Sacrifice
Page 11
Her daughter still lived. She knew it in her bones. Perhaps Martin as well. He had certainly survived Tewkesbury: after the battle was done, he came to Whiteladies and tried to persuade Kate to go with him into exile. She refused, preferring the sanctuary of a nunnery to a life of passion and danger.
Weak creature. Die now, and take your place among the choir of angels.
She heard the soft tread of the nuns on the stair. They came to hear Kate’s confession and give her the last rites.
Mary bowed her head as the Mother Superior entered, a thin, grey-haired woman, hiding endless compassion behind a severe countenance, and retreated into the shadows.
Condemned to a life of silence, Mary was nothing more than a shadow herself. Yet she still breathed, and dreamed of better days.
Chapter 14
The Chateau L’Hermine, Vannes, Brittany, September 1484
Henry was at breakfast when the messenger stumbled into the hall, unkempt and travel-stained from a hard ride along bad roads.
He recognised the messenger as Christopher Urswick, a priest who acted as his mother’s confessor. Henry had received a steady stream of letters from England in Urswick’s hand, but never expected him to appear in person at Vannes.
“Your Majesty,” gulped Urswick, falling to his knees and clasping his hands, “you must fly from Vannes at once – get out of Brittany, as you value your freedom!”
Henry beat down a tide of panic, and wiped his lips while the other men at table leaped to their feet and made noises. They included his uncle Pembroke, Sir Edward Woodville and Edward Poynings, one of the recent newcomers to Henry’s court.
“Now, Christopher,” said Henry when the shouts of alarm had died down, “what means this? Have a drop of wine, and explain yourself.”
Urswick was usually a calm, self-contained man, but his damp face was a picture of terror. “There is no time!” he bleated, “I rode through the night, but Landais will have sent troops…they will be here by noon…to horse and away, in God’s name, before it is too late!”
“By noon? Then we have a few hours’ grace. Uncle, please to give Master Urswick a chair, and the wine I promised.”
Pembroke did so, and forced the priest to sit. After he had gulped down a cupful of wine, Urswick babbled out his tale in a more or less coherent manner.
“I have come from Bishop Morton in Flanders,” he began.
Henry nodded, and gestured at him to continue. Morton, following a short spell in prison after the execution of Lord Hastings, had fled into exile. He was hand-in-glove with Henry’s mother, Margaret Beaufort, and between them they plotted to stir up fresh unrest in England.
“My lord bishop is in regular correspondence with your lady mother,” Urswick went on, “from her ladyship’s agents in Paris he learned of the recent treaty between Pierre Landais and Richard Plantagenet.”
Henry half-rose from his chair, bruising his knees on the underside of the table. “What treaty?” he demanded, ignoring the pain, “we knew nothing of any negotiations.”
Urswick stared miserably into his empty cup. “It was conducted in secret, and signed in June. Richard has agreed to supply the Bretons with a thousand English archers, if they in return will hand over Your Majesty to him.”
Henry looked to his uncle. “Duke Francis would never have come to any such arrangement,” said Pembroke, “Landais, on the other hand, is hated by the Bretons. He would agree to anything to strengthen his position. A treaty with Richard would achieve that.”
Henry’s mind had already raced to the same conclusion. Pierre Landais was the duke’s treasurer, a ruthless and grasping minister, much hated by the Breton nobility and commoners alike. His master, never the most strong-minded of statesmen, was in rapid decline, and suffered increasingly frequent bouts of brain fever.
While Francis recovered, power in the duchy was given over to Landais, who cared little for the fortunes of Henry of Richmond and his supporters. Forging an alliance with Richard, and obtaining military aid, would help him to save himself and ward off the ambitions of the French.
Henry leaned his elbows on the table and massaged his temples, willing himself to think clearly. “If the treaty was concluded in June,” he said, “then Landais has waited a long time to make his move against me. How do you know he has sent troops to Vannes?”
