by Tony Riches
‘Hue Spencer, acting commander of the castle and the King’s Bailiff of Cotentin.’
‘Are there any more men than this?’
The others gather in a curious group and I see they are unshaven and ill-disciplined but look like time-served soldiers. Several have battle scars and some wear well-used swords at their belts. I heard the English army in Normandy has struggled to remain organised since the death of Duke John of Bedford and proof of this stands before me.
The bailiff glances back at the soldiers. ‘There used to be more, sir. After the last captain left I’ve had no money to pay them.’
I feel some sympathy for the men. ‘I will see you are all paid from now on—and receive any back pay due to you.’ I turn to Nathaniel. ‘Take all their names, please. We will write to the Marquess of Suffolk and explain what we’ve found here.’
Three armed soldiers ride behind us as we make our first patrol to assess the challenges ahead. The land is flat and featureless, making the castle stand out starkly on the skyline, an inviting target for anyone who wishes to try their luck. The sandy beach curves away into the far distance, wild and barren. Our arrival startles whirring sandpipers, which sweep into the air with their rapid, shrill cries of weet, weet, weet.
Small fishing boats bob in the shallow, sheltered bay but there are no signs of any people this early in the morning. I feel a refreshing sea breeze in my face as I scan the horizon. In the misty distance I can make out the dark outline of Jersey, where we stopped on our way to Normandy.
‘It reminds me a little of when I was a boy in Beaumaris, although the Irish Sea is not so blue—and the wind is colder in Wales!’
Nathaniel looks along the seafront and frowns. ‘I don’t see how we can keep the French out with so few men.’
‘Do you think Sir William de la Pole knew this when he sent me out here?’
‘It seems he has not done us a great favour.’ Nathaniel points to the fishing boats. The French can land an army by sea—and you can be certain that they know they can take back this castle whenever they choose.’
‘Well, it’s up to us to make sure they don’t, Nathaniel.’ I look out across the sea to where England lies somewhere in the far distance. ‘There are a lot of men who fought here in Normandy who are now without work. You could return to London and speak to your merchant friends, see if we can make this place into a trading port again.’
‘It might be possible to defend a smaller area, around the harbour and the castle?’
‘We will make of it what we can,’ I look back to the castle. ‘And we’ll start by making that place fit to live in!’
We continue to ride in a wide circle, arriving back at the castle, which already echoes with the sounds of hammering and the smell of newly sawn wood. Two soldiers have stripped to the waist and are busy with shovels, filling in potholes to improve the road to the harbour. It is evident we will never be able to do the necessary work on our own but the local villagers have long since been driven out. Apart from the furtive fishermen who cast their nets for langoustines in the shallow bay, the French stay away.
‘We need a blacksmith, to fire up that forge again, as well as a team of stonemasons.’ I look at the pile of stones which still lay where they have fallen from the castle.
The bailiff Hue Spencer explains in his matter-of-fact way. ‘We keep the Frenchies out, Captain Tudor. It’s the best way—they are not to be trusted.’
‘Where are the nearest locals who could help?’
‘That would be the town of Coutances, sir. A short enough ride.’ He points east, to the distant spires. ‘You can see the cathedral.’
‘Have you been to the town?’
‘For supplies—or if we need a physician.’ The bailiff looks as if he is planning to spit on the ground then sees my frown. ‘We don’t have much to do with the French.’
Nathaniel makes a suggestion. ‘I could go and see how the land lies, without drawing attention to myself?’
‘I’ll ride with you—your French is even worse than mine.’
Travelling light to the outskirts of Coutances we hear the bells of the cathedral chiming to mark the hour. The town is a sprawling confusion of narrow streets and old buildings, reminding me of the back streets of Rouen. There are plenty of people in the busy market, where flies feast on hanging hams and old women in black shawls haggle in high-pitched French over the price of linen from Brittany.
Nathaniel points to a courtyard stacked with bricks and roof tiles. ‘We could ask them?’
