jasper shivered as he stopped to survey the damage done to the gatehouse by Warwick’s artillery. The portcullis remained intact but the doors had been shattered and he guessed they could be breached in the next all-out attack.
The helplessness of their situation weighed heavily on his conscience. He could only guess how many men already died as a consequence of him persuading Henry Beaufort to hold on until the queen’s reinforcements arrived. He also fou
nd himself wondering if the loss of Bamburgh Castle would make any real difference to their cause. At the same time he could never swear allegiance to Edward of York and would rather die fighting than face the executioner’s axe.
It seemed improbable Queen Margaret could raise enough Scotsmen to match Warwick’s army, let alone outnumber them. Too late, Japer realised they should have pressed King Louis for twice as many men, and sought an alliance with the Duke of Burgundy. Even the surly Duke Francis might have seen advantage in providing a thousand men to support the queen’s invasion of England. Instead, they risked everything with barely one tenth of the army arrayed before him.
Jasper climbed the steps to the battlements and watched with a heavy heart as Henry Beaufort stepped from the postern gate carrying a white flag of truce, the pathetic symbol of their lost hope, and disappeared into the ranks of their enemy. He immediately regretted agreeing to let him go, yet they had run out of options. Warwick’s army, by far the biggest he had ever seen, stretched to the far horizon.
The first of the winter snows dusted the ground and the year coming to an end before Henry Beaufort returned, alone and again carrying a flag of truce as he approached, to avoid being mistaken for the enemy. He insisted on meeting in private, so Jasper led him up the spiral steps to his room in the tower, feeling a familiar sense of foreboding in his chest. Whatever Henry Beaufort had to tell him was not going to be good news. He gestured for Beaufort to take a seat.
‘Tell me as it is, Henry.’
Henry Beaufort sat grim-faced for a moment, then nodded. ‘The queen’s fleet was caught in a terrible storm, Jasper. Many of her ships foundered on the rocks.’
‘The king? Does he still live?’ He hardly wanted to hear the answer.
‘I heard the king and queen, as well as her French captain, made it safely to Berwick in a longboat, but after that there is no news.’
