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Key Characters

Margaret of Anjou, widow of King Henry VI of England, and former queen of England

Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond

Thomas Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury

Reginald Bray, receiver-general to Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond

Margaret of Burgundy, formerly Margaret of York, sister of King Edward IV

Mary of Burgundy, her stepdaughter

Lewis Caerleon, physician to Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond

Henri Carbonnel, son of the chamberlain to Charles VIII of France

William Catesby, a lawyer in the service of Lord Hastings

Philibert de Chandée, commander of Henry Tudor’s French auxiliaries

Alice Chaucer, Dowager Duchess of Suffolk

Jean Dufou, Breton naval commander

Earl of Lincoln, son of John de la Pole, 2nd Duke of Suffolk, nephew and supporter of Edward IV and Richard II

Edward IV, King of England

Edward V, his son

Francis II, Duke of Brittany, supporter of Henry Tudor

George, Duke of Clarence, brother of Edward IV

George, Lord Strange, son of Thomas Stanley, King of Mann

Gilbert Gilpyn, manservant of Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond

Richard Grey, brother of Richard, Duke of York, son of Elizabeth Woodville by her first marriage

Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset, son of Elizabeth Woodville by her first marriage

John Howard, Duke of Norfolk, supporter of Richard III

Thomas Howard, Earl of Suffolk, son of John Howard, Duke of Norfolk, supporter of Richard III

Lady Maltravers, sister of Elizabeth Woodville

Thomas Millying, Abbot of Westminster

John Morton, Bishop of Ely

Anne Mowbray, wife of Richard, Duke of York

Anne Neville, younger daughter of the Earl of Warwick, married firstly to Edward of Westminster, Prince of Wales, then to Richard, Duke of Gloucester. Later Queen Anne of England

Cecily Neville, Dowager Duchess of York, mother of Edward IV and Richard III

Isabel Neville, sister of Anne Neville, wife of George, Duke of Clarence

Perrin, a Breton squire

John de la Pole, 2nd Duke of Suffolk, son of Alice Chaucer; married firstly to Margaret Beaufort, then to King Edward’s sister, Elizabeth

Richard, Duke of Gloucester, brother of Edward IV, later Richard III

Richard, Duke of York, son of Edward IV

Thomas Rotherham, Archbishop of York

Jane Shore, mistress of Edward IV

Henry Stafford, 2nd Duke of Buckingham, nephew of Margaret Beaufort by marriage

Thomas Stanley, Baron Stanley, King of Mann, fourth husband of Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond

William Stanley, brother of Thomas Stanley, King of Mann

Dafydd ap Thomas, Welsh leader and former retainer of Jasper Tudor

Morgan ap Thomas, brother of the Welsh leader Dafydd ap Thomas

Henry Tudor, son of Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond

Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke, uncle of Henry Tudor

John de la Vere, Earl of Oxford, Lancastrian supporter

Roger Vaughan of Tretower, Welsh landowner and Yorkist supporter

William, Lord Hastings, Lord Chamberlain of Edward IV

Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, brother of Elizabeth Woodville

Edward Woodville, brother of Elizabeth Woodville

Elizabeth Woodville, wife of Edward IV, Queen of England

Katherine Woodville, sister of Elizabeth Woodville, wife of Duke of Buckingham

Lionel Woodville, Bishop of Salisbury, brother of Elizabeth Woodville

Richard Woodville, brother of Elizabeth Woodville

Joan Worsley, servant of Alice Chaucer

Elizabeth of York, daughter of Edward IV

Prologue

It came to Margaret Beaufort, in the dead of night, as she lay awake listening to the racing of her heart, that she should marry again.

Like an instruction, but not one she could follow.

Marry. Again.

Why would she want to? She’d been married since she was six years old. Memories of her three marriages haunted her through the night hours. Why would she go through another?

But the answer came clearly. Because of her son, who was exiled in Brittany.

The king and the prince were dead, the queen imprisoned. The Lancastrian cause was lost. Only the Earl of Oxford and Jasper Tudor remained.

And her son who, at fourteen years old, was the last surviving heir of the House of Lancaster.

King Edward had begun negotiations with Duke Francis of Brittany to have Henry and Jasper returned. She knew nothing about Duke Francis. But plied with offers of money and military support against the French, why would he refuse?

Unless he was planning to use her son in his own game.

