by Robyn Young
‘Sir, a ship’s been sighted, coming our way. We need to make for harbour.’
Richard sat on the edge of the bed, his nightshirt clinging damply to his thighs. The air in the bedchamber was humid, the odours of his sweat-slick body trapped within it. Anne lay asleep on the other side curled tight under the covers. She had spent more nights with him in recent months, slipping wordlessly in from her own bedchamber to crawl beneath his sheets like a child, afraid. Her back was turned to him. Richard rubbed at his sleep-sore eyes. He’d had the dream again.
He was standing on a twilit shore, land and sea the same ghost grey. A woman stood beside him on the sand. He thought it was his wife, but when he turned he saw it was Elizabeth Woodville. She came to him, threading hands through his hair, pressing her body against his, moving to kiss his mouth. He heard laughter and saw his brother standing nearby. Edward was tall and muscular, the great warrior king he had been when he’d first taken the throne, fair and handsome, a crown ringing his head. His brother’s laughter harsh in his ears, Richard looked back to see that it was now Elizabeth of York before him, her long red-gold hair drifting in a breeze he could not feel.
His niece moved in to where her mother had been, laying smooth hands on his cheeks, her sweet mouth opening for a kiss. Then, he felt the wind buffeting him, tearing at his hair and clothes. Turning to the sea, Richard saw a wall of darkness. The horizon was black with ships, coming for him like a great wave. Now his niece was laughing with her father, both of them – mouths wide with mocking as the ships roared towards him.
Richard reached for the wine on the table beside the bed. He paused, then took up the carved wooden tiger instead, his breath fluttering in the nightlight. His son had been obsessed by the animals since the celebrations at Windsor. He remembered the summer air, the smell of lavender, his son’s excitement, tinged with fear, as he passed the meat between the bars of the cage. He remembered it as if it were yesterday. But it wasn’t yesterday. It was a year ago. And his son was dead.
Even now, three months on, it seemed impossible that this was true. Still, sometimes, as his attendants were undressing him for the evening, he would wonder why he hadn’t seen Edward that day and would go as if to bid the boy goodnight. Then he would remember. The pain was the deepest and rawest he had ever experienced; pain so engulfing it took his breath and left him shaking. Pain that left him undone.
Ten years old when the sickness took him. Ten years old and barely two months earlier, the men of the realm had sworn oaths in parliament, recognising him as heir to the throne. Richard had set his dynasty in the stone of law. Now, it lay shattered, crumbled around him.
He turned the wooden tiger over in his hands. His son had scratched his initials into the animal’s stomach, marking his possession. Richard ran his finger over the letters, imagining the boy studiously carving them with the little jewelled dagger he’d given to him when he was created Prince of Wales. Feeling breathless, he rose and walked to the window. It was open a crack, letting in a soft breeze that rippled the edges of the tapestry strung up on the bedchamber wall, depicting his badge, the white boar hunched over the words of his motto: Loyalty binds me.
The gardens of Eltham Palace were in darkness. Richard could see nothing but his own faint reflection. His pale face floated like a ghost in the glass. He thought of his nephew, another Prince Edward, vanished without trace. His spies remained in Burgundy, but there had been no sign of the boy in all these months. Maybe he truly was dead? He thought of the victory he had felt seeing Elizabeth Woodville cowed before him at Westminster, the day he had taken her and her daughters into his custody. He remembered the grief torn from her lips and felt sickened, knowing now the depth of her pain. Was God punishing him?
Why, though? He did not understand. He had been harsh with traitors and rebels, yes. But hadn’t he been good to his subjects? He had helped the poor and reformed laws, and he had been more than generous to his loyal supporters. He had saved the throne from those who had tarnished the royal House of Plantagenet and would have plundered the realm for themselves. He had salvaged it from the sins of his brother, with the aim of restoring its glory. But even now, long after Buckingham’s execution and the defeat of the rebels, the insurrection his cousin had started lingered like a bitter taste in the mouth of his kingdom. Just last week he had been informed that a seditious message had been pinned to the doors of St Paul’s by a former servant of his brother.
