Simon knelt in front of Henry of Windsor and felt the blade dub his shoulders. There was only a small gathering to witness the ceremony. Margaret stood beside Henry, helping him cope with the knighting. With his mind becoming more fragile, he would slip into one of his silent periods, and would no longer respond to the world around him.
The ceremony now over, Simon rose to his feet and acknowledged the polite applause from the attending nobles; his eyes looked longingly towards Margaret. She looked even more beautiful than ever. She wore a one-piece dress, woven with brown and gold thread, and fastened by a gold chain around her neck; it flowed tightly down to her waist showing off the roundness of her breasts. A circle of flowers had been embroidered into the dress around the waist; another circle was embroidered just above her knee and one more into the hem. The dress clung tightly to her body from her neck to her feet, showing off her tall, elegant beauty. Two long gold chains hung around her neck, and fell down to her waist, making her shimmer in the morning sun. Simon watched as she slowly led Henry away.
Margaret ushered Henry back to his chambers. She had, she knew, seen him perform his last act as a king. He would be staying at Bamburgh Castle as a figurehead for those who still wished to claim the throne in his name. Poor Henry, she thought, only a pawn in this endless, but now, pointless struggle. She held his hand and looked into his eyes. He looked back at her, but behind his eyes, he was somewhere else. She told him gently that she was going to France with their son and he nodded blankly. A tear unexpectedly came to her eye as memories of their wedding day sharpened into focus.
They had been married at Titchfield Abbey in the county of Hampshire on the 22 April 1445 – she was just sixteen. She remembered the joy she had felt, the sheer exuberance of the day, and the future had held so much for them. They had sailed from France two days earlier, and had landed at the great port of Portsmouth. She remembered the channel crossing had made her violently ill – so ill, in fact, that she could hardly wave to all those good people of the city who had lined their procession route. This had been her first ordeal on English soil. If only she had known then, the ordeal would continue for the next sixteen years, for soon after their marriage, she realised Henry was not fit to rule. He had not a kingly thought in his dear head so she had become not only Queen, but also King, and had fought and ruled for him. He, in his simple way, had loved her like a sister, but never like a wife. Their son was the secret result of her love for someone else, who was now long dead, killed fighting for her cause. She had never loved another man again, until now. Henry had accepted the child as his own. He thought in his simple way that it was some kind of divine conception. It did not change his life; he continued to live as a pious celibate monk and she had lived hers like a nun. But, no more – a new life beckoned with Simon, one that she longed for with all her heart.
Margaret leant down and kissed Henry on his forehead. He stroked her arm absent-mindedly, a vacant expression on his face. More tears ran down her cheeks for she knew this was their final parting, and she would never see him alive again. Sadness gathered in her chest. The last sixteen years are but dust in the wind, she thought.
‘God bless you, sweet Harry,’ she whispered. ‘I tried so hard for you.’ She squeezed his hand, and then walked slowly from the room, her eyes wet with tears for the life that could have been, but was now a future lost.
The small schooner slowly left the safe harbour of Berwick-on-Tweed, and headed out into the grey mist of the North Sea, carrying a small cargo of nervous souls from the court of Queen Margaret who were anxious for the future.
Margaret and Simon stood at the stern of the ship, and watched as England slipped away into the mist. They did not feel the cold wind that whipped off the December grey sea – their minds were lost in deep reflection.
Simon’s thoughts turned to Warwick. Whilst the bastard still lived, his quest for vengeance was unfulfilled, but the world still turned and Simon would wait and watch. He knew his time would come.
Margaret dwelled deeply on the past that was now lost to her. That royal world she had inhabited had now expired. She slowly slipped her gold royal wedding ring from her finger. Holding on to the stern rail, she dropped the ring over the side.
The ring that Henry had placed on her finger all those years ago plummeted towards the sea, to plunge down into the icy depths, lost forever. It was Margaret’s last symbolic act; her old life was finished, now consigned to a watery grave. A new and wonderful future beckoned.
