Richard looked down silently at the maps spread out before him. ‘I love another,’ he said, quietly.
Shocked, John and Francis stared at Richard.
‘But you were fond of her,’ blurted out John.
‘Who do you love, then?’ cried Francis.
Richard raised his hand for silence. ‘Enough of this talk,’ he said, sternly. ‘We have a battle to plan. Francis, pray call for my captains to join us.’
Francis made for the entrance, only to be stopped as Thomas Hallet rushed in.
‘My Lord!’ cried Thomas. ‘A royal messenger awaits with urgent orders from the King!’
Fotheringhay Castle, near Stamford
11 March 1470
Edward threw the letters on to the table. ‘Warwick and George promise me reinforcements. They bid me meet them at Leicester in two days’ time so that our armies can combine to destroy Robert Welles. Do they think me a fool to fall for such an obvious trap?’
‘It is to our advantage that they do,’ replied Lord Hastings. ‘They have been slow in their advance northwards and need time to join with that traitor. If they think you are waiting, they will not hurry, which gives us more time to deal with Welles.’
John Tiptoft said, quietly, ‘Warwick has been too complacent. His arrogance leads him to think you would still believe in his integrity, and that you have forgotten his scheming against you these last few years.’
Lord Hastings laughed. ‘When he lays his head on the block, maybe it will all come back to him.’
‘Talking of heads on blocks,’ said John Tiptoft, ‘I ordered that Welles’ father be brought from the tower and marched north with us. I suggest we inform his son that unless he surrenders, we will execute his father.’
‘I have a better idea,’ said Edward, softly. ‘Many have sought to betray me; their plots and intrigues go back to the Duke of Somerset at Hedgeley Moor in sixty-four. I pardoned him for his support of the Lancastrian cause and still he betrayed me. I have been generous in my forgiveness of my enemies but no more! The kingdom will see the punishment for those who commit treason against me and any who think of joining the rebels will know the punishment for their actions. I command that Lord Welles be beheaded before the royal army and the message we send to his son will be his father’s head!’
John Tiptoft bowed, and with a smile of satisfaction on his face, departed the royal tent to organise the execution.
The Duke of Norfolk entered. ‘Our scouts have found Sir Robert Welles and his army,’ he boomed. ‘They are but five miles off, near Empingham.’
‘Excellent,’ replied Edward. ‘We will send this bloody message to him, and then we attack at dawn.’
Grafton Manor, Northamptonshire
11 March 1470
Elizabeth sat in the window seat of the dining hall looking out over the small but beautifully manicured gardens that had been one of her father’s joys. She remembered playing happily in them as a child with her brother, and now they were both gone, murdered by that monster, Warwick. A sharp anger tightened within her. It had been an arduous journey from Windsor; her mother and two sisters, plus a few servants, were all that had travelled and, of course, a number of men-at-arms for protection. They had left the royal court on the pretext of being closer to the king but the real reason was sorcery.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Anne, crossly. She was sitting next to Margaret at the dining table.
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, ‘And what don’t you like, sister, dear?’
‘I don’t like what we are here for,’ Anne replied. ‘We are ladies of rank now. We should not be involved…’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘in witchcraft.’ For support, she looked at Margaret, who stood up defiantly.
‘I am married to the Earl of Arundel. Anne is married to Viscount Bourchier. You—’ Margaret said, pointing at Elizabeth, ‘are married to a king, so going down to that cellar is madness.’
Elizabeth rolled her eyes to the heavens, in frustration. ‘We are all tired and irritable from our long journey,’ she said, in a conciliatory tone.
‘Enough of this mollifying!’ snapped Jacquetta, who had been sitting at the far end of the table, listening with growing impatience to their bickering. She stood up and walked slowly down, standing in front of her three daughters.
Margaret slowly lowered herself back into her chair.
‘You are right,’ Jacquetta said, sternly. ‘You are ladies of rank. Your brothers and sisters have married well. Elizabeth is a queen. When she produces an heir, your children will be cousins to a king, but if Edward loses this battle then George will become king. If this happens, our men will be executed, along with Elizabeth, and you two will be put to work as kitchen maids – or worse, made whores for his troops – and what then of your father and brother’s murderer?’
