Suddenly, Margaret choked with emotion. There amongst the rags was the sapphire ring she had given Simon when he had left Bamburgh Castle to begin his spying mission at Middleham. It had caught the light from the lanterns. Then, the hand it was attached to, moved.
Margaret’s heart seemed to stop, and she knelt down. ‘Simon?’ she whispered. Then her voice rising with urgency, she cried, ‘Simon, my love.’
A head with long, matted hair and a face with a beard appeared. Two eyes opened, blinking into the light. Finally, they focused on Margaret, and a hoarse whisper came from lips that could not be seen. ‘Marguerite…’
Chapter 10
Traitors Unmasked
Windsor Castle, England
1 March 1470
Elizabeth looked up from her embroidering and studied her husband: his face was animated and flushed. Anger pushed his eyebrows together and tightened his jaw; his hands moved passionately to emphasise his words. Gathered around him were his most trusted captains, the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk, Lord Howard, and Edward’s most trusted friend, Lord Hastings, whose influence over her husband she detested. She knew he was still searching for evidence of witchcraft against her and her mother, but it was four years ago since they had last practised the black arts and the trail had now gone cold. He had accused them at the council meeting at Reading when her father had produced the wedding certificate that had spiked Warwick’s guns. They had decided to let him get away with it then because Edward knew of their magic and they could not risk upsetting him by silencing Lord Hastings, but eventually they would have to find a way to destroy him.
My family are becoming more powerful at court as my brothers and sisters marry into the nobility, Elizabeth thought. When I produce a male heir, my position will become even stronger, and then, she considered, with a shiver of excitement, Hasting’s position will die. But first, the demise of Warwick has to be realised.
Elizabeth watched as John Tiptoft – the Earl of Worcester – rose from his chair and unfurled a map across the table. The other men moved closer, each taking a piece of the edge to hold it flat. She thought John Tiptoft a strange man. In fact, two men in one: one half a brilliant scholar, the other half a sadistic bastard. He had studied at Oxford University, and then he had been Lord High Treasurer, then Lord Deputy of Ireland. He had been on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, returning by way of Italy where he had studied for some years and was now the foremost scholar of Latin in the kingdom. On his return to England, Edward had appointed him Lord High Constable and this, Elizabeth realised, was where the sadistic half of him appeared. For the High Constable was responsible for, and presided over, the attainment, torture and execution of traitors; it was a duty he carried out with exceptional cruelty and perverse pleasure. From the Holy Land, he brought new forms of execution. His favourite was impaling his victims by hammering sharpened stakes up through their buttocks and out through their mouths. All were disgusted, even the most common of people, but no one would dare protest such was his power. Elizabeth sometimes wondered if he also practised the black arts, for he was the closest man to the devil she had ever come across. She put down her embroidery and leaned closer to catch his words.
‘The attack in Lincolnshire on the estate of Sir Thomas de Burgh – your Master of the Royal Horse – was a smokescreen; an excuse to raise men in rebellion against your royal authority,’ stated John Tiptoft, in his flat unemotional voice. ‘Two of the men responsible, Lord Richard Welles and Sir Thomas Dymoke, are now in custody within the tower, but Lord Welles’ son – Sir Robert – is still free. The reports from our agents inform us that he is mustering a large army with the intention of marching on London to free his father and raise the Lancastrian flag over the capital.’
‘That young Lancastrian hothead could not orchestrate such a large undertaking on his own,’ said Lord Hastings.
‘That is correct,’ replied John Tiptoft. ‘There are powerful men behind him.’
‘I presume you mean Warwick, and my brother, George,’ said Edward, coldly.
‘I have evidence that points to them, in fact, all the Neville clan and even the Stanleys may be involved,’ replied John Tiptoft.
‘And our old foe, King Louis, will no doubt be fanning the flames,’ said Edward, angrily. ‘It would seem he wishes to wear my crown as well as his own.’
‘It would seem that George also wishes to try it for size,’ said Lord Hastings, with a sarcastic laugh. ‘He is becoming a genius at stabbing you in the back.’
