Blois, September 1463
The huge gate creaked heavily as it was raised by chains and Henry Beaufort listed on his mount. He was exhausted as were the men that followed him. They were less than they were when they left Bordeaux, and between sickness and hunger they would be less still without aid. How they found this place was only by the providence of Almighty God and the Duke of Somerset was able to see the old man’s face for but a moment before he fell to the ground with a thud.
When he awoke, he was confused. He lay upon a bear skin rug by an enormous hearth and the fire within raged and filled the hall with light. Clearing his eyes, he was able to spy the old man again and questioned, “Where am I?”
“You are to my chateau at Blois, my Lord,” the old man stated as he poured a fresh cup of wine and handed it to a servant to give to the Duke, “What I have is yours...for a time.”
Somerset gladly accepted the wine and drank it down as he looked at himself, “I am in a state. What has happened?”
“Would that you may tell me,” the old man stood with the aid of a cane and tapped it to the stone floor as he approached, “I was told of your coming but I must confess, I know not why you do.”
Still confused, Henry tried to remember, “I was...I was to Touraine...or outside of it. To the west...”
“Ah...the great forest,” the old man smiled, “I know it well.”
“Yes...” Somerset allowed his cloudy mind to clear, “...with...with an army.”
The old man found a chair close to the hearth and sat with a heavy sigh, “So this English King has crossed the Loire.”
“No,” the Duke was quick to answer, “He has not.”
“Truly?” the man questioned, “Then how is it that you are here?”
Somerset sat up fully with conviction, “I be not with this traitor that calls himself King, monsieur. I am Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset and serve the true King of England.”
“Don’t you know?” the old man showed mirth with a jolly laugh, “Everyone calls themselves King these days. Allow me to introduce myself. I am King Charles of Orleans.”
“Of course,” the memories came flooding back, “I was desperately trying to find your lands. I did not think to make it.”
Charles smiled, “Well, you have. Now...if you could continue your story?”
The Duke of Somerset turned and looked into the flames, “I left out from Bordeaux...months ago. Chased the entire time by a Castilian force all the way to Poitou. There they remained to put Poitiers under siege and it was only by luck that I stumbled upon the French army outside of Tours. My numbers had dwindled but the French commander...”
“Ahh...” Charles gave nod, “...le Duc de Berry.”
“No, monsieur...” Somerset answered with confusion, “...Your...Your Grace. The Duke is dead. It is Monsieur l’Hermite that leads the French forces at the now. Or was.”
The old man offered a weary sigh, “My poor cousin. Now both of his sons are gone to God.”
“It was camp fever I was told,” Henry continued, “And Richard of York was just over the river when I came upon them. It was said that the pretender King rode out of Le Mans not two days prior and intended to cross and have action. The French were surely concerned but I did say to them that I would lend them my men and try to hold them off.”
Charles was now curious, “Did you?”
“I did not have need,” Somerset showed surprise, “For an act of God occurred.”
“An act of God?” the King of Orleans questioned with incredulity.
Somerset gave nod, “Yes. It was...incredible. As we awoke and expected the false King to take his time in crossing...a great fog rose from the banks of the Loire. It was so thick, you could barely see the hand in front of your face. It was mass confusion...yet without any battle at all, we were all able to march east and escape.”
“Magnifique!” Charles laughed.
“Yes...it was amazing,” Henry Beaufort remained astounded at how it had happened, “Yet Richard too gave chase.”
Charles understood, “Indeed...he must have been very furious to miss you.”
“As I was him,” Somerset lowered his head in thought.
“And where is the French army at the now?”
Somerset tried to think, “I left them at Artigny...to ride ahead and scout a path. I had hoped that you might...as you are cousin to the French King...allow his men passage through Orleans.”