She had forgotten how to sleep. It was the strain of the last few months, of caring for her husband, who had been wounded in battle; of waiting to hear about her son. She couldn’t live through such months again.

Jasper and Henry had never reached Tewkesbury to fight in that fateful battle for the queen. They’d got as far as Chepstow before hearing the disastrous news, then they’d fled to Pembroke and set sail to France, but strong winds had blown them to Brittany.

Margaret received this news late in September and one week later, her husband had died.

And the uncontrollable racing of her heart and nerves began.

Meanwhile, after all the executions, the celebrations started. The infant prince was created Prince of Wales. Everyone who had helped Queen Elizabeth in her confinement was rewarded. Abbot Millying, who had housed her in Sanctuary, was made chancellor of the young prince’s household; William Gould, the butcher who’d supplied her with meat, was given his own ship for trading; Margery Cobbe, the midwife, was given a pension for life. And at Queen Elizabeth’s behest, the old queen was removed from imprisonment in the Tower to Wallingford, to the custody of Alice Chaucer, who had been Margaret’s guardian when she was a child.

Bishop Morton and John Fortescue were also reprieved. It was as though King Edward was holding his hands up to show they were not red with blood. He had pledged himself to peace and the rebuilding of his kingdom.

But he was trying to get her son back into England. And who knew why, or whether he would be merciful? He had saved the queen, but killed the prince and the king. King Henry had died of grief, according to official accounts, yet his body had bled in its coffin outside St Paul’s. The last Duke of Somerset had been offered a pardon, then executed. King Edward, it was said, had chosen to crush the seed.

Her son was the last of that seed.

He was only safe while he was in exile, held hostage by the Duke of Brittany. But Margaret might never see him again.

For the first time in as long as she could remember, she didn’t have a plan. She fell asleep intermittently, at odd times of the day, when praying or trying to read, and when she woke up, still exhausted, for a short time she couldn’t remember who she was.

In those moments everything fell away from her: all the trappings of rank, of family and place.

She had worn out her knees with prayer and received no answer, no coherent thought at all apart from this one: that she should marry again.

She dismissed it as evidence of her madness. She had been driven to the limits of endurance, only to discover there are no limits.

But the thought didn’t go away. It recurred in the dead of night.

Marry again.

She’d done everything else in her power. She’d tried, so many times, to have Henry returned to her custody. And he was further away from her than ever.

But who could she marry?

She wasn’t in favour with the king, so she had to marry someone who was. In order to ensure that, when her son returned – if he returned – he wouldn’t be killed. So she needed someone close to the court, someone with influence, someone the king wouldn’t wish to offend.

She only knew of one man in such a position: Thomas Stanley, steward of King Edward’s household. His wife had died weeks before Margaret’s husband.

She’d hardly registered it at the time, absorbed as she had been by her own anxieties, but she remembered it now.

Thomas Stanley, King of Mann.

He owned more land in the north of England than the king.

He had a large family: at least ten children from his wife. More, possibly, from his mistress.

His brother, William Stanley, had broken the news to Margaret of Anjou that her son had been killed at Tewkesbury. With great pleasure, she’d heard.

Thomas Stanley hadn’t been there. He’d been conspicuously absent from most of the battles between Lancaster and York.

Through all the wars, his role had been ambiguous at best, treacherous at worst, yet he had risen steadily, gaining power and wealth.

He was a survivor. She needed someone like that.

Margaret’s eyes were closed. She prayed for an answer, some thread that would guide her, but there was nothing. Nothing that offered her an alternative to holy matrimony. That coercion of the soul.

If she wanted to marry Thomas Stanley she would have to act soon. He was unlikely to stay a widower for long.

Why would he want to marry Margaret?

For her fortune, of course, and her estates, which, thanks to the efforts of her late husband, were untouched. Now she had the Stafford estates to add to them. Her lands in Kendal would make Stanley the supreme magnate of the north, and there were her other estates in the south.

She could make him the greatest landowner in England.

Her barrenness shouldn’t trouble him – he hardly needed more family. Since he had a mistress, they would not need to associate in that way at all.

Her son could be his most useful political tool.

But could she do it? Even for her son?

She prayed again for some other solution, but none came.

She would have to write to him and invite him to her home.

He might not come, of course. And then she would have lost nothing. Or he might come – and then –

And then she would have to be equal to the task of marriage. To the task of him.

She pushed back the sheets and crossed the room, taking one candle with her and lighting another on the way. Then she sat at her desk.

