Simon sat, waiting and watching, but he already knew what the outcome of their visit would be. He watched with dread the events unfolding before him, powerless to change them.
Rose sat in the silence of the refectory, eating her breakfast. The rows of nuns in their black habits, sitting at bare wooden tables, reminded her of crows crowded on branches.
She had been told that, only the novice nun reading the scriptures was permitted to break the calm silence of the dining hall; such were the rules of the convent. She had been there for only a day but had already discovered that the nuns were all human, with feelings and needs. There were very few saints amongst them, and although the nuns took the three vows: poverty, chastity, and obedience, it would seem that some paid little heed to them.
The convent, though, was a model of orderliness. Novice nuns carried out the laundry and the cooking, whilst others tended to the growing of vegetables, and the care of livestock. Some nuns specialised in producing wine, ale, and honey, and others practised medicine or teaching. Some loved spinning, weaving, and embroidery; the list was endless, but there was a place for all of their talents within the convent, which grew rich because of them.
Loud knocking curtailed Rose’s thoughts, and all eyes turned towards the tall, beautifully carved refectory doors. She watched in silence, as they swung open. The abbot from the adjoining abbey stood in the doorway. He beckoned urgently to the prioress, who rose quickly and walked with a dignified pace to join him. They fell into an urgent whispered conversation.
The prioress looked nervously towards Rose as the conversation became more animated. Rose’s heart sank. Something was wrong; she could sense it. She watched anxiously as the abbot hurried off.
The prioress turned to look at Rose, her outstretched hand beckoning. ‘Rose Thorne,’ she called. ‘Come with me, now.’
Excited whispers surged around the refectory. The senior nuns banged their spoons on the tables and held their fingers to their lips as Rose walked nervously towards the tall doors. She could feel all the eyes in the room following her out.
Rose sat facing the prioress. A large desk separated them. The room was spacious and two smaller desks were positioned along the opposite wall, their seats empty. Rose assumed their occupants were still at their breakfasts. Shelves and bookcases lined the walls; every ledger or sheet of parchment was neatly in its place. The office was scrupulously clean. Desks and bookcases were highly polished, using bees wax from the convent’s own hives; a wonderful, earthy elixir of wood, wax, and leather fragranced the air. A cheerful fire, lit to warm the early morning chill, danced and flickered at the far end of the room. Rose wished she could wrap the room around herself, with its wonderful smells and warm comforting fire, like a magic blanket, and disappear to somewhere safe and peaceful, somewhere far, far away.
‘Yesterday, there was a murder committed at Warwick Castle,’ explained the prioress. ‘It was carried out by two men whose description matches that of the men who brought you here, so, I am afraid I have some bad news for you. The abbot has just been questioned by some of Warwick’s soldiers who have been searching the surrounding countryside for these fugitives, and they have told us that your protector, King Edward, has fled the country. The Earl of Warwick now rules the kingdom and knowing of his vile temper, the abbot decided it would be prudent for the safety of the abbey, and the convent, if he revealed your presence and your connection to the two men they seek.’
‘Who was murdered?’ asked Rose, quietly.
‘I am told it was the senior gaoler at Warwick Castle,’ replied the prioress.
Rose’s heart sank. She knew instantly who had killed him. Simon’s family, she surmised, had not survived.
‘The two men had a warrant. They were searching for a mother and her two daughters,’ continued the prioress. ‘But why the gaoler was killed remains a mystery. The soldiers wish to take you back to Warwick Castle, to help with their investigation into these two men, so a report can be sent to Lord Warwick who is in London.’
Rose’s suspicions were confirmed and the harsh reality of the situation bore down on her. Her heart pounded, her palms were clammy. She knew why the senior gaoler had been killed, and by whom. She imagined the earl reading the report, the anger springing into his eyes as he read her name. With his ferocious temper, she could expect only brutal punishment from him, and death would be her reward.
‘You promised to protect and hide me from Lord Warwick,’ Rose said firmly, her voice rising in indignation. ‘You accepted gold coin in payment.’
