Royal Interlude: Book Ii of the Adventures of William Howard and Hugh Fitzalan in Fifteenth Century England

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© Copyright 2014 Gene Baumgaertner.

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ISBN:

978-1-4907-2746-2 (hc)

ISBN:

978-1-4907-2747-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014902516

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DEDICATION

This Book is Dedicated to

Two Fine Young Gentlemen

My Grandsons

William Edward Liam Fitzpatrick and

Nathan Alexander Nate Rednowers

Contents

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter 1   Rouen, Normandy

Chapter 2   Tempus Fugit

Chapter 3   Fighting the French

Chapter 4   Cat and Mouse

Chapter 5   Turmoil and Fiasco

Chapter 6   The Ducal Family

Chapter 7   Der Fechtmeister

Chapter 8   The Self-Serving Councilors

Chapter 9   At Eltham Palace

Chapter 10   Meister Ludwig

Chapter 11   The Duke and the Earl

Chapter 12   Rouen to Le Mans

Chapter 13   Marching Through France

Chapter 14   The Salient Issues

Chapter 15   Tours, France

Chapter 16   Margaret d’Anjou

Chapter 17   News from Home

Chapter 18   The Reluctant Betrayal

Chapter 19   The Earl and the Princess

Chapter 20   The Betrothal

Chapter 21   The Journey Back

Chapter 22   Life in Rouen

Chapter 23   A Ride in the Country

Chapter 24   Fire and Water

Chapter 25   At the French Court, and Elsewhere

Chapter 26   To Collect a Queen

Chapter 27   The Royal Wedding

Chapter 28   Into the Lion’s Lair

Chapter 29   A Chance Encounter

Chapter 30   A Second Wedding

Chapter 31   The Coronation

Chapter 32   Rouen and London

Appendix A: Dramatis Personae

Appendix B: Arms of Selected Dramatis Personae

Appendix C: The Duchy of Anjou and Yolande of Aragon

Appendix D: René d’Anjou & Isabelle de Lorraine

Foreword

I tell of continuing troubled times. Of a lingering story of the land being torn far asunder. Torn by our very own people, by our very own Lords.

I tell a tale of a young, diffident King, a religious man, who would rather have been a Monk than a Monarch. But a King he was born to be, and a King he must stay. Still, following a young man’s dreams and yearnings, he sought a wife. He found a Golden-Haired Southern Beauty. He hoped for a saintly woman to continue a dynasty, and instead let into the Kingdom a She-Wolf, who came in the guise of a Dove.

It is a tale where War continued to rack the King’s overseas possessions. A costly war that had begun before the King was born, and which fewer and fewer of his Ministers wished to pursue. And because of his Ministers’ indecision, their indifference, and their self-interest, the King’s possessions continued to be taken from him, one by one. I tell of times where powerful Magnates grew overweening, and sought to rob the King of his money, of his authority, and of his majesty. I tell a tale of deceit and double-dealing, of theft and of violence, of murder and of war.

These were times that tried a man’s character, tested his courage, and challenged his honor. Yet these were also the times that helped turn Good Men into Great Ones, tempered in the fires of adversity like fine steel.

Into these troubled times were cast our Family Members. Men tested, and not found wanting. Women who cherished their honor and their duty, above all else. And as I am compelled to tell the story of these Family Members, so must I also speak of these troubled times.

And thus the Story continues with this second book, as the bloodlines of the Plantagenet and the Valois again mingle, with disarming, then alarming, and finally tragic results.

Written at the Abbey of St. Edmund

Near Earlington, county Norfolk, by

Friar Christopher White Howard

In the Year of Our Lord, 1499

Prologue

For over twenty-five years, war had wrecked its havoc upon northern France. The renewed English attempt to place the King of England upon the throne of France, by right of the inheritance of Edward III (from his Valois mother), had begun in August 1415, when Henry V invaded Normandy. In September, after a long siege, Henry finally captured Harfleur. He had planned additional campaigning in France, but the overlong siege of Harfleur and its negative impacts upon his army, caused a change in plans. He decided to return home for reinforcements. In October, his tattered army of 8,000, depleted and weakened by dysentery, headed for the English fortress of Calais, on the north coast of France. Henry had expected a quick trip to Calais, from which his tired army could return to England.