Urswick gaped like a startled fish before replying. “I…I don’t,” he stammered, “but my lord bishop was absolutely clear. Your Grace must leave Brittany with all haste, and look for sanctuary in France. The Bretons would not dare to follow you over the border.”
“Quite right,” said Poynings, “the French would regard it as an act of war. They look for any excuse to invade Brittany.”
A tense silence fell. Henry shut his eyes, shut out everything except the need to devise a plan. Fear clawed at him. He pushed it away, would not allow it to disorder his thoughts.
Henry was used to fear. Since the age of five, when he was first taken into captivity, it had been his constant companion. He greeted the pangs like an old friend.
“I like not this talk of running away,” said Edward Woodville, “all I have done is flee, like a whipped dog, ever since the old king died. It goes against the grain. I say we stand fast and wait for Duke Francis to recover his wits. He is an honourable man, and has always been Your Majesty’s friend. As soon as he learns of the treaty with England, he will tear it up and hang Landais from the walls of his capital.”
Henry winced. Edward was a good man, a bold and valiant knight, but only a fool would heed his advice.
At the same time Henry was acutely aware his stock had fallen in Brittany. The disastrous failure of Buckingham’s rebellion had dampened his hopes, though at least his court was strengthened by a stream of fugitives from England, fleeing Richard’s wrath.
To secure their support, Henry had taken a solemn oath in Vannes Cathedral on Christmas Day, swearing to marry Richard’s niece, Elizabeth of York, when he overthrew the usurper and became King. With this union, the contending factions of Lancaster and York would at last be united, and the bloody wounds of civil conflict healed.
That, at least, was the idea. Henry had never even set eyes on Elizabeth, and at present his oath seemed a futile gesture. He had no money beyond the pittance doled out by Duke Francis, no troops, no ships, no hope.
“You will stand fast, indeed,” he said to Edward, “and so will Poynings. I want you both to remain in Vannes while I ride for the French border. Remind me, uncle, where is the duke currently residing?”
“On his estates near the border of Anjou,” Pembroke replied promptly, “but, Harry…”
Henry raised a hand to silence him. “Our little court must split up,” he said, “uncle, you will go to Anjou with half our following, to plead with the duke for money and men. I care not if he is too sick to see you. Once you near the border, ride with all speed into Anjou.”
“Once a suitable length of time has passed – a day, maybe two – I will set out to join you in Anjou.”
“What role do we play, sire?” asked Poynings.
“A simple one. You, Woodville and a few others will stay here to belay suspicion. So long as there are Englishmen in Vannes, the Bretons will think I am still in residence.”
“My thanks,” he said, remembering Urswick, “and convey my gratitude to your master in Flanders. You will both be amply rewarded when the crown of England sits on my brow.”
Pembroke departed that afternoon, riding south-east towards Anjou with some fifty men at his back. Three hundred remained in Vannes under the command of Poynings and Woodville.
Henry waited another day, and then rode out of the castle in the morning, after breakfast. He took just five servants with him, and explained to the castellan of Vannes, a servant of Duke Francis, that he intended to visit a friend on a neighbouring manor.
As soon as he was clear of the town gates, Henry drove in his spurs and urged his horse into a furious gallop. She was a courser, specially
chosen for her speed, and his companions were hard-put to keep pace with their master as he tore along the highway.
They had gone some five miles, and were riding through a stretch of woodland, when Henry suddenly turned off the road and guided his horse into a sheltered little glade.
Panting and dripping with sweat, he dismounted and started to strip off his clothing. Only one of his servants followed him into the trees. The others rode on.
The remaining servant was a Welshman named Owain, one of his uncle’s old retainers. He had fought for Lancaster in the epic siege of Harlech Castle, and followed Pembroke into exile. Apart from his mother and uncle, Henry found it difficult to place his trust in anyone, but Owain was a proven man.
