Jasper (23 page)

The duke’s guardsmen brought him meals in his room and kept a vigilant watch over his every move. At first it irritated him when they peered through the iron grill in his door, but he soon came to know the men and discovered they had been warned to expect attempts by York’s agents to carry him off to England. Since then he’d had the recurring nightmares, always the same.

He climbed out of bed and splashed water from a jug on the table over his face, gasping at the shock of its coldness. He stretched his arms and moved his chair to the window with a view of the River Oust far below. Taking his knife, he started to carve a new line, next to the others on the stone sill of his window. He had no idea how long this imprisonment would last so he had scratched the first one at the end of his first month.

Jasper brushed the stone dust away with his hand and sat back in his chair, fighting off the sense of despair. He should be glad to be alive and grateful for the duke’s protection, even if it felt as if life was passing him by. He leaned forward and looked out of the window at the people coming and going over the old stone bridge, like busy wood ants, just as uncaring of his situation.

Josselin was at the heart of Brittany, a natural crossroads and busy with trade. Even this early in the morning, the bustling town seemed chaotic and noisy with its own dawn chorus of hammering stonemasons and shouting street vendors. Jasper missed the serene tranquillity of Suscinio, where they hardly saw anyone other than the duke’s hunting parties.

On market days the old walled town became a buzzing hive of activity, with stalls lining the maze of narrow streets. Women haggled over the price of lace and linen and sometimes he heard musicians playing. Once he listened to a girl singing a tuneful but sad song of lost love, which served to remind him of his own loneliness.

He envied the freedom of the townspeople and often wished he could explore the market, talk to the merchants and have a drink in one of the lively taverns. The duke would not allow it, as it seemed he was determined to keep his promise to Lord Rivers and to make a show of treating Jasper as his prisoner, despite his kindness in the past. He hoped Henry fared a little better.

Limited to his daily walk in the inner courtyard, Jasper’s only company other than the guards were the staff who kept the château in good order for its absent owners, the wealthy de Rohan family. Mostly simple Breton servants, when he was able to speak to them they knew little of the world outside the stone walls of Josselin. A mixed blessing, this meant news was hard to come by and he looked forward to the duke’s sporadic visits.

There had been no sign of Gabriel or word from Henry, although the duke assured him he was well. At the duke’s last visit Jasper took the opportunity to request his permission to visit his nephew. Duke Francis refused but grudgingly agreed he could write a letter and arranged for him to be provided with parchment and ink, as well as several good goose feather quills.

When he sat at his rickety table to write, he was reminded again of the difficulty Lady Margaret faced, as the duke or one of his men would surely read the letter before it was delivered. He chose the best of the quills and tested the nib, pleased to see it left a good mark with the black, ox-gall ink.

 
To our well-beloved nephew, Henry Tudor Esq., We greet you well and pray that with God’s grace you are in good health.

He hesitated as he tried to find the right words to reassure Henry of his own circumstances. Inhaling deeply, he forced the suffocating despair of his imprisonment from his mind. In truth his situation was bleak, although it would help no one to put the facts so bluntly in a letter. He took his sharp knife and trimmed the point of his nib, then dipped it in the small inkpot and continued.

We find our accommodation tolerable and wish to hear that you also fare well under the hospitality of the good Duke Francis. Keep the faith, your spirits good and remember you are a Tudor. We ask that you send us word as soon as you may, and of the health of your good mother, the Lady Margaret, as our trust is in you. God be with you.

Written at the Château Josselin.

J. TUDOR.

He re-read the letter and hoped its brevity would serve his purpose. Henry’s reply would no doubt be equally terse, yet he had made a start from which he hoped they could build more favours from their host in Brittany. It would be good to hear from Henry, and to learn if Gabriel had been able to return from his last visit to England, as he worried at what Gabriel’s absence could mean. The duke could have him deported or, worse, arrested and imprisoned.

Seeing the ink was dry, Jasper carefully folded the parchment on itself. He had no wax to seal it but that was of no consequence. He took the letter when he went for his daily walk, and handed it to the guard at the gatehouse, together with a silver coin. A thin-faced man in faded livery, the guard listened attentively to Jasper’s instructions about delivery of the letter to Henry at the Château de Largoet.

