Jasper (12 page)

‘You think more men will join us?’

Jasper nodded. ‘These hills are where my grandfather fought at the side of Owain Glyndur in the last Welsh rebellion and now we follow in his footsteps. He led the attack on Denbigh the year my father was born.’ He smiled to himself as he remembered his father’s stories. ‘I think we can expect many more Welshmen to rally to our cause, Gabriel. They have waited long enough.’

They stopped overnight at a deserted farm, where it seemed the occupants had fled at their approach. Although they found a spacious barn and several outbuildings, many of the men slept under the stars. Fortunately it was a mild night and the cook from Harlech Castle, who’d volunteered to march with them, supervised the rations. In no time he was preparing vast cauldrons of hot stew and roasting a fine bullock and several pigs that the men captured and slaughtered.

Jasper hadn’t forgotten how the Scots made themselves unpopular with the local people through their looting and pillaging in Northumberland, but this was different. Most of his men were local, turning out to defend their lands and what they believed in. As if to prove him right, nearly two thousand men followed Jasper into Denbigh, a town which supported York for the past five years.

The townspeople hid behind bolted doors and shuttered windows, frightened by exaggerated tales of the new Lancastrian army. The sight of the castle brought back memories for Jasper of the last time he was there. His father thought him reckless and did his best to stop him storming the postern gate, which could have been a death trap for him and his men. He was younger then, and perhaps his father was right, his actions had been a little reckless.

Now he preferred to at least try to achieve a negotiated surrender, if it meant no more of his men would die for their cause. He established his command post in a house on the edge of the town and wrote a letter, offering a full pardon in the name of King Henry for any men who surrendered. He sealed the letter and entrusted it to one of his commanders, who delivered it to the castle gatehouse under a flag of truce.

Their reply was defiant and Jasper cursed, his face grave. ‘It seems the garrison learned of our approach and are well provisioned for a siege.’

‘There’s no time to wait and starve them out, sir?’

‘Every day we delay allows York’s army to draw closer.’ He shook his head at the scrawled letter of reply from the garrison commander. ‘They play for time. I expect they can see we have no artillery or the great siege engines Roger Puleston used to such good effect the last time we stormed the castle.’

‘We could build scaling-ladders, sir?’ Gabriel was undeterred. ‘An attack in the small hours of the morning could catch them unawares?’

‘The walls are too high.’ Jasper considered the idea for a moment and dismissed it as too great a risk for his men. ‘You remember the siege in Bamburgh—would they have stood any chance of breaching our defences with ladders? I’m certain they’re watching us, trying to guess our next move, and will be ready, even in the small hours.’

‘What can we do then, sir? We can’t send all these men back home.’

‘People thought the House of Lancaster was dead and buried, and I can understand why. You saw William Herbert’s camp. They hardly bothered guarding it.’

‘They will now, my lord, we taught them a hard lesson?’

‘Exactly, and you’ve seen how many men followed us since. More than we can properly feed and arm, Gabriel, and that could be just the start.’

‘What do you have in mind, sir?’

‘The men holding the castle don’t take us seriously. They know they only have to wait and York’s army will be here soon enough. I don’t like it, but we must burn the town.’

‘What about the people, sir?’

‘We’ll give them until nightfall to leave. Send your men door to door, and make sure they understand, Gabriel. I don’t wish innocent lives on my conscience.’

‘I don’t think the men will like it, sir.’

‘We have no choice, Gabriel. If we march back to Harlech no one will ever take us seriously. I want to force William Herbert to show his face, and this is the only way to do it.’ His voice was firm now.

Gabriel left without a further word, leaving Jasper wondering if he was right. They arrived at Harlech without a proper plan, other than to harass the Yorkists where they could. Their early success was partly down to luck, rather than the result of a planned campaign. He remembered telling Gabriel once that you make your own luck, and he still believed that to be true. Only those who rolled the dice could ever hope to win.

These were violent, dangerous times. If he wanted Edward of York’s attention, he knew what he needed to do. He wrote a second letter, addressed to William Herbert as Constable of Denbigh Castle, giving the garrison until sunset to surrender, or the town would be burned to the ground. Jasper watched as his messenger left to deliver it, and prayed he had done the right thing.

Bright orange flames lit up the sky for many miles. As soon as the sun dropped below the horizon, his men followed Jasper’s orders, after allowing the residents of Denbigh to salvage what they could. Many of the houses were old and built so closely together the burning embers drifted easily across the narrow streets, starting new fires where they fell.

As Gabriel predicted, some of their soldiers deserted, rather than take part in the burning, but most understood the reason for their orders and did their work with ruthless efficiency. Any food and drink they found was loaded onto wagons to feed Jasper’s new Welsh army. He could have stopped the looting, but the people of Denbigh supported York, so these were the spoils of war.

Small children cried and women screamed as they watched their homes destroyed by the fires. Old men bravely cursed King Henry and all who stood for him. Some even tried to fight Jasper’s soldiers, but before long the firestorm took on a life of its own, burning out of control. They all retreated from the blazing inferno that had once been the thriving, Yorkist town of Denbigh.

