Jasper (11 page)

Gabriel had finally achieved his boyhood ambition and been given charge of their little fleet, a role he had taken to with great enthusiasm. On Jasper’s instruction he had overseen the conversion of the duke’s tired old merchantmen into makeshift warships, which still had the outward appearance of merchant traders yet were stripped for speed. Each also carried new swivel guns, hidden below decks, which could be mounted on pivots fitted to the rails and could fire buckshot as well as four-pound cannon balls.

With luck, they should not attract the attention of English patrols until safely around Land’s End but if they did, the plan was not to give up without a fight. The Breton crews were strengthened with more than fifty French mercenaries and the last remaining Irishmen, who acted as Jasper’s personal guard and followed him with such loyalty he thought of them as brothers. They still practised their skirmishing skills and carried crossbows slung over their shoulders, with their deadly roundel daggers at their belts.

Much to the relief of the men, Jasper decided they would not carry horses on such a long voyage but try to purchase some once they made landfall in Wales. He had kept back some of the meagre allowance provided by Duke Francis, although he hoped loyal Lancastrians would help cover such expenses. At one time he would never consider asking for money in the name of the king but now he had no choice.

Gabriel appeared at Jasper’s side. ‘Ready to set sail when you wish, sir.’

Jasper nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Well done, Gabriel. I’m looking forward to seeing Wales again after so long.’

Gabriel studied the fluttering pennant at the mast top. ‘I can’t tell how long for, sir, but the winds are in our favour now.’

Jasper pointed to the horizon. ‘Our escort, Admiral Alain de la Motte.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘He wants to be certain I leave this place. King Louis has accused the duke of breaching the treaty by helping us.’

‘Did King Louis not fund our voyage, sir?’

‘He did, although the price of five hundred pounds was to see the back of us, so we had better oblige him. Have your men hoist flags of Brittany, Gabriel, at least until we are safely out of the range of York’s patrols.’

A freshening breeze filled their sails and the rigging of Jasper’s ship creaked with the strain as it heeled. As they waved off their escort past Land’s End Jasper felt in control of his own destiny for the first time since he left Ireland. He had been glad to serve their cause as envoy to the queen, and achieved more than could have been expected. Now at last he could make decisions for himself and was answerable only to his conscience.

They headed up the Irish Sea and Jasper regretfully decided they should give the south of Wales a wide berth. Instead they would make landfall under the cover of darkness in the sheltered waters of the Mawddach estuary off Barmouth. Harlech Castle stood on high cliffs overlooking the coast but Jasper worried that Herbert might have sentries watching the approaches, so he left enough men to protect his ships and had the rest ferried ashore in rowing boats.

He warned his men to be vigilant and ready for a fight as they marched north in the darkness, and felt relief when they finally sighted the lights of Harlech ahead, the castle a dark shape high on a rocky hilltop, dominating the skyline. Taking cover behind the crest of a hill, they watched for any sign of movement by York’s forces.

Jasper nodded to Gabriel. ‘Take a couple of men, and good luck, Gabriel.’

They had discussed the possibility that the castle had already been taken by Herbert, in which case it could be disastrous to march up to the gatehouse. They also risked being mistaken for the enemy if they approached unannounced, so Gabriel came up with a plan to pretend to be a passing Irish trader wishing to supply the castle.

Jasper said a silent prayer as he waited. Harlech remained their last remaining stronghold in Wales but he remembered how easily Herbert took Pembroke Castle once the men holding it lost heart. He heard a cough and the scrape of a boot on gravel in the darkness and breathed again with relief to see Gabriel return with a reassuring grin on his face.

‘The castle held, sir.’ He sounded breathless from his brisk climb up to the gatehouse and back. ‘The garrison commander welcomes you, and asks that you join him for a jug of ale to celebrate your return to Wales.’

Captain David ap Einion, the commander of Harlech garrison was a portly, bald-headed veteran of the wars in France with a voice that boomed in a strong Welsh accent. He embraced Jasper warmly once his men were safely inside the castle walls.

‘It is truly good to see you, my lord. We’ve heard all manner of rumours yet not had much news since Sir Richard Tunstall left.’

‘A good man,’ Jasper recalled a tall figure who fought so bravely for the king at his side in St Albans. ‘He has returned to Bamburgh?’

‘He has, sir.’ The captain smiled. ‘I think he found Harlech too cut off from the world.’

