For now, my sweet angel, be strong, and never fear, I will come to you when you need me most.
Simon.
Royal Chambers, Château d’Amboise, France
27 August 1470
‘Etienne?’ shouted King Louis. ‘For God’s sake, where is he?’
Georges Havart and Marshall Rouault exchanged worried glances.
‘Men have been dispatched to find him,’ replied Georges Havart.
‘He will be here shortly,’ added Marshall Rouault, trying to reassure the king.
‘By God’s Bones, he had better be,’ replied King Louis, straining to keep his temper under control.
Etienne de Loup rushed breathless into the room. ‘Your Majesty,’ he gasped.
King Louis spun round to face him. ‘That bastard, Simon Langford,’ he cried, ‘has escaped along with a serving maid who belonged to Warwick’s court!’
‘I am aware of this,’ replied Etienne de Loup, with raised eyebrows, ‘but I am not aware that it is cause for concern. They can do us no harm.’
‘No harm? No harm?’ bellowed King Louis. ‘The man knows that Warwick’s brother is planning to ambush King Edward and his army, and that the dammed serving maid is to marry one of Duke Richard’s closest lieutenants. We can guess where the pair of them are heading, and why.’
‘Tell me who told them this state secret, and I will make the bastard a head shorter!’ cried Etienne de Loup.
King Louis sat quietly down in his seat, and coughed. ‘It was me.’
The three men stared at him. ‘Pardon?’ they exclaimed, in unison.
‘It was me,’ said King Louis, sheepishly. ‘I got carried away in my discussions with that stubborn, bloody woman from Anjou; I forgot her lover was in the room.’
‘I will have men pursue them down every road in France that leads to a port,’ said Etienne de Loup, ‘although, I think the north coast of Brittany would be their most likely destination. They only have two days’ lead on us, so with luck, we should catch them.’
‘If King Edward escapes from Warwick’s brother, then all our plans will be in jeopardy. They must be caught!’ shouted King Louis, picking up his wine glass and hurling it against the wall in frustration.
Etienne de Loup rushed from the room, whilst Georges Havart and Marshall Rouault tried to make themselves invisible.
The Bull’s Head Inn, Tower Street, London
27 August 1470
The inn was unusually quiet. The cool breeze of the hot, August night kept many outside, away from the still heat of the interior.
‘How long have King Edward and Duke Richard been in the Tower?’ asked Friar Drynk, as he raised a flagon of ale to his lips.
The Hallet twins stared at him.
‘Dogs breath, if I know,’ said Thomas. ‘Duke Richard and Sir John have ordered us to report to the main gates, nine of the clock, for reasons that are a mystery.’
‘It’s to do with Holy Harry,’ whispered George.
The other two, intrigued now, stared at George, their ears hungry to know more.
George stayed silent, and stared into his tankard of ale.
Friar Drynk raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘Holy Mother,’ he sighed, in frustration.
‘For Christ’s sake, George,’ hissed Thomas. ‘What’s to do with Holy Harry?’
George looked furtively around the inn. ‘I overheard,’ he whispered, ‘Sir John and Duke Richard saying that Warwick, and the French, are raising an army to overthrow King Edward and place Henry back on the throne.’
‘So, you’re saying, that daft bastard, Warwick, now wants to uncrown Edward and re-crown Henry?’ cried Thomas, in disbelief.
‘Aye, but if Henry is dead, then Warwick’s plans are no more,’ replied George. He lowered his drink on to the table, and they all hunched forward. ‘Methinks,’ he whispered, ‘they are deciding his fate as we speak, and it’s obvious that if they decide to put Henry to death, then we will be the executioners.’
‘The deed could only be discharged by the most trusted of men,’ whispered Friar Drynk, nervously, ‘and there’s no more so than you two.’
Thomas looked at his two companions. ‘Don’t be so whore-sucking daft!’ he cried.
‘It is not nonsense,’ replied George. ‘If the deed is to be done, then it will be us to do it, and the friar here will see his soul to Heaven.’