The Cat, the Rat and Lovell our Dog,
Rule all England under a Hog.
The man had been caught and would be punished severely, but it showed Richard that he and his closest advisers – Catesby, Ratcliffe and Lovell – were all still targets and that the rabble-rousing was not yet over.
He felt attacked from all directions. Every time he put down one threat, another rose somewhere else. Barely weeks ago, as his negotiations with Brittany brought an end to the piracy plaguing the Channel, France had moved in, striking at English ships en route to Calais. Charles, the boy king, was showing his young teeth, clearly trying to disrupt Anglo-Breton relations. No doubt the king and his regents worried his own kingdom’s treaty might be put at risk by a renewed alliance between England and Brittany. Fears were now growing of a full-scale attack on the English port across the water and Richard had been forced to send men to bolster the town, so vital to trade with the Continent. All the while, Henry Tudor lurked like a devil on the horizon, the threat of him that much greater now his own son and heir was gone. He knew he must soon turn his attention to finding a suitable husband for his niece – that would halter the bastard’s ambitions. But, yet, he had found himself hesitating to begin the search.
‘Richard?’
Anne was sitting up in bed, her hair tangled from sleep. The shadows around her eyes were deep in the shifting candlelight.
Richard looked down at the wooden tiger in his hands. After a moment, he set it on the window seat, facing out into the blackness. He returned to bed, forcing away the images of the dream that still flickered like little fires in his mind.
Chapter 33
‘He will not see us?’
The steward remained impassive despite the sharpness of Henry Tudor’s tone. ‘I am afraid Minister Landais is presently occupied with important matters of government. He asked me to convey his sincere apologies and says he will meet you when time and his duties allow.’
Henry, seeing he would get nothing more from the cool-eyed steward, nodded curtly, then turned to leave. He felt the eyes of the man watching him and Jasper as they headed down the passage, but resisted the urge to look back. He waited until they turned a corner and were out of earshot to speak. ‘That is the third time this month,’ he murmured, glancing at his uncle, walking at his side.
‘True,’ agreed Jasper. ‘But with Duke Francis ill it is not unexpected that Landais would be otherwise engaged. He is, in effect, now governing the duchy. Have patience, Henry. I am certain he will see us when he can.’
Henry usually found the gruff confidence of his uncle reassuring, but today it did not shift the concern that had been prickling at him for weeks; subtle, but always there, like an itch he could not find to scratch.
Almost two months ago now, the duke had departed from Château de l’Hermine, his seat in the southern coastal city of Vannes, for one of his residences in the east of Brittany. Francis, whose health was failing him once again, had wanted to take advantage of the reputed healing waters of a well on his estate. Leaving Pierre Landais in charge, he had bid Henry a warm farewell, promising that the treasurer would provide anything he and his men required while he was gone.
Last autumn, after the savage storm had blown half the fleet back to Brittany, ending Henry’s assault on King Richard before it had even begun, he feared he would lose the support of the ailing duke. His worry had proved unfounded when Francis had not only accepted him back into his court, but had welcomed the stream of exiles from England and Wales that followed. In Vannes, Henry built himself an a
rmy, which Francis had clothed, fed and housed as best he could. But with the duke gone the refugees were rapidly running out of supplies and Pierre Landais was proving neither so quick nor so ready to release the purse strings.
‘We must pray the duke recovers soon. If Landais continues to ignore us, we’ll end up with an army of bones.’ Henry kept his voice low as three guards approached. They eyed the two Welshmen closely as they passed and, again, he felt uneasy.
Together, he and Jasper descended to the lower levels of the château, heading past a row of arched windows, through which drifted a hot, gritty wind that smelled strongly of the River Marle that ran alongside the château and the city walls it was built into. The sky above the rooftops of the town, dominated by the cathedral where Henry had pledged to his men that he would return to Britain and claim the throne, was white with haze, as if the heat had baked out all colour. The air felt charged and stormy.
