Warwick entered the Great Hall. The loud babble of voices dropped to a whisper as his presence was detected. The throng moved quickly out of his way as he strode towards King Edward.
Edward, standing on the dais, watched him approach. As if Moses is parting the Red Sea, he thought.
Warwick bowed at the foot of the dais as etiquette demanded.
Edward stepped down and embraced him warmly. ‘Cousin Warwick,’ he cried, ‘there is no need for ceremony. You and Montagu have exceeded your duty. No sovereign could wish for finer commanders. It is I who should be bowing to you.’
Warwick smiled, his eyes full of guile. ‘It was Thomas, my Great Controller, who planned and executed the daring rescue of Richard and young Tunstall. My brother, John, defeated the Lancastrians at Hedgeley Moor and Hexham. I have been but a poor player in these matters, sadly only arranging affairs from afar.’
Edward smiled, noticing that Warwick was being unusually chivalrous with his portrayal of events. What is he scheming for, now? he thought.
‘You are too gracious,’ replied Edward. ‘I have arranged that we dine in private tonight with Montagu, Thomas, brother Richard, young Tunstall and Lord Hastings. I wish to hear all the brave accounts of battles and rescues from the horses’ mouths!’
John sat at the king’s table with Warwick, Lord Montagu, and the others, listening as Richard told them how courageous John had been during their ordeal: how they had stood back to back, swords drawn for Francis, committed together to fight to the death, standing side by side in Bamburgh Castle with their wooden spears against their would-be murderers. John could feel his face redden.
Edward leant over and ruffled his hair. ‘You are too young for me to make you an earl,’ he laughed, ‘but your courage will not be forgotten. I’m sure cousin Warwick will enlarge the Tunstall estates in our gratitude.’
‘Aye, gladly,’ replied Warwick. ‘Thomas will arrange it with Lady Tunstall when he returns.’
John glowed with pride.
The conversation turned to Lord Montagu, who told them the details of Hedgeley Moor, and how the Duke of Somerset had turned and run, and then his capture at the battle of Hexham.
John listened to it all, hardly daring to breathe in case he missed some detail. He heard Lord Montagu explain his tactics, the brave and daring acts of his men. John looked at him with awe – Lord Montagu was a hero.
Richard asked, ‘Why do the nobility fight each other? Can they not live in peace?’
Warwick cast his knowing eye at him. ‘Richard,’ he said, ‘there is one thing that you must learn: the strong always fight the strong, and the victor always takes from the meek. That we live in splendour is because they toil in our fields from dawn to dusk, obey our laws, pay us taxes, and then quietly die, and when they are gone, their sons and daughters take their place. It is the way of nature: the strong rule; the weak obey.’
‘But, in the Bible, it says the meek will inherit the earth,’ ventured John.
Warwick threw his head back and laughed. ‘All they inherit is a plot of land four feet by six feet in their local graveyard!’
Edward and Lord Montagu joined in the laughter.
Richard’s face remained serious. ‘So, if we must fight each other, then he who strikes first wins the day.’
‘Aye, that is so’, said Edward, joining in the conversation, ‘but not only who strikes first – courage, planning and momentum are also required and Lord Montagu has just proved it.’ Then, looking across at Lord Montagu, Edward grinned slyly. ‘Or should I say, the Earl of Northumberland has just proved it!’
Lord Montagu rose slowly from the table, disbelief on his face. ‘My Lord cousin,’ he spluttered, ‘I am honoured, I did not expect…’
Edward rose and waved him to his seat. ‘It is well deserved,’ he said. ‘I now have two earls who are brothers to rule the north for me, to end hostilities and bring prosperity to the region. I, at last, can rule in peace; we will formalise matters tomorrow.’
Warwick sat back in his chair, a satisfied look in his eyes.
Edward turned to the Great Controller. ‘And what for you, Thomas? For rescuing a royal prince, you must be rewarded.’
‘Your Majesty, I have all I require. My gracious Lord Warwick provides for all my simple needs.’
‘But there must be some dream you desire,’ demanded King Edward. ‘A knighthood? An estate? A beautiful woman? What do you wish for? Come, man, I require an answer.’
