by Tony Riches
‘All the fleet is lost?’ It seemed impossible that more than forty ships, over four hundred men, could have been lost, even in the worst storm.
‘It was a disaster, Jasper. Many turned back and tried to land on Lindisfarne Island but...’ He shied away from Jasper’s questioning eyes.
‘What happened?’
‘The men were stranded and couldn’t make it back, even at low tide, as Warwick’s troops occupy the beaches. John Manners, one of Warwick's captains, crossed to the island and ordered his men to massacre anyone still alive. No one survived.’
‘My God! Are you certain of this?’
Beaufort looked at Jasper warily, as if he expected Jasper to blame him. ‘Manners bragged of it. He showed no remorse.’
Jasper found it hard to concentrate on Henry Beaufort’s words. Such loss of life was too great a blow to comprehend. He should have tried to talk them out of sailing so late in the year but if anyone must take the blame, Pierre de Brézé, an experienced captain, should have known better.
‘What of York? Is he dying?’
Beaufort shrugged. ‘He suffered from fever, by all accounts some form of pox.’
‘And Warwick, does he offer a pardon?’
Henry Beaufort shifted uncomfortably in his chair and avoided Jasper’s eye. ‘For the men who swear allegiance to York.’
‘What about the commanders?’
‘He will pardon me, in return for payment, and Sir Ralph.’
‘And me?’ He already guessed the answer.
‘He swears he’ll have you executed for treason.’
Jasper felt a shadow pass over his future, each of Henry Beaufort’s words ringing like iron nails being hammered into his coffin. Warwick had won and Jasper fought the sense of helplessness that threatened to overwhelm him.
After Beaufort left Jasper knelt at the side of his bed, as he had every night since he arrived, and prayed for King Henry and Queen Margaret. It seemed his prayers had been answered and he thanked God they were delivered safely from the storm that brought death to so many.
He said a prayer for the men who put their faith in his leadership, that they would be treated justly by Warwick, to whom they must now surrender. There wasn’t enough food to last so many men until the spring, and to even try would be futile.
Jasper asked God to forgive his sins, for his own fate seemed certain. As he prayed, he felt a stab of regret that he would never rescue his young nephew from marriage to the daughter of his old enemy, William Herbert, who stole his birthright and even his title of Earl of Pembroke.
He cried out, his despair echoing in the empty room. ‘No!’
Tears of grief flowed down his face as he prayed for the soul of his beautiful Irish lover, Máiréad. Henry Beaufort was certain there were no other survivors of the shipwreck, so he could only pray she didn’t suffer at the end. He wept for the soul of the unborn baby she carried, the son or daughter he would never know.
The garrison of Bamburgh Castle surrendered on a cheerless Christmas Eve. Many were too weakened and ill from lack of food and the relentless cold and rains of a harsh Northumbrian winter to march out through the gates. Jasper collapsed from hunger the day before. He suspected Gabriel gave him his own rations, yet he still felt unsteady on his feet.
He pretended to be an Irish mercenary of no consequence and surrendered with his men but was recognised and promptly arrested. Beaten senseless by his captors and chained from wrist to ankle, he waited under close guard for the arrival of the victorious Earl of Warwick, commander of York’s forces in the north.
Jasper descended into a dark, numb void of despair, not for himself but the men who’d followed him so loyally and could be executed if they refused to swear allegiance to the usurper king. He refused the offer of a priest to hear his confession, having finally lost his faith in an unjust God. Instead he tried his best to surrender to the cold, seeping into his bones from the frozen ground, just as they had surrendered the castle, without a fight. It would be a merciful release.
The toe of a soldier’s boot kicked hard into his ribs and announced his time had come. Cold winter air froze his breath as men dragged Jasper out to face his enemy. He looked up, not into the sharp, cruel eyes of Warwick but a younger, less ambitious version, Sir John Neville, Lord Montague.
‘My brother would have your head today, Tudor.’ His voice had a mocking tone.
