Trinity (2 page)

–
James Tuchet, Baron Audley
: Veteran soldier and commander of the Queen’s Gallants

–
Saul Bertleman (Bertle)
: Mentor of Derihew Brewer

–
Derihew (Derry) Brewer
: Spymaster of Henry VI

–
Humphrey Stafford, Duke of Buckingham
: Supporter of Henry VI

–
Carter
: Horseman in the retinue of Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury

–
Charles VII
: King of France, uncle of Henry VI

–
John Clifford, Baron Clifford
: Son of Thomas de Clifford

–
Thomas de Clifford, Baron Clifford
: Supporter of Henry VI

–
William Crighton, Lord Crighton
: Scottish nobleman who arranged the marriage of James II and Mary of Guelders

–
Ralph Cromwell, Baron Cromwell
: Chamberlain of the Household to Henry VI

–
Maud Cromwell (née Stanhope)
: Niece and heiress of Baron Cromwell

–
Sir Robert Dalton
: Swordsman and sparring partner of Edward, Earl of March

–
Andrew Douglas
: Scottish laird and ally of Henry VI

–
Thomas Percy, Baron Egremont
: Son of Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland

–
Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter
: Son-in-law of Richard, Duke of York

–
John Fauceby
: Royal physician to Henry VI

–
William Neville, Lord Fauconberg
: Brother of Earl of Salisbury

–
Sir John Fortescue
: Chief Justice of the King’s Bench

–
Fowler
: Soldier at Battle of St Albans

–
Vicomte Michel Gascault
: French ambassador to the English court

–
Sir Howard Gaverick
: Bondsman knight in the service of Earl of Warwick

–
Silent Godwin
: Franciscan friar

–
Edmund Grey, Baron Grey of Ruthin
: Supporter of Henry VI

–
Mary of Guelders
: Wife of James II of Scotland

–
William Hatclyf
: Royal physician to Henry VI

–
Henry VI
: King of England, son of Henry V

–
Hobbs
: Sergeant-at-arms, Windsor

–
Squire James
: Scout for Henry VI’s army at Battle of St Albans

–
Jameson
: Blacksmith and sparring partner of Edward, Earl of March

–
Edward Plantagenet, Earl of March
: Son of Richard, Duke of York

–
John Neville
: Son of Earl of Salisbury, brother to Warwick

–
John de Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk
: Supporter of Henry VI

–
Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland
: Head of Percy family and defender of the border with Scotland

–
Eleanor Neville, Countess of Northumberland
: Wife of Henry Percy, sister of Earl of Salisbury

–
William Oldhall
: Chancellor and supporter of Richard, Duke of York

–
Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke
: Half-brother of Henry VI

–
Brother Peter
: Franciscan friar

–
Rankin
: Manservant to Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury

–
Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond
: Half-brother of Henry VI

–
Edmund Plantagenet, Earl of Rutland
: Son of Richard, Duke of York

–
Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury
: Head of Neville family, grandson of John of Gaunt

–
Alice Montacute, Countess of Salisbury
: Wife of Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury

–
Thomas de Scales, Baron Scales
:Commander of the royal garrison in the Tower of London

–
Michael Scruton
: Serjeant-surgeon to Henry VI

–
Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset
: Supporter of Henry VI

–
Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset
: Son of Edmund Beaufort, supporter of Henry VI

–
William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk
: Soldier and courtier who arranged the marriage of Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou

–
Wilfred Tanner
: Smuggler and friend of Derry Brewer

–
Sir William Tresham
: Speaker of the House of Commons

–
Andrew Trollope
: Captain of Earl of Warwick’s Calais garrison

–
Trunning
: Swordmaster to Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland

–
Owen Tudor
: Second husband of Catherine de Valois (widow of Henry V)

–
Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick
: Son of Earl of Salisbury, later known as the Kingmaker

–
Edward of Westminster
: Prince of Wales, son of Henry VI after marriage of Henry VI to Margaret of Anjou

–
Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York
: Head of House of York, great-grandson of Edward III

–
Cecily Neville, Duchess of York
: Wife of Richard, Duke of York, granddaughter of John of Gaunt

Prologue

Vicomte Michel Gascault was certainly not a spy. He would have scorned the name if he had heard it used of him. Of course it went without saying that the French ambassador to the English court would report anything of interest to his monarch on his return. It was also true that Vicomte Gascault had considerable experience in the royal palaces of Europe as well as the field of war. He knew what King Charles of France might want to know and, with that in mind, Vicomte Gascault took careful note of all that went on around him, little though it was. Spies were grubby, low-born men, given to hiding in doorways and hissing secret passwords at each other. Vicomte Gascault,
de l’ autre côté
, – ‘on the other hand’, as the English said – was a gentleman of France, as far above such things as the sun above the earth.