The elderly wool-merchant seemed sure of his facts, yet Jasper questioned him again, as lives could depend on what he decided to do next. He had mixed feelings as they marched from the burning town, laden with booty in the name of King Henry. It was not what the king would ever wish to be done in his name, for families to be evicted from their homes to watch their town raved by the fires.

Keen to win back the good will of the people of North Wales, he prevented his men from looting any more villages and set up court in the name of the true king in the town of Flint, where they had a cautious welcome from the inhabitants. More men deserted, yet more still arrived to volunteer for the true king, and he kept them busy practising their drills under newly appointed commanders.

Now this man had sought him out to warn of the approach of Lord Herbert’s army, sent by York to end the Lancastrian revolt. It was what Jasper always wanted, to face his old enemy on equal terms in Wales and have the chance to bring him to account. The problem was he must rely on the word of the man in front of him—a wool- merchant he had never met, who could be a Yorkist agent.

The merchant wore a pleated tunic and leather boots of good quality, yet lank grey hair showed under his faded felt cap and his darting eyes put Jasper on guard. It would be easy enough for William Herbert to buy the loyalty of such a man and have him lead them into a trap. All the same, the man spoke earnestly and deserved to be heard.

‘Tell me, how many men does Lord Herbert have?’ Jasper tried to keep his tone conciliatory but there was an urgency to be certain of the truth.

‘Lord Herbert has commissions of array from Parliament, sir, to raise an army in the Welsh Marches. They say he has eight or nine thousand foot soldiers, as well as his cavalry and artillery men.’

‘Where did you see them, how long ago?’

‘I’ve not seen them with my own eyes, sir, but I heard from my cousin that Lord Herbert has orders to take Harlech and is already on his way to punish those disloyal to York.’

‘Are you sure he heads for Harlech Castle, not to Denbigh?’

‘I am, sir.’ The wool-merchant eyed Jasper uncertainly. ‘I heard his brother, Sir Richard Herbert, is riding north with a division of their army, while Lord Herbert rides from the south.’

Again, Jasper wondered if the answer had been too quick, too well rehearsed, too good to be true. He would be able to surprise one half of Herbert’s army as they made their way through the mountains, then reach Harlech in time to prevent its capture. He must send a rider to warn Captain ap Einion, as true or not, the garrison at Harlech needed time to prepare.

Sir Richard Herbert, William Herbert’s arrogant younger brother, was one of the men who arrested his father at Mortimer’s Cross. If Sir Richard had chosen to speak up for him on that fateful day his father might still be alive, yet he had not, and would pay the price for that failure. Jasper felt his anger rising again at the painful memories rekindled in his heart.

He studied the man who brought such important news. He claimed to be a loyal supporter of King Henry, wishing to play his part in ending what he called the decadent Yorkist rule. If he was William Herbert’s spy, he was a brave one, and a convincing liar. Jasper wanted to believe him and allowed himself a moment of reflection. If he was successful, this would be the greatest victory for the House of Lancaster ever seen in Wales.

‘You will ride with us. If what you’ve told me is true, you will be well rewarded for your loyalty to the true king.’ He scowled as another possibility occurred to him. ‘If your words lead us into a trap—’

‘I swear, my lord,’ the man’s face revealed his concern to be believed, ‘it is the truth.’

A skylark warbled its tuneful song overhead as Jasper’s men took the narrow track through the long valley, carved from the bedrock over countless centuries by the River Conwy. He looked up into the clear blue sky to see what was making such a noise. Like him, it could be dismissed by some as insignificant, of no consequence, yet the small brown bird caught his attention. Now he hoped to win the attention of the people of Wales, if not all England and particularly those in Westminster.

The path they followed took them through the wooded valley towards the foothills and mountains. Much of the countryside they passed through was wooded, with ancient groves of twisted oaks, although the higher ground ahead had been cleared for grazing sheep. The ever-narrowing river ran to their right, with the mountains dominating the skyline to the west. This was where they hoped to intercept Sir Richard Herbert’s army, and prevent them ever reaching the coast and Harlech Castle.

Gabriel seemed unusually quiet, his eyes restlessly scanning the hills and checking on the men following behind. Jasper understood the reason for Gabriel’s sullen mood. He never voiced his disapproval yet left Jasper in no doubt he opposed their ruination of Denbigh. Jasper’s wish to send a message to those hiding behind the safety of the towering castle walls was too effective, leaving barely a single home untouched, yet he would do it again, if necessary.

 
‘We should send scouts ahead, sir.’

Jasper turned in his saddle. ‘You’re right, Gabriel. I will not be ambushed a second time.’

‘I’ll take the skirmishers?’

‘Take care. I want you back as soon as you sight the enemy.’

Gabriel nodded and turned back to find his men, leaving Jasper to ride alone and reflect on recent events. Despite his attempts at peace in Flint he had played into York’s hands as a dangerous rebel, commanding men who terrorised communities and needed to be stopped at all costs. At least now his men would face a worthy opponent on equal terms.

