Owen - Book One of the Tudor Trilogy

by Tony Riches

  They are taking too long. Even if they manage to hit the leading ship, the others will soon make landfall before his crew reload the cannon. It is a difficult decision but I know what I must order them to do.

  ‘One more round, Nathaniel. See if you can make it count this time—then you and the men must retreat to the safety of the castle.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to order the other men back. We need to prepare the castle for a siege.’

  Running towards the lookout posts on the beach I arrive in time to see the first longboats landing on the distant beach. Armed Frenchmen are swarming up the sand dunes, yelling and shouting. There is no longer any question of their intention.

  My men are hopelessly outnumbered, throwing down their swords and pikes without even trying to fight. I order them to retreat to the castle and realise too late that the ships sailing into the harbour are simply a diversion, to distract us while the main force lands on the unprotected seafront.

  I rush back to the castle and look down to the harbour where our cannon fires one last brave, ear-splitting shot before the crew retreats. The ships are now so close I see men preparing to disembark. The air is filled with shouts of alarm as the heavy cannon ball smashes into the hull of the leading ship. A jagged hole appears above the waterline, the heavy cannon ball causing untold damage and injury as it rips through the decks inside.

  ‘Hurry!’ I shout as loud as I can. ‘We need to raise the drawbridge!’

  Men run into the castle and I count twenty-six, including myself and Nathaniel. As many again have either been taken prisoner, are killed or have deserted, but there is nothing I can do about it. The drawbridge rises with agonising slowness as the ships begin to moor at the quayside and I know it won’t be long before we are surrounded.

  The men are hastily barricading the gatehouse with whatever they can find while I return to the top of the tower to take stock of the enemy strength and positions. As well as the four ships in the harbour, I can now see at least another dozen mooring in the shallow bay, some still lowering boats full of armed men. We are hopelessly outnumbered. Worse still, I can see the French are trying to manhandle the heavy cannon at the harbour entrance to point it at the castle. Too late, I realise Nathaniel’s men must have forgotten to render the gun useless.

  A repressed memory of the siege of Rouen flits into my mind. The castle, with its three-foot thick walls of stone has become our prison and there is no way to escape. Nathaniel has ensured we have plenty of stores, but we have limited water, although there are enough barrels of ale to last us a month if necessary.

  I gather the remaining men in the courtyard. ‘I’ve no idea how long we will need to hold out—but I’m not surrendering until we have to. I want the archers on the parapet, crossbowmen at the windows.’ I turn to Nathaniel. ‘Can you have some men move all the supplies to the second floor?’

  ‘Most of it is already there.’

  ‘It is a shame we had to abandon the cannon in the harbour—I’m certain they’ll turn it against us now.’

  ‘We still have the old culverins and plenty of shot and gunpowder.’

  ‘I worry those things could blow up in our faces.’ I can’t help feeling superstitious about the ancient guns, ever since I found they were left here by the late Duke Humphrey. It would be a cruel twist of fate if they enabled him to have his revenge on me after all.

  Nathaniel is more practical. ‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take.’

  ‘Let’s set them up in the second-floor windows and see what they can do.’

  Before Nathaniel can reply, a deafening boom from the direction of the harbour is followed by a crash of splintering stone and breaking timber which reverberates inside the courtyard. Despite the thick stone walls we know there are parts of the castle that won’t take such a hammering for long.

  ‘There’s no time to waste.’ I follow Nathaniel up to the second floor of the tower, where the culverins are already being lashed in place with ropes. We watch as the men load four-pound iron balls and measure out gunpowder to prime the guns, ready for the order to fire.

  I lead our small group of archers up to the battlements and have my own bow ready. Although I thought it would never be used against an enemy again I have always practised, to pass the time as much as anything else. I look at the tense faces of my men. We might have food and water to withstand a siege but our limited supply of arrows and crossbow bolts means we will have to use them well.

  From my high vantage-point I can see the French have hauled our cannon into position and it is now pointing straight at us. They don’t seem in any hurry to reload it and I realise the gun crew only carried a few of the heavy cannon balls to the harbour, as the rest are still in the castle. All the same I curse our failure to prevent the cannon from being used against us, a mistake which could cost us dearly.

  On the other side of the castle the French are forming a line to surround us, keeping well out of range. There are so many it is impossible to count them and I feel a sinking feeling as I realise they are preparing to hold us to siege for as long as it takes. The French fleet are well placed to prevent any attempt to support us by sea. Even if I had the foresight to send a man to Rouen it would be too late before reinforcements could arrive.

  We spend the whole of the next two days doing what we can to keep the French at bay, taking turns to keep watch at night and sleep. It seems the admiral would prefer to starve us out, although I know the men don’t like the uncertainty of waiting for the attack which will surely come.

  I make Nathaniel responsible for rationing our supplies, while I make sure the men remain vigilant and are kept occupied with improving our makeshift barricades. We are starting to wonder if they are ever going to attack when the cannon booms and another heavy ball crashes into the castle with a numbing thud, breaking into fragments with the force of the blow. The cannon will do a lot of damage if they can fire through one of the window openings and I see the French gunners are already raising the barrel a little to improve their aim.

