Jasper - Book Two of the Tudor Trilogy

by Tony Riches

  Riding dangerously fast, Jasper ducked, narrowly avoiding a low branch, his heart pounding with the thrill of the chase. He glanced back to check Henry had seen the branch and noticed he was falling well behind. Although Henry rode well, he had never hunted anything as challenging as a wild boar.

  Duke Francis invited them both to join what they called his ‘at force’ hunt, the most strenuous and demanding way to kill a boar, which is why he surrounded himself with active young huntsmen. Jasper preferred the stealthier ‘bow and stable’ hunt for deer, taking his time and relying on the accuracy of his bow and stalking skills. Using dogs to drive their quarry to a woodland clearing for huntsmen to kill the boar at close range seemed unsporting.

  The pine-scented breeze lifted Jasper’s spirits and anchored him to the present. There was nothing like a fast ride in the woods to reconnect with nature and remind him he was alive. They were deep in the forest and Jasper lost all sense of direction, as the sun was directly overhead and the trees grew so thickly it was impossible to see.

  His horse nearly stumbled on uneven ground and he struggled to stay in the saddle when he leapt a fallen tree, galloping onwards to catch up with the duke. As he drew alongside, Duke Francis glanced across at him as if reading his mind. He looked more like a soldier again, dressed in his hunting clothes, and had a glint in his eyes as he urged his horse even faster through the undergrowth.

  The baying of the dogs sounded closer and changed to the frantic yelping that told Jasper their quarry was close at hand. Spurring his horse in pursuit he found himself in an open clearing where the duke’s trained catch dogs had taken the loudly protesting boar by its ears and held it down. The animal was a fully grown male, with powerful curved white tusks and angry red eyes. He stayed in the saddle, aware the dangerous boar could break free at any moment.

  He glanced behind and realised they had lost the rest of the huntsmen in the last rush of the chase and were alone in the clearing. He felt sudden pity for the boar, like him detained at the duke’s pleasure. Duke Francis dismounted and drew his dagger, approaching the struggling beast from behind, then slashed its throat with an efficient swiftness, wiping the blade before returning his knife to the scabbard at his belt.

  ‘You don’t like the sight of blood?’ There was a note of scorn in his voice.

  Jasper realised the duke was talking to him. The bright spurt of red blood reminded him of the death of Roger Vaughan in Chepstow castle, a memory he still struggled to repress. It seemed long ago but was a moment he would never be able to forget, and it must have shown on his face. Now he worried the duke seemed to be able to read him so easily.

  ‘I’m honoured to be your guest on this hunt, Duke Francis,’ he forced a smile, ‘and am grateful for your protection.’

  ‘You have my word, Sir Jasper, although I hear you have taken to walking on the beach, out in the open?’

  ‘Your men watch over us well enough, Duke Francis.’

  The duke studied him for a moment, as if making a judgement. ‘Take care, Sir Jasper. I’ve also made a promise to York that you will not return and cause him trouble.’

  ‘Then it’s your plan to hold us here?’

  ‘For your own good, and also for the good of your nephew. What future do you think you would have if you returned to England?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  July 1472

  The blunt-edged sword sliced through the air where Jasper had been standing a moment before and struck his helmet with a resonating clang. He resisted the dizziness and fought back with increasing desperation, each of his blows being expertly parried. Sweat trickled down his face and he stepped back just in time to avoid another thrust. Exhausted, he dropped his sword to the ground and held up his hands in surrender.

  ‘Well fought!’ Jasper pulled off his helmet and wiped his brow. ‘I’m getting too old to spar in this heat.’

  Henry also removed his helmet. His hair, once cropped short, now fashionably long, not black like Jasper’s but more golden brown, the legacy of his maternal grandmother, Queen Catherine.

  ‘I think you let me win, Uncle?’

  ‘Not this time, Henry. You know my tricks too well, and my weaknesses.’

  Jasper picked up the fallen practice sword, grinning as he recognised their visitor, limping towards them across the courtyard. Gabriel had put on a little weight and his black felt cap and a cape made him look like a merchant.

