by Tony Riches
Jasper said a silent prayer that God would keep them safe. He glanced across at Henry, now grown into a man, and knew his brother Edmund would have been impossibly proud. He smiled as he imagined what his father would have had to say about a Tudor invading England to take the crown.
They had made some difficult decisions, which he hoped they would not regret. It had been his idea not to bring horses. As well as the difficulty of loading and unloading them, there wasn’t the room, as every space was filled with men. Instead they carried the duke’s gold and hoped to buy horses once they landed in Wales. If they could not, they would march all the way to London.
He reached out and gripped the wet wooden rail to steady himself as the ship lurched in the swell. ‘Have you found your sea legs yet, Henry?’
Henry grinned, for a moment looking like the boy Jasper remembered. ‘If these favourable winds hold up we’ll be across in no time, but how are we going to see the fleet in this mist?’
‘It will lift once the sun comes out.’
‘We should post more lookouts. It wouldn’t do to invade England with only five ships.’
Jasper scanned the horizon. The visibility was improving but the skies ahead looked dark and brooding. A shower of foaming spray splashed across the deck, soaking soldiers lining the rail. He smiled at their colourful curses, in English as well as Breton and French. This was more than a mercenary army. Good men came to support their cause from far and wide.
He studied the sails of the other four ships in the little fleet, already starting to disperse in the uncertain seas, yet close enough for him to see a man on the deck of one raise a hand and wave. Instinctively he waved back, a small act of reassurance. Some of those who sailed with him did so for the pay but many lived in hope of a new life under a king they would be proud to serve.
When the squall hit it was as if nature conspired against them. The rain seemed to come from all directions, with such force it took Jasper’s breath away and forced him to seek refuge below decks. Although this was one of the largest ships, chosen as the flagship, the low ceiling meant he had to stoop. The hold was a dark, damp world of cursing, dripping men, their lives depending on the unlucky few with the task of weathering the storm.
He found Henry in conversation with Captain Derien le Du, master of La Margarite and one of the duke’s most experienced captains. A likeable, swarthy man, he wore a Breton cap and an oiled leather seaman’s cape over his doublet. Some of the hardier sailors played a noisy game with dice and the others sang old songs in their deep, heavily accented voices, accompanied by someone on a shrill penny whistle.
Henry spotted Jasper and beckoned him to come closer. ‘Captain le Du needs to know if we wish to press on or wait until we see the rest of the fleet.’
The ship shuddered as the bow crashed into another heavy wave and Jasper raised his voice to make himself heard. He realised they were both looking at him for confirmation of their plan.
‘They know we’re headed for Dorset so it makes sense to cover the ground while we can. I don’t relish the prospect of waiting for this storm to worsen.’
The storm finally eased a little and they followed Captain le Du back on deck to shelter in the lee of the sails. Henry pointed to a dark shape off to starboard. With a shock of realisation Jasper saw it was La Michelle, one of the ships that had been at their side. Her mainsail was torn and flapped violently in the stiff breeze as they watched the crew struggle to bring it under control.
‘Where are our other ships?’ Henry searched the horizon in all directions.
As if in reply a wave broke over the bows, sending a foot of seawater across the deck. Jasper tasted the salty tang of seawater and looked up at the troubled sky. The storm may have passed but there was no sign of the other three ships.
Captain le Du was philosophical. ‘They might have turned back.’ He glanced at Henry. ‘I was nearly minded to.’ There was a hint of criticism in his voice, although as captain it was his decision.
Jasper cursed at the thought. If the other ships turned back their plans would be ruined. By the time they returned to Brittany winter would have set in and it would mean waiting until spring. Worse still, they had used most of the duke’s loans. The crews and soldiers would still demand payment, as it would not be their fault they never set foot on English soil.
‘We will sail on.’ Henry pointed ahead. ‘I can see land, there on the horizon. The rest of the fleet could be already off the Dorset coast, waiting for us to arrive.’
