Jasper - Book Two of the Tudor Trilogy Read online

  Jasper stopped to rub the red stain from the earth with his boot. ‘No point in making it easy for them to track us.’

  ‘You think they’ll bother, this far out?’ Gabriel stared back over his shoulder as if expecting to see York men-at-arms following.

  ‘I do.’ They would search the dead for him, and someone might have seen his escape. ‘Our best hope is they don’t expect us to head south.’

  ‘When we reach the priory, will you be taking my horse?’ His voice sounded weaker.

  ‘I have to.’ Jasper waited while Gabriel considered this. The horse and his sword were probably the only things the man owned of value but he had to take them both. Still some eighty miles from Carmarthen, it was too far to travel on foot and foolish to do so unarmed.

  Gabriel made a decision. ‘I owe you my life, so you’re welcome to her.’

  ‘I will see the monks tend to your wounds, then I must ride west.’ Jasper studied the Irishman, making a judgement. ‘I will also need your sword.’

  ‘I told you, I’ll need to be keeping my sword.’ The Irishman sounded uncompromising.

  ‘You’re in no shape to use it, and I will see it’s returned, you have my word.’

  Gabriel eyed him questioningly. ‘And what would your word be worth, now?’

  Jasper ignored the slur, although it shocked him to realise others would soon be saying the same. He’d had no choice, but his reputation would suffer as a consequence of his escape. ‘I’ll send a man, in two weeks, with your sword and your horse. In the meantime I must ask you not to tell anyone what happened.’

  ‘Bad news travels fast enough without help from me.’ Gabriel winced at the pain from his wound.

  Jasper answered softly, thinking aloud. ‘There are people who will take advantage when they learn of our defeat.’

  ‘How do I explain my injury?’

  ‘We shall say bandits attacked us, which is true enough, for they took my horse and my sword. Bands of outlaws haunt the roads through the Black Mountains, so no one will be surprised to learn we’ve been robbed.’

  At last the distinctive silhouette of Llanthony Priory appeared through the trees. Once one of the grandest priories in Wales, its treasures were now lost, pillaged by both sides in the fighting between the followers of Owain Glyndur and the English. Most of the Augustinian monks left for the relative safety of Hereford, but Jasper sheltered from a storm there the previous winter and recalled a warm welcome.

  Jasper helped Gabriel dismount before tethering his horse close to a water filled trough. He pushed the stout oak side-door of the priory, which opened onto a square cloister. An elderly friar, dressed in a hooded brown robe, appeared concerned as he saw Gabriel’s wounds and the dried blood on Jasper’s face and neck. He muttered something Jasper couldn’t hear before calling for the others to come and help.

  The infirmary was dark and cold, the fastened shutters blocking the light and the empty hearth offering no comfort. Two of the younger monks helped Gabriel lie on a rickety wooden cot while others began lighting tallow candles, filling an iron cauldron with water and preparing a fire in the hearth. The elderly friar answered Jasper’s unspoken question.

  ‘We will be late for Vespers but there are few enough of us here now, and your friend needs urgent care.’ He turned to Gabriel. ‘I shall find our apothecary, who will tend to you.’

  ‘We are grateful for your kindness—and God’s providence.’

  Jasper shivered in the chill evening air as one of the monks examined the cut on his head. He recalled the shock of the blow, the closest he’d been to death, as once on his knees he made an easy target. He thanked God the blow was deflected by the curved steel of his helmet, long since lost in the woods. He never even saw the man who did it.

  ‘Should have been stitched but you’ll survive.’ The monk cleaned Jasper’s wound, using a damp linen cloth to wipe dried blood from his face and neck. He asked no questions about how it happened and seemed satisfied with the result.

  ‘Thank you.’ Jasper lowered his voice. ‘What about my companion?’

  The monk looked across at Gabriel, patiently watching as two younger monks cut Gabriel’s shirt from around his wound. ‘He is in God’s hands now, and those of our apothecary.’

