Simon surmised that they were only a few miles ahead of the Garde Écossaise as they followed the cliff path down into Dinan. As they started their descent down to the small harbour nestled on the banks of the River Rance, they could see the river open up into a wide estuary that led to the open sea and freedom. On the opposite cliffs, they noticed a large fortified round tower, its cannon overlooking the harbour.
Simon’s heart was pounding as they arrived on the quay. He looked anxiously for a ship to make good their escape. It was then, that he saw the first of the Garde Écossaise appear on the top of the cliffs, their blue, red, and silver uniforms caught in the rising sun. He could hear distant shouts calling for their arrest.
The two of them rode up and down the harbour’s edge desperately seeking a ship, but all were unloading or loading their cargoes. It seemed that none was ready to sail.
‘We are trapped!’ cried Rose, her voice trembling in alarm.
Simon looked frantically around. He saw, high up on the cliffs, men looking down at them from the fortified tower.
Rose moved closer to him as they watched the Garde Écossaise reach the bottom of the cliff.
Suddenly, a large, red-faced man, with a beard as white as sea salt, appeared beside the two of them. He stared at the advancing troops. ‘You are English?’ he said, in a broad Devonshire accent.
‘Yes,’ replied Rose and Simon, in unison.
‘Well, in that case, it’s time to go!’ he cried, as the Garde Écossaise arrived at the far end of the harbour.
They all boarded a small cargo ship, carrying wine bound for Plymouth. As their pursuers rushed down the quay towards them, the crew cast off and pushed the vessel away from the harbour wall. A gap of ten feet of water opened up between them. Two of the Garde Écossaise sprinted down the quayside and jumped the gap, both managing to grasp and cling on to the side of the ship. One instantly swung his sword in an arc towards Rose, missing her neck by a hand’s breadth.
Simon sprang forward and drove his sword into the man’s chest. Blood squirted across the deck as the guard screamed and fell backwards into the sea.
The second soldier had managed to climb over the side. He lunged at Simon, who parried the blow with his sword and then rammed his hunting knife into the man’s stomach. As the guard doubled over, Simon brought his knee upwards, smashing into the man’s face. He staggered backwards, now semi-conscious, hitting the side of the ship.
With lightning speed, Simon gripped one of the guard’s legs. Rose rushed forward and lifted the other. Together, they tipped the man over the side.
Simon breathed heavily as he and Rose stared at the group of Garde Écossaise left standing on the quayside. The soldiers waved their swords. Their ginger-haired faces, wild with hate, screamed abuse.
Rose thought her heart would burst with the harrowing sight of them only yards away. The gap between them was now sixty feet.
The man with the white beard, who had since introduced himself as the captain, ordered the sails unfurled, and the cargo ship heaved forward towards the wide, open waters of the estuary, and the English Channel. He cursed the soldiers, their mothers, and all their ancestors, as the cannon from the round tower opened fire. Shot fell into the sea all around them. He steered in a zigzag as large sprays of seawater fell across the boat, soaking them all. Finally, the bombardment stopped.
Rose felt her legs start to buckle. The tension of the last few days made her head grow dizzy, and she slowly slipped down on to the deck.
Simon caught her and with the help of the captain, gently carried her below.
Pontefract Castle, West Yorkshire
16 September 1470
John Neville, the Marquess of Montagu, stared out from the royal chambers. His view from the King’s Tower looked out over the inner keep and the outer baileys, towards the gathering dusk that slowly drew a grey veil over the surrounding landscape.
He wondered if he would find sleep tonight. During the day, the castle vibrated with life as his army of five thousand men prepared for tomorrow’s march to Doncaster to join King Edward. He had yet to tell these brave yeomen that they would now cheer for King Henry, and cry death to King Edward. The thought of it sent a shiver through his very soul.