‘I know Largoet. It’s outside the town of Elven.’

‘The duke told me my nephew was in the care of the Lord of Rieux. Do you know of him?’

‘Lord Rieux is the duke’s right-hand man. Your nephew has done well to be in his care.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ he fished another coin from his purse and pressed it into the guard’s hand, ‘and I’d be grateful if you can find a reliable man to deliver my letter and wait, if he can, for the reply?’

The guard pocketed the silver coin, one of Jasper’s last. ‘I surely will, sir.’

Jasper lay awake in his uncomfortable bed that night, pleased that at last he had done something to establish contact with Henry. He was also reassured by the captain’s words. At least it seemed that Henry was well placed to learn something of the politics of Brittany and France. The Lord of Rieux could be a useful ally in the future if Duke Francis was persuaded to hand them over to York.

He wished for news of events in England and wondered if the duke would allow him to write to Lady Margaret. He had no idea how such a letter would be delivered, although there was a chance Sir Anthony Woodville might consider helping. Although he was the brother of York’s queen, Jasper’s instinct told him Woodville was a decent man.

He kept his eyes open, listening to the sounds of the night. He overheard guards talking somewhere, grumbling about the long hours and low pay. He heard the sharp shriek of a hunting owl down by the river outside his open window, then settled down as darkness again overwhelmed him and he drifted into a troubled sleep until the nightmares returned, as they often did.

Jasper took his knife and began carving another line on the stone sill of his window. After half an hour of patient scraping he brushed the stone dust away with his hand and stood back, satisfied, counting twenty-three lines. His rituals helped him cope with imprisonment, like his routine of walking round the courtyard each day and the hard exercise, which kept his muscles firmer than they had ever been.

The second anniversary of his arrival in Josselin would soon pass and he’d achieved nothing other than to survive. At times his sense of hopelessness overwhelmed him, only his routine keeping him from despair. Like a monk, his world had been reduced to waking early, praying, taking his exercise and eating simple food, with only the briefest contact with the world outside.

He wondered how his nephew was coping and cursed at how the duke tricked him, for there had been no reply to his letters. He’d waited in hope for months before realising Duke Francis never had any intention of allowing communication between them. It had been an easy way to silence him or to see what he would write. Although the duke reassured him of his nephew’s safety, a short letter would put his troubled mind to rest.

Jasper stood at the window, watching the bridge over the river. An endless procession of people made their way into the walled town, yet none were leaving. Something unusual was going on. His attention shifted to muffled noises from within the courtyard, of horse’s hooves, shouted commands, the sharp clink of steel and the buzzing of many voices, like bees in a hive. The bolt on his door scraped and the door swung open to reveal one of his friendlier guards.

‘What’s happening?’ He spoke in Breton.

‘The King of England has landed at Calais with an army.’ The guard seemed surprised Jasper hadn’t heard. ‘And the Duke of Burgundy has invaded France from the north.’ He scowled at the thought.

Jasper followed the guard down the narrow stone steps. Groups of armed soldiers gathered in the usually deserted courtyard, some waiting in line for the kitchens, others sleeping or playing games of dice. The duke was obviously taking the threat from York seriously. Jasper had never seen so many horses crammed into the château stables and guessed they were preparing to defend themselves.

He sought out the captain of the guard, who was being helped to dress in his armour. The pieces looked mismatched and a poor fit, some showing the scars and dents of ancient battles. The captain questioned the parentage of the unfortunate man helping him, telling him not to pull the straps so tightly, as Jasper entered.

‘Is Duke Francis supporting the English, Captain?’

‘As you can see, Sir Jasper, he is moving men to defend the border. My orders are to take as many men as I can to him at the Château de l’Hermine.’

‘What is to become of me?’

‘I will leave enough men to defend this place.’

Jasper looked out into the courtyard and saw the soldiers preparing to leave. He’d not expected York to be so bold, although he guessed it could be a show of strength, rather than an invasion. If York was victorious, he could march on Brittany and Duke Francis would surely hand him over, as well as Henry. If he did not, Jasper felt the last place he needed to be was locked up in Josselin.