Margaret and Simon looked at each other, as only lovers do; her ringless hand gently finding his.
Chapter 3
The Die is Cast
Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland
10 April 1464
The sounds of men making ready for war echoed around the castle. Red-hot sparks flew as blacksmiths hammered hot metal on their anvils; armourers sharpened steel; archers – their fingers raw from waxed strings – tested bows. Arrow makers, leather workers – these men, and more – were making ready the weapons of annihilation. The sounds and commotion of this rebel army resonated out into the countryside: the hammering and cursing, the shouts of command, horses being readied, and wagons loaded, announcing this ignoble art that man had honed, and tested, since the beginning of time. This bloody business of war was about to be unleashed, once again.
Sir Ralph Percy looked out from a high turret window and watched with satisfaction as the Lancastrian army took shape. The cold of the winter months had gone, and spring was now ushering in the warmth needed for their army to take to the field. The Duke of Somerset’s voice from behind him, made him face back into the room.
‘When will our forces be ready to attack?’ Somerset asked.
Sir Ralph Percy looked at the duke. God save us, he thought. The man’s supposed to be in command and he doesn’t even know if his army is ready or not! He then caught the raised eyebrow of Sir Ralph Grey, who was clearly thinking the same.
‘All will be ready in the morning, your Grace,’ replied Sir Ralph Percy, disguising his annoyance.
Somerset did not reply. He walked towards a large table in the centre of the room that was covered with maps and battle plans. He spread both hands on the edge of the table and leaned against it, his menacing eyes slowly taking in everyone in the room. ‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘we have agreed our strategy. Tomorrow, Sir Ralph Percy, and I, will leave with the army for Alnwick. Lord de Ros and Lord Hungerford will depart before us with a small detachment of scourers, who will head south for Newcastle to spy on Lord Montagu’s force. We believe they are heading north to meet those Scottish turncoats in Norham Castle. We need to know their numbers and disposition, and, most crucially, their route. If they are taking the coast road, we will engage them just south of Alnwick; if they are on the old Roman road, which is the one Percy suspects they will be using, we will ambush them at Hedgeley Moor.
‘Sir Ralph Grey, you will have command of Bamburgh, and responsibility for the King. As you all know, Sir Henry Billingham left us yesterday with a small force for Middleham. I have ordered him to kidnap young Duke Richard and bring him back to Bamburgh.’
Somerset paused and threw a menacing look at Sir Ralph Grey, whose body stiffened with silent indignation. He noted the silence with satisfaction, and continued. ‘The Earl of Warwick, we are told, is also in the field with an army. He will be coming north to meet his brother as he returns with the Scottish emissaries, and then together, they plan to ride to the City of York to meet that bastard usurper, Edward. However, we are going to change their plans, for once we have dealt with Lord Montagu, we will head south and engage the Earl of Warwick in battle. I want to see both their heads on spikes! After our victories, our numbers will swell as more join our colours, and then we will march on the City of York, and confront Edward with our great army. With his younger brother at our mercy, I am sure he will negotiate surrender. If he doesn’t,’ Somerset’s voice rose with harshness, ‘then we will slice his brother up in front of the gates of Yor
k, and place his head alongside that of Warwick’s and Montagu’s. Then, when we have taken the City of York, we will add Edward’s head to make a quartet of brothers.’
Somerset’s brutal face shone with undisguised domination, his cold eyes full of yearning. ‘England will be at our feet, and I will have control of the kingdom.’ The last sentence hung in the air. Had he accidentally let slip his grandiose plans? That one word I instead of we had filled the room with a feeling of disquiet.
Sir Ralph Percy looked at him with growing disbelief. Did Somerset think that Henry’s crown would sit better on his head?
Sir Ralph Percy and Sir Ralph Grey walked across the inner keep of the castle. Neither had spoken since leaving their meeting with the Duke of Somerset, but now cloaked by sounds of the hustle and bustle of the assembled army surrounding them, they now felt free to voice their inner thoughts.