‘By the Holy Mary!’ said Thomas, grimly; crossing himself. ‘The thought of killing Holy Harry rests uneasy with me. I don’t think I have the stomach for taking a King’s life.’
The other two nodded in nervous agreement.
‘I hear that Duke Richard has sired another bastard with that household wench, Katherine Haute,’ blurted out Thomas, in an effort to take their minds off their appointment at the Tower.
‘Aye, he is to be called John of Gloucester,’ replied Friar Drynk. ‘Methinks the Lady Anne will be most displeased when she finds out.’
‘It is the way of the world,’ joined in George. ‘All young noblemen sire bastards. It’s called “sowing their wild oats”. Lady Anne will willingly have his children, for she knows they will be the only ones that count.’
‘I know that is the normal way,’ replied Friar Drynk, ‘but I believe Lady Anne thought the love between Duke Richard and herself was somehow special; that they would save themselves for each other.’
‘Well, she’s chicken-brained daft,’ laughed Thomas, ‘if that’s what she thought. She’s lucky she’s not marrying King Edward. God knows how many of his little bastards are roaming around.’
‘Well, the Lady Anne is in France now, and who knows if she will ever return,’ said Friar Drynk, with a sad shake of his head. ‘And, of course, so is our sweet Rose.’
‘Aye, Sir John has been most miserable since she left. Now, those two are special to each other. The separation has left him quite brokenhearted,’ said George.
‘It’s the not bloody knowing where they are, or what they are doing,’ said Thomas. ‘That’s what worms away inside a man. It can turn them mad in the end, and that’s a fact.’
‘I am told we are heading north tomorrow,’ said George. ‘There’s talk of a rebellion brewing. Hopefully, that will take Sir John’s mind off Rose.’
‘The King is taking six hundred men to rendezvous at Doncaster with Warwick’s brother, John,’ continued Thomas. ‘He is bringing four thousand from Pontefract to help put the rebellion down.’
‘Let’s pray he stays loyal to King Edward,’ said Friar Drynk, with a nervous laugh.
‘Well, that would be handy!’ cried George. ‘If Warwick lands on the south coast with his army, and his brother turns traitor, then we would all be in the shite.’
‘Finish your ale,’ said Friar Drynk, softly. ‘It must be nearly time for our appointment at the Tower. Let us pray that when dawn breaks, our conscience is clear.’
Brittany, France
29 August 1470
Simon and Rose slipped out of the royal castle during the dead of night. There was no risk in escaping, for with no royal court in residence, most of the guards were either drunk or asleep. They stole two horses from the stables situated just outside the castle gates, and vanished into the darkness.
Skirting around the city of Tours, they headed west, following the river down through the Loire valley, passing south of Angers – the city that had just witnessed the wedding of Warwick’s daughter to Margaret of Anjou’s son. They finally arrived at the small village of Ancenis, where for a few precious hours they rested. In the cool of the early morning, they cut up northwards towards the coast. It was as they reached the village of Bain-De-Bretagne, that they noticed dust clouds billowing up behind them.
They both stood, frozen, their hearts sinking, and stared at the great wave of dust that was swelling up into the sky. Finally, Simon broke the disbelieving silence.
‘They must be riding like the wind to have caught us so quickly,’ he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘They must
be picking up fresh horses along the way,’ Rose said. ‘We will never outrun them now.’
Simon heard the dismay in her voice. ‘If we can’t outrun them, then we must out-think them. We must reach the city of Rennes and find safe sanctuary while we plan a way of safely getting to Dinan.’
At Rennes, they walked their horses through the dense crowds that flowed through the great gates, and then quickly disappeared into the murky back streets that housed the criminal underbelly of the city. Here, reasoned Simon, they would be safe. The residents would rather slit the throats of King Louis’ soldiers than talk with them.
Down a narrow, crumbling back alley, they found a small stabling yard, where for a few francs their horses would be fed and watered. The interior was dark and dingy, making the ramshackle building an ideal place for them to hide and rest. A small loft, where fresh hay was stored, had been built into the roof, and for a few francs more, the stableman had agreed to let them stay there for the night.