“Hm!” Charles lifted again from his seat with a grunt and tapped his way to find more wine. He crooked the cane over his wrist as he poured and then turned with a serious eye, “I think then that I must tell to you a story, my Lord. As you may see, I am aged. I have seen much in this life. I was to Agincourt when your English King Henry called the fifth scored great victory. It was perhaps only by luck or God’s intervention that I was not killed alongside so many others. Why did I fight? I am de Valois. It is my family, I suppose. My father was Duke before me and so here am I.”
He shifted back to a seat by the fire and drank of his wine for a moment before continuing, “Yet there is no loyalty in family, it would seem. Perhaps between friends it is better. For you see, I spent twenty four years held as captive in your England. I’ve met this Richard of York. More than once. So too your Monsieur le Warwick even...”
“The cur!” Somerset nearly spit.
“Whatever his worth,” Charles replied, “I even knew your own father for a time. Edmund was his name?”
Somerset felt a sadness, “Yes.”
“Some say...” Charles allowed a laugh, “...that when I returned, I was more English than French. Yet what did I care? I was finally free. And do you know who it was that assisted?”
When the young Duke shook his head, Charles smiled, “The late Philip of Burgundy. A man I should want dead at the sight of him. His father killed mine and I took a blood oath.”
“Why would he help you?” Somerset was confused.
Charles leaned forward, “It was not out of love, I assure you. No. It was his desire to vex our cousin the King of France. And Philip was...shrewd. I may not say the same about his son...though he be not part of this conflict today. Yet I was happy for it in any way and it was to his cousin that I finally found a bride with which to gain issue. You may not know this, but my first wife was also married to your King Richard named the second before his...untimely demise.”
“I...I did not.”
“Well...she also died young,” Charles continued, “And so I live today with three children...one a fine son named Louis after my father. And have managed to stay out of this constant strife that conquers France without any help from the English. So you may ask...why would I assist you now?”
Somerset shrugged, “I know not.”
“Because I do not wish it in my land,” Charles peered closely, “I hold no need to find battle again in this life. For over a hundred years, the English and the French have battled. So many lives lost to it. And here...to France...we fight amongst ourselves and every man claims that he is superior. Burgundy...Champagne...all of them. If they be Kings, then so am I. Yet there is but one King of France and he is no one. As poor as the man you serve. Has led to our ruin and so you must further ask yourself...why do you fight on for your own?”
“He is...my liege Lord,” the Duke replied with reticence.
Charles leaned back finally, “Is he? And what has he done for you? I know of your life, my Lord of Somerset for I still hold many acquaintances from my time in England. We do write and they do tell me. Your uncle was...taken from this world after fighting for your so called King. Your father most assuredly lost his life for the very same...”
“I would not countenance his name being sullied for upholding his oath and duty!”
“Nor should you,” Charles held up a calming hand, “Yet the truth is the truth. I shall be honest with you to say that I care not who may rule in England. Yet I must also say...that just as it happens here to France...you are eating your own in this foolish folly. I near to seven decades in this life, my Lord. And I must tell you...this world is weary of me. And I am weary of it."
Henry Beaufort finally stood and moved to pour himself wine. He drank it down in thought and then turned with clarity, “I hold no other choice.”
“I have heard many a man say that,” Charles answered as he looked into the flames of the fire, “And many a man has died because of it. For me? I would find the peace of my last years in the comfort of my wife and children. A love I could not have anywhere else. It is not your King that may give it to you. Mayhap not even God. Only that one. That one person that may give you hope and cheer in life. I beseech you, monsieur. Find that.”
“I...” Somerset tried to answer but could only sigh with defeat, “...cannot.”
Charles turned with a saddened face, “Then what will you do once you leave from here? For leave here you must. I shall allow passage for both you and the French army. Yet when you are gone...what will you do?”
“I will rescue my King,” Henry Beaufort straightened his shoulders, “That is my duty. My oath. What I owe to my father.”
“Blood oaths, my young Lord,” Charles lifted with pain from his chair and stepped to the Duke of Somerset with a serious eye. He stood close and patted gently to Somerset’s cheek with care, “They work both ways. Make your peace with this Richard. As I understand it...you did love his son.”
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