‘Oh, Holy Mother,’ he whimpered, as tears of fear rolled down his cheeks.
The faint sound of footsteps approaching turned his stomach. His limbs shook, and he looked wildly around the chamber, fighting desperately with his restraints. Knives, thumbscrews and fire, ropes and pincers, swirled before his eyes in a kaleidoscope of horror.
Etienne de Loup entered the room, holding a jacket in his hand. He was followed by a short, thickset man, with hands like shovels, and eyes as cold as fish.
Etienne de Loup smiled at his prisoner. ‘Is this your jacket?’
The man’s eyes widened with dread. A strained gurgle came from his throat.
Leaning over, Etienne de Loup gripped the man’s hair. ‘When I ask you a question, you will speak,’ he shouted. ‘Now, let me ask you again: is this your jacket?’
‘Yes…yes…’ the man sobbed.
Etienne de Loup stood up, and pulled out a letter that had been sewn into the lining.
The prisoner stared at it with terror. ‘I will tell you everything!’ he shrieked.
The thickset man pulled a red-hot poker from the fire.
‘Oh, I know you will,’ smiled Etienne de Loup. ‘I know you will.’
Royal Palace, Hôtel Saint-Pol, Paris, France
25 September 1469
King Louis sat comfortably in a large, well-cushioned chair; flames gently flickered in the rich ornate fireplace. The room was small, and hung with rich tapestries. He thought it was an intimate room, a room where a small group of close friends would play cards or swap gossip while enjoying fine wines. He sighed as he ran his hand slowly over his forehead and he looked at the two frightened men standing in front of him. He had thought them loyal friends, but Etienne de Loup had once again proved him wrong. Looking at the two of them, he reflected on the last five years.
Since the failed alliance with his good friend, Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick, he had worked hard to unite his kingdom. He had won the Battle of Montlhéry, withstood the great siege of Paris and signed the treaty of Saint-Maur-des-Fossés in September 1465, which had united all the princes of the realm behind him, except for Brittany and Burgundy. Then on 16 July 1468, his armies had thrust into Brittany. His royal squadrons had advanced with speed, destroying all in their way. The Duke of Brittany surrendered signing the Treaty of Ancenis, where he swore to obey the King ‘for and against all’ and renounced his alliance with King Edward of England and the Duke of Burgundy. His brother, Charles, Duke of Berry, had sworn his undying loyalty to him in exchange for the Province of Guienne. This had left only the Duke of Burgundy to tame, and then on 1 September 1469, Louis had signed the Treaty of Péronne, finally bringing a fragile peace to France after five long years of conflict.
‘Etienne, come closer,’ King Louis commanded.
Etienne de Loup scurried forward, bowing as he moved towards the king. As he stopped, his head turned towards the prisoners, his eyes glinting with pleasure, a triumphant smile revealing his sharpened teeth.
The two men shuddered and turned their heads away.
‘Etienne,’ began the king, ‘tell my royal advisors why these two traitors are standing before us.’
Unblinking lizard eyes slowly scanned the room, settling on the two prisoners. ‘Cardinal Balue, and Guillaume de Haraucourt – the Bishop of Verdun, have plotted to expose our King to great peril. They sent instructions by way of a joint letter…’ Etienne de Loup held the letter up for all to see.
‘The letter was found sewn into the lining of their servant’s jacket; it was addressed to the Duke of Burgundy, urging him to incite the King’s brother to reject the royal gift of Guienne, and then prevailing on them both to take up arms against our most royal King. These ecclesiastic plotters have confessed their intentions. They wished to rule our King and his kingdom by inciting the dukes and princes of the realm into open rebellion.’ Etienne de Loup licked his lips as he looked at the two prisoners, then he shouted with rage at them. ‘And for that, you two hypocritical bastards of the cloth will pay a grievous price.’
The two men fell to their knees, in terror. Etienne de Loup seemed to grow in stature before them, his lizard eyes glinting red with anger, his yellow sharpened teeth glistening with intent.
The Bishop of Verdun pleaded for forgiveness.
