Courtiers and valets stood silent, hardly daring to breathe lest they should disturb their king’s concentration.
The great doors to the Hall of State banged open. The noise rippled around like a cannon shot. King Louis looked up. Annoyance flitted across his face, then his features relaxed as Georges Havart and Marshall Rouault walked towards him.
Georges Havart noted, as he bowed, that the king was finely dressed in purple and reds lined with gold, as was his custom when staying at the Château d’Amboise. It was out of respect for the Queen’s court; also, it was important that his daughters always saw their father dressed richly, as befitted a king – it gave them a sense of their own worth, their place in the pecking order of France. When he left this feminine court, which overflowed with the Queen’s sisters, and household ladies, he preferred simple hunting clothes, plain food, and basic accommodation. Extravagance and opulence, he spurned. His entourage, who travelled with him, grudgingly endured many an unsavoury meal and rough bed.
‘Two days ago,’ began King Louis, ‘the fishermen of Honfleur woke up to a fleet of warships anchored off their coast. These uninvited guests were flying the Bear and Ragged Staff as their colours.’
‘Warwick!’ cried Georges Havart, with surprise.
‘As you know, we have been following events in England,’ continued the king, ‘but always through a mist of confusion, rumour, and false reports, but now the fortunes of Richard Neville, the mighty Earl of Warwick, are as clear as a summer’s day. Fortune, it would seem, has smiled kindly on King Edward, for Warwick is now a fugitive!’ He slid the parchment across the table for his advisors to read.
‘Is this all the information we have at present?’ asked Jean de Reilhac, the king’s secretary.
‘Sadly, yes,’ replied King Louis, ‘but it is enough to concentrate our minds on how to handle these unexpected guests.’
Georges Havart was weary. It was now late into the evening. Messages had been arriving throughout the day from Honfleur, and King Louis had been firing off replies and instructions in a flurry of activity. He marvelled at how the king was still full of energy, his mind sparkling with plans and intrigues. He was not a man who would squander this opportunity that fortune now offered him.
Georges Havart settled back into his chair, and ran his mind over the events of the day. Warwick, they learned, had sailed flamboyantly into the mouth of the Seine, with a line of captured Burgundian and Breton vessels, causing huge embarrassment for King Louis, who, two years previously, had signed the Treaty of Péronne, bringing the troublesome dukes – Burgundy and Brittany – under his control.
That southern rebel, the Count of Armagnac, had been charged with treason, and had promptly fled to Spain, whilst the king’s brother, Charles, was content, at last, with his new province, Guienne. France was finally at peace, and now, here was his great ally, Warwick, who after plundering the property of the two dukes, demanded open entry to the king’s court. God! The arrogance of the man, Georges Havart thought. Any other king would have sent him packing and secured his own kingdom, before new hostilities broke out with his nobles, but not Louis! He felt exasperated. The king would manipulate every player in this game until he had won, and France was master of all.
William Monypeny, a native of Scotland, and now Lord of Concressault, was a close confidant of King Louis. He had been on secret missions to Warwick in the past, and had now been dispatched with Jean Bourré, another of the king’s secretaries, to welcome Warwick, and order the Archbishop of Narbonne to offer him, and his ladies, accommodation as befitted his rank. The archbishop was to persuade Warwick to relinquish his prizes, and then see to it that they were returned to their rightful owners.
Messengers had been hurriedly dispatched to the two dukes, informing them that all their goods would soon be restored to them. Georges Havart knew this would not appease them and they would demand Warwick’s arrest, but it would stall any actions they may plan to take for a while.
An urgent invitation had been sent to Margaret of Anjou to join King Louis at Amboise. Georges Havart knew not why, and so he sat, watched, and marvelled, as his king spun his web of intrigue.
‘Georges!’ shouted King Louis, who was bent over the table, reading the latest dispatch from Honfleur.
Georges Havart stumbled to his feet, his thoughts and rest, forgotten, ‘Your Majesty?’
