‘Have you ever seen the like?’ shouted Duke Richard, as Paris hove into view.
The great city spread out before them, four times the size of London. Majestic cathedral spires filled the sky exalting the glory of God. Grand, imposing, municipal buildings lined the wide avenues that led away from the harbour, a thousand narrow streets like a tangled spider’s web spread out as far as the eye could see. Lofty town houses, rowdy taverns, and bulging shops crowded their sides, some straight, others leaning at impossible angles. The buildings of Paris looked down on their colourful citizens as they jabbered and shouted, rushed or dawdled. They watched, impartial, as tragedy and comedy, life or death, played out under their permanent gaze. The boys gaped at its bewildering vastness; this city set down on the banks of the Seine, this melting pot of human existence.
The Hallet twins smiled at each other as the Great Controller approached, a leather purse in his hand. ‘You have three days and two nights to explore the city,’ he said. ‘Be back aboard on the evening of the third. Understood?’
The twins nodded in unison, and then taking the purse, they shook it to savour the sound of clinking coin. ‘God bless our Lord Warwick,’ they both cried.
‘Remember,’ said the Great Controller, ‘we are not well liked by the French, so go peaceably about your business, and do not bring attention to yourselves.’
‘Not speaking French will attract attention,’ shouted Richard. ‘I wager a silver penny you are back before nightfall.’
‘Done,’ replied Thomas Hallet. Smiling broadly, he held the purse up and shouted, ‘You will learn that money talks in any language, my Lord.’ With that, both twins were down the gangplank and gone.
The Great Controller shook his head and muttered a prayer to the saints for their safety.
Jean Jouffroy, Cardinal of Arras, sat in a small stateroom within Hôtel Saint-Pol, the royal palace. He had sailed from Rouen on the Earl of Warwick’s ship, acting as chaperone to Duke Richard, and his companions. It was a duty he was pleased to undertake, for it confirmed King Louis’ trust in him, but now his patience was beginning to wear thin.
He glanced around the royal room; his eyes saw, but did not convey, the richness of it to his brain. His mind was elsewhere. He rose from his chair and instructed one of the royal pages to search for Jean Bourré, King Louis’ chief financial secretary, as he was late for their meeting, as usual. The arrangement was that he would oversee the activities of the boys during the day and Bourré would look after their evening’s entertainment. He smiled to himself at the irony of the arrangement – he had taken them to the church called Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois. It was nicknamed the ‘parish of the Kings’ for many kings – including King Louis – had worshipped there. It was famous for its stunning stained glass windows – the boys had marvelled at the splendour of them, and tonight they would be sampling the delights of young ladies. He pondered how strange the world turned, but King Louis and Warwick had ordered it so and the matter had fallen to Bourré to organise.
Jean Bourré rushed into the room. A tall man, broad chested with a ruddy face, he looked younger than his forty years. ‘Sorry, your Grace,’ he cried, ‘so much to organise, so little time, but I have hired some pretty courtesans, young and fresh for the English boys…’
Cardinal Jouffroy held up his hand. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘My ears are closed to your duties but make sure it is done discreetly. They are not to know the matter has been organised for them. It must seem to be a natural order of events – a pleasant surprise at the end of a pleasant evening.’
Jean Bourré nodded in agreement, and a smile lingered on his face.
Cardinal Jouffroy looked at him, and then a broad grin broke across his features. ‘Jean,’ he laughed, ‘this is a strange duty we have to perform: me showing them God during the day, and you showing them the sins of the flesh during the night!’
‘Aye,’ laughed Jean Bourré, ‘they won’t know if they’re coming or going by the time they leave us.’
‘But one fact is for certain: they will never forget us, or their time here,’ replied Cardinal Jouffroy…
John Tunstall looked on absent-mindedly as their ship docked at St Eloi wharf. The sights of Rouen did not disturb his thoughts, his mind was still back in Paris filled with the girl who had slipped into his bed two nights running, lain naked with him, and guided him through the soft pleasures of her body. She had no inhibitions in her seduction of him, for two nights he had hardly slept.