Cardinal Balue regained some of his composure; his small beady eyes looked around with arrogance. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, turning his soft plump face towards the king. ‘The Pope would refuse any proceedings against us. He would not permit us to be tried in a common court. Only he can judge us, so you must stop this stupid charade and release us into his custody.’ A note of triumphant laced his words; a small sneer flitted across his opulent features as his confidence returned.
Etienne de Loup stepped forward and smashed his fist hard into the side of Cardinal Balue’s face, sending him sprawling. The cardinal’s eyes glazed over; his mouth opened and closed in shock as his blood dripped on to the white marble floor.
‘Do not dare to look or address our King without permission, you traitorous bastard,’ Etienne de Loup snarled, as he kicked the cardinal in the ribs.
Cardinal Balue screamed, and then rolled over moaning, his eyes now full of fear.
King Louis held up his hand and Etienne de Loup bowed and moved to the side. He studied the two men. He felt neither anger nor sadness for them, just weariness, and an acceptance that men could betray their loyalty to him so cheaply.
‘Prisoners Balue and Haraucourt,’ began King Louis, with frustration. ‘Over the last five years, I have worked tirelessly to unite France. I have fought battles, signed treaties, and used diplomacy to secure my kingdom. I have not sat on some opulent throne surrounded by fawning courtiers, but have lived hard, and ruled from the saddle. During this time, you have lived in your palaces gathering wealth and mistresses while your parishioners work and starve to support you. I have turned a blind eye to your rich excesses, and your weakness for the soft delights of the flesh, for you are only men, but your plots of treason I will not ignore.’ He rose from his chair, and stood looking down at the prisoners.
The royal advisors stood silently, watching the trembling priests.
‘You will be taken to La Conciergerie,’ announced King Louis, ‘stripped of your clothes of office, and then whipped to within an inch of your miserable lives. I order that you are to work every day cleaning the latrines. You will eat humility daily as you reflect on your fall from privilege. You will dream of your past lives and pray for a sliver of the comfort that you used to know. Your sentence is ten years within Etienne’s regime, after which, you will be exiled from France on your release, should you survive.’ He dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
Etienne de Loup dragged the priests away to start their punishment.
Slowly, King Louis lowered himself back into his chair. He looked up at Georges Havart who was moving towards him. ‘Tis a bad business, Georges; when even the clergy wish to steal my kingdom.’
‘It will never happen again,’ laughed Georges Havart. ‘When others see those two shovelling shite for the rest of their miserable lives, they will think twice before duplicating their actions.’
Antoine de Chabannes, master of the royal household, entered the room. ‘Your Majesty, you have an unexpected visitor,’ he said, in clipped tones.
King Louis looked at the man who ran his household. He thought it strange, how certain traits in people’s characters suited certain professions. Antoine de Chabannes, with his manner of speech, attention to detail, orderliness, and discipline, was born to run a royal palace.
‘Margaret of Anjou requests to see you; it concerns a Sir Simon Langford,’ continued Antoine de Chabannes, shrugging his shoulders with ignorance of the name.
King Louis and Georges Havart exchanged glances. The name instantly brought memories of the attempt on Warwick’s life, five years previously.
‘Where is she?’ asked the king.
‘She awaits in the antechamber to
the throne room,’ Antoine de Chabannes replied.
‘Tell my cousin, I will attend her shortly. In the meantime, offer her our hospitality.’
Antoine de Chabannes bowed, and then left the room.
‘I had forgotten the man existed, until De Chabannes spoke his name!’ exclaimed Georges Havart.
‘Are you sure that he still does exist?’ replied King Louis, a perplexed look on his face. ‘I know Pierre paid money for his upkeep but after he lost his life at Montlhéry…’ He stopped, his face frowning in thought. ‘But, I have no idea if the man is dead or alive,’ he admitted.
Jean de Reilhac, the king’s secretary, spoke out. ‘With no money, he would have ended up in the oubliettes – the forgotten places,’ he said, grimly. ‘Not many survive in those dark, damp, rat infested cells. If the plague or some other disease hasn’t killed him then he has probably starved to death.’
