A Royal Ambition

by A Royal Ambition (retail) (epub)

  In a burst of moonlight, she saw them clearly, closely entwined with each other, Marie’s head thrown back, her eyes closed in abandonment to pleasure. Then a cloud obscured the moon, and the lovers were alone again: in their private world.

  Catherine knew envy then, hard and searing! She dropped to her knees at the side of her bed and crossed herself. Perhaps if she prayed for an alliance with England, Henry would change his mind and come to claim her as his bride, after all. She did not love Henry; how could she?

  She had never seen him. But he was reputed to be strong, brave and quite handsome for an Englishman.

  In any event, nothing could be worse than the life she lived now, surrounded by spite and plots, her poor father out of his wits most of the time, and her mother lusting after every new young gallant who came to court. Even Marie had someone to love her, while she, Catherine de Valois, princess of France, had to keep herself unspoiled so that her bargaining value would be high enough to attract a king.

  “Please heavenly Father, I do not wish to spend my lifetime waiting alone in my room. Send King Henry across from England, and make him want to marry me.”

  She climbed into bed and snuggled under the covers; though the night was warm she shivered suddenly, and her teeth seemed to chatter, as if she had a fever. She pulled the bolster over her head, trying desperately to shut out the sounds of the night, but most of all to muffle the sound of the occasional soft laugh that came from the corner of the field, just under her window.

  Chapter Two

  The hot August sun scorched down on the people lining the banks of the harbour.

  “Give them Frenchies what for lads!” shouted an old man waving a thin arm towards the embarking soldiers. The water was alive with ships, they rose and fell like so much flotsam waiting for the tide to turn and carry them out to deeper seas.

  “Will you just look at those archers.” A woman with a bundle of washing under her arm stared in admiration at the bulging muscles of the longbowmen. “I wish I was going with them, I’d do a good job of serving them, the whole ruddy lot!” She laughed coarsely, and a nobleman watching the proceedings from the comfort of his carriage, poked her good-naturedly with his walking stick.

  “I think even you would find that undertaking a bit strenuous! It’s said that the King has twenty-four thousand archers, and six thousand men at arms!”

  A roar of appreciative laughter swept around the crowd.

  At last the tide was right and the graceful ships became alive with purpose, heading out of the calm bay and into the open seas. A great cheer went up from the people on the banks.

  “Long live King Henry the Fifth, God save the King!”

  On board the royal ship, there was an air of controlled excitement. Orders rang out on the hot summer air, and as the sea birds wheeled overhead many of the men made the sign of the cross, and prayed for a safe journey.

  Owen Tudor watched the receding shoreline. Dazzled by the splendour of the spectacle, the bright banners waving in the fresh sea breeze and the glint of sun striking on steel, seemed like a dream to the young Welsh boy. It was a far cry from the austere Welsh hills, and the sternness of his upbringing, though already he missed the warmth of his parents’ love and most of all the sweetness of the Lady Elizabeth who was now promised to someone else. He thought of her as he’d seen her last, her black hair blowing fiercely in the strong mountain winds, and her small frame pressed against him wishing him goodbye. And there had been tears in her eyes.

  “Your first campaign, sir?”

  He turned self-consciously, as if the man at his side might be aware of his thoughts, but there was nothing except politeness on the smooth face that looked at him. It was a good strong face and sunbrowned, though Owen guessed that the man was still below twenty years of age. His arms were well-muscled, giving away his occupation as archer, in the King’s guard.

  “Is my lack of skill so obvious?” Owen smiled wryly. “Yes, it is my first campaign. I suppose you are well experienced in wars by now. I envy you.”

  “Don’t envy me; your first battle is like your first woman. A thing to be savoured.” He held out his hand in friendship. “I am Thomas Cooper from Somerset, one of the King’s own bodyguard. Mostly people call me Tom, though.”

  Owen stared across the blue swell of the sea. “What is France like? Is it true that the men are all weaklings, walking about in fancy clothes?”

