‘Presently, we will land on Holy Island,’ he said. ‘It would be wise to assume that the surrounding lands are still hostile with Lancastrian forces, so be vigilant. Eyes and ears open, weapons ready; you all know the drill.’
Heads nodded and the Great Controller paused, satisfied he had their attention. ‘As you all know, our objective is to rescue Duke Richard and John Tunstall from Bamburgh Castle. When we arrive there, it will be the Hallet twins and Friar Drynk who will accompany me into the castle.’ Looking at Duke Richard’s retainers, he said, ‘You three will keep watch outside the castle and assist us in our escape.’
‘With all respect,’ interrupted Thomas Parr, ‘it should be us, Duke Richard’s close retainers, who should enter the castle, for we are charged by the King with the duke’s safety.’
‘Aye, he is right,’ urged John Milewater.
The Great Controller raised his hand. ‘I realise your concerns, but Friar Drynk must go in because he can talk for us on religious matters. The twins, because they are the finest fighting men I have ever known, and lastly, Lord Warwick had a greater responsibility to the King than you did. Do not forget: Duke Richard was under his protection, a ward within his household.’
Thomas Huddleston pushed forward. ‘I would never argue with your authority, but I urge you to allow one of us to accompany you into the castle. Our honour dictates that.’
Thomas Parr stepped forward. ‘If we wait outside the castle walls, our courage will be questioned, and we can fight as good as any man here!’
The Great Controller silently weighed up their request. Duke Richard’s retainers watched him anxiously. To refuse their request would drive a wedge between them all. Finally, he spoke. ‘Decide which one of you will enter the castle with us.’
Smiles broke out around him.
Friar Drynk spoke and all eyes turned towards him. ‘The gates to Bamburgh Castle will be shut tighter than a duck’s arse by the time we arrive. Are you sure we will gain entry?’
The Great Controller studied Friar Drynk. The man was losing weight. His robe hung loosely off his once corpulent frame; cheekbones, even a chin, were emerging from his fat, podgy face. Bloodshot eyes were now clear. He noted that the friar’s gaze was steady, confident, and most significantly, there was no fear in them.
‘Do not worry about entry into the castle,’ the Great Controller replied, ‘but remember, once inside we will have to think on our feet. Circumstances will dictate our strategy.’ He looked at the circle of heads around him. Satisfied he had men of honour and courage around him, he said, ‘We disembark shortly.’
The men gathered their equipment. The waiting was over, and this bold undertaking was at last under way.
The abbot of Lindisfarne Priory received them with good grace. He read the Letter of Authority handed to him by the Great Controller.
As the abbot scanned the letter, the Great Controller gauged his character: he was old and slim, his face lined but bright, and wispy, white hair crowned his head. He could see that he was a man who would do what was right – at least as far as the priory was concerned. He hoped the abbot would agree to assist them. He did not wish to use the Hallet twins to enforce his authority with blood, but if required, he would not hesitate.
The abbot looked up from the letter. ‘How can we be of service?’ he asked.
The Great Controller relaxed.
The abbot was shrewd and perceptive. He had known for a long time that the old order under King Henry was finished. Edward, the new king, was now the future, the protection and the well-being of the priory was his first responsibility. It had been destroyed, and the monks driven off many years ago, by Viking raiders. Since then, they had worked hard to re-establish it, so to help these men in their cause would mean security. There was no need to oppose them. Kings came and went, for they were mortal men, but God was eternal.
The abbot motioned the Great Controller to a chair. ‘Shall we start?’ he said, with a gentle smile.
Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland
30 April 1464
The whisper was earnest; it demanded an answer. The five men looked at each other, and two shifted uneasily in their seats.
The man who had whispered the unthinkable stared at them. ‘Well,’ he hissed, ‘are you bastards with me, or not?’
A shocked silence filled the room. At last, one of them replied.
‘It is a cowardly deed you are asking us to engage in, and I, for one, do not know if I have the stomach for it.’
