Owen (21 page)

We spend the whole of the next two days doing what we can to keep the French at bay, taking turns to keep watch at night and sleep. It seems the admiral would prefer to starve us out, although I know the men don’t like the uncertainty of waiting for the attack which will surely come.

I make Nathaniel responsible for rationing our supplies, while I make sure the men remain vigilant and are kept occupied with improving our makeshift barricades. We are starting to wonder if they are ever going to attack when the cannon booms and another heavy ball crashes into the castle with a numbing thud, breaking into fragments with the force of the blow. The cannon will do a lot of damage if they can fire through one of the window openings and I see the French gunners are already raising the barrel a little to improve their aim.

I rush down to the culverin crew facing the harbour and give the order to return fire. They are ready and waiting and I put my hands over my ears as the blast echoes around the inside of the castle. It is so loud I think for a moment that the old gun has exploded, then I see the Frenchmen who were trying to reload the cannon scattering as the four pound ball crashes into the ground in front of them, leaving a small crater in the earth. The gun crew make an adjustment and their next shot destroys the cannon’s sturdy wooden mounting with such force the heavy gun tilts over with the barrel pointing into the sky. There is a cheer inside the castle from the men watching our first small victory.
     
 

The siege lasts almost a week, with the French holding their line around the castle, shooting arrows at the windows and over the high walls. I always cursed the stagnant green moat but now I am glad it offers some defence, particularly at night, when we hear muffled French voices coming worryingly close.

At times the French seem in high spirits. Like any soldiers holding a castle to siege, they taunt us with shouted insults and sing bawdy Breton drinking songs. They become more daring and archers risk being in range of our guns to launch flaming arrows high over the wall into the courtyard. One burning arrow finds its mark on the thatched roof of the stable, starting a serious blaze.

The men manage to save most of the horses but one is lost in the smoking inferno, despite our best efforts. The agony of the dying horse is a bad omen, even for the least superstitious of the men. I see the exhaustion in their soot-blackened faces and know we won’t be able to hold out for much longer.

I check our dwindling supplies of food with increasing concern. ‘We must reduce the men’s rations, Nathaniel. This castle has become our prison—and now we have to find a way out.’

‘We only have enough supplies for another week, Owen, perhaps two.’ Nathaniel glances over his shoulder to make sure we are not being overheard. ‘There’s no way to fight our way out, so I was thinking... we could make a run for it, under cover of darkness?’

‘It’s too risky. They have us surrounded and we know they keep watch at night.’

‘Perhaps we should see if we can negotiate a withdrawal?’

‘Surrender, you mean?’

‘I can’t imagine they will leave us now.’ Nathaniel points to the south. ‘They are digging in. That can only mean they plan a long siege.’

‘If we surrender they could hold us for ransom—and I don’t like the idea of another prison.’ I know the reputation of the French for holding prisoners for many years, waiting for ransom. I doubt Sir William would be in any hurry to negotiate our release if we lose the outpost.

‘They’re coming!’ Nathaniel points towards the French line.

From our high viewpoint we see a group of French crossbowmen advancing boldly on the castle, regardless of the lack of cover. They intend using their deadly crossbows at close range. Two thundering booms sound in quick succession in the tower below us. The men waiting at the south facing culverins have opened fire on the French and one man is hit in the face and killed. Several others are wounded and are dragged by their comrades to safety.

‘It will be harder to negotiate terms for a withdrawal now.’
 
I bite my lip as I make a difficult decision. ‘If we’re going to surrender, we may as well do it before any more men die.’

Nathaniel agrees. ‘I’ll have one of the men make a white flag.’

‘Make it a big one, I don’t want the French to be in any doubt and start firing at me.’

‘It’s too risky for you to go, Owen. I will write a letter, setting out our terms. One of the men will have to deliver it. There’s no point in you risking your life for nothing.’

‘I can’t ask any of the men to do this, Nathaniel. I have enough lives on my conscience.’ I feel a frisson of fear at the thought of becoming an easy target for the French archers when I step from the protection of the castle. ‘It has to be me.’

Placing Nathaniel in charge of the remaining men, I warily emerge from the castle gatehouse, alone and carrying our makeshift white flag, which flutters in the light breeze on a long wooden pole. The only sound is a skylark singing high in the air over the watching French, oblivious to the events below.
 