As they approached the rooms where he, Jasper and a handful of their closest companions were billeted, Henry saw two figures in the passage, heads bent close together as they talked. His hand moved into the folds of his black cloak where a slender dagger was concealed, until the figures looked round and he recognised them. One was Sir Edward Woodville. The other was the captain’s nephew, Thomas Grey. Henry was surprised to see the marquess, who had joined his company early in the New Year. Having sent Grey with a band of men to patrol the Channel and help keep the route open for those attempting to join him, he hadn’t been expecting him to return so soon.
‘My lord,’ greeted Grey.
‘What is it?’ asked Jasper, looking between them.
‘In here, my lord,’ urged Edward Woodville, his expression grave as he gestured Henry into the chamber.
Henry entered, his blue eyes darting around, alert for danger. He felt the familiar tightness in his muscles – come from years spent at the mercy of another man’s whim – the hunched stance of the animal ready to spring from the hunter. He glanced quickly over the occupants. Three were trusted men of his, including Sir John Cheyne, former Master of the Horse to King Edward IV and now his personal bodyguard. Cheyne was an impressive figure at well over six feet tall, his body slabbed with muscle. There were also two of Woodville’s affinity and three newcomers. Two he recognised from Grey’s company, but one – a young man with dark hair and a strong, sun-browned face, obscured by a beard – was a stranger to him.
‘Did you speak to Landais?’
Henry turned as Edward Woodville spoke. The captain had closed the door. ‘He would not see me.’
‘Was there any sign something was wrong? Did you sense any hostility from his people?’
‘No more than usual,’ Jasper answered. ‘Speak plain, Sir Edward. What has happened?’
It was Thomas Grey who spoke. ‘We were in the waters off the north coast, my lord, when we stopped and boarded a boat heading for shore. Her occupants claimed to be seeking refuge in your company and that they had stolen the vessel from Plymouth. They found this on board.’ Reaching into his bag he pulled out a limp roll of paper.
Henry took it from him. As he unfurled it, he saw the seal it bore. It was the seal of King Richard. He read the letter quickly, the tension tightening in his body with every word. When he was done, he looked up at Jasper. ‘Richard has promised to grant Pierre Landais all revenues from the Earldom of Richmond in return for my extradition.’
Jasper took the letter, his face hardening as he read it.
‘It suggests that they have been in negotiations for some time,’ added Grey.
Henry hardly heard him. He still styled himself Earl of Richmond, although he had lost the earldom, his father’s possession, many years earlier. Did Duke Francis know of this treachery? Had he welcomed the exiles to a gaol rather than a refuge? Another prison, disguised with luxury? He looked at the great banner that adorned the wall of the well-appointed chamber he had been housed in. Francis had had it made for him. It was emblazoned with a red dragon, wings splayed behind it, forked tail coiled across a green and white background dotted with red roses. It was the dragon of Cadwaladr, whose legacy Henry had declared lived on in him. The Son of Prophecy. A king waiting to be born.
‘Do we contact the duke?’ Jasper wanted to know.
‘We have no way of knowing if he’s involved in this. If he is, we cannot let them know we are aware of their plan.’ Henry let out a hiss of breath, cursing his misfortune. Had the wheel spun him into the ground yet again? How treacherous its revolutions. ‘The only thing we can be certain of is that Brittany is no longer safe for us.’
‘Where do we go?’ asked John Cheyne, looking between the two Tudors. ‘And how? We have several hundred men here. We’ll not make it through the city gates with Landais in charge. Not if he means to betray us.’
Henry turned suddenly, focusing on the stranger in their midst. ‘Who is this?’ he demanded of Grey.
‘He is the one who found the letter.’
The young, dark-haired man stepped forward quickly as Grey vouched for him. He went down on one knee. ‘My name is Harry, my lord. Harry Vaughan.’ He bowed deeply. ‘I pledge my allegiance to you.’
The soldiers ploughed through the woods in the wake of the hounds, steering their mounts deftly around low branches still thick with summer growth. The dogs had picked up the scent several miles out of Vannes and were now streaming ahead, baying excitedly.
All at once they entered a clearing, the dogs clustering eagerly around something in the centre, their barks filling the air. Several of the soldiers dismounted, while the master of the hounds moved in with shouted commands, cracking a whip to force the hounds back. As they edged away reluctantly, one of the soldiers went forward to see what they had found.