  The flames of the fire were taking hold, brightening the room and already offering their smoky warmth, when the apothecary arrived. A studious, quietly spoken man, he began laying out a row of instruments to remove the arrowhead. He handed one of the monks a long-handled poker to heat in the fire, and Jasper flinched as he realised they intended to cauterise the wound.

  At last he spoke. ‘He has been lucky, my lord. The arrow has a bodkin head, still not easy to remove, but a better chance of saving him.’

  Jasper nodded. ‘I wasn’t certain he would make it here.’

  ‘Much longer and it would be too late for my modest skills.’

  Before he could reply the friar who first welcomed them caught Jasper’s attention. ‘You must be hungry after your journey, my lord. Come with me and I’ll serve you bread and beer.’

  Jasper realised he hadn’t eaten a thing all day. He had planned to ride through the night and reach Carmarthen Castle as soon as he could, but after a meal of rye bread and a generous slice of cured ham, washed down with a tankard of weak ale, he closed his eyes to rest.

  He dreamed of his father, trying to rally his men as York’s cavalry overwhelmed them. As if in slow-motion, he saw the figure of Edward, grinning as he hacked down the Welshmen with his deadly sword. Again, he glimpsed the descending poleaxe at the edge of his vision yet could not see the face of the man who nearly killed him before he surrendered to the blackness,

  He woke to the shrill cry of a cockerel to find he had been so exhausted he’d slept well past dawn. He immediately went in search of Gabriel, who he found sleeping in the infirmary, a clean linen bandage bound tightly around his wound. At least he had survived the night. Jasper turned to leave when Gabriel spoke.

  ‘Good morning to you, my lord.’

  ‘You know who I am?’

  Gabriel smiled. ‘I heard the monks call you that. They told me you are Sir Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke.’ He winced in pain but his eyes met Jasper’s with gratitude. ‘I’m truly in your debt, sir, for saving my life.’

  ‘We live to fight another day, Gabriel—and I will keep good my promise to return your horse and sword.’

  ‘I thank you, sir, as I’ll need them if I’m to be in your service?’

  Jasper smiled at the hope in Gabriel’s voice. ‘For now, you must rest, and I must return home, as many lives could depend on it.’

  ‘I wish you well, my lord.’ Gabriel raised a hand in farewell.

  As Jasper rode through the wintry dawn towards the Black Mountains and home, he allowed himself a smile at the memory of Gabriel’s discovery of his true identity. He felt great relief that the Irishman had survived. Helping him cost a lot of time and put them both at risk of discovery, yet at least he had been able to rest. Now he thanked God to be alive, and could begin to plan how to deal with the usurper, Edward, Duke of York.

  Chapter Two

  March 1461

  Pembroke Castle loomed like a jagged cliff from the grey mists swirling over the River Cleddau. Jasper found plenty of time on the long ride to think about what he would say about how he had escaped the battle. He could not lie but Lady Margaret would be the only one to hear the whole truth. She read it on his face as soon as she saw him, as clearly as if she knew his most secret thoughts.

  She said nothing until they stood alone together in the privacy of the castle chapel, and he watched her light a votive candle and place it on the altar. The beeswax briefly released its honey scent as the yellow flame flickered, then burned brightly, reflecting golden echoes in her all-seeing eyes.

  ‘A prayer for your father, Owen Tudor.’ The cold air in the chapel formed a glistening sheen on the single stained-glass window, but her voice sounded warm as she said his father’s
name.

  For once Jasper felt lost for words. He felt closer to Margaret than anyone, yet struggled to tell her of the slow-burning fear that gnawed at his thoughts since he had left the Black Mountains.

  ‘I have failed my father.’ Emotion choked his words.

  ‘You were given no choice, Jasper. My prayers are answered by your safe return.’

  ‘I failed my country, Margaret.’

  ‘Our Lord has a purpose for you, Jasper Tudor,’ she turned to look into his eyes, ‘I know in my heart you are delivered to us for a reason.’

  Her words carried a certainty that soothed the fresh wounds of his self-doubt. Lady Margaret could not yet be eighteen years old, yet she spoke with the confident authority of the mother he now remembered only in his prayers. He recalled his father’s deep, reassuring voice all those years ago as he knelt at his brother’s side in prayer.

