Jasper (19 page)

Sir Roger Vaughan was a different matter. Jasper watched the last of his men leave, many heading back into Wales, a few trying to cross back over the bridge, only to be turned back again by the guards posted there. He needed a little time. Not long, but long enough to do what he had to do.

Vaughan glowered at him, his anger barely contained. ‘You are a traitor, Tudor. A coward and a traitor.’ He struggled free of the men holding his arms and stepped forward.

Jasper stared into the dark, scornful eyes of the man who was said to have murdered his father. He had to be sure. Such things could not rest on hearsay and rumour.

‘Tell me what happened after Mortimer’s Cross.’ He kept his voice calm and saw the puzzlement on his enemy’s face.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Was it you who marched my father to Hereford?’

‘We spared the men but your father was their commander. I sent men to look for you, Tudor, but you ran like the coward you are.’ Vaughan spat the words out, his contempt evident.

Jasper’s fingernails dug into the palms of his hands as he fought to control his anger. Painful memories returned. His father pleading with him to head north, to march on through the night, away from the danger of ambush by York. He remembered the shock of hearing what happened to his father, and the guilt that haunted him ever since.

‘Did you order my father’s execution?’

Vaughan looked to the ground. ‘We needed to make an example of them. Only ten were executed, the rest were pardoned.’

‘I heard the River Lugg ran red with the blood of our countrymen, good men. Loyal to King Henry, the true king, chosen by God.’

Vaughan looked up at him, uncertainty in his eyes. ‘I ask you to spare me, sir.’

‘Would you have spared me, if we had been caught by your men?’

Vaughan didn’t reply but his silence told Jasper what he already knew.

‘I will offer you, sir, the same courtesy you allowed my father.’

If he let Vaughan go the man would not rest until he had his revenge and killed every one of them. Here, at last, was his father’s murderer. William Herbert might have given the order but it was Roger Vaughan of Tretower who carried it out.

‘Kneel before me.’

Vaughan sank to his knees, put his hands together and prayed for forgiveness, his lips mumbling the words.

Jasper did it for his father, for his brother, for the young prince who would never now be king. For poor King Henry, again locked in the Tower, for Queen Margaret who would soon join him there. He had never killed an unarmed man and would not ask any of his own soldiers to do so. His sword was the finest steel and the sharp blade had never been used. He doubted Sir Roger Vaughan knew the blow was coming.

Jasper felt certain York would soon come for them at Pembroke and began preparations for a long siege. He sent home as many men as could be spared, including Bethan and her son, David Owen, keeping only enough to garrison the castle. The less mouths they had to feed the better, despite the small mountain of supplies already stored in every available space.

Henry frowned as he studied a lengthy letter he’d received from Lady Margaret. His latest habit of dressing entirely in black made him look older, and was rarely seen without the sword Jasper had given him. It had seen some use, but was still a fine weapon. Jasper didn’t tell him he took it from one of Vaughan’s men, who had probably also taken it in battle.

Henry handed the letter to Jasper. ‘What does this mean, Uncle?’

Jasper saw from the well-worn folds that the letter had been read several times, and felt an unexpected sense of loss as he recognised Lady Margaret’s hand. This was a personal letter, but as he read it Jasper understood Henry’s puzzlement. Margaret had been conscious of the danger of the letter falling into York’s hands and took care to ensure it contained nothing that could be used against her.

She wished her son good health and said he was always in her prayers. Her letter went on to say, with God’s grace, her husband Sir Henry Stafford would recover from the grievous wound he suffered fighting for York at Barnet. The letter ended with her praying to God her son would be safe.

‘It means, Henry, that like all of us now, your mother has no choice. She had to swear loyalty to York for the sake of her husband, and to keep her fortune.’

‘Will I have to swear loyalty to York?’

‘I trust you will not, Henry.’ He decided this was the time to raise an idea that had been on his mind since hearing of the death of Prince Edward. ‘You remember we talked once that you have a claim to the throne? Well, now that claim is stronger than ever.’ Jasper smiled. ‘Can you imagine it, Henry Tudor, King of England?’

‘I have no wish to ever be king, Uncle.’ Henry answered quickly.