‘He will find Bamburgh little better, Captain. Give me Wales any day over Northumberland.’

Jasper slept through until noon the next day, his long sea voyage and the captain’s hospitality having taken its toll. Now he was finally in a position to strike a blow against William Herbert, if only he could find him. Rumours he’d heard as far away as Brittany about the siege of Harlech Castle proved to be false, as in truth attacks were rare and the high vantage-point meant it was impossible for Herbert’s men to take them by surprise.

He took a tour of the castle and climbed the steps to the top of the battlements. He could see across to Ireland and as far as the mountains of the Welsh heartlands. The height from the top of the battlements to the ground made him feel dizzy as he looked down. If an attack came, it would be the well-chosen location and solid stone mass of the castle that saved them, rather than the number of men defending it.

He found Captain ap Einion checking the records of supplies in his office. A small, dimly-lit room near the gatehouse, there seemed barely enough room for his large oak desk, covered with papers. An old cannon ball served as a paperweight, and an impressive iron stand held his inkpot and quill.

‘My father used to tell me stories of the great Welsh rebellion led from here by Owain Glyndur.’ Jasper picked up the iron ball, impressed by its solid weight.

The captain nodded proudly. ‘This castle was Glyndur’s base, after he starved the English out.’

‘What do you do for supplies?’ Mention of being starved out reminded Jasper of the nightmare of Bamburgh and had no wish to repeat the experience.

‘You’d be surprised how much support there is for our cause, my lord,’ the captain smiled, ‘despite what York would have you believe. Some bring us money, others food and casks of ale, whatever they can spare.’

‘And your men?’

‘We’ve had a few deserters but that’s to be expected—and I don’t think they’ve gone running to William Herbert. Back to their womenfolk, more likely.’ He laughed at his own joke.

‘Do you know where Herbert can be found?’

‘You’re in luck, my lord. We’ve been informed Lord Herbert has been granted two thousand pounds and appointed Constable of Harlech. He is bound to show his face here soon enough.’

‘I trust you are right, Captain, as I have a score to settle with Lord Herbert.’

‘I almost forgot. There is something I must show you, my lord.’

The captain searched through his papers, muttering as he did so, then found a folded parchment bearing the Great Seal of Parliament. He handed it to Jasper, who took it to the light of the small window to read. It was an order to surrender Harlech Castle, or all the entire garrison would be charged with treason and any lords within attainted.

‘Well, Captain, one service Lord Herbert has done me is that I no longer have any lands for York to confiscate.’ He handed the parchment back to the captain who threw it in his pile. ‘Let’s show them why we will never surrender.’

The horses seemed to sense something was about to happen. They grazed the lush grass of the hillside but now several stopped, heads raised with their ears flicking forward, while others cantered further away. They would have been taken from farms and villages all over North Wales for use by York’s army. Jasper watched from the cover of a ridgeway. There were more than he could easily count and they looked to be in good condition.

Gabriel smiled as he studied them. ‘They look like ponies to me, sir.’ He kept his voice to a whisper.

‘Welsh cobs, bred from mountain ponies, Gabriel.’ Jasper felt strangely defensive. ‘They are tough and intelligent. Not as fast as your Irish horses, but quick enough, and if we run out of feed they can fend for themselves.’

‘There don’t seem to be any men guarding them.’ Gabriel scanned the perimeter as far as he could see.

Jasper glanced at the last sliver of moon still visible in the grey velvet dawn. ‘It’s early, but it looks as if Herbert’s men have grown complacent.’

He glanced along the ridge to ensure his men were all in place and realised what had troubled him since they discovered Herbert’s camp. He had never in his life ordered a man to be killed in cold blood. In every battle of this dreadful civil war he had been defending the king, the Lancastrian cause, or fighting for his life.

‘If you come across any guards I want them taken alive. Unharmed, unless we have no choice.’

Gabriel understood. ‘I’ll pass word to the men, sir.’ He slipped away without a sound, leaving Jasper to keep watch.

Captain ap Einion had provided him with an open-faced steel helmet and a battered breastplate of uncertain age. He loosened the strap on his helmet and adjusted the wool padding inside to prevent it rubbing against the back of his neck. He missed his suit of armour, made by craftsmen and now long gone, together with his fine sword and many of his most prized possessions. It irked him to know they were now being used by York’s men.