This old castle of towers and keeps was now silent and dark. It seemed to John that within its haunted walls, the souls of dead noblemen prowled the shadows and stalked the living. The Earl of Lancaster, beheaded here, was said to walk the battlements just before cockcrow, searching for his head. The screams of Richard II, who was hacked to death within the castle walls in 1400, could be heard on twelfth night – the anniversary of the bloody deed. The murdered enemies of John of Gaunt, Henry Bolingbroke, and Henry V, still cursed and plagued its granite walls.
When life and conversation surrounded him, John Neville felt justified in joining his brother’s standard, but now alone as night drew close, he felt the ghosts of murdered kings all around, their bloody bodies sitting beside him, their dead eyes silently watching him.
‘Curse you, Edward!’ John raged. ‘I loved you as a brother, secured your crown at Hedgeley Moor and Hexham, supported you against all others, and still you betrayed me, cast me aside with a worthless title, an income of miserable impoverishment.’
He moved to his bed, and wearily sat on the edge of it. He could hear a few of his trusted retainers in the Great Hall below, laughing and joking as the evening drew to a close. Their untroubled minds would soon find peaceful slumber. It filled John with envy, for as night crept around him, doubts filled his mind and demons taunted him. Had he agreed a pact with the devil to commit this heinous crime – this murder so foul of an anointed king? The answer, he knew, was yes. In despair, John Neville placed his head in his hands. Where would this path of treachery take him? He thought of his wife and children. Would he be the ruin of them all?
South Downs, near Petersfield, Hampshire
16 September 1470
The captain had taken the beautiful ruby ring that John had given Rose as a betrothal present, as payment for his rescue of them, and to change his course from Plymouth to Portsmouth, where loyalty to King Edward could be counted on.
After berthing in its calm and natural harbour by the old Roman fort at Porchester, Simon, with the last of his money, purchased two of the finest horses they could find, and then, with no respite, they had started their frantic dash to reach King Edward before Lord Montagu launched his treacherous attack.
They had heard that Edward was somewhere up north, around Doncaster, putting a small rebellion down. They knew Warwick was still in France, but of Lord Montagu, they knew not where he was. As they galloped through the sleepy villages, Rose prayed with all her heart that she would beat Warwick’s brother to reach the king.
On the crest of Butser Hill, they paused before sweeping down towards the market town of Petersfield that lay on the main London to Portsmouth road. Rose knew there would be many more such towns like this to pass through in the coming days. With renewed determination, she dug her heels into her mount, for she knew every moment now counted in the race to save her sweet John’s life.
Conisbrough Castle, Doncaster
27 September 1470
Lord Warwick had landed. The news spread through the camp like the wave of an onrushing tide. His name was on the lips of every soldier; this campaign in the north had been easy soldiering but the earl’s reputation meant the serious business of war was now reality.
The six hundred men billeted in and around the castle prepared themselves for the coming march south. Orders were shouted crisply, men moved quicker, a harder discipline ran unseen through their ranks.
‘Warwick will be heading as straight as an arrow for London and the Tower,’ stated Lord Hastings.
‘And that is because Holy Harry still lives,’ said Duke Richard, in frustration, to King Edward. ‘You should have listened to Hastings and me, when we recently argued his fate in the Tower. Warwick will wake the Lancastrians from their slumbers by
freeing King Henry and using him as a figurehead to overthrow you.’
‘It is no easy matter to execute a man who is an anointed King, and is held in deep affection by the common people,’ replied Edward, tersely. ‘While his son lives, there would be little point, for he would just replace his father as the leader of the Lancastrian cause.’
‘Well, let us hope that Warwick brings the little bastard with him, for then we can deal with him and his father at the same time,’ said Richard, harshly.
Silence followed Richards’s cold words, his ruthlessness naked before them all.
The silence was broken by Thomas Hallet rushing into the Great Hall, his face red with excitement. ‘Your Majesty; my Lords!’ he cried, bowing to Edward. ‘We have visitors.’ Turning to John Tunstall, with a wide grin, he said, ‘Rose is here! Rose is outside!’
John stared open-mouthed at Thomas, his mind trying to grasp the impossible. Finally, he blurted out, ‘She is in France. She cannot be here.’