  I rush down to the culverin crew facing the harbour and give the order to return fire. They are ready and waiting and I put my hands over my ears as the blast echoes around the inside of the castle. It is so loud I think for a moment that the old gun has exploded, then I see the Frenchmen who were trying to reload the cannon scattering as the four pound ball crashes into the ground in front of them, leaving a small crater in the earth. The gun crew make an adjustment and their next shot destroys the cannon’s sturdy wooden mounting with such force the heavy gun tilts over with the barrel pointing into the sky. There is a cheer inside the castle from the men watching our first small victory.

  The siege lasts almost a week, with the French holding their line around the castle, shooting arrows at the windows and over the high walls. I always cursed the stagnant green moat but now I am glad it offers some defence, particularly at night, when we hear muffled French voices coming worryingly close.

  At times the French seem in high spirits. Like any soldiers holding a castle to siege, they taunt us with shouted insults and sing bawdy Breton drinking songs. They become more daring and archers risk being in range of our guns to launch flaming arrows high over the wall into the courtyard. One burning arrow finds its mark on the thatched roof of the stable, starting a serious blaze.

  The men manage to save most of the horses but one is lost in the smoking inferno, despite our best efforts. The agony of the dying horse is a bad omen, even for the least superstitious of the men. I see the exhaustion in their soot-blackened faces and know we won’t be able to hold out for much longer.

  I check our dwindling supplies of food with increasing concern. ‘We must reduce the men’s rations, Nathaniel. This castle has become our prison—and now we have to find a way out.’

  ‘We only have enough supplies for another week, Owen, perhaps two.’ Nathaniel glances over his shoulder to make sure we are not being overheard. ‘There’s no way to fight o
ur way out, so I was thinking... we could make a run for it, under cover of darkness?’

  ‘It’s too risky. They have us surrounded and we know they keep watch at night.’

  ‘Perhaps we should see if we can negotiate a withdrawal?’

  ‘Surrender, you mean?’

  ‘I can’t imagine they will leave us now.’ Nathaniel points to the south. ‘They are digging in. That can only mean they plan a long siege.’

  ‘If we surrender they could hold us for ransom—and I don’t like the idea of another prison.’ I know the reputation of the French for holding prisoners for many years, waiting for ransom. I doubt Sir William would be in any hurry to negotiate our release if we lose the outpost.

  ‘They’re coming!’ Nathaniel points towards the French line.

  From our high viewpoint we see a group of French crossbowmen advancing boldly on the castle, regardless of the lack of cover. They intend using their deadly crossbows at close range. Two thundering booms sound in quick succession in the tower below us. The men waiting at the south facing culverins have opened fire on the French and one man is hit in the face and killed. Several others are wounded and are dragged by their comrades to safety.

  ‘It will be harder to negotiate terms for a withdrawal now.’ I bite my lip as I make a difficult decision. ‘If we’re going to surrender, we may as well do it before any more men die.’

  Nathaniel agrees. ‘I’ll have one of the men make a white flag.’

  ‘Make it a big one, I don’t want the French to be in any doubt and start firing at me.’

  ‘It’s too risky for you to go, Owen. I will write a letter, setting out our terms. One of the men will have to deliver it. There’s no point in you risking your life for nothing.’

  ‘I can’t ask any of the men to do this, Nathaniel. I have enough lives on my conscience.’ I feel a frisson of fear at the thought of becoming an easy target for the French archers when I step from the protection of the castle. ‘It has to be me.’

  Placing Nathaniel in charge of the remaining men, I warily emerge from the castle gatehouse, alone and carrying our makeshift white flag, which flutters in the light breeze on a long wooden pole. The only sound is a skylark singing high in the air over the watching French, oblivious to the events below.

  ‘I wish to speak to Admiral de Coëtivy!’ I call out in French, praying that my use of the admiral’s name and the flag of truce will have the desired effect.

  The French soldiers are well trained. Two come forward, one with a crossbow aimed at my chest. I look at the tip of the bolt with its deadly barb and realise I have never been this close to death.

  ‘Come with us.’ The second soldier speaks in French with a Breton accent.

  Admiral de Coëtivy must be on the French flagship, as I am taken to the beach and urged into a longboat. As I am rowed towards the grandest ship in the whole of the Channel I see what looks like the entire French fleet anchored in the bay. I am reassured that my decision to surrender was our only option, as we would never have stood a chance against this many. I look back towards the high square tower of the castle where my friends wait and know all their lives depend on what happens next.

  The admiral is younger than I expect and looks at me with undisguised curiosity. ‘You are ready to surrender so soon?’ His voice is cultured and it takes me a moment to realise I have been addressed in English.

  ‘I am Owen Tudor, Captain of Regnéville. I respectfully request that you allow my men to leave in peace, Admiral.’

  ‘Or else?’ There is an unmistakeable challenge in his voice.

  ‘Or else we will fight—to the last man.’

  The admiral considers this for a moment. ‘You will surrender your arms, Captain Tudor. Then I must decide what is to be done with you.’

  ‘May I be permitted to keep my sword? It was a gift from my late wife, Queen Catherine.’