I engage the owners in conversation. The man is helpful enough but seems fearful of reprisals if he helps us. He warns me there are many in Coutances with long memories of how the castle, which they call the Château de Regnéville, was stolen from them by force. It seems the influence of Duke Humphrey continues to affect me, even here in the wilds of Normandy.
Leaving our horses, we walk to the impressive cathedral in the centre of the town. Instead of the subdued coolness I expect, a cleverly designed lantern tower floods intense light into the centre of the cathedral. My eyes are drawn to the stained-glass windows, showing the last temptation. The figure of Christ is surrounded by trumpeting cherubs while cloven-hoofed devils torment naked people and a handsome French knight holds the scales of justice.
I light a candle for Catherine and kneel to pray in the Chapel of Saint Joseph, under a colourful wall painting of the Holy Trinity. I pray for my sons, for Catherine’s soul and that of our little daughter Margaret, and for guidance in how to keep the peace in Regnéville. I am aware now that I was sent on this impossible mission to keep me out of the way, but I have no wish to fight the French and hope to find some way to bring acceptance of our presence here.
* * *
Nathaniel is working on his ledgers as I enter the room on the second floor of the castle which he has adopted as his study. A collection of seashells gathered from the beach are arranged on the stone sill of the small window, which has a good view of the harbour. Two fine trading ships are moored at the quayside, a common enough sight now, bringing a steady flow of income. Merchant ships often stop to take on fresh water or to shelter from rough weather.
Also moored with them is my newest venture, La Demoiselle, an old but seaworthy three-masted carrack we bought from a Portuguese merchant. The ship cost most of the money I have saved but is capable of making the crossing to Portsmouth and now Nathaniel is investigating how she can pay her way on the lucrative trade routes.
Nathaniel looks up from his ledger. ‘I’ve been thinking. We could use some of this money to buy Breton linen and trade it for wool from England?’
‘The Merchants of the Staple will never allow it.’ I stare out of the window at the visiting ships. One has sailors balanced high on the yardarms, shouting to each other as they make their ship ready to sail. ‘I always thought Calais has a monopoly on the trade in wool?’
‘I will ask my contacts in London.’ Nathaniel smiles. ‘I never met a merchant who turned down a profit. There must be a way.’
‘Will we buy the linen in Coutances?’ I recall the warning from the builder I spoke to on their last visit.
‘The best linen comes from Brittany.’ Nathaniel grins. ‘I have a contact in Rennes who can supply us—for a price.’
‘I don’t see any harm in trying.’
‘We could use more money to strengthen the harbour defences.’
‘Can we afford a canon?’ I look down into the harbour. ‘In Calais they have iron chains they can use to block the harbour—and a row of cannons trained on the entrance. If an enemy ship comes here there is almost nothing we can do.’
The castle has three ancient guns, small cannons called culverins, that can propel four-pound cannon balls a good distance, but without much accuracy. Designed to use on ships, the guns are of uncertain age. The bailiff swears they were brought to the castle by the Duke of Gloucester’s men, so it could be thirty years since they were last fired in anger.
‘A prominent can
non would be a useful deterrent, show them we mean business.’
‘Make some enquiries, Nathaniel. Our defences will be even more important if we can make a success of the trade.’
‘Do you think we could still be attacked, Owen?’
‘You remember what the man told us in Coutances?’
‘There are people there with long memories and they still resent our presence here.’
‘I wish we could live in peace here.’ I examine Nathaniel’s collection of seashells and realise they are neatly arranged by type. ‘This could be an idyllic place if it wasn’t for the threat of being attacked.’
Despite our well-intentioned drills and daily patrols, the first attack takes us completely by surprise. I wake in the night to the sounds of shouts and curses as our men try to find their weapons in near darkness. I pull on my boots and grab my sword, rushing down the steep stone staircase to investigate.
‘What’s going on?’
One of the soldiers shouts back. ‘The French are here—they’ve set fire to a ship in the harbour!’