But by then, Charles VI of France had gathered an enormous army. Its size was estimated by the English to be at least 30,000 soldiers, with some reckoning that it exceeded 50,000. More conservative (and likely more realistic) figures put it at between 12,000 and 15,000. The French were determined to make the English pay for their invasion. They blocked every crossing of the River Somme, forcing the tired and hungry English further and further upriver, searching for a safe path to Calais.

Henry V was finally able to cross the Somme at two unguarded fords far to the east of Amiens. He next hoped to skirt the French army, and race for Calais. In this he was to be disappointed. At Agincourt, he found the French army blocking his path.

The English army was exhausted, as well as heavily out-numbered. It had been moving fast to try and avoid the French army, and many of the soldiers hadn’t eaten a full meal in days. But Henry chose a top-notch battlefield on which to make his stand. He organized his forces into the classic English defensive line—dismounted, and with heavy reliance upon the English longbow. He took the field early in the morning, and waited for the French to attack him. He waited many hours.

Although they had a superiority in numbers, and were fresh and well-fed, the French were unwilling to attack the English. They believed that the English had an uncanny ability of ripping victory out of the jaws of defeat.

But the French didn’t need to attack. They could outwait the English. The English army was hungry and tired. It was about to collapse. So they stood there in battle array and waited for the English to attack them… or collapse before their eyes.

The French army had its own problems. It preferred to fight on horseback. But heavy rains had fallen the night before, and the newly plowed fields had turned to deep mud. This would seriously impede the French cavalry. Worse, the French had been arguing for days about who was actually in command of the French army, and the best way to defeat the English. Most of the younger men wanted to fight the English, and gain eternal glory and widespread renown with the blood of their enemy. But some of the older veterans wanted to avoid an outright fight, and simply let the English starve. Thus their plan was to block the English from reaching Calais, and from a safe distance watch them collapse.

The night before the battle, the French had argued all night. Who was actually in command of the army, and whose plan would they follow? The Constable of France? The Marshall of France? One or more of the Royal Dukes? The ranking Valois Prince? They argued as they took the field against the English. They argued about where each duke and count and knight would stand in the formation. They continued to argue over who would actually command them in battle. Even as they lined up for battle, they still hadn’t agreed on almost anything other than the fact that they all wanted to defeat the English.

The English army’s situation had become desperate, and they found that they were now fighting for their very lives. This however, could be turned to an advantage—they had to win, or die. They had other advantages—discipline; a tradition of winning; and the English longbow—a weapon until then not fully appreciated in Europe. The longbow would turn the tide of battle. First Henry used the longbow to prod the French into attacking him. His archers poured merciless volleys of arrows into the French. When the French finally attacked the English, English arrows literally darkened the sky.

Many French lives were lost before their army ever made contact with the English. Those who did, found themselves barely able to raise their weapons. They were pinned in too closely, trying to veer away from the English archers on their flanks, and pushing together too tightly, trying to get to the English as quickly as possible… to share in the certain victory.

What followed at Agincourt was a pivotal victory for the English. It was the kind of strategic victory, and of such magnitude, that for a period of time at least, it changed the course of history in much of Europe. By the end of the battle, the English had killed the Constable of France, three great Royal Dukes, seven Counts and a Viscount, 120 Barons, about 1,500 knights, and perhaps 9,000 other fighting men. Many of the surviving French nobility, including two Royal Dukes, four Counts, and the Marshall of France, were captured and later ransomed by the English (those, that is, who survived English captivity). The flower of the French nobility had been crushed. In contrast, the English had lost only one Duke, an Earl (an English Count), and about 600 men.

By 1419, Henry had conquered Normandy. In 1421, the Treaty of Troyes gave Henry V a French Princess as a bride (Katherine de Valois, the youngest daughter of the French King), and recognition as the heir to Charles VI of France. But the war did not end there, as the new Dauphin Charles—the youngest surviving son of Charles VI (his two older brothers having pre-deceased him), and the man who would one day become Charles VII—was unwilling to give up his inheritance to the English.