This was possibly his best chance of escape but he had no money left and nowhere to go. He returned to his room, noting there was no longer a guard to bolt the door behind him. Jasper looked at the two stout wooden chests containing all his worldly goods and an idea occurred to him. He unfastened the straps securing the closest one and took out his sword in its ornate, engraved silver and black leather scabbard. Underneath, wrapped in musty sacking and swathed with cobwebs, lay his precious armour, almost forgotten until now.

Buckling on the belt he drew his sword. The forged blade was in perfect condition and glinted as he turned it in the light, and he felt his sense of powerlessness diminishing. Jasper sheathed the sword and took his breastplate from the chest. It was impossible to fasten the stiff leather straps of his armour without assistance, so he carried it, together with his helmet, and rushed to find the captain of the guard before it was too late.

The captain was already mounted on an ageing grey horse, a long line of armed riders forming up behind him, ready to leave. Jasper saw he would have to be quick or his chance would be gone.

‘Take me with you, Captain.’ He tried to sound assertive.

‘To Vannes?’ The captain sounded doubtful. His eyes went to the sword and armour Jasper carried and he seemed unable to make a decision.

‘Your orders are to bring as many men as you can,’ Jasper grinned, ‘and you wouldn’t wish to be responsible for me escaping if I was left behind?’

The captain shouted to the men waiting to leave. ‘Bring him a horse.’

One of the soldiers helped Jasper buckle his armour over his doublet and he put on his helmet before mounting the horse and riding to the captain’s side.

‘Thank you, Captain.’

‘You gave me no choice, sir, we must go.’

They rode out through the gates into the crowded streets, the people parting to make way as they clattered past in pairs over the old bridge across the River Oust. Small boys ran alongside, begging in shrill voices for coins and pretending to march like soldiers.

An attractive young woman waved to Jasper and shouted good luck to him in Breton. ‘Chañs vat!’

He glanced over his shoulder in time to see her blow him a kiss and raised a hand in acknowledgement. The sight of the young girl reminded him of the time, so many years ago, when he rode from Pembroke Castle, leading his doomed Welsh army, his father riding proudly at his side. He missed having a woman to care for and decided he was finally ready to move on from Máiréad, if the opportunity presented itself.

The Château de l’Hermine had changed since Jasper last saw it, as an encampment of soldiers occupied every available space. Wood smoke from cooking fires drifted in the air and men were busy gutting a pig carcass, which dangled by its hind legs from one of the duke’s ornamental trees. Jasper watched for a moment as a line of archers fired a volley at a straw target, their arrows thudding true and deep, as good as any English archer.

He asked to see the duke as soon as they arrived and was surprised to be shown into the duke’s study. Tall, leaded glass windows flooded the oak panelled room with late afternoon sunlight and the duke’s collection of rare and precious books lined the walls. The duke sat in a high-backed chair by the stone hearth, looking pale, with dark shadows around his eyes.

At the duke’s side sat a familiar ghost from Jasper’s past, someone he thought he would never see again. The Duke of Exeter, Sir Henry Holland, was dressed in his full regalia of the Order of the Garter and wore a stylish velvet hat adorned with an iridescent peacock feather. On anyone else it would look ostentatious, but Henry Holland was able to carry it off.

Jasper nodded to Henry Holland and felt a sudden misgiving at the probable reason for his being there. Although Holland seemed pleased to see him, he guessed it meant York’s invasion had already succeeded. He’d taken a great risk in riding to Vannes on his own initiative and could now face the consequences.

‘I trust, Duke Francis, you will understand why I have travelled here from Château Josselin?’ He held his breath as he waited for the duke’s reply.

The duke seemed unsurprised to see him. ‘A timely arrival.’ His voice sounded weak and he glanced at Holland. ‘Sir Henry has been sent by King Edward to secure my support for a new peace treaty.’

Jasper nodded to Holland. ‘We heard you were badly wounded at the battle of Barnet, yet you look as well as ever.’