‘I wish to speak to Admiral de Coëtivy!’ I call out in French, praying that my use of the admiral’s name and the flag of truce will have the desired effect.

The French soldiers are well trained. Two come forward, one with a crossbow aimed at my chest. I look at the tip of the bolt with its deadly barb and realise I have never been this close to death.

‘Come with us.’ The second soldier speaks in French with a Breton accent.

Admiral de Coëtivy must be on the French flagship, as I am taken to the beach and urged into a longboat. As I am rowed towards the grandest ship in the whole of the Channel I see what looks like the entire French fleet anchored in the bay. I am reassured that my decision to surrender was our only option, as we would never have stood a chance against this many. I look back towards the high square tower of the castle where my friends wait and know all their lives depend on what happens next.

The admiral is younger than I expect and looks at me with undisguised curiosity. ‘You are ready to surrender so soon?’ His voice is cultured and it takes me a moment to realise I have been addressed in English.

‘I am Owen Tudor, Captain of Regnéville. I respectfully request that you allow my men to leave in peace, Admiral.’

‘Or else?’ There is an unmistakeable challenge in his voice.

‘Or else we will fight—to the last man.’

The admiral considers this for a moment. ‘You will surrender your arms, Captain Tudor. Then I must decide what is to be done with you.’

‘May I be permitted to keep my sword? It was a gift from my late wife, Queen Catherine.’

‘You are the Welshman who married Queen Catherine?’

‘I am, my lord.’

‘I was intrigued when I heard the story of how a servant married a queen. There are many men in France who would have wished to be in your position…’ The admiral’s voice softens. ‘I was truly saddened to learn of Queen Catherine’s death.’

I hold my breath, knowing that my life and those of my men are in the hands of Admiral de Coëtivy. There is kindness in the man’s eyes I had not seen at first. I notice the admiral carries a book in his hand, more like a priest about to read a sermon than one of the most powerful military men in France.

‘I will allow you until noon.’

I cannot believe that
Fortune's Wheel
has turned again in my favour. ’Thank you, Admiral.’

‘I wish you well, Captain Tudor.’ He smiles. ‘It is a long march to
the port of Cherbourg, although you should be able to find a ship home from there.’

The voyage is long and dangerous, as the trading ship on which we secure a passage home across the English Channel makes heavy going in the storms of an early winter. Forked lightning rips through a black sky and the deep boom of thunder reminds me of the cannon blasts, shaking the wooden planks of the deck under my feet. It is not a good omen and I worry about the reprisals I will face for the loss of
Regnéville
.

I can still hear the ribald taunts of the jeering French as my men surrender the castle after having fought so loyally. It would seem that God was not on our side, as our long march to the port of Cherbourg was made more miserable by heavy rain. The constant downpour turned the tracks leading north into a muddy morass which clung to our boots and slowed our pace, as if even the land of Normandy tries to prevent our safe departure.

At least the admiral granted my request to keep my sword. My hand falls to the hilt as if to reassure myself it is still there. I am comforted by the cold, familiar shape of the engraved, weighted pommel and handle of tooled leather. I am not sorry I never had the need to use it against a Frenchman. It is not what Catherine would have wished, unless my life depended on it.

It is the end of November and the first frosts are on the ground by the time we reach London, where I must report the news of our defeat to Sir William de la Pole.
Much has changed in England while I have been away in Normandy. Sir William
has been made Duke of Suffolk and found a good marriage for his only son to a young heiress, Lady Margaret Beaufort, daughter of the late John Beaufort, Duke of Somerset. I pray that this will improve Sir William’s mood, but I am mistaken.

‘You know I could have you thrown into the Tower for this, Tudor?’ His face grows red and he curses me as he considers the implications of my failure for his already blighted reputation.
 

‘I deeply regret the loss of my command, my lord. The men fought bravely, and we withstood the siege for as long as we could, but were heavily outnumbered. I would ask you, sir, how our garrison of fifty men could hope to defeat ten times as many Frenchmen, supported by the French fleet and more warships than we could count?’

‘You know the king is to confirm a knighthood on your sons? I will put your case to him and, with God’s grace, he might show you leniency. Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this though Tudor. The council will have to hear of it and I expect they will demand a full explanation.’

‘I am most grateful, my lord, if you will speak to the king and the council on my behalf.’ I dread the prospect of appearing before the council a second time, as the outcome is completely predictable.