Years of see-saw conflict followed, with the English gaining slow ascendancy over the French. By 1429, Charles VII had virtually given up the struggle. He lived like a pauper south of the Loire, and at one point even considered fleeing from France. Then a young maiden (called Joan d’Arc by the English) appeared, and changed the course of history. She rallied Charles VII, thwarted the English siege of Orléans, and defeated the English army at Patay. From that time onward, the French slowly regained lost territory, while the English Crown slowly lost the will to continue the war.

By 1442, the war had virtually stagnated. Sir Richard Plantagenet, third Duke of York, was the English Lieutenant-General of France, and Governor of Normandy. He had arrived in France in early July 1441, with his family, a modest retinue, and an army of 5,000. He expected to remain in France for 3 years, and he realized that all was not well with the English conquest.

This was York’s second tour of duty in France, but this time he faced an uphill contest. The French King had multiple armies operating against the English, the largest at about 5,000 or 6,000 in strength. The indentures of the army that he had brought with him in July expired in late December, 1441, and most returned to England. Now he could barely field 2,000 men at a time. His garrisons were under-manned, and his fortifications were in dire need of repair.

Meanwhile, in England, Henry V’s son, Henry VI, dreamed of peace. He was guided by the English Privy Council, which was populated with men who were more interested in their own enrichment than they were with the well-being of the Realm. And if they thought about the war in France at all, it was about how best to get out of it with the least loss to themselves. They hoped to avoid sending any more men, or wasting any more funds, on what many of them considered to be too monumental an effort, and what some already considered a lost cause.

The Duke of York was not one of these. He was neither a member of the Privy Council, nor one of the doomsayers. He still believed that the French war could be won, with enough men, money, and time. But the Privy Council wasn’t sending men and money. And time was running out.

Chapter 01

Rouen, Normandy

January 1442

Will Howard arose from a fit-full sleep… the end-product of yet another night of tossing and turning. He sat on the edge of his straw mattress, and rubbed his eyes. He wondered what it was about his life that was causing the loss of so much sleep. But at roughly twelve and a half years of age, he didn’t have much perspective on such things. He certainly couldn’t conceive of the notion that the effects of stress and boredom brought about by living in a war-torn land might be the culprit.

Will glanced out the window of his second-story barracks room. It was still dark outside, and he couldn’t recall hearing a night watchman call out the time. It must be the third or fourth vigil, he thought.

He peered over at his room-mate, Hugh Fitzalan. Hugh was peacefully sleeping, mildly snoring, and blissfully ignorant of Will’s problem.

Will pulled himself up and quietly donned his clothing. He slipped a knife in his belt, and inserted a throwing dagger into a sheath in his boot. He grabbed his short sword and scabbard. He didn’t want to awake Hugh, both for Hugh’s sake and his own. Five minutes later, he was out the barracks door, and heading around the Governor’s Palace for the front gate.

The officer of the guards at the front gate let him through without a question. After all, he was an Esquire, and a Lieutenant of Scouts. If not well-known, he was at least recognizable to many of the officers in Rouen.

Will strolled around the square in front of the Governor’s Palace without purpose. His mind was many miles away, at Arundel Castle, a place that had become a second home to him. He hadn’t seen Arundel since last June, when he and Hugh had gone off to war. He was suddenly feeling homesick.

As the night watchman cried out the beginning of the fourth vigil (about 3 AM), Will found himself standing in front of the gate that led into the Citadel. He looked up at the high Tower Keep, and suddenly had an urge to climb it, and watch the sunrise from there. That should afford a pretty spectacular view.

Although it was a strange time of night for him to be about, the officer of the guards at the Citadel gate also let him pass without challenge. After all, he was virtually a member of the Duke of York’s own retinue. If he couldn’t be trusted, who could?

Will Howard made his way up the many stories of the Tower Keep. On the top floor, he found a window facing east. He settled onto a stone window-seat to await the sunrise.

