The noise of the battle seemed to fade around him and he sensed his warrior ancestors gathering close by, to accompany him on his final ride. Time for one more illustrious gallop over this magnificent estate, he thought. Drawing his sword, Sir Ralph Percy rode towards the advancing enemy.
Rothbury Forest, Northumberland
26 April 1464
With their feet still tied to the stirrups, John Tunstall and Duke Richard trotted along a small, forest path, deep within the woods. They had soldiers to the front and rear of them, and John had long given up any hope of escape. Sir Henry Billingham still rode up front, leading as he had done since their abduction.
John, now starving and exhausted, glanced at Richard, who was half asleep on his horse. They had been travelling continually for three days with only short rest breaks. His mind had wandered from complete acceptance of their fate, to one of raging anger at the bastards for what they had done to them. His thoughts dwelled on poor Francis, and whether he had made it back to Middleham. Or, perhaps he had died a lonely death, abandoned in the forest. John had no way of knowing. The two soldiers who had been detailed to accompany Francis back to the castle had never arrived at Hexham to join up with Sir Henry Billingham’s force as they had been ordered to do. They had either been captured, which was highly unlikely, or they had deserted. Were they ashamed and fearful of what had happened in that clearing? To be associated with such a wicked act was dangerous for them and their families. Had they just melted back, vanished, evaporated into the safety of some quiet part of the kingdom?
John’s pensive thoughts turned to his mother. He could see her loving smile, and his weary body ached for the security of their warm quarters. How he longed to be home with her. His spirit sank lower. The anxiety of never seeing his mother, or Rose, again, put alarm into his heart. He forced back the tears that threatened his tired eyes; he had sworn that he would never cry again. He would never complain or show any weakness to these Lancastrian bastards.
John’s melancholy thoughts dissipated as Sir Henry Billingham halted their column. In the gloom of the forest, he just caught the outline of undefined shapes moving in the murky shadows. As he looked around, he saw there were hundreds of these ghostly phantoms slowly slipping past them. As more came closer into view, he realised that these spectral apparitions were soldiers. All were on foot, their faces white, eyes fixed to the ground. The world around them did not intrude on their shocked minds. Their clothes were wet and muddied, and many had bloody bandages around their heads or arms.
Richard moved up beside John. ‘These are Somerset’s men,’ he whispered. ‘Look: many wear his battle colours. There’s been some sort of skirmish and I’d wager he’s lost.’
For the first time in three days, the boys smiled at each other.
Sir Henry called out to a group of soldiers near to him. ‘How go you?’
Two soldiers, one wounded in the leg, his arm around his comrade’s shoulder for support, stopped. ‘Lord Montagu has won the day on Hedgeley Moor!’ he cried. ‘Our Lord Somerset is defeated.’
Sir Henry shook his head. ‘This cannot be!’ he cried, in disbelief.
‘It can be and is be,’ said the wounded soldier. ‘The Lancastrian cause is finished.’ Then with frustration in his voice, he cried, ‘Good King Henry has lost his crown; he is no more a king than I am!’
‘Where do you head for?’ asked Sir Henry.
‘Hexham,’ replied the soldier. ‘We have been told that food, and our fighting wages, await us. Lord Somerset, it is said, will be there with fresh troops, but if you believe that, you’ll believe the earth is round!’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Most men are heading home, thankful that their body and soul are still together. We will make for Hexham, but will only dally a day or so to see our wages, and then we will slip away. There’s no more fighting for us; our cause is done.’
Before Sir Henry could reply, the two men limped away, quickly swallowed up in the gloom.
The men that were shuffling slowly past them began to thin out and Sir Henry’s group moved off. Shortly afterwards, they came across the dead and dying.
These men have succumbed to their last breath, thought Sir Henry. They lay where they have taken their last mortal steps, their muddy tracks showing from whence they came, but where they have gone now, only God knows the answer to that.
