01 Sons of the Blood by Robyn Young

Author:Robyn Young [Young, Robyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 2016-07-28T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

The steward opened the door, inviting Henry Tudor in. The chamber was light and airy, with a large window that looked out over the abbey’s gardens. The cold draught threading in through the cracks smelled of salt marsh and sea. Across one wall was strung a tapestry, the silk expanse of which undulated in the breeze, flowing life through the scene depicted upon it: an ethereal forest in which two men were walking. One was old, dressed in frost-white robes. The other was tall, with a war sword strapped to his hip, a red dragon emblazoned on his tunic and a gold crown on his head, which was bent towards the older man as if he were listening intently. In the distance behind them was a marble tomb, the lid of which was open.

‘Come in, Henry. Come, come.’

Henry turned his attention to the bed where Duke Francis II of Brittany was propped up against a wall of pillows, being fussed over by his servants and physician. White-haired at fifty with a wide, rather lumpy face and gentle grey eyes, the duke gestured for him to approach.

‘Never get old, Henry,’ said Francis, grimacing as the physician tugged a fat black leech from his forearm and plopped it into a dish. His face lit up as he saw the basket Henry was carrying. ‘Ah!’ He patted the bed.

As Henry sat, setting the basket down beside him, the duke hooked a finger over the rim to peer in at the mound of shellfish: ridged oysters, blue mussels still shiny from the sea and dark spiralled whelks. ‘Fresh from the harbour,’ Henry told him.

‘This will set me right,’ remarked the duke to his physician, who murmured something inaudible in response and pulled off the last leech. ‘The final preparations are in progress at Paimpol, yes?’ Francis asked in the same breath, looking back at Henry as the physician turned to pack away his equipment.

‘Yes, my lord. The fleet is almost ready.’

‘They will be enough for you? The vessels?’

‘Fifteen ships are more than enough.’

Henry turned at the abrupt voice to see a tall figure standing in an archway that led into an adjoining chamber. It was the duke’s treasurer and chief minister, Pierre Landais. Henry didn’t know he had arrived. Covering the fact he’d been caught off-guard, he offered a cordial smile as the minister approached the bed. ‘They will suffice, certainly.’

Pierre was several years older than Francis, but he looked much younger with his dark hair and pointed features, the sharpness of which was accentuated by a clipped moustache and forked beard. The minister was carrying two jewelled goblets. One he handed to Francis, the other he kept for himself, his eyes never leaving Henry’s. ‘Those ships are the lifeblood of this region. They will be needed here when the fishing season begins again. The men too.’

‘They won’t sail for Thule for another six months, Pierre,’ Francis cut in. ‘There is time enough for us to help our friends. And for them to help us in return.

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