‘It’s true! It’s true! She’s here. I’ve seen her with my own eyes!’ Thomas hopped from foot to foot with excitement.
John bowed to the king then dashed for the door, with Thomas right behind him.
Edward, with a perplexed look, cried to his assembled retainers, ‘In God’s name, will somebody tell me what is going on?’
‘Sir John!’ shouted George Hallet, beckoning him over to the door of the keep house, his face split by the widest of grins. Not a word passed his lips as he and Thomas ushered John through the open doorway.
Coming from sunlight into shadow, John was momentarily blinded. He stood still, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
‘John,’ said a soft voice behind him.
He spun round. Rose stood just inside the door; he had walked straight past her. ‘Rose, is that really you?’ he cried.
As she rushed into his arms, John picked her up and swung her round with delight. She covered his face with kisses, and then his lips found hers. Tears of joy mingled with their passionate embrace. Finally, she broke free.
‘Where is Lord Montagu?’ she asked, her face becoming earnest.
John saw the change in her. ‘How did you get here?’ he asked in astonishment. ‘Your clothes are ragged; your face is battered and bruised. Who did this to you?’
Rose put a finger to John’s lips. ‘I will tell you all of my adventures later,’ she whispered as she lent up and kissed him once again.
He pulled gently away from her. ‘What troubles you about Montagu?’ he asked, his eyes studying the wounds on her face.
‘He has turned his coat,’ Rose whispered, with anxiety in her voice. ‘He has joined Warwick’s standard and would kill King Edward and all around him. We fled France to warn you, to save you. I pray we are not too late.’
‘But this cannot be. Montagu loves the King as a brother, he would never—’
Rose cut him short. ‘Sir Simon Langford helped me to escape from France. He is Margaret of Anjou’s lover, and was with her when the French king announced that Lord Montagu had been badly treated by King Edward, who had stripped his earldom from him. The Earl of Warwick used this to persuade Lord Montagu to join his standard.’
‘Who is this Sir Simon Langford? Can we trust him?’ John asked with a puzzled expression.
‘I would swear on the Holy Cross that he tells the truth. He would not have risked his life and travelled this great distance just to tell a lie. If we do not act quickly, then Lord Montagu will kill you all!’
‘Then we must take you and he to the King with all haste, for Montagu is marching his army here as we speak. If what this man says is true then we are all dead men, should Montague arrive.’ John took hold of Rose’s hand and stepped towards the door.
Rose pulled him back. ‘There is more,’ she said, quietly.
‘Nothing can be as bad as this betrayal,’ John said, again turning for the door.
Using both her hands, Rose pulled him back. ‘Anne Neville has been forced to marry Margaret of Anjou’s son, Prince Edward. They are to be crowned king and queen once Warwick has conquered England.’
‘But she is promised to Duke Richard. The union is agreed; it cannot be undone!’
‘It is undone, for they are married and that’s the end of it,’ said Rose. ‘Remember, Warwick is at war with King Edward and Duke Richard, so past promises mean nothing now, and believe me, Lord Montagu is coming with all speed to kill you all.’
‘What is undone?’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘And who is coming to kill me?’
Rose and John stared white-faced as Richard strode across the room towards them.
King Edward studied the man in front of him. Was he friend or foe? His words had certainly turned the world on its head. The news that Warwick’s daughter had been forced to marry Margaret of Anjou’s son, and then to be crowned Queen of England had taken him by surprise. Beautiful Anne – blameless in all things – now used with grievous injustice by her father.
Edward glanced at Richard, who sat grim-faced at the news that his intended marriage to one of England’s greatest heiresses had now been erased from his future. But, the greatest shock of all was that John Neville had turned traitor. The man had been as a brother to him, a comrade-in-arms since they were boys. The words of his mother kept revolving in his head: If you take away his earldom, he will take your crown. Her dammed prophesy now struck him like a dagger in the chest.