Other men lay with their backs against tree trunks, their life’s blood seeping away. Their thin cries for help sent shivers down John’s spine. He looked at Richard and saw that his eyes were cold and unconcerned by these sights.
Richard saw John’s troubled glance and moved up beside him. ‘Do not be concerned for these bastards, they deserve their deaths,’ he whispered. ‘If they had won, they would have had our heads on spikes by now.’
John knew that Richard spoke the truth. He pondered how the duke could always cut out any feelings or emotions and just summed up a situation with coldness. It seemed to freeze John’s heart, for whilst he felt compassion for these dying men, Richard would have them all dead.
The evening shadows were growing long when Sir Henry Billingham finally called a halt to their journey. ‘We will rest here for the night,’ he said, wearily. ‘Tomorrow we arrive at Bamburgh.’ He could find no excitement or enthusiasm in his voice; the shock of the Duke of Somerset’s defeat weighed heavy on his mind. The unthinkable slowly began to dominate his thoughts. He fought these unpalatable images with all his mental strength, trying to find reasons to still believe in their cause, imagining grand plans that would provide a great victory. But slowly, the reality of the situation defeated all his hopes, and his dreams faded away. He finally admitted to himself that the wounded soldier who had spoken to him in the forest was right; they had no king or queen to fight for, and now no army to fight with – the Lancastrian cause was finished.
He slowly sat down at the edge of the forest and looked out over Northumberland’s rolling dales. His eyes were moist as he thought of all the good men who had given their lives in this great struggle; all the widows and orphans it had created. Now, it was ended, all purpose to his life was suddenly gone – a feeling of quiet despair settled on him. Then a hand gently shook his shoulder.
‘Sir, the men would like to speak to you,’ said a senior man-at-arms.
‘What on earth is there to talk about? Those soldiers in the forest spoke plainly enough,’ Somerset tersely replied.
The senior man-at-arms looked embarrassed. ‘It’s about the boys, Sir.’
Sir Henry rose reluctantly to his feet, and walked towards his men.
Richard nudged John in the ribs and pointed to Sir Henry. ‘Looks like trouble,’ he said.
Both boys were chained by an ankle to a tree, their horses grazing contentedly on the edge of the forest. They watched as the men gathered around Sir Henry. Voices became excited, arms were raised, fingers pointed in their direction. The boys knew this was about them. They watched, but could not hear what was being said. It developed into a heated argument with Sir Henry drawing his sword. They heard him shout above the chorus of voices. ‘Those boys will be delivered to Bamburgh, alive!’
Richard and John knew their lives hung in the balance. The sixteen other men reluctantly dispersed into the woods around them. They gathered in groups of three or four as they settled down for the night. The boys could hear their low mutterings. As hard eyes glanced over at them, they instinctively moved closer together.
John knew that whilst they were important to Sir Henry, who was honour-bound to deliver them alive to Bamburgh Castle, they had become a liability to these other men. There was nothing left for them to fight for except their own lives. To be caught holding the two of them would mean a certain death sentence, and he could think of no good reason why these men would let them live. He understood what the argument had been about. ‘We had better pray that we see the dawn,’ said John, darkly.
Rievaulx Abbey – Earl of Warwick’s Encampment, North Yorkshire
26 April 1464
His small eyes focused back onto the Great Controller who stood before him. He felt the cold leave his body only to be replaced with rippling hot sweats. He wanted to erupt into a rage at the news the Great Controller had just brought him, but could not, for it was on his authority that the boys had been allowed to go hunting on their own – there was nobody else to blame, but himself.
Sweat started to run down his back, and he looked out again at the teeming rain, wishing it could wash this bad news away. His mouth felt as if it had burnt dry.
He motioned for one of the servants to bring him wine. All about him waited and watched as he gulped the cool drink with anger and frustration. Lady Tunstall penetrated his thoughts: his good friend Sir William, Lady Tunstall’s husband, had died, fighting with him at St Albans, and now her only child had been taken, along with Duke Richard, a royal prince, who had been placed under his protection by King Edward. The humiliation that this terrible news brought, stung his spirit, and his rage at last erupted. Rising from his seat, his small eyes hardened with anger.