‘The world has turned,’ replied the prioress, soothingly. ‘I cannot be party to murder; that was never part of our agreement. Lord Warwick, we have just learned, now rules. This means he holds the royal charters for the abbey and the convent. If we displease him, he could revoke them and disband these holy orders, casting us all out into poverty. There are too many of us to risk his anger, so, my child, you must go with the soldiers, answer their questions truthfully, and you will have nothing to fear.’ She smiled sweetly at Rose, unaware of the turmoil filling her.
‘By association, they will harm me,’ cried Rose, tearfully. ‘I travelled with these wanted men and—’
‘Rose, you have nothing to fear,’ butted in the prioress, with slight exasperation. ‘You did not commit this crime…’
‘But, the earl knows of me, he will show no mercy. In France, I—’
The prioress cut her off again. ‘Enough,’ she commanded. ‘The sin of murder has come knocking on our door, so you are going with them, and that is the end of it. I will not risk all the lives of my sisters just for you.’ Opening the drawer of her desk, she took out gold coin, and placed it in front of Rose. ‘Here, take your coin,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what you have been involved in, and I don’t want to know, but you are leaving this convent now.’
Rose stared at the gold pieces stacked up in front of her. At least, I will have enough to tip the executioner, she thought, bitterly.
‘We will pray for your safety, my child,’ cooed the prioress, now she could see that Rose had accepted her fate. ‘You must trust in God, and all will be well.’ She smiled.
Rose wanted to scream at the stupidity of the prioress’ words. God would offer her no protection from the earl’s rage. It was all sanctimonious humbug. She was on her own, now, and realised with a sinking heart, that she would not survive on prayers alone.
Mattersey Priory, Lincolnshire
6 October 1470
Simon sat with his back against a fallen tree trunk as the weak October sun warmed his face. His horse grazed contentedly on the rich grass of the water meadow and as he watched her, he thought again of Rose.
She had been taken by four soldiers, hands bound to her saddle. They had ridden away towards Warwick Castle. He had sat there on his horse, watching, powerless to help her. The remaining troops had split up into groups of three or four and set off in different directions, obviously still looking for him. He had swung his horse around and ridden deeper into the forest, heading north, and now, he sat just downstream from Mattersey Priory.
The sun was low in the sky when he set off for the priory. He still had his purse of gold from King Edward, so he would pay to rest there overnight. As the priory had come into view, he saw that it was built on the edge of the river, surrounded by thick forest that would be teeming with game. The clear river that flowed past would provide kingly salmon, or common perch, for the monks to eat on Fridays.
Simon decided to pay the monks to say daily prayers of forgiveness for him over the deaths of his family, to ease his conscious until he could do penance for his sins. He had thought of heading further north into the desolate lowlands. There, in solitude, within a deserted crofter’s cottage, living as a hermit, he would pray for forgiveness. Then, when the first icy snows of winter came, he would walk into the bleak night and let the bitter cold take his soul.
The only thing that had stopped him was his continued love for his Marguerite. Could he die
without seeing her? Would she want to see him? Would she still love him? After all, he had broken her heart twice, now. And if he did seek her out, would he end up destroying her life as he had destroyed the lives of his family, and many others? Maybe, it would be best to disappear, he thought, and end my life to pay for my sins.
But before all else, he had to save Rose. The girl did not deserve the fate he had handed her. He knew the gaolers at Warwick Castle would extract all she knew, with great skill. Warwick would show her no mercy, so he had to save her. He could not bear another death on his conscience.
Westminster Palace, London
10 October 1470
The Earl of Warwick watched the backs of Jasper Tudor and Jasper’s skinny young nephew, Henry, disappear out through the doorway of his private office. He silently cursed.
Young Henry’s father – Edmund Tudor, the Earl of Richmond – had been killed in 1456 defending the Lancastrian cause at Carmarthen Castle in north Wales; three months before his son had been born. Now, this young pup of thirteen years had come to claim his father’s titles. Warwick had sent them away, like many before them, angry and empty handed, with vague promises for the future, but how could he restore his lands and titles when they were now firmly held by the Duke of George, who would no more give them up than cut off his own hand.
