Before the friar could continue, John with his impetuous nature raised his hand.
‘You have a question, already?’ asked Friar Drynk.
‘Yes,’ John replied. He stood up, self-importantly cleared his throat and with a mischievous glint in his eye, he began. ‘If God preaches charity and love, why does the church always strive to amass money and land?’ John felt pleased with himself – the friar would not have an answer to that question.
‘So, you question our Lord’s workings?’ asked Friar Drynk.
‘Yes,’ said John, triumphantly.
‘Well, it would seem to me that you wish to put our Lord on trial, and to accomplish that you would have to be a lot wiser than him, so are you wiser?’
‘Well, no, of course not,’ replied John.
‘So, you agree that you are not wiser. Well, if you are not wiser than God, then you must be at least as clever, to judge him!’ Friar Drynk waited for John’s response.
Reluctantly, John admitted that he was not as wise, or as knowing, as God.
‘So, you concede that God is infinitely more intelligent than you, his wonders cannot be comprehended or questioned by mere mortals?’
John reluctantly nodded in agreement.
‘Excellent,’ beamed Friar Drynk. ‘I think its best that you just worship God and leave him to oversee the mysteries, wonders and workings of this world that he created, don’t you agree?’ he asked, his voice rising triumphantly.
‘Yes,’ said a chastened John with a defeated sigh. Why is it that Friar Drynk always has an answer to every question? John wondered. One day, I will beat him, he thought, without too much conviction.
Middleham Castle, North Yorkshire
17 December 1463
Saturday dawned. The still grey light unhurriedly revealed, in bleak sharpness, the sobering scaffold. It stood tall and menacing, intimidating all who gazed on it – the neat nooses hung silently awaiting their victims.
John de Botham lay on the floor of his cell listening to the slow beat of the executioner’s drum. He did not fear death, only the manner in which it would claim him.
The senior gaoler had read out the Warrant of Execution with no emotion or judgement; he was just the official mouthpiece of the Earl of Warwick’s authority. He now looked down on this ruined man, lying on the cold hard floor, knowing that his pain-filled body was now broken and empty of information. He felt neither pity nor hate, for it had now come to the last act in this man’s earthly play.
The words of the senior gaoler had anchored chillingly in John de Botham’s mind from the moment he had heard them. ‘You will be taken to a place of execution; there you will be hung by the neck until semi-conscious, then taken down. Your private parts will be sliced off and burnt on a brazier in front of your eyes; your stomach will be cut open and your entrails removed and burnt. Your arms and legs will be hacked off, and finally your head. You go to a traitor’s death, make peace with your God, and may he have mercy on your soul’.
John de Botham had shuddered.
The inhabitants of Middleham Castle, and the surrounding countryside, went back about their business, the screams of agony from the five executed spies still ringing in their ears.
Warwick was satisfied as he looked down on the bloody, but now silent, scaffold; a traitorous canker had been cut out of his household.
Black Skullcap sat once again behind his desk. He was the most relieved man in the earl’s employ, and most grateful to the Great Controller for his deliverance from the earl’s punishment. He had sat terrified in the dungeons for two days and nights, watching and listening to the screams of the five condemned men. Their pitiful pleas for mercy as the torturers went about their work, would stay with him until the day he died. God willing, he thought, that will now be in my own bed. He shivered at his narrow escape from the Grim Reaper. He would stay well clear of the earl’s temper in the future.
The Great Controller sat behind his great desk, and pondered on the one spy who escaped. I wonder who Robert Furneys really is, he thought. Where is he now? For some reason, it was the only true identity John de Botham had not known. The Great Controller did not like loose ends, but their paths would cross again in the future, he was sure of that. Patience, he thought. Patience.
Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland
18 December 1463
Simon Langford stood in a large cavernous chamber, deep within Bamburgh Castle. Pillars and archways filled this spacious room; the thin winter sunlight that filled the narrow windows shot shafts of light through the dark shadows that crowded the corners and curved ceilings of this inner sanctum. Thick rugs covered the stone floor; tapestries coated the walls helping to keep in the warmth that blazed from a large log fire at the end of the room.