The Great Controller looked into his cup of wine. ‘Well…there is one dream I have, and that is to travel to a foreign land.’
The table was silent as they listened to the rich voice of the Great Controller.
The great log fire had burnt low, candles were slowly dying, and warmth and shadows filled the room.
John and Richard were straining to keep their eyes open; wine, food and heat, had dulled their brains.
‘And what foreign land would that be?’ asked Warwick, a knowing look in his eyes.
A mischievous demeanour came over the Great Controller’s face. ‘France,’ he said, ‘to see the opulence of their royal court, to taste the refined richness of their cuisine, to see the wonder of their art, the beauty of their women.’ Then casting a sly glance at Warwick, he said softly, ‘I believe you are going there shortly, my Lord. It would be an ideal opportunity…’ His voice trailed off as Edward shot a questioning look at Warwick.
Warwick glared at his Great Controller, who was now staring innocently back into his cup of wine.
‘Yes, yes,’ Warwick mumbled, ‘I’m going, shortly.’
Edward cocked his head to one side. ‘Why?’ he asked, as he took a sip of wine.
Warwick sighed and looked up at the ceiling. Then, taking a deep breath, said, ‘It is time you thought of marriage.’
Edward spluttered into his wine.
Lord Hastings put his elbows on the table, and rested his chin in his hands. A look of concern shimmered across his face as he stared at the king.
Edward stared back at Lord Hastings, guilt in his eyes. ‘I’m young and becoming rich,’ he quickly stammered, regaining his composure. ‘Why would I want to marry when I have many beautiful women clamouring to enter my bed chamber?’
‘Because,’ cried Warwick, ‘you are the King and your marriage is an affair of state, not your heart or what between your legs fancies. It is a serious business. You can still have mistresses, but kingdoms can expand, be strengthened by royal marriage.’
‘And you think, France?’ questioned Edward, trying to calm himself.
‘Yes. An alliance with France makes perfect sense. With their support we would become the most powerful partnership in Europe, Spain, Burgundy, and the others would bend to our wishes.’
‘And when do you leave on this royal quest?’ asked Edward, now trying to look unconcerned.
‘I travel shortly,’ replied Warwick.
Edward’s face creased into a frown.
Warwick laughed and slapped him on the back. ‘Do not worry, cousin, only the most beautiful will be selected for you to choose from, and there is always my daughter, Isabel, if none are to your liking,’ he said, with a sly wink. ‘Oh, and by the way, I’m taking Richard and young Tunstall. It will be good for their education, and now it seems, Thomas, my Great Controller, has invited himself along as well.’
‘Will you be gone long, my Lord?’ asked Lord Hastings.
‘Four to six weeks,’ replied Warwick.
‘Excellent!’ smiled Lord Hastings, shooting a knowing glance towards Edward. ‘It is time for our King to get used to the idea of marriage, and to brush up on his bedroom French!’
Laughter resounded around the table.
Edward smiled thinly as he caught Lord Hastings’ eye.
The sound of steel parting muscle and bone carried to the ears of the silent spectators as the executioner’s axe chopped down for the final time.
The last headless body was wrapped in a rough blanket, and carried from the s
caffold to join the other ten awaiting burial; their heads impaled on wooden stakes.
The Duke of Somerset died bravely. He tried to make a speech, but the Yorkist soldiers had jeered him down.
Lord Hungerford’s face was frozen in the petrified scream of his death, as was Lord de Ros’s.
Joining them, was Sir Thomas Finderne, Sir Edmund Fish, Sir William Tailboys, Lord Hungerford’s brother – Robert, and four of his gentlemen friends who had all been captured along with the Duke of Somerset at the battle of Hexham.
It was a beautiful May morning; nature was free and fresh. Not a good day to die, thought John Tunstall. He had winced at the first two executions, but after them, it had been bearable. He looked up at the blue sky and shuddered; no matter how fair this day promised, this bloody yard was grim. He watched morbidly as blood dripped in congealing slowness from the scaffold. Revenge had gorged itself and was now satiated. He was about to leave his seat, to be away from the dead eyes that stared at him from the row of heads impaled on wooden stakes, when Duke Richard put his hand on his shoulder.