Below him spread the Norman city of Rouen. It was a sizable place. In the early 1400’s, the city’s population had exceeded 70,000. Even now, it’s population surpassed 50,000.

King Henry V had commented that Rouen was the most notable place in France, save Paris. It was certainly one of the wealthiest and most beautiful cities in the English domain of France. It had become rich from a healthy weaving trade, and from exporting its luxurious cloths and fine gold-work up the River Seine to Paris. Its goods found a ready market with the Parisian aristocracy. The magnificent houses of Rouen attested to the existence of a large and wealthy merchant class.

Will could also easily see why Rouen was known as the City of a Hundred Spires. Staring eastward, he couldn’t help but notice the preponderance of church towers and steeples. Rouen contained an impressive cathedral, Notre-Dame, and numerous abbeys and priories. It also contained some 30 convents and 70 churches within its walls.

From his vantage point, and through the rising mist, Will could also see portions of the mighty stone wall that extended for 5 miles in circumference around Rouen. The walls were reinforced with some 60 towers, and 6 impressive barbican gates. The city was further guarded on one side by the Seine, and on the other three sides by an unusually wide and deep ditch, which could be flooded in time of need.

Will’s mind drifted. He watched a pair of dogs scamper down an adjacent alley, chasing a rat. He noticed the silhouette of a cat prowling along the gutter-line of a large building nearby. He even thought that he could see a pair of rats catch sight of the cat, and flee down a gutter pipe.

Slowly, Will became mesmerized by the darkened view before him. There was little moonlight, but most of the main roads and streets within the city walls were at least marginally lighted. At this time of the night, there was very little activity within the city. What few people and horses were up, flittered in and out of Will’s view, as they went about their very early morning business.

The flickering street lights and smoke drifting from the thousands of chimneys cast a ghostly image before Will’s eyes. His mind seemed to slowly succumb to the surrealistic images conjured up in the swirling mists and smoke. His eyelids suddenly seemed heavy. He shut them for a moment. It felt so pleasurable to keep his tired eyelids closed for a while… for just a few minutes.

Suddenly Will Howard was awakened with a start by an alarm being sounded from somewhere inside the Citadel. During the night, hundreds of French soldiers had infiltrated through the sewerage system into Rouen. A traitorous Béarnais soldier had then lowered ladders down over the walls surrounding the Citadel, and let in a French force of 150 handpicked soldiers under the French Captain, Sir Guillaume, Seigneur de Ricarville.

Will rubbed his eyes. He could already here the clashing of sword-fighting in the assembly areas between the Citadel’s outer walls and the Tower Keep itself. He could hardly believe it. He must be dreaming, he though to himself. So he pinched himself. Oow, he thought.

Fortunately, Will had strapped on his short sword and scabbard when he had gotten dressed. He never went anywhere without them. Not in Normandy. He also had a long, slim dagger in a small scabbard on his belt, and a shorter throwing dagger tucked into his right boot. But he had seen no reason to don chain mail. Now he wished that he had had the foresight to put some defensive armor on.

Will stood and leaned far out the window, looking downward. There were hundreds of soldiers in the assembly area between the Citadel’s walls and the Tower Keep. They were all involved in a ferocious battle, scores of individual duels, and many more where it was one man against two or three—the battle raged between Englishmen wearing white surcoats with the red cross of St. George, and Frenchmen wearing blue surcoats with the golden fleur-de-lis. There seemed to be many more soldiers wearing blue and gold than wearing white and red.

Will pulled himself back into the tower, and tried to decide what to do. He pulled his short sword, and hefted it in his left hand. He prepared to rush down the stairs to help his countrymen defend the Tower Keep. Suddenly there was a great burst of shouting and cursing wafting up from below.

Will returned to the window and leaned further out. He squinted, hoping for a better view of the darkened yard below. There were bodies of Frenchmen and Englishmen lying everywhere. As he watched, the English soldiers were being forced back into the Tower Keep.