Margaret of Anjou sat beside this fire; the reflection of the flames shimmering over her rich bejewelled dress – her face, though, was set like stone.
Simon had just finished his report on the intentions of the French and Scots to abandon King Henry and the Lancastrian cause to its fate. The silence in the room stretched in tense disbelief, and he looked slowly around.
Margaret was immobile in her chair. Henry sat playing with his rosary beads and humming softly to himself. No use to man or beast, Simon thought.
Henry Beaufort, 3rd Duke of Somerset, leaned nonchalantly against a pillar. Half hidden by shadows, only his bejewelled hands occasionally glittering in the light of the fire reminded those present that he was still there.
Sir Ralph Percy, and Sir Ralph Grey – the commander of Bamburgh Castle – sat opposite Margaret. Their ears had heard this calamity unfolding; their faces showed painfully the disillusionment it brought.
Simon suppressed the urge to speak again, for it was best to let them digest this unpalatable news in quiet contemplation. He stepped out of the centre of attention, moved into the shadows, and waited.
Pierre de Brézé finally broke the disheartened silence, his voice emanating from a darkened archway. All eyes turned in his direction as they sought to discern him within the shadows, and just like the last time Simon had met him, he suddenly appeared, as if by magic, in the centre of the room.
‘Your Highness,’ he said, addressing Margaret, ‘it would seem that this chamber has turned into a crypt, for it would appear our spirit is dead.’ Then, turning slowly around to look at everybody in the room, he challenged them. ‘Where is your courage – your will to fight? Is that also dead?’ He paused to let his words settle. All eyes followed him. ‘We still have blood flowing through our veins!’ he cried. ‘We still live and breathe so can we not still change the course of events?’ Turning back to Margaret, he said, ‘Highness, we must sail for France immediately, and make King Louis see sense. I know he will not abandon you, his cousin, to the English. You will win him round and return with funds and more troops.’
Margaret slowly shook her head, but Pierre de Brézé was in full flow and did not notice her weary response. ‘Somerset!’ he cried. ‘You must stop the Scots from meeting with that upstart, Edward. Once they know Louis is still sponsoring us, the Scots will continue their support.’
Henry Beaufort emerged from the shadows, his cruel eyes glinting in the firelight. ‘I agree: Margaret must sail for France, and the Scots must be made to continue their support of us, but what of young Duke Richard?’ he asked, shrewdly. ‘He is arriving at Middleham Castle and will be ripe for the taking.’
‘What? Kidnap him?’ asked Sir Ralph Grey, alarm in his voice. ‘He is only a boy.’
‘I wouldn’t care if he was still an infant in swaddling clothes,’ came Henry’s curt reply. ‘If we had possession of him it would disgrace Warwick, and give us a strong lever of power over King Edward, who loves him dearly. We could send Richard’s royal ring to him as proof that we held his younger brother.’ Then, with a malicious laugh, he added, ‘With his finger still in it!’
Margaret rose from her chair. ‘Gentlemen!’ she cried. ‘We have no army left to fight with. Pierre, y
our own troops have been killed, or have deserted us. We are bankrupt of assets and ideas. I have nothing left to offer Louis in return for his support. With no money, the Scots will scuttle back to Scotland with their tails between their legs, like the mercenary savages they are. For the truth is, we are now too weak, and our enemies too strong – our struggle is at an end.’
Simon looked at Margaret, saddened by her words. Her dominant spirit had been crushed by his news. She had fought so long and so hard for her husband. They had all watched her struggle to uphold her son’s right of succession, and her plucky resistance was admired by all, but now she was beaten. He wished he could go to her, put his arms around her. He ached to show her a tenderness of love, but knew he could not. He stayed quietly in the shadows, watching this final act play itself out.
Margaret drew herself up to her full height; her alluring eyes framed by her exquisite features. She scanned the room.
She may be defeated, thought Simon, but she is still a French princess, who stands proudly in front of us.