The knighting ceremony is held at Westminster, two weeks before Christmas. I meet with my sons on the eve of the ceremony in the king’s chapel at Westminster, where by tradition they spend the night in a vigil of prayer and contemplation of their duties as knights. The ancient chapel is cool and peaceful, lit by thick yellow candles.

Their fine new swords and regalia are laid out on the altar for the blessing, and on the walls hang their colourful new shields, paid for from the king’s personal treasury. Both bear the arms of the kingdom, Edmund’s with a blue border of gold French fleur-de-lis alternating with my martlet badge and Jasper’s the same, but with a simpler border of gold martlets.

My sons are now of age and grown as tall as me. ‘The first Welshmen ever to become English knights,’ I smile at them. ‘I am so proud of you both—and your mother would be too.’

‘Thank you, Father.’ Edmund looks towards the altar. ‘We will pray in memory of our mother.’

I turn to Jasper. ‘You remember what our martlet badge on your shield is meant to signify?’

‘Yes, Father. It reminds me to follow the
quest for knowledge and adventure,’ Jasper glances at his brother. ‘And as the second son I must work harder.’ He grins at the thought.

‘That’s right, Jasper, but never let anyone say you are not of noble lineage. You are half Welsh, descended from the great lords of Wales—and half French, of the House of Valois

‘And we are half-brothers to the King of England and France.’

‘Yes—and what must you never forget?’

‘That we are Tudors,’ says Edmund, ‘and our grandfather fought at the side of the last true Prince of Wales, Owain Glyndur.’

‘That is the truth, Edmund, you must always be proud of your heritage. There are plenty of English nobles with far less right to stand at the side of our king than you—and plenty more who would seek to usurp him. They mistake his piety for weakness, so he needs strong and loyal men around him, more now than ever before.’

My mind turns to my own future as I witness the knighting ceremony. Although I do not know the actual day of my birth, I am about to turn fifty, a grand age by any standards and something of a milestone. My once jet-black beard is now silvery grey and my hair is thinning, yet my eyesight is still sharp and the outdoor life and clean sea air of
Regnéville has kept me fitter than many men of my age.

I tire of the self-serving politics of London and need to escape recriminations for what happened in Normandy, so now my thoughts are of Wales and the idea of finding somewhere to live out my days in peaceful retirement. Bishop Morgan once advised me that out of sight is out of mind, and I
always wished to return to the island of Ynys Môn, particularly now there is little to keep me in England. Edmund and Jasper have their own lives and even Juliette now has a high position in the queen’s household and our paths rarely cross.

I consider seeking her out to tell her my plans for the future, but by the time I see her it is the first week of May. I am with my son Edmund on a visit to see the king at the Palace of Placentia, once known as Bella Court, the grand home in Greenwich of Duke Humphrey and Lady Eleanor Cobham.

We have come to discuss titles and marriages for both my sons, but as the eldest, it is Edmund who is at the forefront of my mind. I have not forgotten my promise to them all those years ago at Barking Abbey that they will one day be made lords, with lands and castles of their own. The king is generous to his favourites, yet needs gentle prompting as his lapses make him forgetful of his promises.

Edmund is full of questions. ‘Why must it take so long for him to decide my title?’

‘Because titles pass from father to son. That’s the way of it—and how it should be. There are enough disputes over land and titles. The last thing we need is to make more enemies through yours.’

‘Why can’t he create a new one for me?’

‘He can create a new title, but you need the lands and the income from them, to make it worth a jot.’

We turn a corner and Juliette emerges from a side-door. I feel longing and regret at the unexpected sight of her and am concerned to see she is red-eyed and distressed. She looks as if she wants to talk but remains silent when she sees Edmund at my side. I notice how she wrings her hands and realise this is something I need to know about. Telling Edmund to continue without me, I take her arm and lead her into the privacy of one of the side rooms.

She stares at me with wide eyes. ‘Something terrible has happened, Owen.’

‘Is it the queen?’

‘It concerns Sir William de la Pole. He was always very good to me.’

‘Was? You mean he is dead?’ I knew Sir William was always going to take more than his share of the blame for the loss of Maine and Anjou. He was even imprisoned in the Tower until the king ordered his release. Sir William waived his right to trial by his peers to have the king’s judgement, yet I was as surprised as anyone to learn the king banished Sir William from England for five years.

Juliette’s voice is almost a whisper. ‘The queen told me he has been murdered, trying to make his way to Burgundy. His body was discovered on the beach near Dover. She said they… cut off his head.’