‘A king doesn’t have to fight in wars, Henry. If you were king, you could end wars, bring peace to this country, wouldn’t that make your mother proud?’

Henry nodded yet remained silent for a moment, then gave Jasper a questioning look. ‘Would Edward of York have to be dead, all his brothers and any sons, before I could ever be made king?’

‘Edward of York took the throne by force.’

‘As I would have to?’ Henry shook his head. ‘I don’t think that would make my mother proud.’

Jasper was confident the thick walls of Pembroke Castle could be defended even if York brought his great cannons, yet he was less certain about the best course of action. There could be no new dawn for Lancaster now. Thomas White of Tenby visited with a merchant friend from London who brought the shocking news that King Henry had been found dead in his chapel in the Tower. Jasper listened with a sinking heart as the merchant repeated his story with the ease of one who has told it many times.

‘We queued for half a day, my lord, to pay our last respects to his highness. He was laid out, you see, in the cathedral of St Paul’s, and the line of people come to pay their last respects to him was more than half a mile long.’ He held his arms outstretched to emphasise the point.

Jasper struggled to compose himself as he remembered his kindly half-brother, and how well Henry conducted himself, so recently in the same cathedral, despite his bewilderment at his sudden change of circumstances. He tried not to recall the nightmare he’d suffered at Chepstow where he dreamed a vision of the king’s accusing eyes. The shocking news numbed his ability to think and he was too overcome to reply.

Thomas White seemed to sense this. ‘Say what you saw,’ he urged, ‘tell Sir Jasper exactly what you told me?’

The merchant nodded. ‘Only the part of the coffin over King Henry’s face was open so that every man might see him, my lord, and on the pavement dripped his royal blood.’

Thomas White looked grave. ‘You see, my lord, it’s a sure sign he died not long before, and not from poison or being smothered in his sleep.’ He shook his head. ‘I know he was your kin but this puts the lie to any talk he died of grief.’

At last Jasper felt able to respond. ‘The people showed King Henry proper respect?’

‘They did, my lord, the king was dearly loved and many wept and mourned his passing.’

‘He was buried in St Paul’s Cathedral?’

‘He was not, my lord. They took him to the chapel of Blackfriars, then to Chertsey Abbey for a proper burial.’

Jasper crossed to the window of his study and stood there for a moment, watching how the wind caused patterns of ripples on the tranquil river below. He doubted Edward of York would do such a thing but there were plenty of others who would, including his younger brothers George and Richard. Poor King Henry was no threat to anyone but, while he lived, there was always the chance of a rebellion. The price of York’s peace of mind was the murder of an innocent, godly man.

He turned to his visitors. ‘What of Queen Margaret? Does she still live?’

The merchant nodded. ‘I was in London when York returned in a triumphal procession with Queen Margaret, my lord.’ He glanced at Thomas White, who nodded for him to continue. ‘The queen was shackled in a cart, where all could see her, on her way to a cell in the Tower.’

Jasper cursed York and remembered his father telling him how proud he had been to march behind the queen in 1445, when she arrived in London as a beautiful, radiant young bride on her way to her coronation.

‘I imagine the people did not take so kindly to her?’

‘York’s guardsmen did their best to protect her, my lord, but I saw the people throwing mud, and worse, as well as shouting at her. I must say Queen Margaret took it bravely. She denied them the satisfaction of her tears.’

Thomas White nodded sadly. ‘I’ve heard from a Breton merchant it’s the talk of France. York has demanded payment of fifty thousand crowns in ransom for her life.’

Jasper found it hard to imagine anyone he knew in France being prepared to help her father, Duke René, to raise the ransom. The Duke of Burgundy always supported York, Duke Francis would say she brought it on herself, and even King Louis would see little to gain from the rescue of his cousin, now she had become a widow.

The hail of fire arrows fell harmlessly in the castle yard but the sight of them, smoking and burning within the walls, was a shocking reminder of the siege of Bamburgh and the danger they now faced. Jasper called for men with buckets to be ready to douse the flames with water as a second wave of burning arrows flew high and curved down into the heart of their sanctuary.

This was the second day of the siege and York’s army began by attempting to storm the gatehouse. They were met by Jasper’s archers and several of the attackers were wounded before they withdrew, a temporary respite, although one was captured alive. Gabriel dragged the soldier to Jasper and made him stand, his hands tied behind his back. The prisoner, a dark-haired man of no more than twenty years, was bleeding from a cut over his eye and clearly feared for his life.