  He held up a hand in greeting. ‘Welcome to Château Suscinio. It’s good to see you at long last, Gabriel, and no longer needing to use a stick!’

  ‘Good day to you, sirs,’ he scanned the spacious courtyard, ‘so where can a man get a drink around here?’

  ‘We’ve been looking forward to hearing from you. Did you have a good journey?’

  ‘The crossing was as rough as ever.’ Gabriel scowled. ‘I’ve been here for more than a week, sir, waiting for the duke to grant me safe passage.’

  ‘He has more important things to worry about than us right now, Gabriel. I’m relieved your persistence paid off.’

  Gabriel nodded to Henry. ‘By God you’ve grown, sir.’

  Henry smiled. ‘I’m pleased to see you, Gabriel, and hope you have been able to see my mother?’

  ‘Lady Margaret is well, sir, and sends you her best wishes,’ Gabriel patted the worn leather saddle-bag he carried, ‘as well as a letter.’

  Jasper led the way to the refectory, where they could talk in private. The old stone walls were decorated with the duke’s collection of stag antlers, brightly painted shields and ancient Breton weapons, including a massive broadsword, corroded with age. One of the duke’s servants brought a jug of ale and pewter drinking cups. He poured them each a cup and discreetly left when Jasper thanked him.

  Gabriel drained his cup and produced a folded parchment with a dark wax seal from his bag, handing it to Henry. ‘For you, sir, from Lady Margaret.’ He gave Jasper a meaningful look and they stepped over to the window while Henry broke the seal and studied the contents.

  ‘I never thought I would see the day, sir, when Henry would be faster than you with a sword.’

  ‘As you can see, he is no longer a boy. We’ve had plenty of time on our hands here and Henry has proved to be a quick and capable learner. He is better than me with the longbow now, and has also mastered the Breton language.’ Jasper smiled. ‘He’s more fluent than some of our dim-witted guards.’

  ‘Lady Margaret will be relieved to hear he is well.’

  ‘How is Henry’s mother, Gabriel? Did you see her?’

  ‘She is well, sir, although...’ He glanced across at Henry. ‘Her third husband is dead from his wounds, and she has married again, to Lord Thomas Stanley.’

  ‘Lady Margaret knows what she is doing.’ Jasper looked across at Henry, whose future had now become even more complicated, as Stanley had been married to Warwick’s sister, Lady Eleanor Neville.

  ‘She asked me to tell you she prays for you every day, sir, as well as for her son.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it, Gabriel, for I wonder if I’m going to need divine intervention before the good Duke Francis permits me to meet King Louis.’

  Henry finished reading his letter and joined them, handing it to Jasper. ‘It reveals little enough.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear of the death of your stepfather, Henry. He was a good man.’

  ‘My mother writes that it was a blessed release for him, as he suffered greatly.’ He looked at Gabriel questioningly. ‘Lord Stanley is a Yorkist?’

  Gabriel nodded and refilled his cup with ale from the jug. ‘Everyone in England claims to be Yorkist now, sir, or must be ready to face the consequences.’

  ‘Have you met Lord Stanley?’

  ‘I have not, sir,’ Gabriel sipped his ale appreciatively, ‘although I understand he is a wealthy man of great influence, ten years younger than your late stepfather.’

  ‘Tell me honestly, Gabriel, how did my mother seem to you?’

  ‘In truth, sir, s
he misses you but is relieved you are here safe. She hopes you will soon be able to return and claim your inheritance and your father’s earldom of Richmond.’

  ‘Soon?’ There was a note of hope in his voice. ‘How soon, Gabriel?’

  ‘That’s a good question, sir,’ Gabriel took another drink as he considered how to answer, ‘as all I’ve seen tells me England is no place for a Tudor, or Wales, for that matter. York could grant you a pardon but he could be as quick to put you in the Tower.’

  There was no denying Gabriel’s words. The House of Lancaster was finished without an heir, and even Henry’s slender claim through his mother’s line was no use to them now. Edward of York had a healthy son and two younger brothers, all waiting to take his throne when their chance came. He would have to make the most of their new life in France with Henry and resolved it was time to confront Duke Francis.