King Louis turned and looked at his old advisor. ‘It is late and you are tired, my friend.’
Georges Havart started to protest, but the king held up his hand for silence. ‘I need sharp minds, and yours is dulled by this late hour. Go to your bed, and I will have the best of you in the morning.’
‘I will not protest, Sire,’ replied Georges Havart wearily, as he made to leave.
‘Oh, Georges, before you go,’ said King Louis, with a sudden afterthought, ‘I have one last task for you. As you know, my cousin, Margaret of Anjou, will be joining us shortly. The day after she leaves Paris, I want you to undertake a small mission for me.’ King Louis turned back to his dispatches.
Georges Havart, now dismissed, left the chamber with a puzzled look on his features.
La Conciergerie Prison, Paris
12 May 1470
Margaret of Anjou sat in a small, upholstered chair beside the bed. She studied the frail face that slept before her. Six weeks ago, it had been covered in filthy hair, and putrefying sores; the body, skin and bone, wrapped in rags, close to death. She had employed the best doctors in Paris, but even then, they had nearly lost him twice. Leaning over, she took Simon’s hand, her other one gently smoothing his brow.
Simon’s eyes slowly opened from their slumber, their edges crinkled with a lazy smile, as he looked at her, then their focus moved to the morning sunlight that was streaming in through the window. After five years of being confined in dank darkness, it was more precious than gold. He would never become tired of looking at its golden rays.
‘I have to go away,’ Margaret said, softly.
Simon’s eyes moved back to her face, a questioning look in them.
‘King Louis has invited me to his court at Amboise.’
Simon leant up on to his elbow and placed his hand over hers. ‘Why?’
‘My father has also been invited, along with my brother,’ she said.
Simon leant down and kissed her hand gently.
Smiling, Margaret ran her hand through his hair. ‘I know not the reason for this invitation, and I wish not to burden you with thoughts of it,’ she said, leaning forward and gently kissing Simon’s lips.
‘There must be a good reason for the King to invite you to the royal court,’ he said, with a perplexed look on his face.
‘Queen Charlotte is heavy with child. He may require my brother, and myself, to be godparents, or he may wish to help my father recover his crown of Naples,’ Margaret said, shrugging her shoulders, ‘but in all honesty, I have no real idea why we are summoned. All I know is that it gives me another opportunity to secure your release from this accursed prison.’
Simon lay back on his bed and looked around his two-roomed cell. His eyes took in the rich carpets, the fine furniture, and his new clothes. ‘It is not that accursed,’ he laughed.
‘But you are not free – we are not free,’ Margaret cried. ‘I long for us to be unfettered, to walk together in the gardens at Châteaux Koeur-la-Petite, to sit by the river and watch the kingfishers; not to wake in the mornings with a start and a heart that feels encased in lead.’
Simon sat up and took her in his arms. ‘I did not mean to make light of all that you have done for me. You have brought me back from the dead, put life into my broken body, and I too long for that day of freedom.’
Margaret leaned across and kissed him. They looked into each other’s eyes with deep understanding, their hearts beating close, both desperately wanting the other, but their movements frozen by the coldness of La Conciergerie. ‘I must go,’ she whispered, breaking the spell.
Simon held her tight
and embraced her again.
‘I must go,’ she said, huskily, as she rose unsteadily to her feet.
Simon lay back and watched her.
‘The nurse will call daily,’ Margaret said, as she regained her composure.
‘You will write?’ Simon asked.
‘Every day, and when I return, it will be with a royal pardon for your freedom, so work hard on your exercises.’
‘Why?’
Margaret leant down, and gently cupped Simon’s chin within her hand. ‘Because, you will need all your strength when I get you home,’ she giggled, her eyes full of promise. She stood, and made to leave. Pausing at the cell door, she turned to look at Simon, her face radiant with the hope that filled her heart. Her look lingered on Simon’s face. He smiled, blew her a kiss, and then she was gone.