Nothing had happened yet; she could still choose not to write.

She picked up her quill and held it, without dipping it in the ink.

1 Flight

Later, Henry Tudor would remember the flight from Chepstow as one of the best times of his life. A time of smoky fires, quickly stamped out, of poached and roasted rabbit, pigeon or fish. A time of lying silently in the blue-green shade of the forest with its musty scents, rainwater dripping all around.

They’d left most of Jasper’s men in Chepstow. Three thousand men could hardly pass through Wales unnoticed. So they’d abandoned them to surrender, or escape if they could, while Henry and his uncle fled with a few companions.

That was after the beheading of Roger Vaughn. Who had been dragged to his knees before Jasper, his eyes darting about like flies in his sweating face. Henry heard the huff of breath as his knees smacked the ground. When Jasper read out the list of his crimes, which included the killing of Owen Tudor, Jasper’s father, ten years earlier at Mortimer’s Cross, he lifted his face and said, ‘My crimes are for God to judge, not you.’

Jasper nodded, then walked round to the rear side of the kneeling man, unsheathing his sword. He lifted it and paused, glancing towards Henry, and Henry understood that his uncle was asking if he had prepared himself. He stiffened slightly and Jasper took this for assent.

The sword moved so swiftly it whistled through the air and took Roger Vaughn’s head off at a single stroke.

Henry saw the spurt of blood from the neck; he watched the body slump to the ground and did not look away. Jasper walked towards him and gripped his shoulder.

‘That was for your grandfather,’ he said, and Henry nodded. He felt as though he was required to say something, but he didn’t know what. Jasper squeezed his shoulder, almost shaking it, and he understood that he’d done well.

He understood also that the execution was partly in revenge for Jasper’s own failure to reach Tewkesbury in time to save the queen.

When Jasper heard the news from Tewkesbury his body seemed to buckle, though he was still standing. In Chepstow he’d remained for some time in the church, staring uncomprehendingly at the cross.

Only when the siege began did he come to life again, first beheading Roger Vaughn, then taking the decision to flee. They’d set off in darkness, through wooded copses that thickened into forest, pathless and trackless, darker than night because no trace of sky or star could be seen.

Henry tried to keep up, hacking his way through dense branches, tripping in tangled undergrowth or crawling through mud. He didn’t mind stumbling so much, though on at least one occasion he’d hurt his ankle; he did mind holding everyone up so that one or other of the company had to help him through some ditch or tangled thicket. Jasper didn’t come back to help him. He barely spoke to Henry at all.

Of course, he didn’t complain. When the stitch in his side, the cramping of his muscles, became unbearable he thought of the knights in his favourite stories – Parsifal, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight – who always had to trek through impossible and unknown terrain.

And there was the hour when a small fire was lit, meat roasted and water brought from the nearest stream. The men talked together in low voices, firelight flickering over their faces. And Jasper would sit with him then, usually in silence, but on one damp night he began to talk. Tendrils of hair clung to his sallow face, his long nose was red at the tip, his cheeks hollow. He didn’t look at Henry, but he said, ‘Do you understand why I beheaded Sir Roger?’

Henry said he did.

‘Why?’ said Jasper, and now he was looking at Henry.

‘For your father,’ Henry said.

‘Your grandfather,’ Jasper said. ‘You won’t remember him.’

It wasn’t a question. ‘This was his country,’ Jasper said. ‘He was born near here. His family – our family – were from the north of Wales.’

And he spoke to him then of his father’s father, Mareddud, and his father, Tudur Hen. ‘My father was Owen ap Mareddud ap Tudur,’ he said, staring into the flames. ‘No one in England called him that. In England he was only Owen Tudor.’

The rain dripped like tiny footfalls while Jasper spoke.

The family had come from Abergele in the district of Rhos. They were kin to the rulers of Gwynedd. Over the years they had come to terms with the English kings, even though the first King Edward had made his son Prince of Wales.

Jasper was staring away from the fire, into the trees, ‘See you not that the world is ending, Ah God, that the sea would cover the land,’ he quoted. Henry didn’t know whether he was talking about the conquest of Wales or the defeat of the House of Lancaster and the loss of its last prince, his other nephew, Edward. Who was, or would have been, Prince of Wales.

He could feel the heat of the flames on his face. In spite of himself, he yawned. Jasper looked at him. ‘You’re tired,’ he said. ‘Get some rest.’