  ‘Always remember your mother, boys, and that she was taken by God bringing us your little sister, named Margaret, after my mother.’

  Jasper had been barely six years old when she died, and grew up thinking of his mother as an angel, the bright halo around her head his shining light of inspiration. Many years passed before he appreciated how impossible it must have been for her as a young French princess, the daughter of the now-dead, King Philip VI of France. In a desperate attempt to end the latest outbreak of the Hundred Years’ War, King Philip had agreed to marry her off to King Henry V of England, the conqueror of their country. Soon widowed, she had found herself vulnerable and alone with Henry’s child before his father risked everything to marry her.

  Lady Margaret waited patiently for his reply. For the first time he noticed she looked like a nun in her black robes and crisp white headdress, a sister of mercy, rather than one of the richest heiresses in the country, her only jewellery a silver crucifix that caught the light as she moved.

  ‘I have been spared to take vengeance on the usurper and free my father from those Yorkist traitors.’ His anger echoed in the low ceilinged chapel.

  A frown flashed across Margaret’s face. ‘Edward of York’s father was cruelly murdered, as was his brother. You knew his father well, Jasper. Was he not a good man? Did he ever put himself forward as king, even when poor King Henry was unable to rule?’

  Her questions stunned him to silence. She spoke the truth, as ever. Richard, Duke of York had been a noble man and they had almost brokered peace together before the Earl of Warwick stormed their barricades on that fateful day at St Albans. Edward’s father deserved better than to have his head on a spike over the Micklegate Bar, mockingly adorned with a paper crown.

  ‘I saw Edward fighting in the battle.’ Jasper pictured him as he spoke the words. ‘He is in no mood for talking of peace.’

  ‘He is young and needs good men like you—to help him find the right path.’ Her voice sounded softer now, and her hand rested lightly on his arm, its gentle warmth a comfort to him.

  ‘I fear it’s too late, Margaret. Edward has made me his enemy, and self-serving men like William Herbert will be straining at the leash to profit from our defeat.’

  ‘We must pray for guidance and the safe return of your father.’

  As they knelt together Jasper tried to clear his troubled mind, yet the image which returned to his thoughts was of Edward, winter sunlight gleaming from his burnished armour. For a moment, in the heat of the battle, Edward glowered in his direction and he had glimpsed the raw fury in the young man’s face. It was too late for talking. The conflict between Lancaster and York which began that day at St Albans had now become a war.

  There was more than enough to keep Jasper occupied at Pembroke Castle, beginning the slow process of trying to rebuild his ravaged army. The best of the fighting men were gone, leaving those too old or young, and worse, those with no appetite to risk their lives fighting in the name of the king.

  The only respite came in tranquil moments of prayer with Lady Margaret, who rose to visit the chapel each day at the first light of dawn. Together they prayed for his father, for peace in these troubled times, and for the soul of her late husband. Jasper greatly missed his brother and still questioned the manner of his death. They said he had died of the plague while held captive in Carmarthen Castle, yet Jasper swore to discover if Edmund had been murdered by the Yorkist William Herbert.

  His brother never saw his son Henry. Now close to his fourth birthday, the boy beamed a happy welcome whenever he saw Jasper. He had inherited his mother’s sparse build yet already showed signs of his father’s adventurous character. His latest amusement was to climb the precarious stone steps up the castle walls and shriek with delight as Jasper raced to stop him falling.

  Once word of Jasper’s return spread, anxious groups of wives and mothers, daughters and lovers began gathering at the castle gatehouse for any word or news of their menfolk. Jasper sensed the sting of knowing what they must be saying about him. To his face they knew better than to question his actions, yet there was only one way he could have returned alone and uninjured.

  He retreated to the sanctuary of his town house in Tenby, a small-windowed, timber-framed former merchant’s lodging overlooking the sheltered tidal harbour. In previous years Jasper contributed more than half the cost of improving the fortifications of the seaside town. Now he found comfort within its moated walls, and his lookouts watching in the castle tower high on the hill would give ample warning of enemies approaching by land or sea.