Her name was Marie and he had first laid eyes on her at Richard’s welcoming banquet in Paris, hosted by King Louis’ treasurer, Jean Bourré. Her eyes had found him many times during the meal. He danced with her, then talked with her, and even stole a kiss from her as they walked in the royal gardens with only the moon as a witness. She came secretly to his room that night and the next. He did not know where she came from or who she was – she would press a finger to his lips every time he asked a question. On the second morning, John had woken to find her gone.
‘Penny for those thoughts, Master John,’ said a voice softly, behind him. He turned and saw Thomas Hallet.
‘They’re worth more than a penny,’ John replied.
‘Methinks you were thinking of a girl, and it wasn’t Rose.’
John’s face started to redden.
‘Was it your first time? I mean you and Rose haven’t…?’ His sentence trailed off as he saw the anger spring into John’s eyes.
‘Rose must never know,’ said John, his face even redder with guilt and embarrassment.
‘She will know, Master John, as soon as you kiss her, she will sense the difference.’
‘But how?’ asked John.
‘Saints’ shite, if I know!’ replied Thomas. ‘It’s all a whore-sucking mystery to me, but she will know.’
John turned around and looked down on the harbour, his face despondent.
Thomas leant beside him. ‘Don’t worry, Master John, serving girls like Rose expect young gentlemen to be experienced in these matters, and thankfully, our Lord Warwick has arranged that you now are.’
‘Our Lord Warwick had nothing to do with it,’ replied John, stiffly. ‘She was a merchant’s daughter who fell in love with me.’
Thomas smothered a laugh. ‘She was no more a merchant’s daughter than I am King of England,’ he said. ‘Why is it that Duke Richard and Lord Francis are walking around with grins as big as half-moons on their faces? I think one of you may have struck lucky with a merchant’s daughter, but not all three of you.’
John turned to look at him, understanding slowly filling his eyes. ‘You mean…?’
‘That’s right,’ butted in Thomas. ‘Me and that brother of mine had to find our own whores, so you can think yourself bleeding lucky our Lord Warwick provided yours.’
John turned and looked down into the harbour again. He now felt foolish. How stupid of him to think it had all happened by chance. Thankfully, Thomas had put him right before he made even a bigger fool of himself.
Richard and Francis bounded up the steps to the quarterdeck.
‘Thomas, there you are,’ cried Richard. ‘Have you sobered up from your adventures in Paris?’
‘Aye, my Lord, and I hear you had some adventures yourself.’
‘I had a wonderful time,’ replied Richard.
‘The girls were beautiful,’ chimed in Francis with a grin from ear to ear.
‘We have our Lord Warwick to thank for that,’ said John, with sober authority.
‘What do you mean?’ said Francis.
‘What I mean is that the girls didn’t happen by chance.’
Francis and Richard looked at each other as John’s words settled on them.
‘By all the saints in Christendom!’ cried Richard. ‘You say our Lord Warwick planned it all…?’
John looked at Thomas, who winked at John as he walked away.
Trumpets and drums announced the serving of the grand feast. John Tunstall took his place in the orderly queue that woun
d itself into the Great Hall from the adjoining chambers. He had just sat through an hour-long Mass in the Franciscan chapel. There, the monks had prayed that God would bless the enterprise of King Louis and the Earl of Warwick. The chapel was full, for none wished to offend these great men. John was glad to be out of its stifling hot confines.
As he entered the grand hall, musicians played bright popular tunes. Jesters or court fools danced and juggled and to everyone’s delight, they mimicked the great and small. The nobles sat at the top table and then by rank, the guests carried on down the hall. Servers and pantry maids rushed around placing gold salt cellars, wooden flagons of white or red wine, finger bowls of scented rose water and long thin sticks of French bread on each table. The trumpets sounded, announcing the serving of the first course of thick-spiced broth. The hall was full of chattering noise, laughter, and the smell of wonderful food. John sat back and watched the ceremony of it all unfold before him.