He would have liked to surround the entire camp and capture every man inside, including Lord William Herbert, the man who stole his birthright and kidnapped his nephew, Henry. The stakes were higher now than ever before, as if he was captured it would mean certain death. He had no wish to put the extent of York’s compassion to the test. Instead he must live within his means, strike this blow and escape while he could.

Gabriel raised a hand high in the air, the sign that all the men were ready. They had been longing for some real action, and now was their chance at last to show what they could do. He raised his hand and dropped it, the signal meant there would be no going back.

His men were in two divisions. Jasper lead the diversionary attack, planned to cause as much chaos as they could to draw the guards away. The second, smaller division under Gabriel’s command had the challenging task of capturing as many horses as possible and driving them down the valley, all the way back to Harlech.

Their plan depended on taking William Herbert’s men by surprise. Captain ap Einion looked apologetic when he explained his guards were only trained to defend the castle. They never risked leaving the safety of the fortress to attack Herbert’s patrols, let alone raid one of his camps. Jasper knew how soldiers could fall into easy habits and forget the dangers they faced. It would be a gamble, but it was time to take risks and the sun had yet to rise, so he also expected most of Herbert’s men to be sleeping.

Their main weapon was one of the oldest known to man. His skirmishers had practised the skill of preserving a flame, carried in a blacked-out lantern, to light the torches they carried made from cotton rags soaked with tar, then throwing them onto anything that would burn well and making good their escape. They had learned the keys to success were timing and stealth, as many fires had to be lit at the same time, and they must all escape before the alarm was raised.

A barking cough sounded from somewhere within as they entered the camp, but it seemed they had neglected to post guards. It looked as if the scouts Jasper sent out to spy on the camp were right. They drew him a rough sketch of the layout, a circle of tents around a group of farm buildings, including the old barn, chosen as their main target. Roofed with slate, they had no idea what the barn contained but hoped the timbers would be dry enough to burn.

The men spread out, keeping low and using such cover as they could find. Jasper drew his sword and watched as they gave him the thumbs up signal, then returned it. One by one they crouched to the ground and lit their torches. The first flames hardly began burning when a half-dressed man emerged from one of the tents with a loud curse, buckling on his sword.

‘Stand to!’ He bellowed. ‘Stand to! We are under attack!’

A well-aimed crossbow bolt struck him in the chest and he collapsed like a falling tree but he had done his job, as a dozen more of Herbert’s soldiers came running from the barn. Some lashed out at Jasper’s skirmishers, swinging long halberds with pointed axe-heads that could pierce armour.

Others had swords and were better prepared, reacting swiftly to the invasion of their camp. One of their commanders, a tall, thick-set man with a sallet helmet and an engraved breastplate over his doublet, called for water to douse the flames while another yelled for the guards.

The Irishmen were hopelessly outnumbered and began to be surrounded by Herbert’s men. Jasper heard one of his skirmishers cry out in pain as he was cut down by a savage slash from a sword. Others ran, throwing their burning torches into the tented camp as they left.

Fires blazed brightly in all directions, the acrid smell of burning adding to the sense of panic and danger. The wall of the old barn finally caught light with leaping orange flames that crackled loudly as they rose into the sky. Thick, choking smoke billowed into the early morning air, creating more confusion among the men in the camp.

‘For the king and Lancaster!’ Jasper drew his sword and held it high, the signal to the small army of French and Breton mercenaries he’d ordered to wait at the edge of the camp. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this but had no choice if he was going to save the lives of the Irishmen who served him so loyally.

The Bretons swept into the camp, yelling at the tops of their voices, and cut a swathe through Herbert’s soldiers, some of whom threw down their weapons and ran, rather than face this new wave of attackers. Jasper found himself caught up in the thrill and danger of the battle, his wish to only take prisoners forgotten in a surge of anger.

The battle brought back painful memories of the ambush at Mortimer’s Cross and his father’s cruel execution at the hands of York’s men. He narrowly dodged a swinging pole-axe and thrust with the sharp tip of his sword, wounding the soldier before turning to fend off another. Too late, he felt searing pain as a blade slashed at his right arm. Only his padded jack saved a deeper wound, as the violence of the blow numbed his hand, causing his sword to clatter to the ground.