‘There is more,’ he whispered, with a thin smile.
John slowly lowered himself back into his seat as a man was dragged from the edge of the square, struggling and screaming for mercy. He was roughly manhandled onto the scaffold.
‘Sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus,’ he wailed, as he frantically looked around with wild eyes at the silent crowd who watched him.
Their cold-hearted eyes stared back at him with detached curiosity.
Realising there was no escaping his fate, no miracle by the hand of God to save him, he fell to his knees, crying and whimpering as a dark wet stain appeared around his crotch.
John suddenly recognised the wretch; he turned his surprised face towards Richard.
‘That’s right,’ said Richard. ‘It’s the archer who shot Francis on the day we were kidnapped. Remember: he made the mistake of telling us his name.’
‘James Dam,’ whispered John.
‘Aye, James Dam,’ repeated Richard. ‘I sent word to our army just before the battle of Hexham to hunt him down. They checked every archer taken prisoner, and as luck would have it, they found him.’
‘So, now he pays the price,’ said John, his stomach churning as he watched the executioner slip the noose over the condemned man’s head.
‘This is retribution for Francis,’ replied Richard coldly, as the man was yanked to his feet and then hoisted a foot off the scaffold.
The man’s whimpering and screaming stopped abruptly as he gasped for air, his feet danced frantically as they tried to find solid support. Finally, he lost consciousness, and was lowered back down on to the scaffold.
The executioner’s assistants quickly strapped him to a long oak table.
The crowd watched in silent anticipation as he slowly regained consciousness, and began frantically sucking air into his lungs. Then, his terror retuned as he became aware of the executioner standing over him with a nine-inch butcher’s knife, slowly cutting his clothes away until he lay there naked.
James Dam, his eyes blazing with terror, screamed.
Slowly, and with delicate precision, the executioner disembowelled the man. Richard had promised him gold coin if he could keep the man alive and conscious throughout the process. He unhurriedly burned James’ entrails before his very eyes, and then paused to wipe the blood off his hands, and arms, while he pondered what organ to remove next. Maybe his penis and testicles should be sliced off and fed to him, he reasoned. It will certainly keep the screaming down.
The executioner reached down and pulled them up taut, his knife expertly going to work.
King Edward, the Earl of Warwick, Lord Montagu, and their close retainers, sat picking at their meal of cold meats, bread, and sweet pastries.
An elaborate, iced cake had been prepared, depicting the executions. It was meant to be a celebration, a tribute to their victory, but now it reminded them of the grisly events of the morning. The cake sat ignored; nobody had the stomach to taste it.
Warwick thumped the table to emphasise his point. ‘Cannon are the future!’ he cried. ‘They have rendered castles extinct. I made short shrift of Bamburgh, which proves my point.’ Turning to Edward, he whispered, ‘The Crown should have a monopoly on all artillery; it would make your grip on the kingdom stronger. Rebellious nobles who retreat to their castles would no longer be safe when your royal cannon arrived.’
‘You speak true,’ replied Edward. ‘We will talk at length on this subject, later. For if I didn’t have to build castles then my exchequer would be the richer for it; but now I leave for London. Richard will accompany me to Baynard’s Castle to visit our mother. After the events of the last weeks, it will do the young man good to be with his family for a while.’
‘Aye, and young Tunstall will depart for Middleham shortly,’ replied Warwick. ‘Lady Tunstall will be reunited with her son as promised by my Great Controller.’
‘And what of my two lords?’ enquired Edward.
‘We ride north again; there are still Lancastrian sympathisers to be dealt with,’ replied Lord Montagu.
‘I will return to Middleham in a few weeks to rest and reorganise,’ said Warwick, ‘and then to France. I will collect Duke Richard from his mother at Baynard’s Castle.’
Edward and Lord Hastings glanced at each other; time enough to undo his marriage before Warwick returned from France.
Richard leant forward and addressed Warwick. ‘My Lord, did your men find the serving girl, Lindsay? Was she unharmed?’
