‘And you think,’ said John, excitement in his voice, ‘that we could escape at the same time?’
‘Yes,’ replied Richard, his voice rising. ‘If we can find a couple of horses – which I don’t think will be too difficult – we could ride out right behind the scourers.’
‘And if we trust in God,’ said John, quietly, ‘then we may make it out alive.’
‘Exactly,’ said Richard triumphantly. ‘And if we don’t make it, then at least we will have died bravely, in action…’ His voice trailed off. They looked at each other, both suddenly realising the enormity of what they were planning. The cost of failure would be their lives.
Richard slid to his knees. ‘Come, we must pray for our deliverance,’ he said trying to disguise the fear in his voice.
John joined him and although he did not believe as strongly as Richard did, he would pray just as hard.
While they were praying, John studied Richard’s back through half-closed eyes. He had heard what Sir Henry Billingham had said, and had seen Richard’s angry reaction. There was a very slight curving of his spine, from the bottom of his neck and down over his shoulder, but it was hardly noticeable.
‘Richard,’ John said, softly.
Richard stopped praying, and opening his eyes looked enquiringly at John.
‘Your…your back looks fine to me.’
Richard’s eyes flashed like diamonds, and then softened. ‘I have a slight curvature of the spine,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘It will apparently become worse, the older and taller I become, but at the moment, with careful tailoring, I can disguise it.’
‘Does it hurt you?’ asked John.
‘Sometimes, at the end of a day’s training in the tilt-yard or in cold or damp weather, it aches, but it is a curse I have to bear. My brother, George, tormented me daily about it; called me the runt of the litter…I am glad to be free of him.’
‘I will never mention it again,’ said John, solemnly.
‘And I will always be your trusted friend,’ replied Richard, ‘even if I turn into an evil, hunchbacked warlock,’ he added, with a hollow laugh.
The soft leather-clad foot silently mounted the first step. Dawn was a thin strip of light on the horizon – a rich azure blue. A birdcall broke the night’s silence. The five assassins moved smoothly up the steps of the tower, each silent footstep taking them closer to their target.
The guard outside of the boys’ room was woken from his light slumber by the points of two daggers pricking his throat. With sleep and panic muddled within him, he jumped up from his chair. It crashed to the stone floor and he froze in fear.
‘Hell’s fires!’ whispered a hoarse voice. ‘Let’s wake the whole damn castle!’
Within the locked room, Richard and John were instantly awoken from their light sleep. They could hear whispered voices outside, then the jangle of keys. They knew this was not Lindsay with their breakfast; whoever was outside of their room meant them harm.
They heard the key enter the lock and rushed to the corner at the far end of the room. They stood with their backs to it, the short wooden stabbing spears they had fashioned late into the night, at the ready.
As the key slowly turned in the lock, the boys stared at the handle. Their mouths were dry, their hands clammy, their hearts drummed in their ears. Slowly, the door swung open, and four men entered without a sound. Their eyes fastened on to the boys. Unspoken, the men moved swiftly towards them; this deed was to be done quick and fast.
Richard and John saw that the men wore the leather jerkins of archers, and the colours of Sir Ralph Grey. John was stunned to think that he would have ordered their deaths. As the men raised their double-edged daggers, the boys stepped forward, and thrust out their short spears.
The men advanced. ‘Those sticks won’t save you,’ sneered one.
The boys stepped back, assuming their defensive positions, when a low moan cut through the room.
The fifth archer, who had been guarding the door, staggered towards them, holding his neck, blood spurting out from between his fingers. A high-pitched gargle rumbled up from his throat and he fell to his knees in the doorway. A short stabbing sword was thrust into his back. His eyes bulged from his head as he wriggled in pain, like a speared fish.
The four archers whipped round towards their comrade, just as a foot came through the door and smashed into the kneeling archer’s head, sending him to the floor and ripping the sword from his stomach. Blood sprayed from the gaping wound, and he lay quivering on the floor in his dying agony.