Anne and Margaret slipped lower into their chairs.
‘If Edward wins, then Warwick and George are finished. Tiptoft has promised me they will not die quickly,’ Jacquetta said with relish, before slamming her hand on to the dining table.
Both girls jumped; their mother lowered her face closer to them. ‘Now, are we going to help Edward, and avenge your father and brother?’
Both girls nodded furiously.
The bolt on the solid oak door slid shut. Elizabeth looked around the cellar. The girl with no name stood by the black altar. The unfrocked priest and his assistant prepared themselves. There were four black chickens in the cage by the brazier; they would each have one sacrificed over their naked bodies. She felt her nakedness under her thin cloak. She felt the thrill of abandonment take hold. Oh, how she had missed it.
As her mother began chanting, a green flame flashed upwards from the fire. Elizabeth looked at her sisters, their faces now full of excitement, and felt dark powers stirring within the room.
Rebel Camp, Empingham
12 March 1470
Sir Robert Welles stared at the bloody sack that dangled from Sir Thomas de la Lande’s hand. The top was tied tightly with bowstring and secured with red wax.
‘The wax is stamped with the Royal Insignia,’ said Sir Thomas, nervously.
‘How come you by this?’ whispered Sir Robert, his eyes never leaving the sack.
‘A royal herald using a white flag of truce delivered it, with the message it was to be opened only by you,’ replied Sir Thomas. He stepped forward and laid the sack at Sir Robert’s feet.
The gentlemen and knights, who had gathered within the tent to discuss the coming battle, looked on with anxious eyes. Sir Robert knelt beside the sack; a small hunting knife trembled in his hand. Cutting the bowstring, he nervously opened it. Slowly, he peered inside. Without warning, an almighty howl left his lips as the lifeless eyes of his father’s severed head stared back at him.
Battle of Losecoat Field, Empingham
13 March 1470
Edward watched the enemy struggle into their attack formations. There was a hesitance about them; their actions lacked confidence.
John Tiptoft seemed to read his thoughts. ‘It would seem these sheep grazers know nothing of military matters. Look; they are milling around like the stupid animals they tend.’
Edward looked along his ranks. His army was well arrayed. His mounted knights sat with the dawn sun rippling off their armour. They looked invincible and gave confidence to all around them. His light cavalry awaited on his flanks, the tips of their fifteen-foot lances glistening. Foot soldiers stood steady in their padded jackets, pikes, axes, or short stabbing swords at the ready. All awaited the signal to attack, with discipline.
‘Fire two salvos of cannon,’ Edward ordered. ‘Let’s see if they have the stomach to fight.’
As Edward watched his artillery thunder into life, the rebels moved backwards.
‘Well, I have never seen the like!’ cried Lord Hastings. ‘Every man jack of them has lost his valour.’
‘We must seize the moment, Sire,’ shouted the Duke of Norfolk. ‘They are breaking ranks.’
/> ‘Send our cavalry to attack their flanks,’ barked Edward, with urgency in his voice. ‘Signal the infantry to charge without delay, and I command no mercy for the common soldiers – today they are all traitors.’
The royal army swooped down like a barbarous bird of prey. Edward watched in amazement as the rebels fled the field, casting aside their livery jackets and weapons in their haste to escape.
His cavalry swept in from the flanks like the hounds of hell, while his infantry raced down the hill and attacked, as his scourers cut off the rebels escape. The field soon ran crimson red.
At the end of the butchery, white corpses, slashed with blood, lay packed three deep across the meadow, their bodies mutilated; smashed heads dripping brains.
Edward saw a rebel with a leg hacked off, frantically trying to crawl away. He marvelled at the man’s instinct for survival, and watched as one of his men walked slowly behind, taunting and kicking him, and then finally raising his axe to split his head in two.