What to do about George? It was as if he was diseased. At court, all the old Lancastrians avoided him like the plague, and who could blame them? He was, after all, brother to King Edward. George would never be trusted, but being married to Isabel made it difficult to clip his wings. Warwick sighed with the problem of it all. He would have to find a way to relieve George of some of his titles and lands, if he was going to win the Lancastrians round.
Since returning, in triumph, from France, Warwick had found himself slowly being hemmed in. Each avenue he went down was blocked by either mistrustful Lancastrians or resentful Yorkists. The treasury was empty. Edward was building an invasion force in Bruges, and that Bitch of Anjou, with her son, was stalling their return to England. To cap it all, King Louis was pressurising him for troops to assist in his invasion of Burgundy.
Having used up all of his energy to retake the kingdom, he felt weary. The years, he knew were mounting against him; age was dimming his strength. He had given his all for this final throw of the dice, but now the world had gone silent, and an uneasy peace had settled over the land.
The people of England waited and watched. He knew they were tired of this war, and the ever-higher taxes they had to find to pay for it. They were tired of the ever-shifting lords who ruled them, even tired of him, the mighty Earl of Warwick. He realised he was caught between two kings, and two queens, and having thumbed his nose at all of them, he had no choice now but to play the hand he had sought – for it would be the last one dealt to him. The stakes were high and his life depended on the outcome. A shiver went down his back.
England, Warwick thought, sits quietly calm, like the lull before a storm.
One of his clerks entered, all nervous movement and bootlicking. His comical posturing brought a smile to Warwick’s face and lifted his spirits. His melancholy faded as he watched the fawning man approach, clutching sheets of parchment.
‘I have the warrants, my Lord,’ the clerk squeaked, in a high nervous voice. His body was bent double with his bowing and scraping; his eyes peeking out anxiously from beneath a threadbare cap as he shuffled forward and laid the documents on the earl’s desk. Retreating in short jittery steps, he scurried from the room.
Warwick laughed to himself. The man had just reminded him that he still had the authority over every man in the kingdom, so he had nothing to fear.
He turned his attention to the documents before him. The first one he ran his eyes over was a Warrant of Execution for John Tiptoft – the Earl of Worcester – also Edward’s enforcer, the ‘butcher of England’. Warwick knew that the whole kingdom cried out for justice. As Constable of the Realm, John Tiptoft had tortured and condemned many men to death in brutal and cruel ways. He had combined a delicate sense of the arts and literature with a harsh insensitivity to human suffering. Warwick signed the warrant. John Tiptoft would have signed his, if the boot had been on the other foot. His death would please the Lancastrians, and the Yorkists – he knew – would not shed a tear for him.
The next warrant was for the attainment of Edward’s queen, Elizabeth Grey, and her witch of a mother. Warwick read the list of crimes they were accused of: witchcraft, treason, adultery, theft of lands and pensions…the list continued. He paused, quill in hand. It would be prudent to exercise some caution in this matter, he realised. They had sought sanctuary in a solid fortified building and it would be difficult to winkle them out. Also, they had not held the Tower against his army, but, surprisingly, had opened the gates of London to him instead. If he moved against them, the Yorkists would be outraged but the Lancastrians currently cared little either way. He thought it would be prudent to let sleeping dogs lie. Margaret of Anjou and her son could deal with Elizabeth as they saw fit, when they arrived, and the Lancastrian position was more secure. He placed the warrant to one side, unsigned.
Picking up the final document, he sat back in his chair and studied it intently. It was a Warrant of Execution for the serving girl, Rose Thorne. As he read the charges, his mind replayed the sequence of events that had led to the warrant’s existence. It had begun when she had questioned his authority over the marriage of his daughter, Anne. He knew he should have killed her then, only Anne’s pleading had stopped him. In doing so, he had unleashed a chain of events that had saved King Edward’s and all his close retainers’ lives. He was amazed that a mere maid could have caused him so much trouble, although, he would consider pardoning her in exchange for that bastard, Simon Langford. The man had spied on him, attempted to kill him, and then helped that wench betray his plans to Edward. Rose had confessed that Simon had killed his senior gaoler in cold blood.