‘That bastard, Somerset, has disgraced our noble cause by sending Billingham to kidnap the boy,’ growled Sir Ralph Grey. ‘I pray to God that he fails, for I will have no part of it.’
‘The man has also unmasked himself, for he thinks he can steal the crown,’ cried Sir Ralph Percy, in disbelief. ‘Our dear Queen Margaret always kept him on a short leash, but now she has gone, he is untethered. If we defeat Lord Montagu and the Earl of Warwick, then King Henry would not make London alive – Somerset would see to that. He would then declare Queen Margaret’s son, Prince Edward, a bastard, and claim the throne for himself.’
‘Aye, I agree with you, my old friend,’ replied Sir Ralph Grey. ‘But first, he has to win these battles and as we both know, Somerset and his two cronies, Hungerford and De Ros, couldn’t fight their way out of an empty room.’
Sir Ralph Percy nodded his head in agreement. ‘Promise me one thing,’ he began. ‘If we are victorious you must take King Henry with all speed to London, parade him before the people, and let them know he is alive and well. That way, we would spike Somerset’s plans and allow Queen Margaret, and her son, to return in triumph. If we are defeated, then you must safeguard King Henry; he must go into hiding until fortune once again smiles on him.’
Sir Ralph Grey took Sir Ralph Percy’s hands, and shook them warmly. ‘Aye, it is agreed,’ he said.
Middleham Castle, North Yorkshire
23 April 1464
From his room, John Tunstall looked out of the window. Nature was ushering in the spring. Tomorrow, he would go hunting with Duke Richard and Francis Lovell, and it would be the first time this year that they would go on their own, and on horseback. Up until now, they had been hunting in the butts where they stood stationary while the game was driven towards them. To hunt on horseback took real skill, and John was looking forward to comparing his own talents against those of Duke Richard’s.
He watched as the sun slipped towards the horizon. A faint red glow appeared on the skyline, slowly moving upwards, encroaching on the blue-grey heavens. The first star of the night twinkled at him. Excellent, thought John. Tomorrow will be a fine day.
He heard his mother called out.
‘John, I am going to the countess’ rooms. I expect you there in one hour. Duke Richard, Lord Lovell, and the girls, will be there, so don’t be late.’
John heard the door close. He waited for five minutes before rushing down the steps and out into the courtyard. He walked quickly across the yard and out through the gate of the Great Keep.
Unbeknownst to him, his mother watched from just inside the door of the Great Hall, a knowing look on her face.
John entered the tilt-yard. Over the last months, he, Duke Richard, and Francis, had practised there daily, honing their fighting skills. Now, it was empty and silent; quietness cloaked the building. The air smelt of fresh hay and wood.
Hearing a rustle behind him, John turned, and there stood Rose, her face alive with a smile just for him. She leant forward and kissed John lightly on his lips. He remembered the first time they had kissed…
It had been after the Christmas feasting and celebrations. The Earl of Warwick and his close friends, had been drinking heavily, and were becoming raucous and loud. As everybody knew, that sometimes ended in mischief-making and trouble. John’s mother had signalled with her eyes for him to leave, and he had quietly slipped out from the Great Hall. His mother, he knew, would stay with the countess until she had been safely seen to her private rooms, for it was wise to keep out of the earl’s way once he had a belly full of wine.
John recalled the next thirty minutes with a clarity that would stay with him forever. He had stepped outside, the cold December night greeting him, his lungs filling with clean, crisp air. It was a welcome relief from the thick, stale air of the Great Hall. He had drunk a few cups of wine that evening, so he leant against the castle wall to let the cold night air refresh him. He looked up at the heavens; it was a cloudless night and the stars in their multitude took his breath away, for they filled the sky and shone with a magnificent brilliance. It humbled him to look up at God’s majestic creation. Father Drynk was right, he thought. Man should never question the power of God. His slightly drunken thoughts were interrupted by a soft feminine voice calling to him.
‘Is that you, John?’