‘I have listened to your words, Pierre, and agree with you that it would be best that I return to France, forthwith, to my father’s court at St Mihiel-en-Bar. From there, my father, René of Anjou, will assist our cause with King Louis. While I am gone, Somerset will command.’ Then turning to Henry, she said, ‘You must formulate a strategy to prevent the Scots from deserting us; secondly, the kidnapping of King Edward’s brother is not a cause for which I take pleasure from, but I will leave that decision to your conscience. Thirdly, rebellion must be stirred up in Wales and the West Country. If King Louis can see that we are not finished, then he may decide to still support us.’
Simon watched her speak, but saw by her eyes that she did not believe her own words – the sparkle had gone, there was no life or spirit in them.
Sir Ralph Grey stood up and faced Margaret. ‘Your Highness,’ he said, his voice subdued. ‘I agree with all your plans except the kidnapping of Richard. He is but a boy, and it affronts my code of honour…’
Henry Beaufort strode across the room, his vicious eyes flashing; the sword that hung at his side was half out of its scabbard. ‘You defy our Queen?’ he growled.
Sir Ralph Grey’s hand went to his sword as he spun around to face Henry. ‘The taking of young boys is the Devil’s work,’ he snarled, ‘and I will have no part of it.’
Two swords were swiftly drawn from their scabbards as their antagonism boiled over into open warfare.
Sir Ralph Percy stepped between them. Simon drew his sword and stood protectively in front of Margaret.
‘Enough!’ Margaret screamed. Everyone froze – all eyes turned to her. ‘Enough! Enough!’ she shrieked at them, as she crumpled into her chair. ‘Why,’ she beseeched, ‘are you at each other’s throats? Do we not have enough misery on our plates?’ In despair, she covered her face with her hands.
The atmosphere in the chamber was now one of awkward discomfort. The two antagonists shifted their weight uncomfortably; their silent embarrassment was ended by Sir Ralph Percy suddenly taking charge of the situation.
‘Grey, you will organise the defence of this castle. De Brézé, arrange safe conduct to France for her Highness. Somerset and I will devise a way of stopping the Scots from meeting with Edward and Warwick.’
Margaret, weary of their company, ordered them from her presence. They quickly left in subdued silence, taking King Henry with them. Only Simon was ordered to stay. She rose from her chair and walked slowly towards him.
Simon quickly sheathed his sword, but before he could speak, Margaret was in his arms. His hands slipped around her waist. She sighed, as her head nuzzled into his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of her body as it pressed against his. She was not a queen or a princess now, only a woman, whose world had just been torn apart.
Margaret raised her head and kissed him tenderly on his neck, her lips felt soft and gentle on his skin.
Instinctively, Simon’s hands dropped down to her lower back where they gently caressed her slender buttocks; her hips started to sway rhythmically against him. ‘What about the door?’ he whispered.
‘Do not worry,’ she breathed sensually, into his ear. ‘My ladies stand guard.’
Simon was surprised that he felt no fear for what was happening. He was committing treason and if caught, death would be swift, but he could not stop himself, such was the intoxication of her. Their bodies seemed to flow together, caught on a wave of desire. He closed his eyes, his early inhibitions gone, and let the passion possess him. Her lips found his, and they kissed hungrily. They undressed each other with a slow sensual urgency, and then Simon lowered Margaret onto a fur rug beside the glowing fire.
Night had fallen; the fire cast shadows over their bodies, creating dark shallow valleys and deep crevices, whose mysteries waited to be explored.
Margaret had stripped herself of her royal titles; her cares of state were no more. Her husband – simple, celibate Henry – had vanished from this new world. She was no longer a royal wife; this was her rebirth, the beginning of a new life. She could feel Simon’s young energy, his strong hands moving over her and she started moaning huskily, wrapping her warmth and softness around his hard body, holding on to him as he moved faster and faster. Her French passion overwhelmed her. Delirious with pleasure she cried out, then he shuddered, and moaned, and they were still.
For a while, they seemed to be floating within one another. Thoughts dreamily drifted around Margaret’s head as she lay in Simon’s arms; she was now just a woman being loved by a man. She would never fight for her husband’s crown again. That final thought lifted a great weight from her. She rolled on top of Simon. When he put his hand behind her neck and pulled her lips onto his, she did not resist.