  ‘You are the Welshman who married Queen Catherine?’

  ‘I am, my lord.’

  ‘I was intrigued when I heard the story of how a servant married a queen. There are many men in France who would have wished to be in your position…’ The admiral’s voice softens. ‘I was truly saddened to learn of Queen Catherine’s death.’

  I hold my breath, knowing that my life and those of my men are in the hands of Admiral de Coëtivy. There is kindness in the man’s eyes I had not seen at first. I notice the admiral carries a book in his hand, more like a priest about to read a sermon than one of the most powerful military men in France.

  ‘I will allow you until noon.’

  I cannot believe that Fortune's Wheel has turned again in my favour. ’Thank you, Admiral.’

  ‘I wish you well, Captain Tudor.’ He smiles. ‘It is a long march to the port of Cherbourg, although you should be able to find a ship home from there.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The voyage is long and dangerous, as the trading ship on which we secure a passage home across the English Channel makes heavy going in the storms of an early winter. Forked lightning rips through a black sky and the deep boom of thunder reminds me of the cannon blasts, shaking the wooden planks of the deck under my feet. It is not a good omen and I worry about the reprisals I will face for the loss of Regnéville.

  I can still hear the ribald taunts of the jeering French as my men surrender the castle after having fought so loyally. It would seem that God was not on our side, as our long march to the port of Cherbourg was made more miserable by heavy rain. The constant downpour turned the tracks leading north into a muddy morass which clung to our boots and slowed our pace, as if even the land of Normandy tries to prevent our safe departure.

  At least the admiral granted my request to keep my sword. My hand falls to the hilt as if to reassure myself it is still there. I am comforted by the cold, familiar shape of the engraved, weighted pommel and handle of tooled leather. I am not sorry I never had the need to use it against a Frenchman. It is not what Catherine would have wished, unless my life depended on it.

  It is the end of November and the first frosts are on the ground by the time we reach London, where I must report the news of our defeat to Sir William de la Pole. Much has changed in England while I have been away in Normandy. Sir William has been made Duke of Suffolk and found a good marriage for his only son to a young heiress, Lady Margaret Beaufort, daughter of the late John Beaufort, Duke of Somerset. I pray that this will improve Sir William’s mood, but I am mistaken.

  ‘You know I could have you thrown into the Tower for this, Tudor?’ His face grows red and he curses me as he considers the implications of my failure for his already blighted reputation.

  ‘I deeply regret the loss of my command, my lord. The men fought bravely, and we withstood the siege for as long as we could, but were heavily outnumbered. I would ask you, sir, how our garrison of fifty men could hope to defeat ten times as many Frenchmen, supported by the French fleet and more warships than we could count?’

  ‘You know the king is to confirm a knighthood on your sons? I will put your case to him and, with God’s grace, he might show you leniency. Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this though Tudor. The council will have to hear of it and I expect they will demand a full explanation.’

  ‘I am most grateful, my lord, if you will speak to the king and the council on my behalf.’ I dread the prospect of appearing before the council a second time, as the outcome is completely predictable.

  The knighting ceremony is held at Westminster, two weeks before Christmas. I meet with my sons on the eve of the ceremony in the king’s chapel at Westminster, where by tradition they spend the night in a vigil of prayer and contemplation of their duties as knights. The ancient chapel is cool and peaceful, lit by thick yellow candles.

  Their fine new swords and regalia are laid out on the altar for the blessing, and on the walls hang their colourful new shields, paid for from the king’s personal treasury. Both bear the arms of the kingdom, Edmund’s with a blue border of gold French fleur-de-lis alter
nating with my martlet badge and Jasper’s the same, but with a simpler border of gold martlets.

  My sons are now of age and grown as tall as me. ‘The first Welshmen ever to become English knights,’ I smile at them. ‘I am so proud of you both—and your mother would be too.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ Edmund looks towards the altar. ‘We will pray in memory of our mother.’

  I turn to Jasper. ‘You remember what our martlet badge on your shield is meant to signify?’

  ‘Yes, Father. It reminds me to follow the quest for knowledge and adventure,’ Jasper glances at his brother. ‘And as the second son I must work harder.’ He grins at the thought.

  ‘That’s right, Jasper, but never let anyone say you are not of noble lineage. You are half Welsh, descended from the great lords of Wales—and half French, of the House of Valois

  ‘And we are half-brothers to the King of England and France.’

  ‘Yes—and what must you never forget?’

  ‘That we are Tudors,’ says Edmund, ‘and our grandfather fought at the side of the last true Prince of Wales, Owain Glyndur.’

  ‘That is the truth, Edmund, you must always be proud of your heritage. There are plenty of English nobles with far less right to stand at the side of our king than you—and plenty more who would seek to usurp him. They mistake his piety for weakness, so he needs strong and loyal men around him, more now than ever before.’

  My mind turns to my own future as I witness the knighting ceremony. Although I do not know the actual day of my birth, I am about to turn fifty, a grand age by any standards and something of a milestone. My once jet-black beard is now silvery grey and my hair is thinning, yet my eyesight is still sharp and the outdoor life and clean sea air of Regnéville has kept me fitter than many men of my age.