‘That looks to be the Isle of Wight.’ Jasper squinted into the gloom.
Henry turned to the captain. ‘We could shelter overnight at Poole Harbour and see if there is any sign of the fleet by morning?’
The captain grunted agreement and went to shout orders at his crew. Jasper looked at Henry and tried to recall the boy who shivered below decks on the outward voyage. He was learning fast, and knew how to command men with much greater experience than himself.
After sailing through a stormy, sleepless night, Jasper felt great relief as they made the narrow entrance into the safe anchorage of Poole in Dorset, with La Michelle, the one remaining ship, following in their wake. There was no sign of any others from their fleet. This was a disappointment but there was no danger of their being taken for an invading army. They looked like what they were, a couple of Breton ships seeking shelter from the storm still raging in the Channel.
The first light of dawn glimmered on the horizon as they set anchor and tried to have a few hours of sleep while they waited for the other ships to arrive. When Jasper woke there was still no sight of them, so he decided to take La Margarite’s skiff ashore. It would be useful to see if there was any news of the Duke of Buckingham’s revolt, although he insisted Henry must remain on board, as landing was not without risks.
As they rowed closer to the harbour wall Jasper spotted armed men on the quayside, watching their approach and called up to them. ‘We are Breton, in need of supplies!’
One of the men stepped forward. He cupped his hands and shouted back in a rich West Country accent. ‘Come ashore, boys!’
They rowed to the stone steps and tied up to an iron ring set into the harbour wall. Jasper’s instinct told him something was wrong. This was where they had arranged to meet the other ships but too many men waited for them on the quayside. Too many to fight, if they had to. An idea occurred to him and he called up again.
‘Is there any news of the Duke of Buckingham?’
‘We are the Duke of Buckingham’s men. Come up and we’ll tell you!’
The relief he felt was immediately replaced by alarm as he heard some of the soldiers laugh. He had heard that laugh before, the laugh of men who shared a joke at someone else’s expense. They had unwittingly sailed into a trap at their first landfall. Two of his men had already reached the top and a third was half way up the steps.
‘Come back!’ He glanced back at their ship, silhouetted at anchor a surprising distance away. ‘We have to get back!’
His warning came too late. His men at the top of the quay were seized by soldiers and a third was caught in a scuffle as he tried to return to the boat. More soldiers scrambled down, but the narrow steps were slippery, giving Jasper an advantage and he managed to wrest his arm free of their grip. He leapt back into the boat, nearly causing it to capsize, and cut through the mooring rope with his knife.
‘Row, as fast as you can!’
The remaining two sailors grabbed the oars and pulled the boat away from the quay as Jasper slashed with his knife at the hands grasping for their boat. One of the soldiers cursed loudly at the wound on the back of his hand and staggered backwards in surprise.
The oarsmen found their stroke, but as they sped away from the quay, Jasper could see his two men left behind still struggling, despite being hopelessly outnumbered. He looked at La Margarite and wondered if there was time to bring it alongside the quay to rescue his men but it was too late. Once again he’d escaped capture by running away from a
fight and the knowledge left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Chapter Twenty-Five
December 1483
The choir sang in Latin, a haunting, ethereal sound that echoed in the chill air of Christmas Day in Rennes Cathedral. To Jasper it sounded more like a requiem than a celebration. He raised his eyes to the life-sized figure of Christ and prayed for his nephew Henry Tudor. They were there for the exiled nobles to formally swear allegiance to Henry as the rightful King of England, and for the blessing of his betrothal to Princess Elizabeth, York’s eldest daughter, whom he still had never set eyes upon.
As the self-important priest began a long sermon Jasper found his mind wandering to the recent failed invasion that so nearly cost them their lives. He thanked God they were both safe and well in Brittany but the near disaster cost them a fortune in loans from Duke Francis. He doubted they would ever now be in a position to repay the money owed to him or keep the promises they had made.