It was Rose. John quickly stood upright and unexpectedly felt slightly unsteady on his feet.
Rose’s sweet giggle warmed the night. ‘Methinks you’ve had a cup of wine too many,’ she laughed. Then gently taking hold of John’s arm, she guided him across the castle’s inner courtyard. At the entrance to the tower, they stopped.
‘I think I’m all right now, Rose.’ As John said these words, the light from the torch, over the tower entrance, softly lit Rose’s face, and he caught his breath at her beauty. His tongue stumbled over his words. ‘Rose, thank…I’m drunk…I mean, not drunk—’
John’s words were cut short as Rose leant across and kissed him full on the lips. It was the first time he had been kissed by a girl; this was his first real kiss. Her lips felt cold and wet. He pushed his lips hard against hers, and their teeth cracked together. Oh God, he thought, this kissing is awful. His inexperience made him feel foolish.
Rose broke off the kiss, and pulled John through the entrance and into the foot of the tower, where he stood immobile, like a scared rabbit. ‘Let me show you,’ she whispered.
John closed his eyes. This time, their lips were warmer and becoming hotter. Rose kissed him with a slow gentle caress; her lips were soft, like velvet. John’s world disappeared – there was only Rose and nothing else. When she ended the kiss, he stood with his eyes still closed, his heart beating wildly.
‘I must go,’ Rose said, breathlessly.
John opened his eyes. ‘Go?’ he whispered, dreamily.
‘Yes…go…it’s late, and—’
Before Rose could finish the sentence, John stepped forward and embraced her. She lingered for a second, and then broke away.
‘I must go, sweet John,’ she murmured. ‘If your mother comes back early, it will be the worse for us.’ She kissed John quickly on the cheek, and then was gone, back into the darkness from which she had arrived.
John stood at the foot of the stairway, his mind dazed. In a moment, he reached the door to their quarters, not even noticing the four flights of steps he had just run up. His feelings were all jumbled up. His first kiss, what did it mean? What did he feel? Was it good or bad that they had kissed? What would his mother say, if she knew? Did he feel love? What did love feel like? Did it feel like this? He had no idea, for he was young and unpractised in these matters, but there was one definite certainty amongst all his confused thoughts, and that was his desire to kiss Rose again…
They lay in the fresh, soft straw of the tilt-yard. Rose was telling John about her forthcoming visit home. She was looking forward to seeing her mother, father, and her two younger sisters. She had not seen them for six months or more. She chattered excitedly about the clothes she would wear, the gifts she would take, and her feelings for them all. She told him about the small hamlet of Newto
n-le-Willows, where she was born, and their family’s small, thatched cottage.
John listened and watched Rose’s eyes sparkle, the emotions rippling across her pretty face. She told him everything, hiding nothing. He knew most people always held their guard up, never revealing their inner selves to anybody, not even to the people they loved, but he and Rose told each other everything they thought or felt – no secrets were kept. He confided all his opinions, ideas, fears, and dreams, to her, and she, to him. He could not imagine his life without Rose. He leant over and kissed her.
‘What was that for?’ she asked.
‘It’s a leaving kiss. I must go. It’s becoming dark and I think I am already late.’
They walked towards the exit of the tilt-yard.
‘I will not be here tomorrow morning,’ John said. ‘We are going hunting early; it’s our first time this year on horseback.’
‘Please be careful,’ said Rose.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. See you tomorrow evening?’
‘Of course.’
They walked back through the gate of the Great Keep together, and into the castle, each turning their separate ways.
The two guards on the gate smiled as they watched John and Rose walk by; there was no need for words. Young love, they thought, and they looked at each other with a knowing expression.
Richard, Duke of Gloucester, sat quietly engrossed in a game of chess with Anne Neville. Isabel Neville, the Earl of Warwick’s other daughter, sat chattering to Francis as they played a game of dice. Lady Tunstall stood with the countess at a large table, which was covered with different coloured fabrics and laces, discussing the design on a complicated new headdress.
The Dreams of Kings Page 7