  Tom snorted with laughter.

  “Is that what you’ve heard? Don’t you believe it! They are good hard fighters and brave. Though not as well trained as we are, naturally.” His eyes shone. “The women are beautiful little creatures, dark eyed and golden skinned; an appetising change from the rosy pinkness of an English girl. And hot blooded, too; must be the sun that makes them that way.”

  Owen laughed delightedly. “You make me long for France; I can hardly wait. Stay close to me Thomas Cooper, I’ve a feeling we will enjoy some adventures together.” He sobered suddenly. “I feel in my bones that this will be a triumphant war for us, and that we are fortunate to be with King Henry, in this.”

  Thomas nodded, sensing some inexplicable power in the young boy, and he shivered suddenly fingering the cross at his throat.

  * * *

  The moon was silvering the water when land was sighted and Owen woke effortlessly from sleep, anxious to get his first view of foreign shores; surprised to find that it all looked very ordinary, just like any other bay. The fleet of ships moved like silent shadows, and Owen strained every muscle, trying to penetrate the darkness of the shore with his aching eyes, in case hostile Frenchmen were waiting to attack. Tom appeared suddenly at his side.

  “The King is making for Harfleur, on the north bank,” he said softly, grinning as Owen looked at him in surprise. “No he hasn’t confided in me personally, but I’ve been this way before, and Harfleur is the chief port – so it’s the obvious place to start the attack.”

  Owen looked at him with respect, for his sound common sense, wondering if he ever felt the chill of fear in his blood.

  Tom put his hand reassuringly on Owen’s shoulder, as if reading his thoughts. “It is the waiting that cramps the muscles and brings the bile to the throat; once the action begins, your blood will race anew, and you will feel really alive and eager to have the victory. Come we must prepare to step on to the earth of France.”

  Suddenly the silence of the night was shattered; men were calling to each other, and the archers were already busy with their bows. The siege of Harfleur had begun.

  * * *

  The ground was hard, but Owen slept soundly, beside him Tom carefully flexed his bow, examining it for any weakness that might have developed in the wood. He glanced at the sleeping boy, smiling indulgently. Owen had imagined a sharp short battle with immediate triumph, not this drawn-out uncomfortable siege. Already there were signs of maturity in the new angles of the boy’s face, and his shoulders had a breadth which had previously been lacking.

  Owen Tudor had come to France as a boy, five weeks ago, but he would return to England a man. He had acquitted himself well in battle and deserved the few hours’ rest the King had granted him.

  The grey light of dawn began to streak the sky, and Tom leaned forward and shook him gently. “Owen, it’s morning; time to get started again.”

  Immediately Owen’s eyes were alert. He sat up, holding his fingers to his lips, for silence. “Someone is coming.”

  Tom could hear nothing, but quickly scooped damp soil over the fire and drew, with Owen, behind the shelter of the thick bushes, which were damp with early morning dew.

  A few minutes later, a group of Frenchmen came into the clearing, two of them supporting a third, who had a bright ’kerchief tied around his chest. They sank down to rest, talking rapidly in their strange-sounding tongue, and Tom fingered his bow warily.

  Suddenly, Owen gripped Tom’s arm. His eyes were bright as he moved carefully away from the Frenchmen.

  “We have no quarrel with th
em now,” Owen whispered, “Harfleur has surrendered.”

  A glow of satisfaction swept through Tom, and suddenly all his weariness was washed away.

  “I knew this was going to be a good battle,” he said, “and this is only the start. We must go to the King’s tent. He’ll be needing us for the march into the town.”

  They moved forward, quickly, watching for stray soldiers, and Tom attempted a warning.

  “Owen, remember the men are weary; some of them ill.” He paused, struggling for words. “If you see sights that offend you, try to understand the men need release.”

  But Owen was already hurrying forward to bow before the triumphant monarch.