Two monks entered the room; each had a twelve-inch dagger in one hand, and a short stabbing sword in the other.
The archers stared at them with uncomprehending eyes, but there were only two of them and they were four. They looked at each other with smug smiles. The odds were in their favour, but as the archers moved towards them, the two monks pulled their hoods back.
Richard and John stared in quiet disbelief, for before them stood the Hallet twins, Thomas and George. Momentarily stunned, the boys stood watching as the twins moved in on the archers.
The twins were quick and ruthless. They fought as one, each knowing exactly the movements of the other, possessing some inbred intuition that only twins have. As one thrust, the other would parry; if one feinted, the other would attack. The four archers were cut to pieces in seconds; two lay dead, two badly wounded.
George knelt beside one of the wounded perpetrators, feeling for the gap between his ribs. He placed his dagger over the man’s heart and pushed slowly downwards.
The archer raised his head, and watched as the blade slowly entered his chest. Tears filled his eyes. ‘Please no,’ he moaned. ‘Oh God, please, no, no…’
George slapped his hand tight over the man’s mouth before ramming the dagger home. The man’s scream froze in his throat; his arms and legs trembled and were then still.
Thomas moved to the other wounded man, whose eyes widened in terror. He expertly found the gap between his ribs and positioned his dagger.
Richard moved across, staying Thomas’ hand. He gripped the dying man’s hair, and pulling his head up to within inches of his own, he demanded, ‘Who sent you? Was it Sir Ralph Grey? Tell me the truth, for you cannot enter Heaven with a lie on your lips.’
The man shook his head. ‘No one sent us,’ he whispered.
Richard stood up and nodded at Thomas who slowly slid his dagger into the man’s chest. He wriggled frantically on his back and died silently.
John stood rooted to the spot, dumbfounded at the events unfolding before him. Watching Richard’s icy ruthlessness with the last man had stuck in his mind. It confirmed that Richard was merciless against his enemies, something John had to learn for himself, for these assassins deserved their deaths. If the twins had not arrived just in time, it would have been him and Richard lying dead on the cold, stone floor. Just when John thought there could be no more shocks, the Great Controller strode into the room, whispering orders.
‘Thomas; George; bring the guard into the room; make sure he is gagged.’ He walked over to Richard and John, his face smiling. ‘Come, we must go with all haste. Dawn is breaking, and we must leave before the castle awakes.’ He put his arms around the boys and ushered them from the blood-soaked room. Locking the door behind them, they swiftly made their way down from the tower.
Waiting at the bottom was the cart that John had seen entering the castle the previous evening, and sitting at the front holding the reins was the monk he had seen. ‘Is that you, Friar Drynk?’ John asked, with a quizzical look on his face.
Friar Drynk laughed. ‘Well, I’m definitely not a ghost!’ Then ruffling John’s hair, he whispered, ‘Thank God and all the saints in Christendom, that we found you safe and well.’
The Great Controller’s eyes flashed at the friar to silence him, and then motioning to the two boys, he murmured urgently, ‘Quick, hide under these blankets.’
Richard and John slipped under them in the back of the cart, their t
ension and fear of the last days vanished. They were amongst friends, surrounded, at last, by capable hands.
Friar Drynk cracked the reins, and swung the cart towards the great gate. As they approached it, ten scourers cantered past them.
The master-at-arms came out from the guardhouse. ‘Leaving so early?’ he asked.
Friar Drynk kept the cart moving. ‘God’s work never stops,’ he said, raising his eyes to the heavens.
‘Well, thank you for your blessings,’ cried the master-at-arms, as they trundled passed him.
From the back of the cart, the Great Controller made the sign of the cross, and then they were through the gate and away.
Lindsay climbed the steps to the tower, carrying a tray of breakfast for the two boys. Dawn had broken and it was going to be a fine day. As she placed her small feminine foot onto the last step, she stopped – her gentle face frowned. The guard was absent and his chair was lying on its side. If he’s been drinking again, I’m going to have to report him, she thought, annoyance hardening her girlish features. She approached the door and noticed that it was splattered with red-brown marks. Something was wrong. An ill omen shivered down her spine. Her heart beat faster. She placed the tray on the floor and knocking on the door, heard a muffled cry in response. Taking the key from her pocket, she unlocked the door. It swung slowly on its hinges.