Again Will withdrew from the window. What to do? Normally he was not this indecisive. He frowned, and looked around. Then he drew his dagger into his right hand. Since he carried no shield, sword and dagger would serve both offensively and defensively. Will bolted for the door to the stairs leading downward.

Even before he got there, there was suddenly a large body of men on the stairway below. They were fighting heroically. Englishmen were slowly being forced upwards, while a far larger body of Frenchmen were harassing them from below.

Will went over to the railing, and looked down. The stairs were littered with bodies, both Frenchmen and Englishmen. The steps were slippery with the blood that was flowing so freely.

Will tried to join the Englishmen defending the stairway, but as the Frenchmen surged forward, the English were forced backward. Will was pushed back into the room at the top of the Tower Keep. Englishmen followed him in and spread out, preparing to make a last stand in the room.

Someone yelled, The Earl. The Earl. Make way for the Earl of Arundel.

Will was surprised and confused. The Earl of Arundel? He knew the Earl of Arundel quite well. As far as Will knew, the Earl was back in England. He was either taking his leisure at Arundel Castle… or helping guard Dover Castle… or perhaps at Chirk Castle, helping defend the Welsh Marches.

The English swordsmen split momentarily, and let their leader, who had been fighting in the front line of the English, escape into the room. A tall dark man wearing the Arundel livery of gules, a lion rampant or (a red surcoat with a rampant golden lion blazoning the man’s chest), stepped into the middle of the room.

Earl William, Will exclaimed in surprise. No one noticed Will, least of all the Earl of Arundel.

Will blinked. The man looked strikingly like Sir William Fitzalan, fifteenth Earl of Arundel. But although he looked a lot like Sir William, this was a different man. He looked familiar. Will had seen him before. He frowned and thought back. On a large portrait that hung in the great hall at Arundel Castle. Will scratched his head, while fighting still continued furiously just outside the room and down the stairway. Men yelled in anger and cried in pain. Then it struck him. This man was Sir William’s older brother, Sir John Fitzalan, thirteenth Earl of Arundel. But how could this be, thought Will?

The thirteenth Earl of Arundel directed his men to greater exertions, defending this last hold-out against the French surprise attack.

Will then noticed that two of the Englishmen were carrying a heavy rope between them. One of the men tied one end of the rope to a heavy iron ring bolted into the thick oaken floor of the tower room. When he was satisfied that his knot would hold, he signaled to the other man. The second man lowered the rope out the very window that Will had been sitting before only a few minutes ago.

The Earl of Arundel yelled for two of his captains to exit through the window and climb down the rope. They both declined and a heated argument ensued. Arundel directed that the fighting men not waste any more time, nor any more lives, and climb out the window and down the rope to safety. Several men jumped at the chance to survive the coming onslaught.

Finally Arundel and his captains reached an agreement. Four captains drew straws, and the one with the shortest agreed to stay and direct the defense. Arundel directed the other three to climb down the rope without wasting any more precious time. They each agreed to comply in turn if Arundel immediately followed them. He nodded his assent.

The captains then exited the window, one by one, and shimmied down the rope. The Earl of Arundel next began tapping shoulders, and nodding towards the window. One-by-one, one soldier after another followed their captains down the rope.

Will Howard watched all of this from the shadows in the room’s corner. He was more of a witness than an active participant. By now, the French had almost reached the landing of the top floor. There was little time left for the Earl of Arundel to save himself. Finally, the captain who had been selected to stay behind turned to the Earl. You need to leave now, my Lord, or you will certainly end up a hostage of the French.

Sir John Fitzalan nodded his acceptance, sheathed his sword, and climbed out the window. He was immediately lost to sight.

Will moved sluggishly towards the captain commanding the defense. His arms and legs seemed somehow constrained. He fought his way to the captain’s side. The captain turned and looked at Will. He seemed startled, and said, Why, you’re only a boy.

I can fight, said Will. You follow the Earl. He’ll need you. I’ll defend the rope with my life.

I’m sure you will, said the captain. But there’s no need.

He pointed towards the window and said, Look, we are rallying already. Soon the Earl will lead a relieving force. It is these poor, brave Frenchmen who are trapped. They’ll never leave this tower alive.

