Nobles arrived to pay homage to the earl. The Great Controller was ensconced in his office, his clerks working overtime as warrants and orders flew from their quills. Those who had been lax with rent or tax now queued to pay their dues before they were ordered to pay them at the whipping post. The kitchens were busy; the countess and her ladies now had menus to plan, new dresses and elaborate headpieces to design, and gossip from far and wide to discuss.
John looked at Rose as she listened intently to their tales. Her beautiful dark eyes shone with excitement. He had forgotten just how lovely and vibrant she was. He longed to be alone with her. She glanced at him as if she knew what he was thinking. Their eyes met, and a silent message that only loved ones knew, moved between them.
The Earl of Warwick had been in residence for only one week before he departed for Reading. A meeting of the Privy Council had been called to discuss the issue of new coinage, but the earl would use this gathering to announce that his negotiations with the French had been successful. He would say that trade and defence treaties had been signed, and then with a grand flourish he would name King Louis’ sister-in-law, the Bona of Savoy, as King Edward’s new bride.
John stood on the battlements and watched the earl and his retinue, ride into the distance. He felt slightly envious not to be going with them. The travel and adventure of the last few months would make it hard to settle back into the routine of castle life. He also had not seen Rose for days. Maybe she knew what had happened to him in Paris during those two long nights. He wondered if there was some womanly way she could tell; perhaps there was some special mark on him that only girls could see. Or, maybe, it was simply because she was now maid to the countess, and her time was not her own.
‘John,’ whispered a female voice, softly.
John spun around, the earl forgotten. ‘Rose…you managed to slip away,’ he said, with delight in his eyes.
Chapter 8
Witchcraft and Betrayal
Grafton Manor, Northampton
15 September 1464
Elizabeth stared at her mother, her face showing a mixture of temper and disappointment. Her voice hissed out like a whip. ‘You swore it was finished, no more sorcery.’
Jacquetta, the Duchess of Bedford, sat in a large oak chair inlaid with red velvet cushions, a present she remembered from Queen Margaret of Anjou when she had been first lady of the land. She shivered; this September evening had turned chilly. A fire had been lit, and leaning towards its heat, she stared intently at the angry young flames as they licked hungrily at the logs. The warmth slowly penetrated her thick clothing. Finally, she sat back and returned her daughter’s stare. ‘It would have been finished if Edward had announced your marriage, had told the people that you were now Queen of England, but he didn’t, did he? It has been four long months since he took you to bed as his wife, and still he keeps you hidden. The longer this great secret continues, the easier for him to cast doubt on its legality.’
‘But he loves me!’ cried Elizabeth. ‘He would never deny me; never betray my love.’
Jacquetta threw her head back and laughed. ‘When he grows tired of bedding you; when he suddenly has other more pressing business to attend to, then, my girl, your days will be numbered. Remember, the longer you are apart, the weaker our spell grows.’
‘We must have patience,’ pleaded Elizabeth. ‘Your powers will never be strong enough to control him.’
Jacquetta rose from her chair and stood over her daughter. ‘My powers were strong enough to rid myself of my first husband. He may have been a duke and the son of a king, but he treated me as a serving wench. He died on the night of 14 September 1435, at Rouen. As I slipped his wax image into the fire, I could hear his screams; the louder they became, the more tears of joy I cried at my release from him. My powers were strong enough to have King Henry make my second husband – your father – the first Earl Rivers, a Knight of the Garter and a privy counsellor. My potions were strong enough to bewitch Edward to marry you, and so will be strong enough to have him announce to the people that you are his queen.’
Elizabeth leaped from her chair and faced her mother. ‘If it is found that we are using the black arts then queen, or no queen, we will be burnt,’ whispered Elizabeth, anger in her eyes.
‘And if we don’t, then ruin awaits our family. If Warwick prevails and wins the Edward over, then they will declare your marriage illegal and he will marry the French bride whose name is on Warwick’s lips.’
‘They cannot undo what is done!’ cried Elizabeth.