Edward rose from his chair in anger. ‘George is a fool!’ he shouted, thumping the table. ‘But surely he would not plot against me.’
John Tiptoft placed his hand on Edward’s shoulder. ‘I am sorry, my Lord, but there is solid evidence to implicate him in this plot.’
Edward stared at him with disbelief.
‘Your brother has turned traitor,’ John Tiptoft whispered. ‘He covets your crown.’
‘How could my own brother wish me dead?’ cried Edward.
‘Because, Warwick leads the fool by the nose and promises him your throne,’ replied John Tiptoft.
Lord Hastings sat back in his chair and looked across at Elizabeth and her mother, as they sat quietly listening to the conversation. Edward, he surmised, could blame his brother, or Warwick, or even the King of France for his troubles, but those two scheming witches sitting not more than twenty feet away are the real cause of his problems. They had used the forces of darkness to snare Edward into a secret marriage, which had made an enemy of King Louis and humiliated Warwick. Then, to rub salt in the wounds, he had signed treaties with the Duke of Burgundy for a political and military alliance and married his sister, Margaret of York, to him, thus sealing the alliance with a dynastic marriage. The marriage celebrations were the most magnificent ever seen in Europe, so by aligning himself so publicly with Burgundy, Edward had humiliated Warwick and Louis yet again. No wonder they thirsted for revenge.
Elizabeth suddenly caught Lord Hasting’s stare, and smiled, thinly.
Lord Hastings knew that behind that cold smile lurked a veiled threat to remove him from Edward’s circle. He realised that if he was not careful, then one day he would be going home carrying his head under his arm. John Tiptoft’s voice brought him back to the conversation.
‘We know that George and Warwick are behind this uprising. Although they send messages of support to you, they are in fact plotting to take your crown,’ he said, matter-of-factly, ‘and you, my Lord, must not let them know they are under suspicion. We must use their intrigues against them.’
Edward leant over the map. ‘The leader of this rebellion is marshalling his forces there,’ he said, pointing to Lincolnshire.
‘That is correct,’ replied John Tiptoft.
‘Where are George and Warwick?’ he asked, looking at John Tiptoft.
‘They are in the West Country, raising men and ordinance to help quell this uprising, but in reality they will join forces with Sir Robert Welles to crush you in a surprise attack.’
Lord Hastings faced Edward across the map table. ‘If Warwick’s army joins with Welles’ forces then the game will be up. We have to attack him before they can rendezvous.’
Edward paced around the table. ‘These rebels within my kingdom have had ample time to prepare their traitorous plots, and Louis of France is also joining them in this treacherous mischief. Time is now more precious than gold; we must move swiftly.’ He turned to face his loyal captains. ‘We leave for Huntingdon tonight. Issue commissions of array for my royal army to muster at Stamford with all speed. We must deal with Welles before these traitors arrive to support him.’
‘Your brother, Richard,’ said John Tiptoft, ‘would it be wise to recall him from Wales?’
Edward’s face broke into a relaxed smile at the mention of his brother’s name. ‘Thank God, my youngest brother is as loyal to me as George is traitorous,’ he said.
‘He will not make the battle,’ said Lord Hastings, ‘but if he heads
west with all speed he may intersect Warwick or George as they head north.’
‘It would be wise to have his forces near,’ replied Edward. ‘If we have to deal with Warwick and Welles then we will be in need of them. Send a royal messenger to recall him with all speed.’
Edward then laid his hand on the centre of the map and looked at each man in turn; they laid a hand one after the other on top of his. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, with excitement in his voice. ‘To war and victory.’
‘To war and victory!’ the others cried in unison.
Elizabeth sat in the quiet of the empty room. Edward and his captains had departed to begin their preparations. She rose from her chair and walked over to the map table, her mother watching her. Elizabeth trailed her finger over the map. ‘Lincolnshire,’ she said. ‘Are there many men in such a place?’
Jacquetta rose from her chair and joined her. ‘Many men will rally to a standard if they think the crown of England is the prize. Even common yeomen will join if rich pickings are to be had.’