This was their last night in France and because the banquet would stretch well into the night, it had been organised for them to sleep in the friary.
But tonight, no Marie, John thought, guiltily. He looked across at the Earl of Warwick. When he had met them off the ship, he had asked, ‘How was Paris, cousin Gloucester?’
‘Interesting’, Richard had replied, his face like a mask.
Then there had been much smiling and winking from the older men who accompanied him.
John watched as the earl talked to those around him, King Louis listening to his every word. Warwick’s small, hard eyes darted everywhere; his ears, John was sure, heard everything. He suddenly felt a yawn coming on, which he tried unsuccessfully to stifle.
Warwick’s eyes focused on John, his face breaking out into a rueful smile. ‘Too much bed and not enough sleep, Master John,’ he shouted down the table. He talked quickly to the men around him. They all started laughing, their eyes turning towards John.
John felt his face go red for he knew what they were all laughing at. Suddenly, a squat ugly man with yellow, sharpened teeth appeared at King Louis’ side and whispered urgently into his ear. The king, Warwick, and their close retainers, exchanged tense whispers.
John leant over to Francis. ‘Who is that man?’ he said.
Francis leant closer to him and whispered, ‘Apparently, his name is Etienne de Loup. He is King Louis’ cold-hearted butcher.’
‘Every king needs one,’ whispered Richard. ‘My brother has Tiptoft, the Earl of Worcester, to do his dirty work.’
Suddenly, King Louis, Warwick and their senior men, rose from their chairs and followed Etienne de Loup from the hall. A ripple of silence followed them as they strode away.
The guests looked around, unsure of what to do.
King Louis’ senior household man walked to the dais. ‘Honoured guests,’ he said. ‘Our lords have been called away on urgent state business, and they have ordered that the festivities continue.’
Within minutes, the Great Hall was abuzz with rumours.
River Seine Estuary, France
15 June 1464
The light flashed in rhythmic intervals from the top of the cliff. Cutting through the darkness it signalled to the ship below.
Philip de Chastle’s voice softly broke the silence. ‘Time to go, my brave boys; Warwick is aboard his ship.’
Simon Langford felt his stomach muscles tighten. He heard the anchor chains being reeled aboard, the flap of canvas as sails unfurled; the cool night breeze found resistance to its freedom, and the ship slowly moved from its concealment within a small cove, and headed out into the estuary towards the mouth of the Seine.
Simon felt his heart beating harder, and a slight pounding filled his ears. It was a sensation he had felt before when as a young boy his father’s murderers had arrived at his manor house, and later during his narrow escape from Middleham Castle. Now, again, excitement and fear mingled within him.
‘Simon, gather your men,’ said Philip. ‘You have the honour of boarding Warwick’s ship first.’
As Simon began to move forward, he felt Philip’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Remember, my friend,’ Philip whispered, ‘Warwick is a formidable fighter. You must catch him while sleep slows his actions.’
Simon felt the anger at his father’s murder fill him. ‘I will show him the same mercy showed to my father,’ he hissed, coldly.
It was a couple of hours before dawn when they slipped silently into Rouen harbour. Ships’ lanterns glowed ghost-white through the thick, sea mist, while their crews slept unaware of this deadly intruder. Slowly, the dark shape of Warwick’s ship condensed before them. Nervous mouths tried to swallow their dryness. Weapons that had been checked many times were checked once again. Bodies, taut as bowstrings, stood motionless on the deck as the two ships closed.
‘Make ready my lads; look lively,’ whispered Philip, as he walked down the length of the deck.
Sailors tensed as they readied themselves, the glint of grappling hooks in their hands. Finally, the silence was broken, and the command came. The grappling hooks flashed out. Sailors grunted with effort as they drew the two ships together.