Just then a large body of fifteen or twenty French soldiers burst into the room. The captain and six other Englishmen were all that were left standing. The Englishmen were quickly disarmed. Again Will was ignored by all. Still, he held his sword and dagger at the ready.

Two French soldiers hastened over to the window and looked out. They excitedly told their officer that there were still Englishmen descending the rope. Sir Guillaume de Ricarville sprinted to the window and looked out. He turned and smiled.

Cut the rope, he commanded in cultured French.

No, exclaimed Will. He threw down his sword and dagger, and fell upon the rope. You’ll have to slice through me to get to this rope, he asserted.

Pull that knave off the rope, commanded Sir Guillaume.

Many hands reached for Will, grabbed him firmly, and pulled hard. He was jerked this way and that, but he refused to let go.

A soldier holding a torch lowered it towards Will’s face. Will could feel the heat of the flames warming his forehead. The bright flames danced before his eyes.

It’s just a boy, said the Frenchman.

Will suddenly found himself seated upon the stone window seat by the tower window. His arms were resting upon the sill of the window, and his chin rested upon his forearms. The sun was already halfway up over the horizon. Its pleasant rays warmed Will’s forehead, and its brightness danced in his eyes.

Sweet Saint Mary, Mother of God, he exclaimed. I was dreaming.

But Will hadn’t been dreaming, not exactly. Somehow he had conjured up the precise events that had occurred in this very tower ten years earlier. He had beheld the former Earl of Arundel’s narrow escape from a French surprise attack—the dashing Sir John Fitzalan, a man who had been dead now for almost seven years.

Chapter 02

Tempus Fugit

The First Half of 1442

It was a Saturday evening in February. Another week of hard work had ended, and young Will Howard and Hugh Fitzalan were on their way to the Royal Leopard for a pint or two. Tagging along behind them were two other young men, Stephen Edward Bear White and John Wulfgar Wolf White (who were Will’s cousins, and respectively, Will and Hugh’s pages).

The Royal Leopard was a favorite gathering place for the lads and their friends. There was a laissez faire atmosphere about the place. There was plenty of beer and wine. The food wasn’t bad. And there were always willing participants for games of darts and dice, and queckers and cards.

The Norman serving girls were both pretty and friendly. And the lads and the older soldiers with whom they congregated could while away the entire evening in camaraderie and friendly competition, without once thinking about the war.

For Hugh this was just like any other Saturday night. Nothing special. Still he was looking forward to spending a little leisure time with Will and their comrades. But for Will, there was something special about this evening.

The Royal Leopard was only a few blocks from the barracks in which Will, Hugh, and most of their comrades lived. These were the barracks located just behind the Governor’s Palace, and housed men that either belonged to the Duke of York’s retinue, or worked for the Duke in some capacity.

They turned a corner, and walked down a narrow cobble-stoned street. Commercial establishments rose up on either side, two and three storey stone, timber and stucco affairs, where the proprietors and their families lived above the first floors.

Will could see the Royal Leopard, about a third of the way down the block. As they neared the tavern, he glanced casually up at the sign over the door. In bold, black letters it said Royal at the top of the sign, and Leopard at the bottom. In between the two words was displayed a golden leopard, in the passant guardant heraldic stance.

Bear, Wolf, said Will. Go on inside, and order us some drinks. There’s something here that I want to show Hugh.

Will and Hugh paused at the entrance. Bear and Wolf scooted for the door. Both were in on Will’s secret. Wolf looked back at the unsuspecting Hugh, and smiled.

Hugh, did you ever really notice the leopard on the sign here, Will said, pointing at the leopard on the sign. He looks just like the lions passant guardant on the arms of England. I mean, he doesn’t even have spots.

Hugh glanced at the sign. I think the Kings of England used un-spotted leopards on their arms until a century or so ago. Then the leopards became lions. Why?