‘They can, and will,’ sneered Jacquetta, softly, as though addressing a child. ‘You will be sent to a convent and forced to become a nun. Your father will be arrested on some trumped up charges, stripped of his titles, and quietly executed in some dark cell within the Tower, and I will be tried as a witch. Already, Hastings is trying to gather evidence against me. God knows what they would do to your brothers and sisters; our family will be erased from the pages of history. So, you see, Edward must announce your marriage. Then, and only then, will Warwick’s power over Edward be broken and our family safe.’
Elizabeth slowly sat down in her chair. She studied the fire, and nodding her head, she quietly whispered, ‘You are right, there is no other way, but once I am crowned Queen, then no more spell making.’
‘Once you are Queen we will have all the power we need, there will be no need of such magic.’
‘Is that a promise?’ questioned Elizabeth, turning her full stare on her mother.
‘Yes, I promise; now come,’ ordered Jacquetta, a smile of triumph on her face, ‘we must change for the ceremony. The moon is waning; it is a perfect night for witchcraft!’
Reading Abbey
15 September 1464
‘Welcome, my Lord,’ said the monk, bowing low.
Warwick slipped from his horse and passed the reins over to him. ‘Who is in charge of quartering?’ he barked.
A tall, thin, angular monk appeared from the shadows.
‘My Lord,’ the monk answered, his body bent, his eyes fixed firmly on Warwick’s boots.
‘See to my men and horses,’ commanded Warwick, his eyes as hard as flint. ‘Come for me when they are settled.’
‘As it pleases my Lord,’ said the monk, bowing lower.
Warwick stood alone in front of the high altar within the abbey church. Evening vespers had finished long ago; monks and guests had retired for the night. He knelt before the altar and crossed himself. Looking down, he studied the grave of Henry I, the youngest son of William the Conqueror, who had founded the abbey, and who was buried there in 1136.
He was a wise king, thought Warwick; a good judge of men and a skilled diplomat who had ruled England well but fought with France. We are very similar, for I rule England through Edward but we differ towards France. I will not fight the French, but will use them as a stepping stone. Tomorrow, when I announce the King’s marriage and the alliance between England and France, it will be the start of my quest to wear my own crown, to rule my own realm, for although I own vast lands here in England, they are Edward’s lands, and he can give or take them away, for he governs this realm.
Warwick said his prayers and then took a seat to the side of the altar. He sat, enjoying the peace and solitude. Tomorrow, he knew, was just the beginning of his grand plan to rule his own dominion. Once he was Prince of Holland and Zeeland, and with King Louis already in his pocket, they would carve up Burgundy between them. Then, he would build an empire on the weak rump of Europe. He looked forward to the dawn.
Royal Chambers, Reading
15 September 1464
‘Well,’ said Lord Hastings, ‘Warwick’s arrived; lucky for you it’s late. You don’t have to give him an audience now, but you will have to face him tomorrow.’
King Edward frowned. ‘You have the plans in place to expunge my marriage?’
Lord Hastings nodded.
‘It is a bad business,’ continued Edward. ‘Warwick must never know. If he did, h
is loss of face would be too great to smooth away with more titles and lands.’
‘Aye, war would be the result. He would take your throne, of that there is no doubt, and England would have a new king.’
‘Better that I should have a new wife, then,’ said Edward.
‘An easier price to pay,’ said Lord Hastings, wryly.
Edward picked up his large wine goblet and drank long from it. Placing it back on the table, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Looking at Lord Hastings, he spoke softly as though he was a condemned man. ‘Lord Rivers is to be arrested tomorrow morning?’
Lord Hastings nodded
‘The charges for treason are ready?’
Lord Hastings nodded again, and then to spare Edward further distress, said, ‘Elizabeth will be taken into confinement. No harm will befall her, although you will never see her again.’
‘And the rest of her family?’ asked Edward, quietly.
‘They will be dealt with in time, your Majesty. The evidence of witchcraft against Jacquetta and the rest of them is still incomplete, but I am nearly ready to bring charges. Their end will be swift and bloody.’