I rush to the window. Flames lick high into the sky and billowing smoke fills the harbour. The merchant ship that had been moored there left the previous day. The fire is aboard La Demoiselle and grows more intense as I watch, engulfing the painted figurehead at her bow.
In the courtyard Nathaniel glances up as he bandages a wounded soldier. ‘We think they were local men. They seem to have run away now.’
I wish they had woken me sooner. ‘Are any other men injured?’
‘Only this man, as far as I know.’
‘Did we wound any of them? Take any prisoners?’
‘I don’t think so. They were too fast for us.’
I am relieved but the surprise attack has been an important wake-up call, a reminder of why we are here. From now on we will have to keep a lookout at night. Worse still, if it is the work of local men it will be a setback to my plans to find some way of working with them.
I pass through the gatehouse onto the drawbridge and walk down to the harbour. The wind changes direction, bringing the acrid smell of smoke. Glowing embers float high in the night air like dangerous fireflies. The flames are too fierce to even bother trying to put them out. La Demoiselle is a wreck. I feel the prickle of heat on my face and hear a sharp hiss of steam as seawater rushes through gaps in the hull to fill the hold.
The old hulk of a fishing vessel which has been there since we first arrived is undamaged by the flames. This is no chance act of destruction. The local people are sending me a clear message: The English will never be welcome in this remote outpost. I turn my back on the scene of destruction and make my way back to the castle, wondering if it would make any difference if they knew I am not English but a Welshman.
Chapter Twenty
Autumn 1449
Standing alone on the high, windswept battlements I look out over the vast expanse of blue-grey sea. A cool, salty breeze tugs at my cape and carries the cry of the gulls as they wheel and soar behind fishing boats. Five years in this tranquil place has changed me, and each year when I return to see my sons I am astounded by the change in them.
Edmund and Jasper have grown into handsome, confident noblemen. King Henry treats them as his favourites, although Jasper secretly warns me of the king’s madness. Like his mother Catherine and her father, King Charles, before her, King Henry has increasingly frequent lapses into a dark place. Sometimes he forgets who he is. Other times he is gone for a day or more, yet they have all become skilled at hiding the truth.
From everyone, that is, except the queen. Margaret has grown into a remarkable, beautiful and powerful woman. Her marriage remains childless, sparking ribald speculation, so she must be concerned that she has failed to provide the king with an heir. Despite that, she has won the popular support of the ordinary people of England. Most importantly, Queen Margaret has also proved herself capable of dealing with those who seek to steal the king’s power.
Duke Humphrey died in strange circumstances two years before, after being arrested by Sir William de la Pole. With his wife Eleanor Cobham still languishing in her prison at Beaumaris Castle, Queen Margaret promptly took over the duke’s mansion, Baynard’s Castle in London. She also seized the duke’s lavish estate at Greenwich and renamed it the Palace of Placentia, making it her favourite personal residence.
I heard the rumours about the death of Duke Humphrey. Some whispered that his food was poisoned on orders from the queen. Others suggested the shock of his arrest was too much for his weak heart. Even when Cardinal Henry Beaufort died soon afterwards, it seems there was nothing to suggest they did not meet their ends from natural causes.
Sir William, the queen’s protector, unquestioned favourite and constant companion, has now become the power behind the throne. His days are numbered though, as he has upset many powerful men who blame him for the loss of Maine and Anjou through his over-generous marriage negotiations.
My little empire has not changed a great deal over the five years. The castle is restored but Hue Spencer was right. My plan to engage with the local people could never have succeeded. The surly bailiff retired the previous year and left for England, much to my relief, as there had always been tension between us. Although I understood the old man’s hatred of the French, I had hoped we could find some kind of peace.
After the attack on my ship I recruited more men, expanding the original garrison to some fifty soldiers, including fifteen archers and ten crossbowmen. Well trained and well paid, there is barely enough for them to do, so I keep them busy patrolling the perimeter and working on restoring the castle, which I think of as my home.