After his narrow escape from the soldiers in Poole they had no choice other than to return to Brittany. Another savage storm caught them in the Channel and took them so far off course they made landfall on the Cotentin Peninsula near Valognes in Normandy. He understood when Henry had no wish to return to sea, so they secured safe conduct down the coast of France to Vannes. When they finally returned it was to a welcome from an army of refugees from Richard’s purges, led by Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, Queen Elizabeth’s son by her first marriage, and Sir Edward Woodville, the queen’s younger brother.
Jasper smiled to himself as he recalled Henry’s reaction. Instead of accepting defeat, the disaster strengthened his resolve, despite news the Duke of Buckingham was dead, publicly executed for treason after his Welsh retainers deserted him at Brecon. They had learned some hard lessons and would be better prepared next time.
He glanced across at Henry’s serious face and calculated it would be his twenty-seventh birthday next month. He was pleased Henry was committing to a good marriage, rather than let the years slip past as he had. He remembered Bishop Stillington commenting that Princess Elizabeth was a fine young girl, with her mother’s beauty and her father’s brains. It was meant in jest but by all accounts the truth.
Lady Margaret knew what she was doing by arranging this marriage. If it ever took place it would be a fresh start, uniting the Houses of Lancaster and York. Only one obstacle stood in their path. Jasper scowled at the thought of Richard declaring himself king. He couldn’t understand how the good men and women of England could accept the disappearance of the two young princes, yet by all accounts it seemed they had.
His eyes returned to the painted figure of Christ, which seemed to glow in the light of a hundred candles, and swore a private oath to do everything in his power to see Henry on the English throne, with Elizabeth of York at his side as queen. He had not come to the cathedral expecting to find his faith restored, yet now he felt all the hardships and apparently wasted years had prepared him well for what lay ahead.
Christopher Urswick carried a letter from Lady Margaret that confirmed him as her priest and confessor, her most trusted man, and recommended him to Henry. The thin-faced priest looked at Jasper with dark eyes that seemed to read his mind, then turned to Henry. He spoke quietly, in a voice that sounded older than his years and made his words all the more chilling.
‘Pierre Landais is plotting to return you to England.’
Jasper cursed and Henry stared at the priest as the consequences of this news sank home. Eight months of hard work unravelled in an instant. Duke Francis had retired from public life because of his failing health and Landais now effectively governed Brittany. The arrangement suited them well, as he had been generous, extending further loans for the ships at anchor in the harbour of St Malo.
‘He saved my life.’ Henry turned on the priest. ‘I find it hard to believe he has betrayed our trust. How did you come by this information?’
‘Lord Stanley overheard the story by chance at Westminster Palace. He felt obliged to inform his wife, Lady Margaret, who sent me secretly to Bishop John Morton, who is currently in exile in Antwerp. The bishop provided me with a letter of introduction to the Regent of France, Duchess Anne de Beaujeu, who has granted safe-conducts for you both, my lords, and bids you to make haste. There is little time to be lost.’
‘What of the loans, the ships, and all the work we’ve done?’ Henry sounded shocked.
‘Praemonitus, praemunitus. Forewarned is forearmed, my lords.’ The priest gave the ghost of a smile. ‘I believe divine providence is at work. Bishop Morton has also provided money to help your escape.’
‘We must leave right away.’ Henry’s tone softened a little. ‘I thank you for risking your life for our cause.’
Jasper agreed. ‘We must also alert Duke Francis. He has been good to us. It would not be right to desert him.’
‘You must take care not to alert Pierre Landais and force his hand.’ The priest glanced towards the door. ‘I understand he is an ambitious man, and close to concluding his negotiations.’
Jasper cursed again. ‘How could we be so blind? Ever since Duke Francis took to his sick bed Landais has been plotting.’
‘That’s why he agreed the loans, to keep us here as his pawns?’ Henry glanced at his papers, accounts and detailed inventories, now useless.
‘And it explains why there have been so many delays. Our ships should be ready now, yet there is always some problem, some reason not to set a date for the invasion.’