‘When I find the devils that committed this heinous act, they will be roasted over hot coals!’ he roared.
All in his presence drew back from the force of his temper, except the Great Controller, who moved not an inch.
Warwick’s hard eyes swung towards him; the Great Controller held his hand up. Warwick looked at the hand in front of him. It seemed to possess some magic force for he became still and silent.
The Great Controller spoke quietly to him. ‘My Lord, now is the time for cool thought and quick actions, for if we are to save the boys, we have no time to lose.’
Warwick, his face red with anger, nodded in agreement, and slowly composing himself, he slumped back into his chair. ‘How is Alice?’ he asked. ‘Is she bearing up?’
The Great Controller shook his head, sadly. ‘She stands proud, as her heritage says she must, but her sorrow is as any mother’s – it runs deep and sharp within her. I promised to bring her son home to her.’
Warwick thumped the arm of his chair. ‘And by God, we will!’ he shouted. ‘By God we will, so now tell me your plan.’
The Great Controller produced a detailed map of Northumberland and spread it out over a large table in the centre of the room. He silently studied the map as he gathered his thoughts.
Warwick’s impatience broke through the silence. ‘Come on man!’ he cried. ‘You said quick action was required, so spit out this plan of yours.’ He saw the Great Controller’s yellow eyes flash up, and the effect startled him, as it always did. Ever since he was a young boy, those eyes had that impact on him. After all these years, he should have been immune to their power, but he still was not, and most probably, never would be. He stood in silence and waited.
‘My Lord,’ began the Great Controller, ‘the information on the kidnapping of Duke Richard and John Tunstall is sparse. We know they were taken by Lancastrian forces on the morning of the twenty-fourth. They were abducted near the village of Wensley, and are being taken to Bamburgh Castle as we speak.’ He paused and looked around him. ‘Before I continue, the room must be cleared of all men who will not be involved in this operation, for loose tongues, no matter how innocent, may give a key to the enemy with which to unlock our plans. We cannot be too careful; the lives of Duke Richard and John Tunstall depend on us.’
Warwick nodded in agreement. ‘Tell us who stays,’ he said, a half-smile forming on his lips as he looked around the tent. He was beginning to warm to the intrigue of the situation.
The Great Controller reeled off the men who were to stay. ‘Duke Richard’s close retainers: John Milewater, Thomas Parr, and Thomas Huddleston. For your Lordship: Sir Conyers and Sir Metcalfe. I require the twins: Thomas and George Hallet, and Friar Drynk.’
Warwick looked around him and saw that the twins and Friar Drynk were absent. He ordered a messenger to bring them forth. ‘All that are not named may go,’ he commanded, and with a clap of his hands, the tent emptied. ‘Francis will survive the arrow’ he said, as they waited for the twins and Friar Drynk.
The Great Controller was not sure if it was a question or a statement, but replied none the less. ‘It was a clean wound. He will live, although his left arm will not be as flexible as it used to be. He may have to adapt his fighting style in the future. Only time will tell.’
‘All three boys are my responsibility,’ growled Warwick. ‘It would seem those Lancastrian bastards still have a sting in their tail, but I will have the heads of those who ordered this outrage, and the heads of those who carried it out. Somerset will be the first, for he must be behind this evil deed.’
The twins and Friar Drynk entered the tent and bowed low before joining the small audience of the Great Controller.
The Earl of Warwick looked at the Great Controller. ‘Now then, Thomas,’ he said, rubbing his hands together with anticipation, ‘tell us your plan.’
Rothbury Forest, Northumberland
27 April 1464
The cold, half-light settled its weak strength on Duke Richard and John Tunstall as dawn crept silently into the forest – a welcome friend awakening them from a fitful slumber. The thin light meant life. The blackness of the night had threatened death, but daybreak had arrived and they still breathed. They looked at each other with nervous smiles on their tired faces.