But the next night Jasper had spoken to him again, about the Tudors.

Owen’s father, Mareddud, was cousin to Owen Glyndwr, who had fought Henry IV and declared himself Prince of Wales. But the rebellion had failed and Glyndwr had mysteriously disappeared. Mareddud went into exile.

He’d married a woman from Angelsey, and Henry’s grandfather Owen had been born. Named, as he’d always said, after Owen Glyndwr.

Owen had managed to enter the service of Henry V and had fought with him in France. But then he’d served in the household of King Henry’s wife, Katherine of Valois. And after King Henry had died, they had fallen in love and secretly married.

The King’s Council had pursued Owen for this and imprisoned him; he’d had to escape from Newgate Gaol. After Katherine had died, their two oldest sons, Edmund and Jasper, had been taken into the court of Henry VI, and the king had married Edmund to Henry’s mother.

Jasper paused just when Henry wanted him to go on. ‘You know what happened to your father,’ he said.

Henry did know. He knew that his guardian, William Herbert, had imprisoned his father in Carmarthen Castle, and Edmund had died there, of plague. Then William Herbert had brought Henry up with his own children. But he knew little else about his father, who had died before he was born.

‘Am I – like him?’ he asked. Jasper didn’t smile. ‘Not really,’ he said. Then, as the light in Henry’s eyes faded, he said, ‘Though you are fairer, certainly, than your mother. If anything,’ he said, ‘you’re like my younger brother, Owen. The priest.’

Henry didn’t know what to think of this. Anyone other than Jasper might have been making fun of him, saying that he looked more like a monk than a warrior, but it was hard to imagine Jasper making fun at all. Already he’d withdrawn from Henry and was staring silently into the trees.

There were many more questions Henry wanted to ask, about his father and about his foster brother, William Herbert the younger, who was pursuing them with an army. But maybe he didn’t want to know, because knowledge brought pain. The only father he’d known had killed his actual father. How was it possible to know such a thing?

Jasper said, ‘I must speak with my men,’ and Henry understood the conversation was over. He began to prepare his bed.

But as he lay down he thought about what Jasper had said.

Because he knew so little about himself, he had trained his memory to remember what he could. Now in the darkness he repeated the names he’d been given like a litany: Owen ap Mareddud ap Tudur. He himself was Henry ap Edmund ap Owen.

He had not known any of this family. Not his father, Edmund, his grandfather, Owen, nor Prince Edward his cousin, who’d been killed at Tewkesbury. He’d not even known his mother well. And though he’d spent more time with his uncle, he would not have said that he knew him either. But he could see now that they were all part of a larger story.

Jasper had woven him into this larger story so that he could see his place in it; at the end of every line. Beaufort, Tudor, Lancaster, Valois – there was no other future for all these lines in England but in him. It was a new thought and a strange feeling, because until that moment he had considered himself entirely separate, a cuckoo in the Herberts’ nest.

This was the reason for Jasper’s assiduous protection of him – not just that he was his only nephew now that the young prince had been killed but that he was the last of the line.

It was not a comfortable thought. He felt suddenly burdened by it, by the weight of the past. As if he was no longer free to choose his place or his path – it had already been chosen for him.

Somehow, he’d thought that as he got older he would achieve a measure of free will. When he was a man, he had often told himself after being chastised or set some complicated task of learning that no one would tell him what to do. Now he lay on his back in the dense forest, aware of the mist rising from the damp earth, the murmuring of men settling in for the night, and knew he was part of a story that had started long before he was born and would continue long after his death.

It was difficult to sleep on the rough ground. His ankle hurt, and his knee, there was a pain in his shoulder. When he shifted position he could hear all the small scurrying, rustling and crawling noises around him, for the forest was never still. Somewhere beyond the canopy of leaves was the sky, paler than the blackness of leaves, and somewhere in it, paler still, were the stars. And in all that was Henry Tudor.

He was the Henry who did as he was told, absorbed all his lessons, adapted to different schedules and routines, and the Henry who practised certain quiet subversions: reciting a different litany in his head, telling lies so small as to be insignificant and undiscovered, accumulating a secret hoard of treasures stuffed into his pillow that no one else could touch or see.

He was the Henry who had witnessed war and executions, who folded certain memories away in his mind where he did not have to look at them … and the Henry who lay on the uneven ground with a root digging into one shoulder and a pain like a heat in his knee. And the Henry who would disappear into sleep, to a mysterious, ungovernable land, only to return each morning with no explanation or comprehension of where it had been.