‘Some men survive all that Conciergerie can throw at them,’ said Georges Havart. ‘Not many I admit, but a few do outwit her.’
‘The question we should ask ourselves is this,’ said Jean de Reilhac. ‘If he has survived, what use is he to us?’
‘Ah, Jean de Cleverness!’ exclaimed King Louis, with a smile, using his secretary’s nickname, ‘has hit the nail on the head.’
La Conciergerie Prison, Paris, France
1 March 1470
Dawn was breaking as the clatter of hooves stopped. An ominous silence settled over the riders. Margaret of Anjou and her small party, comprising of Sir John Fortescue, Captain Malortie, and Sir Vaux, had arrived at Etienne de Loup’s personal fiefdom.
Margaret looked up and shuddered. La Conciergerie Prison rose up before her, its huge towers disappearing skywards into the grey, half-light. To the right, stood Caesar Tower, named in honour of the Roman emperors; to the left, the Silver Tower, so named for its use as a royal treasure store, and in the centre, the Bonbec Tower. She quickly crossed herself, for she knew that tower housed Etienne de Loup’s torture chambers where he encouraged his victims to ‘sing’.
Glancing the other way, she watched the muddy brown waters of the Seine slipping silently past. She supposed there must have been many who would have willingly welcomed a quick watery death, a final icy embrace, rather than face the horrors that awaited them within the gates of La Conciergerie.
She looked down at the letter she was holding tightly in her hand. King Louis had given it to her, the royal authority she needed to enter the prison and seek out Simon. The king, though, had gently refused her request for his freedom, and she had not pursued the matter too hard fearing that he may refuse her completely. So, for now, she would pay for the best accommodation within the prison and the finest food. Simon would have the pick of everything; his freedom she would obtain later. Her eyes were drawn back to the grim forbidding walls of the prison and her stomach churned. Tears stung her eyes, and a sob forced its way from her lips.
What if he is dead? she thought. What if…?
A hand gripped her shoulder, and she looked up into the steady eyes of Sir John Fortescue.
‘We will find him,’ he said, firmly, ‘but only if I have the Queen of England beside me; someone with the bearing to make these gaolers jump.’
Margaret dried her eyes, and straightened her back. ‘You have your Queen, sir!’ she cried.
‘Well then, what are we waiting for?’ said Captain Malortie. ‘Let us begin, for we know La Conciergerie never sleeps.’
The small door set in the great gate slowly opened. Margaret, and her companions, entered inside. The guard told them to wait just inside the gate while the senior gaoler was summoned. As they waited, the small group looked into the heart of the prison with a mixture of horror and fascination. In the old days, when the prison had been a royal residence – the Grande Salle – the Great Hall had been the dining area for the two thousand staff, but now small metal cages were suspended from the ceiling, no more than four feet square, with a prisoner crammed into each one.
Margaret’s hand went to her mouth in dread, as she searched for signs of Simon. The poor wretches in them can neither stand up nor lay down, she thought.
‘Only important prisoners end up in those,’ said the guard, who had followed her gaze upwards. ‘We sometimes let them out during the day, but at night they all hang with the stars. No escape, you see,’ he said, with satisfaction.
Margaret looked on as two naked men were cut down from whipping posts, their backs ripped open and bloodied. One lay down on the floor, silent in shock; the other sobbed uncontrollably as he was rammed into one of the small iron cages. Around the base of the whipping posts, Margaret noticed the colour of the cloths that had been ripped from their fat bodies. Rich reds and mauves showed they were men of God. She looked at the guard who saw her questioning look.
‘Oh… they were Cardinal Balue and the Bishop of Verdun, until they entered here. Now they’re nothing,’ the guard laughed, ‘and in here for treason against the King.’
Three men walked towards them along the side of the Great Hall. Margaret turned to meet them and the guard stiffened to attention. The tallest of the men, who Margaret identified as the senior gaoler, stood before her and bowed his head before speaking. ‘My Lady of Anjou, what brings you to such a place as this?’ His puzzled eyes examined her.