I hold her close, feeling her familiar warmth, and she clasps her hands at the back of my neck, as if she will not let me go. For a moment it is as if we are lovers again, then I realise my sons could be in danger. If this is the first sign of a revolt against the king and queen, those close to them need to take care.

‘Does the queen know who is behind this?’

Juliette rests her head against my chest as she had done so often in the past, without any awkwardness or bitterness at my decision for us to part. ‘Only rumours. The news was brought to the queen by a servant of the Sheriff of Kent, who knows few of the details.’

‘How has she taken it?’

‘She is distraught. It has all come as a shock, particularly to Lady Alice.’

I remember how pleased Sir William looked at the queen’s coronation and how he risked his own reputation to protect me after the loss of Regnéville. I release Juliette so I can look into her eyes. ‘I am truly sorry for them. Fortune’s Wheel has turned again—but who benefits most from this, I wonder?’

‘He had many enemies—it could have been anyone.’

‘I remember how Richard, Duke of York, scowled at him when we were in Rouen. He has never forgiven Sir William for the losses in France.’

Juliette’s eyes are full of concern. ‘They say an angry crowd pursued him from London, calling him a traitor.’

‘These are dangerous times, Juliette. I must leave London while I still can.’

‘Are you finally going to Wales?’

‘It was always my plan, and now I’m worried about my sons.’

‘They are grown men now.’ She looks into my eyes. ‘Edmund reminds me so much of his mother—and Jasper of you when we first met.’

‘He is a true Tudor, that one. Perhaps you will help me find him a suitable wife?’

‘Before he takes after his father?’

‘Am I really so bad?’

She answers by kissing me, surprising me for the first time in many years.

* * *

The town of Beaumaris feels tranquil, a different world from the noise and dirt of London’s crowded, muddy streets. I have a pension from the king of forty pounds a year, more than enough to live comfortably and buy a fine, stone-built house with a slate roof and three acres of good land. My new house is conveniently close to the church of St Marys and St Nicholas, and a short distance from the seafront and the shallow, drying harbour.

On the evening of my second day in Beaumaris I take a walk to see the towering sandstone walls of Beaumaris Castle, with its wide green moat, which dominates the town. The first King Edward ordered his soldiers to evict the entire population of the village of Llanfaes by force so he could build his castle on their land. I curse the English for their contempt for the people of Wales and am not sorry the arrogant king died painfully of the flux, like King Henry V.

I find a tavern in a side-street near the castle, where the helpful landlord recommends a local widow as my cook and housekeeper. With her daughter Bethan, who cleans and serves, I find I soon have my own household. They speak Welsh as their first language and I struggle to understand them or to make my wishes properly understood, although I am learning the language again.

Bethan is an attractive young woman, with dark hair and enquiring eyes, reminding me of how my daughter could have been if God had allowed her to live. Bright and quick-witted, with a lively sense of humour, she offers to improve my Welsh in return for my help teaching her English. She is a fast learner, if a little forward for her age, and I am grateful for her help.

The people of the town are friendly enough and I guard my anonymity well, as there are dangers for me even here, so far from London. On another visit to the tavern I strike up conversation with a soldier from the castle who tells me the Duke of York recently passed through Beaumaris on his return from his post as Lieutenant of Ireland, and is thought to be raising an army to challenge the king.

‘The duke was furious,’ the soldier takes a drink from his tankard, enjoying his tale, ‘the constable, Sir William Bulkeley, denied him supplies and access to the castle, you see?’ He waits for me to respond.

I sip my ale and pretend disinterest, but the talkative soldier does not appear to notice. He is already a little unsteady on his feet, having drunk several tankards of the strong ale.

‘Men loyal to the king tried to detain him in Bangor! They say the duke has sworn to seek out and punish those who lost our lands in France.’ He looks as if he expects me to agree.

This is not what I wish to hear so close to the sanctuary I chose to escape from such things. The Duke of York is rich enough to raise a sizeable army and is a man who can win popular support for his challenge for the crown. I worry that word of the surrender of Regnéville could make me a target for those who resent my favours from the king. Even in Beaumaris it seems there are men who would prefer to see York on the throne.

I pour the soldier a fresh tankard of ale from my jug and change the subject. ‘Am I right in thinking Lady Eleanor Cobham is imprisoned in the castle?’