Hmm. Oh… just curious, that’s all, said Will as he pushed open the door to the tavern and let Hugh enter first. As Hugh crossed the threshold, some twenty or thirty people yelled surprise. There was cheering and applause, while Hugh stood as if turned to stone. They were all smiling at Hugh, but all he did was stare back in amazement.

Happy Birthday, Hugh, said Will from behind. Now get in the door. You’re letting the cold air inside.

Hugh walked in amidst the smiling faces, followed by Will.

Happy Birthday, Master Hugh, said Bear and Wolf, who were standing just inside the door.

John fitz Morris (Hugh’s valet) came up and gave Hugh a one-armed hug around the shoulders. He carefully held two mugs of beer in the other hand, and was trying not to spill the contents. That was a priceless look on your face, Master Hugh… Happy Birthday. Then he offered Hugh one of the mugs of beer.

Fitz Morris had been a retainer of the Fitzalan’s his entire life, and Hugh had known him since he was three. Almost speechless, Hugh managed to thank fitz Morris. He took the proffered beer and took a large swig.

Geoffrey White (Will’s uncle, as well as his valet) came up beside fitz Morris. He added, Dumbfounded is more like it… Happy Birthday, Master Hugh.

Hugh smiled and thanked him. Then he was surrounded by a friendly group, that dragged him to the bar, extending congratulations along the way. They refilled Hugh’s mug, and required that he chug as much of the contents as possible. Hugh obliged, finishing about two-thirds before gagging on the remainder. Beer froth flew everywhere.

Will suddenly found that he couldn’t get near Hugh. Hugh had become the center of attention. Will’s cousins Bear and Wolf were on one side of Hugh. They were chanting: Chug… chug. On the other side were the red-headed Gerard of Ravensworth (called Red Raven by his friends) and his friend, the Norman esquire Guy d’Aubigny. Each of these two men was a notably proficient swordsman.

Standing nearby, each trying to shake Hugh’s hand, were the two Anglo-Welsh esquires that Will and Hugh had met on their journey to Normandy some 8 months ago, Garath Dwnn and Roger Vaughan. And just coming up from the back of the room was the Castilian, Enrique Cardona de Alamo-Caliz, better knows as Onan by his friends—Onan was the third proficient swordsman that made up the Tres Hombres (along with Red Raven and Guy d’Aubigny).

There were also several of William Herbert’s Welshmen congregated around Hugh. One of these, Rhys Morgan, noticed Will standing in the center of the room, a forlorn expression on his face. He called over to Will.

Master Will, why don’t you go over there in the corner and sit with some real men. Morgan gestured towards a large corner table occupied almost exclusively by Welshmen. Will nodded, and headed in that direction.

At the corner table, Master William Herbert sat surrounded by his minions. To Herbert’s right were his two chief lieutenants, the Anglo-Welshmen John Alansbridge and Gerard Kingsley. Around the table sat a number of Will’s old comrades: Owyn Llanbadoc, Griffith ap Daffyd, Owen ap Nicholas, and Roy Dwnn. The Welshmen were having a merry old time amongst themselves. Several were presently singing a Welsh ballad in a pleasant blend of tenors and basses.

Will joined the Welshmen, but he didn’t try to sing. His mother used to tell him he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. And she was probably right.

Within a half hour of Will and Hugh’s arrival, Hugh’s birthday cake was brought out by a comely Norman lass, Juliette Rosace, affectionately called Rose or Rosie by most of the Englishmen. Someone had the foresight to serve Hugh’s cake before too much alcoholic beverage had been forced upon the poor lad, with potentially comic-tragic results. Someone had also thought to insert thirteen tiny candles into the top of the cake, and tiny flames were sputtering from each, as the cake was presented to Hugh.

Hugh blew out the candles with ease, to the cheers and applause of most of the establishment. Then there was another round of congratulations, followed by more singing.

Rosie did the honors of cutting and distributing pieces of the cake to all who wished to partake. After that, the lads and their comrades settled down into their usual routines. There were games of cards and dice, of chess and queckers (a game not unlike checkers). There were dart-throwing competitions, a matter taken rather seriously by all participants. And always there was a story-telling or two. These latter usually took the form of Arthurian tales, or pseudo-histories of ancient England and Wales, or even taller tales about ancient Scotland or Ireland. Sometimes the Welshmen re-told the tales of Owyn Glyn Dŵr’s rebellion. Other times, there were tales of the crusades, or of the noble bandit, Robin of the Hood.