Margaret handed the man her royal Letter of Authority. She studied him as he read it. He was tall and well built; she guessed his age to be about forty years. His face looked as hard as granite. To be the senior gaoler in La Conciergerie, his heart would have to be made of flint, she thought.
‘Fetch the book,’ the man barked to one of his assistants. He handed the letter back to Margaret. ‘When was this Simon Langford sent to us?’ he asked.
‘He was given into your care during July 1464,’ replied Margaret.
The man laughed. ‘That is more than five years ago, and as you can see, care is not a word that is used in a place such as this,’ he said, sweeping, his arm around the Great Hall.
The assistant returned hurriedly, carrying a large book bound in black leather. Opening it, he quickly turned the pages. Finally stopping, he ran his finger down the page he had selected. ‘Ah, I have him!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sir Simon Langford, an Englishman, imprisoned for treason, attempted murder of a royal prince. Piracy…’ He paused, and gazed into the distance as he concentrated his mind. ‘Ah, yes! I remember now; it was the attempt on the Earl of Warwick’s life. All the other conspirators were executed – I remember a Sir Henry Billingham. For some reason, he had his tongue ripped out before he was executed.’ He studied the book again. ‘Yes, it’s here. The King ordered this Simon Langford be detained. Pierre de Brézé paid for his upkeep until the end of 1465 then all payments ceased,’ he said, as he closed the book.
‘So he is still alive?’ whispered Margaret.
The senior gaoler raised his hands and shrugged. ‘Maybe yes, and maybe no.’
Margaret stepped towards him, her steely eyes flashing, and the senior gaoler stepped back.
‘He had better be,’ Margaret hissed. ‘The King commanded no harm was to come to him, and the King is now very interested in his well-being, so for your sake you had better pray that he lives.’
‘But, my Lady; disease, cold, even murder, there are many things that could have claimed him,’ the senior gaoler protested.
‘If he lives,’ said Margaret, coldly, ‘then so will you. If he is dead, then the King will have your head and more,’ she said, looking at the other assistants.
Her words had galvanised them and more guards were gathered.
Sir John looked on; his Queen had certainly made them jump.
The senior gaoler, after a brief discussion with his men, turned to Margaret. ‘Your Englishman should be on levels three or four. I will go with my men and search these cells immediately.’ He turned to go.
‘Stop!’ shouted Margaret. ‘I am coming with you.’
The senior gaoler looked horrified. ‘Madam,’ he splut
tered, ‘it will be no place for a woman. There will be sights that a lady should never look upon. I beg you to wait for our return.’
‘It is not a request,’ Margaret said, firmly. ‘It is an order. Lead on.’
Margaret stood at the entrance to level three. The senior gaoler had been right; she had seen men with broken, tortured bodies; mad men, and dead men. Shouts and screams had filled the air, but now, deep in the bowels of the prison, a chilling silence filled the subterranean vaults, with just the occasional moan from one of the many cells that ran the length of the passageways. Candles burned in holders spaced along the walls throwing out small circles of light; darkness and shadows mixed eerily within the flickering glow. At the far end of the passageway, the senior gaoler was questioning the duty guard who sat at a small desk. Margaret saw the guard shaking his head in response.
‘We shall have to check every cell,’ the senior gaoler commanded.
Keys rattled, doors opened, prisoners held their hands over their eyes as the light from many candles flooded their cells. The guards went from cell to cell.
‘He is not on this level,’ said the senior gaoler, finally.
The guards started checking the cells on level four; Margaret followed close behind them.
‘This one looks empty,’ said Sir John. He saw Margaret’s shoulders slump with the despair at the horror she had seen.
Tears welled up in Margaret’s eyes. ‘We are running out of dungeons to search,’ she said, with anguish in her voice.
Sir John held his lantern high into the cell. It was wet with slime, the air dank. He shuddered at the thought of being locked inside, then, as he moved to go, a gleam of light simmered from the far side of the chamber. He swung the lamp, again. Light flickered out from what appeared to be a pile of rags in the corner.
Sir John and Margaret looked at each other, and then gingerly went forward, their lamps held high. Bending low, their eyes searched amongst the rags for the source of the light.
The Dreams of Kings Page 24