  The duke arrived at Suscinio, clattering into the courtyard with a noisy entourage of mounted soldiers—a sign to Jasper something unusual had happened. Worse still, he was flanked by a handsome, well-dressed man Jasper recognised as Lord Rivers, brother of York’s queen, Elizabeth, and another, younger, English noble he’d never seen before. The Yorkist’s presence spelt an end to Jasper’s carefully rehearsed appeal and he felt a dark foreboding at what his visitors could mean.

  Duke Francis broke the awkward silence as Jasper and Henry faced them across his heavy oak table. ‘You know Sir Anthony Woodville and his brother Edward?’

  Jasper nodded. He saw no malice in the eyes of either of the duke’s guests, but there was no denying their air of superiority. Even the younger Woodville seemed to look down his nose at them both, now reduced to objects of curiosity, no longer any threat to York’s dominance.

  ‘In different circumstances, Sir Anthony, we might have been good friends.’

  Duke Francis seemed amused at Jasper’s reply. ‘King Edward sent Earl Rivers and his brother here with a thousand English bowmen to help defend Brittany against attack from the French.’

  Jasper couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘We weren’t aware of any French invasion?’ It was a double blow, to hear the duke refer to Edward as king and to learn that his relations with King Louis were at such a low ebb.

  Sir Anthony answered in English. ‘You needn’t worry about the French, Sir Jasper. We soon saw them off.’

  Jasper wasn’t worried about the French. Instead he worried about Duke Francis, seated with one of York’s brothers-in-law on each side. If what Sir Anthony said was true, the duke would owe them a favour, and they had not all travelled to Suscinio for the hunting. He glanced at Henry again and saw he had already reached the same conclusion.

  Duke Francis spoke before he could reply. ‘There was a price for King Edward’s support.’ He glanced at Lord Rivers. ‘He wants me to return you to England, together with your nephew.’ He looked across at Henry, who listened with increasing concern on his young face.

  Jasper struggled to keep the anger and frustration he felt from his voice. He took a long breath, then spoke calmly. ‘I know you as a man of your word, Duke Francis, and we are both here under your protection.’

  ‘Which is why I’ve agreed a compromise with Lord Rivers. You are vulnerable in this isolated place, so you are to be transferred.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Château de Josselin.’

  Jasper glanced at Henry. ‘What about my nephew?’

  Duke Francis turned to Henry. ‘You will be moved to Château de Largoet and placed under the care of the Lord of Rieux.’

  ‘I respectfully request, Duke Francis, that I may be transferred with my uncle, so that my education can continue.’ Henry spoke in perfect Breton, his voice confident and clear.

  Duke Francis waved his gold-ringed hand dismissively. ‘I’ve given my word to Lord Rivers. You must prepare to leave within the hour.’

  It took little time to pack their few possessions. Jasper had to admit he would miss Suscinio, and Henry, who’d been his constant companion. He found Henry in his room, re-reading the letter Gabriel brought from Lady Margaret, apparently in the hope of finding some hidden meaning in her words.

  He looked up as Jasper entered. ‘I suspect Duke Francis has promised York we will be treated more like prisoners than his guests?’

  ‘I agree, Henry. He’s made a truce with York and it’s only a matter of time before they persuade him to return us to England. The duke is a man of honour.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Uncle.’

  ‘All they need to do is find an honourable way for him to hand us over.’

  ‘Which is in the best interests of Brittany?’

  ‘Yes, and when they do we must be ready. If they try to escort you to the coast, you must find a way to escape before you are put on board a ship, as after that it will be too late.’

  Jasper peered down into the cobblestoned inner courtyard from Henry’s window. A horse-drawn wagon was already loaded with his own luggage and a dozen of the duke’s guards were saddled up and waiting to ride as his escort.

  ‘It’s time for me to go, Henry. You know what you must do?’

  ‘Remember I am a Tudor, Uncle.’

  ‘Your grandfather would be proud of you.’ Jasper put his hand on Henry’s shoulder, choking back unexpected emotion. ‘Keep a lookout for Gabriel. He is going to try to bring you word from me, if Duke Francis will permit him.’