Edward walked to the window, and looked out at the darkness. The stars shone brighter under the waning moon. ‘Could we not just banish them from the kingdom?’ he asked.
‘Death is more final,’ replied Lord Hastings.
Edward sighed. It was going to be a long night; he would not welcome the dawn.
Grafton Manor, Northampton
15 September 1464
Gusts of driving wind surged down the deep valley that had been carved out over the millennium by the River Tove. It rattled and shook the windows and doors of the old manor house that stood high up on its southern ridge. Its deserted rooms and hallways vibrated to the sound of the howling tempest.
Elizabeth heard the bolts on the solid, oak door slide shut. They were all locked deep within its cellar; safe from prying eyes.
Black candles burned in holders on the wet slimy walls. In the centre, stood a large long table covered in a black cloth. In the front of this, a charcoal fire burned within a brazier. A small cage stood beside it; inside, a black cockerel dozed, from the heat of the fire.
A young woman stood to the side of the altar. She was naked, except for a thin black cloak fastened loosely around her shoulders.
Elizabeth had never learnt the woman’s name, or where she came from – only her mother knew that. She looked at her two sisters, Anne and Margaret. They too were naked, as she was herself, except for the thin black cloaks they wore. Nakedness was always part of the ritual. Her mother wore a white gown tied with a golden belt, and a tall straight hat on her head, on which a magic eye was embroidered on the front and the back.
Elizabeth heard sounds from the dark, shadowy corner of the cellar as the unfrocked priest and his assistant were preparing themselves.
Jacquetta began chanting softly in Latin as she marked out the sacred circle around the altar. This circle would be their protection against the forces of darkness. As long as they stayed within it, they would be safe. Satisfied it was complete; she stood by the brazier, perfectly still.
Elizabeth felt the excitement stirring within her. Before these rituals, she hated the thought of taking part, and after, she hated herself even more, but once it started, it was like a drug. Some force within her loved the thrill of the ceremony, the nakedness, the lewdness, the turning of the world on its head – she found it irresistible.
From the corner, a drum started beating out a soft regular rhythm. Jacquetta held her hands out over the brazier; a small white pouch fell and it fizzled in the heat. Suddenly, a green flame rose three feet high, filling the cellar with a wonderful fragrance. As it engulfed everyone, their inhibitions fell away.
Elizabeth loved this feeling of freedom; the green flame was always powerful magic.
The young woman with no name climbed on to the altar and knelt in the middle of it. Her eyes were closed as she gently swayed to the rhythm of the drum.
Elizabeth watched her mother move to the centre of the sacred circle to start the ceremony.
‘I call on the foul spirits, evil demons and the fallen angels of the earth,’ Jacquetta cried. ‘You that feed on murder, incest, torture and all the unclean acts of the word, come to me you evil ones, be obedient to me, you foul apparitions, in the name of Satan, I call on thee.’
The drum became louder; another white pouch fell on to the brazier and a red flame danced on its surface.
Elizabeth and her sisters began moving around the inside edge of the sacred circle chanting:
Air, fire, water, earth; elements of astral birth,
I call on you now – attend to me in this circle,
Rightly cast, safe from curse and safe from blast,
I call on you attend to me.
As the sisters chanted, Jacquetta reached out to the young woman on the altar and slipped the cloak from her shoulders.
It was the signal for Elizabeth and her sisters to do the same. Their thin cloaks fell to the ground and they moved naked through the flickering candlelight, their eyes bright with excitement as they chanted for the demons. Round and round, faster and faster, they danced; the heat making sweat run down their bodies.
Suddenly, Jacquetta shouted, ‘It is time; they are coming!’
The defrocked priest appeared within the circle, a gold mask with horns, concealing his face. He stood in front of the young woman on the altar, fully aroused.
Elizabeth and her sisters started chanting louder.
The young woman lay back, and wrapped her legs around the priest’s waist. They copulated with a slow rhythm. The black cockerel appeared, a knife flashed and blood cascaded over her breasts and stomach.