In front of her, was the guard, tied to a chair and gagged; his eyes red and wild as though he had been locked in this room all night with the devil. Lindsay stepped towards him and then froze: the blood-splattered walls and the butchered corpses rushed into her eyes. She tried to close them, but they would not respond. Against her will, her head moved from side to side taking in the horror of it all. Her head swam, and she gripped the door frame to keep her balance, feeling wetness on her hands. ‘Oh God, please no,’ she murmured, realising what it was. With revulsion, she slowly looked down, and saw with horror, her red, bloodied hands. Her scream split the silence of the dawn.
Men stopped in their tracks. The second scream galvanised them into an automatic primeval response as they all rushed for the tower.
Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland
3 May 1464
The Earl of Warwick arrayed his army outside Bamburgh Castle. It was mid-morning and he watched the swallows dipping and diving around the castle walls, searching for nest sites amongst the nooks and crevices. The sun was shining, it was a fine spring day, and he was in good spirits. Everything had dovetailed together nicely: he had just received news that the Great Controller had bravely rescued Duke Richard and John Tunstall. The garrisons of Alnwick and Dunstanburgh had accepted his offer of a pardon and had surrendered peaceably, their forces now disbursed. His brother, John – Lord Montagu, had captured the Duke of Somerset and his close lieutenants at Hexham and shortly he would have Sir Ralph Grey’s, and his cronies’, heads on spikes around Bamburgh Castle.
He had a list as long as his arm of Lancastrian sympathisers who would not live the week out. He rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. ‘Where are the guns?’ he bellowed.
‘Being positioned now,’ replied the quartermaster.’ Would you like to inspect them, my Lord?’
Warwick ignored the question. ‘And the gunpowder?’ he asked.
‘Half a mile away,’ came the reply.
Warwick knew that gunpowder became very unstable over prolonged periods of travel. The ingredients saltpetre, sulphur, and carbon, had to be mixed evenly to manufacture a stable powder, but in transit, the heaviest of the three would sink to the bottom of the barrel and if not remixed carefully, this volatile powder could cause the guns to explode prematurely. He remembered how King James II of Scotland had been killed in this way while besieging Roxburgh Castle in 1460.
‘I will inspect them now,’ he barked, and then said quietly to himself, ‘before that dammed powder arrives.’
Warwick grunted with pleasure as he watched the great guns, London, Newcastle, and Dijon, being levelled and ranged. They could fire a ball weighing forty-two pounds over several hundred yards with great accuracy; no wall could withstand their power. His inspection was cut short by the news that the Great Controller had arrived with the boys and was receiving hospitality within his tent.
‘Excellent news,’ he beamed, and strode past him, smiling, towards the tent.
The messenger was taken aback by Warwick’s rare good cheer.
Sir Ralph Grey looked out from the battlements at the powerful army drawn up outside his walls. He watched with morbid fascination at the three great siege guns being deployed. He knew their power, and realised that this would be no long siege – Warwick wanted blood. There had been no offer of surrender or pardon, and after the escape of the boys earlier that morning, he knew none would be forthcoming.
The news and the manner of their escape had gone around the castle like wildfire and the bloody deaths of five of his archers had shocked everyone. What had they been thinking of, to attempt such a vile deed?
The guard who survived had told of the events: the archers, the monks escape, and all within the heart of his castle. It was said that the guard should have been punished, along with the master-at-arms, for letting the monks enter and leave, but Sir Ralph Grey knew there was no need, for as he watched Warwick’s guns being prepared, he knew their punishment would be swift enough. He turned and left the battlements. It was time to write a farewell letter to his dear wife, and with it, his last will and testament, for he knew his fate: he would not out live the day.