Somewhere of no precise location within him, if the priests were to be believed, was a small spark called the soul that belonged to God, which would fly up after death to an infinite existence of either torment or bliss, according to how he was judged.

It existed within him like a star that could not be seen but which illuminated nonetheless, and offered guidance. It would guide him through the story of his life, which had already been written.

He felt as though his mind would crack open on this mystery like an egg.

A smattering of rain began again, tapping on the leaves and making them quiver, so that ripples of disturbance passed through the forest as through a giant pool. The breathing of the men around him altered with sleep. Henry shifted again and stared up into the quivering darkness of leaves until he, too, fell asleep.

After this the journey seemed to end quickly, though it must have taken some days for the vast walls of Pembroke Castle to appear.

‘This is where you were born,’ Jasper said. Henry knew that he had lived there before being given to William Herbert, but he had no memory of the place at all. It looked like a giant fortress rather than a home.

They were welcomed into the castle, fed and bathed in a proper bath. But the next morning Henry woke to the walls of his tower room shaking so he almost fell out of his bed. The castle was under siege.

It was not the expected siege, led by his foster brother William Herbert, but one led by a Welshman named Morgan ap Thomas. He was the grandson of Gruffyd ap Nicholas, the Welsh leader who Henry’s father had fought. He was not fighting for the Welsh, apparently, but because Roger Vaughn had been his father-in-law.

Herbert’s army was still advancing from the north, and now they couldn’t leave the castle.

Morgan ap Thomas wasn’t interested in terms; he wanted vengeance. He sent a herald to say that if the garrison would send Jasper out to him, they could go free. Otherwise, he would starve or bombard them to death.

Jasper’s only response to this was to open fire. He told Henry to remain in the inner ward and, though his uncle didn’t explain, Henry knew it was because he was now the greatest prize his enemy could possess. So he stayed in his room, thinking about his foster brother, William Herbert, who would arrive soon to capture or kill him. If he was captured, would Lady Herbert plead on his behalf with her son, or with the king?

But the bombardment of the castle walls soon made it difficult to think at all.

By the fourth day the garrison was in trouble. The besieging army had dug ditches and trenches around the castle; it was said they were tunnelling underground and mining the tunnels. Then that they had poisoned the water supply.

The arrival of Jasper’s soldiers had already drained the resources of the castle. By the fifth day they had slaughtered the last of the livestock, the well was no longer usable and the men spoke of drinking horse piss or their own urine.

The worst part was the constant bombardment, the noise that battered the inside of the skull. Even when Henry lay still there was the sensation of movement around and under him, tremors and judders in the stone. Much of the time he lay on his bed with his hands clamped over his ears. When he closed his eyes he could see hairline cracks in the walls running together into fissures and greater cracks through which the sea would pour. All that rock crumbling and tumbling into the sea.

He’d heard it said that a siege could break a man’s soul before it broke down the walls, until he ran stumbling towards his enemy with outstretched arms.

On the seventh day they ate the last of the food, slowly, carefully, and Henry couldn’t even taste it. He could no longer answer when spoken to nor think for the battering sounds inside his skull.

Then on the morning of the eighth day a new sound entered the battle, like a series of discordant notes, an irregular stuttering rhythm. Different shouts rose.

‘Dafydd!’ cried the men. ‘Dafydd ap Thomas!’

Morgan’s younger brother, who had been Jasper’s retainer, had ridden to help them, bringing two thousand men with him. Morgan ap Thomas’ men fled within two hours.

Dafydd stood before the gates of Pembroke Castle as they swung open. Jasper went out to meet him and the two men embraced. Henry left the inner ward for the first time since the siege began, an unfamiliar silence ringing in his ears.

Jasper’s men streamed into the town, bringing back what food they could find, and two days of feasting followed. Jasper sat with Dafydd, who said that William Herbert’s men were approaching; it was not safe for them to stay either in England or Wales. Henry sat close by but couldn’t hear everything that was said. He wondered if his ears had been permanently damaged.

He did hear Dafydd say that they should waste no time, because his brother would never give up. Even now he would be looking for reinforcements to return. It would be bad for them if he joined with Herbert’s army. They should leave the castle, go to Tenby and get a ship.