‘As do you, Jasper,’ Holland smiled. ‘Your information was correct, as I was left for dead. They stripped me of my armour, and when they found I was still alive, locked me up in the Tower of London.’ He shook his head at the memory. ‘My wife divorced me and my estates were all at risk.’

‘So now you serve as ambassador to York?’ Jasper’s old suspicions returned.

‘I do,’ Holland sounded unrepentant, ‘although he isn’t the man you would remember.’

Duke Francis was curious. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The king has lost the support of the people. His private life offends many and despite his unpopular taxes, he’s emptied the royal coffers, which is why he made this foray to France with sixteen thousand men.’

‘You make a fine ambassador for King Edward.’ The duke sounded scornful. ‘Does your master intend to claim the crown of France?’

‘The threat he might do so would seem enough for his purposes.’

The duke coughed, a hacking, rattling sound that caused Henry Holland to glance at Jasper with a frown of concern. The duke’s physician came forward and offered him a cup of steaming brew, which gave off an exotic aroma of herbs and spices. The duke took a sip, pulling a face at the taste. When he recovered himself he continued as if nothing had happened.

‘I heard the Duke of Burgundy has disappointed King Edward?’

Holland nodded. ‘Charles the Bold has his own problems. King Louis paid for an army of Swiss mercenaries, who are keeping him fully occupied in the north.’

Duke Francis frowned. ‘I wonder where this will all end?’ He coughed again into a cloth he held to his mouth.

‘In peace, Duke Francis,’ Holland smiled, ‘King Edward has no stomach for a long fight through winter—and neither can he afford it. He has a peace treaty with King Louis and wishes to make his peace with your good self.’

‘What was his price for peace with France?’ Duke Francis sounded surprised.

‘French gold. King Louis has agreed to pay seventy-five thousand gold crowns, and Queen Margaret is to be ransomed for a further fifty thousand.’

‘
Gold will win the day, as it invariably does,’
Duke Francis seemed unsurprised,
‘a
nd what does King Edward ask of me?’

Henry Holland avoided eye contact with Jasper. ‘King Edward wishes you to return Henry Tudor to England.’

After the duke left, Jasper found himself alone with Henry Holland. He felt at a disadvantage, as Holland held all the aces in his hand, except for one. Duke Francis was bound by his promise to keep Henry safe, while he remained in Brittany, at least. Despite his poor health, the duke was a man of his word and unlikely to surrender either of them as easily as York and his turncoat ambassador wished.

‘You know you would be placing my nephew in great danger if you took him back to England?’

‘You misjudge the king, Jasper. I am sure his intentions are worthy. He has great regard for Henry’s mother—and could have had me executed, yet employs me as his ambassador.’

‘You forget he condoned the shameful murder of my half-brother, the true King of England?’

‘I don’t forget, Jasper, although they say it was his brother’s hand that ended poor Henry’s life.’

‘Richard, Duke of Gloucester?’ Jasper struggled to control his surge of anger.

‘I take some consolation from the knowledge he will never become king.’

‘Let us be thankful for that, at least.’ He studied Henry Holland, trying to guess what was going on under the peacock feather hat. ‘We were friends once, Henry, which is why I feel I can ask a great favour of you.’

‘You wish me to buy you time?’

‘Not for myself. I fear for my nephew’s safety if he returns now.’

‘I will do what I can, Jasper. As for yourself, you might be able to return sooner than you think.’

‘By bending my knee to York?’

‘He wants peace, and has great capacity for forgiveness, even for his sworn enemies. You heard about the Earl of Oxford’s little escapade?’

‘I’ve been cut off from the world for a while, although I knew John de Vere’s father and brother were executed on York’s orders. His son still seeks revenge?’

‘Oxford persuaded King Louis to let him and his brothers take a fleet of a dozen warships to invade England. They were nearly captured when they landed in Essex but escaped and became pirates, sending English ships to Scotland. Then they took the castle on St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall.’

‘What good would that do?’

‘It served as a reminder to York that there are still some who are prepared to fight.’

‘What happened to de Vere and his men?’ Jasper could guess the answer.

‘That’s the thing. They held the siege for nearly five months and only surrendered on the promise of a royal pardon.’