Sacrifice by David Pilling Page B

belly, “no amount of fasting or exercise seems to reduce it.”
       “Perhaps because your notion of fasting is unique,” Henry said drily, “strong Rhenish wine and roasted meats hardly count as hermit-like severity.”
       Pembroke wiped his streaming forehead and eyed Henry balefully. “Clever answers, nephew. You always have clever answers.”
       He pointed at Henry’s sword. “You must needs be more than adequate. Richard Plantagenet is a born warrior. If you meet in battle, you must be able to match his strength and skill.”
       “The sword is but one kind of weapon,” Henry retorted, “there are others. I mean to make use of all of them.”
        They went into the armoury and gave their gear to the master-at-arms. In spite of the exercise, Henry was not tired, and insisted on traipsing up the steps to the hall to read his latest correspondence.
       The Chateau L’Hermine was a small castle inside the town of Vannes, on the southern coast of Brittany. Henry had been a prisoner here for three years, and was thoroughly bored of it.
       Better bored than dead , he reminded himself as he climbed the stairs, with Pembroke puffing in his wake. 
       This was his third prison in twelve years of exile and gentle captivity. Duke Francis regarded him as a useful bargaining aid, and was both gaoler and protector. So long as Henry was in the duke’s custody, Yorkist agents from England could not get their hands on him, much as they would like to.
       They had almost succeeded on a couple of occasions. Henry still suffered nightmares of his near-escape at St Malo, not far from Vannes. He was just nineteen at the time, and a blunder on the duke’s part led to Henry being taken under guard to St Malo, to be handed over to Yorkist envoys sent by King Edward. Only by feigning illness, and then slipping away while his guards argued with Edward’s agents, had he avoided being taken aboard ship.
       Alone, Henry fled through the town’s narrow, cobbled streets, hiding in alleys and doorways while the English hunted him. Heart thumping, sweat pouring down his brow, he managed to reach the shadowy confines of Saint Vincent’s Cathedral, where he claimed sanctuary. Unwilling to break the holy rules of sanctuary, his pursuers gave up and sailed back to England empty-handed.
       They will never stop hunting me , Henry thought, not until I am dead, or beyond their reach. Brittany is not far enough, and the duke is old and sick. Once he is dead, I must find a new refuge.
       It was a bitter prospect, spending the rest of his days as a fugitive, crawling from one foreign court to another to beg his bread. His mother was in England, doing her utmost to persuade King Richard to allow him to come home in peace, swear fealty to the Yorkist regime and be given back his earldom of Richmond.
       Henry appreciated her efforts, but had no intention of placing himself in the power of Richard Plantagenet. The fate of Rivers and Hastings warned against putting any faith in the new king’s promises.
       He entered the hall to find Sir Edward Woodville waiting for him. Edward was newly arrived to Brittany, having fled to Henry’s little court in exile with just two ships and a chest full of gold coins he had liberated from a merchant ship in the Channel. The rest of his fleet had surrendered to King Richard, who also seized Edward’s bases at the Isle of Wight and Porchester.
    Edward stood up as Henry and his uncle came in, and executed a graceful bow. He was a graceful man, about thirty years of age, tall and sinewy and ruggedly handsome, with a tight cap of blonde curls cut in the latest military style. A distinguished soldier and knight-at-arms, just the kind of man Henry needed about him.
       Unfortunately, there was only one of him. Henry sighed, and gestured at him to rise.
       “Your Majesty,” Edward said formally, “I watched you spar in the tiltyard. Most impressive.”
       Your Majesty,