Jasper’s face looked even longer than usual. He knew the mayor had a ship, he said, that he would sometimes hire out. And Jasper had spent money on the town of Tenby, reinforcing its defences against attacks from the hills; he hoped the mayor would remember that.

‘We’ll go tomorrow,’ he said.

Henry felt a slow coil of fear uncurling in him like smoke, or like worms in his stomach. Dafydd looked at him.

‘You’ll need to eat up, eh?’ he said. ‘Eat while you can.’

Henry looked at his plate. He had hardly touched his food. On the previous day he had eaten so much he’d almost been sick.

‘You’re going on a voyage,’ Dafydd said. ‘Like an adventurer – a pirate. You’ll enjoy that, eh?’

‘I don’t know,’ Henry said.

Dafydd laughed, unpleasantly. ‘Your uncle here is going with you to save your skin,’ he said.

‘Where?’ said Henry to Jasper. ‘Where can we go?’

Dafydd started to speak, but Jasper held up his hand. ‘You’re right,’ he said to Henry. ‘It may not be safe, wherever we go. But we’ll sail to France – in the hope that the French king remembers his kin.’

‘He’ll remember that he doesn’t like the English,’ Dafydd said.

France, Henry thought. It was as though his uncle had said they were going to the moon. He didn’t want to go to France, even though he could speak French, of course, and his grandmother had been a French princess.

Jasper was looking at him again. ‘Do you have any other suggestions?’ he said.

Yes, Henry thought. Leave me here. I’ll give myself up to William Herbert and take my chances – hope for the best from my foster brother, who has no reason to kill me at all. Unless –

Unless he was under orders from the king.

‘Of course he doesn’t,’ said Dafydd. ‘Anyway – you’ll travel, boy – see the world. Many young men would love to go.’

Henry was beginning to dislike this man who had saved all their lives. You go, he wanted to say, I’ll be fine, but he knew that the words would sound childish in the extreme. Reluctantly, he speared some meat on to his knife.

‘That’s better,’ Dafydd said. ‘You’ll need your strength for the journey.’

The mayor of Tenby could certainly see the sense in not housing any fugitives. Not while two armies were after them. They stayed one night in his house while the boat was prepared. There was enough room in the small barque for Jasper and Henry and a few men, but the rest would have to make their own way home, or go into hiding. Jasper couldn’t afford to pay them, either, though he gave them his heartfelt thanks when he addressed them all. Which some of them took right sourly.

The next morning a message came from Henry’s mother. Hope flared in Henry as Jasper opened it, that he could return to her household and remain in hiding there, and trouble no one for the rest of his days. But Jasper read the letter, then handed it to Henry.

Do not put your faith in any promises or offer from the king, she wrote. Remember the Duke of Somerset. And to Henry she said: God bless you and keep you, my son. I will pray for you always in my heart.

And Henry’s heart sank – a phrase he had not fully understood before – because a reprieve had not come.

Before noon they set sail, but ran into storms. The little boat was buffeted and tossed, almost upended, and Henry was sick twice, clinging to the side of it. As the men battled with the sails he thought that now he would die after all, at sea. But they managed to put in at Jersey, where their only consolation was that no one else could reach the island, assaulted as it was by gales.

Twice they set out and were driven back. The third time they stayed at sea for several days, running out of supplies and into further storms. Then at last they saw land.

They didn’t know where they were until they managed to put in at a small port. Jasper’s men discovered this was Brittany, not France, and the small port was Le Conquet.

They couldn’t set sail again while the winds were still raging. Jasper decided they would travel overland instead, to the court of the Duke of Brittany, and beg for asylum. After some fierce bargaining, he managed to arrange for them to stay at an inn, a crowded, dingy hovel, where Henry slept like the dead. In the morning his uncle was nowhere to be seen.

Henry got dressed, washing himself at the basin as well as he could, while rehearsing in his mind all the French words he might need to make his way through the country alone.

Then Jasper returned, carrying writing materials. A few of his men would take the ship back to Tenby for him, he said, and would carry a letter with them. He handed the paper to Henry. ‘Write to your mother,’ he said.

This Earl of Richmond … fell into Duke Francis’ hands during a storm when he was attempting to flee to France with his uncle, the Earl of Pembroke. The duke treated them very gently as prisoners.

Philippe de Commines

Livi Michael

ACCESSION

Contents

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PENGUIN BOOKS

ACCESSION

Praise for Succession:

Praise for Rebellion:

Key Characters

Prologue

1

Flight