Jasper studied John Neville, without seeing any need to answer. He remembered him from his time in the Palace of Westminster so long ago. He had always thought Neville a fair and decent man, unluckily born into the wrong family. A glimmer of hope rippled on the surface of his despair. One last act of redemption could be within his reach.
‘I wish to beg a great favour from you, sir.’ His voice sounded weak from his captivity and he found it hard to stand. All he’d eaten for several days was the foul-tasting gruel served to prisoners.
A flicker of interest crossed John Neville’s face. ‘And what would that be?’
‘My men, they are mercenaries, not Lancastrians. They have no loyalty to King Henry.’ He looked John Neville directly in the eye. ‘I ask you to please spare them, sir.’ He held his breath, the lives of those who had become his friends depending on the answer.
Neville returned his gaze. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, breaking the painful silence. ‘You are fortunate, Tudor. King Edward has shown great compassion. His orders are that you and your men are to be escorted from England and released.’
It took a moment for his words to register in Jasper’s tired mind. Tears formed in his eyes as he knew they would all be spared. ‘Thank you.’
Chapter Ten
January 1463
The straggling line of soldiers marched north to the border through a fresh fall of snow, deep enough to obscure the path, if not for the footprints of the man in front. Jasper began to lose the feeling in his fingers, yet felt grateful to be alive, to survive almost certain death yet again, against the odds.
Behind him marched Gabriel, his sense of humour tested by recent events yet still Jasper’s most loyal supporter. Wearing a pair of sturdy boots won in a game of dice, he passed the time by asking questions, not all of which had easy answers.
‘What will we do when we reach Scotland, sir?’
‘Find Queen Margaret and explain our plan.’ Jasper allowed himself a smile as he waited for the inevitable reply from behind him.
‘We have a plan, my lord?’ He sounded doubtful.
‘Indeed we do, Gabriel. Did I not discuss it with you?’
‘You did not, sir.’
‘You think we surrendered Bamburgh without a plan?’
‘I did, sir. I thought we had run clean out of Irish luck this time.’
Jasper glanced ahead to see the men escorting them were out of earshot. ‘We make our own luck, Gabriel.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Sir Ralph Percy has been made Constable of Bamburgh by Lord Montague. Did that not strike you as an odd choice?’
For the first time in many hours of marching, other than the steady crunch of boots on snow, there was silence behind him while Gabriel considered this piece of news.
‘He intends to turn his coat again and surrender it back to Lancaster?’
‘When he can. The success of the plan demands absolute secrecy. Sir Ralph’s life depends on it, as well as his ability to convince Sir John Neville.’
‘We were fortunate it was the younger brother who accepted our surrender and not the one they call the Kingmaker.’
‘Indeed we were fortunate.’
Jasper peered into the distance and saw the town walls and castle of Berwick on the horizon at last. It had taken them since first light to march twenty miles through the freezing white landscape. He rubbed his numb hands together to restore the circulation. Fortune’s Wheel had turned again and he sensed new opportunities ahead. He’d lost everything except the ragged clothes he stood up in, yet been given the chance to learn from his mistakes and to live to fight anoth
er day, for which he would always be grateful.
Good meals, a shave and a smart doublet transformed Jasper by the time he was granted an audience with Queen Margaret. She wore a sombre black gown with a necklace of dazzling white pearls and a French coif, and studied him with questioning eyes. The events since their parting had almost been too much for them both yet, like him, she seemed to have lost none of her spirit.
‘You look well, Sir Jasper, for a man who has survived a siege.’
‘We held Bamburgh for as long as we could, Your Highness.’ He gave a bow and glanced at her ladies-in-waiting, who he guessed were Scottish noblewomen. ‘May we speak in private, my lady?’
Queen Margaret dismissed her ladies and they left in a rustle of silk skirts, some casting curious glances at Jasper. As the door closed behind them she gestured for him to sit close to her. Now he could look at her, he noticed the darkness under her eyes and the deepening frown lines. The queen was still an attractive woman yet the past months had left their mark. She reached out and touched his hand, a small but significant gesture of tenderness.