Their exchange of clothing was pre-planned. Henry quickly donned Owain’s plain leather jerkin and tattered cloak, while the Welshman took his master’s fine fur-lined cloak, velvet hat and silver-linked belt.
Henry kept his sword, as much for comfort than anything. If he drew steel on Breton soldiers, they doubtless had orders to kill him on the spot. Landais could hand over Henry’s corpse to the English, plausibly claim that he had been slain resisting arrest, and earn Richard’s gratitude.
“Now,” said Henry when the swap was completed, “to Anjou.”
They mounted up and returned to the highway. This time Henry rode slightly behind Owain. Any pursuers would be deceived into thinking the Welshman was Henry, and go after him while his master escaped.
The two riders kept their horses at a merciless pace, galloping through the heavily wooded countryside in a determined bid to reach the marches, and French territory, before darkness fell.
Henry kept half his mind on the road ahead, while the remainder made frantic calculations.
It had been his intention to seek asylum in France, from where the Regency government of the young king, Charles VIII, sent him occasional messages of friendship and support. Nothing tangible as yet, but his prospects at the French court seemed a good deal more promising than in Brittany.
Landais’ secret treaty with England had merely forced Henry to act sooner than he intended. With luck, Duke Francis would soon recover from his latest illness, and agree to allow the remaining Englishmen in Vannes to join their master in France.
The French were Henry’s last hope. If he failed to attract their support, he would be doomed to spend the rest of his days in exile.
Richard Plantagenet loomed large in his thoughts, a dark and merciless threat. The usurper would stop at nothing to crush Henry. There could only be one King of England, and Richard would defend his stolen crown to the death.
From now on, Henry would have to act as a king, as though the throne was his already, and Richard cold in his grave. The French would sniff out any hint of weakness. He could only hope to impress them by projecting absolute belief in his claim, bordering on arrogance.
Thus the man who crossed safely into Anjou, leaving his pursuers to stew in frustration on the wrong side of the border, was an entirely different creature to the one who fled from Vannes.
“I will be King!” he shouted in relief and joy once he was out of danger, “God wills it!”
Chapter 15
Lower Austria, October 1484
The castle was officially known as Burg Hollenburg. Like many Austrian castles, it was set in a dramatic location, perched on a high ridge overlooking miles of dark forest.
Martin called it Stink Hold, after the stench from the garderobes when The Company of the Talon first discovered the place, some nine months before. They had not been cleaned out in a long while, and the empty chambers and corridors hummed with the buzzing of millions of flies.
With the reluctant help of local peasants, the castle was soon made habitable again. Martin had no idea what happened to the previous inhabitants – the peasants merely said they had fled one night, taking all their beasts and possessions with them – but he knew the fate of the owner.
He found the Baron of Burg Hollenburg hanging from the rafters of his own hall. Apparently tortured by grief over the death of his young wife in childbirth, he had put an end to himself.
“The bloody peasants might have at least cut him down,” Martin remarked at the time, clapping a hand to his face. The baron’s body was in an advanced state of decay, and a feast for flies.
He ordered the corpse to be taken down and dumped in the woods: as a suicide, the baron’s soul was marked for Hell, and there was no point giving his earthly remains a decent Christian burial.
“Let the wolves have him,” said Martin, “he has no further use for his castle, but I do.”
Since then Martin had lorded it over the surrounding area. There was good hunting in the forests, and the local villages sent regular wagonloads of food and ale to keep their new master’s temper sweet. Some of the peasants had proved reluctant at first, but a couple of visits from The Company of the Talon soon persuaded them otherwise.
Food, ale, but no women, save those that gave themselves willingly. Martin was no more chivalrous than the next professional cut-throat, and knew that rape was considered part of a soldier’s reward, but he stubbornly refused to permit it here.
It was his custom to stand on the turret of the keep and look out over his domain. One chill autumn evening, with the taste of winter in the air, Meurig joined him.
The Welshman launched into an old argument. “You must let the men have their will, sir,” he urged, “they are growing restless. Look.”