Warwick felt his anger rising; he should have been signing for Simon’s execution. He looked at the warrant with eyes as hard as diamonds and then signed it with a ruthless flourish. She still deserves a rough noose around her dainty neck, he reasoned, vindictively.
Baynard’s Castle, London
10 October 1470
George, the Duke of Clarence, sat glumly in front of the roaring fire nestling a cup of wine in his hands. Neither the warmth of the fire, nor the wine, lifted his spirits. His mother, Cecily, sat opposite, studying her son’s tired face.
‘You have backed yourself into a tight corner, my son,’ she said, matter-of-factly. There was no anger or emotion in her voice; she knew that would only turn him away from her. George needed soft words. As with a naughty child, sometimes a gentle scolding was better than a big stick.
‘I pray your forgiveness for what I have done,’ George said, softly.
‘Now…’ Cecily smiled, gently, ‘is that for turning traitor against your brother, Edward, or is it for supporting that Bitch of Anjou, the woman responsible for the deaths of your father and brother? Or, maybe it’s for throwing in your lot with Warwick and that evil spider they call the King of France? Oh, and I nearly forgot: there is the small matter of marrying Isabel, Warwick’s daughter, when it was forbidden by the royal court.’
His mother’s subtle and quick reply cut into George like an assassin’s blade. He stared into his cup, wishing it were an oracle that would give him the answers to his mother’s jagged questions, to help him find some excuses. He sighed deeply and remained silent.
‘They have disinherited your nephew, Edward’s newborn son,’ Cecily continued, ‘who has just been born in sanctuary.’ She tried to keep the sharpness out of her voice.
George sunk lower into his chair.
‘You let Warwick, and Parliament, proclaim that I, your mother, had an affair with a lowly archer called Blackburn; that Edward was the result, and thus a bastard, just so you could be the next in line to the throne. How could you steep so low?’
&n
bsp; George looked at his mother sheepishly from the corner of his eye, not daring to look straight at her.
‘I have been publicly branded an adulteress. Tis a wicked act that has achieved you nothing, for Margaret of Anjou’s son, Edward, is to be the new King.’ Sternly waving her finger at George, she said, ‘Already the Lancastrians have pushed you to the fringes of power. Even Warwick is unsure of you and keeps you at arm’s length. The Yorkist supporters will never forgive you for turning your coat. Did you not realise that you are the brother of a Yorkist King? Margaret of Anjou and her court were never going to accept you, and when her son is crowned, Warwick’s days will be numbered. He will be forced to flee once again to hide behind King Louis’ throne, so my son…’ Cecily said, with a giggle, ‘you have well and truly pissed in your bed.’ She threw her head back and laughed at the absurdity of men.
George sat up; dumbfounded at his mother’s reaction, then with relief, he joined in with her laughter. Finally, silence settled; matters had been addressed. ‘What is to be done?’ he asked. ‘How can I make things right?’
Cecily had a strong maternal feeling towards her wayward son. This man, who had schemed with the princes of England and France, used his sword in anger, married an earl’s daughter, and commanded men by the thousand, now sat before her like a child. Men are a strange race, she thought.
‘George; I have given birth to thirteen children, nine of them sons. One was stillborn; four died in infancy, and one died in battle with your father. I now have but three sons left and I do not wish to lose any more, so you must agree that Edward is the rightful king. He won his crown in battle, and you were foolish to think you could steal it.’
George nodded contritely.
‘Richard is fiercely loyal to his brother, so sleeps with a clear conscious. You, I know, have to drink yourself into a stupor to sleep. To rid yourself of this betrayal that fills you with guilt and to find some peace of mind, you must reconcile yourself to them.’
The Dreams of Kings Page 35