Those and similar thoughts were all he had to amuse him in his idle hours. He was certain to mention to King Charles how he had been ignored for three full days, left to kick his heels in a sumptuous chamber in the Palace of Westminster. The servants sent to attend his person were not even well washed, he had noticed, though they came promptly enough. One of them positively reeked of horse and urine, as if he found his usual employment in the royal stables.

Still, it was true Gascault’s bodily needs were met, even if his ambassadorial ones were not. Each day began with his own retainers dressing him in the most gorgeous raiments and cloaks he possessed, choosing them from among the garments pressed into the enormous trunks he had brought from France. He had not yet been forced to repeat a combination of colours and if he had overheard one of the English scullions refer to him as the ‘French Peacock’, it bothered him not at all. Bright colours raised his mood and he had precious little else to while away the time. He did not like to think of the food they set out for him. It was clear enough that they had engaged a French cook; equally as clear that the man had no love of his countrymen. Gascault shuddered at the thought of some of the flaccid things that had appeared at his table.

The hours crept by like a funeral and he had long ago read every scrap of his official papers. By the light of a candle-lamp, he turned at last to a dun-coloured book in his possession, marked throughout with his notes and comments.
De Sacra Coena
by Berengarius had become a favourite of Gascault’s. The treatise on the Last Supper had been banned by the Church, of course. Any argument that strayed into the mysteries of body and blood brought the attention of Papal hounds.

Gascault had long been in the habit of seeking out books destined for the fire, to set his thoughts aflame in turn. He rubbed his hands over the wrappings. The original cover had been stripped and burned to ashes, of course, with those ashes carefully crumbled so that no questing hand could ever guess what they had once been. The rough, stained leather was a sad necessity in an age where men took such delight in denouncing each other to their masters.

The summons, when it came at last, interrupted his reading. Gascault was used to the booming bell that rang each hour and half-hour, startling him from sleep and spoiling his digestion at least as much as the poor pigeons that lay so limply on his dinner platter. He had kept no count but still knew it was late when the horse-servant, as he thought of him, came rushing into the rooms.

‘Viscount Gas-cart, you are summoned,’ the boy said.

Gascault gave no sign of irritation at the way he mangled a proud name. The boy was surely a simpleton and the Good Lord expected mercy for those poor fellows, set among their betters to teach compassion, or so Gascault’s mother had always said. With care, he laid his book on the arm of the chair and rose. His steward, Alphonse, was only a step behind the lad. Gascault let his eyes drift back to the book, knowing it would be enough of a signal for his servant to keep it from other hands in his absence. Alphonse nodded sharply, bowing low while the horse-boy stared in confusion at the dumbshow between the two men.

Vicomte Gascault strapped on his sword and allowed Alphonse to drape his yellow cloak around his shoulders. When his gaze dropped once more to the chair, the book had somehow vanished. Truly, his servant was the soul of discretion and not simply because he lacked a tongue. Gascault inclined his head in thanks and swept out behind the boy, passing through the outer rooms and into the chilly corridor beyond.

A party of five men awaited him there. Four of them were evidently soldiers, wearing a royal tabard over mail. The last wore a cloak and tunic over hose, all as thick and well made as his own.

‘Vicomte Michel Gascault?’ the man said.

Gascault noted the perfect pronunciation and smiled.

‘I have that honour. I am at your service … ?’

‘Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury and lord chancellor. I must apologize for the late hour, but you are expected, my lord, in the royal chambers.’

Gascault fell easily into step at the man’s side, ignoring the soldiers clattering along in their wake. He had known stranger things than a midnight meeting, in his career.

‘To see the king?’ he asked mischievously, watching the earl closely. Salisbury was not a young man, though he seemed wiry and in good health to the Frenchman’s eyes. It would not do to reveal how much the court of France knew of King Henry’s poor health.

‘I am sorry to report that His Royal Highness, King Henry, is suffering with an ague, a temporary illness. I hope you will take no offence, but I am to bring you to the Duke of York this evening.’

‘My lord Salisbury, I am so
very
sorry to hear such a thing,’ Gascault replied, letting the words spill out. He saw Salisbury’s eyes tighten just a fraction and had to repress a smile. They both knew there were families in the English court with strong ties to France, whether by blood or titles. The idea that the French king would not know every detail of King Henry’s collapse was a game to be played between them and nothing more. The English king had been near senseless for months, fallen so deeply into a stupor that he could not be raised to life. It was not for nothing that his lords had appointed one of their number as ‘Protector and Defender of the Realm’. Richard, Duke of York, was king in all but name and, in truth, Vicomte Gascault had no interest in meeting a royal lost in his dreaming. He had been sent to judge the strength of the English court and their willingness to defend their interests. Gascault allowed his pleasure to sparkle in his eyes for just an instant before snuffing the emotion. If he reported that they were weak and lost without King Henry, Gascault’s word alone would bring a hundred ships from France, to raid and burn every English port. The English had done the same to France for long enough, he reminded himself. Perhaps it was time at last that the devil had his due of them as well.