Elizabeth leant on the table and stared at the map. Slowly, she whispered, ‘We have too much to lose to let fate decide this battle; my brothers and sisters are now married to the highest nobility in the land.’
Jacquetta placed two hands on the table and leaned across to her daughter. ‘We have revenge to exact on Warwick for murdering my husband – your father.’
‘And my brother – your son!’ cried Elizabeth.
The two women looked at each other in silence.
‘It’s been a long time. Are you sure?’ whispered Jacquetta.
Elizabeth felt the tingle in her stomach. She smelt the potions; she longed for the abandonment. ‘Yes, I am sure,’ she whispered heavily.
Jacquetta studied her daughter. ‘The men will be gone shortly,’ she spoke softly. ‘I will make the arrangements.’
Broughton Castle, Oxfordshire
6 March 1470
Warwick watched as the server slowly filled his wine goblet; he felt his annoyance rising at the slowness of the man. A messenger from Sir Robert Welles had just been ushered into his presence and he was eager for his news. With irritation, he waved the server away. ‘Go,’ he barked.
The man stepped back and after a low bow, was gone.
Warwick beckoned the messenger closer. ‘What news from Sir Robert?’ he asked urgently, his body tensing as he awaited the answer.
‘Sir Robert sends his greetings, my Lord. His army is resting at Grantham before beginning the final march on Stamford where Edward is marshalling his forces. He requests that you march your army northwards with all speed. Meanwhile, he will halt at Empingham and wait for you to move into position, then on your command, he will attack from the north, and you, from the south, in a pincer movement that will destroy Edward’s army.’
Warwick’s body relaxed as he sat back in his chair. No bad news, he thought, gratefully. Everything was going according to plan; soon he would have Edward’s head on the end of a stake and George wearing a bloody crown. Isabel would be queen and the child she was carrying, if a boy, would one day be crowned king – his grandson. He smiled to himself, for then he could rule England as he pleased and if George objected then he would put his head on a spike and wear that bloody crown in his grandson’s name. His plans for Europe would never be held back again and those scheming witches, Elizabeth and her mother, along with the rest of their malicious family, would wish they had never been born. Warwick’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the messenger. ‘Tell Sir Robert that we march north towards Peterborough, at dawn. We will be there within the week. When we are close enough to smell Edward’s army, I will brief him on our battle plan.’
The messenger bowed and left.
Warwick took a leisurely drink of wine as he thought of the coming march. ‘Time is against us,’ he said, turning to his new son-in-law.
George, the Duke of Clarence, nodded in agreement. ‘We must try and stall Edward until we are in a position to engage him,’ he replied.
‘I will dispatch a letter urging him to await our support; I will counsel that it would be better for our combined armies to attack the enemy than for him to risk all by striking alone,’ replied Warwick.
George sighed. ‘To write such a letter is a treacherous deed.
Warwick’s eyes met George’s and held his gaze.
‘It is a dangerous game we play,’ shouted Warwick, ‘in our pursuit of the crown. Men and morals will be trampled beneath our feet, for when Edward finds out our true intentions there will be no forgiveness in his heart. If we lose, then our necks will feel the cold steel of the executioner’s axe, so there is no going back. There will be no forgiveness or reprieve; we must destroy your brother or he will destroy us.’
Wales
6 March 1470
Spring advanced high into the hills, the retreating winter snows now clung precariously to only the highest peaks. The icy waters from the melting snow gorged the many streams that flowed quicker than arrows down the steep mountainsides, rushing with timeless repetition into the fast flowing river that snaked its way along the bottom of this Welsh valley.
Richard, Duke of Gloucester, raised his hand; the marching army behind him slowly shuddered to a halt. His scourers had found the perfect spot to rest before their final advance on Cardigan Castle. His royal army of three thousand men would have a plentiful supply of fresh water; their horses and livestock, rich grazing to feed on.
John Tunstall watched the watery red sun slip behind the mountains. The long shadows it cast chilled the evening air; fires flickered into life as the troops prepared their evening meal. The warmth of the flames would also be needed to see them through the long, cold night that lay ahead.