‘I prayed for you, Jasper Tudor.’ Her eyes misted with tears. ‘I feared I would never see you again.’
Jasper fought back the rush of emotion. He wasn’t yet recovered from the loss of Máiréad and his own brush with death. He had often wondered how it must have been for his father as he waited for his execution. He knew now how men cling to the slenderest thread of hope and how they can even question their faith in God.
He took her hand in his and touched it briefly to his lips. Close enough for the heady scent of her perfume to reach him, the aroma of exotic roses, like in her proud father’s garden at his château at Angers.
‘You were always in my prayers, my lady.’
‘You heard what happened with my fleet?’
‘I was told you were shipwrecked and barely escaped with your life.’
‘Four of our ships were lost, including mine. I thought it was the end for us all. I’ve seen what the sea can do but never known anything like that night. It’s only thanks to Captain de Brézé that King Henry and I are here now.’
‘The captain? He survived?’
She nodded. ‘He is on his way with the Earl of Angus, at the head of a Scottish army to relieve our northern castles.’
Jasper could hardly believe it. If only they had known help would be coming so soon he might have persuaded the men to hold on. He felt again the bitter shame at having let her down and failing to believe in her.
‘You wish me to return to Northumberland?’ The prospect did not appeal to him. He doubted York would be so lenient if he was captured a second time.
‘No. I wish you to return to France. King Louis likes you.’
‘I would be honoured, Your Highness. I think we should build our alliances there, not only with King Louis but also with the Duke of Burgundy and his son, the Count of Charolais.’
‘That would be prudent, as I fear York will soon be testing our allegiance with the Scots.’
He hardly dared ask her his next question and took a deep breath to steady his fast-beating heart. The question had gnawed in his head like a dog with a bone all the way on his long march from Bamburgh Castle, yet part of him didn’t wish to know her answer.
‘There was an Irishwoman, one of your maidservants, named Máiréad.’
‘Yes, I remember her. I know you were close.’
‘She was with you—when you were shipwrecked?’
‘I am sorry, Jasper.’ She would not meet his eyes.
‘She was lost?’ His voice became little more than a whisper and his heart hardened as he finally accepted the truth.
‘We barely managed to get the king into the boat before our ship went down.’ She lightly squeezed his hand, just as Máiréad had done to comfort him.
Jasper waited for more than an hour before a liveried servant came to lead him through seemingly endless grand corridors to the court of Philip, Duke of Burgundy. He guessed the wait was deliberate, a sign of how little importance the duke placed on him and the weakened House of Lancaster. All the same, he had been granted an audience, which was all he had asked for.
Ten-foot high ornate gilded doors opened and he had his first glimpse of the duke’s legendary inner sanctum. The stories he had heard were true. It was grander even than that of the king. From the magnificent wall hangings to the polished floor of Italian marble, the sheer scale and extravagance of the room was contrived to impress. Jasper had never seen Duke Philip, known by his people as Philip the Good, and expected him to be seated on a throne, surrounded by a small army of courtiers and advisors.
The pale, thin-faced man standing alone by the window was a complete surprise. His large black hat and dark tunic with a collar and cuffs of dark fur emphasised his sallow complexion. His long, thin nose and receding chin would suggest weakness, if not for the confident superiority in his sharp eyes.
‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Jasper Tudor.’ His voice sounded cultured, with a Flemish accent but he spoke in French.
‘It is my pleasure to meet you at last, Your Grace.’ Jasper replied in French and briefly bowed. ‘I bring letters from King Henry, the true King of England, and Queen Margaret, who asked me to convey their good wishes, Your Grace.’
The duke studied him impassively. ‘You know I was once married to your mother’s sister, Countess Michelle of Valois?’
‘I heard she was greatly loved by the people.’ Jasper recalled a rumour her food had been poisoned.
‘A sad loss.’ The duke crossed himself. ‘I still remember her in my prayers.’ He seemed lost in thought for a moment, ‘Your mother was a good woman, quite beautiful, yet your father worked as a servant?’ He sounded intrigued.