‘Sir Simon, as a knight of this realm you are a mystery to me and my court,’ he said coldly, ‘but apparently, I am told, not to Margaret of Anjou’s bed…’
Faint sniggers ran around the hall.
‘This makes your standing here before me a mystery. You fled with the serving girl, Rose, from King Louis’ court to save our lives, and then you tell us your lover plans to place my crown on her son’s head, and then my head upon a spike. I am not sure if I should reward you for your bravery, or kill you for being a traitor.’
‘Your Majesty,’ replied Simon, ‘Margaret has no desire to be queen or to have her son crowned king. It is Warwick and King Louis who have forced this upon her.’
‘How so, forced?’ asked Edward, sharply.
‘She agreed to all their demands to save my life,’ continued Simon. ‘If she had refused, Warwick would have executed me. I told her I would rather die than let that bastard have his way, but she refused. I travelled here for two reasons: one to prevent Warwick being triumphant in his plans to kill you and your close retainers. My information is genuine,’ he said, earnestly, as he saw the questioning look in Edward’s eyes. ‘They are coming to kill you. The second reason is to seek out my mother and sisters who are imprisoned in Warwick Castle, as punishment for my actions against that bastard, Warwick.’
‘You mean the small matter of being a spy within his household and then trying to kill him,’ replied Edward. ‘You should have thought of the consequences of your failure, for your family, before attempting it.’
Edward watched Simon lower his head, a small action that reflected his own pain. He sat back in his chair, and placing his fingertips under his chin, contemplated the man standing before him; a man filled with remorse. He was brave enough – his actions had proved that – and he believed, honest, but the question was, how could he confirm that John Neville had turned traitor?
What had been true, and confirmed by the girl, Rose, was that Anne Neville had married Margaret of Anjou’s son. Also, Warwick had landed on the south coast with a large army funded by King Louis, so if that were fact, it would follow that John Neville had sided with Warwick. Edward’s mother had been proved right in her prophecy and he realised now that it had been a bad error to take away John’s earldom.
Edward rose from his chair. ‘You are a brave knight, Sir Simon, and have suffered much for your hatred of the Earl of Warwick. If I could indulge you with more time, I would like to have heard what drove you to such loathing, but I believe what you say about Montagu’s treachery, for I know now that I treated him badly. I
didn’t realise his humiliation ran so deep. Time is now short, for he marches on us with five thousand men seeking his revenge. For your services to us, I will issue you gold coin and a royal warrant to search for your mother and sisters within Warwick Castle – they will still be loyal to me, at least long enough for your purposes. We now leave with all haste for Holland and the Low Countries. Our numbers are too small to deal with Montagu, and with Warwick’s army advancing from the south, we would be caught between the two. Tis best to retreat and fight another day.’
Edward strode from the hall. He knew the blackness of the night would be their friend as they made their way to King’s Lynn, and a ship bound for Holland.
John held Rose tightly to him; her tired face snuggled hard against his chest. He could feel her heart beating softly. He would be leaving shortly with Richard for Holland. ‘It will not be for long. The King will raise an army, and we will be back before Michaelmas,’ he whispered.
‘Can I not go with you?’ Rose pleaded.
‘The King is only taking his close retainers, and men who will be useful to him. You, my love, are weary from your brave flight from France and your long ride from the south coast. You would not have the strength to flee the realm with us. So, while I am away, Friar Drynk will find a safe place for you to rest, to regain your strength, and for your injuries to heal. We must be brave, for we will be reunited soon enough and then with God’s grace, we will marry.’
As Rose heard John’s name being called, she reached up and kissed him passionately.
Church of Saint Margaret’s, Westminster Abbey, London
27 September 1470
Elizabeth Grey stared at the gloomy building that stood at the end of the churchyard. Its massive stone walls, built to withstand a siege, towered over her small, forlorn figure. Men hurried through its great doors carrying furniture, tableware, and food – all that was needed to furnish its cramped rooms – for this building was to be her sanctuary, a place protected by God, where no man who meant her harm could enter.
The Dreams of Kings Page 33