Rose busied herself, trying to even out the hay into what she hoped would pass for two beds, although she knew they would have slept on rough boards if they had to, such was their weariness.
Simon watched Rose trying to shoo the mice away. ‘I will go and find us some supper, and see if I can find out how many soldiers are chasing us.’ As he climbed down the rickety old ladder from the loft, he heard footsteps entering the stables. Dropping down on to the ground, he spun around, a small hunting knife now in his hand.
‘No need for that, my friend,’ said a man. ‘My name is Jean Pierre. I am the stableman’s son and I mean you no harm.’
Simon slipped the knife away.
‘You are hiding from the King’s men, yes?’
Simon studied Jean Pierre. He was older, maybe aged about thirty years, and tall – over six feet – with greasy, black hair. His eyes were dark brown. His nose was large, and as crooked as a witch’s back – its battered shape reflected a hard life lived on the back streets of Rennes.
‘King Louis’ Garde Écossaise arrived in the city shortly after you,’ said Jean Pierre. ‘They are looking for a man and a woman.’ He raised his arms and shrugged his shoulders. An eyebrow rose in a questioning look.
‘Yes, it is us they seek,’ confirmed Simon. He looked up at the loft and saw Rose looking down on him, her face filled with alarm.
Jean Pierre followed his gaze. ‘Do not be afraid, little one,’ he said. ‘You are safe here. We have lost many men trying to keep Brittany free. There is no love for King Louis in this city, or for his stupid Scottish soldiers.’
‘We need to get to Dinan and take ship for England,’ said Simon.
‘Why do they seek you?’ asked Jean Pierre
‘We have committed no crimes,’ protested Rose. ‘We have information that the Earl of Warwick and King Louis are plotting to take the English throne.’
‘If they succeed,’ Simon continued, ‘they will form a powerful alliance and then their plan is to attack Burgundy…’
‘And then Brittany,’ said Jean Pierre, finishing Simon’s sentence.
‘So, will you help us?’ pleaded Rose.
‘This Earl of Warwick you talk of, is he the bastard who has just stolen and plundered many of our Brittany ships?’
Rose and Simon nodded.
‘And you say, if he is successful in his plans for England then he will help the French king to subdue us to make us slaves to France?’
Rose and Simon nodded again.
‘Then I must help you to escape from the city, and from the Garde Écossaise!’ cried Jean Pierre.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ said Simon, with relief.
‘There are many soldiers here seeking you out,’ continued Jean Pierre, ‘but not enough to guard all the gates out of the city. Even if they had enough, I know of some secret gates that they would never find. I will guide you out of the city before dawn, but once you are past the city walls, then I am afraid you will be on your own.’
Rose lay staring at the moonlight that shone through the gaps in the old wooden walls. They formed beautiful silver and black abstract patterns that were somehow pleasing to her eye. She had been staring at them for a long time now; the worry of the coming day, and the scurrying and scratching of mice, had made sleep impossible. ‘Simon, are you awake?’ she whispered.
‘Yes,’ came the soft reply.
‘Tell me about your beautiful Margaret of Anjou; why did you fall in love with her?’
‘I met her on a beautiful June evening at Bamburgh Castle. She was sitting in a tall-backed chair, her face framed by the setting sun. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. All the men in her court thought she was as hard as diamonds, for she ruled and acted like a king, but I could see her soft vulnerability; it made her even more exquisite. She was like an angel that had been forced to live amongst us. Inside that hard, royal veneer, I saw a lonely woman who yearned to be loved, who needed to be held and protected. She stole my heart that day and never gave it back.’
‘And now you have left her with a broken heart,’ whispered Rose. ‘I am sorry, I should not have told you of your mother and sisters.’
‘I could not stay with Marguerite knowing their fate. I would never have rested easy. You were right to tell me.’
An easy silence settled between them. Simon, his mind drawn back in time, thought warmly of his Marguerite. Rose wondered if angels could really steal people’s hearts.
‘You must tell me of your John,’ whispered Simon.