‘My father was descended from a long line of Welsh princes, Your Grace.’
‘And now you come on behalf of King Henry, asking for my support?’
‘I do, Your Grace. King Henry wishes an alliance with Burgundy.’
‘You put me in a difficult position, for as they say, that bird has flown. You no doubt are aware of this, yet still you ask?’
‘I know Edward of York has you under an obligation, and threatens consequences for your trade with England if you support the House of Lancaster.’
The duke raised an eyebrow at Jasper’s directness. ‘I think I can save you a great deal of time. I suspect you plan to seek support from King Louis and your cousin Duke Francis?’
Jasper hesitated, unsure how to answer.
The duke stared at him, unsmiling yet with a shrewd glint in his eye. ‘We have all agreed with King Edward not to help each other’s enemies, but you, Sir Jasper, are family, of the House of Valois, as is King Henry. I must therefore grant you safe conduct. You may inform Queen Margaret I will show her courtesy, even if I cannot support her cause.’
Queen Margaret would be devastated to learn King Louis had already reached agreement with York, after she had worked so hard to win him over. Anything the French king signed could be torn up just as quickly. Louis was no gentleman and his word counted for little. At the same time he heard the sound of another door closing on financial support for their cause and now it seemed the hands of Duke Francis had also been tied.
Jasper recalled Duke Philip’s words as he stood on the quayside at St Malo, admiring the results of more than a year of negotiation. In a stroke of good fortune, he found a kindred spirit in the duke’s son, Charles, Count of Charolais. Handsome and well educated, Charles descended from the House of Lancaster on his mother’s side and openly admitted to Jasper that he had been told to keep an eye on him. Charles would one day become Duke of Burgundy and, as well as covering Jasper’s expenses, saw advantage in keeping his options open.
Then came the not unexpected news that Queen Mary of Scotland had also signed a peace treaty with York and the last hopes of a Lancastrian alliance were dashed. At least King Henry was now safely back in Bamburgh, under the protection of both Sir Henry and Sir Ralph, both
of whom reneged on their oaths of loyalty to York and returned to the castle with their men, as promised, at great personal risk. Both would surely face execution if they were ever captured.
Queen Margaret and Prince Edward were forced into exile at the Castle St Michel, in Barrois, belonging to Margaret’s brother John of Anjou, the Duke of Calabria. She gathered around her several loyal Lancastrian lords, as well as ladies-in-waiting, to create her royal court in exile. Jasper persuaded Sir John Fortescue, the Lancastrian Chancellor in exile, to undertake the challenging responsibility of preparing the young prince for his future role as king.
Jasper visited Castle St Michel regularly with news of his progress, and acted as the queen’s intermediary, travelling north to Burgundy and south to Brittany to negotiate support for the House of Lancaster. At his last visit they agreed it was time for him to return to Wales, to see if he could rebuild a Welsh army.
King Louis had tired of Jasper’s requests for support and grudgingly paid for three ships, now being loaded with supplies for the voyage to Wales. They would never be enough to mount an invasion but even if he could not raise an army of Welshmen, he would do everything in his power to make sure the great castle at Harlech stayed out of the hands of his old enemy, William Herbert.
Gabriel had finally achieved his boyhood ambition and been given charge of their little fleet, a role he had taken to with great enthusiasm. On Jasper’s instruction he had overseen the conversion of the duke’s tired old merchantmen into makeshift warships, which still had the outward appearance of merchant traders yet were stripped for speed. Each also carried new swivel guns, hidden below decks, which could be mounted on pivots fitted to the rails and could fire buckshot as well as four-pound cannon balls.
With luck, they should not attract the attention of English patrols until safely around Land’s End but if they did, the plan was not to give up without a fight. The Breton crews were strengthened with more than fifty French mercenaries and the last remaining Irishmen, who acted as Jasper’s personal guard and followed him with such loyalty he thought of them as brothers. They still practised their skirmishing skills and carried crossbows slung over their shoulders, with their deadly roundel daggers at their belts.