  * * *

  The streets of Harfleur were in chaos. All the townsfolk seemed to have turned out to sullenly watch the English in their triumph. The King’s archers were strategically placed to guard the King, as a precaution against a hidden rebel who might fancy an attack at close quarters.

  From his position behind the King, Owen stared curiously into the crowd. Where were the beautiful women Tom had told him about? Most of those he could see were far from attractive, sallow of skin, and enormously fat. They stared in silent hostility at the passing army. The dirty children with their large brilliant eyes were the only ones to show any animation; they pointed at the King, and chanted something in their strange tongue, until hushed by irate mothers.

  Then, in an upstairs window, Owen caught sight of a girl about his own age, her dark hair streaming around her face. For a moment their eyes met. He lifted his hand in salute and she immediately slammed the casement shut.

  “You won’t find them all so retiring, young Tudor,” the King said in amusement. “We will have some fine wenches to attend us soon; and most willingly, too!”

  For a moment the King of England and his youngest gentleman-at-arms seemed almost friends; and then Henry spurred his horse forward through the streets of the conquered town.

  * * *

  The army moved along the coast in the direction of Calais, the numbers drastically reduced, more by the war-sickness than from attack by the French. Owen had never felt better in his life in spite of the fact that he had indulged himself to the point of exhaustion with a sweet little lady by the name of Marguerite. She’d been all that a French lady should be, and most of all, she had been particularly accommodating in her affections.

  He caught sight of Tom among the men of the bodyguard and lifted his hand mockingly. No doubt, the archer had made the most of the brief rest before the march to Calais had got under way. Occasionally, a man would drop from the ranks and crouch beside the road clutching his stomach in agony. There was nothing that anyone could do except cross himself and hope the dysentery would pass him by.

  The King had hoped to cross the river Somme at Blanchetaque, but to his surprise the ford was heavily guarded, and there was nothing left but to go further up the river. The men were tired, but Henry rode among them urging them forward, and Owen felt tears of pride at the sight of his king’s courage and determination. It wasn’t until they had almost reached the river’s source that the army were able to cross, and all the men moved more eagerly, knowing that once they reached Calais, the next stop was home.

  Suddenly there was consternation among the lords surrounding the King. One of the outriders had returned at full speed, his horse sweating and shaking with exhaustion. Owen pressed nearer in an effort to hear what was being said.

  “The Duke of Orleans waits with the Constable of France, and a huge army of nobles, Your Majesty,” the man gasped. “They have barred the road to Calais. It seems we must fight or surrender.”

  The King looked thoughtful. “As they outnumber us, we must outmanoeuvre them; and remember gentlemen, the French do not have our military prowess.”

  Owen gasped in amazement as he caught sight of the French army placed in ranks between two woody glades. They stretched across the road like a black mass, reaching back as far as the eye could see.

  “They outnumber us seven to one!” Owen said in disbelief.

  The King moved ahead. “Place the stakes!”

  His voice rang out, and foot-soldiers hurried to do his bidding, pointing the jagged spikes forward at an angle, making a lethal wall to check the rush of French horsemen. Behind the spikes the archers were in position, and Tom was one of the first to place an arrow in his bow and strain his muscles ready for the command to fire.

  At the wall of stakes, the horses faltered and the Frenchmen were compelled to wheel the animals away. The hail of arrows fell with unmerciful precision, and Tom moved smoothly, selecting an arrow, fitting it and loosing it into the mass of men and horses without stopping to think about his actions. Even when his muscles began to scream in agony at the ceaseless movements, he didn’t slow his pace.

  Too late, he saw the flash of a blade descend towards him; he was blinded with light before he fell unconscious to the ground.

  As the day died, so did the battle, and against all odds the English army were the victors. The Duke of Orleans was taken prisoner, and the Constable of France, along with many other French nobles, were lying dead on the field. Owen, now that it was all over, felt tired and dispirited; he prepared as others were doing to roll up in a blanket, and sleep.