On the grass was a heap of clothing, apparently discarded. The garments were all finely made: tunics and hose of soft linen and silk, brocaded cloaks and feathered hats. None would be abandoned lightly. The soldier bent down with a curse, lifting a long, well-tailored black cloak from the pile. Rising, he turned to the others. ‘They must have changed their clothes. Send word to Minister Landais,’ he ordered one man. ‘We’ll continue our pursuit.’
‘How will we track them?’ asked another of his companions. ‘The dogs took Tudor’s scent from his clothing.’
The soldier let the cloak fall as he scanned the undergrowth. After a moment, he picked out the clear trail made by several horses. ‘They’re heading east.’
Mounting, the soldiers kicked their steeds on through the woods, in pursuit of the fugitives, heading east through the Duchy of Brittany, towards the Kingdom of France.
The men sheltered from the downpour, clustered beneath the overhanging storeys of an inn. Rainwater gushed along the steep and narrow street in front of them, carrying off rubbish and leaves tinged with the first shades of autumn. The sky was a menacing grey, darkened by the storm that had ripped across the plain of Beauce to strike the French town of Chartres, perched on a hill above the surrounding crop fields and pastures, crowned by the bastion of Notre-Dame de Chartres. Harry Vaughan had discovered he could see the cathedral from almost every street, its twin spires rising like pale horns above the rooftops, snatches of its stained glass gleaming at the ends of alleyways. From here it towered above him, walls dark with rain.
Harry stood apart from John Cheyne and the others, who talked quietly among themselves while they waited. Between thumb and forefinger he held his father’s signet ring. Earlier, dipping into his pouch to exchange one of the angels for a handful of silver coins, he had plucked out the gold band by mistake. He had almost forgotten it was in there. After rolling it between his fingers, he slid it on. The band, cold against his skin, was loose, too large for him. All the ring’s power was gone. Anything he now stamped with his father’s mark would be ruined. He’d thought the man might have sent it to him on the day of his execution in some feeble gesture of compensation. But maybe it was worse than that. Maybe his father had meant it as a desperate last show of affection, th
inking it would somehow absolve him of his sins.
Staring at the ring, Harry thought of the ghost that had been awakened by Thomas Grey’s revelation on board the ship. James Wynter. It had been the first time he had heard his brother’s full name. On learning that he was already bound up in the affairs of the Tudors, Harry had been assailed by panicked fury. Yet again, the bastard was there ahead of him, taking his place. But the more he had spoken to Grey, the more that initial spike of fear had dissipated. Everyone said the princes were dead and if Wynter was involved in their rescue then most likely he was too. Harry let the ring slide off into his palm.
‘What’s that you’ve got there?’
At the deep voice, Harry glanced round to see John Cheyne watching him. ‘Just a coin,’ he said, closing his fingers over the band.
Cheyne gave a brief nod, then turned back to his conversation.
Harry leaned against the wall of the inn, watching the rain cascade down the street. He wasn’t one of their circle yet, not fully trusted. He guessed he had been kept close to Tudor not because he was welcome, but because they wanted to make sure he did not divulge their plan to anyone.
After his arrival in Vannes with Thomas Grey there followed several weeks of frantic activity conducted in secret as Tudor and his men hatched their plan. A messenger sent into France tested the waters to see if the escalating naval conflict between Charles and Richard meant the French king might be agreeable to an alliance against his enemy. The answer found favourable, Jasper Tudor had gone ahead with Cheyne and the others, claiming he was going to visit Duke Francis. Henry had followed his uncle a few days later under the same pretence. Taking only a handful of men in his company to avoid suspicion, he had been able to slip from Vannes unchallenged. Five miles out, he and his men disguised themselves as grooms before riding hard for the French border, crossing into Anjou.
Messages exchanged between the Tudors and the young king and his regents, Anne Beaujeu and her husband, the Duke of Bourbon, had ended with an agreement to meet at Chartres. Meanwhile, the rest of the English remained in Vannes, Henry unwilling to risk his army in conflict with Landais’s men until he knew for certain that France was his friend.