The cell door slammed shut, the key turned in the lock, the jailer’s footsteps faded away. Simon lay in the stillness with a contented smile on his face. After six weeks of fine food and exercise, he could feel his body responding, his strength returning.
The doctor had said that it was ‘youth’ that had saved him – a few years older and he would never have survived, but the doctor was wrong: it was his love for Margaret. He had never given up hope of seeing her again. The ring that she had given him had become a beacon of hope. When captured, he had slipped it into the lining of his shirt collar, and there it had stayed until Pierre de Brézé’s money had run out. Then, he had been thrown into a common cell where the door was only unlocked when you were dead. In the darkness, he had retrieved the ring and worn it with pride. It had given him the will to survive, and then one day, like an angel, Margaret appeared, as though in a dream, and carried him from the darkness to the light. Now, she had gone to fight for his freedom, but what would he do with this freedom?
He snuggled down to ponder this enticing problem, when from out of nowhere dark thoughts filled his mind. Images of his mother and sisters, being thrown off their estate, destitute and starving, swirled into view; Warwick laughing at his failure, his comrades being dragged to their executions – all dead, except for him.
Sweat broke out on Simon’s brow. He sat up and held his head in his shaking hands. The barriers he had so carefully constructed to keep himself sane during his solitary confinement, those barricades he had erected to hold these unwanted demons at bay, were suddenly swept away. His body shook uncontrollably, as tears of regret cascaded down his face.
The White Hart Tavern, Grafton Regis, England
12 May 1470
Twilight turned the thatched roof a ghostly grey; the early summer warmth chilled in the evening air. Within the tavern, travellers, government men, and locals, drew their coats around them.
‘Suppose you’re not lighting the fire then, landlord?’ asked a forlorn voice, the answer already known.
‘No fires from May to September,’ replied the landlord as he cleared some tables. ‘You know the rules.’
‘Tight bastard,’ grumbled a voice from the shadows.
The landlord, ignoring the abuse, stopped by a man sitting alone in the corner. ‘Sorry to hear about your brother,’ he said. ‘Twas a strange business, him dying like that, and just when he was going to give evidence against the Queen’s mother…’ he lowered his voice, ‘concerning that witchcraft.’
Nervous eyes, set in a pale face, turned towards him. Bloodless lips spoke. ‘When they found him, the room was filled with the smell of burnt flesh. His limbs and face contorted as though he had been burnt at the stake. His body was too hot to touch, and yet there was not a mark on him.’
The landlord crossed himself and sat down. ‘I hear you have been called,’ he whispered.
With a trembling hand, the man with the pale face picked up his tankard and gulped at his mead. It ran from the corners of his mouth and down his chin. He did not seem to notice. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice shrill with fear, ‘but I have seen nothing – nothing, I tell you. I’ve only heard strange noises from the cellar, but that’s all. John saw things – ungodly acts – but not me, I swear.’
‘What of the other witnesses?’ the landlord asked. ‘Some must know more than you?’
‘They have all disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ whispered the landlord, sharply.
The eyes in the pale face filled with fear. ‘They have either gone into hiding or they have been…’ He buried his face in his hands, ‘Oh God…’
‘Do you have your holy protection?’ asked the landlord.
The man reached into the neck of his smock and showed a wooden crucifix hanging there.
The landlord rose from his seat and patted the man on the arm. ‘I will get thee another drink,’ he said. ‘I think you need it.’
Returning, the landlord placed a full tankard on the table. The man reached forward and drank greedily.
‘Slow down,’ said the landlord. ‘It’s not a race.’
The man abruptly stopped drinking. The tankard dropped from his hand and a gurgling noise came from his throat. His eyes bulged out of their sockets; his hands clawed frantically at his throat as he desperately fought for air.
The landlord stepped back in horror as the man dropped to his knees and then fell forward. Spasms jerked his body across the floor. Nearby drinkers, their faces frozen in fear, moved quickly towards the exit door. They heard the death rattle rising up through the man’s throat. His body twitched three or four times, and then was still.