  Henry forced a smile. ‘Take care, and remember you are a Tudor.’

  Jasper struggled to kneel, as his hands were bound tight behind his back with rope. He stared down at the wooden block, noting the dark stains and how it had been polished through use. The mournful drone of the priest’s Latin prayers drifted across the silent crowd and he looked up at the faces of those who gathered to witness his death.

  His eyes met King Henry’s accusing gaze, a trickle of blood running down his cheek. A tearful Máiréad wiped her eyes, next to her stood the young Prince Edward, his face deathly white, contracting sharply with the bright red blood soaking his doublet. He glanced around at the executioner and into the dark, glowering eyes of William Herbert before he woke with a jolt and sat up, bathed in cold sweat.

  His room, in one of the eight imposing, conical-roofed towers of the château at Josselin was a prison cell, with a heavy iron door bolted on the outside. He lay awake as dawn broke and a shaft of bright sunlight revealed his only furniture, his low bed with a straw mattress, a rickety table riddled with woodworm and an old chair that creaked when he moved.

  Two wooden chests, containing all he owned, sat against one wall. Most of his gold and silver was gone, although he had been allowed to keep his sword and armour, which were of little use to him. He was grateful, though, for the papers Gabriel had salvaged from Pembroke Castle. Letters and reports, bills and accounts, they helped pass the dreary months as he re-read them all, remembering happier times at home in Wales.

  The duke’s guardsmen brought him meals in his room and kept a vigilant watch over his every move. At first it irritated him when they peered through the iron grill in his door, but he soon came to know the men and discovered they had been warned to expect attempts by York’s agents to carry him off to England. Since then he’d had the recurring nightmares, always the same.

  He climbed out of bed and splashed water from a jug on the table over his face, gasping at the shock of its coldness. He stretched his arms and moved his chair to the window with a view of the River Oust far below. Taking his knife, he started to carve a new line, next to the others on the stone sill of his window. He had no idea how long this imprisonment would last so he had scratched the first one at the end of his first month.

  Jasper brushed the stone dust away with his hand and sat back in his chair, fighting off the sense of despair. He should be glad to be alive and grateful for the duke’s protection, even if it felt as if life was passing him by. He leaned forward and looked out of the window at the people coming and going over the old stone bridge, like busy wood ants, just as
uncaring of his situation.

  Josselin was at the heart of Brittany, a natural crossroads and busy with trade. Even this early in the morning, the bustling town seemed chaotic and noisy with its own dawn chorus of hammering stonemasons and shouting street vendors. Jasper missed the serene tranquillity of Suscinio, where they hardly saw anyone other than the duke’s hunting parties.

  On market days the old walled town became a buzzing hive of activity, with stalls lining the maze of narrow streets. Women haggled over the price of lace and linen and sometimes he heard musicians playing. Once he listened to a girl singing a tuneful but sad song of lost love, which served to remind him of his own loneliness.

  He envied the freedom of the townspeople and often wished he could explore the market, talk to the merchants and have a drink in one of the lively taverns. The duke would not allow it, as it seemed he was determined to keep his promise to Lord Rivers and to make a show of treating Jasper as his prisoner, despite his kindness in the past. He hoped Henry fared a little better.

  Limited to his daily walk in the inner courtyard, Jasper’s only company other than the guards were the staff who kept the château in good order for its absent owners, the wealthy de Rohan family. Mostly simple Breton servants, when he was able to speak to them they knew little of the world outside the stone walls of Josselin. A mixed blessing, this meant news was hard to come by and he looked forward to the duke’s sporadic visits.

  There had been no sign of Gabriel or word from Henry, although the duke assured him he was well. At the duke’s last visit Jasper took the opportunity to request his permission to visit his nephew. Duke Francis refused but grudgingly agreed he could write a letter and arranged for him to be provided with parchment and ink, as well as several good goose feather quills.

  When he sat at his rickety table to write, he was reminded again of the difficulty Lady Margaret faced, as the duke or one of his men would surely read the letter before it was delivered. He chose the best of the quills and tested the nib, pleased to see it left a good mark with the black, ox-gall ink.