His troops, full of the madness of war, screamed and shouted with joy at being alive, of surviving amongst the dead. They threw their helmets in the air, and roared at each other with life, while cutting the throats of any rebel who moved or cried for mercy.
Fotheringhay Castle, near Stamford
13 March 1470
Edward sat on his throne in the Great Hall of Fotheringhay Castle, holding a small wooden casket. To the left and right of him stood his captains and close retainers. Kneeling before him in chains, were Sir Robert Welles and his conspirators.
‘I have in my hands the evidence that implicates Warwick and George in your traitorous plot,’ Edward shouted, so all in the hall could hear. ‘These letters were found near the body of their envoy to Sir Robert and show in damming detail their support for this rebellion.’
A murmur of astonishment went around the hall.
Edward held his hand up. ‘Welles and his captains have confessed to their involvement.’
Shouts of ‘Traitors!’ rang out.
John Tiptoft moved to the front of the dais. ‘These great rebels, the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence, are thereby under royal command attainted for treason. Their titles and lands forfeit, they will be hunted down and brought before a royal court for sentencing.’
The Great Hall erupted with shouts of ‘Death to the traitors!’
Edward looked at Sir Robert Welles, who had been staring into space and mumbling to himself since they had brought him in. He was also shaking as though in terror of some terrible presence; it reminded him of his own ordeal all those years ago at Reading. He beckoned John Tiptoft to approach him.
‘What is wrong with Sir Robert?’ Edward whispered.
John Tiptoft leant close to the royal ear. ‘It would seem he had a visitation in the night, and it has turned him quite mad, or it may be just the thought of the executioner’s axe awaiting him, but for the moment, my Lord,’ he said, with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘it is all a mystery.’
‘Bring any who witnessed this event to my private quarters, for I wish to solve this mystery,’ ordered Edward.
Sir Henry Surtees sat opposite the king. Fresh bread and cheese filled his belly; a large cup of wine awaited his lips. Was it only an hour ago when he had been kneeling before him in chains? A death sentence had hovered over his head, but if he told the truth, the king had promised him a full pardon. Only, the truth was preposterous – nay, unimaginable – so would the king even believe him? If not, then he would still lose his head. He glanced up quickly; Edward sat patiently waiting. He was everything they said he was, and more, broad chested, tall, handsome – a regal man, a man born to be king.
‘Sir Henry,’ said Edward, quietly. ‘Sip some wine and then tell me how Sir Robert turned mad.’
Recalling the events of the previous night sent a shiver down Sir Henry Surtees’ spine. His hand trembled slightly, as he raised the cup to his lips.
Lord Hastings and John Tiptoft, who sat either side of the king, leaned closer to hear.
With shaking hands, Sir Henry placed the cup back on to the table and began.
‘It was not the shock of finding his father’s severed head that sent Sir Robert mad, although the outrage of it hit him hard. His anguish turned to anger and he swore to take the heads of those responsible. He became determined, his courage more resolute; all of us swore to exact revenge,’ he said, looking guiltily at Edward, who stared back at him, unmoved by the implications of his words.
‘Later that night, all the officers and men had settled. Some slumbered fitfully, others prayed for their souls, or victory; many talked quietly of past battles or loves. Every man faced the dawn and the coming battle in his own way. When I recall the events that followed, it would seem I had dreamt some terrible nightmare, but by the love of God,’ he whispered, crossing himself, ‘nightmare it was not.’
The three men listening sat still and silent. Tired candles threw deep flickering shadows around the room.
‘There were five of us left with Sir Robert,’ Sir Henry whispered, ‘when a light breeze spiralled around us. I remember the candles flickering. We all looked to see where this unexpected draught had come from, when abruptly, the warmth within the tent drained away. The air became icy cold; the suddenness of it caught my breath. I sat there, my actions frozen, and then the wind came.’ There was a tremor in Sir Henry Surtees’ voice. ‘Such a cold, icy wind, the like I have never felt before. Then, the candles extinguished one by one. In the darkness, a tirade of screeches and hideous laughter rang out, striking terror into our souls. Slowly, a cold, blue light filled the tent like wine filling a cup, then I saw – oh, by the holy Mary, it was hideous!’ he cried.