  Although he employed a dozen maids and servants at the castle in Pembroke, his only servant in Tenby was his housekeeper, a buxom widow of few words. She tended his fire, cleaned and made sure fresh rushes always covered his floors. His father told everyone about her cooking, particularly her Welsh cawl, a hot stew of lamb and leeks, which he claimed tasted as good as his own mother used to make, although Jasper suspected he remembered little of her.

  The cobbles of the narrow roads glistened with frost as he made his way down the hill to the harbour. His regular walk was greatly improved since the civic order banning the throwing of waste into the street. The people now took pride in the little town and cleared away the piles of rotting rubbish, horse dung and worse.

  Several new houses graced the high street and the older ones were smartly whitewashed, with brightly painted doors and window shutters. The merchants and traders of the town prospered, although he understood from his good neighbour, wine-merchant Thomas White, that most saw the threat from York as an English problem. Jasper worried what would happen if York’s army invaded his remote corner of Wales.

  York’s spies and informers were said to lurk in the shadows, so once they knew he had returned to Pembroke they would come for him. They could already be on their way, to finish what started that day at Mortimer’s Cross. He was troubled by the knowledge that his presence put Lady Margaret and her son Henry in danger, although they would be safe while they remained within the towering walls of Pembroke Castle.

  The bracing sea air helped him think about the future, and he leaned against the cold stone of the harbour wall, watching shrieking gulls wheeling over the returning fishing fleet. The fishing boats ploughed steadfastly through the rolling, slate-grey sea, and as they came closer he could see familiar grinning faces, arms raised in recognition. Their holds must be heavy with their catch, the reason the Welsh name for Tenby was Dinbych-y-pysgod, the little town of the fish.

  He recalled how the Irishman, Gabriel, told him how he had watched the ships come into the harbour as a boy in Waterford. Jasper kept his word and sent two men to Llanthony Priory with the man’s horse and sword. They also carried Jasper’s letter of invitation to join his personal guard. He doubted Gabriel could read or write, but the monks would read the letter to him and he hoped his offer would be accepted, as he needed every good man he could find.

  The thought that Gabriel might be the only other one to escape York’s pursuing soldiers troubled him deeply, yet at least he’d helped save one man’s life. Jasper sat at his table, struggling with the
wording of a letter to the men holding Denbigh Castle, when he heard a sharp knock at his door. He listened as his housekeeper answered, and smiled with relief at the unmistakable voice of a man he thought he would never see again.

  Years later, Jasper would tell his half-brother, David Owen, of the day Sir John Scudamore came limping back to West Wales. Mistaken for dead, he’d somehow managed to crawl from the battle and make his way to safety. His friend’s face was deeply lined with the look of the bearer of bad news. Jasper ushered him inside and closed the door. He guessed the reason why Sir John would feel obliged to ride all the way to Tenby on such a wet, wintry night, before he said a word.

  ‘You bring news of my father?’

  Scudamore’s eyes fixed on his wet boots as he struggled to find the right words. ‘I’m sorry, Jasper.’ His deep voice, usually so full of humour, now barely a whisper. He removed his rain-soaked cape with unnecessary care and sat heavily in the leather chair to one side of Jasper’s blazing fire, warming his hands before continuing. He stared into the flames as he spoke in a monotone, as if reciting his prayers.

  ‘Your father was taken to Hereford and executed in the market square, along with my eldest son Henry.’

  Jasper closed his eyes as the words echoed in his head. His nails pressed hard into his palm as he fought back tears and waves of anger at the injustice of it all. Edward of York had taken his revenge, an eye for an eye, a father for a father. A thought occurred to him, a slender thread of hope.

  ‘You are certain?’

  Sir John continued to stare at wisps of steam slowly rising from his boots as they warmed in the heat from the fire. ‘It’s the talk of the country, Jasper. I regret I cannot be mistaken.’

  ‘I pray he had a Christian burial.’ He recalled the sight of the row of heads left to rot on London Bridge, their sightless eyes pecked by crows, a gruesome warning to others.

  ‘I heard your father was buried at the priory of the Grey Friars. There is no word of what became of my son.’