Another voice spoke. ‘To murder innocent boys in cold blood is villainous work.’
‘You weak bastards,’ mocked the whisperer. ‘Warwick and his puppet – that whoring bastard, Edward – have killed and murdered our closest kin. All of us around this table have lost loved ones: brothers, sons, uncles, and fathers. This is our last chance to have revenge and to let them taste the salt of their tears, to let them mourn for a brother or cousin.’
‘Aye, he is right,’ spoke another. ‘For even if they find the boys alive, Warwick will still show us no mercy.’
An older, deeper voice silenced them. ‘My brother was killed, fleeing from the Battle of Towton, murdered by Warwick’s barbarous army, so now is the time for cold retribution. I will swear on my mother’s grave that my knife will draw me some royal Yorkist blood before I die.’
The whisperer, his face flushed with excitement, challenged the two with misgivings: ‘Three of us are in,’ he said. ‘Are you two doubters with us, or against us?’
The two men nodded reluctantly. ‘Aye, we are in,’ spoke one. ‘We agree revenge is called for, but it just doesn’t sit right that those two boys in the tower have to be the sacrifice.’
‘To Hell with them,’ said the whisperer. ‘The twenty thousand who fell at Towton wouldn’t agree with you.’
‘Enough,’ said the older voice. ‘The deed is to be done and that’s the end of it. We will kill the little bastards tonight, just before dawn; our action will be swift and silent. We will be like ghosts in the night.’ His chilling words grew in the silence as the enormity of them filled the room. When the old voice spoke again, he murmured deep and low; the others leant forward to catch his words.
‘We have been good and loyal archers to Sir Ralph Grey for many years now, and have fought bravely for him, but we will not stand quietly aside while he hands these boys back and then leads us to the executioner’s block. For as the sun goes down on our brave Lancastrian resistance, we will strike a final blow, a blow for all the common soldiers who have fought and died for King Henry and our brave Queen Margaret. Warwick and Edward will remember the sting in our tail long after we are dead.’
Road to Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland
1 May 1464
The old cart rattled and bumped its way along the crumbling road towards Bamburgh Castle; the one occupant cursing and moaning at every jarring jolt. The riders around him smiled as they listened in amazement to his vast vocabulary of profanities.
Friar Drynk found that swearing took his mind away from the recurring image of wine bottles floating in front of him. The fantasising about food had slowly dimmed, but wine was still a problem, although he was pleasantly surprised at how good he felt. His thinner frame was filled with unexpected energy. His once slow and watery eyes were now clear, his vision sharp. He felt younger. The release from the boredom of castle life suited him. As they approached their final destination, he felt something strange stirring within him. This is what they must call excitement, he thought. He decided that he quite liked this feeling – this sense of purpose. Cracking the reins, he urged the horses on.
‘George, Thomas, scout ahead,’ ordered the Great Controller. ‘When you see Bamburgh, alert us immediately.’
The twins spurred their horses and cantered off into the distance, whilst the cart and the other riders continued their slow progress.
‘We must be nearly there,’ said John Milewater.
‘I pray we are,’ replied Friar Drynk. ‘My arse c
ould not be more sore or bruised from this ponderous journey.’
When the twins reappeared, the Great Controller raised his hand and brought the party to a halt. They reported that Bamburgh was less than half a mile away.
Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland
1 May 1464
Sir Ralph Grey inspected the party in front of him. King Henry, wearing plain clothes, and a humble green cloak around his shoulders, was mounted on a nondescript horse. He sat smiling at everyone around him.
Sir Ralph addressed the captain of this escape party. ‘Head west for Dumfries,’ he instructed. ‘It’s nearly dusk; the darkness will be your friend. Remember to rest during the day. Travel only at night until you have reached friends and safety.’ He stepped back and cried, ‘God be with you!’
Other soldiers saluted Henry as he passed, and shouts of ‘God save the King’ rolled around the castle walls.