Ignoring the blood flowing from the cut he reached for his dagger and plunged it into the body of his attacker, who stared at him with a look of horror and surprise then fell backwards. No longer able to fight, Jasper picked up his fallen sword and glanced around him. The men he brought with him all the way from Brittany had clearly won the day. Dead and dying soldiers lay among the still burning tents and the air filled with the acrid tang of smoke made his eyes water.

He raised his sword high again with his left hand and roared the order to cease fighting. Herbert’s remaining men began throwing down their weapons and surrendering. Jasper searched their soot-blackened faces until he found their commander. The man removed his fine helmet to reveal short-cropped hair turned grey with age and stared back at Jasper with a mixture of anger and curiosity on his weather-beaten face.

‘Captain Gwynfor Philips, of Lord Herbert’s guard,’ he gruffly introduced himself. ‘I ask that you spare my men, sir.’ He glanced at his surviving comrades and scowled when he saw how many lay dead. ‘They are all good loyal Welshmen.’

‘Sir Jasper Tudor, servant of the true king and rightful Earl of Pembroke.’ He saw the man’s eyes widen with surprise at his name and the title, taken by Lord Herbert as his own. ‘You are fortunate, Captain. In King Henry’s name I pardon your men, and any who wish to join us are most welcome.’

‘We can go free, my lord?’ The captain sounded puzzled, yet there was new respect in his tone.

Jasper nodded. ‘Give Lord Herbert my regards when you see him next.’

The celebrations at Harlech Castle were muted out of respect for the good men who died that day, including four of Jasper’s Irishmen. The bandaged cut on Jasper’s arm needed to be sewn closed, an experience which proved more painful than the original injury. The soldier who acted as the garrison physician was also the cook, and cautioned him to be vigilant for any sign of fever, which could lose him his arm, or his life, if he was unlucky.

Jasper thanked the man for his comforting words and made his way to the castle’s small chapel, built against the north wall. At the altar where Owain Glyndur might have prayed, he said a prayer for the souls of the loyal men lost in the battle. As he knelt in silent contemplation, he recalled the thrill of their unexpected victory. It seemed his luck had returned at last, as had his faith in God.

Jasper sent men out into the local towns and villages to spread the word. The House of Lancaster had returned to Wales and any men who wished to help restore the king were welcome. News of Lord William Herbert’s defeat travelled swiftly, for within a week more volunteers arrived at the castle than could be comfortably billeted within its towering walls.

 
Captain ap Einion did his best yet admitted his concerns. ‘If many more come, my lord, we’ll not be able to feed them all. I’ve never seen the like of it.’

Jasper could tell such numbers of men would soon overwhelm his supplies. ‘I can’t turn them away. What about the townspeople? Can we rely on them to provide for our men?’

‘I will see what I can do, my lord, but as you know, every space in the castle is full.’

‘We have the horses we recovered from the enemy camp and we also have plenty of weapons, thanks to Lord Herbert.’ He peered out from the captain’s window at the crowds of men gathering outside, some wearing armour, others carrying pitchforks and billhooks. ‘There must be more than a thousand. We can’t take on York’s army but we’ve enough to send a message to his Parliament in London that Wales supports the true king.’

‘Do you plan to go after Lord Herbert in South Wales?’

‘I could march these men to Pembroke but the castle there will never be taken by siege.’ He shook his head. ‘I personally made sure of it. No, Captain, we will go instead to Denbigh. I took the garrison there before with my father, and with God’s grace we shall do it again.’

They set out at first light under an overcast sky, Gabriel riding at Jasper’s side at the head of a hundred mounted soldiers, with over a thousand marching behind to the beat of drums. Behind them followed wagons loaded with supplies, and an itinerant blacksmith, his tools clanging as his cart negotiated the rough track. Jasper had spent the last of his money on supplies for this Welsh army, so there would be no going back.

Gabriel looked ahead at the mist covered mountains in their path. ‘How far is it to Denbigh, my lord?’

‘Some fifty miles, if we follow the drovers’ trail through the hills, but we need to stay on the roads and visit as many villages as we can.’ Jasper turned to look at the line of horses and men, extending behind them for as far as he could see. ‘Captain ap Einion warned me North Wales has its share of York’s spies and informers, so there’s little chance of us being able to take the garrison at Denbigh by surprise.’

‘We can be sure of a warm welcome then, sir?’

‘We can, Gabriel. It’s impossible to take so many men across the country without being seen, so instead of trying to hide we will openly recruit as many as we can on the way.’