My lodgings at the top of the four-storey high rectangular tower are comfortable, if a little basic. I like to walk along the endless, curving beach, deserted other than for the sandpipers and oystercatchers which turn over small stones as they forage for food. On a clear day I see the island of Jersey and hear the bells of the cathedral in Coutances.
Now all this could be coming to an end. Nathaniel prospers through his work as an agent of the London merchants and spends much of his time visiting Cherbourg and Rouen, negotiating on behalf of his many clients. This has led to him learning that the ambitious and influential Breton campaigner, Admiral Prigent de Coëtivy, is planning to challenge our ability to defend the harbour.
My reverie is interrupted by the arrival of Nathaniel, who has been out on patrol checking the chain of lookout posts concealed at intervals along the seashore. Each man has built a beacon from driftwood covered with pitch. Ready to light at the first sign of an approaching fleet, they should be easily seen by the lookouts at the castle.
‘Have you sighted anything?’ Nathaniel scans the horizon, shading his eyes with his hand against the early morning sun.
‘Nothing yet. If they do come, God forbid, they’ll want to surprise us, when they think we will least expect it.’
‘The lookouts are all in place—but we are exposed on the flank. Do you want me to reinforce the eastern perimeter?’
I scan the flat plains of the peninsula. The few trees and low scrub offer little in the way of cover for any attacking force. ‘Not if it means taking men from the harbour.’
‘You expect the admiral to attack from the sea?’
‘I do. You said it yourself—they can easily land an army on the beach.’
‘I remember saying we couldn’t do much with so few men. Even the garrison we have now is stretched, so what’s our plan if they attack?’
‘If there are any ships in the harbour it’s our duty to protect them—otherwise we need to bring everyone into the safety of the castle and prepare to stand our ground.’
Nearly two weeks pass and we are wondering if Nathaniel’s information is good after all, when I am roughly woken by one of the men at dawn. I rush to the high battlements and see the beacons blazing their bright warning. The thought that I will never see my sons again flashes briefly through my mind, then the training we have rehearsed so ofte
n takes over.
I look out towards the horizon in the glimmering early light. An ethereal mist floating over the sea is thinning to reveal the sails of at least four ships. I don’t need to watch for long to be sure they are on a steady course, directly for the harbour.
There is a chance they could be merchantmen. Even if they are French or Breton it could be a show of strength rather than an attack. All the same, we must prepare for the worst. We have grown complacent over the five years I’ve been here, almost forgetting the real danger we face is from the French fleet.
Strapping on my sword and wearing a steel breastplate over my doublet, I run down the narrow road to the harbour where Nathaniel is already busy with a group of soldiers preparing the bronze cannon, mounted on a high platform overlooking the harbour entrance.
Each month the team of men practise their gunnery drill and once fired a heavy cannonball far out to sea, although they have never used the cannon against an enemy. It took a lot of work to manhandle into place and our new cannon is impressive, yet now seems inadequate against the approaching warships.
Nathaniel sees me approaching. ‘How long do you think we have?’
I look out to sea where the French ships are now close enough now to see their decks are filled with archers and crossbowmen. ‘Not long. Make sure your men hold fire until we are sure they are in range.’
‘That will mean we are also in range of the French guns.’ Nathaniel frowns as he tries to estimate how soon the ships will arrive. ‘We could fire a warning shot? They may turn away once they see we are defending the harbour?’
‘God willing. If they don’t, we must be ready to withdraw to the castle.’
I look at the French ships and can now see the faces of the men crowding the decks. ‘Fire your warning shot, Nathaniel!’
The boom of the cannon sounds so loud my ears ring and I feel the pressure wave as the ground vibrates under my feet. The gun crew aim their shot well, as it is followed by a splash in the water ten yards in front of the leading warship. I watch the ships continue on their steady course while the gun crew follow their well-rehearsed reloading drill.