‘Pierre Landais has good reason.’
Jasper heard the bitterness in Henry’s voice. ‘We must prepare to leave while we can, Henry. With God’s grace there is still time. He has no reason to suspect.’
‘Will Landais not come after us, when he hears we’ve escaped?’
‘We must deceive him. I will leave with a small group of hand-picked men on the pretext of visiting the duke. You could leave shortly afterwards and meet us in Angers?’
‘What about all our supporters here?’
The priest spoke again, his voice unexpectedly authoritative. ‘You can’t tell anyone of our plan, my lord. We need them to continue as if nothing has happened, at least until we are safely in France.’
No one paid any attention to Jasper as he rode out from the Château de l’Hermine with the sombre priest at his side, followed by half a dozen trusted nobles. They said they were visiting Duke Francis, and would be away for a few days. Instead, they galloped hard for the border, avoiding the main roads and staying away from towns and villages.
They needed to rest the horses, but continued through most of the following day before the distinctive twin spires of Angers cathedral appeared on the skyline. Henry followed shortly afterwards, stopping only to meet the wagon carrying their possessions, where he changed into the plain clothes of a servant. After an anxious wait, Jasper spotted an exhausted Henry, still disguised, with a straw hat shading his face.
‘Henry!’ He waved to catch his nephew’s attention.
‘Praise God I’ve found you!’ Henry glanced back behind him as if expecting to see Landais’ soldiers in pursuit. ‘We had to leave the wagon, although I hope it will be here soon.’
Jasper smiled. They had amassed few enough possessions in all their years in Brittany. Even Jasper’s precious armour showed its age, the leather straps gnawed by rats, and fitted poorly around his broadening middle. He tried to keep himself fit and although he was over fifty, he reminded himself how his father had a son, David Owen, when he’d been even older, and had willingly ridden into battle with their Welsh army.
The thirteen-year-old King Charles wore a black felt hat too large for his head and a heavy gold chain around his neck. Jasper suspected their invitation to his court at Montargis, south of Paris, had been prompted by the young king’s shrewd and attractive sister, Duchess Anne, who at twenty-two would certainly realise the value of Henry’s claim to the English throne.
‘We are grateful for your generosity, Your Grace.’ Henry spoke i
n French and sounded confident. ‘Let us mark this day as a new beginning between France and England.’
‘You speak for England?’ King Charles’ voice betrayed his youth.
‘I do, Your Grace. With your help and support, we will take the throne.’
Henry’s words hung in the air while he waited for the young king’s reply. Jasper gave the princess Regent of France a barely imperceptible nod. They had rehearsed this moment earlier. The future security of both their countries was too great a prize to leave to chance. He saw the flash of acknowledgement in her eyes. She would have made a fine wife for Henry, had she not already been married to the Duke of Bourbon at the age of twelve.
‘If we provide the support you need, will you relinquish all claim on the crown of France?’
‘I will, Your Grace.’ Henry addressed himself to the fledgling king, although his sister asked the question. ‘I give you my solemn word all loans will be repaid in full, and we will agree terms of peace with France.’
When he was finally alone with Henry they looked at each other in silence for a moment as the enormity of what had been agreed dawned on them.
‘All those months of planning have not been wasted after all, Uncle. Now we can fund as many ships as we’ll need, instead of limiting our men to those we can carry.’
‘It’s not such a bad thing to have another year of preparation, Henry. We will let Richard think we’ve failed and are no longer a threat.’
‘Surely he won’t believe a word of it?’
‘People hear what they wish to, Henry. Richard and his advisors are no exception.’ Jasper smiled. ‘All the same, we can ask Christopher Urswick to take a letter back and ask him to see it falls into the wrong hands.’
So many of Henry’s supporters arrived in Montargis it was necessary for Jasper and Henry to arrange a special court to welcome them, and agree what part they might have in the preparations for invasion. One of the first men they met, Sir Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, had put himself forward as a spokesman for the men they had been forced to abandon in Brittany.