Looking over towards the royal tents that had been quickly erected, John watched the Hallet twins stamping their feet and rubbing their hands against the cold. They grumbled and cursed in their own indomitable way as they guarded the entrance to Richard’s tent. John smiled to himself; their cursing and stamping reminded him of his prank with the snowballs all those years ago at Middleham just before he had been introduced to Richard. Was it really seven years ago? he thought. Already, two had passed since Richard, Francis, the twins, Friar Drynk and himself had left Middleham to join King Edward’s court. The king, on their arrival, had knighted him for his bravery during their kidnap ordeal at Bamburgh, and although it had softened the blow of leaving his beloved Rose behind, he still missed her badly.
‘Thomas; George!’ John cried, as he approached the tent. ‘Find some younger men to guard our Lord’s tent. You are becoming too old; your bones, I fear, will cease all movement if you stand in this cold night air much longer.’
‘Not too bleeding old to see you off,’ replied Thomas, with a smile.
Richard looked up from a table strewn with maps and plans of Cardigan Castle. ‘How does my army settle?’ he asked.
‘The men are in good spirits,’ replied John, ‘and, after our easy victory at Carmarthen Castle, there is talk of us being home in a few weeks.’
Richard looked down at his plans. ‘That will depend on how stubborn Cardigan decides to be,’ he said, thoughtfully.
‘They will not fight hard,’ said John. ‘As we saw at Carmarthen, they may wave their swords in defiance but they only play at rebellion; they have no stomach to fight our royal army.’
‘If these Welsh bastards don’t fight then there will be no glory or honour on our return home,’ replied Richard, with a touch of disappointment in his voice.
‘That is why Edward gave you this campaign as your first command,’ said a voice from the shadows. ‘It is so that you may cut your teeth against a soft foe. He has also filled your ranks with many experienced men who will show their worth if the need should arise.’
Richard looked across at Francis Lovell.
‘And grateful I am to my brother for his wise counsel in these matters,’ replied Richard. ‘I am sure we will have more opportunities to win our spurs in the coming months.�
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‘You talk of the gathering storm between Warwick and your brother?’ asked John, a trace of anguish in his voice.
‘Aye, with sadness I do,’ replied Richard. ‘There will be no peace in England until one has destroyed the other.’ Then, shaking his head slowly, he whispered, ‘How by almighty God has it come to this: cousin against cousin; brother against brother?’
'Because your brother, George, is weak-willed and easily lead,’ stated John flatly. ‘He is spreading false rumours that King Edward is a bastard sired by a lowly archer.’
‘Heaven help us!’ cried Francis. ‘How a man can say such falsehoods and by saying so imply that your mother, nay, his mother as well, is an adulteress.’
‘Warwick has dangled the throne in front of him,’ said Richard sharply. ‘He has turned my brother’s doltish head, but it is Warwick who is behind these rumours; he also beheaded the Queen’s father and brother without a trial. He will be forced to pay for these murders.’
‘So, what of Warwick’s daughter, Anne? Would not killing her father make things a trifle difficult for you if you wished to marry her?’ said Francis, softly.
‘Anne is clever,’ replied Richard. ‘She understands the ways of men who rule.’
Francis nodded slowly in agreement. ‘And what of Rose?’ he enquired, looking at John, whose face suddenly lit up at the mention of her name.
‘We are betrothed to be married,’ John said, proudly, excitement flowing in his words. ‘The marriage will take place directly after this Welsh campaign ends. The countess and my mother schooled her in the ways and duties of a knight’s consort after finally realising we would never be parted.’
Richard threw his arms around his old friend’s shoulders, ‘Tis good news!’ he cried. ‘True love, my friend, is a rare gift from God and should be treasured. I pray that Francis is likewise blessed when his time comes.’
John and Francis looked at Richard.
‘So, are you not blessed with Anne, then?’ asked John, a look of puzzlement on his face.
The Dreams of Kings Page 25