Jacquetta, the Duchess of Bedford, reached into the bucket of water and retrieved the small wax figure that had been lying on the bottom. Fire and water, she thought, as she crushed it within her hand. What wonderful elements they are.
She slumped back into her chair. Creating magic tired her easily now as her old age advanced, but she still allowed herself a smile of satisfaction, as she thought of Lord Hastings and his stupid little plan to have her tried before the Privy Council for witchcraft. Well, now he had no witnesses left to testify against her. He would look most foolish standing before them, his guns spiked. She could imagine the look of thunder on the Lord Chancellor’s face as he was told there was no case to bring against her. Did he really believe he could beat her? Although, she did concede, that she quite enjoyed their sparring. It made life just that little bit more interesting, even though he was no match for her, and once she became bored, well, she would enjoy killing him. She even had a special ceremony planned to send him on his way.
Baynard’s Castle, London
20 May 1470
What do you mean?’ shouted Lord Hastings at his secretary.
The man bowed even lower; it was unusual for his master, normally a man of good humour, to lose his temper. ‘There are no witnesses to testify,’ he repeated, trying to keep his voice firm and confident.
‘No witnesses?’ cried Lord Hastings. ‘By the Holy Mother, where are they all?’
‘Some are dead by means most foul, or disappeared,’ replied the secretary, shaking his head in puzzlement.
’So, we have no one to bring before the Privy Council who can corroborate these allegations of witchcraft against the Queen and her mother?’
The secretary stood silent, words now redundant in the matter.
‘No witness means no investigation, and no investigation means that fat bitch has escaped me. By God, she is making a fool of me!’ Lord Hastings shouted, his face turning red with anger. ‘Bring me a full report on the deaths of these witnesses; I must go and inform the King.’
The secretary bowed and hurriedly left the room.
Lord Hastings lowered himself into a chair and sat quietly with his thoughts. She has escaped me. That woman has wriggled herself free, and in doing so, has saved that scheming bitch, the Queen, and the rest of her family. Hell’s teeth, to be rid of them, for the kingdom and I would sleep safer in our beds. He heaved himself from the chair, and with a heavy heart, made his way to Edward’s quarters.
‘Tis good news,’ said King Edward. ‘The duchess has no charges to answe
r; the matter is now closed!’
‘It is only closed because there are now no witnesses,’ replied Lord Hastings, bitterly. ‘And, you and I both know witchcraft was used to silence them, the power of which we have experienced ourselves.’ He looked at Edward, and shook his head from side to side, in disbelief.
Edward returned his look. ‘I know your concerns are real’, he said, quietly, ‘but I cannot have my Queen and her family put on trial, and my kingship destroyed over rumours and false charges. You have no solid evidence, so that’s the end to it!’
‘Only for the moment,’ said Lord Hastings, grimly, ‘and I warn you, these rumours will haunt your kingship until it is resolved.’
The king’s mother, Cecily, entered the chamber, followed by her ladies-in-waiting, who curtsied low to Edward, showing him ample bosoms and shy fluttering eyelashes.
As Edward ran his expert eye over them to see whom he had not bedded or whom he would bed again, thoughts of witches and warlocks vanished.
‘My son,’ began Cecily, a ripple of irritation flitting across her face, as she waited for his attention. ‘Pray, I may have a private audience with you?
‘I have come to speak on behalf of John Neville, Warwick’s brother,’ began Cecily, once they were alone.
‘I know who he is,’ replied Edward, with irritation. Does she never stop meddling? he thought.
‘It would seem you have forgotten who he is, and what he is to your crown,’ continued Cecily.
It was said with a sharpness that pricked and deflated Edwards’s irritation. He sank back into his chair, a resigned look on his face. I am King to everybody else, except her, he thought, glumly.
The Dreams of Kings Page 28