‘What is the name of your commander?’ Jasper’s voice was cold. Since the merchant’s visit he felt little charity for followers of York.

The man hung his head in silence, then looked Jasper in the eye. ‘Morgan ap Thomas.’ There was
a hint of defiance in his voice.

Gabriel nudged the man in the back. ‘My lord.’

The man understood. ‘Our commander is Morgan ap Thomas, my lord.’

‘His father fought at my side, at Mortimer’s Cross—’ Jasper fought the bitter memories flooding his mind and turned his focus on the man in front of him. ‘How many men does he have?’

The prisoner seemed uncertain. ‘Two hundred, perhaps five, my lord.’

Jasper guessed it could be closer to the smaller figure. Morgan ap Thomas’s men had swept into the sleepy town and promptly started evicting families from their homes. He’d watched from the battlements as women and children were ushered towards the castle. It had been a risky operation to allow them through the gate without enemy soldiers also breaking through. Now he had several dozen more to feed, although at least they had been spared.

He studied the young soldier in front of him, unluckily caught up in a war not of his choosing. He nodded to Gabriel that he had heard enough. As the men marched their prisoner off to the castle dungeons, Gabriel followed Jasper to the top of the high Norman keep where they saw a ditch deep enough to stop anyone entering or leaving the castle.

‘You know this man, sir, Morgan ap Thomas?’

‘I do, Gabriel. He married Catherine Vaughan, the only daughter of Sir Roger Vaughan, late of Tretower.’

The plan was risky but in the absence of a better one, their best hope. On the river side of the castle a natural limestone cave could be accessed by a stone stairway from within the castle walls. Used as a storeroom by the Norman builders, it would be a potential weakness in a siege and Jasper was planning to order the access to be blocked with rubble. Then he recalled his father mentioning it also once served as a boat-house.

Two sturdy rowing boats, complete with muffled oars, had been stowed secretly in the damp cavern. A false wall of stones blocked the opening to the river, where a sloping bank gave access to the water. The problem was that Morgan ap Thomas had posted archers on the opposite bank of the river.

‘We need to distract them, Gabriel. I can’t risk taking Henry unless this plan has a good chance.’

Gabriel scanned the enemy positions. ‘There are a lot of them, sir, dug in deep as badgers, so they’ll take some shifting.’

‘There’s a high tide after midnight, so we could try for the small hours and benefit from the cover of darkness.’

‘I’ll arrange a diversion at the gatehouse, sir. Make it look like we’re making a break for it through the town?’

Jasper looked back out across the river. ‘Good idea—let’s give Morgan ap Thomas something to think about.’

The old wagon was loaded with buckets of tar, straw bales and most of the garrison’s store of gunpowder. The axles were greased with fat and they practised pushing it around the castle yard under a canopy of tanned hides, to protect the men who had to run it into the ditch. Jasper nodded in approval as he studied it. The men besieging them had worked hard to dig the ditch as deep as they could, so the wagon would certainly draw their attention.

‘I want it well alight before we open the gates, with plenty of archers to make sure they don’t push it back at us.’

Gabriel agreed. ‘Our archers and crossbowmen have been busy all day picking off any enemy soldiers who dare to show themselves, sir. At least a dozen have been killed and many more wounded.’

‘What about our casualties?’

‘Both should recover, sir.’

‘Let us hope so, Gabriel.’

Jasper still had doubts about their plan but could see no alternative. At high tide they would pull down the false wall blocking the cavern, then slide the boats down into the river under covering fire from their archers on the battlements, while the wagon was lit and rushed into the ditch at the front of the castle.

Gabriel would be in the first boat with two crossbowmen, while Jasper followed in the second with Henry. A lot could go wrong, not least the danger from the remaining enemy soldiers watching from the opposite bank. They took the difficult decision not to wear mail coats or armour because of the risk of drowning under the weight. Instead they dressed in dark, ragged clothes, hoping to pass as sailors when they reached the old docks downriver, where they planned to find a more seaworthy boat, if they could board one without the crew raising the alarm.