Edward leant closer, his face pinched tight in concentration. ‘What did you see?’ he whispered tensely.
Sir Henry Surtees grasped his cup of wine and drank until it was empty. He lowered it slowly and stared into its emptiness. ‘I saw creatures – demons – half appearing within this blue light, then fading away as though caught between two worlds. Their scaly bodies twisted with depravity, razor claws flashing, malevolent eyes gleaming with heinous wickedness. Then it came – slowly at first, its form part solid, part transparent. I didn’t know that evil had a smell,’ he said, grimly, ‘but, by God, it has. When you breathe that foul air, it feels as though your innards are rotting within you.’
‘What was coming?’ murmured Edward, in a hushed tone.
‘It was the Devil himself!’ cried Sir Henry. ‘He stood; finally complete, towering in front of Sir Robert, his glistening scaly body oozing evil. I was frozen with cold and fear, only my eyes had movement. I watched a silent scream appear on Sir Robert’s lips, and then I saw, and then…oh, Holy Mother of God,’ he whispered.
‘Saw what?’ demanded John Tiptoft.
Sir Henry tried to compose himself. He picked up his empty cup and held it tight to his chest. ‘The Devil dangled the severed head of Sir Robert’s father, by the hair. The lips on that bloodied head were moving – it was speaking! The eyes, tormented, moved within their sockets. It cried out in terror; screamed in despair!’
Horrified, the three men leant back in their chairs.
‘For the love of God, what did it say?’ asked Lord Hastings, his voice full of dread.
‘It cried in a piteous voice that the Devil had his soul, and then it screamed at his son that the Devil would have his too, that the eternity of Hell awaited him.’ Sir Henry paused; his face became still. ‘I passed out then, I think, maybe through sheer terror or cold or maybe both,’ he whispered, ‘but when I awoke, the evil presence accompanied by swirling winds was passing from the tent out into the camp.’
‘What had happened to Sir Robert?’ asked Edward, trying to mask the fear in his voice.
‘He was on his knees,’ replied Sir Henry, ‘staring at his father’s now lifeless head, asking it for help. You have seen how he looks about all the time, searching for the Devil, his sanity gone.’
The three men nodded
in agreement.
Sir Henry paused again; straightening his back, he tried to regain his composure. ‘That evil presence pervaded our camp. It turned brave men into cowards. By morning, half of our army had slipped away and the rest, as you saw on the dawn, quickly followed.’
John Tiptoft laughed loudly, trying to hide the shock of what he had just heard. ‘That’s a tale well told,’ he said, ‘but it will not save your head.’
Edward and Lord Hastings exchanged knowing glances. Then, Edward placed his hand on John Tiptoft’s arm. ‘Your blood runs as cold as ours!’ he exclaimed. ‘I believe the man tells the truth.’
Edward rose from his throne, and walked to the table.
Sir Henry slipped from his chair on to his knees.
Edward bent low and whispered in his ear. ‘I believe you have seen the serpents of Hell, for I have also experienced the dark forces.’
Sir Henry’s eyes widened in shock.
Edward straightened up. ‘What has been said here tonight must remain here.’
Sir Henry nodded his head vigorously.
‘Then, I will grant you your pardon, and title,’ said Edward, firmly. ‘As for Sir Robert, when he is executed for treason tomorrow, his search for the Devil will be over.’
Edward and Lord Hastings watched John Tiptoft escort Sir Henry away to his freedom.
As their backs disappeared through the door, Lord Hastings turned to Edward, his face betraying the emotions of his thoughts. ‘Your mother in-law is behind all of this,’ he said, grimly. ‘I thought she had stopped all this sorcery years ago, but it seems she does not trust you to win a battle on your own.’
‘We have no proof of this,’ declared Edward, with irritation in his voice.
‘We will have, shortly,’ replied Lord Hastings. ‘I have planted agents in her household. They are to gather all the information I need to bring charges of witchcraft against her.’
The Dreams of Kings Page 26