Simon leaped the gap, and men swarmed aboard after him. A soft ripple, like thunder, sounded as their leather-clad feet landed on the deck. He headed for Warwick’s cabin situated in the aft castle, soft light glowing from its windows. As he raced along the deck, he slowed. Something was wrong; a nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach fed his concern. Why had there been no resistance to their boarding? No shouts of warning? He burst into Warwick’s cabin, his sword, and dagger ready to strike. There was the answer to his questions, for it was empty, bare of life.
A large candle burned brightly on the table, and a piece of parchment had been placed beside it. The message read, To my assassins, death my reward. It was signed, Warwick.
Simon looked at the faces crammed into the doorway behind him. Frightened eyes stared back at him as understanding seeped into them. He looked at the message again, then back to the faces now as white as corpses. ‘We are betrayed!’ he cried.
His men joined in this chorus of despair. ‘We are done for!’ shouted one. ‘We are dead men!’ cried another. Other shouts of anger and bewilderment joined in from around the ship as they discovered it was deserted.
Simon picked up the parchment and studied the words in disbelief. ‘God, you have deceived me!’ he shouted, his anger filling the cabin. He screwed the parchment into a tight ball and hurled it into the corner, and then he heard the hiss of arrows, like an angry wind, rushing over the ship.
Screams of pain rent the air. The tramp of disciplined feet could be heard marching along the wharf towards them.
Simon reached over and extinguished the candle with his fingers. He stood in the darkness, burning with anger. Thoughts raced through his mind with such swiftness he could not catch them.
Slow down, slow down, he told himself. You must think calmly.
In the darkness, Simon closed his eyes and reined in his thoughts. He knew they were undone – of that, there was no doubt – but how? Who had betrayed them? Was it the torturer’s skill, or had a Judas sold their secret for a purse of silver? How naive to have planned this attack, and not foresee this betrayal; to not have even thought that Warwick would not be here with his men.
Sudden shouts of command from the wharf filled the cabin, and Simon knew that Warwick and his men were making ready their attack. Spurred into action, he raced to a gun port. Thrusting his head out, he saw with horror that their ship, The Marie, had gone. ‘The bastards have double-crossed us!’ he cried to his men.
There was now no escape on the seaward side, and the dockside was bristling with King Louis’ and Warwick’s men. Simon knew the bastard would be strutting about the wharf enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him. The thought of dying by the hand of one of Warwick’s men, using Warwick’s steel, as they had done to his father, filled Simon with anger.
The bastards will not kill me so easily, he vowed. Making the s
ign of the cross, he moved towards the cabin door.
Simon heard the moans of the wounded as he knelt on the deck, his eyes adjusting to the shadowy scene around him. Men were crouched tight up against the side, sheltering from Warwick’s archers. He moved up beside them. Looking down onto the wharf, he saw the enemy forming their attack positions, their weapons glinting under the flaming torches that illuminated the wharf.
The man beside Simon cursed loudly. ‘Damned whoresons have us trapped like rats. It’s only a matter of time before we are food for the fish.’
‘Aye, the scaling ladders will be brought up shortly,’ joined in another voice. ‘Then a quick death is all we can pray for.’
Simon turned around and sat with his back against the wooden side. The situation was hopeless. Have we come all this way just to die? he mused. A pointless journey to extinction, with that bastard Warwick standing on our bloody corpses, piled high, the victor once again! He wondered how things had changed so quickly. He had boarded Warwick’s ship with fire in his belly, swift revenge in his heart, and now he was trapped, caught in Warwick’s deadly web.
He frantically tried to conjure up a plan of escape, for if things stayed as they were, by dawn, he would be dead, and that was the truth of it. God, he knew, had deserted him. His ‘rose of Anjou’ slipped into his mind. She had been right when she had warned him of the danger of such a risky mission, and now he would give all he possessed just to hold her for one last moment. He felt his temper rising in frustration. He swore an oath that their lives would not come cheap; it was time to organise their last stand.
Reaching out into the darkness to pull himself up, Simon felt the coolness of metal. He moved his hand around the shape – it was circular. He felt the smooth curve of iron around wood – a wheel. He sat upright.
The Dreams of Kings Page 19