The silence of the morning was abruptly broken by Sir Henry Billingham, who strode around cursing loudly to himself. ‘Those cowardly bastards!’ he shouted. ‘They’re like rats deserting a ship!’
Richard and John sat up straight and looked around them. They could only see Sir Henry and three of his senior men, but no more – the rest had obviously slipped silently away during the night.
John reasoned that if the evidence to their crime could not be killed then they had decided it was best to abandon the evidence that linked them to the crime. With nothing left to fight for, and with no possibility of wages, the men’s decision had been an easy one.
Sir Henry dropped down on to his haunches in front of them, his face tired and angry.
The two boys looked at him. They saw before them a man at the end of his tether. Richard spoke first.
‘Leave us,’ he urged, ‘and go with your loyal retainers; save yourselves. John and I will be—’
‘My orders were to deliver you to Bamburgh Castle,’ interrupted Sir Henry.
‘But you could save yourself,’ Richard quietly reasoned.
‘I will deliver you to Bamburgh as ordered!’ Sir Henry shouted, the frustration in him mounting. ‘Then I will head for France, and when the time is right, I will return to take the crown from your brother’s head and place it back where it rightfully belongs: on a royal Lancastrian brow!’
‘But this is madness,’ said Richard, also becoming frustrated. ‘This war must stop. It cannot continue forever.’
‘It will continue until the last noble Lancastrian is dead,’ replied Sir Henry.
‘And that will be soon,’ retorted John. ‘You will all be hunted down like the dogs you are. We will not forget your actions against us and what you did to Lord Lovell. You’re all murdering—’
Richard put his arm across John’s chest. ‘Enough,’ he said, quietly.
Sir Henry rose to his feet and looked down at them. The boys’ thin, tired faces looked up at him. He had made them face death more than once. How had it come to this? His distinguished career had ended with the abduction of boys, and then fleeing like a frightened dog to France. He realised his shame, what he had done was wrong. Words – no matter how repentant – would never be enough to put it right. There was no point in conti
nuing the conversation. The sooner this mission was completed, the better.
Sir Henry turned and walked away. ‘Put the prisoners on their horses,’ he commanded sharply. ‘We ride for Bamburgh.’
The boys had been in the saddle for over three hours when Duke Richard smelt the sea. The salty aroma inflated his lungs; its sharp freshness filled his body. That first indulgent breath cleared his tired mind.
They were on the brow of a hill, looking down, as the land flattened out to the sea, and there, dominating the shoreline stood Bamburgh Castle. The wind and the sea threw stinging spray against its solid, granite walls. It was a futile gesture; the great rolling ocean with its white-tipped, running waves would never claim that majesty of stone. He remembered the first time he had breathed the sweet tang of the sea – he had been eight years old – fleeing with his mother, and brother, George, from Queen Margaret’s army. They had boarded ship at Dover one cold January morning, four years ago, and fled to Burgundy. His father, brother, and uncle, had just been killed at the battle of Wakefield. Now, his world had turned full circle, for once again as he smelt the sea, his life was in danger.
They entered Bamburgh Castle with its Lancastrian banners flying high above their heads from the ramparts. They were a small, bedraggled group, who raised not a stir at their entry. A few curious eyes watched them dismount outside the Great Hall, but the news of the Duke of Somerset’s defeat had roused the castle into a hornets’ nest. Men and weapons bustled everywhere. Wagons were arriving with fresh supplies of food and drink as the castle readied itself for siege.
John looked around with hungry eyes, taking in every detail. He had never seen a castle prepare for war. Middleham Castle had never been threatened during his short lifetime. It had always been solid and sedate, a comfortable home, but here, armourers sweated as every blade was sharpened. Arrows were being stacked in huge bundles around the battlements. Large vats with which to boil oil were being placed at strategic sites. Women with young children headed out of the castle towards the safety of the north. The air pulsed with excitement.
The Dreams of Kings Page 10