As usual, none left the Royal Leopard before midnight… and none left sober.

*      *      *      *      *

Also in February, Sir John, sixth Baron Talbot, along with a number of Norman councilors, left Rouen and sailed from Harfleur back to England. This was Talbot’s first trip back home since 1435. But then he preferred a land perpetually disturbed by war to one where he was compelled to abide by the law.

Talbot was one of the Duke of York’s three best field commanders, and his present role was Lieutenant-General of Upper Normandy. The other two of York’s best field commanders were Sir Thomas, seventh Baron de Scales, Lieutenant-General of Lower Normandy, and Sir William de Neville, Baron Fauconberg, one of York’s many brothers-in-law. Fauconberg had been Lieutenant-General of the ille de France (the heart of France, including Paris), until the French finally recaptured that region.

Baron Talbot and the other councilors were being sent to London as representatives of the Duke of York to plead before the Privy Council for more funds and more men to wage the war in France. It would turn out to be a painful, slow-moving process, since they were dealing with men whose real interests lay elsewhere.

February passed into March, when it was still too cold to field an army. In April, stores were collected, and weapons were attended to, in preparation for the coming summer campaign against the French.

In late April, the Duke of York had the bells of all of the churches in Rouen toll some happy news. On April 28, the Duke of York’s Duchess, Lady Cicely de Neville Plantagenet, the Rose of Raby, gave birth to her first surviving son. He was named Edward, known by many as Edward of Rouen. Some would call him the Rose of Rouen. Much later he would be more commonly known as Edward of York. His father the Duke, whose joy seemed boundless, was already thinking of styling him the Earl of March.

[Narrator’s Notes: Due to the vast York inheritances, the Duke of York had acquired a number of significant titles and honors, all of which were subordinate to his title of Duke. Although he didn’t often use these other titles himself, they were his, and thus available to award to sons and grandsons as he saw fit. These awards included the Earldoms of Cambridge, Rutland, March (along the Welsh borderlands), and Ulster (in Ireland).]

In May, Baron Talbot and the Norman councilors were still mired in discussions and negotiations with the Privy Council about receiving additional aid for fighting the war in France. They argued that they needed money to pay the wages of the soldiers who remained in France, and they needed men to replace those who had gone home when their indentures ended. They could not yet know that the Privy Council was leaning in the opposite direction, and was trying to devise a way for ending the war without causing either massive riots by the commons, or lingering unemployment for the returning soldiers.

Despite his lack of success with the Privy Council, Baron Talbot himself was generally well-received everywhere he went, and especially by the Lords of the Realm. His personal exploits in France were well-known. Some were already referring to him as The English Achilles—an appellation previously awarded to Sir John Fitzalan, thirteenth Earl of Arundel. Many considered Talbot a fine general, a lauded example of English stubbornness, and a tactical genius.

Even the King was pleased that Talbot was back in England, as he wished to reward Talbot for his decades of service and loyalty to the Lancastrian throne.

So it happened that on May 20, Baron Talbot was elevated by Henry VI to the Earldom of Salops. His Baronies of Talbot, Furnival, and Strange of Blackmere were merged into the Earldom. Talbot almost immediately changed the name of his Earldom to Shrewsbury, and he and subsequent Earls always referred to themselves as the Earls of Shrewsbury.

Ultimately, Sir John Talbot, first Earl of Shrewsbury, was successful in prying additional money and men out of the Privy Council to continue the war in France. These were given reluctantly. But the Privy Council had suddenly found it difficult to put off any further a man who had so recently been honored by the King.

In middle June, Shrewsbury returned to Harfleur with a new army composed of 200 mounted men-at-arms, 300 mounted archers, and over 1,500 foot-archers. Most of the former would form the nucleus of a new operational army for Shrewsbury,