For the first time in months he thought of Lady Margaret Beaufort and wondered what she would say if she knew her son was being taken into battle. The wool-merchant told him young Henry Tudor rode with Lord Herbert for Harlech. It made no sense to Jasper, except as a deterrent. Perhaps Herbert hoped they would hesitate to attack and risk harming the boy. Henry would be about ten years old now and may not even remember his uncle. With a jolt, Jasper realised that he might not recognise his nephew, so many years had passed.

They marched for half a day before Gabriel returned, flanked by two mounted Irishmen.

‘The enemy is coming, sir. We don’t have much time.’

‘Did you see how many?’

‘It’s hard to be sure, sir, but my guess is they have nearly twice our number.’ He sounded breathless.

‘They are headed this way?’ It was not what Jasper expected. The wool-merchant was certain they would cross the mountains to attack Harlech from the north.

‘They are riding west, sir, towards the hills.’

Jasper studied the land around him. The rising hills offered little cover other than the thick, waist-high bracken and a few trees. The closest ridge was some distance above them, too high and far away to be of any use. There would be no chance of taking the enemy by surprise, but at least they knew the wool-merchant spoke the truth.

‘We need the men to spread out, form as wide a front as they can.’ He glanced back down the trail. ‘The French and Breton riders should hold the centre, with the local men behind them. We will take the left flank, Gabriel, with crossbowmen and archers.’

They were barely in place and starting their advance when a dark line of marching men appeared on the skyline. Gabriel was right, it was difficult to assess their strength but the line stretched as far as he could see. Jasper pushed the nagging doubt at the sight of them to the back of his mind and turned to face his men.

He drew his sword and raised it in the air. ‘For King Henry, for Lancaster, and for Wales!’

His men surged forward, eager for a fight. His archers had trained since Denbigh and were competent, if not well disciplined. He led them up the sloping bank and called for them to ready their yew bows. Each man took an arrow from the quivers they carried. The crossbowmen fitted bolts and cocked their weapons, ready for Jasper’s command.

The ground vibrated under his feet as Sir Richard Herbert’s cavalry charged, swords drawn and lances at the ready, closing the gap between them in a moment. Jasper felt the cold shock of fear as he saw the numbers of them, filling the road far into the distance. If this was only half Lord Herbert’s army, they would not stand a chance.

‘Choose your targets and fire at will!’ He yelled to his archers.

They had been waiting for his order and their arrows loosed into the sky like a hailstorm of death on a silently curving arc. Some fell short but others struck home, toppling riders, who fell under the hooves of those following. Still they came, not even slowing their pace as a crossbow bolt hit one and he fell from his horse, sending it into a panic.

‘Keep firing, men!’ He encouraged his archers, already running out of arrows.

Jasper glanced down the gentle slope into the track where the mercenaries were already being driven back by Herbert’s cavalry. One of the men called out something in French then turned his horse down the bank towards the river. Jasper couldn’t understand why, and watched as the rider galloped back the way they had come. Another followed close behind, then another, leaving the foot soldiers unprotected. In an instant the solid wall of men became a scramble as they struggled to run out of the path of the charging horses.

‘Stand firm!’

Jasper yelled as the first wave of horses clashed with the men who had obeyed him. Carried forward by the momentum of the charge, the riders slashed down with swords on heads and shoulders with savage force. One was pulled to the ground but his horse continued, galloping over the bodies littering the road like abandoned scarecrows.

He charged back down the slope and swung his sword at the closest enemy rider, who parried the blow and fought back, his blade striking Jasper’s helmet with a dizzying clang. Jasper thrust forward, inflicting a mortal wound. The man fell from his horse, only to be replaced by more riders, one swinging a poleaxe that smashed Jasper’s sword from his grip, sending a sharp pain up his arm as at least one of his fingers broke with the savage force of the blow.

Without his sword there was little he could do but ride back up the slope to where his archers had run out of arrows and waited with their daggers drawn. They looked to him for leadership but he had no idea what they could do. Gabriel spoke the words already echoing in Jasper’s head.

‘We are lost, sir. We must escape while we can.’ He turned his horse and stared at the battle below them, then turned to Jasper. ‘We have no choice,’ he cursed, ‘they outnumber us—our men are deserting.’

Jasper could see for himself. His broken fingers throbbed and although it grieved him to agree they would have to leave his men to fend for themselves, either to surrender or to run, as he would have to now. His men could expect mercy from Sir Richard but there would be no merciful reprieve for himself if he was caught. Sadness gripped his heart as he looked into the faces of the remaining men around him. Foot soldiers, they would never be able to keep up with him and Gabriel.

‘You fought well, but it’s time to lay down your weapons and make your way back to your homes as best you can.’

Their fight was over. With one last glance at the one-sided battle still raging on the road below, Jasper rode up and over the ridge, followed by Gabriel. He cursed at how he had failed in battle yet again and forced to abandon the last of his Irish skirmishers who’d followed him so loyally.

Jasper woke with a start and sat up, his heart thumping in his chest. He had been dreaming again of being forced to kneel at the executioner’s block, a dream he’d had many times, each more real than the last. This time it was Richard Herbert who wielded the axe, shouting at him, calling him a traitor and coward for running off again and leaving his men to suffer their fate.