  He became aware of the throb of the wound on his wrist, and the ache in his head, where a French knight had hit him with bare fists, having lost his weapons. He wondered how Tom was faring. He’d managed to drag him from the field, but the wound in his neck had been deep and vicious, and his face grey beneath the mud of the field.

  “Owen! Thank God you are safe.”

  He looked up in amazement to see Marguerite running towards him, her cloak flying behind her like a scarlet banner. With a cry, she flung herself into his arms.

  “I’ve been searching for you for hours. I was so afraid you had been killed.”

  She clung to him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Owen kissed her, brushing the hair from her face.

  “Come, climb up on my horse; this is no place for a woman.”

  “So many dead, I can hardly believe it,” she said amid tears. “I know I should hate you, Owen Tudor, but I prayed to God to keep you safe.”

  She was too overcome to say more, and in silence they left the battlefield.

  * * *

  Henry was resting, well pleased with himself and his men. Seven thousand of the French lay dead; brave men, but badly led, and not equipped to deal with the military efficiency of the English army.

  “The day of Agincourt will long be remembered,” he said with satisfaction. “We proved that skill may win over sheer weight of numbers. Send for my bodyguard, gentlemen, I wish to thank them in person for the work they’ve done this day.” When the men were assembled he spoke a word to each of them, stopping before Tom who was heavily bandaged about the head and neck.

  “We wish you to be seated.” He handed the man his own goblet of wine. “Drink, and may your wounds heal well and strong before we reach our home shores.”

  “If it hadn’t been for young Owen Tudor, I would have been lying dead on the battlefield, Sire,” Tom said.

  The King raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I saw that Tudor acquitted himself well. I have been thinking about giving that young man a knighthood. Where is he now?”

  Tom looked at him almost fearfully. “I heard he left the field with a woman, Sire.” Henry threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Rest now, we make for Calais before very many hours have passed.”

  He sank down on his couch, the exploits of Owen Tudor having excited his imagination. He only wished he had his sweet little English mistress by his side, pink and golden like a summer’s day.

  * * *

  Marguerite knelt on the edge of the bed, like a cat about to pounce. Owen, in his amusement, was quite ready to be attacked, particularly now that he had washed the smell of battle away.

  “Come little Marguerite, why sit looking at me as if you would like to eat me? Why not join me benea
th the sheets?”

  Silently she slipped her dress from her shoulders. Her waist was small, and her skin brown with a healthy sheen to it. She held him close, kissing his lips, gently.

  “I thought you might be too weary to pay me any attention, my lord,” she whispered, nibbling his ear. “Does your arm hurt now?”

  Owen glanced at his wrist. “No, it doesn’t hurt at all. You’ve done a very good job.” He drew her closer. “You are very sweet to me. I am more fortunate than the King himself.” He kissed her, drawing the sheets over her slim body. “You know I will move on in a few hours, and there is no question of taking you with me. This will be our goodbye.”

  She held her hand over his lips, her eyes deep with emotion.

  “I don’t want to think about the future,” she said, as she laid her head against his shoulder. “The King must return, and I pray that you will come, too. There will be a marriage; our Princess Catherine waits for your Henry. They say she cried aloud in her room because he has not taken her for his wife yet.”

  Owen nodded. “It is true; they must wed some time, and if Catherine is anything like you, I don’t know why the King hesitates. What is she like, your princess?”

  Marguerite’s eyes glowed. “She is young, about your own age, and very pretty; her face is a trifle long perhaps, but she is dainty and so tender-hearted. They say she has to keep the peace between her mother and her brother, Charles, who is even younger, and very spoiled I think. One day you may meet her, and then you will think she is much more beautiful than your little Marguerite, who is growing too old for you already.”

  She pinched him playfully, and he held her tight against the hard muscles of his chest.

  “I can hardly bring myself to leave you,” he said softly, “but the King intends to press on before daylight. I’m sorry I’ve no gifts for you Marguerite. You deserve some token of my regard.”