The sisters chanted: Birth to death and death to birth, day to night and night to day. They chanted faster and faster, smearing the cockerel’s hot blood over the priest and themselves. More potions were thrown on the fire.
‘I summon you demons of the deep!’ cried Jacquetta. ‘You spirits of the dark, I command you to obey me!’
The young woman and the priest shuddered, and stopped their fornicating.
‘They are here,’ whispered Jacquetta.
Elizabeth and her sisters rubbed themselves slowly up against the priest as they peered out into the shadows. Beyond the sacred circle, they could not see, but could feel the presence of green-winged phantoms, snaked-tailed demons, and razor-clawed monsters. They sensed red eyes studying them and heard the echo of infernal laughter.
‘May the circle be open and remain unbroken. May the circle be open to the power of Hell; mine to use!’ cried Jacquetta. Staring into the shadows, she went to the edge of the circle.
A face was slowly forming by the cellar door. At first, it appeared as just smoke entwined with glowing light. As it slowly moved towards them, the sisters fell to their knees in homage to the Lord of Evil. The presence glided to the edge of the circle, the smoke and light now formed into a hideous face. Large malevolent eyes, burning red, looked at them. Acrid streams of smoke flowed from the back of its head giving the appearance of writhing snakes. The gargoyle from Hell floated downwards until it faced opposite Elizabeth. Flames licked from its mouth. ‘I want her,’ it hissed. The demon turned towards the priest. ‘Take her now,’ it commanded.
Looking at the priest, Jacquetta pointed to Elizabeth. ‘They want her; they know she wants the crown. Take her!’ she cried, as the demon slowly faded into dark acrid swirling smoke.
Elizabeth lay back on the altar, and wrapped her legs around the priest. His strong hands moved over her body, sending shock waves of pleasure through her. She felt their sweat and the hot blood of the sacrificed cockerel mingle as the priest moved against her. She heard the rhythmic chants of her sisters rising to a crescendo. She felt the heat of the brazier as more offerings flashed upwards. She panted for breath as the priest increased his rhythm, her head swimming, her heart pounding.
‘They will obey! T
hey will obey!’ shouted Jacquetta.
The priest moaned and shuddered violently.
Elizabeth heard her mother’s voice again.
‘Oh, force of all forces that can penetrate the rocks of the earth, the depths of the oceans, the stars of the skies, whose power will overcome all things, my will is created through you. I command you to make King Edward acknowledge his Queen, who has fornicated as sacrifice to you.’
Jacquetta bent low over a green crystal ball, running her hands over it. ‘Look!’ she cried. ‘The King slumbers; his mind is weak, the time is right. Demons of the underworld begone; your forces of the night, my will to obey.’
A raging wind flew around the cellar extinguishing the flames of the candles. Cackles and screeches echoed into the night, and then suddenly all was still. Only the light from the brazier lit the circle.
Jacquetta slipped to the floor exhausted.
Elizabeth untangled her legs from around the priest’s waist, a satisfied smile playing around her mouth. Now, at last, she would be Queen. After tonight, nothing on earth could stop her being crowned. She lay back on the altar, rubbing hot sweat into the cockerel’s blood. Slowly mixing it over her body, she watched in a trance-like state, as her sisters, intoxicated with witchery, fornicated wildly with the unfrocked priest and his assistant.
Royal Chambers, Reading
15 September 1464
She came to Edward in his dreams: Elizabeth, naked, lying on a long black table, her legs around him. She was moaning. He felt her soft flesh, smelt her perfume; he was intoxicated by her. He heard chanting, a drum beat, bodies moving in the shadows. She reached up, and pulled his lips on to hers. As she exhaled into his mouth, a force entered his body. He felt its will fill him. Suddenly, she was panting, swooning; sweat glistened on her. He trembled, and then closed his eyes. The ecstasy rolled over him in waves, and then he was falling, hurtling down into a black pit until he hit the bottom.
The Dreams of Kings Page 21