He held up his right hand, showing bruised and bloody knuckles. “I had to beat a couple of them into silence just now. The grumbling won’t stop unless you let them off the leash. There are sixty-seven men in this castle. Sixty-seven! Only eight of them have found wives, and constantly have to be on their guard.”
Martin leaned on the parapet and glanced over the side. The wall fell away to an almost vertical precipice, almost two hundred feet high, rising above the surrounding woods.
“Any man who touches another’s wife, or takes a woman against her consent, will be branded,” he said, “that’s for a first offence. Second offence, he hangs. Those are Company rules. They all know it.”
“They know it, but don’t understand. Truth to tell, nor do I. Why are you so soft on the local wenches? They’re only peasants, and German peasants at that.”
“You know perfectly well. We can do most things to the people around here. Burn their houses, take their livestock, steal their grain. But we don’t touch their womenfolk. If we do, we’ll wake up one morning to find an armed mob outside our gates.”
Meurig shrugged. “Then we drop a few rocks on their heads. Nothing short of a proper army could storm this place. Trained soldiers, with artillery and siege equipment, not a band of village idiots.”
Martin stared at him lividly. “I believe it is you who has suffered a rock to the head,” he snarled, “there are nine villages within twenty miles of here. These folk breed like vermin, and they all know each other. A few hundred peasants could sit outside the castle and starve us out.”
He stabbed his finger at Meurig. “I don’t intend to end up swinging from the bloody rafters, like the old Baron did. So you tell the men to keep their hands to themselves, or I’ll chop their pricks off and feed them to the dogs.”
As if on cue, the sound of barking drifted up from the kennels. All proper noblemen kept dogs for hunting, and Martin wanted to be a proper nobleman. To that end, he had stolen a mastiff and a couple of wolfhound bitches from local farmers. Their pups were ugly, vicious brutes, and promised to grow big and strong enough to take down any game.
Meurig passed on his warning, but they did little to quell the unrest. The Company was growing bored, cooped up in this isolated castle, surrounded by miles of dense forest.
Martin considered throwing out some of the more disgruntled spirits. Stink Hold was small, and he didn’t need so many men for a garrison. Sooner or later they would turn on each other, or the whole lot might band together and elect a new leader.
“Ulrich just arrived outside the gate,” said the crippled German, “he claims fifteen riders are tearing up Obdach. Rape, killing, arson, the lot.”
Ulrich was the headman of Obdach, the nearest village to Stink Hold. He seemed to take Martin’s lordship seriously, and was forever petitioning for the customary rights and privileges of the villagers to be upheld. To Martin, whose knowledge of German rural customs rivalled his knowledge of Ancient Greek, the man was an amusing oaf.
“Where’s Casimir?” he asked, rising from his chair.
Henrik gave a mirthless smile. “He rode out two hours ago. Said he was going to fetch in some fresh meat. Took fourteen men with him.”
Martin puffed out his cheeks. So Casimir had finally made his move, and broken Company law. The little turd had chafed under Martin’s authority for months, ever since they deserted from the Black Army.
“Time to break that pretty face of his,” said Martin, “go and find Meurig, and tell him to sound the alarm.”
He clattered over the drawbridge with forty men at his back, leaving just ten to hold the castle in his absence. Headman Ulrich also insisted on coming along, and Martin let the man ride by his side. With luck, he might get shot in the coming skirmish.
It was as bad as Martin feared. Obdach lay some seven miles to the north-west, and he saw twists of black smoke rise from the trees long before the village came in sight. Distant screams carried on the wind, mingled with shouts and the neigh of horses.
The village was built on two gently rising pieces of ground, divided by a ravine. A wooden bridge was built over the ravine, and a river flowed through the narrow course, far below.
An idyllic setting, but now the timber-framed houses were on fire, and men with swords moved through the smoke, taking what they wanted and butchering those who tried to resist.