After they were spent, the cold slowly started to chill their entwined bodies. Simon placed more logs onto the fire, then lay back down beside Margaret. He ran his fingers up and down her spine. ‘What of Pierre?’ he asked. ‘Were you ever lovers?’
They both stared into the fire as the logs slowly crackled into life. Warmth washed over them.
Margaret smiled and lifted her head to gently kiss Simon’s shoulder. ‘Oh, no,’ she murmured. ‘He is brave and loyal, and our love for each other is like brother and sister, unlike you, sweet Simon, who stirred something in me when I first met you those two long years ago. I would have taken you to my bed then, such was my desire for you, but time and circumstances were against us. I gave you that ring to make sure you would think of me as I have thought about you every day since. When you finally came back, I thanked God for your deliverance…Oh God,’ she sighed, ‘how my body ached for your touch.’ Her face suddenly clouded over. ‘You do love me?’
Simon did not reply.
Margaret rolled onto him, and once again, he could feel her nakedness.
‘You do love me?’ Margaret asked again, as she put her arms round his neck, and pretended to strangle him.
‘Yes! Yes!’ Simon cried. ‘I will love you for ever; from our first meeting you captured my heart.’
Margaret snuggled into him, and tenderly kissed his neck.
‘And the King, your husband?’ Simon asked.
Margaret slid off him and rolled round until she lay on her back looking up at him. ‘Ah…poor Henry,’ she sighed. ‘When I go back to France, I will not be returning.’
‘But you said you would try and persuade King Louis to support your cause.’
‘My cause is finished,’ Margaret replied. ‘I may give the illusion to the others that there is hope, for after all these years of fighting I cannot bring myself to suddenly dash their belief in this long undertaking. The reality is that winning the crown back is now unattainable; it will dawn on them all in good time. I just hope they will find a virtuous monastery for poor Henry – there, I pray, he will find contentment. And, myself, I just want to be a simple woman, to be what God intended me to be. I think I deserve that, after all my manly battles and the blood that has been shed in my name
. It is now time for me to be loved.’
Margaret smiled up at Simon, her beautiful grey eyes studying his face. Her hand reached up, and pulled him down towards her. She kissed him hungrily.
As Simon’s hand slid across her flat stomach; she arched her back. ‘I think it’s time for…’ Margaret’s words were lost, as a soft longing moan escaped from her lips.
Simon awoke in his own bed, and tried to clear his disordered thoughts. He wondered if he had been dreaming – his sore lips told him he had not; his sore muscles confirmed it! He closed his eyes, and let the sensuous memories of the night flood his mind. God, he was tired, but it was a wonderful tiredness; he was in love. He wanted to shout the news to the world, but knew he could not; their secret must stay a secret. He vaguely remembered leaving Margaret in the early hours of the morning. Love, he now realised, was a powerful affair; his heart was aching for her, already. Margaret had told him that she would arrange for Henry to knight him today, to take his father’s old title for his services and bravery whilst at Middleham Castle. He smiled to himself. He had made love to the most beautiful woman in the world and now he was to be knighted. How that wheel of fortune turns – he would be known as Sir Simon Langford.
His thoughts turned to his mother and sisters – they would be proud of him for winning his father’s titles back. He vowed to himself that once his tender Queen was safely in France, he would return to England to see them. He swung his tired legs out of bed; he must be washed and dressed for the knighting ceremony and once it was finished, they would leave for the coast and board ship for Flanders.
Margaret awoke with her mind at ease for the first time in ten years. Her aching body was a reminder of her night of hungry passion; she put her arms around herself in a hug of sleepy satisfaction. Sweet Simon, she thought, as his smile and strong body filled her mind. Today, we leave these old cares behind, no more fighting or scheming. She was now no longer Queen. Tomorrow she would leave for France, to a life of freedom with the man she loved. She smiled with soft longing; she could still smell him on her.
The Dreams of Kings Page 6