Sir Ralph watched as they made their way to the great gate; he was glad to see them go. Knowing that King Henry was leaving for safety took a burden off his shoulders, for his scouts had told him that Warwick’s army would arrive outside the castle walls tomorrow.
His mind turned to the boys in the tower: they were a further problem he wished he did not have – a death warrant hanging over the castle. Damn Somerset, and Billingham! he thought. But what to do with the boys? The whole garrison knew they were in the tower and the groundswell of opinion was that they should be used in the defence of the castle. Some said, hung over the battlements by their wrists to stop any assault by cannon on the castle walls. He realised that he could not just set them free, which was what he would like to have done, for it would cause unrest, and sap moral. To let them go would not change anything; the mere fact that they were here meant the die was cast; Warwick would have his blood. Sir Ralph knew without doubt he was a dead man, but he hoped to barter the life of Duke Richard in exchange for the lives of the garrison. He prayed Warwick would grant them all a pardon.
The Great Controller, and his band of counterfeit monks, pulled up outside the castle gates. They were now all wearing the monks’ habits supplied by the abbot of Lindisfarne Priory.
The guards on the ramparts relayed their presence to the master-at-arms, who was busy supervising the departure of King Henry. The great gates opened. Men-at-arms rushed out and formed two lines either side of the drawbridge. King Henry rode out; a knight on both his flanks. Behind him were assorted gentlemen and mounted men-at-arms. The party numbered fifteen in total.
The Great Controller whispered to his companions, ‘If I’m not mistaken, here comes old King Henry.’
All eyes on the cart stared at the ordinary figure heading towards them. As Henry drew level with the monks, his eyes turned on them. He raised his hand and said with a smile, ‘God be with you, my brothers.’ His stare lingered on the Great Controller, his expression changing to that of a man trying to remember a distant memory.
The Great Controller shrunk within his habit, whipping his face away from Henry’s stare. The realisation that he may have been recognised from their meeting many years ago when he had accompanied the Earl of Warwick to court, hit him like a thunderbolt. What a fool he was, for the possibility of it had never crossed his mind. The whole operation was in danger before it had started. He held his breath.
As Henry’s party rode past, the Great Controller looked nervously after them. The distance between them lengthened and he breathed a sigh of relief. Then, faintly, the words, ‘Nice to see you, Thomas,’ floated musically over the evening twilight.
All eyes on the cart turned to the Great Controller, but the party kept on moving. Nobody had paid any heed, for Henry was always muttering to himself. The Great Controller shrugged his shoulders and smiled, a look of relief on his face.
Quietly, Friar Drynk said, ‘Who else may know you, sir?’
The look of relief faded from the Great Controller’s eyes. He pulled his hood up over his head, and slunk down in the back of the cart.
The master-at-arms approached the cart. ‘What have we here?’ he demanded, as his eyes investigated them. ‘A gaggle of monks who are either lost or stupid, or both. Have you not heard that Warwick’s army marches against us, and you pious idiots will be of no help to us when he arrives, so if you know what’s good for you, then you best be on your way.’
‘Do not mock us, my friend, for we are men of the Lord,’ replied Friar Drynk, sternly. ‘We have come to save your souls, not your lives. We journey from Lindisfarne to our mother priory at Durham, but our most holy abbot instructed us to break our journey to offer spiritual salvation to your men. I have a Letter of Authority confirming this.’
Friar Drynk produced the letter and handed it to the master-at-arms who read the contents then handed it back, embarrassment now silencing his tongue.
Seeing the man’s discomfort, Friar Drynk seized the moment, and continued. ‘We have brought with us the holy relics of St Cuthbert, our founding father, and with their holy powers your men may be blessed to save their souls. Do you wish us to take them away?’
The master-at-arms shook his head. ‘No. No, Father,’ he said, apologetically.
John Milewater passed a box to Friar Drynk.
The friar gasped. ‘Ah, the holy relics,’ and then theatrically rolled his eyes towards the heavens as though he was holding the bones of Christ himself. He reverently lifted up the casket for all to see. It was made from a rich, dark, mahogany wood, inlaid with fake precious jewels.
