killing bolt.’
Raphael made to interrupt again, but his father seized his wrist. ‘Listen, Raphael, in battle, what are you frightened of?’
‘Why, the enemy!’
‘Of course. You turn, strike, shield and sword moving up and down, but these master bowmen don’t.’
‘It requires great courage,’ Bray declared. ‘They ignore what is happening around them and concentrate solely on their intended victim. Now such a bowman can be protected, but this must be done subtly, otherwise you will attract the attention of your enemy. The master bowman waits. The English lord, either mounted or on foot, is surrounded by his henchmen. He is fully armoured, his visor down. Sooner or later he must raise that visor, even for a short while, to breathe more freely, to cool his face, and that is all the master bowman needs. The bolt is loosed, the commander killed, banners fall, chaos ensues.’ Bray pulled a face. ‘We believe LeCorbeil are responsible, individually or as a group, for such killings. They have snatched the lives of a great number of English commanders in France.’
‘But here in England, both York and Lancaster remain their enemy?’ Raphael asked.
‘Now,’ Bray sighed, ‘we come to LeCorbeil’s other undoubted challenge. They provoke agitation, which is what happened in Kent and Essex during Cade’s uprising. More importantly, when this city decided to resist, its military commander, Matthew Gough, Captain of the Tower, together with John Sutton, a leading alderman, rallied to defend London Bridge. LeCorbeil were undoubtedly there. Gough, Sutton and others were killed by this.’
Bray opened his wallet and took out a squat red-feathered crossbow bolt. Raphael studied it. A lethal shot, the goose flight starched and firm at the end of its elm-wood stem, whilst its jagged steel point could easily crack a man’s skull or shatter the bones of his face to a bloody mess.
‘That’s their weapon of war. So, LeCorbeil are here,’ Bray continued briskly, ‘to stir and agitate as well as wage their own blood feud against the Beauforts. The only solution we have is to kill them all.’
Bray’s doom-like words rang like a funeral bell. Raphael stared across at a crucifix nailed to the wall. A triptych to its right proclaimed scenes from the Passion of Christ. Did Jesus’s sufferings, Raphael wondered, have any relevance to himself, his father, his family? They had no choice but to swim in a filthy sweep of politics, perjury and perdition. Even this chamber, sanctified by decades of prayer, fasting, study and soul-searching, was being used to describe bloody murder, vengeance and treason.
‘Am I… are we,’ Simon asked, ‘responsible for LeCorbeil’s destruction?’
‘Yes and no,’ Bray replied. ‘But first, we must destroy someone else.’ He clasped his hands, fingers laced. ‘Beaufort, York and LeCorbeil share one thing in common: they fish in very troubled waters. Have you ever heard of Giles Argentine?’
‘A doctor,’ Simon murmured, ‘one who used to be much in demand by the great and the good: a royal physician, a member of the King’s household. He studied at Salerno and even amongst the Moors in Spain. Beaufort sometimes talked about Argentine, a man who loves wealth and intrigue.’
‘Too true,’ Bray agreed. ‘But now Argentine has disappeared from court because of his love of mischief.’
Bray poured some more wine, then rose. He opened and closed the door before walking around the parlour ensuring that all the shutters on the outside of the windows were firmly sealed. At last he returned to his chair.
‘Now you know,’ he hunched forward, his voice just above a whisper, ‘how Richard of York alleges that our present King Henry’s son and heir is actually the illegitimate offspring of Queen Margaret of Anjou and the great love of her life, Edmund Beaufort, recently promoted to Duke of Somerset after the death of his brother John, the first duke. God and his angels know the
Raphael made to interrupt again, but his father seized his wrist. ‘Listen, Raphael, in battle, what are you frightened of?’
‘Why, the enemy!’
‘Of course. You turn, strike, shield and sword moving up and down, but these master bowmen don’t.’
‘It requires great courage,’ Bray declared. ‘They ignore what is happening around them and concentrate solely on their intended victim. Now such a bowman can be protected, but this must be done subtly, otherwise you will attract the attention of your enemy. The master bowman waits. The English lord, either mounted or on foot, is surrounded by his henchmen. He is fully armoured, his visor down. Sooner or later he must raise that visor, even for a short while, to breathe more freely, to cool his face, and that is all the master bowman needs. The bolt is loosed, the commander killed, banners fall, chaos ensues.’ Bray pulled a face. ‘We believe LeCorbeil are responsible, individually or as a group, for such killings. They have snatched the lives of a great number of English commanders in France.’
‘But here in England, both York and Lancaster remain their enemy?’ Raphael asked.
‘Now,’ Bray sighed, ‘we come to LeCorbeil’s other undoubted challenge. They provoke agitation, which is what happened in Kent and Essex during Cade’s uprising. More importantly, when this city decided to resist, its military commander, Matthew Gough, Captain of the Tower, together with John Sutton, a leading alderman, rallied to defend London Bridge. LeCorbeil were undoubtedly there. Gough, Sutton and others were killed by this.’
Bray opened his wallet and took out a squat red-feathered crossbow bolt. Raphael studied it. A lethal shot, the goose flight starched and firm at the end of its elm-wood stem, whilst its jagged steel point could easily crack a man’s skull or shatter the bones of his face to a bloody mess.
‘That’s their weapon of war. So, LeCorbeil are here,’ Bray continued briskly, ‘to stir and agitate as well as wage their own blood feud against the Beauforts. The only solution we have is to kill them all.’
Bray’s doom-like words rang like a funeral bell. Raphael stared across at a crucifix nailed to the wall. A triptych to its right proclaimed scenes from the Passion of Christ. Did Jesus’s sufferings, Raphael wondered, have any relevance to himself, his father, his family? They had no choice but to swim in a filthy sweep of politics, perjury and perdition. Even this chamber, sanctified by decades of prayer, fasting, study and soul-searching, was being used to describe bloody murder, vengeance and treason.
‘Am I… are we,’ Simon asked, ‘responsible for LeCorbeil’s destruction?’
‘Yes and no,’ Bray replied. ‘But first, we must destroy someone else.’ He clasped his hands, fingers laced. ‘Beaufort, York and LeCorbeil share one thing in common: they fish in very troubled waters. Have you ever heard of Giles Argentine?’
‘A doctor,’ Simon murmured, ‘one who used to be much in demand by the great and the good: a royal physician, a member of the King’s household. He studied at Salerno and even amongst the Moors in Spain. Beaufort sometimes talked about Argentine, a man who loves wealth and intrigue.’
‘Too true,’ Bray agreed. ‘But now Argentine has disappeared from court because of his love of mischief.’
Bray poured some more wine, then rose. He opened and closed the door before walking around the parlour ensuring that all the shutters on the outside of the windows were firmly sealed. At last he returned to his chair.
‘Now you know,’ he hunched forward, his voice just above a whisper, ‘how Richard of York alleges that our present King Henry’s son and heir is actually the illegitimate offspring of Queen Margaret of Anjou and the great love of her life, Edmund Beaufort, recently promoted to Duke of Somerset after the death of his brother John, the first duke. God and his angels know the
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