‘He is handsome and brave,’ replied Rose. ‘We grew up together at Middleham Castle. I was maid to his mother, Lady Tunstall. It was a cold December; the first snows of winter had arrived, and on that day, we fell in love. Our first kiss was on Christmas night as the stars shone brightly above us.’
‘But why did you love him? Why did you surrender your heart to him?’
‘Many qualities made me love him, but one that captured my heart was his acceptance of me, of who I am. We live in times where our birth defines who we are, but John judges the person first, and his position, second. He loves me for myself. He treats me with respect as an equal, not as a possession or a chattel to be owned. One day,’ her voice rose with a passion, ‘women will be equal to men and…’
The sound of footsteps entered the stable.
‘Time to go, my English friends,’ whispered Jean Pierre.
Simon and Rose scrambled down the ladder.
‘Here, I have brought you some bread, cheese, and watered wine. Eat and drink while I put sackcloth around your horses’ hooves. Silence is the key to your escape,’ Jean Pierre whispered.
Soon, they were moving quietly down the dark back alleys towards the city’s walls, finally arriving at a small narrow gate hidden behind some large, wild sprouting bushes. The gate was just wide and high enough to allow a horse to pass through.
As Jean Pierre removed the sackcloth from the horses’ hooves, he gave directions on how to skirt safely around the walls of the town and on to the road for St Malo.
‘Before you come to the village of Combourg, you will find a bridge over the River Vilaine. Cross it, turn left, and cut across country until you reach the River Rance. Follow it north; it will lead you to Dinan.’
Rose stepped forward, and on tiptoe, kissed Jean Pierre on both cheeks. ‘Thank you. Thank you,’ she whispered.
Jean Pierre jerked his arms back, in embarrassment. ‘I do it for Brittany, yes?’ he replied.
Simon clasped his shoulders. ‘You do it for us too; we will never forget your bravery.’
‘Good luck, my friends, and be sure to tell the English king it was Jean Pierre who saved him.’ He laughed at the irony of it. ‘May God favour your cause,’ he finally said, before disappearing into the dark outline of the gate.
Simon and Rose walked their horses silently away from the city. Once far enough away, they mounted their horses, turned north, and skirted around to the St Malo road. The tension pounded in Simon’s chest. If they could just get a mi
le or so along this road, they would be safely away from the danger behind them. Their horses broke into a slow trot as the city of Rennes receded into the darkness.
‘We can move faster in a few moments,’ called Simon, over his shoulder to Rose, who was a few yards behind him. ‘We should be far enough away by then to break into a gallop without them hearing us—’
‘Stop! Who goes there?’ shouted a rough voice, just ahead of them.
Simon could make out the uniform of one of King Louis’ Garde Écossaise, standing by the side of the road, several yards away. Behind him was pitched a solitary round tent, beyond which, four horses were tethered.
Rose, now alongside Simon, looked at him with urgency. ‘Tis time to gallop now!’ she cried. She dug her heels into her mount and galloped straight for the soldier. Cursing, he fell backwards into the tent as she rode past him.
The pair of them flew along the road like arrows. Simon could hear the shouting and swearing behind him fading into the distance. He estimated they could travel about five miles before the soldiers had saddled up and started to give chase. He surmised that the four horses he had seen tethered behind the tent meant there were only four soldiers on duty, so three would pursue them while the forth would gallop the short distance back to the city of Rennes to raise the alarm.
He thought it a clever ploy to place sentries a mile along the road from Rennes. An obvious tactic had worked perfectly. They had been discovered, but luckily, not caught. They would be some way ahead of the three soldiers, and even further in front of the troops from Rennes. If they could reach the bridge that crossed the River Vilaine and turn off the road there without being seen, then the pursuing soldiers may carry on towards St Malo, thinking that was where they would be heading.
The hot dust swirled in dense clouds around them as they galloped towards Dinan. Rose could taste its dry bitterness as it forced its way through the woollen cloth that was tied tightly around her face. Her throat was as dry as a hot, stone wall; tiredness weighed her down like a heavy cloak, but she knew there would be no respite from the pursuing troops until they had reached the sea.
The Dreams of Kings Page 32