‘Aye, she is safe’ replied Warwick. ‘She stays with my men outside the city walls.’
‘Good. I will take her to Baynard’s Castle with me. My mother will find employment for her and there she will be safe.’
Warwick’s hard eyes studied Richard. ‘Why are you bothering with a serving wench?’ he asked.
Richard stayed silent for a moment, and then as if talking to himself, muttered, ‘She has a good spirit and deserves a better life for her kindness.’ His words sent a hush around the room and he rose from his chair and walked to the centre of the table. He leant forward and picked up the iced cake depicting the executions, which nobody had the stomach to eat, and carried it towards the fire at the end of the room. All watched in silent fascination.
Standing in front of the fire, Richard slowly studied the cake – the little headless figures, the executioner with his black mask, the red icing running off its sides. In a clear voice, he announced, ‘The men this cake depicts committed great crimes against John Tunstall, Francis Lovell, and myself, and they will pay for their sins in the eyes of God.’ Turning towards the fire, he raised the cake above his head and threw it on to the burning logs. As the flames devoured it, he cried, ‘May you all burn in Hell!’ He turned around slowly, to face the table.
A chill went through the men sitting around it as they saw the cold hatred that masked a face so young.
Warwick raised an eyebrow. Richard had gone from kind concern to loathing within the wink of an eye. He would have to watch this young pup, for when he found his teeth he would make a ruthless enemy.
Middleham Castle, North Yorkshire
8 May 1464
Rose stood on the battlements searching out into the countryside. She had stood in the same spot every evening since John had been taken, foolishly hoping to see him ride over the hill towards her, sitting tall in his saddle, handsome and smiling his special smile for her.
She leant against the cold stone and said a prayer for his safe return as she had done every day. She prayed for Lady Tunstall, who had hardly eaten since he had been taken; her clothes now hung off her. She said a prayer for Francis, who was making a good recovery. Then, the anger came into her again; that feeling of abandonment by God. Her small fist hit the castle battlements in frustration. A tear ran down her cheek, chilled in the cool evening breeze.
As she rubbed it away with the outside of her hand, she caught a slight movement in the far distance. She froze, h
er hands gripping the edge of the stone in front of her. The air that she breathed refused to enter her lungs, and she gasped in short quick breaths. Unknown intuition made her heart race. It was John!
Dashing to the end of the battlements, Rose leaned out, trying to be nearer to him, waiting for her eyes to confirm what she already knew. The black robes of the Great Controller, then the brown habit of Friar Drynk, filled her vision, and at last, the flowing black hair of John filled her heart. She smiled and sobbed at the same time as she raced from the battlements towards Lady Tunstall’s apartment, crying out all the way: ‘John is back! John is back!’ She had no care in the world; God had answered her prayers. John, her love, was home.
Chapter 7
The Best Laid Plans
Royal Court, Nogent-le-Roi, Loire Valley, France
5 June 1464
Two greyhounds loped across the hall towards their master. As they moved through the shadow and light, their bejewelled collars reflected a kaleidoscope of colour.
King Louis XI of France knelt down and greeted them, a look of pure delight on his face. He made them sit, their tails, in unison, furiously swishing the cold stone floor. He fed them a few morsels of cold meat, not too much, for the master-of-the-kennels kept them on a strict diet – they needed to be sleek and fast for hunting.
Turning to his two old friends, Georges Havart, and Pierre de Brézé, the king complained, ‘If only all my subjects were as loyal.’
‘Then a king’s life would be tedious and dull for a man as yourself,’ replied Georges Havart.
‘Aye,’ joined in Pierre de Brézé. ‘The cut and thrust of government, and the intrigues of power, is food and drink to you, as sun and rain is to a flower. Without it, you would wither and die.’
‘But, you must have some respite from the cares of state,’ murmured Georges Havart.
‘Hunting with dogs is my weakness,’ replied Louis, ‘so tomorrow, we will hunt with bow and hounds, and then later we will stalk the crown of England with a pretty maiden, for Warwick arrives at Rouen in two days, time.’
The Dreams of Kings Page 15