The Earl of Warwick strode into his tent, bristling with energy. ‘Well done, Thomas!’ he cried, to the Great Controller. ‘Well done. Your plan worked. Are the boys in good health?’
‘Aye, they are, my Lord, but only by God’s grace.’
Warwick raised an eyebrow. ‘Explain,’ he barked.
The Great Controller quickly told him of the subterfuge they had used to gain entry to the castle; how they had located the boys, and their surprise at finding Sir Ralph Grey’s archers in the boys’ quarters with the evil intent to murder them; how the Hallet twins had cut them to pieces and finally, their escape.
Warwick listened intently to the Great Controller’s report. ‘Well,’ he said, looking at the boys, ‘it was a damn close thing for you two. Thank God the twins are a formidable pair of swordsmen.’ He sat down in a large padded chair and made himself comfortable. He then motioned for the boys to approach closer.
Leaning forward, he said quietly, ‘You have now seen the evil of men at first hand, and I know you have both stared death in the eye and have acted with courage. We are all proud of you. This experience has made you men, but you must also realise that you are both still young and have much to learn so I will look to your futures once we have taken care of the evil bastards who did this to you.’
He rose from his chair and put a hand on each of the boys’ shoulders, his voice rising as he gave his command. ‘Richard, you will ride south, shortly, to meet your brother, the King. John, you will ride for Middleham, but first you both go to the City of York to witness the executions of the men who ordered your kidnapping. I have ordered that they be treated as common criminals, and kept in chains, with no high privileges.’
‘The twins should be rewarded for saving our lives,’ said Richard.
Warwick turned his head towards Richard, with a look of surprise at this sudden request. ‘Aye, they will be,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Shortly, I sail for France. I have business to attend to with King Louis. I shall take them with me. I’m sure a few days in a French whore house will be a novel reward for them.’
Warwick’s gaze stayed on the two boys. ‘I will take you two as well. It will do you good to see France and its great royal court. It would broaden your horizons, and be part of your education.’ Then with a playful laugh, he said, ‘Maybe we will find a couple of pretty French maids to entertain you both.’
The Great Controller looked at Warwick. He did not need to speak; his yellow half-hooded eyes said it all as th
ey flashed with an unspoken question.
Warwick recognised the look. ‘Thomas!’ he cried, with a mischievous glint in his eye, ‘I’ll tell you my plans later.’
Richard and John, full of excitement, accompanied Warwick to watch the firing of the great guns. They stuffed their ears with wool, and stood well back. Once they had witnessed the power of the cannons, they were to ride with the Great Controller, as ordered, to the City of York, to witness the executions.
Chapter 6
The King’s Great Secret
Parish Church, Grafton Regis, Northamptonshire
3 May 1464
The priest, whose threadbare and crumpled black gown matched his advancing years, looked up from under his large bushy eyebrows at the young couple standing before him.
The man was well dressed in rich hunting clothes, but none the less, only hunting clothes. The woman stood in a plain green dress; she wore no jewellery, or elaborate headwear.
He felt nervous; there was sweat on his top lip, which he could feel cooling under his nose. He had been the priest in this parish for over thirty years, and never in all that time had he been asked to perform such a ceremony. They had warned him that if word of this marriage became public, his fortunes would take a turn for the worse, but he still could not believe that the man standing in front of him was who they said he was, and for him to be married in this small village church with only a few witnesses present was unthinkable.
The priest shook his head to confirm he was not dreaming; his tired red eyes with their failing sight peered nervously at the couple and he took a deep breath.
‘I declare, by our Lord God, and in the eyes of all men, that you are now man and wife.’
Lord Hastings looked around at the small congregation as the priest and his young assistant launched themselves into a final wedding hymn. Gathered around the young couple were the bride’s mother – Jacquetta, the Duchess of Bedford – two gentlewomen, and himself. The rest of the church was empty. All were smiling broadly at the newly married couple, but their eyes, including his own, held a look of disbelief as the ceremony reached its conclusion.
The Dreams of Kings Page 13