The master-at-arms and his men stepped closer. Whispers of awe left their lips.
Friar Drynk knew he had them in the palm of his hand. Just the final thrust, he thought, and we will be welcomed into the castle like saints who have just descended from Heaven. ‘As you all know, the ceremony of Mass before a battle is crucial to all solders. For if sudden death befalls you, and you are not purged of all your sins, then only Purgatory or Hell awaits your souls, but these holy relics will guarantee you your place in Heaven.’ He looked at the faces in front of him. All had a desire in their eyes, a need of reassurance for their souls. Triumphantly, he challenged, ‘Do you grant us entry or not?’
The master-at-arms stood back and waved them towards the gate, bowing with holy reverence.
Friar Drynk smiled to himself and the twins just managed to contain their laughter.
‘Well done,’ said the Great Controller, allowing himself a smile. His decision to bring the friar had been right. Shame, he thought, that the bones in that fake holy box had come from pigs.
As the cart trundled through the great gates and into Bamburgh Castle, all smiles and subdued laughter were forgotten. The castle was bristling with weapons and men, all of them sworn enemies. If their disguise slipped, they would be dead within seconds. Their hearts beat faster, their minds concentrated, and the ‘Old Owl’ pulled his hood further over his face.
John Tunstall and Duke Richard watched the departure of old King Henry from their window high up in the tower.
Lindsay, who brought their meals, had told them that he was leaving for the ‘safety of his person’. They had deduced from this information, and the fact that the castle was now prepared for siege, that a Yorkist army must be nearby.
Butterflies stirred within John’s stomach, for once the Yorkist forces laid siege, their lives would become negotiable, and life or death would once again become their close companion.
Duke Richard turned away from the window. ‘Well, Sir Ralph Grey has resolved the future of old King Henry,’ he said. ‘Let’s just hope he now resolves ours.’ Receiving no reply from John, he continued. ‘His options will be very limited. I do not think he intends to kill us, but on the other hand, he will not just set us free. Therefore, the time has come for us to plan our own destiny, for if events go badly for the castle then the mob will come looking for us. They will desire our blood as desperately as a drowning man craves air.’
John was only half listening to Richard. He was watching a cart with a group of monks enter the
castle. They all had their hoods up except for the one who held the reins. John’s eyes were drawn to his face. My God, he thought, he looks like Friar Drynk, but at least ten years younger. He narrowed his eyes to take in more detail, but they disappeared from his view as the cart rounded the tower. This image of a younger Friar Drynk reminded him of home. He felt anger rise within him. He realised that Richard was right; they had to take charge of their own destinies. It would be better to die fighting than timidly going to their deaths like sheep. He walked over to the small table and sat down opposite Richard, noting the dark shadows under the young duke’s eyes. The paleness of his skin and the strain of the last few days were etched on his face. I must look the same to him, John mused. It was time for action.
‘We will make our escape at dawn,’ whispered Richard.
‘But how?’ asked John.
‘When Lindsay comes at first light with our breakfast, you will feign sickness,’ replied Richard. ‘This will draw the guard into the room. I will then strike him down, and then we will lock them both in this room while we make our escape.’
‘But we have no weapons, and if we manage to escape, how do we reach safety?’ asked John.
‘We will strip the heavy support poles from those,’ he said, pointing to three tapestries hanging on the walls. ‘We will make two short stabbing spears and one club to strike down the guard. I have kept a knife from our last meal; we have all night to fashion these weapons.’
John looked at the tapestries and the blunt eating knife that Richard now held in his hand; it was not a lot, but as he had said, they had all night. ‘Do you think we will fight our way out of the main gate with these sticks?’ laughed John.
‘No, no,’ said Richard, his face deadly serious. ‘I have noticed that just after dawn, a patrol of scourers leaves the castle through the main gate. I imagine they are scouting for my brother’s army or Warwick’s.’
The Dreams of Kings Page 12